It was midnight when they dragged Dietrich and Bridge out of their beds, pinning them down before they had a chance to react. Filthy rubber ball gags were thrust into their mouths, followed shortly by black bags over the head. Despite struggling, they were quickly zip-tied by the wrists and ankles, and then thrown roughly out into the hallway.
Dietrich struggled as best he could. He tried to blindly head butt his assailant, but missed. Before he could wind up for a second try he felt a pair of cold metal probes pressed against his bare inner thigh. "Try that again and I'll taze you until you shit yourself unconscious," a low voice growled.
Dietrich froze. He had no desire to spend his last moments in soiled underwear. And he was fucking sick to death of being tased at this point.
The next half hour passed by in a blur. He had the vague impression of being thrown into the back of a van together with Bridge who was also similarly bound and gagged. The van was driven for a long time, making sharp turns at odd intervals that indicated that the driver was trying to throw off his passengers' sense of direction. Eventually, though, the van came to a halt. The doors were opened and both were dragged out of the vehicle, inside a cold room, and strapped to a chair.
The bag was removed from Dietrich's head. His first impression was a bright flash of light: cold, hard, instantaneous, leaving a rectangular after-image in his abused retinas. Aside from that, only darkness and the vague impression of a sinister figure sitting in a high-backed chair.
A low voice behind him growled in his ear. "Name."
Dietrich mumbled helplessly around the ball gag.
"Shit," the voice growled. A pair of hands wearing leather gloves removed the gag.
Dietrich immediately screamed as loud as he could. "AAAHH! FUCK! HELP! SOMEBO- mmmpmmhpmmhh!"
The gag was re-inserted and then Bridge's bag and gag was removed. The silent figure leaned forward into his ear. "Name."
"I'm the god damned Wizard of Oz." Dietrich heard Bridge say, the sound of spitting soon following. Then the sound of another muffled cry as the ball gag was reinserted.
Dietrich looked around desperately for any kind of reflective surface, and found none. His heart sank. Then his spirits rose. Alexandra might be listening. And if Alexandra was listening, there was a chance that rescue was already on its way.
He let out another low, muffled cry, and the shadowy figure came up behind him, undid the buckle on the ball-gag. "Let's try this one last time," the deep voice sneered, and Dietrich felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his head. "Tell me your name."
All Dietrich could do was stall. Stall for all he's worth till the cavalry rushed in. "D-Dietrich… Dietrich Lurk," he whimpered. "Pa's family was Scottish, that's where the last name comes from— oh God, just please don't kill me!"
"That depends on how you answer this next question," the voice said. "What's Lambda Two?"
"Lam… Lambda Two? I don't know nothin' about any Lambda two!" Dietrich whimpered, then let out a high-pitched scream when he heard a pistol's slide being drawn back behind his head. "WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! Please!" he howled. "I-I-I can tell you something!"
"Talk. Now!" the voice shouted angrily.
"I heard a rumor! It's-It's a secret mobile task force! They're all beautiful women, they're all naked, and they do nothin' but give Clef blowjobs all day!"
"WHAT!?" the voice shouted, and this time the cry was incredulous. He could hear Bridge cackling against the gag. "Where the FUCK did you hear that?"
Dietrich pondered on his next response, and then he felt a hand clamped over his mouth. Then a gunshot went off.
POP
There was silence for only a second. The feeling of early morning piss running down his leg was a sure indicator that he was not dead. He was still alive?
Then someone tipped over his chair onto its side, and he felt the ball-gag go back into his mouth… and then he heard someone come up behind Bridge and say, "I've just blown your redneck friend's brains out. Lie to me like he did, and you get the same. Now, tell me. What's Lambda-Two?"
A slow, shuddering breath… and then, in a panicked, pissed off scream, Dietrich heard Bridge shout, "IT'S UP YOUR MOM'S ASS!"
click
The other lights turned on. Standing over Bridge was a gentleman in a hunter green suit. Dietrich muffled a question through the ball gag, then felt it slide out of his mouth.
The room turned out to be a standard Foundation office block: Dietrich could see eight standard issue-cubicles of the type he'd spent countless hours in over the past few years. They were laying on plastic sheeting. The smell of urine and fear hung in the air.
A man wearing a ridiculous hat, smiling mirthlessly, stood before them. "Well you both pass," Director Alto Clef said.
"W-what!" Dietrich panted as he tried to regain his bearings. "You were fuckin' with us?"
Hands grabbed Dietrich by the shoulder as he was lifted right-side up off the hard floor. Then heard that same deep sinister voice. "Now the second part of the test is going to involve sexually pleasuring bodyguards for intel. You'll be practicing on us. Ready?"
Bridge coughed as Dietrich audibly gulped, but it was overshadowed by his assailant's laughter. A woman in a matte-black catsuit walked around in front of him. "These vox converters are awesome," she said in a surprisingly deep manly voice: the same manly voice that was threatening him earlier. She removed the device from around her neck and tossed it back to Clef. "Andrea S. Adams. Pleased to make your acquaintance. You've already met Agent Foxx."
Dietrich let out a frustrated sigh upon hearing that feminine voice. He'd been duped. Bridge cackled silently in relief and rage.
"Did I hear that right, though? I mean, I nearly broke character when you said that there was an entire task force dedicated to giving Clef blowjobs." Adams glowered suspiciously at Clef, sitting at his desk. "Makes me wonder who's starting those rumors."
"Wasn't me," Clef said. "Like I got the time or the semen for something like that. Let's get them cleaned up and have this meeting."

Everyone was calm and cool on the other side of the table. Both Bridge and Dietrich had trouble mixing the powdered creamer and sugar into their respective hot drinks with shaky hands. But their adrenaline was finally starting to plateau after getting changed into clean clothes. Alexandra's avatar was floating on the screen of the mounted LCD monitor on the wall and Merle was standing in a corner just listening to the conversation.
Adams and Clef sat together with a stack of papers off to the side while Foxx leaned against an adjacent wall.
"SO! I heard you both had a little trouble on the way in?" Clef sat there grinning from ear to ear with Adams on his left drumming her fingers.
«I'll say! I can only protect these two so much you know.» Alexandra smiled broadly at the group.
Bridge inhaled with a growl and said aloud what Dietrich was clearly thinking too. "Don't tell us you set that up too."
"Moi? No no no no, not my style to organize a firing squad on the highway. No, I imagine whoever set that up is playing their own games with you. But that's something to get into later." Clef then slid a file folder across the table. "Omega Seven. Here is the official report of what really happened to them. You'll need to know this in order to know why you've been assigned to Lambda Two."
Dietrich tilted his head. "Omega Seven's a dirty word whispered 'round the water cooler, sir. I've only read what was sent out after the accident… that and the rumors. Didn't believe either, but I always imagined it was a mix a both."
Adams piped up. "The truth is far worse. Omega Seven completely shit itself and imploded. Lost a lot of collateral. Lost a lot of good folks."
Clef nodded, then leaned forward. "Gents, according to all official records, Lambda Two is an adjunct task force intended to provide temporary support to other MTFs. For the foreseeable future, we will be adjunct to Mobile Task Force Alpha-Niner. Do you understand?"
Everyone nodded. "Great," Clef continued. "Because that's all a lie. We're not Alpha-Niner's assistants. We're their babysitters."
Bridge raised an eyebrow as he finished sipping his green tea. "Fuck's that mean?"
Clef and Adams glanced at each other briefly, "To put it bluntly," Adams said, "if you dig around a bit further, you'll find out that we're the eyes, ears, and the fail-safe."
Dietrich was already skimming through the file. By the time he reached the fourth page, he stopped drinking his coffee altogether. "Is this for real? Able? He- ?"
"Afraid so."
Bridge already did his homework and didn't need to see the file. His clearance and access to reports were unquestioned. "So why do you need us? You'd need an army to go after a rogue task force."
Clef just shook his head and chuckled. "Because our job isn't actually to make sure Alpha-Niner doesn't go rogue."
Dietrich and Bridge both looked at each other confusingly but Clef held up a hand before either could comment. "Let me explain. Lambda Two doesn't actually exist. It exists on the charts, it has a budget, it has offices. But the entire Mobile Task Force is actually a cover for MTF Tav-666."
"Tau-666?" Bridge asked.
"No, Tav," Clef snapped. "Hebrew alphabet, not Greek — why is that so hard for people? — anyway. Our mission is to make sure that Alpha-Niner doesn't explode in our faces."
Dietrich nodded in understanding. "Ah."
"…I'm not sure I understand," Bridge said. "Isn't that the same thing as watching over Alpha-Niner?"
"Depends on how you define watching over," Adams interjected. "Do you mean in the sense of a prison warden? Or a bodyguard?"
Bridge nodded in understanding. "Ah," he said, echoing Dietrich.
"Alpha-Niner has the possibility of being the single most destructive thing to ever happen to the Foundation," Clef explained, "for two reasons. First of all, Alpha-Niner itself could go bad. Anomalies could go rogue. Able could happen again. But there's another possibility that's just as dangerous: sabotage."
"Who?" Dietrich asked.
"There are elements in the Overseer Council that have… a vested interest… in maintaining current policies regarding human anomalies," Clef said. He crumpled his paper cup and tossed it in the trash. "Given the recent information leaks and the current status of Alpha-Niner, we've decided that this is the more serious threat. So to go back and answer your question: a couple of techies might not help a lot when it comes to stopping a rogue Task Force. But they'd be a hell of a lot more useful in rooting out a saboteur."
"And don't think that the choice of you two wasn't deliberate," Clef continued. "Based on Agent Lurk's profile, he has the making of a man who has nearly made a profession of keeping under the radar. Him and his little friend both know the ins-and-outs of how to do just that."
Dietrich's eyes grew as large as dinner plates. Merle only shrugged, signifying that he too was dumbfounded.
"Alexandra-"
Dietrich stopped holding his breath and relaxed.
"-on loan from nineteen. Really a capable tool in achieving what is needed in the ways of surveillance. I saw how she handled herself after seventeen's little meltdown a few months ago. It impressed a lot more than just a few directors. Django Bridge… well… that was really Dietrich's choice to bring him along. Not my first pick but he'll do in a pinch."
Bridge rolled his eyes and looked to Foxx who gave a nasally snerk at Clef's statement. "And Agent Foxx," Clef continued. "You three met during the EVAC. He's going to be your semi-official escort."
"W-What?" Foxx stopped smirking. Bridge breathed a 'hah!'.
"You didn't get that memo? Yeah, with this last little assassination attempt they'll need an escort. Neither of them can shoot worth a damn, especially considering one of them is an ex-MTF. We won't mention any names for the sake of Dietrich Lurk."
Dietrich opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but then quickly shut it. Foxx then walked over from the wall. "So I'm babysitting them?"
Clef cocked his head slightly and leaned in his chair. "Just for a little while till things simmer down. Oh, and they'll need to crash at your place tonight. I can't have it on record that they were actually here. Espionage is a fickle bitch."
Foxx opened his mouth to protest. "Before you even start," Clef interrupted, "I did ensure that you are under VIP watch off-site. Nobody will be kicking down your door before I kick them in the balls."
He tossed a gold-plated USB drive to Bridge. "And you. Review that when you have a chance. Take care of it— it's the only copy."

