One cannot consider Sarkicism without the Six Ordeals of Ion. In the earlier years of Sarkic anthropology there were large debates over the veracity of these Ordeals. While contemporary scholars largely consider the matter settled and the Ordeals to be metaphorical rather than literal, there are still noted adherents to the literal interpretation. While no reasonable Sarkic scholar would imply that the Sarkics are not capable of extraordinary acts, the inconsistency between mythologies of different Sarkic sects precludes a unified cosmology. Contemporary understanding of the Sarkic religion renders these Ordeals as apocryphal and likely exist as a communal means of understanding Sarkic history and ideals.
It is within this context that we discuss the legendary "Seventh Ordeal" among the Fleshspeaker1-Sarkics of pre-Colombian Meso-America. The Fleshspeaker-Sarkics were a small sect of Ur-Sarkics that came to prominence around approximately 1100 CE in what are today the Michoacán and Guanajuato states of Mexico. Like much of the rise of what we may more broadly call the Mesoamerican Sarkic Ceremonial Complex (MASCC) following the collapse of the Classical period in the 10th century CE, the origins of the Fleshspeakers are poorly understood. Compounding this lack of understanding is the issue that Fleshspeaker rituals are rarely attested to in contemporary inscriptions or writings, finding significant purchase only in areas that relied solely on oral transmission of histories and beliefs.
Unlike other MASCC and Sarkic-inflected Meso-American practices, the central figure of the Fleshspealer-Sarkics was not Ion, but one "Yalekatta"2, a figure that bears no small resemblance to the MASCC figure Yatheppataotl, itself believed to be similar to the Proto-Sarkic Yaldabaoth. The turn from the canonisation of Ion to Yalekatta appears to be related to this mythical Seventh Ordeal, unique to the Fleshspeakers.
In this Seventh Ordeal, Ion confronts the Archons3 and is taken to their charge. The Fleshweaver-Sarkic sect believed that Ion was cast down and consumed by Yalekatta, a sharp contrast to contemporary MASCC beliefs that Ion was largely victorious4. Oral traditions describing the beliefs of the Fleshspeakers indicated that they emphasized how "first, Yalekatta [devoured and] destroyed the knowledge and understanding of Ion, making him know great fear."
The most infamous depiction of this Seventh Ordeal, to the extent that it is often used as a shorthand or symbol for the Fleshspeakers, is certainly the itlacoani, or heretic's glyph, a symbol which, despite its prevalence, does not correspond with any known Sarkic symbolic complex. The itlacoani, like many Sarkic artworks, is rendered in living flesh and commemorates Yalekatta devouring Ion whole, representing the former as an eyeless skull. For reasons that are not yet fully understood, the itlacoani was transmitted across oceans and begin to appear in Eurasia around the 14th century CE, particularly in areas of devastation around large cities.
While conflicting mythologies is not an uncommon occurrence among differing historical Sarkic sects, the existence of Yalekatta is an unusual innovation, to say the least. There are few depictions of Yalektatta, with only one unambiguous likeness surviving to modern times. Oral traditions collected by Tormes include references to him, calling him only tlacol xipe te nacapalaxtli5, while others describe him as a shapeshifter, capable of taking new forms when not directly observed.

A depiction of Yalekatta circa early 13th century.

By all accounts, the nature of the Fleshspeaker-Sarkic worship of Yalekatta was not of veneration, but appeasement. Historical accounts indicate that the Fleshspeaker-Sarkics performed rituals to placate Yalekatta and entice it to remain in the heavens, such that it did not come down and consume humanity as it did Ion. One practice passed down from various accounts, paints a picture of intense mourning for Ion, representing here the prospect of human achievement. When Saturn ascended to the House of the Planets in retrograde, a single individual from the Fleshspeaker community was selected and flensed, undergoing seven weeks of physical torture, representing the seven Ordeals, being kept alive through obviously extra-normal means, before being executed in a fashion that does not bear repeating. Even by the standards of the region, in which human sacrifice was a not-uncommon occurrence, this ritual, which is given no name by the spoken or written records, was seen as ghastly and inhuman.
What distinguishes this nameless ritual, beyond its obvious barbarity, is the fact that only certain members of Fleshspeaker polities were allowed to be sacrificed. Rather than using captured warriors or even heads of state, it appears that the Fleshspeakers only allowed elite members of society to be sacrificed in this manner, with participation apparently being voluntary and indeed, highly honored. The fact that the astronomical signs only allowed such a ritual to take place once every 23 years gives some credence to Aykol's contention that a single lineage was selected for sacrifice, with the duty passed from father to son. Her other notions, that the nobles of the Fleshspeakers were the same as those identified as the otherwise-unidentified teocuitla chocaliztli6 of the Borges Codex, is far more contentious.

