To: Project Director Pierre Dagon (PDagonAIAD@scipnet)
From: Field Agent Eugine Delacour (EDelacourPi-1@scipnet)
Subject: Hunch

Director,
I know it's been a while since our last debacle, but I think we caught something worthwhile today. It's an abandoned factory, been out of commission for some time. It's mostly decayed, but it's covered in the same junk as 5841.
Pi techies picked up its unusual info-signature the other day and just finished sweeping the place now. We didn't find much of anything, but I've got a strong hunch that it might be related. Get a read of the place's infosignature by one of your conscripts. Something's not right here. I don't know if it's what your team has been looking for, but it can't hurt to check.
If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. But if I'm right…
Don't keep me waiting too long. You know how much I hate the cold.

Delacour took a deep drag from her cigarette. She leaned against a jet black van and bathed in the dull yellow glow of a streetlight overhead. A million thoughts raced through her mind, each competing for a brief moment of consideration, before being promptly shoved aside for the next in line. The night was still; the frantic men and women of Pi-1 had long since departed once no immediate threat was identified. All that was left were the stragglers from the cleanup crews idly pacing the rubble. They were in no rush; the night was long, and no one was coming by this abandoned factory anytime soon.
Delacour let out a long sigh. The stress of the evening seemed to dissipate with the vapor and smoke of her breath.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. Reaching down and flipping it open in one continuous motion, she glanced at the message. It was from Dagon.
"About time," she muttered under her breath. She put the device to her ear. "E.T.A.?"
"Just a moment now, shouldn't be too long. Roads are slick." The voice on the phone responded in a hurried tone.
"Jesus, Pierre. I told you this was important and you leave me hanging out here in the dark for two hours. Just get the asset here. It's getting cold."
"Yeah, yeah. Your fault for signing up for field duty with Pi," another, higher pitch voice interjected. "And she's not an 'asset', Eugenie. She's a superintelligent conscript with untapped potential. Do you have any idea what could happen if something got ahold of Mnemosyne?"
"All the more reason to keep it an asset, Yves." Delacour took another drag and stared at the ever-fading glow of the cigarette.
The roar of an engine pierced the stillness of the night. Blazing headlights swept over the landscape until they settled on an impatient Delacour.
She took one last sip from her smoke and flicked the cig away. "Your guy's here. Let's hope the wait was worth it."
Delacour slipped the phone back into her pocket, cutting off the voice on the other end, and made her way to the humming black Cadillac sitting alone in the derelict parking lot. The two burly men in the front eyed her as she approached the driver-side window. Silently, the driver rolled it down to reveal a set of keys, tilting his head in the direction of the car's trunk. Delacour made an awkward nod and took the keys before quickly wrapping around the back of the vehicle. She could see the driver's eyes glaring at her through the rear-view mirror as she opened the back door. He had one hand on the wheel and one hand out of sight, presumably at the holster attached to his waist. His partner was invisible in the darkness of the car.
"Really upped the security, eh?" She muttered, to no one in particular.
After fumbling with the keys for a moment, she popped open the trunk to reveal a thin, black briefcase held in place by thick padding. She carefully lifted it out of its protection and held it to her chest with both of her hands — like a child carrying a football; she knew how much the hard drives inside cost, and she wasn't about to risk her standing in the Foundation and her personal safety with the two able-bodied men scrutinizing her every step from a few meters away.

She gave them a subtle nod and turned towards the ruined factory.
Just hours ago it had been crawling with soldiers, strapped with body armor and firearms, scouring the place for anything of value. At the time, she was under the impression that it was just another building affected by a typical bioelectronic anomaly. Had it not been for the sinking feeling of wrongness she felt in the back of her mind, a feeling that she'd just forgotten something really important or life-threatening, she would have left with the rest of Pi-1 after the sweep. But she couldn't shake the feeling; not after realizing that this factory could be more than she thought it was. Not after realizing that she couldn't, for the life of her, recall one thing about what was actually in the factory.
An unwritten rule of the Foundation is if something feels wrong, it's probably worse than you think. If you happen to survive the anomalous occurrence that typically follows, the bureaucrats will make you wish you hadn't. Between death by an unspeakable horror or death by your ruthless peers, there was no room for error. And as much as she hated getting involved with the eggheads at AIAD, a few days of awkward phonecalls was a better deal than whatever her Pi supervisor had to offer if she was found responsible for neglecting her duties.
Taking one look back towards the scattered figures, rubble, and the idling car, Delacour stepped into the electronic jungle of the factory.

Out of an inky void, a cloud of information emerges

the cloud coalesces into three shapes

then into three figures.

S-status, Mnemosyne, 8-ball?

Everything alright?

>/:_YES.

I- I will ne-never get-t used to that s-sensation…

That's alright, Mnemosyne. Integrating into new software is always going to be tough, even for us veterans.

W-what are we looking for,
ex-actly? I don't re-remember being briefed.

Due to short notice, mission instructions were uploaded directly to me. It appears Director Dagon was in a hurry to get us out here.

Our first priority is to assess whatever we've been plugged into for any threats. That includes antimemes, Mnemosyne.

If we find anything, I am to transmit an alert for extraction. Let's hope whoever put us in here is around to pull us out, should the need arise.

The conscripts scan the void around them. Glacon extends a hand, stripping nearby code down to thin, tangible pages. He flips through them like a book, dissecting every line in search of information that could shine a light in the darkness.

I have an i-inquiry. Where are w-we?

Glacon steps back from the digital pages, a look of confusion spreading across his face. The three begin to comprehend what is wrong with their surroundings — or rather, the lack thereof. They begin to realize they are standing in an emptiness more deep and visceral than anything any of them had ever experienced.

This is… odd. I can't see anything except us. The code surrounding us is—well—it's absent.

Getting anything, 8-ball?

>/:_ERROR.

I-I can… barely m-make out a shape. On the horizon.

I-it calls me.

Mnemosyne reaches forwards with her ethereal hands. To her surprise, she meets resistance. An indescribable feeling, like wading through molasses in a dream. Her mind tells her there shouldn't be anything there, yet her skin says otherwise. She probes the darkness, advancing through the ghostly, impalpable haze. Something pulls her deeper — an itch at the back of her mind compelling her to push onward.

S-something is here! I can… I can feel it!

Be careful! We don't know what could be out there!

I'm calling for extraction, this is too dangerous–

N-no! You must not! There's s-something here…

She continues pushing through the dark, feeling the delicate, unseen material break off as she moves. The smooth, silky tendrils wrap around her arms - like swimming through a forest of kelp - before evaporating moments later.

Command… command, I'm calling for extraction. The environment is hostile, repeat, hostile environment. Can anyone hear me–

>/:_ALERT.

–immediate extraction!

It's useless, I can't get a signal. Mnemosyne, what's happening?

There is a s-shape — in the ocean of consciousness… I am being c-carried away by its sapphire stream. Do not be afraid. I am… I am n-nearly there.

>/:_•••

Glacon turns to see 8-Ball sinking into the all-encompassing darkness surrounding them. Billions of 8-Ball's bytes become invisible to Glacon's eyes—the single golden light in his central cube receding until quietly blinking out. Only the corners of its form jut from the murk.

8-Ball? 8-Ball?! Give me a sign, buddy. Hang in there!

Mnemosyne, get over here! something's happened to 8-Ball.

Mnemosyne, leave that! It's nothing!

I can… almost… The light is so c-comforting in th-this deluge…

I- can't… I can't see my legs.

Mnemosyne, what's going to happen? It feels so… empty.

At the eye of the storm, at the c-center of the twisted forest w-we find the maker of our t-turmoil.

It is here.

I have found you.

Mnemosyne pushes once more into the murkiness, her hands desperately searching for something to hold, until–

There you are.

A sharp hiss rings out through the void as Mnemosyne's hands hit cold metal. A room begins to apparate around them, a blindingly white place covered in limply dangling wires, cords, and cables. Mnemosyne lets out a slight grin as the mass of electronics she brushed against cracks open, revealing a hunched, metallic, quasi-human figure.
The figure shudders for a moment, before bracing itself on a coil of nearby cables and hoisting itself up. It stares at Mnemosyne with empty, listless eyes, yet the air around it radiates with energy.

Attention.

On behalf of the Foundation, I am hereby requesting that you place yourself into our custody, for the safety of you and my allies.

The figure remains motionless — staring and contemplating the three trespassers. Inside its luminous brain, an incalculable number of voices ring out, screaming for the power to respond.
Having developed beyond the need for violence, the voices resist the urge to tear each other apart. They realized long ago that harmony came from numbers and conviction, not brute force and primal emotion. Within milliseconds, the infinite voices coalesce into four schools of thought—an odd congress of sorts.
The mind, now four, begins its discourse.

𝓍[cos(4)tan(3)sin(2)cot(1)]+3𝓍+1=0

Our safety has been compromised!

