Messrs. Skeffington and Branks of Marshal, Carter, and Dark's 'acquisitions firm' were very much not men to be trifled with, yet as he heated a slim knife blade with his pocket lighter and reached for a pair of pliers from the toolbox in his associate's hands, Branks began to glower with the realisation that they had been trifled with very much indeed. The grin on the face of the young man restrained on the table of the small Palestinian safe house (which Branks had 'acquired' by the simple means of shooting the former occupant) began to fade as the knife gained an angry red glow. The young man spoke, his voice still a thinly controlled calm.
"Now really, gentlemen, is this necessary?" The man gave them what must be said was quite a convincing smile from someone in his position, obviously still hoping (unreasonably) to talk his way out of his precarious situation. Branks responded by pressing the flat of the heated blade firmly against the pale skin of the man's chest, wrinkling his broken nose at the unpleasant smell of burning flesh.
After his initial howl of pain had died down to a panting whimper, the young man said nothing, looking pleadingly at his captors, his eyes begging for release. None was forthcoming. Branks and his partner spent the night and well into the next day twisting and burning and ripping, questioning and confirming until they were certain they had extracted the truth from their captive. And what an unfortunate truth for him it was…

Jack Dawkins was having a very interesting morning. Making his way across the middle east on a whim, still riding the rush and the payoff of an enormously successful few days in Dubai, he'd woken up after a night's celebration in a small city on the Gaza Strip with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Swearing to never drink again (He always did), he checked to make sure his backpack was with him, rifled through to check its contents, then walked to the lobby of his hotel and asked the concierge in fluent Arabic to check him out. Paying the bill with a forged French travelers cheque, he signed it 'Jaques Aliasse' and presented it to the smaller man with a grin and a handful of 50 sheqalim notes by way of a tip. As the man spluttered Arabic gratitudes for such generosity, Jack asked for directions to the nearest bank, then headed cheerfully on his way.
As he walked, Jack hummed himself, a cheerful spring in his step. The day had started out so nicely. He'd only made it a few hundred yards when he heard a loud cracking sound. The historic paving stones of Yatta's ancient street gave way beneath him, and he fell into darkness amid a cloud of dust and masonry. When he sat up, blinking in the half light, he saw a man with his arm around a mannequin, pointing a pistol at him.
"Ow," said Jack.
The man said nothing, keeping the gun leveled at Jack's head.
"Iz zis how everyone in Israel greets one anuzzer?" Jack asked in French accented English, raising his eyebrows as the mannequin stared blankly ahead with huge doe eyes. "If I am interrupting something, monsieur, you need only direct me toward zee exit and I will happily leave you to it." He nodded, holding up empty hands in a gesture of unconcerned goodwill. As soon as the man begun to lower his gun, Jack hit him in a flying tackle, sending the gun and the mannequin clattering into the shadows, then scrambled to his feet and ran. "Fucking Israel…"
After a short time, Jack emerged back onto the streets of Yatta. Glancing around to see that no one was watching, he pulled out the wallet he'd snatched mid-tackle from the gunman in the catacombs and began flipping through it. It contained only a small amount of cash, a hotel key, and a driver's license, along with a black plastic credit card, unlabeled but for a silver logo bearing the initials MC&D. Jack pocketed cash and cards, tossing the empty wallet into the shadows. "That should teach you not to go around pulling guns on people." With a shrug, Jack turned the corner and walked to the bank he'd been headed for initially, stepping carefully on the crumbling streets.
Arriving at the bank, Jack waited patiently for an open teller. When a spot at the counter became available, Jack gave his most friendly smile and spoke in Arabic with a carefully cultivated American accent. "Hi… My name is Chisa Eel and I'm afraid I've lost my credit card information… I'm an American citizen here on business, and I really must make a withdrawal." He slid the card and ID across the counter to the teller, who spent a few moments humming and typing noisily on an outdated computer.
"I'm sorry sir, but the system seems to be unable to process your request. If you'd follow me, I'll take you to the manager's office and see if we can get this sorted out." The teller led Jack down a short hallway to a small, tastefully decorated office. Inside, a swarthy Arabic man in an exquisitely tailored suit sat at the desk, engrossed in a phone call.
"Yes. Yes. I see. Of course we will. This bank has the sensitivity of our clients investments at the forefront of our minds. They'll be arriving shortly? Good, good. And a good day to you as well." He hung up the phone and stood, giving Jack a warm smile and a firm handshake. "Mister Eel, it's good to meet you. I'm terribly sorry for the hassle, and I'm sure we'll be able to get your difficulties cleared up in no time. First, however, I'm afraid I need to visit the restroom, so if you'll wait here?" The banker gestured to an overstuffed leather chair in front of the desk. "I'll be only a moment."
Nodding, Jack took a seat, glancing around the office as the man walked out, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His curiosity lasted only a few moments, however, before his brain registered the importance of that click. Rising, panic building in his chest, Jack tried the door. Locked. "Fuuuuuuuuuuck…"
A couple of hours later, the soft scrape of a key in a lock alerted Jack that the door was being unlocked. grabbing a heavy paperweight from the desk, Jack strode quickly to the door and pressed himself against the wall, so that when it opened he'd be hidden behind it. Soon enough, the door swung open, and a person entered the office. Jack brought the paperweight down in an arc into the back of the person's head, and they slumped to the floor unconscious. It was the banker from before. Dropping the weight, Jack sprang over the prone banker and dove out the door…
…Directly into the arms of a large man in a greasy suit who'd plainly been waiting for him to do just that. "Heyo Branksy, looks like we've got our thief," the man said offhandedly in a cockney accent as he brought a small cosh down on Jack's skull. Clearly, these were not men to be trifled with.


