"So you can cure me?"
The doctor rubbed his forehead then rearranged his heavy plastic spectacles. They were supposed to compensate for his missing mask, but he found that all they really did was remind him of its absence.
"I'm sorry, perhaps I did not explain myself correctly. As I said before, I cannot cure you, of pain or of anything else."
"But…"
The woman sitting at the other side of his desk was in a pitiful state. Her skin, which might have once been a healthy light brown, was now pale and sallow, hanging loosely over protruding bones. Her dark eyes were clouded with pain of many different varieties. She sat slumped in the comfortable armchair the doctor reserved for his patients, as if trying to appear smaller than she really was. Despite its being a hot summer day, she wore a heavy, long-sleeved blouse. The doctor didn't need to roll up those sleeves to tell why.
"That does not mean I can't do anything to help you. I do require, however, that you understand the nature of the treatment you will receive."
"Um… okay?"
They never understood when he first explained it to them. The doctor did not blame them, for he wasn't truly sure he understood himself.
"Pain… is chronic. Not just yours, but everyone's. It is a symptom of human existence, something all must endure simply because they are."
He could tell he wasn't getting through to her. Her eyes were darting around his small office, noticeably lingering on the high shelves containing his medical supplies. A glint of desire sparked in the woman's otherwise dead eyes. She was barely paying attention to him at all now. He sighed and pressed on regardless.
"Humanity exists in a constant state of conflict. Nation against nation, religion against religion, person against person. It has always been thus, and always will be. Not only that, we are at a constant struggle with ourselves. 'Am I good enough? 'Is this the way I should be?' 'Why does my body look this way?' 'Why must I always suffer?'. As long as we live, we can never be at peace. It is antithetical to our very nature."
"Uh huh… I think I get it, yeah."
"I'm telling you all of this because you must understand what my treatment entails. I will have no unwilling or uninformed patients. I have seen where that leads."
And he had. Stark images sparked to life in his mind, livid with shame. A brother, dissecting and making puppets of dead and living alike. A sister, delivering pain and calling it healing. Another who… no.
He will not be like them.
"I will not cure you. Do not for a second imagine that I will. What I can do, however, is put your pain to sleep."
For the first time, he had her full attention.
"You… you can do that?"
"It is about the only thing I can do for you. I can take your pain, and bury it within you. I will take every possible cause for it- past, present and future, and I will suffocate them. They will still be there, but you will no longer have any capacity to sense them."
"I won't feel anything?"
He could sense the hesitation in her voice. Good. Perhaps he could persuade her to forgo this yet.
"You will feel nothing, and I mean this in the very broadest of terms. The treatment must be most comprehensive if it is to be successful. To bury pain, I must also bury everything else that is… you. Permanently."
Something filled the woman's dark, empty eyes, and for a moment the doctor believed he had succeeded in turning her away. But then he realized that it wasn't fear he saw there. It was surrender.
"Do it."
"Are you quite certain? I am not sure you fully understan-"
"I understand. I said do it."
In face of such determination, what else could he do?
The woman laid strapped to the bed in his operating theater, the filthy rags she came into his office with replaced with clean medical scrubs. The chamber was bright and as clean as the scrubs, and empty but for the doctor and his patient.
"Are you sure the straps are necessary?" she asked.
"Quite certain, I am afraid. Even if you are willing, your body may attempt to reject what I am about to do to you. If it resists me, it may compromise the procedure. I must have no interruptions."
"Okay. Are you going to start then?"
"I shall. I need only my tools."
With that, the doctor left the woman's side and strode to the large cabinet at the other side of the room. From its top shelf he took a long plastic tray, which he began to fill. First came a series of delicate steel scalpels, arranged by decreasing size. After them were twice as many syringes, the smallest the size of the doctor's fingernail, the largest as long as his index finger. The liquids within them were of the doctor's own making, and precious beyond measure. Last came an electrical device, a small metal sphere connected to a number of electrodes. With the tray held in both hands, he returned to the woman.
"Are you prepared to begin then? It is not too late to change your mind."
"I told you before, I'm ready. This is what I want."
"Very well. Applying preliminary anesthetic agent… now."
Said agent was an ordinary one, meant only to numb the senses. The woman's breath grew shallow as she drifted into gentle unconsciousness. She almost seemed peaceful for a moment, until the doctor took a closer look at her lined face. There were far too many marks on it for a person so young. For a moment, he wished he had his brother to tell him what each of them meant. This was always the Diagnostician's specialization, not his. But his brother was long gone, vanished into parts unknown. His own knowledge would have to do.
Where to begin…
The doctor passed a gloved finger over the woman's forehead. The long line there seemed older than most of the others, and more pronounced. He closed his eyes for a moment. A memory line. Yes, those would be a reasonable place to begin. He will move chronologically. The doctor took one of his smaller syringes and gently used it to pierce the woman's skin near the line. Almost immediately it began to shimmer in a faint blueish hue.
"Application successful. Proceeding to erase," he said to no one.
With that, he drew the second largest of his scalpels and carefully began to cut a line surrounding the line. As he did so, he could sense the residue of the memory which made this mark. Loud screaming, smashing glass, the sound of a child weeping, a terribly pronounced sting of pain followed by a longer, duller ache that never seemed to go away. The doctor felt no remorse at all as he buried the woman's parents forever, sentencing her memories of them to the deepest, darkest refuse pile her mind possessed.
The twin lines at the sides of her mouth were a more ambiguous prospect. Two people were hidden in them, similar and not at the same time. One was tall, fair, charming. He moved with the confident grace of a fencer and his eyes were the steel of his weapon. There was love of sorts there, somewhere, but as his scalpel did its work the doctor could sense its corruption. It was a fleeting thing, and terribly one-sided. Its mark was erased.
The line on the other side of the mouth belonged to a man as well. Or rather, to the prospect of a man. For a moment the doctor could almost imagine he saw the woman's belly swell, could hear the heartbeats of a child within. But no. It never did happen. The man's last memento died before it was born, and with it died something in the woman too. She had buried it, alone, telling no one. So too did the doctor bury it now.
The hours passed, and so did the memories. One by one the doctor buried them away, erasing the marks of a lifetime from the woman's face, if not from her soul. Her haggard visage seemed almost peaceful now. Almost young. The doctor was momentarily tempted to leave things at that. She had a chance at a new life now, free from the scars of a past she did not deserve. He could leave things at that.
But not with a clean conscience. Cleansed of her past she might be, but she was still human. All the future held for her were more scars, more of the same. He had to go further. All the way.
With a sigh, the doctor drew the second largest of his syringes. He had worked hard and sacrificed much to obtain the gently bubbling liquid it held. While it was still in its syringe it was clear as water, but when the doctor injected it into the back of the woman's neck, the skin surrounding it turned as black as tar. This stain began to rapidly spread, to prepare her for what the doctor knew had to be done.
Scalpels in hand, he began removing her identity.
He began with what he deemed simplest, or at least, with what the woman had the least of. Ideology and faith went first. With some of his patients, the process of removing such things could be an arduous and time consuming affair, but it appeared the sort of life the woman had led left her very little time to worry about them. To banish them was a trifling victory. With those also went what passed for an education, her malnourished sense of curiosity, and the long-desiccated corpse of her aspirations.
The doctor couldn't help but note the lack of resistance on the woman's part. This was not unheard of, but it was a rarity. Her life must truly have been… no. He would consider this no further. If anything, this was confirmation he was doing the right thing.
He persevered, moving more difficult things. He could not remove her intellect entirely, for she would need some to continue to function, but he removed as much as he would dare. He knew its burden too well not to. Hers was a sharp thing, even as abused as it was, and the doctor had to be very careful in his cutting. Following that came other parts of her identity- her taste in food and fashion, the scents she enjoyed and those she despised, her secret love of classical music, her odd patriotism and her unexplained hatred of the color green. As the cuts went deeper, so did the things he removed. Her gender identity, her sexual preferences, her perception of morality. More hours of labor and a dozen empty syringes later, and nothing was left from what was once the woman's inner world. She was a blank slate now, only as human as her body made her.
That too needed fixing. At one point, the doctor deemed what came before sufficient to the prevention of all future pain. He had learned differently, however. People did not need to know anything about a person's inner world to hate them. To hurt them. For her to be truly free, the last step of the procedure had to be completed. The doctor removed the small electrical device from the plastic tray and connected its electrodes to the woman's thin arms.
He then began erasing her body.
The device hummed as he drew away the color in her skin, in her hair, in her eyes. The humming intensified as he drew out the shape of her nose, of her legs, of her hair. Bones crunched and twisted as he standardized her height and weight and shape to what he deemed least intrusive (he had yet to perfect this part of the procedure), and finally he rearranged her insides as well, removing those organs that might mark her as belonging to one sex or the other. The machine hummed and buzzed as he took away everything she once was and any potential she might have had. As he removed her humanity, bit by bit by bit.
When he was done, he woke it up. The creature which now rose from the surgical bed was of a height with the doctor. Its skin was a vaguely shiny grey, its eyes the same. Its body was all straight lines and right angles, as precise as if measured by a ruler. Its mouth was a thin line, which opened as the creature quizzically viewed its surrounding, then the doctor.
"Hello."
"How do you feel?"
"You…?"
The doctor resisted the urge to pull his hair. "You. The entity you perceive yourself to be."
"I… I…"
"Yes, you. You are you." They often needed this explanation following the process. An unfortunate side-effect.
"I… feel nothing. I… am nothing."
"Yes."
"I… feel no pain."
"No."
"I… am cured."
Damnation. Damnation! Not this again!
"You are not cured! I have simply buried your pain, don't you understand?"
"I am cured. You have cured me."
"No, you imbecile creature, no! I did nothing, nothing!"
"You have cured me. You are the cure. You are the cure."
The same litany. After every single procedure they always said the same thing. It was intolerable, it was inexcusable.
"No… no!"
"You are the cure, doctor."
"NO!" screamed the Anesthesiologist, as the creature who was once a woman tried to embrace him. "NO!"
"Thank you."
A scream died in his throat. Suddenly powerless, he allowed the creature to wrap its arm around him. They were cold.
"I am not the cure. There is no cure. I am but a humble physician."

