We are heading for D-block, snaking through the periphery corridors to avoid the last stragglers. Annette can hold their own, but now I must be accounted for. Ears stuffed with paper towels can only hold so long. They are moving ahead of me, left hand flat against the wall, body bent into a half-crouch. Their right hand is angled ahead, and their wrist is tuned like a snake's tongue, fingers contorting, flicking, probing. Though they are moving quietly, I am finding myself having to jog.
They did not let me take the gun. That was understandable. But they must have noticed me take the bullet: either they did not mind or did not know enough. The latter is fine by me, but the former is not. It means that they are trusting or desperate. Neither possibility particularly inspires me, so I put the thought away.
Another left, then a right. Security cameras whir as we turn every corner, but I do not think anyone is left to watch us anymore.
Sure, there were the two bodies, stacked against the first door we came across — I failed to divert my gaze from theirs, and now I can't shake the sight of black eyes from my head, pupils dilated wide — for a moment I felt the chart in my head start to unfold, but I quelled it just in time.
(FEARFUL HERON, it must have been; our soldiers' proprietary stimulants tend to scream a little louder than the garden-variety amphetamines.)
Up ahead, we skip the elevator, but Annette starts for the downwards stairs and I have to pull them back up. They glare at me, glass eyes swiveling, so I gently tap on the rail with my knuckle:
D CELLS NT SAFE
Then, in slightly less broken Morse:
TOO MANY PPL
They cock their head, make a chewing motion with their jaw. I think for a second, compacting the message in my head before sending:
GO BEHAVIOURAL LABS
Annette stops chewing. I think they understand what I am getting at. It is not a pretty option, but it is a better one. For once, they let me take the lead.
D-block's labs go up to ground level. It gave us easy access to field testing, when we still thought we mattered, and it fit the site's pharmaceutical cover. Of course, that openness did not help us in the slightest when we became the center of it all. Those of us who knew better fled first. I do not think we need to fear the ones who stayed. It takes a certain level of self-pity to make a life out of computing path integrals over semiotic maps; we will not need to worry about our infected colleagues keeping themselves alive.
The labs, the eye of the storm. I hope I will find who I need.
Behind me, Annette's steps are measured, constant, echoing. Halfway up the stairs, the lights switch into dull emergency red. On a loose step — is it the seventh flight or twenty-third? — I trip, hands slipping on flaking rust. Annette catches me before I twist anything, and together we stagger up the last few steps, bursting through the fire doors.
As I expected, the mains are out. We had taped the windows shut in the first few hours of the complex's spread. Still, the pitch black is of no consequence, because I know where everything is.
Somewhere behind the walls is a hum. Only one thing should be running. Here is the antechamber, the reinforced central room that caps the site's central shaft, and I put my hands out, feeling familiar surfaces: the pot of the long-dead money plant, the water cooler (regrettably empty), Kelly's old desk. On the whiteboard is a patch of black mold. The chart in my head goes HZZ-ZZT for a moment; I recoil and put it out of my mind.
Beside the whiteboard is the panel for the hermetic door, its light blinking a weak red. Feeling past it, I reach for the seam, which now comes apart with little effort.
They built the cells directly below us for a reason. The complex evades pure mathematics, requires base conditions to compute. Raw subjects are insufficient. Pick a person off the streets and they have far too many dependencies installed, far too much junk data. The people were why we needed the cells; the junk data was why we needed the oubliettes.
Past the airlock, the first of them should be on my right. I hit the raised concrete block with my left shin; stifle a scream long enough to drop to a crawl and run my fingers over the surface. The metal hatch in the middle of the oubliette is cold, closed, and still. Not what I am looking for. Annette steps over me. Presumably they have caught on. I cannot see them, but I imagine they are crawling over the remaining hatches in the room (thirteen in all, and not counting the miniatures) running their hands over them, feeling for any sign of activity.
They finish quickly. A shadow — theirs — moves over the blinking red light of the panel opposite the room and slides the hermetic door open. I get to my feet — slowly, now, putting weight on my right side — and follow Annette to the next chamber.
The hum is louder here. Ten seconds in, we find its source. I touch its hatch, feel that it is warm to the touch, feel the pumps running in the space behind the wall. We have reached our destination.
Before I can tap a message, Annette grips the wheel and twists it with all their might. The hatch swings open. From under six inches of psychotropic cocktail, the subject begins to scream.
For someone that has been under for a week, she has a lot of fight left in her. (Come to think of it, it has been three days since my voluntary confinement; it must have been another seven before that when she was last left in the oubliette.) Her fluids make it hard to get a grip. It takes the two of us to wrestle her out of the hole, grabbing onto the rings on the sides of her straitjacket slicked with oily scopolamine derivative. My left side gives again and I let go, screaming. Something hits the ground. I hear a struggle, but she does not get very far; there is a sound of a joint cracking, and the screaming muffles over.
It sounds like she is yelling through Annette's hand now. Some kind of mantra, maybe something she thought of when she was under, or something programmed into her along the way.
"Helpmemynameisallisonbrownagethirtysixiliveinmiamifloridapleaseletmeoutihaveawifehernumberis eight three four two five nine one one one one one - "
Placeholder data, really; easily sanitised. There is always a bit of shame when one realises that the oubliette has really done its job. (Kill a mind to save all of humanity? That used to be the moral calculus, yes. But if nothing matters, anyway, then all acts are justified — I think to myself that it will be a great act of moral courage to be able to do anything at all.)
My first instinct is to start the job where we are and carry the result in my head. But it is growing clear that we cannot stay here for very long. The subject is only going to be more trouble the more she is lucid. I give the body a tug, then prepare to retrace my steps. Back to the first room, back to the antechamber, back to the stairs.
All I need now is a marker pen, which I can grab from the desk on the way out. A light source would help, too, as would a piece of black card, or a file. Thanks to the straitjacket, I do not think that I will need a gag or a bit.
I realise I am staring into Annette's eyes, and that they have been facing me for some time. A light glints over them.
Panel indicator light? Annette does not think so.
They dive to the right. The subject screams. Gunshot. The sound of metal on metal: is that buckshot?
Indiscriminate aim in a near-dark room: the attacker is shooting to kill. I throw myself to the ground, scrambling behind one of the oubliettes. Even through the paper towels, it feels like my eardrums have been perforated. The darkness might save us for a little while, if not for the fact that the subject has started babbling again:"-mynameisangelabrowniamthirtytwoiliveinplumwellmississippipleasedocallmyfamilyimissthemsomuch-"
Gunshot. The babbling stops. So much for Plan A.
I perceive the shape of someone at the door. Somebody about my size.
The shape clears its throat.
"Who's there?" it speaks.
I almost do not recognise the voice. "Brandt? Is that you?"
"A-hh. I know you. Jenkins. Can't w-hhelieve you're one of the lucky ones, hh-aha."
"Doctor Brandt? Project Head Brandt?" Something sounds off. I cannot tell exactly what it is through the ringing in my ears. He is breathy-voiced, that is for sure, and his words come out in soft coughs.
"Hhwoject head. Di-hrector. Site o-hhisser. Sa-hhtey and Hh-ire Co-hwand o-hhiser. Don't know, don't know how wany hh-rowotions wy now, ha-ha. They're all dead-t, ha-hhen't you heard?"
Footsteps. He is getting closer. Opposite the room, I sense Annette tensing for action. They might not know his voice, but they can recognise his footsteps. It is not hard to identify the veteran field agent's lockstep, with the caveat that he wants to be heard — or does not care if he is heard. This is Brandt, all right, and there is no question about it.
"S-hhit, I could ewen we Oh-Hhive wy now, ha-ha."
For all their aptitudes, Annette cannot sense his tone, but I can feel him just fine even in my half-deafened state. It's fear, the business end of it, the cornered fox baring teeth.
The metaphor strikes me out of the blue. That's when I get it. Of course, that's the sound: he's missing his lips. The poor sod must have bit them right off.
"Y-you're a hh-ine wan, Jenkins, hh-wut I'n sohh-wry to say I don't think it's you right there, right now."
I hear him cock his shotgun. He is headed in my direction.
This is not good. My fingers are already in my pocket before I realise what I'm doing, curling around the bullet, reaching for the electronic primer. Do not look at the flash, do not listen to the screech, count to three, clear your mind, and snap -
Gunshot. Buckshot on metal. Screaming through uncovered teeth. Annette is on him like a tiger. From the sounds of it, their fingers are in his eyes, and it hits me as slightly humorous that they do not know it is pitch black.
I pocket the bullet for another time and sprint for the opposite door, stepping in something wet as I go (Blood? Drugs? I do not care anymore). When I reach it, I throw it open, and stamp on the ground as hard as I can:
… _ _ _ …
… _ _ _ …
Which is the most succinct way I can think to tell Annette that it is time to run.
If Brandt thinks he has got himself sorted out, it is slipping now. His gunshots have saved me for now, but his screams are starting to ring of static — unintended effects of the chart resonating in my head, though it will only hold for so long — and in the darkness I think I am beginning to see the faint edges of stars.
No, not here, not now, please, hold.
Suddenly, Brandt's voice hits a crescendo, and I hear someone scrambling to their feet. Splash of footsteps on wetness. Sound of a bag being lifted off the ground. Then Annette's form brushes past me, smelling of blood; they take a hard left right out of the door. I follow them, sprinting, adrenaline dulling the pain in my side.
Behind us, Brandt's footsteps, unerring, regular.
"I see now." he says. "Annette. Of course. They'the got you, hawen't they? You are not insane, you are just co-hhn-hwelled. It is okay. Let we set you on the straight."
I do not reply. He can still see doors, and he is still lucid, and the fact he has not blown his head off with his weapon speaks volumes about his self-control. But the vial of Class-C he always kept strapped to his wrist will not save him from the complex in the end.
Through the next door, I nearly ram into Annette. It is a dead end. How could I have forgotten? Now Brandt is rounding the last corner, probably bringing the shotgun to his shoulder. There is no element of surprise anymore, and Annette cannot strike faster than a bullet.
I glance around the room. It is little more than a storage closet, just shelves and boxes, neural emulator gear and autoinjector sachets and other departmental logistics. Marker pens, too. I grab one to be safe. Above all else, what is different? What can we use? What is there? Where are we?
Silly me. I remember where we are. Faint light has been peeking in from the sides; that is why I can see. I step up to the window, and turn around.
Brandt is at the door. "Jenkins. Don't hh-anic. Don't trust thehnn. Just listen. To me."
My eyes are already adjusting to the dim. Brandt's eyes are staring straight at me, but his weapon is trained on Annette. Their body is stock-still; they are at a real disadvantage, and they know it. I will have to play my cards, now.
I reach my hand behind me. "Doctor Brandt, sir, I do not come with tricks," I say, carefully. "I will listen to what you have to say, but I do not think you are in a position to give good advice right now."
"Don't hh-ind about the HZZ-ZZT, Jenkins. As you can see, I an well under wy own control."
The static in his voice settles it. My finger tenses. I step forward, taking some of the tape with me, my eyes locked straight at Brandt's.
"I am sorry to tell you, sir, but none of us are in control any more."
Moonlight illuminates his face. His jaw is exposed, and blood streaks from what is left of his right eye. The more I look at him directly the more I realise I can't, so I turn around in a manner I hope he thinks is submissive. He swings the shotgun at me.
"Jenkins," he whimpers, "I do not think you know what you are doing."
I rip the second strip of tape off, then the third. In the window's reflection, Brandt is quivering. He is not looking at me any more. He is staring at the night sky. Disbelief dawns across his face: are those the stars I see in his eyes?
"Doctor Brandt, sir, I know you think you have got yourself in control, but - " I tell him, firmly but gently — after all, a mentor still deserves a certain degree of respect, even as they are on their way out — "but Jenkins is not my name."
I step aside to show him the true colour of the sky.
The last thing I hear as we step out into the night is the blast of a shotgun.