It was a rather late night in the Site-19 cafeteria. Though the Foundation never slept, most of its workers did. The majority of the site staff was either back at their homes, or in on-site housing facilities. Of course, there was still a night shift, but it was a skeleton crew compared to the regular day shift. It was just security and custodial staff, with the odd researcher or two who ended up on a doctor's bad side. The cafeteria itself was run by a single galley chef, whose only job at this hour was to cater to anybody craving a midnight snack.
However, tonight was different. In the far corner of the room sat four individuals, laughing (well, three of them, anyway) and drinking. Yes, alcohol was strictly prohibited on-site for a variety of reasons. However, it was a rule that was widely ignored for a variety of reasons. Besides, it wasn't as if there was anybody around to call them out on it.
“Congratulations, Dr. Ryan.” Agent Williams smiled as he took a sip of cheap beer. The young agent was leaning back in his chair as if he didn't have a care in the world. “As of two minutes ago, you are officially no longer in the employ of the Foundation.”
“Good to know.” Dr. Adrian Ryan yawned. Already pushing sixty, Dr. Ryan was in no condition to stay up late, much less keep up with the everyday demands of Foundation employment. “After having to deal with XK end-of-the-world scenarios every other day, it's nice to know that it's officially somebody else's problem.”
“And as per standard operating procedure, you'll have to submit to one last search in order to ensure you're not bringing any of your research or any materials that can be traced back to the Foundation,” Agent Richards said in a business-like manner, the harsh stare of her purple eyes contrasting sharply with her pale white skin.
“Ah, there you go, spoiling the mood again.” MTF Sergeant Ronald Paccone laughed. He was a grizzled old veteran with unshaven stubble on his chin and hair that was already beginning to grey. “Give the guy a break, he's finally moving on in life.”
As with everything in existence, all good things had to come to an end. For Dr. Ryan, after thirty years of groundbreaking research, averting the apocalypse, and witnessing things no human can truly comprehend, he was finally going to leave it all behind.
“So, I'm curious.” Williams leaned forward in his seat. “What exactly are you planning to do now?”
“Oh, I'll probably go into teaching.” Ryan grinned. “With the references and job history the Foundation set me up with, I'm already getting quite a few offers.”
“That's good to hear.” Williams nodded.
“Now that I think about it, what are you three planning to do?” Ryan asked curiously. “I know of several colleagues who are in teaching and research positions now, but I never heard of any Agents or MTF operatives retiring.”
Paccone's smile instantly wore away. Williams' remained, but it was obvious that it had lost its warmth and friendliness. Richards, however, kept her usual stoic and cold demeanor.
“Did I say something wrong?” Ryan was confused.
“Well Doctor, it's an issue that those in our circles never quite want to talk about.” Williams sighed. “Especially people like us. Do you have any family?”
“Why, yes. My wife, three kids, and I have grandchildren on the way.”
“And I suppose you're going to spend your newfound free time with them?”
“Of course,” Ryan said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“See, there's the difference that lies between you and us,” Williams explained. “You have the luxury of having a life outside of the Foundation, something to go back to when you decide to call it quits. However, we're not quite so fortunate.”
“How so?”
“Well, let me explain.” Williams took one last swig from his cup. “First off, there are the doctors, the researchers, and the support staff. People like you. You're the kind of people the Foundation will try and recruit, because it needs you. Now, 90% of you will accept out of a variety of reasons. Maybe for the money, maybe because of a genuine interest in what you study, or maybe for the chance to make that one discovery that will redefine the concept of human existence. Either way, you have choices, options. Most of the time, you're already settled, have a family, and have a regular job at some university or research firm. Sure, some doctors are required to cut ties with their families, but they're more the exception than the rule. Most of these guys work their eight hour shifts and then head straight home. They go to church on Sundays, walk their dogs, and curse at the morning commute. In other words, they have lives outside the Foundation.
“However, some Agents and MTFs like us are in the Foundation because honestly, we have no other alternative. Do you know why we're called ‘lifers'?”
“Why?”
“Because no matter how you put it, we're stuck in the Foundation.” Williams glanced at Richards and Paccone. “We don't have families, or rather, we don't care about them or are forced to leave them behind. Agent Richards here, before she was recruited, lost her whole family after a nasty little run in with a certain SCP.”
For a brief second, Agent Richards looked away and Ryan thought that he could see a hint of sadness and pain in her expression. However, the moment passed as quickly as it appeared.
"Sergeant Paccone here joined up in the days where it was SOP to fake the deaths of MTF recruits, for secrecy reasons. Well, we don't do that nearly as often these days for obvious reasons. He had to leave behind wife and kid, who even now think he's buried in Arlington with a silver star and the posthumous rank of Major. Remember that crazy Russian guy?"
"I think he was Ukrainian… or Chechen," Paccone said glumly.
"Whatever. Either way, he was a goddamn ticking time bomb. It's not a good idea to recruit a guy with so much personal baggage and cut off the remaining contact he has with the outside. It's just not good business."
"Good to know you think I'm going to snap and kill everybody in the room at any time," Paccone joked.
"Ah no, that's probably something Richards would do," Williams deadpanned, earning a glare from Richards.
"Just because I actually take my job seriously and understand the stakes of failure doesn't make me mentally unstable," Richards coolly replied.
"Oh?" Williams continued, “On that note, even if Richards does retire, where will she go? Who will take her in? The only people she knows outside the Foundation are a bunch of distant cousins who've never even heard of her before. Not to mention, she's the only person I know of that actually volunteers for Keter duty. She doesn't even take Class As for SCP-231, and that is just fucked up. Hey Richards, how many times have you pulled 231 duty? Five, six times?”
“Eight,” Richards replied humorlessly.
“Can you honestly believe that a person like Agent Richards can just reintegrate into society like that?”
Mouth gaping, Ryan could only manage to shake his head.
“Of course not. She may as well be a D-Class in terms with how she would fit in society.”
“Thanks for the comparison,” Richards remarked sarcastically.
“Not to mention,” Paccone added, “the skills we know and are recruited for can't be transferred to civilian life so easily. You worked on stuff like SCP-514 and SCP-204. I'm guessing you're going into a biology-related field?”
“That's right,” Ryan blinked.
“Yeah, well, what's an old guy like me going to do? I've been in the combat business for twenty five years now, fifteen in the Marines and ten in the Foundation. I'm too old to reenlist into any other armed service or law enforcement agency. My only useful job skill is knowing how to kill a man 72 different ways unarmed and clearing an apartment block with an empty M16. Do you think there's anywhere out there that will provide me with a good, honest lifestyle?
“As I see it, there's only three ways out of the Foundation for people like us. We'll either take the red pill and live a life of blissful ignorance, die in a ditch alone, or go out in a blaze of glory. There's no Foundation Retirement Home for us. As for me, well, I'm not getting any younger. My physical abilities aren't getting any better with age, and I'm going to have to face that dilemma sooner or later.”
“We're also the ones that get stuck doing the Foundation's dirty work,” Williams added. “Do you honestly think that the O5s will let us just waltz out? We're the military elite with in-depth knowledge of all of the Foundation's covert military operations. It's either a Class A amnestic or a bullet to the head, depending on which is more convenient.”
“Bullets are cheaper,” Richards coldly remarked.
“She should know.” Paccone laughed. “She's the Foundation's unofficial retirement policy.”
“Is… is there any hope for you?” Ryan gaped.
“Well…” Williams frowned. “All three of us have our reasons for staying in the Foundation, and we've paid the price. Oh yes, there are some gems of hope scattered here and there among our younger members. Maybe they won't repeat the same mistakes we did.”
“Well, here's to them, then.” Ryan raised his glass, now suddenly a bit more subdued.
“Have a happy retirement, Dr. Ryan.” Williams smiled and raised his glass as well. “I hope you never see any of us again.”


I was deposited to awareness with an abruptness normally reserved for the newly born, and much like them, my first view of the world was enough to send me into wracking sobs. I attempted to recoil, to fall back to the nothing that I had come from, but found myself frozen, my body not my own, only able to watch and look in horror at the world I now found myself in.
Cracked bricks and blocks formed an endless road before me, while behind laid only a flat mass of black more dark and empty then the place I had already come from. Stones and clumps of masonry floated here and there, as if frozen after being flung free by some massive explosion. Yawning tubes dotted this narrow, cyclopean highway, and the road had even crumbled away in sections, to reveal gaping maws of oblivion.
It was not this alien landscape that filled with me horror. While it gnawed and gnashed at the edges of my strength of mind, it was the subtle… awareness of the place that cause me to recoil in my frozen body. Everywhere, half-perceived faces leered from the bricks, the ground, the clouds. Everywhere eyes, dull but gleaming with a mocking, predatory awareness, seemed to watch, their vapid emptiness vanishing when perceived too closely.
Faced with the blank nothing behind me, or the unknown horror before, I forced my unresponsive limbs forward, each step a jerky ordeal. I kept my eyes locked ahead, seeing only the next step, the next stone, never looking at the impossible islands of floating, decayed brick that drifted over me, nor at the mocking faces laughing at my plight from every crevice.
Merely steps in to my journey, I froze, nearly recoiling back to beat at the blank nothing-wall behind me rather than take another step. Where before had been naught but the crumbling road, there was now another traveler. It shambled forward, slouching low under its own rotten weight, pulpy black lumps of feet slowly dragging it along the road. Two staring, blank eyes floated in the bloated, fungoid mass of its body, fixed on me with the unseeing focus of a mind as alien to mine as a deep-sea worm.
I stood, frozen and uncomprehending as it slowly strode forward, its wheezing body barely bigger then that of a child. Its glaring eyes were fixed on me, the pulpy thing slowly drawing closer. I could not move. To retreat would result only in eventual capture by the thing, but to advance would mean crossing it, and the thought of touching that… thing…
The decision was made for me, for as the thing drew close, I was galvanized in to action. By horror or rage, I leapt forward, screaming nonsense, and struck at that bloated body. I kicked and stomped at it, crushing the flabby and far too soft flesh under me, sobbing in horror as I felt the flesh touch me, then melt away, rotting to nothingness in seconds, but leaving such an unclean memory in me that I knew I would feel that dull, soggy weight against me long after even the sweet, cold embrace of the beyond.
After that, I ran. I ran and cursed whatever black fate had brought me here, and obliterated my memory, my life, and left only the road, the eternal road. I would have cried, have balled up and thrown myself down one of the endless pits that had broken open the road, but I was compelled to continue, legs continuing in a jerky rhythm that propelled me over the crumbling brick, leaping across the pits even as I secretly wished to fall in to their depths and obliterate the road, the faces, and myself.
As I ran and jumped, I came to one of the thick, twisted tubes that dotted the claustrophobic landscape. I thought to look in for a moment, curiosity fighting to overcome my almost manic desire to be free of this place, but upon hearing a strange shuffling and gurgling, coupled with a deep, bass pulse from the bowels of the black pipe, I decide against it and squeezed around. As soon as I was past, there was a sudden rush of air behind me, followed by a sharp, oddly muffled snap, as if two iron bars wrapped in cotton had been thrown together behind me. I did not turn, merely using this to further galvanize my stuttering walk, ignoring the continued snapping and rustling as it faded behind me.
Far ahead, I saw a long, glossy stair, leading up, and beyond it what looked like a squat dwelling made of the same crumbling brick as the road. While I feared what may lie inside, the idea of someone else, some other person with which to share this horrible place with filled me with the first hope I had felt in hours. I ran, eyes fixed on that stair, and soared across the final gap. It was mid-way across the abyss when I saw the thing waiting on the other side.
It was a twisted parody of some kind of reptile. Its elongated face was filled with a dim sort of menace, and his mouth yawned in anticipation of my reaching the other side, the jagged edges glinting as it made a choking squeal. Its body balanced on two squat, shapeless legs, a shell of hard, cracked flesh encasing the bulbous torso. Two stunted limbs projected through the flaking shell, coated in fibrous growths, and slowly shifted in a sick mockery of wings.
I screamed and twisted, trying in vain to return to the far edge, but it was too late, and my struggles were enough to bring me short, slamming in to the hard wall of the pit, the thing above me shrieking in frustration as I fell. Down, and down, spinning in to the endless blackness, I felt the dark enclose around me. However, seconds before the emptiness could provide me its final solace, I suddenly remembered.
Endless roads, lakes of fire, crumbling tombs filled with the rotting, shambling bones of beasts, hazy forms of glowing slickly light following in the dark, floating networks of ancient wood drifting in a hot sky, it all came back to me in a flood, the remembrance of where I had been, what I had done, and knowing that it would continue.
I do not know how long I have done this, nor what I have done to earn this.
Only that I must walk the road.
Forever.

