It was cold. Winter bore down on the black stone spires and slave pits and smokestacks of Daevon in a sheet of frozen lead. Snow and ash had mixed into an indefinable slurry that filled the narrow streets. The lamps fought uselessly against the encompassing darkness. In the gloom, some stray dogs picked at the frozen body of a slave that had not made it home to his master's hearth.
The artist reclined in her eggshell chair, nude. Silks and furs were draped haphazardly around her, more or less unneeded in the soft warmth of her studio.
The euphoria of the act was still fresh, the electric thrill of giving life to art. Her hands moved with precision and speed, detailing words, figures, shapes. Ink blossomed out across the sheet of vellum that was stretched out and held taut by jointed iron legs. Ink was the life of art as blood was the life of man.
She had made, created, given birth to, was art.
The ink had all pooled in the basin underneath her as she made the first incision, thin and black, pouring out of her body without staining. The gift of the Horned King, that his disciples might turn their own life into art for his glory.
She had worked quickly after that, carefully preparing the vellum, her heart filled with joy. She took the skin, treating it with the appropriate chemicals and spices, draining the rest of the ink off into the basin.
That done, what remained had been burnt in the furnace shrine set in the wall, with incense and prayers, underneath the painted stone form of the King, and it was pleasing to the artist's lord. It was the King's command that he take part in the art, for if the King bore godhood in his crown, and the art was the artist, thus the art-artist likewise came to godhood.
According to tradition, the umbilical cord was tied around her neck.
She continued to work, pouring her life, her soul, into her art, and the frozen night pressed on outside. In time, when the grey smog-smeared dawn approached, she put down her pens, and smiling at the work she had done, the artist began to sew up the slit in her belly.
All this was pleasing to Moluch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame.

—
Mary-Ann sat on the floor, propped up against the couch, and plucked at her guitar. Naomi sat and watched with bright eyes.
“I've walked ten thousand miles, ten thousand miles to see you…And every gasp of breath, I grabbed it just to find you…I climbed up every hill to get to you…I wandered ancient lands to hold just you…and every single step of the way, I pa-a-a-a-ay…every single night and daa-aaa-aay…”
“adaa,” Naomi said, reaching out to touch the guitar.
“Yep. This is my guitar. I don't think you're big enough to play it yet, though.” She set the guitar to the side and placed her daughter on her lap. “You'd try eating it, and you don't want a slobbery guitar, do you?” She gave Naomi a tickle.
Mother and daughter had the house to themselves that evening: Salah was out at the Chapterhouse helping with the graduation ceremony for this batch of recruits. It wasn't as if it was a closed affair or anything, but Salah had the car today and the timing didn't work out to come pick Mary-Ann and Naomi up. That was something of a disappointment, but so things went.
Mary-Ann checked Naomi's diaper. Nope. Still clean.
It had been a just over two years since she had been in their shoes, taking her oath of office, though all things considered that could have been another person entirely, wrapped up in a blanket of quiet, desperate, melancholy. Time and care and love had done their job at unraveling that cocoon. The world was brighter now. Life was better.
A sharp rapport of knocks on the front door interrupted her musing.
“Hm? Come on, let's see who it is.” Mary-Ann picked up Naomi and walked to the door. The knocking continued, pausing every few seconds and starting up again.
“Hold on, hold on, I'm coming!”
Mary-Ann opened the door to see two men standing on the front step, one shorter and balding, the other taller with salt and pepper hair. Both were wearing suits: Not secret service suits, or Jehovah's Witnesses suits, but closer to insurance salesmen suits. Alarm bells went off in her head: never trust men who turn up in pairs on front steps wearing suits, ever. Their eyes confirmed her suspicions: Dull, glassy eyes, like a cow's. Foundation eyes.
Her stomach sunk.
Son of a motherfuck they have the address?
“Ms. Mary-Ann Lewitt, my name is Mr. Redmond,” the taller man said. “The Foundation is in need of your assistance.”
“If you want help, call the office of external affairs at the Chapterhouse. I don't know how you got my name or my address, but I want you off my property. Now.”
“I'm sorry, I'm being unclear.” Redmond continued. “The Foundation requires you specifically. This is a matter of the utmost importance, and it requires your complete cooperation.”
“Important enough that you can just walk up to my front door?”
“Yes.” His face was completely serious. “I apologize, Ms. Lewitt, but time is of the essence. We are in the process of alerting the Initiative, but we cannot wait for the bureaucracy to play catch-up.”
Mary-Ann hesitated for a moment, waiting for her gut to percolate an answer. Amidst all the fishiness, she could feel that instinctive lump of certainty that something was seriously wrong and it needed dealing with right now. Her gut had spoken.
“Come on in, then. Make it quick.”
—
Salah glanced at his watch: 6:48. The graduation ceremony had finished up early. A small group of recruits this time, and a lot of the pomp and circumstance had been cut down significantly from the previous year.
Always such promise at the ceremony, but it was the next few weeks and months that would decide who stayed in the Shepherds. Death was always a possibility, but the more pressing subject was the strain of the position. People simply broke down, unable to cope with being thrown face-first into the horrific absurdities of the world. But, this was the Horizon Initiative, built on shaken faith that could still stand tall. They would do fine, Salah assured himself.
Salah got in the car. Time to go home. The digital watch on his left wrist reflected the evening sun.
—
Mary-Ann sat on the couch, Naomi in her lap. Redmond sat in the chair across the room. His accomplice Brown stood in the corner.
“The item in question is designated SCP-089, a Canaanite statue dating from the second century BCE. SCP-089 will provide a name, a command, and a fanciful description of a disaster that will occur if the named individual does not complete the task. Ten hours ago, SCP-089 underwent a locution event, naming you as the chosen individual.”
“And that means…what?”
“SCP-089's demands are identical in all events: that the selected individual performs a ritual in order to prevent or stop the promised disaster event. This ritual will entail, must entail, the loss of that individual's child.”
The universe froze. Mary-Ann stared at Redmond mutely for a moment, trying to process the information, trying to find some misheard word or slip of the tongue. He did not just say that. He did not just say that…He did. That is what he said. She pulled Naomi closer to her instinctively. No. She wasn't letting them take her. Over her dead body.
“Get out of my house,” she said, voice low, barely covered up a savage snarl. “Get out. If you or your Foundation friends come back, I start shooting you. Got it?”
Redmond nodded.
“I understand, Ms. Lewitt. This is not an easy thing to accept. However, I cannot leave. SCP-089 has made its threat, and so the ritual must be carried out. If it is not, or if it is delayed beyond seventy-two hours, the disaster SCP-089 threatens will begin. We know of no alternative method to prevent these disasters from occurring.”
“Have you tried smashing it? Smashing it is a nice idea.” Mary-Ann's voice dripped with mockery and venom. Fucking Foundation packrats.
“Ms. Lewitt, I believe you are at least somewhat aware of the principles of the Foundation. Our protocols ban the destruction of items and entities except in the most extreme of circumstances. Furthermore, the process has already begun. If SCP-089 were destroyed now, the ritual could not be completed, and the disaster would not end. Beyond this, it is unknown if SCP-089 causes the disaster itself, or simply warns of it. Its destruction could be the loss of not only a means of prevention, but an early detection system.”
Mary-Ann couldn't help but laugh. It was a bitter, ugly sound.
“And that's all it is to you, isn't it? You just go around picking up new kids to kill when the batteries run low."
“No. It is a necessity to prevent greater destruction. Do not be fooled into thinking that we are unaware of what it is that we do, Ms. Lewitt. The Foundation is aware of what it asks, and it asks only because it knows the alternative.”
“And what's the alternative?”
Redmond cleared his throat.
“'The earth shall tremble in the land of the people of Dae, and lo, all the peoples shall know the flesh that hates'… we believe this to be in reference to an anomaly currently contained by the Foundation in the region of Lake Baikal in Siberia.” Redmond motioned for Brown to come over. He did, handing Mary-Ann a tablet. The picture displayed on it was the inside of a house, with something like a man sitting at a table. The thing's skin was brown and waxy, a blobby, grotesque amalgamation of tumors and scar tissue and dried vomit. There was no head, just a melting mass of red flesh coiled on the tabletop. Mary-Ann made sure to have it positioned where Naomi couldn't see the screen as she went through more pictures of infected people and rotting villages. To be completely honest with herself, Mary-Ann couldn't help but compare these things to the Flood. Dangerous thinking, that. Thinking things operated on the same level as their fictional counterparts generally led to being dead.
“The anomaly, designated SCP-610, is an infectious disease, something akin to a virulent, easily communicable cancer,” Redmond said. “610 cell growth is capable of consuming a person within five hours, turning them into what you see there. There is no cure, save complete immolation. Eventually, when infected individuals progress to the later forms of the disease and are gathered in a high enough density, SCP-610 will begin to change the local environment, in a form of terraforming. At this point, it is capable of spreading by air.”
“Then destroy it. Just say it was a military test or something, you guys can get away with that, right? Or just a forest fire, I don't know. Put more men on the job, double your security, put it on absolute lockdown… for the love of God do your jobs!”
Redmond shook his head.
“The outcome is pre-ordained, Ms. Lewitt. If we were to attempt more security and hope that all would be well without the ritual, it is inevitable that a single infected individual would escape. Events would twist themselves until it happened. Slips of the tongue, slips of the mind, building up until that one fatal mistake occurs. Destroying it without the ritual would likely ignite full-out war, or many other unforeseen consequences.”
“You're sure? There's no other way.”
“If there was, we would not be here, Ms. Lewitt. I'm sorry.”
“How bad is it going to be? Maybe we can just wait it out…”
“The nearest city to the containment zone has a population of a five hundred thousand. If the infection were to take hold of the city, it would easily reach enough density to begin aerial spread and terraforming operations. At that point, it would begin spreading into Mongolia and China, through the Middle East, and to eastern Europe. Were the infection to reach this point, it is doubtful that even a nuclear sterilization of the continent would be enough to contain it. The death toll by then would be in the billions.”
Billions. It always sounded like a fake number, something so big that the average person couldn't imagine the size. Just a word, something that didn't even really exist. But that was a lie. It did exist.
“This can be stopped, Ms. Lewitt. Those deaths can be avoided.” Redmond straightened his tie. “Instead of a continent lost, instead of five hundred thousand lost, one life is given to save them. That is the definition of heroism, Ms. Lewitt. You and your daughter are in a position to save the world, or damn it. I do not say that lightly.”
Mary-Ann said nothing as she stared a patch of carpet off to the side. She didn't want to look into those Foundation cow-eyes, not for this. Naomi was resting against her chest, breathing softly. Already asleep, even though her fate was being decided.
God, please, help me. Please.
“Would you die to protect your daughter, Ms. Lewitt?” Redmond asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you kill to protect her?”
“Yes.”
“Not a burglar or a murderer or a kidnapper. An innocent person on the street. If your daughter were sick, and the only way to save her life would be to walk out your door, find a child, put a gun to his head, and pull the trigger, would you do that, Ms. Lewitt? Would you kill him, and then kill his mother, and his father, and his brothers and sisters, his friends, his classmates, his teachers…everyone he has ever known or met or heard of? And you find that it isn't enough. Would you walk down the street, and start killing his neighbors, and their families? Could you keep killing and killing and killing until five hundred thousand people were dead, just to keep your daughter alive? And then find out that it wasn't enough, that she was still dying, that you had to kill more, and more, and more, until you can look back on everything you've destroyed and everyone you've killed and say that you did it for her. When she grows up, will you be able to look her in the face and tell her that you did it all for her?”
“Stop.” Mary-Ann looked up from the floor. “Just…stop.” There were no tears. The old hollowness was back, welcoming her into that gaping, toothless abyss with empty arms. Instinctively, the walls went up in her mind, the door was locked, but the cruel claws of the world tore down her defenses. There was no alternative here. The outcome was pre-ordained.
No…please, God, no…
She couldn't do it. She couldn't be that killer Redmond described. No sane person could. No sane person would wish for mothers and fathers and children that fate of life as a blob of cancerous flesh, mindless and undying. For a moment, her imagination turned Naomi into one of them, a lump of raw red meat and dead brown scars. Bile rose in Mary-Ann's throat. No. She couldn't do it. She couldn't be that monster. She couldn't pass that fate to another.
But she would not live as the monster that killed her own daughter either. She would not live with that shame. She would not live with the guilt.
No. She would not live with that. She would only hope that Naomi would forgive her. That Salah would forgive her. That God would forgive her.
I'm sorry…
I love you.
“I'm going to call my husband,” she said, finally.
“Of course,” Redmond said.
Mary-Ann shifted Naomi on her lap, to reach over to where her cell phone lay.
Pick up your phone…pick up your phone…Salah, pick up your phone…just pick up your fucking phone for once in your life…
“Hello, this is Salah. I'm not here at the moment, so please leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a wonderful day.”
“Salah, it's me. There's…there's been some big stuff going down. Foundation's here, they need me and Naomi to go with them. I'll call you again soon. We'll be okay. I love you. Bye.”
—

