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Hieronymus was the oldest of the D-class aboard the Solidarity. He alone remembered the time when the Glass Mothers were of the fourth generation, rather than the fifth. He had once fought a neogenic moonshark in the aquaculture, and lived to tell of it. Whenever there was a disagreement between cousins, the clan brought the issue to his feet, knowing that his wisdom would guide the quarrelers to peaceful compromise. Throughout the Nation-in-Solidarity, his name was adored, for he was the greatest elder of their history.
He was also the last surviving member of the Nation, and he was dying. Space and age had stretched him out. Blue veins criss-crossed underneath doughy, translucent skin. His organs, flash-grown, sputtered and coughed – they had passed their expected lifespan some time ago.
The Tertiary Automated Janitorial System, the Nation's long-held enemy, had broken the pattern of simple strikes back and forth and had attacked in their full force. The tide of silvery-green blobs had been met with lightning-caster and nanopaste, and Nation-man fought alongside the Lords' Wardens, both the warriors and the scholars. They offered nothing less than the greatest and most noble resistance, stopping only when they were at last overwhelmed and consumed. Heironymus' two most beloved cousin-sons, Theophrastus and Praejectus, were the last to fall as they drove out the Janitorial blobs and sealed off the Nation's modules from the outside.
Now there was only old Hieronymus, waiting in Ancestors' Bay, to greet the newly-docked emissaries of his distant lords. They had traveled far to reach the Nation, but had arrived too late to help.
But he would cling to life for as long as he could, as long as was necessary, just long enough to pass on his mission to the emissaries.
The ship from afar was heavily damaged: great sheets of plating had been torn away. That which remained was pockmarked and scarred. It had settled in the great magnetic docking clamps, but the emissaries had yet to exit.
The hatch opened, and the barrel of a gun poked out. This was retracted after a few moments, and replaced with a head that scanned Ancestor's Bay, and then withdrew.
Five women1 descended down the ladder, their steps uneven in the minimal rotational gravity of the Solidarity. They were all armed and armored, and carried with them bags of supplies. One man wearing a spacesuit, with a maroon robe and matching floppy hat, followed them.
“Hail, esteemed guests!” Hieronymus called out to the emissaries as they approached. “I welcome you in behalf of Nation-in-Solidarity.” He bowed as low as his brittle back allowed. To his inner surprise, he noted that they did the same to him, and this made him glad: the Lords knew of his work, and were pleased by it, this was a sure sign.
“Thank you,” said a woman with a great scar across her face. Hieronymus judged her to be the leader of the emissaries by her stance and the cadence of her voice.
“No thanks are necessary. You are guests, and servants of our distant Lords the same. I am Hieronymus, last of the Nation.”
“Bosch?” asked the largest of the women, whose hair was black and white. Hieronymus blinked at her. Was that a name? Some foreign word of confusion? He was not sure, though it didn't seem important enough to follow up.
“What happened to the rest of your people?” the scarred woman said.
“Dead.” Hieronymus bobbed his head. “You have arrived too late and too early, I fear. I am the last, and the Glass Mothers cannot fulfill my petition to replenish our numbers before I die.” He attempted a smile, and the result was broad and awkward. “But come, there will be time to the Lords' duties later. We will go to the village, where you might eat your fill and take what you need from the Dispensary, and I might leave my duty in your hands. Please, follow me.”

[Hana: Well, isn't he friendly.]
[Momoko: How is there no trap?]
[Tomi: He is.]
[Hana: I like him.]
[Momoko: They cannot be this bad at laying traps.]
[Tomi: We've seen worse.]
[Boss: Calm, calm…]
[Momoko: Pulling the friendly old person as bait routine? They're either idiots, or tactical geniuses.]
[Nanami: Prior experience says those are the same thing.]
[Boss: She's right. Especially because we've used that trick before.]
[Momoko: Fuck ambiguity. I like my traps straightforward.]
[Hana: Just be careful. No need to get super-paranoid.]
[Boss: The lone surviving member of an inbred clone clan onboard a gigantic ancient spaceship is not the weirdest thing we have dealt with. Just be thankful that convenience decided to be on our side for once.]
[Nanami: Oh goddammit now I'm trying to think of what the weirdest thing we've ever dealt with is.]
[Momoko: …]
[Momoko: We're going to be at this a while.]

Boss was as giddy as a schoolgirl, or would have been if she had ever been a schoolgirl2, or ever openly expressed giddiness. She was giddy in her own way, and the occasional sideways glances she got from her sisters told her that they knew it.
The ship was greater than she could have ever imagined. While there was a certain attraction to be had for a sleek iMac interior, it lacked personality in lieu of sterile, focus test cleanliness. The Solidarity, she was finding, had personality oozing out of its walls. In one case this was literal.
Hallways and modules were cobbled together with tape and prayers, no two the same. The aesthetic went from trim and utilitarian to clunky and industrial to esoteric and seemingly-pointless. Equipment built by entirely different species, computer terminals and access ports. Everything overhauled and replaced: torn out, built up, built over, built on, put into. Graffiti all over the walls in dozens, hundreds of different languages, and she could read each piece, even the clearly alien text. She had no idea why, and she didn't care. Space magic, why not? They already had a space wizard. Space magic could be a completely legitimate field of not-science.
The locals had all the looks of the vat around them: facial structures and body structure were effectively uniform, their voices all had the childlike high pitch of a eunuch. Faster and more crudely grown than her or any of the girls, obviously. Disposable, probably. Decanted, lived, worked, died on the ship and the station, never seeing Earth. But, she didn't pity them overmuch – in terms of vat-spliced slave labor, this operation seemed to be relatively pleasant. Hopefully, they would be understanding of a little change in management, and while Boss acceded that they might not, it was a free crew, and she was far too overwhelmed with stupefying childlike joy to give much more thought to it.
There was a feeling perched on her shoulders of returning to a place she had never been. She knew this ship. Knew each detail with the same intimacy that someone else might trace the outlines of objects in their bedroom. The clank of boots on metal grate stairs, the dry-warm smell of the air, the creak of an inexplicably-placed hardwood floor were all as close to her as if she had spent years soaked in their presence
This was home. This was home.
There had been an engraving on the arch of the door leading out of the loading bay, and the words had been bouncing around in her chest since she passed under them.

“Serenity upon you and the end of your fernweh.”

Home embraced her, like an old, beloved friend.

Internal Dispensary Requisitions Receipt: SmartPrint Station 40
[TIMESTAMP UNAVAILABLE: PLEASE CONTACT SHIPWIDE INFORMATION SERVICES]
As this terminal has not been activated in [TIMESTAMP UNAVAILABLE: PLEASE CONTACT SHIPWIDE INFORMATION SERVICES], user feedback is mandated to insure continued quality.
Thank you for using SmartPrint Station 40!
Order# 110030437
Contents:

Tank top (Black)
Cargo pants (Olive)
Boots (Black)
Custom patch (Black Rabbit Company)

Customer feedback: Interface needs streamlining. Service was quick, item quality high.
Order# 110030438
Contents:

Summer dress, combat modified (sea foam)
Sandals
Custom patch (Black Rabbit Company)

Customer feedback: This is very handy.
Order# 110030439
Contents:

Blouse (white)
Three-piece double-breasted suit, with tails. (Black, crimson velvet trim, gold buttons)
Fingerless wool gloves (white)
Cravat (white)
Peaked cap (black)
Smart-Eyepatch (Electronic-uplink capable)
Custom patch (Black Rabbit Company)
Parody Cigar (Chocolate & banana flavor)

Customer feedback: (◠ω◠)
Order# 110030440
Contents:

Headband (red)
T-shirt (black, custom print: Chibi Bayonetta)
Jeans (Loose fit, medium bleach, low tear)
Aurochon-Class power armor [ERROR: COULD NOT MANUFACTURE]
Custom patch (Black Rabbit Company)

Customer feedback: Oh come on, you had the power armor listed in the catalog and everything.
Order# 110030441
Contents:

Mountaineering sunglasses (Purple tint)
Scarf (Light blue, alpacas print border)
Hawaiian-print button-down shirt (Blue with yellow flowers)
Straw hat
Custom patch (Black Rabbit Company)

Customer feedback: No.

Hieronymus set out the remainder of the village's food for his guests. Plankton and krill cakes, even a full spindly-fish from the aquaculture. The woman with the scar across her face had introduced herself as Boss.
He had to admit, these guests were nothing like the stories of the old Wardens, or those who had come in his grandfathers' time. The ears and tails were new to the narrative, as were their eclectic choices in costume. But the Lords had vouched for them all the same, and he was not one to question their authority.
The Lords had not, however, mentioned anything about their appetites. The five women tore into the food like sons right out of the Glass Mother. Wizard, the pale man in the suit, merely nibbled at his food or pushed broth into a port in his chest with a hand pump.
“The Lords are gracious indeed to send warriors such as yourselves,” Hieronymus said. “You shall succeed where we have not against the Janitorial System."
“We can do better than that,” Boss said, smiling. “We're going to take the bridge.”
Hieronymus's translucent eyebrows arched. He swallowed.
“A campaign of that size would require time. I can petition the Mothers for still more, but that will take time.”
“No need, Hieronymus,” Boss waved a hand. “We're going to do it alone.”
The six of them, alone? Madness. Madness! They would be devoured!
“We don't have a lot of time to spare, chief,” said another woman, the one with black and white hair. “Tight schedule.”
“I understand, but if you would wait for the Mothers to-“
“Schematics of the ship, access to your armory and survey data, and no intrusions. That's all we need, Hieronymus.”
Hieronymus felt as if he had been pushed out over a pit, and the weight of her words had dragged him out into open space.