"Well, one of you will sleep on the couch. The other will need to make do with the floor." Foxx set down a duffel bag.
"I'll take the floor, I don't mind." Dietrich moved past him and the door frame and started looking around nervously.
"You missing something, Dietrich?" Bridge came in behind him.
"What? No. I just… it's a nice house." Dietrich set his suitcase and laptop bag in the corner.
Foxx pressed his finger to his lips and whispered, "Shhh. Child is sleeping." He pointed above his head.
"Shit, sorry."
"Sorry."
"Now, I must go and pay the babysitter. Bathroom's down the hall."
Dietrich made a beeline for the bathroom first. He closed the door gently and stared into the mirror. He hadn't seen Merle since they left the site. "Merle? Merle? Where the hell you run off to?" He shrugged and used the opportunity to shower privately, which was a rare treat for him. Bridge did the same when it was his turn.
Dietrich stacked a few blankets on the floor and then draped one over himself. "At least I'm not gonna get kidnapped again tonight."
«Um. Dietrich, sir. Would you mind plugging me in? I'm down to twelve percent on this battery.»
"Woop. Sorry, Alex. Here." Dietrich fumbled for the charger and plugged his mobile device into the nearest outlet. "You want me to ask for the wifi password or—"
«No need. I cracked it when we first got in range. I'm all good for syncing.»
"Alright, good night then."
«Night, sir.»
Dietrich's phone went into a blank loading screen as Alexandra worked on syncing up with her mainframe counterpart. As he rolled over he saw Merle standing in the reflection of the metal refrigerator surface. Merle casually waved hello. Dietrich, knowing he wasn't the only one in the house, signed to him while lying down.
WHERE-DID-YOU-GO
Merle paused and panned his head from side to side a bit before responding.
JUST-WANTED-TO-LOOK-AROUND
Dietrich started to sign back but paused when Bridge walked in. "You'll excuse me if I just go to bed direct, Dee. Kidnapping kinda wears me down." Dee, that's a familiar nickname he hadn't heard in a good long while.
"Heh, no problem, Bridge. Night."
"Night."
Dietrich waited for him to roll over and then continued.
STAY-AROUND-DO-NOT-WANDER
Merle just dismissed him with a gesture and moved over to the reflection of the window as the lookout. His usual routine since he was incapable of sleep. It didn't take long for Dietrich to doze off.

"Thanks again, Stephanie. Here's some extra money for the unexpected timing."
"No worries Mr. Foxx. I had to study for a big final tomorrow anyhow. Good night."
"Night."
Foxx closed the door on the babysitter and turned into the kitchen for a glass of water. A strange shiver crawled up his back as he felt compelled to look at the kitchen window. Nothing but a view overlooking the quiet suburban street.
He then looked across the way to see both Bridge and Dietrich fast asleep. Foxx shook his head, put the glass in the sink, and yawned. One last stop before his bedroom, he wanted to check on Lucille . Passing through the hallway, he noticed that the light in her room was still on. "Honey?" Foxx opened the door gently and peeked in.
"Hi, Daddy." Lucille rubbed her eye and yawned as she placed a plastic kettle next to her books.
"Lucille, it's very late for tea time." Foxx looked down to see cups for four. "Elsa, Anna, and Olaf will be around for your breakfast tea in the morning." Admittedly, he's seen Frozen far too many times to know the characters and songs by heart. He gathered the cups and put them next to the kettle.
"No. Not Olaf, Daddy. I made a new friend."
"Oh really?" Foxx picked her up and tucked her into bed.
"He's black and fuzzy and wears a mask and likes to make shadow puppets and and he—"
"Alright. Hush now. Time to sleep. Tell your new friend to sleep too." Foxx tucked her in snuggly.
"He left already."
"Well I'm sure he has things to take care of. Maybe you will see him in the morning, hm?"
Lucille rolled over to the side of the bed facing the night light. "But I don't know if he likes pancakes."
"We don't have to have pancakes if you don't want to." He smiled. "We'll just ask him what he wants for breakfast in the morning then. Okay?"
"Okay. Goodnight, Daddy."
Foxx smiled and closed her door, leaving just a small crack open, then went to bed himself.

"DEE!" Betty squeezed her son as hard as she could.
"Ma, please!" Dietrich squeezed past the door frame and shuffled inside, mother still attached.
"Howdy, Dee. We cooked yer favorite. Open face roast beef sandwich." Jeff then lurched out of his chair towards the dining room. The old man pulled a chair out for his wife to sit next to him, then sat down himself.
Before Betty could even think of sitting down, she hustled up the stairs, down the hall, and through the first door on the right to retrieve one more person. What followed were the slow and steady footfalls of Dietrich's deaf older brother, Bertrand.
Why a simple country couple insisted on naming their offspring with Old German first names coupled with a proud Scottish family surname, Dietrich would never know. He also forgot why he was back home in the first place.
He looked at the wall to see blurry photographs of their relatives living in the old country. He used to love hearing about fairy tales from Granddaddy Murdoch. But that was very long ago when him and Bertrand were waist-high.
The whole Lurk family sat down and laughed and talked of older times. Funnier times. Even some strange times. Dietrich signed to Bertrand who was looking a bit worn for wear.
SICK-BIG-BROTHER
Bertrand shook his head and signed back.
NO-TIRED
BAD-SLEEP
Bertrand's phone vibrated loudly, but nobody seemed to care much… except Bertrand who struggled to get his phone out of his pocket and then stare at the text message. Dietrich cocked his head a bit as he chewed his meal.
WHO-IS-THAT
YOUR-BOSS
Bertrand signed nothing back and shuffled outside with slow hollow footsteps. Dietrich sat puzzled and looked at the fuzzy faces of his parents.
"…What's wrong with Bert?"

Dietrich woke himself up and rubbed his face trying to dismiss a weird dream. The smell of eggs and coffee were a good distraction. He rolled out and made several cracking noises as he rose up from the hard floor.
"Morning, Dietrich." Bridge was chewing on a bagel looking dressed and ready for the day while sitting in front of his laptop. He was preoccupied with monitoring Alexandra decrypt the flash drive. Dietrich groggily lurched for a chair and sat. Across from him was a six year old girl with messy brown hair wearing Frozen pajamas. He watched her almost zombified as she feverishly scribbled with a black crayon on paper.
"Dietrich!?"
"Huh, what?"
Foxx squinted his eyes at him. "I said, how do you like your eggs?"
Dietrich ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his shirt a bit. "Oh uh, over-easy… runny yolks if'n you can manage."
"Ew," Lucille commented.
Foxx cracked two eggs into a skillet. "Lucille, that's not nice. Some people just like it that way."
Lucille looked up from her drawing. "But gooey eggs look like boogies."
"Lucille. We don't say gross things at the table." Foxx planted her fork into a clump of scrambled egg and put it in her other hand. "C'mon, less drawing more eating."
"This one yours, Foxx?" Dietrich poured himself a cup of coffee. He could tell that Foxx used the European brands just by smell alone.
"Hm? No. I just found her outside this morning. Must be a stray."
Lucille giggled as Foxx straightened a few strands of messy hair. "Yeah. Lucille, this is Mister Lurk. Can you say, Hi?" Lucille smiled and waved. Dietrich nodded back.
"I like the way you talk. You talk like the tow truck in my Cars movie."
Bridge managed to not choke on his bagel in the background. Dietrich just smiled. "Where I comes from, e'ryone talks purty much like this, lil' lady." He made sure to add on an extra layer of twang for her. Foxx slid a plate of eggs in front of him. Dietrich reached over for the pepper to sprinkle some on. Foxx sat down with his own plate of food and looked over at Lucille's paper.
"What's this?"
"That's me. That's my new friend. And that's our house. Can we put it on the fridge?"
"We sure can."
He slid the paper towards him and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. Foxx also made a mental note to have a chat with the babysitter about what kind of shows Lucille is watching before bedtime.

Dietrich went pale and ejected coffee out of his mouth and nostrils, covering the front of his shirt and plated eggs.
"We don't spit at the table," Lucille corrected him.
Foxx actually got up and approached him. "Woah! You alright?"
Bridge, however, was frozen in place. He had an extensive knowledge of the SCP mainlist, with a specialization in the Euclid class. In two and a half seconds he connected the dots between Dietrich's behaviour, Lucille's drawing, and a particular image file recovered from a cell phone a while back. The pieces clicked together in his head - why Dietrich was always, always looking at his reflection, why he talked to himself, why he stayed under the radar for so long, what the hell Merle is.
"It's fucking fourteen-seventy-one," Bridge breathed, his eyes turning to Deitrich.
"Oooh! Daddy! He said a bad TV word!" shouted Lucille.
"Language! What's wrong with you two?" Foxx barked as he lifted up the oven mitt in preparation for a throw. Then he lowered it again, slowly.
"Bridge? What did you just say?"


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Phineas looked himself over in the bathroom mirror.
Where have the years gone, old man? he thought to himself.
His bald head reflected the bathroom lights. Veins were faintly visible beneath his pale skin. His long white beard strongly contrasted with his black dress shirt, a bright red necktie the only colorful thing on his person. Like the man within, the clothes were visibly worn, coated in two decades' worth of turmoil. Phineas gave a heavy sigh. His frown turned into a smile and he headed for the door, a slight mechanical whirring filling the silence with each step.
Phineas stepped out of the bathroom and into the workshop beyond. A party was in full swing and he was expected to make an appearance.

