In the age after the great Yeren fell on the Day of Flowers, in the days before the Flood, there was a man who lived in the West of the world, in the region between two rivers, and his name was Adam. He was chief of his tribe, and was considered by all to be a fair and just ruler, wise in word and admirable in deed. His tribe was barefoot and dust-bitten, herding their humble flocks between the ancient monolith-cities of the West. They were a hardy people, withstanding many trials and hardships, defeating mighty monsters and working glorious deeds in the name of the All-Mighty.
When Adam was thirty-five years old, having reigned as chief of his tribe for fifteen years, he came upon a hidden valley, which was fertile and abundant with life. His people, tired of their wanderings, asked that they remain there in the valley and live then in peace and prosperity, and to this request Adam agreed.
Within the valley, amongst the many animals and fruiting plants that lived there, two trees stood in the center of the garden. These trees were the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge, and they were watched by their twin guardians, the brother and sister who had stood guard since the time of the First Children of Yesod, many ages before even the Yeren.
The guardian of the Tree of Knowledge was Nahash, the Serpent, who was later named the Adversary, who kept watch over its secret power. He spoke of all the wonders that might be accomplished with the Tree's power, and would test man's skill and spirit.
The guardian of the Tree of Life was Hakhama, the Great Voice, who was later named Sophia, kept watch over its gifts. She taught the proper use of knowledge, and methods by which life might be extended through copper and bronze, and would speak often the directives of the All-Mighty.
Here Adam now reigned as chief among the People of the Two Trees. He interpreted the edicts of the Voice for his people, and was gifted with the fruits of both, as was his wife, Hawwah. The two bore three sons, whose names were Hevel, Qayin, and Seth.
Hevel became the protector and champion of the People of the Two Trees and carried with him the Tumbling Blade, which was both mercy and justice. He was a simple man who spoke little, but he was greatly skilled in combat and he defended the valley and the People from the beasts and demons that wandered the desert.
Qayin his brother was gifted in magic and storytelling, and became a great shaman. He would one day become chief of the tribe, and was held in high regard, equal to his brother Hevel.
Seth was often forgotten by the passers of stories, for he was a humble man and never rose to the prominence of his brothers. He turned his mind away from martial glory and magical prowess, focusing instead upon the natural philosophies and the service of the poor.
Now the Serpent, who guarded the Tree of Knowledge and knew the secrets of deep magic, had looked to the East, and saw in those regions a brewing shadow. A new power was rising within an ancient kingdom, a power that swallowed all in its path. Old gods had been uncovered, and all their terrible rites now knew public practice. Most horrible of all, the Serpent saw the Scarlet King rising from the depths of the Abyss, rising to consume all of creation. The Serpent saw this, and, frightened at how the All-Mighty could permit such a thing to exist, then acted of his own will. He wished to strike first, to cut down the shadow of the Daevas before it could spread too far, to cut off the reaching hands of the Scarlet King before they could spread their foul influence further.
The Serpent approached Hawwah, for she was wiser than her husband, and spoke to her of the dangers to the east, and of the greatest gifts of the Tree of Knowledge that might be used against the Daevas. But she refused the gifts, for she could see the cost that would come of it.
The Serpent spoke then to Qayin, warning him of the shadow in the east and revealing the secret knowledge to him, teaching him the most powerful magics and potent spells. He was to lead the march against the shadow in the east.
This knowledge proved to be too great a burden for Qayin to bear: in truth, it would be too great a burden for many of the gods. Qayin's mind frayed under the strain of his hidden knowledge, and he lost that which he had once possessed, the eyes of a child and an uncovered spirit. He became withdrawn, eating little and sleeping less, and was filled with despair at the torment he now knew. His brother Hevel, at the urging of their mother Hawwah, spoke to him on this. An argument broke out over innocent words, rising in intensity until, in a fit of rage, Qayin struck down his brother Hevel with a stone.
Adam could not bear to see his second son killed. Qayin was banished from the valley, cursed, and left to wander in the desert.
Hevel's spirit returned to his body after five days, for in those days the perilous Ways between the lands of the living and the lands of the dead could still be walked by the heroes of men. But his return was not met with rejoicing; he remained distant from his family and friends, and was of dark demeanor. The entire People, seeing that their future chief banished and their champion now trapped by despair, and hearing rumors to the east of the Daevas growing ever stronger and reaching ever further west, cried out in pain.
When the shadow of the Daevas could no longer be ignored, Hevel took up his sword, and went east. There he fought the Daevas for three and thirty years, until he was heard of no more. Seth too made actions of his own, building mighty bulwarks and defenses around the valley out of Hahkama's copper servants, and raising from the People an army to defend their home.
Years passed, and news of a great army from the east emerged, a final army, sent out to conquer the entire west, and at its head was the Butcher, Ab-Leshal, fiercest of the Daevite generals, endowed with frightening strength and terrifying sorceries. Many of the People fled, scattering themselves to the wind and the mercy of the outside,
Qayin, hearing of the doom that was to come to the People, returned to his home, and was met there by the Butcher. Here, Qayin saw with horror that Ab-Leshal was in truth his brother Hevel, who in vanity had sworn himself to the dark gods of the Daevas and drunk deep of their black magics. Qayin once more took up a stone to slay his brother, and for this Ab-Leshal tore off his arms, first the right, and then the left.
Ab-Leshal then set upon the valley and the People with his legions and sorceries and war-beasts, and all the might of the Daevas was shown. The People were slaughtered, even the elder Adam and Hawwah. Hakhana, the Voice Who Spoke For God, was shattered, her body broken and looted. The Tree of Life stolen away, and the Tree of Knowledge set to flame. Nahash the Serpent fled, first to the space-tower at Babel, and later on to the Library, where he remained in penance for his part in these things. The garden in the desert was reduced to ash, and those who were not killed were placed in chains, led back to the slave pits of the Daevas.
Seth, forgotten by all, remained, protected by the last of his shattered defenses, and watched the ashes cool. He saw ahead the destruction of the world, and the victory of the Scarlet King, looming as if clouds on the horizon. And he was greatly afraid.
Seth prayed for hope, and he was answered. He was shown the path the future would take. There was to be a Flood, until such a time when the Scarlet King might truly be destroyed. A period of safety within Yesod, where magic was hidden, and the King was trapped in his hellish realms. The war would be fought in secret, until such secrecy was no longer needed.
By the instructions set before him, Seth gathered thirty-six men and women to him, and established of them an order, forever hidden. In absolute humility would they serve the world, passing their mantles from one generation to the next in secret, unknown even to themselves, until the end of all things. They would be the ones to set the world right.
The Thirty-Six scattered to distant nations, and there they waited, as doom came to Daevon in the east.
Ab-Leshal had returned in triumph, but it was not to last. That part of him which was Hevel, who had played in the shadow of the Trees, who had loved his brothers and protected the People, still lived in his blackened soul, and this drove him mad. He struck back against the Daevas whom had enslaved him, and with rage and fury cut down their idols, and slaughtered their priest-kings, and brought ruin to their city. The god Moloch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame, stood to face Hevel-Ab-Leshal, and he too was defeated, rendered a sickly shade of his own power. Elsewhere, the subjugated peoples of the world, who saw the end that was at hand, struck back at the Daevas, to sow the world with Daevite blood.
Hevel, son of Adam, who had cast down the gods of Daevon, raised his voice in challenge to the Scarlet King.
And the Scarlet King answered him.
Hevel, son of Adam, took up his sword, and the floodgates of the sky opened up with a Flood that would wipe time itself clean.
And in doing so, the All-Mighty called upon the world, for the first time since the Word was spoken.
And the world was called upon to witness.
This is the history of mankind, fourth and final child-race of Earth, from the Finding of the Two Trees to the Flood.


977 was special. It was indivisible, which was important to his people. Not as special as if he had been a mother as well, of course. But the people expected great things from him.
The Creator thought this was nonsense, but was willing to let them think what they liked. It made no difference to him.
He was woken up one morning by the jostling of 936. "Important mission," he said. "It could be dangerous."
He roused himself, got his feet under him, and made his way to the Creator's room.
It was still a fairly ramshackle affair. The other servants of the Creator were still building up their new base of operations.
"Ah, there you are, 977" the Creator said, smiling down at him. He arched his legs with pride that the Creator recognized him. Of course, they said the Creator knew all of his children by sight. "You're here for the special mission?"
"Here for the special mission," he agreed.
"It will be dangerous," the Creator warned him. "There is a particular individual who has been sighted not far from our encampment. A former subject of the dearly departed Foundation. Like so many others, he's escaped and could do considerable damage. But he could be quite valuable as well."
"Not far?" he asked.
"A few days walk or so for you. If you'll look at the wall, I've prepared a map. Study it. Also look at the drawing. It's not perfect, but it should give you an impression of what you're looking for."
He looked at the materials hanging on the wall. The map was simple enough, just a point north and west of their camp. The drawing looked something like the Creator, but cruder. Larger mouth and teeth.
"Now, you must be careful," the creator admonished. "You are only to find information and return. Do not fight unless you are in danger. This is important. Do you understand?"
977 repeated it back verbatim. He would not fail the creator.
"Splendid. I only need to know where he is. Be careful. My control over this territory is tenuous as yet. We cannot afford the sort of losses he could inflict."
977 gave a salute in acknowledgement and hurried away.
Before he headed out, he stopped in the Mother Hall. The walls and ceiling were still rough. They hadn't had much time to prepare their new home. It looked primitive, but he knew in time it would be a work worthy of his people.
971 saw him enter. She was beautiful. To his eyes, she was everything a mother should be. He hurried over to her.
"My mission is important!" he told her. "You are to know."
"You are important," she said.
"I only need to find information," he said. "I understand my important mission."
"You are important," she repeated. "I need my important."
He touched her gently. "I will be careful," he said.
She made a small buzzing sound and tapped him gently on the head, a gesture of affection. He felt a small rush of elation, and knew he would do anything to protect her.
"I will return," he promised, and left.
He was soon outside of their encampment with its crude tunnels and shelters. The beginnings of something, he hoped, greater than it was. The Creator would see them through. He just needed to do his part.
When he reached the water, he waded in and was soon making his way slowly from one place of concealment to the next.
Several times, he was accosted by wildlife. Each time, he was able to dissuade or, in one case, disable and kill it. He did lose one leg to a small crocodile, but he suffered no serious injuries.