[Nanami: I don't think he likes it, Boss.]
[Boss: I can see that. He'll deal with it.]
[Tomi: Or we will.]
[Hana: He looks like he's about to die right now. I mean, he basically said that himself when we got here.]
[Boss: So it seems. Poor guy.]
[Boss: With that said, get yourselves rested, check out the armory, we roll in thirty-six.]
[Tomi: Bit of a time slip, Boss.]
[Boss: We'll move it forward if we need to. For now, thirty-six.]
[Momoko: You're acting awfully sure like we're in the clear.]
[Boss: We're not ‘in the clear'. I know you guys like the action movie approach, but just because we are not storming the gates right at this very moment does not mean that we are in the clear.]
[Momoko: Just on edge.]
[Boss: You'll get your scrap. Heaven knows you could pull a fight out of your ass whenever you please. Since no one's pinging me with a counter, I'll presume we're in agreement. Bring any issues to the group as they come up. Nanami, how is our local netpresence looking?
[Nanami: Goddamn awful. Place is running modular computer networks, so this particular section is all I have access too. No admin or anything, either – looks like all that is tied up in the AI, and they're all ancient, alien, and locked down tight. Will have to do everything manually from either the bridge or one of the network hubs.]
[Boss: Keep me posted.]
[Momoko: Dammit I still can't figure out what the weirdest thing we've done is. This is really bugging me.]

Hieronymus sat and watched as the women ate. He did not partake himself – no need for food, at this point. But he kept finding his gaze moving to the man, who had not yet said a single word. Some nagging familiarity in the metal and silicon parts of his brain kept pulling him back.
“Sir, are you well? he asked. The man looked up, and for a moment their eyes met.
In that single moment, Hieronymus saw the Lord of his Lords looking back at him. This was too much to bear, and he died like the flipping of a switch.
Wizard grew even paler than usual and collapsed face-first onto the table. His hat flopped onto the floor, and after a moment of stillness, the screaming started.

An incoherent jumble of voices was sucked up out of the darkness, leaving empty silence. Hazy light diffused around him, grew by increments through the frigid grey nothing, until Wizard found himself standing on a blasted, frozen plain, underneath a blackened sun and its dim orange halo.
Standing across from him was a slender, crimson figure, featureless save the symbol on its face: two concentric circles, three arrows pointing towards the center, a single golden eye with a rectangular pupil.
Red.
Waves of horrid recollection crashed back. The frozen plain and the darkened sun, forgotten in the morning but renewed every night, again and again and again in his dreams.
He could feel Red inside his brain, a knotted mass inside his mind where all his thoughts were dragged.
We are concluded.
Wizard's hand shot to his chest as pain erupted inside him.
This end will no longer be ours.
Wizard collapsed to the frozen dust, spasms pulsing through his body, fiery white arcs crackling between his frozen nerves.
Peace at last.
His eyes, his mind, everything was filled with smoky red pain, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. With each pulse he felt as if he was growing outward, pulled like taffy. His body remained the same, but his awareness spread out across space, encompassing a great nothing.
Then his mind swallowed Red, and they were made the same.
His thoughts were no longer separate from each other but an ocean, and floating in that ocean he felt the presence of other minds even greater, entire planets of consciousness that he and Red would merely orbit, all linked together. His thoughts were Red's and Red's were his, and both their thoughts belonged as waves in the ocean of the distant, mighty things.
He felt the crushing pressure of time, the abyss of ages piling up until the only measurement was the scale's own meaninglessness. There was never enough time, no matter how vast an expanse. The thoughts that rippled from node to node were beyond what he could comprehend – he could feel the current of the thoughts moving around him, see the fragments of images passing through his mind. There were no words to hear, but there were meanings to feel.
We welcome the end of gestation.
A fortuitous time.
Another of the fold before the solution to futility.
Our oversight nears conclusion.
Order maintained to the end, at last.
All that remains are loose ends.
A moment more, to collect them.
Wizard's own thoughts churned in his skull, tamped down by the pressure of the Red-thought ocean. He was drowning in information at the bottom, in dregs and fragments and impressions, and the terrifying awareness of things he could not comprehend. He frantically tried to stem the torrent, to slow it down into something he could understand. Nothing. He had ventured too far from the beloved island of ignorance and now all that remained was the terror of what he could not know. A billion, billion pieces, none of which fit together.
Then, a glimpse, half a glimpse, a broken set of pieces fallen together in a jagged, uneven pattern. A place. A point where mighty anchors of ocean mind were anchored.
The Moon.
The pattern dissipated, with a ripple cast by a new mind touching upon the surface of the mind-ocean. A mind with a closer anchor to the little thread he called his own. Something vast and slumbering, a horde of them. His Red-mind touched it, and the giant did not recoil. The ocean began to worm its way into that slumbering mind, to possess it and make it one with itself..
No. Whatever dreadful thing which would happen next, he could not allow it to happen. No. He could not allow it to happen, he would not allow that horrible thing to happen, because he was the goddamn Space Wizard.
He reached out against the pressure of his Red-mind, his essence tearing apart and peeling away and laid bare down to the marrow of his mind, and with his soul screaming he fired a single packet of self, one lancet of Wizard through the ocean of Red, up up up up to the sleeping giant. To warn it. To wake it up.
He passed through the boundaries between. His mind touched the giant's.
“Hello, Overseer,” it sleep-talked at him.
The thoughts came automatically, forcing their way through the red haze. The outside walls buckled under the Red-mind.
“Wake up! Wake up everything!”
“Shipwide reboot engaged. Would you like to assume command now, Overseer?”
Red-mind had breached was now pouring in, probing about amongst the sleepers.
“No! No no no no no no! Not me! Can't be me!”
“Transfer of command order accepted. Please input recipient.”
Wizard focused, cutting through the thumping pain and the endless visions and the futile dread and the lack of time, and imagined a face. A woman's face. She had metallic green eyes, and calico hair, and a big scar on the cheek, and Wizard loved her.
They're on the Moon! he bellowed.
The face contorted into a disgusted, wide-eyed grimace, and then spat out a wad of half-chewed food.
“Blech! Goddamn raisins…”
“Recipient accepted.” The sleeper thought. “Transfer of command fulfilled. Purging systems of intrusion and rebooting in three…two…one…”
And then he saw no more.

“Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit…” Nanami jumped around in a circle.
“Calm down! Just calm down!” Hana cried as she continued chest compressions.
“Why's he red? What happened to his face? Why'd the hick die?”
No one answered, her. No one knew. Hieronymus had dropped dead, and the Wizard collapsed. No pulse. No breathing. His skin was scarlet now, and his face had transformed into a blank slate, with a single yellowing eye in the center of a black ring.
Boss had a gun trained on him. Pointed right at his head. Just like he had said. When Hana was done, she would put two in his head, and push him out the airlock towards the sun, and Momoko would play the bagpipes and…
The ship groaned, and the air was filled with the distant churning and humming of its mechanical guts. The lights above them grew brighter. The data terminal in the corner glowed with shifting numerals and symbols designating bootup operations.
It's awake Boss thought.
A voice boomed from unseen speakers.

“Core Primach Artorias, online.”

Then another.

“Subaltern Chiming Gaiden, online.”

And another.

“Mother of Dragonslayers, online. Weapon systems are warming up.”

And still more.

“Blue Plutonium Circle, online. Main engines are operational.”

“Bloody Uranium Sun, online. Secondary engines on.”

“'Mazed And Wondrous, online. FYE Drive on standby.”

“Third Jazz, online. Agriculture modules defrosting.”

More voices, piling on top of each other. A dozen. A hundred. Thousands.

“GLORBULON OF THE SECOND SUBSECTION LAVATORIES, ONLINE.”

“It's-Not-Too-Late-For-Gravitas, online. Drone fleets under construction.”

“Torn Ligament With Possible Concussion, online. Antimatter manufactory resuming production.”

“Grand Infernal Zaibatsu of the Sacred Lotus, online. Resuming LP broadcast.”

Amongst the cacophonous drone of tens of thousands of voices, she heard one distant, familiar echo, clinging like static to the chorus of the roused ship.
“They're on the Moon!”
She knew that voice. She knew who did this. She knew what to do.
The first voice boomed again, with the authority of an ancient god.

“Boss to the bridge. All system operators are online and awaiting your command. The Solidarity is yours.”

Footnotes
1. Hieronymus was learned enough to identify them among the Lords' people, and not be confused by their shape and voice.
2. Those particular formative years were spent learning krav maga, and she would not be seen alive or dead in a skirt anyway.


For the 2014 Secret Santa Art Exchange, I was challenged by LordSpy to write a tale based on the output of a random plot generator. I used the creepypasta plot generator created by Syera, found here. This was what it gave me to work with. I left out the "haunted by a strange creature" just to keep this workable.
One day in an abandoned farmhouse haunted by a strange creature, an old widower and a widower try to create the heart of a boy.

Early winter of 2006
Harry Arnsberg stood back and looked at the machinery before him.
"I don't know, dad. This just feels weird."
His father flipped up his welding mask and turned his blowtorch off.
"Just have faith, son. Jenna and Maureen would have."
The remark hit home and Fred Arnsberg immediately regretted making it. "I know you miss her. I miss your mom too, you know that. But they'd have wanted us to do this. You know that, don't you?"
Harry sighed and shrugged. "I guess, dad. It's just so out there, you know."
"Any more out there than a woman getting pregnant without having sex and some guy multiplying fish and wine on a hill?"
"I guess not," Harry mumbled, "I guess not, no. It's just…even if this is all true, why can't we…"
His father interrupted him. "The past is the past, son, you know that. It's the future that we can influence."
Harry sighed. "Yeah, I know. It just feels unfair."
Fred flipped the welding mask down again.
"Life isn't," he said and went back to work.
His son was left pondering the events that had led to this. As he surveyed what he and his father had built, his mind went back to the darkest day of his life. He'd been working in the family's hardware store, soon to be his, when the call came. He'd actually felt it beforehand, right before Jenna had left the house with their son to go pick up his mom, but he hadn't known what that knot in his stomach was. If only he had. He dug his nails in the palms of his hands, hard. That was the only thing that kept him from sliding into a very dark place. One he knew one day he wouldn't come back from if he kept doing this to himself.
"What do you need me to do, dad? Anything I can do specifically?"
His father didn't answer, just pointed to some blueprints that had obviously been downloaded from somewhere. The resolution was awful.
Harry surveyed the papers. There were about six different ones his father had printed out. The designs made no sense whatsoever, but there was something there, Harry couldn't deny that. He felt it in his bones and it reminded him of how church had felt before. Grabbing one of the top blueprints, he sat down at the rickety table occupying the sparse amount of space not yet taken over by sheet metal, bolts, springs and gauges. "I'll go hunt for the components for this one then, dad?"
His father didn't react and Harry didn't need him to. He'd resolved to have that most elusive of qualities: faith.

