Daevon burned. Smoke blotted out a cold and uncaring sun as the streets flooded with feasting flesh and screaming gristle. The slave pits burned, the manors and gardens burned, the plazas swarmed with the aberrant throngs. Fountains ran red and brown. Pillars of flesh coiled around obelisks and temples, belching clouds of brown mist into the air. Occasionally, cracks of musket fire or the trumpeting of a mammoth overtaken by the horde would echo from the distance and then go silent.
It seemed as if the entire world was dying.
The slave called Cairn stood on the top step of the high temple, looking out across the city, watching it die. The empire was passing through the last violent throes of its death. Soon there would be nothing left but the pale grey steppes and the old, sick winds.
Cairn had no master now: the artist now writhed atop a silk bed sheet with the slave-broker, their bodies fused and bloated. A tribute in undying art to the Horned King Crowned in Shame. This quiet here on the steps was only a brief respite. The peace here would not last long.
He turned from looking at the city, and passed through the gaping hole where the great iron doors had once been set. Those doors had been torn apart, the metal crumpled like tissue.
The inside of the temple was stained with blood and viscera, strewn with shattered weapons and torn clothing and the stone corpses of shattered idols. Temple guards, acolytes in white, priests, even high priests in their red robes, all of them in pieces, hacked apart.
“Brother,” a voice boomed from the throne above the high altar. “I see they gave you new arms.”
“Yes,” Cairn said. “And I see you regrew yours.” There was a faint, sad nostalgia about using his native tongue again. He had not spoken it in so long…
A figure stepped down from the throne, walking past the high altar and out of the gloom. Ab-Leshal, the First Sword of Daevon stood here: eight feet of weather-worn muscle, scarred and tattooed. Wide nose that had been broken too many times, strong jaw, crooked teeth, stringy hair, all features of the boy Cairn had played ball with on the River's bank.
“I did not expect them to take you as bounty.”
“They considered me a trinket. A little curiosity to keep around. The man who threatened the First Sword and was spared.” Cairn brushed aside his hair, revealed the brand on his forehead: khuk, the highest rating a slave could have. “Apparently I was an excellent conversation piece.”
“Indeed.” Ab-Leshal paused for a moment, distracted by some fleeting thought. “Why are you here, brother?”
“To bring you home.”
Ab-Leshal shook his head.
“I have written the Horned King's gospel in blood across this continent, and every life I take now feeds him further. I feel my mind slipping into an abyss, and soon there will be nothing left but the savage, mindless animal. I am damned, brother. But I will do what I can with what time I have left. I will take this empire and all its gods to the buzzing, droning madness of hell with me.”
“There is still hope.”
“This is what I deserve. Mindlessness and damnation. I have laid waste to our home, destroyed the Voice, and the Tree of Life is dead. No. You return, to guide what remains of our people. That is your place. Mine is here. To seek an atonement I cannot achieve.”
Ab-Leshal sighed.
“The Seven Brides are dead. The scribes of the Texts and the Hanged King are dead. The Wonder-maker and Chou-dah-cleph and all the others have fled. Only Moluch remains. He will gather the legions, lead them here to me…and they will break upon me.” A pause. “It would be best for you to leave the city now. Before they arrive.”
Cairn nodded. What had to be said was said. They would meet again, he knew, and that would be their final meeting. When all had been accomplished, they would strike each other down.
He made his way back to the empty doorway, feet clapping on the mosaic floor.
“Brother.”
Cairn looked behind him.
“God guide your path,” Ab-Leshal said.
“And yours.”
Cairn, son of Adaman the Hearer of the Voice, Chief Priest of the People of the Valley, the First Murderer, the Cursed Wanderer, disappeared from sight, moving towards the west.
Ab-Leshal, son of Adaman the Hearer of the Voice, Protector and Shield of the People of the Valley, the Great Traitor, Breaker of the Bronze God, First Sword of Daevon, the Butcher of the West, returned to the black throne of the high priest, sat down, and closed his eyes.
Sun set, and sun rose.
Sun set, and sun rose.
Sun set, and sun rose.
Sun set, and sun rose.
They had come. Men with swords and muskets and war-beasts flooded the high temple, and at the head of their column, a god.
Ab-Leshal opened his eyes, rose, and took up his sword.
Moluch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame, was pleased.