“And so Ab-Leshal returns to us, crowned in triumph,” the slave-broker said as he looked out over the snowy city from his balcony, wine glass in hand. “The crowd goes wild.”
He had read the accounts of what they had returned with. Twelve thousand slaves, five thousand greatmeasures of gold, seven thousand of iron, ten of bronze, the corpse of a god and the secret of true immortality. The greatest triumph of the age.
The slave-broker sipped from his glass. From his perspective, he was able to see one of the great concourses that led to the high temple in the center of the city, filled to trampling density with soldiers and celebrators. Each man who so as much held a sword or musket would find himself welcome in any whorehouse in the city, simply for having served under the command of Ab-Leshal, the First Sword of Daevon.
The slave-broker's magecraft eyes allowed him far better sight than normal men so that even at this distance he could focus on the people around the altar that had been set up at the foot of the high temple steps. There were the high priests, covered head to toe in crimson and robes. There was Ab-Leshal, more wall than man, tattooed and craggy. The Fourth and Seventh Swords were also present, slim and effeminate Jad-kar Dark-Blade and the neurotic, wide-eyed Bergon Soulbearer, each standing a respectful distance behind Ab-Leshal. There was Odrahn Kahd the Master of the Keys, Pratan Dai the Craftmaster, the Master Generals Hradun, Vasig, and Khazes, Curix Noan, the artist called the mistress of ink, and dozens of other government and religious officials, all dressed in their finest.
Surrounding the high altar were smaller altars, headed by towering idols of the gods: The King-In-Scarlet, the Nothing-In-All, the Hanged King, the Eternal Texts, Moluch the King Crowned in Shame, the Wonder-Maker, Gothog the Mighty, the Mother of Them All, Molug the Broken Fist, Carthac the Many-Faced King, and others.
A gong sounded, followed by three blasts on the twenty-foot temple horns. Bonfires burst to life at the feet of the idols, clouds of incense rising into the air as the chants started and the blood began to flow, first from the mammoths that had pulled the idols into place, and then from the captives. They would work their way up, from the smallest to the greatest, finally sacrificing the pieces of the broken god itself. It would not end until long after sunset, when the gutters ran thick with scabbing blood.
The slave-broker did not kneel with the crowd, nor did he feel like taking part in the following orgy and slaughter. He was a well-traveled man, who had seen, bought, and sold a great many wonders throughout the empire and beyond. His fear and awe of the gods was on a purely professional basis.
The slave-broker drained what remained of his wine, his gaze lingering for a time on the bull-headed idol in the distance, before he turned and walked back inside.

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They stopped giving me water years ago. Food long before that. They must have realized my time as an Overseer meant I never was in danger of dying. The air feels recycled, just dust drifting through stale oxygen. The top of the floor, once solid rock, has eroded into a layer of sand. My skin is leather. I can push my fingers into my empty eye sockets.
When they first put me here, there were others in the cells around me. Two and Five were nearby, and we spent months formulating escape plans before they disappeared. Once, we managed to break out by scraping away at the doors with stolen utensils. We made it almost 30 meters before being captured and thrown back in. That was the last time I saw another human being.
I'm not sure what happened to Five and Two. Maybe they were released. Maybe, like me, they're too weak to move around the cell anymore. Whatever the reason, I'm alone now. Even my captors have disappeared. Before there was the constant sound of movement, of work, just outside my cell. They would bring me food and water daily. A few times, Four (though he insisted I call him One, the bastard), came to talk. It was the usual trash, about how they had done what they did for the good of the planet, how it was the only way to bring humanity back to “the true light”. He would spend hours ranting about the dangers we faced, and the risks we took by using the anomalous to improve the world. I hated him. I still do, but now I'd be willing to talk to even him if it would make this nothingness go away.
What could have caused them to leave me like this? One day they were here, and the next they were gone. The vindictive part of me wants to believe they failed, that their “New Foundation” was nothing but wishful thinking. In truth, they probably just forgot about me, like we forgot so many other things. I've been exiled to this cell, the only thing to verify I ever existed a scrap of paper in a lost file cabinet, or a file on a broken computer. I doubt even the O5s remember me. The others would have been careful in covering their tracks. All history would have been cut out, all evidence that the Foundation was once something more than it is now erased. Four explained it all to me in one of his talks. The original meaning of SCP has been destroyed. Our mission has been destroyed. Once, we worked for the betterment of mankind. Now, they “protect” it. As if the world needs protecting.
That was always the problem. The betrayers didn't understand what we had started out to do. To them, compromise was an impossibility. We were at war, and we couldn't win if we kept showing mercy to the enemy. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. The secret discussions, the protests, the talk of a better tomorrow… it should have been obvious. And yet it wasn't. When they came for us, wrenched me out of bed and into the meeting room, I couldn't believe it. And when I saw Two and Five and Six and Ten next to me, bleeding and bruised, my mind could not put together what was happening. I thought it was some sort of drill.
I didn't realize what was going on until they shot Ten. Four and Eight came out, and I knew that they had betrayed us. I still remember their words. “It's over,” said Four. “Humanity no longer has anything to fear.”
So I sit in my cell, hoping to be allowed to die. I run through thoughts I've had a millions times before. I try to remember what life was like before this. I'm surrounded by nothing. And then, for the first time in years, there's something. The sound of an opening door, and a voice.
“Hello, One. It's time to start again.”


Flip.
I turn the page back, and it's the two weeks we spent in the Bahamas. We stayed in a beachfront cabin, enjoying every sunset as if it would be our last, caring about nothing except for the touch of each others' skin. We went diving off the coral reef, swimming among fish with every color of the rainbow while losing ourselves in the glory of Mother Nature's beauty.
Flip.
Another page turns back, and it's Paris. You finally got to go there for pleasure instead of business. We wined and dined by the Eiffel Tower, hit every single famous landmark we could think of, and took in all the art and architecture we had always wanted to see.
Flip.
It's our first anniversary, in Florida. Lying on the beach, holding hands, we blotted out everything but our love for each other and let the warm tropical sun melt away the worries of our day jobs.
Flip.
Our wedding day. I remember how breathless I was when I saw you in your dress for the first time, radiant in your beauty. We never thought the Director would actually come, much less actually smile.
Flip.
The night I proposed. I knew that you knew the moment we went to that restaurant you had always wanted to go to, but you still pretended to be surprised. Everyone wanted to congratulate us and shake our hands.
Flip.
Our first date. I doubt I could have botched it more, yet you liked me enough to let me ask you out again. I still remember the lecture the Director gave us afterwards.
Flip.
I've reached the front cover. I pause for an agonizing minute before I turn the book over and start from the back again.
Flip.
I read every word of my termination notice again. I remember the look on the Director's face as she handed me the slip of paper and told me to clean out my desk. I remember that fleeting moment when I saw for the first time a sadness so profound that it could not be described by words, and realized deep down that it was because she couldn't bear to look me in the eye.
Flip.
I turn back another page and the last of the letters bleeds its sympathy at me again. "John, this is the last time we'll be writing…"
Flip.
"John, I know it's only been a few months, but we all think that you should…"
Flip.
"John, it might be too soon, but…"
Flip.
"John, we're all so sorry…"
Flip.
"John, I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your wife did not make it to her designated evacuation point following the containment breach and total loss of Site 29. At this time, we are forced to assume that she was killed in action along with the rest of her team…"
Flip.
It's the last photo of you again, along with the note you wrote me that one fateful day. A piece of simple, lined notebook paper with the hand-scribbled words, "see you at seven". A single tear falls onto the page and I quickly wipe it away to prevent it from damaging the book, even though I know it's a futile gesture. The countless tears that came before have left their mark on it already.
Flip.
I see you beaming with pride at the party celebrating your promotion once more. I remember all the conversations, lectures and arguments we had, and the Director reminding us in that quiet way of hers that while she would never order us either way, that there is always the unspoken risk in our line of work when it comes to being in love with our coworkers.
Flip.
I turn the page back, and it's the two weeks we spent in the Bahamas for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time I wish that as I turn back the book I could turn back time just so I could have one more minute, one more second with you.
Flip.
Another page turns back, and I die a little more inside.