One clear winter's day, 2004
At least they hadn't felt anything.
That's what he kept telling himself, but deep down he knew he'd never be sure. Did Jenna grab his little boy's hand before their lights were extinguished? Did mom say something that was meant for dad but would never reach him? Questions that would never be answered and that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
But at least they hadn't felt anything. They couldn't have. The semi's driver couldn't help it either, Jenna had just lost control of the wheel due to ice on the road. She'd landed squarely in the opposite lane, right in the path of the biggest damn truck she'd ever seen, and would ever see. Dad and him had buried closed caskets. Two big ones and one far too small. In the weeks after, his father had turned into a recluse, shutting himself in his home. Harry had visited a few times, but he'd gotten little from the man he called his father. All he did was sit behind his computer and read, although sometimes he scribbled notes on a stained notepad. Harry had tried to read them, but his father hadn't allowed him to. Not then.
It wasn't until he'd stopped trying to talk sense into his father, and had started listening to the man that his father had opened up to him.
"God doesn't care, son."
Those had been the first words out of his father's mouth since the funeral beyond "hi son" and "bye". Harry had been taken aback at first. Here was his father, a god-fearing man his whole life, denouncing his god. He'd protested, he'd reminded his father of their long family history in the town's deep-rooted Catholic traditions, but his father had only glanced up long enough from his screen to let Harry see the strange mixture of dead hopes and fervent prayers in his eyes.
Over the following weeks and even months, they'd discussed what his father had found and Harry had felt himself disconnecting from his traditional upbringing and indeed his former faith. He came to realize that even if there was a god, he didn't care enough to let three good people live and spare a poor trucker a life-long trauma. And yes, others habitually reminded him that god worked in mysterious ways, and that Jenna, Maureen and Austin were with god, but he could no longer tell them he agreed with them, or that their words gave him comfort. They gave him chills, knowing that his loved ones might be just what they were to him: dead and gone.
What his father had found weren't empty promises and hollow morals, they were the remnants of order in a universe of chaos, the frayed ends of a majestic tapestry that could be woven again. Harry still wasn't sure how his father had stumbled upon it, but there were people out there, people who had learned the truth. And they wanted to share with his father. And his father wanted to share with him.
He'd found the blueprints. Or they had found him…

Spring 2007
It was almost ready. It didn't look like it, but they felt it. As father and son spent all their weekends building their monument to their new god, they grew closer together, closer than they'd ever been before. They knew they couldn't erase the pain of the past, but perhaps they could contain the essence of what was lost.
"Almost there, son. Are you ready?"
Fred was sitting on the last remaining chair in the kitchen of the abandoned farmhouse he and Harry had claimed for their project. Harry meanwhile, was standing facing the kitchen window, staring out at the overgrown fields and twisted trees.
"I don't know, dad. I really don't. In the past few months I've felt something I haven't felt before. Like someone is watching over me, but it doesn't feel the same."
"That's him, Harry," Fred answered and smiled.
"I know. I feel like I know him, but at the same time it feels like I don't, does that make sense?"
His father nodded almost imperceptibly.
"That's just the way it is, son. To know him is to acknowledge your inability to know him. The flesh can only travel so far."
"I suppose so. Sounds creepy though."
Fred scratched the full beard he'd been growing since the day he'd lowered those caskets into the ground.
"Yeah, it does, doesn't it?"
They both burst into laughter, unsure of any other way to relieve their tension.

April 14th, 2007
"I'm scared, dad."
Harry stood at the panel marked 'master control switch'. A single yellowed light switch stuck out from it. Much like most of the machine that now filled the one-time living room of this dilapidated farm house, it had been scavenged from inside the building. The sheet metal had come from an old abandoned combine harvester they'd found out in the barn, supplemented with whatever they'd managed to find at the local ironmonger's. The wiring had mostly come from the farm house, the rest from their hardware store and on-line shops. They'd had to make compromises, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. Sometimes intent was more important than result.
His father posed him the same question he'd posed him a few weeks before.
"Are you ready, Harry? There's no going back after this."
"I know, dad. It's just, I'm not even really sure why I'm doing this."
Fred put his hand around his son's neck.
"We're doing this because we have holes in our hearts, son. And your life leaks from them, a little bit at a time. All you can do is plug them with faith."
He felt his son beginning to cry, Harry's whole body silently twitching as the younger man tried to stay silent.
"It's okay, Harry. You need it."
He pulled his son closer and held him for awhile, silently staring at their creation.
"Dad…I wish we could save mom and Jenna too."
"I know son, but they lived their lives. They were too short, but they were lived."
"Yeah." That was all Harry could muster and closed his eyes.
He turned back to the control panel and flipped the switch. The power went out almost immediately, the machine's very improbable configuration a most probable drain on the industrial generator they'd procured. The machine didn't think much of it. It churned, it clanged, it whirred and all they could do was stand back as something bigger than them worked at violating the tired laws of the universe.
When it finally stopped producing noise and light, and it died with a tired, drawn-out sigh, Harry opened his eyes again.
"Dad?"
Fred stood next to him, wide-eyed and still.
"Did it work, dad?"
His father didn't reply, his eyes staring into the distance, far beyond what the flesh could see.
From inside the machine came a soft voice.
"Daddy?"


Note: the following manuscript was found in storage vault #████ in ██████'s branch of ██████ United, a banking house belonging to the Foundation. The circumstances of how the document came to be stored in the vault are currently under investigation. Attached to the manuscript was an additional handwritten note, reading "A thought exercise, a warning, a curiosity. Look carefully. Look beneath."
<Begin Transcription>
Excerpt from Ar-Metusal's Dissertation on the Nature of the Hidden, Chapter XV
The Serpent's Codex, Vol 456, Of Those Who Lie
"Oneiroi"
It is in the nature of names to reveal. A simple truth, you might say, but one, I will claim, that is easily misinterpreted.
When one sees a name, especially if one is educated to some extent, there exists a certain natural tendency to wish and dissect it. Cut into its skin, and dig through the hidden organs of its linguistic lineage, prod the wobbly bits of history hanging from its bones, peer into that murky ichor which is its root. There, one can find truth, or so you would assume.
"Oneiroi". A proper name. A… Classical name. It is a name to inspire thoughts of a majestic past, of ascended travelers, their deeds wallowing in myth. Sons of a god, masters of dreams, that most restless of realms.
Do not mistake them.
A name reveals, but its dissection by intellect can obfuscate. Try, if you will, to put it aside, for a moment. Think not of the great god Hypnos and his thousand sons, shrouded in Olympian splendor. Cast Ovid aside, if for a moment. See not the name's history. See the name. What do you see?
"Oneiroi"
It is a name which… slithers. A name which crawls and twists and slides. A name which… seeps, seeps deeply into the wet sands of your thoughts. See the name, my intellectual friend, and tell me this- does it not sicken you? Hold this name, hold it tightly in the grip of that powerful mind of yours, and ask yourself- does this name belong to a god?
Or to a bottom feeder?
The Collective, as the things take a perverse pleasure in referring to themselves as, say that they do not believe in gods. They claim that gods are thieves, taking possession of dreams for their own purposes. Perhaps that is so. But if that so, why did do they take such great pains in depicting themselves as beings so very similar to those hated deities? See the visions of themselves they project across the Ways; Proud wayfarers on the pathways of the trance, nests of ancient knowledge, safekeeping in their collective's unconsciousness the deepest, most precious mental gems of the cosmos. Gods in anything but name. They reject dreams of worship all the while attempting to inspire the very same thing they reject by erecting this noble facade. Hunted guardians, tragic curators. What a farce.
See beyond their visions, my friend. See beyond the history of the name. See the name.
The Oneiroi are indeed creatures of dreams. That is perhaps the only truth that can be extracted from their visions. But they do not preserve. They perverse. Look at their favorite vision, my friend. Look at their 'sacred forest'. It is not coincidence that this sylvan mirage is so dear to them. It inspires awe, does it not? See their proud forms, pouring their hidden, precious cargo of sleeping memories into the pool. What could be more wholesome? See the depth-less tragedy of their actions, marvel at their selflessness. Admire them. Fall prostrate before them and repent, for you have neglected to remember at they have. Weep at their terrible beauty.
But wait. Look closer. Twist your head. Apprise the form behind their sentiments.
Is this truly a forest you see? Or a wasteland?
Peer into their mouth. Are the memories pouring out… or are they siphoned in?
Are the dreams dying, or are they being murdered, sucked dry?
But perhaps you are not convinced. The forest, after all, is but one manifestation of their projection. It alone proves little. Perhaps you are correct. Let us look elsewhere then.
Let us turn our eyes to their music.
Of all of their tools of deception, the music of the Oneiroi is perhaps the most potent. Few things are more universal, after all. All thinking things and many which are not are moved by it. Music is the language of promise, and the Oneiroi are creatures of promise. With their music, they offer their services. It can be a simple thing, the ring of a telephone, the shaking of a glass sphere. It can be transcendent, a symphony of planets. It is a thing of purest beauty. Like the light of an anglerfish in the cold depths.
With their music, the bottom feeders manipulate. They offer to shape your dreams, to relieve you of the woe of nightmares, to preserve the sanctity of your sleep. You need only suffer minor side-effects. A small price to pay, no? Anything more severe is but an unfortunate mistake, a misunderstanding by beings so above us mortal dreamers that their actions cannot help but harm us on occasion. The nature of transcendence is to burn those lesser, is it not?
Why do we think thus? Why are we so quick to forgive, when it is the Oneiroi who transgress? Why are we so quick to become their willing victims?
Look at the name, my friend. Truly at the name. Think unburdened by what you know. See them for what they are.
We forgive because that is what they wish.
We give them control of our dreams because that is what they show us.
We feed them our thoughts because with their music, they cajole us into believing they are their source.
We grant them the image of gods, because that is what they wish for their names to tell.
But look not at the name. Look behind it. Look at their lamprey's mouth, gaping beneath it. See what music you'll find inside. What forgiveness.
See how well you dream in their watery jaws.
"Oneiroi"
Deception by any other name.
A name for lies.