+ July 14th, 1994

-

July 14th, 1994

“What have you got to show me, Vince?” Phineas asked.
He sat outside in the pleasant summer sun at a café in downtown Portland. The right sleeve on his flannel shirt was neatly rolled up while the left sleeve remained pinned beneath the stump of his left forearm. A meticulously trimmed beard covered his face, easily the most well-groomed part of his appearance. He brushed a few locks of brown hair out of his eyes as he gazed at the briefcase his companion gently placed on the table.
The young man sitting across the table from him sheepishly smiled. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his tan skin suggested that he had recently spent some time in a warmer region. His dark green eyes focused on the combination lock on the briefcase before triumphantly allowing the lid to open.
“Behold!”
Sitting in the bottom of the box was a small silver rubber ball. Phineas looked at the orb carefully, blinking as a large red dot appeared at its center. The dot focused on Phineas as a series of four needle-like legs emerged from the orb's side. The orb stood up, and then waved at Phineas with one of its tiny legs.
“I've named it Benny,” Vince said with a satisfied smile. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Vince,” Phineas grinned, “You built a robot?”
“More like brought to life,” Vince replied. “In the same sense that the soul pilots the meat ship that is the human body, I created a simple intelligence to pilot the circuits of this little guy. I found a couple of schematics from a man named Durand while I was in Europe. They were a real eye opener.”
Benny gave a small nod in agreement, and then began to roll around the interior of the briefcase before stopping to look at Phineas again.
“How intelligent is it?” Phineas gently placed his hand in the briefcase and allowed the tiny robot to crawl onto his palm. Benny immediately climbed up his arm and perched on his shoulder.
“Well, I mean, it's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but it's smarter than your average cat or dog.”
Benny gave a small salute in response, causing the two men to chuckle.
“It can record video and sound too,” Vince added. “I was thinking, maybe I could sell them as reconnaissance droids. I know a few people who would be interested in that sort of thing.”
“You're going to start a robotics company?” Phineas frowned. “You think you have the business chops for that sort of thing?”
“Actually, I was hoping we'd start a robotics company. I have a lot of other designs in mind, and you've always been so good with the kind of incantations we'd need. We'd totally be able to hit the ground running.”
Phineas furrowed his brow. He gently returned Benny to the briefcase and stared at the small droid pensively for several moments.
“I'll let you name the products…”
Phineas gave a devilish smile in return.
“You're going to regret that,” he said and extended a handshake. “I'm your man.”
Vince accepted.
“Welcome aboard!”

Phineas slowly made his way through the crowded lunchroom before returning to his seat at an empty table, a newly opened bottle of beer in his left hand. He watched the various hobnobbers socialize around him. Most of the crowd consisted of Anderson Robotics employees, patrons, or personal friends of Vincent Anderson. A few representatives of Marshall, Carter, and Dark also were in attendance, their business attire looking out of place among the casual outfits of the majority of the Anderson staff.
Phineas took a long sip from his beer and looked across the room. A banner reading “10,000 SOLD!” stretched across the far wall. He closed his eyes and sighed.
“Is someone being a party pooper?” a bubbly voice asked. Phineas opened his eyes to the sight of a short, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brunette hair and faint blue eyes. She wore a flowered sundress and smiled warmly as she took the seat across from him. “It's as much your day as it is ours. You should be ecstatic.”
“I think he removed his ability to feel joy when he put on that last prosthetic,” said a tall, lanky young man who took the seat next to her. His eyes were slightly obscured behind a mop of curly blond hair, but the thick glasses he wore were still plain as day. When he wasn't speaking, his lips seemed to permanently be turned up in a smirk. “Still, in all seriousness, you're the man of the hour. The Gyrfalcon series would never have worked without you. This party might as well be for you.”
“Afternoon, Medea, Jason.” Phineas raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Always nice to see the dynamic duo. But your praise is poorly spent on me. You two were ones who finally got the damn things to work. It's your baby now. I'm just the old fool who kept messing it up.”
“Always so modest,” Medea said with a small laugh. “You need to start taking credit, Phineas. Out of all of us, you're the one who has poured their entire being into this company. We'd be dead in the water without you.”
Phineas responded with a small shrug.
“If you'll excuse me,” he said as he got to his feet and began to walk away. He crossed the room and entered the hallway. Jason was quick to follow.
“Hey man,” he said as he placed himself in front of Phineas. “All my mom was trying to do was pay you a compliment. The least you could do is not be a monumental dick about it.”
Phineas swiftly grabbed the boy by his arm and pulled him in close. Jason let out a small gasp in surprise.
“I know about that little Nankeen project you were working on with Isaac, and about Ian, and how you lost him to the Foundation,” Phineas whispered into Jason's ear. “Now, I suggest that if you don't want me to tell Anderson you go right back the way you came and the two of you give me some space for today. I am in no mood to pat anyone, especially myself, on the back. Am I clear?”
Phineas released the young man's arm and watched as Jason took a few steps back.
“Crystal…”
Jason returned to the lunchroom without another word. Phineas took a seat on the floor with his back pressed against the wall. He raised his beer in a mock toast.
To the monumental dick, he thought to himself and took another sip.

+ January 10th, 1998

-

January 10th, 1998

Vince and Phineas sat in the living room of a small Seattle apartment. The room was sparsely furnished, save a couch against the far wall, and two desks weighed down with a menagerie of computers and software disks. A small pennant that read “Alexylva” was visible along the far wall. A little boy with curly blond hair rapidly typed away at one of the computers, the monitor reflecting in the lenses of his thick glasses. The boy's mother returned from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee, her brunette hair tied back in a bun as she handed the beverages away.
“Thank you very much,” Vince said as he accepted the drink and took a small sip. Over the course of the last few months, Phineas had noticed his partner's once tan skin fade into a pale, almost ivory-colored hue. His once proud and rebellious ponytail had been replaced by a shorter and more traditional cut, one that did not make his hair loss so obvious. Phineas accepted his own mug with a kind nod, his new left arm making an audible whirl as he brought the coffee to his mouth.
“So, Medea,” Vince began, “What's this little guy's name, and what on earth is he doing? If he types any faster he's going to melt that keyboard.”
“This little guy's named Jason,” Medea gave a chuckle and ruffled the boy's hair. “And, I'm not too sure what he's currently working on.”
“Star Wars!” Jason replied without missing a beat.
“Oh, right,” Medea smiled. “He's programming himself a computer game.”
Both Vince and Phineas looked to each other and nodded in approval.
“You named your son Jason?” Phineas raised an eyebrow as he returned his gaze back to Medea.
Medea rolled her eyes as she shook her head.
“I didn't name him anything; poor Jason's parents died in a car accident when he was three. When I came across him in the adoption process, the two of us just clicked. The name was just a coincidence.”
Phineas nodded in understanding, and then looked back at the pennant on the far wall.
“I understand you have a PhD in Computer Science. Is that your alma mater?” Phineas asked. “I've never heard of it before.”
Medea frowned slightly.
“That's a long story, but yes. I don't think anyone around here would have heard of Alexylva. All you need to know is that it's a top notch technical college in Tennessee. Anyway… Rick said that you two had a job offer.”
“Indeed we do,” Vince replied, and quickly opened his briefcase. He pulled out a smooth black ceramic disk and handed it to Medea.
“Where on Earth did you get one of these?” Her face flushed for several seconds before she finally broke the silence.
“That's not really important,” Vince replied. “What is important is we like your work, and want you to do similar projects for us down in Portland. In addition to helping us work on a few of our designs, you'll be given plenty of freedom to design your own products. Freedom you were denied from your previous employers, if I understand correctly.”
“I'm… I'm flattered, really… But I can't just uproot everything on the spot. Jason has school, and…”
“I think you should take the job,” Jason chimed in.
“What, dear?” Medea turned to her son in surprise.
“I don't mind switching schools,” Jason elaborated. “And you always talk about how much fun you had working on robots. I think you should take the job Mr. Anderson is offering.”
“You really do, huh?” Medea grinned. She then looked back to Vince, and smiled. “I'd need time to put in my two weeks at my current job… and there's finding out a new place to live… a new school… we haven't even discussed salary…”
“Take all the time you need to prepare,” Phineas interrupted. “Vince and I will mail you a copy of your contract to sign before the end of the week. I think you'll find the pay to be quite generous. Plus there will always be a spot for Jason in our workshop, if he's so inclined.”
“Awesome!” Jason shouted, and ran over to Medea, grabbing her in a big hug. “You have got to take this job now!”
Medea chuckled and nodded in understanding.
“I guess I can't say no,” she laughed. Vince extended a handshake which Medea enthusiastically took.
“Welcome to Anderson Robotics,” he said.
It was not long after that that Vince and Phineas took their leave, stepping out of Medea's apartment and into the cold Seattle rain. Phineas took one look back at their future employee and shook his head.
“I hope she doesn't take too long to get down to Portland,” he said. “We need the extra hands on deck as soon as possible. We're completely back ordered on the Amur and Aplomado series.”

Phineas looked up when heard footsteps. A middle aged man with dark skin approached, his face permanently pressed into an expression of worry. He carried a bottle of beer in his hand, and gave a small nod to Phineas. Trailing behind him was a young man in his mid-twenties. His skin was the same tone as the first man, and his head was shaved.
“Thought you'd be running a little empty right about now,” the middle-aged man said as he handed off the bottle to Phineas. The old man chuckled and popped the top off the bottle with his left hand.
“Thanks, Jeffery.” Phineas took a long sip. “How's it going? Enjoying the jubilations?”
“It's not really my thing,” Jeffery sighed.
“How about you, Miles?” Phineas looked towards the young man.
“It's just a bunch of employees sucking up to the rich and successful.” The young man shrugged. “Not really my cup of tea, either.”
“Guess we could start our own club,” Phineas chuckled and took another sip from his beer.
“Miles, I'd like to speak to Phineas alone for a bit, do you mind?” Jeffery asked. Miles nodded and headed back into the lunchroom. Jeffery watched the young man leave before turning back to Phineas.
“I always appreciated that you call him Miles. Isaac insists on calling him Saker-00.”
“Well, for all intents and purposes he is Miles.”
“For the record, I told Anderson that this party wasn't the best idea,” said Jeffery. “But he insisted that we have a reputation to uphold now and that this event would be the perfect opportunity to up the ante with the investors.”
“Anderson sure does love causing a spectacle,” Phineas sighed. “I appreciate the attempt, though. Thanks.”
“Any time.” Jeffery began to make his way back towards the lunchroom door. “Are you coming back inside soon?”
Phineas slowly nodded.
“In a bit. Just let me finish this last beer.”
Jeffery briefly smiled and headed back into the din of the party.