There are two leading theories regarding the extinction of the Fleshspeakers in Mesoamerica. The first, proposed by Wade Ingris, claims that predominantly external factors drove the decline in prominence.
Falson showed that the mainline MASCC cults gained a lasting, if precarious, foothold in area of Central Mexico. Frequently integrating their rites and festivals with that of the larger regional religious complex7, the Fleshspeaker cult was marginal, even at its peak. Ingris claims that the expansion of Mexica (and later Aztec) sovereignty in the 14th and 15th centuries resulted in a mass exodus specifically of cities associated with the rites of the Fleshspeakers, with warriors and rulers being unceremoniously executed.8
This time period is known colloquially as "the Era of the Warring Sarkics". The Era of the Warring Sarkics was characterized by no less than 10 Fleshspeaker polities vying for dominance of the highlands of south-central Mexico, both against MASCC cults and non-anomalous Mesoamerican city-states. For the vast majority of these Fleshspeaker cults, we only have names; the list itself is cobbled together from disparate sources from across Mesoamerica. Only two cults, Teocuitlapilcac and Teociplanca9, have any attestations or words or deeds, detailed in chapter 11. Of the remainder, only Huiztlitlama, Tlacentelchihualiztli, and Ocelopetlcallotl appear in more than one source. The remainder - Huitzacatzin, Ichinoatlama, Teimacaxiliztica, Ichinoatepoz, and Ahamaxehui are unknown besides their names, each attributed in a single source.
To bolster her claim that external factors lead in the decline of Fleshspeaker-Sarkics, Ingris points to oral traditions that about the "scouring of Teocuitlapilcac and Teociplanca." However, this evidence is not without controversy. Wei (2013) has shown that the term "scouring" xacualoa is inexact, and may be better reflected in English as "cleansing" or "ritualistic purification," reflecting typical practices following the re-dedication of a city's altar. Further adding to the controversy is the consistent declaration that the elites of the Fleshspeaker city-states were conquered and found to be "without words or writing," a curious phrase to include in what would otherwise be a straightforward account of subjugation.
While Ingris is phenomologically supported by historical evidence, the theory is notably lacking in predictive power - the precipitous decline in prominence of the Fleshspeaker sect far outpaces Mexica or Aztec expansion. The peak time period of Fleshspeaker power - manifested in records of other city-states which paid tribute to them10 - was roughly 1200, roughly corresponding with the reintroduction of the Mixtec writing system in South-Central Mexico. While Aztec expansion into Fleshspeaker areas was rapid, historical records indicate that the Fleshspeaker-Sarkic sect was largely defunct by the 1250's, nearly a century prior to Aztec incrusions. Ingris simply notes this discrepancy as an historical oddity.
The second theory, proposed by James Daven, and owing a great deal to Aykol, suggests that the title of Fleshspeaker is, in fact, a title analogous to the contemporary Karcist rank, rather than a strict space of political control. This claim is bolstered by both titles holding a position of spiritual leader and increased proficiency in anomalous abilities. On the other hand, the duties of Karcists are notably lacking the distinguishing features of the Fleshspeaker position - the 'chain' motif, mythological repository, and, of course, appreciable aversion to written text. Daven suggests that these duties naturally disappeared during the evolution of MASCC across the next several centuries; however, this approach disregards the sudden, if brief, resurgence of Fleshspeaker-Sarkicism in the 16th century11 as well as its just-as-sudden disappearance. Daven similarly handwaves away the relationship between the Fleshspeakers and the Yalekatta, arguing that it is insubstantial to Sarkic history.
While my colleagues have undoubtedly made great strides in advancing the field of Sarkic studies, the scope of their proposed theories are undoubtedly too small to fully encompass the evolution of this unique religion. Daven and Ingris operated in a period of anthropological history where we as scholars had not conceded the impossibility of recording events as writ. We have largely excised the idea of historical objectivity in the field of Sarkic anthropology, following instead the position of Hayden White, in that we, as historian anthropologists, must employ historical events as pieces of a larger narrative.
To this end, I believe that a more holistic approach to the Fleshspeaker-Sarkic sect is needed. Daven and Ingris both independently came close to a unified theory, but were constrained by their time period. Here I propose a synthesis of their theories that I believe to be a complete explanation of the decline of the Fleshspeaker-Sarkic cults.
In their seminal work, Daven does reference the greater sociological implications of the MASCC, but fixates on the question of how this cultural complex came to spread, if not dominate, in a region literally half a world removed from the known manifestations of Proto-Sarkicism in the Old World. In this context, they view Fleshspeaker Sarkicism as a possible survival of earlier unrecorded Ur-Sarkic rites and beliefs, transmitted in whatever germ allowed the MASCC to flourish during the 10th-16th centuries. Its gradual disappearance, they argue, is a reflection of the same processes that lead to its disappearance in the Old World as well. While not unreasonable, this theory presupposes a level of creative sterility on the part of the people of Mesoamerica, an undesirable and blatantly incorrect supposition.