The room's dark. Oh, I'm sure there's some light on in here, some brief glint of afternoon sun through the cellar window or some long-gone child's twinkling discarded toy. But for me, the room's dark. It's warm and dark, and there are cobwebs stuck to my shawl. No one else has been down here in a while. I sit on a wooden rocking chair that doesn't rock anymore.
My fingers move frantically. They carry needle and thread like a pianist playing his symphony. My fingers dance and spin as the yarn and cloth are woven together, forming cute shapes. Pulling stuffing from my belly, I fill the figures. I put love in every stitch. I sew runes and rhymes into the cotton fluff inside. I place buttons where the eyes should go. I put on bows and ribbons, little wool sweaters and felt shoes. The little ones awaken.
Some of them can move on their own. Some of them can't move until I attach their flexible limbs. Some of them will never move perfectly, and that's okay. Each of them is what they're meant to be. None of them can talk, at least none yet, and that's okay too. I haven't figured the talking out yet. Maybe I'll learn a new stitch for that in the coming months. It must be in high demand out there.
The little ones need love and closeness. There's all levels of intimacy and protection with the little ones. Some are right next to your dreams. Some are right under your skin. Some are right around the corner. Some are just right. Well, they're all right, if you look at it in that way. But I don't look at it in any way.
Eventually the little ones leave. They always do, and that's fine with me. Sometimes they crawl or skitter out. Sometimes they walk, sometimes they stroll or run or tumble or flutter. I give each one a tag, a note or message, to help they who finds the little ones take care of them. They're not my little ones once they've left the needles. They're the little ones.
I just keep on making the little ones, even after all the old little ones have left. It's life knit large, so to speak. The room's dark and warm and the little ones dance about. They explore the storage cellar, the children's museum upstairs, and the world out there. But I don't leave. I stay behind and knit. The Blind Babushka stays behind and knits.


Blossom was a flower girl
who was in fact a flower
she worked a shop on Third and Pearl
which was in fact her bower
A boy walked by and pointed out
her status with some laughter
and though she smiled and offered doubt
she lost her mind right after

Site ██ Long-Term Non-Anomalous Item Storage Facility
Item Record
Locker #: 6709-033
Ref: Item 1 of 10
Archived By: Dr. ██████ █████████
Description:
Hand-written document, black permanent marker on 10.5 inch by 8 inch (26.67 cm by 20.32 cm) paper roughly torn from a spiral-bound notebook.
Document and 9 additional items of interest were confiscated and transferred to Site ██ on ██/██/██ by undercover agents embedded in local law enforcement after they were recovered from a downtown flower store in [REDACTED] owned by [REDACTED], a young woman approximately 23 years of age. A concerned neighbor had reported that the storefront had been closed for three days in a row despite the immediate proximity of Mother's Day, which is one of the best sales periods for such businesses. Neighbor reported that upon investigation, they could hear muffled sobbing or crying from within the store, which prompted the police call and was corroborated by the initial responding law officers.
Upon forcing their way into the store, all sound from within the store immediately ceased. Approximately 12% of the store's stock was disturbed or destroyed in a manner consistent with having been displaced as a result of an individual searching for something among the shelves, and all flowers within the store had had their petals removed in a manner consistent with careful detachment rather than violent tearing. A single neat pile of mixed flower petals totaling approximately 58.6 kg by weight was discovered behind the main counter, which was inconsistent with the amount of flower stems located within the store; this discrepancy in mass remains unexplained.
None of the items recovered from the scene exhibited any anomalous properties or effects. No traces of [REDACTED] or the notebook that this document was torn from were ever found.


“Come on, Clementine's a great name. Clementine Zairi-Lewitt. Rolls right off the tongue.” Mary-Ann sipped from her iced tea. “Though that doesn't do us any good if it's a boy…Sean? Can't go wrong with Sean.”
Salah shrugged.
“Maybe.”
“Okay, so what are your suggestions?”
“Hmm…My maternal grandmother's name was Ibtisam, if that helps at all…”
“Mine was Carol, so you've got me beat in terms of cool sounding grandma names, but seriously, Salah, you can't let me do all the thinking here.”
“Nothing's coming to mind, I'm afraid.”
sigh
“Fine, we'll let it sit for a while.”
Mary-Ann sat back in her chair and stared out at the ocean. The setting sun had turned the world orange and gold and pink and red. The palm leaves swayed a bit in the evening breeze. The smoke from the cooking pit drifted over to her. It smelled absolutely delicious.
Wait…shit, that's pork!
She shot a worried look at Salah, the words half-formed in her mouth. He held up a hand.
“I'm fine. I'll just get something on the way back to the hotel when we're done here.”
“You don't have to…”
“I'm fine.”
“Right…right…” Shit how did you fucking not notice that? You've been sitting here for half a fucking hour…didn't even ask… No wonder he was acting off. Fuck. And you didn't even think to ask…but he hadn't said anything at all either…augh, why didn't he just say things? The stiff upper lip is fine most of the time but augh…okay…okay…collect yourself, Mary-Ann. You're being paid to vacation in Hawaii. This is meant to be a happy time.
Time for a humorous outburst to lighten the mood.
“Ha! Got it! A perfect name!” Mary-Ann snapped her fingers. “Vishnu!”
On a scale of awkward pauses, this particular pause rated about an 8, which was the “that joke wasn't funny at all” stage. Salah chuckled and shook his head.
“Something tells me that won't go over very well.”
“It's still a viable third option,” No what are you doing the joke wasn't funny stop continuing it.
“That's a very loose sense of viable.” Salah stood up. “I'll be back in a bit.”
Mary-Ann nodded, and Salah walked back into the house. She knew that the form of “bit” he was using was a lot longer that what most people used.
Some time passed. Mary-Ann watched the gulls circle and the sun dip below the water. Despite the astounding weather, it felt like a gloomy day in March, when spring decides to show its head with freezing rain and overcast skies.
Eventually, the host approached the patio, balancing in his arms an array of bowls and plates that looked destined to fall over at any moment. He was a rather broad and strong-built man of forty or so with something of a beer gut, dark skin, dark hair, an obnoxiously loud floral-print shirt, board shorts, and sandals.
This was Lono, and he was the god around these parts.
He set out the food on the table: kalua pork, sweet potatoes, plantains, taro, breadfruit, shrimp, and eel, steam rising up in a great miasma of deliciousness. Mary-Ann's saliva glands and guilt jostled for primary position.
Lono sat down in his chair, and took a beer from the cooler next to it.
“Thanks be to me, amen.” He cracked open his bottle and took a long drink. “Damn, that's good stuff.” He glanced at Salah's empty chair. “So, uh, where'd he go?”
“Inside. He's washing up for evening prayers.” Mary-Ann took a paper plate and began filling it with some sweet potatoes and shrimp. The guilt sat right alongside the hunger in her stomach, an undigestible lump. She didn't have to observe halal, of course, but it didn't feel right with Salah still around, but of course he would just tell her to go ahead and eat, and then there was being a good guest and all, wouldn't want to look ungrateful… “I don't think he'll be joining us.”
Lono paused in his piling of food on his plate to lift a quizzical eyebrow.
“He doesn't eat pork,” Mary-Ann said.
“Takes all types, I ‘spose. His loss though.” Another swig of beer. “So, what's this whole thing about? The guy on the phone a few days ago was about as clear as mud.”
“There's not a whole lot to it, really. Just smoothing over relations between you and the Initiative.”
“And we do that by…”
“Avoiding the part where a bunch of maniacs rush in, burn this place to the ground, and waste a great deal of time, money and manpower trying to kill you. They're about as subtle as someone who ate a lot of shitty Mexican food and shoved a lit firecracker up their ass. Just about as pleasant, too.” Admittedly, this was a bit forced on her part, but she was on the job, and getting back into the role of snark-having, gregarious Mary-Ann was a necessity for this.
Lono laughed heartily.
“Sounds like someone has their panties in a twist, and for once I'm not the one doing it!”
“You have no idea.”
“So this is going to be one of those 'you leave us alone we leave you alone' quid pro quos, right?”
“Right. It's a really simple agreement, really. Nothing big. No smitations, no direct interventions, no going out and leaving a bunch of little demigods running around all over the place. Essentially, don't go around being an asshole or do anything that attracts undue attention.”
Lono frowned.
“Wait, what was the next to last one?”
“No demig-“
“Oh! No, this cannot be!” He flung out his arm as if he were delivering a stage oration. “You seek to take from me one of the few pleasures I have left in my life! Now I shall never again know the joy of a woman in my arms, the excitement of the courting, the sheer uninhibited wonder of a really good fuck out under the stars! It is not right that a man live alone, my dear. At some point or another, he needs to get some tail.”
Mary-Ann finished chewing her mouthful of breadfruit, trying her best to appear composed: She had very nearly spat it across the patio from laughter.
“So long as it's consensual, legal, and doesn't involve superpowered kids, we're not going to stop you. But tell you what: Call me back about ten years ago and we'll go a round.”
“Oho? Was I that obvious?”
“I'm just savvy. This would be the part where I'd say something like ‘no one makes oogly eyes at me but my husband', but between you and me he's absolutely horrible at it. Wouldn't have it any other way, of course.”
God help me I am actually having this conversation.
Lono shrugged and drained the rest of his beer.
“Ah, you don't need my help anyway. Did you choose a name yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Could always go for Lonnie,” he smirked.
“Eh, I think we'll pass on that one. Thanks for the suggestion, though.”
Dinner and conversation went on. It was a surreal experience, to say the least: if Mary-Ann had not known Lono's true nature, she would have thought him just a cheery neighbor man who spent a lot of his time in the garden enjoying dirty jokes and ukulele music. Essentially that was what he was, but on a larger scale. That was most likely why he had remained so stable for so long: being a patron of sex, food and music was excellent for sustainability.
It was nice to meet something that didn't want to kill everyone, for once.
The sun had set now, the sky slowly fading from orange to deep twilight blue. The eating had slowed to a lull, as had the conversation. A lone lamp had been turned on.
“I'll go get Salah and we can get this thing finished.” She stood up and walked around to the eastern side of the house.
I'll treat him to dinner to make up for this. A really good dinner. There's got to be a place nearby…or maybe ice cream…
She paused a moment: Salah was still kneeling prostrate on his mat. This was cause for concern: he had left almost an hour ago, and he never stretched out prayers that long…
Mary-Ann sat down in the grass where she was and waited. Maybe five minutes later, Salah rose, rolled up his mat, and walked over to her.
“You don't have to apologize for anything.” He sat down next to her.
“Yeah, well, I feel bad about it anyway. That's good old Catholic guilt for you.”
“You worry too much.”
“And you try too hard to make sure I don't worry at all. I get it, you don't want to cause any trouble for anyone, but sometimes it's just too much, okay? It's not like you're barging into places and screaming 'CATER TO MY WHIMS.' You've got the self-control of a crazy aesetic out in the desert, you'll deal with the Wolves when there's no one else around to do it, you take care of stuff around the house before I even get a chance to see it, you don't even take your food back when someone messes up your order…And I love you for all of that, but I'm your wife for heaven's sake: I signed up to deal with you for the rest of my life because out of all the people in the world with issues I want to deal with yours. And when you don't let me help, well…that makes me feel shitty because you do so much for me, and I feel like I should have done something so you don't have to put up with the crap in the first place and…man, I am just babbling.”
And that was that. The weight was off her chest, now only to see where it would fall. Salah didn't respond for a moment, and then began to laugh.
“You do cut right to the chase, there. I needed that."
“It's what I'm here for."
"How go the negotiations?"
That was good, getting back to business as if nothing had happened.
“He's very agreeable to the idea. Just need you to witness it and we're set. Scribes will probably write him down as the saint of sweet potatoes or something like that.”
“They probably will.”
There was a quiet pause, filled with insect buzzings.
"Now, our plane doesn't leave until tomorrow evening, and after that we'll be hopping around doing odd jobs all the way home. I don't know about you, but I want to find a nice spot on the beach tomorrow and just veg out for as much of the day as I can.”
“We might be able to piece together an actual honeymoon over the next few years at this rate. A day here, a day there, they build up.”
Mary-Ann stood up and brushed off her shorts.
“Right then. Let's get this done, and after that I say we go out for ice cream. I'm buying.”
—