***

In the parking lot, Annette stoops to inspect the subject; the damage and the blood is enough to convince me that Plan A is a lost cause. There is simply not enough brain left to work with.
Annette's wrist begins to buzz. They are looking straight at me.
NOW WHAT
I resist the urge to look up at the sky. It is already dangerously bright, and the moon is not alone. I bend down to the body, and zip the hood of the straitjacket over the remains of the subject's face.
"There is another way," I tell them.
I am not lying. In my pocket is the bullet; in my head is the gun — the chart. Together they will be good enough for one shot. Already, two innocents are dead (for a given measure of innocent, I suppose). But if all acts are justified, then the moral calculus still holds.
I just hope that it will hold long enough until we're done.

« Into The Woods | Hello, Little Girl | It Takes Two »


Bug Report: VM727BNYUSE
Relevant Code
#genchat

Bug Report: Vending Machine is deleting concept of value of individual dollars

Issue: A vending machine on Earth is removing concept of value from money inserted into it.

Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe #727

Expected Result: Machine accepts money, and then ejects it if it does not register as money.

Actual Result: Machine accepts money, removes the concept of value from money, and then ejects a piece of paper.

Steps to Reproduce: Create a vending machine with the current code for the vending machine at the specified location.

if (dollar.value = null || dollar.wrinkled)
{
return dollar;
}
else
{
currentvalue += dollar.value;
return null;
}

phoebtheweeb logged in

<phoebtheweeb> hey guys, i just saw the report on the value deleting vending machine, and I can't for the life of me find the issue. Can somebody help with this real fast?

<billybobjoe> so i found this crazy thing right? One of the groups on the Earth somehow made half a million physics engine breaking concepts and put it on one notecard. ONE!

<arealpainintheash> phoebtheweeb ill take a look, it can't be that hard to find.

<phoebtheweeb> thx, I feel like its really simple but I just can't find it

<lovelyfuckery> so how is the sim still running lmao

<arealpainintheash> this bug has been around for 4 years? Jeez i cant believe noones dealt with this.

<phoebtheweeb> wait i think i found it, in the comparison in the value check. that needs to be 2 equal signs.