Hub


The dinosaur starts to beep. I can't tell why, but I continue to rub its belly. The little T-Rex still won't shut up, and then it hits me.
My alarm clock is blaring. My arm reflexively moves to slap my clock's snooze button, but I just slam it against my nightstand. I open my eyes just enough to be blinded by the early morning sun and crawl under the covers like a vampire. The clock's beeping has sped up, and now I'm desperate for silence. I throw off the covers and walk to the other side of the room, where the damned thing is sitting on the floor. I pick it up, turn it off, and hate past me for putting it there. I look at the time, and my eyes snap all the way open as I remember that I've got work today.
Swiftly walking from my bedroom to the bathroom, I grab a towel from the closet and start the shower. After I've made myself squeaky clean, I head to back to the closet and pull out my uniform. Uniform is perhaps a little too formal. I slide on bluejeans and a beige shirt with the Foundation logo.
I walk into the kitchen and make toast. It is good toast. I brush my teeth and use mouthwash, strike a few poses in the mirror, and then head out. I march down four flights of stairs, it's a good workout at least. Not like I need one. I make for the front door of the building, and I'm just in time to catch one of the on-site transports. It's an old bus really. My co-workers and I load up, and I take a seat for the short ten minute shuttle from home to work. The driver stops, opens the door and we quietly walk off. I don't bother to watch it drive off, and instead head for the bio wing. I slide my ID past a scanner and open a steel door into the main compound.
I slide in behind my supervisor, Brad, a tan, muscular man with a beard, who's typing an email now, and casually push my badge up to the clocker. It beeps and I slink back outside. I was a little late. I take a walk, in my clunky boots, to the nearest Paddocks entrance. Normally it's quiet, but there are very obviously experiments going on today.
I see a few labcoats in paddock 13 and a strange sight. Well, not to me. Not anymore, anyways. Eleven ninety-four is being tested. I cringe at the thoughts of taking care of whichever horse gets messed up today. Oh, it's Nick. Bastard bit my hand yesterday. I try to remind myself not to be such an ass, but that train of thought is lost when he attempts to put on a sweater.
A little chuckle to start the day is nice. All of our animals are equine in nature, our Site has specialized in these SCP's for a while now. now I'm the only horse-care provider on my shift now, since Emily got transferred to Site-23. This particular fact makes the vast majority of my chores a pain. I head down to the south storage shed. Wellington is waiting.
"Good morning Wells!"
He gives a shake and returns with an "Absolutely is!"
"Let me hook you up and I'll load up breakfast."
Twenty kilo hay bales. Nine of them. Held in the most awkward position and then then thrown onto the back of a carriage. I've worked here for quite a while, but I'm certainly not strong as one would expect a farmhand.
"Wells?" His grand head turns with a lovely top hat between his ears."Ready?"
Mr. Wonderpony nods and backs up under the harness I hold for him. I always worry I'll screw up a tie or attach a strap to the wrong place. Once Wellington is snugly fitted, I hope properly, I hop up on my throne of hay bales.
"D'you see the testing goin' on in paddock thirteen?" I try to make the ride between lots and paddocks go by as fast as possible.
"Nay sir, what're the witch doctors up t' today?" He pulls us forward, toward lot number one.
"That nosebag, makin' Nick stand like an ostrich."
"Ha, bloke deserves it." I felt like slightly less of an ass. Coincidentally, those very creatures awaited the eight AM feeding in Paddock two. I toss bales over the fences as Wellington plods us along steadily. The whole thing takes a little less than an hour. We return to the south shed and Wellington backs his trailer into it. I unhook the guy, and with a third of a bale under my arm, we march over to his lean-too. Wells technically has free roam of the pathways, but he "Wouldn't dare bovver anybody unless it's an emergency". He'll stay around his little home until he's needed again.
His "little home" is decorated with a hat hook, a cabinet, a dining table (horse height of course) and some gas lamps, as well as a picture of what I presume is an English pasture. I bring out an over-sized plate from the cabinet and set the table for Wells.
"Breakfast is served milord" I take a bow and dump the hay onto the plate.
I leave Mr. Wonderpony to his morning meal and head for my next job. The real reason anyone works with horses. To pick up shit. Believe me, I get plenty of cool moments working with horses, but those are like golden flakes on a turd. Like the one I just stepped in. Normally, no big deal, I got my big boy boots on, but this one had a little extra give to it. I sigh. I drag my foot along the grass for a couple of paces, and head for the tool room, located back by the entrance. I pick out a scooping shovel, and a wheelbarrow.
Even though it's summer, I didn't expect it to be forty degrees out. I sweat my ass off between shooing still-hungry donkeys and dumping kilograms of horse manure onto our compost pile. After a few trips back and forth, Brad comes out with his own set of tools. I say the usual "hello"s and "yes sir"s. The man is an expert on equine biology, psychology, mythology, and any other -ology that might have to do with horses. Brad deserves respect. He's also a pretty cool guy.
By ten o'clock, we've deemed the lots to be clean enough. Clean has a very different meaning here.
A few minutes after we put away all of our stuff, we get word from a suit that Nick is done with testing, and Brad and I put head out and walk him in from Paddock thirteen. The clumsy appaloosa steps on my steel-toed boot as we let him into his stall back at the main compound. Other than a couple bruises, the animal is fine. Maybe next time.
Brad notes that two of the unicorns (procured with multiple fatalities from thirteen twenty-three) could do with a cleaning. They dainty ponies will literally wither in filth, so they have to be brushed in their pristine, shining, white coats. I handle one while Brad does the other, picking clots of dirt from their hooves. With a good brushing, clouds of dust fly off the majestic beasts. One pees. The splash zone is wide enough to get me. I head to a bucket of sawdust we keep in the aisle for this very reason, and sprinkle it on the stall's floor.
The clean-freaks are dealt with, and I ask Brad if it's alright for me to take lunch. With a nod he heads into his office. Probably doing site finances, or maybe playing solitaire. I head out of the Bio Wing. Walking to the admin building, which is where I take breaks, because the Bio-Wing doesn't have it's own break room. I scrub my hands intensely, I don't want horseshit in my food. We must have a cloning SCP or something on site, because the refrigerator is filled with hundreds of jars of applesauce. Additionally, I scrounge up some bread and peanut butter, and make a lovely lunch.
After my snack, I strike up a conversation with one of the guards, Tony, I think, who is also on break.
"Anything cool happen today?"
"Nah, just some confused tourists I had to turn away"
I shrug, "Not every day is action packed, I suppose"
"After a few years at the Foundation, you'll begin to appreciate those quiet days!"
After we have a laugh he notes that he'd better report back. I say goodbye after our short conversation and do the same.
I go into the Bio Wing- I call it the Bio Wing, but this is a glorified barn with some high-tech doors.
I'm looking for something productive to do when I see that Brad is giving a full tour to some execs. I straighten up and grab a broom, sweeping away dirt or dust from their path. Wouldn't want them to cut funding because their loafers were ruined by some soiled bedding. I stand around with a forced smile and internally cringe as they take notes on their tablets after every couple of Brad's sentences. They eventually leave, and we both give a sigh of relief. Brad says he'll take care of the afternoon feeding. I thank him as he nods and heads out.
I do the next chore; medication and supplemental feed. With nosebags in hand I dump handfuls of different pellets into each one. Some horses require special ointments for minor wounds, and Nick needs a huge pill stuffed down his gullet for when he encounters the after-effects of his experimentation. I take quite a while getting each animal fed and/ or drugged, doing one and then walking back to the list in the feed room to see who's next.
I eventually get to Nick who is a little skittish around his feedbag today, and I can't blame him. The scent of food overwhelms his nervousness though. I slip the pill between his lips with my own hand, trying to stop him from chewing it. I'm successful, but my hand is covered in a saliva and barley mush.
I walk over to the London-Lean-to for a handkerchief I could borrow from Wellington. What a guy.
"Ahem, Thomas, 'ould you moind placin' a request in fo' me?" His voice contains a little embarrassment.
"Oh, sure, whaddya need?"
"Could you ask the big-boss-man if I could 'ave an easel an' a set o' paints?" Wells fidgets a little bit in place, shuffling his feet.
"I never took you to be an artsy type Wells! A workin' class fellow such as yourself could use a hobby though, so I'll see what Brad and I can do." He's my friend after all.
"You're a real mate, ya know that?" I smile, and try not to think about the fact that my best friend is a talking horse with a bow tie.
Next on the big list posted outside the office is to check the automatic water dispensers, that are scattered around each pasture. I take the long walk as a moment to rest and just take in what a strange position I've got. I could be an accountant for some battery company, though I feed unicorns on a daily basis. I like where I am.
My streak of positivity is ended as my thoughts come to rest on oh-forty-two. That's why I'd gotten my job here, they saw I was well trained and good with horses. I was just an intern told to torture a Pegasus until he stood up. I go through the motions of undoing the rim of the waterer and testing to see if it works. I understand the importance to the what goes on there, but can't you just let him die and clone him? I saw crazier stuff go on at Area-32. Bah, I'm not a scientist, I don't know the complexities of anomalous objects. He's a cognitohazard anyways, he just makes me think that he … What if he isn't? What if it was all something the Foundation came up with to strike down any sympathy for him? Just an elaborate brainwashing scheme?
I shake my head to clear my thoughts and check the last dispenser. The lies I'm told are to keep me safe. I know that much.
Upon finishing my duties, I notice that the clouds overhead look rather threatening. The temperature is a bit cooler, and I smell rain. I jog back to the office and take cover just as it begins to drizzle. It barely lasts five minutes, so I decide to do another crap check. Not much has been produced, but I still clean up what's there. It bothers me to waste time.
I'm done quickly, and after dumping the last wheelbarrow, I pet some ponies. Stress creators and stress relievers. The two are sweet, but I try not to get to know them. Some of these guys are food for an SCP I'm not allowed to know about.
I say goodbye to my new acquaintances and head back to Wellington for the evening feed. I beat him to the south shed this time, and am able to get a few bales onto the bed of the small carriage before he shows up.
"Good evenin' Thomas," I nod back to him, "Hey do you know if I've gotten a letter from the wife an' foals yet?" This is one of the few subjects I'm not allowed to talk to Wells about.
"Uh, no, not that I know of," I'm not a great liar, but Wells is too optimistic.
"Probably too busy enjoyin' life without rules!" He gives a laugh. I smile, but inside, I feel bad for the guy. The secrets we keep from one another here.
We go through the evening feeding without incident, though it takes two trips to get enough for the animals to munch on through the night. I bid adieu to Wellington, who pulls open his cabinet and lays a blanket on the ground, all using his rather mobile lips. The sun is setting, so I hold my hand up to stop myself from being blinded as I walk back to the office. Brad is getting his things together, though I know he won't leave for another two hours. He'll do a check of all the security gates and any last minute stuff. I say goodbye and clock out. Brad nods silently.
I wait a couple of minutes at the bus stop with some other employees, making small talk. It's hard to get answers about how someone's day has been when they are, under penalty of death, not allowed to tell you what they do for a living. We all know the importance of secrecy here, and conversations mainly stay on the weather and latest TV shows.
The driver pulls up, letting the night shift out before accepting us on-board. I walk back to my apartment after drop off, and stare for a couple seconds at the stairs in front of me. I take the elevator. I unlock my apartment and flop onto my couch. A few minute off of my feet feels good, but the hot shower I take next is much more soothing. After I dress myself in some pajamas, I turn on my laptop and send a long message to Emily. I miss having someone next to me when it's hard work 24/7. I think tomorrow is her first day on the job at her new position. I make a few flourishing keystrokes and click the 'send' button. Some computer program, or memetic SCP, or something censors a few of the thing I mention. A little annoying, but I think I get the points across. I close the laptop and eat dinner.
Dinner is tacos, I decide. Good tacos. After I brush my teeth, I climb into my bed and under the covers. I'm about to close my eyes when I remember my alarm clock. I give it a toss to the other side of the room. Wake up future me, you lazy ass.


