I've dealt with a few dozen murders since I started working for the Foundation, but this was the first time I'd ever had the pleasure of actually interviewing the person killed.
My name is Agent Darrow. I got yanked out of the LAPD when my wife Maggie was found murdered in our bed. I was the likely suspect, and even though I'd never do it, I was tried, convicted, and sentenced with a handy bit of evidence. And then, a man came and talked to me. Called himself Dodridge. Offered me the chance to beat the rap and keep doing what I was doing. It beat the chair, got a new face, got a new job. It was weird, though, watchin' that guy with my old face fry. Course, he'd actually killed someone, so I didn't mind so much.
The murder victim was one Jack Bright, well known Foundation scientist and all around fuckin' asshole. Within two minutes of meeting him, I could understand exactly why someone had killed him. Guy was an expert at rubbing you the wrong way. I think he got off on it.
"I was minding my own fucking business." He was yelling, and he had a little bit of spit at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it off, swearing. "Fucking body. They gave me one that drools. Dumbasses probably thought it was funny."
Bright was one of those that I'd heard of through the grapevine. Effectively immortal. His soul stuck in a ruby amulet and transferred from person to person by touch. No one knew what happened to the soul that was already in the body when the amulet touched it. Some questions are better off not answered though. There was a file on it laying on my desk. I'd leafed through it, but I preferred to get down to brass tacks normally.
"Can you think of anyone who might want to kill you?" I asked.
"Clef," he said immediately, followed by a long moment of contemplation. "And a few guys that I've been messing around with. Maybe my aide. Maybe someone higher up, though if a death gets ordered, they probably wouldn't assign your ass to it."
That wasn't correct. There were three or four times that I'd been assigned to someone whose death had been ordered. Usually, around the end of my investigation, a memo got passed down telling me what to put in my official report. Those were the easy ones. Open and shut.
"Clef? You mean Alto Clef?" I asked.
"What other fucking Clef is there?" he asked. He stopped for a second, gauging my face, then stopped himself from adding something. Above my clearance probably.
"And why would Doctor Clef want to kill you?" I asked.
"He's had it out for me for years. Asshole doesn't like that I'm higher ranked. And he definitely doesn't like that I'm stuck in this fucking necklace. Gives him the heebie-jeebies or some shit."
I could relate with him at the moment. "So Clef is it?"
Bright leaned back, sucking in a line of spit that had drifted down his chin. "Maybe Kondraki," he added. “Or Strelnikov.”
I added two more names to the list. "And why would they want to kill you?"
"Oh, just some shit I did. Nothing I can tell you."
"You sure about that?"
He nodded, and there was no smirk, so I took him at his word.
"Anything else you wanna add?"
"Fuck off. I'm busy."

I honestly had no interest in talking to Clef. Guy was as big an asshole as Bright and twice the attitude. I moved him down my list and headed to the cafeteria, deciding to get a bite to eat. Thursdays were tuna casserole, presumably because they had a skip that churned out massive pails of tuna casserole.
When I got there, I ducked the worst of the crowd and wormed my way toward the ‘empty side.' All the weirdos were over there, but I liked the weirdos, and most people thought I was a weirdo too. There was the fat kids, the nerdy kids, and the spooky kids. High school all over again.
I picked a spooky kid and plopped down next to him. Burns. Site 19 coroner. Guy had a penchant for dead bodies, and I was pretty sure he found them more entertaining and interesting than living ones. As far as coroners go, he was a legend in the Foundation. Probably would have been an amazing forensic officer somewhere else in the world. Here? He hid in the morgue all day and never talked to people. I think it mighta been too hard on him, making friends with people who had an 80% mortality rate at their job.
Or maybe he was just an asshole. Fuck if I know.
I knew he'd be the one they had on Bright's case, and I decided to improve the tuna by talking about dead people.
“Burns.”
He gave a terse nod, then motioned to the seat across from him. Maybe it was coincidence that it was the one furthest from him as well.
“Whatcha want, Darrow? They pass off the Bright case to you?”
Business. I liked that about Burns.
“Yeah,” I said. “He gave me a list of big names who thought he was a dick. There's tons of small names out there to. You deal with the body?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Knew it was Bright before they told me.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “How's that?”
“Gut full of beefaroni and blueberry poptarts.” He said it flat, and I wasn't sure if it was a joke for a second. Even if it was, Burns wouldn't laugh at it. He only laughed at the fucked up shit, like this one corpse that literally had its head up its ass. He carried the picture around in his wallet. Asked people if they wanted to see his kid.
“You got the ceeohdee already?” I asked.
“Bullet to the back of the head,” he said. “Someone shot him.” He shrugged. He wasn't interested much in basic causes of death. When your job is figuring out what exactly killed someone in a place like the Foundation, you lose interest in the mundane things like gunshots and stabbings.
“Anything weird about it?” I asked.
“Nope. Not a damn thing. Could have let one of the new kids deal with it, if it wasn't for the fucker's rank. Like I don't have better shit to do.”
I took a bite of the tuna casserole. It wasn't bad. The rest of the meal went by in silence.
I knew there was a reason I liked Burns.

I finished lunch and took a step back out into the long, round hallway, heading down it toward the office ring.
I should note that it wasn't actually a ring. They called it a ring, but the bobs and weaves and twists it took—mostly out of spite, I felt—made it more like an office triskaidecagon. That felt better to say, anyhow. And it fit the assholes who claimed the whole damn thing.
I shouldn't dismiss all of them. Some of the doctors and researchers were alright. Glass was a ponce, but fun at parties. Vang wasn't bad when he wasn't talking politics. Hell, I'd actually liked Freddy Heiden. Before he blew his brains out.
And then there were assholes like Clef.
Try to image a giant asshole that went around shitting on everyone and everything in the room. Like, a literal, giant asshole, between two, giant asscheeks, spewing a river of shit. That was what it was like when Clef walked in and got started.
Sorry. Got carried away. Suffice to say that I thought he was a dick.
I knocked on his door, and you could tell he wasn't the kind of person who was accustomed to having his door knocked on. There was a little bit of swearing, some angry stomps, and then it opened up, stirring up a stink of old shoes and mint.
The man standing there looked like someone had slapped Rip Torn in the face a few times with a tennis racket. Middle aged, graying everywhere, with bags under his eyes and a scruffy, two-week old beard. He was wearing a pair of old jeans, an ugly burgundy shirt, and a lab coat that had been washed a few too many times (with the burgundy shirt, it looked like).
“Fuck are you?” he asked.
I introduced myself, flashed my badge, then stepped inside when he finally moved out of the way and let me. He hobbled around the desk and sat down, shoving sandwich wrappers and soda cans to the side just enough to make a bare spot, then put his feet up on it.
“I'm here to ask you about Jack Bright's recent murder.”
He laughed, hard and loud. Laughed until he wheezed. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair again and grinned with yellow teeth.
“What'd he do this time? Autoerotic asphyxiation?”
“Bullet,” I said. “Shot in the back on the head in a locked room.”
Clef smirked. “Locked room mysteries are boring,” he said. “It's always something retarded.”
“You have experience with killing someone in a locked room?” I asked.
He started laughing again. “Oh, yeah, but when I kill someone in a locked room, it's normally via explosive decompression.”
I laughed, mostly to be polite and because it's really sad when you've got that one poor fucker who's laughing alone, then wrote ‘loon' down on my notepad to make it look like I'd gotten something of use. If someone thinks you've managed an insight, they start watching themselves a little more closely. I looked back up at Clef to see if he was acting any different. Instead, he'd started picking up soda cans and checking to see if one of them had anything left in the bottom.
“You got any beef with Bright?” I asked.
“He's a dumb fuck,” Clef said. “He's a dumb fuck who doesn't get out nearly enough. He's been cooped up on site for so long that he's lost his god damned perspective on the real world. Two thousand die? Sure, so long as we keep an infestation of flying lava spores secret.”
“That really happened?” I asked.
Clef looked at his fingernails. “Nah. Hyperbole.”
I knew he was lying, but I also knew that it was above my paygrade. It might have been even more than two thousand people. It might have been more than lava spores, whatever those were. Didn't matter. First rule of working with these people: there are some things you don't want to know, and you're better off never asking for stories, clarification, or explanations. Because you might get them.
I nodded and scribbled down more on my pad. ‘Dislike.' ‘Angry of specific event -> event unknown.' The usual stuff.
“You ever wanna kill him?”
Clef smirked. “What would it matter if I did? It's not like it really takes.”
I nodded. “That's what makes this such a damn weird mystery,” I said.
Clef nodded. “Almost like they're just keeping you busy, huh?” he said.
I cursed internally, but I kept my face neutral. He'd gotten into my head, and I didn't like that. In a place like this, the last thing you need is a fucker like Clef in your head.
“Nah,” I said. “Just means the importance is above my pay grade.”
I stood up, and Clef stayed sitting, so I didn't bother with a handshake. “Thanks for your time,” I said.
“Sure,” said Clef. “Not like I was getting work done anyway. I've got the fucking Class-D duty this month. Got to figure out who gets how many and for what. And lucky me, Jackie boy got himself shot in the head and fucked it all up. Of course, he was in charge of it last month, so it's already fucked up.”
I nodded. “Death ain't really a convenience too often,” I observed.
Clef laughed. “You really are green, aren't you?”