<arealpainintheash> goddammit the easiest one. This is WHY i advocate yoda comparisons

<billybobjoe> well, they made the notecard so that the activation took 5 years. So what I did, is i made a concept-deleting machine in plain view of the public so that the scip guys will find it and use it to delete the concepts on the notecard. It was gonna be terrible, all sorts of shit, like changing water properties and removing gravity and changing how light travels

<billybobjoe> and everything interacting to collectively break physics woulda just made it so much worse

<lovelyfuckery> yeah that sounds p bad. Are you sure you couldnt have just fixed the bugs?

<phoebtheweeb> no FUCK yoda comparisons. I dont see any proof that they CHANGE jackshit

<arealpainintheash> YODA COMPARISONS ARE ONE OF THE BEST HABITS ANY PROGRAMMER CAN ADOPT BECAUSE IT FORCES THEM TO THINK

<billybobjoe> heck no, there were so many potential bugs the debugging run couldnt simulate it for more than 10 years are you kidding me?

<lovelyfuckery> ouch, yeah i dont really wanna deal with that

<phoebtheweeb> NO THEY DONT THEY JUST LOOK STUPID

<lovelyfuckery> what machine did you make into a concept deleter anyhow?

<billybobjoe> a vending machine in brooklyn. That way, they would have HAD to take it in, too exposed to the public. and by my calculations, their leadership should vote to use the machine on the paper aaaaany second now.

<billybobjoe> it was easy too, just had to change a comparison in an if statement

<arealpainintheash> wait

<phoebtheweeb> ?

<arealpainintheash> was it the vending machine referenced in report VM727BNYUSE?

<billybobjoe> uhhhhhhhhhh yes? I thought we deleted that report, it was contained by the skip guys

<phoebtheweeb> shit

<arealpainintheash> did you see our chat at all?

<lovelyfuckery> yoda comparisons? I personally think they're p good

<billybobjoe> you fixed the vending machine didnt you

<phoebtheweeb> how many issues was that going to cause?

<billybobjoe> seeing as it takes effect right about now, check the main build on your screen

<arealpainintheash> my god

<lovelyfuckery> its over 9000

<phoebtheweeb> this isnt the time for memes

<billybobjoe> it IS time to get to work

phoebtheweeb logged out


Cairo, Egypt
September 22, 1878

Dear Aunt Cecilly,
First, and briefly, Uncle Alec and I are as well as can be expected. We will be traveling back to Athens within the week, where the good Doctor Manos has offered to house us until Uncle's leg is healed, which frankly will suit Uncle quite well: they did not have the opportunity during our short stay to truly reconnect. I shall a go-a-wandering and leave them to it.
I hope you will forgive the scribble-scrabble nature of this note when you read the enclosed document. I have copied it over seven times all told, not including, though my wrist tells me even now I should, a personal copy in my book. I have sent copies to yourself and Aunt Jessie, along with friends at four other Chapterhouses, and given a copy to Lady Stanhope, who may be contacting you separately. The reason for this is included therein, as is the reason I saw fit to contact you by telegram for an Introduction to Lady Stanhope, or as I believe I put it, ‘For the Love of God Above, is there a Sister here or nearby I can call upon to Witness?'
I entreat you to heed my call to action and conduct a full audit of all our archives, and ensure that good and true copies of everything exist somewhere, preferably multiple somewheres. Forgive my terrible grammar as well. This ordeal has served as quite the climax to our adventures.
Barring further complications, we will be back by Christmastime, whereupon I shall be able to provide assistance with the audit. I shall send this off with the evening post, and then go soak my poor hand in some lavender and epsom salts.

