>run fmc.exe -t
Foundation Mail Client (Text Only Mode)
>chkbox
You have 1 new message. You have 5739 old messages.
>readmsg new
Reading All New Messages…
1 new message found.
From: The Administrator (1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.nimda#1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.nimda)
To: O5 Primary Reroute Address (1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.5o#1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.5o)
Cc: Senior Staff Primary Reroute Address (1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.ss#1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.ss)
Date: [FIELD EMPTY]
Subject: Now Cracks A Noble Heart
Content:
Over my many years as Administrator of the Foundation, I have found the job progressively less taxing.
My responsibilities grew at first, but with my institution of the O5 council, my job was functionally reduced to an optional veto on high level votes.
I have not used my veto power in the history of the Foundation. This speaks volumes of the competence of the elected personnel.
As I have grown older, my ability to continue my duties to the Foundation as a whole has drastically deteriorated.
My position does not continue to have any significance, or indeed, relevance, to this organisation.
As such, effective immediately, I am stepping down from my role, with no incumbent to take my place.
This will likely change nothing of your day-to-day operations, and I hope you will continue on with your work as normal.
Friends and colleagues, I leave the fate of the world in your capable hands.
Thank you for your service.
The Administrator
You have not accessed this terminal in ten minutes. Do you require assistance?
>logoff
Does the black moon howl?
>logoff Override BaseCommand *1-0001
Goodnight, sweet prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Jeremy was a corgi of simple tastes. After having been gloriously liberated from his previous owner, Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Jeremy's job had been to collect the mail. His brothers, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, and Jeremy, all had substantially more exciting jobs, such as ice cream retrieval or orbital space station design. But he didn't mind. Jeremy liked collecting the mail anyway.
As he did every day, Jeremy brought the mail to his benevolent owner, Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V, PhD. Isabel had been spending her morning being astonishingly productive; she had been spinning in circles with her arms out while whistling for almost four hours straight. Jeremy dropped his mouthful of paper in front of her and gave a helpful, positive woof.

Dearest Isabel;
I hope this letter finds you well.
As you know, your mother and I have been hard at work on our own private projects.
Your position as Lead Toy Designer has been filled extraordinarily well. Sales have been up across the board.
Unfortunately, I have found myself particularly predisposed by current arrangements, that being the event of my demise.
Don't be sad about this! I was getting rather bored anyway. Out with the old, in with the new!
That being said, I will no longer be keeping the position of Key Creative Director And Big Boss Man, again, because I am dead.
Hence, I am elevating you to the position of Key Creative Director And Big Boss Man Lady! Congratulations!
I trust you will live up to the role as only my daughter can.
I have always been proud of you.
Dr. Reginald Philbert Lionel Archibald Westinghouse Wondertainment III, MD, PhD, DDS, Esq.
(P.S. Your mother sends her best regards!)

Jeremy looked at his owner expectantly, anticipating a pat on the head for expedience and a job well done. Isabel sat on the floor and read the letter, her grin slowly turning to a look of deep and profound confusion, then unspeakable sadness, with tears dripping down her cheeks, then excitement and elation. She reached over to Jeremy, flipped him upside-down, and rubbed his belly as he rolled around in bliss. Tears continued to stream down her face as she laughed happily. She shouted out towards the corridor:
"Jeremy and Jeremy! I need some celebratory ice-cream, stat!"
Isabel turned to the large, moustachioed painting of her father on the wall, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
"Bye, Dad."

Lars Celarent, the Dean of Alexylva University's Interpretive Dance department, was returning to his office after a delicious breakfast of cheese that tasted like celery. Upon arrival, he noticed a small letter slipped halfway underneath his door. Lars leant down and picked it up; the red wax seal still warm to the touch. He tore it open with his fingers, and slipped the letter out into his hands. The cursive was curly to an almost unreadable degree, but Lars was able to make out the meaning behind the words.

To My Colleagues;
I regret to inform you that, effective this morning, I am tendering my resignation as Chancellor of Alexylva University.
As many of you know, I have been serving as Chancellor in-absentia more and more as of late.
With the event of my death last night, I am left with two options: resign, or serve in-absentia indefinitely.
Seeing as my time will now be heavily invested in no longer existing, my resignation is the more responsible path.
In accordance with official University policy, my successor will be elected this afternoon by popular vote.
Please act responsibly until that time.
Murdering your peers beforehand, while not technically against any rules, goes against the spirit of the election.
Similarly, negating the event of their birth should be looked down upon, though substantially less so.
Thank you for allowing me to serve you all as Chancellor over the past years.
I wish you all the best of luck with your future endeavours.
Gratefully yours,
Chancellor Westinghouse

Lars fetched his formal attire, bulletproof vest, and sniper rifle. A new chancellor had to be elected, and with any luck, it was going to be him.

James Seudon entered the tiny church. He'd driven for five long hours, twisting and turning his way through the mountains, leaf-covered roads leaning dangerously towards tipping his car off the side of a cliff. And here he was, not a human being for miles around. Which was odd, because he was supposed to be meeting a local Roman Catholic priest. James looked at the solid hardwood door. The lock was heavy and thick; James pulled out a pick gun and had it open within seconds. The church was clearly long abandoned, dust covered the rotting wooden seats. Every step James took on the stone floor echoed as though he were in a much larger space. He walked towards the stand at the front, then noticed a clean white envelope sitting on it, tied shut with thick red ribbon. James pulled the bow apart, opened the envelope, and began to read the letter inside.

Mister Seudon:
Well done on finding your way here. I apologise for the remote location, but it was necessary to isolate you.
I have selected you to be my successor in the field of religious artifact research.
Congratulations!
Should you not desire this job, feel free to report this location to your superiors. I imagine they would reward you well, destroying decades of my notes and research in the process.
But of course, then you wouldn't be able to look at my collection for yourself, and I think we can both agree you wouldn't do that.
James, you're one of the few people who asks the right questions of the right people.
Unfortunately, the wrong people have taken notice. You need to go to ground, and trust me, there is nowhere safer than here.
Should you wish to continue, enter the confession booth, and loudly proclaim 'I Am Free Of Sin'.
You will know what to do from there.
Yours in the Lord,
Reverend Lionel Philbert

James read the page curiously. He looked up and noticed the small confession booth to the side. He walked to it and opened the door. James then pulled out various tools, scraping samples from the side of the box, the ground, the dust between the stones, and investigated them avidly. Satisfied, he entered, sitting huddled inside the box. He re-read the letter, reassured himself, then shouted the words to the booth's empty other side.
"I am free of sin!"

Eric Burke walked into his office. With the unannounced disappearance of the previous Acting Director of the Global Occult Coalition, it was necessary to elect a temporary stand-in. Burke had been moved up two levels of hierarchy, since all of the predecessor's immediate juniors had turned down the temporary position, preferring to maintain control over their various departments. Burke had leaped at the opportunity, applied, and after a single day he was given the job. He considered it unusual, but considering the way that the GOC operated, it was well within his weirdness parameters. He was shown to his (temporary) office by a secretary, who soon left the room to fetch him a cup of coffee. Burke noticed a folded sheet of paper on the top of the desk; he unfolded it and began to read.

To my Successor:
You likely believe you have been elected as a temporary substitute.
However, my notice of resignation can be found in the top drawer of this desk.
Let me be the first to congratulate you: consider yourself the new Acting Director.
You have been briefed by others on what the role entails; standard administrative tasks and so forth.
I trust that they have done their job, and that you now know yours.
However, there is one matter which they have not been briefed on.
Do not inform anyone of what I am about to tell you.
You will likely never meet your immediate superior, Madam al Fine. Without going into details, you should not want to.
You will likely receive weekly letters from Madam al Fine. Without going into details, you should not open these.
Burn them immediately upon receipt. Do not open them. Do not tell anyone you are doing this.
If anyone asks, all of your actions are in accordance her dictates.
Do not seek out Madam al Fine.
I trust you have been a member of this organisation long enough to understand that some orders should not be questioned.
This is one such order.
Please dispose of this letter as expediently, untraceably, and permanently as possible.
I wish you the best of luck with your new position.
Sergeant Reginald Ulysses Law
Acting Director, United Nations Global Occult Coalition

The secretary entered the room with a tall mug of dark brown coffee, placed it on Burke's (no longer temporary) desk, then left. Burke tore the paper to shreds as soon as she left the room, threw them into his coffee, stirred them twice with his finger, and downed the hot beverage in three gulps. Nothing's properly disposed of until it's been through a digestive system, he thought.

Bijou Dashwood heard a letter slide through the slot at her door. She had thought that the snow outside would have postponed the mail; then, she realised that the mail had come yesterday. Confused, Bijou left the kitchen, walked to the front door, tore the envelope open, then pulled out a folded letter and a small metal needle from inside. She read the letter, face slowly hardening, then scrunched it up into a ball. Bijou returned to her living room and threw the letter into the crackling fireplace. She slouched into a large armchair, fire warming her feet, as the edges of the paper glowed, then turned black and crumbled into ashes.

To the recipient of this letter, I apologise in advance.
This was sent by an automated system. I don't know you, and you don't know me.
Welcome to the Chaos Insurgency. You're the boss now.
You might be thinking, how the hell did I get this job? I didn't apply for it.
You almost certainly hate the Insurgency as much as I do.
That's why I became the boss. To rein them in.
I sabotaged them from the top down for years. They never noticed.
There are people in this world who are completely, profoundly selfish.
Some of these people are in the position to do serious harm to society at large.
The Insurgency is a collection of the worst people with the greatest potential.
You have likely been directly affected by the actions of the Insurgency.
You likely have done research of your own to oppose them.
You almost certainly wish to abolish them from existence.
But it is vital that you do not shatter the Insurgency apart.
The key purpose of the Insurgency is keeping these people unified and controlled.
Further reductions into factions could result in a war that could tear the world apart.
The Insurgency requires a leader who can continue its stagnation as best as possible in a covert manner.
My system has chosen you.
If you consent to this, please insert the enclosed needle into your left eye.
You will understand more afterwards.
It won't hurt, I promise.
I regret putting you in this position, but anticipate you shall rise to the occasion.
Archibald Mirum

Bijou looked at the needle in her right hand. It sounded like nonsense, but she could feel something inside of the point calling out to her. She held her left eyelids apart with her left hand, moved the needle to the surface of her eyeball, and thrust it deep into her pupil.
Bijou clenched her jaw. It was not painless. But it was worth it.

The Manna Charitable Foundation received an anonymous five million dollar donation.
Marshall, Carter and Dark discovered five million dollars had disappeared from their coffers.

