Well, it all got started when I became god.

The Administrator explaining the dangers of containment to President Eiseinhower

Security Clearance: Qliphoth
Duties: The Administrator is more of an editor than a writer. Over many years, he has seen the rise and fall of countless SCP documents. If found, please contact Overwatch Command for pickup.

'The Administrator' discussing containment of Manhattan Island with Premier Bush

Biography: The Administrator has been known to exist for much longer than the typical span of a human life. Many personnel have noted that due to the fact that they have never seen him, and only occasionally receive word from his office, that he is a hoax. These personnel are to be summarily hanged.
It has been noted that he has a habit of keeping his hands together, never bringing them more than a few inches apart, even when reaching for things. Though he is seen as slow and even at times sluggish in nature, he has displayed amazing feats of strength when needed on several occasions. His ar
Items 'The Administrator' has been affiliated with

SCP-262 - A Coat of Many Arms
Item once belonging to The Administrator now relinquished to the Foundation.

A very faithful coat

Periodically, The Administrator will refuse to walk

A historic day when The Smoker handed The Administrator a garden spade, upon which a foundation rested, after earning his trust and friendship

There's two sides to everything, at least. Sometimes there's more, sometimes there's less. Let's just say that I got both sides of the coin, and then I flipped it a bunch of times, and then I forgot which side was supposed to be where. Does that make any sense?
No?
Sorry, sometimes I mix up my metaphors a bit, and we end up pretty confused. But, anyways, this is the story of how I managed to find all my stuff. I lost it because I wasn't careful, and because I left my mind behind when this all began.

Personnel Reports
Professor Kain Pathos Crow: “Oh, he's just something people talk about over lunch or when they're between assignments. It kills time, and it's a fun game to speculate on who really calls the shots in this crazy world."
Agent Fritz Willie: “I like to tell people he's my brother.”
Dr. Snorlison: “I'd like to poke at him and see what happens. Just to see if any of the rumors about being made entirely of legs and toes are true. Or something like that, at least.”
Director Neil Ghost: “No big deal, son.”
Dr. Gears: “There are no records of anyone by that name working for the Foundation.”
Dr. Iceberg: “Whatever the bossman said goes. I'm not on staff to care about last decade's rumors.”
Dr. Glass: “Never met the guy. Heard he's pretty interesting, though. I'd love to sit down and have a chat with him, but he's probably too busy. I've never even gotten a call back about it.
The first set, I think, is the best one. They're the ones that, while I made a lot of mistakes, I learned from it. Plus, a couple came out really good. And they did their job of ironing out the bumps in my coin purse. Oh, yeah, I forgot that there were a lot of coins here. Sometimes they'd get flipping as they jangled in the purse, and before you knew it we'd gotten in too deep. Or they had, at least. I was fine.
ADDENDUM OF ONE
On March 11th, 19██, it was noted that several people witnessed a one armed man wandering through Site-19. Due to the smell reported by those in proximity to the person, it is believed they are a bum who managed to wander past security. A full audit has been started, and all personnel are to report for a mandatory security screening.
Really people? This is what lets us know there are holes in our system? - ██████
don't trust the staff. there's something wrong with them. they're too many, but they all know each other

This Timeline is no longer Prime. Access has been denied. I'm sorry, We must not Be Cool Yet
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This Timeline is no longer Prime. Access has been denied. I'm sorry, We must not Be broken Yet :(
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I'm Sorry, this Timeline must become Cool. Access has been denied. We must not Know the Dark Yet :(]]]}}
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This Timeline has become Prime. The Broken have been denied. I'm sorry, We must not Be Thaumiel Yet :(
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Does the black moon howl?

Personnel Reports
they're not persons anymore.
Dr. Alto Clef: “Who?”
Dr. Chelsea "Photosynthetic" Elliott: “I've actually done some research on him. Earliest records are about sixty years ago, and beyond that there's some vague references to a 'leader'. Most of the records, though, are incomplete or just references by name. Not much of substance.”
Dr. Frederick Heiden: “Please, leave me alone.”
Dr. Jack Bright: “Yeah, I've heard of the guy yer talking about. He's just a legendary thing, from back in the day. When we thought there were twelve O5's, we said he was there t'be the tie-breaker. People don't talk about it much now, anymore. Probably because we don't need icons like that to keep people together.”
Dr. Jacob "Kens" Kensington: “I think he bought me lunch once.”
Dr. Rights: “I heard he lives up in a biiig tower at Overwatch, and he watches down on the O5's from the back of a mighty, scaled dragon, and he flies the skies for free! Or, uh, something like that. You'll have to wait until I finish the book to hear the whole story.”
Dr. Northrop: I'm a little busy right now, can you come back later?
Agent Strelnikov: “Is stupid rumor.”
Dr. Mann: “He's probably more interesting on the inside than outside.”
Dr. Kondraki: “Fuck that guy.”
there's hands everywhere.they don't stop moving.they're making new unpeople to rule the world
INTERVIEW WITH SUBJECT 20-7 “Doug Kondraki”

Interview occurred during the subjects det[DATA REMOVED FOR BREVITY]nd no longer cooperates due to the status.
Kondraki: Is this going to be long?
Interviewer: I don't think I can say, it's up to you. These are your lodgings, aren't they?
Kondraki: I just stay here. I don't own anything about this place.
Interviewer: So, cutting to the chase. You don't like the Administrator?
Kondraki: I always thought it was a stupid concept. For there to be one big boss at the top.
Interviewer: Well, you were known for an autocratic style of management, at Site-17…
Kondraki: Yeah. Look where that got me.
Interviewer: Well, I didn't mean to offend…
Kondraki: Everyone abandoned me. Do you know what that's like? To just be totally given up on? To go from riding fucking dragons to being written off by everyone and their brother? To have coworkers try to assassinate me, seen?
Interviewer: I imagine it wasn't easy.
Kondraki: It wasn't. But you know, I'm not bitter about how things turned out. You know why?
Interviewer: Why is that?
Kondraki: Because the house of inconsistent horses has a secondary effect.
Interviewer: [DATA EXPUNGED]
At this point, Dr. Kondraki attempted to breach the interview site, and was able to disable sixteen guarding personnel before being captured. Currently, the security of his lodgings are being upgraded as he awaits [DATA REMOVED].
some of them were broken, but they self-regulate. they ate him to conserve his power after he burnt on the stake
<End Log>

BYE BYE BYE
Jack Bright's retirement party wasn't something to write home about. For those who'd lived long enough to remember Clef's, or even Gears', there'd been quite a bit of fanfare. In Clef's case, a site-wide chowder cook-off commemorated his passing. Seeing the look on his face when he took a bite of what he thought was new england clam chowder, and turned out to be some godawful homebrew designed to look as appetizing as possible while retaining absolutely no nutritional value.
Gears had been seated stoically in the center of the lobby, while everyone around him took their turn to commemorate the man. Normally, site command would disallow such shenanigans, but these were legendary icons passing into the realm of memory. Gears himself hadn't made much of a speech, but he had thanked everyone for their time, stood for a moment, then left for the last time.
Bright's going away had none of the fun of Clef's, nor the dignity of Gears' parties. He supposed it was natural this time. He was the last of the old guard out the door, moving on to… wherever the Foundation wanted to keep him. The few researchers who knew him, or at least thought they did, sat in the room, awkwardly watching as the doughy convict body picked at a slice of cake.
“Hey. Moving on?”
Bright looked up. Before him stood a tall… person. Their face was a complexion of contradictions, with some lumps thrown in for good measure. It wore a long, musty trench coat, with barely perceptible bumps meandering beneath the cotton surface.
“Who are you?”
“The new normal.” They shrugged, as two hands popped out of the sleeve, outstretched as if to shake.
Bright looked at it, shrugged, and shook. “Here to see the last of the old guard out.”
“I guess. Depends on how old you want to look at things.”
“Old for me, then. My kind. We're not of this world anymore.”
“No, afraid not. It's unfortunate, because you all were very interesting to watch. But nobody gets it anymore.”
“Yer tellin' me…”
“It's an inevitable part of life. We all have to move on, or at least see that we interfere as little as possible with the new order.”
“You say it like it's so easy.” Bright slumped one cheek into his hand, and glanced up to his visitor. “It's not fun, thinking how I've put generations of work into this place… and now I don't belong.”
“There will be other places.”
The stranger turned around, and they moved. It wasn't an accelerating movement, or really any velocity at all, but it was a shift in tone. Bright looked up. He was still seated at the same table, but instead of being surrounded by half-bored vending machines and fully-bored researchers, he was in a cabin. A small fireplace crackled to his left, and cast a flickering illumination over the rest of his surroundings. The person before him took off the coat, and perched themselves on the creaky wooden floor.
“Oh, you're one of those, huh?”
“I am original. You want to go for a walk?”
“… What's it like out there?”
“I don't know.”
“… Sure.”
The two of them, together, walked across the room, and opened the door that ended the second era.
I liked having the power to do anything, for awhile. But then I got bored, and then I got bored of being bored! How do you do that?
It must be magical.
WHAT A FEW PEOPLE HAVE SAID
Napoleon Bonaparte:(Recovered page written in exile, prior to the 100 days.) At Stotteritz, we encountered a beggar who claimed to be from the future, and told me that my campaign was about to end in disaster. We would've ignored him, but for the fact that his arms were bronzed. A number of our staff members took interest in him, so he was interred until time could be had to examine him. I do not know what became of him.
John Fitzgerald Kennedy:(Source Unknown) There was, ah, a fake-armed CIA spook. He came in with some very, very realistic looking papers, and told me that Cuba affair had gone sour. He said we needed the codes now. I just looked at him. I didn't know what he was talking about. Then he said if, ah, if we launched now, some of the midwest might be saved. Of course, that's when Hogan came in and took him down. I don't know what they were thinking. And I want a full investigation into what the hell he was doing in the executive mansion.
Stephen King:(Suppressed Interview) One of the oddest things to happen to me, out on the road, was at an autograph session. In Westbrook, I think. A larger gentleman approached the table with a copy of the Stand. Said he was a big fan. Now, I think I might be a little crazy here, but when I looked at his hand holding the book, it was green. I asked if he was okay, and I looked up into his eyes. They were green too. He said he was fine. It was pretty scary stuff.
I lost a lot, flipping that coin, or dial, or whatever you want to call it. It wasn't really a coin, because you couldn't buy anything with it and it wasn't really made of metal, flat, and it possessed the properties of water. But the water bit was how I managed to make the interesting people.
ACCESS IN DENIAL
In order to prevent anything about The Administrator from happening, a number of false preconceptions are to be maintained about life, the universe, and everything. Any actions taken by The Administrator officially do not exist, and any sightings are to be viewed as a breach of contract. The Administrator will not change anything about our prior experiences, except as required under ████-███-██████.
WARNING: THIS DOES NOT EXIST.
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it's all burning
Eventually, when I really buckled down to start looking for stuff, I found that most of what I'd lost wasn't really that lost. I knew where it was, per se, but I couldn't find it. But it wasn't lost. It was just misplaced. I was still in control, and I could, and I can, still find everything if I looked hard enough.
It'll all turn up eventually. Don't panic.
PERSONNEL REPORTS
Dr. Tilda D. Moose: (Laughs)“No, no, I don't think we even humor that one anymore. It's like the mid-tier research staff telling the new people there's a pool on the third floor. Nobody really believes it, but a couple people every year try and ask, ‘just to check'. But yes, it's a more or less dead rumor.”
Agent Fredericks: “Is that the same thing as being the Overwatcher, or am I messing that up again?
Dr. S. Vang: “He's a famous dead guy. Who is famous for being a famous dead guy. Or something. I don't think anyone really gives a sh- er, that anyone really cares.”
Director Maria Jones: “Why, did somebody find him?”
Dr. Django Bridge: “Sure, I know him. He hangs out at the pool on the fifth floor.”
Agent Lament: “Well, we're not really supposed to give our thoughts on the guy. It's one of those distracting things, the ones that they say keep people from their real jobs.”
Recording, Context Unknown
Agent Lament: "The Administrator was the original name for Zero-One, before the rest of the O5 Council was properly codified. It's been that way for years, even since the organization got too big for one person to easily handle."
Unknown: "C'mon. You know more than you're saying, I know. You've worked with Gears and all those other muckity mucks."
Agent Lament: "Well… There is a little more to it than that…"
Unknown: "Oh yeah?"
Agent Lament: "Have you ever heard of… Second Havana?"

