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Can you show me the way to Alagadda?
No one on Earth seems to know.

Blood. It is always blood. I stopped trying to understand why long ago. Even now, I hear it, hungry for more. I want nothing more than to satisfy that urge as if it were my own, but I must remain practical. I must put on some music and figure out a plan. I must ensure the blood is never my own.
I've always liked Paul Hindemith's Symphony in B Flat. There's something enchanting about it. The lyrical solos in the first movement. The surprisingly melodic atonality. The way the theme of movement one comes back at the end of the piece. Something comforting in the way that familiarity comes back right when you least expect it. I listen to it in moments when I need to keep a cool head. Like right now.
There are impossible tasks, and then there's finding a Way to Alagadda. It's been done before, so we know it's possible. But we're not sure how exactly it was done. I know just enough about how to open our Way— rather, the Foundation's Way— to know that the creation of it was a much more complex process.
But my Patron has demanded it, so I must find a way to get there.

For the King, he is hosting a royal gala
And I have been invited to go

As the third movement begins, I consider my options. I could try to sneak in through the Foundation's Way. I already know how to open it. I know what to expect on the other side. If I can figure out a way to get past the Foundation, they'd be unlikely to be able to apprehend me in Alagadda. The simplest solution could be the best one.
The first subject begins, and I realize that that is a huge "if." The simplest solution is the one that's going to get me caught. Even with my knowledge of the inner workings of Foundation security, I can't exactly sneak past security and get into the Tower of London, one of the most well-guarded places in the world. Even if I came up with a plan, word of my treachery has spread by now; I'd be lucky to get within a hundred miles of a Foundation protected anomaly without being taken in. So the direct path is out.

If I can't find my way I would have to decline
And that would be considerably rude

The first scherzando. Tension, like walking on a bed of needles. The oboe and the piccolo panic as the subject in the saxophone fails to calm them down. I need to not follow their lead.
Can I brute force a new Way? This is perhaps the safest maneuver, simply follow in Percy's footsteps. Perhaps what I learned from my alchemical will allow me to access Alagadda. I didn't get too far in my thaumaturgical studies, but in theory, I know enough to create a Way, though the exact substances and steps would take some trial and error.
Except I don't have time for trial, and I certainly don't have time for error. I can no longer stall the Foundation's progress, Emma has certainly figured out what I hid from her by now.
And saying "I know enough" about alchemy is much like saying "I know enough" about brain surgery to pull it off; it's better to have full knowledge before attempting it. If I'm not careful, I could cause lasting damage on this reality, or worse, bypass Alagadda entirely and end up deep in the Nevermeant.

Plus it's not every day that you're invited by a king
So showing up is logically shrewd

The second subject begins, a beautiful venture that only leads back where it started, a Penrose staircase of a melody. The first subject tries to reassert itself periodically, but nothing comes of it.
Perhaps the answer is to seek help from my fellow thieves. "All together at Golgotha," that was what the baton said. That is what will bring us all together. Supposedly.
Only I've never met any of the other thieves. How would I identify them? Would anybody know how to find another Way? More importantly, would they be willing to help me? Our goals align in the long term, but right now? It's hard to say.

The musicians are playing their grand toccata
I should depart without delay

The second Scherzando, the second subject plays underneath, but even through the panic, it seems the upper woodwinds have things more under control. The sound is more subdued, sinister, whispering, as the second subject fails to engage. As though the subject is about to be betrayed.
I could turn myself in. The Foundation certainly wouldn't expect that. I might be able to convince them I have valuable information. Make them take me to Alagadda, then perform my duties there.
The scherzando fades out of existence, not with a bang but a whimper.
That idea is easily the dumbest I've had so far. Supposing they believed me, they wouldn't let me go to Alagadda. Supposing they did, there would be no chance to escape their watch.

Do you know how to get to Alagadda?
For no one else on Earth knows the way

The two subjects combine, somewhat messily. I'm unconvinced they're trying to combine cleanly. I wish I could write something this good.
I've always loved music, I've just never been good at it. That is to say I've always been perfectly fine at it, just never exceptional. But I watched people for whom music meant less easily surpass me, when it seemed like my life. So I changed tactics.
At the Foundation, I learned more about the world that had fascinated me. But my love for music never wavered. It was only after years at the Foundation that I discovered Sul Golgota and understood that my entire life had been leading up to this, that I had a part to play, and that I would be united with the music that had meant so much to me someday.

I have combed every book, I have searched every map
But no one has a path that can be found

The first movement theme awakens me from my reminiscing, and I realize something for the first time. The thieves got to be front and center at the event that changed world history, true. But they were crucified along with Jesus of Nazareth. And they weren't so lucky as to be resurrected. The Penitent Thief was never even mentioned until the Gospel of Luke; the earlier Gospel of Mark state both thieves mocked Jesus.
They were merely thieves. What could they have possibly stolen that was equivalent to their lives? They were thieves, not arsonists, not abusers, not murderers. Simple thieves. And they died for their crimes. They publicly suffered and then died.
Simple sins have intense consequences.

If the saint knows I'm late then that would only end in flames
As Alagadda burns to the ground

It's over. The symphony is over and I'm still no closer to an answer. Only one thing makes sense.
I am in way over my head.

If we play what was heard on Mount Golgotha
Maybe they'd finally find some peace

I'm on the verge of an idea, I can feel it poking from the back of my mind, but I don't understand it. Something about the third movement of Symphony in B-Flat. But what? The subjects? The scherzandos? The Fugual nature of the piece? Or the recombination?
No, it's something about the theme, the one from the first movement.
The way something familiar comes back right when you least expect it.
And with that, I'm hit with a sudden wave of clarity. I can't turn myself in, but perhaps there is somebody left there that I can trust.
Perhaps there is one Savage Beast I could soothe yet.

Until then, how to get to Alagadda?
It never seemed so far out of reach

The words come flying from my fingers, quick and precise like the first subject, but the thoughts themselves are like the second subject: circular, wishy-washy, vague. Nonsensical.
In the end, there is only one thing, one thought that matters.

The point is, I'm in over my head, and I need your help, old friend.
H, can you show me the way to Alagadda?
-Stuart

I anxiously await the response, counting the minutes. One. Two. Five. Ten. Twenty. Too many. I can scarcely breathe.
Until I see the response.
I have a Way in.
And in Alagadda, I shall find the scores.
Whatever happens now is all up to me. An impenitent thief. One way or another, this music will be heard.
And one way or another, I will play a part.

‘Til the music that was lost is released


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Halfway Lost by Hexick, Greyve, and JakdragonX

Other Works:
Coming Soon!

For more by us, check out the Greyve Page and Personnel File: JakdragonX!

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Halfway Central Station was nothing like the other twelve transport terminals in Eurtec — crowded, decrepit, and weary with the tireless hum of androids. Only the exposed infrastructure and holographic memories far above the confused masses hinted at the station's past, before the Coalition's ruthless development had left it — along with the citizens of the sector — to the mercy of Eurtec's infamous lower sprawl: the Blood District.
Named after the illegal rubedo trade, those unfortunate enough to live — or, rather, simply survive — here had neither love nor pride for it. Ravaged by criminal thaumaturges and dominated by alchemical cartels, no aspect of life here was untouched by paranormal influence.
The privileged residents of Eurtec's Golden District did their best to forget that this world below their feet even existed. The mere suggestion of abnormality would present a threat to their false presumptions of objective normality — as enforced by the aptly-named Coalition Enforcers.
Speaking of which, Adrian Ross would have to keep an eye out for them as he shuffled through the stream of disgruntled travelers. He didn't usually allow his now damp, dark hair to drape over his eyes, but considering the fact that his hands were preoccupied with protecting several important documents from both the pouring rain and the occasional pickpocket, he didn't exactly have another option. He knew damn well that the contents of those files would be worth compromising his vision for.
Hell, it's a good thing the station doesn't have a functional roof, he mused. After all, the pounding rain made his dark leather coat significantly less suspicious. Otherwise, no one would be wearing so many layers in such a biologically humid environment without significant mechanical augmentation, or, he supposed, significant risk of stroke.
Adrian scrambled down a cement stairway past a pack of industrial workers crowded around one of the few remaining station holograms, tuned to the only channel that the lower city was allowed. The fact that would-be looters would only be able to watch Coalition propaganda did little to dissuade locals from dismantling the hologram systems for personal use.
"Good evening, Eurtec. We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you an update on the situation at the MAGE Computing office collapse. Current estimates put the casualties at nearly a hundred — more than the previous month's attacks combined, all believed to be connected to the paraenvironmental terrorist organization known as 'The Serpent's Hand'. In light of the recent terrorist activity, citizens are encouraged to report suspicious activity to their local GOC lower-court marshal immediately. If you have any information —"
Focus, he snapped at himself.
He'd already detailed his exact route to the subway car, which had just reached the station at that moment — something, of course, he had already planned prior. He would depart from the station at approximately 23:50 and reach the next station after twelve minutes. Still, he held little solace in his calculations, considering he had no idea where his final destination was.
Adrian quickened his pace towards the farthest doors of the subway car, trying his best to dodge the flood of vacating Eurtecians. He reckoned that he'd be less conspicuous in the back, with the added benefit of being near an exit in the event he was discovered. He grimaced over an already distasteful expression.
"Hey, eyes up!"
Adrian barely managed to regain his balance as he collided with a one-eyed straggler. The stranger muttered profanities under his breath as Adrian frantically searched his person, checking that he hadn't lost any of his essentials, before crossing the rather significant gap onto the subway car. Adrian suddenly felt a singe of remorse, remembering that any agency this man once owned no longer existed, forcing him only to drift, quite literally, into his way.
He shook his head, as though doing so would resolve the cluttered thoughts occupying his attention. Finally making his way towards the back of the packed vessel, he'd already figured he wouldn't be able to get a seat. Guess I'm gonna have to wait a bit longer to rest my legs, he grumbled internally. Adrian briefly scanned the crowd, finally allowing himself to pull his hair back, before glancing down at the series of documents in his hands. Despite having memorized all the information prior, he quickly reviewed the files, tracing his own meticulous handwriting before reaching a name circled several times over.
"Jaiden."
He hadn't even realized that he'd said her name aloud and quickly snapped his head to each side, praying that no one noticed. Then he realized that the other occupants were likely too preoccupied with their own business to pay him any mind. Besides, it wouldn't have mattered if anyone had heard him anyway — Adrian was the shadow of a ghost, an absolute nobody. His identity had been removed from every public record, leaving only a watermark of his past affiliation with the Coalition. He allowed himself to relax once again before pulling out an untraceable flip phone from his left pocket.