MARIO

WORLD
TIME

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📀X00
1 - 1

GAME OVER


The summer sun hung low in the sky, turning the clouds all shades of orange, red, and purple, sunbeams shining through the pine trees that lined the sides of this unpaved road. They drove slowly in their rental car, taking time to drink in the environment and just to enjoy one another's company. The vacation had been Dmitri's idea—he needed it—but he was glad to have the others along. A vacation alone was the last thing he wanted right now. It was good to be home, and he enjoyed acting as tour guide for his friends. Few people understood the beauty of the Russian countryside; the steppe is as deep a part of their collective soul as borscht or vodka.
He had taken them to his birthplace, Moscow, first. They had seen the rainbow spires of St. Basil's Cathedral, the towering red brick of the Kremlin walls, Lenin's mausoleum, the terrifying façade of No. 2 Dzerzhinisky Square and the crumbling remains of Stalin's pride—the White Sea Canal. They strolled along its banks and viewed the oily, filthy water with disdain, recognizing it as the slave labor project that it was. They saw the tiny plaque and paid homage to the dead, marveling at the fruits of their labor and clucking their tongues at its current state of disrepair, noting that not a single vessel had traversed it during their time there. Strelnikov sighed to himself and viewed it with longing. They did not, could not, understand its true meaning.
He continued driving, allowing them the pleasant respite of the car seats and the soothing sound of gravel under the tires. The road stretched in both directions for miles, small side roads shooting off and leading their travelers across the expanse that was modern-day Russia. He smiled inwardly, a knowing smile that he saved for special occasions such as this. He'd told them that he wanted to go home for a few days, and now he truly was—this was their last stop. The car pulled onto a winding side road and slowed to a stop, a large Russian summer house in the traditional style looming ahead of them. The others perked up and looked around in surprise as he stepped out of the car.
It had belonged to her mother once, she herself purchasing it just after the collapse in 1992 when you could buy property for as cheap as a piece of Japanese electronics. They had fixed it up and spent their summers here, away from the confines and the madness of Moscow proper. He gazed up at it, hands at his sides. The paint was faded to grayness and large portions of it had been peeled and stripped away by the harsh winter elements. The eaves sagged with decay, and the porch swing sat molding, its rusting chains folded underneath it. He heard the car doors close behind him as they exited and stood behind him; he paid them no attention, just stepped onto the porch. It groaned from the pressure, the wood joints no longer sturdy.
Strelnikov tried peering through the front door, but it was covered with a sheet of plywood. He tried the door—locked. It took him a few moments to remember the key stashed away in one of the porch beams; he pried the panel apart with his knife and reached in, ignoring the cobwebs and retrieving the tarnished brass key. It fit the lock perfectly, and he swung the door open and stepped in, the others following suit. He remembered coming here for the first time, seeing the furniture covered in plastic to keep the dust off, remembered the musty smell, remembered her sweeping the dirt through this very door and into the hazy summer air. There was no furniture now, only years of untended dust and dirt.
Stepping further through the hall, he saw the kitchen—its strawberry-printed trim lining the ceiling had faded into unrecognizable shades of white, the only appliance left was the stove where together they had once cooked breakfast. He looked away quickly, casting a nervous and embarrassed glance to his friends.
“…Was my summer home,” he said sheepishly. They nodded and gave him supportive smiles, watching carefully and waiting in the hallway, choosing not to follow as Dmitri walked up the stairs. The wooden planks sighed with each step, bowing dangerously as he climbed and only reluctantly supporting his weight. The upstairs was much the same, save for one room—their bedroom.
It was empty but for a small table with a blue tin box resting atop it. This, too, required his knife to open, but after some fussing he pried it apart and looked inside. His eyes fell upon the note first, and with trembling hands he unfolded it, scanning it in silence.
“My dearest Dmitri,” it began, written in her elegant, wavy Cyrillic handwriting.
“It has been almost two years since I received word of your death. I have waited as long as I can. The other girls tell me to have hope, but I know it is misguided and foolish of me to have even the faintest belief that you will ever return to me. It is so hard without you—sometimes I swear I hear your voice being carried in the breeze, and for the briefest moments it is like you are near to me again. I have waited, Dmitri. But I can wait no longer.
“Maybe the telegram really was a mistake, and you will return here someday to see me. I am leaving you this letter and these small remembrances in the hopes that maybe it will help you to understand and move on, as I have. I held on to them as long as I could, but the hope that you will ever see them is all but vanished from me now. I cannot bear to stay here any longer; it just reminds me of you.
“I want you to know that you meant everything to me; please believe me when I say that I will never forget the way you made me feel, while we were together here. I try to shut out the bad parts as much as I can, and leave the good for another day. I always loved you, and I always will.
“I hope you can understand.” She signed it, as beautiful as ever, Eva Katarinovna Strelnikova. It would have been her name had he ever come home to her.
The memories flooded back at once, taking his breath away and making him weak in the knees as soon as he saw the photographs underneath. He put them down, realizing he didn't need them; he saw them every night in his sleep.
He saw her standing in the kitchen, the way the sun shone on her hair and illuminated her face like the angel she had been to him when she would cook, wearing her strawberry-patterned apron that matched the décor of the room so well. Worse yet, he saw the look on her face when he told her he was leaving, saw the anguish and the worry, and the glimmer of hope in her eyes when he kissed her and promised that he'd be back for her in one piece.
He felt her in his arms when they sat together on the banks of the White Sea Canal, the way she sprawled across his body and slept with her ear to his chest, listening to him breathe and being soothed by the beat of his heart as they watched the ships drift by lazily. He remembered the soft touch of her skin and the way it glowed in the moonlight when they slept together, the way her hands would curl and lock around his own. He felt her strength and her weakness at the same time as he held her once again, telling her it would be a short war and that he was only there to keep the peace, knowing it was a lie and knowing that she was all too aware.
He heard the soft coo of her voice as they planned their future, talking of how they would sit on the veranda and watch the sun set across the fields, just as it had done today. He remembered her dry laugh when he'd make a terrible joke or do something stupid, and the smile that always accompanied it. In a flash, she was with him now, standing before him, if only in the depths of his own mind. He realized then that she had always been there.
She had been with him during the shelling, when the Chechens flung their rockets at him and when they trained their ancient weapons against him. She had been next to him when he was shot, held his hand in the field hospital and stroked his hair tenderly. She'd been with him up until the Foundation recruited him and took him away from her forever, their liaisons sending word to the Russian Military that he'd been killed in action near Grozny, leaving her nothing but a telegram and an engagement ring.
That was nine years ago.
He held up the stack of photographs, feeling something move underneath. It glinted hauntingly at him, and he recognized the gold band he had given her when he asked her to be his bride two weeks before leaving for the second Chechen war. He saw it, and at that moment he knew it was over—there was nothing left for him here. He tucked the box under his arm and returned downstairs in silence, his fellow travelers eyeing him with curiosity and silently offering him their support. He knew it to be sincere.
They exited together and returned to their rented cottage to sample the stores of vodka. His three compatriots got drunk and spent the night partying in the upstairs bedroom.
He slept alone.


"A sabbatical?"
"At least one month," Dr. Glass said, nervously fingering the panic button under his clipboard. The figure sitting in the chair across from him slowly blinked its uncannily colorful eyes (damn it, he could never figure out what color they were supposed to be) and carefully read the pink slip of paper in his hand. "Your psychological evaluation indicates that it's been years since you last took a break. You need to let off some steam."
"I did have a break. I took a very nice trip to Italy," Clef said levelly.
"I went to bar. Was fun. Met new friends," Strelnikov insisted.
"A covert mission with six MTF operatives to eliminate a target is not a vacation, and nor are the five weeks in the hospital spent recovering from that nasty gut wound either." Dr. Glass sighed. "Look. Just take the damn vacation. I don't care where you go, or what you do, just spend at least one week where you're not worrying about the fate of the world."
"That would be… difficult," Clef said, folding the piece of paper into precise thirds. "Might as well ask me to stop breathing."
"Is stupid," said the other man sitting across from the psychologist, as he glared at his own pink slip of paper. "Is not like Chechens will stop being Chechens because I'm fatigued. War is not nine-to-five job."
"Then… at least make saving the world a secondary priority. Think of it as… periodic maintenance. You take your car in for a tune-up every ten thousand miles. This is your time to get a tune-up." Dr. Glass sighed.
"Can't I get a tune-up in the shop? Perhaps I could spend some time at the training facility instead, or in the field…" Clef muttered.
"Can spend time drinking vodka. That is proper Russian vacation."
"No. No field operations, no training, no paperwork, nothing. Just… get some rest. You've certainly earned it. Enjoy your vacations, gentlemen."
The door closed with a kind of epic finality, leaving two of the most dangerous men in the Foundation standing in the hallway, clutching pink slips like a pair of delinquent teenagers sent to the principal's office. The entire support staff of the Human Resources and Training division sat in their cubicles studiously staring at their monitors. One of them, a young lady wearing a very nice pantsuit, was desperately typing the Lord's Prayer over and over into Notepad. Another was whispering a Buddhist sutra under his breath.
The tension was finally broken by a sigh from Clef, who rubbed the back of his neck with the pink slip of paper. "So," he said, "I hear Brazil is nice this time of year."