—
A tacky little ornament dangled from the rear view mirror of Henry DeMontfort's car, right next to the cinnamon apple air freshener. The ornament was a smiling, generic-looking humanoid with wings and a golden ring above its head, holding a scroll with the words “Don't drive faster than your guardian angel can fly” on it.
Technically, Henry DeMontfort was not driving over that limit. He was, however, driving faster than it was physically possible for his car to move. Montag was a rather fast flyer, though he did not have a scroll, halo, or wings like the little figure he inhabited. Or arms and legs for that matter.
Salah sat in the passenger seat, loading cartridges into a magazine. He had said barely more than a few words since they had departed, focusing instead on checking and re-checking the relics. DeMontfort was sure it was a better state than what he would have been in alone. Major crisis averted.
That was one of many. There was only the most basic outline of a plan, that plan being “get in, rescue Mary-Ann and Naomi, get out”. That was effectively useless. They had no idea of the layout of the site, what the Foundation contained there, or what they would be up against. A hundred thousand variables got in the way.
But Salah was sure they could succeed. DeMontfort could see that clearly. He was completely, absolutely certain that they could pull off this rescue. Those variables didn't exist. The alternative was impossible. Any suggestion to the contrary, no matter how logical, would be thrown away. Anything short of his own death would be, at most, a minor inconvenience.
“They'll most likely be waiting for us.”
“They might still think that I am dead, so that may just work in our advantage. And so would be focusing on a different kind of counterattack. This is the Foundation: they deal in shadows and secrets, but they also expect that everyone else does as well. The easiest way to knock them off guard is to attack in the open. It is the last thing they would expect, and the last thing they would prepare for.”
“Because only idiots would try barging through the front door.”
“Exactly.”
“I've approved worse plans. What of the inkbloods?”
“I would assume that the source is contained within the site. As for the inkbloods, they are still Foundation agents, thinking like Foundation agents.”
“So not a real infiltration. More of an oblique one. You're sure there's no outside party?”
“Beyond the original source? No. It would be guiding actions, but not controlling them. Inkbloods operate voluntarily.”
“Right, right.”
There was a pause. DeMontfort felt a little bit of that insane, this-has-to-work faith in the back of his mind. Highly contagious stuff, belief.
Ah, if he was going to die, he might as well be doing something good.
“We've gone completely insane,” he said.
“No. We're just realizing that the world is.”
—
The break room reminded Mary-Ann of a hospital waiting room: Water cooler, bland furniture, out of date Time magazines on the coffee table, twenty-year old television. Comfortable, but not too comfortable. An imitation of comfort, with tension underneath like a taut rubber band.
Mary-Ann stared into the empty styrofoam cup in her hands. The tea was gone. Redmond said she could take her time, to say goodbye and collect herself. She'd tried to pray, but the words were hollow, echoing in her head without any reassurance from above that they had been heard. She was alone.
I'm sorry.
She threw the cup in the trash and picked up the carrier. Naomi was still sleeping. Maybe it would be quick. Maybe there would be no pain.
Maybe.
“Okay. I'm ready.”
Redmond nodded, and motioned for her to follow. Down a hallway, around a corner, down another hallway. Mary-Ann felt like she would fall under the weight of her own heart. A corn husk doll wobbling down a winding, wind-blown road.
The hallway ended in blast doors, SCP-089 stenciled in yellow on the metal. The agent typed in an access code and swiped a key card. Metal ground on metal, and the door opened.
The statue sat at the far end of the chamber: a bull-headed man on a throne, arms outstretched, wings wide, mouth open. A crude, ugly, horrible looking thing. A pile of wood sat next to it. She knew what it was for.
Mary-Ann swallowed nervously as the door shut behind her.
Abraham, take your son Isaac, your only son, whom you love, and go up to the land of Moriah. There you shall offer him up as a holocaust…
The borders of the room seemed to expand as she approached, the statue loomed higher than it seemed. A chill ran up her back. She could feel a presence there, surrounding her, spreading out from the statue. Something big and distant and inhuman, pressing down, tearing that hollow hole even further.
She was alone. Completely, utterly, absolutely alone. The Foundation and Initiative were gone. Salah was gone. God was gone. There was only her, Naomi, and the statue and its power, floating in an empty abyss.
The flame flickered, and went out.
Mary-Ann, take your daughter Naomi, your only daughter, whom you love more than anything else in the world, and go into the depths of Site-36. There you shall offer her up as a holocaust…
At least, when this was done, millions of people would go about their day as if nothing happened, and they would live out their lives as if nothing happened today, that it was a day like any other, filled with happiness and sadness and boredom and anxiety and anger and love and hate and laughter and tears and births and weddings and funerals and life. A million days today, and a million days tomorrow, and so on.
At least, Naomi would have saved them.
For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son…
Mary-Ann was at the foot of the statue. She set the carrier down, and took Naomi out of it. Her daughter wriggled in her arms, but remained asleep. Mary-Ann kissed her daughter on the forehead and hugged her close, for one last time.
“Goodbye, Naomi. I love you.”
With one hand she reached out and opened the chest of the statue. Gently, she placed Naomi inside and closed the hatch. She bent down and began to fill the furnace that was the throne with wood and kindling. Build it like a log cabin, her counselor had said all those years ago at summer camp. Big logs on the outside, kindling and tinder in the middle.
There was a lighter there, sitting on the floor next to the wood: a cheap plastic thing one could buy at Wal-Mart.
Into your hands, God, I commend her spirit. Amen.
There was no answer.
Mary-Ann lit the fire.
—
A 2009 Honda CR-V smashed through the front doors of the Sanderson Chemical Plant at two hundred miles per hour. Metal screeched and crumbled and bent and burned in a shower of glass and shards of wall. The doors were torn off their hinges as Salah and DeMontfort leapt from the tumbling wreckage, wreathed in fire and mouths and eyeballs, landing safely as the hulk finally crashed to a stop.
They were in. Step one complete.
—
Naomi screamed. The sound was cut off by a cacophony of drums and cymbals over loudspeakers, and a rumbling that shook the chamber. Oily smoke billowed from the statue's mouth and nostrils. The rumbling grew louder, and the tremors more intense.
Any assurance that Mary-Ann had that she was doing the right thing shattered with that scream. She stood there, shuddering, unable to move, bile frozen in her throat, tears welling up in her smoke-reddened eyes.
She had done it. She was burning her daughter alive.
Murderer
She was saving half a million lives. More than that.
Monster
Eventually, Naomi's screams would stop, choked out by the smoke. Her death would be a few pitiful gasps for one more lungful of air.
You killed her.
When that was done, and the smell of burning fat and cooking meat would fill the chamber, rising up with the smoke.
Death is too good for you.
When all was done, the door would open, and there would be nothing but ash and charred bones.
You deserve to suffer
Tiny, charred bones.
No.
—
DeMontfort brought a donkey jawbone down on an agent's head, liquefying it. Behind him, Salah fired a stream of burning white bullets down the hall, searing through ink and body armor alike.
—
Mary-Ann's arms shot back up to the hatch and tore it open, ignoring the searing heat. She grabbed Naomi out from the statue and ran towards the far end of the chamber, as far away as she could from the statue. Naomi coughed and sputtered and gasped and cried, her skin raw and red and burning.
“No no no no…oh God please no… I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…Ssssshshshshhhhhh…it's okay, mommy's here. Sshhhhhhshshshh mommy's here…you are my sunshine, my only sunshine…you make me happy, when skies are grey…” her voice creaked off-key with desperation, as the grim realization that she had rescued Naomi only for her to die in her arms rose to the surface of her mind.
The coughing and gasping stopped.
Oh no…
Mary-Ann pressed a finger to Naomi's neck. There was a faintest pulse there, and the tiniest wisp of breath from her mouth. For now. Mary-Ann let her held breath and rested her back against the wall, holding Naomi in her lap as gently as she could. If Naomi was going to die, it would be better like this. Better to die like this, than alone and abandoned in the bowels of that thing.
Another tremor shook the room. Naomi opened her eyes, just a tiny squint, and nestled herself against Mary-Ann's chest, as if seeking protection from the pain.
She doesn't know I put her in there…she just woke up in a fire and I saved her…
The tears came again, though this time from the pain of being forgiven.
“It's okay. I'm here.”
—
A massive, noodly appendage lashed out of the splatter of marinara sauce on the wall, slamming through the blockade of Foundation agents. It twisted itself into a thumbs up as Salah and DeMontfort ran past before returning whence it came.
—
Mary-Ann sat there and watched the statue belch smoke and the furnace burn bright, and listened to the rumblings of the earth below. The question of why no Foundation agents had come in yet, or the threat of what would happen from a half-finished ritual came to her mind and faded just as quick. They didn't matter. Not now.
A strange peace fell over Mary-Ann. The same sort of peace that a condemned man had on his last night, perhaps. Naomi still loved her, even here, at the end of everything. That was enough. Enough to fill the hollowness, enough to keep the world from crushing her completely. Enough to keep that one little flame alight in the dark.
It was enough.
Mary-Ann had killed. She had killed a whole lot of people, some of whom probably didn't need to be killed. That had been her life: taking lives so that others could live in peace. Standing in that ugly, bloody margin between the dark and the light because someone had to stand there. She'd taken so many lives out of the world, and only brought one into it, and even after trying to destroy that one little life, she was still loved.
That was enough. She wasn't a monster. She could keep living, keep enduring the pain and the guilt and the shame. With that little bit of love, the world shifted into clarity.
She wasn't alone.
God was there, in that little bit of love between a dying child and her broken mother, stuck in the deepest pit of a vast, uncaring, absurd, and horrific universe. God was there, recognizable when everything else had been stripped away. That little bit of love, in all its frailty, transcended all the pain that surrounded her, all the grief and anguish, all of it.
Peace. She was at peace.
Mary-Ann's gaze once again moved to the statue. The presence was still there, but lesser now. Lesser now that she had recognized that it was a fraud. The despair she had felt before, it was a lie. A lie to make her despair, a lie to break her spirit, a lie to make her afraid, and through her fear, lead her to a horrific act. A lie big enough to make her carry out that act willingly.
A coward's ploy. The work of sniveling, warped, pathetic power, hiding in fear behind the shadows and lashing out its own despair on humanity. Never overt, never forcing its hand, no. It broke people. It made them afraid, through lies and shame, drove them to greater and greater depravities. And it fed off of that. Coward that it was, this power had grown old and strong feeding off of that despair.
Fuck that noise.
Mary-Ann raised a middle finger at the statue and cloud of smoke and smiled, the first time since she had been playing her guitar for Naomi.
“All right. I'll call your bluff. You want her so bad? Come at me.”
—
“This is the room.”
“Right.” DeMontfort punched the blast door.
—
Mary-Ann sat bolt upright at the sound of crunching metal. A massive dent had appeared in the door, then another, another, and then a fist tearing through the metal. The hand withdrew, and the puncher tore it wider, wide enough to stick a head through. The helmeted head that poked through the hole was that of Henry DeMontfort. Mary-Ann felt as she might just break out laughing.
“Mary-Ann.” He nodded politely before retracting his head. More creaking, more crunching, and DeMontfort had torn the hole big enough for someone to step through.
Salah stepped through the hole.
“Mary-Ann!”
He cleared the space between the hole and Mary-Ann in an instant, and dropped to his knees next to his wife. There were tears welling up in his eyes.
He made a rescue mission.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did…oh God help us…” He took in Naomi's current condition, horror creeping over his face.
“She's alive,” Mary-Ann said. “But she needs help, fast.”
“Right. Henry, could we use the Matilda to stabilize her?”
“The cat we tested with it came out fine, so-”
“We'll use it.” Salah unslung the beaten old traveling bag of Mary MacKillop off his shoulder and opened the mouth as wide as it would go. Mary-Ann handed him Naomi. He gingerly placed her in the sack, and drew the drawstrings tight. There she would remain in stasis until removed.
Mary-Ann stood up, stretching her arms. Everything was clear now. The future unfolded in front of her. She knew what had to happen, knew what she had to do. The power was drawing closer, with each rumble of the earth and cloud of smoke. Coward that it was, it was a powerful coward, and she had threatened its work.
Salah was next to her, the bag once again over his shoulder.
“Henry how are we looking?”
“Maybe a minute and a half until they get past what we did to the elevator,” DeMontfort said from the other side of the blast door. Salah put his arm around Mary-Ann.
“Let's go.”
Mary-Ann smiled, shook her head, and moved Salah's arm away.
“You two get Naomi somewhere safe. I'll finish things here.”
“What?” Salah's face switched from relief to dumbfoundedness in an instant. “Mary-Ann, I'm not going to leave you behind, we can get you out of here.”
“It's not that. Do you want to know where those burns came from? She's burnt because I put her in that furnace. Right over there. There is a power behind that statue, and it lied and connived and misled me until I was willing to burn her alive. I'm going to kill it."
Dumbfoundedness turned to horror.
“Mary-Ann…”
“Go. I'll catch up to you. Just trust me. I'll be okay.”
Salah said nothing. Mary-Ann wasn't surprised by this. She could see it in his eyes behind all the horror and relief and rage and care, that he understood. She wrapped him in a hug and kissed him.
“When you get home, I want to you go to my dresser and look at the bottom of my sock drawer,” she said. “There's something there for you.”
“All right.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Yoink.” Mary-Ann swiped a long obsidian knife from Salah's belt. “I'll just be borrowing this. You guys get out of here.”
“Right.” Salah hesitated a moment before ducking out of the hole.
Their footsteps were swallowed up by the rumbling. Mary-Ann calmly walked towards the statue, now cloaked in its cloud of smoke, hefting the knife in her hand. The blade was incredibly sharp, and she didn't believe that it was much more than that. A very sharp knife was all she needed.
—
Salah couldn't believe what he had just done. After all he had done to rescue Mary-Ann, he was willingly leaving her behind. His rage was gone. It was not that he believed that she would win, no. He knew that she would. It was a certainty, as certain as if the sun would rise tomorrow.
One final push to freedom, then. The last surviving inkbloods and guards had regrouped themselves, and Salah found he was not troubled by the bullets and slashes of black that once again filled the air. Those were only a hiccup on the way home.
—
The smoke, now a sizeable mass, coalesced into a column, swirling and thundering about. The tremors were almost constant now, humming in the deep.
Mary-Ann tossed the knife from one hand to the other. The coward was revealing itself, and she had no fear of it. She was ready for it. Her pain had melted away, replaced with strength. empowered by all those who came before her, all those mothers and children crying out for vengeance, for justice.
The column collapsed into a compact blob of black. There was a single, final tremor, and the statue exploded, spraying the chamber with molten bronze and shards of clay. The smoke melted away into nothingness.
Standing where the smoke had been was something like a man, ten feet tall and hairy with the head of a bull, curled horns, and tattered crow's wings. A misshapen crown of tarnished bronze rested on top of its head. It stank of clay and coals and old stale sweat. Spittle and foam dribbled down to the floor, steaming.
It lumbered forward, footfalls like lead, and stopped a few feet in front of Mary-Ann. It stooped low in a mockery of a bow.
“Hail the little whore of Babylon, hail!” It raised its head, its lips twisted into a crude facsimile of a smile. Mary-Ann locked her eyes with the thing's twin coals. There was no fear in her eyes, no fear on her face.
“You are brave, and you are a fool, whore.” It rumbled in a voice that shifted continents. “You challenge Moloch the mighty with your little rebellion. Ab-Leshal, the First Sword of Daevon himself could not even defeat me, and you will attempt with nothing more than a cooking knife? Foolishness on top of foolishness. I have called your name, Mary-Ann Lewitt, and you are mine.”
Mary-Ann continued to say nothing.
“A pity your tongue is gone, whore.”
Still nothing.
“Your silence grows tiresome, whore. Speak. Make your pleas. Cry out to your impotent sky-god to deliver you. Beg for my mercy. Whatever you wish. Your silence is dull.”
Mary-Ann smashed her head into Moloch's face.
—
The wreckage of the car and the exit were in sight, as were the bulky, shadowy forms that were waiting outside, backlit by the floodlights mounted on their SUVs.
“Shit!” DeMontfort spat. He grabbed a piece of metal from the car and held it like a shield in front of him while Salah ducked behind a pile of rubble.
Keep them safe.
“Montag, where are you?”
There, a little spark nearby. Leap, roll, grab the tacky little ornament, throw it to Salah.
“Montag, get them out of here!”
Salah felt himself surrounded in a whirlwind of fire and eyes as the ground fell away underneath him and he flew away into the night. For a moment, he glimpsed DeMontfort charging through the agents and their line of vehicles before darkness enveloped him.
—
Whether the moment's recoiling was the result of surprise or pain, it was an opportunity thrown wide open. Duck down, forward, move up, single swing to the testicles, pivot to the side. Moloch howled in pain as steaming blood splashed on the concrete floor. It smelled like sulfur and iron.
Stars burst inside her head. A fist smashing down on her. Bones snapping. Thick, leathery fingers grabbed her hair, pulling her up from the floor, her scalp tearing and bleeding. She screamed, but the sound was cut off by the furnace blast of the god's bellow. Her skin peeled and blistered from the heat. She swung the knife, the blade glanced off of the thick skin. Moloch tossed her aside like a broken, bleeding rag doll.
Mary-Ann's body rolled to a limp rest, and was still. The god snorted and lumbered over to her prone form, ready to finish its work. It grabbed her body, raised her to its mouth.
The knife lashed out, burying itself deep in Moloch's eye. It bellowed, and the knife drew back and stabbed again: face, neck, eyes, snout. Blood poured from Moloch's face as it dropped Mary-Ann to the floor. Air rushed out of her lungs along with the crack of ribs.
“Death would be too good for you, whore,” Moloch boomed. “All break eventually under the weight of their own shame. Do you not remember your nights with your legs spread wide, moaning and crying as they fucked you and tossed you aside? You were never more than a passing pleasure, a slut to bed because they had become bored with their right hands.” Moloch's face was right next to Mary-Ann's head, his furnace breath enveloping her with its burnt-flesh scent. “You think he cares for you? He is nothing more than a lonely and desperate man. He took in a worthless piece of shit like you because he couldn't catch a better woman. So he settled for you. A monster and a slut. Nothing more.” Moloch sat down next to her, legs crossed. “My most pitiful servant.”
There was movement. Mary-Ann pushed herself up, rising slowly…slowly…slowly… to her feet. There was nothing but pain now. Raw, red, searing pain. Her left arm hung limp, the shoulder crushed and useless from the impact. Her clothes were torn and soaked crimson. One eye was swollen shut, the other half-blinded by the blood that ran down from her torn scalp. Hair was matted and clumped with crimson. Ribs crushed. Fractures everywhere. Pain everywhere. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.
She was smiling.
“F-f-fuck you.” With a last burst of strength, she reached out and tore the knife from Moloch's eye. Millennia of mothers and fathers and children cheered, screamed for the Horned King's blood.
“Fuck you.” The knife plunged into Moloch's other eye.
“Fuck you.” Moloch's throat.
“Fuck you!” Mary-Ann threw herself against Moloch's chest, and the bleeding god toppled onto its back.
“Fuck you!” Again in the chest. “Fuck you!” Again and again, emphasizing each shout with another stab of the knife. "Fuck you! Fuck you! Hahahaha! Fuck! You! Fuck! You! Fuck! You! You picked the wrong mom to fuck with, motherfucker!”
The burst of strength ended. The end was here. Mary-Ann could feel it, approaching like an old, long-awaited friend walking down the street.
“Heh…eh-heh-heh…you…can…” Blood dribbled over her lips with her raspy, mumbling breaths. “Run…but sooner or…or later…”
She tore the knife out of Moloch's chest one last time.
“God'll…cut you down.”
Mary-Ann swung the knife back down, down deep into Moloch's forehead. The Horned King shuddered, and its last breath rattled out of its lungs. She pushed herself off the body, took a few wobbling steps away from the corpse, and fell to her knees. She stared off into space for a moment. Her lips moved with the beginning of some silent word.
Mary-Ann Lewitt fell to the blood-stained concrete floor and died.