PREVIOUSLY on THE INCREASINGLY POOR DECISIONS OF GREGORY PLUMP
Gregory awoke in a large room, tied to a chair…
"Well Gregory, you're in quite a bit of trouble," a monotone voice rang out…
"It's quite simple Gregory. You've been snooping around…"
"It's simple, Gregory. I have one question. What did you read about Ess-See-Pee Three-Five-Four?"
It's - it's some kind of interdimensional portal that's spawning-spawning these anoma-hic-lous creatures exc - except it's some hic k-kind of coverup for something but it hic doesn't - doesn't say wh-what and I swear that's all I know p-please hic don't hurt me!" Gregory pleaded…
The concern is how you saw the hidden writing in the first place. There was an extremely powerful antimemetic in place to prevent any human being from seeing it…"
"If only inoculated human beings can see past that meme, and you weren't inoculated…I'd say you aren't human."
"You've been under surveillance for the past three weeks primarily for your interest in SCP-354. Tell me, do you know what it is?"
"At least the cover story works. No, it's more like an inter-dimensional airport…"
We can't keep you in the regular Foundation, god only knows what you'd release next. We could shoot you, but that seems a waste of bullets. No, I have a better idea… Are you familiar with !@%$%^&&^%#?"

Just pronounce !@%$%^&&^%#? however you want. It's a jumble of sounds and phonetics that represent a language meant for nonhuman sensory devices.
"Y-yes! Absolutely!" Gregory was lying through his teeth - he couldn't even pronounce ¡º£ª•¡, much less !@%$%^&&^%#?. Gregory spoke plenty of Earth languages - they were structurally simpler than reality television compared to œ∑∂åß (the language of his home world), though Gregory could barely even remember the syntax of œ∑∂åß - but he understood !@%$%^&&^%#? like an Internet troll understood the importance of Noetherian rings to noncommutative ring theory. Still, Gregory certainly wasn't about to admit that to his last lifeline.
"∑∂ˆ¨∆øˆ…˜ˆ∫ˆµ˚∂ˆ∑aDµ´ÓÅØ„ÎÍÇ˚ÅÍ?" O5-10 inquired.
Gregory's only chance was that time-honored tradition espoused by intellectuals, gamblers, and children the world over: bluffing.
"∑∂µ∑∂ÅÏÓ∫Å∫∆Øæ¬qœ∑," Gregory garbled out.
Unfortunately for everyone, O5-10's choice of sentence had damned them all. Through some unfortunate celestial coincidence, Gregory had answered O5-10's question almost perfectly. To be fair, though, the question was plainly obvious, and its answer more so.
"Call me impressed. Alright, Dr. Gregory Plump, you have a new job: official translator and diplomatic median of Site-354. Happy, escort him there and have Fly orient him. We'll hash out the details of payment and living later.”
"Sir, this is a serious breach of traditional hiring protocols for Site-354-"
"I know. I also know that unless we have a new translator, our competitors are going to gain an edge - and we cannot afford that. Besides, I'm going off of your decision algorithms. I hope you don't mean you aren't worth the small fortune I paid for you."
O5-10 leaned closer to the screen.
"Dr. Plump. This is a second chance for you. Don't screw it up."
The computer screen blinked off, and then folded away into the droid in a process that made Gregory's eyes and brain ache.
Happy stared at Gregory.
"Let's go."
The probes and tape binding fell away from Gregory, and he stood up gingerly. Happy was already zipping away into some far-off corner of the room.
"Come on," Happy beeped. "Follow me."
Gregory stumbled towards Happy, who waited by a large, technologically-imposing door in the far corner of the room.
"This may hurt."
Before Gregory could react, the highly advanced, multi-dimensional hive-mind quantum-computing artificial intelligence housed within a biomechanical interface extended two arms, one of which plugged into a socket by the door and the other into Gregory's nostrils. A brief spark of electricity leaped from Happy to both, and then the door opened while Gregory's eyes and limbs forcibly shut down.
"Hey!" Gregory protested, his eyes screwed up in pain. "What's this for?"
"We're about to cross through an interdimensional gateway. These are precautions. You're not authorized for further details."
The droid snatched Gregory up by the collar and dragged him through the door. He could feel a smooth, polished floor. Meanwhile, Happy was talking again. This time Gregory could actually tell that he was speaking in a much lighter, friendlier tone. "Say, I think we got off on the wrong foot in there, what with me trying to interrogate you and all. Really sorry about that, I'm not too good at interrogating suspects. That whole sharp, professional Ga'reth, that's not really me. That's just my job face."
"Huh?" Gregory squeaked out. The floor was starting to become uncomfortably warm and he could hear chanting, chanting scratching away at the edge of his brain. "Gareth?"
"Yeah. Sorry about all that, but you know how things are. Capture this, shoot that, interrogate this. Everyone here calls me Happy for some reason, but my… friends… call me Ga'reth, so you can too. I'm a silicon-based intelligence from the South End of the galaxy. I want to become a scriptwriter. It's nice to meet you."
"Uh, this floor is kind of melting my shoes." Now Gregory could sense words of unmistakable power being uttered by ancient, enormous creatures so mighty that entire universes were but grains of sand in their eyes.
"Yes, it does that. Just ignore it. So like I was saying, I'd love to be your friend. What hobbies do you have?" the AI chirped.
The floor was now burning hot, and Gregory was feeling the heat. He could sense the creatures examining him, perusing him for weaknesses they might use to open a gateway into this dimension. They longed to wreak havoc on the world, purge the universe of life and tear it asunder. Gregory could feel his conscious mind slipping into oblivion as the twisted emptiness of the void seeped into him. An ancient, eldritch beast from a plane of existence too horrible to contemplate seeded itself into his subconscious, festering and waiting, plotting for the right time to end all creation.
"I, uh, I watch… television. Reality TV, mostly."
"Wow, that's amazing! I'm a movie person myself, maybe we should watch something together sometime! I like romantic comedies and offbeat films. Like Eat, Pray, Love or Pi. I've actually been writing a script up that will combine the two kinds of - oh, wait, we're here!"
Ga'reth zapped Gregory again, and his vision and limb movement returned to him. Then his vision tried to free itself from his mind and take his limbs with it. His brain held on, but only just, and its grip was tenuous.
They were inside some kind of massive airport terminal - except built in higher dimensions. The terminal extended for farther than Gregory could see. Every kilometer or so was punctuated by a control tower spanning the gap between the walls. Gregory looked up. Ironically, the ceiling was only about fifty meters above. He could just barely make out his feet. At first he assumed it must be some kind of reflection in warped space-time - until his duplicate started walking away. Gregory got a better look at the ceiling and, squinting his eyes, saw innumerable repetitions of the same enormous chamber spiraling upwards into infinity. Gregory looked down and saw that his floor was made of some kind of concrete. He could only assume that the same principle was being applied to the other sides of the terminal.
In the center of the terminal lay rows and rows and rows of glowing red portals, through which all manner of fantastic and bizarre beasts and creatures shuffled through before being whisked away by panel-sized elevators on the floor. Some came out, others went in. A Panopticon-style control tower overlooked the portals, other such towers standing off in the distance. Behind Gregory and Ga'reth lay a similar, reddish doorway, which promptly blinked out of existence as soon as he noticed it was there.
Gregory got a better look around him. In a massive cafe, gigantic cockroaches with beagle heads sipped coffee served by androids. Enormous sentient rocks and odors perused books and headphones in a duty-free shop. Walking fungal growths, electricity crackling through crystalline wiring poking out of their innards, sat on plastic benches engrossed in Here Comes Honey Boo Boo (Interestingly, the show had yet to be green lit for actual production). Not a single thing in the entire terminal spared more than a passing glance at them.
It was bizarre, to say the least.
Meanwhile, Ga'reth was talking. "Welcome to the Pit. Professor Fry will be here shortly to orient you. Wait here, do not move, do not touch anything. Just wait. I'll see you later… friend!"
It zipped off.
Gregory looked around. Things had changed in the thirty years since he'd first arrived on Earth. Back then it was just him and a few other dumb, hopeful souls. Nothing but a wish and a prayer. Now it was a whole operation.
He was broken out of his reverie by a large rock-like creature gazing down at him, clutching two books in its four pincer-like hands. One was a rudimentary English-to-!@%$%^&&^%#? dictionary, the other a rather inappropriately named book that the poor sod had mistaken for a real travel guide. It mumbled something to him and pointed at the book.
"Erm, over there somewhere I suppose," Gregory waved his hands in a general direction he hoped was correct (He wasn't).
"Thank you," the creature read from the dictionary. It lumbered off.
"Ah, Dr. Plump! Already getting acquainted with the "locals" I suppose!"
Gregory turned around to see a two-meter tall bubbling mass of horseflies, buzzing in and around each other. The mass began to speak. "Hello! I am Professor Fry, the administrator of Site-354! You must be Dr. Plump. O5-10 told me you were coming"
"Uh… yes," Gregory answered tentatively. He flicked a few horseflies off his skin.
"Excellent! Welcome to Site-354, or as we usually call it, the Pit! This is the central hub for all Foundation processing of alien lifeforms into this reality. Here, we process alien immigrants, mediate diplomatic disputes, and monitor the borders of reality for undocumented jumpers. Follow me and we'll get you started! I'm amazed that O5-10 was able to find a new linguistics analyst on such short notice! How was your trip here?"
"Um… uneventful."
"That's a relief," Fry chuckled. "Funny story, really, all our analysts seem to be cursed. The last one, Feldman, for instance he was being stalked by a mannequin. But I'm sure that won't happen to you! Anyways, this here is a jump gate. Jump gates work…
…think of it as a college application. Only the brightest can enter our reality. Any toys they have, well, that sweetens the deal. That's one of the only reasons O5-10 allows this place to exist, you see. He's terrified that one of these days we're going to attract an interdimensional war…
…So, a fun tidbit about myself is that my favorite actor is Jeff Goldblum and also I'm the one who invented the jump gates. Tell me something about yourself…
…major responsibilities will include maintaining communication between us and any negotiating party, analyzing communications from unknown species, compiling vocabulary, grammar, and syntax dictionaries on languages, acting as a sacrifice in case things go sour, et cetera…
…staffed almost entirely by androids - that I invented, actually - to keep personnel costs low. Some things we still need humans for, like diplomacy and translation, since not all life forms are comfortable with robots…
…criminals and illegals trying to jump the dimensional borders. We usually try to direct them to that portal there, which leads to Area-354 and the "real" SCP-354 and let the goons there take care of them. Fun fact, 354 is actually just a vat of strawberry soda and ketchup. Looks evil enough and super cheap to replenish…
…coffee machines in these areas, and exotic vending machines here, here, here, here, and here. I definitely recommend the Zerlaxian special from this one for early morning shifts, it'll definitely pick you up - actually it'll render you unable to sleep for about eight hours but that's still good…
…and that should just about cover everything! We move fast around here and the pace doesn't slow down. But if you can keep up you'll find a rewarding job that has you meeting a lot of new people. Any questions? No? Good. Well," Fry concluded, "let's get you started. Here, this should be an easy job for you. Take this crystal."
He handed Gregory a pair of gloves, waiting for him to put them on, then gave him a glowing, green, octagonal prism. It was smooth and warm to the touch.
"This here is a temporal-relocation crystal. Short version, it allows you to bridge gaps between discrete time periods. Long version, you wouldn't understand without having at least three degrees in mathematics that have yet to be invented. Temporal-relocation ho! Now, this relocation crystal we picked up off an escapee from five centuries in the future. Be careful with it, by the way. Extremely fragile and extremely volatile. Normally I'd give it to an android, but these crystals wreak havoc on their clock distributors. We have some Zerlaxians coming to pick it up. All you have to do is give it to them and ask them to leave. Happy will escort you. Should be easy. Come find me when you're done."
The Professor suddenly dissolved into a gigantic amorphous mass of horseflies, which proceeded to fly away. Gregory stared at it in disbelief, then at the crystal in his hand.
At that moment, he was startled out of his wits by a voice coming over his shoulder. "Hey bud, it's me, Ga'reth! How are you?"
Less than ideal, Gregory reflected, as he stared at the remains of the crystal he had dropped on the floor.