Documentation Review - Thaddeus Xyank

Research has shown that in every reality, there exists a person who either calls himself, or comes to be known as, The Administrator. This is not unusual, because most realities have counterparts in others. The curious part is the persistence of his character and his role. Every iteration of The Administrator has some sort of job related to the Founding of the Foundation.
Or at least, claims to. Although there are stories of him having a role, no documentation has ever surfaced to prove it. The only written records are secondhand reports of his behavior, or encounters with him. Occasionally, a typo-ridden biography will appear on Foundation servers, and cause a panic when Overwatch thinks they've been infiltrated. It always has some gibberish, with a couple of coherent lines: “The Administrator has been known to exist for much longer than the typical span of a human life.” and sometimes “The Administrator goes by many pseudonyms, although none of them are very convincing.”
He's almost like Dr. Gideon. In fact, he's exactly like him, with the only difference being that Gideon always has a different role, but the Administrator stays the same. No versions exist of him founding the Insurgency, or doing something completely unrelated to the paranormal. His impact seems to be minimal, limited to a curio piece.
My final analysis is: The Administrator is an interesting, if inconsequential figure. He appears, then quickly vanishes, leaving only scraps of information behind. If I ever meet one, I'll update this document.
As of 09/18/2015, the size of the “Administrator Biography” file has increased by 20gb on Foundation databases. The reason for this discrepancy is unknown, as the content of the file is unchanged. Research is ongoing.

Sorry
TRANSCRIPT OF A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
“So, does it have a name?”
“There are so many indentations of me throughout the whole work.” He smiled in a fatherly way, as a pox-riddled green tentacle curled out of his sleeve to brush some dust of his collar. “Little touches, so I can keep my finger on the pulse.”
“So what, then, you're just another administrator?” she paced around him, keeping her eyes trained on the openings in his coat. She saw it shift and move in a way carefully designed to resemble the wind, of which there was none to be found here.
“No, sorry. Unlike you, I am definitive. No offense, of course. There are no other versions, counterparts, or duplicates. It's a very rare thing, at least for you, to see something that is one-of-a-kind.”
“But I've seen all of you.”
“You've seen my little personal touches. I know you've met the smoker. Maybe an android, or the idiot who keeps ripping pages out. We keep in touch.” Two hands emerged from from his unbuttoned middle, one a deep maroon, the other soaking wet, and they shook on it.
“Pages?”
“It's a metaphor, to keep it explainable when I have company over. All of the different everythings out there are like pages in a book. You, for example, would be a reader who skips ahead to the good parts. You make the world a smaller place.”
She frowned. “Who's the idiot?”
“There are a lot of idiots out there. Only one keeps in touch. They're the type of person who rips out any pages they don't like, or in the idiot's case, because they're bad at explaining themselves properly, and worse at lying.”
“Shouldn't you stop him?”
“No, he'll learn eventually. They always do. Not like ripping a few pages out of the index ever really mattered, in the bigger picture.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
The Administrator shrugged, an infinite wave of misshapen shoulders rippling beneath his coat. “You came to me. I don't know what you thought I'd be telling you.”
“… Then I'm going to be on my way.”
“See you later. Good luck with your dad.”

“Farewell, your highness.”

I remember when they first rolled off the assembly line, all of the staffmen. They were just supposed to be a temporary measure, but it went on for too long. We outnumbered ourselves with half-people, people who talk and breathe and fuck like we do, but they're identical sets of people stamped out to every site.
We ruined everything.

When they pulled me out of the vat for the last time, they asked what it felt like to own it all. The world belonged to me. I didn't really mind it, but it gets tiring. You start out being god, but then it keeps on going up and up until nothing else matters. Too much responsibility, until it becomes meaningless.
So I depart. Goodbye, au reviore, so long and thanks for all the fish.