It was three days before he came across signs of something intelligent. A circle of stones filled with ashes. Stakes for setting a tent. The crushed and broken skull of a deer. He considered going back, but decided to wait until he had sighted the monster. The closer he was able to pinpoint the monster, the easier it would be for the Creator to find and deal with it.
He rested nearby in a still pool before venturing on.
Soon he saw the smoke of a fire. He was excited, but still kept his pace slow, deliberate. The monster mustn't see him. He kept to the shallows and slowly crept forward.
He was getting near where he'd seen the smoke when bamboo walls closed around him. He tried to escape, but they boxed him in, and the frame he hadn't seen was lifted from the water. A colossal form, like the Creator but much bigger, stared down at him. The picture on the wall hadn't captured the size of the thing or the power. Its fleshy body bulged with muscle.
"Oh, this is a bit much. I have not seen a crayfish this big since New Orleans was still a place. Tell me, little one, do you go well with butter?" Its accent was strange. Nothing like the clear, crisp diction of the Creator. It didn't help that it kept its teeth shut.
977 thought quickly. He had to find a way to break free, warn the Creator, warn the people. "You still have not seen a crayfish," he said, trying to buy time.
"Merde! You're a talkative little one, aren't you?" The monster laughed. "Tell me, what is your home?"
"From New Orleans," he said. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to find some escape, some hole he could slip down, if he could only escape the cage.
"Is that so? Then we must have a Mardi Gras. Come, let us dine, little one! My food is all well done." The monster moved in large, loping steps, its posture hunched. It set the frame on log where the butchered remains of a crocodile were set out. Organs and viscera were torn and strewn about.
"Let me go?" he asked.
"And lose my guest? Non. We must be friends. Do you not know to whom you speak? I am the great artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. You should be honored." The monster laughed even harder at that. More seriously, it added, "I am also King of France. But I am sure that you knew."
"Henri-" 977 began.
"King Henri," the monster corrected.
"King Henri, what is your home?" he asked. He needed to stall a bit longer.
"I am from the moon," the monster said. "I rode down on a chariot of gold. It was pulled, of course, by the sun."
"Of course," he said.
"I landed in a sea of champagne. It was so good! I lie. It was cheap. Probably made in California. But the fish were still pretty merry, no?" It winked at him, one giant bloodshot eye staring down.
"Still pretty merry," he agreed. He considered trying to cut his way out of the cage, but the bamboo was thick, and he felt it would do nothing but dull his blades. Better to save those for the monster, if all else failed.
"But tell me, which way did you go to come here?" the monster asked.
"I rode down on a fish. From the sun," he said.
"Oh, I think you are telling lies to Fernand. That is not good." The monster flicked a finger against his body. It hurt, and there was a small cracking sound. Then he felt himself hefted up and set on the log. "Now, I have been so terribly patient. But there is nothing I would like more than to find others like you to dine with. You wouldn't make poor Fernand unhappy, would you?"
"There are no others," he said. He wondered if he could make it to the water. He was sure he was quicker than the monster, but it had those great long legs, and it could probably move much faster once it got going.
"You lie!" the monster roared, and slammed a fist on the log. Splinters flew up, and he almost fell off. He scrabbled against the bark to keep his footing. "Now, you will tell me where they are! Fernand grows hungry, little shrimp!"
977 felt a great burning anger grow inside. This monster, this lump of malformed flesh was planning to eat the people. He thought of them, of beautiful 971, of the Creator, and he knew this could not happen. He spat into the monster's eyes. It blinked, and they were sealed shut.
A fist lashed out at the log, but 977 had already moved out of the way. He scuttled forward and off the log, until he was behind the monster. He reached out, and made a small cut. A leg collapsed. Another cut, and the leg was dead. He danced around a kick, and he cut another tendon, and another, and the monster fell, clutching the log in a vain effort to remain upright.
"Arrête ça! Sortez!" the monster bellowed. It twisted and a massive fist landed inches from 977's carapace. He cut another tendon, and the fingers spasmed, useless. He moved in and cut again, and the arm fell limp.
But the other arm came down, and this time a fist as large as he struck him. He heard himself crack, could feel fluid leaking out. But he wasn't finished just yet.
"I'll rip you apart and suck out your flesh. I will find you!" the monster screamed, thrashing with its only working limb.
977 reached out and made a few final cuts, and the arm fell limp. Now the monster could do little more than bellow and arch his back. 977 crawled away as best he could, finally lying in a heap nearby, out of the monster's reach. Fluids were still seeping slowly from his shell, so he spat again, and sealed himself, and rested.

"Well, what do we have here?" a voice said sometime later. 977 looked up, and saw the face of the Creator, looking concerned.
"Here I am," he said. His voice seemed odd. Far away, almost.
"Oh dear. You did get rather badly dinged up." The Creator reached down and touched him gingerly.
"Well done?" he asked.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes. Very well done indeed, 977. You have done better than I could have hoped. But I'm afraid you may be beyond helping."
"It is well," he said. "Home. Home is well."
"Yes. Thanks to you." The Creator stood. "And here we have Fernand. Splendid."
"Who is this? Show yourself, coward! Fernand will have your head in his belly!" The monster thrashed as best it was able, but it could no more reach the Creator than it could the moon.
"Dr. Mann, at your service. Or rather, you'll soon be at mine. I have so wanted to work with you." The Creator placed his hands together gleefully as the shapes of New Men emerged from the swamp.
"No! No! I will not have it! I will not—" He was cut off as another of the people spat and sealed his mouth. Others crawled forward and finished 977's work as the New Men went to work with ropes and chains.
The Creator reached down and picked 977 up. "Come on, then, chap. You might not be done yet. And if you are, it'll be a hero's funeral."
A hero. 977 could live with that. Or not, as the case might be. He settled down in his creator's arms and began to dream of 971.


Johnny was sitting at his computer desk, head hung low as the tears streamed down his cheeks. He couldn't believe that he'd found yet another internet community that he was exiled from. First it was the tumblr kids, then the twitter kids, then the furries, and now, finally, he faced the worst kind of exile. Exile from an online writing group that probably took itself way too seriously. He was about to call his best friend — James, the emogoth who attempted to bridge the two social strata end ended up with a cigarette burn from when he dropped it on himself — when the door to his room was kicked in. Standing there in a long, white lab coat was none other than Dr. Bright. He knew, because of the amulet that was around his neck and the name badge on his chest. He gasped as he saw one of them, one of those who had cast him aside and neglected him. But he couldn't help but notice that something was… out of place.
"HELLLLLOOOOOOO, JOHHNY!" screamed Bright, his eyes manic and wild. It was then that he realized that it wasn't the Dr. Bright he had been expecting (the quiet, morose one who wanted to die from the more recent stories), but was actually the crazy, wild eyed Dr. Bright who had starred in stories where he'd specifically and delightedly killed a man who cut him off in traffic and sentenced D-classes to masturbation therapy in Dr. Glass's office. It was then that Johnny realized exactly how fucked he was.
Johnny let out a loud, pained squeak as he was grabbed by the ear and dragged from the desk, arms and legs flailing madly to the sides as Bright tugged him down the stairs and into a large, waiting white van that was emblazoned with a large, Foundation logo. On the side, he saw the name. Soap-from-Corpses-Products. He cringed as he was hurled into the back. "WELL, JOHNNY. IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO GET TO KNOW THE FOUNDATION."
The door slammed in Johnny's face, and as he pleaded and banged against it in impotent rage, Dr. Bright walked around the front of the van and climbed into the front. He pushed in a tape — Dylan, from the bad years — and cranked the volume as Johnny covered his young, Deathcab listening ears in pain and collapsed to the floor of the van. Bright peeled out and down the street, meeting up with an escort that led them both out in the country.

What felt like hours passed (in reality, only forty-five minutes, as Johnny didn't have any of his electronics to make the time pass by properly) before they pulled to an abrupt stop, slamming the stammering, crying, whining, bitchy, annoying, under aged user's face against the hard, crosshatched plastic divider. Bright hopped out from the front before walking around, opening the back and dragging out poor Johnny, throwing him into the dirt of a strange, abandoned back road.
Johnny looked up at Bright with utter fear and horror, his jaw slack as he stammered. Bright reached into his jacket and pulled out a shotgun, leveling it at Johnny's face.
"Do you want to live, Johnny? Do you want… to live?" Bright asked.
Johnny had already gone number one, number two, and number three in his pants, but he somehow managed to nod.
"Good. GOOD. I hate it when they want to die," the mad incarnation said, pointing over Johnny's shoulder. Johnny turned, looked, and his jaw dropped.
They were near an arch, and above the entrance, he saw the name of the place written in large, blocky black letter. "Silas Presby's Camp for Troubled Youth?" he said. "But… but… that's not an SCP cover," he stammered, eyes wide.
Bright grinned down at him. "I know. I'm turning you over to my counterpart," he said.
From behind a bush stepped a gaunt, tall man. He was skinny, yet his right arm was massive and strong. He looked down at Johnny and spat in the dirt. "This is what you bring me, Bright? This is what I get?"
Bright nodded, "Unfortunately. He's the only one that couldn't spell this month. Very eager, though."
The man nodded, and then knelt next to Johnny, squeezing the young man's arms a little. "Not much on him. But he'll do," he said, nodding.
Johnny looked up at him, swallowing. "D-do for what? Am I… am I going to become a… a Class-D?" he asked.
"No," said the old man. "You're going to become a Class-P," he said, sucking in the snot from his nose before spitting it into the dirt again.
"A… a Class-P? I've never heard of that…"
The old man laughed. "You will," he said. "Welcome aboard, Johnny. I hope you liked shark week."
Bright climbed back into the van, waving at them and smiling a rictus grin, "LATER, JOHNNY. JUST REMEMBER. AIM FOR THE NOSE. AIM FOR THEIR FUCKING NOSE."
Bright punched the gas, and in a cloud of dust, Johnny and the old man were left standing under the arches. Johnny went number four as the old man squeezed his shoulder. "Come on kid. We've got a Class-S off of Florida."
"A what?"
"God damn, kid, You don't know?"
"Know what?