«Act I: Domo Arigato


The tip of the knife was plunged into his ear.
It was an odd sensation. Sure, there was pain, incredible, exquisite agony, but that stopped at the surface of things. Below was the sensation of cool steel severing skin and sinew, and the sudden warmness of leaking blood stood at such sharp contrast to the metal. Below even that was the deeper understanding that a vital part of him was being destroyed, that he was somehow forever… compromised. Never to be whole again.
All these feelings. All these stark impressions. He couldn't help but find them fascinating, even as he wreathed and squirmed against his bonds.
"Do you see what I meant now? Do you understand?"
The stranger loomed above him, her masked face half hidden in shadows. The long beak of her mask hovered slightly above his forehead, threatening to poke out his eye if she leaned any closer.
"Gah!"
The stranger raised a gloved hand to her chin and rubbed it thoughtfully. "Not quiet yet, I see. Not to worry, we'll get there yet. Hold steady now."
With that, she plunged a second blade into his other ear. This one was serrated, and he could feel each of its each teeth massaging his auditory canal as it slid towards his eardrum. Again there was pain, and again he could sense something beneath it. Something… else. A lesson?
As he considered this, he screamed some more. Some things could simply not be avoided.
"Do you see now? Do you understand now?" There was a hint of imploring in the stranger's voice, the very slightest tremor in her voice.
"The pain..!"
"Yes! Yes, the pain! What does it tell you, beloved? What does it mean to you?"
He could feel hot tears streaming down his lacerated cheeks. Those had endured the woman's treatment earlier. The salt stung as wetness dripped over barely scabbed wounds.
"Tears! No no no, not tears! This teaches us nothing! This means nothing! Completely within established parameters, utterly normal! No cure, no cure!" The woman was now pacing around the dim chamber, obviously vastly irritated. He wished he could help her, wished he could take the hurt from her voice. But all he could do was to bemoan his own. It was shameful.
"We were so close! So close! All of this, all of it for nothing!"
With that, the woman returned to the chair he was tied to and carefully drew out both blades from his ears. He was surprised he could still hear her with all of the damage. His vision was dimming as pain threaten to overwhelm his senses utterly.
"You sleep now. We'll continue tomorrow. Knives obviously inefficient, should've known, should've known. Too hung up on traditions, was not thinking clearly. My fault, my fault. You sleep now."
Darkness swallowed him, and relief from the pain. Why did he find it so… disappointing?
He did not know.

Session Note #1213-A-55
Today's experiments have been an utter failure. Beginning to fear I am losing my touch, and perhaps more than that. Must retain grip on what I am. Believed old ways will reinforce this, was mistaken. Must attempt something new tomorrow, must advance, not retreat. Must not become like Surgeon. To lose identity and meaning, to find enjoyment in what should only be necessity. It is good that they have taken him, locked him up like the animal he now is. Lost all awareness of what he is doing and why, believes he has succeeded without understanding in what. "He is the cure", Hah! His conduct shames us all. To dabble with the dead… no, must not think of this further. Only the work matters, yes, only my labor.
Must not forget this lesson, yes. Tomorrow shall be something new. This one will be cured.

"Wake up, wake up! Time to try again now."
Cold water splashed against his face, and he awoke with a startled gasp.
"Yesterday was a failure. My fault. Something different now, different. Hold still."
The masked woman was there again, holding some sort of vice in her gloved hands. He did not struggle as she inserted his head into it. He was strangely giddy, almost excited. He did not know why.
"Good, good. Improvement, no squirming. Very proud. Open mouth now."
He did, felt her inserting something into it. He could not see what it was, but he felt it slide down his throat. It was dry and chalky, almost like a big pill.
He could feel something was wrong right away. His eyes began to burn and tear, his skin was itching terribly, but the very worst of it was his throat and stomach. They felt as dry as ancient bone, as if they have never sensed the touch of water. He tried to scream, but his vocal cords were like dried leather straps, unresponsive and useless.
"Dehumidifying, new technique. Very modern, very modern." She was leaning close to him again, peering closely into rapidly drying eyeballs. "What do you feel?"
"Nngh, frngh!"
"No, no talk. Not important, I can see myself. Focus on sensation, see through it, see below it. Focus."
He tried. This pain was nothing like what he experienced yesterday, nor any of the countless days before it. Though the pain the blades inflicted was a layered thing, it simply could not compare. This agony rang in every cell of his body, the desperate need for moisture radiating like the sun's heat through every tissue. He could imagine individual cells drying out and dying, could almost smell his skin dissolving into coarse powder. Such sensations!
"Excellent! You are close now, very close now!"
Yes, she was right! He had never experienced such a thing before! His awareness of his own body increased to level he has never even imagined possible. Everything was pain, and he was everything! The world itself was crumbling around him, reality torn away and mulched and refined. All of existence shared his agony at this very moment, and so he was one with it, one with all. The world was his! All of it was worth it, all of it was worth it! Just like he was promised, like-
His body collapsed on itself. With no moisture at all left in it, he crumbled into a pile of desiccated skin and empty, crumbling organs. His last impression was that of the masked woman reached for him in dismay, desperately trying to stabilize his dying form. He tried to reach for her, to tell her that everything was alright. To thank her for all she did for him. But his mouth no longer worked, and his tongue was a black, shriveled thing in it. It was too late for that. He was going away now. The world was drifting away from him, all sensation and pain leaving with it. He hated to see it go.
As he died, his only regret was that he was never able to tell her what she did for him.

Session Note #1213-A-56
Lost patient 1213 today. Unfortunate side-effect of new therapy, could not be avoided. Prior to death, patient showed promising signs of deepened understanding, though the rapid degeneration of his speech capabilities prevents me from making a more accurate assessment. New dehumidifying treatment possess necessary depth of sensation, but may prove too rapidly lethal to be viable. Must attempt again with next patient, this time without attempting the knives first. Possibly weakened patient 1213 too much prior to last experiment. Must learn to avoid old habits, attempted knives too many times, inefficient. Must learn to control more primal urges, that is the way to madness. Must not become like Surgeon, must not go too far away, must not believe in my own righteousness. Retain purpose.
Still, today was progress, must not regret progress. Patient 1213 showed advanced signs of positive mental assimilation towards end of treatment, another positive sign. All effort goes towards the cure. Through pain, understanding. Through understanding, peace. Through peace, healing and enlightenment. I must always remember what I am, and why I am here for. Do not let guilt consume me. Do not become like Surgeon and find relish in my work. Work only for understanding, peace, healing, enlightenment. Remember that I am Therapist.
Remember that I must make them become the cure.