Your loving niece
and faithful acolyte,
Elisa

The Curious Incident of the Contradictory Crocodile
Being the Statement of Elisa Carrington, Chapterhouse of Indianapolis, attested to by herself as the truth to her best recollection, and Witnessed by Catherine Stanhope, Late of the Chapterhouse of Devonshire, in regards to the recent events at the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, Cairo, Egypt
I will not trouble with much in the way of preliminary whys and wherefores, suffice it to say that after nearly two years of touring the Continent, my Uncle and Guardian, Alexander Carrington, and I, had arrived in Cairo, the final leg of our grand adventure. And though I had dearly loved my time abroad in spite of, and admittedly sometimes due to, the advent of several Crises and Curiosities, which are detailed under separate cover, I had to admit that I was longing to return home.
Our plan had been to meet with Monsieur Auguste Mariette, the celebrated French Egyptologist, and an old friend of Uncle's from his ‘vagabond' days. He would join us on our final excursion, a voyage down the Nile, as much a guide as a companion. Sadly, it appeared at first that this would not occur, and never did, as reports were arriving from the regions of the Upper Nile, which is in the South, which always seemed odd to me, that this year's inundation was to be rather extreme. While this would not prevent us from hiring a dahabiya for a cruise, it would make landing at various points along the way more difficult, due to the flooding of the low-lying areas.
While we waited for further reports, Monsieur Mariette took us on a tour of the Museum of Antiquities, which he had established in the late fifties in the Boulaq district, next to the Nile. The facade of the building itself was somewhat marred by scaffolding, as restoration of the roof was underway, but the interior was breathtaking, with artifacts from all periods of Egypt's history: carvings, stela, numerous fragments of and quite a few intact papyrus scrolls, and all of Monsieur's drawings and notes over his decades of work.
“But here is my Prize, from our recent findings at Mazguna,” he said, taking us over to a large table, where a scroll lay unrolled. “I am translating it even now.” He put on a pair of white cotton gloves to adjust its position but bade us stand back. “For even the dampness of your breath may be damaging until we treat it. The greatest danger for such things as this is water.”
It was beautiful. Written in a combination of the Hieroglyphic picture-writing, and a flowing script Monsieur called ‘hieratic,' the colors seemed as brilliant as if they had been applied only yesterday. I could not, of course, read the writing, but my eye was drawn to one of the illustrations. A woman wearing Pharaonic headdress and regalia, with the head of a crocodile, sat upon a throne.
He pointed to a series of cartouches at the bottom of the drawing. “Sobekkare Sobeknefru. Her name means ‘The beauty of Sobek'. This, and the contents of the text are why we have tentatively dated this scroll to the Twelfth Dynasty. Though there are mentions of female Pharaohs dating back to even the First Dynasty, the first we have evidence for is Queen Sobeknefru, daughter of Amenemhat III, who was instrumental in establishing the cult of Sobek that held prominence in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Dynasties. “
He picked up a book from a nearby desk, opening it to a sketch. “This is what we have found of the northern Mazguna pyramid. I say pyramid, but the superstructure and that of its southern brother were never completed. The interiors, however, are quite like that of Amenemhat III's Hawara pyramid. That and the items we retrieved, including the scroll, have led us to believe it was her intended tomb, though we doubt she was ever interred there.” He sighed. “Sadly, a number of sandstorms have made excavation quite difficult. We actually lost them between one season and the next a couple of years ago. Thankfully, I had extensive notes and drawings of the locations. It is important that we preserve these things, or all knowledge of them may be lost, even to memory.”
We spent the rest of the day touring the Museum with Monsieur Mariette, before retiring to his house for dinner. It was planned that we should stay with him for the next several days, in preparation for our hoped Nile excursion. Though even as we left the Museum that evening, I had my doubts, looking at the nearby Nile, which to my mind seemed closer than it had been even that morning. When I mentioned this to Monsieur, he looked serious for a moment, but then pointed at a series of structures between us and the river.
“You see? There are levees and channels which are to route the river away from the city proper. And we have certain safeguards planned in the Museum itself with which to deal with the river. Should the waters begin to rise, we shall go and deal with the issue, evacuating if necessary.”
Though reassured, I still felt an uneasiness I wish I would have heeded, though like Cassandra, I do not know that they would have heeded me. That uneasiness only increased as we strolled through the gardens surrounding the Museum grounds. What had seemed hardy palms and sycamores on our way in, to my eye now looked somewhat blighted, and terribly, a few seemed near covered with small lizards, and even a few serpents. Uncle said that likely they had been driven from their nests closer to the river. When pressed, he laughed and said we should only start worrying if crocodiles started to join them.
I recalled his words two days later, though I do not know if he does, especially now. As we enjoyed a leisurely luncheon, Monsieur regaled us with a portion of his translation: “'Sobek, son of the god of Chaos and the goddess of Wisdom, is Lord of the Nile, responsible for its bounty and its dangers. He is the ravenous devouring crocodile, and the yearly depositor of the fertile soil. The strength and power and ferocity of a beast, yet the protector of the souls of the dead who are just.' Indeed, the cult of Sobek deemed that anyone who was devoured by a crocodile became divine. When Set tore Osiris asunder, it was Sobek who gathered the fragments of his body and delivered them to Isis for resurrection. Although,” he said with a wry smile, “true to his nature, he could not help himself from eating the final piece.”
“And which one was that?” I asked.
He colored slightly. “Ah. The final one, of course." He looked away from me. "Perhaps the hand?”
Uncle Alec smiled to himself. “I think in some translations it would be a foot.”
Monsieur cleared his throat and got up from the table. “Likely so.” He went over to a small table and picked something up. “Ah! I have something here for the young lady.” He returned and handed me a small ivory disc on a piece of braided leather, carved on both sides with a crocodile in different poses. I began to protest, but he waved me off. “A reproduction I created myself, my child. I am too much the scientist to hand out artifacts as baubles, no matter how charming the recipient.” I blushed as he continued. “In the Hieroglyphic symbols we see this dual nature. If the crocodile glyph has an extended tail, it gives the meaning ‘to devour', the glyph with his tail curved beneath gives him the meaning ‘to gather.' So, though a contradiction, he is both a preserver and a destroyer, you see.”
“As is the Nile,” I said, putting the pendant around my neck.
“Just so.”
My words were prophetic, it seemed, for just then we were interrupted by one of Monsieur's assistants. The river had breached the first levee, just that morning, and was threatening to do so to the second. As a matter of precaution, it would be best to start evacuation of the larger artifacts immediately, should the waters continue to rise. Which they were.
And which is how Uncle and I found ourselves speeding with Monsieur to the Museum post haste. Uncle joined with the Monsieur's assistants and other employees, in strapping sarcophagi and stela onto carts for removal to a more inland warehouse set aside for just such an emergency, and I went with Monsieur into the archives, to assist in the careful packing of more delicate items. The first carts had just filled, with Monsieur accompanying to direct his assistants how and where items should be placed, when the waters lapped over the final levee, and began their inexorable spread towards the museum grounds.
“The scaffolding!” Uncle Alec pointed up to where it rose beyond the high windows that provided light to the exhibit halls. “We can shut the main doors and seal the cracks as best we can with rags, and then pass things out through the windows. We may have to keep them on the roof for the time being, but they will escape the waters.”
I was skeptical. “Are there ladders inside we can use to reach them?”
“We will soon see.”
He charged into the Museum, while I looked askance at the scaffolding. It did not look terribly sturdy. And it appeared to have been used as an alternate refuge by some of the lizards I had noticed before in the trees. The trees themselves continued to look ill-used, and as the water began to creep around their bases, it seemed to me as if the lizard populations had trebled. With a shudder, I followed Uncle inside.
We shut the doors and began stuffing the cracks with every scrap of fabric we could find that did not look like an artifact. Curtains, towels from the small kitchen area alongside Monsieur Mariette's office, rags from a closet holding tools and supplies for cleaning. It also had a tall ladder, which we hastily erected, and began ferrying cases of documents and smaller artifacts up to the windows, where the others waited upon the scaffolding. During our trips in and out of Monsieur's office, I looked with dismay at the shelves full of files and journals, and the beautiful scroll still spread upon the table. I was shocked that Monsieur had not gathered them first. Perhaps, until it was inevitable, he had hoped it would not be necessary to move them, risking damage. But was it now too late?
The waters spread far more quickly than anyone could have imagined, reaching at least a foot in depth. Despite all of our efforts, water had begun to seep in through the front doors. It was then that Monsieur Mariette returned with the empty carts, only to direct several of his assistants to run and fetch boats, as the carts would not be of use after this last trip. Uncle Alec clambered out onto the scaffolding to go assist in the packing of the carts, when suddenly there came a terrible creaking and groaning. As I raced up the ladder, I reached the window in time to see a large palm tree, the soil around its roots saturated with water, overburdened with wildlife, come crashing down on the scaffolding, which in turn fell to the drowning earth below, taking Uncle Alec with it.