+ December 17th, 2002

-

December 17th, 2002

As they sat at the kitchen table in a residence located in Beaverton, Phineas looked over Vincent out of the corner of his eye. His employer's skin was now completely ivory in color. His hair had long since fallen out, leaving him with a smooth scalp. Over his left eye he wore a silver eye patch. The changes had been gradual, but now that he had had the time to look his friend over, the time had come to acknowledge Vincent was not necessarily the same man who had offered him a job that summer day in Portland. Phineas then looked himself over. He felt he might not be in any position to judge. After all, his left arm and both his legs had been replaced with prosthetics of his own design. Maybe this was just what working in their field did to people like them.
Phineas then looked over to the android that stood at the far side of the room. A dark-skinned gentleman in his early thirties examined it in awe. Eventually, he returned his attention to Vincent and Phineas, and then whistled.
“I have to hand it to you, it's an impressive design,” he said. “But what exactly is it?”
“That's the prototype for our new Peregrine series,” Vincent replied. “They're guaranteed to be one of our top sellers once we get all the bugs hammered out. That's actually why we're here, Jeffery. I'd like your help to finish it. A mutual associate of ours informed us that you were working on a new form of AI at Prometheus Labs before their big meltdown.”
“I'm going to stop you right there,” Jeffery sighed. “That project was a dead-end from the start. The tech won't exist for a long, long time.”
“You're saying that while we literally have an android standing behind you?” Phineas asked with one eyebrow raised.
“An android that I'm assuming is dumb as a post,” Jeffery returned. “You guys want me to provide you with AIs, right? Well believe me when I say that it's not going to happen.”
“Why is that?” Vincent inquired.
“You want the explanation? Fine,” Jeffery snapped. “My model basically involved mapping out a human brain digitally, and then replicating that consciousness in digital space. I got the mapping part up and running, but then PL imploded, and soon after that my son was diagnosed with small cell carcinoma. I tried to finish the project on my own to hopefully save Miles, but like I said, the technology simply wasn't there, and then Miles died. You're wasting your time!”
The room fell silent. Jeffery simply looked down at the floor.
“I'm sorry for your loss,” said Phineas.
“Yeah… so am I,” Jeffery replied.
Vincent then placed his briefcase on the table, breaking the silence with the clicking of the locks. He pulled out several papers and diagrams and slid them across the table, most were labeled “PEREGRINE” but the page on top said “SAKER”. Jeffery read them intently and then looked behind him at the Peregrine unit for a few moments before snapping his head back to Vincent.
“We have the technology you're missing,” Vincent smiled. “Well, technically I suppose it's more of a form of magic, but I digress. Did you map out Miles's mind before he passed?”
“I… uh, I…” Jeffery stuttered for several moments before he nodded.
“Come work for us,” Vincent cooed, “Help us smarten up the Peregrine series, and I promise you that Phineas and I will help you get Miles back.”
Jeffery nodded. He closed his eyes, and turned towards the window.
“Deal,” he said with a deep breath.
Vincent gave Phineas a satisfied nod. The two men placed a trench coat over the Peregrine unit and began to make their way towards the door. Along the way, Phineas stopped and placed a hand on Jeffery's shoulder.
“Welcome to the team,” he said.
Vincent and Phineas then left the residence, loading up into a plain white van they had rented for the occasion.
“That should solve the Peregrine problem,” Vincent said with a satisfied smile.
“Maybe if we're lucky we'll get the Saker series up and running too,” Phineas added. “Looks like we're really starting to go places.”

Phineas had just finished the second beer when he heard the doors to the lunchroom open again. Looking over, he saw a muscular man in a business suit approach. The man's hair was neatly combed back, and a faint scent of aftershave seemed to follow him where he went. Phineas rolled his eyes.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Isaac? There's no one out here for you to schmooze.”
“Funny,” Isaac replied. “Anderson wants you. He's about to do his big announcement.”
“Does he need me to talk for him?”
“Stop being such a little bitch and come along,” Isaac said flatly. “Anderson doesn't want to begin without his best friend and partner, and you should want to be there. The Taita series was your design after all. A little socializing won't kill you.”
“Socializing with MC&D reps might,” Phineas mumbled under his breath. He then sighed and got to his feet. Isaac trailed behind him as the two made their way into the lunchroom.

+ May 9th, 2003

-

May 9th, 2003

Phineas sat in an uncomfortable chair within a small private office in San Francisco. In the chair next to him sat a completely hairless, ivory-skinned creature in a charcoal suit. Veins were visible beneath the room's bright light. Its head was without ears, and its face was obscured beneath a silver comedy mask. Its name was Vincent Anderson.
Across from the duo, behind a large desk, was a young muscular man in a business suit. His had a sly smile as he looked over several documents, and then turned his attention to Anderson.
“I have to admit,” Isaac said coolly, “When Jericho told me that I was meeting with a man named Anderson, I was expecting something with a little more rust.”
“Heh,” Anderson replied in a metallic voice. “Uh, yeah that happens all the time. Rest assured, however, that I have no affiliation with James Anderson or his, uh, factory.”
“So what is it exactly you are looking for, in terms of my services?”
“To be frank,” Phineas chuckled, “we need a businessman. Right now, the company consists of the two of us, a few designers and computer specialists, our fab team, and some hired muscle. The books are getting beyond our ability to manage, and we are soon going to outgrow our customer base. Jericho said you'd be the perfect man for the job.”
“Not to toot my own horn, but he is correct. So now that we've established that you need me. Let's get down to why I'd need you. I mean, you do have a promising company, with a very interesting line of products, but the same could be said about any paratech firm. You're not the only ones who have asked to have me on the payroll. So, what does Anderson Robotics bring to the table?”
“Well, as you probably saw, your salary would be very generous,” Phineas frowned. He quickly flipped through notes to find the pearls within the oyster. “You'd have a massive discount for any of our products, including use of the Saker Series, not to mention…”
“Phineas,” Anderson interrupted, “I know, um, what needs to be done.”
“We agreed that would be a nuclear option,” Phineas protested, silencing as Anderson snapped his fingers with a surprisingly loud volume.
“You're, uh, on Sycamore Gordon's kill list, right?” Anderson asked. “What, with the whole Vegas incident, if you step foot in Nevada again, uh, you'd be a dead man, correct?”
“What the hell are you getting at?” Isaac demanded. His smirk turned into a scowl.
“Nothing too complex,” Anderson replied. “We've, uh, simply done our homework. If you join our crew we'd make sure old Sycamore was, um, no longer a problem for you.”
Isaac remained silent, cocking his head as he spun around in his chair and looked out the window.
“How long do I have to decide?”
“Until Phineas and I leave this room. After that, uh, we'll simply look for someone else.”
Isaac spun back around.
“Jesus, you guys play hardball,” He said with a whistle. “Fine. I'm yours. I expect Sycamore to no longer be a problem before I arrive in Portland.”
“He'll, uh, be out of the way before the end of the day,” Anderson replied. “Glad to have you on the team.”
Phineas and Anderson then quietly collected their papers and left. As they moved through the isolated halls of the surrounding office building, Phineas cleared his throat.
“Was that really necessary, Vince? He puts up a little resistance and you agree to kill a mob boss for him?”
“He is exactly what we need,” Anderson shrugged. “Sometimes you have to break eggs and make the omelet, or uh, however that saying goes. Besides, it's not like the world will be a worse off place when, uh, Sycamore is gone. Hell, in some circles we'll be heroes. Just make sure Saker #21 is, um, ready to act within the hour.”
Fuck me… Phineas thought, slowly trailing behind his old friend as they made their way back to the car.

The room quieted down as Phineas slowly made his way towards the front. Awaiting him, next to a large object obscured by a sheet, was Anderson. His employer wore a blue dress shirt, with a silver vest and matching slacks. The silver comedy mask gleamed in the lights of the lunchroom. Eventually, Phineas took his place by Anderson's side.
“The, uh, man of the hour has arrived,” Anderson chuckled. The audience laughed in kind. “As you all are aware by now, this little shindig is to celebrate the sale of our 10,000th Gyrfalcon series prosthetic. This, um, the milestone would not have been possible without months of dedication by this man here.”
The crowd burst into applause. Phineas frowned slightly and then turned to Anderson. His old friend placed a hand on his shoulder and quieted the audience.
“But, uh, on top of such a wonderful achievement, today we are pleased to announce the completion of a new prototype. The Anderson Robotics Taita Series Security Droid. This, um, the new line is Phineas's baby, and is going to easily become our new high-selling product.”
The crowd began to cheer once more as Anderson handed Phineas a corner of the sheet.
“Would you do the honors, my friend?”
Phineas nodded, sighing as he turned to face the crowd, the corner of the sheet in his hand.
“Before I reveal the Taita series, I have something I would like to say.” The crowd instantly quieted down to hear his words.
“Most of you who have worked with me know that I don't give speeches often. Not my cup of tea, I suppose. However, I have something I've wanted to say for a long time. All you hobnobbing bastards can kiss my ass. Especially those of you from MC&D. And especially Skitter and that soul-sucking Lana Fuentes.”
With a fluid motion, Phineas reached into his pocket and pulled out a glob of neon blue goo, effortlessly chucking it at the sheet-covered object. The droid beneath let out a horrid death wail and crumbled into rust. The crowd fell silent as Phineas gave a bow.
“Have a nice party,” he said with a smile and stormed out of the lunchroom.