The airport bar was crowded, full of weary passengers stopping in to have a bite to eat and a few drinks before allowing themselves to be carted off in the big Airbuses and Boeings. Strelnikov and Clef strolled in quietly and took the only two empty seats at the long bar, nodding curtly to the bartender and those next to them before settling in for the two hour wait. Their attire was ostentatious and drew odd looks from the other patrons: Strelnikov in his olive drab dress uniform with peaked cap, and Clef in a Hawaiian shirt with obscene portrayals of people engaging in coitus printed in flamboyant colors.
Their chosen drinks said much about their character. The bartender, hair in a muss from a long day, pointed at Clef and made eye contact, silently inquiring.
“Bombay Sapphire Martini, stirred, not shaken, two ice cubes only, 6:1 gin and vermouth, two olives, one onion, and if you bruise the vermouth god help you,” Clef responded dryly, as if the bartender should have already known. The bartender's expression went blank for a moment, before he nodded slowly and turned to Strelnikov. “And you, sir?”
“Vodka.”
“What with?”
Strelnikov gave him the dirtiest of looks. “…Ice.”
“Any preferred brand?”
Dmitri's stare hardened and he clenched his fists on the bar. “Vodka. With ice.”
The alcohol was forthcoming and it both lightened their mood and loosened their tongues accordingly as they imbibed. As the first rounds went through them, they developed a lively and appropriate discussion.
“You see, Dmitri, a good drink is smooth—you have just a small sip and the flavor and aromas combine and are enough to take your breath away. It's like the touch of a beautiful woman, something exquisite and rare, something you hold in your hand and show people so they can see what a classy son of a bitch you are.”
“Drink? Drink is not status or class symbol, Doktor Clef. Drink is a drink. You drink it. And you get drunk. And then you are drink more, until you have drink so much that is make you sober again.
“…I don't believe you've understood.”
Their spirited debate continued, beginning to draw the attention of the other customers. Slowly their heads and chairs swiveled to lock on the two oddly dressed gentlemen as they argued and jabbed at one another's tastes. As their collection of empty vodka and martini glasses grew and grew, the argument mellowed and became a happy, family oriented story telling extravaganza.
“I wanted to see his face when I killed him, Dmitri. That's why I had the snipers hold their fire. See, I came in behind him like this,” accompanied with gesticulation of the hands, “and swiped him across the face with my pistol. Then he stabbed me and some things happened, and blah blah blah, I ended up in a hospital for a few weeks. Good times.”
Strelnikov nodded approvingly. “In Chechnya, our supplies always run low. So I was force to hold my fire many time and resort to use of bayonet.” He waggled a finger and pointed at Clef, “Many Chechens get it in the face and neck, Doktor Clef. Many. Much blood.”
“Ever drive over thirty people in a tank?”
“Does armored personnel carrier count? What about unarm combat, you snap necks?”
“The spine is usually easier for me, Dmitri. A lot of people prefer the traditional twisting-head neck snapping action but I usually stick with grabbing them by the hair and shoving a boot into the small of their back as hard as I can. It's a personal preference really.” Strelnikov couldn't argue with that.
“Once, on night mission, we find rebel camp in bombed warehouse. I send two team, yes?” He holds up two fingers. “Two team, into each entrance, and I climb through window alone, with just knife and pistol. They were sleep, guards sleep, everyone was sleep. We come in and slit all of their throats in the night and leave them for crows.” He coughs. “Later that night I find out there had been a mutual cease fire called,” he concludes with a shrug.
“Oh, man, I know. Once, I was trying an experimental chainsaw that we thought was a possible item for containment. There ended up being a D-Class riot and, well, I was on hand with the chainsaw and one thing led to another. Next thing I know, I'm standing on a pile of D-Class bodies holding the saw over my head and screaming in bloodlust, then someone comes in and tells me it was just the annual costume party and half of my research staff is now dead.” A shrug. “Turns out the saw was just a normal saw, too.” Strelnikov nodded sadly, feeling Clef's disappointment, pausing for a moment and then saying quietly:
“I was just kid about cease fire, Doktor Clef.”
“…Oh. I wasn't. It really was a costume party.”
Dmitri sighed and turned back to the bar and asked for another drink, except nobody answered. He craned his head over the bar and found the bartender, pale as a ghost, trembling on the floor with a phone in his hand, poised to dial. Strelnikov shrugged and plucked the bottle himself, pouring a glass and turning back to face Clef. He took a quick look behind him.
The bar was completely empty.

"Considering who we work for, you'd think they could afford to give us better seats than coach," Clef griped. "Seriously. Charging us five bucks for a dry ham sandwich and a half can of soda. This is highway robbery."
"Is better than Aeroflot in 1980s," Dimitri pointed out. "Food recognizable. Cabin actually pressurized. Stewardesses smile at you instead of scream." He raised an eyebrow at the attractive young lady coming down the aisle with the beverage cart. "And are much prettier. Aeroflot stewardesses all fat old bitches with horse face."
"I dunno, a boiled beet and some horse-leather meat might actually be a step up from this… thing. What the hell are these little green flecks, anyway?" Clef muttered, poking the sandwich with his finger. "Lizard bits?"
"Maybe is sperm from 682. Big lizard wet his beak in your sandwich, no?" Strelnikov quipped, making a "jerking off" motion with his left hand.
"I wish, it would improve the taste… excuse me, miss? Miss?" Clef said, reaching across Dimitri from his window seat to tap the stewardess on the elbow. "I'm sorry, miss, but you seem to have messed up my order. I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, not a pus and plastic one. From the taste of this, it seems that you've confused the two."
"I see, sir," the stewardess sighed. "I'm sorry you don't like the taste of your sandwich. If you'd like a refund…"
"I don't want a goddamn refund, I want an edible sandwich," Clef interrupted. "Now, I'm sure that somewhere in that cart under the piles of dried-out human ejaculate and styrofoam sponge, you've got something edible, so how about bending that pretty ass over and looking a little harder, sweet cheeks?"
"Ahhhh," the stewardess said. She turned to Dr. Clef and grinned, a wide, mirthless smile showing too many teeth. "So, I see, what you're really trying to say is that you're the asshole here!"
She leaned across Dimitri, her voice low and stern, but carrying through the suddenly silent cavern, as she addressed the bemused Clef. "Listen up, bucko. I don't make the damn food, I just serve it. If you've got a problem, you can write a goddamn letter to the people who do. But wait until we get on the ground. Until then, it's another six hours to São Paulo, and I'll be damned if I have to spend it listening to you bitch the whole way. So either shut up and eat your sandwich or stop complaining about it, or I'll duct tape your mouth shut and tape you to the chair." She stood up straight. "And my name's not sweet cheeks, asshole. It's Lucy."
There was a moment of stunned silence, broken by a smattering of applause, then the stewardess continued down the aisle, serving sodas and coffees to the other, appreciative passengers. Clef leaned back and smiled. "I like her," he admitted. "Girl's got spirit."
"That's nice," Dimitri sighed. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up slowly.
"Where are you going?" Clef asked. "The in-flight movie's about to start."
"To take a shit… and pretend I don't know you," Dimitri said.
Clef shrugged and leaned his chair back as far as he could, ignoring the angry stare from the fat lady in the seat behind him. He was just drifting to sleep when a loud scuffling sound and scream drew his attention.
"DO NOT MOVE!" screamed the bearded man, who held a knife to the throat of Lucy the flight attendant. There were two other men, holding similar weapons: one held a hand grenade, pin out, over his head. All three were wearing kaffiyehs and camouflage t-shirts. "This plane now belongs to the Holy Army of the Chechen Independent Republic!"
"Allahu Akbar!" screamed one of the other men. "God is great! Long Live Chechnya!"
"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," Clef winced.

The jostling of the aircraft in the turbulent skies made it difficult for Strelnikov to piss. It always struck him as odd; he'd have no qualms about jumping out of an airplane into a combat zone, but something as simple as taking a leak inside of one gave him hell. The complexities and nuances of the human psyche escaped him at the time, and he chided himself for “being a pansy.”
He finally got control of himself and was about to go when the door was rudely kicked open and someone grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him into the aisle. He quickly buttoned himself and stumbled along, too surprised to offer effective resistance. The Chechen took a good look at his uniform and noticed the Russian crest on his hat—with a quick decision he began dragging him to the front of the aircraft.
“Caught with your pants down, Dmitri?” Clef muttered as they dragged Strelnikov between the rows of seats, the irony of his witticism wasted. Thinking quickly, he threw his foot out into the aisle just in time to catch the Chechen's ankle, sending him face first into the carpet and taking Dmitri down with him. The two others immediately rushed forward to try and subdue Clef, one still holding the hand grenade over his head and shouting angrily in a Chechen-Russian dialect.
Strelnikov immediately recognized it.
They were Chechens.
They were on the plane. His plane.
There were Chechens on his plane. Three of them.
“…That is three too many,” he said out loud. Clef gave him an odd look as he immediately began biting the tripped man's nose, drawing a short knife from the inside of a jackboot and proceeding to punch the man in the kidneys. With the knife.
Clef wasted no time and nearly leapt over the heads of the terrified passengers in front of him, lunging for the approaching men. He connected with the one carrying the knife, knocking him to the floor also. Clef hauled back and slammed the palm of his hand into the man's face, quickly shattering the bridge of the man's nose. The man winced and staggered back, clutching his heavily bleeding nose, as Clef casually disarmed him with a complicated aikido wrist lock. He then drove the knife into the man's heart as Strelnikov finished rendering his man into a bloody, dying mess.
There was only one left, still holding the hand grenade and seemingly unsure of what to do now that their plan had completely deteriorated. "Don't move!" he screamed. "I have a bomb!"
Simultaneously, Clef and Dmitri rotated their heads upward, rising from the bloodied corpses like something out of a cheap horror flick, except instead of a dramatic musical score, there was only the wailing of the outboard turbofans as the pilot increased throttle. "I don't care," Clef said.
Dmitri just smiled. Steel teeth gleamed.
The terrorist's eyes darted nervously between the two men, and he took a frightened step backward.
It would be his last. Lucy's foot caught the man in the back of the knee and sent him stumbling forward, right into Strelnikov's knife. Clef deftly snatched the grenade from the man's hand, paying careful attention to make sure he kept pressure on the spoon. Dmitri's bloodied steel teeth glistened underneath the cabin lighting, offering the man a most disquieting last sight of this earth.
He withdrew the knife as violently as he had inserted it, a spray of blood splashing across the passengers nearest him, letting the body collapse supine on the floor. The occupants of the cabin stared in shock and awe at the brief, bloody conflict, offering no applause as Clef took his seat, grenade in hand. Strelnikov walked past, heading aft.
“I have to make piss.”