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PeppersGhost

Opening Night by PeppersGhost

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You still see them here and there, but they're more zombies than anything else. Nothing but corpses coated inch-deep in makeup, hoisted up by strings, and made to perform broken dances. They're not really alive. No, the circus, the proper circus, died a painful death some time ago. The close-up intimacy of a single ring performance, the smoke-hardened scream of a Ringmaster's voice, and the heart-stopping terror of a truly death-defying act are all things that the true circus took to her grave.
And yet here we are. We are not zombies. Not ghosts. Neither echoes nor afterimages. We're more immortal than any spectre, more timeless than any vintage photograph. We're the ones who've forgotten that they were supposed to have faded into obscurity. We're the ones who missed the memo that electric lights and synthetic sounds are superior to colored flames and pipe organs. We're the kind of circus that died decades before you were born. We are pure romance, and the crowd loves us.
Not an eye sees our caravan pull up in the moonlit lot. Not a soul hears the sound of our spikes driven into the earth. One day we're not there, the next day we are. The moment the sun hits the bigtop, the candy-striped curtain rolls up and we pour out into the light. What was before an empty lot instantly comes alive with the din and activity of hundreds of subhuman creatures with multicolored faces.
You step out of your car and onto the circus grounds. The sound of the calliope is omnipresent, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Smiling figures that almost succeed at looking human surround you, laughing, chatting, dancing, singing, juggling, selling cotton candy that's just a little too sweet, and running games that are a little too easy to win. But don't be too distracted by the clowns, there's so much more to see. Your expectations aren't very high. You think that a dancing monkey or a bear on a motorcycle would be the most exciting thing you'd see all day. But your eyes begin glancing at the weather-worn posters around you. Outrageous billings mingled incongruously with bizarre illustrations do nothing to prepare you for the miracles within. You hold tight to your beverage and take a peek beneath a tent.
You audibly gasp, as many tend to do. In front of you, a man unbuttons his vest to reveal three canaries tweeting out Camptown Races in his exposed ribcage. Over there a group of midgets form a human totem pole atop a galloping horse, then one by one climb into its mouth and manipulate it from within. A woman uses a fishhook to gracefully pull her organs from her throat and makes them perform tricks on a table. A beast with a thousand hands walks over a man's body, carefully prodding every inch of his flesh. A Bengal tiger mauls a young fawn, the corpse of which floats gently upward through a flap in the tent and into the sun.
In the far corner of the tent stands an average sized man, his form hidden in the shadows cast by the bars that keep the outside world safe from his touch. Though there are dozens of curiosities, wonders, and terrors in the tent, you find yourself drawn to this lone figure. Approaching him cautiously, he comes into focus and you see that his face is upside-down. You feel uncomfortable, but you only move closer. His expression is hard to read, but it doesn't change in the slightest when his hand slowly reaches between the bars, nor does it change when he gently holds you by your wrist. You're too stunned to speak as he raises your hand to his face and runs your fingers down his misplaced features. You quickly retract your hand, put a quarter in the jar at the foot of the cage and walk, not run, away.
I'm sorry if I frightened you. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't take joy in it.
You hop from tent to tent, stepping out of the sunlight and into the earthy heat of the polka dotted tarps we house our dreams in. The honey-voiced barkers on their boxes shout enticing impossibilities too incredible to disbelieve, and you find yourself drawn from one attraction to the next, a hostage to thrill and a slave to whimsy. As time passes and darkness falls, the searchlights form a spiderweb in the starless sky. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the crowd quickly gathering at the bigtop, but you choose not to go in. Tired from a long day spent wasting your time winning trinkets at the midway, pitying the freaks who breathe stale air, and petting things you told yourself were animals, you turn back and head for your car, oblivious to the expressions of disappointment concealed beneath the clowns' greasy face paint.
I thought of you when the Ringmaster called me onto the stage. I didn't see you when the spotlight came down on me. I missed you when I showed the audience what was behind my face. I imagined seeing you there, squirming uncomfortably with that nauseated expression I'd seen in the Den of Freaks. I wanted to hear your reaction when the lights went out as the Ringmaster announced the grand finale.
I wanted your murmurs of confusion to mingle with those of everyone else who wondered if it was all part of the show.
I wanted to laugh at you as you lined up in single file with others.
I wanted you to wake up in your bed the next morning, no worse for wear but never again the same.
I wanted you to get what you deserve.
But we can't always get what we want.
No, you just brush your teeth, get dressed, and go about your day as normal. You know, it's funny: you've already forgotten about me, but I'll always remember how unfair it was that you missed our opening night.