Jakeob Aldon watched the makeshift cast of The Hanged King's Tragedy sway back and forth. Almost a dozen anartists hung from nooses that extended all the way up to the warehouse's rafters. The initial shock was still there, albeit grounded by the realization that the being was not the Hanged King. It was just some clay poser. A poser that was capable of forcing so many people, who had likely built up resistances to various forms of magic, to hang themselves. Without all the prep the King seemed to require. Aldon swallowed heavily, as Hollywood had taught her.
"Well, this is happening," she muttered.
Felix hissed a string of unhelpful curses as his arms seemed to be collapsing in on his chest. Finnegan examined the scene quietly before nodding to himself.
"Any suggestions, Critic?"
Felix ceased his fidgeting. He thought for a moment, then asked, "Kill it?"
"Oh yes, let me just pull out my big god-killing gun."
"You have one of those?"
"NO!"
"Oh. Because that would have been extremely helpful, given our current situation."
Aldon decided, for her sanity's sake, to drop the conversation. Which was good, because it looked like her little outburst had garnered the being's attention. It cocked its head before snapping back much farther than a human neck would allow. It strode over to them, by now leaving clay chips and dust behind rather than half-wet clay footprints. When it was within stomping distance of them, it stopped. The ring on the center of its chest shifted into a mouth, which the being promptly used.
"Welcome back, Clipper! I see you've brought some friends." It stooped over to look at Aldon and Finnegan with its nonexistent eyes. "Care to take part in the encore performance? Although. The Critic hasn't shown up yet, so I guess the first might have just been rehearsal."
"Not much of an actress," Aldon replied after glancing at Felix. "Mind if I just watch?"
The actress comment seemed to give the being pause. Lips within the ring smacked together, only to come apart as eyelids. With its new eye the sculpture examined Aldon closely, namely centering on her face and chest, before it rolled back and the mouth reformed.
"Course not. Could always use a bigger audience. Let me gather the cast, should only take a few minutes."
Aldon nodded and politely waved as the thing departed, her mind kicking into overdrive. She watched it extract almost twenty anartists from their seats before lumbering over to the stage, where the curtain drew itself. All the while she wondered how she was supposed to kill the bloody thing.
Her gaze whipped to Felix. "Why does that thing think you're still The Clipper?"
"That clay we had you use? We got it from The Old Sculptor's workshop. Apparently it was clay he had imprinted his mind on. When he was trying to murder The Old Critic."
"Fan-fucking-tastic. So why is he murdering these guys?"
"When he first started talking, Sandra recognized his voice. She pulled a gun and started shooting, but… I mean, he's all magicked up. So he put on a play so The Critic will come to… well, criticize it."
"Okay, okay, okay," Aldon said. Her eyes darted back and forth as she searched the warehouse for anything that could be of use. There really wasn't much of anything, except maybe dropping one of the magic 'windows' on him. Hopefully the magic within the things would hurt him, even if the physical impact didn't. She'd have to fight fire with fire, magic to destroy magic. She looked to Finnegan to think about what they had brought.
"Well, that's a frightening look," Finnegan said.
Vaguely aware of a powerful tugging sensation at the corner of her mouth, Aldon looked her roommate dead in the eye. It made him lean back slightly.
"I have an Idea," she said.
"Oh. It's that look."
Grabbing him by the elbow, Aldon spun Finnegan in place and began rooting around in the backpack. Everett slinked out of the pack and onto Finnegan's shoulder, allowing Aldon easy access to the various elemental golems within. She scooped them up and grinned at the little creatures clinging to her arms. There were now somehow ten despite the fact Finnegan had most definitely placed nine in the pack back at the apartment.
"Seriously, where do you guys keep coming from?" she asked, more herself than them. Glancing into the backpack, she noticed there were significantly less CDs than Finnegan had actually put in there. "I don't even know what element some of you are."
The new golem waved its arms and tapped itself on the head, and then tapped Carbon on the head. Boron nodded and scratched at Zinc, filing the number 30 into its dome. The others followed suit until they were all labeled. Hydrogen, Boron, Carbon, Oxygen, Aluminum, Iron, Nickel, Copper, Zinc, and Gold looked up at her as Felix and Finnegan hurried off to untie the anartists.
"Oh. Huh. Thanks, Hydrogen. Nice thinking." She glanced between the others as they freed more and more anartists. Her gaze hovered on the stage before she looked down to the golems again. "So, uh, I need you guys to make yourselves into a weapon. I guess a sword will work."
Hydrogen, being the smart little fellow that it was, began pointing at the others and making elaborate gestures with its arms. The group leaped to the concrete below and began striking at it, chipping themselves and the ground in the process. Hydrogen and Oxygen were completely amputated by their comrades, releasing small blasts of energy in the process as their limbs instantly warped back into gasses. They were then gradually fed the chunks of loose concrete. As they ate, their limbs grew back, and the two golems spat out small globs of compounds. The globs were passed around between the golems until they were honed into chunks of dull grey metal. The golems were stripping the concrete down into calcium, which was then molded to give birth to a skeletal golem named Calcium. Its skull was adorned with a 20 and it did a little dance to celebrate its birth.
Aldon watched with her jaw wide open. She had noticed that Boron, the lowest numbered element prior to Hydrogen, had been a bit sharper than the rest. Or less dense, rather. But this was just shy of ridiculous. Meanwhile, several rows of anartists were free, and more were only being released faster. The curtain had still yet to move.
Zinc and Iron went about smashing themselves into Carbon, who was squeezing at its own torso as if it was in an invisible straitjacket. With each collision, Carbon seemed to be getting skinnier and skinnier, until eventually it ejected a diamond the size of Aldon's thumb onto the ground. Awe struck Aldon as somewhere in her mind, she was reminded that diamond was only an allotrope of carbon. Then Carbon ate some of the aggregate compound left over from the concrete, fattened up, and they repeated the process. Aldon laughed like a madwoman when she saw Gold shaping the diamonds into bullets.
Boron, Nickel, and Oxygen now were conjoining their bodies into a flintlock pistol. Even their little faces remained on the grip and the end of the barrel. Meanwhile, Oxygen was half-embedded in Boron and looked to be chewing on air, its arms now positioned where the hammer of the pistol would be. No doubt it was the firing mechanism. Aldon picked up the golem gun and fed Boron diamond bullet after diamond bullet so that Nickel could spit them out later. She readied the gun, finger on the trigger, and Boron's little trigger-limb held her finger in its tiny hand.
"Oh fuck, this is awesome," she choked out, hard of breath from laughing. It was heavy, though she wasn't sure how it compared to an actual gun. But she could lift it with one hand, and with two she could keep her aim relatively steady when she wasn't busy giggling.
Finnegan hurried over, also short of breath, but from running. "Okay, everyone's free. Are you done thinking or- where… where the hell did you get a gun?"
Aldon giggled some more and gestured to the bullet factory at her feet. Finnegan stared at them blankly before looking back up to Aldon.
"Okay, I was not expecting them to be able to do that."
"Surprise!" Aldon exclaimed, brandishing the pistol.
"Well, Felix has the aussies working on something to strip the statue-" His sentence was cut short when he whipped his head around to the opening curtain. "Fuck."
For a few awkward moments, the unlucky anartists up on stage began the play. Their movements were jerky and their eyes wandered, but they filled their assigned roles. The anartists among the pews collectively held their breath while they waited for the demigod they had created to notice they were no longer paying all that much attention to its work.
Aldon hastily scooped up some more bullets and loaded as many as she could. Nine shots total. A short distance away, Finnegan was fiddling with his backpack. He withdrew one of the few surviving CDs and placed it within the gauntlet. He cranked the volume dial to the max setting before nodding to himself. The anartists hastened their ritual as best they could. Or some of them did, several fled the moment the curtain began to open. Felix, to his credit, was not among them. Because he was too busy hiding under one of the pews.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell is this?" The Old Sculptor stomped out from behind the stage. "Who said you could stop being hostages?"
Twenty seven hands flew up, twenty seven fingers pointed at Aldon and Finnegan. Twenty seven ungrateful assholes. The Old Sculptor marched to Aldon for the second time, this time leaning over slightly to loom over her. A line tore across his clay face until it split into a toothy grin. The maw stretched open, revealing an abyss within the sculpture. Paint splashed and paper shuffled and clay thumped and power screamed within the yawning chasm. Then the little mouth on his chest, which was about even with Aldon's eye level, opened.
"Hello," he said with soft venom.
"Goodbye," she said hastily. Aldon jammed the barrel of the golem gun into the open mouth and yanked on the trigger. Boron felt the tug and kicked at Oxygen, severing a tapered point from the body. It immediately expanded into its gaseous form, blasting the diamond bullet forward and out of Nickel's mouth. Oxygen started eating the air around it to reform the tapered limb for the next shot.
The entire exchange would have been entirely silent if The Old Sculptor hadn't started screaming about his new gunshot wound. For a little less than a second Aldon pulled at the trigger futilely because of how long it took Oxygen to reform the firing mechanism. By then The Old Sculptor had bit through the barrel, likely murdering poor Nickel in the process. But shortened barrel or no, the gun still fired, shattering ceramic teeth and embedding itself somewhere within clay. Which only caused The Old Sculptor to scream even more.
Still writhing in what semblance of pain his clay body allowed, The Old Sculptor tried snapping at Aldon with his gnashing maw. Before ceramic teeth could clamp down around her neck, Finnegan pushed Aldon out of the way. Using the momentum of rushing forward, Finnegan threw a punch with his music-encrusted fist. The hardened clay was able to absorb most of the blow, and combined with the sheer amount of it, the punch did little.
"What the fuck?" The Old Sculptor demanded with both mouths.
"The fuck do you mean, 'what the fuck?'" Aldon asked. She felt the pistol shift in her hand, but she ignored it for the moment. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The massive head-mouth closed, its front/lower lip jutting out. "Nothing. Shut up."
Aldon glared at him for a moment before raising the pistol with both hands, which had since expanded its barrel considerably. Oxygen's severed limb was considerably bigger to compensate for the larger bullet, and as such the recoil nearly ripped the golems from her hands. It did, however, manage to put a hole in The Old Sculptor's face despite his hardened exterior. So he responded in kind by morphing most of his upper body into a revolver, the barrel extending to just shy of Aldon's face.
From his precarious perch on Finnegan's shoulder, Everett tackled the barrel. He exploded into droplets of water, soaking into the clay. Finnegan followed up by swinging his fist around in an arc, crushing the barrel. The Old Sculptor misfired, a mouth just above the grip yelling the word "fuck" repeatedly. Perhaps more than necessary, even.
"Owe ya," Aldon said before unloading a second slug into the screaming statue.
"Okay, fuck this," The Old Sculptor growled. He ripped the twisted barrel off of himself, tossing it to the ground where it writhed slowly. A new head, more closely his original human self, extended from the shoulders. He turned to face the stage, where the hypnotized anartists were still performing a play. "Hey, shitbirds! Stop dicking around and help me."
Aldon unloaded the final shot into the back of his head as the performers hopped off the stage. He didn't scream, and Aldon smiled nervously. Had that done it? Were headshots really all the rage? Then a face emerged from the back of The Old Sculptor's head and he just glared at her, the bullet wound forming the right eye.
"I'm going to kill you now," he said.
Aldon held her arms out, the weight in her right hand shifting. She glanced down at the other golems, who were forming a tower on each others' shoulders. She leaned slightly toward them extending the already morphing pistol to them. "Come try it, bud."
The face protruding from the back of his head extended, bringing an entire body along with it. Once detached from the main statue, the clay clone launched itself at Aldon. Although she was somewhat taken aback by the new tactic, she had been a bit prepared. She brought her right arm up at an angle, lashing out with a crude blade fashioned from most of the golems. It honed itself as it slashed through the fresh clay clone, deftly slicing it in half. It splattered to the floor on either side of Aldon.
"Nice timing," she said to the tip of the blade, where Hydrogen's face was. It smiled in return.
A strong stench tore her from her thoughts. On either side of her the two halves of the body were morphing into a more detailed corpse, gore steaming as it slid onto the floor. Aldon surveyed her murder for a moment before looking back to The Old Sculptor. He was spewing out more clones, which were taking their time to fully form. Some were more impatient, and glomped onto nearby anartists and formed a shell around them with nothing but their faces showing. They then stalked the unwilling anartists toward Aldon.
"Let's see you deal with this," The Old Sculptor said. "And none of you kill them! I want that pleasure myself."
Aldon beheaded the first clay clone that came at her. It was pretty easy to differentiate between the full clones and the anartist puppets, and they didn't seem to exhibit any particular strength. The Old Sculptor didn't even seem to be able to form them well enough for them to fully morph into flesh and blood humans. They were very good simulacrums, but they maintained the same gray-brown color throughout their bodies. And they were only becoming worse as The Old Sculptor tried pumping them out faster.
"Shitty clones or no, they're going to overwhelm us soon," Finnegan said before jabbing at an oncoming clone. The music around Finnegan's fist splattered clay everywhere. "And it looks like them being clay is actually working in their favor against the others."
Indeed, while Aldon and Finnegan had art on their side, the other anartists only had what few tools they had managed to find lying around. The clay clones they struck absorbed the attacks without flinching and encased them. Luckily, at least from certain perspectives, the hypnotized performers were easily brought down.
"So we have to deal with him," Aldon concluded. "Right, right. Okay."
The Old Sculptor took a few moments to laugh mockingly with his massive mouth, and the chasm within caught Aldon's attention. A few seconds of mental connections led her to pick up Aluminum from the ground and decapitate it with the sword made from its siblings. She then jammed the back of its head into Finnegan's gauntlet.
"Can you explain-" Finnegan yelled when the gauntlet came to life, moving his fingers farther back than they probably should. "Ah! Calm down little guy. What are you doing?"
"I'm going to need that in a minute!" she yelled as she sprinted for The Old Sculptor, completely ignoring the question. She slashed through two clones and dodged a puppet, then The Sculptor stood face to face with her predecessor. He looked down at her for a moment before leaning forward, roaring near-deafening music in her face.
And she dove inside the chasm within the statue.
She fell for several seconds before colliding with a tower of papers. As much of it as there was, she might as well have been striking stone. It knocked the wind out of her and nearly knocked the golem blade out of her hand. She resumed falling until she landed in a pile of shifting clay. After fighting her way out of it, now somehow floating through the ethereal nothingness, she tore bits of the clay away as music assaulted her eardrums. That seemed to be all it was, a congregation of art mediums in a black expanse of nothingness.
"Okay, so… Let's see if this works," she mumbled to herself as she kneaded the clay.
She rolled it into a cord and pulled at the ends, forming a three-prong plug on one end and a something resembling the Space Needle on the other. She stumbled through the blackness toward what she decided was a wall, her new little creation shifting out of its clay form. The cord itself became an elastic polymer, both ends taking on a chrome shine. When she decided she was far enough from the writhing art supplies behind her, she haphazardly stabbed the air. The tip of the blade disappeared from her view.
"Well, shit," she said, almost laughing. "That actually worked."
She put all her weight onto the sword, slowly slicing through whatever veil separated the art abyss from the outside world. Somewhere near the tip the blackness switched the gray-brown, and beyond that she could see the warehouse. She pushed her way out, exiting The Old Sculptor from the back of his right shoulder. She rammed the blade into the bullet wound in the back of his head to get some leverage and hauled herself out into reality, the blade slipping out. She landed in an unceremonious heap on the ground.
"What the actual fuck was that?" The Old Sculptor yelled, wrapping his arms around himself to push the split clay together. "How did you do that? Why did you do that?"
Aldon just chuckled and shrugged as she stood. The Old Sculptor swung one of his massive arms, colliding with her back and sending her sprawling again. A pair of almost fully developed clay clones pinned her down. She tried struggling, but a pain in her chest kept her from putting much effort into it. That last blow must have cracked a rib or something.
"Well, who cares? Gotcha now, you little shit."
Aldon ground her chin against the concrete to look for Finnegan. He was attempting to fend off puppets, but was unable to put up much of a fight for fear of hurting the anartists within. Soon he too was overwhelmed and pinned to the ground. The aussies were similarly subdued, in one way or another.
"Now," The Old Sculptor said loudly. "What to do with you two? Should have some fun, I think."
"I think you forgot something," Aldon choked out.
He sneered. "What, The Clipper?"
"…Yes."
A pair of anartist puppets hauled Felix out from behind a pew. The Old Sculptor turned to face him, which was exactly what Aldon was hoping for. Now if only he would say something to further the distraction. Felix stared at Aldon while the puppets dragged him over, at least until something caught his eye. He only glanced at it, but after a moment he turned his attention to The Old Sculptor.
"I've still got one more trick up my sleeve," Felix proclaimed.
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"Something actually really obvious, you're just too much of a goddamn idiot to notice."
The Old Sculptor laughed. "Oh, do tell."
One of the clay clones holding down Aldon found himself suddenly lacking a head as the golem sword bent and swung on its own. His associate likewise found himself permanently disabled thanks to an oversized Aluminum hand crushing his face in. Said hand skittered over to Aldon's right hand, and she jammed it inside after setting down the blade. Aluminum clamped down on her, fitting her hand snugly, and together they picked up most of its siblings.
She stood without making any noise, twirling the pronged cord in her free hand. A glance at Finnegan told her he wasn't sure what she had planned. Time to give him a show, she figured. She waited for Aluminum to merge with the sword, leaving her unable to release it. Then she slid the three-pronged side into his mouth and eyes, which were situated on the back of her hand. She stuck her tongue out at Finnegan as she continued to spin the mini Space Needle around. She then locked her wrist, flipped it, and jammed the very sharp needle directly into her chest.
The reaction was near immediate. Finnegan screamed at her in confusion, Felix yelled in alarm at Finnegan's screaming, and The Old Sculptor was left looking between them until his fragmented mind thought to look to Aldon. By then a blue light was shining from what little was visible of Aluminum's orifices, and the translucent section of the CD player within the gauntlet was ejecting the same shade of blue. One by one, up the length of the sword from the handle to the tip, the golems winced and then began to scream with their eyes wide open. Blue light surrounded the sword in tiny beams.
Aldon grasped the cord of the music gauntlet. She pictured herself as the hero of a horror flick, ready with her trusty chainsaw. But when she yanked on it, rather than the growl of a motor she heard nothing. However, both the sword and the gauntlet were now encased in a shimmer, which refracted the blue light and sent it spinning in all directions. After a moment to giggle over the success of her little experiment, Aldon slapped the flat of the blade into her open palm.
Or tried to, at least. Just like before, the blade stopped short by several inches. Except instead of just feeling a song from a CD, Aldon felt what the CD player was plugged into. Which just so happened to be her soul. It burned like nothing else she had ever felt, seeping so deep into her bones she wondered if her marrow would boil. Rather than instruments, or even a choir, she felt only a single voice. A very angry woman screaming louder than a jet engine.
"Yeah, that seems about right."
With what technically counted up to ten separate anomalies and a soul smashing against each other, Reality decided to take a brief paid vacation in Aldon's immediate vicinity. Light bent in strange ways, carrying a wordless roar into the eyes of all who beheld it. The air shook as the golems screamed twofold, deafening all those who heard it to everything but the sound of Aldon's soul.
Which, because of the small radius of alteration, was only Aldon. Senses overloaded with her deepest sense of being, Aldon began to laugh. It started as a broken chuckle under the weight of two cracked ribs, but developed into a cackle when she felt nothing but a burning sensation as her nerves ebbed and flowed with tangible rage. The laughter extended into a yell until Aldon was little more than frustration made flesh and bone.
And clay. There was something distinctly clay now sticking into her abdomen. Her vision cleared and she saw The Old Sculptor, his arm extended and refined to a point, which he happened to have placed in Aldon's stomach. Blood dripped from the wound. It looked like his mouth moved to say something, but if he did Aldon didn't hear it over the throbbing in her ears. She took a moment to consider all this, and then decided that it was bullshit. She was supposed to be killing him.
So she swung her soul, channeled around the sword, and struck The Old Sculptor's arm. As the blade neared it, the clay became more chipped and began to warp, before shattering entirely when the blade made contact. Without Reality around, there was nobody to tell Aldon that The Old Sculptor had stabbed her. And so he hadn't. The wound in her abdomen was gone, and as far as Reality was concerned it never existed in the first place. Aldon slashed in the opposite direction, splashing almost half of the statue into paste.
The legs of The Old Sculptor stumbled back, and a large rock with ornate designs on it rose from his waist. It was still coated in wet clay, and more was pouring off of it. Aldon tried attacking it but the statue hopped away, kicking at her when she tried approaching. Which she found profoundly difficult due to her rib injuries, but she pressed on.
Abandoning his oversized form, The Old Sculptor shaped himself in his normal human form. Aldon slashed at his neck, hoping to separate the stone now embedded in his head. She succeeded, but his decapitated body reached out and snatched the rock from the disconnected head. He jammed it inside his chest, and she swung at it wildly. She missed, but flayed enough of the front of him to expose it.
"Give it up!" The Old Sculptor yelled. "Magic sword or no, I'm a fucking god!"
"While I still highly doubt that," Aldon replied. She had meant to yell back, but her lungs had apparently decided they had had enough yelling for a few weeks. "I'm going to have to point out…"
She palmed the bottom of the hilt with her off hand and stabbed. He tried blocking it, throwing up both arms, but the blade went right through both limbs and slammed into his chest. While the stone wasn't immediately torn apart like the clay, it had very clearly been pierced. A single crack stretched from the slit to one of the runes, which lost its glow.
"Deicide is a word for a reason," she finished, taking a step and burying the blade up to her fist. She twisted her wrist as he began to scream, and then she slashed horizontally, blowing up the stone and obliterating most of the statue. When it didn't begin to reform Aldon let out a single "Ha!" and then fell on her back. Which hurt. She probably should have thought that through a bit more.
There was a long pause. Nobody said anything. The clay clones continued to suppress Finnegan, Felix, and several other anartists. The puppets kept their captives, though they remained still.
Then one of the anartists asked, "Now what?"
"Well," said another. "They don't seem to intend to kill us. They're just gonna hold us here, like he said."
"Forever?"
"I guess."
"But we'll die if they do that."
"But does that count as killing us?"
"Wouldn't it?"
"Um."
"Allie!" Felix called. "Idea! Tell them to let us go."
Aldon coughed as she ripped out the Soul Needle, the bent light around her disappearing. "Oh. Yeah. Do that."
And so they did. Without fully realizing what they were doing, the very basic minds of the clones and puppets forced them to release their captives. After all, they were created with the express purpose of serving The Sculptor. Aldon devoted what little brain power she had left and decided to have the clay constructs destroy themselves. And so they did. Some simply stopped moving, while others slowly turned to a clay slurry. The anartists gathered themselves around their savior.
"We should get her to a hospital," said one.
"And tell them what?" said another.
"Here," Finnegan said, pulling out his phone. He went to Contacts, which contained all of four names. "I know who to call."
"Ghostbusters?" Aldon squeaked. Reality was back on the clock, and it turned out having broken ribs and stabbing yourself in the soul was a bit exhausting. Especially when dumped on you all at once.
"…Yes, Allie, Ghostbusters."
"Cool." And then she passed out.