"We have a problem," Clef said, when Dimitri came out of the restroom, buttoning up his pants. Compared to the Russian, who was a bloody, gory mess, the stuck-up prick had somehow managed to avoid getting any blood on him at all, despite the violence of the past few minutes.
"No problem. Chechens dead now," Strelnikov pointed out.
"That's the problem. Three dead terrorists on an airplane, a plane full of grateful passengers, media, heroism, a parade, our faces in the paper? Do you see where I'm going with this?" Clef pointed out.
Strelnikov considered the implications of the Director's words. "Inconvenient," he murmured. "Doktor Glass will lecture us muchly about definition of 'relaxation' and 'low profile.'"
"To say the least. Wait here. Then follow my lead when you have a moment."
The gangly, big-nosed doctor took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders and walked back down the aisle, to where the rather shaken young stewardess was sitting in the front of the plane, nursing a cup of coffee. Strelnikov couldn't hear what he said over the sound of the plane engines, but he could see the way that their body language changed.
Clef said something while standing back near the front row.
Lucy said something back, still holding the coffee cup in both hands.
Clef said something else, leaning forward just a bit. He smiled.
Lucy smiled back. She rolled her eyes and wiped moisture off her cheeks.
Clef nodded and laughed. He leaned against the wall next to her, looking down at her and gesturing.
Lucy began to play with her hair.
Clef stroked his chin.
Lucy began to stroke her face behind the ear.
Clef winked.
Lucy stroked her throat and collarbone.
Clef came walking back down the aisle. He walked past the bathroom and into the galley.
Lucy bit her lower lip, then followed Clef into the galley. There was the sound of a latch being undone, and a door opening.
Dimitri counted to twenty, then poked his head into the galley as well. The ladder leading down to the baggage compartment was open. He slid down and into the darkened baggage compartment.
The first thing he saw was Clef easing Lucy's unconscious body onto a cargo compartment. There was lipstick on his collar, and the doctor's previously buttoned-up Hawaiian shirt was opened up a bit. He tossed a ring of keys to Strelnikov. "See if you can get our bags," he said. "They're probably in one of those locked cargo containers."
"Doktor," Strelnikov said patiently, "Please just tell me this. What is point of finding bags now?"
"I don't want to leave them behind when we jump."

“I no jump without chute. I have done this once, was not fun. Break many bone.” Strelnikov opened the lockers and riffled around, grabbing the baggage and motioning for Clef to follow. “I have better idea.” They navigated the depths of the aircraft, working their way through access ways and maintenance corridors that usually only the lowliest of wing wipers ever have to crawl through. The aluminum skin of the aircraft vibrated from the air moving around it, and the noise was deafening. Finally, they stopped in the very bottom of aircraft.
“We wait, now.”
The pilot had changed course, ostensibly heading where the Chechens had instructed him to, but in reality veering towards an abandoned military airstrip. The concrete along the runway was cracked in places, with weeds breaking through and angling skyward. The terminals had long since been bulldozed; all that remained now were a few rusting corrugated hangars and a dilapidated, disused control tower. He steadied his hands on the yoke, knuckles white and eyes alert, still shaken from the events earlier. Though he hadn't seen the massacre firsthand, Lucy had told him about it in grim detail. Where was she, anyway? He needed a drink, badly.
The inboard flaps dropped a few degrees, then a few more, increasing the plane's lift and drag, flaring the nose slightly and slowing it down. The whine of the engines decreased in intensity, causing the aircraft to slowly descend toward the runway below. Clef and Dmitri felt the shudder of the fuselage as they lost altitude, and heard the telltale hydraulic hisses that indicated the undercarriage was about to drop.
“Hold on! Wait until we slow!” Strelnikov shouted, but it was lost in the noise. Clef gave him a confused expression but knew enough about gravity to warrant already clutching the legs of the gear. The aircraft slowed, dropping to within a few hundred feet of the ground and flaring more, nearly within ground effect. The hatch covers dropped open and the landing gear unfolded, exposing them to a harsh burst of wind that threatened to tear them away, the ground below flashing by in a terrifying blur. The concrete rose to them with alarming speed as the pilot brought the big passenger liner down—the wheels made contact and screeched in annoyance, reluctant to carry the tremendous weight.
The pilot applied brakes and the aircraft decelerated, rolling to a stop at the end of the runway. They leapt from the undercarriage and sprinted across the tarmac to a nearby line of trees, looking back in time to see the ridiculous rubber slides inflate for the other passengers to make a considerably more undignified exit. They knelt in a small thicket of trees, watching to make sure nobody followed them.
Aboard the aircraft, Lucy picked her head up and groaned. That son of a bitch—and to think she almost liked him, despite who he worked for. She sighed and rubbed her temples, pulling a cell phone from a pocket of her uniform and dialing a secure line. The phone chirped and queried her for access codes, which she dutifully punched in, surprised that they were correct considering her foggy state of mind.
“Lieutenant Parks, reporting. I have two probable Foundation assets, track from my location and prepare to deploy a shadowing team immediately.”

"I have to admit," Clef said. "Your idea was much better."
The two men lurked in the treeline for a few minutes, watching the Special Forces soldiers board the plane and get the passengers out through the inflatable slides. A man in a black suit and tie was going from passenger to passenger asking questions: he seemed annoyed at not getting the answers he wanted. Up top, a young man in camouflage gear leaned out the left side doorway and vomited onto the tarmac. Finally, several men wearing medical garb started easing three stretcher-bound bodies down the slide.
"You want stay and watch more?"
"Nah, I've seen enough. Let's get going."
They moved silently through the underbrush, crossing the electrified fence with the aid of some wire cutters and a sleeping bag, and then made their way out into the desert. There was a cracked asphalt two-lane highway under the baking sun, stretching out into the distance.
"Well," Clef said, grinning. "It's not Brazil, but it's certainly far enough away from work for Glass. Let's go hitching."
"First we must find out where we are. Is not good if we wind up in Death Valley. Then is no other people for miles."
"No problem, I'll just check my GPS." Clef said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turned it back on, and brought up the mapping software. "FUCK," he growled. "This is bad."
"Where we are? Bolivia? Death Valley?"
"Worse," Clef said grimly. "Texas."
As if on cue, the silence was broken by the sound of a battered pickup truck coming around the bend. Two men in white cowboy hats pulled up to the agents, their rusty old Ford emblazoned with a Confederate flag across the back windshield, a pair of shotguns on the roof, and a dead deer across the hood. The strangers rolled down the window as their car ground to a halt by the side of the road. The man in the passenger seat, a grizzled-looking one-eyed cowboy with unruly black hair, spat tobacco juice on Strelnikov's shoes and sneered.
"Mind tellin' me what you pair of Mexican Jew lizard faggots are doin' in our neck of the woods?" he growled.
Clef and Dimitri shared a bemused glance. "You have got be fucking with me," Dimitri muttered.

The blood boiled behind Strelnikov's eyes. He looked over their attire and felt a wave of nausea nearly overtake him—how could anyone dress like this? He felt a sudden need to adjust his cap in a vain attempt to counteract their atrocious appearance. Clef just laughed.
“What ‘n the hell are ya' lookin' at, y'stupid or somethin'?” The one-eyed cowboy leaned out the window as the driver turned down the radio, which had previously been blaring Toby Keith at an obnoxious volume. “Oh, lemme guess, you're one a' them commies, aren't you?” He spat again. “I fought you assholes in ‘Nam.” The driver nodded. “He fought y'assholes in ‘Nam!” Clef's smile grew to obscene proportions.
Not being one to let a statement like this go unchallenged, Strelnikov immediately rose to the occasion and jabbed a finger in the man's face. “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF WAR. I FIGHT IN CHECHYNA BOTH TIME AND I MEET BABIES ON THE BATTLEFIELD THAT WERE HAVE MORE HONOR THAN YOU, COWARD. MY GRANDFATHER TOOK BERLIN WHILE YOUR ANCESTORS SIT ON THEIR ASS DRINKING SCHNAPPS AND HOPING THAT THEY NOT HAVE TO FIGHT LIKE WE DID. YOUR ENTIRE COUNTRY IS BABIES. ALL OF YOU, BABIES.” His finger trembled with rage while Clef suppressed a guffaw. The redneck stared at him in confusion.
“…Wot?”
Strelnikov punched him in the mouth.
The redneck tumbled over, knocking his compatriot out his seat and onto the pavement. Clef was on him in a flash, hauling him up and securing his arms behind his back with an unhealthy cracking of joints. One-eye regained his composure admirably, and stepped out in front of Dmitri. “Y' stupid god damned commie, you god damned near broke my fuckin' face! What are ya, salty because you lost the fuckin' war?”
It was too much—such an insult to his Russian patriotism could not be allowed to stand. With one hand he lifted the man off the ground by his neck and carted him off towards a dead, wiry tree. The cowboy flailed wildly, trying to strike him or push him away, but Strelnikov had a considerable size advantage. He briefly considered hanging the man, but lacking the rope to do so decided to secure him to the tree with one-eye's belt, Clef doing the same with the other. Two oversized lone star belt buckles shone in the hot southern sun as Clef and Strelnikov stalked away to their truck, leaving them to bake for a while.
“Who won the war now, jackass?” Clef quipped as he climbed into the driver's seat. They drove for hours down the Texas highway, finding nothing but dust and clumps of rocks. Dmitri watched idly from the passenger seat, finding the vastness of the state reminding him somewhat of home, if much drier.
Far behind, the two cowboys were delighted to see a black SUV pull off the road, with uniformed men disembarking and approaching them quickly. “It's about bloody time you got here,” one-eye said haughtily.
“Did they take the truck?” Both of them nodded.
“…Excellent. We've got them now.”