As I cried out in horror, the men splashed through the morass and pulled Uncle Alec from beneath the wreckage. They began to load him into one of the carts, and then transferred him to the boat that had just arrived. He called out to me, white with pain but still conscious, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. I shouted back from my perch, telling the men to go, to get Uncle to safety. I would take refuge in the upper story of the Museum, taking what items I could with me, and await the arrival of more boats.
Monsieur Mariette's reply was drowned out by a sudden scream. One of his assistants had suddenly fallen in the now knee deep water, which quickly began to turn bright red. The others fled, taking up his last cry: “Crocodiles! Crocodiles!” They had come over the now drowned levees, moving swiftly in the water that was their element.
“Sobek takes back his own.” I murmured. And then shouted at Monsieur to 'leave now'. I was safe in the Museum, they were not. Protesting all the while, he was dragged off by his men, while I scrambled down to the floor that was now ankle deep with water and continuing to rise.
With resolve I truly did not feel, I marched into Monsieur's office, and began to pile as many journals and documents I could into two small satchels that hung on the far wall. Last of all, with trepidation, I carefully rolled the beautiful scroll and wrapped it in what appeared to be a painter's smock which hung by where the satchels had been, and placed it in the larger of the two. Slinging the satchels on my back, I left the office, shutting the door behind me. The water was now above my ankles, but any barrier could help. I headed for the entry, where I planned to take the grand staircase to the upper level.
There came a sudden crash, and the whooshing sound of running water, and underneath the barely audible splash of something moving through it. The water around me began swiftly to rise, and with a muffled exclamation, I reversed course and headed for the far exhibit hall. I had barely entered, and with the assistance of a chair and not a little fear managed to clamber atop a tall display case when the first of the crocodiles entered.
None of the protective nature of Sobek here, as they came right for me, rearing out of the water and snapping, five all told. The cabinet I was atop was sturdy enough, and too high for them to reach, but if the water kept rising, or if I lost my balance, it would not go well for me. To further complicate things, the flood was not going to recede quickly. Since I had told the others I was going to take refuge in the upper story, I would not seem to them to be in immediate danger. Uncle Alec, being injured, would be their first priority. So I had scant hope of rescue unless someone arrived quickly, and that was not likely. After an hour or so, thankfully, the level of the water stopped rising, leaving me well above my captors. All I had to do now was wait.
The light in the windows had begun to fade, and I began to contemplate the very real difficulty of not only keeping my balance, but my wits, and consciousness, for I was becoming very tired, when I heard thumping from the hall outside, and a large splash or two, as though something was knocking over display cases. Could they have maneuvered a boat inside? I called out, warning against the crocodiles, thankful that I was about to be rescued.
But I wasn't. For into the grand hall swam the largest crocodile not only that I had ever seen, but that I could imagine. What I couldn't imagine was how he had gotten down the hall, let alone through the doors, for his body was fully five feet across, not accounting for the sprawl of his legs, and though I could not see all of him, he had to have been nigh thirty feet long from snout to tail. The other crocodiles swam away from him, though he had to snap his jaws at one, and crowded into the far end of the room. I gave myself up for lost. Even if he hadn't been able to reach me, which he could, easily, he could smash through the cabinet on which I stood almost without effort. I still shrank away from him, choking briefly as the satchel straps caught on the pendant which still hung around my neck.
He approached the cabinet, and raising up, gently placed his snout against it and stood still. I crouched at the far end, staring at him, unmoving. After a few moments, he turned his head to me and stared directly into my eyes. Then with a snort of what I could only characterize as impatience, replaced his snout in its original position. Bewildered, I found myself approaching him, and using his head as a ramp, descended to his broad back. Whereupon he made a circuit of the hall, striking the other crocodiles aside as he passed them, and bore me out of the flooded Museum and into the night.
We passed through the remains of the grounds, where not a single tree remained standing. Some had fallen against the building, and others lay on the ground, half covered by the flood. In the dim moonlight I could see the lizards that had taken refuge, as well as other crocodiles, whom I would have expected to prey on the lizards, but all of them were feasting on the fallen trees. I hadn't known that crocodiles ate anything other than flesh. My benefactor stopped, briefly, to consume part of a sycamore that lay in his path, the other creatures letting him have the lion's share, before he bore me to the Nile proper.
The moon and stars were reflected in waters undisturbed but for our passing, and barely at that. It was as though we were swimming through the night sky; that which was above was also below. And I remembered what Monsieur Mariette had said, that Sobek protected the souls of the dead. I thought then that I might not have survived. I didn't feel particularly divine, as those devoured by crocodiles were said to be, just exhausted. I felt myself drifting into a dreamlike state, and lying down on his broad back, decided that in the end, my end was not so terrible as it could have been. I had felt no pain, though I had been very frightened. To be borne to the afterlife through the stars? With some aspect of a crocodile god serving as my funeral barge? Why, I might be as Queen Sobeknefru herself. I arranged the satchels next to me, clasped the pendant between my hands, and gazed into the night sky.
I saw many things as we swam along. Visions I do not even now fully understand, but with an import I do believe I comprehend. I saw a vast forest, filled with trees of all kinds, covered with lizards that lived in harmony with them. Some of them were well, and some were not. And some the lizards devoured, and some they did not. The ones that survived were the scattered ones. Though a single tree might be destroyed, if its seed had spread far and wide, something of it continued. And if those somethings were gathered, the essence of the original tree could be discerned, and recreated, even if parts of it were devoured, and gone forever.
“As long as fragments are spread far and wide, they can be gathered, and the whole eventually recreated. This is true of knowledge as well as gods.” A deep rumble of a voice seemed to come from somewhere beneath me and surround me. “Even if some pieces go missing," I felt moreso than heard a wry chuckle vibrate through me, "or are devoured. I'm sorry, but that is my nature, after all.”
I awoke on a spit of land atop, what I now know, had been a small sandy hill a few miles up the Nile from the Museum district. I stood shakily, not sure at first what had happened, or where I was. I appeared to be alive, and intact, though my dress hung in sodden tatters around me. I felt over my body, and my hands brushed the crocodile pendant that still hung around my neck. The satchels, however, were gone.
Or were they? As I attempted to get my bearings, I saw the smaller one, its contents spilled around it. Wincing, I went and began to gather them. I recognized some of the things I had packed in the larger satchel among them, but the larger satchel itself, and the carefully wrapped scroll I had placed in it last, were nowhere to be found.
I heard a cry behind me, and turned to see Monsieur Mariette, precariously standing in a small skiff and waving his arms at me. I waved back and called out in return, and soon found myself wrapped in a blanket, and provided with a sip from a flask of whiskey, to ‘settle my nerves'.
“Ah, we thought you were lost! When we returned to the Museum, and found all those creatures, and the doors smashed in.” Monsieur shuddered. "It was dreadful to contemplate."
“I'm fine.” I started to laugh wildly. “My Uncle Alec, where—?”
“He is resting somewhat uncomfortably in the Shephard Hotel. And near frantic about you. My child, what happened?”
Even in my somewhat disoriented state, I knew better than to start speaking of colossal crocodilian saviors. “I wasn't able to make it upstairs before the doors were smashed in. I climbed back up to the top of the ladder, thinking maybe I could use the remnants of the scaffolding to get to the roof. I started to, but then I saw a boat. It must have been washed from its moorings by the flood. I hung the satchels from the scaffolding and swam for it, and then went back and got them. I almost got to that little island, but the boat was flooding, and fell apart under me. I'm sorry, Monsieur. About the satchel with your scroll and the translation work. I thought I had it, but it must have been washed away with the boat.” I felt my face burning with shame at this last part. It was not a lie, exactly, for I truly did not know what had happened, but nonetheless…
He shook his head. “Scroll? I haven't done translation work on a scroll for months.”
I stared at him. “Your Prize? From the Sobeknefru pyramid in Mazguna?”
He looked over my head at the others in the boat. “Poor child. She has had an ordeal.” He looked back at me. “I spoke to you of Sobek, yes, and Sobeknefru, when I gave you that pendant. But certainly not of a pyramid. She did work, indeed, on her father's tomb, which is why we know her, I spoke of this. But there are no pyramids in Mazguna.”
He patted my shoulder and began to tell me that he would take me to Uncle Alec at once, but I fear I tuned him out. Was my ‘lie' the actual truth, or close to it, and my memories a fevered dream caused by fear and exhaustion? I looked back at the small sandy island where I had awoken. There before it was raised the head of an enormous crocodile, with what appeared to be a leather strap, like one found on a satchel, dangling from its jaws. It looked at me, and then sank beneath the waters of the Nile.
As soon as I was assured that Uncle Alec was recuperating, and assured him that I was well, I arranged for a Sister in good standing to Witness me, so that I could report to the Chapterhouses. Even now, my memories of the experience have begun to blur, but if I can spread my tale far enough, even if only fragments remain, the story can be recreated. I cannot blame Sobek. He gave me my life, though he could not help himself from taking something. And so, one more thing is lost, even to memory. But it is his nature, after all.