[RESTRICTED]: Market street. 5th door to left. Ask for the bartenders favorite. We'll talk there.

At least I know where I'm heading now. Not that his unease was based entirely upon his uncertainty; his mind continued rambling senselessly as paranoia threatened his outwardly neutral resolve.
Stop it. You know why you're doing this. After all, the least he could do for Jaiden was endure a ride on the Eurtec metro.

As the subway pulled out of the station, Halfway Sector would catch the last beams of moonlight available that night. Halfway, he recited, is situated halfway up the height of Eurtec. Meaning the pillars of the Golden District cast a permanent shadow over Halfway's unfortunate residents. Limited by the constant expansion upwards and the presence of the Undercity far below, Halfway had nowhere to expand but inwards, he continued. And so, much to the chagrin of the city's self-appointed caretakers — the Servants of the Silicon Nornir — a network of tunnels burrowed into the city's own infrastructure — a network that became the infamous Blood District.
The result somewhat resembled an ant colony that some depraved child had dropped a rock onto, which had since been removed — the centrally situated Halfway Downtown remained somewhat exposed, but the fringes of the city were comprised entirely of mechanical passages. Under miles of urbanization, passengers sped through the tunnels of Halfway breathing recycled air and noting the occasional light as it streaked by.
Secondhand oxygen for second-class citizens, mused Adrian. It was a phrase he'd heard often, accompanied by complaints about the Coalition's unsustainable development. It was no secret that the GOC had no love for Halfway's anomalous population, but the terms of the 1984 Coalition Administration Agreement prohibited open aggression. Because, after all, the GOC might be officially in charge, but there was no question that the city itself was operated by the Silicon Nornir — three sentient supercomputers that stretched from the Undercity all the way to the peaks of the Golden District.
For a moment, Adrian's memory drifted to the first time he was in Eurtec. The first he saw of the city were the gleaming spires adorning the Urthor Transport Terminal, where hundreds of Ways to the most exotic destinations met at the so-called "capital of the Coalition." Adrian allowed his mind a moment to wander in the relative safety of the subway, back to when everything was right.

"Hey, Sparks?"
Adrian barely turned to face Jaiden. The two of them were seated in a small crowd that was desperately trying to stay awake as the centenarian and nearly senile Director November mumbled about the “pride of the Coalition."
“What?”
“Director Ukelele's asleep,” she smirked.
Sure enough, Adrian sighted an extremely ugly individual snoring through a Cheshire-cat grin near the front row.
“Well, he's never been one for formalities,” remarked Adrian.
“Sure. But it does make me wonder if I'd be allowed to doze off, though,”
Adrian snorted. “He's a director. We haven't even been inducted,”
“Oh, please. You know full well I'm going to get inducted one way or another,” she huffed, crossing her arms.
It was a fair point. She'd practically grown up in the GOC as part of some discontinued paranormal rehabilitation program for children whose parents were killed in anomalous incidents. Of course, the Coalition discarded rehabilitation programs the instant they were able to mass-produce amnestics, but that wasn't exactly an option back then. It does take quite a bit of time to dissect an 800-kilometer long eel-deity, after all.
“Maybe. But they might put you in with 1151."
"Me? With the Reprobates? Never," she pouted.
Adrian grimaced slightly, glancing towards the attending members of Assessment Team 1151, the infamous "Reprobates." They were known to be ruthlessly efficient, but it wasn't exactly an honor to be selected for 1151 — as its name implied, the unit was founded as a place to lump together skilled assessment personnel that didn't fall in line easily. They were damn good at what they did, and their merciless team lead only served to "foster good character", or, rather, break down personality.
Jaiden leaned over his shoulder to see what he was looking at and caught a glimpse of the infamous Angel — an ex-convict given a second chance by the Coalition thanks to his sharp senses and extensive experience as a cartel hitman. It was said that his callsign came from the many tattooed wings adorning his back, although no one really knew why he was so fascinated with them. What everyone knew, though, was that Angel was short for Angel of Death — when it came to high-profile assassinations, he was the first-draft pick.
Angel briefly caught the pair's eyes before returning one of his own signature death stares, which was more than enough to dissuade Adrian and Jaiden from gazing even in his general direction. They turned once again to face Director November, who was finally concluding her speech and was preparing to read out the long list of initiates.
“Yeah, there's no way I'd survive with Azrael or whatever as my team lead,”
"You'll make it into Overwatch for sure," reassured Adrian.
"Maybe. But I already told you that I'm not accepting Overwatch if you're not there with me."
Adrian scoffed. "Only an idiot wouldn't accept an appointment to Overwatch. Hell, you'd be only the third initiates ever to have been invited to join them right out of the academy."
Jaiden shrugged and reclined in her seat, crossing her legs. "There's plenty of skilled personnel out there. But there's only one Adrian Elliot Ross."
Adrian grinned. "That's so cliche,"
Jaiden beamed back. "Maybe. We'll see. But wherever you end up, I'll be there with you."
Just then, Director November, who'd been fumbling through the numerical designations sequentially, arrived at Assessment Team 280.
"Please welcome Adrian Ross to Assessment Team 280 "Quicksilver."
Adrian stood up and began making his way to the stage, where he'd be presented with his new uniform. Gleaming silver and white heraldry adorned the uniform's sleeve, as seen on the arms of his soon-to-be comrades Medusa, Lynx, 2N, and Vesper.
Three of the four would eventually be killed in action. Three people, who were once three promising recruits in the same spot that Adrian stood that day. They had their replacements, sure, and the remaining members would welcome them all the same, but they just weren't the same.
There's plenty of skilled personnel out there. But there's only one Jaiden Sheridan Collins," thought Adrian as he stood alone amongst the packed crowd on the way to find her again.

By the time Adrian had awoken and emerged from the station, most of the functional streetlights had been deactivated. He couldn't help but sneak a glance towards the horizon where, unsurprisingly, the brilliant neon glow of Halfway Downtown defied the Coalition's city-wide curfew. Unfortunately, the fringe districts weren't as bold, often finding themselves subject to the scrutiny of the Coalition.
Adrian kept close to the graffitied walls of the shadowed buildings and used them as a guide while his eyes adjusted. In the distance, he could hear the distinct blaring of sirens while white and blue lights flashed through cracks in the the far edges of the city. His body naturally tensed in anticipation before the colors faded back into the night.
Night patrols, Adrian warned himself, continuing towards his destination. He'd memorized the back alleys and tunnels in advance in order to avoid Enforcers, but he knew full well that this didn't make him immune to being apprehended. Gritting his teeth, he remaining overtly cautious of his surroundings, just as he'd done as an investigative operative back in the Coalition.
After several minutes of careful travel, Adrian began to notice more details of the nearby buildings. Realizing his eyes could focus enough to distinguish between the varying degrees of debris that lay along the crudely-carved tunnels, he mustered the courage to step away from the walls and began walking faster, praying that he wouldn't have to come close to any more Enforcer vehicles.
Soon enough, Adrian was able to catch glimpses of light through the gaps of buildings and windows, suggesting the locale was not as vacant as he was initially led to believe. Turning right onto Market Street, he could just barely make out several silhouettes standing in the distance, none of whom were facing him.
No matter how many rules you lay down, you can't stop someone who lives to defy them, Adrian scoffed as he made his way past rows of empty market stalls and temporarily abandoned storefronts. Counting carefully, he traced his destination to a derelict establishment constructed against the base of a large metal pillar, no doubt supporting the hundreds of floors overhead.
"May we help you?"
Adrian's body once again tensed in subconscious anticipation as a hooded man made himself visible to Adrian. He was considerably taller than Adrian had anticipated — and if he were any good at combat, Adrian's thin, light frame stood no chance against the hulking brute before him. He just hoped that it wouldn't come to that.
"Depends," Adrian responded. "If you're still open, would you mind giving me the bartender's favorite?"
The man paused before giving a slight nod of approval.
"Follow me to the back," he grunted.
Adrian willfully complied, making his way into the largely abandoned bar. As a direct result of the Coalition's curfew, business in such establishments plummeted; now, only a few lonely souls drinking themselves into oblivion were scattered around in the building, paying no attention to Adrian as he followed the hooded man through a rusty door.
Behind that, Adrian found a small table illuminated dimly by neon lights. Five people looked up as the two of them entered, seated on crates in a circle.
"Sit," commanded the hooded man.
Finding his place among the strangers, he took a moment to study the room's occupants. There was the hooded man standing beside him, who had now taken off his jacket to reveal a dark-skinned head paired with a mechanically augmented torso. Beside him was a masked middle-aged woman, who was sitting nearly completely still. On his other side was a relatively young Asian girl with short hair who was smoking a cigarette that produced a heavy, purple-tinged smoke.
Purple Haze. Highly illegal — not for its properties, but for its contents, among which include copious amounts of rubedo. He glanced away from the dim glow of the cigarette to see a disheveled-looking, pale man with a deep gash along his right eye. Looking deeper at the wound, he now noticed a black, tar-like substance sticking along the outside edges of the incision itself. The man gave him a passing glance, causing Adrian to momentarily flinch in senseless preparation.
"Ross." A fifth person leaned forward through the smoke, studying Adrian with a stone-cold stare. He cocked his head patronizingly, irritating Adrian more than he'd have liked to admit.
"Thanks for coming. You can call me Garter."
"And the others?" Adrian asked, squirming slightly on his crate.
"Cobra escorted you back here. The lady next to him is Viper. To your right is Python, and next to her is Mamba."
Adrian nodded, keeping his gaze softly fixated on Garter.
"I assume you're here because of our recent discussions?"
"Not exactly," Adrian admitted. "Word on the streets is that you've been snagging your goods," Adrian paused to nod towards the stacked crates in the corner of the room, "from some bad people,"
Garter chuckled slightly. "We all seem to be 'bad people' in this neighborhood in the eyes of the gockers,"
"Nonetheless, you didn't mention anything about where you got your goods from during our discussions," Adrian asserted. He could feel agitation bubbling in the back of his throat. Adrian swallowed his emotions, making sure that his slip-up wasn't noticed by the audience. "But that's not what matters to me. What matters is what you know about your suppliers, and what they do,"
Garter briefly paused, taking a moment to release a deep-rooted sigh.
"In this line of work, we have to interact with the lowest of scum, yes. None of us find pleasure in being involved with them, but our associates need answers. Our people are being kidnapped and sold, right on the streets. Our city is being corrupted by greed and wealth. Tell me, Ross, what would you do in our shoes?"
Adrian couldn't answer that. He figured it'd be better to respond with a question of his own.
"If you know what's happening, why haven't you done anything to stop it?" Adrian asked, noticing the relative stillness of spectators around him.
"We are in a very delicate position," Garter continued, his eyes remaining focused on Adrian. "We're having a hard enough time staying afloat as is, while the Coalition continues to mobilize more and more task forces to shut us down. The Hand doesn't have limitless resources, and fewer still to spend on a few small-time rubedo smugglers — we're simply stretched too thin, Ross," he paused, reading Adrian's expression.
"Which is why we'd like to ask for your help."
Adrian remained silent.
Garter continued. "We want the same thing. It's pretty simple — you help us, and we help you. You'd have an easy task, all things considered."
"And what would that be?"
Garter smiled. "I know you, Adrian. If you're asking that, I can only guess that you've accepted my offer." He slid a small folder across the table to Adrian.
"That has everything you need to know, including times, places, people, and all of the rest. We can discuss more at a later date —"
The sudden scream of sirens and gunfire interrupted whatever statement Garter was concluding. Coalition Enforcers. Adrian stood up immediately, seizing the file, as the others around him began to realize what was going on. Garter's expression had also shifted by that point, reflecting what Adrian could have only assumed to be disgust and anguish.
Garter glanced towards Adrian. "We can continue this some other time. You need to leave now. The back door is to your left. Take it, follow the instructions in the file, and we will find you. Go, now!"
Adrian nodded before sprinting towards the exit. In that moment, nothing mattered to Adrian more than withdrawing himself from the conflict completely. Under no circumstances could he let himself be spotted by the Enforcers.
He allowed himself a moment to watch as the five individuals sprinted into action. The masked woman began throwing arcs of lightning towards the Enforcer vehicles as Cobra positioned himself in front of the others, acting as a shield with his metal appendages. Viper sprang into action wielding what appeared to be a ten-foot long naginata, and Garter began firing a standard-issue Coalition rifle with surprising accuracy. They fought in unison, as though they were one living, breathing entity.
Just like we used to, he realized.
Adrian quickened his pace, making his way towards Angle Street through a nearby back alley. A large explosion behind him convinced him to run even faster.
I can make it, he thought. He focused on that singular thought, using it to reinforce his resolve. The danger dissipated behind him as he spotted the intersection of Angle and Market Streets.
I can make it.
Suddenly, Adrian was forced to stop in his tracks as a black Coalition hoverbike grinded to a halt directly in front of him. Conveniently positioning itself directly in front of Adrian, he immediately began scanning for an out as a rider covered from head-to-toe in black tactical gear swung off.
Adrian racked his brain for an excuse. “I heard gunfire, somewhere near Market Street. I was on my way to report the incident. If you need my name for identification purposes, it's Glenn Forrester.” 2N's name — no one would be searching for him.
“Funny. Vesper told me that 2N's been long gone,"
The man rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, revealing arms covered with the familiar winged motif of the Angel of Death.
"Fancy seeing you here, Ross."
I… might not make it.