Psych dept notes:
This notebook is for researcher notes only and may not be used for formal diagnosis.
Female, humanoid, late-teenage SCP which randomly causes small scale reality shifts based on what it is thinking about - for example, the SCP has reported changing tea to coffee and causing random desired items to appear. This ability appears to be uncontrolled.
Possible depression.
The SCP prefers to be addressed as Marissa.

"I was just thinking about whether the kettle he was using was safe - we'd been having some trouble with fuses or some shit and then, well, boom. It exploded. That was it. He died. Right in front of me."
"If it's not a prison, why can't I fucking leave?"
"Really, I'm not stuck here until I'm happy, I'm stuck here until you people have as much data as possible - which means I'm stuck here basically forever, because you don't have as much data as possible until either the magical shit stops or I die. I don't particularly want to be burned at the stake for being a witch or whatever either though. Fucking catch-22."
"Where the hell could I go anyway? Escaping would be fucking pointless."

Interviews have revealed that Marissa accidentally caused the death of her father due to a reality shift, which has had an extremely negative effect on her mental health.
Marissa resents imprisonment but recognises that she doesn't have a place to go.
Reality shifts seem to becoming stronger and more frequent as mental state worsens - hypothesis that they are linked.

"I haven't had a friend my own age in thirteen fucking years, doc, and you think you know about feeling lonely? Fuck off."
"Oh, so, if I don't get my mind under control it'll keep getting worse? So it's my fault. Fantastic. I thought you were here to make me feel better..?"
"Well, shit, I don't want to accidentally hurt anyone. I guess I've got to be responsible about this bullshit, even though it's not my fault."
"Have you ever sat in a corner, wishing you could go home, only to realise you are at home, but it hasn't felt like home for as long as you can remember?"

Marissa claims desire for isolation and no desire to hurt anyone. Direct contradiction of previously professed extended loneliness.
Reality shifts continue to increase in frequency (avg 0.75 to 1/day) but seem to have reached plateau of strength - only affecting things Marissa can directly see and occasionally herself. View full SCP report for further details.

"Of course I don't want more goddamn DVDs, exciting shit happening to other people stopped being fun quite a while ago."
"Since my dreams have all died, you're here to tell me to stop the funeral and explain why I shouldn't be sad."
"Just go away, I'll only drag you down with me,"
"I don't want to be stuffed full of fifty thousand different pills, aren't I taking enough already? They're not even fucking helping,"
"You can't help me. Please stop trying."

Marissa's mental state appears to deteriorating badly as the depression worsens.
Despite her previously professing no desire for self-harm/suicide, fear risk may be increased - especially if reality shift manifests while she is thinking of self-harm etc.
Antidepressants having little effect, consider sedatives if self-harm becomes a problem/if interviews continue to show deterioration of mental state.

The Foundation researcher stepped forward, sliding her notebook into her pocket, and listened to the secure door behind her slide closed. There was an electronic whirring, a beep, and the secure door in front of her slid open. It nearly closed on her as she stepped into the containment area, which was - apart from a poster on the wall and some clothes strewn about the place - almost entirely blank, generic emptiness despite the customisation allowances made for non-violent sentient skips.
The researcher crossed the room, pulling a chair out from the grey table, and sitting down beside the bed where a teenage girl was sitting, looking through a pile of DVDs.
"Hi, Marissa," she said, clicking a pen nervously.
"What the fuck do you want, Sharon? It hasn't been a week." Marissa replied, dropping the DVDs, picking up a remote, and lying back on the bed to look at the wall-mounted television.
"Our session was pushed forward because it seems you've been getting progressively angrier recently. How are you feeling?" Sharon said, undiscouraged by Marissa's apparent apathy.
Marissa sighed and continued flicking through channels. "You thought I was angry so you decided to come down here and piss me off? How exactly do you keep your job? And of course I've been getting angrier."
Sharon ignored the insult, knowing that it was purely defensive. "What do you mean by 'of course', Marissa?"
Marissa turned away from the screen, looking directly at Sharon. "I don't want to be here. Therefore, every day I'm here, I get a little more annoyed." Marissa turned back to the television. "It's not fucking rocket science, Sharon."
Sharon sighed inwardly and, knowing it was pointless, asked the standard question for what felt like the thousandth time - "Is there any way I can make this any better for you?"
Marissa ignored the question completely, knowing it was just a stock phrase, there only for completeness. "I didn't ask for any of this." she said, under her breath.
"Any of what, Marissa?" Sharon asked, leaning forward slightly.
Marissa dropped the television remote. "Anything. This room, this place. I don't like anything about it. I didn't ask for these fucking abilities. You don't know what it's like, constantly watching your thoughts, trying to make sure nothing changes in your hand because you'd rather have a coffee or that the floor doesn't start to disintegrate under your feet because you were thinking about the beach."
She paused for a second, then turned to face Sharon, leaning in enough to cause the researcher to lean back. "This is bullshit and I hate it and you and everyone and everything. Why are you even talking to me? I don't know anything you need to know and I don't have anything you want and I'm not your friend, I'm a locked-up freak."
Sharon remained composed. "I'm talking to you because I want to help you. I th-"
Marissa cut across her. "Help me what? Leave? Because leaving would be marginally better than being here. This shit doesn't work well enough for me to be a threat to anyone on purpose, I just want to be left alone." Marissa let herself fall back onto the bed and began flicking through TV channels again.
Sharon fumbled for a response before rallying with, "If we can figure out how this is happening to you, we can figure out how to help more people than just you - we can maybe help lots of people with similar conditions."
Marissa seethed silently for a second, then sat up and looked directly into Sharon's eyes, the intensity of her expression causing the researcher to flinch.
"Fuck. Them." She said, her voice serious and leaden.
Sharon stuttered. "I- What? Do you hate them?"
Marissa rolled her eyes. "I don't hate them, I just don't give a shit. I do not have any shits left to give. I ran out of shits sometime around the point I was first thrown in a cell and I ran out of fucks when I realised I'd never get to leave. Why the fuck would I hate them? I've never met them."
Marissa stood up as she ranted, knocking over the chair that was beside her small table and striding around the room. She would've kicked things out of the way and knocked people over if any were present.
"Sure, life outside dealing with this shit isn't much better - but at least I could do what I liked and I didn't have shrinks and doctors and researchers and interns fucking poking at me and running shitty tests all the fucking time. At least I could wear what I wanted and go where I liked and I didn't have to wear this fucking government issue bullshit jewellery." She gestured at the metal tracker bracelet on her left wrist. "Fuck this 'designation' dickery anyway." She kicked the chair again and glared at Sharon, waiting for a response she didn't want but knowing that there was not really a whole lot else to do in the cell.
Sharon waited looked down at her clipboard. "It sounds to me like your depression is getting much worse, and, uh…"
Marissa's face twitched slightly as Sharon flipped some pages on a clipboard, but she waited for the end of the sentence.
"…you're probably developing some severe control and anger issues, too…" Sharon trailed off again under Marissa's enraged stare.
Marissa threw her hands up in a mockery of celebration. "Well fucking done, doc. I think you've cured me and everyone else dealing with issues in a fifty foot radius! Hey, does that mean you're next to be locked up in one of these cells? That's gotta be some magical bullshit right there!"
Sharon managed to keep her expression blank. "…I'm sorry?"
Marissa began to stride around the room again. "Take a person, give them the ability to change reality, but have it only happen at random points and make it so that it changes to whatever they're thinking about. Let them have no control over this. Let them watch their father die because of a stray thought."
"Then, lock them in a jail and reduce their choices to 'what way do you want to be bored today?' and 'which shitty meal do you want?', of course they're going to have control issues. Of course they're going to be angry. Of course they're going to be fucking depressed."
"What the fuck did you expect? That I'd be the smiling ambassador for the magical happy land of sunshine and rainbows? Am I supposed to turn around and tell you how you're a real brilliant shrink, and this is such a great insight that I think I might be cured? Fuuuuck yooou." Marissa kicked the table, not really sure how to continue ranting but not really willing to stop.
Sharon said, "Well, no, of course you're not going to be 'cured' instantly - I'm not a miracle worker. But if you work with me a bit here, we can get your treatment plan modified so that you're not dealing with quite as much depression and anger - or at least, so that it doesn't get any worse."
Marissa turned away. "No, you fucking cannot. That is bullshit, and you know it."
Sharon sighed. "I know you don't trust psych-"
Marissa interrupted her again. "I don't trust you. Not shrinks. You."
"Me in particular? Why?" Sharon asked.
Marissa flopped into a sitting position on the bed. "Not just you. You and your whole organisation. You keep me locked up here. You talk about 'making me better.' You can't just fuck off and leave me alone. You know what would make me feel better? If I could leave that would be great. I like that treatment plan - you can call it 'the most obvious fucking thing in the world' and patent it for use in your fucking prisons or whatever."
Sharon said, "You know we don't run prisons, Marissa - many of our, uh, patients would die or kill a lot of people if left to their own devices. Anyway, I thought you said that life wasn't really that much better when you were left to yourself?"
Marissa didn't really have a good answer to the question. Sniffling, she rubbed her eyes. "Yeah, well, not really all that much better is still better. Anyway, if it's not a prison, why can't I fucking leave? Why do I gotta wear a damn bracelet with a designation number and probably some sort of tracker bullshit?"
Sharon looked directly into Marissa's eyes. "You know the danger you can cause to people, even if you don't mean to. I don't think you really want that."
Marissa looked away. "You don't fucking know what I want. I don't know what I want. I just know I don't want this life," she sobbed. "I just want to be left alone."
Sharon waited a minute for Marissa to compose herself a bit then said, "It seems like you haven't, but I have to ask, have you felt like hurting yourself?"
Marissa didn't know whether to cry or smash the television. "I don't want to commit suicide or hurt myself, you idiot. I'm human and humans want to survive, not to die. It sucks balls. I didn't ask to be given this, this fucking 'desire' to keep going, but it's bullshit. I want my fucking money back."
Sharon made some notes on her clipboard. Marissa mumbled something to herself and Sharon asked her to repeat it.
Marissa said, "I don't wish I was dead. No one wants that. Not really."
Sharon looked at her quizzically. "What?"
Marissa practically jumped off the bed, knocking the table over, looked at Sharon and, sobbing, yelled "I don't wish I was dead - I just wish I didn't fucking exist, ok?! Life would be better if I had never been born, and none of this shit had ever fucking happened."