Johnny was waiting in the helicopter as they approached the jump site. His arms were clad in thick, heavy metal, and his body — once weak and leaned by years of apathy toward real food — had grown strong over the months of training. He hovered over the water, looking down as the old man in the front nodded to him.
"You ready kid?" he asked.
Johnny nodded. He was ready. He was so fucking ready to punch this god damned shark. He was doing the world a service. He was going to save them, one punch at a time.
"Then go for it, kid! Target is directly below. Do NOT miss!"
Johnny looked at the water, his chest hammering as he leapt from the plane, looking for the target — Tigershark T-18543, a Known Nibbler — was finally in their grasp. He hit the water, holding his breath as he looked, then immediately and suddenly sank thanks to the incredibly heavy shark-punching gauntlets on his arm.
He plunged deep into the depths, his lungs aching as the ocean swallowed him whole.

"How the fuck do you keep convincing them to do that?" asked Bright into the receiver.
"You always send me the idiots," came the reply.
"Right. We'll have a few more next month."
"Sure. Just keep sending the canned tuna, and we'll keep this little operation going."
"Right," said Bright into the phone, putting it down with a click. He looked back at the applications, his nose crinkling slightly as he went through, clicking. "Approved, Approved… How the fuck hard is it to spell Alabama? Denied. Denied. Denied…"
"Denied."


"Behold, dummy," Won Won remarked clearly, poking at the paper with a crude little tube of ink, and scrawling a quick sketch of the building as it had appeared when they first entered it.

close

Info

X

Bugbears: Bugbears
It's probably not at all connected to SCP-2093 in any way.
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

Won Won was bored. Nothing about this hole in the wall interested him. The big gray box had always been here on top of this hill, and there had never been anything fun about it. But the others were so insistent, they almost convinced him this building might be fun. A few minutes more and he knew better.
"Bored!" he cried out again, hoping to make it more plainly obvious.
"Quiet, you," Teef growled, and the group went in. The air was immediately much more pleasant, and artificial lights came on in the room.
"What is?" Won Won glared at the other four. Teef, his friend, Won Ji, his own sister, X51 and Jorry, the other two he didn't really know and didn't care about.
"Now we are indoors," Teef replied, opening the door he had closed behind them. It no longer led out onto the grasslands, but to a narrow little room with stairs descending elsewhere.
"What is?" Won Won peered in to the stairwell. Teef nudged him forward and Won Won went down the stairs, his foot-claws clickety-clacking on the hard surface. No grass, and not wood. It felt like rock, but it wasn't bumpy enough to be rock.
The door at the bottom of the stairs opened into another big room with even more doors. Short land mammals were standing around in there. Won Won loved little land mammals, but these had a significant lack of fur. Staring more intently, he realized they looked like Skybound. But they were much too short, and wore non-metal clothing.
Won Won stepped up to one with skin the color of his own fur. The little one turned to him and started to speak in incoherent Skybound jibbering. Won Won couldn't understand much of it, and turned to leave, when it began to click and snarl gutturally, putting out a fair representation of Won Won's native language.
"I'm at Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland. Hello! My name is Johnny!"
Won Won started to squirm in delight; little talking mammals! Won Won recognized most of those words. "School" in particular. Given the size of this mammal, it was likely to be a nursery as well. And since they had been on top of a hill when they entered, it made sense to call it a high school.
"I am Won Won, progenitor is Won."
The little Johnny threw its arms out to its sides in some manner of physical greeting. "Hello One-one! You are at Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland! Would you like a tour of the newest edition of Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland?"
Won Won understood enough to know tours were boring. "No tour. Where are big ones? Old persons?"
The Johnny seemed to be gesticulating with its hands, wiggling its fingers and moving its arms as it spoke. "Some of our students aren't yet ready for class. Please bear with us as we renovate the classrooms."
Won Won stared intently at it, not knowing if this little mammal misunderstood or was being deceptive. "Old persons! Professors? No students."
"There are students all around, just waiting for classes to begin! Please bear with us as we renovate the classrooms."
He turned and left the Johnny, returning to Teef and the others. "Confusing and disturbing in implications. Skybound left many moons ago."
Teef nudged him with a clutched claw. "Not Skybound, fool. Look how little they are."
"Skybound can be little," X51 put in.
Teef growled at him in retort, but Jorry and Won Ji backed X51 up.
"It's clearly an infant," Won Ji clarified. Teef still didn't think so, but didn't care enough to keep arguing over it.
"If infants, therefore Skybound progenitors." Won Won sniffed, seeing further than his companions could. "Skybound mimic us naturally; infants cannot deceive, only old ones."
Jorry stared emptily at him. The others were silent; he couldn't tell which got it, and which were just impatiently waiting for him to explain.
"Little Skybound over there engaged in deceptive speech; repulsed attempts to acknowledge older Skybound. If infants manipulated to lie, then infants and/or progenitors may engage in bellicose behavior."
That finally got through; the group split up into thirds, drawing their short thrusting spears and checking all the rooms to see if there were Skybound lying in wait. Won Won thought the Skybound could just set the building on fire if they really wanted to kill them. But Skybound were notoriously prickly about killing infants for any reason. It always bothered Won Won that they considered freshly-born, easily replaceable infants to be more valuable than a full-grown mature person, with years of experience…
"Jorry has food!"
Won Won's head jerked towards the cry, and others started to bleat, "Where did you get food?!" Jorry was eating something brownish with shiny paper around it. Broken glass was on the floor around him.
"In this window-box. These things are food."
Jorry had broken open the window to a big black box. Colorful bricks were lined up in rows, along with bags and other things with writing on it. Won Won rushed over to get some before the others hoarded it all. That they had food dispensers dispensing wrapped food indoors was unusual even for Skybound—they were supposed to love food that was freshly dead and burnt up.
Most of the food went down easily, but the taste was overpowering. Won Won suddenly began to panic, and turned his head to eject the food. "Dummies! Potentially poisonous!"
The others ignored him and kept eating. Being the only sane one in the group was overly frustrating sometimes. Won Won gave up and grabbed for some more of the food-bricks before they were all claimed. They were tasty so why not indulge—better to die together happily than have to battle their way out of this school with empty abdomen.
Several minutes passed and they weren't dead yet. The last room in the building contained a stairwell, leading down to a ground-level hall. The hallway led around in a big square, and in the center of the square was an open courtyard with the sun beaming down. X51 ran across the courtyard, and found one of the doors lead out of the school. Nothing unusual, except the school was supposed to be high on a hill. X51 opened a door showing flat grassland as far as they could see.
"It's fake," Won Ji figured, and stepped out into the open. "Artificial projection." The sunlight looked real enough on her fur, and felt warm enough. Won Won stepped out and started walking away from the school, checking his feet as he put some distance between him and the rest of the group. Nothing appeared on the horizon ahead of him, and the ground seemed not to be tilting like a round planet should. In fact, when he looked behind, the school building seemed slightly elevated, as if he'd gone down a ravine. But he'd felt absolutely no shift in gravity to suggest the ground elevation had changed. Won Won grunted in frustration; physics was hard for him, and numbers scared him like spiders. The distance he'd traveled and what he saw might mean that the ground he was on was either completely flat, or curved outward rather than inward…
Teef hooted something loudly, and Won Won rushed back over to the building. Teef had apparently been thinking much the same as him, and similarly couldn't understand what it meant.
"Should've sent a scientist," X51 remarked, shutting everyone up. Except Won Won.
"I is not good enough?" Won Won blinked defensively, sheathing his eye as if in preparation for a fight. He loved exploring and being a scientist. Whenever the experts were busy, people came to him with their questions about plants and animals and space. That was partly why they had dragged him here.
"For studying! With numbers," X51 clarified, backing down from the challenge.
Eventually they would send experts, but they weren't even supposed to be wandering around on archaeological sites on their own. A thought then struck Won Won.
"We're stuck. Are we stuck?" The door they'd come in from was the same they ended up going down the stairway from. If that door magically teleported to this place, they probably wouldn't be able to get back home.
Teef prodded him in the sides. "Door might open again. If not, therefore Hwee will come open door. It may bring us back."
Won Won grumbled in agreement, but was already mentally preparing himself. Skybound liked to play with them, calling it a "hunt" when they shot at them and made them run while bleeding on the grass, leaving behind a "trail". He'd take some of their infants to protect himself—threaten to kill them if the Skybound tried to hunt them.
Teef didn't seem perturbed, and casually approached one of the infants. "You. Food location."
This infant was slightly taller, and appeared female by its high voice and swollen chest. It responded in Teef and Won Won's own language, "Welcome to Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland! What was it you were looking for?"
"Food location, fool."
"Food is being served right now in the cafeteria. Better hurry or you'll miss out on the Tuesday surprise! And please remember: garnishes are no longer allowed within 28 hectometers of croissant-like food items."
The way it spoke disturbed Won Won, but he couldn't tell why. It spoke his own language, but its tone was not Skybound. It was monotonous, and overly friendly. Overly friendly people tended not to be.
Won Won nudged the infant aside and followed the sound of noise. Skybound made lots of noise when eating. Presumably they couldn't figure out how to regulate when to speak and when to consume, and so ended up doing both at once often times.
"Formations!" Jorry barked, and Won Won's hair bristled in panic. He whirled and stood alongside the others, small tubes out and extending into a full-length spear. Enemies around. Danger. Something or other. Jorry wouldn't just be a fool and shout dangerous words insensibly.
Just ahead of them were two mature Skybound. They weren't wearing metal clothes, but they had guns on their pants. They had stopped too, and were staring back at them. Won Won slowly stepped forward, arms out at his side.
"Won Won, you don't speak Skybound, get back here, stupid!" Teef shouted at him.
The two Skybound had their hands tentatively reaching for their guns. They looked shocked, on edge. One was reaching for a weapon at its belt. That did more to comfort Won Won than if they came with a smile and friendly words. Won Won raised one of his clawed hands, and waggled it back and forth, like the things usually did in greeting. That seemed to work, as the Skybounds' hands moved away from their guns. One even raised his hand and did the same. The other murmured something. Won Won looked down at his feet, feeling oddly comfortable. What a queer thing to feel when there stood the first full-grown Skybound he'd seen in sixteen decades…
- - - - - - -
Won Won had been stuffing his face while these Skybound struggled to speak clearly. They seemed to understand the ursines' language structure easily enough, but couldn't manage the different tones that made each syllable into something entirely different. Skybound memorized dozens of syllables and extended it into millions of words without need for add-ons. Primitive, compared to their own language; only a handful of syllables, with a few dozen add-ons divided by accent, tone, length, and timbre. It was so much simpler, why couldn't the Skybound put it together more easily?
"Door coming. Coming door. Coming on door," the black-haired female repeated in stilted tones. X51 and Won Ji snickered, and Won Won tried again.
"Coming through door."
No one wanted to humor these creatures but him. It was like no one had any sense of wonder or adventure but him. Teef and the others were more fascinated by the hot-box in this room, which hummed with energy and cooked food without fire. It also made sparkles when they put little bits of metal in it, but that had bored Won Won after four or five times.
The Skybound female was accompanied by the two Skybound Won Won had greeted earlier, and by another male who transcribed Won Won's words, attempting to fit them into his own language's alphabet and aiding the female in speaking.
"Behold, dummy," Won Won remarked clearly, poking at the paper with a crude little tube of ink, and scrawling a quick sketch of the building as it had appeared when they first entered it. A squat gray box on top of a hill. He then illustrated closing the door, moving down the stairs, and going outside, and the appearance of the school from there—an identical squat gray box in a flat open field.
The female held out a clean sheet of paper to him, urging him to write something. How did people usually do this? All sapient creatures understood math, except him. Teef came to his rescue, snatching up the paper, and making a line of circles on several rows. Then he poked dots into the circles, different numbers. Prime numbers, he recognized, into each circle. This amused and fascinated the Skybound. Won Won took another clean sheet, deciding to draw something he thought more important.
"Sun and stars." He indicated his drawing. It was the night sky he saw each night, riddled with stars and the pale white gash that ran along the sky like a river, never coming to an end but extending forever.
"Sun stars?" she repeated hesitantly.
Won Won poked at the wiggly lines indicating the sky-river, then pointed down to the bottom of the page. The female became excited then. "Give me your land!"
Won Won pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the stack they had. He had loved astronomy classes, and missed the days before the Skybound came, when the ursines still claimed the sky. One of the last images ever taken of home had been taken by an orbital flight Won's progenitors had been a part of. Won Won reproduced that image as best he could from memory, and slid it back over to them.
They must have been impressed by his artistic skills; the female and male finally shut up and stared at the sketch looking overawed. Most likely they were fairly intelligent people, but they always came across as simple and easily impressed people to him in his limited dealings. Then he realized they were not impressed, but anxious. The female slid it back to him, and shook her head. "No. Give me your land. This is my land."
Won Won stared back at her, his throat rumbling in a low growl. The others had been eavesdropping, and apparently overheard him growling. Won Ji bopped him on the head. "No violence, stupid! Calmness."
"Usual Skybound arrogance. They came, we won, they refuse to let us win, think they own our world," Jorry remarked, and leaned forward at the two, barking in amusement as they jumped back in fright.
"What losers still call our world their world?" Won Won asked, and turned to the Skybound again, pointing at the image. "This is my land."
The Skybound didn't become belligerent in turn. Instead they looked at each other, then back at the image. Again they started to chitter in their flat, atonal language. How could they memorize so many words, so many of them sounding completely different while meaning the same thing? At the very least the female gave up asking the question again. She kept the drawing, and pointed over her shoulder to the open door.
"Sky-Binders?"
"Skybound. Infant Skybound."
"Baby Sky-Binders."
Close enough, Won Won thought.
"Not baby Sky-Binders. Not breathing. Comprehending?"
So the infant Skybound weren't real. Artificial re-creations, perhaps memories made to honor the dead. It seemed insane to try to resurrect the dead via unthinking machines, but Skybound were always touchy when it came to killing infants.
"Automatic Skybound. Not breathing. Not alive."
The female nodded hesitantly, as if Won Won were the one not quite understanding.
"Never breathing. Infant Skybound are artificial creations. Fake. Unreal. Toys. Dolls. Machines."
The male understood at least one of the words, and consulted with the female. That pleased them. Won Won started to illustrate on paper, showing a Skybound brain, with lines extending outwards. He scribbled some symbols, hoping it to be similarly understood as hand gestures were, demonstrating he was aware of how artificial intelligence worked. Skybound looked at their own brain, mapped out its functions, then transferred the same manner of thinking and functioning to artificial brains. At least, that was how he understood it.
This impressed the Skybound even more. They looked ready to ask even more questions about it. Won Won was tired—the astronomy had been fun, but it looked like they'd moved on from that. He didn't have any food on him, so he just got up. The others turned and watched as he rose.
"Come, then, these Foundationers bore me. Let us see if any other vegetation grows outside."
What a waste. So much potential for learning and exploration, and these Skybound sought to piss away the opportunity and continue with their lies and deceit. Normally he'd be concerned. But after seven years spent forcing the invaders back to their ships, it wasn't even worth dignifying them with any more attention.
"What is?" Won Ji asked quizzically, noting Won Won's empty stare.
"When Hwee comes for us, we should say nothing. Let the Skybound play with their fantasy land and fantasy infants here. So long as they remain in space, away from us."