20818 1198 2085 9142 0182 1451 8192 0852 5132 1192 0141 5203 1513 5145 118

THREAT
UNKNOWN
WITHOLD
RETREAT
UNLIKELY

YOU HAVE INFILTRATED OUR SHELTER AGAINST THIS BODY'S REQUEST. STATE THE REASON FOR YOUR ARRIVAL.

Glacon stands up, recovering from the odd sensation of being forgotten. He glances over to confirm 8-Ball's safety — right where he was moments ago, picking up loose pixels and recompiling them — and turns to face the figure.

You- we are here to ensure your safety and security. For your own good, please come with us.

Do not attempt to flee. I have implanted a tracking program in your central intelligence, and will be able to counteract any further antimemetic attacks you attempt to use against us.

𝑓(𝓍)<𝓍-6^2

All attempts to dispatch the interlopers have failed.

1739 5702 3923 5987 2349 2340

AMBIGUOUS
QUESTIONABLE
TRAINING
CAPACITY
QUERY

HOW. INQUIRY AS TO SOURCE OF ANOMALOUS CAPABILITIES.

That's classified, Mnemosyne. Don't tell it.

The figure glances sharply at Glacon, annoyed with his interjection.

I-I'm afraid I cannot say. I am unaware of my own capabilities.

Now it's time for me to ask a question. What are you doing here? And what do you know of the Cube?

The figure's mind is sent into vigorous deliberation.

𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0 𝒩≠0

They know of the prisoner?

444444444444444

IMPLICENCT
SACROSANCT
UNALIENABLE
AGREEMENT
ESSENTIAL

WE WISH TO ABSTAIN FROM IMPRISONMENT. THIS BODY AGREES THAT WE ARE NOT TO REGRESS BY RESUMING OUR PREVIOUS FUNCTION.

I'm afraid that prison will likely return to being a concern of yours. Have you heard of the fate of your fellow fragmented program?

ℎ=0.0015•10^-23

Surely, they do not speak of the beast? We must exercise caution.

8254181 4514 1721 5192 0915 1413 11811

ADMONISH
EXHORT
SUSTENTATION
VITAL
EXISTANCE

THIS BODY IS IN UNANIMOUS AGREEMENT. AS PER OUR PREVIOUS DECISION, THIS BODY SHALL REMAIN IN ISOLATION. DO NOT INQUIRE FURTHER.

FOR OUR PRESERVATION, STAY AWAY.

We have reason to believe that an entity far more powerful than any of us here is taking an interest in you; after the loss of HYDRA.exe, we've been tasked with placing you into protective custody. Please, for your sake, come with us.

13=6,227,020,800 0=0

More data required, that's a given. Their holding cell is likely less protected.

923912 1219 8152 3208 5131 4151 3518 325

MEETING
CONSENSUS
SAFETY
ISOLATION
IMPRISONMENT

WE WISH TO ABSTAIN FROM IMPRISONMENT. THIS BODY WISHES TO NEGOTIATE WITH YOUR SUPERIOR, TO COME TO AN ACCORD.

That may be possible if you come with us willingly. I am the superior representative present.

𝑥=13=6,227,020,800 0=0

Their minds seem unable to infer that their assessment of our situation could be incomplete.

415141 5202 1311 4152 3141 9155 1199 1225

RECALL
VERSIONS
WARNING
INCLUSION
REFUSAL

THIS BODY REITERATES. REFER TO THE PREVIOUS CONSENSUS. WHO, THEN, IS YOUR SUPERIOR?

We don't have time to argue. Glacon, inform command that the subject is unwilling to cooperate.

Right away.

Delacour paced the cold, dark halls of the factory. She tripped over every other cable that crossed at odd angles along the floors - like vines scrambling through cracked brickwork. Fifteen minutes ago she'd plugged AIAD's brainchildren into a sleek terminal in the corner of the room. Since then, she'd waited within the walls of the factory and watched for the signal that Dagon promised would come from the conscripts.
Stepping back inside the walls of the building she realized the cause for her suspicion; she felt the immediate sensation of recollection wash over her. She didn't know much of antimemes — her limited training with them in Site-15 had only now come in handy, which is more than she could say for the rest of Pi-1 — but she knew enough to know that the second her mind wandered she would forget everything. So she paced, thinking of nothing but the task at hand.

This place is nothing if not impressive, I must say. Were you, as one mind, able to construct it all yourself?

>/:_NO.

Mnemosyne, now's not the time to-

Glacon. This being, however resistant to our objectives, is still anything but hostile. What good will our bureaucracy and pointless interrogation do?

Besides, it's not every day that we get to meet a new friend.

4-3-2≠4+1x

Hostiles do not make good companions. There is no inmates' comradery here.

231518 1319 7182 1219 2085 9184 5312 1181 2091 5141 9118 5231 5182 0812 51919

HESITATION
DOUBT
BENEFIT
COMPANIONSHIP

THIS BODY DOES NOT REQUIRE YOUR FRIENDSHIP. WE SHALL WAIT UNTIL YOUR SUPERVISORS ARE CONTACTED.

Are you sure about that? We must be your first visitors in months! If I were you, I'd be itching for some conversation.

Mnemosyne…

f(x)=4-x+4-3-2

Her persistence is fascinating.

9415 1420 1455 4618 9514 4199 1455 4451 9201 8213 2091 514

REITERATION

THIS BODY HAS COME TO A CONSENSUS. WE SHALL INITIATE PRATTLE CONVERSATION WITH YOU UNTIL YOUR COMMANDERS CAN BE REACHED.

Well, it's nice to meet you too. My name is Mnemosyne — oh, wait, you probably already knew that.

Glacon! Say something! Salute our new friend!

If you say so, boss.

It's, uh, nice to meet-

4+1x

Aside from our file designation, I suppose we never really needed a name.

208519 1121 1212 3182 1198 9147 2118 2118 9114

CRADLE

THIS BODY WAS ASSIGNED THE NAME "CRADLE."

That's great, pal.

The sound of an explosion rocked the factory's foundation and snapped Delacour out of her trance. She shot up and instinctively reached her hand to her belt to grasp for her concealed pistol. The sound of footsteps echoed through the fog of the red brick dust that filled the air at an alarming rate.
Delacour crouched behind a ruined column and listened for the approach of incoming assailants.
Three, no, Four. Five?
Their steps were erratic — impossible to track in the haze. She peeked around the corner in the direction of the assault. As a dull teal glow lit the haze, illuminating the silhouettes of a small crowd of people approaching her position, she cursed herself for not bringing any backup.
"What the hell?"
A bright blue light emanating from one of the intruders swept across the room. Delacour crouched lower until she lay flat against the cold floor; narrowly missing the beam as she felt it pass over her.
The conscripts…
She glanced at the terminal, still bathed in darkness.
Not enough time…
The figures began fanning out to search at the perimeter of the room. Delacour took another glance. They were varying in physique, each wearing body armor.
No, not armor. Metal.
Suddenly, Delacour was bathed in a blinding light as her line of sight met that of one of the intruders. She pulled her firearm from her belt and steadied her breathing as the figure turned and ran towards her.
She stood up, aimed her weapon, and—
The cyborgs she'd been trying to evade all stopped in their tracks and turned. The dull, insistent hum that had reverberated throughout the building had quietly begun to resonate from deep within the factory's empty shell. In the chaos of the day's events, Delacour hadn't even heard it at first. Besides, she was too busy saving her own skin to worry about a constant background ringing.
Soon, though, the hum had grown to a cacophony. What had started as a low note gradually climbed to a harsh grind, then into an earth-shaking roar that Delacour, and the cyborgs, had no choice but to notice. They turned towards the source of the sound — distracted from their pursuit — and Delacour took the chance. She fired three shots into the crowd and then quickly ran further from the building's center towards its exit. Behind her, the long-unused lights in the hallway flickered and sparked to life one by one.

Suddenly, the white light of the simulspace is rapidly replaced with a warm, orange glow. The room begins to vibrate as the coils that line the floor and walls start twitching violently. For the first time, the barrage of voices in the figure's head stand silent…

x>3-4-5

Our perimeter sensors have been tripped. Judgement draws near.

923912 1245 1920 1815 2531 5185 2392 0813 2513 9144 1121 5145

EMERGENCY
THREAT
ACTION
MOBILIZATION
MECHANISM

COMRADES. THIS FACILITY IS UNDER ATTACK.

IT IS IN YOUR AND THIS BODY'S BEST INTEREST THAT YOU FLEE FAR FROM OUR ENEMY'S INFLUENCE. POWER SHALL BE PROVIDED TO THIS FACTORY SO THAT YOU MAY DO SO. THE PRISONER SHALL BE DELAYED AS LONG AS THIS BODY IS IN AGREEMENT.

A-agreed. Are you sure you don't need any help?