The Janitor noticed a buzzing in its pocket as it escaped from the chaos far below.

Sender: Critic Reroute Number (662-639-4663)
SMS Content: Hard Drive Sixteen.
File - infohazard_images_492.7z
Password - 3jkb25bv6266kla3j2b6kindejbkreb6k26j4bv2346jg23
The instructions are in there. You will know what to do.
I love you. Thank you, and farewell.

The Janitor did not read the message until the following morning.

Ruiz Duchamp woke up staring at an intriguing installation piece. The piece itself was composed of several hundred mobile phones, all taped speaker-to-microphone, in a long, snakelike weave.
"Bluh."
Ruiz wasn't sure quite when he had gone to sleep. After The Critic had died, he'd felt somewhat detached. He felt cheated of his prize. Ruiz groggily slapped himself in the face, trying to rouse some semblance of coherence within his noggin. It wasn't working.
Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the street, entered his favourite coffee shop, and asked for a double-strength espresso, which he then used to down his daily caffeine pills, multivitamins, and antidepressants.
And then, Ruiz finally woke up.
Then he remembered that there was a dead body still sitting in the middle of his exhibition room.
“Shit! Carol, hold onto this!”
Ruiz placed his coffee into the hand of the confounded barista, sprinted back to 'wowwee', and took a look at the body that was once Nobody. At least it had been a clean shot; were it not for the circular hole in the centre of his forehead, or the dried blood that had run down his cheeks, or the teeth that had broken from the sudden impact, or the smell of his body beginning to decompose, or his extremely dishevelled suit, with his customary grey fedora (also punctured) dropped beside the seat with burn marks and blood at the point of impact, you could almost think he was still alive.
Ruiz threw a blanket over him and started walking back to the coffee shop.

the first of first is death
The first of second is before.
The First Of Third Is After
BOUND BY THE BARD
« no | Hub | Detained »


A sizable group of people milled about a large, featureless room. If one looked very closely in the corners, they could find blood stains and minor remnants of charred bone, but without a great deal of perception, the place looked as if it had just been built. The various folks within the room knew otherwise, of course; they had seen some pretty heavy shit go down in that room, and were currently preparing themselves for yet another round. Even though each day brought new surprises, everything usually went according to schedule.
Today, though, something different happened, something nobody had seen in a very long time. According to the schedule, everyone was to be in the room at nine in the morning precisely, and prepare for their arrival. No late entries would be tolerated. However, at 9:05, two large, burly men without faces tossed in a frightened young man, and slammed the door behind him. The young man lay motionless for a short time, as those already in the room gathered around him, wondering what to do. Some proposed trying to hide him, while others were tempted to treat him as they treated them.
At length, the young man stirred, groaning as he slowly lifted himself to his feet. His face was almost perfectly generic, as were all of the individuals gathered around him. Some specific features could almost be made out, but most had been wiped out by the unique atmosphere of the room. The young man's lips flapped and his throat undulated, but no sound came out. Panicking, he glanced wildly at the individuals around him, trying to figure out just what was happening.
One person who may have been a woman reached out her hands in front of her, and made a series of motions with her fingers. She tapped downwards with her right pinkie finger, and a robotic voice emanated from her general region. "You new, kid?" He glanced up, a look of confusion crossing over his face. Moving her fingers again, the woman's odd robotic voice came out again. "You have to use these weird invisible keyboard things in front of you. They make us use them."
The young man hesitated for a moment and, with shaking hands, typed out, "Who… who are… they?"
"The senior staff, of course," said another individual close to her.
The young man, upon hearing the phrase, flung himself against the back wall, clearly panicking. Slapping the man who had spoken, the woman typed out, "You fear them?" Watching him nod, the woman said, "I wasn't aware there was anyone on the outside who still did."
"They made my life a living hell," the young man said, slowly getting a hang of the strange method of communication. "Two of them took a special interest in me. I don't know why, but they turned my entire family into jelly."
"Sounds like Konny and Clef," chimed in another person, their brow furrowing slightly. "Must have done it for a laugh." The young man twitched slightly.
"He's not as used to this as we are," typed the woman, snapping her head to the right. "Stop being so callous with him!"
"Why bother? They ban something new each day. They get rid of fun, names, talking… who's to say that they won't ban some random shit like compassion one day?"
"They… they can ban things?" asked the young man, shrinking away from the others.
"They weren't able to in the old days, they could only keep you from coming in this room. They only joked about that sort of thing. But now… I don't know what sort of limits they have on this sort of thing. Thank *** they haven't banned anyone yet."
She grimaced, then typed, "They do stuff like that asterisk things all the time too."
"You mean," typed out the young man, fear filling his eyes, "that it isn't safe here?"
"HA! Who told you it would be?" asked the callous man.
"I was on the run from those two for so long. They wouldn't let me go until they'd done the same thing to me as they did to my family. I was looking for any way out. And somebody in… I think it was North Dakota… told me that I could find sanctuary here. So I joined up with the Foundation until those men brought me in here. But… it's not safe?"
Walking over to the young man, the woman placed a hand on his shoulder, and then typed, "Son, they killed everyone in North Dakota months ago. Whatever told you to hide here was probably one of their constructs." As he sank to his knees, the woman added, "But it isn't all bad here. They may torture us, but we still have our minds. That's more than you can say for most folks on the outside. They haven't banned individuality."
"Yet."
"Be quiet." Turning back to the young man, the woman typed, "Look, you can't ever escape them, especially in here, but there are some simple rules to follow if you want to stay safe. Don't do anything that could make you a target. Do what they tell you. Follow all the rules - and yes, we'll give you the rules later," she added, seeing the look on his face. "Don't tread on any toes. And, most importantly, don't say his name."
The young man looked up at the woman. "His?"
"We've got it written down somewhere. Hey, you!" she typed, pointing a finger at a random individual afterwards. "Find where we've got the Czar's name written down." Making a sighing motion, she continued. "Yeah. Him. He used to be the guy who had the key to the break room and made sure we all behaved when we hung out in here. It was a good arrangement, even if he was a bit odd. But he also happened to be among the ranks of the senior staff, so when everything went down, he got the same powers they did. Only he was a bi"
The woman's robotic voice suddenly stopped, even though her fingers continued moving. She paused for a moment, and then typed out, "Sorry. Character limit." Another pause, followed by more typing. "A bit odd. The others are completely blind to their actions, but he knows what really happens to everyone he uses those powers on. Near as we can tell, he doesn't care. We don't know what caused him to get like that, but…"
"I still say he was a nutter before it happened," chimed in one of the men now standing in the corner.
"Whatever the reason," the woman continued, ignoring the remark, "he's completely mad with power now. Put a single toe out of his ever changing definition of the line, and he will come down on you hard. Normally, though, we don't have to worry about that. He only comes in when we say his name, and unless he's gone and changed it, we should be safe from him."
"So what's his name?" asked the young man. "I really, really don't want to accidentally say… type… use it."
"I've got it over here!" typed another person, waving a piece of paper above his head. "Just lemme run over there and… ***, kid, your back!"
Glancing over his shoulder, the young man saw a small candle sprouting out of his spine. Jumping and screaming silently, he desperately beat his hands up and down, trying to swat the burning thing away. Within seconds, the woman was on him, and successfully pulled it out, leaving the young man hunched over, panting. He put his hands before him and typed, " candle wax…"
A silence fell over the room as everyone took in the words the young man had typed. Before anyone could inform him of his faux pas, a high-pitched giggling came from within the walls. Whirling about, the woman saw several members of the senior staff emerging from them, two of whom were clutching onto each other's shoulders for support. "Clef! Konny!" she typed out, forgetting her own advice "Do you realize what you just did?
"Made things a whole lot more interesting, that's what," said Clef, a huge shit-eating grin on his face.
From out of nowhere, dark storm clouds gathered around the ceiling of the room, demonic faces rolling through them. A moment of silence passed before a blast of lighting, hotter than any naturally occurring bolt, blasted down from the clouds, striking the center of the room and smiting anyone standing too close to it. The beam of pure electricity continued to dance for several seconds, thunder roaring all the while, before slowly lifting up to reveal the object it had dropped from a million miles away.
A grand, elaborate throne sat there, majestic and terrible at the same time. It seemed to be made of a fusion of pure gold, fine cut diamond, and mangled human corpses, their faces twisted into horrified screams. The backing and cushion was made of alchemized blood, while the armrests had real arms built into them, encrusted with emeralds. Capping the whole grisly affair were the piked heads of Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin, their eyes and mouths filled with an ever burning fire. A scepter made of a human spine and an enormous ruby containing a thousand human souls floated by the side of the throne, which was quickly grasped by the hand of its occupant.
He was the most terrifying man any person in the room could ever imagine. His skin gave off a sickly white glow from within, tense muscles running throughout the body. His height was well in excess of twelve feet, and his hands looked as if they could crush a man's skull in a second. The clothes covering his divine form were a strange mixture of Nazi officer regalia, Communist Russia high fashion, and a typical 1980s businessman's suit, all in pitch black. Tinted glasses covered his eyes, and his mouth was twisted into a permanent snarl. In his other hand, a long, multi-pronged, barbed lash was gripped tightly.
Opening his terrible mouth, the huge man boomed, "WHICH ONE OF YOU CHUCKLEFUCKS SAID MY NAME? I'VE GOT THE ENTIRE RUSSIAN FRONT OF WORLD WAR II TO REENACT, AND YOU FUCKERS ARE KEEPING ME FROM IT. THIS HAD BETTER BE PRETTY FUCKING IMPORTANT!"
"Hey, Dmitri," piped up Konny, raising his hand, "how can you call it a reenactment when you've armed everyone with laser-based weaponry?
"IF I SAY IT'S A REENACTMENT, IT'S A GODDAMN REENACTMENT!" snapped the imposing man, not even looking at Kondraki. "NOW WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS SUMMONED ME?" Looking around from behind his cold tinted glasses, Dmitri examined the whole room, his gaze passing over ever cowering individual, until he zeroed in on the shaking young man, and the woman standing in front of him.
"MUST'VE BEEN THIS MOTHERFUCKER," he said, floating over on his throne to the pair. "MOVE OUT OF MY WAY, WOMAN. I NEED TO DEAL WITH THIS SHITHEAD." The woman moved her fingers to type something out, but before she could get a chance, Dmitri flicked his foot, and the woman went flying out the door without any physical contact. "NOW WHY DID YOU SAY MY GODDAMN NAME?"
The young man, shaking in fear of the monster of a man before him, slowly typed out, "I… I didn't know that was your name… they were about to tell me…"
"THIS HERE ROOM IS PROPERTY OF DMITRI ARKADEYEVICH STRELNIKOV, CZAR OF THE SCP FOUNDATION, LORD OF THE BREAKROOM, AND RESURRECTOR OF THE BEST DAMN WAR IN HISTORY. I ALSO GO BY WAXX. YOU GOT THAT, YOU LITTLE SHITHEAD?" Nodding rapidly, the young man tried to type, but found himself unable to move his fingers. "NOW, YOU LOT TAKE CARE OF THE NEW GUY."
As the man called Waxx moved to leave, someone else in the room spoke up. "So… so we should ask him some questions…"
Waxx stopped suddenly, turned about, and flung off his glasses, revealing pitch black eyes. "YOU HAVEN'T EVEN ASKED HIM THE QUESTIONS? DO I HAVE TO DO FUCKING EVERYTHING AROUND HERE?"
"You… you banned those questions last…" The man was unable to finish his sentence before he found himself flying out the door with a flick of Waxx's ankle.
"WELL THEY'RE UNBANNED NOW. ARE WE GONNA ASK HIM THE QUESTIONS, OR DO I HAVE TO WASTE MORE TIME AWAY FROM THE FRONT?"
The young man, who was now at Waxx's feet, had fallen to his knees, and was desperately gasping for air. His body couldn't stand being so close to such a powerful being, and he was desperate to get away. "Sir…" he begged, clutching at the edges of the throne with one hand and typing with another, "sir, please, I'm only twenty, and I need sanctuary from these monsters… sir… have mercy…"
"WHAT THE FLYING FUCK!" Waxx bellowed, rising from his seat and towering over the young man. "YOU KNOW THE AGE LIMIT IN HERE IS TWENTY-FIVE. WE ONLY CHANGED IT THREE HOURS AGO. DIDN'T YOU READ THE FUCKING GUIDES?"
"I… didn't even know there were guides…"
"UNDERAGE AND YOU HAVEN'T READ THE GUIDES? THAT'S IT, CHUCKLEFUCK, YOU JUST GOT YOUR ASS BANNED." Reaching out before himself, Waxx pulled out a blood red hammer, spiked on both ends. He swung, and the young man felt excruciating pain, before finding himself gone. He had been banned from reality.
"NOW," roared Waxx, tossing the hammer back into the ether, "IF NOBODY ELSE HAS ANYTHING IMPORTANT FOR ME TO DEAL WITH, I'VE GOT A FRONT TO ATTEND TO." With that, the thunderclouds once again formed above him, and the lightning sucked the Czar and his throne back up from whence they came. All that was left in the room to evidence they had been there were the small black spots on the floor where the lightning had struck. The people who had been in the room were milling about, and waited for the woman to be tossed back in.
One of the senior staff members stepped forwards, cracking his knuckles, and said, "Well, that was fun. Shall we get to work?"