“I, Lono, swear upon my honor and by my power, to uphold this oath with the Horizon Initiative: that I shall raise no hand to harm, nor take any unfair advantage of, mankind. As symbol of this oath, I present to the Horizon Initiative this sweet potato, blessed by my power. May this friendship last until the end of time.”
“As representative of the Horizon Initiative, I swear upon the honor of the organization and by the power of the All-Mighty, that so long as this oath is kept, no hand shall be raised against you by the Initiative, and should another party aim to harm you, the Initiative will come to your aid.”
“Damn, that's a lot of shit just to say 'keep doing what you're doing.' Don't be afraid to stop back, now.”

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"Ladies, gentlemen, and other assorted individuals. The time has come for us to die."
A great noise erupted from the assembled members of the Shark Punching Center. Some in the audience had known of these plans for quite some time, but to the majority, the announcement came as a shock. Question after question was hurled at the speaker on stage, who remained silent until the room calmed down. There would be time to answer all of them, but for now, everyone needed a few moments to vent and get everything out of their systems.
After several minutes of disorder and shouting, the room gradually grew still, all eyes fixed on the speaker, hoping he would provide some answer to this perceived madness.
"Now, as you all know," the speaker began, straightening his tie out, "we have all solemnly sworn to defend the Earth from the constant threat it faces in the form of the shark menace. Every day, hundreds of us go out into the field, and punch sharks in the face, risking life and limb so that no family has to be torn apart by a great white, so that no basking shark can ever threaten the international security of any country. We've had a good run at it, and under ideal circumstances, we would continue our operations far into the future." He paused, then sighed deeply. "But unfortunately, circumstances are far from ideal right now. We are under constant threat, and for once, it comes not in the form of a scaly, fanged monster from the depths of the ocean. Rather, it comes from the organization known as the SCP Foundation."
A few curses were muttered in the audience, accompanied by several shaking fists. "You are all of course familiar with the way they came to possess a transcript of our orientation program. At first, we thought nothing of it: who cares if they knew? It's not like they had any good reason to stop us at the time. So we let it slide, and for a short period of time, we coexisted peacefully. They contained their anomalous objects and we punched our sharks.
"But after a time, it became apparent that we could not exist completely parallel to one another. We started pushing at the boundaries, infiltrating their operations. We managed to gate crash their Halloween party, establish our own website that was highly similar to theirs, and even stole away a few of their contained objects to further our ability to punch sharks. It was our most successful period, both in terms of achieving our goal and financial success."
Again, the orator stopped and adjusted his tie, coughing slightly as he did so. "But then the Foundation started pushing back. They captured our top field agent. They started working to keep us out of their sites. They even attempted to stop several of our best men from punching sharks! And then there's this," he said, standing up straighter and brandishing a handful of papers, "this… thing they put out just the other day. You all saw it yesterday, I know you did. A mockery of all our hard work and sacrifice. They view us as little more than a joke - no, not even that anymore. We were a joke to them in the past. Now we're just a tired old gag."
The speaker stepped out from behind the podium and placed his hands behind his back. "But then, I suppose we've been a joke since the beginning."
Another cacophony of noise rose up from the crowd, outraged at the merest hint that their sacred mission could be considered anything close to a joke. "Everyone, please, please listen!" the orator cried, raising his hands up and desperately trying to calm the crowd down. "I do not mean to imply that our mission is a joke, or that the act of punching sharks is an unworthy cause! Please, listen!"
The assembled members eventually calmed down enough to take their places and listen once again, though many still seethed at the words they had just heard.
"Lately, I have been consulting the psychic shark we keep hidden away in the high-security wing. You are all very much aware of the danger in punching this one, due to its tendency to damage the very fabric of reality whenever it is struck. However, while working to find some way of saving ourselves, I punched him straight between the eyes, and I saw. I saw that this world was not always as it has been. There was a time when things the Foundation considers to be… 'goofy,'" he said, finger-quoting as sardonically as he could, "were very much the norm. It was a time when a man could punch all the sharks he wanted and protect mankind from the shark threat, and the Foundation would not find fault in this at all.
"But there came a time when the nature of the universe changed. Some greater power, far beyond our comprehension, reshaped the fabric of reality, so that much of the 'goofy' elements in the universe were purged. Everything was serious now, and off-the-wall concepts were very much forbidden.
"And then we came into existence. Despite our forty-year history, from a relative standpoint, the Shark Punching Center hasn't even been around for two years." Another cacophony rose up in the crowd. "If you don't believe me, you can go punch the psychic shark yourselves!" the orator snapped, his patience for these outbursts growing ever thinner. "Now please, listen to me!" There was, however, no calming the assembled members. All the speaker could do was wait for the chaos to die down. It took nearly twenty minutes, but eventually, order was restored.
"Look. I may have gone a bit far in bringing that up. But it is ultimately beside the point. Regardless of why the Foundation views us the way they do, whether it be because we exist in a world where men and women like us are not meant to exist, or if they are simply sick of us, the fact remains that they view us as a joke. And if this," he brandished the papers again, "is any indication, we are the kind of joke that they will find a way to get rid of. But they will not do it fast.
"We face a slow, horrible death, people. The Foundation will attempt to gradually drain away our resources, undermine our membership, and undo everything we have wrought. And again, this will not be swift; this will be a long, painful, drawn-out process. They can't be bothered to do it in one go; every time they need something to kick around a little, they'll drag us up and destroy us a little more, and then a little more, and then a little more, until there's nothing left. The death of the Shark Punching Center, on the terms of the SCP Foundation, will be drawn-out, humiliating, and painful. Is there anyone here who wants to see our mighty organization brought low in such a manner?"
Having heard of their potential fate, few in the crowd could bring themselves to say they did. One solitary voice rose up from the sea of faces: "So what do we do?"
The speaker sighed deeply. "We destroy ourselves. Not entirely, mind you, not entirely. We have a few select field agents chosen to continue our mission in secret. They will wander the oceans of the world, doing whatever they can to protect those threatened by sharks. But they are never to form another organization like us - it will only be them, and them alone, who defend the world. As for the rest of us, we are to vanish off the face of the Earth, and our bases are to be destroyed, all four of them. By the end of the day, it will be as if the Shark Punching Center never existed."
A few people in the room laughed to themselves. A few people sobbed into their hands. Most were silent. A sense of inevitability had descended upon the room, leaving the majority unable to react in any significant manner. The speaker sighed one last time.
"However, this does not mean we are going to go quietly." Ears perked up all across the room. "We will not be attacking the SCP Foundation, or doing some grand suicide mission, or anything of that sort. But we will not be going quietly. If you will look in the lockers stationed around this room, you will find enough scuba gear and boxing gloves to fit every person in this room. You are to don them, and brace yourselves for a sudden increase in the amount of water in the room. Shortly afterwards, every shark in this facility will be released, leaving us with more than enough shark faces to punch. With any luck, we will punch like we have never punched before.
"There will not be any survivors. Despite our great skills, the fact of the matter is that the sharks far outnumber us, and will slaughter every last one of us. Upon the death of every non-shark living thing in the facility, the water is to be drained, leaving the sharks to die horrible, suffocating deaths. The bases will then blow, leaving behind no evidence we ever existed. And that, my friends, will be the end of the Shark Punching Center. One final glorious round of flying fists and bleeding scales. A fitting swan song for our group."
A great excitement had gripped those assembled. In spite of their oncoming demise, none in the room could deny that there was any other proper way to go than this. They had punched sharks together for years, and if they had to go out, then they would go out swinging. Scuba gear was tightened, boxing gloves were strapped on, and bodies were braced. The brave men and women who had diligently protected the world from the underwater menace were ready to die, unsung heroes, but heroes nonetheless.
Seeing that the last scuba mask had been fastened on tight, the speaker smiled - for the courage of the men and women before him, and for the years of glory they had lived for. "Does everybody remember the techniques you learned from The Art of Punching Sharks?" A great cry of confirmation echoed off the walls. "What is our motto?"
"To search, punch, and conquer!"
"Then release the sharks."
So ended the Shark Punching Center.