Light?

There was light.

Lights blazing to bathe, bugle call. Ten minutes to the cafeteria. Mandatory.
The usual. He slid his feet over the bedside and moved to his dresser. The same inconspicuous white shirt, black slacks, white socks, black shoes. Not that he had a choice. But he would've chosen it anyway. Seven minutes.
He then made his way over to his desk. He frowned. Two pens. He placed them and a fresh one into his pocket. Six minutes.
He moved to leave when he remembered to check his ears. He found a tissue in his right. He tossed it in the trash bin, brushing his hair to cover that ear, and he left. Four minutes. Right on time.
Head down. His to heys. Disgusting impressionistic blueredgreygreen splatter to snow vinyl floors; hallway to cafeteria. Pick up box. Sit at the same seat. Open box, retrieve food. One hand eating other undertable pass pen one to contact, foot tap pass pen two. Pen three doodle on box. Done.
Finish eating. Byes to seeyas. Toss box, head to hallway, to room; disgusting impressionistic blueredgreygreen splatter to crimson vinyl floors. Head up, sit at desk, work.

Blood?

There was blood.

It happens. He was used to it tracing the curvature of his jaw. Nothing more than a trickle from his ears.
Not that it wasn't bad, or that he didn't wince from the warm onset. He closed his eyes and swept the document with his left hand, black-out in his right. He got to a small bump, sighed, and set to work expunging it.
Once finished, eyes open. Still accurate enough, he placed it in his other work, and pushed off from his desk to rest for a moment.

He took out his pocket knife.
There was blood.
It happens.
He'd put the pillow from his bed against his mouth, and…

He'd always hated this part.

He'd always hated this part.

He'd plunged the knife into his ear. Enough to cause a reasonable bleed. He retracted it.
If he didn't, people would get suspicious. One of three reasons for people to bleed in this place. One, sickness, he wasn't sick. Two, self harm, grudgingly accepted. Three… He didn't know what to call.
Words, some kind of words. They had made some words hurt him. Just enough to make him think he was dying, to make him (almost) head to the infirmary.
He was better than this. He gripped a tuft of his hair and tugged. Such a simple thing. Such a simple, costly, painful mistake. He'd learned early on in his job that the hurt, that reality bending had tells. A color change here. A tactile anomaly there. Tiny bumps you can't see but can feel.
He'd thought, he'd thought ahead, was one step. The first time it happened he panicked, and he did the same thing he always did. Self harm was common enough onsite. High stress. You had to get through the day and if it works they don't care and he didn't care because it worked.
He grabbed a tissue and placed it into his right ear once more to soak the blood,
and…
he cried.

Death?

Death happens.

He'd been unfortunate enough to have been born to two Foundation researchers. Easy enough to erase government records of newborns. Too risky to let their kids be public when they'd been exposed to who knows what anomalies in the womb. Not to mention having nonexistent persons was convenient if they went missing. Or that they gave a bonus to the parents.
He'd spent his childhood here. Childhood? There were no parents, not in the sites. There were teachers, and there were guards. He wasn't lucky to get teachers who cared about him. All he had were libraries and labs. So he read.
Bodies sometimes happened. Not often, but they happened. And they certainly weren't hidden. The morgue was on the way to the library. So while he read, sometimes he'd hear the gurney wheel down the way, look up, and see a John or Jane or Jet Doe.
One day, he couldn't remember how old he was, the bodies kept wheeling.
Some researchers were spending their off-time in the library that day, and he overheard them chatting. Something about traitors. About a failed coup and a purge. Something about a "Chaos Insurgency" being put down.
He didn't know much about what a coup was, or what a purge meant, but he thought the two must be related. Seemed like they were wiped out. He didn't really know why it happened, but he did know that the name "Chaos Insurgency" was pretty cool.
Then, that day came and went, and he carried on with his life.
As he finished whatever schooling he could, he moved to the labs, to begin work. He must have been only fourteen. But, laws weren't exactly relevant, and the Ethics Committee had a ruling (he'd seen them in the library's archives) that thirteen was the age when you could begin assistant work. Small things. Getting drinks, food, utensils.
Eventually he'd worked up to getting document access. Simple things, scanning for spelling and grammar mistakes. The occasional suggestion to procedures, or description. Simple things.
One day, when he was finishing up, he'd found a document which wasn't assigned to him, underneath ones which were. He knew this, but he figured it would be innocent enough to do extra. There was small handwriting in a blank space after the document.

"Read very, very carefully."

He blinked.
His?
His handwriting?
He read it again. There was more writing, but he had to make sure.

"Read very, very carefully."

He rested for a moment. He had a headache coming on. He didn't remember writing this. He shouldn't have been able to write this. But there it was. He needed to know what this was. And so, he kept reading.

"You're me. Don't ask how. I'm you. I don't know how. All I know is that if you follow these instructions things work.
Work?
Do what you want to do. You want to rebel. And I know how.
From now on, you are going to receive an extra document with your work.
Screen it for any infohazards or anything like that, remove them, and hide the document in something you could exchange without suspicion.
Go to breakfast with your head down. Don't look up. Pass the documents underneath the table. Some… Thing will grab them.
To be honest, I don't know what thing.
And then, it will leak them to someone.
I… don't know who. I don't know how. I don't know why this works. I was told by me.
But you're in it now. You're in deep now. Good luck, traitor."

He mulled it around in his mind. Traitor. He let it simmer, churn. His headache was splitting. Traitor. He smiled. Yeah. He liked that. He liked that a lot. He wondered if he… if he knew that he was going to go through with it. He clutched his forehead. He tried to stop thinking about it.
All he knew was that he might as well try it out.
He felt a slight drip from his ear.

Darkness…

Darkness happens.

It was approaching curfew, he thought. He would have to finish things quickly.
He pushed back to his desk, taking out a pen. He disassembled and gutted it. Then, he took the newly redacted document. It was of a series he'd passed along, about object animation. He was too tired to remember the details.
He always signed the documents, as a reassurance that they were clean. To who? With the most elegant script he could, which was not extremely, he wrote "Chaos Insurgency". He always let himself a small chuckle after that. Arrogant.
But it fit. What started off as a curiosity became a passion, and then a rage, a desire to see the organization he was bound to brought to its knees. He hated it. He hated his parents, his employer, his childhood, his teachers, his boss, he hated him.
Thus it seemed right. Chaos, yes. Insurgent, yes. So why not? He'd never had a name he got to choose, so why not Chaos Insurgency. Chaos Insurgency himself. What a joke. But who knows, jokes sometimes get out of hand, and sometimes they gain power.
He rolled the sheet up in a tight curl before slipping it into the pen. He frowned. It was too tall to fit. He removed it and tore it in half, preparing another pen and putting half the script in each. It was suboptimal, but required sometimes.
As he finished reassembling the pens, the announcement for curfew boomed over the speakers. Five minutes.
He set the pens down and got up, undressing and placing his clothes in his hamper. He replaced his tissue with a fresh one, and yawned. Two minutes.
He got into bed, one minute.