A Sympath...

Outfounded Hub

In the Dark


A dangerous outlaw by the name of Nathan Rivers has struck again, this time allegedly killing four men in the town of Riddle, Wyoming. The fight originated inside of a bar, where Rivers stole a bottle of alcohol and shot one man over it. Here is the Gaskell Observational Consortium's lead detective, Nicholas Doyle:

"We will ensure that the capture of the outlaw named Nathan Rivers will be conducted soon. He is nothing but scum, and we are very close to catching him. The families of the victims of Rivers will finally be rewarded with justice."

A brave speech by Doyle, but the question on everybody's mind is, why is the Consortium handling a lowly outlaw? And why haven't they caught him?

Clipping from a March 18, 1886 Newspaper by Iris Thompson

Tis not the first time he was thrown out of a saloon window, and it would likely not be the last. He had grown quite acquainted with mud at this point, but cared for it he did not. Nathan Rivers stuttered upwards, grabbing a bottle of liquor that came out with him on his way up, and brushed himself off before turning to the saloon doors expecting a fight. The large brother of the owner of Saloon No. 19 slammed the doors right open. Both men raised their hands for a proper fisticuffs.
"I'm gonna crack your skull open!" Screamed the owner's brother.
"It was a bottle of brandy!" He screamed back while swinging the bottle around mockingly.
"That bottle was the most expensive piece of liquor in Clockson's store, it's more valuable then all of the items in your satchel combined you hobo!"
"It's expensive yes, which is exactly why I stole it, but I have something even more valuable in my satchel."
"Oh really?" The brother took that as part threat and part bargain. At this point a crowd of about twenty surrounded the two men, some from the Saloon and others from the street. Rivers did not care.
"Yup." Rivers stated. "It's the most valuable thing any man could have." He then reached out slowly into his satchel. The crowd, the owner's brother, and the owner himself who finally came out to see what the commotion was about were all staring intently.
Rivers finally reached the bottom of the bag and latched onto something cool to the touch: his revolver, which he had kept there so no one in town would be suspicious. He knows how "civilized" folk react when they see a man with a gun who isn't a lawmen Before any of the towns folk could even say an "eep!" Nathan drew his gun from out of his satchel and fired a single shot. And that was enough. The owner's brother, now with a hole in his shirt as well as his heart, fell back into his brothers arm.
The townsfolk began to scream, which Rivers normally took as a sign that he was no longer welcomed. He jolted down the street, bowling over several people in the process, and towards his horse. He assumed the sherif and deputies would be out any minute. Normally in a chaotic situation, people just scream for the sake of chaos. Nathan knew the difference when someone screamed for another reason.
"You bastard!" It was the owner of the saloon. For the first time in six years, Nathan stopped in his tracks.
"He was unarmed!" The owner continued. "He was just gonna take the bottle back was all! That's nothing worth shooting about! No honor! No hon-" His voice broke, and the owner began to cry.
Despite everyone in town screaming, the owner cradling his dead brother, could be heard just fine and dandy by Nathan. He looked down at his pyrite pistol and considered throwing it to the ground just then and there.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
About three or four shots flew inches past his head. The lawmen had finally arrived, which means Rivers has to finally get out of Riddle.

March 27, '86

I had never stopped before. I normally keep on running and tune everything out, except of course gunshots, which I always keep an ear out for.

But today was different. That fella who worked at the saloon in town, the owner's brother, I always thought he was one of em real stuck-up types. In my head, when I was grabbing for my gun, I didn't see a probably for shooting that man.

I can't say the same now.

Excerpt from Nathan Rivers' Personal Diary

A small stick poked at the smoking charcoal of a dying campfire. Rivers, staring in his journal while fidgeting with the stick, was half asleep until that flimsy stick finally snapped. Rivers jolted up, due to the snap making a sound similar to a bang. He looked at his pocket watch and noted the time. 12:38
"Welp, I reckon, it's time we pack up so we can get to Colorado by tomorrow. Whaddya think Thomas?"
His horse, Thomas, didn't even react to the question, for he was half asleep too. Their camp was located on top of a shallow, wooded plateau. One could run down it in about three seconds. It wasn't the safest place to rest, however.
"Fine, I guess I'll pack up camp, like last time, and the time before that."
"Why the rush Mr. Rivers?"
Nathan immediately turned to the voice with his gun drawn and cocked. Now that he was back in the wild, he freely kept his revolver back in his holster.
Nathan saw three men who wore very nice suits, despite being in the middle of nowhere. The one in the front, an Irish lad, seemed to be unarmed. The other two behind him both had double-barreled shotguns. Neither one were aiming them at him though. Yet.
"So who are yaw supposed to be?" Rivers said. "You boys are way too classy to be from Riddle."
"In that respect you are correct." Said the Irish, who took a step forward. He had a lite cigar in one hand, which he waved around mockingly as he talked. "We are with the Gaskell Observational Consortium, in layman's terms, a detective agency."
"I know who you are."
"Oh apologies! I just assumed that words like "Observational" and "Consortium" are too big for your feeble mind." He then blew a puff or two of smoke. "I am Agent Nicholas Doyle. These two," He gestured to the men behind him, "Are my subordinates, Agent Holt and Agent Jackson."
Nathan didn't know which one was which, but frankly, he didn't care. He still aimed his gun firmly towards Doyle. Beads of sweat were bleeding down the outlaw's face. Not a single drop could be seen on the Agents'.
"I would love to continue the conversation Mr. Rivers, but we have a tight schedule. You're a wanted man."
"Well ain't that just impressive of me?"
"Don't flatter yourself. The price on your head isn't even above two-hundred. And frankly, small town outlaws are the least of our priorities."
On one hand, Rivers was relieved. On the other, he was offended. "If I'm so, "least of your priorities" or whatever, then why yaw coming after me in the first place?"
"How to explain this to a man turned idiot." He muttered to himself, loud enough for Nathan to hear. "Let's see. I got it. Let's say you see several parasites on that lovely horse of yours. Some big and obvious others small and pea sized. Of course being a fine caretaker of horses-which is most evident from the condition of said horse of yours-you'd make sure to get rid of any parasites you'd see. That's you, a parasite we can see."
"Despite that being insulting, that still doesn't make sense. Yaw's agency only goes after the big gangs, there's gotta be a reason you're so adamant on apprehending me."
Doyle puffed a few more clouds of smoke. He turned and whispered, this time not loud enough for Rivers to hear, to his subordinates. After about five seconds, he turned back. Rivers could've shot Doyle in that time, but he'd likely not been able to shoot the other two, and Nathan knew that. He was scared. He saw the pain a man felt when they just had two or three shotgun pellets in their leg. He didn't want to experience the pain of fifty-seven in his chest.
"You're correct, Mr. Rivers, we aren't just here to arrest you because you're some simple lowlife. We're here to question you because you're some simple lowlife who's been to Yellowstone and lived."
Everything went silent. Rivers immediately turned white. Now that makes much more sense. He thought to himself. Doyle was staring at him like he just got checkmate. Which in some respects, he had.
"Well, Mr. Rivers?" Doyle asked. "What do you have to-"
BANG!
Agent Jackson was down, shot clean in the head by Rivers. The gunshot woke up Thomas, who ran down the hill. Holt aimed and fired his shot gun, but Rivers had already tucked-an-rolled after Thomas.
At the bottom of the hill, Rivers was able to get onto his horse mid-trot, and began to rid faster then he ever had in his life. He reckoned they had their horses stowed away in the woods and would be on his tail any minute. Not to mention that they would likely be incredibly pissed.