If Clef was a giant asshole, Kondraki was a giant turd. It's not that Clef shit out Kondraki, but rather, they left the same kinds of stains. I didn't wanna talk to him next, but Strelnikov wasn't taking my calls, and he was a real nutcracker if you wanted into his office uninvited.
I finally caught up with Kondraki—after checking both labs he's assigned to, his office, three meeting halls, and the lunchroom—on the damn squash court.
Number One: didn't know the Foundation had a damn squash court. Number Two: what the fuck is squash? Number Three: what self respecting man would wear clothes like that?
Hell, I dunno. At first, I thought he might not have self respect, you know? One of those sheepish little guys that spend all day calculating the ratio of elephant piss in the sub-Saharan. That impression lasted about five seconds after contact with him.
“So you're the guy looking for who killed Bright?” he asked. “What are you gonna do? Pin a medal on him?”
I shook my head, pulling out my notepad, then started writing. ‘Loon.'
“I'm just checking out all leads. You know anyone who might have a reason to kill Bright?” I asked.
“No one other than everyone,” he said, his lips twisting into an obnoxious little ‘I need the shit kicked out of me' smile.
“That's a long list of people. Maybe you can narrow it down.”
He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth, then looked around a little bit. “Clef, probably,” he said. “They don't care for each other.”
“I've already spoken with Dr. Clef,” I said. “Anyone else?”
He shrugged slightly. “It depends entirely on the bowl of cheerios he decided to piss in this month,” Kondraki said.
“Oh? He piss off a lot of people?” I asked.
“Bright's been around for right at a hundred years now, doing the same damn job every day. No breaks. No vacation.” Kondraki looked like he was going to spit, but thought better of it. “He gets—“ He raised his fingers into the air to make little quotation motions. “—‘bored.'”
“Prankster?”
Kondraki nodded a little. “Yeah. He once filled my office with little paper bags. Most of them had sand. Some of them had dog shit.”
“Where'd he find the dog?” I asked. Always good to keep them off balance.
Kondraki, to his credit, never missed a beat. “We have a few SCPs that are canines. And I imagine he could requisition one.”
I scribbled on my notepad again, just to see if it would piss him off. When I looked back up, he looked annoyed, so I counted it a win.
“So, he do anything to tick you off other than filling your office with doggie bags?”
Kondraki sighed, which I thought was a bit over dramatic, and rolled his eyes. “I didn't kill him, if that's what you're trying to find out.”
“And you can prove that?”
“I can prove that I wasn't in the room with him and that I wasn't in that wing. That said, I could kill someone in a locked room from across the base without too many problems, too.”
“Funny. You're the second person to brag about that today.”
“If you're good at something, you want people to know,” he said, looking at his watch. “If you don't mind, I've got a game to finish. Anything else?”
I shrugged. “If there is, I'll get in touch,” I said. “Thanks for ya time.”
Kondraki nodded, but I sure as hell didn't get a ‘you're welcome.' Some people just don't know how to be polite.

I was heading back toward the center of the site proper when I got that tingle I always get when someone is following me. I've never tried to explain it—and after working with these psychos, I decided I was better off not really knowing—but I had come to trust that little instinct.
I started walking through the quieter parts of the site. Safe-Class containment lockers, sealed cells. Places that weren't highly trafficked.
I got a good glance over my shoulder as I passed a corner, sneaking a glance through the crack between a wall and an old vending machine full of stale pound cakes and zebra cookies. The guy was wearing a grey uniform. Site janitor.
It threw me for a second, since I was expecting someone in security. Then it threw me for another second, because he took out a gun and started shooting at me.
The vending machine slowed the bullets down about as much as you'd expect it to, and I managed to hurl myself around the corner and against the wall. Hell, Maggie, maybe we'll get to see each other again faster than I expected.
I pulled out my own piece, firing over my shoulder twice as I made it down the hall, twisting around a corner and glancing over my shoulder.
I didn't see the guy, which bothered me, since I expect people who are trying to kill me to be more serious about it. A quick glance up told me why. Security camera.
Whoever it was had a little bit of sense it looked like. Maybe not enough for their own good, though. I know for sure I didn't, since I was already working back down the hall, trying to keep quiet.
I heard one more shot, but I didn't hear it hit the wall, machine, or me. Particular thankful for that last one. I stepped out from cover quietly, gun raised, and looked around.
Only thing there was an empty hallway and a nice, dead body. Grey jumpsuit. Site janitor.
I went ahead slow, taking my time and checking places I could take a bullet from, until I got a little closer. I grabbed my radio and called it into site security—attempted murder, janitorial staff, corridor, and my serial number. And I made a special request, while I was at it.

I was holding my notepad, sketching the scene out with stickmen for my memory, when he started yelling at me. "Why for the hell you drag me out HERE?"
The big Russian was an angry guy. Damn angry. I was fairly convinced that I was only allowed to interview angry people today, and this guy was no exception.
Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov. The Strelnikov. I made it a point to smile. He made it a point to curse loudly.
"The fuck is Head of Department doing here with failed murder?! You are detective! You solve own failed murder!"
I nodded. "I intend to, as soon as I clear up a few things."
"Clear up you head!"
I nodded again, getting lost in that accent. It was like walking through a foggy swamp chasing a light in the distance. Probably kill me if I took to long.
"I just need to know what your thoughts on Jack Bright are," I said.
"Jack Bright needs to learn how to keep his business to his nose," Strelnikov spat. "What are you? Lackey for Jack? You needs better employment!"
"I ain't no lackey," I said. "I'm just looking into who killed him."
"Hell if I cares who kills him. Why you think you got job looking into it instead of us? You think security has damns to give about who kills man who doesn't die? HAH!"
It was the first time I'd ever actually heard someone say 'Hah' instead of laughing. It was both unsettling and—I blame the accent—amazing to hear.
"You mean you passed on the case? Tossed it to internal affairs?"
"Why should I care who kill him!?" he yelled. By this time, two of his men were carrying the corpse away on a stretcher.
"You mind sending me a cee-oh-dee when you get it?" I asked.
"Be fucking yourself."
As he walked off, I couldn't help but admire a man who gave so little shit. I didn't really need a cause of death anyhow. It was obvious from the spatter on the wall. He'd shot himself in the head.

By the time I got back to my office, I was both tired and annoyed. I'd wanted to get a drink, and I hadn't had the time, and now, it'd be impossible to get into the on site bar without fighting a crowd. I leaned forward and picked up the stack of site security memos from my inbox, flicking through them and looking over them all. Two SCP breaches—business as usual. Security officer AWOL—probably shit himself and ran. Meeting of all site heads—not my problem, thankfully. Nothing of real interest.
I tossed it all back down and thought about my suspects, instantly reaching the conclusion that they were shit leads. Too much annoyance and not enough anger. You didn't put a bullet in someone you were annoyed with, even if they did come back to life. You put a bullet in someone you hated. Because you were angry. Mad.
I was looking down at the memos in my hand, flicking through them again, when it hit me. And it hit me hard.
You killed because you were mad.
I flicked back to my case file, pulling out the declassified documents that I'd been given for the case and poring over them. By the time I was done, I was sure I had my answer.

I walked into the lab, humming to myself a little, and looked over at the man hunched over his table. I raised hand and pointed at the back of his head with my finger.
“Bang.”
Bright jumped and turned around, glaring at me for a moment, then straightening out his clothes. “Fuck do you want, Darrow?” he asked.
I grinned a little. “Just checking to see how easy it is to sneak up on you,” I said.
Bright got good and pissed looking, which is how I wanted him, and started yelling. I didn't pay too much attention to what he was saying. Just watched him for a while, spittle flying from his lips, amulet bouncing around on his chest. It took me about five minutes to make sure, but by the time I left, I had it.
I thanked him, watched him sputter for a minute, and headed over to security to get a pass. One last angry person to talk to.

The rain was pouring down when I walked into the graveyard. It was the kind of graveyard that no one ever visits because they don't know anyone who's buried there. You've never think anything of it, because it was nicely maintained and mowed and kept. Foundation graveyard. Inconspicuous, even in death. You'd never notice how few people actually went there or how high the fence was or how none of the graves ever got flowers.
Only now, there was one grave that did. And there was another visitor besides me. I walked up to the tombstone and nodded my respects before coughing once.
“Hey, Bright.”
I didn't recognize the man that turned and looked at me, but I did recognize his uniform. Foundation security. The kid that went AWOL.
Bright nodded to me. “Hey, Darrow,” he said. It was weird to talk to him when he wasn't yelling at me. “Nice work. You're here a lot earlier than I expected.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It wasn't easy to figure out. Not until I went and talked to that other you in the lab.”
Bright nodded, then turned back to the grave. “What gave it away?” he asked.
“It was a lotta shit,” I said. “Didn't dawn on my until I saw him screaming and yelling and flailing his arms everywhere. The amulet wasn't staying in contact with him. If it doesn't, he'd be having little blackouts.”
Bright nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It's one of the hazards of being attached to it. They used to glue it to my head, you know.”
“Yeah,” I said. It had been in the file.
“Your other self sent me to the two people who would be the biggest pains in the ass to find and talk to,” I said. “Basically, two big distractions.”
“You didn't get to Strelnikov?” he asked.
“Nah,” I said. “I saw him. But that was fun. And Clef helped me out, too. Said that you'd had the D-Class rotation duty before he did.”
Bright nodded. “It wasn't hard to make a simple replica of the amulet. Hell, it looks like costume jewelry as it is. I just got a D-Class alone, put on the fake one, and put the real one on him. Kept assigning that D-Class to myself so no one would notice.”
I nodded. “And then put him at the top of the list for the ‘new' Bright once the thirty day acclimation period ended,” I added.
He smiled. “After that, it was just a matter of time. Called Officer…” He looked down at the front of his fatigues and read the name “…Carlson. He stopped by my office to take my Class-D back, and we slipped the amulet on him. Had another face stop by and put the bullet in the back of my head. That's my preferred method of death these days, at least.”
“Another face?” I said. “How many of you are there?”
“Plenty,” he said. “You read the file. ‘Thoroughly dedicated.' They think I'm just absorbed in my work.” He nodded slightly. "Just so you know, you'll never catch that one. He put a bullet in his head, after all. After keeping you occupied for a little longer."
I nodded. The janitor. Made sense. “And now, you're planning on leaving the Foundation,” I said. “After all… it's the anniversary of your death,” I said, gesturing to the headstone. “You must be pretty dissatisfied with the progress on getting you unstuck.”
Bright looked down at it again, narrowing his eyes into little slits. “I'm not leaving,” he said. “I just wanted to stop by for my anniversary. O5's told me I couldn't. I decided I was going to. Not like it took that much work. And I was bored.”
I remembered what Kondraki said. “Yeah, but there's no way you'll be able to get back on base. You're in a security guard that they're looking for. Shoot on sight. They find the amulet on you and the entire thing gets blown.”
Bright nodded, turning to look at me and pulling a syringe out of his pocket. I reached for my gun, but his body was in good shape, all things considered. The needle stuck me, and I felt a deep burning as whatever was in there started to pour into my veins. I staggered backward, head already swimming as my vision began to go narrow.
I saw Bright reaching into his shirt and pulling out that little amulet, walking toward me. “You figured out everything Darrow. Almost everything,” he said, kneeling next to me as I fell. “I knew you'd figure it out. Come to confront me. Be discreet, like you were doing me a favor.”
My stomach heaved for a moment. I thought about Maggie for a second. Laying in the bed. Bloody. The judge in the trial. The man with my old face burning in the chair, cooking alive.
“I didn't kill her,” I said. The words slurred together in my mouth, and then in my head as I tried to reach my hands up to push him away.
Bright nodded at me. “We never thought you did. If you had, you'd have been a Class-D instead of a well placed officer, poised for promotion.”
The last thing I thought was—‘Well, now I get to see what happens to people's heads when they stick the amulet on them, right?'
And then I found out.