And the lights went out
█


The eerie feeling of the room. The color of it. Its bleakness. You think you're about to be questioned. You don't even know why you are here, but you think you're going to be instigated, of some sort.
Allow me to provide you with some calming thoughts.
You are not here to be questioned, or for lack of a better word, punished. Two years ago, you appealed to the Domestic Security Committee for a chance to work in a better division, compared to what you have now. As you know, you never received any actual answer to your request, until now.
I am Haydrick Barnes, a special agent for internal security. You may call me by my last name. However, if you ever do meet me again outside of this room, you won't be calling me that in public or in private, which I will address at the end of this. You are here because my department has had a keen interest in your skills since you've first joined the Foundation. Your ability to make effective judgement in sudden scenarios, impervious to forms of bias or partiality, and overall proficiency within the intelligence and documentary fields of the Foundation, have made you a reliable candidate for the Internal Security Department.
You look confused. Surely, you should have been able to deduce that there must have been a controlling factor in what you're able to see and do here. A lot of people like to assume that the department doesn't exist. I am assuming that you've heard the rumor of a 'foundation inside the Foundation'. We, ourselves, don't mind the idea that people think the department is only a myth, because it provides us with the perfect cover for any operation we commence, internal or external. It also provides us with a reliable connection directly with O5 Command, and notable members of Site Command, should the need to ever contact them arise.
Let me ask you a question. How do you think the Foundation keeps track of everything that happens? How do you think they keep track of the information that was gathered? Keep in mind that we only have less than a hundred Site Directors, and only thirteen members of O5 Command. I don't think the administration, consisting of only a few intellectually gifted individuals, would be able to account for everything that transpires, or around the world in other designated sites.
That is where we come in. That is what the job of an internal agent.
More often than not, you'll find at least one or two among a hundred Foundation personnel trying to do something that would slip right past the 'all-seeing-eye' of the O5 Command. That means that they've also managed to bypass the administration and or RAISA, as well. However, we're not responsible for what happens during an information breach. We're responsible for what happens before and after it.
Repeat the question? No, we aren't responsible for the classification of documents. However, we do hold the jurisdiction to make changes to any official Foundation document or report, however necessary. That being said, document classification and encoding is not our primary job. However, you will find yourselves in situations where orders from ISD will conflict with those from RAISA, which will more than often require a firm debate between both department directors or other supervisory agents.
Before I continue with the rest of the orientation, I'd like to ask you another question. Do you know who Aaron Siegel is? Yes? Good. Do you know why or how he disappeared? No? I see. That means that you haven't picked up the letter yet. However, you must be wondering how he disappeared. I'm going to ask once that you take notes, because some of what I am about to tell you will intertwine with what you will be doing within the department.
Aaron Siegel served among the O5 Council, designated as 'O5-5', and tasked with oversight of the Intelligence Community; a large Foundation bureau tasked with securing and maintaining any and all information about— but not limited to— abnormalities, personnel, and foreign groups of interest.
He was one of the founders responsible for the creation of the Foundation, and also one of the first few O5 Councilors. During the early dawn of the Foundation, he was responsible for the documentation, record-keeping, and distributive properties of everything contained within the Foundation, and other important information.
Before his disappearance, he wrote another letter and gave it to one of his coordinators, which has been passed down from one ISD director to the next. The current director was kind enough to provide me with the letter for me to read off of, which is what I've had in my hands for a while now.

To my Intelligence Coordinator,
█████,
Everything that I have foreseen has come to fruition, and the conclusion we reached has been proven true. The Council is slowly deteriorating from within, and is therefore affecting the Foundation. I understand that this week has been hectic for you, but I am prepared to offer you a promotion to O5, should you choose to accept it. I've already spoken with the Administrator and O5-Head, and they are in full support. The reason I am doing this is because I will no longer be an active member of the Council, let alone the Foundation.
I am disassembling the Intelligence Community as soon as possible. And yes, I know what you're thinking. How I'm not in my authority to declare such, or for lack of a better word, ultra vires. Like I said, I've spoken with the Administrator and O5-Head. Everything I am doing and about to do has been pre-approved. However, clarification aside, I have reason to believe that with the Council's compromise, the Intelligence Community would definitely be affected as well. Therefore, the Intelligence Community will be delegated across three separate departments to avoid further damage:

Intelligence Agency, IA, tasked with maintaining information and coordinating external affairs operations and efforts with the Department of External Affairs, and other classified tasks outside of the Foundation.
Records and Information Security Administration, RAISA, tasked with storing and maintaining information, official documents, records and information, classification, and archives.
Internal Security Department, ISD, tasked with enforcing Foundation ordinances, policies, and laws of the Foundation, while operating incognito investigations of corruption/collusion allegations, ensuring information security and integrity within the Foundation. Additional tasks will be discussed to you when we meet at Site-██ tomorrow, for one last time.

I've already assigned who goes to where, and who will be directing those departments. The Administrator has offered you complete control and protection for any decision you make in regards to those agencies, praeter the O5 Council's decisions over those agencies as a whole. The O5-Head, however, is expecting that all of the protocols, structures, and regulations, be set for all of them before the end of the year.
Setting up IA and RAISA won't be an issue. I know that for a fact. It's ISD that I am worried about. It was a controversial decision to even consider the creation of the IC's Information & Enforcement Sub-bureau, which is now being succeeded by ISD, and made into its own separate entity with almost infinite authority. I have no doubt that a structure and proper protocol can be determined, but I am worried about how ISD will be presented, who controls it, and who will represent it.
I sent you an email over the secured IC network, which includes a list of contingency protocols you can use in case things go down hill. In that list, I've also included names of people you can use for ISD's staff. You can refer to that list whenever you wish to. As for recruitment methods, department codes, and other necessary doctrines, I'd recommend contacting O5-██, O5-█, the O5-Head, and the ISD Director, for reference material or advice.
I wish you luck, █████. Continue the line of secrecy and integrity where I cannot.
Ab origine,

THIS MESSAGE WAS FROM THE EXECUTIVE OFFICE OF 'O5-5'
Secure. Contain. Protect.