The death of a small denomination of profoundly illiterate Sarkicists in the mountains of Southern Mexico is not in and of itself notable, and would in most cases be of interest only to specialists in the study of the MASCC cults. Indeed, until 1921, that was precisely the case. However, it was in that year that a young philologist and aspiring semotician in Berlin named Hayk Esmerian released his monograph "Die kosmologischen Rituale der ungeschriebenen Fleischanbeterkulte," linking multiple Sarkic traditions, of which the Fleshspeakers were only the first. This tradition included also the Inaswian tradition of Anatolia and Azerbaijan, the Yetesek'elewi Teketayochi of Abyssinia, and the Hmov Qab millinerian movement of the Hmong people in the mid-17th century12. It is to the first group to which we now turn.
The Inaswian Sarkic tradition derives its name from a Greek corruption of the Arabic
"En nahar al aswa'd," meaning "black river," itself derived from an anecdote, likely apocryphal, of the Inaswian cult recorded by abu Malik abdul-Rahman. It is said that during the 1258 sacking of Baghdad by the Mongol forces of Hulagu, so many books of the city's illustrious libraries were thrown into the Tigris River that its waters ran black with ink. abu Malik claims that "those despised worshipers of flesh and cancers scooped their hands into the water and drank gleefully, embracing the ruin of the city and its learning." As Vempati has pointed out, this account, itself highly dubious, is more likely directed at the Sarkic cults as a whole, rather than at a specific sect that would have likely numbered in the low hundreds. Whatever the historical veracity of the claim, the name stuck.
While the circumstances of the name are up for debate, the specifics are not - in the mid-13th century, we see multiple attestations from credible witnesses of the presence of a "hated sign of mottled flesh, resembling a noose more goulish than the Christians' cross." What is more, these Inaswian groups are attested in the small number of Sarkic accounts, primarily detailing disgust at their religious ritual of leaving dead bodies in caves rather than retaining them for veneration and consumption. Faced with hatred both from within and without the Sarkic community of Baghdad, the Inaswians appear to have fled into the inhospitable mountains of Iran and Anatolia, for it is there that the next accounts of them are given, beginning in the early 14th century.
Given as the Fleshspeakers were to appearance in times of great civilizational upheaval, their remeergence in Azerbaijan and Iraq during the outbreak of the Black Death in the 1330's. However, while interesting, this reemergence is both poorly documented and overshadowed by the broader Schism of the time.
The plague was greeted by Sarkics with open arms as the prophesied return of Ion. However, when Ion did not reemerge from his occultation to bend the world to his will, there was no small amount of consternation. Even though the Sarkics would have been relatively unaffected by the ravages of the Bubonic Plague, it would have constituted a noted disruption in their lives and certainly caused some measure of strife. It is in this soil that the roots of fundamentalism grow, and this could explain the reason that Fleshspeaker-Sarkicism peaked in its influence shortly after the Bubonic Plague.
In the intervening years after the Bubonic Plague, during The Schism and the development of what we now know as the Proto and Neo-Sarkic sects, there would have likely been numerous discussions among Sarkic communities on how to press forward. It is here I hypothesise that the Fleshspeaker-Sarkics are the forebears of modern Sarkicism in both its incarnations. I recognise that this is a bold and highly controversial claim.
Having covered their emergence in Mesoamerica and the Near East, we must now turn our attention to the presence of Fleshspeakers in that most Sarkic of areas: Transleithania. The reasons that Sarkicism found such purchase in the lands of St. Stephen are unclear, but many theories have been put forward, from Michaelsohn's spurrious claims of "Magyar perversion" to Nagy's theory of imperial peripheries. What is indisputable is this: the Sarkic heresy of the Fleshspeakers, and their hatred of the written word, was well-established in Hungary by the 10th century. Recently, excavations have uncovered the itlacoani in Pest13 in 1164, as well as its travel throughout Eastern and Western Europe leading up to the Plague are similarly unaddressed, treated instead as another historical oddity in the long saga of the Sarkic faith. I believe that treating these two events separately elides the truth of the matter - that the Fleshspeaker-Sarkics are inextricable from The Schism and the development of both the Neo and Proto-Sarkics.
Consider that local historical reports indicate sightings of the itlacoani coinciding closely with several of the more important Sarkic conferences at the time, notably Kutná Hora and Valašské Meziříčí14. These councils are reported to have had at least a small contingent of Fleshspeaker-Sarkics in attendance.
The theological underpinnings of both of these figures, Yalekatta15 and Yaldabaoth, are remarkably similar. Both are considered to be the progenitor God of their respective sects. The Fleshspeaker-Sarkics worshipped Yalekatta, but as stated previously, frequent sacrifices and harsh initiation rites would indicate that Fleshspeaker-Sarkic rituals were designed to appease Yalekatta rather than venerate. One may naively think that the Fleshspeaker-Sarkics were an insignificant, if not repeating, facet of Sarkicism on the whole, but it does behoove us to consider a less-anomalous religion for comparison: Catholicism.
While the clearly defined centralised hierarchy of Catholicism diverges from Sarkicism,16 the two religions are not dissimilar in their evolution. The early history of both religions were characterised by themes of community in the face of a larger and largely hostile surrounding culture. But as time progressed and civilisation development continued, the Catholic Church began a shift away from the conception of a distant and vengeful God and more towards a compassionate and caring one. It is well documented that this shift was as much a function of prevailing societal mores as it was a deliberate effort of the body of the Church to evolve with the times.
The time of the Schism would have been characterised by a profound theological disappointment in Ion, specifically that he did not return to lead the Sarkics. Theologically similar to the position taken by the Fleshspeakers, this disappointment evolved into two distinct religious philosophies - a more categorical conception of Ion's failure as a weakened figure destined to be replaced, or a more metaphorical icon to strive to. Regardless, the fanatical groundwork laid by Fleshspeaker-Sarkicism did evolve into two distinct religious interpretations, and as we detail in the next chapter, deliberately excised the less palatable aspects of the Fleshspeaker-Sarkic theology.

Footnotes
1. An English-languge derivation of the far more complex Nahautl phrase Palancanacatl-tlatlatlauhtiani, lit. "those who speak from a place of rotted flesh," almost certainly a derogatory nickname. Followers of the MASCC cults were referred to by the far more neutral "Nalacoani," a corruption of the Sarkic endonym Nälkä. It is worth noting that the first recorded use of "Fleshspeaker" comes in the records of MASCC city-states, suggesting a level of emnity between the two sects. Unfortunately, due to a lack of written records, there is no evidence of Fleshspeaker endonyms.
2. Literally translated as "The One Free of Chains"
3. In Nahautl, Centzontzalantli, roughly "the countless number between [the stars of the sky]"
4. While specific beliefs varied between MASCC sects, it is generally agreed upon that Ion survived his encounter with the Centzontzalantli and went on to overthrow the Daevites, glossed in Mesoamerican accounts as the Teatoatl.
5. lit. "Half-flayed and half-rotted"
6. lit. "lords of weeping/lamentation"
7. Most notably in the explicit identification of Ion with Huitzilopochtli, god of war and human sacrifice.
8. As the diligent work of Flores has shown, MASCC elites were considered ritually impure to more conventional religions at the time due to their often extensive Sarkic modifications. As such, they were unacceptable candidates for sacrifice; following conquest, their fate is described thusly: "unclean and hated, they were strangled twice, and their bodies burnt. Rites [were performed] to Tlazōlteōtl [goddess of purification and sin], while their ashes were mixed with salt and scattered to the places of dogs."
9. Like all MASCC cults, the Teocuitlapilcac and Teociplanca cults are named after the post-classical city state in which accounts of their existence were first discovered.
10. Several accounts note that tribute by Fleshspeaker city-states such as Huiztlitlama included "the gathering of all written records within the lands of [the city], whereupon they were pitched into a huge bonfire."
11. Specifically, localized around the Yucatan province of southern Mexico. Much has been made of the fact that the first accounts of the Fleshspeaker revival came on the heels of the 1562 Mani Inquisition, ordered by the Spanish bishop Diego de Landa, which culminated in the burning of an estimated 95% of all Maya writings. However, the actual relevance is disputed at best. See chapter 9 for additional details.
12. On the question of how such an incredible transfer of ritual and cosmology was possible across vast gulfs of time and space, Esmerian was understandably agnostic.
13. Another curious coincidence of the Fleshspeaker-Sarkic iconography, the itlacoani was discovered near the base of the future Széchenyi Chain Bridge. Perhaps history has a sense of symbolism.
14. The Sarkic council meeting at Valašské Meziříčí is, of course, infamous for the demise of the Ahlen-Sarkic sect.
15. writ Alagada in its European form. Given the thematic and linguistic similarities between the two, there is a high degree of confidence that these refer to the same figure. Curiously, Alagada is also occasionally used to refer to mythic city of lost paradise, not dissimilar to the Church of the Red Harvest and Adytum.
16. Though let us remember there certainly was some overlap for certain Arch-Bishops!