Aldon woke up in what she assumed to be a hospital. Her wrists stopped halfway to her face when she tried rubbing her eyes. She looked down at herself to find herself shackled to the hospital bed she was lying in. To her left was a curtain a set of monitors displaying her vitals. They all seemed to be beeping pretty well. On her right was Finnegan, sleeping in a padded chair. And also shackled to said chair.
"Finn. Finnegan. Wake up."
He stirred, catching his hat as it attempted to fall. "Oh. Hey. Feeling alright?"
"Finnegan, you did not call Ghostbusters."
"No, I did not."
"Finnegan, you called the Anartistbusters."
"That's a bit of a mouthful."
"We're cuffed inside a hospital!"
Finnegan nodded. "It's not that big of a deal. Flight risk or whatever. Navarro's got it handled, says we should be fine after some questioning."
"That guy?" Aldon mulled it over. "Y'know what, fuck it. I can't even pretend to hate him right now. So what did I miss?"
"You have two cracked ribs. I'm okay. Most of the aussies are in prison wards rather than medical ones." Finnegan shrugged. "Apparently The Critic got away."
"How the hell?"
"Dunno."
"Well, fuck. And I wasn't able to nab any of that morphing clay. Peachy."
"I think we should look at it in the light of us not being dead or incarcerated."
Aldon jiggled the cuff on her right wrist.
"Right. Well, it could be worse."
"I guess."
Finnegan grabbed her by the hand, since only one of his was cuffed. "Are you okay?"
Aldon sighed. She watched his thumb move circles around the skin between her thumb and pointer finger. "No. I guess? Whatever."
"Allie."
"Like, all that shit for nothing. I dunno, I just…" She trailed off, and he didn't pursue the issue. "I wish I could just be done with it."
"Well, you made some progress. Maybe not on an immediate level, but you've laid the groundwork now. And as far as I can tell the Foundation isn't going to dog you over it."
Aldon nodded. She decided to take what she could get. But her mind wandered to the events of the warehouse, and it made her queasy. Adrenaline was a hell of a thing, and Aldon was nothing if not good at distracting herself with activity. But now, just sitting in a hospital bed, her mind stagnated into pools of blood.
Daniel Navarro stuck his head inside the door, grinned his stupid grin, and then slid inside the room. His gaze bounced between the two of them despite the fact he never moved his head. Eventually his eyes landed on the duo's hands, and then he snapped his fingers.
"Let me get those handcuffs off you guys," he said. He produced a key and freed the two of them. They rubbed their hands and stared at him. Although the wording tried to edge into friendly, his posture and tone felt abnormally pressing. "So. Now that the gang's all here. What happened?"
When Aldon remained silent, Finnegan picked up the question. "Apparently the harmless statue they had her make was built using clay that contained some of the mind of The Old Sculptor. Then they magicked it up."
"Wow." Navarro looked to Aldon. "And then?"
"I killed it," she said simply.
Navarro nodded slowly. A sudden bulge in his cheek indicated he was thinking. When he reached whatever conclusion that he did, he nudged Finnegan and gestured to the door. Finnegan looked to Aldon, who shrugged and motioned for him to go. The two stepped outside, leaving Aldon to her thoughts.
Within four seconds Aldon was gripping the plastic railing along her bed frame and trying to tear it off. A coiling snake of frustration and anger and depression shifted within her. It reminded her of that moving emptiness when she felt sick to her stomach, only it was within her head and unfurling into her chest.
Grinding her teeth didn't help. Shaking whatever she could get a hold of did nothing. So she just sat and seethed, waiting for someone to come to her so she could do something other than be by herself. After what felt like half her lifetime, Finnegan stepped back into the room. He informed her she was free to go. That her clothes were in the drawer next to her bed, and her possessions had already been moved to her apartment. Navarro had probably delivered Everett and the golems himself.
The duo departed after Aldon got dressed. They walked in silence. When the front doors of the hospital slid open, they took a moment before actually leaving the building. They both took a short but deep breath, and in tandem stepped outside. A harsh winter gust blew through them, but the sun basked them in a pleasant glow.
"You going to be okay?" Finnegan asked, trying not to shiver.
Aldon hadn't really noticed the cold yet, and just stared at the parking lot. "Eventually."
Finnegan took a step closer. "Can I do anything?"
A crooked smile worked its way up her left cheek. "You know, now that you mention it. I'm hungry. Buy a girl a meal?"
Finnegan grimaced. "I'm a bit strapped for cash."
Aldon bounced with the next few steps, jostling the growing serpent within her. "Pizzeria?"
Finnegan just sighed and began to walk.