Phineas stood on top of the Anderson Robotics office building, his eyes staring into a rare Portlands sunset as he took a long drag on a cigarette. The sound of a door opening behind him indicated that he was no longer alone.
“You, uh, really made an ass of yourself today, Phineas,” said Anderson as he approached. Phineas looked over his shoulder. Anderson's mask had changed from comedy to tragedy.
“Perhaps I did,” Phineas said with a shrug. “But I finally got to say what I really wanted to say.”
Anderson stood next to his friend and looked out at the sunset. Phineas offered him a cigarette. Anderson hesitantly accepted, and slowly took his mask off. In place of eyes, he had what appeared to be two small camera lenses that glowed with a faint green light. Rather than a nose, he had a triangular grating that occasionally hissed with the passage of air. Anderson lit the cigarette and took several short puffs.
“So, um, was all of that supposed to be your two-week notice?”
“More or less. I'll have my office cleaned out by Monday.”
“You just really can't accept the fact that we are successful now, can you?” Anderson continued to query. “You just have to be the underdog, huh? It, uh, just gets to you that you might actually be, uh, The Man now.”
“Success is a funny way to look at turning a small custom shop into what is little better than a terrorist cell,” Phineas replied. “Especially if you consider that our company not only regularly engages in espionage but has catapulted an entire section of the population into an arms race to become the bigger and better cyborg. And the real cherry on top is that we're doing all of that on MC&D's dime.”
"Who are you to judge anyone for improving themselves, you hypocrite!" Anderson yelled. "How on earth do you have a leg to stand on?”
Phineas dropped his cigarette and crushed it with the sole of his shoe, turning back to face his friend.
“You're right,” he said with a melancholy smile. “I'm guilty too. Tried as hard as I did to cut off the hydra's head, two more would always take their place. Eventually, it was easier to just roll with things. But not anymore. I quit.”
Phineas began to move toward the stairs, stopping when three Peregrine units emerged ahead of him, each brandishing a high-caliber pistol.
“So this is how it's going to be, then?” Phineas asked, turning back around to face his friend.
“You're, uh, more than welcome to stay,” Anderson replied. “In fact, I insist. Please don't go, Phineas. Don't leave me alone.”
“Don't do this, Vince. Just let me go.”
“I, uh, know for a fact that if you leave this company, you'll be back to throw every monkey wrench under the sun into our operation. Just don't leave.”
“This isn't what I signed up for back in '94, man!” Phineas shook his head.
“I know, right? Boy did we ever sell out,” Anderson said with a sad laugh. He then placed his mask back on his head and threw his cigarette butt away. He gave the droids a nod.
The droids opened fire in unison. At the same time, Phineas clapped his hands together, sending a sonic wave across the rooftop. The incoming bullets scattered. The Peregrine and Anderson were thrown backward, clattering across the concrete like discarded toys. Losing no time, Phineas turned on the spot, throwing a wide arc of neon blue goo at the Peregrine units. The three droids wailed and writhed in pain on the ground before disintegrating into piles of rust.
The old man then began to sprint towards the edge of the building, turning his head briefly to see Anderson sprinting behind him. Anderson's right hand was extended the index and ring finger pointing as if they were a gun. Phineas immediately jumped to the side. A bolt of lightning shot past him, striking the concrete on the far side of the roof with a loud bang. Lightning continued to sail past the old man as he approached the ledge of the building. With a great leap, he jumped over the side, but not before a final bolt nailed him square in the chest. Phineas then fell nine stories to the earth below.
Anderson gave a heavy sigh as he approached the ledge of the building. He glanced down to the parking lot below. Phineas lay crumpled below within the small crater he created upon landing. His left arm and legs arced with electricity as he shouted in pain. His right hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a large wad of black goo, quickly slamming it into the pavement beneath him. Anderson quickly raised his hand and fired off one last bolt, but to no avail. Phineas vanished into the black goo and was gone. The bolt harmlessly struck the pavement below.
“See you around, old friend,” Anderson whispered to himself. He then turned around and headed back inside.

Agent Sasha Merlo sat alone in her office at Site-64. She took a long sip of stale coffee, and quietly brushed a strand of her brunette hair out of her eyes as she read over MTF Gamma-13's most recent string of reports. As usual, all their current leads had turned into dead ends. She let out a heavy sigh. She didn't know what she would say to Director Holman this time.
Bzzzzzzzt
The sound of her cellphone receiving a text and breaking hours of silence almost caused her to fall out of her chair. Lazily she opened the text message, her brow furrowing as there was no listed sender. The message itself only contained a single phrase
I know how you get him.

Austringers | Realignment»


Note: This is part four in a multi-part story. It is recommended that you read the previous entry Autocorrect, or start from the beginning At the Library.

Calvin Paris sat and contemplated the man blowing cigar smoke into his face.
“Didn't take you for a book reader,” he said, looking around the empty library. His eyes came back to Harold Maine. “Didn't take you for much of anything, truth be told.”
Maine laughed, or grunted, and the space between the two men blossomed with halitosis. “The truth will be told,” Harold smiled. “You can bank on that. But you know what to do, don't you, if you'd rather keep the truth to yourself.”
Paris scoffed. “What truth?”
Maine was silent, but his eyes glittered. Paris had had enough. “You need to stop calling me,” he demanded. “It's pathetic. You're a grubby, greedy little parasite. A useless, washed up never-has-been… We're done here.”
He stood to get up, but Maine gestured him to stop. “So,” he smiled. “How do you like being gay?”
Paris remained seated. “What?”
“Am I wrong?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Yeah you do,” Maine countered. “I know, believe me I know. You're gay. Have been for about six-seven weeks? Almost overnight? Straight for fifty-odd years, and then one day you wake up and voilà! You're thinking interior design and fake tan. Lost your faith round about the same time too? But you still go to church like a good, straight Texan boy…” Maine let the revelation sink in; one, two, three, four, five. “…Am I wrong?”
Paris did not answer.
“Good,” said Maine. “Now don't you worry none. I'm an equal opportunities blackmailer; treat stags and fags the same.”
Paris' gaze fell to the floor. “I hope you don't expect me to confirm your allegations,” he sighed. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Suits me,” said Maine. “I don't want a conver-fucking-sation about Will and Grace and clutch bags.”
“So what do you want?”
Maine shrugged. “I don't know yet,” he admitted. “Money, I guess. I don't know. I'm going to have to get back to you on that.”
“I'm not confirming your accusations,” Paris said. “But I'd like to know where your information comes from.”
“Oh, friends of friends,” Maine said. “I have my sources.”
“I don't know how you got my number, or my name, or my address, but I can find out,” said Paris. “I have my sources too.”
Maine clapped his hands, his face beaming. “Oh yeah - your daughter, right? Works for some secret organisation? CIA or some shit like that? Let's not get her involved in this grubby, greedy little situation. Or your wife, for that matter. Don't want to push her off the wagon, do we? Not when she's come so far.”
“Christ,” Paris whispered, trying to massage an oncoming tension headache away at source. “How do you know all this?”
Harold Maine leaned back and smiled, and his foetid cigar-smoke breath rolled over Paris like fog.
“Contacts,” he said, and he relished the word like cold beer on a hot day. “Contacts.”
° ° ° ° °
Calvin Paris walked out of the library and into the back of a black, brand new limousine. The driver pulled off slowly, integrating with the traffic heading south, and he did not look at Paris, or speak to him, or attempt to interact with him in any way.
Finally, out of public view, Paris allowed himself to sink back into the luxurious leather upholstery and poured himself a drink. The headache was here to stay; no point thinking otherwise. No point trying to avert it, or handle it, or deny it. Just have to contain it, he thought. Limit the damage as best he could.
He'd been incredibly stupid, he realised. He had found himself in a hotel room with another man. No; he had found himself in bed in a hotel room with another man, and - lacking anyone else to confide in, least of all a God he no longer believed in - he had told his new lover everything. How he'd been heterosexual all his life, how he had betrayed his long-suffering wife, how the taste of another man's sex was so much more satisfying than her's. Dear Christ, he'd been stupid. He gulped the whisky in one; it burned as it went down, spreading outwards on its way. He poured another.
Harold Maine must have known about the hotel encounter. He must have known about Johnathon. How didn't matter. He knew; J had told him - how else would Maine have known about his overnight change from straight to gay? Or his fall from faith?
He looked out of the window at the ambling, aimless folk on the sidewalks. Caught a glimpse of a pretty young black woman, early twenties, then saw her stunted arms and shook his head. “The world's gone mad,” he sighed, and withdrew his cellphone from his jacket. He took a large swig of whisky, waited for its fire to turn to velvet, then dialled his daughter's number.
“Carol? We need to talk.”
And the black, brand new limousine rolled on, and the driver was silent.
Next