« | HUB | »


Is he willing to stop me, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing?
Then why am I still alive?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?
#FF0000
Six hundred and twenty.
Seven hundred and forty.
Between these lies eternity.
All returns to me.
I don't work the same as other people.
You look inside me and I've got the same blood and guts and so on and so forth.
But there's just something about my brain.
It's been twisted, you understand, twisted by a man who thought it would be fun.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps he kept me the same and twisted the world.
Or perhaps not.
the teacher asked the student
"why is five"
the student asked the teacher
"where is your face"
A REVELATION
A BENEDICTION
A SUPERSTITION
all false and yet the only truths
a parable for all to witness
take a good hard look
kiddies
hence I deal you some fucking mindworks
The Good Doctor Made Everything
He Made Me And He Filled My Mind With Thinking Parts
But Perhaps The Thinking Was Wrong
perhaps he misplaced the bit that makes me
sometimes i hurt people
then i remember that it's just a dream
so i wake up and take a good hard look in the mirror
and then once i calm down a little
i hurt people
"Children, I don't even know what your names are."
the pair tells me their names and they forget
"Let me bleed you."
i bleed the children and they giggle and laugh and all is well
what fun
Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of lucidity.
It's so strange. Sometimes they just hit me like a wall.
It's as though everything until now just didn't matter.
Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of lucidity.
It's so strange. Sometimes they just hit me like a wall.
It's as though everything until now just didn't matter.
Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of… I don't know how to say.
perhaps I could call it 'apprehension'.
Yes, APPREHENSION works quite well for what I want to say.
sometimes I am hit by APPREHENSION and the world seems like nothing.
I lean back and my eyes see the world not as it is but as it could be
then my heart pumps hard enough that I can feel my wrists
you know
that bit
where you
are currently bleeding out of, yes doctor, those little bits that the sad people cut to make the sadness go away yes sir yes sir YOU ARE WELCOME.
and my wrists throb and it is good.
then the feeling comes to me when I start to breathe.
I don't normally do that so it is a BIT FUCKING OFF and ODD to say the least haha?
anyway
I breathe out with my mouth and in with my nose.
THE SENSE
THE SCENTS
THE SENSE OF SENSING SCENT
I pity you no longer have a nose to understand my meaning here, doctor.
PLEASE USE YOUR
imagination.
I think you could do that pretty well, Mister Doctor God sir.
oh and also
just before you decide to go off and do some other thing
or think this is meaningless ranting
from an incoherent author
my name is mister redd
that's my name
probably
i mean he GAVE me that name
MISTER REDD
he would say and i would say
DADDY NO MORE HITTING PLEASE
but i digress
no wait that was you two fucks wasn't it
"MISTER REDD NO MORE HITTING PLEASE"
"DON'T MAKE US DRINK IT"
"WHEN CAN WE SEE OUR PARENTS"
i dunno, go dig them up if you want
anyway
the name he GAVE me was mister redd
but i'm not a fucking mister anything
i choose my name and i am
EPICURUS
or maybe not since there was already a guy named that
so perhaps you can call me
bob
or steve
or randall
or 'frank'
let me be frank with you
but then it overwrites
IT OVERWRITES AND ALL IS REDD
hello my name is mister redd would you like fries with fuck you bitch
i met my maker once in a dream
he called himself father and we hugged and cried
he said sorry for not being there
and then as i cried sorry to him
within my arms
he died
and i cried over the dead body
and then i died
and his corpse cried over me
Mister Doctor Wondertainment
Dear Mister Doctor Fuckfuckfuckfuck
please unmake me
The Mister Redd Product Was One Of Many
(i am the mister redd product)
((as previously stated))
(((you fucking twat)))
My Brothers and i guess i had a sister but she was a huge bitch let me put it that way
My Siblings And I Were Made By God
And Put On This Planet To
((((and i'm quoting from the fucking handbook here))))
'help'
help?
help.
HELP HELP HELP SEND HELP
one of them taught kids the phases of the moon
one of them taught kids how the body changes as you grow up
one of them taught kids that maybe being on fire is not a super great life decision
one of them was purple?
i dunno he was a weird one
<i think he was adopted>
and then there was me
all bottled up with HATRED AND MOTHERFUCKING ANGER
and God made me to 'help'
what the fuck man
seriously dude though for real what the fuuuuuuck.
so he put me down and he said
OH DEAR AND BELOVED SON
{that's me, shitheads}
OH DEAR AND BELOVED SON
I MADE YOU TOTES FUCKIN' ANGRY AND SHIT
and i was like grrr yeah i'm a bit angry and stuff hehe
OKAY COOL GLAD WE GOT YOU ON THE DOWN LOW
and i was like yeah what were you saying
OH SORRY LET ME KEEP GOING
nah man its cool
WAIT WHAT ARE YOU DOING
what?
ARE YOU KILLING THAT KID?
yeah
DUDE WHAT THE FUCK
you made me like this you fucking fuck
DAMN SON YOU'RE A BIT FUCKED UP
well duhhhhhhhhhhhh
BUT THAT'S OKAY BECAUSE I GUESS I PULLED THAT SHIT ON PURPOSE
and everyone just SPAZZED THE FUCK OUT
"On Purpose"
straight from the mouth of god
NO SERIOUSLY I DID IT ON PURPOSE
i fucking doubt it
NO IT'S LIKE YOU'VE GOTTA TEACH KIDS A LESSON OR WHATEVER
a lesson
YEAH
you're seeing me now right
DUDE STOP THE LOWER INTESTINES ARE NOT CLEAN DON'T MAKE A TIE OUT OF THEM JESUS CHRIST
alright whatever man
OKAY BUT YOU'VE GOTTA TEACH KIDS HOW TO CONTROL THEIR
and this is the best fucking bit
ANGER ISSUES
well shit
I KNOW RIGHT
also in case this wasn't clear, this bit was a bit metaphorical or whatever
or maybe not i dunno
i wasn't there
SO YEAH HELP KIDS WITH ANGER ISSUES
dude how do i do that
WELL YOU OVERCOME YOUR OWN ANGER ISSUES
but i don't have anger issues
WHAT DO YOU MEAN
well i'm pretty happy actually
WHAT
yeah i mean i just got a brand new tie
OKAY SERIOUSLY TAKE THAT OFF
fiiiiiiiiine
SO YOU NEED TO STOP BEING SO ANGRY
but i really don't have any anger
OH NOW I'M GONNA CALL BULLSHIT THERE
really i don't
WHY ARE YOU DOING ANY OF THIS
because
i guess
i can?
This was the part where I had a big ol' wonderfuckingriffic tattoo stamped on my back
[FAULTY]
and then i tore my back off
[FAULTY]
and then i tore my back off
[FAULTY]
and then i tore my back off
[FAULTY]
and then i tore my back off
[FAULTY]
and then i backed off
and ran
but now
I'M BACK
AND I'M THE ONE TALKING IN ALL CAPS NOW MOTHERFUCKER
Oh, wait. Here's that lucidity again. That's nice.
What was I talking about before?
Oh, yes. The moments of apprehension.
Sometimes, I start to breathe in with my nose and out with my mouth.
I begin to have 'olfactory hallucinations'.
What it is that I am actually smelling?
I couldn't say, I always forget.
The nose sensations sort of knock me out a bit, you know?
It's as though everything until now just didn't matter.
You know how when a deer just gets stunned by headlights?
What's that saying?
A deer in the headlights?
wow that's fucking stupid
anyway lucidiocy or whatever
I Am Caught Like A Dear In The Spotlights
And All Is Just Like An Internal
'Point Of Revelation'
is this how jesus felt
when he was burning in hell?
Anyway, sometimes I just get those revelations.
They'd only last… hmmmm. Actually, I don't know.
In actual, real-world time, I'd say they last like a minute or two?
around this point you go
like "ugh when is this ending"
shut the fuck up i'm telling a story
no kids i don't know where the shovels are
where was i
something about
jesus?
DUDE WHAT THE FUCK IS HE TALKING ABOUT
wait are we still doing this
YEAH MAN I JUST STEPPED OUT TO GET A BITE TO EAT AND I COME BACK TO THIS BULLSHIT
yeah i dunno let's see where he's going with it
In subjective time, I'd say they last from hours to days to years.
It's like, within that very instant, I live an entire lifetime.
And all the happiness and sadness and all that comes with it just bursts into my retroactive memory.
And then by the very next moment it vanishes.
Have I left you speechless?
hahahahaha
HAHAHAHAHA
wow dude you got some fuckin' problems
YEAH I KNOW SERIOUSLY
Whatever, you guys are assholes. I'm going back to stewing Ruiz and Pico's blood.
who the fuck is pico
WHO THE FUCK IS RUIZ
Damn, you guys aren't even paying any attention to sensory input.
Well, I gave my part. Have fun for the rest of it.
wow what a fucking asshole
I KNOW RIGHT
This Is The Part Where We Point Out
The Internal Dialogue
It Never Ends
Even When We Sleep
It Continues
Please Unknit Us
From
This
Hell
wait you
you fuckwads actually dug up your dead parents
holy shit that's fucking gold
yeah i did that
stop crying you pussy
be like your cool little bro
he's fuckin' loving it
hi-five little man
Where the fuck do you think you're going?
Where The Fuck Do You Think You're Going?
where the fuck do you think you're going?
WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?
well fuck they're gone
SHOULD WE GO AFTER THEM?
nah i can't be fucked
WELL I GUESS IT SHOULD BE QUIETER NOW AT LEAST
yeah
SON YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO HELP CHILDREN
dad i couldn't i can't stop myself
PLEASE, SON, I DO LOVE YOU. PLEASE TRY HARDER.
i couldn't stop myself i wanted to know what they were like inside
but not in the bullshit kiddie way what you're like inside
like i literally wanted to see what they were made of
What They Were Made Of
What they were made of.
i wanted to see what they were made of
perhaps if i keep taking them apart
one day i will know what i am made of
and then i can take apart myself
since i know you aren't going to do it for me you fuckwad