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☦A story about our Cosmonaut.☦
I am a second, human-shaped moon circling around my home. That lie comforts me when I am at my loneliest.
I am a forgotten, lost human, whose efforts will be remembered by no one. That truth reminds me when I am at my most lucid.
Lucidity doesn't come often. It's easier to try and sleep the years off of me. Sometimes, when my dreams are generous, I can be nestled in these comforts for a small eternity. But I always wake up to the silence in my suit, in my helm. I used to hate it some time ago, but all the hatred has bled out of me like all my tears.
My visor is covered with dust that cannot be wiped off. I have tried everything to remove it, including my spit. It's just another mystery that is my existence, now. I used to dwell on myself a long time ago. Panic struck me often in those times, where I'd fear I was no longer human, no longer alive nor dead. At one point I was afraid that I had somehow ascended the paradigm of life and death, and so was beyond even the grim reaper's kiss.
Now that all my fears have been confirmed, I am no longer afraid. I am no longer sad or angry. One can call it acceptance, but I don't think I can accept what I don't understand.
I am a vertigo state, not quite falling and not quite rising. My thoughts, too, are not solid around any concept to explain what I am now. I have let go even of the solidity of my name, as there was no point of having a name when no one is there to call you by it. It is easier this way, to think fluid as my body is.
My home is bright as a New Year's ornament, reminding me that even if I am not down there to continue it, the world continues itself. When I am at my loneliest, the web of lights over the earth keep me company in a way that the far away glow of the stars cannot.
I look forward to the night, when the web glows brightest. Sometimes I imagine that the web lifts off of the world to swaddle me in a net of warmth, gently pulling me down and returning me back home. But then I wake up from my dreams and find myself here again, cold and alone.
The lights probably began to dim a while ago, but I only notice it now on this night when I am lonely and empty and looking to my web of light to guide me into comfort. Some of the strings are thin, worn, or cut. A small black out, perhaps. Still, it slides worry into my flesh and that worry proceeds to infest my intestines with doubt. The itching sensation of concern flashes hot on my skin like oil from a pan.
Desperate to run from my emotions, I shut my gaze to sleep.
When I am again awake, I remain trapped in my anxiety and find the lights have not been this dim in a long time. I would give everything to be on the ground again, if only to be able to ask what is happening to cause things to go dark. It is easy to delude onesself that this is just some new technology that moves cities underground; any kind of excuse or explanation would do. But I know it is not that simple. My years shackled to my fate teaches me to assume my deepest anxiety is the truth.
I stay awake for as long as I can. My stomach tells me to be nauseous but there is nothing to vomit except the fear lodged in my intestines. I try to network my brain to the webbing of the lights, perhaps in a desperate attempt to be with my kind before they slip away and leave me behind. "I'm still here! I'm still here! Don't leave, I'm still here!"
None of my shouting does anything. The lights cannot hear me. No one can hear me. I am being pulled across an expanse of ocean and ice. I am an aurora borealis across the dark sky with no one to witness my flight.
The lights grow ever dimmer. I can help. I am an intelligent man who knows all of the latest technologies. I have even watched the technology evolve. Please net me down. Scoop me from the sky like a fish from the ocean. I can rebuild; we can rebuild. I resist the forces that pull me, screaming insanity into the far-away earth. The world is callous in its rejection.
Once, I awaken to find the world darker than I have ever seen it. I learn what it means to be sad again. I re-learn how to mourn. It is so much more painful to become reacquainted with this kind of sorrow now that I have nothing at all to comfort me. The stars reject me as callously as the earth and I am alone with my thoughts, reliving anew the grief that is being conscious in this cold state.
In a dream, it is many years into the future. The sun expands, consuming half the solar system. It swallows my tiny body whole, gulping me into its searing heat.
I am burned away to nothing.
I imagine it is the embrace of my family and friends as they welcome me home.