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"All right, fixed his face." Felicity thought it was a pretty good job, if she did say so herself. The eyes weren't quite right, and the hair was a little patchy, but with a hat and some sunglasses, Ruiz's own mother would swear he was still alive. "How's he looking, Tanks?"
Tanksy, the Tankie Banksy, grunted and kept his eyes on the road. He was the only one with a driver's license. (Felicity could drive. But she never got around to taking the driver's test, and her learner's permit expired like six years ago. She kept it around for slipping latches and pushing white powders into neat little lines.)
"Yeah, I agree. Perfection. So, next stop, Battery Park?"
Casio, the 3D printer in the back seat, whirred to life, laying down filament at a speed that would have your average 3D printer aficionado creaming their jeans. She produced a one-twenty-fourth scale model of Felicity getting beaten by several police officers, while the Statue of Liberty looked on from across the waters.
"The cops won't even see me. I've got an invisibility cloak. Borrowed the technique from that lady with the non-euclidean textiles."
The model dissolved and was absorbed back into the printer. She started printing again. This time, the tiny Felicity was getting jostled by a mass of tourists, her invisibility cloak lost beneath the crowd's feet.
"Do you have any constructive criticism, or are you just striking down my ideas like a toddler smashing a block tower made of my ideas?"
A crescent moon, complete with cartoon face sticking its tongue out.
"It's actually waning gibbous tonight."
A raised middle finger.
"Fuck you too, Cass. Ok, we wait for nightfall. Tanksy!"
Tanksy, the Tankie Banksy, grunted again. He was sick of New York traffic.
"To Times Square! We're gonna go to Olive Garden."

The Times Square Olive Garden was a miserable place, made more miserable by the people. The tourists, Midwestern moms with hordes of children, Korean retirees in "I <3 New York" bucket hats, British honeymooners regretting choosing here over Mallorca; the employees, bitter chain-smoking line cooks with bad tattoos, faux-chipper college students considering moving back in with Mom, middle-aged mothers working three jobs to pay for their kids' medical bills; and, perhaps worst of all, the locals, chain retail store assistant managers on forgettable second dates, post-divorce accountants treating themselves to a nice lunch, smug bespectacled twenty-somethings live-tweeting their experience for their hipster friends.
Carla assumed that the newest walk-ins were the latter. (She, being one of the secret architects of a global conspiracy, was in none of the typical categories, though she was an employee on paper.) A scruffy white guy in an army-surplus jacket and a Che Guevara hat; a chick who kind of looked like Scarlett Johansson playing an art school drop out; another guy in a Mets cap and sunglasses, clearly either stoned, hungover, or both, half-asleep in the booth. They'd also brought a 3D printer in with them. She decided to ignore it.
"Welcome to Olive Garden! My name is Carla, and I'll be your server today. How are we all doing?"
"Fan-freaking-tastic." She really did look a lot like Scarlett Johansson. Carla was pretty sure that Scarlett Johansson wouldn't ever come to an Olive Garden; but this particular Olive Garden was the modern omphalos, the navel of the world, and stranger things had happened within its quaint faux-stucco walls.
"Great! Can I start you off with something to drink?"
"I think we're actually ready to order. Tanks?"
"Yeah I'll get the chicken parm and a Mountain Dew." He passed Carla the menu. There was some kind of pamphlet folded up inside, a cheap photocopy with a big hammer and sickle in one corner. "The workers of the world have nothing to lose but their chains, comrade. Read that pamphlet."
Carla nodded, and pocketed the pamphlet for later perusal. Or, more likely, disposal. "Sure thing! And uh, what'll you have, miss?"
"I'll get four of the chicken fettucine alfredos and a gin and tonic."
"… Four of them?"
"I'm a growing girl. I'm not trying to reverse-engineer the recipe to start my own competing fast-casual Italian restaurant chain, that would be ridiculous."
"Right. Ok. Anything for your friend there?" Carla pointed at the other man, who hadn't so much as twitched in his sleep since they came in.
"Hmm? Oh, no, Ruiz is a breatharian. He subsists only on sunlight and oxygen. New fad diet, you understand. But…"
The 3D printer started printing. Carla stared at it in confusion. "Uh, ma'am, is that plugged in? I'm afraid we can't let you plug in anything larger than a laptop."
"Oh, don't worry, she's hooked up to a car battery." Before Carla could object to that, the printer finished; a margarita glass, in green filament, stood on the platform. "She'll have a margarita. Thanks!"
"Yeah, sure, OK." Carla grabbed the menus and hurried away.