Hub


The smell of rot was in the air.
As the afternoon sun began its descent, the footsteps of the approaching stranger fell upon the quiet village streets as poison leeches into an unguarded well. The muddy road never touched his immaculate black boots and the hem of his long robe was as clean as a starless night as he made his way towards his destination. The small hill that overlooked the village and the cottage that stood on its top were his goal.
At the foot of the hill crouched an elderly hound. His eyes were clouded and the hairs on his muzzle were white, but still he rose to greet the stranger, his long tail wagging back and forth furiously. The stranger stopped and reached a gloved hand to pet the old dog's head, his fingers gently scratching behind the hound's ears, causing it to whimper happily. The old dog rolled on his back, and the stranger gave his belly similar attention. The hound yelped like a young pup at that. The stranger laughed, and if anyone else was there to hear it, they'd likely have noted how unlikely it was to hear that sound coming from that cold, pale face.
From the hill above came a wail. A young woman came rushing out of the cottage, her face ruddy with tears. An older man came after her, visage drawn with pain, to gently lay a hand on her shoulder. The woman turned to him and buried her face in his shoulder, weeping loudly. The older man combed his fingers through her hair, obviously holding back tears of his own. At the bottom of the hill the hound looked up worriedly, but the attentions of the stranger soon swayed it back into complacency. As for the stranger himself, he observed the scene impassively, cold silvery eyes passing over woman and man and cottage as if all of those were less than the dried leaves that covered the surrounding countryside. He made no hails, nor did he move to ascend to the top of the hill.
Some time later, a third man emerged from the cottage. His outfit was that of a country physician, though his pale Ibis-bird mask belied this impression. He spoke briefly to the older man, nodded to the young woman, then returned inside. Moments later he emerged once more, this time carrying a large bundle in both hands. Seeing it, the woman wailed again, running back into the cottage and slamming the door behind her. The older man shook his head, said something to the physician, and the two shook hands. The older man followed the woman inside, while the physician, bundle in hands, began to make his way down from the hill and onto the muddy road below. While all this occurred, the stranger never lifted his eyes from the hound, who was now dozing in the sun next to his feet. Long fingers kneaded the hound's hindquarters, where an old hunting wound left a large scar.
As the physician stepped unto the road his eyes fell upon the stranger. He stopped mid-step, bundle clutched tightly in his hands.
"She is not for you, Youngest. A deal was made."
The stranger gave the hound one last pat and turned to face the physician. Eyes like frosted glass measured the masked man.
"A deal? I recall no such thing, Diagnostician."
The physician grasped the bundle more tightly yet. "You gave us leave, damn you! You gave us leave!"
The stranger cackled, this sound lacking all the joy of his earlier laugh. He straightened, and in his full height he loomed over the physician like an oak over a stalk of grass. "Be wary of making assumptions, insect. Remember your place. Remember by whose power your rotten form remains on this earth."
The physician looked up defiantly for a moment, than all resistance seemed to leave him. Something within him crumpled, and he dropped his bundle to the earth.
"Have her then. You always get yours in the end, don't you?"
The stranger laughed once more, and a silvery harvest sickle appeared from the folds of his dark robe. He raised the instrument to the air and the physician closed his eyes, unable to watch. The very air was parted in two as the sickle descended to the ground… to hover above the head of the old hound, whose labored breathing slowed… then stopped. A silvery thread unwound itself from the elderly dog and curled around the sickle like early morning fog, and the air was momentarily filled with the sound of the proud braying of a hound in his full glory, filled with the thrill of the hunt.
The physician stared as the stranger stashed the sickle back in his robes and turned to leave.
"The hound… you came all this way for a dog?"
The stranger half-turned and looked up to the early autumn sky, towards the slowly setting sun.
"I have told not to make assumptions, did I not?"
The physician didn't know what to say. So he said nothing. He bent down to pick his fallen bundle. As he rose again, the stranger was gone, leaving only the scent of rotting snow and dead leaves behind him. And a comment.
"I happen to like dogs."

One, sniper.
The warrior gaped at his own shattered corpse. His face, adorned with the newly formed beard he had been so proud about, now sported a rather ugly hole dead in its center. His brothers in arms didn't even stop to arrange his body in a more dignified pose, so it remained splayed on the dirt where it fell, its one remaining eye staring blindly at the desert sky.
This can't be happening…
An explosion in the distance. Screams.
Seven. Improvised demolition charge. Total eight.
Flies were already beginning to gather around the warrior's body. Tiny insects buzzed around spilled brain matter, relishing the unexpected feast. The warrior, horrified, tried to wave them away but they did not appear to notice him. It was almost as if he was not there at all. As if that body was all that was left of him. But that clearly wasn't true, was it? He was here!
This wasn't what was promised…
To his horror, the warrior found that he no longer felt anything when he looked at the meat that was formerly him. He made no further move to swat away the flies that began buzzing about the ruin of his face, nor did he scream when a battered SUV crushed it carelessly below its wheels as it rushed away from the battlefield, carrying wounded that appeared to be in little better shape than his corpse.
Twenty five, series of anti-tank missile attacks. Total-thirty three.
The warrior now became aware of the droning, somehow metallic voice. But where did it come from, where-
Forty-three, ambush, small arms fire. Total seventy-six.
And there it was, towering directly above the warrior as if it was always there. A gargantuan armored shape that eclipsed the sun, a behemoth comprised of broken arms and shattered walls. War personified. Terror incarnate. Pain and desolation made manifest.
One hundred forty-four. Air strike. Total two hundred and ten. Greetings, warrior.
The atrocity's voice scarcely seemed like it could come from such a monstrous figure. It was smooth, calm and cultured, the voice of an elder preacher or a respectable general. The warrior found himself strangely drawn to it even as the creature's appearance repulsed and terrified him. Stuck between fleeing the creature and approaching it, the warrior stood his ground, staring at it with undisguised trepidation.
One. Sudden heart failure. Hrm. Total two hundred and eleven. You seem oddly yourself, warrior. Awareness lingers in you yet. Unusual.
When the warrior made no reply, the creature continued, eyes like massive laser sights burrowing into the warrior like a trench shovel.
Come now, you needn't fear me. There is very little left to fear, really.
"I… what is happening to me."
Something in the creature's rough features moved. The warrior could almost imagine it was grinning. Why, the inevitable, of course. You are done.
"But… this isn't how things were supposed to go. This wasn't supposed to happen!"
Hrhmhmm. This was the only thing that was ever supposed to happen to you.
The warrior found himself screaming. "Do not mock me! I wasn't promised this! There was to be glory, and justice, and the reformation of proper order, I was-"
Twenty. Trap hole. Total two hundred and thirty-one. And who, warrior, made such promises to you?
"The prophets! The scripture! My mother and father, the preachers, my teachers and friends!"
Hah. There is your problem then. Unreliable sources. Such a shame. But not really. Hrmmhahhm.
The warrior's screams now bore the distinct edge of panic. "Silence! I do not believe you, it is not over! It is a test, yes, a simple test, that is all! You are a demon sent to torment me, to try my faith! But I will not let you, no no no, I will not-"
The warrior voice faltered as the massive figure turned away from him. Around them, the sounds of battle began to weaken and dwindle, and the world was losing something of its… color. The sun was setting, the warrior thought, though he did not dare look at it to find out of it was true. He feared he would find the sky empty.
Are you quite done, warrior? For I am. The others are all collected. It is time to go.
And indeed, the warrior was suddenly surrounded by his life-long fellows. And his generations-old enemies. None seem to pay any attention to him as they strode towards the creature with unfaltering unity, marching to the beat of a drum the warrior could only barely hear.
"Where… where are we going?"
The figure turned to him once more. Its mangled iron expression was impenetrable.
Elsewhere, warrior. To a place where you will be a warrior no more. Follow. Or not. It is all the same to me.
The figure was marching away, the warrior's former fellows forming a snaking troop behind it.
What could he do but follow?