Site 122 automated optical recognition log of observations of emergences through SCP-1322
Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.06.00803244Z
Reference: Incident 50738C
Emergence: 2300 (± 150) count of bullet-shaped metallic objects, typical mass 575g (± 100g) over period of 3.6 seconds, at velocities ranging from 80 m/s to 110 m/s.
Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.09.20982120Z
Reference: Incident 50738D
Event: Explosion of at least 70% of Incident 50738C objects and emission of gas cloud. Automated analysis indicates 88.4% probability that Incident 50738C objects are miniaturized compressed-gas canisters. Miniaturized drones dispatched to collect samples of gas for analysis.
Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.10.18232811Z
Reference: Incident 50738F
Emergence: 850 (± 70) metallic objects of various sizes, at velocities ranging from 10 m/s to 18 m/s.

[DATA STREAM INTERRUPTED]

Vijay Patel stared out of Location 9's porthole at the desolate lunar landscape and drummed his fingers listlessly against the glass. There was nothing to see. He sipped water from a plastic bottle. It tasted faintly of urine. The filters in the recycling system were probably long past their useful life.
"Computer?" he mumbled.
After a few seconds, it responded. "Yes, Dr. Patel?" The system's software agent had been designed to distribute computing tasks over a large network of interconnected computer systems. But with only Location 9's local computer network available, the system ran far more slowly.
"Give me a status report of all living Foundation personnel."
A few seconds of awkward silence. "Sta-a-a-n-d-b-y-y-y", the computer chirped. Patel waited, and took another swig of piss-water. He glanced around to see whether there was another bottle of booze in the cabin. There wasn't. He had probably consumed the last whisky in the universe during his last bender. The silence stretched on. Occasionally there would be moments of subtle white noise, as if the speakers were connected to an open mike but no one was speaking. Finally the computer replied.
"You are the ranking Foundation personnel on this station. You are the only Foundation personnel on this station. No other Foundation facilities are responsive to communication at this time."
The same reply he had received to this question the last time he had asked it, and the time before that, and the time before that. It had been at least two weeks since… since the last time he had spoken to another human soul.
"Give me…. give me a status report of… a status report of all living human beings in…" Patel paused again. "…in the universe."
"Stand-and-and-and-by-y-y," it stuttered inhumanly. Patel pushed his hands against the wall and idly drifted to the other side of the cabin. In the low lunar gravity, he found it easy to succumb to laziness and move about the cabin by drifting rather than walking. But he forgot about momentum, and sprained his wrist when he tried to stop moving. "Fuck." He smiled wryly to himself and wondered whether the computer would interpret that as an instruction.
"The human population is estimated at five. Besides you, Dr. Patel, there are four crewmembers aboard the International Space Station."
Again, no change. And there was no way of contacting the ISS, even if he wanted to. After the incident, the station had drifted off in more or less a straight line, and was now somewhere in space on the wrong side of the moon.
"Have you completed your analysis of the data from the last Site 122 incident?"
"Yes, Dr. Patel. Woo-oo-oud you like to hear-ear-ear-ear my report?"
"Um, sure."
"Analysis indicates 72% probability that Incident 50738F objects were tuning forks which generated SCP-1012 event within the containment chamber."
Another long silence. Patel exhaled. Hartle had found a way to win the war, just like they had promised.
"Computer, estimate duration of, um, remaining availability of breathing gas, uh, based on current supplies and, uh, best case maintenance situation."
It kept him waiting for maybe an hour or so before replying. Twenty-two days, more or less. It would have been less than half that, had Garcia not already gone and euthanized himself with most of the known universe's remaining pain medication. Perhaps he ought to open the pod bay doors, release the air and get it over with quicker.
Patel looked through the porthole again, at the empty spot where the Earth, and everything else that he had ever cared about, were supposed to be. The sun was slipping below the western horizon. It was nothing like the sunsets back home- no spectacle of pinks, reds, oranges and purples in their contest against the blue sky, no decrescendo of twilight. Here, as the last limb of the solar disc dipped below a crater wall, a zebra-stripe pattern of bone-white moon dust contrasted with shadow, and an instant later, all was utterly black.
Time passed, silently.

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Rating: 24


☦The dreams are dying.☦
October 10th, 2167
Things are getting desperate in the land of dreams.
The Oneiroi Collective has gathered in a secluded space of a dream fragment, like a crowd of seals clamoring for a single ice flow in an otherwise empty ocean.
In the small sliver of a surreal forest landscape, the Collective discusses the few options they have left and the situation they are in now.
They have all seen their share of struggle. However, this time they've met a foe that no wiles or whimsical trickery could outsmart. No friendships could help them. More destructive than any abomination, worse than the nightmares that are the shadow to their light.
The dreams are dying. They have run out of people to dream them.
One woman opens her grey mouth, spilling forth the knowledge she has gathered in dreams before.

The woman was there, on a lonely bridge in the nothing. The railings were chipped red and the floor below cracked in gold. She leaned over, waiting for the dreamer to show itself. It was hard work finding a dream these days, harder than she remembered in all her time traveling them. She didn't care for the flavor of it, but these times were lean and she had learned to adapt to chewing on these scraps.
A man sidled up to her in the dream. If this was the kind of dream she preferred the flavor of, he would push her into a plush bed and they would share some endless moment of passion. But it was not, and so this dreamer simply leaned on her. He sighed out into the darkness and in his deluded perception saw the dream as a memory.
"It's been so long, Eleanor. Is it peaceful out there, in the land of the dead?"
She was no Eleanor. But she was old and wise and used to adopting whatever masks the dreamer asked of her. She snaked a long arm around his waist, only just remembering to keep the facsimile of having bones. Color bloomed across her dress and skin. Her hair escaped her tight bun and curled into a frizz of brown. She looked to him, smiling like the Eleanor he so loved, the one that showed Eleanor's gap between two front teeth.
"What has happened out there, honey? Please tell me."
The dreamer's face grew filled with shadow as his sleepy mind drew from memories he had hoped to escape from in the land of dreams. She took time to gaze over his body. Clothed in rags. Skin burnt from something. So, so thin. Only one sock. All the dreamers looked something like this these nights. The dream shuddered as he took his shivering breath to speak.
"Ellie, it's terrible out there. It's not getting better. Tom's gone, too. Sam, his boyfriend Alex. They're all gone, eaten or killed or worse. I don't know where all the big groups have gone, even that fucked up Charity. The only thing playing on the radio anymore is the Factory."
She struggled to hold in her sneer. Of course, the Factory would prey upon the dreamers in their time of need. The Factory, no better an abomination than the ones they fought on this side of existence. She tried to push for more information, but the dream had begun to melt. Her dreamer clung to her, sobbing. He didn't want to go. She didn't want him to go, either.
"It'll be okay, my love." It was still her duty to reassure and share love with the dreamers, even after all these years. Even in this time of fear for the both of them. "You and I will be together soon. I'll be here for you. Don't go to the Factory. Live, live so we can see each other again."
He sobbed 'I will' and 'I love you' again and again as everything melted around them.

The memory floods the Collective as she shares it, washing over like a desperate tide. Their voices crowd the air as it ended. Tendrils flailing. Tongues lolling. Yipping and baying and howling. Meowing and hissing and purring. Speaking and shouting and whispering. A gong thunders over their voices to smother the panic in its crib.
A mass of tendrils and eyes sprouts mouths all over the tips of its tentacles. In chorused harmony, it begins to sing to its companions.

The mass sidled into a tiny dream. So small was it that the mass had to fold itself again and again, hundreds of times to fit. But times were desperate and even the smallest bit of sanctuary was precious with no equal. As a tiny chipmunk in the city block, it crawled up onto a bench.
The dreamer sat at the bench a moment later, thin and starving. She was starving. She was dying. This was her final dream.
The little chipmunk hopped onto the dreamer's lap, chittering as cute as it could muster itself. She laughed and kissed the entity again and again. Inwardly, it was disgusted with this abject display of affection.
"Oh, how cute! I haven't seen one of you in so long, you know? I figured you all had been eaten by the anomalies, when we had been overrun trying to contain them all. Maybe we would've lasted longer if we had followed the GOC route and tried mass extermination. But then again, they didn't last much longer."
Ah, information. It bled from dreamers so easily.
"The world is ending. I guess I couldn't blame you for running away. I want to, too." She rubbed the creature's fur, made soft just for her. Just to get her to keep talking in her dying moments. Disgusting humans.
The creature chittered, licking at her skin and bulging its eyes in some strained attempt at cuteness. The woman was surely delusional in her dying, as this caused her to laugh and kiss the chipmunk again. Or perhaps she was so desperate that even this poor facsimile was enough for her.
"Do you know what started it? I'll tell you a secret, ok? I heard a rumor a long, long time ago. Someone had killed God and now we are all being punished. It isn't like in the bible, because this is no rapture. Hell has come to us."
Then she was gone.

The Collective doesn't believe in religion. Gods come and go in dreams like everything else. Religious dreams were just dreams like every other dream, except for when some powerful being from the other side hijacked a dream to deliver some message. Regardless, the dying woman's explanation was thrown out in a heartbeat. But it did give them some knowledge that something had triggered this. It let them know that it's not going to get any better.
The entities, all of them in their many shapes and tastes and colors and textures, lay together in the sliver of forest. In their collective writhing bodies, ideas could spread easier. Lines from one individual and another are beginning to blur. It is desperate, but they are surrounded by desperation on every side.
One of them arrives late. He hails from a place a bit away from dreams, known to the collective as the realm of knowledge and serpent scales. He is their ambassador to that land, one of their finest companions. But he is babbling. He is panicked. The man in his sharp business suit retches, then collapses on hands and knees. He vomits the memories out, shuddering. The Collective watches him fall apart in a brilliant shattering of the dream fragments they are all made out of, leaving only the pool of vomit as a memento.