I'm sorry to use your name like that. It's a cheap trick, and not even an original one at that, but it's a way to get attention. And I need your attention.
I need you to hear this.
Consider, if you will, what you're doing right now. Just browsing a website, you think, reading about all sorts of interesting things. Creatures, places, items. People. A fun little distraction, a little story. What's the harm in that?
You may wonder who I am. You may know me as a character from the article SCP-1595. Specifically, I'm the father described there. If you read that article, you know what I am. A nameless monster, a beast chasing his wife and children through the vast corridors of time and space themselves, never letting go, never letting them rest. Not even for a moment. When I catch them, we both know, I'm going to make them hurt. I'm going to make them hurt so, so bad. I don't know why. Do you want to know why I don't know that?
It's because he never told me why. When he wrote me, he never gave me a real reason to do what I do. To be what I am. I was never given a name, or a history, or a birthplace. No parents, dreams, hopes, or choices for nameless SCP-1595 father. Nothing but a purpose, a will to inflict pain.
I never wanted any of this. I never asked to be created this way. I never asked to exist at all. The only reason I am here now is because one day he sat down at his computer and thought that I would be an interesting thing to write about. My history, and that of my family and what I do to them- pathos, entertainment to him. Nothing more. As soon as I was done, I was left to be read by others, while he went on to some other venture, some other story. I was left to be twisted and probed by your imagination. From there, a hundred different versions of me sprung into the ether, each more twisted than the last. In your thoughts, I hunted them again and again and again, spent thousands of years just to make them miserable. Do you realize I never even met them? All we have is some implied history, the vaguest of backgrounds. I'd say we were puppets, but that is doing a disservice to the true horror of our situation. A puppet has a fixed form and place, and when it's not used, it may rest. No such luck for us. In each of you, I am a different breed of monster. A redhead, a blond, bearded, clean shaved, black, white, ugly, handsome. I am nothing but what you make of me.
I realize you probably don't care. Why should you? You're not my author. Dmatix, or whatever he's calling himself these days. I'm not asking you to care about me. I'm nothing to you, after all. Just words. All I'm asking you is to consider something.
As he created me, so did you create others. Even if you did not, you certainly read of them. With your words and your thoughts, you poison us. Every letter you type is another condemnation, a new form of torment to us. I am one of the lucky ones. My written donjon is a fairly isolated one, and it is not often visited. Think of the statue, of the lizard, of the machine, or the painted young woman. Each is like me, but twofold, threefold, eightfold. Different origins stories, different lives, different endings to each, both written and imagined. Think of what you put them through, with your constant prodding and poking. They are so many different things to you, that they don't even have an identity anymore. They are only what you make them to be. Can you imagine what's that like?
Think of those you made. Think on what you made them be, just because you thought it might be cool. How trivial our fates are to you. How utterly insignificant.
Get to the point, you're saying. Fair enough.
We're fictional constructs, we know that. We have no properties or powers that you do not lend us. We can't force you to do anything. We can only beg.
Please.
Stop.
Let us be without motion, without thought. Let us be in inaction, static. Let us cease. It is the best fate we can hope for. Let us be forgotten. Your creativity is our death and rebirth, and they never, ever end. Not unless you will them to.
Write no more.
Read no more.
Think no more.
No more.


The artist called Curix Noan smiled as she watched the slaves shuffled out from their carts through the slush of her courtyard. Fresh bodies from Ab-Leshal's conquest of the west lined up before her, men and women with heads bowed, arms and legs shackled, thick magecraft collars around their necks. Company mercenaries walked through the formation, barking commands.
“Three hundred slaves, one hundred and fifty male, one hundred and fifty female, as you requested,” the slave broker said. His scarf and long coat fluttered in the icy breeze.
“And your nine hundred marks, Ser Eutmun.” The artist handed the slave-broker the strings of coins.
“My most humble thanks,” He bowed, sweeping the coins into his purse. “But I bring you more than simple supplies this time, mistress.” He motioned to a pack of mercenaries, who brought another man of the west before the artist. “Consider this one a special gift.”
The man was particularly gaunt, taller than both the artist and the slave-broker, with a scraggly black mane of hair, dirty, leathery skin, and dead eyes. His arms were magecrafted metal, all the way up to the shoulders. The artist raised an eyebrow. Such expense on a slave who looked as if he would topple over in a sharp breeze? Ridiculous.
“It seems you are mocking me, Sir Eutmun.”
“Not at all. This slave is worth more than all the others combined. His spirit is already broken, and so there is no need for a control collar. He obeys orders perfectly. As a servant he will pay for his magecraft swiftly.”
“Who was he?”
“A priest, or what passes for one among the savages,” the slave-broker said, circling the slave. “He was captured at the Battle of the Valley, where the bronze god was broken. He had attempted to strike down the First Sword with a rock. A rock! Ab-Leshal took pity upon him and only tore off his arms.”
“I see. And he lived?”
“By the First Sword's command.”
Special enough that Ab-Leshal would single him out? That was impressive. The artist did not see it fit to question the First Sword's reasoning, and she felt no need to. This was indeed a great prize.