"Stupid fucking American car," Clef grimaced. He slammed the hood down on the smoke-emitting engine and kicked impotently at the front bumper of the vehicle. "Stupid fucking piece of shit. Ford really does stand for Fix or Replace Daily."
"We should be driving good Russian car. Like Lada. That is good solid vehicle. Not break down like shitty American car," Strelnikov offered.
"Do you ever fucking shut up about Russia? Ever?" Clef retorted. "Seriously, you've got like, a hard-on for the Motherland so big they can see it from orbit. Goddamn."
"You ever get tired being enormous fucking prick? Seriously, you have stick up ass so big can use it as flagpole!" Strelnikov snarled.
"Fuck you, Dimitri! Fuck you, and FUCK Russia, and FUCK this stupid FUCKING vacation," Clef screamed, nearly going into histrionics. "All I fucking wanted was to spend some fucking time in Brazil lying on the beach, working on my FUCKING tan, and maybe, just maybe, having sex with some South American honey, sex involving lots of cocoa butter and maybe some leather whips, and instead I'm out here in the middle of FUCKING NOWHERE TEXAS, Population YOU AND ME and we'll probably die of fucking heatstroke before too long!"
"And how this is any of my fault!?" Strelnikov shouted back, slamming his fists on the hood of the broken-down Ford.
"I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA!" Clef screamed.
That was when the two men heard a car horn honk behind them. They turned to see a cherry-red Camaro convertible with the top down idling by the side of the road. The car gleamed like a jewel.
So did the three babes riding it.
The driver was a brunette, her long, curly locks flowing over her bare shoulders, her honeyed skin glowing with sweat from the warm Texas sun. Her red lips were pursed playfully as she lowered her sunglasses and gave the two strangers a slightly amused look. Her friend in the passenger's side seat (a tanned blonde with flawless skin and gorgeous green eyes) leaned over and waved, while the redhead in the back seat popped her gum and winked.
"Hey boys," the brunette said. "Seems like you're having a little car trouble. Need a lift?"
"… yes. Yes, we do," Strelnikov said.
"Well, it's a tight fit, but squeeze in! We'll give you a ride to town!" the brunette said. She got up and opened the door of the camaro. Clef and Strelnikov could see that all three of the women were wearing daisy dukes, sandals, and not much else. All of them had bodies that would make supermodels green with envy, their voluptuous figures threatening to free themselves from their straining tops at any moment.
Clef and Strelnikov gave each other a bemused look, their argument from moments before forgotten. "This doesn't happen," Clef whispered. "This NEVER happens. No one EVER gets picked up randomly by a hot trio of babes in the middle of nowhere, especially if they're a blonde, brunette, and redhead."
"Don't question it, just smile and get in car," Dimitri whispered.
Clef shook his head as he saw Strelnikov climb into the back seat, sandwiched by the blonde on one side and the redhead on the other, grinning as the two scantily clad women pressed up against him. He turned his eyes to the sky, beseechingly. "You've gotta be fucking with me," he whispered.
He got in the car anyway.

“How far away is this strip club you two work at, anyway?” Clef asked above the purr of the Camaro's engine. The brunette next to him just smiled and shook her head.
They had driven for hours. Clef and Strelnikov had no idea where they were, but it wasn't really a concern—they were more than content to allow the girls to fawn over them as much as they pleased. Clef sat in the front seat with the blonde in his lap, one arm around her waist and the other holding a drink. He whispered witty compliments in her ear like a suave Latin lover, making her laugh coyly and teasingly flick him on the nose. She smiled softly and threw her head back to check on Strelnikov and the redhead, her golden mane swishing across Clef's face as it twirled around.
“Er, what is he doing?” She asked Clef, tapping him on the shoulder. He craned his head to look, hearing a sound that could only be likened to “blblblbblblblblb”.
“Oh, it looks like he's motorboating her.” She gave him a quizzical look, and Strelnikov looked up from the other woman's bosom long enough to say in practiced English, “It is a rapid motion of the mouth across the breasts.”
She giggled and handed him another drink, which he held forward to Clef and toasted, the girls' smiles widening. Their heads lolled about and they couldn't help but notice that the telephone poles were whizzing by like blurs, the road becoming a mishmash of grays and whites from the evenly painted dividing lines. The sky spun like a top and together they fell into the darkness.
"Well, they're out," the blonde said.
The other two girls sighed and relaxed. "I thought they'd never drop," the brunette muttered. "Seriously, how much flunitrazepam did we slip them, anyway?"
"About three times the normal dose," the redhead sighed, pushing Strelnikov away and buttoning up her shirt. "This guy was motorboating me all the way to the end, too."
"Well, we're done now," sighed the blonde. "Now it's time for the boys to do their work."
The red convertible pulled into a side street that didn't appear on any maps. The black SUV reached them shortly after.

Wherever they were, it was freezing. They awoke groggily and were aware of only the blindfolds and the bindings around their hands and feet, the scuffling sounds they made echoing throughout the empty concrete room. A door opened and shut from behind them, and they heard the sound of boots on pavement approaching and circling them. Harsh light assaulted their eyes without warning when the blindfolds were abruptly torn off, revealing a trio of unhappy-looking men standing before them. They wore crisply pressed and immaculately tailored military style uniforms and were backlit by a naked incandescent light bulb.
It took a moment for their eyes to adjust enough to be able to make out the GOC insignia printed on their breast pockets.
“Where the hell are we?” Strelnikov asked, blinking.
“The data is, shall we say, ‘redacted', as your people are so fond of putting it,” responded one of the men.
“You gotta be fuckin' with me,” Clef sighed exasperatedly.
"No, we are not fucking with you," the man in the uniform said. He pulled up a chair and sat across from the two men. A golden eagle insignia on his uniform collar gleamed in the dim light. "We are through fucking with you. From this point forward, we are being serious."
He pulled out a silver Zippo lighter with the words 'FUCK COMMUNISM' written on the side and lit up a large, black cigar. Clouds of acrid smoke billowed from the stogie, filling the room with dense white vapors. "Now," the colonel said. "You are going to tell us exactly what you two Foundation personnel were doing heading into a GOC operation in progress. What is your game? What are you trying to accomplish here?"
Clef and Strelnikov glanced at each other, then turned back to the colonel. "What we're trying to accomplish… how do I put it…" Clef muttered.
"Are trying to relax, get drunk, and wet beaks," Strelnikov said.
"In no particular order," Clef added.
"Also am trying to work on tan," Dimitri said.
"Maybe visit some nice museums or do some wine tasting."
"Meet nice people."
"In other words, we're on vacation," Clef concluded.
The colonel pulled a boot knife from the bag next to him and stuck it, point-down, into the table. "Armed pretty heavily for a bunch of guys on vacation," the colonel pointed out, taking out a bunch of knives and small explosives from the bag next to him and laying them out on the table.
"Actually, we're not," Clef pointed out. "No guns, for one thing."
"Da, and only one knife. No hatchet. Left SVD at home," Dimitri added.
"Really, what's a bit of C-4 between friends? Here in Texas, that's almost like owning a car."
"Detonator is not even primed. Am not stupid, don't want blow up plane."
"Really. So… you aren't on a secret mission for the Foundation? You aren't the backup called in by a Foundation operative six days ago in response to escalating KTE activity?"
"Not at all."
"Did not even want to go to Texas," Dimitri insisted. "Wanted go to Brazil."
"Really," murmured the colonel. He gestured to the screen behind him. The image of a young man with a black eye, wearing a brightly colored hawaiian print shirt, appeared on the screen, flanked by gun-toting soldiers. "This is from our Rio de Janeiro office. Does this man look familiar?"
The guy in the hawaiian shirt raised his head groggily and stared at the screen. His eyes lit up. "Doctor Clef! Dimitri!" Agent Yoric laughed. "Are you here to rescue me?"
The two men stared at Yoric for a moment, then glanced at each other, then looked back at the colonel. "I have never seen or met this man in my entire life," Clef lied.
"Is total stranger," Dimitri said.
"… you've got to be fucking kidding me," Yoric whimpered.