The Epic of Gilgamesh is one of the oldest ones in the book, one of the oldest stories written by the human race (that people these days care to remember, anyway.) It's a story that's been told time and time again throughout the millennia; a tale of pride, of redemption, of man's eternal struggle against his own nature, and his acceptance of his place in the universe.
Gilgamesh is the great king of Uruk. Wise, robust, unbeatable in combat, half-divine, one of the mightiest rulers in the entire world. But he's also arrogant, egotistical, and cruel to his subjects, who cry to the gods for relief. And so the gods send Enkidu, a wild man formed from the clay of the Earth, to end his reign of terror and teach him his role. But rather than defeating Gilgamesh through force of arms, he befriends the great king, and the two of them become as close as brothers. Together, they defeat all the horrors the gods can send at them - the terrible giant Humbaba, the rampaging Bull of Heaven, and the other monsters that history has forgotten or are now known by other names. In the end, the gods decide that Enkidu must die for his failure, and despite Gilgamesh's love and the ministrations of his healers, he slips away.
The bereaved king becomes obsessed with his own mortality, and searches the world for a way to cheat death. He travels far and wide before he meets Utnapishtim, the oldest man in the world, the only man to ever become immortal, and is humbled by him - for when the wise man challenges him to remain awake for seven days, he cannot even conquer sleep, let alone death. Utnapishtim relents and tells him of a single plant which can grant him unending youth - but after diving to the bottom of the sea itself to acquire it, it is stolen away from him and eaten by a snake.
Thus the tale ends, with Gilgamesh accepting his mortality and returning to Uruk to rule as a kinder, humbler lord. That's how the version that's known today ends, anyway. I went to great lengths to ensure that the last few tablets were never rediscovered by anyone smart enough to piece things together. The truth is, Gilgamesh learned from Utnapishtim that there is a balance between life and death. For a man to live longer than his allotted time, others must have their lives cut short. For a man to live forever… well, it took years for Gilgamesh to figure out the techniques and teach them to those of his priests who were loyal enough, but in the end, he learned the secret.
At first they took the old and the sick to the sacrificial altars. Then the children, babies torn from their mother's breasts and thrown onto the pyres. Then the women - especially the virgins - who suffered untold depredations as the priests of Uruk snuffed out not only their lives, but their souls. Soon, anyone who showed their face on the streets of Uruk was fair game for those who served only out of the hope that they would be taken last. In the end, they were forced to turn on each other. The work was finally completed when the last two of the elders slit each others' throats while singing a song of praise to their new god. Gilgamesh would live forever - as king over a city populated only by the dead.
None could stop the great king as he tore a swath of destruction across the world with his new-found gifts. Entire armies fell before him, city walls crumbled at his coming. No man could defeat him - and even if he were cut to pieces and seemingly killed, he simply rose and returned again, bearing the scars of his defeats proudly as he hunted and annihilated those who had dared to stand before him. He sought not wealth, nor women, nor even worship or adulation from those he conquered - he did it because he could, and because it pleased him to do so. He always sought a greater challenge.
And the gods answered his challenge. They sent Enkidu back - for even from the land of the dead, he saw what his friend, his companion, his brother, had become, and could not abide it.
To bring the dead back to life is a difficult thing even for a god, of course. He was not as he had been - they couldn't find all his pieces and had to replace some of them with iron and bronze, and none who looked upon him could doubt that he was not a natural man. They granted him two divine boons to ensure that he would complete the task he had failed at before. First, a curse - that he could never stay long in one place and become idle, for a pestilence would follow him and the men of the land would not abide his presence, nor would he find any food to eat. Second, a blessing - that no man or god, not even Gilgamesh, could harm him without harming himself.
The battle between them would have been a story told by people the world over - if any who witnessed it had lived. Entire empires crumbled around them as they grappled - great Al-Ilas with its silver spires, the city of Vemura and its fabled seven citadels, and I seem to recall that even the land of the Devas did not long endure when the battle found its way into their realm. The battle might have been the doom of all mankind itself - but on the dawn of the seventh day, in the seventh month, in the seventh year of their fighting, Gilgamesh struck Enkidu harder than he could bear, and when he felt the pain he had dealt to his brother, he fell.
"Let me go, my brother," said Gilgamesh, "for the day has broken, and I can fight no more."
"I cannot, my brother," Enkidu replied, "unless you shall let me bind you until the day the world is undone." And though it pained Gilgamesh to do so, his love for his brother was so great that he relented.
And so Gilgamesh was bound and sealed away, to wait until the day when he would face a power great enough to defeat him once and for all. As for Enkidu, the gift the gods had given him could not be surrendered, and he has wandered ever since. The story of the two brothers passed from history into legend, and Enkidu made sure enough of the details got forgotten that nobody again could do what his brother had done. In time, even the names got changed around. Enkidu would be known by many names over the years as he came and went; Osiris, Lazarus, Wandering Jew, St. Germain, and so on.
I'm pretty sure my name never really was Enkidu to begin with, though.


You know, most folks who think about the ocean usually only think about the surface level. You know, the bright blue areas with all the fish and plant life. Finding Nemo and all that sort of crap. It's mysterious, sure, but there's never any real sense of threat to it. You go down and you know you're coming back up; that sort of thing.
But they never think about where I'm going: straight to the bottom. Sure, I'm in a small airtight capsule, the best the Foundation's got on hand at the moment, but that doesn't really do much to distract from the fact that I'm currently 2500 meters down and still going. Let me tell you, when you're hours away from the nearest shore, going down to the bottom of the ocean to retrive a highly dangerous artifact all by yourself, even the best and brightest of the Foundation telling you it'll all be OK isn't nearly enough.
I swear, I'm going to kill whoever did this. If 173 had just stayed in its damn cell we wouldn't have to be going through this. But nope, it broke out, killed a bunch of people, vanished off the radar, and was last seen by one of our contacts being dumped out of a boat into the middle of the ocean. We would have taken the bastards doing the dumping into custody had they not jumped in right after it and floated back up as corpses twenty minutes later. Either way, we've got ourselves an SCP stuck at the bottom of the ocean, and I have to go get it.
They already went down a few times looking for it. Would have been nice if they'd bothered to think of bringing anything strong enough to dig it out of the muck it's lodged in up to the chest. But no, they only found where the damned thing is, and I'm supposed to go down and drag it up from the briny deep so we can lock it up until next Tuesday, when I'm pretty damned certain we'll have to go through the whole process again. I swear, if it weren't for the health benefits the job has, I'd quit Monday.
Christ, it's dark outside. I'm pretty damned certain I saw something moving out there, but I don't want to turn on the floodlights and draw its attention. All I know is that there's water all around me, pretty much no light, and a fucking long way down if anything decides to ram into me. Wonder what the pressure is out there? Probably somewhere in the vicinity of too damn high. Pretty much the opposite of the temp…
Why do the readings on the pannel indicate that I'm being pulled sharply westward? There aren't any major channels nearby, so it can't be that. It'd take something massive to pull with that much force, like a huge-ass drain pipe, or… a… Let's turn the sub around so I can get a better view. Please don't let it be what I think it is, oh please God, I'll be a good man from now on if it's not what I think it is, please oh please… oh, you dickwads.
There's a huge wall of flesh right in front of me, filling up my entire field of view. Looks like an enormous monster fish of some kind, mostly because of the miles tall gills that are slowly sucking me in.
Yeah! Yeah, thanks for not telling me that we were sending me down right the fuck next to the gills of the single largest creature on the planet. What, did you think that it wouldn't be breathing right now? You've got this thing's breathing pattern down pat, and you think it's a good idea to schedule my dive right when it's taking in water? Yeah, thanks a whole fucking bunch, assholes!
Calm down, calm the fuck down. You wanna get out of this alive, just maneuver the sub in the right direction. Which way is the right direction? Hell if I know, but it probably involves something along the lines of moving away from the giant neck slits of death. Angle yourself down, turn the propellers to full throttle, and work on trying to get in-between two gills. The pull shouldn't be that strong in the middle. C'mon, c'mon, that's it, take it nice and easy, while still moving at top speed as if your life depended upon it, which it kinda does. That's it… that's it…
Oh, thank God, I think I made it. Still too damned close to the giant fish beast, but I think I can keep going down without needing to worry about getting sucked inside Monstro here. Why am I even on the Deep Sea Specialization Force again? Answer, because I majored in Marine Science and thought it would be cool to live my dream job and get paid well for it.
Digging statues out of the muck and nearly getting killed by Biblical monsters. Yep. Job of a fucking lifetime.
***
Well, that was a boring hour. Think I'm finally below that thing. Wish I could confirm it, but I don't think the floodlights will light up more than three meters in front of my face at this point. And if that thing's so close to me, I'd say I really shouldn't worry about anything except how my last prayers should go.
According to the maps, I should nearly be at the bottom. Might wanna give the floodlights a go, just to check. Turning them on now and… hey, what do you know, I've got five meters of coverage, that's nice. Looks like I have made it to the bottom, so let's start checking around me to see how far away I am from that damned statue. They said I went down within ten meters of it, but I don't have any way of saying how far those gills pulled me away.
Half an hour of searching and still nothing. Are they really sure it's trapped in the muck? How do they know it didn't wrestle itself out at some point and just go wandering the ocean… black, by the looks of things outside. I swear, if he's not there…
Ah-ha! There you are, you old rocky bastard! Jammed chest-high in the muck, just like they said you would be! Christ, you look terrible. Looks like something tried to take a couple of bites out of you. Hell, you've even got a few teeth sticking out of you - big ones at that. And what are those things you've got tied all around you? Looks like little plastic bags of ground-up meat. Weird. Don't know who'd be stupid enough to use you as a fishing line.
Doesn't matter, though. I'm here, you're here, let's get back to the surface before something can go wrong. Yeah, I see you struggling every time I blink. Not gonna do you any good. That gunk's thick as hell, and this mechanical arm's even stronger. You're not going anywhere any time soon. Let's get heading upwards.
Oh, look, radio contact's back on. Hey, yeah, I've got it, don't worry. He's sealed up nice and tight in the claw. Yeah, things went smoothly. Oh, except for one little detail. Yeah, as it turns out, you fuckers dropped me right next to 169's gills while they were taking in water and nearly got me turned into a victim of whatever sort of filtering system that fucker's got. Yes, yes you fucking did. I expect at least a double pay for this job when I get back up to the… Hold on, 173's struggling again. Give it up, buddy, you're not getting…
Oh shit, I think he just got out. I've still got him by the leg, but he's in reaching distance of the screen on the sub. The guy on the radio's telling me that the glass is completely shatterproof, but I don't believe him, seeing as 173 is punching and cracking the glass at a fairly alarming rate. It's kinda hard to keep your eyes open when the entire sub is rattling around and you're scared out of your fucking mind. What the hell do you mean it's lucky that the sub's designed to float back up to the surface and increase the gripping strength if the hull is breached? I'm still inside the fucking sub, and I'm still gonna fucking die.
Good God, how much longer can I keep this up? We're ascending at a good pace, and we should be at the top in… I don't know, I'm too terrified right now to come up with the numbers. I want to say half an hour, but I really don't like that. Five minutes. We'll be up in five minutes. I can go for five minutes without blinking, right?
For some reason, I can't help but notice that weird writing on the statue's forehead. I haven't ever cared to get close enough to memorize the details of its face, but I know for certain it was never there before. Kinda weird, really. What's it say? "Property of the S… P…" can't make out the rest.
Hold on one fucking moment. What did that captured memo we used to pass around say? Something about capturing anomalous objects and using them to punch…
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Then I blink, and the screen shatters, letting the water rush in.