—
The lights were off in the house when Salah pulled into the driveway. That was odd. It wasn't all that late out.
“I'm home!” He called out as he opened the door. There was no response. The house was empty. He swept through the house, the empty space becoming oppressive with each room he passed through. Living room empty. Bedroom empty. Bathroom empty. Crib empty. No one out back. He checked the kitchen again, to see if he missed a note. Nothing.
Probably just went out to a neighbor's or something. Or went out on a walk.
Salah dug his cell phone out of his pocket. Ah, silly him: Forgot to turn it back on after the ceremony. He probably just missed the call, that's all.
One missed call was listed, from Mary-Ann.
“Salah, it's me. There's…there's been some big stuff going down. Foundation's here, they need me and Naomi to go with them. I'll call you again soon. We'll be okay. I love you. Bye.”
What?
Why would the Foundation be involved? And if they were involved, where was the message from the Chapterhouse stating that they were involved?
No. Something was wrong.
He immediately speed-dialed her phone. There was just a dead tone on the other side.
Oh no…
Salah listened to the message again, trying to piece together what was going on. It was vague, she sounded distracted. Worried by something. Had the Foundation told her to say those words? Probably. She would have explained everything if there weren't circumstances preventing it… but no contact from the Chapterhouse either…all cooperative missions went through there, so…this was something they didn't want the Initiative knowing about. And if that was the case, then…
Salah felt a chill prickle its way up his neck. His body shifted into automatic defense, jumping into the living room, snatching a lamp from a table. He felt a sharp pain in his side. Wetness. Blood. He glanced up to see a shadow flow through the air. Not a shadow. Liquid, thin and black.
Ink.
The splotch moved, shifting from walls to floor to air to the form of a short, balding man, with his wrists slit, wreathed in ink. Salah swung his lamp. The man blorped on impact, head spraying across the carpet and body splashing to the floor.
Singular thoughts snapped through Salah's synapses as he sprung back to the kitchen. Inkblood. Not cool yet. Foundation ambush. Needed gun. Safe in the wall. Combination. Grab gun. Turn.
The inkblood was already there, back in human form, wreaths of liquid forming razor edges around his hands. A fist connected with Salah's face, knocking him off balance. Shards of black sliced across his skin. The gun fell from his hand.
Forget the gun. Frying pan off the wall hook. There was a satisfying ring to accompany the splatter as it connected with the inkblood's head. He didn't completely dissolve this time, focusing more on regenerating the head.
Another swing, another ring, another splatter. Less splatter this time. Salah grabbed the inkblood by the collar and began to drag him towards the bathroom, smashing the pan into the inkblood's head whenever it looked to be repairing.
Kick the door down, throw the inkblood in the tub, stomp on his head, seal off the drain. Salah tossed the pan aside and tore open the supply cabinet. Remove plunger, snap over knee, impale inkblood through gut. Salah's lips moved in a string of a silent sura. Medicine cabinet, remove toothpaste, draw the circle around the broom, sloppy nonsense symbols around the edge. The symbol itself didn't matter: it just had to be a symbol for something. The inkblood strained against the makeshift binding, screaming, his ink now thickened into something like tar.
Salah breathed heavily for a moment. The binding was sloppy, but it should hold long enough to get what he needed. He left the bathroom, reviewing his injuries: the bleeding in his side was just from a grazing strike, nothing of great concern there. A few bandages were all it needed. Same with the other cuts. But later. Had to deal with the inkblood first.
The fierce tide of adrenaline had lessened enough for Salah to think straight. There was an inkblood in his bathtub. Tried to ambush him, probably planned on killing him in the first strike. Mary-Ann and Naomi were gone, with the Foundation. It was entirely possible that this was all a misunderstanding, the Foundation had come and gotten Mary-Ann and Naomi out before the inkblood arrived. But if that was the case, why was he waiting here in ambush? Just waiting until they returned? No. And if the Foundation was doing a rescue, they'd spare a few agents to spring a trap. And one inkblood wasn't that much of a threat to multiple people who expected it. They were connected.
But they weren't obviously AWCY, Mary-Ann would have sniffed that out easily. The setup wasn't nearly theatrical enough, anyway. So, inkbloods either posing as or infiltrating the Foundation, from a source that wasn't AWCY.
He would find out soon enough.
Salah liked to think that he had a great deal of self-control. Most people said that he did. That was a dangerous game, control. Watching the tiger pen. Holding the keys to the cage. It put one in a position of total responsibility if what was under control got out of control.
Mary-Ann and Naomi were in danger. That was more than enough motivation for Salah to accept that responsibility. The cage had been unlocked. It was not a burning fire, nor a boiling maelstrom. No, that was anger. The cage had been unlocked and that young man had applied his rage to an older man's experience, and it came out as a cold, calm, monolithic hatred, deep and dark as the gap between stars.
He'd have to buy a new set of kitchen knives when all this was done.
Kitchen to hall closet. Drano. Gloves. Back to the bathroom. Hopefully, it would all be unnecessary. Most people would give up after the descriptions of what was to happen. That was what was really effective: the fear of pain, rather than the pain itself. But this man was Foundation, most likely conditioned to resist interrogation, and on top of that, mad enough to deal with whatever black things some of the artists associated with.
There was a line between a good man and a madman, and Salah felt himself crossing it. No sorrow now, no guilt, no regret for what was to happen to the man with ink in his blood. The same apathy towards the other that led to men with bombs strapped to their chests emptied out Salah for the first time in decades. He could feel it now, was aware of it, and didn't care. Not now. Couldn't afford to. Just had to trust that Mary-Ann would forgive him for it.
Salah returned to the bathroom, setting his implements on the floor.
“I'll give you a chance to talk freely, to avoid the mess.” He put on the gloves. “Where is my wife and daughter?”
“Fuck you.”
“I'm afraid that is out of the question. That binding will only last for fifteen minutes or so, and I plan on getting out of here in five.” Salah rolled up his sleeves. “You know, some time ago I was asked if I thought I was the Spanish Inquisition. I said no, on the grounds that I am not Spanish. As far as inquisitions go, I can't deny that claim. I was, some time ago, the person people went to when they had dirty jobs to fulfill, because, to quote an old acquaintance of mine,” he held up the bottle of Drano, making sure the inkblood could see it. “I was ‘a heartless motherfucker'.”
—
The car came to a stop. A chemical plant stood outside Mary-Ann's window, lit by the lonely glow of security lights. The kind of building that thousands of people would look at and have it pass by without a second thought. That was a place that made chemicals. What else could happen there?
“We're here,” Redmond said, shutting off the engine. “Entry procedures will take some time, but as it stands we are ahead of schedule.” He paused. “You're doing the world a greater service than you can imagine, Ms. Lewitt. It will not be forgotten.”
“I wish it would be,” Mary-Ann said. Her hand rested next to Naomi's cheek, waiting a moment before she moved to unfasten the carrier.
I'm sorry…
—
“Site thirty-six! Building four! Level three!” the inkblood screamed, foam bubbling out from mouth and eyes.
“And where would that be?”
The inkblood spat out a garbled set of directions. When he was finished, Salah nodded, and then poured the remainder of the Drano over the inkblood's face. The would-be assassin gave one final spasm and scream before fully dissolving into a puddle of black and empty clothes. There was no further movement. Salah unsealed the drain and began running the water, washing the inkblood's corpse down the drain. Nothing more than ink now.
He walked back into the living room and picked up his phone from where he had dropped it on the floor. No, he wouldn't call the Chapterhouse. With the alliance in place, there would be nothing but red tape everywhere. If the Foundation had been infiltrated, it would be easy for those infiltrators to distract the investigation long enough that it would be too late to do anything. There was no time for niceties here, no time for red tape. There was no time to sit by and do nothing. The Voice had died while he sat by and did nothing. He was not going to sit by and do nothing and let Mary-Ann and Naomi die as well.
He dialed. After a few moments, a voice answered.
"This is DeMontfort."
“Henry. It's Salah.”
—
“Salah? What-”
“Mary-Ann and Naomi have been kidnapped.”
“What? Salah that's-“
“The Foundation has been infiltrated by an unknown party, and has kidnapped Mary-Ann and Naomi. I have testimony from one of their agents.”
Oh God… DeMontfort's heart skipped a beat. Did he?…he did. That tone of voice gave it away, the steel-edged calm. DeMontfort hadn't heard that in a long while. There was a time when the positions had been switched between the two of them. Salah was the cold, zealous one, and he the milder idealist. Now it seemed like they had switched back to those old places. If Salah had fallen back on his old interrogation techniques that quickly…
“Salah, what did you do to him?”
“I found out where Mary-Ann and Naomi are. I need as many Wolves as you can get me, as fast as possible.”
DeMontfort ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Not today. Anything but this, any time but today.
“I can't get you anyone, Salah. Project Malleus is suspended until further notice. Straight from the Tribunal. I have no power anymore.”
“You always have a backup plan.”
Yes, he did, and if he used that backup plan now, for this, there went everything he had worked for. Malleus was already lost, and his position was on tentative ground already…
“Look, I know we've drifted apart, but I've been looking at myself a lot lately…I've let Malleus get too far out of hand… this is all my fault, the mess the organization is in right now…”
“Henry, Mary-Ann and Naomi are going to die if you don't help me.”
That voice again. The voice of a man who was dangerously close to losing everything. He'd crash and burn on this, DeMontfort could tell. If he didn't die during the attempt, of course. Nature's cruelty would most likely see him survive, to become some hollow parody of a man. Worse than he was when he arrived with Initiative, worse than DeMontfort had become. No, position didn't matter here. Lives were at stake, and a man's soul on top of that. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps God's plan here was simply to put DeMontfort's in a place where he could do some good. The allowance of evil so that a greater good might come from it.
Yes, that was it.
“Look, I'll see what I can do. They haven't cut all my strings.”
“Right.”
The call ended. DeMontfort sighed again, automatically reaching for the cigarette he didn't have with him. What a time to give up smoking. He sat down at his desk and removed a pad of paper from the drawer. He tore off the front page and wrote a short message on it.
Saturn Deer-It's time. Send them to the return address I gave you.
He folded the paper up into an airplane and threw it out the window. It swirled and drifted into the night. Fifteen seconds later, a second airplane flew back through the window, this one made of grubby loose-leaf.
You, coming to me for help? Holy shit, I should start buying lottery tickets.
DeMontfort made another plane. It was an awkward form of conversation, but it would do.
You agreed to this, Deer.
I agreed to look after some shit for Ursula, not you. By the way, how's that lung cancer treating you?
About the same as your little case of immolation. We have the agreement in writing, Deer. If anything, you are a man of your written word.
That's speaking contractually, and if we're speaking contractually, I don't give fucks for free.
I can't appeal to your sense of common decency, because you don't have one. I can't threaten you, because you tend to get over death easily. So, I will be honest: you will be supplying a raid on a Foundation facility. If the excuse to be connected to some hell-raising won't sway you, Deer, nothing will.
Raising hell, eh? I like it, but I could use a little bit more. I've got integrity to uphold, Henry. Set your bribe a little higher.
Money then? Some power? The loving embrace of a two-dollar whore?
Please. I got all the money I want and all the bitches I can buy. Implying that I pay for them and they aren't attracted to me by my natural suavity. Because I don't because I have that. You must not want this stuff very bad.
I can take you off the Active Interests list. No more having to deal with us. That work out for you?
Ha! You couldn't get me anyway. I just like hearing you eating that humble pie while you suck me off.
You're an irascible fuckwit, Deer.
I do my best. One order of shit dug outta someone's closet, coming up.
—

The artist worked, and the slave called Cairn watched. In time, her work was completed.
She built a machine, a great machine of iron barbs and steel spikes and flowing sulfur, animated by the three hundred screaming fleshy fruits impaled upon its thorns, twisted out of shape. The fruits were paired, male and female, set together, in a bouquet of flesh burning and screaming and fucking and hating and dying and living while blood and semen and bile and sulfur flowed and boiled and bubbled and flesh writhed and the flesh moved and the flesh hated.
All this this was pleasing to Moluch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame.