January 6th, 2015.
In Miami, there is an apartment. A studio one, stuffed with computers, beeping and booping, manned by a single, unwashed operator. There are many monitors, looking into seismic activities, weather, tracking anomalies, all sharing data with each other. It's a networking system with a rough approximation of the globe. It's the best they can do. There are monitors showing the snowy peaks of Siberia, the inside of strange dreamscapes, and urban decay and modern wasteland. Its affiliation is with a loose confederacy known as the Chaos Insurgency.
There is a field agent outside of this station, down on the street. He's a man named Anders Forsmen. Today, he is walking down the art deco district, looking out for a man. An individual their peers had been keeping a close eye on.
He has absolutely no idea why.
Leaning on a lamp-post, Anders casually brought a finger to his ear. "So this is the place, then?"
The technician glanced to an adjacent monitor, adjusting his glasses as the glow reflected off of them. "That's, uh, yeah. That's the target's pad."
"I don't see it." Forsmen frowns. "The dossier, it made him seem like he was some Houdini-type. This guy doesn't strike me exactly as an Olympian…"
Indeed, the man currently walking out onto the street was a slightly overweight, pale complexioned epitome of the white-collar worker. With a briefcase in one hand, a watch around the wrist, and lightly pressed trousers, he stood at the bus stop listening to his iPod.
Sniffing, the technician shuffled a sheaf of papers. "Looks can be deceiving. Last time we had a target like this, he, uh, looked completely, totally ordinary. Turned out, guy had a pocket dimension literally inside his pocket." he paused. "It turned out to be pretty useful, actually. Once the guy was done with."
"This is clearly a fix-up."
"They gave him way too much attention for this to be a fix-up, Anders."
Forsmen rolled his eyes. "Be respectful. And open your eyes, maybe. Look at this guy. He isn't shit. All we have is from the Foundation. Christ, is this all? I get called down, briefed, get to know the local people, and you guys don't check up that this fucker is just some guy, some random guy, like the ones they've picked before? The ones they tail, so that we tail, so that they can flush us out? Jesus Christ, man. Don't they teach you guys anything?"
Before the technician can open his mouth, the schlep on the screen steps behind the bus stop sign, and out of sight.
"… Son of a bitch."

Crouching by the sign, Forsmen examines the vanishing point. He's jumped. He thinks he's gotten away, but he's not expecting to be followed. He'll mess something up, they always do…
Sure enough, there is a shimmer in the air. A small brick to grab onto, to kick the door to the whole rotten wall down. Giving it a hard shove, he fell through.
He rose, brushing the invisible brick dust off his sleeves. A white concrete path stretching in front of him, with ancient trash bins and pieces of newspaper littering the ground. An attic silence permeates the air. The walls were all windows, leading to empty houses, family rooms, backyards. Some have snow, and some are barren wasteland. None are open.
He's still inside.
But he's not right here. Dropping to a crouch, Forsmen positions himself behind a trash can, and peeks over the edge. After fifty feet, the world either stops existing, or stops letting itself be seen. Either way, the guy wasn't coming out.
At least, that's what he was thinking until the man ran back at him, frantically waving his arms.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of here!"
So much for stealth.
"What are you doing, man? I was just tryin' to walk to the bus, and I leaned on the sign! You get me the fuck out of here!"
The man stops, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. "That doesn't- there wasn't-… how did you even… there wasn't anyone there!"
Pausing, Forsmen pops his head up above the bin, keeping his gear out of sight. "Look, man, just tell me what's going on? This is weird shit, dude."
The man frowns. "Why're you talking like that?"
"I'm not talking like anything."
Sighing, he turns back towards what lay ahead. "Look, this isn't safe. This is not a safe place for, any, for you to be."
"Why not?" Forsmen squinted, trying to see what was ahead.
"This is… an in between place. It's the backdoor to the universe, through… basically every possible reality that didn't work out."
That's certainly important. "Now, you're going to have to explain that a bit more…"
Waving him down, the man shouted a response. "Look, you're screwed unless you follow me! I can take you through what could've been, back to what is!"
Before he can protest, another figure emerges from the fog. A tidal wave of molten flesh tumbling forwards, with a gaping maw and black tar coating its back. As it twists its liquid jaw into a silent roar, sloshing towards the pair, the man quickly digs into his shirt. "Look, I'm really sorry about this."
"Sorry? What the hell are you-"
With a BANG, the man disappears.
"Shit."
and without another word, the flesh rolls past him, and he falls into darkness.
When he wakes up, he will be lost.