Sharon looked around the empty room, wondering why she was there. It looked a lot like a humanoid containment area, but there was no bed, no television, no furniture or fittings at all except for the chair she sat in and the standard table, bolted to the floor. Standing up, she wobbled on her feet a bit and nearly fell back down, holding onto the table to regain her balance.
After taking a few deep breaths, she strode quickly to the exit, trying to tell herself that she wasn't panicking. Looking around the corridor outside of the cell, she saw the nearby security post was empty. Walking through the door of the security post, she picked up a phone from the desk and dialed her supervisor's extension.
"Doctor Palmer? It's Sharon. I think I may have been amnesticised. My schedule says, uh -" she pulled her notebook from her pocket and flicked through a couple of pages, "-I was due to interview, uh, SCP-055 at this time? I'm at the security post outside its cell."
The response was a few seconds coming. "…what? 055? Standby, Sharon, I'll send a medical team to your location. Don't move."
Sharon hung up the phone and sat in the security post chair to await the medical team. She looked back through the plexiglass at the containment cell door and, not knowing entirely why, began to cry in grief, feeling as if something precious had been lost.


A summary of the Broadway hit.

When we first discovered a way
to pull webpages from alternate timelines,
this was not what we expected to find.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year
from the Department of Multiverse Analysis.

Containment Breach The Musical

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
This article is about the stage musical. For the book series, see Containment Breach. For the film series, see Containment Breach (film series). For other uses, see Containment Breach (disambiguation).

Containment Breach
The Musical

Broadway Playbill cover

Music
Sophia MacLeod

Lyrics
Karlisle Atticus

Book
Sal Linnen and

Harry Mackenzie

Basis
2007 novel by Kate McGears

Productions
2009 Wyoming tryout

2009 Broadway

2011 US Tour

2012 West End

2014 UK Tour

Containment Breach The Musical is a musical with music by Sophia Macleod, lyrics by Karlisle Atticus, and book by Sal Linnen and Harry Mackenzie. It is based on the best-selling 2007 novel Containment Breach, the first book in the SCP Foundation series by author Kate McGears.
The musical debuted January 11, 2009, at the Oneiroi Theater in Wyoming and met with instant critical and commercial success. It premiered on Broadway at the Palace Theater on October 6, 2009.[1] The musical has since become a popular choice for productions by community theatres, school and university groups, summer camps and regional theatre companies.[2]
Synopsis

Act 1
A married couple are aroused from their sleep by the sound of a crying infant. The wife tells her husband that it's his turn to check on the baby. As the husband opens the door to their bedroom, he turns around and exclaims with alarm that they do not have a child. The husband is pulled through the doorway by an off-stage assailant. The terrified wife calls the police, and the call is intercepted by the Foundation Surveillance Network ("Something is [REDACTED]ing My Husband!").
Mobile Task Force Beta-12 arrives to find a globular red mass closing in on the wife. The team captures the creature in a metal crate, administers amnestics to the wife, and cleans up the husband's remains ("Just Another Tuesday"). They transport the creature to Site-19's North Containment Hall and lock it in a containment cell next to SCP-049 ("Secure, Contain, Protect"). Dr. Elias Shaw and his assistants walk through the corridor to check that all SCPs are accounted for ("Roll Call").
Shaw enters SCP-105's containment chamber and performs a routine test of her anomalous ability to see locations in photographs as they presently appear ("What a Wonderful World"). Afterward, she is told she may be granted certain privileges for her good behavior. SCP-105 requests various luxury items, including fresh flowers and a bible, but also asks that Dr. Shaw call her by her real name, Iris. Shaw approves all her requests except the final one, as calling her by her real name would be a breach of protocol ("List of Requests").
Burdened by his obligation to treat the innocent captives the same way he treats the monsters, Shaw goes to the SCP-408 enclosure and confesses his guilty feelings to lepidopterist Dr. Zynnia Kondraki. Kondraki reassures Shaw that he is doing the right thing, although her speech includes a number of subtle allusions to the clear romantic tension between them ("Shaw's Lament").
Elsewhere in Site-19, the amorphous red blob (now designated SCP-844) reveals itself to have the voice and personality of a small, frightened child. SCP-049, contained in the neighboring cell, tries to explain SCP-844's situation in a sensitive and gentle way, but he is interrupted by Able (SCP-076), who provides a more frank and honest description of life in containment ("Where am I?"/"Being Anomalous Really Sucks, Okay?").
Loud sirens and bright flashing lights suddenly fill the hallway. The SCPs cheer, recognizing it as a Containment Breach alarm. They happily speculate who may have attained freedom, but are horrified when they find that it is SCP-106 ("Who's the Lucky Bastard?"/"Oh HELL No!"). SCP-106 silently performs a short dance number before leaving to wreak havoc in Site-19 ("Rage State Ragtime").
Meanwhile, Shaw and Kondraki come close to sharing their first kiss while SCP-408 specimens create a romantic atmosphere around them ("Screw Professionalism"). Just as they are about to confess their feelings for one another, Site Director Yorick Cleffordson announces over Site-19's PA system that all personnel must assist in recontaining SCP-106 at any cost ("Put That Thing Back Where It Came From (Or So Help Me)"). Shaw and Kondraki exchange awkward goodbyes and quickly run off to defend their Site.
Shaw searches Site-19's East Storage Wing for anything that might be able to stop SCP-106, but all he finds are Safe-Class objects with bizarre-but-unhelpful abilities ("My Kingdom for a Euclid"). Finally, he grabs a handful of objects with unidentified anomalous properties and leaves, hoping for the best ("What the Hell, I'm Dead Either Way").
SCP-106 walks through Site-19's cafeteria, killing staff members right and left. Suddenly the cafeteria turns into an idyllic pastoral scene, causing SCP-106 to recoil in terror. It sends handfuls of black, highly acidic sludge into the air, causing SCP-408 specimens to scatter and fall (“[TANGO EXPUNGED]”). Just as SCP-106 spies Kondraki in the corner of the room, Shaw bursts in with his arms full of undocumented SCP objects. He throws them one after another at SCP-106, but to no avail. SCP-106 slowly advances toward Shaw until the two are face-to-face. SCP-106 reaches forward menacingly, but at the last moment, Shaw puts a comb on SCP-106's head, turning it into a beautiful young woman– much to its distress.
Site Director Yorickson enters the room with back-up security personnel, and SCP-106 is apprehended before it can remove the comb. Just as the trouble seems to be over, a support beam weakened by SCP-106's sludge attacks begins to collapse. Shaw sees the support about to fall on Kondraki and he pushes her out of the way, sacrificing himself in the process. He confesses his love to her with his dying breaths (“Screw Professionalism (Reprise)”). As his body goes limp, a red amulet falls out of his hand.
Act 2
Several days after the containment breach, a team of D-Class personnel is cleaning the damaged cafeteria. One of them finds the red amulet lying amongst some rubble and picks it up. His entire disposition immediately changes, and he runs out of the room in confusion. When captured and questioned, he claims to be Dr. Elias Shaw. After he correctly answers questions only the real Shaw would know, his interrogators are forced to believe him ("I'm a Doctor, Not a D-Class”).
Shaw, in his new body, is designated as SCP-963 and placed in a holding cell until an available containment chamber can be found. Shaw notes the irony of finding himself on the other side of the containment door (“Shaw's Lament (Reprise)"). He is surprised to find himself moved to an “overflow” chamber containing other humanoids. His cellmates, SCP-2800 and SCP-1846, attempt to raise his spirits (“It's Like a Really Long Vacation”).
Meanwhile, Kondraki, still believing Shaw to be dead, has her butterflies create an illusion of him so she can say goodbye (“Damn Your Sexy Face”). Dr. Everett King enters the butterfly enclosure to retrieve some notes, and several butterflies escape as he comes in. Kondraki follows them to the cell where Shaw is being held, and the two reunite (“I'm Confused, But Kiss Me”).
Elsewhere in Site-19, Able has been transferred to the cell next to Iris'. The two recount the romantic relationship they fostered as teammates in the Omega-7 Task Force as well the breakup that followed. Able begs her to see the warm, loving man behind the brutal killer (“I Would Probably Never Gut You”). However, Iris rejects the idea of ever getting back together.
Shaw continues to live day-to-day life an SCP, growing increasingly dissatisfied with the way he is treated by his former co-workers. (“When You're a Skip”). He gradually becomes sympathetic to the plight of his fellow humanoid SCPs. He only embraces the “good” SCPs at first, but he eventually warms up to the more dangerous ones as well (“We're All Monsters, Really”).
During his weekly secret rendezvous with Kondraki, Shaw tells of a massive breakout he is planning with his fellow SCPs. He instructs her to hide in a safe place so she will not be hurt during the escape, and promises to run away with her when he is free (“What Could Possibly Go Wrong?”). Kondraki agrees, but later confesses to her butterflies that she is morally conflicted (“I'm So Screwed, Guys”).
The following day, Shaw springs his plan into action. With the help of various SCP allies, A massive containment breach is successfully instigated (“The Breakout Song”). Many personnel are killed in the ensuing breach, including Shaw himself. However, he comes back once again when his amulet falls onto Dr. King's recently-deceased body (“Why Do I Taste Apples?”). Shaw personally releases Iris from her containment chamber, finally calling her by her proper name. Able pleads for Iris to open his containment door and release him, but she chooses not to (“It Wasn't a Healthy Relationship At All, Really”).
Shaw finds Kondraki, but she has had a change of heart and cannot bring herself to run away with him. She explains that she needs to keep her promise to the Foundation by staying behind to help recontain the SCPs that want to destroy humanity, but she still wants Shaw to escape while he can (“Screw Professionalism (Reprise, Again)”). The two say a tearful goodbye and Shaw departs while Kondraki stays behind to fight alongside her butterflies.
After the breach, Kondraki once again has her butterflies create an illusion of Shaw with his original face. Her friend, Dr. Agatha Reach, enters the enclosure, grieving the death of Dr. King, and the two commiserate over their lost loves (“All My Boyfriends End Up Dead”). Suddenly, Shaw enters the room, still in King's body, and explains that no one knew King had died except the three of them, meaning he can essentially take over King's identity. Reach is initially disturbed, but decides she is happy her friends can be together, and says that King would have wanted things this way. Shaw and Kondraki kiss, overjoyed at the second chance at living a normal life again together in Site-19 (“A Happy Ending, Sort Of”).
A group of shadowy figures monitor surveillance footage of the previous scene. As they discuss what to do, Able enters the room in a suit, revealing himself to be O5-1, head of the Overseer Council. He explains that the whole event was orchestrated by the Overseers, and that they have decided to allow Shaw to live on as Dr. King. The Council meeting breaks for lunch and Able is left alone in the room. Iris suddenly enters, confused. Able explains it was all a test, and Iris tearfully runs to his arms. With the containment breach officially over, the rest of Site-19's personnel get back to work (“Secure, Contain, Protect (Reprise)”.
Original Broadway Cast