This tale is a continuation of the Esoteric Warfare Unit from Three Sleepless Nights, and contains some reference to Walk The Floor

A stuffed alligator with googly-eyes the size of golf balls sat perched atop the bookshelf of Colonel Manu Avninder. The bookshelf itself was hand-crafted out of fine mahogany and contained a hundred and thirty-three books on its shelves, all of which were blank. A tangle of vines and creepers hung from the ceiling, bedecked with tropical flowers and clusters of nuts. One particularly large bromeliad had taken up residence on the corner of the colonel's desk. Brightly colored frogs hopped around the office, clustering around in the rock-lined pool in the corner.
The colonel himself was sitting at his desk, sipping at a cherry cream soda. His lieutenant, a man who seemed to be constructed purely out of right angles, mustache grooming supplies, and cowboy boots, sat down on the other side of the desk.
“So who do you have for me, Hubert?” Avinder said.
“Five candidates.” Hubert handed some manila folders over the table. “Three internal, two on the outside.”
“Any good ones?” Avinder flipped through the folders, bothered now by the thought that he would only be able to take one into the Unit, and let the rest go fallow in the great file cabinet of missed opportunities and crushed dreams.
“The usual, it seems. Some good scores on the tests, a few minor talents. Nothing spectacular. Got one kid in Kentucky who can make liches out of roadkill.”
Avinder nodded, and felt a twinge of disappointment as he passed over the file. Kid was the right of it: not even out of high school yet. Some redneck necromancy wasn't worth the shitstorm that would erupt from come from that decision.
The other candidates included the typical field agent who showed some promise on the psychic sensitivity tests, a woman from the Antarctic branch that had picked up on some of the local shoulderwoman traditions, a crippled, cancer-ridden vat-agent who had managed to recover from getting his head smashed in, and someone who looked to have learned the secrets of meth-magic. Avinder hated the fact that meth-magic was a thing, but such were the cards before him.
Redneck was out, meth-magician was out if he could manage it. The rest were…well, they were. More disappointment on the plate. He'd probably get stuck with the white bread agent. Eh, couldn't be too hard on him. Probably a decent guy.
“Mm. Well, we'll see where it goes from here. You have any preferences?”
“Vat guy or the one from Antarctica.”
“Cancerous regeneration or mending old pots.”
“Take what we can get, I suppose.”
“You know how it is.” Avinder stacked the folders in the corner of his desk. “The line between ‘valued agent of the Esoteric Warfare Unit' and ‘living out the next fifty years in a solitary cell' all comes down to whether or not Eight can get to them first without someone playing the Bowe card.”
“Fucking Bowe.”
Avinder pinched the bridge of his nose. The very thought of moderating his opinions on “General” Bowe made his head start to throb. “No, can't lay all the blame on him. It was the shrapnel that did it. Shrapnel and ‘Nam, and a whole lot of bad circumstances.
Hubert nodded, tapping the arm of his chair.
“I've heard a theory that Bowe created Omega Seven as voyeurism,” he said. “Like, he had a weird obsession with the girl…dammit what was her name…” Hubert snapped his thick, callused fingers a few times. “Irene. That was it. Irene. One-oh-Five. Put her on the same team as Seventy-Six.”
Avinder shook his head.
“Nah. That's just people shitting on his reputation. Omega Seven was just a regular old Cold War power fantasy. You know how it goes.” He cleared his throat, and resumed in a voice somewhere in the general vicinity of Richard Nixon. “We've got to get Seventy-Six operational before the Russians do it! We cannot stand for communist superiority!”
“We cannot allow a war-god gap!” Hubert slammed his fist on the desk. He didn't have to change his voice much to match.
Avinder jerked up out of his chair, stiff-limbed and glassy-eyed, one arm outstretched in a rigid salute.
“Mein Fuhrer! I can walk!”
The two looked at each other for a moment before breaking out in laughter. Avinder fell back into his chair and spun around once.
“Yeah, don't get your hopes up,” Hubert said. “The fucks over in the Coalition would never take you.”
“Is it because I'm racially inferior?”
“No, it's because you're a fucking wizard.”
More laughter. When it subsided, Avinder leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“I mean, Bowe was probably the biggest fuckup we've had since, I don't know, Carver shooting Deeds back in '44, but after a while you just need to move on. He's dead. Omega Seven lasted four months and six missions, and here we are, twenty years later, still worrying about it. You'd think we'd have learned by now.”
“We're the Foundation; when do we learn anything?”
A red circle on Avinder's touchscreen desktop lit up, “O5-8” written in write print.
‘Ah, well speak of the devil, and he shall appear.” Avinder tapped the button. “Hey there, Overseer.”
“Colonel,” the synthesized voice croaked. “I trust you are doing well.”
“Well as I can be doing. Social or business call?”
“Business. It appears that Foster is up to her old faux pas again. She called a vote of no confidence against Overseers Five and Ten for mothballing the phlogiston biometric suite and Betamax VCH containment units.”
“That's…that's certainly something.”
“As such, I will not be able to get you a specialist agent. The files Lieutenant Brooks has given you are no longer options on the table.”
Dammit, that was fast. It's like they're stealing shitty Halloween candy from a diabetic baby.
“Do you have an alternative?”
“I can transfer an agent over from the latest batch of recruits, to be transferred out once the firestorm over Foster calms down.”
“Not sure I see the point, Colonel,” Hubert said.
“Saving face in front of the Overseers,” Avinder said. “Show that we're not dependent upon their approval.”
“Ah. That would do it.”
“I'll send you the required files,” Overseer 8 said. “The agent will be transferred over the day after tomorrow. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience.”
The red circle faded as the personnel file appeared on the desk.
“Guess this makes it easy for us,” Avinder said, flicking through the files. “Fucking mundies.”
—
Two Days Later
“Well, maybe he just doesn't understand that I'm a subconscious manifestation of a deep-seated fear of sex. I mean, most of that is pretty obvious, I'm a swollen blood-colored penis-worm that hits on you all the time. Pretty basic symbolism there. But you can never presume that people pick up on that stuff.”
“Mmmmph,” Barcode said, her head in her arms.
“Don't take it so personally. I mean, he's not psychic.”
“Mmmph.”
“Probably just jumped to conclusions. Saw things that weren't there. Like me. I'm not there. I don't exist outside of your head.”
“Mph.”
“Well, let's look at things one by one, okay? I don't actually exist, do I?”
“No.”
“Right. I'm just a voice in your head. And have I ever caused you anything more than annoyance? Honestly now.”
“No.”
“And have you ever had difficulty in consistently and easily rejecting the annoyance that I provide?”
“No.”
The worm seemed to shrug.
“Well then I don't know what you want me to say. You know what's up, he doesn't, end of story. You are not being tormented by some outside force, and you and I have an understanding. I hit on you, you tell me to fuck off, I fuck off, you don't pull me out of your skull like a worm out of an apple.”
Barcode raised her head, looking terribly glum.
“Vinnie, I can't drink, I can't smoke, I can't sleep, I can't even hole myself up in my bunk with Spleeny's smut collection. I'm tired and I'm frustrated and I'm just sick and tired of…everything.”
“Then go out for a walk or something. Fuck's sake.” Vinnie scurried off the table and out of sight. “Can't do everything for you.” His voice faded away with the scuttling of his legs. Barcode stared blankly for a few moments, trying to discern the shapes that swam at the edges of her vision.
Bingely bingely beep! Bingely bingely beep!
Barcode lethargically grabbed her smartphone from her pocket. Caller ID read “10 Piece MacNugget”.
“Hey there, sarge.”
“Newbie's getting here in ten. You ready to show her around?”
Barcode looked down at the threadbare BOB'S WHEELS AND PRAWNS t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajama pants she had slept in last night. There was a stain above the AND, though Barcode had no idea where it came from. Actually, she had no idea when this shirt had last been washed.
“Yeah, I'm good.”
—
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were dead.
This was not altogether a surprising development: they died with a certain regularity, and the process had become to them, and to those around them, a matter of banality. The philosophical implications of their repeated deaths fell on uninterested ears.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern returned to life.
“There you go, everything's all updated. Should be smooth sailing for a few months.” Kramer sipped from his mug of hot chocolate as he tapped a few chitinous keys on his laptop. It chirped and gurgled affectionately. “Took the liberty of deleting some junk files from both of you, too.”
The twins sat up nearly as one: Rosencrantz was a bit faster, and stood up. Guildenstern rubbed at her eyes and rolled her broad shoulders.
“Many thanks, friend Kramer,” she said, yawning.
“Don't mention it.”
Barcode walked into the rec room, looking disheveled, as she usually was. At her side was a tall, gawkish woman with a sharp face and whitish-blond hair cut down to fuzz, carrying a duffel bag over her shoulder.
“Hey guys,” Barcode said. “This here's Lauren, she just transferred in from Nineteen.”
“Hi.” Lauren waved to the various members of Squads 4 and 5.
“No kidding?” Kramer said, leaning back in his chair. “You're fresh off the boat! Haven't had anyone from your neck of the woods in forever. Do they still have Nala running newbie orientation?”
“Uh, no. No one said anything about a Nala. My group was introduced by Alexandra.”
“What? Nooooooooooo!” Kramer howled up at the ceiling, shaking the fist that did not contain a mug of hot chocolate. “They got rid of mah waifu! The bastards!”
Lauren flinched back at the outburst, as if looking at a rabid, crippled pigeon.
“Oh the humanity!” Kramer continued his raving. “To strike down the classiest artificially intelligent lady of this decade! Crime of all crimes, tragedy of tragedies! I bet Alexandra is just some sort of plebian strumpet meant for mass-market appeal!” He paused for a moment, collected himself. “Well, it's good to see you here.”
“Yeah. That's Kramer,” Barcode said, trying to recover the conversation. “He's the Squad 4 techie. Those two over there are the Twins, and…well, they're the Twins.”
“So we are, friend Lauren.” Rosencrantz nodded towards the new recruit. “I am Guildenstern, and this is Rosencrantz.” He motioned to himself and then to his sister. “The easiest way to tell us apart is to ask us what we think of our Mother. I wish to fuck her and then kill her. Guildenstern here wants to kill her first and then fuck her.”
Lauren's face of confusion and disgust was, at that moment, captured forever by Kramer snapping a photo on his phone.
“Golden,” he said. Barcode shook her head and ran rescue again.
“They're from the Personnel Acquisition Initiative, and their mom a gigantic titmonster. Makes a lot more sense in context. Also, they're huge liars. Rosencrantz is the brother, Guildenstern is the sister,” she pointed to the correct twins.
“Oh. The PAI is Dr. Foster, right?” Lauren said.
The Twins looked at her grimly for an icy moment.
“Doctor Tabitha Foster…” they said at the same time. Sharp pause. “Yes, I'm about to say that. Just wait, I'll handle it.” Same time again. They paused, eyeing each other for an opening.
“Oh dear. It appears that we're-” Rosencrantz began.
“Getting to the point in the conversation where we-”
“Start finishing each other's sentences.”
“Precisely.”
“I think that-“
“We should keep going?”
“Of course. It is our opinion that-“
“Doctor Tabitha Foster is a pompous, arrogant windbag who is most likely going to get herself killed by doing something unimaginably stupid,” Guildenstern said, jabbing a finger.
“Her every act is little more than smug career masturbation.”
“If you were to replace every word out of her mouth with ‘Hello, I am a massive twat', absolutely nothing about her would change.”
“I think she gets it, guys,” Barcode said, glancing around the room to see if there were any other Unit members in the room. Probably better to finish this early. This whole thing was probably a horrible idea, but in retrospect being mildly annoyed by a figment of one's imagination was on the lower end of the weirdness spectrum. Must be why she was chosen to show Lauren around.
There was one other person in the room, an old man with Einstein hair, sitting in the corner, reading some well-thumbed paperback. The corporal of Squad 5. Tom.
Oh boy.
“That over there is Tom. We call him That Old Motherfucker. He's kinda been here forever.”
“Forty-six years.” The man didn't even look up from his book. “No sabbatical, no leave.”
“Wow. That's…kind of insane,” Lauren said.
“Ayup. I'd already been bagging spookums forever back when Smiley McGee was diddling kids and the Shitflinger was spending all of Daddy's money on hookers and blow. Hell, I saw the Whackmaster's gay porno back when it was still on VHS.”
Lauren glanced over at Barcode, who had a sudden inkling of what it felt like being a life raft.
“Very long story,” she said. “Don't ask to see it, either. They burned all the copies.”
“They did.” Tom tapped the side of his head. “Last one was up here and I had Pigman Brown scrape it all out of my brain first chance I got.”
That looked to be the last straw. Barcode clapped her hands together.
“Well, I think that wraps it up for everything in here. We should probably be moving on to the caf,” she said as she made her way to the door and out into the hall. Might as well cut the girl a break. These weren't even her squad mates.
Lauren followed behind without a word.
“Sorry to throw you headfirst into the pool like that,” Barcode said after they would be out of earshot of the rec-room. “We're, uh, kind of an odd group in the Unit.”
“No kidding.”
“Hope we didn't scare you too much.”
“No, you definitely did. You people are all insane.” She shrugged. “But, I guess, that's good prep for everything out there. If it's half as bizarre as you people, I should be immune to it by the time I actually see anything.”
“That's the spirit.”
“Aw, you're making friends!” Vinnie said from his spot on the ceiling.
“Fuck off, Vinnie.”
“Hm? What did you say?” Lauren looked up to the ceiling after Barcode's glance.
“Nothing, nothing.”