If you're confused in any of this, allow me to help you recalibrate.
Aaron was among the first generation of O5s, if not, the first five. He was also the last person among the founders whom continued actively serving in the Council for years to come, and was the only one remaining when everyone else had left. This means that whatever he predicted, whenever he predicted it, has already happened, and is only getting worse.
That being said, Aaron didn't disappear. He merged with the living embodiment of the Foundation itself; he became the body and the soul of the Foundation. Ever-present, virtually immortal. Everything the Foundation has ever contained, is containing, and ever will contain, is known only by Aaron himself, and therefore, the intelligence apparatuses. He erased himself from existence, and in the process, was made into a martyr.
Our task,— and now yours,— is to secure the order that was kept in place for decades. To contain the protection of both our security and information. To protect the continuation that is the SCP Foundation.
It's not rocket science when trying to figure out how all this corruption, nonsense, and noncompliance to basic Foundation policy, managed to implant itself within the Foundation, and especially among us, above others. And when this happens, everything else is affected with it. Containment Procedures, official documents, reports, divisions, site command, assistant staff, all the way up to even the O5-Head himself, could be compromised to this man-made disease, if they are not compromised already.
The Internal Security Department was made for the sole intention of preserving and maintaining the order of the Foundation's cause and existence. It was made for the sole intention of preserving everything that Aaron and Administrator had created, and therefore, that the Foundation has created. We are our own embodiment of the Foundation; of those who seek prosperity, justice, and order, among the chaos. We are the will of the Foundation.
At the end of the day, that is our job. We are the roots of the Foundation. They cannot, and will not, be pulled from beneath us. You understand this now, don't you?

...

You're uncertain. Let me re-explain your position here.
Your job is important. You are important. They may not understand it, and you might not even understand it. But I do. This is where your story begins, and it will be where it ends; wrapped in a cold embrace, and never let go.
What you just read, which was not intended for you, was made to last for generations to come. It was not meant to be kept a secret, because nothing can ever be kept in the dark forever. The Foundation is compromised, and there is nothing that anyone or anything can do about it. Not the Council, not the Intelligence Community, and not you.
However, do not let that interject with your intentions or moral. Because while the Foundation may be losing its grip, you will not. Internal Security may cease to exist— and therefore the Foundation— but you will not. You were not raised like the rest of them. You were not manipulated. You are aware of your surroundings. Like an eagle on the hunt, you know where to look.
While the intelligence community manages to barely hold on to itself, as the mindset of human nature begin to corrupt their morals, you will hold on. You are armed with both sword & shield, and you— and only you— are given the leisure to determine when and how you use either.
You were born to serve humanity, yet you will find no humanity here. Not here, not there, not anywhere. Only criminals, sadists, and freaks of nature roam the surface. You are among the first generation of outcasts. You listen to the outside, where others are blissful within their own ignorance and incompliance to common sense and law.
You could be the key to all of this chaos, or not. Regardless, your actions and intentions have brought you to where you are today. You cannot fix what cannot be undone, but you most certainly can prevent more damage from ever occurring. You can put an end to the nonsense. Only your will, morals, and dedication, will drive you forward, and the Foundation will move with you.
You are here because I have confidence in your abilities. You are my creation. You are here because I willed it.
There is no coincidence. There is destiny; and your destiny is my will, and mine alone.
…

I'm glad we're of the same mind.
That being said, let me give you a full in-depth explanation as to what you will be doing in the department, and how you will be doing it.
First of all, everything that is discussed here and forever more about, similar to, or directly from or to ISD, is highly classified. You should know that by now without me having to explain what I mean by this, especially what would happen to you if you leak anything.
Simply so, if anyone asks you about ISD and is not currently aware of its operations to your own knowledge, simply respond with something generic; what other people would say to that. However, if someone consistently approaches you about the department, avoid general contact with the individual, and report it to the ISD's Apprehensive Interrogation Unit, and they will handle it from there.
In terms of general handling of information or operations, you will be trained how to handle information, what you need to do if you ever encounter Reality Benders or any powerful reality-bending sentinel, and more importantly, how to properly interrogate someone. An ISD Agent's job will mostly involve interrogations. Lots of them. That includes how to properly write reports, documents, classification methods and practices, and a longer list which I personally do not feel I have the time to recite.
In conclusion, the answer to a two-year question of yours has finally been answered. The Internal Security Department is willing to add you among its ranks.
Welcome to the brain.


It felt like it'd been raining for ages.
The beginning of my summer had practically been completely ruined because of the constant pitter-patter on the window panes. I will say that it has indeed helped me sleep when the time came, but I never slept for an entire day. And so, for the entirety of when I was awake, the rain only annoyed me.
I made plans to hang with Jake not too long ago. Y'know, just regular things: bike rides, going to the movies, checkin' out chicks, that kind of thing. But, then again, it wasn't pouring "not too long ago." Instead, all we've been able to do was sit inside and play Xbox Live and talk to one another with our garbage-tier headsets.
I never liked the rain. It rained when my mom and dad fought. It rained on my father's funeral as if it was straight out of a movie where the ceremony of death is super cliche. It rained on me when the girl of my dreams broke my heart. It almost seems like the rain only exists to ruin my definition of a good time. I'd say all of that is a valid reason to despise when God cries. Plus, on top of that, all of our shit gets wet. Yeah, some people like the rain because it's calming, but all it does is make you cold and sick.
We pulled a few all-nighters playing games we've never even heard before. Neither I nor Jake was a fan of video games, but it's all we could do if we couldn't go bike-riding and fuckin' with annoying neighbors.
When I got off of Xbox, I said out loud that "I wish I could just go outside without having to worry about the rain."
I learned the hard way that the phrase 'be careful what you wish for' applies to everyone.
The pitter-patter on the window very slowly decreased in intensity until it stopped completely. The fact that the sound I had been hearing for the past week had suddenly stopped woke me up almost immediately. I ran to the window and there were still raindrops sliding down the smooth, fogged glass. My first instinct was to call Jake, hoping that he was awake.
I dialed in his number and held the output end up to my ear. That calming ring soothed my ear as compared to the rain slamming down on my roof and slowly put a smile on my face. After a click signifying that he had picked up, I shouted excitedly.
"Dude, it stopped raining!" I said.
"I know! Thank God, right?" he responded.
"For real. Do you wanna go talk to your mom to make sure we can still go on a bike ride, or…"
"Yeah, I'll go do that."
"Yeah, same he—" I stopped as I realized that every single person of the neighborhood was stepping outside while looking up and recording something clearly abnormal in the sky. "I'll be right back."
"Alright."
I put the phone down and rushed downstairs, almost busting my ass because I missed a step. The kitchen was right at the bottom of the stairs, and that's where Mom spent most of her time. She loved to cook. I ran into the kitchen, but my mom wasn't there. I decided I'd go check the living room; no one there, either. And that's when I noticed that my door was open and Mom was standing on the porch looking up, just like everyone else.
I slowly walked over to her. "Mom, what's going on?" She looked at me with an indescribable fear in her eyes, motioning me to step outside with her. And so I did.
There was this giant layer of rain floating gracefully above us. I could see more rain land on top of that layer, forming more and more. It started to get really cold because the Sun couldn't reach us, and so the majority of people in the neighborhood went back inside to get a blanket.
I suppose it all started with one drop; just.. stopping, fifty meters from where it was about to crash. And, one after another, other droplets followed, halting suddenly in midair.
My immediate reaction was that of glee due to the fact that it had started raining, followed by a sense of dread as towards what might happen next. The rain has to go somewhere, right?
And that's when it hit me.
As the layers of water piled atop one another, I realized that the rain itself wasn't going to stop anytime soon. And for as long as that body of water kept getting bigger, and bigger, one question remained…
…what happens when this ocean above us begins to obey the laws of gravity again?