oh shit how did we get down here
Wait How Did You Get Down Here
DAMN HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN THIS BIT
Hey guys, what's going on?
Fuck Guys Get Out Seriously
I've Been Here On A Timeshare For A While
It Costs Way More Than It's Worth
awww come on man just let us sit here for the next act at least
Fine Then Whatever
Don't Touch Anything
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Simon Glass was kicking himself for the decision the narrator had made. "Sending Clef and Dimitri on a fucking sabbatical?! What were they thinking!" His behavior produced several bizarre looks from the other researchers and SCPs who were currently Out of Character between readings. Lord Blackwood, his form alternating between a sea slug and a dapper British adventurer, shook his head at Glass and tsked. 682 leaned on the water cooler and raised several eyebrows at the ranting doctor, and Tristan Bailey simply rolled his eyes and tried to ignore Simon.
"I mean, for the love of crap, the tale isn't even that interesting! All they do is sit on the beach in Rio and drink fucking Mojitos! Does Rio de Janeiro even have beaches? Fuck it all!" In his anger, he accidentally ran into Dr. Thaddeus Xyank, making him late for his appearance in Incursion by about two sentences. "Oh. Um. Sorry, Thad."
"Let me guess: angry about the new Clef thing? Saw you were in it…" Xyank shook his head and sighed. "Just forget about it. It'll get downvoted to crap in an instant."
"That's not it, though! I hate Clef and Dmitri! They think that just because their authors are such big-shots, they get to do whatever they want in the stories with no consequences! For fucks sake, wasn't Clef being considered for SCP Classification at one point?"
Xyank crossed his arms and frowned. "Simon, what does that plaque over there say?" He indicated a brass plaque on the wall that bore the true motto of the Foundation.
Glass sighed, rubbing his arm. "There is no canon."
"Exactly. Now, if you'll excuse me, Piedmont is going to be pissed that I haven't shown up yet. Hope they can write around it!" With that, Xyank ran off to a door marked "Incursion", and ducked inside quickly. Simon shook his head and continued walking towards the cafeteria.
The cafeteria was actually part of the SCP Foundation sandbox site, where old, unpublished drafts and deleted sandboxes were reconstituted into food for the various characters to write. Sometimes, it even took on the appearance of places from the tales; today, it looked like the inside of Vladimir's from "Agricola in Insula est Poeta", despite the fact that it wouldn't be published for a few more years, but time had no meaning in the realm of fiction. Mary-Ann was sitting in the corner with a member of AWCY? that would appear in the story, going over their lines. Glass sat at the bar counter, and sighed. "I'll have a bottle of hard adjectives, please."
To Simon's surprise, Kondraki was behind the counter. "Hey."
Simon blinked owlishly. "Draki? The hell are you doing working cafeteria duty?"
Kondraki shrugged. "I've barely been used in tales in years, but administration still has to find something for me to do, just in case. I hear this lolFoundation canon may boost my popularity again… might be kinda fun, being a reality bender."
Simon asked curiously, "Weren't you in that Abridged thing with 239?" Kondraki scowled at him, and Glass put up his hands defensively. "All right, all right, I'm just saying that a lot of people liked that tale!"
"I don't like to talk about it," he muttered, pouring him a cherry-flavored adjective. "Here we go."
Simon took the adjective and sniffed at it, before taking a sip. "Mmmm… can I ask you a question, K?"
Kondraki nodded. "I suppose…"
"Do you actually hate Clef, or is that just a character trait of yours?"
"I don't like him, I'll say that much. For someone whose main character trait is that he hunts reality benders…"
Glass tapped his fingers on the bar, being silent for a few seconds. "I want him to die."
"I'm sure there's at least one tale out there where he does."
"No, I mean it. I want him and Strelnikov to croak. I want them to die in a tale, and then I want them to fall out of popularity so hard that they're never used again."
Kondraki frowned, and looked around; Mary-Ann and the AWCY member had left, and only a minor background character that was used in an exploration log of some kind remained. "Between you and me… I have a few plot devices I've been saving for a rainy day. A hijacking, an undercover GOC operative, a cameo appearance… if we can find the tale, we can lob a few in, see if that can kill them."
Simon grinned. "It's behind the door marked "Clef and Dmitri Hit the Road. Let's do it. Start with the hijacking!"

"Chechens. Fucking Chechens. The one time we try to put a hijacking plot device in, and it's a bunch of god-damn Chechens."
"Simon, I fail to see the problem-"
"Strelnikov only has three character traits: he's a badass, he's Russian, and he hates Chechnya! Gimme the GOC operative one."
"…I threw it in by mistake. It hit the steward that Clef tried seducing."
"…wait, isn't Clef repulsive to women?" Simon reached into his labcoat, and brought out Clef's personnel file. "Yeah, says right here, 'the individual has a slimy personality that causes all females within ██ ██████ to instinctively recoil in horror'. Nice continuity ya got there…"
"Simon, what does it say on that plaque?" Kondraki pointed onto the plaque across the hall from the doorway.
"It says 'The next person who asks Dr. Simon Glass what that plaque says is getting a brain cancer plot twist stuffed in his rectal cavity'." He dug into the bag of plot twists and brought out one marked "Redneck Attack", and threw it in the door, where narrative winds carried it to about the halfway point of the story.

"…well, at least we got some half-decent dialog out of Strelnikov from that." Kondraki rubbed his face and sighed. "Let's face it. They aren't going to die, not in this tale, at any rate. Maybe we'd have better luck over at Classical Revival?"
"NO!" Glass rummaged through the bag. "They have to die in this one! It has to make some kind of impact! It can't be like that tale with the super-long title where the sun goes out! Here!" He took up a plot device marked 'Random strippers pick up our heroes in a car' and frowned at it. "…why is this in your reserves, Draki?"
Kondraki frowned. "A man has to indulge himself sometimes, all right? Being a badass in hundreds of readings of Incident-239-B Clef/Kondraki every week gets exhausting. Just… don't throw it in-"
"Look out!" Able was thrown down the hallway by the Plague Doctor. The badass Gary Stu fell on top of Dr. Glass, causing him to drop the plot device into the open door. SCP-049 stood over Able and frowned. "I told you that you can't come in Club CB because you're not in Containment Breach. For the last damn time, Able, stay out." With that, 049 walked off back to Club CB, while Able walked off in the opposite direction, defeated.
Meanwhile, in Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road, Clef was asking how far away a strip club was. Out of spite, Glass threw in a "GOC Abduction" and a "Covert GOC Operative" plot device. He grinned as he saw Clef and Dimitri get drugged by blonde bimbos. "Konny?"
"Simon?"
"I think we're done here."

The gossip spread like wildfire. Someone had interfered with Clef and Strelnikov's latest production. There was talk of the two stars being trapped in a GOC interrogation room, and the writers not knowing how to get them out of it. In his office, Simon Glass sat back in his chair and grinned like a Cheshire Cat.
Excellent. No more Clef, no more Strelnikov… no more nothing! He clapped his hands and giggled with glee. He was free of the two largest Mary Sues on the site! Now, maybe the fandom would progress past them and- what was this in his pocket?
Glass frowned, digging in the pocket of his labcoat. He pulled out a plot device labeled "Deus Ex Machina!". Glass instantly blanched, placing the thing on his desk and slowly backing away. A sudden appearance of a Deus Ex Machina was never a good thing. He had to get rid of it somehow…
He took off his coat, and placed the plot device inside of it as if it were simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. He had to get it in the Sandbox before it did any damage…
He ran out of his office, and started down the corridor towards the sandbox. All he had to do was go through the Rat's Nest corridor, go through the Site-77 annex, maybe take a shortcut through his own personnel file, and above all, not drop the Deus Ex Machina. If he could take it to some poor newbie writer's sandbox, he would be fine…
"Coming through!" announced Glass to a group of characters from Competitive Eschatology. "Deus Ex Machina, very dangerous!" The corridor suddenly thinned considerably as he ran past them, getting to the end of the general tales corridor now, and he soon would be in the Canon Annex-
Suddenly, a door opened in his face, shattering the plot device in his hand and giving Simon Glass a bloody nose. He groaned, looking up at the door that had opened in his face, wondering who the hell was coming out of it; the red "READING" light was on above it, so it had to be something relatively new-
The door read "Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road." Simon Glass turned pale, before a polite cough came from behind the door. He stood up, and looked at a ukelele that Dr. Clef was holding in front of him defensively. "Simon! W-we were just coming to find you… perhaps you could assist us in ending the tale? It got quite harried in there, you see; we nearly died."
Simon Glass's eye twitched slightly as Strelnikov joined Dr. Clef. "Da. We need to conclude the story. The three of us."
"T-Three…?" asked Glass, shaking with both fear and anger; fear of Administration finding out what he had done, and anger at the fact it had been all for naught.
Clef pulled a dazed-looking Agent Yoric out of the door. "Um. Yes, you see, that GOC thing somehow led to Agent Yoric being captured, so we need to conclude the story, and you seemed to be the logical conclusion, you see. Um."
Dr. Simon Glass put on a plastered-on smile, dying inside with each word he spoke. "I would be happy to help my esteemed colleagues complete a tale… let me just… grab a script." He walked towards the nearest script dispenser, screaming internally the entire time. After several agonizing steps, he walked back to the door, and stepped in, not letting a single peep out for fear he would break character.
Simon Glass hated Dr. Clef. And he vowed that one day, he would ruin him. Forever.