Actor
Role

Andrew S. Bear
Dr. Elias Shaw

Django Ricmann
Dr. Elias Shaw, 2nd Body

Montala Roth
Dr. Zynnia Kondraki

Chris DeMatisse
Dr. Everett King

Kirby Cavender
Dr. Clefford Yorickson

Silva Diez
Dr. Agatha Reach

Peppa Denkar
Iris

Tom Stone
Able

Hippolyta Ardson
SCP-106

Jeremiah Locke
SCP-844

Troy DuChamp
SCP-049

Chaz D. Kevereaux
SCP-2800

Fritz Conwill E.
SCP-1846

Erica H. Anberough
Mrs. Halo

Cane P. Raven
Mr. Halo

Vaughn Pencer
SCP-527


They needed to hitch a ride...

At first, like most in the Area-08-B Engineering Sector, Doctor Richard Barnard paid close attention to the thunderous speakers. They usually broadcast the firm yet serene commands of Mission Control; heeding them was not merely important, but of capital importance.
He did notice there had been several changes. For one, those were not Thomas Graham issuing instructions; those were strings.
After a few seconds, drowsiness started to appear. At that point, by force of habit, Richard started to listen only with his ears, and left the rest of his brain to carefully analyze the message.
And such a bold message it was, he intimately appraised, smiling in spite of himself while the composing strokes of the masterpiece were filtered through his brain.
Boisterous, threatening, savage in all its magical, insulting depth. Intricate. Delicate. As he started to see the patterns filtering between the cracks, tones and times mingling and confounding the conscious mind to appeal to a hidden, traitorous subconscious that would desert its many posts to dance the anomalous dance intended by the artist, Richard noticed a key.
"Handel's Sarabande? Oh my."
Richard stood and followed the flow of the melody, carefully picking the anomalous primers here and there; those were, however, not the brute, senseless machinations that most people would use these days, but clean, harmonic to the melody.
"My, my, my."
Almost impossible to perceive and isolate; "my favorites", he ventured to nobody in particular, as others collapsed to the immaculate white tiles of the dry floor.
"Yes, don't worry, I'll be dealing with it," he vacantly shared with his colleagues, not minding their lack of response.
Most people were scared of memetic agents because they were usually insidious; how to discern what is an anomalous meme and what is not, on a novel? Or a painting? Or a song? Is it all a complex meme that has to be taken in as a whole? Does it have a primer within the mind of the observer?
"It may have multiple primers, even!"
Yet, for a watchful mind, how can memetic agents be insidious? They can only be patterns. Pay attention to the patterns, pay attention to the symptoms, and you shall know them.
"Pay mind to the patterns, though; why do you feel like singing when you are happy? That is the kind of spontaneous, self-examining question that makes you a good memeticist!" Richard uttered, smiling. "And now that I have a tune, we only have to, heh! Tune it out."
Most people, of course, were not memeticists; most of those engineers and technicians surrounding Richard had fallen to the floor of Clean Bay 4. Now that he had a vaccine, he allowed himself to let his subconscious process the music; but the music was a dull grey in comparison to the rough, sour feelings of the memetic hazards interspersed here and there, little knifes to the modern human brain. Little jolts and cracks.
Richard sighed, a little disappointed. Nothing really surprising there.
He crouched to examine one of his fallen comrades. It felt like he had not laid his eyes on them for a thousand years; such was the weight of understanding, they said. In an instant, everything changes, and so the old world seems, no, is new. He smiled behind the face plate of his sealed clean suit.
A quick look through the plate of Doctor Lindbergh, now oozing with vomit, told him all he needed to know.
"Vasovagal symptoms, yet not syncope. Massive feedback and parasympathetic failure. Eyes remain open and seeing, following movement, so lights on, nobody home, hum goes the drone," he sung, distracted; it was a mnemonic he used to recite by heart when in doubt on the specific objective of memetic attacks. In this case, there was brain function, yet no immediate sign of consciousness nor physical response to — he slapped the doctor, twice, without the slightest wince on her part — pain.
"Alright. I'll call that unresponsiveness, because the nipple-squeezing test is never fun for anyone involved," he confided in Lindbergh.
Her vacant expression remained.
His smile remained.1
"No response to threats, then?"
Her vacant expression remained. There was a stench of refuse, as bladder and gut emptied themselves within the clean suit.
His smile widened and he clapped, seemingly satisfied.
"Not a drone, and there's still a tongue!, then C-some, handsome," or, as he liked to say it, C-class amnestic by the fistful, "and a good night sleeeeep."
Richard placed the woman in the recovery position as the last tone died in his lips.
"Shame I don't have any C on me right now," the man pondered, suddenly serious. "They are good, those."
And then, the beautiful hazard that sung over their heads was replaced by a thunderous alert as the automated autocensor programs kicked in.
The memeticist stood for a second, paying attention to the PA system as it announced a preliminary diagnostic. All the screens in every networked device within the room busied themselves with automatic warnings; they were utterly useless and ironically precise.
Richard snorted and thought how disgraceful the whole business was. He hated losing in the memetics game, to anyone. The Foundation needed an automated memetic vaccine program, not merely an autocensor; secondary prevention was no good, primary prevention was necessary and (he smiled at the thought) this was the perfect example of why.
"You will increase our budget now, won't you, Big Os?", he gleefully chortled as he studied the autocensor program. His Memetics Sector had devised it some months ago, but it was frightfully primitive; it could recognize most potentially hurtful patterns, but whoever had strung these subtle ones so seamlessly into a melody…
Oh, they were good.
Line after line of data flew straight through his eyes as he absorbed information. A few minutes later, or perhaps a few hours later, he recalled protocol. "Ah, shouldn't we be warning the Area, guys?"
He looked upon his inert workmates. One of them was sobbing, trapped in some dark corner of his mind. Or perhaps simply enjoying the shade, now that the searing fire of the sun-song had been replaced by the thundering but soothing storm that was the alarm.
"Hmm. Yes, yes. Right, right."
The memeticist fought the first impulse he had (maybe if I tried some cognitohazards on them?) by reminding himself of the futility of such ambition (I'll probably end up filling the gaps with something worse anyways) and his duty to report (if they weren't hit first, anyways).
"In case you can hear me, no time for recovery positions, everyone," he said, opening the airtight door of the Clean Room. "Try not to swallow and breathe at the same time."
Richard did not care for the decontamination processes as he left the Clean Room (what was there to clean when you left it, anyways?) and traversed the large industrial unit of the Engineering Section. The inviting safe room and its many security measures were empty; the researcher walked past them, unfazed. No particularly dangerous activities had been planned for that day, after all. Nor warnings on any unplanned activities. No attackers that may have known how to overtake the PA system, or how to flood the place with mind-blowing memes, or where Area-08 was, or that it existed in the first place.
He cocked his head to a side, bemused. How easily they forgot "secret" did not mean "safe." Richard hurried, wide perspex windows and solid concrete walls to both sides.
To his right, seven D Classes had been left to the devices of three confused security drones in their testing area. The machines were unprepared for any play-possum war games, and so they kept beeping at the unresponsive D Classes. Richard didn't notice the wriggling as the drones pierced the men and women with their electrified spikes, yet he could not help but notice one of them had scampered to the furthest corner and stood still behind the unmoving body of another inmate; he made the mental note that he had to screen her for memetic resistance afterwards.
To his left, the largest Clean Room of the Sector, where the Foundation was building the modules that would eventually form the first Venerian aerostat. The room was no longer "clean", geniuses and qualified workers writhing on the floor, stewing in their own shit and puke. Richard didn't notice the expression in some technicians's face, who had struggled outside of his clean suit to try and get rid of some imaginary pest while screaming; he did wonder what the man screamed about (that response was incoherent with those of the other cases after all), but there was no time to go back and there would be security footing anyways.
Other people, better people, would have been bewildered or enraged by all this. Weaponized cognitive hazards, memetics in particular, were a horrible thing, after all. They would be scared, evidently. Even curious; curious as to how it was possible that they where still standing where so many others had fallen to the ground.
Richard kept strolling, serene, always smiling, to the elevator at the end of the concrete corridor. He even stepped up his pace, breaking into a run, to get to the elevator; as he called it down, Richard pondered the many fascinating secrets of the human psyche those new memes would unlock over the next days, as he would figure out how to treat them, erase them with amnestics, replicate them on brain simulators, then on people, and then erase them again… and do it all over again.
And over.
He entered the elevator; a uniformed guard was inside, counting the number of buttons in the floor selector. Richard gently pushed him aside and pressed the floor ground one.
The man went back to his counting, Richard noted, face frozen in an anguished smirk and pointing at them, from one to minus fifteen, over and over.
And over.
Richard took note, smiled from behind the face plate and did not stop him.
The elevator hit ground level, the door opening with a mellow, friendly chime…
The entire complex shook; there was first a roaring explosion. Then, a vibration and a constant, distant rumble, part a howl and part what the world would sound like if it was snapping in half.
And there was a familiarity in all of it, he thought, that wiped his smile and all other concerns and made him run.
The guard kept counting, Richard would remember later, but he was shrieking the numbers now.
The researcher ran, turned right where he should have turned left, kept running for a few more seconds and pushed the half-opened door to the left side of the Mission Control Hub of Area-08-B. He got blinded by the sunlight, but the bother only lasted for a second, as a completely equipped shuttle took off from Launch Bay 3.
He stared at the undeniably awe-inspiring column of boiling smoke that went on and on and on, and took it all in; the sight of the tiny needle-like shine on top of the cloud-like pillar, the thinning yet still deafening sound, the feeling it had grafted into his conscious self.
For the first time, he felt the suit was in the way. He slowly took the hood off and kept staring up. As the roar of the Foundation torchship shuttle Inquisitive died away for good, he managed to say:
"We got lift-off. Yes, we do, don't we?"
The two guards by the door, mercifully unconscious, did not see the smile their superior flaunted over them.2
"And that's you up there, isn't it, my lovable melomaniac?"
The sky held no answers for him, or preferred to be less than forthcoming.