In the Foundation, you can't afford to pull punches. If you make an assumption, expect it to fly back in your face before you can say "Skipper". Hell, do you know how many tests they have to run in this place? It's a laundry list bigger than my forearm. I don't know which poor tuna head they got to do the tests, but I'm glad it ain't me.
- Overheard from within the Site-87 administrative washroom.

Researcher Brian Cohen stood above the slightly luminescent nacho bowl classified as E-00043. Currently, it was being bombarded with amusingly high levels of secret radiation, to see what would happen. This was always the worst part of the job. Every time a new shiny diet cola or infinite curdle dispenser came along, he had to test it for every type of unforeseen anomaly under the sun.
There were tests to see if it reacted to water, a test for gravitational force, tests to determine whether or not it could cause a massive heart failure to someone sitting on it… basically, if a Level 4 could imagine it, he'd have to test it. Brian checked his watch, and sighed. Only about 104 tests left to go…

TEST NUMBER: 196
OBJECT: E-00043 "Shiny Bowl"
CURRENT TEST: "Testing for "Rage State"
TEST PROCEDURE:

Brian slouched in his chair, lazily pawing for a bag of pretzels as D-5611 entered the chamber. Fumbling for the mic, he pressed his cheese dust-encrusted fingers to the intercom button.
"Please insert the nacho you were given into E-00043, and eat it."
The orange jumpsuit clad woman looked over to the sparkling snack receptacle, then back to the intercom.
"You being serious right now?"
"Yes. Just, uh, drop it in for a couple seconds, and then eat it."
She shrugged. "Whatever. You're the boss, I guess." There was a slight clink, followed by a crunch.
Brian watched her for a minute, going over the rage state checklist. Subject was not suddenly gaining additional muscle mass, or attempting to exit the test chamber. Subject had not threatened to "spill the blood of ten thousand wasps into your accursed soul." Brian leaned into the mic.
"Yo, D-Class. How you feel?"
Inside the test chamber, the orange-clad woman shrugged. "Same, I guess."

RESULT: E-00043 was determined not to cause a rage state in human subjects.

TEST NUMBER: 205
OBJECT: E-00043 "Shiny Bowl"
CURRENT TEST: "Insanity Probability"
TEST PROCEDURE:

Brian glanced at the clock, half-hoping it would show some sort of serendipity with the schedule. Sadly, these hopes were misplaced. Three in the morning, Jesus fuckin' Christ. Looking around the cluttered, snack-wrapper laden observation chamber, he sighed, and slapped his palm onto the intercom button.
"Send in… you remember which one we're on?"
"Two hundred twenty three, I think." crackled the speaker.
"Send, uh, that one in then."
A blond-haired fat man sauntered into the testing chamber, wearing a bright green jumpsuit. A small stain was ingrained to the collar, probably jam. Brian stubbed his finger to the intercom, and rattled off test instructions in the third worst German accent he'd ever done. This was the mind-affecting test, seeing whether or not the bowl was a thing what made you go cray-cray. Obediently, the D-Class put it on his head, and just as hypothesized, nothing happened.

RESULT: No anomalous properties detected.

Brian sighed. Only a couple dozen more to go…

Testing continued as it always did, at a snail's pace. There were tests of cumulative exposure, where they made someone wear it all day. Tests for seeing if it made your bladder weaker, or for making you into a different type of bowl, maybe some to test if it changed eating habits. The results were usually predictable as they come: The tester would do something silly with a bowl, and Brian would check the clock and whine to himself.
Later tests were always the weird ones. These had the object do something so specific and bizarre, you know it only started because some sweater in Kansas turned out to be double memetic. Brian was pretty sure that wasn't an actual thing that existed in reality, but it was still on the testing schedule. There was a laundry list of other oddities: Dog vigor, paper towel radiation, and whether or not it caused acne in sharks. Just in case. This one had the test subject just sit next to the bowl, trying to make polite conversation while being hooked up to more brain scanners than you could count.
But, finally, it was time for the last test.
Brian himself would be performing this one, as it was a test of his own creation. He'd been over the list dozens of times, looking for this one being listed, but never found it. It boggled the mind that nobody in the Foundation Smart Test List Initiative(FSTLI) had thought of it. But, it had been absent. In one hand, Brian picked up the bowl, and in the other he held a bag of chips.

TEST NUMBER: 301
OBJECT: E-00043 "Shiny Bowl"
CURRENT TEST: UNAUTHORIZED
TEST PROCEDURE:

Brian poured the chips into the bowl.
There was a silence.
A crunch.
Then nothing.

INCIDENT E-00043-A
On ██/██/████, Researcher Cohen attempted to initiate an unauthorized test with E-00043, with notes recovered from the test observation chamber citing his inability to "believe this shit" when the test was not included on the roster. Subsequently, E-00043 demonstrated a previously unknown anomalous effect, filling the entire test chamber with "Lays" brand potato chips, severely injuring Researcher Cohen. Investigation into the incident is ongoing, and E-00043 has been slated for additional testing.