Grand Karcist Bumaro felt a great relief. For ages he had felt nothing but anger, hatred, desperation and a deep embedded shame. But as he placed his claw-like hands upon the small piece of clockwork, as the turning gears burned against his skin, he felt almost hopeful.
He would have laughed and even wept, but his mouths with sharp teeth would only produce unholy sounds, and his eyes were those of a beast. So he walked, down the path of brass that he had never fathomed that he would walk again. Every cell of his body screamed rejection as the clockwork clicked rhythmically in his hands, but he held it as if it were something holy and divine.
It was indeed divine, for it was the last piece of the Mekhane lost on this mortal coil - The Heart of God, ripped from the very chest of Ion, the treacherous leader of the Church of the Broken God. His body lay scattered, no longer able to sustain itself with the power of Mekhane taken away from him. Bumaro had resented him for the longest time, but this time, he didn't bother to look back. He merely gazed forward.
Before him, a tremendous machine twisted and turned, emitting a voiceless tune; behind him, the Archons had silently gathered, their eyes fixed on the smaller piece of machine in Bumaro's claws. The horrifying angels merely watched Yaldabaoth's appointed servant approaching the god to be remade.
As Bumaro walked closer, the burning sensation reached through his skin and into his bones, but he paid it no attention. The piece of clockwork began to vibrate, and its sound started to fall in tune with the one made by the greater machine. Bumaro had been in complete control of his body for centuries, but by this time his heart pounded uncontrollably. It was the same sound he heard thousands of years ago, the calling of God that made his breath heavy and his blood boil. Even though this time, the calling was not meant for him.
It didn't start like this, of course. As he looked upon the godly machine, its ever-moving gears and its smooth reflective surface, Bumaro would recall a different time, when he was a different man. He had a different face back then, one not of twisted flesh, not of hollow eyes, not of gaping mouths full of fangs, but one augmented with brass and iron, with eyes that spoke his faith to god and mouth that muttered holy prayers of clockwork.
It was some thousand years ago, back when he was a simple, devout Mekhanite, who knew nothing but to devote his life to bring the Broken God back to his throne. He would get rid of his limbs and organs, replacing them with the simple mechanical structures they could make back then, and thought of it as rebuilding oneself in god's image. Looking back it was a mere crude imitation of Mekhane's manifestations, but to the Mekhanites, it was holy and honorable.
He never expected any great task to fall on his shoulders, and did not think about even witnessing a holy relic. As much as he made it his lifetime goal, the reconstruction of god seemed so far away from him. There were many great masters, all experienced Mekhanites with minds of clockwork and hearts for god. And his life consisted only of studying, praying and peaceful meditation, which he thought would last forever.
But then there was Ion. A slave of the Daevites who stumbled upon a piece of god and saw it as a great opportunity. It was not long before he gathered followers among the oppressed, and started his own version of the Mekhane religion, not to be god's loyal servant, but to take advantage of its pieces. Nobody knew how he wielded that power, but Ion successfully fused himself with the relic, and became the God's master. Mekhane was then tainted.
The Daevites soon fell, and a clockwork empire grew. But the machines they built were not beautiful and harmonious, but instead, destructive and monstrous. Sharp grindings had filled the ears and black steams had covered the sky. Entire mountains would be consumed by giant structures, only for them to grow like cancer. The Mekhanites did not agree with them, so they fell as well.
It all went down fast. The Church of the Broken God harnessed the very same power the Mekhanites used, and knew no boundaries. Mekhanites, who were few in numbers, were hunted down like animals as Ion's four saints sent out iron beasts after them. Their sharp claws would twist brass and their pale fangs would chew down any remaining flesh.
For Bumaro, it was horror and desperation. He watched his temple burned, saw his mentors and fellow believers ripped to pieces, and witnessed machines that he could only imagine in his wildest nightmares. By then, the only monstrous thing he could think of would be the Flesh, and he only perceived machines as elegant and delicate. But he was proven wrong as huge grinding gears crushed his legs, as sharp metallic screams pierced through his ears. He realized then that the Broken God was being corrupted, and this was its unholy form.
He was dying, and had no hope. His remaining flesh parts were twisted and his blood streamed away, his metal parts were being consumed by Ion's ungodly beasts. In desperation, and maybe deep hidden anger and resentment, Bumaro prayed. For once in his life, he prayed for power to change all things. But it was another god who answered him.
It was almost surreal, as the whispers came not from monstrous angels descended from the skies, but from within him. They were promises of power, promises of vengeance, and promises of the God to be remade. At first Bumaro was confused, and thought that he was merely hallucinating. But as the whispers turned into images, scenes not of this world and should never be of this world, Bumaro realized where the call came from.
It was the call of the Flesh, coming from the remaining mortal parts of his body, as the heritage of Yaldabaoth was buried in each and every person. In his dying dream, Bumaro saw a world of flesh, with large chucks of meat spreading in unnatural forms; he saw the six horrid beasts, of great power and ever-watching eyes; and he saw the most monstrous and most beautiful thing of them all, the Dragon in the Great Brass Cage, calling for her sons and daughters to set her free. And he understood what they wanted from him.
It was hard to tell which was better and which was worse: The monstrous machines or the monstrous flesh? But Bumaro made his decision. Perhaps it was because he was dying and desperate, perhaps it was because he considered Ion a bigger threat, or perhaps he simply could not stand to see Mekhane being corrupted and used as lifeless tools. Nevertheless, he let the whispers in and accepted their terms.
New life sprouted from his torn body, as the beasts in his dream laughed and the Dragon chuckled at his obedience in her prison. The mechanical monsters were startled as they watched the man become a beast. The mechanical parts he was once so proud of fell from his body as his trimmed flesh grew like cancer. Clockwork nailed into his bones was expelled, cogs and gears that were once part of him were abandoned, and limbs he no longer possessed grew back with more appendages.
It was painful, and it was brief. By the time his newly revived flesh stopped twisting and Bumaro was able to think properly again, the battle was already over. The iron beasts that slaughtered his teachers and friends were torn to shreds, their sharp grinding sounds ceased. Their remains were mixed with the shining brass pieces shed from Bumaro's body. The fire at the temple burned brighter and Bumaro stood to realize that it was his claws that ripped down the machine monsters' heads, his bone spears that pushed through their iron skins, and his mouths that emitted beastly howls.
To battle the unholy, he had become the unclean.
On that day, he was no longer a Mekhanite, but Grand Karcist Bumaro, the Holy Priest of Yaldabaoth. As he offered the Dragon his servitude, the very thing he should have fought against according to the holy books of the Mekhanites, his life became another cycle. He would gather followers, preaching to them words he himself didn't believe in, and offer them the power to become beasts. Leading the things he was disgusted of, he would set out to battle another monstrosity, in the slim hope that he could save his god from a horrible fate.
But it was not his god anymore, not really, as he was no longer able to hear its call like he used to and no longer able to see the beauty in machines. Life had become a torment and he had become numb. He would watch his plans fail and watch his followers perish and did not care. He would just start over, adhering to every word the Archons had whispered to him.
He had been defeated, torn, banished to the cage of the Dragon, but he would rise and fight again, as if none of the setback ever happened. Only seeing Ion again with the relic on his chest would stir the slight emotions he had, and would remind him what he was fighting for. He had become an abomination with power he could not fathom.
But it mattered little. He might have failed time and again, but he now stood triumphantly over the ruins of the Church, his slim hope becoming reality. The Archons had descended to this realm to witness the final moment. Bumaro looked once again down at his claws, as the clockwork was burning off his flesh, revealing bones underneath.
Click.
The Heart of the God fit perfectly into the grander machine. It was beautiful, as the gears all turned at an incredible rate and they emitted the loudest and most amazing sound. The next moment, they were no longer gears, no longer clockwork machines. A being of order looked down at him, one of glory long hidden and of power long lost. It was the God, his God.
Bumaro could no longer perceive what was happening. Maybe he could have, as that young Mekhanite thousands or years ago. But now, the only thing he could sense is the laughter of the Archons and the roar of the Dragon far away. The light of the Mekhane was almost blinding, but Bumaro knew that something was happening.
The cage broke. The cage, crafted from Mekhane himself to imprison Yaldabaoth, was now broken. There was a moment of silence, as the Dragon was now free and the God finally returned to its full form. The Archons cheered as the two reunited, as the great beast and the great machine announced their presence. Their powers and might clashed together, and their minds and forms mingled as one.
The Grand Karcist Bumaro watched this silently as he felt something different, something he had not felt for a long time. He could feel Yaldabaoth take his power away from him and the glory from Mekhane burned down his rotten flesh. But what he really felt was a small bit of joy, that his sins were now placed in front of the great God no longer broken, that his debts were paid and his duties fulfilled and that he could finally let go.
The Dragon and the God roared and their fight started once more.
Bumaro got down on the ground and prayed softly: "My Lord." His voice soon died down and his body returned to ashes.


I am attaching this cover letter to the application for formation of Mobile Task Force Mu-3 to expound on why such a Task Force should be created.

Cover Letter
Application Document

To:
The Office of The Foundation's Director of Mobile Task Forces

From:
Major Roger Dunn <MTF Dept>

Subject:
Application to form MTF Mu-3

I am attaching this cover letter to the application for formation of Mobile Task Force Mu-3 to expound on why such a Task Force should be created. To summarize briefly, the intended function of this Task Force is to collect information on Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ltd, and to exploit this intel in covert missions with the goal of advancing The Foundation's own interests.

One of the main reasons I've chosen Marshall, Carter & Dark as the focus of this Force, is their access to significant amounts of funds. While financially supporting their actions is an obstacle for most other Groups of Interest, MC&D has no difficulty when it comes to footing the bill for their operation.
The scope of limitations, in a group for whom money is no object, is nearly non-existent. While our current profile of the organization suggests they're unlikely to intentionally cause a K-class scenario, I don't believe that justifies allowing them to operate unchecked.

The Foundation is, in my eyes, the only organization in a position to effectively curtail this group's ambitions. It is my intent that MTF Mu-3 will be independently capable of carrying out all phases of their operations, from reconnaissance and planning to execution of clandestine missions. This will be accomplished by creating a multi-disciplinary task force wherein roles are assigned by branch.

The 'Tracking' branch, referred to in your accompanying documents as 'Profilers', are the team members responsible for gathering and maintaining our database of information on assigned targets. Their main focus will not be on items, but on the brokers of MC&D themselves. Establishing a profile of each broker, this branch will track their activity and evaluate opportunities for engagement of the team's other branches.

The 'Undercover' branch, or 'Probes', will be our Agents tasked with infiltrating MC&D events. These men and women will pose as clients, or fill the roles of temp staff hired on for events. From these vantages they will gather any intel available to them, and provide passive support for the 'Containment' branch's operatives where suitable. MTF Special Agent Dennis Ford comes highly recommended for the assignment of Branch Head. He is a veteran of several U-MTFs; and his record indicates extensive experience in the role of undercover operative, as well as handler for other U/Cs.

The 'Containment' branch, designated 'Thieves', will essentially act as the hands of the team. Their role is to carry out active-engagement assignments, including object acquisition and sabotage of assets. Operatives of 'Thieves' branch will also be standing by for 'Probe' agents whenever practical, prepared to enact a contingency plan should the agent's cover be compromised. Security Dept. Major Samuel Aguirre has been selected by me personally to lead this branch of the team. In addition to the typical duties of that position, he has also volunteered to play a role in the design and application of a specific training program for Operatives entering his branch.

Through the combined efforts of these three branches, MTF Mu-3 will be capable of: identifying objects of interest in possession of Marshall, Carter and Dark LLP; isolating opportunities to recover these objects; and, ultimately achieving their containment. In other words, Mobile Task Force Mu-3 will be an active manifestation of the expression 'high-speed, low drag'.

As you may recall, a related request to establish a tentative version of 'Profilers' was approved several months ago. A summary analysis of the data they've collected to this point has also been appended to this letter. That information indicates an ideal opportunity for object acquisition is fast approaching. In light of this fact, I urge you to approve the full formation of MTF Mu-3 as soon as possible, so that planning and preparation of an operation can be officially set into motion.

Sincerely,

Maj. Roger Dunn <MTF Dept>

Petition For Formation of New MTF
Designation: Mobile Task Force Mu-3 "Highest Bidders"
Classification: (check one) Multi-disciplinary Task Force. Roles assigned by branch

[ ] M (Combat)
[X] C (Containment)
[ ] G (Engineering)

[ ] E (Esoteric)
[X] T (Tracking)
[X] U (Undercover)

Mission Statement:

Multi-Disciplinary Mobile Task Force Mu-3 "Highest Bidders" will be responsible for monitoring GOI 'Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ltd.', assessing their disposition and activities, and performing missions to disrupt their operations and serve Foundation interests.