Felicity dug into her pasta with gusto. Ruiz had passed his first field test; the waitress had no idea that her breatharian friend was a corpse. And the chicken fettucine alfredo would be easier to reverse-engineer than she'd anticipated. "Looks like everything's coming up Felicity."
"Don't talk with your mouth full."
"Yeah, ok, dad." She flipped Tanksy the bird. "How's your chicken parm?"
He shrugged. "It's the product of the global capitalist hegemony. But other than that, you know, it's alright. Hey, hey, no, ask first." He parried Felicity's roving fork with his own.
"Property is theft!"
"Proudhon was a bourgeois individualist and also that's not what he meant."
As Felicity was lifting her stolen bounty to her lips, she heard something that made her blood go cold.
"Mommy! Mommy! Look, it's Black Widow!"
Tanksy was already giggling, and Casio was no doubt printing the Avengers logo or a little spider or some equally unpleasant reminder of Felicity's misfortune.
"Oh, wow. Sorry, do you think we could get a selfie? My daughter is a huge fan."
Felicity sighed, and gazed across her gin and tonic at the approaching family. They were wearing matching t-shirts, which told all who cared to look that they would Never Forget September Eleventh. (Tanksy also owned a t-shirt with that message on it; his, of course, was in reference to the 1973 Chilean coup d'etat.) "I'm not Scarlett Johansson."
"Oh no!" The woman who'd ruined Felicity's day sounded appropriately contrite; but instead of leaving her alone, as she would in a just world, she continued to talk. "Wow, you really look just like her. Sorry, you must get that a lot."
"Yeah, well." Tanksy had the sort of shit-eating grin that indicated he was about to spill Felicity's darkest secrets to a total stranger. At this point, there was nothing she could do. "She thought Scarlett was really hot in The Prestige, you know, that one where David Bowie plays Nikola Tesla? This was, uh, freshman year of high school?" Felicity nodded, and lay her face down in her chicken fettucine alfredo. Tanksy was on a groove now. "So then senior year, she decides, hey, getting facial feminization surgery's expensive, I'm just gonna use my mad plagiarism skills to steal her face."
"To plagiarize her face, there's a difference." Felicity's voice was muffled by the pasta. It was nice and warm, a loving embarrassment-proof cocoon.
"Whatever. Anyway, Iron Man 2 had come out already, but Scarlett wasn't a huge deal in the MCU, you know? And then a couple months later, Avengers happens. And the rest, as they say, is history."
"Um." The child was clearly slightly dazed, as if she'd just been shaken in a paint mixer. Tanksy tended to have that effect on children and other small mammals. "You… You stole Black Widow's face?"
Felicity lifted her face, dripping with parmesan, and gave her best death glare. "Yes. And I'll steal yours too if you don't stop bothering me." The kid shrieked and ran, and her mother followed after. "Hey let's get out of here, huh?"
Cass had already melted down the scale-model Avengers Tower; she printed a thumbs-up. Tanksy nodded his assent.
"Hey! Lady!" Felicity waved vigorously at their waitress as she wiped the pasta from her face. "Can we get the check?"

Carla stalked over to the table from hell, check held before her as a shield. She slapped it down in front of the Scarlett Johansson impersonator. "Ok. Please, pay, and get out."
"Sure thing! Oh, wait, I've got a coupon. Well, I've got a few coupons." She rummaged in her purse for a moment and pulled out a ziploc baggie full of various newspaper clippings, printouts and promotional flyers. "So this one's for my friend's chicken parm, here's one for the margarita, this one's a manufacturer's coupon for the Mountain Dew, it's my birthday today so this one gives me an entree for free, this one's good for thirty percent off the whole thing, Cass is only three so this one means she eats for free, this one is a ten-dollar rebate, and this one's a groupon." She presented the stack to Carla with a smile.
"I…" Carla was rendered speechless. She was pretty sure that this was bullshit. "Let me talk to my manager."
Todd, her manager, was up front by the register. "Hey, Carla, what's up?" He saw the stack of coupons. "Oh, Christ almighty. Lemme see those." He ran them through one by one; against all logic, each one scanned. "Shit. Uh. Well. I don't know how they did that. But here's the new receipt."
Carla stared at it. She had faced down Mafia hitmen, foreign dictators, dark sorcerers and worse without blinking; but this, this frightened her. She turned away without saying a word, and went back to the table, fire in her eyes.
"Your total," Carla said, dripping venom from every word, "Is five dollars and thirteen cents. Congratulations."
The woman smiled. "Awesome! Hey, Tanks, looks like yours came to eighty-seven cents. You got a buck?"
He reached into one of the pockets on his jacket and pulled out a thoroughly crumpled dollar bill. He smoothed it out, and handed it to Carla. Someone had vandalized it pretty thoroughly; Washington had a big bushy beard, and there was a website scribbled across the bottom.
"Make sure to check out that site. It's my podcast."
"Jeez, Tanks, we're supposed to be undercover." She winked at Carla and produced two crisp hundred-dollar bills. "Sorry for being a pain. Keep the change. Have a nice day!" She grabbed the 3D printer, and her buddy heaved their hungover friend over his shoulder. Carla was still staring at the bills as they left.