You're rather resilient, aren't you? I thought we'd be done with this by now. It feels like we started a long time ago, doesn't it? It feels that way to me. It feels like this should have been finished such a long, long time ago, but for some reason… Bah. Nothing to worry about right now, is it? This! This is supposed to be a time of celebration! A time of jubilee and cake and ice creams, yes? That's what it's supposed to be.
Funny how things turn out, isn't it?
Welcome back to another year, fair elder. Welcome back to another celebration made of tales. Tales made of happy truths and sad fictions. Tales made of wet paint and dry sand. Tales about roads that were traveled until they became rivers, and tales about the page before the book's cover. Tales about the man made of ashes and cinders, and tales about the woman who stitched herself a patchwork husband. Tales about the satyr who fucked a universe, and tales about the lost ones who are waiting for us all under the dirt. Tales of triumph. Tales of failure. Tales about the treasures found in attics and the horrors in closets. Tales of years fluttering out of your hands like the fragments of a broken leaf…
Ah. Ahem. And Happy Birthday, Gears. For now.

"Boxes" by Troy

Happy Birthday!

There's a little man who lives in a box,
Right at the corner of my bed,
And the little man that lives in the box,
Whispers secrets into my head,
And the little man that lives in the box,
Wears a scarf made of puppy's tongues,
And the little man that lives in a box,
Well, that's how he has fun.
The little man who lives in a box,
visited by sister last night.
The little man who lives in the box,
borrowed my eyes for sight,
The little man who lives in the box,
collected one more tongue,
The little man who lives in the box,
came back and told me to run.
The little man who lived in the box,
still sits at the foot of my bed,
and the little man who lived in the box,
Sometimes crawls round in my head.
The little man who lives in the box,
Will never let me atone,
And the little man who lives in the box,
Will never leave me alone.

"And Everyone Can Walk Away From It Whole, After a Time" by Eskobar

BIRFDHEI!

The angel is radiant.
I've fallen to my knees already. I don't remember now if I meant to do that, or if something about this creature just knocked me to the ground. I had been running, running through the woods prior to this, running across the shitty little nature trail that the city had installed a year ago to commemorate someone who was run over in the street because he didn't have a shitty little nature trail to get run over in instead. I've been running for what feels like…years. Half an hour, maybe, that felt like years, in this day that's moved as slowly as a geological epoch.
My knees hurt. Shit, I thought, I would figure I wouldn't feel anything right now. That's the shit part, though. You feel all kinds of things when you don't want to.
She isn't saying anything. I don't know how I'm giving this thing a gender, but I've decided that the vaguely humanoid shape in the blinding light before me is female. There's probably a very interesting psychologcal deconstruction to make from the fact that, in this time of all fucking times, I'm looking for a woman to save me.
"Are you…" I gasp, half out of breath, half out of a decided uncertainty of all of my words.
"Is…" I said, trying again, still unsure.
"Can you…" I'm actively just embarrassing myself in front of the divine at this point.
Finally, I hear a powerful whoooosh as the angel breathed the diseased air of the corporeal world into herself.
"WHAT DO YOU NEED, CHILD."
"H…help," I stutter out finally. "I…help me. Please, help me."
"WHAT IS WRONG?"
I spoke to the angel like a child speaks to their mother, in the brutal honesty that comes from the complete inability to form these feelings into some larger gestalt, the complete inability to frame my problems as her problems, the complete inability to somehow sell her on helping me by pretending there's some benefit to her. That's how we do it, isn't it? It's somehow wrong to just need, to reach out with the complete absence of strength, to hope that there's a hand on the other end to help us up. We have to manage our pain like a politician, stuff away as much as possible and bribe our friends to be there when we need them. We'll jump to the aid of anyone who asks us, but God forbid we need to ask someone else; then we just imagine everyone we know has some quid-pro-quo account of help they're willing to give, and if we haven't made enough deposits, you better not expect much of a withdrawal. Nobody does this, and we act as though everyone does this.
Well, fuck that. I don't have the strength or the inclination.
"It hurts. God, it hurts so much. It's been so long since I felt this, and it hurts."
"HAVE YOU HURT YOURSELF?"
"No, no, she hurt me. That…that fucking bitch hurt me. She…she stabbed me in the back. I trusted her, I loved her, and she hurt me. I…I can't have deserved it."
"WHY DID SHE DO IT?"
"Because she didn't love me anymore. Because she's bored with me. Because she's the fucking Devil. I don't know. I don't know. I didn't see it coming. I don't know."
I'm not crying. I can't. I wish I could, but it isn't happening. It never will again.
"WELL, THEN. HAVE YOU NOT HURT YOURSELF?"
"Wh—" I didn't understand. "I don't understand. I just said —"
"YOU ARE HUMAN, CORRECT? WITH VOLITION AND FREE WILL, AS YOU CLAIM? THIS IS NOT THE STOMPING OF AN INSECT BY A HUMAN FOOT. THIS IS NOT THE ERADICATION OF THE BODILY FORM OF A HUMAN BY A SERAPH. IT IS AN INTERACTION OF EQUALS."
"I…you can't say that I deserved this. That's fucking ridiculous. I did nothing but love her. I did nothing but show her love."
"AND SHE HAS REJECTED IT. THIS WAS ALWAYS A POSSIBILITY. LOVE IS THE OPENING OF THE CHEST AND BARING OF THE HEART BEFORE AN EVER-PRESENT KNIFE. THE ENTRY OF THE KNIFE INTO THE CHEST WAS ALWAYS A POSSIBILITY. THE PAIN WAS ALWAYS A POSSIBILITY. YOU FEEL HATE SIMPLY BECAUSE YOU FORGOT THIS."
I had no response. I could not conceive of this. It all had the feeling of truth to it, but it was a truth I wasn't really prepared for.
"YOU CAN HATE HER. YOU ARE FREE TO DO THIS, JUST AS SHE IS FREE TO HURT YOU. THIS IS THE FREEDOM OF CHOICE, AND CHOICE CAN BE PAINFUL. I MUST WARN YOU, JUST AS HER CHOICE MAY COME BACK TO HAUNT HER, THE DECISION TO HATE HER WILL DAMAGE YOU WITHOUT DOING ANYTHING GOOD FOR ANYONE. IT REMAINS YOUR CHOICE, HOWEVER."
I lost my balance on my knees and fell onto my hands then. The pain in my chest was blinding, the ache around my solar plexus or so. I looked up to see the creature in the light was descending toward me. I saw her reach out toward my face. I was frozen, completely unable to comprehend what was happening.
"THIS IS THE PAIN OF LOSS, CHILD," the being of light said. "ONE OF FEW SENSATIONS ALL CREATURES IN ALL OF CREATION SHARE IN COMMON. WHETHER YOU REALIZE IT OR NOT, EVERY PRION FEELS THIS WHEN ITS OFFSPRING ARE STERILIZED. EVERY COCKROACH FEELS THIS WHEN ITS NEST IS POISONED. EVERY HUMAN FEELS THIS WHEN THEIR BELOVED FINDS ANOTHER, AND EVERY GOD FEELS THIS WHEN THEIR CREATIONS TURN SOUR AND ROT ON THE VINE. YOU WILL HAVE THIS TO SHARE WITH MOST EVERYONE YOU MEET, AND YOU WILL HAVE THIS TO TRY TO PROTECT THOSE FEW WHO HAVE NOT FELT IT YET. AND YOU WILL FAIL TO PROTECT THEM, BECAUSE THEY WILL BARE THEIR CHESTS AS WELL, AND THE TIME WILL COME FOR THEM TO FEEL THE KNIFE."
She caressed my face. "THAT IS WHAT I CAN TELL YOU. YOUR PAIN WAITS FOR EVERYONE, AND EVERYONE CAN WALK AWAY FROM IT WHOLE, AFTER A TIME. AND FROM WHATEVER PERSPECTIVE I CAN HAVE OF YOU, AND YOU OF ME, I WISH YOU THE BEST."
The light before me faded into the dark night. After a time, I stood.