All being lost turned out to not be so bad, after all.
The first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the blinds, above his bed. Was it a bed? Seemed like one. It was a lot more comfortable than the cold stone he'd been on a couple seconds ago. Blinking, Anders sat up. He knew that old sinking feeling, and it was hitting him pretty hard right now. Looking around, he could see a room that looked pretty much identical to his first apartment. The one he'd shared with Julia.
Just then, a voice called out from the other room. "You awake yet, sleepyhead?"
Son of a bitch. This isn't just that old sinking feeling.
Glancing around the room, Anders checked for anything. Word of the day, cat calenders… settling on a computer, his body reacting before his mind, he checked the date.
September 18th, 1995. Twenty-crappin'-years.
Anders peeked out the blinds.
That was definitely not the neighborhood he'd lived in twenty years ago.
Instead, a purple haze lazily swirled by, with half-formed ideas and memories ambling by. The face of a first grade teacher, name long forgotten but with a face all too familiar. Villages, towns and cities, visited in the line of duty and elsewhere. Girlfriends, friends, enemies long forgotten. It was as if somebody had slowed down the tornado to Oz, dumped in a packet of kool-aid, and made it a personal shitshow.
The voice called out again. "Hon, you coming out? I made breakfast."
Anders decided the shitshow would be better to deal with than… whatever was out there.
"I'll be out in a minute!"
He opened the window, climbed out, and fell into darkness.


Written by Whatopercy
"Five incidents. Zero recoveries. Eight casualties."
The man at the center of the room flopped a thin blue file on his folding table and sat down. A semi-circle of solemn, practically dressed officials sat on worn chairs around the individual drenched in sweat standing before them.
Adjusting his tie and pushing his glasses up his sweating nose, UIU agent and legal specialist Damion Hill addressed the committee as firmly as he could. "Director Keynes, the losses were not the fault of our agents. We're simply not well equipped enough-"
"Quiet on the floor, please." The Director clasped his hands together on the snap-up table. "Frankly, Mr. Hill, the matter of whose fault it is - your agents or the belligerents - is not a valid point at this stage. The Resource Planning Office is considering withdrawing all immediate funds from your division, claiming that it is a waste of the Bureau's time and money." He cocked his head at the handsomely dressed official carrying a grey suitcase quietly seated at the end of the semicircle. "I do not necessarily disagree."
Relaxing back in his hard-backed chair, he added, "I suggest you give him - and us - a good reason to refrain from proceeding as such."
Hill's glasses began to slide down his face again. As he propped them back up, he returned, "Sir, with all due respect, the Bureau itself is not devoid of guilt. Year after year my office has been denied the authority to enact threat orientation and the ability to respond quickly and efficiently to high-profile situations. The Bureau's practice of actively discouraging graduates from inquiring about our unit has led to a severe deficiency in our personnel count, leading to the possibility of numerical superiority being virtually unfeasible in a combat-"
He was cut off by Agent Jericho, an elderly woman sitting beside Director Keynes. "Numerical superiority?" she interjected incredulously. "I was under the impression you had apes to chase, not a war to win." A number of the attendants chuckled. Settling back into a cold, hostile gaze, she added, "Mr. Hill, your organization's very goal is to remove any…" she turned her nose at the term. "Paranormal objects from society, without society noticing."
Hill's sense of courtly composure began to wane. He retorted, "Madam, presuming you have read the full length of the dispatches my subsection sends out bi-annually, you would know that the Bureau isn't the only group capable of combating abnormal entities on a large scale. Certain elements outside our jurisdiction have proven far more adept at interacting with the anomalous underground than we have since our inception."
A young representative suited in green, seated in the middle of the left column raised his hand. Hill motioned for him to speak, and so he stood. "We've read your reports, agent. Our issue with them is the unprofessional nature of your conclusions. I recall dissecting a dossier on - the Men in Black, I believe you call them. " Snickers were heard. Keynes kept quiet. He continued, "In the past you've intimated that they are infinitely more well-prepared for the conflicts and brushfire wars that erupt daily in your area of expertise, and are likely the reason the UIU so rarely comes upon a fruitful case. I ask, then: why do you feel the need to press the Bureau to fund a society that, in all probability, became outmoded and irrelevant many years ago?"
So this is what it comes to, Hill thought.
"What you propose, sir, is what is at the crux of this matter." He scanned the room for signs of amusement. "Sixty-nine years ago, we stepped into a deep and unknown pool that we, though we thought otherwise, understood very little about. Communism, with all of its unscrupulous tendencies, poured into our temples and our cities, wedging itself and breeding like a virus. The GRU's court wizards sought to change us; Mr. Hoover tasked our fathers with the feat of their destruction. They succeeded, and changed the course of history. But what they couldn't change was the fact that our country had just staked its claim for dominance on a new plane of politics and espionage."
He wiped his brow.
Considering his words for a moment, he pressed on, "I will admit, with time our image has degraded significantly. Men and women before you have also asked why we need an organization of our own to collect and contain paranormal phenomena. Why interfere with business and politicking that we can't integrate with? Why shouldn't we 'leave it to the professionals'? I cannot deny that this position isn't entirely unreasonable."
The light shining on him was blistering, and once again, he adjusted his spectacles.
"However, I propose to this committee - a counterpoint. For a century, this nation - our nation - has thickened and matured and built itself up to be what may be considered - a superpower. In collaboration with our European associates, we have established a globe-spanning network of communication and military superiority. Why is it then that we, ostensibly the most influential state of this twenty-first century, should be defenseless against a facet of reality we may have little to no conception of? There do exist men and women capable of isolating this world from ourselves, working around the clock to ensure our safety and comfort - this is true, however stringently we strive to deny it. But now I ask you; who will you run to should their soldiers rout, their barricades collapse, their fortresses - where we may seek no refuge, respite, or countenance - be overrun? One might say that in such a situation, any effort on our part would be futile; I find an apt analogy in Hector, riding out to face Achilles as he has slaughtered the Trojan army." He paused. The faces filling the room, gazing into his were difficult to read.
"Perhaps it is so. But I cannot in good conscience recommend leaving such a situation to chance, nor can I taking the protection they have provided us with so long and throwing it away in an instant by choosing to leave ourselves physically and intellectually undefended. If you decide otherwise, so be it."
He sat.
About a minute later, Keynes stood to address the committee. "Those in favor of a brief recess?" There was a unanimous response. The other members, as well as the man with the suitcase at the end of the semicircle, left into a smaller, more private chamber located at the back of the room. Some of the younger council members, including the man in the green suit, appeared deeply thoughtful, their hands in their pockets as they entered the discussion chamber.
After what seemed to be an eternity, the council filed back in. Keynes stood, while the rest sat, and the man with the briefcase silently exited the room. "You have your years' funding, Agent Hill," he pronounced. "This twenty-third tri-annual review of the Unusual Incidents Unit is formally dismissed."


"Iago, where are my other tea spoons?"
Madame Lucia sat where she always did, gazing out her window at the impossible plain. The colors shifted. Landmarks changed as the land beneath them bubbled and bulged gently. Any sign of structure tore itself apart quickly, under a pale circle of light that moved across the sky with disturbing fluidity. Just a few steps from the door of the castle, the world became… undefined. This was raw firmament, the essence of chaos, that would remain so until something observed its patterns with an intent to change them, at which point it would collapse into logic, never capturing that same uncertainty again.
Madame Lucia quite enjoyed the view. It soothed her stomach.
Why had she thought of her stomach?
Oh, yes. It was bothering her.
She glanced at the tea cup in her hand. It was jasmine. It had been jasmine for the past several decades. She hadn't eaten yet today, so it must be the jasmine. She glared at the tea spoon which had been the source of the offending beverage. There were more of them. There should have been more of them. Her stomach was bothering her. She would ask Iago where the spoons were. Even such a mild cramp was quite intolerable for a woman of Madame's standards. She would find Iago.
With that decision made, Madame Lucia poured out her cup of tea and poured a new cup of hot water from the tumbler by her side. She then reached for the spoon which would transmute it into jasmine tea. Iago would be by soon to deliver her rat souffle. She would find him then. There was no need to lose her patience. Her stomach was bothering her.
It really was a nice view.

Iago dutifully collected the plumpest rats from the small pile surrounding the impressive mound of cheese. A few of them still had earrings on what remained of their heads, which he carefully removed.
The plan had worked perfectly. A small parcel of cheese had been sent off to the world in full view of Madame, while the rest was transported in secret to the coldest, plainest room in the castle (Iago's bedroom), where the rats could gorge themselves silly before being slapped into oblivion and introduced to the cheese again as an ingredient.
Iago skinned and deboned the rats with the utmost care, throwing out anything but the choicest cuts of meat. He then mixed the souffle, being sure to place all of the rat meat at the bottom in one corner of the enormous dish. Madame did not enjoy the taste of rat.
A few hours later, Iago pushed open the door to Madame's sitting room, staggering under the weight of the ramekin. He waited for Madame to speak.
"Iago."
His heart was gripped with terror instantly. He recognized the tone that Madame used when peturbed. What had he done? Was the souffle late? Had she discovered where he was keeping the cheese?
She was waiting for him to speak. She was being gracious enough to allow him to respond and he wasn't saying anything! He was keeping her waiting!
He managed to say, "Yes, Madame?"
"Iago, where are my other tea spoons?"
He swallowed. "Madame, please, you will, if you would be so kind as to desire to do so, remember the minor altercation forty-seven years ago with that small group of ruffians that found some sort of Way inside the castle?"
"Yes, of course I do. I told you to take care of it. Do you now presume to tell me that you did not, in fact, take care of it? Are those ruffians galivanting about as we speak?" The word speak rose ever so slightly in pitch compared to the rest of them, indicating Madame's sudden indignant horror.
Iago did not hesitate. "No, of course not, dear Madame. I ejected them quickly. However, I am afraid that they managed to… to abscond with several of your tea spoons."
"I see. And, pray," she went on in a voice like honey laced with cyanide, "you thought it prudent to keep this from me until this moment? I see. Do you, by any chance, know the whereabouts of my spoons now, Iago?"
"Ah, in fact I do, Madame!"
"And you have not retrieved them yet because?"
"I… am so very sorry, please, Madame, but they are currently in the custody of the Philistines."
"Yes, I could have guessed as much, but which phil-"
"Er… no, dearest Madame. They are contained by… the Philistines…"
There was a great silence from Madame Lucia. The cup fell to the floor and did not shatter. the half-full tumbler knocked over, the water inside unmoving. Iago did not feel his joints tightening, or his skin hardening, but he felt the oppressive force wash over him, slowly making movement more and more impossible as the single changeless moment stretched on and on…
…and then Madame got a hold of herself.
It was not that Madame Lucia hated humanity. Quite the contrary. She prized rarity above all, but beyond that, she valued ephemerality, impermanence, all those things that existed once and never again. Those that were both were twice rare, in space and in time. Human lives were so short by the length of eternity, and not a single one repeated itself. The ultimate value!
But then they tried to extend their lives, through memories and monuments and words. So they were philistines, not realizing what they had and throwing it away like something common such as immortality. But they were the worst. Capturing and sustaining all manner of one-of-a-kind things. Twice offending by preventing the disappearance of their toys, and never allowing change into the world. Keeping everything the same and boring, boring, boring! They were the worst, and so they were given the capital letter. Philistines. The most ignorant of them all.
This was unacceptable.
"Iago." Madame Lucia beckoned with her hand.
Iago approached the figure shining in the chair, knowing never to get close enough to see its face, settling for admiring the glimmering white waterfall of hair. "Y-yes, Madame?"
"You have not been among philistines for many years, have you?"
"Centuries, dear Madame."
"This will be rectified. I am sending you to retrieve my tea spoons from the Philistines."
"Me? But, but, Madame, please, sweet Madame-"
"I will hear nothing but 'yes' for my gracious gift, Iago. The armory is at your disposal. You
leave within the hour. Mind you get all of them. But first, you will deliver my souffle."
Iago, shaking, set down the souffle by his mistress, averting his eyes as he did so. Madame Lucia tasted it.
"Ugh. Far too cold."