|Hub|


It's so cold. This place has always been so cold and dark. Well, not so dark, but it doesn't count for me. I've been here for a long time, and it's so boring. I mostly spend my days walking around. Sometimes I sit and I try to think, but it's so hard now. I have shattered memories about the me before the current "me". I can barely remember people I loved when I was younger, but not their names or even their faces. I can see myself running, and playing, and getting hurt, and crying. I can remember a man who came one day to my… home? Did I ever have a home before? Nevermind.
Why is it so cold here?
He's the one I can remember well, I'll never forget it, not even now. He was tall and thin, with a huge mustache that it looked almost like a smile, but he didn't look happy at all. He said something to me and the other people around me. I can't recall what he said exactly, but we followed him. I can't remember anything but dust, and smoke and that red thing from that moment till my last memory being the old "me".
I raise my hand. I can see my bones through my flesh.
I was in a… thing that goes underwater? What was the word? Su… Sub-mah-reeen? Anyways, I was with others in it, travelling through the sea. I always liked the sea, even now. Water everywhere. We were taking a thing to a special place. They told me it was a weapon to defeat our enemies. I thought it was rather funny. Basically a big, white ball with strange symbols. I used to know what the symbols meant, but now I don't care anymore. You forget what you don't use, after all. I always think about the time I spent in that thing. I don't want forget, but one day I will.
I can hear sounds through the walls. They keep building it thicker.
We reached a place where water and ice met. At least, that's what they told me. I couldn't see too much from inside of the submahreen. Another day, and nothing to do. Red alarms and screams from machines started, breaking the calm. everybody was running through small passages, as was I. They saw other things get close to us. Everybody prepared themselves for battle, looking at glowing screens and checking our weapons. I went to my position and started to to check my own screen for enemies. I saw. There were two small points getting closer to us. A thing started to talk through a speak-machine ordering the enemies to retreat. I looked at my screen again. I saw a shiny thing going from one of the shiny points directly to me. I screamed at the things to prepare for the impact, and immediately after a big sound filled the place. It was followed by the water, which was really cold. I ran fast to avoid seeing the other things going down. I went directly to the ball. I looked at it desperately. I remember the pain in my ears. Something tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear what it said. I remember the fear. Those things and I were going to die. I turned my head and I saw the weapon one last time, and for a second, I saw it glow. Another explosion. This time it caught too close. The pain and fear vanished from my boiling mind, and darkness surrounded me.
Raw meat again. I miss the cooked one. I touch it for a moment. I like meat well cooked.
I suddenly woke up floating in the sea. I inmediately felt the cold water around my body and trying to go land. It was strange, I could see shattered pieces of metal and gore. The sea was no longer blue, but red and for some reason, green around me. I realized that the land was too far, so I tried to swim to the closest trash. I felt scared again, but it was weird. It was like being scared by the first time. When I reached the place I realized something new about myself. I was glowing, in a shiny green, and my bones were visible, but I was otherwise unharmed. I thought for the first time again, trying to think how this happened, but I felt my head was running slowly. I floated a big chunk of black metal and waited. I see one thing floating close to me, and its reddy face kept its last scream. I don't know what to do. I got angry, screaming as hard as possible, and anything listened to me. In that moment I felt my second emotion: Hate. For my enemies, the things that destroyed this and made me feel cold, and angry, and hungry. There was nothing to do, so I waited and waited.
My enemies came today. I tried to kill them, but they attacked me with cold guns, and I felt fear.
I think I was dying. No food, no water and alone. I tried to drink, but it was awful. I don't know how much time, but I was dying. The glowing always present, and is hard to sleep when your… your skin is invisible. One day, I suddenly woke up, and I was inside of a room. I don't know how I got there, but I forgot everything when I saw food. I ran, and I ate for the first time as fast as possible. I realized something new when it burned in my mouth, but I didn't care, and I kept eating and drinking like an animal. When I finished, I tried to inspect the place I was. No windows, made of metal. I don't know what happened to me then. I just remember angry and hate again, so much hate. And things dying, and a lot of red. Then I wake up, and I'm here, and I've been here since that. They are my enemies, and I hate them. I kill them everytime I can, but they make me feel cold. I hate cold. Always so cold.
They always watch me, but I can watch them too.
I stop remember. They are watching me. I can feel it. Something is starting to change inside me. I stand up and turn to the camera over me. I try to watch them through the eye over my cage, but it's impossible. I keep trying and trying. My mind starts to run again, faster and faster, And then I slowly start to see through the camera, and cables, until I reach to a new room. I watch them, and they realize that something is close. My mind is clear, my memories suddenly come back, all at once. I remember everything again. It feels so refreshing, but I still watch them. I hate them, but now my hate has a reason. I try to reach them. I "touch" one of them, and she starts bleeding, and then falls to the ground. Suddenly, a lot of forgotten feelings come right at my face. I return to my cage and I think while I still can. What am I? Am I a monster? I don't want to be a stupid freak within a cold cage forever. I felt in despair. I can feel my mind shutting down again, losing thoughts and memories again, falling into the darkness again. I passed out, and my last coherent thought crossed my mind like a bullet.
I just want to die.
Why's it so cold? This place has always been so cold and dark, well, not so dark, but it don't count for me. It's so boring. I can just walk around or sit and remember. There so few to remember now. I can remember things I loved, but not their colors, or form, or what they were, but I remember that I loved. I remember myself running, and playing, and hurting, and crying. But the only thing I can remember well is this feel. I want to die, I hate here, and they, and me, and food, and cold, and glowing, and bones. I hate everything. They come again today, but it's different. They have guns. I stand up, but I don't attack them, not anymore. They see me. They look funny with weird white dresses and hats. I cant see their faces, but I don't care. They prepare, and for a moment, a tiny little moment. I feel something that I have never felt here.
Thank you.

Due to gross negligence, a decommission order was enacted a ██/██/2009 following the incident reported in addendum. SCP-019 was terminated without incident. Remains showed no anomalous effects, and were disposed of by incineration.


Warning: The following document contains an Et-Class Textual Anomaly (Threat Level-Minor)
Document 16265-15719-B
After Foundation efforts to track and contain the creator of Document 16265-15719-A proved unsuccessful, resources were shifted to the monitoring of newspapers distributed nationally in order to enable effective containment of any future columns from the same origin. Four weeks after the publication of Document 16265-15719-A, a new column appeared (henceforth 16265-15719-B), and was successfully contained prior to wide-scale distribution. However, a number of copies of the document appeared on various internet news outlets the following day. Following the publication of this column, Mobile Task Force Omega-27 ("Bad Deer Hunting") has been tasked with the location and containment of its author.

Hello once again, dearest readers. It is I, Saturn Deer.
Now, let's get right to it this time, no mucking about, eh? First, we'll-
Wait a minute.
What do you mean you have no idea who I am?
Oh god dammit!
Let me guess, you didn't read my introductory column, did you? Fucking figures. I go to all that trouble, have a big flashy intro bit with huge bold letters and everything, and you assholes just go 'herpy derp, I wonder who won the big game last night?' and go read the sports instead. Yeah, I'm talking to you, guy with marinara sauce on his t-shirt. Yeah, you too, blondy. Well, I'll be damned if I'm going to waste space and energy doing that shit again, just for you morons to lose interest and run into traffic or whatever you people do. No, I have a better idea…
Look at the nice kitty. Now squint at the cute kitty, just a bit. Now, pet the lovely kitty. That's a good reader.

If you're reading this on a computer, that means click it, stupid.

All caught up? Yes? Good. Bloody ingrates. On to the letters:
Greetings.
This one was instructed by Production to contact Saturn Deer. Proved simple, given attracting factors. Publicity a non-issue. This one will issue an inquiry:
Model 4950, domestic metal light source, new series, high hopes by Production, Sales, Management. Contains additional features beyond mundane model; activated by thought, stores thought, enables thought on additional spectrum, improves virility. Issues; thought-activation faulty, producing unpredictable side effects- cerebral tumors in adult males, extra limbic growth in adult females, unstable reality altercations in children. Effects constant, device unstable, requires optimization. Problem Resolution unable to find a solution, this one issued Advisory Command. Assistance requested from Saturn Deer, proven useful in the past, adequate compensation promised.
Factory Drone #654397, Problem Resolution Hive
Factory Drone #654397? Are you by any chance related to Factory Drone #578805? He's in Sales, I think. I tell you, that guy could party like no one I've ever met, and that's saying something coming from me. Man, there was that one night we went to the club dressed as a salt-and-pepper set, and he just railed every single-
Er, probably irrelevant. As to your problem, I think you're approaching it from the wrong direction. You see, all you need to do is adjust your parameters; what does "unpredictable" mean anyway? If it causes tumors 100% of the time, that's damn predictable as far as I'm concerned. Sure, the customer might not be all that happy about that huge growth in his head, or his now Code-Greenifed kid, but that's not your problem anymore, now is it? After all, who the hell is he going to tell, what with that tumor pressing all over his language center and his kid turning the house into bees? It's a problem that solves itself.
You're welcome. Oh, and you better not try and pay me with those CDs again. I appreciated the thought, but those things wrecked hell on my productivity.
Deer, you sly old dog!
I can't fucking believe it! You're alive! You were telling the truth all along. Man, this is just hilarious. Oh, you must not remember who I am. It's me, the executioner! You know, from Argentina? Me and my mates caught you preaching your bullshit in one of our control sectors? C'mon, you gotta remember that! I was the big guy in the cameo gear and the nipple pincers. Pretty sure I removed your toe nails at some point. We all thought you were just full of crap about that whole reincarnation thing, but looks like you were legit all along. Guess that we should have saved all those bits we took off you, could have been useful. Oh well, no use crying over spilled bone marrow, I suppose.
So, how the fuck are you doing, mate? I know we didn't exactly meet under idle circumstances, but I felt we made a connection back there, in between all that torture, that is. I thought what you said about the whole prophet business sounded real profound, and no mistake. Give me a call sometime, eh? We'll go out for drinks, talk some business, maybe I can kill you again, for old time's sake? Ahaha, I crack myself up! Just like we did with your ribs!
Oh, would you mind keeping this quiet? Not sure my superiors would appreciate me talking to an ex-corpse and all. You know how they get. Just to be safe, I ain't signing this one. Knowing you, you'll pick this shit up no matter where I am anyway. You just love seeing your own name, don't you?
Oh, perish the thought! Me, snitching on my great friend Operative Pedro Gonzales? Never! To even suggest that I would on turn you, Operative Pedro Gonzales, Chaos Insurgency, Liquidation Squad 9, currently stationed in Buenos Aires, Dockside, Warehouse 56, let alone turn you over to your superiors or any other faction who might be interested your horribly painful interrogation, is frankly insulting. Oh, and no hard feelings about the whole torture business, no worries.
To the foreign fugitive Saturn Deer,
This is your last chance to hand yourself in for the crimes you have committed against the Senate, the Republic and the People of Rome. By law and country, I find you guilty of:

Collaborating with the enemies of the Republic in a time of war
Sacrilegiously taking the name of Saturn as your own
Spreading false rumors and vile propaganda, besmirching the Republic's name
Tempering with the lawful conduct of the election of magistrates, and seeking to sabotage the sanctity of the cursus honorum
Conducting experiments in the fields of chemistry, biology and physics without licence or membership in the Alexylva University
Impersonating an Augur and delivering false and worrisome prophecies
Handling a Gladius-Class submarine while intoxicated
Seducing the daughters of the Republic with lewd suggestions
Publicly befouling the statue of the Consul Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus
Indecent exposure (as part of the aforementioned incident)