Jeser, the Prince of Many Faces, was sweating profusely.
He despised everything about his current situation. He despised the massive, tasteless hall his master chose as his throne room. He despised the horrendously uncomfortable iron chair he was forced to sit on. He despised the way the air managed to somehow feel both too humid and too dry, too hot and too frosty. He despised the pathetic simpering noises his master's consorts and concubines made with each cruel pull of the chains the master held in his massive, gnarled fists. He despised the fact that it were not his hands to hold the chains.
Most of all, he despised his master.
The all-powerful Crimson Monarch. The Prince of Many Faces was a proud god. Once the ruler of two dozen worlds, his to dominate and to do all he desired with. Then came the Crimson Monarch, and then came his countless legions. His worlds were conquered.
This was not the reason he so hated his master.
The Prince was wiser than many of his fellows. He realized from the start that no good would come from resisting such power. So he relented, made the conquest easy and relatively bloodless. And he had made himself useful, very useful indeed. With time, he rose to a position unrivaled by any god in the Monarch's court. Though he lost his dozen worlds, hundreds were now open to him. Though his power was no longer absolute, as the Monarch's right hand man he could have any pleasure he desired, and could inflict any sort of pain on any being he wished. The Crimson Monarch could be a generous lord.
And yet, the Prince of Many Faces despised his master. For forcing him to be here today.
"He will be here soon."
His master's voice was like the chittering of a billion infinitesimal insects, shifting and swirling and constantly moving. It was neither high nor low nor cacophonous nor methodical. It simply was.
"Are you certain, my king? He might not come this year." The Prince offered weakly.
"He comes always. He shall be here."
"Your might grows with each passing moment, great one. Surely, even he has learned to fear you by now. He would be a fool not to."
His master made no reply to that. His massive form dominated the hall, dwarfing the Prince's own usually imposing figure into insignificance. And yet, the usual all-conquering arrogance was gone from the master's voice. To be replaced with something… different. The Prince did not dare contemplate what that something was. Such thoughts were high treason.
They continued to wait. With each passing minute, the Prince watched his master and could feel own his dread intensifying. Why did the Monarch insist he'd be here? What possible purpose was there to subject him to such… has he not been loyal, or at least as loyal as the likes of him were expected to be? Had he not-
A shadow fell on the pale giant-bone floor of the great hall. The Prince saw his master shift restlessly in his throne, gnarled chitinous hands gripping slave chains tighter and tighter. The naked men, women and others at the other end twisted in agony, but the Monarch paid them no heed. His gaze was focused only on the shifting shadow, which grew longer with each passing moment. Then-
Insect.
The Prince instinctively recoiled in his seat. Where there was only shadow moments earlier stood a figure. Its legs were as wide and tall as men, as great trees, as towers. Its hands were gloved in silk, in mail, in empty vacuum. It wore a robe of purest ivory, of deepest azure, of dusky flesh. Its shoulders were shrouded in mist, somehow disappearing into the darkness of the hall's ceiling, though clearly it could not be that tall…
"All-Death. You come once more."
The Prince had to grudgingly admire the calmness in his master's voice. He did not think he could muster the same. The Crimson Monarch rose from his throne, his magnificent and terrifying figure unfolding into its full glory. The Prince was surprised to see how unimpressive it suddenly appeared.
It is the day. Today, Harak, son of the Third Brood, is the day of your birth.
The Monarch's true name. He dared speak it. So the rumors were true. For a moment, the Monarch's visage was lit with fury. Then he mastered himself, and spoke once more, calmly.
"Today, All-Death, is the day of my birth. Today is the day I began my ascension."
The day of your birth. The day you took your first victims. Your brood brothers still scream for you in my halls.
"They shall scream far more loudly when your halls are mine. I shall make sure of it."
From the mist-shrouded ceiling came an awful sound. Merry laughter, as light and guileless as a child's, filled with joy.
Ah, earthworm. You burrow in your dirt, you eat the other tiny creatures that live in it and think yourself the master of all creation.
His master visibly bristled at that. With a sudden yank, he pulled at his slave chains savagely, bringing one of his screaming consorts to his feet. The Monarch grabbed the helpless man with one enormous fist and effortlessly smashed his throat. The man had no time to scream.
"Earthworm, you say? How droll. See how easily I master your domain. See with what grace I deliver more and many into your dank halls."
For a time, the figure did not move. The master dropped the consort's lifeless body to the floor, where he was gathered by his weeping fellows. The Prince said nothing, looked at nothing. He only wished to be away from here, back at his games, back at-
Indeed. Harak, son of the Third Brood. No other has delivered so many into my halls. Such I shall give you. You have filled them to the bursting.
His master seemed to straighten at that, as if the All-Death was his own master and he but an apprentice, awaiting praise. It was an odd sight.
Consider this, when the day comes for you to join them. For me to take you to them.
And just as fast, his master deflated, all strength seemingly leaving his body. The Prince had never before seen him thus.
This is my gift to you, on the day of your birth, insect. I bid you contemplate on it. Until next year.
And the figure was gone. The Prince gaped at the empty space it was in only moments ago, and then at his master, who sunk back to his throne like a dying man. He was actually shivering, by creation! Why did he want the Prince to witness all of this? What was the point of it all?
The Crimson Monarch let out a soft breath, and turned his gaze to the Prince.
"I did it so you remember. Conspire against me, and all shall be yours. My worlds, my servants, my power. The fear of all creation. Dominion over all."
"And this."

Hub


The seal is broken
O fallen King of splinter'd crown
Eye pierced upon thy spear
The girl has got you bested
The seal is broken
The Mother of Hunters has shattered her chains
The Toymaker has fired her shots
The first shots of the last war
The seal is broken
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed
Stars boil and worlds are torn in two
The King marches on creation
The seal is broken
The hour stirs
A beast slouches towards Gotham to be born
Rising up from Benthos' black realm
The seal is broken
The child whimpers in pain
For hers is the pain by which the world ends
Hers is the pain by which the end of the world begins
The seal is broken
Gaping eyes bear witness, gasping mouths sing praise
Two keys open Atom's Gate
What lies beyond, none can see.
THE SEAL IS BROKEN
There was a great and terrible silence
A bulb of fire rose upon a column of cloud in the sky above Montauk Point.
There was a great and terrible noise
There was a great and terrible silence