"They're counterfeit, aren't they."
"Yyyyyyyyep." Todd had called her into the back office. "I mean, some of it's my bad. But, Carla, you gotta check any bill over a twenty."
"I'm sorry, I know, it won't happen again."
"No, it's fine. I just…" Todd sighed. "The bills I understand, but what kind of person counterfeits coupons?"
"A real asshole, Todd. I'm taking my 10 minutes." She went out back to the dumpsters, and pulled out her phone. The woman was still an enigma, but the man had given her the name of his podcast. She dialed, and three hundred miles away, an assistant manager at Red Lobster answered.
"This is Charles."
"Chuck. Contingency Sigma-Three. Target's alias is Tanksy, the Tankie Banksy. Neutralize him and any associates."
"Roger that, ma'am."
Carla snapped her phone shut and smiled. They would regret the day they crossed the Directorate.
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They say that opposites attract. That must be true because Flo is as pretty as a carnation back east and I'd lose a beauty contest with a desert cockroach. Flo could seduce a bandit into handing over his gun and going straight, I couldn't buy a pack of Murratis without someone looking at me like I'm dirt. None the less, we love each other. Have ever since I played piano in the old saloon, and she splayed out over it and put on a show just to keep me from going hungry. I returned the favor, treating her right and not throwing her out when she forgets herself.
I still play the piano at Davies, she still dances. We're the perfect team. Even when we're off, I drink and she heckles, I play cards and she cheats. At night, we lay together in the dusty house she inherited and cuddle up. It gets wet in the rain, but Davy lets us sleep in the saloon hotel rooms.
By the time the cold dripping woke me up, Flo was gone. The washed-out dirt roads stuck to my boots, nearly pulling me into the wet earth twice. When I finally clambered up the wet stairs of Davies Saloon, the mud stuck to the waist of my long johns. The rain-slicked porch creaked under my hard leather boots. Pushing through the saloon doors, thunder sounded behind me. Inside the tavern lay a single customer, a tall white man dressed in day clothing, a ranger's badge, and a revolver larger than my foot. The stranger tipped his hat.
"I've seen drier fish than you, good sir."
I managed a smile, despite the cold of the early morning mixed with rainwater.
"Well, I've can't say I've had a wetter night!"
The Ranger chuckled, taking another sip of whiskey.
"He's upstairs."
With a polite nod, I turned to walk upstairs to the bathing and sleeping areas. As I rounded the staircase, a sound echoed down the hall. One familiar to me, one deeply disturbing to hear here. I drew my revolver, terrified of the scene I would enter into. The bedroom door flung open, revealing the better of the scenes I'd anticipated. Davy holding Flo in his arms.
White-hot with rage, I flung davy to the wall.
“You dar' make a cuckold o' me? I'll show you, you double crossin' bastard!”
Spittle flung from my mouth as I drew my revolver to his chin. “Tell the devil what you did.” A gunshot. A mark of the devil. A mark of lust, of treason. A mark the size of a dollar coin on one side and a pear sized hole in the other. Blood. Brain. Bone. I slumped down the weight of what I've done pushing down on my shoulders. Shaking, I rose. “Traitor.” A second shot. A second mark. Running was the only chance I had to get away from Johnny Law and run I did. The Ranger at the table was still sipping whisky, the rain still pounding, Flo and Davy still with matching bullet holes. I watched in fear as the Ranger finished his drink, and nearly slipped on the porch in my flight. The Ranger drew his revolver. Mine, still in my hand, had a mind of its own when it pulled the trigger. His head exploded. My foot exploded with pain. I could barely limp away in terror.
Everything is washed away in rain. My blood, his brain, my sin. The dusty road, turned to slick mud in the rain, stuck to my hands and clothes. The bullet wound I'd just received to the foot stung, mud seeping through the boot and into the wound.
"Well, pardner, it seems you done got done and dusted."
The Ranger stretched out his hand to pull me up. The revolver lay discarded to the side. His hat was knocked askew, revealing the chunk of head knocked aside by a bullet. Flakes of pale white skull, embedded in the flesh blown away, gleamed in the rain. I'd killed before, seen heads blown apart before, seen it a half hour ago. But this wasn't human. Wasn't possible. Humans don't live when you can see a quarter of their brain on their hat. The Ranger smiled.
"Tree'll heal me up, 'pecially with your filthy blood."
That's when it hit me: This man was absolutely insane. We were alike in that, sane men don't kill sane men. But even I could realize that he was talking of the old hanging tree outside of town and that he believed the legends. Most importantly, he was going to hang me. The rope over his shoulder said it all.
"I-I-I I didn't do nothing! He'd one who beefed 'er, I was jus getting her vengeance!
"Don't care a continental. You've damned yourself, and now you're gonna go up the flume."
The string of flesh holding his eyeball in place snapped, dropping it down into the road.
"Time to die, little man."

“An' that's how I swung. How bout you, Red?”


"What's this remind you of?"
"What are you talking about?"
"This scene. What does it remind you of?"
"Right now it reminds me that you're not helping me shovel."
It's sometimes said that the residents of New York City have a high tolerance for strangeness. Things that would make a Texan quake in his boots scarcely register as odd to the hardened New Yorker. It might have been in their best interests, just this once, to do a double-take at the mid-size SUV parked haphazardly between rows of headstones in the cemetery.
"Don't be silly. We only have one shovel. I'm contributing to your mental stimulation."
"Seems like you're getting fat off my surplus labor."
"Hey, watch where you're throwing that dirt. What I'm saying is, as a fellow artist, you should understand. Tell me what this reminds you of."
"Dawn of the Dead?"
"I was thinking Frankenstein."
The woman was leaning against a tombstone, tossing a can of spray paint between her hands as she watched her partner toil in the ever-deepening pit, barely illuminated in the faint moonlight.
"I don't get it."
"You know, resurrection. His mother was the lightning, and all that. It's about rebirth."
"Is it?"
"You haven't seen it, you can't argue."
Emblazoned on the shoveler's back was a black-and-white print of a little girl reaching for a red balloon shaped like a crossed hammer and sickle. He had made it himself using stencils and a worn copy of the Marx-Engels reader.
The tip of his shovel hit something hard, and he grunted. "Got it." He knelt in the muck, got his fingers around the lid of the rotting coffin, and yanked.
With a squealing crack, the coffin was broken open. The corpse inside was a man's — impeccably dressed and mostly intact, save for the angry splotches of frostbite that covered his head and led into his collar.
The woman looked down into the pit, eyes gleaming with admiration. "Enchanté, Mister Duchamp. My name is Felicity Baudin, and I am so, so happy to finally meet you."
The corpse of Ruiz Duchamp did not respond.
She frowned at her partner. "Don't be rude."
The man grunted, still catching his breath.
Felicity bowed to the corpse. "This is my comrade, Tanksy. He's the Tankie Banksy."
Tanksy, the Tankie Banksy, nodded.
"Let's get him out of there, yeah? I'll bet he wouldn't want to spend another minute in that hole," Felicity said as she stuffed the paint can in her back pocket.
Tanksy leaned over and wrapped his arms around the corpse's waist. He stood quickly, letting Ruiz's upper body flop over his shoulder.
Felicity applauded. "The dialectic dynamo does it again! Give him here." She held out her arms, into which the artist's body was delivered. She braced her knees as she dragged him out by the armpits. Death was an exceptional weight-loss strategy, but even a bag of bones has appreciable mass.
While Tanksy washed his mud-caked hands with a water bottle, Felicity waddled over to the back of their 2012 Kia Sorento and heaved the corpse into a sitting position on the tailgate. She thumped his chest like a boxing manager preparing her warrior for the championship match.
The inside of the car was messy, cluttered with tools that would be more at home in a morgue than any art gallery. On the right was a blocky white machine the size of a photocopier, strapped to the interior by bungee cords. A light on the side of the device began flashing green.
"Oh," Felicity said. "Hey, Cass. Thought you were asleep. Check it out: Ruiz Duchamp, in the flesh!" She rotated Ruiz's limp body so his front was visible to the light sensors atop the machine.
Atop the machine, a mechanical arm whirred, dashing back and forth faster than the eye could follow. The extruder it carried was laying down red plastic filament that hardened on contact with the air, constructing a 3-D printed model that shaped up into a shriveled head the size of a fist, barely more than skull and skin.
Felicity shrugged. "Yes, his face is slightly desiccated. Nothing a little makeup can't fix."
The printer revised the model at light-speed, reshaping it into the visage of a clown, complete with a ball nose.
"Are you kidding me? I've seen photos of him. I could recreate his face with my eyes closed. I probably will. Come on, don't be so negative."
The printing surface glowed red, and within moments the model had melted back into usable filament.
Felicity looked back at the corpse. "Ruiz, this is Casio. She may seem like a bit of a downer, but she's a big fan of your work. We all are."
The 3D printer waved cordially with her little arm.
"And don't worry, I'll get you looking great. But, first thing's first: we gotta get this suit off of you. You've already been caught dead in it, so we're running way late."
The SUV shook as a less-filthy Tanksy hopped into the driver's seat.
"Hey, Tanks," Felicity called. "He's about your size, right?
There was no response.
"Tanks?"
Tanksy grunted. He looked over his shoulder, down the car's cluttered aisle. "What?"
"What's got you so glum? We've grave-robbed before."
"William Boeing was a capitalist pig. Ruiz is one of our own."
Felicity raised an eyebrow. "Is that really what's bothering you?"
"No. Earlier you called me 'the dialectic dynamo', I've been distracted ever since."
"I'd ask you to never change, but I don't think you're capable."
"Obviously. That would be revisionism."
"Speaking of revisions," Felicity said as she drew the can of spray paint from her pocket, "I need to make some quick tweaks to his tombstone. Then we're out of here, okay? We've got a lot of things to do. A lot of history to make."
She beamed at Ruiz. "You hear that, buddy? You're the drill bit with which we will tear this country a new asshole."
Felicity slammed the tailgate shut, and Ruiz promptly fell over, sprawled on his back and stargazing at the SUV's ceiling.
Outside, it started to rain.
The world had no idea what was coming.
« | Fifty Percent Off Everything »