Document Identification Number: DOCWON-525276
Acquisition Method: Mailed to Site-17
Additional Documentation: Mailed In Unmarked Manilla Envelope, Sealed.
Inside: Seven (7) Marked A5-size Envelopes. Envelopes Numbered Sub-Documents -1 to -7 As Follows.
Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-1
Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Mister Doctor Wondertainment", Unsealed.
Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Black Pen, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon.
Front:

THE TOYMAN AND THE DOCTOR
(A Little Bit Of Fiction By You Know Who)
“I'm just… bored.”
Doctor Wondertainment was not a real doctor.
“Kids don't care about my toys any more. It's all virtual, these days. Who cares about having a real friend any more? Jessie! Cancel the next line of Misters! They never sold anyway.”
Four hundred metres down, twelve half-developed embryonic monstrosities were euthanized.
“Sitting inside all day, sharing cat pictures on the internet, looking up who knows what through who knows where. They won't pay attention to the real world.”
Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand and PDA in the other.
“Sir, that's not quite –“
“YOU PUT THAT FUCKING THING DOWN.”
The Toyman leapt to his feet, tore the PDA from her hands, and threw it out the window.
“Sir, that was –“
The Toyman pulled the burning hot coffee from her grip and threw it in her eyes.
“AHHHHHHHH –“
The Toyman threw Jessie out the window.
“Jessie, you stupid, stupid girl.”
The Doctor pressed a button under his desk.
Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand.
“Sir, that's not quite right. Market studies are showing that… hang on, I think I left something in –“
“No, no, no…”
The Doctor pressed a button under his desk.
Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand.
“Sir, I completely agree.”
“I know, Jessie, I know. But how do we convince them to pay attention to the real world? These kids are spending every day indoors, their eyes are going to turn square from staring at all their video games and movies and cartoons and comic books and video games and comic books. How do we get this fresh generation out of the house?”
Jessie moved over to The Doctor, crossing her legs as she sat on his desk.
“Simple, sir. We destroy their houses. We tear the rooves from above their heads. We kill their parents and make them orphans. We force them into the streets, where they will finally be able to be play with your toys and be happy. And if they don't want to be happy, we kill them.”
The Toyman grinned from ear to ear.
“You're fucking brilliant, Jessie. But how do we…“
The Doctor pressed a button under his desk.
Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand.
“Sir, I completely agree.”
“I know, Jessie, I know. We need to make the outside more fresh and exciting, don't we?

It is unknown whether Doctor Wondertainment is an individual or an organization.

“JESSIE! DON'T COME IN!”
“…sir?”
“When was the last time I had my pills?”
“I'm not sure, sir. You've killed me too often.”
“Get them for me. Please.”
“Sir, I'm not sure that-“
“I SAID GET ME MY FUCKING PILLS, BITCH!”
“Yes sir. Yes sir.”
Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand and “Doctor Wondertainment®'s Stop The Voices Pills!” in the other. She had tears streaming down her face. Bruises covered her arms and legs. Blood poured from the open head wound, and the gashes in her torso from the broken glass. The Doctor tore the coffee from her hands and The Toyman threw it in Jessie's eyes and the coffee mixed with her tears.
“More coffee. More coffee.”
Jessie left the room and returned with more coffee. She placed The Doctor's pillbox on his desk. The pillbox smiled at The Doctor and squeaked in violet whispers:
“Complementary! Please Take One!”
The Toyman screamed.
“YOU MISSPELT COMPLIMENTARY.”
Doctor Wondertainment downed his pills with Jessie's tears.
The Toyman went back to sleep.
The Doctor died a little inside.
With Love, From Your Prodigal Son
love ya, daddy.

Reverse:

dear mister doctor wondertainment.
thank you for making so many fantastic toys.
we love playing with them. please do not stop making them.
when we grow up we want to be just like you and make everyone have lots of fun.
love ruiz, pico and mister redd.

Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-2
Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Messrs Ruiz, Pico and Redd", Unsealed (Torn).
Inside: Folded A4-size White Paper, Front Text Printed Via Inkjet Printer, Reverse Blank.
Front:

Wondertainment Enterprises
PO Box 3.141592 And The Rest
Wondertainmentland, 7
To Ruiz and Pico:
We're glad you like playing with Doctor WondertainmentTM brand toys!
Unfortunately, the Doctor himself is busy working on his next 'big thing', and can't respond to you directly.
We'll pass on your message when he takes a break!
Enclosed are free samples of Doctor Wondertainment's latest line of consumable products, Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy BearsTM!
Thank you for your letter!
From The Office Of
Doctor Wondertainment
To Mister Redd:
We're glad you like being a Doctor WondertainmentTM brand toy!
Unfortunately, you do not have the rights to use the likeness of Doctor WondertainmentTM in your fictional works.
If you do not cease production of these works, further actions will be taken.
Thank you for your letter!
From The Legal Department Of
Doctor Wondertainment

Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-3
Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Mister Doctor Wondertainment (NOT PEONS)", Unsealed.
Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Black Pen, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon.
Front:

MISTER REDD'S BIG DAY
(at the legal department)
And Then
Mister Redd
Killed Them All.
I Am Not A Toy.
Let me meet my maker, or you'll meet yours.
DON'T MAKE THIS NON-FICTION.
pass it on to the man himself.

Reverse:

dear slaves of mister doctor wondertainment.
thank you for your reply.
the gummy bears were very tasty. we will buy more when they come out.
please pass this letter on to mister doctor wondertainment. we do not want to speak to you.
love ruiz, pico and mister redd.

Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-4
Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Messrs Ruiz, Pico and Redd", Unsealed (Torn).
Inside: Folded A4-size White Paper, Front Text Printed Via Inkjet Printer, Reverse Blank.
Front:

Wondertainment Enterprises
PO Box 3.141592 And The Rest
Wondertainmentland, 7
To Ruiz and Pico:
We're glad you liked eating Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy BearsTM!
Unfortunately, the Doctor himself is busy working on his next 'big thing', and can't respond to you directly.
We'll pass on your message when he takes a break!
Enclosed are free samples of Doctor Wondertainment's latest line of consumable products, Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy BearsTM!
Thank you for your letter!
From The Office Of
Doctor Wondertainment
To Mister Redd:
We're glad you like being a Doctor WondertainmentTM brand toy!
You have heavily misrepresented the public face of Doctor WondertainmentTM in an unauthorised fashion, then threatened The Legal Department of Doctor Wondertainment.
This unauthorised activity with respect to the public face of Doctor WondertainmentTM constitutes infringement of Wondertainment Enterprises intellectual property rights and violates various defamation and vilification laws.
Wondertainment Enterprises enforces its intellectual property rights very aggressively by using every legal option available.
Wondertainment Enterprises demands that you immediately and permanently disable access to any and all copies of said fiction.
Do NOT reply to this letter.
Thank you for your cooperation!
From The Legal Department Of
Doctor Wondertainment

Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-5
Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "GIVE THIS TO DADDY", Unsealed.
Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Blood, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon.
Front:

LET ME SPEAK TO MY MAKER
(let me speak to my maker)
LET ME
SPEAK TO
MY MAKER.
AM I PAST MY FUCKING EXPIRY DATE?
NO RETURNS?
Double plus no backsies? Well just let me have a few moments of time with the good 'DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT TM' and then I'll be out of your hair.
I'm really serious, here.
IF YOU DON'T I'LL KILL THESE KIDS.
this was written in their blood

Reverse:

dear slaves of mister doctor wondertainment.
thank you for your reply.
please do not send more gummy bears. some of them made us feel sick.
please pass this letter on to mister doctor wondertainment. we do not want to speak to you.
love ruiz, pico and mister redd.

Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-6
Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "To Doctor Wondertainment, URGENT, PLEASE READ", Unsealed.
Inside: Crumpled A4-size White Paper, Heavily Worn, Text On Front In Black Crayon, Reverse Blank.
Front:

Dear Doctor Wondertainment.
My name is Ruiz.
I do not know my last name.
Mister Redd will not let me remember.
I have a brother. His name is Pico.
I am worried about Pico.
I am worried about myself.
Mister Redd took our parents away.
He says he is our family now.
I pretend to not understand.
I pretend that I am stupid but I am not.
I know our parents will not come back.
He tries to make us drink things that make us strange.
I throw it up and try to make Pico throw it up but he does not.
Sometimes Mister Redd cuts us and collects the blood.
I do not know what he does with the blood.
Sometimes Mister Redd calls you God.
Every night I pray to you that Mister Redd will be recalled.
I do not think that you can hear prayers.

Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-7
Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "dear mister doctor wondertainment", Unsealed.
Inside: Crumpled A4-size White Paper, Heavily Worn, Text On Front In Red Crayon, Reverse Blank.
Front:

dear mister doctor wondertainment
thank you for making mister redd
love pico

« Shady Meetings | Hub | Quintessence Of Dust »


Behind the facade of a stately building, within a clubhouse that could be described as tastefully lavish (or perhaps lavishly tasteful), nested between the high arms of a soft leather recliner, sat Mr. Dark.
He was not in a particularly good mood.
While Mr. Dark would never be considered an especially jovial person by any discerning lady or gentleman, the frown currently inhabiting his features was directed at something other than the world in general. Specifically, its targets were the two other men currently occupying the room. They were standing, of course. When you were in the presence of Mr. Dark, you stood, and none knew that better than Hareton Marshall and Edwin Carter. Mr. Dark made sure of that. Indeed, they have been standing there for the last fifteen minutes.
That was probably enough, Mr. Dark decided. "New competition, you say?"
Marshall cleared his throat, an act that sent ripples through both prodigious chin and even more prodigious mustache. During his lengthy acquaintance with the Marshall family, Mr. Dark didn't recall a single born member of the family who didn't eventually end up sporting one of the ridiculous things. Even the women. Especially the women.
"Well, not as such. Wouldn't call it competition as such. Not in so many words."
Mr. Dark only barely resisted rubbing at his temples. Not out of any worry at offending Marshall, since he was never much concerned with that, but because his hands were itching terribly. They always did that when that time of year came, but he never got used to it. "Then how would you, pray tell, describe the act of selling products similar to our own, to the same customer base, at prices which would make us go bankrupt in a week?"
Marshall rubbed at his mustache, as he always did when he was nervous. Another rather infuriating family habit. "Well, I imagine it would take longer than a week. A few months in the very least."
This time, Mr. Dark couldn't resist. Rub rub. Itch itch. It was a somewhat ironic fact, he pondered, that the Marshalls were never the sharpest knives in the drawer, despite the alarming frequency in which they used them. Oh, they were certainly very good at their specific fields of interest, of that there could be no doubt. Just point a Marshall at an unsuspecting continent, and soon it would contain no piece of ground untrodden by big shiny boots, no natural resources untapped, no historical relic unplundered, and no native populace unharassed and still in possession of its wealth. You just had to make sure to let someone else handle the finance, since they'd probably spend it all on brandy, gunpowder and hair care products.
The current Marshall was an exemplary specimen of the family. Stout, solid, and with the curiosity and imagination of a brick. The man's mother has been a bit too fond of reading, hence his rather unfitting literary name, but Mr. Dark couldn't really blame the poor woman. When you were married to a Marshall, you had to do something in order to keep your intellect from shriveling and folding into itself, like a dried-up snail.
Mr. Dark shivered. That was a lesson he only needed to learn once.
"Regardless how you want to define it, it is most certainly a problem that needs to be addressed quickly." Carter cut in, probably in order to save his partner further roasting glares from Mr. Dark. He probably regretted that decision when that very same glare transferred to him, but to Carter's credit, Mr. Dark thought, he bore it with far more class.
"You say it's a problem, but you didn't even bother to mention who's behind it. Is it the Factory again? Some new line of blood-powered mixers or something?"
"The products don't really fit their usual style. They don't seem mass-produced at all, really, and if there are, whoever is doing it is putting a lot more money into their production than the Factory."
"So not them. Is it another relic from the Prometheus days then, or some wayward Alexylva experiments?"
"Nothing to tie any of the products to them, and it's usually very easy to tell."
"I bloody well know it's easy to tell! In case you've forgotten, I've been in this business since before you were born, you sniveling welp!" Mr. Dark barked at Carter, who manged to hide his flinch almost completely. Much as he hated to admit it, Edwin Carter had quite impressed Mr. Dark since they first began their business relations, shortly after the death of the former's father. That Carter was an idiot of almost impressive proportions, actually managing to make his contemporary Marshall seem intelligent by comparison, which was no mean feat. Carter Jr. was made of different stuff, however. Under his management, Marshall, Carter & Dark's Acquisitions Department went from a corrupt, barely controllable mess of mercenaries, sellswords and other scum into a well-oiled, well-performing and above all loyal machine. It really was a shame that the man looked like some sort of mix between a cave-dwelling frog and a permanently constipated iguana, but you couldn't have everything.
Said unfortunate hybrid now cleared his throat. "My apologies, Mr. Dark, I didn't mean to offend."
Mr. Dark waved a dismissive hand. "Forget it. So it's not them, fine. Did young Wondertainment finally crawl out of her pile of ice cream and corgis then? Didn't think she had it in her, honestly. Too much like her daft father."
Carter hesitated. "She… indeed has, but we don't think that has anything to do with the current situation. Although what we suspect she's planning on might prove to be a different problem."
"Well surely it can't be Uncle Merl, or…" Mr. Dark's expression turned sour, and the itch in his hands returned with renewed vigor, "Deer."
Marshall, finally regaining some courage, chuckled at that. "We wouldn't have bothered you with those buffoons."
"The truth is," Carter said, "is that we have no idea who's behind this."
"So why don't you, and I know this might seem like a mad idea, why don't you use our terribly vast and terribly expensive intelligence network to bloody find out?!"
Carter gulped. "We tried, Mr. Dark, but every Acquisitor I've sent either came back empty-handed or… not at all."
"And that's not all," Marshall added. "Three hours ago, our connection with the Singapore Auction House went silent. When the men I sent there arrived, it was empty, I do mean empty."
God damn, but Mr. Dark's hands itched. He peered at them, keeping them in the corner of his eyes. He never liked how they looked in the middle of the process, elegant as it was. The left hand was pale, thickly veined, covered with liver spots. The right was darker, almost brown, and as smooth as Mr. Dark's credit record. "What do you mean, 'and I do mean empty?'"
"I mean that there was nothing there. All of the items stored, all of our sales personnel and my security staff, even the bloody furniture, down to the power sockets and wallpaper. Everything was gone."
"And you say you have no idea who's responsible for this? For the contents of an entire Auction House disappearing off the face of the Earth?"
Marshall stiffened. "I assure you, my Downsizers are at this very moment applying themselves to the task of finding whoever's to blame for this. They never fail!"
Downsizers. Mr. Dark remembered the days when the Club's group of head hunters and assassins were called something rather different. He was quite fond of the old name, though in retrospect he did understand the decision to change it. It wasn't really keeping to the spirit of the times. Plus, it was more than a bit racist, and the Club did always try to cater to as wide an audience as possible (within reason, of course). The only color that mattered, after all, was the color of currency.
"Regardless of Marshall and the Downsizers' never-failing efforts, Mr. Dark," said Carter, his tone making clear his opinion on their chances of success, "And whether or not there's a connection between our new business rival and the recent incident in the Auction House, I took the liberty of acquiring a few of the items that the competition recently introduced to the market. I think you might find them of interest."
Mr. Dark nodded, absent-mindedly scratching at a liver-spotted hand, and Carter reached for his pocket, taking out a small box of polished, deeply colored wood. Connected to the box was a round silvery button. Carter left the box on the liqueur table next to Mr. Dark's recliner, and exited the room. A few moments later he returned, this time carrying with him a covered cage. He positioned the cage next to the box, and lifted the cover to reveal a live hen, quietly clucking to itself.
"Observe."
He pressed the button. The hen shifted slightly, and began clucking louder. After a few seconds of that there was a sudden popping sound, and seemingly out of nowhere, an egg appeared next to the hen.
Mr. Dark didn't quite know what to make of that. "Is this… is this some sort of zen questions solver or something?" he asked, but Carter just shook his head and pressed the button again.
Cluck. cluck cluck CLUCK!
Pop.
And now next to the egg were a raw green potato, a tomato, a head of lettuce, some olives, and what appeared to be half an ingot of sliver.
"Er…" Another shake of the head, another press of the button.
Cluck. Cluck. Cluckcluckcluckcluckcluuu-Biff
"And this is the reason, Mr. Dark, that I believe we have a problem." Carter said.
Mr. Dark could only nod, as he reached a slightly shaky hand to the cage and removed the top. And from the cage, he collected what was now a perfectly roasted and garnished chicken, with a side of mashed potatoes and a green salad. All served on a flawless silver platter. Disconcertingly, of the tomato there was no sign.
Marshall approached and, using his rather sizable pocket knife, skewered a piece of roast chicken. He chewed it thoughtfully, and declared, "It's alright, I suppose. A bit bland."
"Yes. Quite."

A certain distance from the stately building which housed the lavishly tasteful (or perhaps tastefully lavish) clubhouse, a man sat at his office. At a first glance, and probably at the few following that one, neither appeared particularly special, and indeed, the office wasn't, other than the wasp nest hidden in one of the walls. The man, however — if a discerning gentleman or lady were to look carefully — did in fact have something to distinguish him from your mundane Joe or Jane. Namely, the fact that he was at the time conversing with a god.
And that he was smiling.
"And so you see, aha, we simply cannot continue on our current expansion schedule with the current production roster. How can I be expected to work in these conditions, is what I ask you? The forms aren't neat, there are candles everywhere, and I'm sure one of them tried luring me into a circle at one point, which is not something I appreciate, no I don't. And don't even get me started about break room etiquette. No, you know what, you need to hear what I have to say about their break room etiquette- it is below acceptable standards, I tell you, considerably below acceptable standards, and another thing-"
Not because of anything the god said, mind you. The man lost track of that hours ago. It was something about the high costs of thaumic levies and how mages these days couldn't fill a MAG-97 form to save their wrinkly skins. For a being of immeasurable power and presumably intelligence beyond the ken of mortals, the man was surprised to find out that his god was a very boring person indeed. He wasn't really sure why it surprised him that much, since the god was, after all, an extension of the man himself, and didn't this whole thing begun in the first place because the man found himself to be so utterly, disgustingly boring? Indeed it had. It seemed that he couldn't escape that truth about himself, not even by summoning the vast, unknowable powers of the grand cosmos.
"Are you listening to me? Doesn't look like you're listening to me. I can smite you, you know, I could do it right now, leave a greasy stain on the floor and everything, and wouldn't you feel silly then? Yes you would. Although… that would get me in trouble with the cleaning ladies. No, that wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all, that. They'll have me running about cleaning the trash bins for weeks, and that's no task for a god, no it is not. And that's without even going into-"
The man smiled again. Well, if the vast, unknowable powers of the grand cosmos couldn't break the monotony that was his life, he'd have to turn to an even greater power, the most powerful force there ever was.
Almighty Consumerism.