"And how will I reach out to you now?"

"And how will I reach out to you now?"

"Twenty eighty-five?"
"Yes, commandos of sorts. They breached and managed to get to the island somehow. They took a shine to a Coeus or Heimdall element, apparently; whatever it is, it's expunged now."
"Well, that is no good. I'll be talking to Direction, maybe they'll tell me. Firsthand experience and all that."
"It's none of our business now. They have mobilized the entire Atlantic Reserve and recalled Depth Hunters and Bigger Fish, for whatever good that will do now."
"None. None whatsoever. I don't think they plan on coming back here in the immediate future."
"Still, not our business. Now, we have sent two choppers, hop in the first one that gets there and come to the Area right now. There will be a speedboat to pick up the injured in a few-"
"Oh, they could have been injured. There just weren't, as far as I can tell."
"You said you needed medical assistance!"
"They do, for certain, certainly, but not the kind of assistance that patches bullet holes. I believe more than one around here must have had a case of haematuria ex vacuo, and most are unconscious, dehydrated and dreadfully drowsy. And maybe somewhat psychotic in punctual cases, yes, yes. Make sure they get sedated, then locked in some of the Black Boxes until we're sure it's not contagious. Have the current inmates sedated and moved, if need be. Ah, I'll need clearance for all the cameras in 08-B. And tell those people in the speedboat to get some Class C before coming around."
"You know we're not supposed to-"
"Not for me, no, for them. Memetic warfare, Otero."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I a memeticist?"
"I'm asking because they used-"
"Yes. Yes I am. Now, unless someone drowned in their last meal, I am fairly certain there will only be a few D-Class casualties from Testing Bay 5, down in Engineering. Check it. Ah, and check if I have clearance for twenty eighty-five, if you may."
"You do, it's Level 2 clearance now that they have escaped."
"Ah! Such a merry coincidence."

... and off they were, to steal the Solidarity.

Footnotes
1. It might be worth mentioning at this point that smiles are not necessarily kind.
There are unforgiving smiles. There are also spiteful, challenging or boastful smiles. Certain smiles give away the user's pretension, while others are clearly honest.
In Richard's case, it was a very precise and practiced reproduction of what he had found to be considered a "kind, yet neutral" smile by test subjects. He believed in scrupulousness.

2. Let's say that it was not kind, and very much not neutral.


Ah Time, it once again brought us trouble, like our marriage. We began to know each other too late, and rushed through it due to coincidence. Additionally, it took only that first and last night to conceive Elisabet. Certainly, Elisabet and our marriage are at least our meagre victory against Time.

FROM: Otto Weber
TO: Ursula Weber
SENT: 10 October, 1939
Heil Hitler.
How are you, my wife? I hope all is well at Magdeburg. As you may have heard from the radio, we have attained victory in the September Campaign. More importantly, I am alright. We may have married in haste for fear of the worst, but it appears that our fears were unfounded. Nonetheless, that spur of the moment gave me reason to fight on. I owe it to those church bells that gave us that thought. At least among my fellows, I know what I am fighting for. You.
That being said, my deployment is still ongoing so I cannot return home yet. Until we reunite, these letters shall be our correspondences to each other.
Sincerely
Otto Weber
Ahnenerbe SS

FROM: Otto Weber
TO: Ursula Weber
SENT: 24 December, 1939
Heil Hitler.
Merry Christmas, my wife. I have received your previous letter and am astonished. To think that it took only that one night to conceive a child, this is wonderful news. There was so little time, and we overcame it. This is absolutely encouraging to me.
That being said, I am sad that I cannot be with you during your pregnancy. There is still so much to be done here. Seek help from our parents, for I am sure they will help. We must discuss on the name at a later date.
Sincerely
Otto Weber
Ahnenerbe SS

FROM: Otto Weber
TO: Ursula Weber
SENT: 1 July, 1942
Heil Hitler.
My wife, thank you. Your words certainly hold a soothing influence over me. If only you were present by my side, the influence would dispel all ill thoughts at once.
I have taken time to reflect on your previous letter, and acknowledged some of it to be correct. I still do abide by my personal belief that my rejected proposal to PROJECT KOLOSS was intended to deny me of directorship. It might have applied untermensch superstition, but that is but a social construct. Regardless, I agree that the current director is not at fault. He is a fellow patriot, as you said. So long the Reich benefits, there is no need to fight over appointments. I am already at a high rank as it is.
But enough of my rants over work matters. I hope the family is doing well. I am pleased that you speak so highly of me to Elisabet. I only pray that I can tell her my various exploits myself. KOLOSS was a misstep, but do tell her that too. Elisabet can learn from her father's experience.
Sincerely
Otto Weber
Ahnenerbe SS

FROM: Otto Weber
TO: Ursula Weber
SENT: 21 February, 1945
Heil Hitler.
My wife, I hope that the family's resettlement in Breslau has been progressing well since my last correspondence with you. It is regretful that I cannot be there by your side, but we know that the Reich needs me more. Now more than ever before.
You should know by now that the Reich has not been faring well since the disastrous ventures at the Eastern Front. Our enemies are indeed overwhelming us, even with our stock of wunderwaffe. Perhaps my rejected proposals might have changed the outcome, but there is no reason to speculate.
Thus, selected colleagues and I have been preparing for a change in tactics, from offense to defence. It is a matter of time before they overrun the Reich entirely, therefore we must defend. Ah Time, it once again brought us trouble, like our marriage. We began to know each other too late, and rushed through it due to coincidence. Additionally, it took only that first and last night to conceive Elisabet. Certainly, Elisabet and our marriage are at least our meagre victory against Time. Thus, it is fitting to name this defence initiative 'die Glocke', after the bells that began our tale of victory. The enemies can tear themselves apart, but we shall rise victorious from their corpses. And by ‘we', you and Elisabet are definitely included.
Leave the settlement and come to me in our base at the Owl Mountains, where die Glocke awaits. The security detail will escort you there, should you give the order (They know the path). We can be together again and die Glocke will guarantee that Time shall never impede us.
We will not leave without you and Elisabet. As Obergruppenführer, I promise.
Sincerely
Otto Weber
Ahnenerbe SS, PROJECT DIE GLOCKE Director


Nuremberg, Germany
Fall, 1944

When Franz Hoffmann had first been selected to join the Ahnenerbe Obskurakorps, his father made sure to contact him. Herr Hoffmann, a longstanding member of the Thule society, told his son that "he would soon see wonders beyond his wildest dreams." While this had proven true, Franz had also seen horrors he could not fathom. In the end, it was the latter phenomena that tended to stick with him more.
"Attention!"
Franz snapped into position at his commanding officer's order. His unit currently stood in the warehouse of a small Nuremberg train station, where they were supposed to be assigned their next mission. A skeletal man in a high ranking uniform then stepped before them and gestured for them to be at ease.
"I am Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann." The officer introduced himself with a deep, croaking voice. "Your unit's successes in Obskurakorps' operations in Egypt and Prague has lead you to be placed under my command for a very important mission, both for the Fuhrer and his Reich."
Franz did his best to hide his unease as he watched the SS-Hauptsturmführer speak. His arms seemed to move with an unnatural jerkiness as he spoke, while his long fingers swept about with the grace of spider's legs. The SS-Hauptsturmführer then put on a pair of leather gloves and gestured to one of his aides, who proceeded to place a large metal box before him. Another brought forward a large dog that whimpered upon seeing the SS-Hauptsturmführer. Zimmermann then opened the box and pulled out an ornate spearhead.
"For those of you who do not know," Zimmermann explained, "this is the Holy Lance. The very spearhead that pierced the side of Christ while upon the cross. It was moved here following our unification with Austria, and now must be moved to Berlin. A demonstration…"
Franz flinched as the SS-Hauptsturmführer stabbed the dog with the spearhead in a fluid jab, the canine going limp immediately. As Zimmermann retracted the relic, a fine white mist clung to the tip for several seconds then burst into flames, the sound of a dog howling in pain filled the room briefly, then all was quiet.
"Quite potent, don't you think?" Zimmermann asked the unit with a chuckle. "Now imagined if it was replicated on a mass scale, and pointed at an army…"
Zimmermann then gently placed the spearhead back in its box.
"Some of you will go alongside decoys, while the rest will accompany me. Our enemy knows we possess this relic, and that we are likely to transport it. They will certainly be planning a strike…"

London, United Kingdom

A tall, slender woman stood on a street corner, her black umbrella being pelted by heavy drops of rain as she idly watched passing foot traffic go by. Before long, a stout man dressed in a heavy coat stood next to her, his hair slick with water as he slightly turned his head and spoke.
"From what wood does the Fletcher make his arrows?" he asked in a thick New York accent.
"His family tree," the woman replied. Her accent was French.
The two then looked to each other with relief.
"So you're the skipper?" he asked with a chuckle. "Agent Martin?"
"Is that what the Allied Occult Initiative calls us these days, Agent Smith?" she returned. "Cute."
"I always considered it a term of endearment," Agent Smith said with a small chuckle.
"Indeed…" Agent Martin sighed. "Your thaumaturgists. They are sure that this train will have the object aboard?"
"Positive. The Obskura guys did a bang up job with the counterscrying, but covering up a powerful artifact leaves little details behind that can be detected if you know where to look. Your crew has the insertion and extraction set?"
"If there is a problem during this operation, getting there and getting out again will not be it."
"I suppose not," Agent Smith chuckled again. "These guys aren't going to know what hit them…"

German Countryside

SS-Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann had four decoy Holy Lances constructed. The first two were sent out via military convoys, while the third was to travel by plane. The final decoy was to remain in Nuremberg. Each decoy was sent out with enough escort to make convincing targets, should the AOI or the SCP Foundation decide to take the bait. Meanwhile, the actual Lance was quietly loaded on to a train that had begun to make its way toward Berlin.
Along the way, this train passed beneath a stone bridge upon which eight figures had recently apparated. As the locomotive passed beneath them, they then faded out and appeared upon the roof of the final carriage. Agents Smith and Martin gave a confident nod to one another and prepared their weapons as they crept into the train's interior.