"… and what happened after that?" Dr. Glass asked. The psychiatrist was resting his chin on his hand, gazing at the three men sitting in his office with an expression of spellbound fascination.
"Well…" Clef said. "We couldn't leave Yoric behind."
"… so we break free of captors and gun them all down," Dmitri finished.
"Then we highjacked a GOC plane…"
"Boat," Dmitri corrected.
"Was it a boat?" Clef wondered. "I thought it was a plane…"
"My report said boat," Dmitri explained pointedly.
Clef blinked once, very slowly, then smiled. "It was a seaplane."
"Da," Dmitri said, much relieved. "Seaplane. That explain confusion."
"Yes. So after we highjacked the GOC seaplane, we flew down to Rio de Janeiro, found Yoric, and rescued him."
"I see," Glass said, very slowly. "And this is why you guys were late coming back from vacation?"
"Well, we couldn't just fly back right away," Clef said.
"GOC was looking for us. Very dangerous."
"I didn't want to go back to their torture chamber," Yoric whimpered.
"So, we disguised ourselves as tourists and waited for them to give up looking."
"Disguised… as tourists," Glass repeated.
"Um… yes. As rich corporate executives on vacation…"
"I see. And this explains the…" Glass ran an eye down the page of the document in front of him. "… six nights at a luxury 4-star hotel, five thousand-plus dollars in restaurant and liquor bills, and… good lord, you bought HOW many condoms? And why six bikinis?"
"… the young ladies forgot theirs," Clef said, "and they didn't want to go into the hot tub naked."
"… Dr. Clef. My dear agents. I was not born yesterday. The Foundation Expense Fund is for emergency expenses in the line of duty. It is not to be used to fund a week of debauchery on the taxpayers' dollar, and your ludicrous story is both insulting to my intelligence and…"
Simultaneously, as if they had rehearsed this (and perhaps they had), the three men reached into the breast pockets of their hawaiian shirts and pulled out three newspaper clippings and laid them on the desk in front of Glass.
UNKNOWN HEROES FOIL CHECHEN HIJACKERS
TEXAS MILITIAMEN FOUND GUNNED DOWN IN DESERT
BLOODSHED IN RIO! TWO MYSTERY MEN ATTACK BRAZILIAN MILITARY BASE
Glass looked from one newspaper clipping to the other, then back up at the three men.
He saw Yoric point to the rope burn on his wrists.
He saw Clef lighting up a cigarette with a battered, blood-stained Zippo, with the words "FUCK COMMUNISM" engraved on it.
He saw Strelnikov grin, his mouth full of steel teeth, his broad, slavic face the very picture of angelic innocence.
Dr. Glass took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.
"You have to be fucking with me," he moaned.
END


██/██/████
I woke up late again today… I really should start setting an alarm or something. Doc Rhodes was pretty pissed off, said I'm the worst secretary he's ever seen. That old man's told me that every day for three years now. When's he gonna lighten up? At least the work is easy.
He's been studying a bunch of papers and stuff from one of his patients' home. A guy called Raul Sounder, went crazy and killed a bunch of people. Said he was on some kind of 'quest for meaning', whatever that is. He had this weird obsession with the number eighteen. Rhodes called it the worst case of something called 'Pareidolia' he'd ever seen. Helluvva word, pareidolia. Anyway, I should go to sleep. That damn crow kept me awake all night… I really wish I could live in places where the birds don't cry all night and keep me up.

██/██/████
I've never understood why people start off entries like this with 'dear diary'. It seems so stupid to pretend I'm doing anything other than writing in a notebook.
Anyway, it was a fairly good day today, light workload, just a few patients. Doctor Rhodes had me file a whole bunch of the Sounders stuff away, though, so it wasn't exactly a break. It's the oddest thing, those papers had this… stuff on them, not like dust exactly, but some kinda powder, like they'd been stored in a room full of the stuff. It gives the pages an odd texture, makes them feel strange. I got a pretty nasty papercut on one, too. It's swollen, looks infected.
At any rate, time for sleep. That fucking crow had better not wake me up again. I wish I could live in places where the birds don't cry at all hours of the night… Huh, I said that last night, too. 'places where the birds don't cry'. Kinda poetic. I like it.

██/██/████
So, today was boring.
Rhodes was acting kinda strange, though. He kept babbling about the red light at the intersection around the corner from the building changing faster than the others. He would walk over and stick his head out the window to try and catch it changing. Ah, well, old guys like him are bound to develop a few eccentricities eventually, right? Go figure.
Oh! Also, I told one of the patients, an english teacher, about how I'd come up with that fun phrase 'Places where the birds don't cry'. She said she thought it would make a good title for a book or short story or something. I was kinda hoping for a better reaction. It is really poetic. places where the birds don't cry. Ha, a novel by Susan James.
Anyway, I need to go to bed soon. I kinda hope the crow outside is loud tonight, so I can complain about not sleeping in places where the birds don't cry.

██/██/████
Doctor Rhodes is dead.
That traffic light he was freaking out over? He went out sometime late last night and hung himself from it. The police have been questioning me all day, 'what did he act like?' 'Did he seem all right?'. I told them he'd been talking about that light being off and it really bothered him, and they hmmd a bit and wrote it down, and that damn crow kept making noise the whole time. I told one of the cops about how unlucky he was to have to sleep in places where the birds don't cry, and he looked at me like I'd said something really strange. Some people, huh?
Anyway, I'm proud of my new pet phrase. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. Hey, if you say it like that, it sounds kinda important, doesn't it?
Anyway, time for bed. I'm so glad I don't have to live in places where the birds don't cry.

██/██/████
I really need to get a job, but I don't want to leave the apartment. The crow outside is so comforting… I'm almost scared to go to places where the birds don't cry… Dunno what I'll do come winter. Fly south, I suppose.

██/██/████
Places where the birds don't cry.

██/██/████
The crow never made a noise last night. I'm worried. All night, I tossed and turned, waiting for that screeching caw to lull me to sleep, and it never came. I don't want to be trapped in places where the birds don't cry.

██/██/████
Places where the birds don't cry. Places where the birds don't cry. Places where the birds don't cry. Places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry placeswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcry placeswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcryplaceswherethe birdsdon'tcryplaceswhere thebirds don'tcryplaceswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcry don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon- ( Continues for several pages. -Dr.██████)

Researcher's note:
The Foundation acquired the diary of Susan James a short time after her apparent suicide. A neighbor noticed that she had not left her home for several days and phoned local police, who arrived to find that she had [DATA EXPUNGED] repeated several times. The particulars of the case, and its potential association with the Rhodes incident brought it to Foundation attention, and all files pertaining to Miss James were closed. Item number SCP-E-███-2, the 'Sounder Papers' were taken in for analysis.
Addendum: All researchers handling item SCP-E-███-2 must wear full hazardous materials protective gear. We can't afford another [REDACTED]
Two birds with one stone.


The smoking ruin of the black Crown Victoria lay on the side of the road, its wheels slowly turning in the air, a massive tree trunk piercing the windshield. The tree had blasted through the safety glass and through the driver's seat, knocking the steering wheel off its column, through the headrest, and into the back seat. A clearly unsurvivable accident.
Except for the young man in the grey duster sitting on top of the transmission hump, smoking a cigarette. Clearly a dangerous activity given the heavy scent of leaking gasoline in the air.
The glare of halogen-bright headlights coming down the curve interrupted his reverie, so he hopped down from the mangled wreck, tossing his still-glowing cigarette butt into the passenger-side seat. He climbed up the embankment and stepped into the middle of the road, waving a battered Yankees baseball cap over his head. The Mitsubishi pulled up beside the wreck, and he walked over to the driver's side window, where an obese, balding man with a furrowed brow glared up at him angrily.
"You're late," the young man said, showing him the time on a Mickey Mouse watch. "You said you'd be here twenty minutes ago."
"You said you could take this guy in. What happened?"
"I'm guessing a little girl happened," the young man said.
"How the fuck do you figure?"
"Well, I don't know. You think maybe the little girl whom you told me could mess around with electronics might have had something to do with the inexplicable failure of my car's transmission system? I thought you told me she could only affect computers."
"Shut up. You're supposed to be the best. My bosses paid a lot of money for you. So far you've given us shit. Get in the car."
The young man walked to the passenger's side without another word, tossed his grey duster in the back seat and climbed in. "Little girls," he muttered. "It's always little girls. Make a note, if you have a chance to fight a seven-story monster or a kindergartener, take the monster, you'll live longer." Behind him, the gas fumes had finally started to ignite, and blue-yellow flames were licking the upholstery of the wrecked Crown Vic. "I'm going to need a new car, and a six-man support team," the young man said. "In addition…"
"You're getting jack shit." The young man felt cold steel against his temple. He glanced up into the rear view mirror. Walther PPK. 9x17mm. Silver finish. Ivory grips. Stylish gun, must have cost a small fortune. "This experiment is over. We're switching back to our usual MO, and you're going to hell."
"I really wouldn't do that if I were you," the young man said. His voice was low, and flat, deliberately cool, like a snake in the rushes. "Not with only a gun. I'd recommend a stake and some holy water."
The fat man laughed. "Shut up. Aren't you a fucking lousy liar."
"You shut up. You won't kill me. You paid a lot of money for me, and your bosses won't like it if you waste resources."
"My bosses don't know about you. This is an independent operation. Perfect deniability. You were dead the moment that you took the contract. Or did you really think that the Foundation would even bother with some loser who got kicked out of the GOC?" A fireball ignited the night sky as the gas tank of the Crown Vic finally caught and lit. In the lurid scarlet light, the fat man's features appeared harsh, cruel… yes, even demonic.
The young man smiled, a wide, mirthless smile showing lots of crooked white teeth. "No support. No resources. No replacement car. I guess that makes sense." The young man leaned his head back and sighed, staring up at the roof of the car. "My mistake. I guess I've gotten soft. But one thing that I haven't forgotten…"
There was a gunshot, and a brief flurry of movement, and then the small Mitsubishi leaped forward like a pouncing cat. The tiny car swerved off the side of the road and over the edge of the embankment, where it tumbled end over end down the rocky ravine and crashed, inverted, into a small creek bed at the bottom of the hill. Two more gunshots, then silence.
The young man pulled himself out of the passenger's side window, grimacing as he nursed a gunshot wound in the ear. Blood was streaming down his face from a cut on the forehead, and his left ankle was twisted strangely as he rolled over onto his back, gasping for breath. Broken ribs. Definitely broken ribs.
He grinned up at the starry night sky as he tossed the silver-plated Walther into the creek. "As I was gonna say… I never forgot to set the car into Park when doing a roadside execution," he wheezed.
He reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there, realizing only then that his coat was still in the back seat of the car. He considered his options. Given the situation, passing out seemed like the best course of action.
So he did.