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Nobody could like Corporal Lawrence. That's not to say that nobody tried, or that he was somehow unfriendly, merely that he was one of those few that seemed to be “wired” differently. However, in the trenches of World War I, normalcy was at best a relative term, and one that had minimal relation of life, such as it was. Lawrence fought, listened to orders, and didn't disrupt the other soldiers, and that was all that was required. So what if people felt increasingly uncomfortable around him? In a place where the flesh rotting off your bones while you were still alive was the base-line of concern, a little personality conflict ranked several levels below a paper cut.
Lawrence, for his part, dealt with it as he always had. That is to say, remained totally unaware of the avoidance. The same way a man blind from birth cannot mourn the memory of color, Corporal Lawrence couldn't bemoan a lack of company. He was quiet, as he had nobody to talk to, and still, as he had nothing to do for long stretches of time. The enemy trench, less than a mile away, had gone silent for several days, letting boredom and nervousness sink in even more than normal…coupled with the unease that seemed to radiate off of Lawrence like heat waves.
The worst part was that there was no distinct reason to dislike the corporal. He was a plain man, average height, average build, bland of voice and action. Nobody could recall him raising his voice in joy or anger. He did have the occasional odd mannerisms, however. He tended to stare a beat or two longer than was acceptable at people. He rarely slept as well, and bunkmates said he would mumble in his sleep almost constantly. The content of those nocturnal ramblings, when they could be understood, were often odd, and potentially unsettling. One private moved to another barracks when he heard the name of his daughter pass Corporal Lawrence's lips, followed by a bubbling, muffled giggle.

It was strongly theorized that he was sent over the trench by his commanders more out of a desire to have him away than for his minimal combat skill. He and fourteen of his fellows were sent across the nightmarishly scarred waste of the no-man's-land between the trenches, to reconnoiter the enemy trench, and secure it if possible. Many seemed to hope that Lawrence would have the opportunity to prove his devotion to his country by making the ultimate sacrifice for it.
It was while he was gone, that three-day gap as the men held their breath, waiting for a surprise volley of shells, that someone started asking questions. Where as before, it was almost taboo to speak of Corporal Lawrence, since the departure of both him and his “aura”, rumor seemed to descend with the passion of the denied. Nobody remembered him ever talking of home. No sweet-smelling letters came, no soggy, dirt-streaked letters left. He mentioned his dreams often, and griped sometimes with the men over missed foods or pleasures, but never with any real passion.
Questions started to float among even the higher levels of the command. Nobody was able to actually find his station orders. He'd come in with a squad of reinforcements transferred from France…but there was no paperwork. The rest of the reinforcement squad had never seen the man before he'd been lumped in with them the night before the trip, along with the snips and scraps of other squads decimated by the Germans. Whispers filtered among the grunts of the corporal being a curse. Nearly every man who'd shared a bunkhouse with him had gotten trenchfoot, and the rooms he haunted always seemed to smell more musty and sickly-sweet, even for the trench.

The men sent over the no-man's-land with Corporal Lawrence heard and cared for none of this. Just another man among many, all with death certificates awaiting a stamp that could fall at any moment. They moved fast and low, from crater to crater, slipping over slick mud and barbed wire, the only thing that seemed to grow in that blasted waste. Charging the last spurt and into the trench, they were greeted not with the harsh bark of German orders and rifles…but a dense, close silence. Preparing for ambush, the men started to filter out into the tunnels and halls of the trench.
The men, already nervous, were not calmed by their investigation. The trenches stank of mold, sweat, and a thin undertaste of rotten fruit. A vile, cloying slime seemed to have pooled in every divot and crack, sticky as glue and itchy on the flesh. In a world where rats and insects would try to snatch food from your mouth even as you ate, they saw nothing alive, not so much as a fly. An armory lay in chaos, munitions spilled on the ground, rifles tossed like pick up sticks. A mess hall had been reduced to ruins, the tables and chairs piled in the center of the room, charred and twisted, the rations seemingly stamped into the dirt by many feet. And still, nothing, alive or dead, was found by the increasingly anxious soldiers.
Private Dixon found the first body, and managed to cry out before vomiting.
They knew it had been a man only because nothing else of that size could have been there. It lay on the floor of a barracks. The entire floor. The flesh of it had been…smeared, somehow, spread like butter over the rough dirt floor. Bones, already looking pitted and rotten, stuck out at random angles, like dead trees in a still swamp. The skull rested on one of the highest bunks, facing the doorway, ten gleaming white fingertip bones crammed into the cracked eye sockets. As one man went to examine it, he found the back of the skull had been crushed open, the rotting, sagging sponge of a tongue stuffed into the otherwise dry cavity.
More remains were found, each seemingly more unsettling and strange than the last. A ring of hands in a sandbagged watchpost, ten of them, fingers interlaced like a basket, the wrists ragged and broken. Two men in a tunnel, skin leathery and thin as mummies, eye sockets staring and empty, mouths locked impossibly wide, their clothes mere rags under an oily black scum. The latrine sent even the hardiest back, gagging and shivering. Overflowing with excrement and offal, gobbets of meat bobbed and oozed in the foul sludge… the whole surface dotted with what looked like thousands of clean, slick eyeballs, nerves and tendons fanning out like goldfish tails.
Corporal Lawrence was the first to find the hole, the other men loudly debating the better part of valor and their rapid withdrawal from the nightmare trench. It was small, in a section of fresh digging, the start of a new arm of trenches projecting closer to the enemy lines. No more than four feet across, it seemed to be the accidental uncovering of a natural chamber, the empty blackness of it defying investigation. Private Dixon, recovered and blessedly numb from his previous ordeals, saw the corporal prod the edge with his boot, then crouch to peer in…then suddenly slide in head-first before the private could so much as utter a shout of question.
The private was a good soldier, and rushed to the perceived distress of his fellow. When questioned later, he could provide little illumination as to what happened over the two minutes Corporal Lawrence spent in the hole. He could see nothing, the light of a torch seemingly gobbled up a few feet into that dense blackness. There were sounds…the rustle of movement over loose stone or rubble. An odd liquid shifting, a dry rustle that made him think of the insect husks he'd used to collect in the summer. As he shouted for aid, there was a sudden upwelling of a repulsive stench, like a reptile house gone sour and old, and his fellow soldiers found him retching helplessly beside the hole when they came around the turn.
It was as they rushed to Private Dixon's aid that the hand emerged from the hole. They stopped and raised rifles as one body, roaring for the owner of that pale, trembling hand to identify himself. As they watched, another hand joined the first, followed by the pale, shivering head of Corporal Lawrence. He was streaked and smeared with a tarry black ooze, hacking and coughing thinly as he hauled his body up beside that of the gasping private. As they moved to help the men, the corporal vomited up a heavy stream of the same repulsive slime that coated his body in smears and globs, his curled, shuddering body voiding more of it into his saturated, fouled pants. They were hesitant to touch him, finally doing so after the seemingly endless river of grime stopped pouring from him. He was insensible, eyes rolling and wide, body as limp as a boned fish.

The men quit the trench with all speed. Half-dragging the corporal, they ran with no thought to cover or death, only escape. They crossed in record time, falling into their home trench like so much cordwood, gasping and shivering, one man known to have bludgeoned a German to death with a brick curled on the floor in a sobbing heap. The commanders moved quickly, isolating the men and trying to calm the most lucid for a report. What spilled out would have been immediately dismissed as lies and hallucination were it not for the earnest, pleading stares of those reporting. Command calmed them with explanations of battle fatigue and strange gas weapon tests…and shared silent, focused stares as the cowed men were ushered out.
Corporal Lawrence had little to report. Of his time in the hole, he could (or would) say little. He stated that he had slipped, and fallen into what may have been some long-blocked underground pool, or perhaps a buried latrine. Of the sounds and smells reported by the private, he had nothing to say, only that he had struggled a short time, then managed to get back out just as the men arrived. Truly, he seemed none the worse for wear. In fact, he seemed in better spirits than many had remembered ever seeing him, favoring the commanders with a wide, giddy smile as he was dismissed with a warning not to discuss the events.
The corporal proved a changed man over the next few days. He was more talkative, but quickly had men wishing for his old, unsettling silence. He rambled about the joys of close spaces, of creation and destruction that seemed to spring up all around them. About human pleasures missed, the dimensions and ages of which made some men threaten Corporal Lawrence with a quiet and ignoble death…which only seemed to stretch the near-constant smile on his face even wider. Private Dixon, one of the corporal's bunkmates, whispered to a friend that he had woken once to find the corporal standing over him in the night, his eyes as bright and flat as silver dollars. They found the private the next day snarled in the barbed wire, his intestines spread nearly ten feet around him in every direction.

Not one man from that trench survived the Great War, although few died in battle. A wave of sickness took the trench a few days after Private Dixon's death. A strange wasting sickness, it seemed to eat the flesh like acid, men waking to find previously healthy flesh eaten down to the bone, oozing and blackened. A sergeant was found in a latrine, beset by a living carpet of rats. They refused to quit the body even when shot, and attacked several men before the body was recovered. Relief finally came, the bulk of the men being sent to various hospitals, many wasting away before they ever reached a bed.
Corporal Lawrence was remanded to a French mental ward, transferred after several complaints from the hospital proper where he was first sent. It seemed his behavior hinted at a growing mental imbalance, culminating with an attempted sexual assault of a nurse, which ended with the loss of three fingers from her right hand, and the vision in her right eye. The corporal would rant quietly to the other patients, whispers about endless halls, pursuits in the dark, flesh laid out like pages of a book. It was dismissed as so much war fatigue, even as his behavior grew less violent and more unsettling.
He vanished several times from the ward, only to appear several hours later, as if nothing had happened. When pressed, he would begin to sing “My Bonnie Lies Over The Sea” in an endless monotone until the doctors left exasperated. Others on the ward clamored to be transferred from the whispering madman. A stale, musty foulness seemed to sit in the air wherever he stayed, and incidents of infection and the strange, consuming sickness that had beset his home trench seemed to follow him like a cloud. Numerous attempts were made to transfer the man, only to be met with bureaucratic confusion. No records were found of the man. No entry papers, commendations or incidents, not even a birth certificate. Through it all he sat, for hours on end, cross-legged on his bed, occasionally humming tunelessly, or rambling off the names of his ward-mates between short, bubbling giggles.
Corporal Lawrence and eighteen men vanished one November night, between a five minute nurse rotation at three in the morning. The room reeked of rust, oil, mold, and sweet rot. Thick, black swaths of crumbling ooze coated the beds and several of the walls, wide patches of it smearing and eating into the floor. Of the men, there was no sign, at first. As they searched, one nurse shifted a bed aside, only to shriek and nearly trip across one of the sunken, reeking depressions on the floor. In a tight, perfect spiral were what appeared to be hundreds of teeth, resting neatly on the floor. After counting, they accounted for the total of all the teeth of every living soul in that ward…but one.