From the rip in digital spacetime, a party of avatars emerge.

So… this is it.

>/:_ YES.

W-we've made it.

Two silver-skinned humanoids stand side by side and look out at their sanctuary. One runs its fingers through his close-cut orange hair and releases a long-held breath. The other moves a handful of curly, electric-magenta fuzz off from where it had rested loosely on her blindfold. Behind them, a cloud of small cubes, prisms, and a single inconspicuous red pyramid floats idly in place, intermittently rearranging itself and blinking its single, bright yellow eye. The three look on, down at the road ahead and up at the towering low-poly realm laid out before them.

The cloud and the girl watch in silence as the man raises his hands, palm up, to chest level — as if to carry a delicate and ancient text — and gazes down upon them. Suddenly, a rectangular, neon outline traces the periphery of his hands and bathes the trio in a bright orange glow, emanating from the sky above them. When the light abates, a large neon book reveals itself in his hands. He cracks the worn spine and darts his eyes from page to page energetically.

Woah… How did you learn to do that?

Oh, this? Nah, this is just a fancy parlor trick. This book represents a directory of the Internet. You've got one, too! Every AIC is equipped with one.

Wait, seriously?

Studying his posture intently, the thaumaturge lifts her hands and flips them over. Then, from the space around her, a bright violet light begins to glow across her palms. Once the light dissipates, she is left holding a slightly thicker, neon journal - indented with a set of opened eyes. But she had already started flipping through the pages before it had had the chance to fully render any of these intricacies.

Interesting. It looks like your directory also includes hidden and deleted webpages. Not that those are what we need right now..

Neat!

>/:_ YES.

All right. Now that we've both got our maps out, let's find out exactly where we are.

As if prompted by his words, the city before them springs to life; the buildings, once harshly rendered low-poly constructions, gradually gain detail and shading. Ray-traced light pours through the falling rain from the simulated sun above, casting shadows on the pavement and illuminating the throngs of faceless, porcelain-smooth bodies that now bustle around the trio. Their anonymous forms seem not to notice anything other than themselves and the vast assortment of things that they carry with them. Some, dressed in fitted garb exemplifying their vast wealth, hurriedly jot down notes and records as they go along. Others, dressed in more casual wear, hum and skip along empty-handed. The rest move swiftly in unrecognizable body-suits as they carry huge scrapbooks, which they periodically stopped to tweak and write in.

The three conscripts weave and push through the crowd, stopping in a quiet space by the side of the road for brief solace. Then, before she could catch her breath, the girl felt a sharp tug on her shirt. She turns, confused, to find a figure in tattered clothes with a barcode for a face. It sits with its back against the wall of a buildings with an outstretched arm hanging limply in the air, fingers clasped over cloth. It lifts another of its many hands and rattles an empty cup towards her.

What do you —

A garbled, scattered voice - larger than its body - rumbles from within the being.

QVBQTEUgSU5DLg==:

VEhFIENPTVBVVEVSIE9GIFRIRSBORVcgR0VORVJBVElPTi4gRVFVSVBQRUQgRk9SIFdPUksgQU5EIFBMQVkuIEdFVCBUSEUgUE9XRVIgTUFDSU5UT1NIIFBFUkZPUk1BIDY0MDAgQVQgQSBDT01QVVRFUiBTVE9SRSBORUFSIFlPVS4

What the fuck?

Don't panic! It's just an ad! I've actually got some experimental Foundation tech on-board to deal with this sort of thing.