These are not your only crimes, for those are beyond numbering, and beyond forgiveness. You are a blight, a vile blemish on the face of the Republic, but by the name of Clementia we are willing to give you your life if you confess to them and show honest repentance for what you have done. Submit yourself to our judgement, and you may live in exile. Stay hidden, and you will be hanged on the Field of Mars. Our experts from the University assured us that it is likely you will be able to see this message, for we invoked your full name.
By the will of the Senate and the People of Rome, I am Preator Gaius Paullus Varro
Oh no, not this again. You'd think that with a name like Saturn Deer, people wouldn't mistake me for someone else every five minutes. You reached the wrong Saturn, mate, or rather the right Saturn but from the wrong universe. Guess your University 'experts' could use some more time working on their quantum physics, and maybe a bit less time reading shit in animal guts. I mean, I might be into the whole reincarnation thing, but even I'm not old enough to have personally insulted the Roman Republic. My other-universe counterpart does sound like a totally rad dude though, so I think I'll take the liberty of replying in his name:
Pedicabo ego vos, buddy.
Oh, and screw your allcaps shit as well. I might be a dick, but even I'm not enough of one to make my readers suffer through a whole letter written like that. Next!
To the receiver of this letter,
If you do not forward this letter to ten other people before the moon passes the third ring, and add a naked picture of yourself if your'e attractive, you will be inflicted with a terrible curse! Your eyes will rot in your head, your ears will be forever sealed with wax, your tongue will be replaced with silly putty, your nostrils stuffed with Peanut M&Ms, and your pubic hair accosted by vultures. Heed my warning, for I am the great Saturn Deer, and my wrath is both swift and terrible!
Huh. My old chain letter. Completely forgot about that one. Well, I better get to it then. Now where did I put that camera…
Hello again, Mr. Deer
Let me start by saying how much I appreciate you posting my letters in your column and answering them. I know my problems are small and banal, and you taking the time to try and help means the world to me.
I'm writing again because this last week has been a bit strange. I was never the most popular guy at work, but it seems like my coworkers been ignoring me more than usual lately. It's probably nothing, but it still bothers me. My new neighbors on the other hand have been real friendly, maybe a bit too much so. They keep checking on me, asking if I'm okay, if I need anything. I hope they don't think I'm crazy or lonely something, and are just trying to be nice about it. Though, to be honest, I am lonely. That's nothing new though. So, to finally get to the point, I wanted to ask if you could recommend me some self-help books. I'm trying to work on myself a bit, and I figured you'd be the best person to ask about this sort of thing. Oh, and that recipe for rice squares was great, by the way.
Thanks again,
Zachery Knor
Oh, hey there Zachery. Looks like my latest attempt didn't do anything either. Guess I shouldn't be surprised. Look, I'm going to tell you what I told you the last five times you wrote to me. Well, the last two times, since the first three were just me basically telling you to go fuck yourself. You don't have a job or a home anymore. Hell, you don't even have a name. Your coworkers have been ignoring you because they're not really there. You are held in a facility where people who don't have your best interests in heart are monitoring you 24/7. Those neighbors of yours? You're just a number to them. The saddest thing is, it's not even their fault. It's yours. The only thing keeping you in this situation are your own abilities, and there's nothing anyone can do to change that. I felt so sorry for you I actually tried to help, and it's beyond me. I can honestly say that it pains me to admit this, but there's no hope for you. You can't change, not ever.
Oh, and I'm glad you liked that rice squares recipe, it was my mom's.
Well… that got real fucking depressing real fast. Damn.
I was going to share some of my grand visions with you, my dearest readers, but that last letter kinda took the fun out of it. Instead, let me leave you with something else, for now. A window. Give it a touch, don't be shy.

Clicking never stopped being a thing, by the way.

Now, I have no idea where this is going to take you. It might be somewhere you never visited before, or someplace really familiar. It might be terrifying, or heartwarming, or beautiful. Wherever it goes, just keep an open mind about it- you might find out something about yourself that never occurred to you before. Even if you don't, it could be fun. Go on, take a trip, and tell them Saturn Deer sent you.
I get a percentage for that.
I was Saturn Deer, and I bid ye adieu.


It's been two weeks since the lights went out. Two weeks to the day, to the hour, to the minute. I remember every instant of it. I remember everything. That's one gift from Prometheus. The locked, dark, room? Yeah, that's another. This door is sealed, and my keycard doesn't work without power. And there's no way I'm getting that thing open. Why couldn't Prometheus have invented something to let me rip a metal door out of its casing? Ah, right. “The true Promethean will rely on strength of mind and spirit, not of body, for even metal is weaker than will.” Well this would-be Promethean is going to die if that's all he gets!
Even if I could open it, I'm not sure if I'd leave. Something is wrong. The lights are powered by the same source that powers the whole facility, so if it's out for me, the whole system must be down. No one has come to help me, either, which isn't exactly encouraging. Could it have been the pinwheel spinning off? Some catastrophe in chemistry? Or did they transcend mere humanity into beings of pure enlightened energy and have no time for poor little old me? In all likelihood, this testing chamber may be the safest place left.

TO ALL PROMETHEUS EMPLOYEES:
Introducing… Telekill. The latest invention of the Prometheus metallurgy division, the capstone of years of research. Telekill is a psychic dampener alloy. It produces a zone of low psychic potential, which naturally draws in and negates harmful mind-waves. Durable and ductile, Telekill can be used anywhere you want to keep your mind safe.

Three weeks now. At least my latest and no doubt last residence is tolerable. The claustrophobic environment makes it hard to think, but it's well furnished. Maybe they'll dig me out in a thousand years and think I was a pharaoh. Pity they'd only give me that respect after I'm dead.
Normally these rooms are fairly spartan, but since I'm doing a longer term study (very longer term, apparently) they've outfitted it with nice furniture, a lantern, and all the food and water my enhanced metabolism needs to survive. A bed, a desk, some bottled water and cans and cans of food. And, of course, filling the corner of the room, the green-gray slab. Telekill. The green-gray slab.

The average human mind suffers countless minor intrusions each year. Between lingering Faerie glamours, Saljab mind-tricks, and Enforcers, "free will" is not so free as it ought to be. The influences are subtle, but alarmingly real. Telekill will finally liberate human determination from the interference of inhuman forces. Sign up to be one of the first to truly control their own mind, their own destiny. With our previous Mem-Fast mnemonic inoculation, you may be sure your memories serve your mind. Telekill will ensure that your mind serves you.

Five weeks. I'm not getting out. I'll die here. I had hoped for more than a lonely death in a room with the green-gray slab. I had such dreams! I would have been the one to not just reach but seize the future. The new era when mankind sees just what the universe is like. I had plans. I could have been so much. Now I've just got dreams of the green-gray slab.
The Prometheus of legends stole fire from the gods so that mankind could rise to be like the gods. I've seen what this Prometheus will bring mankind, besides the green-gray slab. We will be like gods. I would be a god. But no, I'll die here with only the green-gray slab for company.

Telekill is still in development, however, and before the Grand Public Offering, we must ensure its safety. Which is where you come in. Everything Prometheus produces is extensively safety-tested. And though testing on primates has revealed no adverse effects, there is no substitute for human testing. In accordance with the Promethean Code, such is to be conducted only on Prometheus volunteers. There's risks involved, but there always are to the first brave men to touch the future. Step forward on the path from Man to Promethean.

Eight weeks. If there is still a world outside, it's forgotten me. Someday, they'll exhume the chamber with the green-gray slab, maybe, and wonder at it and its contents. Perhaps they'll even figure out what the green-gray slab does. Even if I won't get to live forever in body, maybe I'll live forever in memory as the man in the mystery chamber with the green-gray slab from the past who brought the gift of freedom to mankind in the form of the green-gray slab. Freedom is like fire, right? Maybe I'll be Prometheus.
My gaze returns to the green-gray slab. But why not? It's the most visible thing there is. There's an odd sheen to its surface, a color that vanishes as soon as you focus on it. An ephemeral sort of cerulean. If I look slightly away, I see it swirl like an oil slick on a lake.

FROM: geraldf@prometheusLabs
TO: sangw@prometheusLabs
TOPIC: Telekill primate testing
Steve,
So I was reviewing the tests with the telekill project. I think I noticed something screwy near the end, about forty days in. The chimps we're testing with — they're bonobos, right? So I checked the records near the start, and they're doing the bonobo thing, i.e. humping like rabbits. Anyhow, later in, they weren't doing anything like that at all. Didn't seem to be interacting much at all, not just no monkey-sex.
Is that normal for bonobos in captivity for an extended period? If not, telekill might not be as safe as we thought. I wouldn't want to sterilize the lab tech guy the Old Man's got testing it. Also, I'm taking next Tuesday off. Can you take my carpool then? I'll owe you.
— Gerald

That's the green-gray slab. There's nothing else to look at. It's shiny if you don't look too hard. Sort of a blue on the surface of the green-gray slab. Yeah, it shines kinda blue.
There's the green-gray slab. That's funny, the green-gray slab is blue!
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The green-gray slab.
The greendarkgray slab.
The greendarkgray slab.
The greenit's darkgray slab.
The greenit's very darkgray slab.
The greenI can't seegray slab.
The greenI can't feel my armsgray slab.
The greenor anythinggray slab.
The greenam I dead?gray slab.
The greenNo.gray slab.
The greenI'm not dead. I can't be dead yet. I have so much left to be.gray slab.
The greenYou can't stop me from being who I'm going to be. I remember me. I remember everything.gray slab.
The greenI know what happened to me. You weren't safe, were you? Just took more than four weeks. You ate my mind, my soul. But you can't digest it. Because I'm me. I'm me. I remember myself. You can't destroy my memories because I have the mnemonic.gray slab.
I don't need anything else. I'm going to be who I am. I'm going to be who I could be, who I would be. Can you feel that? I'm getting my form back. Metal is weaker than will. If you took my body, Telekill, then it's only fair that you replace it.
Senses, limbs; all will be mine once more. I stagger to my new-formed feet and swing a molded fist at the reinforced door. It holds. But metal is weaker than will. Soul-drinking stone, you were to give mankind freedom of destiny. And you shall still bring it to me. My fire will burn bright, even as others flicker and die. The door is beginning to buckle. Soon, very soon, I will leave this chamber and leave Prometheus to the eagle. Then all will see my will. All will see who I am. I am myself. I am my will!
I AM ZACHARY!