"The Assassination of Pilot Bandreeisis by the Coward David Carter" by Eskobar

HAPPY, YES?

Dear Bakaututuuae-16688468,
I regret to inform you of the loss of your betrothed, Pilot Lieutenant Bantreeisis-28388852. I have been her wing commander for the past six months, and have personally flown with her on not fewer than fifty-four attack missions. I can assure you that she gave the greatest possible sacrifice for the defense of her fellow pilots and in the defense of our Collective allies against the High Menace.
We had been performing standard combat air patrol around a base we had established around a High Menace colony. A Collectivist base was expanding in the area, and their government had been hoping to establish an aerial presence in that sector. Our air wing had established two major aerodromes in an elevated position relative to the Collectivists, as per standard protocol.
Our CAP had noticed increased High Menace activity around their colony that day. Bantreeisis, another pilot, and myself flew to the Collectivist base to meet with their commandant and agree on a strategy. While attempting to access the base, we were detected by one of the High Menace massgrowths at the base, which let out a distress call. Bantreeisis attempted to disable the massgrowth with multiple attacks to its exterior while we allowed the third pilot to escape, but she was only able to strike twice before she was hit. We were able to evacuate her to the principle aerodrome and begin Rejuvenation.
I would like to point out that while Bantreeisis's actions were not technically authorized by me, she was acting in accordance with the finest tradition of bravery our Force can know. Her efforts allowed myself and the escort pilot to escape with our lives, much as she would have survived had the counterattack not taken place.
In the process of escaping the attack zone, the High Menace apparently suspected that the entrance to the Collectivist base was a Task Force aerodrome. Additionally, an erroneous navigational maneuver by another pilot allowed the Menace to locate the site of our principle aerodromes above the Collectivist base. Multiple massgrowths converged on both locations with immense quantities of chemspray and devastated both bases before we could lift off. While our allies in the Collective have developed methods to survive exposure to their chemsprays themselves (without the knowledge of the High Menace, who seem to believe it to still be lethal in itself), the spray reduces our maneuverability in-flight and renders us susceptible to other attacks.
Bantreeisis was attempting to evacuate the now-uninhabitable aerodrome when she was hit by a chemspray blast and was forced to make an emergency landing. While grounded, a massgrowth targeted and destroyed her. Our methods of Rejuvenation, while powerful and far in excess of that of the High Menace's knowledge, could not restore her. However, I can say that in distracting the High Menace
I am very sorry to give you this news, but please know that your mate was killed fulfilling the highest calling of our people. The Red Force will salute the name of Bantreeisis-28388852 and her sacrifice now and forever, unto the Rising of our people and the destruction of the High Menace.
Yours in sorrow,
Isiwilllanu-13335157
Commander, 2888592th Wing, 6993295th Division, Red Air Force

FROM THE DESK OF CHARLES GEARS:

Jack,
Hearing rumors about unusual Vespidae activity around the 1006 enclosure. Please investigate at earliest convenience.
— Gears

"Country Road" by Gaffney

Driving at night actually really sucks ass, but I hope you have an awesome b-day!

I've always loved driving at night, especially down a country road like this. There's something about it that's so serene, like it's just you and the inside of the car and what's in your headlights. Everything else just fades away. Just you and your thoughts.
Tonight was a night where I needed a good drive. Jacob had gotten sloppy and forgot to clear his text messages. While he was in the shower, I looked through them. I know it's kind of gross, but I needed to know. Like how when you watch a scary movie, you peek through your fingers. He'd been texting other people. Some men, some women. It didn't matter, really. I was mostly just mad at myself for being so stupid, for thinking that someone as magnificent as him could ever want someone like me.
But it wasn't until I saw him step out of the bathroom that it hit me. His perfect body, no sign of age or trouble. His beautiful hazel eyes. His being with other people scared me.
I showed him the messages, and he tried to give some half-ass excuse. Tried to tell me that it didn't mean a thing, that I was the only one for him.
A few minutes later, I was on the road, trying to see through the tears.
It's been two hours of driving on country roads now, just me and my thoughts in the car. Thinking about how many times this has happened before, how many times I said that this was the last time, that we were through. But not this time. This time it's for good.
It's been ten minutes since I last saw the sign saying I was leaving Pollensbee. I see the old empty field, the one with the crooked almond tree in the center, and I pull over. The car jerks to a stop and I get out and pop the trunk.
I see his hazel eyes looking up at me. His arms and legs are bound. He tries to plead through to duct tape, but all that comes out is muffled shouting. I pick up the shovel resting behind him.
I raise it high above my head and bring it down on his neck.
He gurgles, and the muffled shouting becomes frenzied. There's a dark purple splotch rising where the bones have broken.
I hit him again and again and again. He stops making noise.
Pretty soon, there's nothing left of his head but crushed bone and pulped meat. One of his perfect hazel eyes looks up at me.
Taking him by a leg, I drag his body to the hole. The six foot deep one I swore I'd never need again. I dump his body into the pit and start shoveling dirt.
He's not even halfway covered when I start hear groaning and see that his head has already started to knit itself back together. The muffled screaming starts again when there's a foot of dirt over him. It doesn't stop, just gets more and more muffled.
As I pat down the last few shovelfuls of dirt, I see a stream of blood slither from the the trunk and disappear into the soil.
Part of me wants to dig him out, hear him say that he loves me and that I'm the only one for him. That we'll be together forever. But fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
No, this time, I'm going to bury him and leave him here. Let him scream here forever under six feet of soil.

"Gnats" by CryogenChaos

And the gears continue to turn for another year. Happy birthday!

The hot summer sun beat down on Victor as he stood impatiently at the edge of the slope of the woods. His fiancee, Jessica, had once again dragged him out to her parents farm to gather the annual "crop" of black raspberries, but Victor, being more used to city life than rural life, could only daintily pick the outermost berries. Frustrated, his fiancee told him to stay behind with the big bucket as she disappeared down the drop-off to find the bigger, better berries.
Victor slapped the back of his neck in frustration. These god damn gnats were out in full force today, swarming all over his face and neck. He couldn't even stand still for more than a millisecond without a gnat flying into his eye or buzzing loudly into his ear, and since they were so small there wasn't much he could do about it. Victor's mother told him once that his family's blood was generally sweeter, so bugs were more attracted to him than his fiancee. Whether or not that was true was up for debate, though the constant cloud of insects floating around him supported that theory somewhat.
The suddenly loud buzz of a gnat flying into his ear caused Victor to jerk sideways suddenly, nearly falling over. Infuriated by the heat, the bugs and the general discomfort, Victor started flailing his arms desperately into the air, trying to swat away the cloud. His struggles were in vain as the gnats continued to surround him, frustrating him even further. He tried ducking down low to get out of the cloud, but the gnats followed him down to the ground.
At his wits end, he started pacing back and forth, getting a slight reprieve from the gnats as he moved. The cloud seemed to grow more aggressive, though, as the gnats began to match his speed and attack his face and body in much fuller force. Victor sped up, desperately trying to keep the gnats away from him. He eventually began sprinting in a circle, barely paying attention to his footing in his efforts to keep the gnats away. He tripped on a raised bit of dirt and felt a sharp pain in his arm as he landed. He raised his arm to find a moderately deep gash from a rock, and only had a moment to register what had happened to him when the gnats started swarming into his wound.
No longer caring about the berries, Victor screamed as he tried swatting the gnats away from his cut arm. Dozens of gnats parted with every swat but returned in full force almost immediately, and Victor could feel the gnats entering his bloodstream through his cut, and swore he could feel the bodies of the gnats pumping through his system. He flailed about in an effort to keep the gnats away, edging closer and closer to the drop-off of the woods. He lost his footing, and fell.
Victor landed in water, a small runoff from the nearby creek. His body felt bruised and scraped from the fall, and tried to pick himself up when he heard a very loud buzzing coming from above him. He turned and looked to see an enormous cloud of gnats, mosquitoes and flies hovering above the water. All at once, the swarm descended onto Victor, his screaming and thrashing drowned out by the buzz, the deafening, unbelievable buzz of hundreds of bugs eager to investigate the sweet blood of the intruder.
—-
Jessica made her way out from the woods, her minuscule bucket almost overflowing with berries. She walked over to where she left Victor, but he was nowhere to be seen. Confused, she walked around the area, trying to find any sign of where her fiancee had gone. She looked over the edge of the drop-off to the bottom, and only saw the last few ripples of a splash in the runoff from the creek, probably from a fallen branch. Annoyed, Jessica concluded that Victor had abandoned her and was waiting inside her parent's house. She began to stomp her way back up to the house, only stopping to swat away the advance of an unusually fat gnat.

"They're There" by Zyn

So I might have given myself a stomachache... Happy Birthday, Gears.

They're always there, you know.
In the cracked fissures of forgotten sidewalks
Lying in wait with pointed tails ready
Unbalancing the unwary and in the moment of resulting confusion
Slithering towards ankles, to veins
Beneath the shadowed sheen of leaves
Brushing the crown of your head
As you pass by, unknowing of the hurried scuttle of legs
Crawling from stem to hair and through to scalp
Within the space between sheet and skin
Creeping through cotton threads
Picking through dead discarded flakes
Burrowing into nail, cracking open bone
On the inside lining of your lashes,
Waiting patiently to dig pincers into your eye
Should a blink be inopportune
In the dainty capillaries of your lungs
Clustered and clamping
In the air, in your breath
Everywhere, to your death
They're always there, you know.