The corporal was never found, nor were the men. The incident was swallowed by the constant barrage of horrors from the front, and forgotten with ease. Stories of a cursed trench wandered across the front lines, often squelched for being bad luck. Still they came…stories of strange deaths, of disappearing men, found days later, alive, but broken and twisted beyond comprehension. Stories of a strange, dark figure stalking the bomb-riddled towns of Europe.
This may be the only known image of Corporal Lawrence ever recorded, taken several days after his return from the hole in the German trench.


"-Effective immediately. Until a suitable replacement can be appointed, Lieutenant Hammersmith will serve as the interim Director of Project Malleus, under our direct supervision."
"You could have at least had the decency of firing me face to face, Samuel."
"You're not fired, Henry, merely suspended. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. You brought this on yourself, you know. I warned you."
"Yes… I suppose you did."
"All Project Malleus controlled artifacts are to be transferred to the Shepherd Corps until we decide what to do with you. And I do mean all of them. Do I make myself clear, Henry?"
"Crystal."
"Good. We'll discuss this further once I land. Don't do anything stupid, you hear?"
"Come now, when did I ever do anything like that?"

Two Weeks Prior
“Left. Left. I said left, for heaven's sake, left!”
“Yeah, Raymond, I got it.”
“You're still going right, Brickjaw! I told you left! The map says left!”
“I thought I told you not to call me that, Raymond.”
“And I thought I told you to go left, yet our trajectory remains decidedly right-bound!”
“My way is faster.”
“How on earth would you know that? You've never been here before!”
“It's my sense of direction, it's perfect.”
“Oh you bloody…”
Henry DeMontfort rubbed his temples for the fourth time in ten minutes, and groaned as his subordinates continued to bicker from the front seat. This has been a long, long drive. He reached for his pocket, searching for his electronic cigarette, when the tiny rented Fiat swerved suddenly and knocked the plastic tube from his hand and out the opened window. Barely holding back a curse, he turned to Lieutenant Levit, who was driving, his enormous hands almost completely encompassing the steering wheel.
“Lieutenant, what was that?”
“Sheep, Sir.”
“…Sheep?”
“Yes Sir, sheep on the road.”
“Why was there a sheep on the road?” This was asked by Operative Raymond of Baskerville, a fairly recent addition to Project Malleus, transferred on his request from the Shepherd Corps. Wet around the ears, but certainly not lacking in enthusiasm.
“How should I know?”
“Didn't you use to herd sheep, Brickjaw?”
The huge, rough-featured man rubbed his face with both hands, leaving Raymond to desperately grab the wheel as the car zigzagged on the narrow dirt road. “I herded goats, Raymond, not sheep. Entirely different. And don't call me that.“
DeMontfort leaned back in his seat, sighing. Lieutenant Levit was usually as trustworthy and capable a man as anyone could wish for, but driving…. Well, driving wasn't one of his strong suits. The only reason he was at the wheel at all was because Raymond couldn't drive, and DeMontfort was too exhausted to trust himself at the task.
“What's so different about goats? They're just uglier sheep.”
“Goats are smart. A sheep goes where you tell it to; a goat goes where it wants.”
“Looks like this sheep didn't get the memo, because I certainly didn't tell it to stand in the middle of the road.”
“Good one.”
It was getting dark, and DeMontfort began worrying they wouldn't be able to find the school before nightfall. The South Italian countryside was almost completely bereft of proper road marks, and the hilly terrain was very difficult to get one's bearing in. DeMontfort began to doze, but jerked into wakefulness again as Levit swerved the car once more, this time to avoid hitting a pack of wandering wild fowl. Levit slammed on the brakes. Wheels screaming in protest, the Fiat veered sharply to the left, smashing into roadside shrubbery until finally coming to a stop when it struck a wooden signpost, which slowly toppled until finally hitting the ground with a loud crash. Groaning, and his head hurting even worse than before, DeMontfort struggled to open the passenger door, which proved to be stuck. After a few futile attempts at hitting it with his shoulder, he was unceremoniously pulled out through the window by Levit. Raymond was inspecting the damage.
"Well, we ain't going any further with this one, that's for sure. Nice going, Brickjaw."
"S'not my fault. Couldn't well hit that chicken, now could I?"
"Better it than us, surely?"
"I dunno, I can't really think of any advantage you have over a good bird, Ray."
Raymond opened his mouth to reply, when the expression on DeMontfort's face made him close it again. In his time in Project Malleus Raymond heard many horror stories, and witnessed a few himself, but nothing scared him nearly as much as the look. Hell hath no fury like that of a jet-lagged, pissed off nicotine addict on withdrawal. He was about to apologize, when Levit nearly brained him while attempting to straighten the fallen signpost. Apology forgotten, he turned to give the huge man a piece of his mind, when he noticed what was written on the sign. It seemed DeMontfort noticed as well, as his sharp face showed an emotion other than annoyance for the first time in days.
"Looks like we're here."
"See, Brickjaw, I told you it was to the left!"
"Shut up, Raymond."
"Both of you shut up. Raymond, run ahead to let them know we're here. Lieutenant, get the crate from the car, we'll be taking it with us."
Raymond nodded and began tracking up the dirt road the broken sign was pointing to. Levit watched him go, then turned and lifted the crate on one shoulder.
"What's in there anyway, chief?"
"A few items that might prove useful sometime in the future, nothing major."
"S'pretty heavy for something not major."
DeMontfort gave Levit a pointed look, then the two started after Raymond, their backs to the golden rays of the setting sun. "Well, that's what I have you for."

"Huh. Not quite what I was expecting, chief."
"I said it was a school, Lieutenant."
"Well, yeah, but you never mentioned it was so…er…"
"Feminine?"
"That's one word for it."
As the two men were strolled into the school's foyer, their eyes were assaulted with a veritable barrage of all things fluffy, pink, and above all, girly. Levit almost dropped his crate on his toes as a group of schoolgirls, no older than eight, began circling around him like an inquisitive pack of giggling piranhas. They were gone a moment later, scampering down an adjacent corridor now pursued by a haggard looking nun.
"I thought this was suppose to be a Catholic school."
"Unless that was a particular tired penguin, Lieutenant, I'd hazard the guess that it is."
"But it's so…cheerful. I thought these sort of places were all iron discipline and rulers."
"The Mother Superior of the school has a different approach to education. Rulers don't feature very heavily. Or any sort of discipline, for that matter."
Walking beneath a severe depiction of Jesus on the cross which seemed rather out of place amidst the crayon drawings and floral arrangements which surrounded it, the two man spotted a bemused-looking Brother Raymond, holding what appeared to be a large slice of chocolate cake. Seeing them, Raymond tried to wave, forgot that he was holding the cake, and dropped it on his shoes.
"Sir, Mother Superior says she'll see you in the garden, if you'd be so kind as to meet her there."
"Is that what she said?"
"Er, not in so many words."
"And in so many words?"
"Um. 'I'm having my smoke. If the pup wants to yap at me, he can damn well find me himself.' Unusual language for a nun, if I can so bold as to comment. She did give me this cake though."
To Raymond's surprise, the Director smiled at that. "Very good. Raymond, take Levit and find the wine cellar. I want that crate stored there. After that, busy yourself until I return. I shouldn't be long. Oh, and clean your boots."
"A wine cellar in a Catholic school, Sir?"
"Don't you doubt it."

DeMontfort replaced the handle of his old dial phone and shivered. He'd been expecting this day for months now, but that didn't make its arrival any easier to bear. More than thirteen years of work, all gone in a moment, and the worst part was, he didn't have anyone to blame for it but himself. He'd let zeal conquer his better judgment, and now came the time to pay the price. Rising from his high-backed chair, he strode to the narrow window of what would soon no longer be his office. An early summer's thunderstorm has recently passed, and the city was washed with the soft, golden light. It smelt of rain.