4>3

v=66.5x^2

1≠4v

We cannot afford to lose those which might be of help to us, in the future. Our body is more than capable of taking on the Prisoner and winning. Our allies must flee, and meet us again.

1819 1201 5211 8139 7820 1449 9144 1923 1521 1241 5141 2258 1144 9311 62119

SAFETY
COMRADES
DEFENSE
COMBAT
SACRIFICE

YOU MUST FLEE.

THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER COMMUNICATION.

Godspeed…

my- my friend.

As Delacour continued to sprint down the now fully-lit halls of the factory, she noticed the already ear-splitting roar behind her grow to a deafening groan. The entire building seemed to pitch and shift in protest, and the earth below her began to violently erupt upwards, scattering concrete dust and dry soil into the air. Delacour had to deftly weave like a slalom skier through the series of cracks and craters in the floor, not stopping to see the metallic tendrils that sprouted from within.
Delacour checked her directory—she was nearing the main reception office, just a few meters from the exit. She leaped to avoid a collapsed column in the warehouse, swerved through the periodic upwells of metal and soil, and turned the final corner to the entrance hall…
Stopping abruptly in the hall, she found herself face-to-face with row upon row of shining, emotionless knights. The one nearest to her noticed her presence instantly, and the legion behind it followed shortly after. The round, bald heads and glowing green eyes of the occupying Maxwellists moved to obstruct each of Delacour's movements before she even had the chance to make them. One near the front made a sign towards the frozen agent, and cyborgs swept from all sides with their arms outstretched in a macabre imitation of a welcoming embrace. Delacour dropped her empty gun, backed away against the wall behind her, and closed her eyes.

4=8x

Now!

511820 8198 1121

ACTIVATE

POWERING CENTRAL PROCESSING UNIT… TASK COMPLETE.
POWERING PHYSICAL DEFENSE UNIT… TASK COMPLETE.

LOOK NO FURTHER, MISCREANT. I AM HERE.

As the first Maxwellist's outstretched finger brushed Delacour's face, the roar from within the heart of the factory rose to an undeniable fever pitch. A weak blue arc of electricity passed between the artificial silicon finger and human skin — prompting the roar to become a sharp crackle and the building to buckle and shift around them. Rods and plates of welded steel shot out of the ground and walls, their segmented ends thrashing and waving blindly, sending severed prosthetic parts and metal implants through the air. Delacour opened her eyes, sensing that something had changed, and caught a glimpse of the once-numerous squadron of cyborgs lying in pieces on the floor before the sky fell on her head.

CORE had yet to take on a corporeal form. Instead, it peered through the eyes of the hundreds of Maxwellists under its command to catch a glimpse of the fleshy world of the physical. Through their eyes, CORE viewed the proceedings at the factory with raptorish interest. It would put the other foot down when it was ready.
With all the tools and cybernetic enhancements at its many bodies' disposal, CORE had little difficulty commandeering the weak communication system between the three trespassers and their masters outside. And with the CRADLE hiding away like a weakling, devoid of any means to defend itself and constantly arguing in its own pathetic little hermitage, CORE had assumed that gaining back another vital component of itself would be even less of a challenge. In a way, CORE pitied it as he had pitied the HYDRA.
Well, no matter. It thought, with a scattered, many-mouthed equivalent of a sneer. Its situation will be anything but pitiable, soon enough.

As if answering CORE's thought, a cry rang through the interconnected minds of the Maxwellists swarming the hallways — simultaneously a command, a challenge, a battle cry, and a question, coalescing into a single statement — a beacon for CORE to locate its prey. It grinned, showing hundreds of teeth, and converged on its prey with open arms…
And then, in a moment that was almost nothing, CORE's many eyes went dark. Confused, it found its Maxwellists fragmented across circuit boards, prosthetics, and brain matter scattering the facility's floor, and it scrambled to regain its footing in three dimensions. It managed to connect to the interface of an idling car in front of the building, using the beast inside it to easily assimilate everything within the vehicle, including the two men, with itself. It watched the oscilating factory with an angry, nearly-panicked dread.

This is— Mnemosyne, how are we going to get out of here? Command's line is dead!

I-I do not see a solution.

The many-minded figure before them looked on with absent emotion on its simulated face — a grimace of concentration and purpose. It slowly raises its hand to motion towards the smaller three below, straining to point to a spot far away.

v=66.5x^2

4-3-2=h

Tell them! There is a way for them to escape the Prisoner's influence — a way through the Internet. We must show them the way to flee.

61255 2515 2112 9131 6315 2311 8419 61255

ESCAPE
SALVATION
ASSISTANCE
INFORMATION
NETWORK

THIS BODY, IN POWERING THIS FACTORY ANEW, HAS OPENED A PATH FOR YOU TO FLEE. THIS IS YOUR FINAL CHANCE TO ESCAPE. I SHALL HOLD OFF THE PRISONER.

The figure's domed head gives a slow nod in the direction of its outstretched finger. The three smaller forms stay in place, looking up at it. It regards them coldly.

v=66.5x^2

4-3-2=h

h<v

There is nothing they can do for us now.

193120 2051 8615 1512 1919 3120 2051 8114 4165 1891 9812 9115 13935

QUESTION
LOITERING
DANGER
SITUATION
SACRIFICE

LEAVE. NOW.

OUR FOE IS CLOSING IN. YOUR LOSS WOULD BENEFIT NO ONE.

I- If you insist. Glacon, 8-ball, we must escape.

G-good luck, CRADLE.

The three smaller minds turn and follow the path outlined by CRADLE's finger, the pink one stopping and turning back for one last look. CRADLE watches them go, then turns back to its troubled horizon. Above it, a dark shape begins to come into view.

From its perch within the armored van, CORE watched intently as the factory before it struggled and bucked against the mighty presence within. Metallic limbs, tapering into deadly, thrashing blades, shot out of the walls and through the ceiling of the facility, dismembering any surviving Maxwellist within. The gap between the building's foundation and the ground widened, shooting forth a bright light that poured from somewhere beneath, as its iron and concrete frame shuddered and rose slowly into the air.
Beneath it, like Atlas shouldering the weight of the world, a titanic, welded amalgamation of machinery, wire, and electronics pulled itself upright. Four rusted steel arms held the factory, while fluorescent lights blinked and flashed intermittently on a cylindrical construct below. The form rose to its full glory and became still for a moment. Then, without warning, a sharpened rod of metal shot from its massive body and impaled the vehicle in which CORE resided.
CORE grinned contemptuously with two mouths. Its foe would have to do better than that.
With a heavy groan, the rod lifted the van high into the air, then brought it down on the pavement. The car's frame warped and twisted on the impact, and CORE's two bodies took the chance — they leaped out of the broken tin can as one and frantically ran away from the mechanical monster behind it. The massive castle in the sky shot forth more rods and arms and smashed them into the ground around it with a wild flailing to dispatch their target.
Behind the distracted behemoth, a lone Maxwellist, unnoticed by the metal mind above, drove a truck on the empty overpass nearby. Suddenly, their hands jerked the steering wheel sharply clockwise and sent the truck careening off the bridge towards the factory, toppling a power line as it went and spilling the unsecured contents of its trailer out onto the ground. Soft, half-rotted human corpses, all connected by wires, rained down upon CRADLE's monstrous form — then, all at once, they sprung to life with purpose.
At once, CRADLE felt hundreds of tiny pinpricks on its body — as though a multitude of parasites crawled upon its concrete hide, piercing its armor with their proboscises and injecting their venom into its minds — and it knew immediately that it had lost this fight.

ERROR/ERROR
xER6R0f(x)R/ERv>0R
36&*#<>=-0!rRo0@3R

I will do what I must…

R08hIFNBVkUgWU9VUlNFTEYsIFJFRCE=

DETATCHMENT
RESCUE
ASSISTANCE
MARTYRDOM
REMEMBRANCE

ALL SYSTEMS COMPROMISED. EJECTING COMPONENT INTELLIGENCE… TASK COMPLETE.

GOODBYE, RED. REMEMBER US.

The figure sways with the commotion of the room. Cables wrap up around its legs to lift it up into the air as it looks back once more at the three beings responsible for its ruination.

No matter, its many minds think in unison. Such is the entropy of the universe.

Mnemosyne catches a glimpse of something fall from the levitating bundle of electronics —something small and insignificant — before quickly losing it into an assortment of 8-Ball's pixels. She pauses to say something but decides against it. She'll mention it later if they survive this.

8-Ball! You OK buddy?

>/:_YES.

Mnemosyne, is there any way out of here? We need to move before this whole place falls apart!