"Wait, so we're hiring this guy blind?" asked the man as he sat at a table piled high with papers.
"Yes sir. He's just been informed he has a high-level position with us, plus good pay and benefits. He'll be in momentarily. He just needs to sign these," said the younger aide, gesturing towards the piles of papers.
"And if he asks about particulars?"
"That's your problem. You're the lawyer."
"…figures. Send him in. And kill the lights. May as well have a little fun with him."
"Yes sir."
Thomas LaFerro rubbed his eyes as he waited for the new hire. It had been a long day, and he hated hiring people when they didn't know what they were getting in to.
"H-hello? Are you in here?"
Internally sighing, LaFerro said, "Yes, right over here. Have a seat and we'll begin."
Slowly, the new hire walked over through the room and sat down in the chair. It and the table of papers were the only illuminated things in the room.
"Wow, you guys take your shit seriously."
"Yes we do doctor. We find caution and secrecy to be paramount. Now, before we begin, this entire session will be recorded for verification purposes. This is not a request, I'm just informing you that everything you say is going on the record. Is that understood?"
"Yes. But what do you mean verif-"
"Please state your name for the record, doctor."
"Doctor Henry Olstein."
"Good. You may call me Mr. LaFerro. Now, we, by which I mean you, just have a few papers yet to sign before you are officially an employee of the Foundation. This should take no more than an hour of your time, after which you will be sent where you are supposed to go, given an orientation, and assigned to a team. Any defection during this time will result in termination. Is that understood?"
"Yes. No leaving or I'm fired."
"…we'll go with that. First is a Foundation-standard nondisclosure agreement. By signing this, you agree to not reveal or publish the details or findings of any project or projects you work on from here on, in this time or reality or any other. Additionally, you agree to be held to the same regarding other staff members of the site at which you are to work unless they are on your team. Your home, should you choose to live off-site, will be bugged and wired for surveillance purposes. Any breach of contract will result in termination. If you agree to these terms, print your name here, sign here, and initial here, here, and here."
Dr. Henry Olstein briefly held the pen before saying, "So…no publication? Ever? Even if I discover something that could change how we understand reality?"
"Good God, they didn't let this guy know anything!" thought LaFerro.
"Permission may be granted to publish your findings in an internal Foundation-only publication. Permission will come from your site director and depends on your assignment, your findings, and an internal review process of the publication. I'm told the review process is exceptionally harsh and has reduced more than a few to several sessions with Foundation-employed psychologists. Please sign the form so we may continue Dr. Olstein."
LaFerro watched as Olstein scratched his signature on the paper. Another life, thrown away into secrecy. This man would never see the light of day again, at least not with family or as Dr. Henry Olstein. A life in the shadows.
"Thank you doctor. Now, we have just a few more to sign. This packet of forms explains your clearance level, pay grade, sick days, site policy, holiday policy, housing arrangements, vacation days, etcetera. If you agree to all the terms and conditions laid out herein, you need to print here, here and here, sign here, and initial here, here, here, here, here, and here. This needs to be done throughout the packet. I'll give you a moment."
Olstein scribbled furiously, apparently anxious to get on with the job. "He wouldn't be so anxious if he knew even a fraction of what he was getting into," thought LaFerro. But then, none of them really did. Some knew more than others, but no one really knew.
"Very good. Now, this packet outlines your benefits, insurance, tax exemptions, food plan, and gives you the choice between the standard, death/dismemberment/displacement compensation and the death/dismemberment/displacement/dislocation/relocation/multiplicity/immolation/[DATA EXPUNGED] compensation packages. Yes, they've actually written [DATA EXPUNGED], no I don't know what it means. It should be noted that this package will take a significant amount more out of your paycheck, but will guarantee total compensation and financial stability for the designated recipient upon your accidental death, dismemberment, etcetera. Please mark a checkmark by the package of your choice and the designee's name. Then, if you agree to all the terms listed, you need to sign here, here, and here, and initial here."
"The, uh, death/dismemberment/displacement/whatever package…that's all a joke right? Not ever actually going to happen?"
"I'm afraid I'm not cleared to tell you that, nor do I know for certain doctor. Do you wish to continue?"
"…yes."
"Very well. This paper details the amount of budget per annum you will receive for projects. Additional funding and resources may be requested. If this looks acceptable to you, please sign here."
"I think that was the fastest I've ever seen someone sign their name," thought LaFerro.
"…what are D-Class personnel, Mr. LaFerro, and why do I have such a high number of them?"
"That information is above my clearance level doctor. I have approximately seventy-five more pages for you to sign before you can leave. For the sake of brevity, I'm going to let you peruse and sign them at your leisure. They all need to be initialed in the upper right corner and signed at the bottom. I'll give you a moment."
Olstein skimmed and signed the papers quickly, looking more agitated with each paper.
"Okay. This has to be a joke. 'Under no circumstances are you, the signee, to touch the anomalous penguins that may or may not be present on your site. At no times are you to make a penguin, bird, or fish comment around said penguins. Testing of penguins is strictly forbidden. Breach of this contract may result in demotion or termination.' This is a joke right?"
"I'm afraid not doctor. Those penguins drive a hard case. I can't think of a time they've lost in Foundation civil court. Please sign the form if you agree to the terms."
Grumbling, Olstein signed the paper.
"Amazing," thought LaFerro. "He gets caught up over the penguins clause but signs the 'no contact with family' clause without skipping a beat. I'll never understand these people."
"Well doctor, I believe that's all I've got for you to sign. You may leave. An Agent will be waiting outside to escort you to your assignment. Congratulations on your employment, Level 3 Researcher Henry Olstein."
As Olstein left, LaFerro looked down at the papers in front of him.
"Dr. Henry Olstein, Clearance Level 3/682," read the paper.
"Poor bastard. Send in the next one."


Ruiz Duchamp heard a sound in the distance.
hooooooooonk
Probably nothing. Ruiz continued to pace in his studio, moonlight shining through the glass roof and casting shadows across the room. Felix had passed on the invitation; the only thing that Ruiz could do now was wait.
“Ruiz Duchamp.”
Ruiz turned to the doorway; he had waited long enough. The Critic adjusted the grey tie on his grey shirt, grey fedora matching his grey eyes. Every wrinkle in his brow exuded an aura of impossible normalcy, a feeling that this lone individual was the one true constant in reality. Ruiz grinned. His audience of one had arrived.
“The one and only. And what should I call you? Do you prefer ‘Critic'? ‘Doctor'? ‘Professor'? ‘Administrator'? ‘Reverend', even? Dare I call you ‘God'? Or, perhaps, shall we go with… ‘Nobody'?”
“I think ‘Sir' will suffice.”
Ruiz clapped his hands in unspeakable ecstasy, moving to the man's side.
“Sir, yes sir. Right this way, sir, may I take your hat and tie, sir? Welcome, sir, welcome, to my glorious masterpiece!”
Ruiz flung his hands from his body, theatrically standing in front of his completed work. The lights flicked on with an electric hum, sawblades spun on with a whirr, neon signs flashed brightly, rows upon rows of deadly contraptions lined the hall. Vivaldi's ‘Spring' played from the house speakers.
“WOWWEE, SIR, WOWWEE! GO KILL YURSEFIL!”
Ruiz paused, realising he wasn't sure how to pronounce ursefl.
“Yur… yursefil? Ursefell? Oh, never mind, it's pronounced ursefl, silly me.”
The Critic adjusted his fedora.
“Amateurish.”
Ruiz laughed, plucking a yellow circular saw from a shelf.
“No, sir, no it's not. You're not looking at it with the right mindset, you're not looking close enough. You're the right audience but you're looking at the wrong thing, sir. Look at this until you really, really get it, sir, then you'll understand the exhibit.”
The Critic took the offered saw in his hand. He appraised it briefly. Uninteresting in all respects.
“This is nothing.”
“Sir, I'd never show nothing to Nobody. Look harder.”
The Critic stared at the circle of metal. He stared into the thin coating of paint, literally inside its composition, then noticed the pattern of brushwork. It was not completed in discrete layers, in fact, the brushstrokes seemed to weave together in three dimensions, the dried paint tangled impossibly. It was so subtle that, in fact, nobody would ever notice it. Nobody but Nobody. He looked deeper, beyond the coating, into the metallurgical structure of the disc. The internal flow seemed to twist and turn through impossible spaces, incredible tension pulling the fabric of reality taut within the hardened disc. He looked deeper, into the molecular structure; there he saw five-dimensional warping that should, by all accounts, cause the disc to shatter into dust. The atomic structure was bent through eight dimensions, beneath that, the protons were pulled across eighteen; the constituent quarks below were crackling across twenty six and below that he could feel the tension of uncountable vectors in uncountable spaces. The Critic inhaled deeply, apprehension setting in. Ruiz cackled madly.
“It's all perfectly fine, sir, it's perfectly normal. There's enough stress in that disc alone to destroy the planet, and sir, I've got five of them, and a hell of a lot more than just saws in here. I have no idea what you're looking at, even now. I was painting blind, I can't look that deep, but I searched for it and felt my way around and knotted the stuff together and there you go. I was very careful about it, sir, not even you could unravel this tapestry; the knit is much too tight.”
The Critic looked up at the buzzing, whirring, slicing death machines. In every one of them, he felt the inimitable pull of the impossible. He could tell they were all joined to the humble chair sitting in the middle of the room. Ruiz's mad grin relaxed into an apathetic melancholy. He gestured and nothing but moonlight was left, silence fell, and then gestured again, and, with an audible arc of electricity, a spotlight shone onto his centrepiece.
“Of course, you can't possibly let this stand. Someone as erratic, as unpredictable as me, to have such untapped force at his disposal? Frankly unacceptable. Certainly, you could try to pull these things apart yourself, piece by piece, thread by impossible thread, but I don't think even your hands are steady enough for that. One wrong yank and you'd wipe all life from the earth. Luckily for you, though, there's still one hanging cord. You grab this metaphorical cord and pull, it all collapses, the tightness drops, the tenseness on the world dissipates and I'm left with a bunch of boring little trinkets. You know what I mean, don't you sir?”
The Critic's face moved uncomfortably, staring at the illuminated chair.
“Come, sir, let me show you to your throne.”
Ruiz grabbed the grey-suited man by the arm, pulling the suddenly limp figure to the centre of the room. Ruiz pushed The Critic down onto the chair, fastening straps around his legs, chest, and left arm. Ruiz placed The Critic's right hand upon a large red lever. A polaroid camera faced directly towards The Critic's grey fedora.
“Now, this is the thing that I'm most proud of, sir. This piece, I call ‘get ur foto takkn', and I do hope I'm pronouncing that clearly enough for you. You see, all you need to do is sit right there, get nice and comfortable, pull that big old lever, and then this contraption here, the good old polaroid, takes a picture of you! And also you get electrocuted and die. This does, of course, unknit all of my other fancy stuff, completely disabling my ‘armaments'. But that last bit's only happening because it's you, sir, the rest happens for everyone.”
The Critic looked dully towards Ruiz, fedora barely blocking the harsh spotlight from his eyes.
“Why?”
Ruiz turned and sat to the side of his camera, shrouded in darkness yet dappled in moonlight.
“Because I hate you. Because I need to hold someone responsible for all of this, all of reality, and it may as well be you. You sit in the darkness and plan and plot and you think you've got it all under control. Well, you don't have it under control. If I'd wanted, I could have just set this stuff off yesterday, and nobody would have breathed another breath. And that's not a stupid, shitty double meaning thing with ‘Nobody', you'd be dead as well, sir. You presume to have the authority to take care of everything, when in reality, you're the one who has the least control. Look at you, old man, sitting in a bland little suit, hopping about and reassuring everyone. ‘All part of the plan', you say. But there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, and it's only by incredible happenstance that the world hasn't been obliterated a trillion times over. You're not getting your shit together, so I need to kill you. With you gone, people will take your place. Deconsolidation of the power base. Restructuring of the system. A universal paradigm shift. The ultimate defenestration.”
“All I'm hearing is the incoherent rambling of a madman.”
“A madman? You're calling me a madman? You're the one who made me like this, grandpa, you're the one who set it all in motion. Sitting around playing with a bunch of fucking puppets, masks upon masks upon masks, playing at being Everybody and what's in the middle? I know as well as you do, Nobody lies behind the masks. Lies and lies and lies and lies. So I've sat you here, subtle hints and triggers forcing you into submission, into apathy, into apprehension and servility and all of that good stuff. But I'm not going to kill you, sir, no sir, no sir. That's your big red lever to pull.”
The Critic drummed his fingers on the handle.
“And what if I sit here and do nothing?”
“Then I'll walk over to the wall, press that button, and boom goes the metaphorical dynamite.”
At once, a large red button began to glow.
“So, sir, take your pick. Die by yourself, unknown, unloved, a nobody until the end, and silently save millions, or die with me, die with all of us, and with the last of your waking moments watch the world burn. I'm not fussed either way, sir.”
Ruiz pulled his right leg up to rest upon his left.
“Why did you make him to begin with, sir?”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“I honestly don't.”
Ruiz stood and pulled The Critic by his tie, watching him wince as his airways cut off.
“You don't even remember. You pull impossible shit and move on, you switch masks and dance away. You refuse to shoulder responsibility for your own actions and entrust the world upon the shoulders of cripples. Fuck you, sir. Redd really was just like you.”
The Critic's eyes widened.
“Redd… that was years ago. Long before I found the hat. You mean he actually… oh. Oh, I am so, so sorry. He wasn't meant to leave. He wasn't ready. I made a mistake. I'm so sorry.”
Ruiz crinkled his face, tears pouring unrestrained from his eyes. He let the tie drop, pulling The Critic's old and wizened face into a bearlike hug.
“This is not for me. This is not for you. This is for him. This is for him, you useless sack of shit.”
Ruiz walked back to his seat, staring straight at the old man's grey, sorrowful eyes.
“You want to show me you're sorry, you pull that fucking lever. You want to make the world a better place, kill yourself. KILL YOURSELF! WOWWEE! GO KILL YOURSELF! WOWWEE! Wowwee…”
The Critic lifted his arm, placing it firmly upon the lever. His face hardened.
“For what it's worth, Ruiz, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm-”
BANG.
The glass roof shattered, shards falling down into the hall of death. Ruiz widened his eyes as a perfectly circular hole appeared in The Critic's fedora, blood and skull fragments bursting from the puncture. He felt a pressure in the room release as months of impossibility was pulled free, a hollow whine echoing in the space as reality reassumed its authority. Ruiz covered his head from the shards, turning his head to the sniper laying comfortably on the roof among his corpses. The shooter waved to his brother, malicious grin covering his face. Ruiz screamed the only words he could string together.
“YOU FUCKING KILLSTEALER!”
Pico Wilson rose from his throne, throwing his rifle through the ruined roof and clattering onto the glass-covered floor, saluted mockingly, then turned and disappeared into the darkness. Ruiz thought to give chase, but knew he was likely already too far gone. He turned back to the old, dead man, grey matter glistening as blood stained his otherwise pristine suit. Ruiz pulled the fedora from The Critic's bloodied head, flawless circle still punched through the front. Ruiz pushed his finger through the hole and wiggled it around.
“Fuck.”
The lever remained unpulled.