{$previous-title}

Team Epitaphic Hub

I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all of the difference


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"The Bowe Decommission, Part Two"
It's going to get better before it gets better.
More by this author!

Manhattan Island was under hasty quarantine, the sentient fire engine was fighting the sentient astronaut suit, and Dr. Dan was talking on the space phone with the sun's sister.
This escalated.
"Are you telling me," he said into the microphone, "that you sent Moon Champion here?"
"Yes." On the grainy image the probe was beaming back, Sauelsuesor was, for lack of a better word, beaming. "I dubbed him, and gave him my favour. He is very strong. He is going to help you. He told me he would."
Dan glanced up at the main screen, where the Redd Mennace was pummeling Moon Champion with an endless torrent of water. He was waving his poofy arms in the air, like he was at a rave. "He's not helping us yet."
"I will ask him why."
Something clicked in his head. "Wait. You're still talking to him?"
He suddenly returned her smile.

"Is this what you Earthlings call 'kissing'? Because I don't care for it." Moon Champion fired his jetpack. The laws of physics suddenly applied to him, and he went tumbling end-over-end down the street.
"They told me you aren't real," the fire engine growled, its hose running dry. "They told me you don't exist. They tried to make Bigg Redd lose his sense of purpose, abandon his crusade against all things hot and bothered!" Its siren screeched. "But this is the end for you, Mr. Burns! I'm going to snuff you out, once and for all!" Its wheels began spinning again, peppering the roadbed with flakes of melted tire.
Moon Champion bounced to his feet. "Thank you for the drink, my inexhaustibly-wet friend, but Moon Champion has had his fill."
At the moment he fired his jetpack again, at the moment the Redd Mennace careened down the street and struck him, Moon Champion's radio crackled to life. "Hello."
"Is that you, o light of my recent life?" Moon Champion embraced the engine's grill, and they tore off together towards the river.
"Yes. Do you want to talk to someone? Someone wants to talk to you."
They screeched around a corner, scattering stragglers and asphalt and strips of hot rubber. "Why not? I'm not doing anything else. And I assure you, this hug doesn't mean anything, I don't even know this woman."
In the moment before the radio crackled again, Bigg Redd ran a stoplight and fourteen people came within a hair's breadth of being flattened. "Uh, hello, is this… Moon Champion?" The man on the radio sounded embarrassed, for some reason.
"That's what I tell myself. And others." The lunatic adjusted his thick grip on the grill.
The engine flashed its lights. "Babbling to yourself won't help you, Burns. I'm gonna cool your jets in the Hudson in about five minutes."
"This is… ah. This is Dr. Dan at Foundation Mission Control."
Moon Champion gasped. "I read you loud and clear, Houston!"
"…right."
"We've had a problem."
"Yeah, I know. We're trying to clear the streets, but… can you put your radio on speaker? I've got a message for your big red friend."
"Anything for the Space Program, m'lord." Moon Champion fiddled with a dial on his chest. "Broadcasting live, from the corner of screaming people and screaming people, it's Moon Champion radio!" The engine crashed through a police barricade onto a completely empty avenue. If it noticed the exceptional unlikelihood of this scenario, it made no comment.
Dr. Dan cleared his throat. "Bigg Redd? I've got a friend on the line, will you listen to what he has to say?"
The Mennace struck a manhole cover so hard that it popped out of its fittings and slammed down on one edge, spinning like a top. "If you're friends with Mr. Burns, I have nothing to say to your friend. The Chaos Extinguishers told me everything about you. How you brainwashed me, confused me, took away my driving force. Tore me apart and made me forget."
"Do you remember me, Bigg Red?" There was a different voice on the radio, now, as Moon Champion clawed his way up the engine's hood. "It's Mr. R!"

Dan watched the feed from Site-15, where Agent Rodney… Agent Rodney Something was speaking into a microphone. "It's been a long time, Bigg Redd. I've missed fighting cri— I mean, fighting fire with you!"
The engine and its erstwhile passenger were approaching the George Washington Bridge. "That didn't happen! Your evil-doing mad scientists planted those lies in my motor memory! They told me all about you blazing bastards at the Sear, Combust, and Parboil Foundation. You've got a lot to answer for, and you're not gonna like the questions!"
Rodney cradled his head in his hands, and sighed. "I thought you were hunting the Inferno Gang."
Moon Champion swung around the side of the engine and reached for its driver-side door. The Redd Mennace swerved across four lanes onto the sidewalk, and the indestructible astronaut's body neatly clipped an electrical pole off at street level. "I was acting on bad intel," Redd roared. "General George gave me the real story."
"Would that be this General George, Redd?" Dan saw Rodney press a button on his console.
A deep, sonorous voice poured over the airwaves. "When I originally began my movement to change the Foundation from the inside, they were carrying forward a very dangerous motif. To secure, and contain."
The engine faltered, and took the next corner at a more manageable velocity. Moon Champion swung from the door by one hand, like Gene Kelly on a streetlamp. "I don't… I don't know what you're trying to do," the Mennace mumbled, "but I'm going to stop—"
Rodney pressed another button, and Bowe's speech resumed. "In the year 2020, the Foundation carries forward an even more dangerous motif. They've realized that the anomalies they have in containment can be put to good use—"
There was an obvious cut, there, but the engine didn't seem to notice. "That's not what he… but… YOU CAN'T CONFUSE ME AGAIN!" The horn sounded, the siren howled, and the lights were now flashing non-stop. The bridge was in view. "They fixed me up, they set me off, and I'm going to see it done even if it ki—"
One last button; Rodney looked pained when he pressed it. "When you lock what's wrong with reality in a box, it festers and strengthens until it explodes."
The motor cut out abruptly, and the massive red missile coasted to a stop. Moon Champion was flung a short distance into a fire hydrant, which exploded over both of them.
"…Bigg Redd?" Rodney looked guilty.
"He's talking about me, isn't he," the engine almost whispered. "I'm what's wrong with reality. I'm what's festering in this city. I'm… I'm the explosion." The impossible, gruff voice was choked with even more impossible tears, and the windshield-wipers began brushing away the hydrant water. "The fire's been inside me all along."
"No, Redd, that's not true at all. Everything you do is to help people, help keep them safe. You saw injustice, chaos, and death, and you had to do something about it. You're everything that's right in this city." It sounded to Dan like the agent was getting choked up, too. What is even happening.
The fire engine wheezed, as though someone had let all the air out of its brakes. It said nothing in response.
"There's a secure garage nearby," Rodney said, brushing away a tear. "I'll give you directions, and meet you there."
The animate truck was, somehow, sniffling. "You're going to take me apart again, right? You should. I've lived long enough, long enough to become the villain."
Rodney smiled, eyes shining. "Hell no, Bigg Redd. The whole damn world's in flames right now, and we need New York's Bravest to do their part. That means you."
Moon Champion popped to his feet once more. "What say you, red rocket? I've always wanted a big metal dog to call my very own."
After a moment of complete silence in the empty streetscape, the Redd Mennace rumbled to life and flashed its lights.

The connection to 15 flickered off as Rodney rushed to make his appointment, and Dan exhaled heavily. "Okay, let's put a pin in that situation. Keep up the quarantine measures, and… uh…where were we?"
Frewer punched him in the shoulder. "We were going to bed." He walked out of the room, the rest of his shift in tow, as Safiro and hers walked in. She waited by the double doors, so Dan walked over to greet her.
Once the shift change was complete, she whispered, "Overwatch approved your Arizona plan. The MTF commander's waiting to speak with you, in the hall."
He rubbed his hands together, sensing an imminent third or fourth wind. "Excellent. Get stuck in, work some damage control on Bigg Redd's Wild Ride, and I'll be back in a mo." He shoved the doors open.
"Big red what?" she asked, but he didn't hear her, because both doors swung back violently and socked him in the face. He fell over, head spinning.
"You alright, sir?" Dan picked himself up and waved her off, grimacing, and pushed the doors open again. Someone's gonna pay for…
…that…
The man in the hallway was tall, solid, grey-haired and stone-faced. He was wearing a black MTF uniform with no rank insignia. His left eye twitched when he looked down at Dan. "Trouble with the doors, Dr. Goggles?"
Said doors banged closed behind him, and for a moment he felt like running back through them. Instead he stared stupidly at the other man, blinking, the ache in his head completely forgotten. He felt like his stomach had imploded. "Major… Wilford. Right?"
"It's General Wilford now, but yeah. I'm surprised you remember." The big man crossed his arms. "I hear you've got a new plan to get everybody killed."
Dan willed his hands not to ball into fists. They had wills of their own, however, so he jammed them into his labcoat pockets. "My plan," he snapped, "is to get nobody killed."
"Especially you, right?" Wilford's eyes were narrow slits. "How'd you do it, egghead? How'd you dodge the execution? I thought that's what we did with traitors." He was almost frothing at the mouth, now. "Do you know how many of my boys you mur—"
Dan socked him in the jaw, and was relieved to see the man stumble slightly. He didn't go down, but it was a start.
"I know the numbers," he spat. "And I know the names, too."

The man in the black skydiving suit looked antsy. "How far out are we?"
The man in the Chaos Insurgency uniform glanced at his watch. "Coming up on the strik—" He cleared his throat. "The target, in less than a minute."
The skydiver jumped up and down. "I don't think I can hold it that long."
The agent clapped him on the shoulder. "Please do. You don't want to make a mess of our nice, new plane."
A voice on the intercom: "Twenty seconds."
"Alright, buddy, they're playing your song."
"I'll bet they are." The skydiver allowed himself to be led to the jet's open rear hatch. "I'm the grea—"
The agent pushed him out.

Dan limped back into Mission Control, rubbing his jaw and grinning. He felt like his bucket list had finally gotten shorter.
"Get everything… sorted…?" Safiro was staring at his bruised face.
"You'll see." He scrawled a quick note on the whiteboard:

PROVISIONAL SITE-515 IS OUR LAST STAND

"Later."
"Alright, well. We've got something at Area-76." Safiro glanced at the whiteboard, then back at her console. "Enemy activity in the air."
Dan peeked at the screen, upside-down. "Bombers?"
She shook her head. "Paratroopers. Rather, one paratrooper."
He walked around the console for a better look. A man hanging from a deployed parachute was floating past a gigantic radar dish assembly. He struck a pose.
"Is that… Saturday Night Fever?" Safiro asked.
"Looks more like Evel Knie—" Dan began, and then the skydiver exploded in a tremendous flash of energy. The image dissolved into static; when it resolved itself again, the dish was gone.
"…make that zero paratroopers," Safiro breathed.