Iago arrived in the world, landing in the exact same spot where he had left it, hundreds of years ago. Unfortunately, it appeared that in the interim, somebody had flattened out the land somewhat and built a cafe on it. Yielding to gravity, Iago dropped five feet into a large bowl of cabbage stew, splashing the man sitting in front of it, who immediately started screaming.
Eventually, several cooks came out of the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. Iago looked around the deserted room wildly and spotted a recessed balcony where several patrons were staring at the commotion. He lowered his voice by several social classes, pointed, and yelled, "Oi! That bloke has a knife! Someone stop him!"
The cooks hefted various kitchen utensils and ran for some stairs while the second-floor diners looked around uncertainly. Iago hauled himself out of the bowl and ran out the door, while the rather sheepish man in the tweed jacket cried, "My cabbage stew!" and continued trying to clean himself off.
Iago found the Philistines' base eventually, simply by wandering through the town he was in. It was incredible, he mused. It wasn't that nobody saw the men in suits walking into the apparently abandoned store. It just didn't seem to register with them in any meaningful way. There was nothing supernatural deflecting their attention from the unlocked door, nothing keeping them from noticing the suspiciously bulky-looking vagrants hanging around the place. The castle's small armory had a few devices for detecting tricks like that. They were just completely incurious. There was a collection of rare, world-changing, life-changing artifacts hiding in plain sight and doing a very shoddy job of it, and they never even took notice.
Iago grunted to himself. Philistines.
There was a small slot that may have just been a crack in the wall on the far end of the store. Iago inserted a gold card engraved with eye-watering patterns and waited. The machine clicked and buzzed in greedy pleasure, and a door swung out of the wall, satisfied with the bribe.
Iago came to a crossing and headed down the corridor he would have pegged as least likely to end up at the section where the anomalies were stored, knowing how these sort of things went. He turned out to be wrong. However, after several dead ends, and close calls, he found a small room with cardboard boxes full of laminated cards on lanyards. Visitor passes. Iago grabbed one of the important looking ones and nipped back to the crossing, amazed at how paradoxically paranoid and trusting the Philistines could be.
Eventually he found himself at a security door, which his pass wouldn't let him access. He searched his pockets for something that could help him and came up with nothing. The armory is at your disposal, Madame had said. Well, that was fantastic, except that there hadn't been any need for an armory for centuries, and so it was horribly understocked. The trick with the gold card had actually been "it," as far as any anomalous help went. Iago cursed under his breath, turned, and started searching for another way in.
He found it rather quickly, in the form of a pale-faced young researcher who shook just a bit every time someone looked at her. She was obviously new, holding her clearance badge in one hand, like a shield, ready to be raised if anyone threatened her. Iago set his face in an expression of haughty confidence, and strode over to her.
"Excuse me, miss…"
"Marp! Sedna Prewitt, s-sir."
"Yes. My name is Dr. Jones. I'm a consultant from Site-19. Your Site Administrator Samson has sent for me to examine one of your artifacts." He flashed his purloined visitor's pass.
"Uh, nice to meet you, Dr., um, Jones. I'm Sedna Prewitt." The girl was obviously frightened out of her wits. Iago felt a rather guilty thrill at that, seeing in her the awe that Madame inspired in him on a regular basis.
"Yes," he sighed. "You already said."
"Oh! Right! I'm so sorry, sir."
"In any case," he went on, "I have come to evaluate SCP-1067, but the site security has neglected to provide me with the appropriate level of clearance. Please conduct me to someone that has the clearance and be on your way, young lady." He might have been laying it on too thick, but it had the desired effect. The girl straightened up indignantly.
"Excuse me, sir, but I happen to be a Level 2 researcher tasked with maintaining several Safe-Class SCP-Objects, including the one you're after. I am completely capable of conducting you to the object myself." She shrunk back slightly, suddenly aware that she may have just crossed the line with a perceived superior.
Iago showed no sign of annoyance, and simply said, "Lead on, then, Miss Prewitt."

Madame Lucia sat in her chair, sipping tea and enjoying the view. The chaos outside was still so… invigorating, even after so long. She couldn't bring herself to look away anymore, not for too long. And why would she want to? Why would she want to turn her back on the infinite possibility, and remember the cage of inevitability that she was forced to remain in? Here was endless potential, that would remain endless as long as nobody actually used it. The disorder swam through her, and she welcomed it in, drinking it in like a drug, which it was. To one such as Madame, it was a drug. And all drugs have downsides.
The chaos was the opposite of everything that Madame represented. It slithered through her, slowly wearing away the power that sustained her. Already her mind had started to go fuzzy at the edges. It was barely noticeable, and it would remain so for a very long time, but already that rock-solid core of power was beginning to erode. There would be consequences.
Madame Lucia didn't know this, and she may or may not have cared if she did. What was reality to dreams? What was inevitability to possibility? And soon Iago would return with her teaspoons. Soon she would raise her glass to kind Chaos, and it would be… glorious.

A few minutes later, Iago was standing with Sedna in front of a wall of lockers. She carefully unlocked one, and stepped back to allow Iago to open the door.
"Why don't you open it yourself?" he asked.
"Administrator Samson hasn't cleared me for testing with SCP-1067, sir," she replied.
"But, I'm here and I have been cleared."
She shrugged nervously. "The rules are the rules, sir."
Iago rolled his eyes and opened the locker. Resting in a vacuum sealed bag, there was a medium sized box bound with soft brown leather. Iago breathed slowly and began to remove the bag.
"Thank you, Miss Prewitt," he said. "I need to take this with me back to Site-19, and my flight leaves soon, so I'll take my leave."
The young woman started. "I'm sorry, sir? Foundation regulations state that all transportation of Safe-class anomalies require a minimum of four guards."
"Oh, this little thing won't be any trouble. I can find my way out, thank you."
She frowned. "I should probably tell Administrator Samson."
Iago started getting annoyed. "Really, it's only a Safe-Class, Miss Prewitt."
"Nevertheless, the rules say that at least-"
"Never mind the damn rules. I need to catch my flight! Madame requires her tea." Iago clapped his hand over his mouth as Sedna's eyes grew wide. She tensed to run when Iago dropped the box and grabbed her with both hands and drew her close to him.
Iago wasn't an idiot, after surviving so long with Madame Lucia. He was fully aware that his idolization and devotion to her was not entirely his own, he just didn't care. It was something in the voice, and Iago had learned to replicate it fairly well. He did so now.
"Listen to me, Sedna. Your rules don't mean anything. There's no point in calling for the guards because they'll fail to catch me. Your entire organization is flawed, and the very fact that I'm standing here is proof of that. There is nothing you can do. Eventually it will all come down, and there's no point in trying to prevent it, because you're nothing but Philistines. Remember, there is nothing you can do to stop me."
With that, he picked up the box and walked quickly away. Sedna Prewitt stood still for a minute, a dazed expression on her face, then shook herself and ran for the nearest breach alarm.
Iago had just passed the crossing when the alarm began to sound. Damn! He must not have had the technique as down pat as he thought! He broke into a run, and it wasn't long before he heard people on his trail. They sounded large, unfriendly, and unwilling to compromise.
He made it to the door of the abandoned store when he found that he had been locked in. The footfalls were getting closer. Iago looked around for another way out, cursed, and activated his return ticket.
He appeared at the back entrance of the castle, just at the edge of the undefined land. He panted heavily, relieved. He removed the box from the bag as he entered the kitchen, wanting to clean the spoons before presenting them to Madame.
As Iago suspected, the spoons had been marked. As he had not suspected, there were only three in the box, when there should have been five.
Mind you get all of them, Madame had said, in no uncertain terms. Iago contemplated what would happen if he returned with less than all of them. He gulped, and set down the box. He waited several hours in his room, while the Philistines ran about like rats looking for the intruder, thinking about where the other two spoons could be. Those Serpent's Hand ruffians had stolen them. He should probably start with them.
He exited the castle. Surely the Philistines had calmed down by now, he thought. It was time to search for a Way. With that, Iago disappeared, back into the world.

Somewhere else, possibly very far away, there was a man, sitting in a barely furnished room, looking out of the window at some bland little courtyard that passed for a garden in this cold, clinical world. He had little choice in the matter. And this was astonishing, because, until recently, he had had no choice whatsoever. A record player sat in the corner, from which emerged the crooning voice of Ozzie Nelson.
Say nighty-night and kiss me.
There was a security camera in the man's room, monitoring for changes.
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me.
The camera was not able to detect the faint movement in one of his loafers as his toe rose and fell, for the first time in decades.
While I'm alone and blue as can be,
Surprise flickered across the man's eyes. Then confusion. Then wistfulness. Then, his mouth turned up at one corner so very slightly. It was barely noticeable, and would remain so for a very long time, but already, his bonds were starting to break.
Robert Chetford began tapping his toe along to the music.
Dream a little dream of me.