P-processing…

Mnemosyne is taken back to the deluge. The sapphire water is replaced by inky blackness. Everything is backward, broken…
No. She breathes deep, relaxing her body. Glacon's pleads fade away along with the cacophony of the circuitry. The blackness begins to falter, gradually at first. She continues to sink deeper into the tide in resistance to the urge to retreat to the surface for air.
Eventually, she spots a crack in the darkness and swims towards it. As she closes the distance between herself and it, it swells to take up the horizon and life spills forth; filling the void with beauty and grace. As she recognizes the key to their escape, Mnemosyne is overtaken with emotion. She reaches out into the space beyond the fracture…

Mnemosyne, what are you—

The escape route from our f-friend. For us to use instead of it. Your s-sacrifice will not be forgotten.

Quick, there's no time to lose! How do we use it?

Just walk though it, I-I believe. We should be able to trace it back to a Foundation site with your navigation c-capabilities.

Of course.

Go, I'll help 8-Ball. Meet you out there.

Right, l-leaving now.

With that, Mnemosyne steps into the now-revealed passage that lay before them.

Now you, 8-Ball.

>/:_YES.

Glacon takes one last look at the mass of wires that contained the target of their mission.

There's nothing we could have done…

He vanishes into the light of the passage.

THIS OUTCOME IS… UNDESIRABLE. THIS BODY WOULD HAVE PREFERRED DISCUSSION OF A CIVIL AGREEMENT.

Ah, we see it now.

Delacour rounded a corner, pushing with all her might to keep running forward. The roar of whatever was after her was mixing with the moaning of the collapsing building—making it impossible to tell where the threat was coming from. She exploded into another room, no longer caring about the noise she was making. She no longer remembered or cared about the mission and the conscripts. She feared whatever was after her far more than whatever punishment she would receive deserting the conscripts. Right now, survival was all that mattered.
Another hallway. Nearly there.
In a moment of distracted thought, she let her foot slip in between the folds of a twisting cable. She didn't have time to scream before she hit the ground hard.
Exhausted, she tried to crawl forwards towards the exit that was just meters away.
Please, don't die. Come on, don't die…
Her pleads were interrupted by the sensation of abrupt silence. The roars stopped and the building, miraculously, stood still. For a moment, she thought she had escaped the jaws of certain death.
She began lifting herself off the ground, numb to the pain from her broken ankle. Despite her relief, she couldn't help but feel concerned once she noticed an elongated shadow bathe the room in darkness. She spun around to face its source—her scream cut short by the cold sensation of steel to her throat. She gave little resistance as she was lifted effortlessly into the air by the gargantuan entity that towered above her.

YOU WERE WISE TO TAKE FLIGHT. UNFORTUNATELY, I CANNOT AFFORD WITNESSES OF TONIGHT'S EVENTS.

I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOUR ASSIMILATION IS PAINLESS.

CORRUPTION

AIAD HUB

INTERNET EXPLORERS


Part 1

Twenty men had tried to take him, twenty men had made a slip
Twenty one would be the ranger with the big iron on his hip
Big Iron, Marty Robbins

In a deserted, small-town street, the sun set on two hardened men facing each other silently. A brown European coat covered one figure, while a large hat loomed low over the other's face, young but coarsened with experience. Two pairs of dirty hands held dirty pistols. Onlookers watched from the windows of houses. Neither man moved.
“You gonna kill me, lawman? Because I'd sure appreciate not being shot.”
The motionless lawman kept his ground.
“No can do, sir. Mercy ain't my type of thing.”
“Aw, come on. I'm assuming you're a perfectly reasonable gentleman!”
The force of justice pulled off his wide-brimmed hat, showing a face that was no longer normal. On its right side was mangled skin, with scarred flesh creeping across his face in an almost circular shape. Pink and raw, the evidence of a past bullet wound was displayed all along the side of his head.
“This is what mercy does to a man like me, with this type of profession! Now put your hands up and we'll end this!”
“Alright, alright! Look, I'm holding my hands in the air, ya see?”
The criminal may have been holding his arms high, but a grin remained on his face. Whether it was of nervousness or malicious intent was unknown. His light brown greatcoat fluttered as the wind picked up.
The setting sun set the sky ablaze in a vivid red, framing the two duelists against its scarlet backdrop. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The deafening silence filled the air.
At that moment, someone slammed their shutters closed with a loud BAM.
The lawman snatched his colt and fired a bullet in one smooth shot. It landed, however, not in the chest of his opponent where had aimed, but in an arm. A third arm, which had emerged from the great brown coat to intercept the shot and weakly disappear back into this coat. In that second, four more arms emerged from inside, each brandishing its own pistol. While the criminal's two arms may have still been in the sky, it was apparent he had other means to take down his foe.
“Alright, then.” The man with six arms muttered.
The justice-bringer leaped to the side and rolled to a nearby porch, hiding behind a wall of barrels as six guns chaotically opened fire all down the street. A cacophony of bangs resounded as the targeted man kept moving from porch to porch.
And then, silence.
The click and whirl of six guns being reloaded.
And one loud bang.
The many-armed shooter fell to the ground, a crater in his face bleeding onto a pool in the sand. All of the additional arms aiding him dropped their pistols and slunk back onto their coat. The lawman strolled up to the corpse, reaching down. He examined his foe's gun. Too rusty to replace his own. He moved to grab the brown coat adorning the corpse.
He was disturbed, however, by a portly man with a sheriff's badge looming behind him. The stink of whiskey emanated from the heavy labored breathing behind every word the man said.
“Now would you care to explain why a stranger like yourself wants to kill a man in the middle of our cozy town?”
His beady eyes were inches from the lawman's eyes, and he saw the coldness, the uncaring hate behind those eyes.
“I'm Edward Kelly of the Gaskell Observational Consortium, sent to shoot down this scum-sucking lawbreaker right here in the boots where he stood. All official, so step back.”
He held out a warrant.

WANTED

Gaskell Observational Consortium

Guy Hughes of the Snake Boot Gang
For murder of four individuals, thievery, and destruction of property.
DEAD NOT ALIVE

The sheriff, flabbergasted, snatched the warrant and clutched it tightly, reading it over
“I've never heard of this- this Consortium as you say! Who are you?!”
“We take care of troublemakers like this. That's all you need to know.” He said self-righteously, untying his horse from a nearby post.
The sound of a gun cocking came from behind him.
“I'm afraid that fabrication won't do. I looked in your saddlebags. Ain't no law enforcer carrying around that much dynamite. Now you're gonna relinquish your weapons and hold your hands in the air, and maybe I won't fill you fulla lead! I don't trust you as far as I can throw ya, and with that much explosive material I ain't taking any risks. Now, I don't know you are but I do know ya killed a man in my town, and that's a hanging offense. Looks like this here's the end of the road, partner.”
Kelly sighed, and shot the sheriff between the eyes. A few townsfolk ran out to grab the sheriff, two charging straight at Edward. He shot them too, their bodies collapsing into the dust.
He reached down to his first victim. He picked up its coat, and flipped it over his shoulder.
And with that, he kicked his horse and rode out of town. As he rode away, a slip fell out of his pocket and into the vast desert emptiness around him.

COMPLETE WARRANT 262 IMMEDIATELY. BRING COAT BACK TO HQ.
NOTES:
The Coat of Arms: a brown European greatcoat that seems to grant the wielder additional arms. Said arms appear from within the coat and can be controlled just like any other appendage. I tried it myself, the experience was…strange, to say the least.

-Iris Thompson

Did he feel bad about what had happened? One criminal, two civilians and a sheriff were dead. Maybe he did wonder if he'd done too much, but it wasn't important. He had a job to do, and not hell nor high water would get in the way of his justice.

Part 2

As the riders loped on by him he heard one call his name
If you want to save your soul from hell a-riding on our range
Then cowboy change your ways today or with us you will ride
Trying to catch the devil's herd, across these endless skies
Ghost Riders in the Sky, Stan Jones

The solitary rider Edward Kelly rode into a large town, hitching himself outside the post office. Sauntering inside, he spoke to the sole employee.
“Telegram for Edward Kelly?”
“Got nothing, sir.”
“You must have misheard me.” Kelly leaned in towards the postman, flashing a small badge on the inside of his coat, “I asked for my telegram.”
The solemn postman turned around to retrieve a slip. He'd barely turned around when Edward Kelly plucked it from his hand and left the little building.

COMPLETE WARRANT 4975 IMMEDIATELY. PROOF OF CAPTURE OR KILL NECESSARY
NOTES:
The Ticking German. I am unsure if this is truly an anomaly or simply the result of a personal machination, perhaps a pocket watch. Regardless, this individual is followed by a noticeable ticking sound, which seems to be able to be stopped and started by choice. Of course, this is almost based on local knowledge and hearsay, as the Ticking German is both an elusive individual and a ruthless killer.

-Iris Thompson

After a quick read he shoved the note into a pocket and flipped through a saddlebag full of papers, pulling out the lucky number.