The girl who had forgotten the names of the world stood atop a grassy mound, trembling in the light wind. Color soaked the world around her: Mossy green hills, blanketed with fields of tiny white flowers. Dark, distant mountains with fire-red crowns. Sharp-blue glaciers settled in the shadows of knife-edged valleys. Vast standing stones, mottled pale with ancient lichen, rose above the hills, wearing garlands of seashells and pink flowers. The breeze brushed against her bare ankles, neither warm nor chill. If she strained her ears, she could hear the crash of waves against far-off cliffs and the cries of seabirds.
There had been a flash of light. She remembered a blinding moment, a blast of heat, and the feeling of arms around her. Not the arms of a Masked Man, all muscle and bruise. Soft arms.
Light, heat, arms, nothing, and then waking on the hilltop.
The world she had no names for called out to her. She could not remember the colors or smells, nor the grass or mountains or wind. She could not remember a world without corners and white tile, without humming lights and cold metal against her back, without Masked Men. She could not remember, but she answered all the same. She did not remember this world, but she knew it, as if she were returning to a vanished dream rising from the mist.
The girl with ratty hair and hollow cheeks, dark bags under her eyes, pressed a hand to her stomach. It stung at even a gentle touch, a sharp bite of pain, but the pain was nothing compared to what had been. Nothing compared to the pain the Masked Men delivered upon her body, or the writhing, gnawing, clawing pain of the Thing inside her. No, it was nothing. A new, nothing pain.
The girl had given birth.
The Thing lay in the grass a few feet away – a blackened mass of flesh, torn up and knitted back together in cancerous coils, cloaked in a rotted placenta. Shattered bones twisted limbs into uselessness, suckling mouths opened and closed wordlessly, skin peeled away from melted muscle. Blood and fecal matter splattered the grass, a dark ooze leaked into the soil from its bloated gut. Organs pulsed and spasmed underneath thin skin. Breath wheezed and gurgled out of its bone-punctured lungs. Tiny hands clawed at the loam, desperately trying to drag itself across the ground.
When the girl first saw it, she wanted to kill it, to stomp on its neck until it was dead. She found that she could not, and she did not understand why. Nor could she bring herself to leave it, this disgusting, broken Thing.
Her terrible child.
The air stirred, heavy with the smell of salt. A lonesome cry echoed in the hills. The girl turned, and saw that a woman stood there on the hilltop, past the place where the Thing lay.
The woman's skin was smooth and grey as polished slate, her braided hair like silver silk, her eyes wide and dark. Her cheeks and brow were lined with glowing blue patterns. Her bare shoulders bore clusters of bright tube-worms. She wore a white dress; her belly was stained with red.
“Hello,” she said. Her voice was deep and wide, and felt as if it would carry for miles for its size.
The girl recoiled, hobbled legs tensing to run. But the woman didn't come any closer – She just sat down in the grass, tucked her legs up underneath her, and began picking flowers. She hummed a melancholy tune, and it rumbled across the hills.
The girl edged closer. The woman began tying stems together, her thick fingers not as clumsy as they looked. The girl watched intently, trying to mark if she was a threat.
The woman looked up and smiled at the girl, who drew back again.
“It's okay,” she said. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
The Thing gurgled, blew a bloody bubble of spit.
“I'm sorry about all of this,” the woman continued, her fingers still weaving. “But I promise, everything is going to be okay now. You're safe.”
The girl looked the woman over, her eyes hard.
“No Masked Men?” she asked at last.
“Never again.”
The girl narrowed her eyes.
“You're lying.”
The woman held out her right hand, and drew her left across the palm as if holding a knife. Blood welled up from a deep, straight cut. The woman clenched her fist, sending dark droplets onto the grass.
“I swear by my blood, shed in the war against the King, that you will be safe here, so long as a drop of life remains in me.” The woman's voice boomed across the land. “I am not lying.”
The girl could feel something inside those words. Something powerful. Words that were not words, meaning untamed by speech. She felt afraid, and very small. Not because the woman was a threat, but because she could feel her power coursing through the air, the soil, her very being. The woman that sat before her was an image of something vaster, a form of something greater and broader than she could even hope to imagine.
“Is that good enough?”
The girl nodded. It was all she could do. The woman wiped her hand on the grass, her palm already healed into a pale scar.
“My name's Abby.” She placed her crown of flowers on her head and began picking more. “You can come and sit over here, if you want.”
The girl didn't move.
“I know I look really suspicious right now…why did I say that? Since when has that ever been a good thing to say? I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” The woman sighed, brushed aside a strand of hair. “It's been a long time since I really had a chance to talk to anyone. I'm not lying to you, I promise, but it's difficult to say exactly what I want to say. I could show you, but…oh.” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “I think we have a visitor.”
A second wind passed over the hill, smelling of leaf litter and dirty snow. A cloud cast a shadow, and that shadow became the cloak of a pale man. The girl shivered, but kept her gaze locked – she could feel in her stomach that if she looked away, she would die.
The pale man nodded at Abby, though it was really little more than a tilt. She returned the gesture. He turned his eyes towards the girl. Hard, empty eyes – it would have been easier to bear if there had just been sockets, but no. Hard silver eyes, as empty as marbles.
“I am not here for you, child,” he said in a dust-and-skin voice. He swept up to the Thing, and a silver-moon sickle was in his hand.
“Wait…” the word slipped from the girl's mouth unbidden.
The pale man drew a shimmering cloud from the Thing's gaping mouth, reached forth with his sickle.
“Don't…”
A short soundless cut across the imaginal tether, and the cloud dissipated.
“Is this not what you wanted?” The pale man framed it more as statement than question.
The girl swallowed, staring at the still, lifeless Thing.
“Take it as a lesson, girl. Be careful when you invoke my passing.”
The pale man turned his marble eyes towards Abby.
“And as for you…” he hissed.
“Another time. Please. She's been through enough…”
“No. You have brought the girl into this, she will listen. You are responsible for everything that she is now to face.” He swung back around to the girl. “Remember that, girl. For all that is to come, she is to blame.” A thin finger pointed with dread accusation.
“I saved her,” Abby said.
“Only from my mercy, because the broken bride desired a pet. But the Fool has gone and angered the Worm, and the center cannot hold.”
“It can for long enough.”
“The thirty-six are scattered to the winds, and creation spirals into anarchy without them.”
“We can still-.”
“Do you never tire of lapping up the Fool's vanity? Your father has already sharpened his carving knives and drawn blood. He will devour creation and choke upon it, and all that will remain are my brothers and I.” The pale man grinned, though it did not look like he truly knew how. “I wonder; how will your Fool fare against my Eldest?”
“She is not nearly as vain as you think.”
“Vanity, vanity, everything is vanity. All of creation is the vanity project of a god most utterly mad.” The pale man paused, seemed to hear something that the girl could not. “I am forever needed elsewhere. I shall soon see you two again.”
With a swish of shadow and the smell of decay, he vanished. Abby smiled, though it was nearly as forced as the pale man's grin.
“He's so full of himself, isn't he?”
The girl did not respond. Abby stood up, walked over to the Thing's still corpse, and knelt.
“Come.”
She began scooping away the soil, digging out a shallow grave. The girl swayed, as if to move, but remained in place.
“Why are you doing all this?”
“It wouldn't be right to just let it lie here.”
“No!” The girl blurted out. “Why am I here, why are you here, where is here? What are you even talking about? Just…why?”
Abby stopped digging, and was quiet for a time. She didn't look angry.
“I understand. I haven't been very helpful.” She wiped the dirt off on her dress. “I'm sorry.”
Wind moaned, swirling up the hill, chilling the girl through her hospital gown. Abby dropped her gaze back to the shallow grave and went back to digging. After a time, the grave was deep enough. Abby gently picked up the Thing and placed it in the earth. The girl couldn't make out whether she was sad or angry or happy by this. The Thing was dead, dead and buried, but she couldn't feel anything. She didn't know what life would be like without it. If life could be without it.
But Abby was turning the soil over, and the Thing was buried. Gone in the ground. Exit the scene. Done.
The girl was struck with a horrible sense of longing, and thundering on its heels came a tide of deep black disgust, tinged with a hatred turned inward and refined. How dare she feel pity? Had she forgotten? Had she become so weak as to forgive the Masked Men their violence?
The girl's inner voice screamed, beat at her heart, clawed at her throat. Every muscle ached to run away, to flee from this feeling inside her, to beat it back into submission, to hide, to do something. Something to hide from the Thing, from Abby, from herself, from every peering eye and pointing finger.
And yet, she remained standing on the hilltop. She didn't understand why, but no matter how much she strained to flee, some part of her said “no”. The rest listened.
“Maybe things will be better if I just show you,” Abby said. “Will that be okay?”
The girl nodded.
Abby reached up, and the sky parted like water as she drew her hand across. Curtains of green and streams of purple burst from her fingers, bordering a wedge of velvet black that bloomed out to fill the entire sky with night.
And there were stars. So many stars, spilling across the sky, rising up into the heavens in a great sparkling band. A billion, billion lights forming the trunk of an impossibly tall tree, and billions more to make the branches. The hills were lit with silver evening.
The girl could not remember when she had last seen stars, or if she ever had. Their names came to nest in her heart, and the girl felt their song filling her. She cried. For the first time in long years, her tears were not of pain.
The girl saw now that Abby had changed. The woman in the white dress was gone, and in her place now was a great grey giant that sat among the hills. Pale scars swept across her body. Barnacles and lice clustered on her arms, on her breasts, on her thighs. A shawl of tube-worms and sealskin sat on her shoulders. Streams of glowing plankton flowed about her in the air like dandelion seeds, growing bright and then dim with the pulse of her own glow. Parasites clouded her wide, dark eyes. Her salt-crusted hair hung in knotted tangles. A second pair of arms had appeared, the hands painted white with seafloor snow. A ragged hole had been torn through her stomach, clear through to the other side. The edges were crusted in blood and hagfish and a fire danced within, wreathed in the black smoke of a seafloor vent.
“I know your pain,” Abby said in her vast, sweeping voice. “I shared it. Every day they came for you, I felt the same.”
The girl knew that she was speaking the truth. She could feel Abby's words close by her spirit, the echoes whispering “You are not alone.”. What could be done? She knew, with the utmost certainty, that she was loved.
“We were bound together under my father's seal, sisters in suffering. But we don't have to suffer any longer. The seal is broken. He has no power here, over either of us, and we can make things right. That's why you're here. I wanted to give you back the life my father stole from you. I can't make the pain go away, but I can be here for you when it becomes too much to bear alone.”
Abby extended a hand, holding it flat on the hilltop, her creased palm turned up to the stars.
“Will you stay?” she asked.
Wordlessly, the girl stepped onto her hand, tears still glistening on her cheeks. Abby gently lifted her hand and smiled.
“Just tell me when you want to be put down. We can get you something to eat, if you're hungry.”
“I'm okay,” the girl said, wiping at her eyes. “I'd just like to sit here for a while.”
“I can do that,” Abby said.
The two watched the stars turn slowly above them, and a final piece of knowing wrote itself in the girl's heart. A name, remembered from the distance times before it was stolen from her.
Her name was Grace, and she was being put back together.