"Insecurity" by FaustoV

Because there's no better horror than real life... Kind of.

I live in a rather dangerous nation. Our goverment is more busy dealing with wealthy people and blaming foreign countries for the current economical shithole than taking care of the huge deliquency issue. Whenever I see the news, there's at least two or three people who got shot for an overpriced Iphone, or just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I always watched those news with a blank mind, trying not to empathize with any of them. And at the same time, believing that if I went undernoticed, nothing like that would happen to me…
By this time is obvious that I was pretty much wrong.
Last thing I remember is that I was walking on the street, and suddenly some bikers pointed me with a gun, handcuffed me, put a bag in my head and forced me to to go with them. Once we stopped, they threw me into a room and started to beat the shit out of me. They didn't even ask me any questions, but rather kept screaming insults and saying I was gonna die (like if it wasn't clear to me already). I think it happened around half to an hour beating me till they grew tired of it, and when they took the bag out of my head, I barely saw several shades of guns through the blood in my eyes. I was scared, and in despair. I didn't see all my life through my eyes, but I couldn't stop thinking of all I wanted to do, but I won't. My dreams, goals, hopes, wishes, all the time I spent struggling to go ahead and have success. Everything I could have done, completely destroyed by some guys who didn't know respect for life. At the end, they didn't care at all. I felt the first shot in my stomach, and a new source of pain passed through my bleeding body. They didn't even waited for me to completely process it, and kept shooting. The second one hit my belly, the third one hit my chest, fourth fith and sixth my lungs, seventh my throat, eighth my arm, ninth, tenth, eleventh twelveth fourteenth seventeenth twentieth thirty ninth…
I couldn't believe I'd stay aware to feel every bullet. specially the one that hit my brain.
Well, even when I thought I was aware, I couldn't move by myself, but the pain stayed there, and it was getting even worse. Despìte that, I felt when those guys took me out, but I was busy dealing with all that pain was a new and terrble experience. I thought that if I was already dead, at least I'd deserve to go to Hell first or something. But instead of that, I was taken into a wasteland, and got my deadself abandoned to the animals. The pain I feel never fades away, . I think there's no worst afterlife than this…
My nose itches… Well, I can always be wrong.

"The Secret of the Snow" by Roget

Storytime, bitches

Heads bowed, the family said grace. Their Christmas feast was nothing special, but it was enough. Father smiled at Wife. This was the good life.
Outside their cottage, the eternal storm was brewing. Some days, it might look closer to finally breaking down than it did on others, but never going all the way. Frozen in time and perched above the edge of a glacier, but never falling over the edge.

Well, everything had gone to hell in a handbasket pretty quickly.
As with all things, it had started small. Harry, the co-pilot, had wanted to drop a small amount of altitude to check on weather. Mark had no idea what the something was.
The blame game didn't really matter now. The pilot lay in several pieces across the debris field, and the co-pilot was out cold, bleeding from several alarming wounds. Mark wasn't doing so well for himself, either.
He'd been thrown out of the plane and landed in a snowbank. He was still bruised to hell, but at least he wasn't in pieces. Physically, at least.
Mark could hear the baying of dogs in the distance. Maybe the self-evaluation of his mental faculties could wait for another day. Sitting up, he gathered his things, papers, clothing, and tore into the woods. Pressing onward into the forest, his eyes felt like they were growing a layer of frost, with sharp crystals blinding every step.
The clothes which had seemed so comfortable on the plane now laughed at his feeble attempts to ward of the cold. He kept on stumbling through the darkness, grasping at frozen, dead tree branches and stones buried in snow. A blind flight into the unknown.
He tried thinking of home. Any home. Maybe it'd be nice to back with Mom and Dad, in Boca. It was always warm there. Didn't need to worry about being up to your knees in snow, alone, thousands of miles from home. Maybe he could go back with Nicole, and Brandon. But that wasn't warm. Apartment. Think of the present. Think of the creature comforts waiting back in the States…
Creature comforts? He'd be a creature's dinner soon, if he didn't find someplace to stay.
Mark wiped the snow out of his eyes and kept going. He couldn't see anything, or… there was something. Windows, with light spilling out onto the snow.
There was a cottage. A small cottage, with timber walls and smoke curling from a chimney. Knocking on the door was not a hard decision to make.
Mark knocked.

A man opened the door, allowing a crack of light to spill over Mark's face.
“Terribly sorry, but we're not interested. We're in the middle of…”
“No, no. No. It's nothing like that. Can I please… uh, sir, may I call you that? Sorry. I just… need a place to get out of this cold, and I found your house, and…”
The hand opening the door was connected to a strong, older man. His hair was pulling into a widow's peak, and a caterpillar mustache perched above his lips. A big red nose and squinty eyes completed the center of his face, peering down at Mark from above.
"Sorry, we're not, uh, interested."
"NO! No, wait, please. I'm not selling- it's cold out here. Please, may I come in?"
The man stared at Mark, considering him. The light from behind his massive frame was swiftly being joined by delectable smells, turkey and grease and gravy, swirling around Mark, swooning him and pulling him in.
"Alright, you poor soul. It's Christmas, isn't it?"
Walking inside, Mark kept his eyes on his new surroundings. This was a small, three room cottage. One room to eat, one to sleep, one to sit.
The family was sitting down, at the table, with the food, on their plates. They were all looking up at him, they didn't quite seem to know what to think. The woman, maybe the wife, was looking at him nervously.
The Father spoke up, in a booming, deep tone. "Family! This is…."
"Mark."
"Mark! He's here to eat with us. Poor old boy was wandering out in the cold."
“Thanks so, so much… I might've ended up like a snowman out there, if I hadn't found you all…”
“Well, Mark… I have to say, we're all very sorry about thinking you were just another salesman. Isn't that right, love?”
The Wife nodded, wordlessly.
“We moved here to get out from the salesmen, but they still come knocking every now and again… but, we do well for ourselves. Don't we?”
Mark nodded, his newfound warmth making him feel exceptionally limber. “Yeah, yeah, sure ma-sir. Again, thank you so, so much…”
Father slapped him on the back, heartily. “Well, we've got a chair here, Mark. Have a seat” He pulled a small folding chair from beneath the table. “You've found a family to rest with, on Christmas eve.”
Mark sat down, blinking the last of the frost out of his eyelashes. “I didn't realize some places celebrated the holidays so late…”
Father ignored him. “So, do you have a family?”
At this, the children — which had until now, been little more than smiling decorative pieces — perked up. “Do you have a wife, Mark?” piped the girl. Mark looked at the assembled family. “Oh, uh… well, me and my wife, we're… separated.”
They stared for a moment.
“Is she okay?” asked the little boy.
“Uh, no,sorry, nothing like that. She's fine. We just…. agreed, uh, that we needed some time apart.”
They stared at Mark.
“Oh.”
The Father's smile dropped a few notches. “Well, I'm sure you're not in the usual for separating, right?”
“I'm sorry?”
“The normal. Status quo. Is separation the status quo?”
Mark paused. “Uh… no, I wouldn't say it is, but… yeah, no, I think the status quo would be to stay together?”
The Family nodded in assent, silently consuming their food as they eyed Mark. The warmth in the room, which had seemed so inviting only minutes ago, was now stifling, and Mark fidgeted in his seat.
“You seem nervous, son. Are you okay? Was it too personal?”
“I'm sorry, the chill has gotten to me. Do you, uh, mind if I take a minute in your… parlor?”

Sitting in the overstuffed chair, Mark kept his hands close to the crackling flames. The smoky wood drifted over him, taking him up and away from his troubles. Closing his eyes, and felt himself relaxing.
Idly, his hand found itself dragging along the cover of a leather-bound scrapbook.
It was titled “THE FAMILIES WE'VE BEEN”.
Leaning into the chair, and placing the book in his lap, Mark opened it. The fluttering of paper and peered in.
Photographs. Dozens of them, some old, some new, a few loose and blossoming with the molds and warping of age. And all of them, all of them, had the family now hosting him.
Some of them looked to be in old English garb, with Father sporting a mustache, and the wife looking as barefoot and pregnant as could be. Some had no children, and some even had no wife. Constant in every one was Father, peering over the frame and into the viewer.
One photo had the family in the woods, smiling and posing as he delivered the killing blow to an Oak tree.
Another depicted them on a boardwalk clouded by early morning fog, smiling at the photographer.
One even had them all at work in a factory. Father looked on from a parapet, lovingly staring at his family as they operated the heavy machinery. The Daughter was only visible partially, as she was climbing into the machine.
Before Mark could glance at them any more, there was a strong knock on the door. A high pitched voice called inwards.
“Are you okay, Mister Mark? Daddy is worried…”
Mark paused. “Be out in a minute!”

The only sound in the dining room was the soft clinking of silverware, and the small giggles of the children. Mark had elected not to elucidate the family onto his discovery. Better to get a hot meal, say his pleasantries, and be out before whatever dark secret this family was holding grabbed ahold of him, too.
“Enjoying your meal, son?”
Mark looked up. All of them, Wife, and children, were watching over him.
Mark's next thought probably should've been to try and ask why they were all looking at him the way they were. Or perhaps where The Father was? But he didn't get to ask anything, because everything was going black.
Mark passed out into his plate.

Father turned another page in the scrapbook. "Oh, do you remember when we played in the clearing, with baseball?"
The Son smiled at him. He definitely remembered that.
Father smiled too, tousling his hair. "Oh, the factory days… remember when all the families out there, they all just kept living in such squalid conditions."
The Wife bristled. "Dreadful."
"Yes, yes…" Father grabbed Mark's head, and forced him to look back at the scrapbook. "You poor boy. I feel bad for this. I really do. Your wife left you, took the child… that's why we had to keep you. So you can learn."
The family all shook their heads "No!"
"We've had so many stages shared together… Remember the Victorian days, when you gals had to wear those corsets?"
They all nodded, in unison.
"Even then, in trying times, we stood together." Father kept turning pages. "Ohhh… Here's a cute one. It's from when we had all of those Jap tourists, coming on… between the four of them, your mom ended up in some queer sort of evening gown!
A collective chuckle echoed throughout the house.
"Look, Mark…" Father grabbed the ropes covering his shoulder, playfully rustling him. "I think we've learned a lot about modern families from your stories. But people like you… I sincerely hope they're an aberration. Moving out away from your son… it goes against all values of family."
For a moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the quiet clinking of silverware, and the eternally brewing storm outside.
"But hey… maybe I could build a cabin. If the kids ever grow up, they could live in it!"
The family laughed.
"Kids, can you take Mister Mark out of the room? We've got a lot of learning ahead of us, and he needs to rest up."