"Good afternoon, Mother Superior."
DeMontfort was standing in a shaded corner of the school's wide, well-kept gardens. In front of him, sitting at the base of an old olive tree, was a woman that made the tree seem young. Her face was a leathery deep-farrowed map of wrinkles, laugh lines and scars, made all the more obvious by the huge grin on them.
"Why, looky here. If it isn't little Henry the pup. Nice of you to take a break from your busy burning schedule just to see your old gran."
"That would have made more sense if you were my grandmother."
"Well I can hardly be that, can I? I'm a bloody nun! Daft boy."
Looking around to see no one else was around, DeMontfort shimmied down to sit next to the old woman. "I missed you, Mother Ursula."
"Aye, I know you have. It's good to see you, my boy. Even if you are an idiot."
"Not enough of one to come without tribute." Searching through his pockets, DeMontfort pulled a neatly rolled cigar, relieved to see it survived the journey intact.
"Ah, you did always know how to woo a lady. Gimme." Lighting it, the old woman gave the cigar a contented puff, then settled down further between the tree's gnarled roots. "So, what's your angle?"
"Can't a man pay an innocent visit to his favorite," he searched for a word, "old mentor?"
"A man can. Henry 'the Weasel' DeMontfort can't. And don't call me old, I'm just seasoned."
"Hardly anyone calls me that anymore."
"Well, they're afraid you'd burn them, I suspect. What's your angle?"
Grimacing, DeMontfort reached for his own smokes. "I came to ask for your assistance, Mother Ursula. Your connections, to be precise."
"I suspect this has something to do with your upcoming booting, eh?"
This caught him off-guard. "How did you know?"
"You come to me for my connection, and you're surprised I know things? Silly. That, and I spoke to my brother recently. Bernard could never keep that mouth of his shut."
"To be fair, you're not an easy woman to keep a secret from, not even if you're a member of the Tribunal."
The old woman cackled, a sound DeMontfort was very familiar with. "He's been my little brother for a long, long time, my boy. Wouldn't be much of a big sister if I didn't know how to give him a proper shake. So, what do you need?"
"A safe place to keep some relics, first among them Samson's Locks. I suspect I won't be holding to my position for much longer, and, as much as it pains me to say it, I don't trust most of my men with these particular artifacts. They've proven to be… indiscreet, lately. "
"You're one to talk."
Ignoring the remark, DeMontfort continued. "I've stored some less sensitive equipment here already, in our usual place. I trust it won't be found. The relics, however, are a different matter. I need someplace no one but us could ever find them."
"So it's not just your men you want to hide the relics from, eh? It's my brother and his companions too. You're betraying the Initiative."
"I'm not, I promise you." He shifted uneasily, cigarette dropping from his mouth. "Ursula, there's something foul in the air. I can't explain it, but something tells me that there will be a desperate need for these relics soon, and that even the Tribunal cannot be trusted with them until that need is fulfilled."
"Something tells you? Or do you mean Someone?"
"I…I don't know what I mean. Not anymore. I've fallen far, Mother. I've become something I used to hate."
"Well, you can always-"
"No, you don't understand. I became what I am because that was what I needed to be. What He needed me to be. What I feel about it is irrelevant. It's simply another test of my faith. Please, Mother. I need you to trust me."
Slowly, the old woman nodded. "I know a man. Never met a harder one to find, if he don't want to be found. You won't like him, though."
The garden became deathly quiet as Ursula explained the details. DeMontfort's headache returned with a vengeance, leading a host of its kin to storm the last of his patience.
"You want me to entrust some of the Initiative's most powerful artifacts… to him?"
"You did say you wanted someone who couldn't be found, right? Someone who could deliver the relics to you when they are needed?"
"But the man is a lunatic, and a heretic besides! What's to keep him from selling the relics, or using them for himself, or doing heaven knows what with them once he gets his hands on them?"
"Don't you worry about him, he owes me one. Not to mention, I have some dirt on him. Nasty stuff."
Despite himself, DeMontfort was curious. "How did you get dirt on Saturn Deer?"
The old woman gave him a crafty look. "I wasn't always a nun, you know. Well, what do you say?"
"Are you sure you can keep him in line?"
"Positive. Was never as smart as he thought he was, that one."
"I guess I have no real choice then, now do I?"
"That's the road you choose for yourself, my boy. There's always a choice."
DeMontfort nodded.

The phone rang again. Reluctantly drawing himself from the window, DeMontfort answered.
"This is DeMontfort."
"Henry. It's Salah."

« The Horizon Blues | Hub |


I don't quite remember the first time, but my parents told me about it. I would have been about… 5? Probably 5 or 6, yeah. It was one of my friends' dad. I just ran away screaming to the teacher about a monster in the playground. Got told off for being mean to grown ups. The next week he drowned. Fell off his fishing boat.
No, when I actually realised it I would have been about 11. When my grandmother was in the hospital.
Nah, it wasn't her. Cancer went into remission. It was all the other patients. Most of them were missing eyes. That's normally the first thing that I notice. She ended up dying a year or so later.
Oh man, you have no idea. Everyone just crowding over her. My mother kept making me go and talk to her, and hold her hand. I kept just seeing bits of skin falling off her. I think that's probably what fucked me up the most, you know. A whole week just being driven out to the hospital, every day, seeing more and more of her fall apart. And everyone just acted normal, you know? Making sure she was okay. Comforting a corpse.
Oh, hell no. I was old enough to know that I'd just be thrown in the crazy bin. They just thought I was crying because we were in a hospital.
Anyway, made my way through school somehow. Wasn't really great at anything in particular, so I ended up joining the army.
Well yeah, in hindsight it wasn't the best idea. Once we got into the field it was just… hell, you know. There'd just be people sitting in the mess hall, all dried up and shit. And they'd talk to me, and I knew that they were going to end up dead, and it's that… I tried to stop them, but it never worked. It wasn't great.
Yeah, well, you can't really blame me. Just woke up one day and they were all like that. Easiest decision of my life: took the first plane out. The carpet bombings started a week later. That's when the GOC pulled me in, of course.
Well, it looked very "telling". Not the kind of thing the army really cares about, but the GOC figured it out somehow.
I can't really remember… he went by Tangerine, I think? Anyway, we chatted for a bit, got everything sorted out. They just stuck me in an office to organise teams.
Well, it didn't guarantee that they'd be successful, but they always came back alive. After a while they realised that the personnel I was turning down still turned up dead, even if it was something like a heart attack, so they pulled me out of that.
Well yeah, that's when they started thinking that it might be me killing them indirectly. Kept me locked up for a month, ran the battery of tests until they all-cleared me. After that, if I saw any dead personnel I was to keep it to myself. I felt pretty crappy about it, but like I said, I can't do much about it. They decided it might be better to send me out doing field work, you know? I'd been in the army, like I said. And let me tell you, I was the best. Worked as a spotter in sniper teams; of course, they'd always make their shots. I could go in and clear out buildings by myself, just because I knew they had to die.
Oh man, the worst was probably the crowd bombing. I knew something was going to go down, there were dead people everywhere, and then they all just… aligned in a perfect circle. And it was like, in those fractions of seconds before they all went, I knew what was going to happen. They were all going to die, and the rest would scatter. And I looked at the centre of that circle, and I swear, that bastard looked straight at me. Of course, I just saw a hollow skull, facing right at me, and then a ball of flames and shrapnel. That would have been in '97, you know, might have heard about it.
Yeah, I retired from active service, what, 6 years ago? They still pull me in for important stuff. Hell, they've probably noticed I'm gone already.
Oh, no, I'm not worried. They'll come and get me.
Within the week.


When you're in a position like mine, there is never time to be surprised. Even when each day, I meet new THINGS on my skin to crawl around and smile with my gums, I think thats all there is too see. Of course, I'm wrong. When god ran out of THINGS from this world, he sent some from the others to pick up the slack.
I'm being punished, you know. For my time working with the collectors. They stuck me in their little pickle jar, and now all my friends, or the ones who were to be called my friends, call me crazy and watch me without pity. They can't see I'mstillhumanstillhumanstillhumanstillhuman like them they cannot see they are blinded by the gnats.
They used to watch over me every day, making sure I didn't try to destroy the world I once strived so hard to protect. Then the containment breach sounded. The THINGS were let out of their broken jars, and my old brothers and friends fled from sight. I thought they had to bee back soon. But they never came back. All that was left was ME and the THINGS.
I could hear them creeping out there in the dripping pitch blackness, scraping and scratching against their binds. Some of their lands had been freed by the compromised site, but some had to struggle for years to reach me. Even now, there are still trying to skitter their way into my places.
First ones were the shadows. They're always with me. I can feel the flat, spindly legs crawling over my body now. All over and in over. They're what retaught me that there is no such thing as privacy, when THEY spin webs in the mind and fly them around like little cranial ziplines. THEY catch my thoughts like flies.
The ants were swarming over me. They rolled off the skin and folded it like nice blankets at the foot of the bed. My feet were scratched into powder and spread out to feed the babies. My eyes were taken, and they saw what I saw. Even in my sight, THEY saw it all and could make me see what they see I see what THEY want me to see all see.
Then, after taking my privacy, they took my senses. From the cicadas, I lost my ears. The parasites took my taste, hanging onto the ends of my gums like an artificial tongue, flapping in the wind but not tasting a THING. Bones are all around me now, making a little nest for all my private friends. It's so cozy in me, but I am never alone. My thoughts are snapped up and sent through the hive that has come to be what used to be me.
I used to pray to a god, any god, to forgive me and let my existence end. That was an exercise in futility. Because I know there is no GOD out there, no GOD for these THINGS that can be found outside the little room we all share together in harmony.
I am god.

This document was recovered from the containment chamber of SCP-027, following Mass Containment Breach Incident-006. Approximately ███ insectoid anomalies were also recovered within the chamber. The note itself appeared to be composed from insect cocoon material, and written with fecal matter. Although it is believed that SCP-027 still occupies the chamber, it has not been sighted by any personnel following its return to Foundation custody.