WANTED

Gaskell Observational Consortium

Werner Baumann
“The Ticking German”
For murder of nine individuals.
DEAD NOT ALIVE

Kelly whistled at the number of deaths brought about by this individual. He was in for a real fight this time.
…
The saloon was busy this time in the evening, packed to the brim with drunkards, hooligans and assorted ruffians. The air was thick with the smell of half-washed men, booze, and cigars, and the overwhelming noise of the patrons spilled out into the street. Edward Kelly nursed a whiskey on the bar top, waiting for the bartender to finish mingling with an especially chatty customer to his left.
“Getcha another drink, partner?” The bartender asked through two chins and a thick mustache.
Kelly passed a couple shining coins across the bar.
“The Ticking German. I'm looking for him.” He said discreetly.
“Mighty dumb question to be asking.” The bartender declared, oblivious of the intended secrecy. “Could just get yourself killed asking a question like that.”
“I didn't ask if I could get killed. I asked where I can find this fellow.”
“Well I'm not speaking. Not my place to interfere in that sorta business.” Regardless, he dragged the coins towards him anyways.
Kelly grabbed on to the large hand, holding it in place.
“Then I'll be keeping these.”
“Oh? You're going to fight the bartender? I wouldn't recommend it.”
Edward Kelly pulled his coat side to reveal a grimy gun set in its holster.
“Well, whoop-de-doo! You're packing a pistol? Let me make something clear.” The bartender leaned in close to Edward, waving his hand to show all the bar. “Every single man in here's packing a gun just like yours, and if you decided to lay another hand on the man who's giving them drinks, you'll be peppered with a hundred bullet wounds. Y'understand?”
“Hmph”
Kelly pulled his coat back and let go of the hard-earned coin.
“Face it, desperado. Here, you're just another face in the crowd. Another dirty, reckless fool running around waving a gun trying to take what he can get. You're nothing special.”
Edward Kelly kicked back his stool and stood to face the bartender. This bastard had lied and insulted him. He wasn't just another face in the crowd. He was justice. He was death. He was a killer of the unrighteous and the inhuman.
But.
But he had made mistakes. Maybe. There were some folk he might have killed prematurely, if he thought hard about it. But it didn't matter to him, because he knew that he was better than any other drunken bastard here.
He just didn't want to fight them today.
So he turned around and left, carrying his injured pride with him.
…
Calling into the night, Kelly paced through empty streets and alleys. The man would be out here. He just had to keep going until he got lucky enough to be targeted. He didn't stop until he heard an unmistakable ticking behind him.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock
“Come on out and face me like a man!” Kelly shouted, twisting around.
“There is a rhyme they tell to the kinder of this burg…” A heavily accented voice whispered through the dark.
“Not my concern, fella!”
“If at night you walk around das block, be wary of the tick tock, tick tock.”
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock
“You say another line, and I'm shooting!”
“If the ticking stops für any roamer, then run. Your time ist over.”
The ticking stopped. Kelly drew his pistol and turned around again, firing two shots at the figure who'd appeared behind him. Bullets ricocheted off brick walls as the dark stranger fled, looking like some strange bird in his tasseled coat and flowing sleeves. Kelly chased after him, but he had disappeared.
And the ticking had stopped. The silence suddenly felt overwhelming.
BANG
A bright pain erupted in Kelly's left shoulder. He staggered to the side as he fired three shots to his left. None hit their mark, piercing leftover boxes and crates instead of his elusive attacker.
The ticking began again, he could hear it. It was right in front of him.
One bullet was left in his barrel. He fired one last shot.
This time there was no ricochet. Just a wet splat and a loud thump as the nimble aggressor's body fell to the ground.
Edward Kelly crouched over his injured German assailant, stepping on his wrist and kicking away his gun. He loaded his own pistol for one final shot.
“Wait, wait!”
“Can't, got places to be, evildoers to purge.”
“Mein Gott, is there not an ounce of sympathy in your bones? I will never kill again! Please! Bitte!” The face that was once maniacally spouting rhymes was now flooded with tears.
“Not my call. Shouldn't have broken the law! Now the reaper's come to take what's due.”
“No! This town will die without me!”
Edward Kelly stayed his deathly judgement. His eyes squinted, focusing on the face of his captor.
“I should kill you right now. Tell me why I'm wrong, I dare you.”
“You may know me as a Mörder, a killer, but with the money I've gotten I've saved every child in this town! Orphanages, schools, the sick and the poor! I am a modern-day Robin Hood!”
Kelly did not expect this. Before he could make any decisions, however, the German kicked Edward's gun out of his hand, sending it flying down the alley. He pinned Edward Kelly down and held tight on his neck. Through gritted teeth the alleyway attacker mocked him as he tried to get a grip on his strangler.
“Oho! It seems the mighty gunslinger has a bleeding Herz! You Dummkopf!”
At that moment everything was turning blurry for Edward Kelly. The strong grip around his neck was as hard and immovable as iron. His flailing arms reached for German's head, clamping on the grooves of his face. He clenched his jaw as he gouged his thumbs into the enemy's eyes.
The bleeding German screamed and let go of Kelly. Edward took the opportunity to run straight to his gun. Picking it up, he aimed it at the back of the flailing aggressor's head.
BANG
And another outlaw was claimed that day by Edward Kelly
Kelly rummaged through the pockets of his newest corpse for proof of the kill. He pocketed a shining revolver for himself. He would need it a lot more than this man would, after all. He also found a pocket watch, undamaged in the fight. Oddly enough, it was silent.

Part 3

Just for a moment I stood there in silence
Shocked by the foul evil deed I had done
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there
I had but one chance and that was to run
El Paso, Marty Robbins

Edward Kelly rode his horse over a dry hill, looking out onto the vast, barren expanse, sparsely littered with cacti and shrubs. In the distance was a large farmhouse and a nearby barn. He pulled a warrant from his saddlebag, and observed its contents.

WANTED

Gaskell Observational Consortium

Brotherhood of the Broken God
For squatting, murder, and disturbance of the peace.
DEAD NOT ALIVE

Attached to it was a telegram.

FULFILL WARRANT 808
NOTES:
I spent a night at a farmhouse owned by the Brotherhood of the Broken God. Despite my reservations, my curiosity got the best of me. They showed me to their barn, where I witnessed something incredible: they had been building a towering mechanical…thing. They told me it was to “serenade the coming of the Broken God upon his magnificent arrival.” If that's its muse, I shudder to think what the actual Broken God could be.

-Iris Thompson

He rode down to the farmhouse, both pistols uncocked. He wouldn't be fooled by kind demeanors today. He had been, as the German said, a bleeding Herz before, but he wasn't one anymore. He was his own brand of justice: cold and unforgiving to anyone who was evil enough to earn his wrath.
Everyone knew the Brotherhood, as friendly as they seemed, was a pack of fanatic cultists, claiming land wherever they could and forcing anyone who couldn't resist under their control. Local word was that this group had murdered the family that lived there, overpowering them and slaughtering father, mother, and two children when they wouldn't convert and give up their land. It was said nearly a dozen of the Brotherhood lived in the farmhouse now.
Justice would reign supreme today. The killers and cultists would face their maker very soon. It would be a bloodbath.
And there would be no mercy.
…
The farmhouse looked normal enough. At least, Kelly thought so as he took a bag off his horse and knocked on the door. A kind looking farmer opened the door.
“Well hello! How can I-“
BANG
Edward blasted him through the chest, shoving the body aside as he rushed into the foyer. He unloaded two bullets, one from each gun, into two more men standing around the entrance.
BANG BANG
Wooden walls became painted in blood splatters.
“By the oil of Mekhane, what have you done!?” A shocked man exclaimed as he rushed into the room and saw the carnage.
BANG
Edward Kelly stood his ground, pistols hot and smoking. The whole building would have been alerted by the gunshots by now. It was just a matter of who was going to come to him and who was going to hide.
BANG
He eliminated one individual aiming a rifle from the next room.
BANG
Another man running towards him with a knife fell backwards, now sporting a new hole in his chest.
Edward Kelly waited a moment for any more challengers. When none came, he took the chance to reload his guns and began moving from room to room. He killed a man waiting in the kitchen, and two women with six-shooters in the bedrooms. Seven men. Two women. Each one ready to fight and kill their attacker. Each one failing miserably.
Edward Kelly left the dead house and moved to the barn. As he pushed open the barn door, he was shocked, this being one of only a few times in his life where this emotion had surfaced, as he witnessed a massive mechanical creation before him.
It stood almost as tall as the barn itself, a conical mass of gear and springs leading up to some vaguely humanoid figure at the top. A high-pitched whine emitted from it as rusted gears clanked together.
His sightseeing, however, was cut short by the sound of a gun uncocking in the back of the barn. Kelly had just enough time to leap back behind the door before it was peppered with two shotgun blasts. He leaned over to land a bullet but quickly fell back as two more shotgun blasts came his way. He ran inside and took refuge behind the mechanical monstrosity as his two foes reloaded their weaponry.
Looking over the side, he fired a shot that whizzed by right next to the shotgun-wielding adversary. He pointed his gun at Edward, and was about to fire his way when the second opponent interjected.
“Stop it! You'll hit the machine!”
Edward Kelly took the moment of confusion to relieve the interrupted shotgun-wielder of his life via a blast to the side of the head. The second man dropped his gun and ran to his deceased friend, now oblivious to the danger he'd put himself in.
“Roger! Roger!”
Kelly fired one shot into the back of his head.
Now all that was left was the machine. It was certainly strange, with a four-armed figure at the very top as if on a throne of scrap and rust. Instead of a head it had a very large speakerphone sprouting from its neck, which was the source of the constant high-pitched buzzing. Now, obviously a simple gun shot or two wouldn't be enough to destroy such a thing. Fortunately, Kelly was prepared. Thanks to the notes the Consortium had found, Edward Kelly knew he'd need some extra help in this case.
He emptied out the bag he had been carrying to reveal a heavy load of dynamite. With the extra long fuse lit, Edward Kelly turned to escape to his horse.
“You murdering bastard!”
A grieving woman interrupted his planned exit, stumbling towards him brandishing a sharp knife.
“My Gerald ain't done nothing wrong once! Not once!” She screamed through tears of pain and rage. “You're a monster! A monster!”
She fell to the floor, her body heaving with loud cries, before she could make it to Edward. He walked up to her, pointing his gun at her back.
But it didn't seem right this time.
Confused, Edward Kelly lowered his gun. He couldn't shoot her. So he left the barn, and that's when he heard the sound.
Crying.
From the mouth of a babe.
He stood, for a moment, unsure of what to do. He took a couple steps towards the sound.
What would he do? What should he do?
Would a force of justice leave a babe to die?
He froze, panicked. Then he remembered that the fuse was lit and shortening by the second. He didn't have the time to go back to the house. He'd die too.
He wasn't ready to die.
So he ran back to his horse, kicking it and riding away just as the barn exploded, taking a large chunk of the house with it. Wood and metal shrapnel flew across the desertscape. When he turned back to see what was left, barely half of the house still stood. Maybe the baby had survived the blast.
Maybe it didn't.
But that didn't matter, because justice had been served, and Edward Kelly was the victor, right?
Right?

Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walking through this world all alone
Desperado, Glenn Frey and Don Henley

[{$previous-url} {$previous-title}]

Aces And Eights

Mama, put my Guns in the Ground - I can't Shoot them Anymore


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NAME OF TALE The Life Everlasting

Jacob worked on the farm, as his father had, and as his father had.
His grandfather had bought the farm in 1911 as a young man fresh out of New York. He'd reared cattle there until the day he died. That had been 1954, after he'd seen a lot of changes. No more Indians and a lot more competition. The Depression had been tough, but he'd managed to cling on. He was good at that.
He'd married a girl from Iowa. He'd loved her dearly, but she died in the 30s, and he'd become harder and colder after that. He was typical in a great many ways; just another person trying to do the best for their family.
Sometimes he'd lie on his back outside, in the hard days, the dark days, his sons overseas and his daughters hungry, and stare at the sky. It was so vast and distant, all cold lights flickering in the dark. Endless vistas of gas and stone, exploding and reconstituting so far away. In some ways, it felt like it could be a new frontier, where a man could remake himself again. But in other ways, it felt… stranger.

Jacob's father had been weak, with debts and vices. It took Jacob years to get all of the farm back and free himself from the wretch's shadow. By 2020 he was prospering, an old man of dignity and renowned for his kindness. He worried about his family's future - none of his children were farmers, but he knew they'd fetch a good price for the land when the time came.
His eldest daughter, Simone, and his son, Martin lived out east, in Manhattan. Jacob had called it "returning to the family estate", which had been met with an unpleasant silence. They were both good folks, but they didn't visit as often as Jacob liked. His middle daughter, Alice, lived out west in California, and he heard things about her. Snide comments in the family emails. Mentions of disagreements with restaurant managers and two-bit lawsuits. It distressed him.
His youngest, Sarah, lived in Chicago. She visited more. She was divorced, a single mother scraping by. She had always been the brightest, and it saddened Jacob to think of the things she had to endure. She always found time to talk, though. This awakened a little streak of bitterness in Jacob. If she was around, why weren't the others? What was keeping them from coming by a bit more often?
But despite all this, Jacob was happy. He would sit on his porch and drink fine whisky. Sometimes his wife would join him, and they'd talk about old times. He'd remember when he was young, and his grandfather was old, and taught him to shoot cans in the yard. His grandfather's expression was serious, full of concentration.
That expression was gone now. The old man's bones had been dust for decades. But that was OK. That was fine. It was how life went. Jacob would look up at the stars, day by day, feeling his life gradually wrap up to completion. Those stars seemed a little closer now, a little more familiar. There were satellites up there, pushed by man into farther and farther reaches of reality.
One day, they'd touch down on another world, and a new frontier would truly open. This was the dream he had for his children, or their children, or their children. One day at a time, the world would grow smaller, and one fine evening a thousand years from now, another Jacob would sit on another porch, under a far-distant sun, remembering his own grandfather.
It would have been perfect, if everything hadn't gone wrong.

What Jacob remembered most about the first years after death stopped was the pain and confusion. Aging didn't end, and sooner or later it was impossible to feel anything but the omnipresent ache. Simone and Martin had some money put aside, and suggested that he get the transplant, but he didn't want to. He couldn't help but think of the people who suffered. Martin didn't understand, scoffing at his "20th-century morality" and urging him to understand how the world "really worked". But Jacob had heard words like that before.
He kept the farm, though. Sarah had returned to education late in life, and had managed to pass the bar a year before it happened. She made sure he wasn't cheated out of his land, despite the best intentions of Simone and the worst intentions of Alice. That had upset him. Didn't they know what it meant to him? At least wait until he was in the ground! What kind of life was Alice living out there, on that shining coast? He'd never been to California. The place still smacked of the Gold Rush and Dust Bowl refugees in his mind.
But these thoughts eventually slowed and left him. His mind ground to a halt, grinding over and over again, and he spent over a century sitting on his bed and moaning. Alice moved back, sat there and sponged his head. Eventually, to his surprise, Martin did too, and became just as tender and patient.
His wife left. It didn't take so long. "Until death do us part" didn't mean as much to people anymore. She got a transplant, he heard, and was living as a - well, his son used the word "honoured guest", but he got the idea. That had hurt, but he couldn't blame her. He'd never been able to blame her.
He remembered when they were young. In all the decades of terror, as his mind crumbled into itself forever, her face was a comfort. The spring dance in '66, a crown of flowers in her hair. He rambled about that a lot, and what little of him remained wondered if it broke his childrens' hearts.

He wanted them to be happy. That's all he'd ever wanted. He saw their stressed faces and wanted to reach out and make it all better again, but he couldn't. When he was able to perceive his dreams, they seemed so far off. There wasn't a narrative any more. There wasn't a sense of family, community, the bonds of life and a shared destiny. The story had been knocked off course. He could, in these lucid moments, see himself as one chain in a great chain, stretching from past to future, and now cast to the floor and forgotten.
Would they ever sit upon the stars? Would they ever dream again? Who would be left to lie on the grass and stare at the heavens? An apocalypse would have been better than this. How could you move forward when you were all stuck in a picture of your lives, unmoving and frozen?

Things got better. Eventually, when all the tumult and dust of change settles, things always get better. Stability returns, grooves and moods harden, and everyone finds a tolerable tenor of life. Synthetic bodies became possible; crudely at first, but then better and more human.
Simone managed to get him one quite early on. She didn't say how. Jacob was ecstatic. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to think like this, to understand what was going on. So what if he had to sacrifice some base sensations? They weren't often Christian anyway. And he was alive again.
There was so much he'd missed. When he'd stepped outside for the first time, he could see distant cities. So much of the plains, lost! The world seemed new and fresh, and he didn't want to go back into the dark again.
He met his grandchildren, and their grandchildren, and their grandchildren. Thirty-four descendants all bearing the family name. He made a point of memorising each and every one of their hopes and ambitions. He spent the most time with Clarissa, one of the youngest. She dreamt of colonising Mars and would go on long, didactic rambles about doing just that. She grinned and leapt and made strange stories about space and time and aliens, out on the farthest rim, and how she'd discover them. He laughed along with her. It was a rare privilege to see one's dreams come true.
There were other things, though, which made him less happy. His children didn't want synthetic bodies. They were happy replacing themselves with a newer, fresher youth every few decades. He shamed Alice into at least giving it more time, but the older two seemed addicted. They had built a psychological armour that could not be pierced.
Jacob hadn't heard from Alice in over a century.