Mark felt himself waking up, as he had many times before. The children had wanted him to come outside and build a snowman with them, and how would he ever be able to say no to the children? They were the most important part of life.
Rising from the mattress, Mark heard the singing and dancing outside. The children had already awakened, and were anxious for him to get out there. Slipping on shoes, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror.
Oh, how he had changed in the past months, years… some time, but what did it matter? Time flies with good company, and here he had some of the best any man could ask for.
He skipped out of the bedroom, sliding into the dining room. The Wife and The Father were seated, looking out the window to the sound of smiling children. Father had grown old, but wise with time. He'd taught Mark so much.
Father saw Mark, and smiled. “Mark… may I have the privilege of speaking to you in private?”
“Certainly.”
Gesturing to the dining room, Father led them inside.
“I'll be frank with you, Mark. I want you to be my replacement.”
Mark blinked. “Sir?”
Leaning against the wall, Father sighed. “I'm getting old, Mark. You've grown up so wonderfully with the kids, and the wife… I think you can take care of them.”
“Sir, I… wow. I just want to tell you… over our time together, you've taught me so much, just, everything, about family. I didn't think it mattered before. But… it does. I don't know just how to put it to words. I mean… the kids, and the wife. It's all-”
“Shhh. I know. I was the same way.”
Mark swallowed. “Where will you go?”
“I have a place to move on to. You'll find it too, when the time is right.”
Placing his hand on Father's chest, Mark felt himself tearing up.
“Thank you, sir… I love you.”
Father smiled. “Go play with your kids… Dad.”
Mark walked out the door, taking only one brief moment to look back to the watching Father. Then, he opened the door, and stepped out into the eternally fresh snowfall.
“Daddy!”
Mark ran out, and embraced his new family for the first time.


The alarms were still going off. Red lights flashing to indicate a Keter had breached containment. The most important information played over the speakers, subsequent information broadcast to individuals via their mobile phones. The men who hadn't already been affected were on lock down, behind closed doors. The women were all filtered into the cafeteria, the only place on site that could hold them all.
The lights flickered as Senior Reasearcher Zyn accepted assistance onto a table, and raised her voice. "Excuse me… Pardon me… LADIES!" She finally had to project to make herself heard. "Attention, now!"
The women quieted down, turning their attention to her. The priority protocols put SR Zyn in charge for the duration of the emergency, and they were all professionals. Well. Mostly.
"To most of you this will mean nothing, but SCP-029 has breached containment!" Some of the women gasped, but most just looked confused. "She's a mind controller, but only affects men, hence the segregation. Reports show she already has over two dozen security and researchers under her spell. We're also seeing an unaccounted for increase in her power levels. She's fast, strong, hard to hurt, and has a small but growing army of followers willing to die for her. Our only leverage is her powers are greatly lessened in full direct light so-"
At that point the lights went out.
They didn't panic. They were well trained in handling these situations. The women waited for the back up generators to kick on, and, when that failed to happen, pulled out various lighters, flashlights, and cell phones with flashlight applications, which they directed towards Zyn, but not at a level to be shining in anyone's eyes and ruining their vision. Zyn for her part, pulled up her revised containment procedures, long form, and scrolled to the relevant bit for 'lights going out.'
"All right, folks. At this point we're going to fall back, and let our security girls jump on things. Anyone who has been cleared for a model O tranq rifle, or model X taser pistol, please pick them up from Jill there at the rear door. Our goal here is to incapacitate any of our co-workers who-"
"Excuse me." A voice called from the back. The held lights shifted towards the woman in the back, the one dressed in a stained, comfortable labcoat. "Can I ask something real quick?"
"I'm sorry, ah, Dr. Elliot, right? We really don't have the time for any explanation, we are on a time clock-"
"I just wanted to know, are we under any obligation here to return the skip alive?" She asked casually, her cell phone held down at her side.
SR Zyn blinked at the question, and quickly scanned her document. "Ah, no, actually. In a breach like this, under these circumstances, the O5s have condoned decommissioning. Of course, that could be really difficult right now, it might actually be easier to just evacuate the site, and then blow her up. We'd lose people, but I can't see how else to stop her. A running firefight in a site without power, and who knows what she might let out? No thank you."
Dr. Elliot held up a hand to forestall her continuing. "No, don't worry. I got this." She raised her phone to her ear. "Serra? Take the shot."
Through the speaker of the phone, three shots rung out. Then a terse voice spoke. "Target nullified."
Zyn stared across the room, her mouth open, the dozens of pages of containment procedures ignored in her hands. "What did you just do?"
"Two tracer rounds and an explosive round through the head at 500 yards… and through a couple of walls." The lights flickered again, as power returned.
"Problem solved."


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The pallbearers carried out the coffin to the center of the grassy area. Dr. Louef assisted them, as the members of Site 118's Gamma Wing slowly filed into the audience, dressed in respectful mourning black. Father Richards walked up to John, and gave another tired, but reassuring smile. He walked out, and led the audience in a prayer for Schenck's soul. Louef noted that most stood respectfully during the process, but few actually joined in. This was as far as the Foundation usually went in the religious side.
After the prayer was finished, Father Richards took his place off to the side, while Louef walked up to the available and familiar podium. He wondered how many times he had been up there already. He shook his head to clear himself of such thoughts, and began his speech.
”We are gathered here today to honor the memory of one of our dear friends and colleagues, Containment Team Gamma-502's leader, Max Schenck.”

“Alright. I'll…I'll record it immediately. Thank you for the news.” Dr. John Louef hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He felt tired. So very, very tired.
It had been a long time coming. Everyone knew that Containment Team survival rates were abysmally low in certain theaters, but no one really acknowledged the fact, as if recognizing death would hasten it.
John wearily opened the filing cabinet by his desk, and searched for the file he wanted. Max Schenck, Senior Containment Specialist. As he opened the file, he looked at the first page. A long list of awards and qualifications adorned the list, along with a series of promotions and major events. But John already knew of these things. What his eyes were drawn to was the photo of a smiling, confident man in his 30s, a man whose demeanor showed the experience of his years without the sag of old age and fatigue.
Louef crossed out the photo, and stamped the file with a marker saying “DECEASED.” He submitted a short form to the Logistics Department, and then he put away the file of his best friend for the last time.

“Father Richards.”
“Hello, John. I haven't seen you in a long time.”
“I get the feeling that you say that to a lot of people.”
Father Richards had a taut smile on his face as Dr. Louef walked into the small on-site chapel. As usual, the chapel was empty of personnel. Most people who worked at the Foundation had lost their faiths years ago.
“Few come in here. Some of the younger personnel, and occasionally someone who needs a confessional. Have you decided to return to the church?” Richards smiled inquiringly, and perhaps a little hopefully.
Louef grimaced. “Not quite. Max passed away. Mission.”
Father Richards sighed, and turned away for a moment. “It seems that funerary services are all I do nowadays. Max…oh Max.” Father Richards went into his personal quarters, leaving Louef alone.
John sat down and looked around the chapel. It featured the same austere and practical design found in any Foundation facility, though Father Anthony Richards had taken the time to place crosses and icons around the small area. Most of the time, Father Richards was here alone, keeping the small chapel clean and tidy by himself as a few personnel trickled in.
In all of John's 15 years at the Foundation, he had never seen more than 5 people in the chapel at once. Yet Father Richards seemed to tirelessly work and give a smile or prayer when needed. Dr. Louef looked up as Father Richards emerged.
“Father Richards…why do you still work here?” Louef asked.
Richards seemed to be surprised by the question at first, but he smiled. “Because God put me here to do His work.”
“How do you still believe in God, even after all that you've seen, and all that you know of our work?”
“I believe that God is inherently unknowable. He works in mysterious ways, and why He has chosen to challenge us with the monsters and horrors that we deal with is unknown. It is merely our duty to defend others and defeat them.” Richards said simply.
John paused to consider that for a moment, and then stood up. “Let's be on our way then.”

Dr. Louef looked across at the entire audience. The various personnel of Gamma Wing listened as Dr. Loeuf gave his eulogy. All told, 87 personnel divided across 5 research teams, several guards, and assorted containment team members listened to the departmental director's speech.
”Max was a great man and soldier. In the field, he was always calm, and led his team through success after success. A true professional, he never lost sight of the mission or his duty as an operative of the Foundation.”
Louef glanced at the audience in between his careful reading. The members of Schenck's team were seated in the front row. One of them had her head in her hands. Another stared at the casket, seemingly numbed by the whole event. A third had crossed her arms, and kept her head down as Louef spoke.
”Containment Team Gamma-502 had been sent on a mission to Laurel Ridge State Park to capture an anomaly that had caused large amounts of property damage through its action. The anomaly in question was capable of self-detonation. Unfortunately, none of us knew that.”
This part was the easiest to get through. Across the audience, friends of Max Schenck quietly mourned, while others stayed respectfully silent. By this point, the woman with her head in her hands had looked up. Some tears were on her face as Louef continued.
”When the anomaly began to show signs of potential detonation, Max demonstrated the utmost professionalism and regard for safety that all of us admired in him. Pushing aside a teammate, he shielded his team from harm by covering the anomaly with his own body.”
At this point, the woman in the front had her head in her hands again, as she convulsed slightly. The man sitting next to her grabbed her shoulder reassuringly, whispering, “Quiet now, Maddy. It wasn't your fault.”
”Out of the field, everyone who had the privilege of knowing Schenck experienced his genuine warmth and kindness. Always caring to the new personnel, always the cool head in any situation, and always a friend to all. Including me.”
Louef's research assistants in the left section who had gotten to know Schenck from his numerous returns of captured anomalies were quietly emotional in the atmosphere of the funeral. The senior researchers in the back corner who had known Schenck for years from his long experience with the Foundation were stony-faced.
”I…”
Louef stopped, and swallowed the ball that had suddenly formed in his throat. This was always one of the hardest parts to get through. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. He gripped the corners of his podium tightly.
”I had the honor of meeting Max when we both came to work here within days of each other. I remember his tenacity in the face of odds, and the creative attitude that got him promoted to team leader. We knew each other for almost 20 years, and I called him a friend for all of them.”
John swallowed again, despite himself. He was more emotional than he thought he would be. He thought that he would've lost the ability to care by now. ”I am proud to say that the request for a Foundation Star to be awarded to Max has been granted by the site director. His meritorious service to the Foundation during his long and decorated career is one that we have known quite well. Yet, I think that Max would not be concerned with his award. He would be more proud of his team, and the numerous accomplishments that he made with them.”
This was another easier part to get through. The woman in the front had finally calmed down, and merely sat quietly, her eyes puffy and red. Her teammate had uncrossed her arms, but had closed her eyes, and leaned her head back.
”We lay him to rest today, because he had no family. His life was the Foundation, and he was one of our finest. He was the best team leader, the greatest friend, and a titan of a man. We will miss him dearly.”
The members of his team now stood up and walked past the coffin. They gave it a touch, and laid flowers across the casket. Other close friends filed past and paid their respects. Finally, when the line of people had passed, Dr. Louef himself walked to the casket, across the now standing audience, and laid one final wreath across the lid of the closed casket. Gamma-502 gave their team leader one final salute as Dr. Louef lowered his head and murmured quietly.
“God my Father, protect this lost son of yours and brother of mine. Let him rejoice in Your kingdom, so that he may finally be at peace. Amen.”
Father Richards nodded approvingly at Louef, before reciting a prayer of his own.
Then the assorted members of Gamma Wing sat down, once again in respectful silence. Dr. Louef sighed, and set his shoulders tightly. He walked back to his podium, in front of rows and rows of caskets, some adorned with wreaths, and most without.
This was the hardest part.
”We are gathered here today to honor the memory of one of our dear friends and colleagues, Emily Hartford…”