"Is it working?"
Former Foundation researcher Stephanie Buck nearly leapt out of her skin, and she did drop her tablet. She hadn't heard the man approach, and yet there he was: a perfectly-pressed United States Army uniform, amply supported on a broad frame topped by a handsome, hypermasculine face. General George Freaking Bowe, in the ample flesh.
This is your brain on quarantine, she thought. "Sir!" She snapped a salute, then wondered if that was appropriate. "Yes, sir, it's working."
Bowe grinned, his perfect teeth gleaming. "At ease, doctor." He moved to stand beside her, stance wide, hands clasped behind his back. They watched the roiling disaster in the containment chamber for a few breathless moments.
"Fantastic. Magnificent, even! Just what I was hoping for." He glanced sideways at her, and she self-consciously adjusted her glasses. "Brainwave activity?"
She forced a smile, hoping it wasn't too much. "They're both still in there. First time that's happened, like, ever."
He nodded, a pursed-lip smile of his own forming. "Outstanding."
In the enormous containment chamber, an unspeakable mass of black goop thundered to life. They could feel the floor shaking.
"It won't be long, now," Bowe remarked.
"What won't?" She examined his chiseled jaw, the cut of his tunic, the tightness of his "UH. I mean, uh, what won't be long, sir?"
He stood ramrod-straight, a gleam in his eyes. "The end."

"Update on 1233 and 4601?" Dan was massaging his temples.
"Responding to anomalous events throughout Manhattan, without our direction. Sometimes even getting there before we know there's a problem."
"Got a visual?"
"Omega-22 is tracking them." Frewer struck a key, and the viewscreen snapped on.
Moon Champion was standing on top of the Redd Mennace, arms out horizontally, like he was surfing. They were tearing down the street at breakneck speed, sirens wailing, and a crowd of curious onlookers watched them.
"We're on fire, you and I!" Bigg Redd laughed. "But in a good way!"
"Be not afraid, people of Earth! We come in peace, or, at the very most, judicious and targeted violence!"
There was a soft ping from the SCP-179 console. "I am telling them where to go," Sauelsuesor declared.
Dan puffed out his cheeks, and swallowed. "Fine. Cool. Whatever. Tell them where to go from me, too." He turned to Frewer. "Play it off as a… parade."
"In the middle of a quarantine?"
"I don't fucking know! Call it a… remote-operated quarantine parade! In honour of the first responders. It doesn't have to sound responsible, it just has to sound plausible. Tell Omega-Whatever to keep monitoring, and get that shit off the screen before I faint." He drew a packet of red licorice out of his labsuit pocket, pulled out a half-dozen strands and stuffed them into his mouth all at once.
"Contact. Insurgent on a jet-ski at…" Frewer sighed. "No, he blew up."
Dan swallowed. "For the record?"
"Area-83, South China Sea."
Dan nodded, offering Frewer the package. "This is a tricky one."
"They're all tricky ones." Frewer wrestled a strand of licorice free, and bit into it.
"I know, isn't it great?" Dan yawned.

"We've got a problem." Light spun in her chair to face him; her expression was grave. "Site-17."
He felt cold inside. "What, specifically?"
"You know what, specifically," said Oleksei. He pointed at the monitor.
Dan recognized the angle immediately; the feed was coming from a chopper, an MTF transport judging by the shadow it cast. Within that shadow, on the plains below, like a shark plunging through water, a shuddering grey thing was parting the grass with the fury of its progress.
Dan stood up. "FUCK! How…? I thought…"
"You thought wrong," growled a voice from the radio. "Like you always do. And it's coming for you, egghead." There was satisfaction in that growl. "Retribution."
"Justice," Oleksei agreed. "For what we did."
"We did what we had to, dammit." Dan was transfixed, watching the rough beast slouch towards… whatever it was slouching towards.
He glanced at the whiteboard.

TIME'S UP

It didn't feel real. It felt all too real.
We did the best we could.
I did the best I could.
Oleksei was standing now, too. He reached out and took Dan's hands, closed and clasped them tight.
"Then why am I dead?"
He released his grip.
Dan looked down at his clenched fists, and slowly unclenched them.
There was a crushed pacif—

"Shift's almost up. Do you want the low-keys, sir?"
Dan made a series of ungraceful gurgles and shouts, shaking violently awake. God DAMMIT, he thought. ENOUGH with the FUCKING baby! "What?" he said. "What?"
"The low-keys," Frewer repeated, patiently. He was smirking.
"Sure, fine, go ahead." Dan stood up, begging his blood to circulate.
"We've got workers jumping out of an office building en masse in Tokyo. Some of them are… shattering."
Dan rubbed his face so hard, he felt like it might come off. "Male?"
"Uh… yes. All of them."
"Get an all-female MTF to go floor-by-floor. They're looking for a little girl who repels men and turns them into candy." His labcoat was dragging, and he pulled out a still-frosty energy drink. He threw the can back and downed it in one long, absurd series of gulps. "Tell someone who's still properly awake to phrase all that so they won't laugh it off. And thanks for the drink."
Frewer tossed him a two-finger salute. "No worries. Next we've got a report of missing personnel, and an awful lot of inexplicable chocolate at Site-24."
"Tell them to turn the thermostats up as high as they safely can. That should melt the chocolate kids who've been turning their personnel into chocolate. Don't ask me if I'm serious, just do it and cue the next one."
"Coming in now. MTFs in Odesa think Area-132 has been compromised. Workers walking off the job, general chaos and confusion."
"Let's make it specific chaos and confusion. Scan the reports for me. Prisoner intake?"
Frewer nodded. "Two separate GoI raiding parties dispersed, over a dozen detainees."
"Right. That'll be the vector. What are the symptoms? Forgetfulness?"
A researcher behind Frewer tapped him on the shoulder. Frewer nodded without looking back, and tapped his terminal screen. "Yeah, people acting like they don't know where they are, why they're there, even who they are. Looks like serious cognitive impairment; security's worried that they'll lose control of the central anomaly if it continues, everyone's stumbling around in there and bumping into stuff."
"What is the central anomaly?"
"A scale model of Odesa, entangled with the real thing. A tech fell on it once, squashed one of the buildings, and the real one spontaneously imploded."
Dan whistled. "Well, give Administrator privileges to the most isolated senior staff member, tell them to lock the whole Area down." The man behind Frewer began typing. "Now, access the intake manifest. Looking for two women, one in her thirties, one in middle age."
Frewer scrolled through the list, and frowned. "Wow. Uh."
"What?"
"One of the groups was entirely women in their thirties, and the other was entirely women in middle age."
Dan sighed. "Of course. Of fucking course. Can't make this easy, can you, George? Okay. Send in gas drones to take back the Area. No humans! One of the young women is a memory-affecting cognitohazard, and one of the old women causes dementia. Be polite to the first one, she's a doctor on the Foundation payroll and her life is miserable enough, and for the love of Christ be gentle with the second one. The last entry in her file had her in a medical coma, so the fuckers must have woken her up." He kicked Frewer's console, lightly, and discovered that his foot had fallen asleep. "I seriously hate these fucking people."
"Alright." Frewer gestured at one of the researchers, who began typing out the necessary commands. "Ah… we're facing reduced response times from our MTFs in Brazil, seems like the FEC has moles in every unit. Only identified one so far."
"Did they have bad posture?"
"Where do you get this stuff…" Frewer clackety-clacked his way to the relevant information. "Yeah, kinda deflated-looking. Slumpy."
"Pump hip-hop music to all the MTFs in Brazil, they've been infiltrated by the rap-loving bodysnatchers."
Frewer turned in his seat and glared at him.
Dan opened his eyes wide in innocence. "3527! I'm not making this stuff up." He pointed at the console. "Do the thing!"

The man in the black scuba suit squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't think this is a good idea. I feel like I'm gonna—"
The man in the Chaos Insurgency uniform clapped him on the shoulder. "Take a breath, champ. We've timed this out carefully."
"Okay, but this really isn't my bag, you know? I don't do watersports. Give me a good old-fashioned mot—"
The agent's radio snapped on. "Send him in."
"Time to go!" The agent pushed the diver into the airlock. "Remember, swim out as far as you can."
"But who's even gonna see me down here? The grea—"
The airlock door swung shut.

"Submarine detected off the coast of Site-45, near The Rig." Safiro was typing madly. "Already disengaging."
"Torpedoes?" Dan tossed a crumpled can into the pile spilling out of the recycle basket.
"Doesn't look like it. Not seeing any major disturbances in the water, nothing coming up on the seismometers… wait! They've found a diver, they're detaining—"
"No! Tell them not t—"
The explosion was muffled, but it was enough to cut him off. He set his mouth in a grim line and walked around Safiro's console to see what he didn't want to see. "Damage report?"
She shook her head, and they both watched the plumes of smoke rising from the rig. "Too soon to tell. Not seeing any casualties, so far, but… definitely blocked off the central shaft to 45, it'll be slow going for the foreseeable future."
Dan massaged his neck thoughtfully. No one saw it, but a look of realization dawned on his face. He quickly replaced it with a look of horror, and made sure everyone saw it by shouting "Listen up!"
He ran to the whiteboard and wrote, hurriedly,

AREA-129 MUST NOT FALL

He capped the marker and tapped the board with it. "A-129 is VERY CLOSE to Site-45, and we can't lose it. We absolutely cannot." He strolled out of the room. "Everybody take five, get some coffee or snacks or whatever. I'm gonna make a call, and then we're gonna figure this out."

Area-129 was a radio telescope station in the Australian Outback. It had a permanent staff of only fifteen scientists.
Dr. Dan managed to snag just one MTF, on routine patrol when Site-45 was hit. It wasn't much, but it would be enough.