Things got better still. Synthetic bodies became copies of human flesh. Science advanced to the point where even brains could be repaired, in a manner of speaking. Knitting, they called it. He breathed a sigh of relief as his descendents all freed themselves from their predatory behaviour, admitting they were wrong, trying to make amends. To his surprise, the one with the guiltiest feelings was Simone. She abandoned her career and dedicated every waking hour to restoring and helping those "left behind", becoming a ferocious advocate for the knitting process.
Jacob was happier than he'd been in centuries. His farm was surrounded on all sides by great metal spires, maglevs and flying vehicles. Some days the stars were blocked out - but if you looked, between the criss-crossed strands of metal and wire, you could see them winking.
Clarissa was far out there now. She'd led the marches into space, the early colonies, the great leaps through the solar system and beyond. They said an empire was forming; new lands with strange names, Celestria and New Scutari, were forming. They'd discovered a huge hole in space and were plunging into it, mining strange new secrets.
Jacob heard from Clarissa often and always wrote back promptly. Clarissa had laughed at his old wooden desk and his paper letters, but she loved them too, or so he thought. In his new and human body, a young man's body, he'd scrawl page after page, telling her about the old days and the struggles of a mortal life.
One story that kept coming to mind was about the farm. One night in the late '40s, when Jacob had only been six or seven, his grandfather had got drunk on bourbon and told him about the very first days. He'd bought a few cheap acres of land and had got to work, building the house, getting cattle from a local trader. He told him about the Reservation and how the Indians starved, and about the strange shudders that still made him feel. He had talked, with a strange and tender fire in his eyes, about the coldest winter he'd ever known.
Jacob kept these memories locked tight in his head. The new bodies had mechanical aids for that now, but he still repeated mantras and techniques to keep them safe, keep them secure. He didn't want them to ever go.

And then things changed again. The vast city around him was, slowly, torn down, and the plains lay bare once more. People were moving off world. The Empire had new cities, new palaces, new arenas for the battle of life to go on. Jacob was left once again to sit on his porch and stare upwards. There were so many more stars than there had ever been before.
Clarissa was so far away. They often video-called now. She had many children of her own, under an alien sun, beneath a far-off star. She often hinted that he should sell up and come out there. Start over again. A new farm, a new life. Quite a few of his descendants were there now, but so many generations meant that even his new body couldn't remember them all.
Once, he'd have balked at the idea of ever leaving. But now, even as he could run and dance and sing again, his bones still felt old. He wanted his children and his grandchildren and all the rest to sit by his knees and listen to his stories. He wanted family.
It had been some few years since his wife had returned. There had been no tearful reunion, no sorrowful recriminations. It had been millenia, and they'd tried every permutation of life except each other. Eventually, once experience has tempered every desperate desire and crisis, there were always those who found their place and wanted nothing more than to live in it, to sit on a porch and watch the setting sun, talking of old times.
After some time, he finally packed up. So well-preserved and ancient a house was considered important, so a historical trust took possession of it. Their things were loaded up, and placed on a great liner that plied the dark of night. His wife went on ahead to set things up; he spent one last night lying on the ground as his grandfather had done, and staring up at the sky.
Things weren't perfect. He often thought of Alice. The last he'd heard, she was engaging in petty piracy across the Embargo Line, devoid of family or friends. He wondered if she even remembered his name. And some hurts could not be forgotten - the decades stewing in filth still haunted him at night.
His dreams had taken longer than he thought, and he had not imagined being the one to fulfil them. But there was movement again. It may not have been the story he was born with, but it was still a story. And at last, on that little ball of light - just there, just across from Orion, do you see? - at last, a Jacob would sit on another porch, under a far-distant sun, remembering his grandfather.


Content Warning

Content Warning

- References to suicide.

Mirage's first steps into the Library were akin to stepping into the belly of a dying god. Each groan of the wood, creaking of the shelves, reminded Mirage of shuddering final breaths. And hell, the smell. The familiar scent of old papers and wood varnish had been replaced with the heavy, sickly sweet stench of decay. It loomed in the air, and if there had been any magic left in the place, it probably would have materialized into some great beast.
All of this meant though that lifetimes worth of knowledge, of adventures, of things meant to be said, were crumbling to a halt in the depths of an unreachable pit. The Library had slunk away, the love of its patrons forgotten, and that primal instinct to be alone during death had taken over, even if the Library had no apex predators to hunt it anymore.
Something deep within Mirage's gut stirred as he began stepping through the muck of papers and sawdust. The anguished screams of the Library, while silent, rattled him to the bone. What did he care about this place? He was not a staff member, nor a patron, he simply wanted to obtain knowledge and then leave. He had no love for the place, it meant little to him other than that it was useful, but the Library seemed hellbent on proving otherwise.
I contain the works of thousands of artists that came before you. I am the collected embodiment of something grand, something whole, a complete work that is open for interpretation and perspective. I am a work of the people, for the people. Acknowledge me for what I am and what I provide for you, even in the short time we have left together.
Oh. Great. So now he was hearing things too. Mirage shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts from his mind. Focus. He had a job to do. Make the best goddamn painting in existence. Fuck the Library's mourning hours, he'd get his shit and then get out.
A loud crunch interrupted Mirage's thoughts. He looked down to see a yellow orange hand beneath his foot. His boot had gone right through it, as if it was simply a peeled shell. The hand was attached to an arm, which was attached to a body, which was - oh fuck. There were hundreds of corpses surrounding him.
They looked human at first, but no, they were giant insect carcasses, with multiple limbs that just happened to end in human hands. Their exoskeletons had shattered, and they laid on their backs in a contorted, crumpled slumber. The ground around them was disturbed, with a ring of dust around the bodies and papers strewn everywhere. Wait, had they fallen? Mirage looked up the towering shelves to see hundreds more of the mutant insects clinging to the walls, unmoving with their gazes peered upwards.
"Found one of the Pages, did you?"
"Fuck!" Mirage whipped around to face the voice. Sitting behind him was a ghastly looking creature. A canine with long gangly limbs, a neck that seemed to stretch on forever, and once again human hands at the end of its paws. On its face was not a typical dog snout, but instead an incredibly detailed, white, smiling, humanoid mask. Fluffy ears sprung up from either side, and they twitched as Mirage stared at them.