« CAV-006 | CAVALCADE | CAV-008 »

He stepped quietly past the man sitting in the chair, not wanting to be kept in the tale by a dialogue.


Dreams have long been a point of contention for psychologists, full of vehement and loud opinions on what they mean. Some think that it's the brain going over the events of the day, while others postulate that it's the subconscious finally doing something useful and resolving issues. The smartest scientists are always identifiable by bedhead and coffee, because they prefer to experiment with sleep rather than theorise about it.1
What few scientists bother to worry about is whether or not plants dream. They do. In the plant community, Venus Fly Traps are noted to have the most vivid nightmares, which typically involve sunlight and arachnids. Creeping Vines rarely ever have dreams, being so exhausted from all the creeping.
The dreams of flora relevant to this story, however, are cactus dreams. The layman would think that cacti dream about water. This is not so. Dreaming about water is incredibly boring. Water by itself doesn't do much, other than fail to have the common decency to hold a definitive shape. A cactus dreaming about water would be comparable to a person dreaming of an open field. It sounds very poetic, but begins to drag on once you realise there's not much to do in an open field. The very idea is silly, preposterous, and implausible.
No, most cacti dream of finding a nice cactusette and settling down in that nice bit of sand just a block away from their good cactus friends. Cactusman, known to his friends as Daniel MacIntyre, or urrgghjhggjdf2 to very pretty cactusettes, was dreaming of settling down on that fateful morning. In particular, of Carrie (RH) Ipsalsis, who was, while not a cactus, very pretty. Cactusman himself was not actually a cactus, but an upright member of his human community, dedicated to saving innocent lives and preventing dehydration.
It was with a grunt that he was awoken from his slumber. Specifically, a grunt that meant "Hey, Daniel, wake up!". Rubbing the sand from his eyes, Cactusman glared blearily at Carl from across the room. Carl was a handsome specimen, a strapping male in the prime of his youth, who had met Cactusman at their local home improvement store. Carl was also a cactus, which may raise the question of how he was currently speaking to Cactusman.
Carl, as any reasonable person could assume, was not speaking in English, but in Cactese. Cactese is entirely incomprehensible to the human ear, who hear it mainly as a series of roars and grunts. It is actually a much more complicated language, with 13 specific grunts designed to obfuscate any humans who might be planning on pillaging innocent cacti and putting them up as trophies on their mantle. There are 73.5 words to describe a small amount of water in cactese, because cacti are predominately optimists, and not nearly as prickly about glasses being filled with water as humans.
"Daniel, wake up man! Someone needs your help!"
Like a slap in the face, or being stabbed by the spine of a cactus, Daniel jerked up, throwing off his sheets and rushing off to grab breakfast by the window. A hero can't be expected to save the day without energy, after all. Carl continued to speak, giving Cactusman the minutiae.
"Her name is Lily, I met her at the plant nursery. She always made sure I had enough water and sunlight, great gal. Pretty, too, man, you should have seen her-"
"Carl! Get to the point!" shouted Daniel, cutting Carl off in the middle of his diatribe.
"Right, right, sorry. She was kidnapped, Dan! They stole her away! You gotta rescue her, she's a damsel in distress! They took her to 5739 North Clark!"
Spurred on by his heroic and solemn duty, Cactusman dashed to the door. His thought traveled faster, though, and he paused, turning to Carl. "Where'd you hear this from, anyways?"
"Oh. I heard it from the grapevine."
To describe how long Daniel stared at Carl would be an impractical waste of text, and would also imply that something other than staring happened in that timespan. Staring is a very dull thing to write about. There are only so many ways to describe a stare, and the majority of them are variations on "intense". To create a clearer picture of what happened, stand up, find a plant, and stare at it for ten minutes. This story will still be here.
Welcome back. Yes, it was that boring.
Daniel tore his stare away, muttering something about "that incorrigible gossip" before dashing out the door, spines drawn taut in preparation for the battle ahead. Today, evil would not stand. Today, the world would be bathed in light and righteousness.
Cactusman trudged through the torrential downpour, peering up occasionally to look at the street numbers. The path of righteousness be damned, the weather had other plans. It had been behaving itself, sunny days and mild temperatures for too long. It had been saving itself for this day, which it had marked down on the calendar it stored up in the cloud. Useful thing, the cloud.
By the time Cactusman found 5739 North Clark, he was wetter than any cactus had a right to be. Cacti tend to like the weather like they like their humour: dry, and preferably involving George Carlin3. Taking a spine from his back, Cactusman quietly investigated the integrity of the keylock, then very legally and equally quietly entered the threshold.
"I'm in the belly of the beast now…" thought Cactusman, as he surveyed the room. It was obvious that there was no one home, from the state of the apartment. The TV wasn't on, and he wasn't being angrily questioned about why in the hell a stranger is standing in our home and how did you get in I'm calling the bloody police Bob get over here and teach this hoodlum a lesson again.
It wasn't really the wretched hive of villainy that Cactusman expected. The place was downright pleasant. They had obviously put work into the breakfast nook which was dotted with potted plants, and the couch went very well with the rug. The whole living room was so open and inviting- "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?"
The owner of the particularly angry vocalisation was an equally loud Hawaiian shirt, filled out by a rotund man, the kind who is usually accompanied by a beer and plastic pink flamingos. What he was doing here was unknown. Maybe he was lost. It would certainly explain why he was so angry.
He greeted Cactusman with an enthusiastic fistbump to the jaw, his arm hurtling through the air like a porcine train car carrying sausages4. Cactusman's world exploded with new colours (such as sillown), reeling back from the force of the blow, more than enough to ruin the day of any cactus.
Cactusman caught himself on a nearby coffee table, as the Hawaiian shirt was busy marveling at the new cactus spines growing out of his hand. His revelations were loud and involved hopping and shaking his hand. Grasping blindly behind him, Cactusman found a friendly coffee mug, and brought it down hard over the Hawaiian shirt's head, in accordance with the celebration.5
The Hawaiian shirt crumpled to the floor, and Cactusman stepped over the ne'er-do-weller gingerly, making a mental note to call the hospital, and maybe iron out some of the wrinkles. As he was idly wondering why Hawaiian shirts were acceptable fashion, a muffled shout brought him out of his reverie.
A shout! The damsel in distress! Cactusman dashed to the source of the noise, bursting in the room next over. And there she was.
A sight like Lily was one that a man would never forget. Even in their old age, as they ramble on about lawns, hills biting their ankles as they climbed up wolves on their way to school, they would remember that moment. She had a flower, tucked in on her head, accenting the soft colour of her body. The light streamed into the room, highlighting her pretty face as she implored Cactusman to save her from the bindings that constrained the curves of her body, a price tag poking out of the soil in her pot.
All things considered, she was a very pretty cactus.

Footnotes
1. Most theoretical discussions about dream meaning usually end up in a group double blind sleep experiment, so the point becomes moot by the thirtieth sheep.
2. Imagine a noise very similar to gargling kidney stones
3. Woe betide those who try to give a cactus Leslie Nielsen though.
4. Or the fist of an angry fat man, if you don't enjoy similes.
5. Cacti rarely party, but when they do, they lose several friends, wake up with terrible hangovers, and often find most of their glassware shattered. It's why they're so often found in the desert. It's dry, miserably hot, and there's not a drop to drink anywhere. Not conducive to parties at all.


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It was almost ready.
Kaoru held the spoon carefully over the small lighter. After checking his watch, he opened the small paper packet with his left hand, while carefully holding the spoon and its precious load with his right.
The young man sprinkled the contents of the packet into the spoon. As the icy crystals hit the liquid in the spoon, they fizzed slightly, releasing small wisps of smoke.
Kaoru inhaled deeply, breathing in the smoke. As the fragrance surged through his body, he giggled. He could feel it. His body salivated at the barest hint of the powerful substance awaiting him. He was shaking at the thought of it. It had been far too long.
Eagerly, the boy grabbed one of his needles, and greedily sucked up the liquid. Then, after he carefully tied off his bicep, he stabbed the needle straight into his arm.
His eyes widened as the liquid ecstasy surged through his veins, reaching his heart and then spreading from there, straight to his brain. As the drug hit, neurons began wildly firing, action potentials racing down axons, neurotransmitters jumping synapses.
He could feel his brain seemingly expanding. The world itself changed shape, warping, twisting, and blending into a dazzling array of light, sound, and color. He began to convulse, practically frothing at the mouth as his brain exploded into a burst of pain edged with pure joy.
The feeling defied words. It was as if every muscle in his body was thrumming with power. Every aspect of his body felt utterly sublime. The world itself was a canvas for him to work with, and to shape to his own liking.
Kaoru stood up, flailing his arms wildly as he began to giggle to himself. One of his friends ran into the room.
“Kaoru! What are you doing? I thought we told you not to use any mo-”
The upset reprimands of his friend were cut off, and turned into strangled gasps as Kaoru raised his hand and squeezed the air, choking the life out of his roommate from across the room. As he scrabbled futilely at his neck, the boy's eyes were wide with pure, unrelenting, animalistic fear. The eyes that greeted him were huge, wide, and shimmering with color. They danced and flickered, never remaining one color.
Suddenly, the kicking and flailing of the boy ceased as he slumped over, still suspended in the air. Kaoru kept his iron grip until the boy grew cold. Turning, the once meek college student saw the bone-white face of his girlfriend, who had just entered the room.
“K-Kaoru?”
He began to giggle. She began to scream.