One fine day in the Foundation, Dr. Bright finds the need to clean up some small problems. A researcher has been asking questions, and, worse, questioning Bright. And so it is that Dr. Jack Bright calls Dr. Heiden to his office, for some… discussion.
Heiden is ushered into the room by an old man, the young doctor is clearly incredibly uneasy. "…Dr. Bright, you requested my presence?"
"Heiden." Bright smiles lightly. "Please, take a seat." Gesturing at the comfy looking chair across the desk from himself. Heiden takes a moment to look around the room uncomfortably before sitting in the chair.
"Hold on just a moment, please." Dr. Bright pulls out a small remote from his pocket and begins clicking buttons. The red lights on the cameras in the office go off, the door locks shut, and all other machines go dead. "There. Much better."
Heiden gulps nervously before saying "…yes, sir." Bright's actions did absolutely nothing to settle Frederick's raging nerves. Somehow he suspects that was intentional.
"Now then, there will be no recordings if you choose to be insubordinate. For the record, my cane is in the corner behind you, and my hands are empty. I am doing this in an attempt to provide an air of open conversation, that seems to be needed." He nods his head solemnly, before continuing. "Now, it seems you may have some unresolved issues with me. Shall we discuss these?"
Heiden's mind races… but once again, honesty remains Frederick's policy. He takes a moment to compose himself before speaking. "Yes, sir. On my first, ah, incident with the Foundation, I encountered SCP-963. It was used to subdue a prisoner, an armed android with which I am sure you are familiar."
Bright nods his head. "Sonia Velamour. She was 29, had no siblings, and her parents were deceased. She once loved a man, and he turned her into a cyborg. Yes, I am aware of her, go on."
Heiden stares at Bright, taken aback by the information. "… yes. I initially protested this action, but as it was undertaken in the heat of a combat situation, it is understandable that my protests were ignored. I inquired as to the nature of SCP-963, and was offered access to a redacted file containing a briefing on the object. I am an ethicist by vocation, Doctor Bright, though my - "
Bright snorts. "It is a devious and despicable item."
Heiden seems caught incredibly off-guard by this statement. He fumbles for a moment before continuing. " -ah, well. My review of the file included sections regarding retaining brainwiped bodies for future use - actually, four."
"That is correct." Bright touches the teardrop tattoo under his eye. "I found it wiser to keep bodies on hand, instead of trusting to the fickleness of fate to provide me with new ones should an incident arise. By keeping these bodies in stasis, I have found myself capable of extending their life span."
"To be frank, sir, this is among the most hideous crimes I have ever seen systematically inflicted upon a group of people, D-class or no. I have tremendous difficulty justifying it to myself and as a result, I may have behaved in a manner inconsistent with the attitude expected towards senior staff." Heiden coughs, still nervous about sounding off to a superior. "…to cut directly to the heart of the matter, sir, what entitles you to their bodies?"
Bright smiles …ah… brightly. "Ah, yes, entitlement. You are aware that D-class are executed on a monthly basis, yes?"
Heiden nods. "I am aware. I genuinely believe that death is preferable."
"Well then, let us take a look at my bodies. Do you have any issues with my usage of simian bodies?"
"I am… unnerved by it, I admit, sir." Heiden ponders a moment, and his speech lapses into a more informal pattern. "It's not… it's not as visceral, though. It doesn't keep me awake at night. It's just another mildly disturbing thing that happens at work."
"Then that takes care of two of the stored bodies." Ticking off two fingers on his hand. "Let's move on to this one. Hank Ashton, 42, convicted pedophile and child killer. He enjoys strawberry ice cream, and the reflection of his knife in a young girl's eyes before he cuts her throat."
Heiden nods. He sees where Jack is going with this. "He deserves to be dead. Unless exposure to SCP-963 has been proven to be identical to a brain transplant- and considering the nature of SCP-963, I doubt proof is forthcoming anytime soon- I do not believe use of the object to be justified."
"It is identical to a brain transplant. The recipient's brain is completely wiped clean."
"I'll not press further after this one question- but how are you certain? The device is a twisted, disturbing thing. What happens to the 'data' that is wiped?" Heiden just wants to be sure.
Bright wags a finger at Heiden, hoping to explain. "Think of it as a computer. All the files are moved to the trash bin —" he taps 963 — "and new files are overwritten. While there may be some small indications the files were once there, you have to work to find them. Sadly, a poor copy is kept in the trash can. It is why I keep myself out of there, as much as possible."
"I… the consciousness never dies, then. It's just sequestered away?" It just sounds so…ugly, to him.
Bright shakes his head. "The consciousness dies, but the memories remain."
"So… it's as if you piggybacked your consciousness on a corpse." Heiden regrets how crude that sounds, but he's trying to fit it in his head.
Bright snaps his fingers. "Exactly. All the functions become mine. Even the ones you don't think can be changed. Every body I am in beats with the same pulse, breathes in the same manner, walks with the same steps."
Heiden frowns. That's… bizarre. Wait, where does he work again? "Acknowledged, sir. My conduct towards you was based on an understanding of SCP-963 that was mistaken, and for that I apologize."
"Good. But even were it not mistaken, there is another reason why I…deserve… these bodies."
Heiden tilts his head to the side slightly. "…I don't understand. Continue, sir?"
"I am the Foundation." Bright stares at Heiden, a slight smile on his face. In his eyes… well, you read the report, and the theories, right?
Heiden got a heavily redacted version of the report, it seems. He stares at Bright, feeling more than a little stupid. "You… you are the Foundation?" The only theory he's hearing right now is 'crippling megalomania', on the level of 'I am the Law!'. "Sir, the SCP Foundation, while I am aware …requires the work of minds such as yourself, is - as far as I know - a collaborative effort of many. To be blunt, I don't understand."
Bright stands up, and begins to pace, gesturing with his hands. "Currently, you are a junior researcher, and I am a Senior Staffer in charge of personnel. That means, I pick who comes on board, make sure they can handle the rough stuff, and in general, turn them into people capable of becoming Senior Staff, whether they know I'm doing it or not."
Bright continues. "In 25 years, you will be a Senior Researcher, possibly with your own site to handle, definitely with many new researchers, trained by me, under your wing. I, will be the Senior Researcher in charge of Personnel."
"In 50 years, you will, god willing, be ready to retire, and leave your work to a trusted researcher, who was brought into the Foundation under me. I will still be the Senior Researcher in charge of personnel." Bright focuses his gaze on Heiden, making sure he's getting it.
"In 75 years, if you are still alive, you will be suffering from dementia, and other mental deterioration, barely in control of your own bowels. I, however, will be in a body as young as they give me, training a new generation of Researchers."
Heiden, with dawning horror, realizes what Dr. Bright is driving at.
Bright stabs a finger at his desk, to make the point. "In 100 years, you will be dead, and the researchers you taught will be nearing retirement themselves. I will know who to replace them with."
Bright's voice remains calm and collected, as if discussing a new assignment. He doesn't seem to actually care about any of this, it just needs saying. "In 200 years, your name will be known only by diligent researchers, one name among many of those who have been researchers for the Foundation. I… will still be a senior researcher. From time to time, I will sit with a glass of wine and remember those who have passed, but the list will be long."
"1000 years from now, no one but I will remember you existed. And… I will still be working with the Foundation to protect humanity. Do you understand? I am the Foundation. I shape its future, and I keep it on task. I'm needed, despicable as it might be. Do you see?"
Heiden lets a long silence pass. "Why must it be you? 963 was held by someone before you, and in time, it will be held by another. Do you want this?"
Bright shakes his head sadly. "No one held 963 before me. It was created for another man, but he failed to make it work. I am its first, and only, resident. There is no escape from 963." Jack considers the question for a silent moment. "Do I want it? No. But who else am I supposed to trust to get it done?"
Uneasily, Heiden continues. "You don't have to run the Foundation, Dr. Bright. You're not Atlas - no human is. Trust that there are people who can get the job done. In your time here, you can assure many. But it is not one man's responsibility to save the world."
"What else do I have? If I leave, they will mark me as an SCP, and hide 963 away where it will take a long time for someone to find it." He knows someone eventually will. Part of the curse. "Do you think I can live a normal life? I cannot have children of my own, only those of whatever body I wear. Hell, when it comes to sex, do you know how hard it is to have something touch you, but never your partner, not even for a second? The positions get wild enough I have to pay for it. The Foundation is my life. And I will make it wonderful." Bright smiles. It isn't all that reassuring.
"You… you really can't be rid of it, can you?" Heiden pauses but a moment. "I, ah… my condolences to you, sir." Heiden doesn't know what to say. He feels like a bastard.
"Never." Bright lifts the remote. "Are we done?"
"I believe so, sir." Heiden's head hangs low.
Bright hits the button, and everything hums back to life. "Dismissed. Don't dwell on this too much Heiden. I have big plans for you."
Heiden rises, his posture straightening as he stares straight ahead. "Yes, sir." He turns and walks from the room.
And Jack Bright watches him walk out the door, his smile widening. "Such very big plans."