The Library was once a great and proud creature. In some respects it still remained as such, home to wanderers and wandering knowledge alike. In this time of need, those who knew how to get there were using the Library as one last sanctuary. The Library had become a refugee camp, a single ray of light in the rat's nest of the world.
Times were lean. Things were getting unstable. Most of the Ways have long since collapsed under the weight of the rats. The Serpent had abandoned its garden, coiling over its precious Library as a protective mother python over the last nest egg she will ever have. Every open window revealed nothing but its scales, littered with bite marks. Not a single unharmed patch remained to be seen.
The Serpent's Hands were long severed. It was the search parties. The attempts to clear the Ways. The desperate sacrificial rituals to keep the rats at bay. More than anything, despair severed the Hands. They had lost too much to the madness. Many had lost themselves.
The man had sat and watched this collapse. The Serpent would be dead soon and with it an era would close. Before death, the Serpent bowed with its great Library still clutched in its coils. It still demanded respect, even as the rats have come to behead it. The rats will have the Library over the corpse of the Serpent. Death relieved the Serpent of its duty, gentle and respectful of all it had given to the world.
The shattering of violin strings were heard throughout the Library as the final collapse came. The land plunged boldly into darkness, stripped of the final Ways. The Wanderers have settled into their graves. It was over. They were done.
The man escaped to run home as soon as he tasted the collapse. It was a flavor he had hoped to never know. A knowledge he had hoped to never have to share with his kin.

So, even the Library is gone. The Collective nestles together tighter, shedding their memories into each other's minds. There was one last trick they have, hidden away in a pocket of their collective subconsciousness. Basking in the sun, the frankenstein sea of dream creatures drift off to their own sleep. The forest expands as they do so, welcoming all the last surviving dreams to dance in the dappled light.
The rats cannot reach them here. They will wait for the world to rise from the ashes. For dreamers to once more breathe life into this barren land. They will wait for eternity if they must.
The dreams make their final stand here, in this, their last sanctuary.


One could not say that that Lucas Johann was a hard-working individual. In fact, one could not even make the statement that Lucas Johann was fit for enrollment at the University of Chicago. It would be a stretch to go as far as to say that he could succeed as a creamsicle salesman, and yet, it was hyperbole if you said that he would fail in life. The enigma that was, is, and will be Lucas Johann was a bothersome tale indeed for the admissions office, who slaved for long hours trying to figure out exactly why they had admitted this boy. (And, by hours, of course, I hyperbolize. It was more akin to minutes, or perhaps a cursory glance.) No, the admissions office did not truly toil over his acceptance, although his testing scores were an anomaly to the rest - perfect SAT and ACT scores, every last mark. And yet, his studentship skills were far from honed.
So, one was really led to wonder about Lucas Johann. Then again, after October the twenty-seventh, doing so was quite the task in itself, if not impossible. However, this is far from where the story stands, and as such, I digress to begin.
Lucas was no more than the ordinary student, at first glance, second, third, fourth, fifteenth, and last. His closet consisted heavily of plaid flannels and generic collegewear - too informal to be written off as "preppy", yet too formal to be flung into the pile of "casuals". In the early months of his freshman year of college, Lucas did not embed himself in any one circle or social ring.
Indeed, it seemed that he held a scarcely mentionable presence in almost every conversational group, but it was just that. A scarce mention, an offhand reference. Yet, nonetheless, he was a constant factor that kept his nature in a sort of suspense. It was nothing particularly noteworthy, though, and most never even realized that they were doing it. Most people would realize, eventually, that they had never spoken to Lucas. So, what indeed were they talking about, if not what he has stated of himself?
The nature of his identity was ambient. People were aware of it, and it needn't be stated. There were a rare few that were able to truthfully say that they had spoken to him, but even those few could not clearly recall what he had said in conversation. All people could recall was a low, thrumming voice; it was enthralling, yes, but by no means was it ever considered ‘attractive'. It was possible, though, that it was just a part of the effect.
Lucas grabbed at his coffee, his fingers sliding around the Styrofoam a few times in a vice grip, feeling the surface slide under his digits. The cup slid towards him as he lifted it, looking down into the liquid and feeling it steam up into his face haughtily. The warmth emanating from the container allowed his hand a little more movement as the strange cold front settled into the area, bringing forth a few other thoughts. He pushed them aside, sipping the coffee and placing it aside, as well. He would truly never recover from the sensation of coffee. It felt alien, almost, to him: such a thing he had never experienced before now, and yet, so very present in his daily life now.
Lucas glanced down at the paper. He had just lost his train of thought, setting aside his pencil, and leaning back. His eyes drifted upward as he gathered his things, packing them away and standing. He had to move from the spot, he could feel the rain coming on. Well, smell. Sort of. It was a strange sensation to describe. Maybe it was olfactory, but, again, the thought was lost to him as he packed the finished paper, the words there and back again without his notice.
He would turn it in tomorrow, after reading the strange letter for a majority of the night, without a second thought as to how the paper had been finished. After all, he had written it.
It did not take long to find his way to the student center, dismounting from his bike and folding the scooter, packing it in his backpack, grabbing the bike lock to right it to the side of the building. Lucas stowed a pencil in his pocket, palm already wrapped on the doorknob. It turned, without retort, and he was inside the student center with a quick hop, the warmth almost joltingly present. He pulled the pen from his pocket, out of habit, and began to roll the pencil between his index and middle finger.
“Lucas!”
Lucas halted, immediately. His eyes were wide. His head creaked in the direction of the voice, the name piercingly present in the air. Everyone in the room almost looked up, almost, as if aware of how strange it was to hear the name. Then again, it was a common name – but it was attributed to this one Lucas in particular, which set the bizarrely placed word.
“Hey, Lucas,” the stranger breathed, an envelope in one hand. He offered it to the student with a dull smile. Lucas found himself unable to read the stranger's face; it was an expression of flaccid acceptance, of menial happiness… but there was something in the eyes. They twitched. They burned.
“Thank you,” Lucas breathed, and the room shuddered. The air shook.
The letter slid into his fingers, and immediately Lucas dropped the pen, ignoring the pencil as it clattered on the ground. The pen. The pen. The pen. Yes, the pen. The letter now. The letter was there. The letter was always there. The stranger stared at him, and the eyes twitched. They burned. They smiled. Their teeth shined. They glinted, even. They watched.
Reality re-asserted itself. Lucas breathed, and the room shuddered. The air shook.
“Thank you.”
The stranger gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Don't worry, Henry had issues with it, too. It's not as hard as you'd think! Or, so we're told. I wouldn't know, really.”
“Issues with…?”
The stranger paused for a second. The smile faded.
“Read the letter, Lucas. And, don't worry. We'll talk soon, okay? Try not to bring down the student center.”
Lucas breathed. “Thank you.” He had to remember to breath. He always had to remember. Contract the diaphragm, pull the intercostal-
“Hey, do you want Henry's number? I'm sure he could help you a bit. Wouldn't it be rad if you two were related?”
Rad?
That broke the tone of the exchange. It was informal. The world stopped watching. Lucas breathed. “Do I… know you?”
“Nah. But dude, you will. Hey, I bet we'll be good friends. You'll see. I'm a third year.”
Lucas looked around. No one stared. No one pointed. No one thought of him, or the stranger. What gave?
“Do I just… read it?”
The stranger nodded. “Yeah, just do it somewhere private. If someone read it over your shoulder… yeah, that'd suck. Trust me. Combustion ain't fun. I think that's what these do nowadays, anyways.”
The letter was in his backpack now. Lucas looked at the letter in his hand. The stranger handed him the letter. “Hey, hold onto it. Don't worry, nothing will happen to ya'. And I'm sure you won't have issues finding somewhere alone anyways, huh?”
Lucas gave him a sideways look. Angled, confused.
“Oh,” the stranger toned, frowning now. “I'm sorry, dude. That was just insensitive. Uh, listen, call Henry some time. He can help you, yeah? I'm sure you'd want to understand.”
Lucas nodded, and grabbed the letter from his post box in the student center's post office. His fingers glazed over the paper, the sticky note with “Henry” written on it still there. A phone number was written across the bottom, and Lucas grabbed his cell phone. He typed it in, and grabbed his cell phone from his pocket, putting the number into a new contact. He opened his contact list, and opened the contact “Henry”, knowing that it was always there. The number was there. It was always there.
The letter in his hand. Yes. He sat in his chair, in his dorm, opening it right there in the post office.
No. It had to be private. He asserted the thought – dorm. Single dorm.
'Please,' he thought to himself. 'Just this once, don't work against me.'
Dorm.
Good.
Lucas opened the letter, and breathed. “Thank you,” he murmured.
And Lucas breathed.