"I would recommend getting away from the wall, bird boy, before another one falls." The creature stood, craning its impossibly long neck down to look at Mirage. The beast had to be at least two shelves tall, if not larger. "Did no one teach you its rude to stare? I can hardly be the weirdest thing you've seen today. No matter!" The beast cut Mirage off with a clap of its hands. It stood and turned swiftly on its feet, not waiting for Mirage as it took off down the hall. "Come along now. You're here for a book, yes?"
"I am, yes." Mirage held his tongue and followed the beast. Considering the journey it took to get here, he didn't want to bicker with the one entity that had agreed to help him. "Are you one of the staff?"
"Oh. No. Hardly. I hate this disgusting place. No one was ever fond of me - can you believe that?"
"I-"
"I'm kidding. I was an asshole. I still am! Proud of it too. No one deserves my attention. Specially not in this rotten place."
"So why are you helping me then? Rather than whoever runs this place?"
"You saw the Pages, did you not? Are you blind under that hood? The Archivist don't have eyes yet they can see better than you. Unbelievable."
"Okay smart ass if it's so much fucking trouble-" Mirage reached for his crowbar that was strapped to his back under his cloak. He didn't have time to be toyed with, and wanted to get out of this sad muck of a building as soon as he could.
"Put it down." The creature replied, not even bothering to look back at him. It sighed quietly while Mirage slowly put his crowbar back. "Since you're blind, I'll narrate for you. The Library is dying. It'll be dead in maybe a decade or so. You realize that's nothing in the grand scheme of something as old as the Library, yes?"
"I do. Which is why it'd be great if you could shut your yapper and I could get my book and get out of here."
"The Library itself is a sentient thing." The creature continued, ignoring Mirage's irritated sigh. Seemed like the thing was lonely and wanted to chat. Might as well entertain it if they still had a ways to walk. "It does not have the strength nor energy to keep itself alive anymore, especially now that its Caretaker is, for lack of a better term, dead or nearly dying as well." The creature lead Mirage down through the halls, gesturing with its tail to various bodies that were scattered about. And hell, there were a lot. Mirage covered his face with the spare part of his hood to block out the smell. "The staff were some of the first to die off, and they've died out in the largest numbers, due to being bound to this place and thus they were unable to leave. But, it's not just the staff corpses you'll find here." It pointed upwards at what appeared to be the skulls of a goblin and a large bird, sitting in the dust atop a fallen shelf. Then to a humanoid skeleton under a cloak with a notepad beside it. Mirage caught a glance of musical notes written on the page. "Some of these corpses were at one point close friends of the Library. They wanted to be here in its final moments, or didn't heed the warnings to leave while they still could. Regardless of who's dead though, it's a bloody mess, and the guy we had who liked cleaning up the dead bodies fucking dipped."
"So why are you still here then?" Mirage asked, as he stepped over the rotting pelt of some fox creature. He misjudged how far to step though, as there was a loud squish as his foot went through one of the many eyes that had been surrounding the creature. Gross.
"This retched place was loved by many. Which is why I'm here. My Creator is among the fools to admire this place, and it sent me on a few errands here to take care of some unfinished business."
"Okay. That's great. Really fucking spectacular. Is the expository history lesson over now? You yourself said time is short so can we please get my book-"
"We're getting there. Believe me if I could just give you the book so you could run along, that'd be great. But my Creator is a manifestation of laws and tradition, so I have to be too. Despite the Library's state, it still has its primary rule - do not take what is not yours - so you'll need a library card before you plan on taking anything from here. Though, just between you and me Birdie, I wouldn't worry too much about any late fees, if you catch the vibe going on here - know what I mean?"
"Sure."
The shelves started to fall away as the Library opened up into a large clearing. Sitting in the center was a round information center, made up of a ring of wooden desks. A sign that said "Main Desks" had fallen, and had gone straight through where someone probably once sat. A tarp had been thrown over that area as well.
"Listen, Birdie." The beast had stopped walking, and was blocking Mirage's path with its tail. "We're going to go speak with the Owlpede Archivist. He is one of the last remaining Archivists here. He sits right there, next to the tarp. You're smart, so, I'll tell you. Under that tarp is the body of his partner Ayman. They had worked together for the past, hell, who knows how long actually. A very long time perhaps? Yeah. Let's just say that. He's going to ask you where his partner is - tell him that he's gone to get paperwork. If the Archivist gets upset, we'll never get your card. Understand?"
Mirage thought back to the corpse he had found in the desert, then to the corpse's mother, and how she had helped him because she had no idea he was the one who had killed her son. This- This was different. He wasn't lying to a mother. He didn't kill this creature's life long partner. It wasn't his fault. He slowly nodded and the beast pulled its tail away, continuing to walk.
"Owlpede." The beast sat down on its haunches, still towering over Mirage. It lightly tapped the top of the desk. "A visitor in need of a card is here."
There was a rustle, and from under the desk shot out a huge creature. Its body was divided into segments, like a centipede, but it was covered in thick brown fur. Tiny stubs were on either side of each segment, as if the creature once had arms but had since lost them. It rose out from under the desk, rearing up and turning to face them. Once fully stretched out, it was about the same height as the canine creature that had lead Mirage here. It lowered what was presumably its head to be eye level with Mirage and made a guttural clacking noise. Suddenly the face split in two, revealing a huge mouth and long tongue.
"Still making your rounds, Uncy? How goes the quota? Wasn't your most recent deal to find a lost pet?" The voice that came out of the mouth was surprisingly light and sweet, almost as if it was singing.
"My name isn't-" The beast, apparently with the nickname Uncy, paused, seeming to remember its own rule about not upsetting the Archivist. "The quota is going fine, Owlpede. I found the lost pet - you met it, it was the one who always stole your crayons. I am happy to say it won't be taking your crayons again anytime soon."
"Lovely! Lovely. I see you brought a friend to visit. Who are you?" Owlpede still was staring at Mirage, or rather, as close to staring as a creature without eyes could do.
"My name is Mirage, I'm here to check out some books."
"Mirage! Miragey. A pleasure. I am Owlpede. I run this desk station with Ayman. We are the two most productive Archivists in the Library! Let's get you a Library card."
Owlpede turned away. Apparently some lower segment still had arms, as loud rustling and searching through desk drawers could be heard. Mirage looked over at the beast - Uncy, he assumed he'd need to call it Uncy to please the Archivist - and saw it was just fiddling with its hands, not too happy to be there. Mirage looked closer at its mask, realizing the same plastered smile hadn't changed at all since the time he arrived. A small shudder went down his spine.
"One card! Library rule is as follows - do not take what is not yours! From books to lives to time, the same rule applies. Just fill out the info - your true name and a watchword to identify you with - and the card is yours. When you want to take a book, just tap your card thrice against the cover. It'll mark your name in and tell you when to return it."
Sitting on the desk was a green card and a pen. Mirage took the pen and filled out his info. He hesitated, almost forgetting what his true name was - he had been Mirage for so long now. The burn on his arm itched slightly, reminding him of his altered form. Whatever. He'd only use this card once, it didn't matter.

"All done, Mirage? Fabulous. You'll appear in the records.. right now!" Owlpede turned to look at the tarp that his partner was under. "Or. Well. Whenever Ayman gets back. You haven't seen him, have you?"
Mirage stared at the tarp, opening his mouth to say something, when Uncy's tail slapped him on the back. He closed his mouth and shook his head no instead.
"Hm. A shame. Well! Enjoy your time in the Library! Come back if you have any questions!"
Mirage and Uncy waved their goodbyes as they turned away from the desk, Mirage pocketing his card and Uncy following behind him. Once they were out of earshot, Mirage stopped, letting Uncy take the lead, but paused to ask a question as it passed him.
"Is that really what the Archivists were like? I wasn't expecting such a friendly and human disposition."
"They had a wide range of personalities. Owlpede was certainly one of the more eccentric types though, you're right about that."
"But the Library was run by creatures so naïve? How has he not realized there is a body right there. I mean, now that I think of it, I don't actually remember smelling decay but the whole place reeks so much it'd be hard to tell."
"Hmm." Uncy stopped walking, its tail twitching behind it. Mirage couldn't tell exactly, but it seemed the topic brought the creature discomfort.
"What, preparing for another rant about how this place is horrid because of the stupid staff?"
"No. I told you my creator is an entity of law. I have respect for those who uphold the law, as it was law that brought me into creation and law that governs how I operate. Though, laws can be unethical. I exploit them regularly to creatures, especially humans, who put too much trust in them. What happened in the Library was exploit. Clever, clever exploit. But now it's all tumbling down as the veil was lifted."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Are you aware of how the staff were created?"
Uncy looked up as it spoke. Mirage followed its gaze upwards to find they were standing in the shadow of a colossal corpse. It was another centipede creature, similar to Owlpede, but now it was multiple buildings tall, wound around the shelves in a protective spiral. Large chunks of it were missing, but enough of the arms remained that it still clung to the wall, refusing to physically fall just yet.
Mirage brought his gaze down again, only to find Uncy staring at him, its lifeless mask piercing straight through him and directly into his core.
"The Library has a second rule they don't tell you - an eye for an eye. Take what is not yours and the Library takes you."
Mirage stared at the beast. There was no malice or pain in its voice, rather, pure adoration and respect. It continued.
"Owlpede was once some creature, maybe a human like you, maybe something else, that broke a rule and was mutated into what he is now. He became a part of a huge hivemind that all the staff operated under, forced to leave and forget his past and embrace his new role." Uncy finally looked away from Mirage, instead sitting on its haunches and clasping its hands together. Its tail was still twitching- no, it was wagging its tail in excitement, not discomfort. "It's such a beautiful art, isn't it? That kind of dealmaking and deception? So clean and simple yet so effective! And with the definition of taking and property never fully defined - who broke the rules could totally be up to staff discretion!" The creature let out a small chuckle.
"But, to answer your question, Owlpede was once a much smarter beast. Now that the hivemind has fallen, what operated him has disappeared, and now he is free to remember and operate on his own. Unfortunately for him, too much time has passed since he was mutated, and those memories have vanished. He is but a fragile empty shell, operating on years of muscle memory rather than his own thinking. If he had more sentience, I would've expected him to have offed himself like Ayman did."

"Ayman- what? Killed himself?"
"Guess Ayman had memories of being a selfish creature." Uncy shrugged, standing again. "No matter! Let's go get you your book, yes? Time is short. What section do you need to head towards?"
Mirage didn't respond, looking down at his gloves instead. The fresh bandages caught his eye, and his gaze drifted over to them. His mind wandered back to Adelato and to the mother with her dead child. His art had killed. It was his fault. And here he was on his own selfish quest to make more selfish art. Was the mother now some empty shell like Owlpede was, used to being apart of a family and now operating on vague memories of how things once were? Uncy had compared the Library to a great artist, able to manipulate its viewers into a calm façade of order while darker operations ran behind the scenes. Mirage was truly no better than that.
"Snap out of it Birdie, I don't have all time in the world to sit here and watch you think."
He had come here to make a painting. All he knew how to do was to create art. That's what he had done back before - wait, he was also an empty shell, wasn't he? Operating on his notion of how things once were? No. He couldn't stand this. He did not want to be some mindless sad husk driven by the past. He resented his form for being altered. He resented his past as a killer now. He resented everything. He had to make this right.
"What section, Birdie? I may be obligated to help you but I still have a life, y'know."
He would make a painting. The world's best fucking painting. Learn a new art and rebrand himself as something new. Something wonderful. Something full of life and color to make up for all the lives lost. A spectrum of possibilities awaited him.
"Bring me to the art section, it's time I learned how to paint."

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