The transport truck rattled and groaned, and the man in the black motorcycle suit rattled and groaned along with it. "I really can't take much more of this. I'm a professional, but there are limits." He bounced up and down on the seat of his bike, staring blearily out at the wasteland.
The man in the Chaos Insurgency uniform clapped him on the shoulder. "It'll all be over soon. You're gonna put on the show of a lifetime." He keyed his radio. "How soon?"
"Coming up on the target in ZZZZKRRSCCH LAAAAAAAAADIES AAAAAAND GENTLEMENNNNNNNNN!"
The agent stared at his radio in shock. "What the fuck? What the fuck?"
"The SCP Foundation is proud to present, one time only, from the back of a Chaos Insurgency transport truck, the one, the only—"
"The GREAT," the motorcyclist shouted, pulling off his helmet and beaning the agent with it, hard, "TURBOOOOOO THOMPSON!"
A guitar riff echoed across the wilderness, source unknown.
Thompson picked up the agent's radio. "So, I take it these have not been a series of legitimately-booked stunt performances."

"No, they haven't." Dr. Dan dropped his stage voice as the convoy rumbled to a stop. He watched the feed from the MTF chopper maintaining a safe distance; the truck driver was opening his door as the rest of the convoy began circling. "But you do have an eager audience here, watching remotely. And you're on camera, if that helps."
There was silence on the radio for a moment, and then: "It surely does, my man."
"Dan."
"My man Dan. I ain't never disappointed a crowd in my life."
The driver had pulled his sidearm, and insurgents were now circling the truck.
"Bring the house down, Turbo."
A beat.
"Anything for the fans."
The truck exploded.
Safiro looked shell-shocked. "Your mind is a terrifying thing," she managed.
Dan nodded, watching the convoy burn. Turbo crawled out of the wreckage, seemingly none the worse for wear, and wrestled a blackened motorcycle free of the flaming debris. He sat down on the melted seat, testing its springs.
"Kappa-81, this is Dr. Dan. Bring Mr. Thompson home, please, and do it quickly. We don't want a repeat engagement. Copy?"

"It's here," Sauelsuesor sang in his mind. "You have to stop it."
"Heel, Rover, heel!" Moon Champion stamped his foot on the roof of the fire engine. "Her Lady of the Great Up-There has a new mission for us!"
Agent Rodney stuck his head out of the passenger-side window. "The Scarlets are setting off fires in the Bowery! We've already quarantined all the real first responders, so it's up to us!"
"Agent R is right," the Mennace hollered. "We fight fire with water. It's elementary!"
"Then take care of your wetwork, o large rouge one, but I must needs must jet. 'til we meet again!" Moon Champion's thrusters flared, and at Site-01, Dr. Daniel ███████ clawed at his whitening hair and tried to concoct a plausible cover story.

The abomination skittered through the streets like the horror-inflated memory of a cockroach in sudden lamplight, pulsing and writhing and snapping its spined feelers in the air. A man in a brown business suit threw himself against a storefront window, palms pressed hard into the brick, and he was about to scream when a chitinous arrowhead spiked clean through his skull, pinning him to the glass.
"A luscious end inflects the mind distinguished by the shift between-beneath the sloughing ice of limpid rapine," the beating bovine heart-which-walked chanted in bored, British tones. "The purge-in-flesh amends the catastrophic myth of meat and brass and iron forests off the coast of grief."
"That and a dollar will get you a dollar and that," bellowed Moon Champion, striding across the street to face the beast. "If that."
He didn't hear the honking horn, but he did faintly notice when the car plowed into him at fifty miles per hour, folding around him and shattering into a mess of red-hot metal. Someone was screaming in one half of the car, which rolled around the corner on two wheels like a makeshift motorcycle and disappeared. The heart seized the other half of the car, and hurled it at Moon Champion.
He caught it with one hand.
"Rejoice in filth of tides unending down above the siren song of undertakings meant to ease the wail of lovers caught against the dusk that dims the primal fear of tenderness," the heart remarked. Moon Champion kept metronomic time with his free glove.
"And you! I'll count this as my Moon-Christmas gift. Moon-Christ died for the sins of half-cars." He flipped it over his shoulder, ignoring the sound of three storeys worth of glass windows breaking sequentially.
"In rot the foams of wrong elide a bloodshed, in riotous chorus cast the ratios between the harmony and fume," the heart responded. It snapped its tentacles again, and struck Moon Champion across the chest.
"Neat," he cried. "I didn't know that. I hope it means something." The material of his suit, whatever it was, showed no sign of having had a biological diamond razor flicked across it.
"Chalk-tears tear cathedrals perpetrated in the crawling absence of posterity performed." The heart dove towards him.
"If that's Earth-Horse for "ride me like a Murder-Go-Round," citizen, you're playing my carnival tune." With a jet-engine roar he gunned into the sky, and landed neatly on the beast's back. "Hi, ho, Silver!"
"O string that curves the vacuum rhapsody thrice in tongues of screeching rapture, arousing with a throaty bawl of maggots in the cream of condescension." The heart began bucking and rolling, throwing itself onto its back and over again with its spider-leg appendages.
"Tell that to my thighs," Moon Champion bellowed in triumph. "And tell that to my skies!"
He gunned the jetpack again, and off they went.

« The B&B Decommission | Old Foes Hub | Scenes from a Comprehensive Clusterfuck »


Iris Thompson, editor in chief of the Saloon 19 Newspaper for about thirty years, reclined in a plush chair and sighed. A cigar was in her hand, and she bought it up to her mouth to take a long, pleasurable puff. The smoke dissipated into a million trailing paths, there one moment, gone the next.
She looked around at her office. Little had changed since she'd received it from Maria. Lot less booze now, but mostly unchanged. In fact, Iris still remembered the day she got it…

It was a hot day. The sun was bright and high up in the clouds, as though it was happy to see the old drunk bastard being put into the grave. Maria Jones may not have liked being called that, but Maria Jones was dead as dust, and the funeral was just as full of enemies as it was of friends. Iris did not consider herself a friend.
Still, it was a somber day. The funeral was covered in a blanket of simmering heat, adding salty sweat to salty tears. Iris sat through the event, not adding in any words or condolences. Maria would've understood.
As she was leaving among a crowd of solemn faces, she was stopped by a tap on the shoulder.
“You are Ms Thompson, yes?” A frail, grieving woman asked.
“That's correct.”
“My sister, Maria, wanted you to have this.” She held out an envelope, bound with the signature wax seal of the Saloon 19 Newspaper.
Iris took the envelope, confused, as the woman returned to her sister's grave. What could Maria possibly want now, of all times? Was it another request, a lead, some unnatural creature lurking in the night? If so, it was impeccable timing, as always. But that's not what she found as she opened the letter back at the saloon.
The first thing that left the envelope was a key. Iris didn't recognize it immediately, so she pulled out the letter and began to read Maria's wispy, shaky handwriting.

Iris Thompson,
You always were one tough son of a bitch. I honestly don't know how you're managed to pull off living this long with everything you've seen. Probably because of your powers - don't think I didn't know! But regardless, whatever I threw at you, you took and made a hell of an article. Why else do you think you got all the hard leads, the dangerous cases?
Over the years you have been my best reporter, and it's because of this I have given you this key. It's to my office. It's yours now, editor in chief. Think of that: Iris Thompson, editor in chief of the Saloon 19 Newspaper! A younger me would've laughed at that for hours. But now that I'm older, and slightly more sober, there's no one else that makes more sense.
This country has always been at the crossroads between the old and the new. The traditional and the unknown. And when it comes to the unknown, most run back to their caves and hide until it's become normal enough that they don't have to fear it. You're one of the few who doesn't do that. You rush headfirst into the unknown and your fear has never clouded your judgement, never turned into hate or prejudice. That's the type of person that leads this world into new ages.
So that's why you're now the new editor in chief. Because you don't hate what you don't understand. Use that clarity and shine a light into the darkness.
For the last time,
Maria Jones

Iris stared at the letter for a few minutes, then neatly folded it and put it back into the envelope. So it was all hers now. Editor in Chief of the Saloon 19 Newspaper, able to run whatever stories she liked. She climbed the stairs up until she reached the front door of the office, but hesitated for a second before pushing the key into the slot. It all felt so…wrong. She half expected Maria to be waiting behind her desk again, a freshly-opened bottle of gin and a shit-eating smirk on her face.
But the first thing she saw when she entered the office was that same old brown desk, now empty. By all accounts it was a fine office, with its large, sturdy desk, its wooden walls, and its grand window which overlooked the town. It even had a liquor cabinet (of course), still filled with bottle proudly displayed on shelf upon shelf.
Iris tentatively sat down at the desk and examined the papers. They were all hers, all of Iris' notes from the past few years.
She opened the cabinet, poured herself a drink, and made a silent toast.

It was the thirtieth anniversary of Iris' promotion to editor in chief, as well as Maria's death. Iris stared at the door, debating on whether she would want to go down. It was her party! But Iris had this small feeling in the back of her mind that told her to lie down.
She glanced at the cot behind her. Maybe she would come down later. After all, the night was young, and these parties usually lasted until four in the morning.
Iris reclined on the cot, and fell into the realm of dreams.

Tommy faced Iris, looking at her with his young face and his sad, brown eyes.
There was a few minutes of silence before Iris spoke.
"You.. tried to kill me." Iris swallowed hard.
"You killed me. Twice, in fact." Tommy smirked.
"I-Where are we?" Iris gestured to the dreamy white landscape they were in. It looked as though they were in a room made of clouds, stretching on and on into the infinite.
"We're in your dream. Or rather, you manifested me in your dream to talk to me."
"I.. had no intention of talking to you."
Tommy smiled again.
Iris continued talking. "I didn't kill you either-"
He scoffed. "You didn't fucking kill me? You killed me twice. Once, when you decided to restart that shitty mountain, and twice when you left me behind."
"I was forced to by the Confederates, and Maria decided to save me instead of saving you-"
"Oh, yeah, blame it on everyone else. But at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is who died."
Silence enveloped the two.
Finally Tommy spoke.
"You don't remember, do you?"
Iris' head snapped up. "Of course I fucking remember."
"Well, you don't act like it." Tommy moved forwards, hand extending. The moment he touched her, Iris could see a barren field.
Several confederate soldiers littered the ground, and she could faintly see a young man being pulled away. Iris could also see a young woman on the ground. It looked like.. her.
The young man screamed as he got punched, and the woman on the ground yelled to him.
"Tommy!"
Iris watched as the other Iris reached up towards her brother, but fell unconscious. She turned and saw Maria Jones running towards Iris, and she hesitated.
Maria looked at Tommy, then at Iris, and made a decision.
She ran at the unconscious Iris and started to drag her to safety. Maria could see Tommy getting beaten, a soldier pulling out a silver pistol and aiming it at his head. He pulled the trigger.
Iris gasped, and she was back in the cloudy room with Tommy, watching her. She looked at him. "What.. What the hell was that?!"
Tommy shrugged. "I guess you needed a reminder."
"I still think about that every single fucking day. If I could have done anything different-"
"Spare me. I know you've forgotten."
Iris shook her head. It wasn't true. She could never forget.
"Not a single day has gone by where I haven't been tortured by the thought of what happened to you."
Tommy sighed remorsefully.
"Look, Iris. I'm.. sorry. For trying to kill you. I was consumed by anger because of my death and I blamed you. I shouldn't have."
Iris looked at Tommy. "You're sorry?"
"Yeah. I.. I'm sorry, Iris."
"..I'm sorry too, Tommy."