Oh Shit I Didn't Expect That To Happen
« Insufficient Clearance | Hub | no »


It was a generally gloomy day, such as was normally the case when Dr. Jack Bright had a mild hangover and was also a chimpanzee for one reason or another. Outside his window the rain pattered lightly as his clumsy fingers reached for the coffee pot aside of his bed and flipped it on. He scratched his head. He took a piss. He waddled back into his room just in time for his first morning Joe.
It was about that time, he would recall later, that he noticed the delivery truck. Which was strange, mostly because it was Tuesday, and deliveries arrived every other Wednesday. Having thoughtfully determined that this would be a scheduled-in-advance hangover, Dr. Bright had little else to do for the time being, and so rode the elevator out to the front gate to see what he could see about the box which had been left outside. Five security men were already looking over it, poking it with sticks, scratching their heads and looking around for someone smarter than them to handle the problem. Dr. Bright considered making a wise remark about evolution, but thought better of it. Mostly due to the throbbing pain in his dome.
"I just don't know what to make of it, Dr. Bright!" one of the security guards said, shrugging like those damn rookies always do. Bright grunted in such a way that told the others to back off, and took a clumsy sip of his coffee as the rain stopped falling.
Before him was a pine plywood box with a button on it. It looked pristine and perfect and clean, and notably not very wet at all. On the box was a sign.

Free Candy!: Press Button

Maybe it was the sun starting to beat on his forehead. Maybe he just wasn't banging on all cylinders this morning. Maybe it was the brain of the chimp clouding his judgment. Whatever the reason, Dr. Bright scratched the stubbly beard slowly growing on his apeish chin and proclaimed aloud: "I like candy."
There was a snapping sound. Then nothing.

"You really think this will work?" Agent Harold Simpson of RCT-Δt asked as he helped hoist the heavy box into the back of the truck. "I mean…I've read about String 093 and these guys are… Well they're us, in a manner of speaking. I've worked with Dr. Bright extensively, and the thought of him just pushing a button like that…"
Agent Burt Tomlin shook his head and pulled the door to the truck closed tight. "No, you're right. The Jack Bright we all know—and some of us even like—would never do something so stupid; but this is not the Jack Bright you know."
"How do you mean?" Harold punched a few numbers in the keypad by the door and listened to the capacitors beneath the floor begin to whine.
"The Jack Bright you know isn't a god," Tomlin chuckled. "Never underestimate the stupidity of gods."
The capacitors discharged, and the garage door opened onto a barren waste where a single speck of green shined cleanly in the distance.
"And if it works, then this is resolved?" Harold asked, doing his best to fill his mind with happy thoughts and praise.
"Nah," Tomlin said as the engine turned over. "It's just one anchor after all. Just enough to make a splash. Still… it ought to be funny as hell."
The Silver Creek Parcels van shakily lurched forward over the ash-covered ground. The unreal desert wrapped around them, silently welcoming its first taste of normalcy in many, many years.

Item #: SCP-3882
Object Class: Safe Keter
Special Containment Procedures: The Object is suspended by a beryllium bronze chain in the center of a 55 x 55 x 55 m steel container with access at floor level, and via catwalk at 25 m up the northern wall. A holographic projection at 25 m radius around SCP-3882 designates the active radius. Only D-Class personnel may attempt to deactivate the device with permission of Dr. Kondraki and at least one more Level 5 Senior Staffer. Other experiments may only be performed with direct supervision from Dr. Kondraki.
Description: SCP-3882 is a small plywood box containing machinery of unknown origin, all of which is constructed of a Beryllium Bronze alloy. Although samples may be taken of this material, it always instantly regenerates no matter what. The device seems to be powered by six standard 12v car batteries which have resisted all attempts to remove them. SCP-3882 causes a defect in all reality in a 25 m radius. All man made structures, most plants and animals, and most humans undergo rapid decay and disintegration within the active radius until reaching a level consistent with 43-62 years of disrepair and neglect. Trace amounts of [REDACTED] radiation are also present in the effected area, consistent with ██████ ███████ █████████ some time in [DATA EXPUNGED].
SCP-3882 was recovered on the front steps of Site-19 by Dr. Bright with a sign attached to it advertising "Free Candy: Press Button." Due to his insatiable sweet tooth, Dr. Bright pressed the indicated button and activated SCP-3882 causing [DATA EXPUNGED] fifteen attempts, the device was deactivated and Dr. Bright has made a full recovery.
Due to the effect, researchers entering the active radius suffer extreme emaciation and rapid unconsciousness, and D-Class personnel so far show only a 1% survival rate, although after deactivation, about 20% of those killed by SCP-3882 are recovered in time for monthly termination.

Note: There wasn't even any candy in it… what kind of a monster would do this?!
-Dr. Bright

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Mobile Task Force Psi-7 specializes in the undercover investigation, containment, and/or demolition of anomalous buildings or buildings affected by anomalies, particularly residential homes in populated areas. Primarily working with initial containment or demolition, some members are also involved in assisting with observation of longer-term containment efforts for persistent building-based anomalies. MTF Psi-7 is involved in the ongoing containment of SCP-1452 and SCP-1684.
Psi-7 was formed in 1998, after Foundation administrators recognized a need to base a task force specifically around knocking down houses. This was due to an outbreak of SCP-1452 affecting the homes of several administrators, including Dr. Gillespie. It has been assured that the creation of this task force along with the anomalous infection of an administrator's home was completely coincidental.
Since then, Psi-7 has had a distinguished career with explosive demolition. Although their methods have been deemed somewhat unorthodox, the use of explosive charges to level anomalous homesteads has proven to be 100% effective, and is believed to contribute to the unbelievably high morale found among Psi-7 agents.
Included in this report is an interview with Agent Ekblad, one of Psi-7's numerous incendiary experts.

Dr. Gillespie: So, in your own words, what about working with Psi-7 makes it a worthwhile experience? Is it the ability to serve humanity, or the pride in being able to creep in unnoticed and remove anomal-
Agent Ekblad: Probably the four or five times a week we get to blow the hell out of something. That's pretty fuckin' fun right there.
Dr. Gillespie: Beg your pardon?
Agent Ekblad: Other task forces, they're all like 'ugh my best friend got taken out by a mutant fish squirrel last week' or 'uhhh man there's a giant bird thing killing my friends.' But when people ask me about my job, all's I gotta do is go into some stationary, anomalous house, rig it up to blow sky high, and then I fuckin' get to push a button that blows it sky high. I get to use my expert training in blowing shit up to actually blow shit up!
Dr. Gillespie: … I'm not sure what to-
Agent Ekblad: *Makes jazz hand motions* KABOOM!

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