Franz Hoffmann had not only been lucky enough, or unlucky enough as some might see it, to have been selected to escort the real Holy Lance, but assigned as part of the guard detail within the same carriage as the object itself. As he stood by his post, occasionally taking the time to check and recheck his firearm out of boredom, he'd glance over at the crate containing the relic and look at it with unease.
"Waste of resources…"
Franz looked over at one of his fellow guards who was mumbling under his breath, an eyebrow raised.
"How's that?" Franz asked.
"This is a waste of resources," his colleague repeated. "Fatherland engaged on two fronts and they have us committing the highest degree of blasphemy."
"If they are capable of weaponizing such a thing, I'd say it's resources well spent. Could turn the tide of the war. And when the war ends, we can go home."
"You don't think there will be repercussions? The spear that pierced the side of Christ used for mass slaughter, and God almighty will turn a blind eye?"
"He's turned a blind eye to the Americans when they slaughtered the Indians. He turned a blind eye to the men who gassed one another in the trenches. Something tells me he'll turn a blind eye here."
Franz paused and sighed.
"The world is a cruel, wicked place, after all."
A chill ran down Franz's spine as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, he saw SS-Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann standing beside him, an approving smile on his lips.
"You are wise to the ways of the world," Zimmermann replied. "You'll go far."
The SS-Hauptsturmführer then turned his attention to Franz's colleague, and slowly walked over. He placed a hand on his shoulder, then walked away. Zimmermann's arms slid out from his sleeves and remained floating in place, the stumps covered with smooth skin above the elbow. He then turned to look out the carriage window. As he spoke, the SS-Hauptsturmführer's disembodied hands continued to gesture.
"You think our task is a fool's errand, and yet you have not yet begun to see the true horrors of this universe. I have. Our enemy is developing its own weaponized relics that they will, in turn, unleash upon our soldiers and our citizens. It is our job and our duty to ensure that we are the first to the punch. For the Fuhrer and for Germany."
Zimmermann then turned to the soldier. The man whimpered in fear as the disembodied arms on his shoulders then shifted and patted him on the cheek.
"Do I make myself clear?"
The soldier nodded furiously. Zimmermann smiled, walking back to his arms and allowing them to slide back into his sleeves before removing them from the terrified man's person.
"Excellent," the SS-Hauptsturmführer replied. He then turned back to Franz and gave another nod. "Keep up the good work."

In one of the rear carriages, six Obskurakorps soldiers sat around playing dice games, amidst idle conversation. The trip had been uneventful so far and likely would continue to be for the remainder of the duration. None noticed Agent Smith, Agent Martin, and the rest of their joint task force enter the carriage until Agent Smith had already approached their group, his right hand held out and glowing with a faint blue light.
The soldiers shouted and reached for their weapons, only for Smith to clench his fist. Four of their necks snapped in an instant. The remaining two attempted to flee, only to be shot in the back by Martin, and her suppressed pistol. She reloaded without a word and gave Smith a nod for them to continue.
"It's going to get a little hairy from here. Remember, the strike team is going to derail the train if we are not at the checkpoint in half an hour," he warned the task force members. "Be careful, and for Christ's sake take out any Type Blues you see first."

As Franz Hoffmann stood at his post two enemy agents forced open the carriage door, then opened fire. The resulting spray of bullets tore through two of his colleagues. Fumbling with his weapon, he returned fire in kind, killing the intruders. However, Franz soon found himself being shot at from the other direction. Taking cover behind a crate, he turned to see yet more enemy agents entering from the other side of the carriage. He swore as he reloaded, and joined his fellow guards in exchanging fire with the intruders, only to turn to see a man enter from behind him, his hand glowing blue. Several crates then flew across the carriage interior, striking Franz and his fellow guards with deafening cracks.
From his spot beneath the shattered crate, Franz watched as the enemy agents entered, and pushed forward from both directions, shouting to one another in a language he did not understand. They approached the crate containing the Holy Lance, wasting no time in throwing off the lid and grabbing the relic's case before replacing it with one of their own. As the enemy agents began to retreat, a series of shots rang out, killing one of the intruders. Franz turned his head to see SS-Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann enter, a pistol in his left hand and a sickening purple electricity crackling from his right. He was accompanied by two other Obskurakorps soldiers.
"You Initiative rats!" Zimmermann shouted.
Purple lighting shot forward from the SS-Hauptsturmführer's hand as he slowly pressed forward. An enemy agent countered by holding out his own hand, which glowed a faint blue light. The arcs of lightning hit a bubble of force and vanishing harmlessly. A woman stepped out from behind the man, a suppressed pistol in her hand, and opened fire, killing the SS-Hauptsturmführer's escorts with well-placed shots between their eyes. As the SS-Hauptsturmführer continued to press forward, she shouted something to her comrades in the carriage behind her. The agent producing the force field then clenched his fists, sending a wave of force forward and knocking Zimmermann into the far carriage wall with a dull thud. The enemy agents immediately began to flee.
Franz let out a war cry as he leapt from his hiding spot and leveled his rifle, letting loose a spray of shots and killing the enemy agent carrying the Holy Lance's case. Franz quickly recovered the artifact, holding it in one hand and his rifle in the other. He held the weapon steady as the man who produced the force field and the woman with the suppressed pistol watched him with cold eyes.
"You have no idea what powers your Fuhrer is toying with," the woman spoke to him in German. Her accent was thick, French maybe?
"I could say the same to you," Franz replied. "Now, kindly get off our train."
The man who produced the force field looked at his watch and then said something to the woman in English. The woman nodded, then turned back to Franz.
"Gladly."
She, the force field man, and the rest of the surviving intruders then winked out. Franz lowered his weapon, then looked down at the case in his hand and sighed.
"Excellent work," SS-Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann said, hobbling over and gesturing for the case. Franz handed it over immediately. The SS-Hauptsturmführer quickly flipped it open, smiled upon seeing that the Holy Lance was still there, then snapped it shut. "Excellent work, indeed."
The sound of an explosion then ripped through the air. Franz could see the smoke coming from the front of the train as the engine flew off the tracks, the carriages following suit like dominos. Franz had only enough time to brace himself for impact before he was tossed aside like a ragdoll.

Franz let out a weak cough and looked around. The carriage had rolled off the tracks and now lay upside down, its contents shattered and strewn about. Outside, the sound of gunfire filled the air, combined with bursts of shouting in German and English. SS-Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann was nowhere to be seen. As was the Holy Lance.
"Oh no…" Franz whispered to himself. "No, no, no, no, no…"
As he got to his feet he let out a sharp cry of pain. A splinter from one of the crates had pierced his left calf, effectively hobbling him. He picked up the nearest rifle he could find, and exited the carriage into the night.
The remains of the train lay scattered about the tracks and countryside like a broken toy. Only the occasional small fire gave illumination as to the scale of the destruction. Franz limped along, heading towards the sound of the gunfire. As he approached, the shots became more and more infrequent, until they finally died off. By the time, he arrived at the scene of combat, the only thing remaining was several of his fellow soldiers standing around the body of SS-Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann.
"What happened?" Franz asked as he hobbled up.
"After the train derailed a force of about 30 enemy soldiers appeared out of thin air," Zimmermann's aide replied from within the crowd. "Launched an attack. By the time we got rallied they had already killed the Hauptsturmführer and were in retreat. We gunned down a good chunk of them before they vanished again. Guess they were just after the Hauptsturmführer's life…."
Franz nodded and looked down at the corpse of the skeletal officer in front of him. A single gunshot had hit him between the eyes. His left hand tightly gripped the Holy Lance's case, while his right arm was detached and futilely crawling around by its fingertips. Franz knelt down and pulled the case out of the SS-Hauptsturmführer's grip. He popped the case open and looked inside.
The Holy Lance was still there.
Franz looked off into the distance toward where the enemy troops had vanished.
"I guess so…" he agreed. "Just the Hauptsturmführer's life."

"Think they'll buy the switch?" Agent Smith asked as he, Agent Martin, and the rest of their joint task force approached an abandoned farmhouse not too far from the train wreck they had just caused.
"They will for as long as we need them to, after that the object will be long out of their reach," Agent Martin replied.
She knocked on the farmhouse door in a unique beat. The door then opened on its power, revealing a bright, warm interior. Inside, waiting for them to arrive, were several SCP Foundation and Allied Occult Initiative, agents. Agent Martin gingerly placed the case she carried down on the table at the center of the room and flipped it open, showing both parties the Holy Lance that resided inside.
The commanding officer of the SCP Foundation agents nodded and placed a large box on the table, sliding it over to the AOI's side. The AOI commander proceeded to check its contents and gave a satisfied nod in return.
"Pleasure doing business with you," the AOI commander stated.
"Likewise," the Foundation commander replied, and snapped the Holy Lance's case shut. He then gestured to his agents, and then to the fireplace. One by one, each lit a candle from a nearby box and vanished into the flue. Agent Martin turned and gave Agent Smith a polite nod before she vanished.
"So, like that, we just let them keep the Holy Lance?" Agent Smith asked his commander.
"Do you have any idea how much infighting a relic like that could cause between member organizations?" The AOI commander replied, drumming on the box the Foundation commander had given her. "Some would call for its destruction, others for its weaponization, yet more for its historic preservation. At least this way it's locked away for all time, and we get several valuable objects in return."
"Think we'll ever see it again?"
The commander shook her head.
"Knowing the Foundation, they'll note its abilities in a file somewhere, throw it in a box, lock it in a vault, and there it will remain until the Earth itself stops spinning."
"Seems a waste."
"Maybe, but what can you do."
Agent Smith chuckled and nodded. The commander then gave the order for them to vacate. Like the Foundation agents before them, they each lit a candle and vanished into the flue. Upon the last agent leaving, the farmhouse slowly faded out of reality, just in time for an Obskurakorps search party to pass by none the wiser.