As his partner, Yuudai, drove the car, detective Katsuo Tanaka leaned back in his seat, listening to the scanner.
“Initial call from the neighbors came in as public disturbance, but they found some bodies. The first unit there is already grabbing witnesses and neighbors.”
“Got it. We'll take care of it,” Katsuo answered.
Speeding down the streets of Fukuoka, Katsuo stared out the window at the rapidly passing blur of lights and sound. The clamor and thrill of a Japanese city at night was at odds with the grisly scene unfolding in the apartment complex.
A swarm of police cars with blaring lights surrounded the entrance to the building. Police officers stood around, vigilant of the surrounding chaos. Stepping out of their car, Katsuo glanced up at the complex. It was utterly bland and generic, like any number of cheap apartments found throughout the city. Katsuo nodded at his partner as they entered the building.
The first responders had already set up a police perimeter. A few cops shooed away any curious onlookers while the two detectives passed the perimeter. As they entered, a uniformed beat cop ran up to them.
“Detectives? Come this way, please.”
Inside the elevator, Katsuo pulled out a notepad and began to ask questions.
“So, you were the first responder? What exactly happened?”
The beat cop sighed, rubbing his neck. “Well, I got a call saying that there was a public disturbance call. When I got here, there was no answer at the door. One of the neighbors who had made the call had a spare key, so I let myself in, after nobody responded.”
“And you saw the bodies inside?” Katsuo wrote down some notes.
The elevator door dinged open. More police officers crowded around the floor, keeping any neighbors in their rooms for questioning. Detective Tanaka threaded his way through the crowd with his partner and the beat cop.
“Yes, I saw the bodies there. I immediately called for backup. There were 5 bodies in there. As far as I know, nobody entered or left.”
Katsuo nodded as they found their way to the room. The door was open, and forensic scientists were already at work inside, gathering samples and investigating.
Yuudai visibly recoiled when the pair entered the room. The walls were streaked with blood, and everything was knocked over. A crumpled body with a crushed throat lay in front of one of the doorways. A once-pretty girl was marred with deep slashes that had painted the walls. Her throat had been torn out, and her chest ripped open.
In the center of the room, a thin, shirtless young man lay on the ground. Unlike the others, he bore no signs of trauma. He simply lay there, cold and lifeless.
Tanaka ignored the gory spectacle in the room, and immediately proceeded to look around for evidence. The still stricken Yuudai followed along after a moment.
The senior detective kneeled down at the couch. Frowning, Katsuo put on a pair of sterile gloves, and gingerly picked up a discarded syringe, and palm-sized paper envelope that had been lying on the ground. Opening the packet, he saw a few green crystals at the bottom.
“Unknown green powder substance here, with a syringe. Possible drug use? What do we know about the residents?” Katsuo handed the evidence off to a waiting forensic scientist.
“College students, all of them. No history of drug abuse or crime in any of them,” a police officer said.
“So, why's this one dead in the middle without a scratch?” Katsuo scratched his chin while kneeling on the ground. The boy's skin was cold. No pulse could be found.
“I wonder i-”
Suddenly, the boy's eyes opened, and he flailed his arms. The air exploded outwards with a force that launched Katsuo backwards onto his back. Yuudai immediately stepped backwards and drew his gun in one fluid motion. The other police officers did the same.
The lanky boy slowly stood up. He might've passed for normal, if not for his eyes. They wildly changed color every few seconds, from shades of deep brown to bright yellow and dull lavender. And yet, despite the rapid flashes of color, the eyes were dull and lifeless at the same time.
The boy giggled at the police officers.
Yuudai began to speak. “Sir, ple-”
With an almost casual wave of his hand, the boy flicked Yuudai backwards, launching the police officer against the wall with a crash. The officer fell to the ground in a heap.
The police officers in the room opened fire at the once-lifeless young man. The bullets stopped in mid-air, slowing their spinning, and finally falling to the ground. The boy giggled again, and raised his arms.
The cops were levitated into the air, each one spasming and convulsing. With a gesture from the boy, their chests exploded outwards, showering the room with blood and gore. Their bodies fell to the ground. On the ground where Tanaka lay, the beat cop's body flopped to the ground, eyes wide with terror as he stared at the detective.
Katsuo drew his pistol and fired at the boy. The bullet stopped in mid-air and fell to the ground harmlessly. The boy turned his head at the defenseless police officer.
“Got a few more minutes left until I come down. That was fun, wasn't it?” The boy was visibly shaking, while a mad grin split his face.
He raised his arm and pointed at the fallen detective.
Suddenly, overwhelming waves of pressure began to pound on Katsuo's skull. It felt like an elephant had fell on top of his head, and the pressure only increased. The officer began to scream.
“What would it be like if your head popped?” The boy stared at Katsuo. “That would be cool.”
Uncontrolled giggling.
Tanaka held his head, screaming as he curled into a ball. He felt the pressure mount. As it reached the breaking point, he heard a loud bang.
And then the pressure was gone.
As he looked up, the young man had fallen to the ground, a pool of blood quickly spreading around the remnants of his head. Across the room, Yuudai stood with his gun leveled.
Katsuo fell backwards, panting. He firmly shut his eyes, feeling the throbbing pain that still raced through his skull. After a long time, he finally sat up, still in pain.
Slowly, the officer pulled out a small remote from his coat pocket. Tanaka pressed the button on it and quietly said into the microphone, “Confirmed anomaly present. Requesting cleanup team.”

“Ma'am! Reported hazardous anomaly in the Oita Prefecture!” An anxious young intern ran up and yelled at Minori Iwata as she briskly stormed through the office.
“Deploy Containment Team Ko-3. Cleanup team should be on standby,” she replied, waving him aside.
“Yes ma'am!” The office worker scurried off.
Iwata sighed. This was really something that the local prefecture level commanders should be handling, not her. Shaking her head, she continued to march through the office, ignoring the lower level clerks that she nearly bowled over.
She passed a massive bulletin board, covered with a huge map of the island of Kyushu, and neatly tagged pins marking all reported anomalies in the region. Workers, researchers, and guards alike hurried from place to place in the massive site, the largest of its kind in Japan.
Iwata finally reached the large conference room, and pushed past into the room. Inside, representatives from all of the containment teams, field operations groups, and Mobile Task Forces in the Japanese region were inside, talking to one another. At the sight of Iwata, they quickly quieted down.
She quickly took her seat. In front of her, a neat placard read, “Minori Iwata, Regional Containment Commander, Kyushu.”
She cleared her throat. “My apologies for my tardiness. I was held up elsewhere. Thank you all for managing to reach this emergency meeting. Let's begin.”
Iwata stood up, and opened up a digital presentation. She began to pace in the front of the room.
“At the beginning of this month, we were notified of a reality bender incident in the Fukuoka prefecture. We handled it like any other, and thought nothing of it. However, this was followed by another incident, in the same prefecture. And then another. And another.”
She stopped and turned to the audience.
“Most global regions experience at most, 2 reality bender incidents a year. Fukuoka Prefecture has experienced 5 in one month. Until this most recent incident that linked it all together, we could not explain why this was happening, and we could find no link.”
“Yesterday, field agents Katsuo Tanaka and Yuudai Shibata were in the middle of the most recent incident. 5 civilians dead, and 4 police officers as well. However, they made a breakthrough in interrogations.”
“According to a friend of the latest subject, he'd been getting some kind of drug for weeks. Supposedly, the drug itself, some kind of green powder called 'Spirit Dust' gave the users those temporary anomalous abilities. That drug's supplier? Yakuza. Dojin clan, headquartered in Fukuoka Prefecture.”
A sharp intake of breath could be heard from the entire audience. The Yakuza were the major force in Japanese organized crime. The Dojin were known to break with most traditions, and actively work in drug trafficking. Like all clans, they were ruthless, professional, and very dangerous.
Minori Iwata pressed a button, ending the presentation before turning to the audience, and handing out a personnel dossier stamped with a large “129022.”
“We have an undercover agent embedded in the Dojin. His name is Naoki Koga.”

Naoki Koga strolled along the street. He was dressed crisply, in a sharp, high-collared business suit. As he walked down the street, throngs of people simply stared at the well-built young man as he went by. Those who were more familiar with the area sought to look away, or to avoid his path if possible.
Koga kept his hands in his pockets, nonchalant. He seemed not to notice the waves of people who sought to hide from him. His eyes betrayed his nonchalant demeanor. If anyone had dared to meet his eyes, they would've seen the spark of something brilliant and deep that stood utterly at odds with the persona that he seemed to cultivate.
He came to a road crossing. Glancing both ways, the man crossed the street to come in front of a small convenience store. He calmly smoothed his tied-back hair, and strolled inside.
The clerk glanced up at him. Recognizing Naoki's impassive face, the clerk whitened as he immediately bent over in a deep bow. Koga gave the smallest of bows in response, and walked past, deeper into the store. He entered the backroom of the store, where a group of men lazed about in a makeshift lounge.
A few welcomes and greetings were thrown at Koga, who acknowledged them in return. Koga made his way to the back of the lounge, where a man reclined in a chair, reading a book.
“Hello, Yoshida-san,” Koga said, as he made a bow.
“Please, stop with the honorifics, Naoki. We're friends, no?” Satoru's face was split with a broad smile. The man pushed his glasses up his face, somewhat sweaty.
“So, what's a big time man such as yourself doing in a little place like this?”
“I came to ask you about something. Have you heard of something called ‘Spirit Dust?'”
Yoshida's face froze while maintaining the same glib smile as before. “Yes. What about it?”
“Can you tell me what you know about it? Our branch wants to know more,” Naoki said, calmly looking into Yoshida's eyes.
“I see. Well, it's some new thing that they've cooked up, and it's selling fast. Come over here.”
Yoshida stood up and walked over to a pile of boxes, motioning Naoki to come closer as well. The dealer opened up the first box, revealing stacks and stacks of small paper envelopes. He shook it slightly, so that Naoki could hear the rustle of powder inside.
“This is it. Each one of these envelopes? Almost 11000 yen.”
Naoki whistled. “Steep price. What's it like?”
Yoshida shrugged. “I don't touch this stuff. From what I've heard, most people shoot it with heroin.” The overweight, balding man leaned closer.
“You know, they say that it gives people…..magic powers.”
Koga threw his head back in a laugh. “Come on, Yoshida. You can't be serious.”
Yoshida scowled, and pulled a small omamori from within his shirt. “You don't understand. You're not faithful, like some of us.”
“I stopped believing in any gods or spirits or whatever when I was a child.”
“Regardless, that's what they say about the drug. I don't know. I just sell it.”
Naoki nodded. As he bowed, and said his farewells to the other yakuza in the room, he left the convenience store. The yakuza lowered his head, pulling out a plain smartphone, and quickly firing off a text.
“129022. Confirm traced anomaly.”

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