Iris awoke. She breathed slowly, and somehow felt calm. She felt.. at peace.
Iris heard knocking at the door and turned. She quickly sat at her desk, did her best to look professional, and said "Come in!".
A young man poked his head into the office.
"Uh, Ms. Thompson? There's a man here to see you.."
He pushed open the door and another man stepped inside. He wore a large hat covering a face that was both young from age but old from experience.
He extended his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Thompson. My name is Edward Kelly, from the GOC."
Iris nodded slowly. "Welcome, Mr. Kelly. Why is someone from the GOC here?"
"Ah, I retired long ago. But, I do have some information for you. About some…things that I encountered long ago."
Iris took out a paper and a pencil.
"What kind of things?"
Kelly smiled slowly.
"Anomalies."

Iris and Tommy stood there, unsure of what to do next.
"Tommy, I-I miss you."
"I know."
"And I want you to come back."
"But you know I can't."
More silence.
"Then can this moment last a little longer?"
"Of course."
Iris held Tommy, embracing him closely. For a moment they just held each other, and said nothing else.
And in that moment, Iris Thompson found peace.

The beat of rain upon the land, broken teardrop in my hand

Team Epitaphic Hub

What the hand, dare seize the fire?


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Grape Flavored Cigars and Funeral Pyres by Iapetus The Acausal. A Requiem for a Dying World
Probably the closest Fifthists will ever be to the "good guys."

Prior Reading of SCP-5712 is recommended but not required. Further context of prior events will get you more out of this story.