Task Force Organization:

Tracking Branch (Codename "Profilers"):

Responsible for gathering and maintaining an archive of any available information on active members of MC&D. Each member of the GOI will be assigned at least one Team Member as a 'dedicated caseworker', with additional Team Members assigned to files based on their target's profile, rank within the organization, and current observed/suspected activity levels.

Undercover Branch (Codename "Probe"):

A large and diverse network of Agents and other Field Operatives, whose role is to infiltrate MC&D events and functions. They will accomplish this through a variety of means including: posing as prospective clients, or representatives thereof; or by filling the positions of staff hired to work at MC&D events (in roles of security, catering/drink service, general labour, etc). While in attendance they will collect any available information on the organization's recent actions, current status, or future plans.

Containment Branch (Codename "Thieves"):

The Team Members tasked with enacting clandestine active-engagement operations involving MC&D assets. These missions may include object acquisition, data theft/sabotage, or standing by for contingency action on Probe operations.

Personnel:

Profilers
Administrative personnel, to be sourced mainly from the Intelligence Agency Department. Branch to be headed by Agent Laura Guzman.

Probes
This branch, wherever possible, will absorb undercover agents already embedded within MC&D. The goal is to consolidate the duties of handling these agents, as well as all intelligence gathered, within one integrated unit. Branch to be headed by Agent Dennis Ford.

Thieves
Operatives of this branch may be recruited from any suitably combat-trained Foundation staff. Priority will be given to those with experience in object containment and stealth exercises. Completion of a specifically designed training program, created by branch leader Samuel Aguirre, will also be a prerequisite to recruitment.

Specialized Equipment:

Profilers
- This branch will require access to state-of-the-art covert-surveillance equipment.

Probes
- This branch will require access to:

High-end residential properties in locations around the world
A motor-pool of performance and luxury vehicles
Fine wardrobe from reputable fashion brands

Thieves
- No equipment, beyond standard small-arms tactical kit, will be required by this branch.

Addenda:

Summary of Intelligence Report

An MC&D auction is scheduled to take place in New York City in April 2015 (exact date and venue yet to be determined). While most of the items on the docket are relatively mundane, one particular listing has been identified as an extremely valuable asset. Although specific monetary figures are scarce in the documents our source has been able to access, it is certain that the object in question is a very high-profit item for the firm.

As the asset is currently in possession of an unknown client, the auction event represents the Foundation's earliest opportunity to act on this intel while it is still current. This interval should provide time to coordinate and prepare a recovery operation.


The call, like many of the worst things in life, came at 1 in the morning.
Adrian groaned and rolled over in bed, reluctantly separating himself from Beats's warmth and softness and scent. One hand fumbled on the nightstand for the cell phone, nearly knocking a half-drunk glass of water over a dog-eared John Grisham novel. He flipped the phone open, silencing the harsh electronic tones, and put the device up to his ear. "Andrews," he said groggily. "Talk to me."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, Adrian," a soft, calm voice said. "I must have a wrong number. This is Neil Ghost. I'm looking for Maddox."
"What?" Adrian took a closer look at the phone he was holding. Damn, he really had grabbed Beats' phone by accident. "No, no, you got the right number," he said. "I'll put Beatrix on the line."
He hit the mute button, rolled back over in bed and shook his sleeping lover's shoulder. "Beats," he whispered.
"Go 'way," Beats grumbled, pulling the sheets over her head.
"Can't. It's Ghost."
"Neil? What the hell does he want?" Beats wondered, her voice muffled by the blankets.
"Don't know, don't care." Andrews shoved the phone into her hand. "I'm going to the bathroom. Let me know if it's something important."
Beats let out a low groan. "Maddox," she said. "… no, Neil, I don't want to answer why Andrews has my phone at one in the morning, it's none of your business…"
Adrian yawned and climbed out of bed. He stumbled into the bathroom and took a moment to relieve himself, morosely staring at himself in the three-quarters length mirror located behind the toilet. Whoever had placed that mirror there hadn't really considered the effect it might have on a standing male urinating…
… not that he had anything to be ashamed of, for sure, but still, it was enough to make a man feel self-conscious.
He kept his eyes locked on his face instead: the face of a thirty-something psychology nerd with a crash course in lethal combat under his belt. The eyes of a man who'd seen horror and survived it. The body of a pasty soft ivory-tower intellectual dragooned into becoming a soldier.
His eyes. His face. His body.
He finished up, flushed, and washed his hands in the sink, flicking his hands dry in the direction of the mirror so that the drops of water distorted his reflection.
"Wish you wouldn't do that," Beats said. "Causes water spots." She stood in the bathroom doorway, her expression troubled.
"Sorry," Adrian said. "What's up?"
"It's Neil," Beats said, gesturing to her phone. "He wants to talk with both of us."
Adrian frowned. He tapped his right forearm with the heel of his left hand. Enemy?
She shook her head and gave him an open-palm wave. Don't Understand. "Hang on," she said out loud. "I'll put you on speaker." She tapped a button on the phone and put it down on the bathroom counter.
"Ah, all right," Neil's voice said. "Can you hear me now?"
"Yeah, we hear you," Adrian said. "What's up?"
Adrian heard Neil sigh on the other end of the line. "We have a problem," Ghost said…

The low drone of the vacuum cleaner was the only sound other than the automated announcements over the airport intercom. She was glad of that: she'd chosen this airport specifically because it was the smallest one in the city - mostly commuter flights and private planes. If all went well, it wouldn't matter, but if things went wrong, that fact might buy her a few precious extra minutes.
Her boarding pass was in her jacket pocket, and her suitcase was resting by her seat. She had a silver pistol case that didn't hold a pistol as her other carry-on. The clock said it was twenty minutes until boarding, just like it had the last four times she'd looked.
She fought the urge to stand up and walk around. Drawing any kind of attention to herself would be bad. Though her heart was pounding, though her palms were sweating, she stayed seated in that ratty-ass chair, head bowed, trying to look to the world like an exhausted vacationer heading home after a long trip overseas: tired of the world, tired of adventure, looking just for a chance to go home and sleep in her own bed and…
… and…
Footsteps. The distinctive tromp of heavy-duty boot soles against linoleum. She stole a glance down the hallway out of the corner of her eye and her heart sank.
There was a man and woman walking towards her.
All of her escape plans died then. No point in trying to run now, she'd just die tired.
She hugged herself tightly as the footsteps got closer and closer. They stopped in front of her: two pairs of heavy black combat boots, one pair men's size twelve, the other a women's size nine.
She looked up. Adrian Andrews's face was gaunt, and his bespectacled brown eyes had a permanent thousand-yard stare. That was normal for him. Wearing sweat pants and a flannel pajama top wasn't. Adrian usually liked to dress like the academic he once was, all button-down shirts and grey blazers and threadbare slacks. He still carried himself like one, though: hands stuffed in his pockets in a boneless slouch, not the ramrod-straight discipline of the trained soldier.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi, Iris," Adrian said, smiling weakly. "You know why we're here, right?"
Iris Thompson, Age 15, (also known as SCP-105), curled up into a ball and began to tremble. "Yeah," she whispered, her throat dry and harsh. "You're here to bring me back."
"Yeah," Adrian said. "We are."
Iris swallowed hard. Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding. "Doc… Doctor Dantensen," she whimpered, her voice taking a whining edge out of desperation. "You read his report, right? M-my p-powers are gone. I c-can't… I can't do what I used to any more…" She took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm not… not an SC—"
"Iris," Beatrix interrupted. "Cut the crap. We know Dantensen falsified his data. Neil's doing an audit right now. By morning, O5's will finish their voting and your release order is going to be countermanded…"
"And what if you're wrong?!" Iris snapped. "What if Dantensen's right, and I really don't have any powers any more? What are you going to do, lock me up again until I die?"
Her voice echoed through the empty airport lounge… suspiciously empty, in fact. She glanced around quickly. The entire place was empty. No more janitor vacuuming the carpet. No more tired old lady manning the solitary ticket booth.
The only ones in the room now were Beatrix, Adrian, and herself.
"Iris," Beatrix said. "Listen to me." She dropped to one knee in front of the younger girl. "I know life on-site is hard…"
"It's fucking torture," Iris said.
"Language…" Adrian interjected.
"Would you both just shut up and let me talk?" Beatrix snapped.
"I don't want to talk," Iris retorted. "I want to go home."
There was a soft chime over the intercom system. Through the wide glass windows, a small commuter plane could be seen approaching the gate.
"And that's my ride." Iris picked up her suitcase and camera. "Goodbye."
Beatrix looked up at Adrian, then over at the approaching plane. She made a small gesture with her hands that Adrian replied to with a shake of his head and a gesture of his own. She didn't seem to like that, because she stood up and walked a few steps away, staring out the window at the airport tarmac.
"All right," Adrian said calmly. "We tried to do this Beatrix's way. Now we do it my way."
He threw a Polaroid into Iris' lap. It showed the interior mechanism of a small-caliber pistol.
Iris looked up, horrified.
Adrian pulled a pistol from his pocket and put it to his temple. "I'm going to count to three," he said, "and then I'm going to shoot myself in the head. You can stop me if you use your powers."
Iris laughed nervously. "Adrian, stop. This isn't funny."
"I'm not joking, Iris. If Beats and I go home without you, we're as good as dead. May as well get a head start. One."
"Adrian, please!" Iris begged. She got to her feet. "Don't make me do this…"
"You don't want to go back? Fine. But if you really want to go home that badly, you do it with my blood on your conscience. Two."
"ADRIAN!" Iris screamed. "STOP!"
"Three."
There was a hollow click.
Iris dropped to her knees, holding the photograph in one hand. The firing pin of Adrian's pistol fell from her other hand and clattered to the floor with a glasslike clink.
Beatrix was there almost immediately. She grabbed Iris around the shoulders and held her close as the tears rose and she began to sob.