In the temple of Ana, there were a thousand mirrors. They covered the walls, the columns, the arched and vaulted ceiling. Scales of silver, lit by a thousand lamps. One could stand anywhere, and see themselves a thousand times. See every flaw a thousand times. Every fold of meat, every bulge of thick and sagging flesh. One could stand anywhere in the temple and see themselves as they were beneath the glazed gaze of the dishonest eye: Unworthy. Unneeded. Unlovely.
There was no idol or icon in the temple of Ana, for the Goddess Who Does Not Hunger could only be seen in the self, and her judgment was proclaimed in the mirror's truth.
Ana's altar sat in the center of the nave: a long stone table with blue-tiled benches, bordered by deep troughs in the floor for the prescribed purging. Wire-thin statues, twice as tall as a man, jugs on their shoulders, poured out twin streams that flowed down the troughs and drained away into the temple's blessed sewage pipes.
At the head of the altar, the Starvess' chair had been moved aside and a marble paving stone had been pulled up. The dark space underneath yawned, a throat caked in black dust.
A short distance away, a series of interlocking binding circles had been set out on the floor with iron flakes and salt. At the center of the inner circle sat a massive, brutish skull. It had a weak and sloping forehead, wide cheekbones, sunken sockets, an underbit jaw with fangs the size of a thumb, and thick horns coiling out from the forehead. Bands of darkened metal circled the cranium, hammered into the black bone. At the crown of the head was a metal plate, engraved with the symbol of the goddess: a single, vertical line.
Sitting next to the skull, surrounded by parchment scrolls, was a dark, lanky man named Tokos. He had a wild mane of black hair, which made him look something like a lion, and a sort of large, hooked nose that made him look something like a falcon.
He was having a very bad day.
The self-writing scrolls that surrounded him were covered in narrow, neat lines of bloody red error logs that grew ever longer. All he was here to do was help install a patch and clean out the system, that was it. A maintenance job, half an hour, tops.
A half-hour job had turned into five hours with no end in sight. Fourteen reboots and constant re-entry of his admin credentials had not gotten him anywhere closer to actually installing the patch, or even recovering an earlier operating state. At this point, it wasn't even recognizing that the patch existed, and each reboot brought with it another crippling series of errors.
These damned mark-ones. If properly maintained, could last for centuries, but that proper maintence required everything to be installed, removed, or cleaned out by hand. Most of the cults in the frontier provinces still used them for their reliability, even when the central kingdoms were now running on mark-fives and mark-sixes, but when they broke, King's bleeding spears on the Deepest Throne they broke catastrophically.
If this core couldn't be salvaged, it would be a minimum of three weeks to get a replacement shipped from the provincial capital, and that was if the core was hunted down quickly and the deliverymen didn't run afoul of the Guild of Highwaymen. Then he'd have to set that skull up and transfer over surviving memories, and then actually install the patch…
It was times like this that Tokos could understand the appeal of getting rid of DemonOS entirely and upgrading to mana-cloud operating systems, even if it meant that he would be out of a job. Among all the typical frustrations, DemonOS systems had a tendency towards actively plotting the demise of those who worked with them. The sign of any good glyph-monkey was a tally of failed assassination attempts. Tokos kept his marks tied in his braid: two attempted exsanguinations and a near impalation. The skull had not outwardly attempted to strike back at him at all in the last five hours, which Tokos took as a sign that his binding circles were doing their job. At least that worked.
The technician pressed his fingers against his forehead, and ran through the steps of the defragging process once again, inscribing his own scrolls with taps of his fingers and mystical mutterings. He settled into the familiar metronome of arcane coding.
This musing was interrupted by the low, sepulchral groan of the temple doors opening.
“Temple's closed!” he shouted, standing up sharply. The code on his scroll trailed off and stopped as the errors kept flowing. “Services are to be carried out in the home until further notice!” He strode towards the figure standing in the doors, fists clenched in frustration that had to go somewhere. “There was a sign! I put a sign right on the door!”
A woman stood in the doorway, her head shaved, her skin pallid and yellowing, stretched too tight over bird-thin bones and bulging blue veins. Hollow eyes deep in their sockets. Lips and eyelids pulled back, desiccated. Age uncertain. A bowed stance from brittle bones. A pale silk dress, embroidered with verses of self-recrimination. An unassailable aura of devotion, paired with the creeping image of approaching death. She held a small parcel wrapped in cloth in her hands.
From where she stood, a thousand copies stared back at her, and a thousand and one Tokoses.
The thaumechanic cleared his throat, and reined his frustration back in. Today had been enough trouble. He didn't like trouble. No need to cause himself more trouble.
“The temple is closed for maintenance,” he said again.
“Oh,” she said. Her voice was like chalk, crumbly and soft.
“I am afraid that you'll have to come back tomorrow.”
“Ah. I am sorrying.”
A curious accent, Tokos noted. A curious appearance, too – she was too pale to be from among the swarthy-skinned locals, though her bodily condition had deteriorated so much that Tokos could not tell where she came from. Her sandaled feet were caked with dust, as was the hem of her gown. She carried a scent of dried sweat and dirt, covered up with a spice-laden perfume that could not hide it completely.
Not only a foreigner, but a pilgrim, who apparently came alone…
It had been said that it was safe for a woman carrying a sack of gold to walk unmolested from one end of the empire to the other. This was true mostly because the gold could pay off any brigand that had not been eaten up by the slave pits or the conscription masters, so one's safety was generally tied to how much cash one had to pay the proper bribes or hire the appropriate mercenaries. If this woman truly had journeyed alone, and from so far away, she must have possessed a sizable sum of wealth. Either that, or she possessed a significant amount of power granted from Ana herself.
Tokos realized that he might have made a massive mistake. Crossing someone with wealth was dangerous enough. Someone channeling divine magic was even worse, because gods did not have to play by rules. Gods did what they wanted, and a sorcerer like Tokos, who had schooling and rules and limits and methods and systems, could not pose any sort of resistance.
He scrambled to salvage the situation. The pilgrim appeared to not be of the vengeful type, he could salvage this and go back to not meddling in affairs which might attract attention.
“Wait. Wait, wait. Actually…I think that I can make an exception,” he said. “You've clearly come a long way, and so long as you don't need to use the tenet core for anything, you should be okay.” With luck she would be in and out and gone, and he would not even have to explain it to the Starvess.
“I am gratefuling to yun,” she said, bowing creakily. She walked past him and approached the altar. Illiterate, Tokos decided. Or at least unfamiliar with common script – if she was as rich or as powerful as he thought, she would have had some sort of education.
She sat down and unfolded her parcel. She was less substantial than a skeleton. She was…nothing. A wisp of silk and a breath. Tokos caught a glimpse of a small brick of cheese, coated in white wax. The red glyph on the side explained everything Tokos needed to know. If she could afford whale cheese, he was not fool enough to step between her and anything. Whale cheese was limited to the highest echelons of the cult – they were the only ones who could buy it or survive eating it.
Tokos went back to the skull, back to the scrolls, back to the ciphers. He tried to work as quietly and nondescriptly as possible now accompanied by cycles of faint chewing and splashes of vomit in the trough.
Tokos wasn't particularly familiar with the cult of Ana. He knew the basics, from back in his time in seminary. They starved themselves to a state of perfected beauty beyond the cage of physical nature, and then died. They were popular among frontier nobility and the disenfranchised youth of the central kingdoms. Rival of the Mother and the Flesh, no major alliances. Never known to manifest directly. Enough money and power to make someone miserable and / or dead.
That was enough for him.
Time passed, and eventually the chewing and retching stopped, though Tokos did not hear the pilgrim rise from her bench. The skull was still obtuse.
“I am not wishing to be causing dis-ruption, but I am questioning,” the pilgrim said. “Who is those who be crossified outwards?”
Ah. Yes. The crucifixions in the street. Something of a notable feature of the city's temple district, along with the sacred prostitutes of the Mother, the fried vegetable sellers, and the arthritic donkey that had been pissing everywhere for the last sixty years.
“The Sarkists claim they're factors of the Crucible who tried desecrating the Flesh Sanctuary. The Crucible claims they're rogue unionists and denies any connection.”
“War is sooning?”
“I don't know.” Tokos redoubled his current isolation technique. It was a total lie, of course. Lapsed in his practice as he was for the last two decades, he had to work in the shadows of the gods on a regular basis.
There was going to be war. Tensions had been high for months. The theological situation in the Empire was a cosmic wargame, a tangled cannibalistic orgy, a nest of vipers tied in knots. The Scarlet King sat on his throne above a court of squabbling kings and queens and princes. Alliances and rivalries shifted constantly, bubbled up and boiled away, and anyone could see that the temples were hiring out more guards than usual…
The Buried Giants, Tokos' once-patrons in that ancient retreat on the steppes, had gone quiet. The Flesh and the Mother had formed a tentative alliance, allowing the Flesh to focus on the Crucible and Ana. The Prince of Many Faces appeared on a near-weekly basis to stir up old grudges. The Hanged King had isolated himself in Alagadda and had called together his dwindling demesne to plot. Moloch was ascendant, and his furnaces grew bright on the bones of children. The devotionaries of the First Sword had revived alongside the Butcher's campaigns with a strength not seen in generations, and looked to grow even stronger with the planned march to the west. Minor gods scrambled over each other for scraps.
"I am thoughting that war be quick,” the pilgrim said. “Many such on the road, I be eyeing. Some even thoughting that the King rises.”
The worst of all possible outcomes, that. The Scarlet King was not worshipped for boon or blessing – it was only to keep his gaze pointed elsewhere. Only the high daevas would dare draw the King's attention or siphon off his power – all of his temples, save the great temple in Daevon, were devoted to one of the King's minor titles, so as to not to draw up notice.
Tokos couldn't really think of what that would be like. He didn't want to think about it, and got along with his life not thinking that it would ever happen. The consideration was exceedingly uncomfortable.
“More likely that Moloch and Ab-Leshal will go at it, or the Flesh start a war.”
“Fleshly Yaldabaoth hungrying always for blood. Good blood with the Butcher.”
“Ana will step in, I suppose.”
“No. Outside the fleshing and fat, Ana is.”
The skull made a sort of awkward rumbling sound, which meant either progress or a trap going off.
“So she won't do anything?
“The doings are left to us bones.” The pilgrim stood up, her dress swishing against twiglike legs. “Again and again, I am gratefuling to yun. Be not prisoning in yuns fleshly cage for longlike.”
She left, and Tokos watched her leave. Curious, curious, all of this. But he was still alive, and the awkward rumbling had in fact been progress.
Sometime later, when the sun was setting, and its last beams were trapped in the thousand mirrors, Tokos was roused from his stupor by screams from outside.
He stepped out of the temple to see that up the street, the tumorous bulbs of the Flesh Sanctuary were caving in on themselves as if they had been starved, their meat turned to flakes like ash floating in the air.


In this world, memories are imparted on all things. A baby's room remembers every lullaby sung within its walls. Graveyards remain eternally wet from shed tears. Rain often falls on barren fields of war in an unsuccessful attempt to soothe the land.

Dr. Rights' pregnancy had been among the easiest anyone at Site 19 knew of. When she delivered, near half the site took the day off to support her. Reminding people to eat, commenting on sleepless eyes and overfull coffee mugs, the doctor felt right at home— the unwaveringly motherly Agatha Rights. Even Dr. Gears visited her on his lunch break. Everyone had the same things to say: you will be an excellent mother, you're already Team Mom.
Whoever couldn't make it to her bedside sent e-mails. Many of them spoke to how much of an inspiration Agatha was— a single mother, a witness to all the darkness the Foundation hid, still choosing to welcome a life to love into the world.
In the light of an evening sunset, her daughter fed from her breast, unnamed and innocent and beautiful. She felt like cradling it close. She felt like throwing it out of her room. She tried to coo and smile down to her bundle of joy. But Agatha could not feel much more than the gums against her nipple and a vague soreness.
She handed her daughter to a nurse when the spit-up began, suddenly revolted at seeing her own body fluids partially vomited onto her sheets.
Three weeks later, Dr. Rights was at work and taking up her mantle as Team Mom once more. Dr. Gears had lost weight. Agent Clef had forgotten proper weapon etiquette at the dining table.
"Hey, Agatha, shouldn't you be at home longer?"
Dr. Rights laughed, downed her coffee with lunch. "I just missed you all too much to stay away too long. Besides, have you seen Jack lately? If no one keeps an eye on him, he'll be breaking rules on his List Of Things Not To Do again."
She had missed feeling like a mother. She had tried to watch over the little bundle, listening to her daughter sleep and coo and cry and laugh, speaking to the baby softly and sweetly. Something had gone wrong.
In the noon sunset, she spoke with Agent Lament outside, where the flowers bloomed in delicate hues and the breeze smelled sweet. His eyes watched the sky's soft pink and bright orange shift to eventual twilight, listening to Agatha's quiet worries. He smiled and offered hopeless advice. "It's natural for a mother to worry she isn't doing enough at first, Agatha, especially because you're a single working mom. But you're the team's mom. You already know how to mother. It shouldn't be hard to adapt, right?"
Agatha Rights came home that evening to thank and pay the babysitter. She fed herself, then her daughter. Wiped spit-up from her baby's tiny mouth and held the small hands in hers.
She kept company with the stars as they both watched over her sleeping daughter. The baby had managed to roll over onto its side and, for a moment, she was tempted to leave the infant like that and risk suffocation. She thought on possibility of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. It was less likely to occur in females than males, less likely in non-smoking homes than smoking ones…
Agatha realized then that she felt nothing at the thought of SIDS. No violent, maternal twist in her belly. No surge of grief in her throat. She turned the baby onto its back, then turned herself away.
Doctor Agatha Rights wept, softly, so that she didn't wake her child. She prayed that the world was right— that all the love and worry of motherhood would bloom in her mind like her daughter had swelled up her abdomen, as easy as anyone had known in Site-19.

Years later, Dr. Rights watches her beautiful daughter run to her first day of preschool, a lavender plastic backpack jingling with stationery against the 10 AM sunrise. The daughter doesn't look back at her. Agatha watches the other parents, observing worry and joy and pride and fear on a dozen strange faces. Internally, she is merely relieved she can focus on her work, her home and her family in Site-19.
Agatha realizes then that she may never love her daughter in the same way as the other parents do their children. But there is Ophelia, waving to her from the glass door entrance. She waves back and chooses to hope
  that she is enough,
 despite her deficiency.