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The familiar chord progression of Epitaph played on a large pair of speakers. No one particularly minded the choice, at least not enough to take the aux chord, but it was hardly doing the job of drawing more guests. Reverend Archon Celebration "Big Cheese" Horace rested in meditation, pondering unknowable secrets. Balancing on the back legs of a folding chair, a woman of his flock in a star-spangled beret that only appeared a year or two his junior watched that familiar look behind those crimson glasses, where he drew on all the wisdom of those indeterminate years, to find where he had gone wrong.
She was one of only a few who had seen behind his spectacles, yet she knew none would discuss it. Laying your whole true self before someone isn't a level of intimacy many are okay with outside of the secret consuming confessionals. At that moment however, she watched him intently but his gaze did not so much as trace her outline. He leaned against the wall of the mostly empty drug rehab center. A younger member of the flock who went by Di moved subtly in step with the slightly distracting melody while pulling baked beans, mash potatoes, and fried chicken onto her plate since she had already served her fellow brothers and sisters. They had an unfortunate amount of extras, to the point they usually gave out food to anyone who stopped by once everyone else had been fed. Di paused for a moment before making Horace a plate too.
Here under the now tired, fraying skies of Three Portlands, you could tell there was not much time left, yet the Portland that he passed through to get here was in an even worse state. So few came to rehab for an escape from addiction anymore. Not to say there were not numerous kinds of both mundane and anomalous addicts alike wandering the streets, but only the regulars and long time attendees showed up anymore. Maybe a new stranger would rarely stop by for some food, but they never did follow up visits even if they were an addict of some kind. Most of the people here were not active Fifthists though they at least understood the church as much as it could be, but of the staff members the vast majority were guests from his home state.
This place was never run by his Southern Fifth Church of Georgia, but instead by a sister congregation with differently shaped souls. However, now even their symbols fell from the windows. The woman in the beret had sat up from her chair, and returned to her task of creating agonizingly intricate geometric designs in paper, clay, wax, and glue. The new iconography drew too much discomfort to pass for the pieces of the other congregation. The decline after the failure of their grand evangelist efforts was disappointing even if Horace did not have any direct involvement other than funding, but this too he regretted. He should have done more.
A member of the sister congregation with green hair sat playing a close game of chess with a grand master, who was here visiting his brother, a heroin addict. They sat across from each other at one of the many fold-able tables next to empty plates and half full cups of soda that tasted like McDonald's Sprite. Today was the last day that the Portland rehab center would be run by Fifthists, as the outsiders called them, and it would now be handed over to some Shepherds from the Horizon Initiative; the same folks that gave him his pack of gum that he saved for guests. He knew these boringly old-school Trinitarian people had an… on going relationship with the sister congregation. Horace stood to sign the paperwork in place of a fellow Reverend, to close up her shop when she wasn't available to lock the door and say good night. It was also the day of her execution at the hands of GOC Inquisitors. Apparently they had not yet decided if they should cut off her head or wipe it clean instead. He hoped for the previous, so what was left of her soul could enter the Fifth World.
The Archon quietly took a drag from his grape flavored gas station cigar, with the same hand that was decorated with uncomfortably large solid gold rings, all paid for with donation money from long stagnant collection boxes. Despite the melancholy Math Rock that filled the room, Horace heard none of it. He prayed for the continued salvation of his fellow Reverend, while he sat nurturing the chaos of his soul and listened to the static silence of the Noosphere. Once, the vast collection of all human thought had been a lively, dynamic, hostile, and chaotic place. Every human notion and theory had been housed there. But an invasive species had now moved into their waters, an ideational shark that ate vast tons of information even to its own detriment. Horace had the eyes and ears of the Congregation, so he could still see all the information that had been functionally sucked out of human thought straight into the outer Infosphere, but to the rest of humanity, it was an ever melting glacier that they could not perceive to be shrinking. The good old Foundation and their wordsmiths had been pumping the noosphere full of conjectured fragments and terms, fighting tooth and nail to slow the decline down. It was only 2030, yet the world was on the brink of slipping into Silence.
Horace was never much of a student of anything but the cruel truths of the stars, but even he noticed as the decline started. A small child with a star on his shirt did home school history work, looking at a picture of the face of some ancient pharaoh, if they were still called that anymore. Horace had always wanted to visit Egypt since he was a kid, he was named after one of their Gods after all, so it's understandable that he would be deeply distressed after one morning it was completely erased from existence over night. Then hamburgers stopped showing up at BBQs, and no one but Horace and his buddies could remember President Abraham Lincoln or Jimi Hendrix. All dimension or movement left the noosphere shortly after that, not that they had technically ever conventionally applied to the gossamer vistas and sibylline sweeps of that conceptual sphere.
Now, even the name of his Church itself had been swept behind the iron curtain. Worst of all, Horace was supposed to be happy. Whatever "Shark" this was, supposedly it was on their side, some kind of plan that had been hatched by Brothers and Sisters he did not know the names of. Horace watched as more and more of humanity fell into what his brothers claimed was the Fifth World, while meaningless nonsense took its place. But silent doubt held him back, one that he could not properly define. The flavor of acrid blossoming in its spread was off, certainly the right kind of alien but too much aroma of old paper, not enough creole and star dust. Worst of all, the gaze of a foreign cosmos that he had always felt in the blackest vaults of his soul, sifting through his every particle, he felt no longer. Regardless, It was inevitable. No one could stop them, and the Foundation could only slow it down. They had won.
Maybe it was just the radio silence that now filled the void, the one that made the choirs of the Congregation all the harder to ring, but the Archon would not be satisfied. His growing displeasure at the current situation did not show externally, not any more than a slightly lower grin on his face. A young volunteer named Ciel who came along with his group for the ride laid with her legs curled up, a book of Fifthist gospels open on the floor in front of her. She had been smoking from a vaporizer, a potentially anomalous substance which Horace definitely should have asked about, but as it wasn't the kind of drug people visited for, he turned a blind eye. The war on drugs had ended years ago, but its not like anomalous individuals did not always have "bigger concerns" than drug offenses.
She made little attempt to continue reading the text on the floor in front of her once her hair began to frizz up. Like Horace, she was heavily psionically receptive. As long as she was not practicing her skills or meditating, she could keep each individual hair on her head straight or wavy with almost no thought, whatever way she liked it. If the world still had its youth, she might have eventually become the next great host for the Congregation, but they both knew the basal pilings of civilization wouldn't last that long. A passive glance had the reverend notice the void that had over taken her eyes. She was using an 'itation' practice borrowed from Rastafarian mysticism, used for obtaining their state of supreme coexistence I-and-I, but the dead air of the noosphere in combination with her smoking on this slow day had functionally removed any metaphysical presence she had, replacing it with the nigh omnipresent static. More butchers than surgeons, this was nothing but another idea haphazardly sliced apart and sown back together at the hands of Fifthists.
Horace heard a ring at the front door, as a crowd of mostly familiar faces shambled in. He pushed himself from the wall and motioned to his staff in general to meet the guests, while pulling a pack of gum from his pocket. The grand master only half glanced up from the game, while the green haired girl slurped on her mostly empty cup. Horace extended each of the guests a piece straight from the pack, as he widened his oh so inhuman smile, he took quiet stock of all their names as he glanced around. The repeated attendees took a piece with nothing more than a polite smile of their own, with the new comers following suit, but one regular named Atticus had a grin that did not match the others.
He hesitated, if only for a moment, before reaching down to take the piece he was offered. Thaumic sparks arched up the gentleman's arm, his body convulsed in response, launching him back. The wave had gone out faster than any of them but Horace could perceive, although he knew what was coming anyway. The rest of the group turned around as they noticed the smell of burnt flesh, which Horace was uncomfortably used to. The reverend gave a pointed glance towards the tables and food, so Di and the others beckoned the guests to enjoy a plate. Horace turned and leaned down to reach the same level as the half conscious man that lay on the floor. He tucked the pack of gum back in his coat, while he pulled off his opaque red glasses.
"You know son, I knew the Foundation was going to send someone eventually. I, however, did not expect it to be our old buddy Atticus," he said with a smile. "We haven't gotten any fresh souls for morphing since the higher ups decided to cut the marketing campaign."
The sleeper agent opened his eyelids slightly, glancing into the lights behind the reverend's eyes. "This pack's ability to infinitely produce gum is only one advantage. The other, more important one, is the ability to detect malice. Its come in handy ever since the only groups that are able to remember my Church was its own members and affiliates, and of course, the foremost users of both amnestics and mnestics on the Planet. But not even your tools can save you from this."
The agent knew to immediately shut his eyes as he glanced into that impossibly bright abyss, but it was still too late. They both felt the poisonous light seep into the man's soul. He thought of ideas that burned away at his most fundamental aspects. As the agent stared into the regress of ideas, it also stared into him, and the Congregation sat in judgement of his whole self. But still, Fivefold tendrils on an imperceptible plane held the man in one piece, not taking him to rend whole, for Horace had questions to ask.
Horace pulled the man up by his collar, holding him real close so the young Agent could smell the smoke on his breath. "What's going on Johnny? Which MTF is it this time? Give into the taste of freedom and loosen those lips. Is it the Killjoys? Hostile Takeover? Oh! maybe you're from the O5's second favorite sons, Search and Destroy?"
The agent tried to respond, but just ended up choking on the smoke of burning souls that flooded from the reverend's maw. Horace just laughed from his chest in response, "I know your boys over in Thought Patrol have been trying to watch me. I feel their eyes on the corners of my dreams. When I get the chance I'll…"
Horace's eyes drifted to the inside of the man's pockets. The smile left his face, as he pulled a silver pen from the sputtering man's pocket. In doing so, he shook the man's jacket, causing an injector for a Informational Destruction Agent to fall. Most would simply have mistaken it for a high tech pistol, but Horace recognized the undiluted potency in the cartridge before the device hit the tiles. With his left hand, he flipped a switch on the pen, and let the light of memetic chemotherapy shine out of the tip at nobody in particular. He then tossed it to the static filled member of his flock, to let her get a feel for. The light in Horace's eyes now shone with red light on top of the unknowable yellow hues, and a pipe extended from his mouth. He continued to scowl, as he now spoke with the voice of the full Congregation, a cacophonic harmony.
"You dare bring the tools for defiling all that I, no WE, find sacred under any of our holy roofs? On the day of my Sister's execution, you dare to try and strike me down with the same Murder weapon?"
The Big Cheese himself let go of his collar, but the Congregation did not release him. The agent floated in the air as his neck strained to turn towards his enemy. The Abyss shone with the red and gold lights of dying stars, and he felt himself fall into it. The bittersweet smell of burning souls, with the faint hint of grape, now turned nothing but sour, as instead of simply wafting into his lounges, every particle swarmed his senses. The silently echoed hymns of the Congregation resonated with his soul, while the static in his dazed follower's meditative mental state matched the tone.
His voice, however, still sounded Somber. "You got a square soul too, as you Foundation folks always seem to. I told you fuckers a long time ago that only round souls could fit in this hole, but that was a bit of a white lie. You shouldn't lie to someone's face, so I hope you'll forgive me for that."
The man could only sputter on the ashes of his own soul in what might have been a reply. His eyes had long failed to see anything but that unfathomable light, yet he was able to perceive the jagged edge of a ceremonial blade stretch out from the abyss without a finger being lifted.
"Technically I can make any kind of soul fit, but I'm a kinder man then you people give me credit for. Today, however? I'll make an exception."
Agent Reddmond had lost the ability to think of anything that didn't taste like cheese cake and pie, but he still somehow caught a change in the light. From the yellow and red spawned amethyst purple, then emerald green, then sapphire blue. The abyss refracted into all the colors, in and out of the visual spectrum, while paradoxically not including black or white. The agent could do nothing but convulse as every level of his being but physical was fed through a blender. Blood and wax dripped from his melting eyes and nose. In the same instant, seeds in his soul sprouted, grew into plants while absorbing the core of his being, harvested, cut up, rolled up, and ignited. His thoughts and brain matter were dissolved in the caustic technicolor sea. His beliefs and languages were defragmented and picked apart for all they were worth, then consumed, digested, and pissed out. His Name and whole identity were crushed up, cut with laundry detergent, and snorted.
When the lone fragments were finally gathered with a dust pan, and forced through the "hole" of the Congregation, the agent's body no longer lied within the bounds of human perception. Horace's eyes rested for a no more than a moment on his shades, before pushing the spectacles back into place with a pointed middle finger, shuttering the carnivorous lights. A memory from the summer of 96 fluttered from the depths of his mind on a breeze of nostalgia, bringing a wish for the time when all he needed to hide the glare was some contacts dyed in a liar's intent. Horace stood and left the remnants of the man to burn on the existential funeral pyre while he helped the other guests. The Archon wiped the minds of the volunteers and rehabilitators with a thought, letting it melt into wax before falling into the Fifth World with the rest of him. Only Ciel's mind was too blank to bleach clean or block out, so she simply sat herself up uninterrupted to watch the fading motley embers be snuffed out by the informational tides. All that remained was his clothing and personal items, which none could see but Horace.
Shortly after the guests had been fed, and the regulars had gone to their activities, the day began to wind down. The light hanging in the skybox kissed the border where the upper and lower folds met to encase the city-state. Either the artificial sun had begun to succumb to decay or time itself was contorting, as dusk had rode in too early for this summer night. None of the news outlets dare say it, but there were rumors The Mayor was finally going senile. As the skyline half consumed the false celestial body, the two shepherds arrived at the concrete of the front steps.
Katharine Drexel was a scholar who had traveled from the shores of the Island of Portland in the United Kingdom. Her main job was to oversee various charity works for the Initiative, but her specialty was the study of anomalous religions, to find means of crafting new converts. She was here fulfilling both her charity and academic roles. Horace had foreseen in the patchwork tides of unmanifested futures that she very well may become canonized after her death. Unfortunately, she had a fascination for the Fifthists, one that he suspected she would one day use to soar too close to the sun, rendering her nothing more than another unnamed cadaver dissolving in the brine of the Fifth World. Her colleague was Beckett Rigobert, a local community leader who ran an old Library on the other side of Three Portlands, with a towering build and a massive cross on his chest. He had an imposing presence which dissolved the moment his chocolate covered voice reached the reverend's ears. He was a powerful lynchpin in the Initiative's political influence in this central point of power behind the veil of secrecy. If things went really poorly, then Drexel's fall might pull her closest friends and allies into the depths with her.
Horace greeted the shepherds with his own voice, and genuinely thanked them for taking over the center, although it was with a somber tone. They set the paperwork out on one of the many tables, while the host served them dinner. Despite it being late, they accepted the offer of sweet tea from the refrigerator. Katharine tried not to let the glint in her eye show despite her desire to collect the remaining Fifthist pieces that decorated the room, as there were several she did not recognize. Horace knew she had been studying his Southern Fifthists, but that was mostly an open secret at this point. The woman in the beret had been certain to make it look like all the new pieces had no surmisable age, despite their obvious distinctness from the local pieces. After two spots had been set with napkins and plastic forks, The reverend went through and signed the proper documents while the shepherds enjoyed their meal.
Once they had both finished their tasks, the staff had mostly finished cleaning up. As thanks for the food, Drexel and Rigobert took over early to finish closing up for the night. The archon thanked them genuinely as he slipped on his coat. Horace was going to miss those two after he ascends to the Fifth World. Unfortunately, they were more valuable as a ticking time bomb in the Initiative's power structure than they would be as another couple Congregation members. The wax and wire structures had been formed to influence what color and shape explosion her soul would make, while fueling her obsession. This was the other reason the Fifthists were moving out, the loss of a central community pillar would be the last nail in the coffin for this once blossoming state.
He stood in the cool air outside the locked doors of the Fifth Point Three Portlands Rehab facility, letting the rain drench his checkered overcoat while his cigar somehow remained lit, as he looked down at the items of the dead agent. The staff members he had brought with him had all dispersed for the night but one. Ciel continued to zone out, but she was otherwise unaffected by her close observation of the memetic patterns from the pen. Despite not being forced it into its usual shape, her hair had straightened again from the rain. He hummed himself a hymn, not as the Congregation, but as himself. Most Fifthist hymns were incomprehensible to outsiders, but Horace's mind had been changed to much to care. He sang it without really thinking of the words, but he subconsciously meditated on them. The words of the song spoke of a promise to make a better world, a promise to not take okay when you could shine brighter than the sun. Above all else, it was a promise to not let hopeless causes die, to unearth the past, and force it into your own image. He sang the last verse about continuing the legacy of the fallen until it was his time to join them. Ciel walked with him, but she simply continued to mirror the dead air of the ideational terrain.
As his voice was drowned out again by the pouring rain, he glanced at his watches. The apple watch at the base of his wrist was dead, but the $19000 gold wristwatch and the arcade Spiderman one both said it was 9:34 PM. The noosphere had long been too quiet and empty to get a proper read on his brothers and sisters outside of the congregation, but somehow he felt a light die. He felt the death of his fellow reverend even from across the country. The girl finally stirred. Her eyes focused. She felt it too.
He steeled what was left of his Soul, and decided then and there, that he would not accept this outcome. Most of what he found from the would be assassin's effects he already knew or found unremarkable, but one thing was certain. The Foundation believed that he might be able to stop The Bottom Feeder, destroy the memetic chemotherapy industry that he believed had all but wiped out Fifthist movements, and to maim all who were responsible. He chuckled as he grinned just a little too sharp and wide. If those fellows at the Foundation had this much faith in him, then how could he not have it in himself.
He passed Ciel a grape cigar for herself, then ducked into an electronics store that was about to close, and placed a wad of bills on the counter. He waited as a tired employee brought him a burner phone. He scribbled a design with various stars and eyes onto a posted note. As they walked away from the store and towards the motel, he posted the sigil on the back of it, keeping out any unwanted ears as he made his phone call.
"Heyyy, Dr. Gupta. That's right, I know you wouldn't hang up on your old Pal. Listen buddy, I need you to do me a solid. You know, I helped you out after last time, so I just need you to pass me your answer key…"

Reverend Archon Celebration "Big Cheese" Horace and Fellow Associates coming to a distant century near you!!

Hope you're ready, slick. Remember, Stars may die in threes, but worlds die in fives. Like insects injected with maggots. Those boys over at the Foundation are gonna have a fun time coming up with how to contain what I got in mind. Better brush up on my Cuneiform…