Site 19

"It's not supposed to be this way."
The girl crossed her arms, staring at the figure in the bed. She was talking, but not to any of the doctors who moved back and forth from their machinery to the figure beneath the sheets. They just ignored her, to their loss. Not because they were rude men who would have ignored a little girl's opinion, which they were, but because, to them, she didn't exist. She preferred it that way. Nor was she talking to herself, as it might seem. And the creature strapped to the bed had never responded to anyone. She turned her head, looking at the large teddy bear clutched by the recumbent figure. "Why isn't she awake?"
Most people would think she was a little crazy, talking to a stuffed animal. Most people would have been shocked when the toy talked back. She clearly wasn't most people. The little fuzzy head turned to stare her down, those glass eyes staring blankly. "She's never been awake. Why, is she important?" It questioned her.
"Well, duh." The girl tossed her hair back over her shoulder, glaring at the little beast. "Why else do you think I put you with her?"
"I just thought you were pissed at me." It spoke, because why not, with a thick Russian accent. It won't be typed that way, mostly because that gets annoying to read. "This is the most boring job, EVER."
"Please. If I was pissed at you, I would do something much worse."
"Really? You mean, you don't have a problem with how I was helping that Ja-" The Bear stops, as her gaze focuses back on it. Without needing to breathe, he still gulps at the look in her eyes. "I uh, I mean… "
"It's over." She waves it off, although her focused gaze shows she did not want to be reminded. "You work for me now. Has there been any change?"
The bear pries itself away from the form beside it, carefully setting the arm back where it was. It stretches, and twists, before looking at its mistress again. "None, ma'am. Well, none in her. The docs seem awful worried about something. They're trying to pack up." The bear absently waves a paw in front of a doctor as he bends to take a blood sample, but is ignored just as routinely as the girl.
She drifts closer to the shape on the bed. One hand reaches out to touch the too long, too thin limb. "While of course they're worried. The end is coming, and they want to make sure the bed is made before the House burns down… She looks so familiar…" The girl frowns down at the grey skinned face, trying to place it.
"Well, she is related to-"
"No, not that. There's something, in my mind somewhere-" Her eyes light up. While in most people, this would just mean they seemed to light up, her particular flair for the dramatic means an actual golden glow springs to her pupils… then quickly dims, because, ow, bright. "Of course. Back there. Behind… Yes. Yes, that could work."
"Hey now!" The Bear held up both paws, a worried look on its sewn on expression. "You're not going to go and do something dangerous, are you? Cause, I kinda like being alive."
She didn't even bother to acknowledge that. Instead, she took a jump to the left, a step to the right, and twisted reality 180 degrees to walk Behind The Scenes.

Behind the Scenes

She stood there, in the nexus of worlds and time, watching reality flow through around her. In her head, it was like she was standing on a catwalk, high above a stage, with streams of flashing lights and pictures pouring past her, as the catwalk slowly shifted up, down, left and right, showing her places and times that had been, were to be and never even existed. The reality of the place she called 'Behind the Scenes' was exactly as she envisioned it, except without the stage, the catwalk, the streams, or any of the necessary sense base cues humans seemed to depend on.
"It's here." She muttered to herself, strolling down the shaky metal frame at a rather quick pace. She paused to watch a battalion of butterflies wheel across a deserted sky, then took a moment to examine a scene where two rival armies of germs fought for control of a body. The teensy tiny rapiers were an adorable touch, but she found herself reaching out and eradicating the time stream they came from when they wheeled out the microbial cannons.
"It has to be here!" An effort of will refined her searches, less random, more directed- Which of course held to its own problems. The scenes and times ran together, bland men and women in white coats, performing bland experiments on objects that cause the streams of Realities to ripple around them as they tried to spin off alternate timelines where they could escape.
She sought further back, as the budgets shrank, and the rooms got smaller, looking for the one thing that would work, the one item that would… Yes. There. Of course. Right at the beginning. How could she have been so blind? They had been removed, almost completely, but stories always lived on, and if you can trace the stories to just the right moment-

NOWHERE

When?
Now.
Them?
Yes.
Do they know what they work for?
Does it matter? They feed It. They must be removed.
We could talk to them. Show them-
No. We will destroy them, root and branch. It is the only way.
The Queen would not approve.
The Queen is going beyond, her body is dying, because of their intrusions. We will kill them al-
"Okay, I was going to wait for a minute, jump in somewhere useful, but it's really complicated to tell which of you are talking, or even how many of you there are, so I'll just talk here, okay?" The girl was the only solid thing in NOWHERE. The other, beings? Creatures? Intelligences, yes, that will work, they swarmed amongst each other, beings of pure thought and idea. In the mortal realm they took forms, wield corporeal ideas as weapons of pure destructive force, but here they avoided it completey.
Intruders!
Two of them!
Seeking to force form on the formless! Remove them!
The girl looked around, unable to see a second intruder. She held up her hands in supplication-
Stop the former! Make it end! This is our place!
"Look! I have help for you! Your queen is dying, and you will soon as well!" She stood very still, hoping that a lack of action would help keep them from getting even more upset.
We do not need your help. We will destroy the feeders of the anti idea, and they shall be nothing but a memory.
We will win, as we always have.
"You won't!" She shouted, to make herself heard. Even to someone to whom reality was a mere passing thought, the lack of definition these things had was more than a little bit disturbing. And I don't like the way they're eying me, either. "They will make an alliance with the Enemy! You will be destroyed! Never have been! But I can help!"
How?
"They will erase you. But, if one of you were outside of time, with me, you could follow her back, when I plugged her back in."
And why would you do this?
"I believe in happy endings."

Behind the Scenes

The girl hurried back into the safety of the space between spaces, shuddering slightly. She had felt pieces of herself sloughing off into that featureless void every moment she spent there. It had felt like any movement any act that would need description was a violation of that sacred space. I didn't like it much either, but that's because it was far too meta for me.
Trailing with her was the bare wisp of an idea. The mind of the Queen, a brittle husk of what she had once been, her body ravaged by the forces of reality until she could no longer bear it. Her mind was still as sharp as ever. The girl had had to make certain promises, say certain oaths, bind herself in very specific ways before the Queen would consent… But all that had been done in retcon, after she had exited the place, so as to do no further harm to the Queens people.
She turned and watched the timeline behind her. One moment, the people riding out, ready to destroy, wiping out all in their path, and then, in a small dark room, a deal is made, and the people are gone, never having been in the first place. A tear falls down her cheek, but whether it is hers or the Queens is unknown. "Don't worry. Your new body will show them."

Somewhere on Route 66

"Ya know what we're hauling?" Special Agent Bradley Jones asked of his compatriot, Doctor Neil Hoern, again.
"It's a safe class. That's all you're cleared to know." The doctor replied, for what felt like the fiftieth time, but was really only the 12th.. He glanced over his shoulder at the trailer they were hauling, as if he could see through the metal to their precious cargo. "You really have to stop asking. If I tell you, I get in trou-" At which point the equipment in front of him that monitored the status of the creature flipped the fuck out, beeping, booping, and in general indicating that something was going wrong. "Fuck! Fuck! Pull over, pull the fuck-"
The entire vehicle flipped onto its side, skidding down the highway. Bradley was thrown out the side window to come to rest in a pile of cactus, his dead eyes staring off into space blindly. Neil was luckier. He remained conscious as the cap disconnected from the trailer and flipped end over end, to land grill first on the pavement. He had a beautiful view of the overturned trailer as a blade of liquid light cut through the side and the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, her proportions stretched to fit a 15 foot form, yet still glorious. Her skin was light grey, her hair white where it showed under her helmet. She was dressed in armor of golden glorious light, and she was clearly not happy.
The Queen took stock of herself. She stretched, both physically and mentally, firmly rooting herself in this new body. Then she reached out across the years and universes, to where her people had been waiting since they had been erased from reality. Which one swift slash of her awesome blade, she cut a hole in the walls of time and space, linking here and now with then and there.
As the people bled out of the hole in everything, they took form, drawing on the ideas of Humanity to make themselves real once more. Weapons beyond description, armor beyond belief, steeds a mixture of both. And their bodies! In the time they had been gone, humanity had fallen in love with them again, and they had a plethora of shapes to choose from.
The Queen of Light and Air leaped into the saddle of a beast part dragon, part rocket ship, and raised her mighty saber high. She looked at he assembled legion, and smiled.
"We ride!" She called, and out they rid, up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen, a force for change unleashed in the world of men.
A little girl watched them go, a ragged teddy bear in her arms. She smiled, hoping it would be enough, hoping it would count. As the last of them rode off, she couldn't help but speak, mostly to herself.
"I believe in faeries."