Dear Potential Rushee,
On behalf of Theta Omega Theta Fraternity, let us start by congratulating you on your acceptance into the University of Chicago. Attending the University is, in itself, a letter of prestige. Of the utmost importance to our relationship to the University is the importance it holds in our brotherhood. We send you this letter in hopes that you may become a Fraternity Brother during your time here. Brotherhood guarantees an eye-opening education into further academia.
Nationally founded in 1889, Theta Omega Theta Fraternity currently has 84 active chapters throughout the United States, with the Nu Theta Chapter being the thirteenth installed. Since 1895, Nu Theta Chapter has labored and bled as brothers to further the onset of our goals as a fraternity. The Brothers of Theta Omega Theta never forget the duties and values by which they hold themselves, above all campus activities. In the one hundred and nineteen years since Nu Theta Chapter's foundation, this upcoming cycle will perhaps be the most riveting, and definitely one of the most advanced. We currently consist of thirty-one members who through research, development, and the study of the bizarre, have become renowned fraternity members in the system. With our current leadership and third-party connections in place, Nu Theta Chapter is rapidly approaching the peak of its conditional existence. We seek men of specific and rigorous qualification to call Brother, demanding a diverse and effective Brotherhood.
The rush period is one of the only times we perform recruitment, with a very rare exception. We usually begin recruitment for the upcoming year in January and continue on until Formal Rush, which is October 1st– October 5th. Rush events include various events of both entertaining and enlightening qualities, provided in a relaxed environment that allows future Brothers to ease into our specific area of academic advancement. Some of our more exciting annual events include Poker Night, extra-dimensional summoning, paintball trips outside of Hyde Park, relaxed nights in downtown Chicago and on Navy Pier, anomalous mixology, and bowling nights. For every function the chapter will provide transportation, lodging, and anything else that you may need. Although we do focus significantly on our summer rush program, we also always have a very successful formal rush program. If you are unable to make it to any summer events, we will still make every effort to meet you at the beginning of the school year or during Formal Rush.
If you have any questions at all, don't be afraid to call my cell, e-mail me, or make contact via astral projection. Please also fill out our Rush Interest Form to receive further information on how you can join our fraternity. We wish you the best of luck at the University of Chicago and look forward to seeing you here soon.

Theta Omega Theta Hub | | TBA =>


☦Nobody enters the dreamlands.☦
On this side, he is referred to as Nobody. One can call that name a play on words. A joke of words. A slice of humor within words. But really, it is just a reminder that people make jokes when they're uncomfortable. Or perhaps, there is no accurate description of Nobody in this language. People default to humor in the face of something beyond their words.
To the dreams, with different words and different comforts, Nobody bears another banner. What it is will not be discussed here, as the dreams have agreed to keep Nobody's secret and Nobody could not confess even if he were capable of desiring to.
Suffice to say, Nobody and the dreams have something that humans may identify as a friendship. The dreams can grant Nobody a taste of the one thing incomprehensible to him. What Nobody gives in return? Well, Nobody is quite an excellent janitor.

The night began like most nights do when Nobody decides to finally rest the mind and return to his old friends. The group known as the Oneiroi collective were there to greet him, though they had their own names for themselves. Nobody didn't have to say a word as he was held, swaddled in the peculiar insanity of dreams, and whisked away to work.
Nobody was dropped off in a world entirely underwater, though he could breathe just fine. He found himself all fish below the belt, fins on his elbows and webbing between his fingers. Any surprise he felt was a nonissue; he was quite used to adopting all sorts of identities by now and so began to swim.
This land slid silence into every crack and crevice of the ruins he wandered. There were no people, not even a dreamer. Light shone down into the city far deeper than a sun should stretch its rays, dappling everything in a dance of water and light. Perhaps Atlantis disappeared from reality when it sank, embraced by the ever shifting landscapes just beneath the surface of existence. But this was not Atlantis, or so Nobody was led to believe.
Where there was light, there was bound to be shadow, though the same cannot be said in reverse. Nobody found what he was looking for in a church covered in coral and reef. He glided over the meadow of color, past the schools of neon fish and iridescent ribbon eels. The slash of inky black stood out in the light, unafraid and hungry. That was when he knew he had found his prey.
The Oneiroi who brought dreams to reality could not do their work if the dreams were tainted with what is known as the eldritch, the old ones, and the elder gods. At the same time, they could not fight them or touch them. Instead, they were hapless to watch their precious herd of dreams be eaten by these wolves from the void beyond sleep. They needed people like Nobody, who were perhaps just a little bit eldritch themselves, to play the sheepdog.
So Nobody swam to the voidling that had violated this sacred Oneiroi territory. A spear found itself in his hand, procuring from the dream spontaneously. It felt hefty with the desire to live in peace, a plea from the dream for success in Nobody's hunt. He gripped it harder than necessary in order to reassure his environment that he would not fail.
From the pool of nothing spawned a massive serpent doused in oil, seeping the water with despair. With its five dozen eyes, the eldritch entity turned to Nobody the merman and opened its three hundred mouths to fill the dream with its shrieking. Nobody twirled the spear in one hand and beat the water with his tail as hard he could, steeling his nerves as he ran the monster through.
He did it again and again, carving holes with his courage until the great serpent was slain. Then, he grasped the corpse and pushed it back into the pool of ink it had come from. The portal seeped away like water through one's hands, leaving only a dead white stretch of coral in its wake.
Nobody lay himself in the coral, exhausted. The eels and fish swam above and around him, kissing the white and imbuing it with life once more. He sank into the color, drifting in the ocean of light.
He stayed in dreamless rest until roused by an Oneiroi friend, a young woman right out of a noir film, black and white and all. She dried him off with a towel, silent in everything she did. The smell of color still clung to him even as the water was wiped off. He'd still reek of that color, even when he awoke.

The next land he was tasked with was entirely upside down. Nobody shot across the night sky as a bright comet burning in atmospheric friction. It felt not unlike walking into a shower that was just a little too hot, but one didn't get used to this burning the same way one got used to the shower. He glided amongst stars close enough that he could taste their hydrogen.
Nobody wondered, if only for a moment, why Oneiroi or anyone else would ever want to leave this place of impossibility and magic. He understood why logically, of course. But in the sky, one with the stars, he granted himself a temporary foray into emotional bout. He allowed himself to enjoy the present, gliding in his own emotional jubilation, riding the jetstream of the exhilaration of being a comet shooting across the night sky.
Across the horizon of a faraway solar system, Nobody could smell the familiar stench of a wound. It reminded him of blood and infection, the smell of a hospital with too many occupants or a jail with too many inmates. The smell shattered his small reverie, bringing him back down to earth in a metaphorical sense. He rubbed his comet-face with impossible limbs, for comets had only tails to call extremities.
He looped once, twice against the fabric of the night sky, then turned his trajectory towards the putrid scent. There as clear as day was a scar deep in the weaving of the stars. It glowed a painful red, seeping with acid-green pus that reeked so strongly of agony that Nobody wept comet tears upon gliding into its presence.
This was not an injury that could be fought or defeated. It was an infected wound in a dream, spreading nightmare to some hapless dreamer far below this sky. Nobody drew towards the wound. He reached deep inwards of some long-lost emotions. In the face of this fear, he welled up what little scraps he had to combat it. Hope. Faith. Joy. He summoned the emotions he felt just moments ago, exhausted them with a single expression of forgiveness into the pain.
Nobody was not an emotional creature, but it was enough. His light waned. The atmosphere chafed at him like a cheese grater to the skin. He was losing cohesion. He was falling apart. But it was enough.

The silent woman woke Nobody with a chaste kiss. He pulled away from her as soon as he understood his situation. She tilted her head, one side of her dark grey lips tilting into a knowing smirk. Her left hand stretched itself towards him, each finger curling back like the petals of a flower. In the palm lay three tattered shards of what used to be people. This was what he came here for. All he had done tonight was for those shriveled fragments of people, memories of lifetimes long past. He snatched them and held the pieces to his chest.
She smiled again with only one side of her lips. Her voice reverberated out of her, warm and rich. "Oneiroi thanks you." That voice slicked fire into Nobody's veins but he did not approach; he was used to her and her presence. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but his throat felt dry with the sudden heat. Perhaps he was not as used to her as he thought.
The woman laughed and spoke again. "You're free to go wherever you may please, now. I assume you know the way back. A pleasure doing business." Was it his imagination or did she emphasize that word, pleasure? Nobody tried to find the words, but she had already blown him a kiss and was gone, like a memory or an idle daydream.

With her presence gone, Nobody could focus again. He stood and shimmied in between the spaces of the dreams. He squeezed into the silence between one's thoughts. He scuttled into the silence between inhale and exhale. In short, Nobody went nowhere, to the land of in-between, where everything was not quite anything.
There, he opened his clutched palm and stared at the scraps he did so much for. They were shriveled, dried, old. But they were exactly as he so wanted them, the moments of knowing oneself. The moments of lives of people who had identity, identifying themselves. He took one of the scraps and popped it into his mouth. The memory melted on his tongue, sweet as nostalgia.

The first memory was that of an old man looking at his wife as she was cooking. They had both aged over the years, but the bond between them was strong and young. Her body had shriveled and wrinkled with time's scars, but to him she was still radiant as sunlight. He drank his coffee, smiling to himself at the warmth he felt when she entered his thoughts. He wondered what he would be without her.

The moment disappeared in the time of a thought. It wasn't enough. It simply was not enough. Nobody took the second memory and popped it into his mouth, swallowing it down, parched for something he could not name.

The child clung to her mother's leg. She was only three, but she could understand small intricacies even then. She knew the kitchen was a place of food. She knew the darkness of sleep. She knew the outside was far larger than she could hope to comprehend. As the little girl was fed by her mother, she wholly believed her mother was her whole world.

That one faded faster than the first. Nobody sucked in an inhale, desperately chasing the wisps of thought as they dissipated into memory. He closed his eyes and tried to still the trembling of his body to little success. The last one. He still had one last one. It found itself coated against the back of his throat. He tried to hold on to even a small part as it filled him with warmth, praying for something he couldn't understand to things he didn't believe in.

somethingsomething the far off trees reminded him of someone He planted it for him. So he could remember forever the man that changed his life…

But it was gone like smoke in a high wind before he could taste it. Nobody reached into his own empty palm, looking for fragments of the fragments. He looked up into the world he stood in, the land of things that were not quite anything yet. The in-between place.

Nobody looked around him in the land of almost-things, alone.