Adrian quietly put his plastic pistol back in his pocket and walked away. His hands shook so badly that he could barely open his phone up and dial a number that didn't exist in any phone book in the world.
"Ghost here," the voice on the other end said. "Report."
"Adrian Andrews, Mobile Task Force Omega-7," Adrian said. "Agent Maddox and I have just captured a confirmed humanoid anomaly. Reopen file SCP-105 and disregard prior data suggesting loss of anomalous abilities."
"Understood, Agent," Ghost said. "We will prepare a containment cell for your return." A pause. "Was there anything else?"
"Was there any—" Adrian breathed deeply, biting back the curse on his lips. "Neil? Tell the O5s if they ever ask us to do something like that again, Beatrix and I will both tender our resignations. That was the worst fucking thing I've ever had to do, and that includes vivisecting live cats."
"Adrian, you know I'm doing the best I can. This latest incident doesn't help."
"Neil, Dantensen did what he did because he's not inhuman enough to treat a bunch of teenage kids like zoo animals! You steal people away from their families, lock them up in cells, and treat them like—"
"Look… Adrian. I understand. Believe me, I do. But we can't talk about this on an unsecure line. Get back to Site-17 ASAP, and we'll figure out what to do then." Another pause. "I'll do what I can with the O5s, but if Iris doesn't come back to us, I'll have no leverage at all. Do you have transport?"
"Ol' Fritz said he'd have a heli waiting for us at the pad. We'll fly in to the nearest site and wait there for further instructions."
"Do that," Ghost said. There was a long pause. "Look, for what it's worth, Adrian, I think we have a solid chance of at least letting the less dangerous humanoid anomalies socialize a bit more often. We can use this incident as a demonstration of how isolation isn't helping their emotional states…"
"Save it for when we meet in person. I'm technically still on leave. Andrews out."

No one noticed the unmarked black helicopter at the helipad, or the three passengers walking across the tarmac. That was as it should be.
Adrian carried her bags as Beatrix helped Iris up into the helicopter. The teenager's movements were listless. Sullen. Not surprising.
"Where to?" the pilot asked, as Adrian climbed in after the two women.
"I don't give a shit," Adrian said. "Just get us to the closest Foundation site as fast as you can."
"Yellowstone, then," the pilot said. "Be a couple of hours."
"Whatever. If you need me, I'll be in the back."
Adrian left the cockpit and took his seat in the helicopter's cargo area. Iris was curled up in her seat, hugging her knees. She gave him an angry glare as the rotors silently spun up.
"She hates your guts, you know." Beats sat down next to Adrian as the vehicle lifted off.
"So long as she's alive, she can hate all my guts, from my pancreas all the way to my colon."
"Aren't you going to talk to her?"
"Won't do any good. She hates me. You talk to her."
"Why do I have to be the one who counsels the angry rebellious teenage girl?" Beatrix grumbled. "You're the trained psychologist."
"Yeah, but you're the woman. Aren't women supposed to be, like, you know, naturally nurturing and shit?"
Beats punched him in the arm, hard. "Asshole. Just for that, you can do all the paperwork on this one." She walked to the other side of the cabin to sit next to Iris, who pulled away and pressed up against the cabin's window.
Adrian sighed and pulled a small red notebook from his pocket. He uncapped his pen and began to write.

Retrieval Mission a success. I'm listing it as, "Recovered under pain of death from SCP-173." That'll sound good on the report…

"Agent Andrews?"
Adrian awoke from his nap, bleary-eyed and sore from sleeping sitting up and buckled into his seat. "Andrews," he said into the intercom. "Go."
"You asked me to let you know when we're ten minutes out so you could call Yellowstone Mountain? Well… we're ten minutes out."
"Yeah, sure," Adrian said. "Wait one, I'll come up to the cockpit."
He unbuckled his harness and made his way to the front of the helicopter. "You got an extra headset?"
"Sure," the pilot said. "Crew chief's position, over there."
"Thanks," Adrian said, picking up the headset and slipping it on over his head. "Patch me in to the site."
"Which site?" the pilot asked.
"To Site…" Adrian's brow furrowed. "I can't… I can't remember. Where are we headed, pilot?"
"I … I'm not entirely sure, sir," the pilot said, frowning. "I could have sworn…"
Adrian looked out the front window. His eyes widened. "PULL UP!" he screamed.
Ahead of them, a snow-covered mountain flickered like a poor-quality VHS tape and exploded.

Incident Zero
« Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 »


Note: This is part three in a multi-part story. It is recommended that you read the previous entry The Harold Maine Fan Club, or start from the beginning At the Library.

The man tried again.“I'm sorry I sunny live CD around here.”
He shook his head. “I don't VB lives… VC assumed… CV here,” he said. And then, with considerable effort and a sense of genuine victory: “I… don't live… around… here.”
Helen smiled in encouragement. “Where you visiting someone in the library?”
The man's face sank. “I stunt know CV what you're telling about. I sunny know what your talking about. Don't. Don't know.”
“He's an idiot,” said Aidan Brown. “And don't tell me to shush; he can't see me or hear me.”
“My arms,” she began, looking down at her stumps. “I wasn't always like this.” She saw the man open his mouth to say something, but he stopped. He did not close his mouth. “I woke up just over a month ago with a birth defect. I think the man who did this also did something to your speech. I think you know Harold Maine.”
The man immediately stepped back, and he motioned as if to push past Helen, but Aidan Brown was in the way. The man stopped, not quite understanding what was blocking his progress.
“This guy's a fucking idiot,” Brown said.
“Please let me go,” the man said. “I really came tell you Anthony. I really can't.. tell… you… anything. I want VB top VB to give. I… want… to… go… home. Please.”
“We're not here to hurt you,” Helen promised, “or endanger you or anything else. We just want to ask you a few questions. See if we can't get our heads around this.”
The man looked around. “We? You said we. I dummy - don't - “
“We, as in myself and Aidan Brown. You can't see or hear him, but imagine an unholy rotting lobster-man monster. He's right in front of you. His pincers are about an inch away from your balls, should you decide to run. Joke,” she added, when she saw the look of alarm on the man's face. It was the first time in weeks that she had felt humour, known anything other than dread and hopelessness.
“Thanks for that,” Aidan wheezed. “Why don't you ask Chaka Khan here to come to the park? I don't like it here, it's too crowded. I know people kinda instinctively move around me, but even so…”
Helen looked at the scared man in front of her, anxious to be away from them, distracted by his desire to be somewhere without human interaction and the frustrations that came with them. “You're not alone,” she said. “Will you walk with us?”
The man shrugged. “What coupe… copies… choice do I have?”
° ° °
They sat on the park bench under the shady tree and listened as Geoff Mansani told them, in broken, nonesuch speech, about how his recent life had changed.
“Has my landline. Landline… Landlord… Here's my landform. Christ. Do you have as pen or sunbathing? A pen and paper, maybe?”
Helen shook her head.
“Sorry. Insurgencies question. Insensitive.”
“Harold Maine's your landlord?”
Geoff Mansani nodded. “Started to oversee… instead… inverse… increase the rent. Couldn't afford it. Little bastard knew VB I couldn't BC said it. Couldn't pay so he did those to me. This. Did this to me. “
“Why that? Why your speech?”
“Three reasons. One, I have a radio show. Jag a real slow I should stay. Had… a… radio show… The Geoff Mansani hood.. hour. This makes a real slow a little difficult. Radio… show.”
“Understood. And two?”
“My wood is blind. Wife. All I can do is talk jet here, and Noel can't rebel do that. Now I can't BC even still VC that. Talking to her was the only VB peaks were hag, now I don't VB reverb have that. Simian.. Soon of a birch. Birch… Bitch.”
“And three?”
“When here was asking me for Monday at his plate I want VB showing him respect. I was on my phone texting. Thought I want showing him respect. And…” He trailed off and laughed, and threw his hands up in mock despair. “Layer on he dent me a test increasing the meant. I sent VB one back dating you can't… increasing… the… meant… meant… rent! I said you'd can't. “
“And?”
“It was Autobots… auto… churches… corrected to ‘you cunt'. Stop ic sent him a text calling him a cube… cube… cunt. So he changed me so everything I say is sprocketed. Autobots… auto… correct.. Ted. Just phone at frost, then when I was worrying things down BC and CV then everything OK said. Now it's enriching… ensuring… everything I think add well… as well. Over had VC enough. Now than enough.”
Aidan Brown shifted position on the bench. Geoff Mansani moved unconsciously to accommodate him. Aidan put his good hand on his exposed lung, holding it in place, and straightened himself up, stretching his thorax-spine and yawning lazily.
Geoff Mansani sniffed the air, and turned away.
“Note that's just damned rude,” said Aidan.
“How do VB I know you're not must trying VC took duck need over? Not trying VG top duck me over? Fuck… me over?”
Helen shrugged. “I guess you don't know,” she admitted. “But what would be the point? If Harold Maine says jump, we jump. We're all trapped. If you think we're on his side, or working for him somehow… No. That's not how he works. He makes us squirm, makes us broken, and he doesn't want anyone else involved. Doesn't want to share the credits. Our suffering, our punishments, are inflicted by him and him alone.”
Mansani weighed up her words. Finally he nodded. “Had VC to ask,” he said.
Aidan Brown coughed and shifted position again.
“He said at his plate, what did he mean by that?” He asked, massaging himself. “Christ. Everything fucking aches.”
Helen relayed the question.
“At his place,” Mansani said. “His soaring… his apartment… apartment.”
Aidan and Helen both looked at him with amazement. “You know where he lives?”
“Sure,” said Mansani. “Why?”
“Just like I been saying,” said Aidan Brown. “Guy's a fucking idiot.”
“Why doll you want VB to VB know where he VB loafs? Lives? I'm not going there again. No away. Absolutist book way. You think I'm going VC to lead you to him so he can fuck me over the he's fuckers though over?”
“But we're all in the same boat,” Helen reasoned.
“Oh you fucking think so?” Mansani stood up and gestured at her arms. “I'm story but look at you'd. Look what he's did to you. Compared to you I've got off lightly. Fuck. What the fuck would be do to me if he's every thought I as trying to… to what? What exactly are you tripping to achieve?”
“We don't know,” Helen said. “Peace? Freedom?”
“No such things,” said Mansani. “No stuck things.”
Aidan gathered his walking sticks and commenced the painful, slow process of getting up. “He's no use to us,” he said. “He's got it easy. He won't help. And here's me thinking we were getting somewhere.”
“His address,” Helen said. “Please. Just give us his address. That's all we ask.”
Geoff Mansani shook his head. “Jesus, I don't knowledge… He'd finger out.”
“Please. He won't find out from us.”
Mansani shook his head again, looked at her arms, and then at her daughter playing on the swings. “Christ… okay. You wind.”
“Like I been saying all along,” Aidan wheezed. “The guy's a fucking saint.”
And although no one but Helen could hear it, there was hope in his voice.
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