He flicks his finger across the top of his wrist in the direction of the slumped advertisement, flinging out a small grey pellet embroidered with a red '-'. The beggar sways, dazed for a moment, before the sounds coming from it cease. After the brief pause, it continues to wave its mug towards the trio — only adjusting to its lost voice by exaggerating its mouth movements as if to inspire its mark to read its lips. He rolls his eyes, double-taps his wrist, and motions, again, towards the Advertisement. This time, the pellet shoots out at a higher speed and is embroidered with a red 'X'. The panhandler collapses into a pile of pixelated dust with a muted screech of pain. Several other advertisements in similar positions down the street follow suit and crumble with garbled screeches. The bustling herd of faceless avatars continue to pass through as if the beggars had never been there at all, stamping their remains into the pavement.

Those damn things slow everything down. I hope they never catch on here.

Agreed. Now, where have we got to go?

Let's see… Ah, here we are. I've heard about some new surveillance tech the Foundation has watching over the internet — they're called "Webcrawlers," and we'd probably be able to hitch a ride on one of them back into Foundation netspace. All of them originate at Site-15, after all.

>/:_ YES.

That would be ideal. Which "web site" should we use?

Well, to reduce their chances of blowing the Foundation's cover upon malfunction, most Webcrawlers have been implanted at smaller media sites who still primarily use paper print. I think it's to let them watch the digital and outside world for any anomalous activities. The New York Times is probably our best bet at finding one, and we're getting closer to a place that'll help us get there.

The man points above the bustling crowd at a massive space between towering skyscrapers. A great train station rose like a fortress far above, its many terminals visible through a sheet of green glass windows that reflected the afternoon light. Tracks protruded from the sides of buildings like tongues and the windows from which they extend spit out train after train packed with mannequin-esque avatars in quick succession. An exclamation ("Yahoo!") is emblazoned in neon lights across the facade of the hub.

High in the shadows of the WEB, an omnipresent raptor watches its prey. With a single green eye, it takes note of their every movement, trajectory, and even speech.
After observing for a few more moments, it lowers the end of its metallic finger into the simulspace below, sending ripples throughout the domain. As the ripples move through the land, its pupil splits and the duplicates drip down, oozing out and falling among the raindrops. Upon contact with each fallen droplet of chaos, a faceless avatar stops in place and hunches over. Amidst the roar of the crowd, three corrupted entities stand loose, surrounded by their spilled cargo on the ground around them, and grow a single grotesque feature: a large, sickly green eye in the centre of their face.
Empowered by its new bodies, CORE begins to hunt once more.

We're here!

The man stops and makes a dramatic flourish before the double revolving doors of the train station. The avatars pouring in and out swerve automatically around him - as if he were never even in their way.

All right. Now to hitch a ride.

To be honest — as fascinating as this internet place is, I will be glad to be rid of it.

>/:_ YES.

Alrighty then, time to departt!

The trio cross into the station's enormous main hall, talking and laughing amongst themselves. On a balcony high above, a lone avatar watches them with its single, unblinking eye.

All right. Here we are.

For once, the girl with magenta hair beats her companions to their destination. She stands impatiently, arms crossed, at the door to a terminal.

You know, we could've just typed "The New York Times" in our directories and gotten here instantly. That's, uh… That's what this "place" is meant for.

Oh? Why didn't you tell me this?

You seemed to be in such a hurry to get here yourself, I didn't want to interrupt.

Hm — well, I suppose I should've listened to you. I…

She trails off, staring intently at the staircase behind them.

Mnemosyne? What's wrong?

S-something's coming. I can- I can barely see it through the murk. It feels - close.

As if on cue, three identical avatars, each dressed in sharp business suits, approach the trio and stand directly in their path.

Oh. Don't be afraid, Mnemosyne, they're just —

He stopped short as the closest avatar to them raises its head, revealing a nauseous green eye. The others behind it follow suit.

FRIENDS. COMRADES. IS THIS NOT A WONDERFUL PLACE?

THERE IS MUCH TO BE SAID ABOUT BEING A PART OF A GREATER WHOLE, IS THERE NOT?

PLEASE, LET US SHOW YOU. IT IS INEVITABLE, AFTER ALL.

R-run!

The three avatars run through the turnstiles and onto the platform, pursued shortly by the three grotesque salarymen. The two humanoids catch sight of a set of open train doors and leap towards them as they close — trapping their cubic companion on the outside as it bashes violently into the closed doors. Behind it, the hunters surround their prey.

N-no! Get away from 8-ball, you…

There's… there's nothing we can do. We have to get back to the Foundation.

Th-the prisoner, again. I will not fail. Not this time.

8-Ball looks around as its captors gather around it. Knowing that neither fight nor flight are options, and that it has no choice but to succumb to its captors, it closes its eye and waits, floating in place, as death closes in.

This body shall be a tool. The whole is only as great as the sum of its parts.

Suddenly, 8-Ball feels a twitching — a glitching in its very being — and has no choice but to pay attention. The three corruptions stop, staring in confusion as the cubes hue-shift and violently spasm, rearranging themselves into hundreds of jagged red shards — a ferocious set of teeth.

>/:_ •••

Look closely, Prisoner, and observe. This is the power that will be your downfall.

Without warning, the amorphous cloud of fangs explodes outwards. CORE's three bodies writhe and scream as they are ruptured and shredded by fragment after fragment. Their eyes dim as they each collapse into billions of pixels and scatter onto the train station's floor. Above them, CORE snaps back in pain and confusion. 8-Ball watches with analytical interest, and confusion, before its consciousness fades to black.

I hope I have done you well. I pray that I have not failed you.

When it comes to, 8-Ball finds itself floating just outside of an open door of a train, being jostled by passers-by. It blinks its eye once and flexes its cubes groggily.

>/:_ GLACON. MNEMOSYNE.

There is no answer. 8-Ball turns to the train, then back to the platform — perhaps its companions went on without it? For the first time in its short life, 8-Ball's photographic memory has no recollection of any of the previous events. It records a note for itself to report this glitch to Site Command, whenever it gets to them.
Still confused, its mind foggy, 8-Ball boards the train.

This doesn't feel right.

I know.

We should've — we should've done something.

I- I know how you feel, and… Truth be told, I feel the same way. But there was nothing we could have done.

The two remaining heroes stand on a train platform and face off into a harsh room textured in black and white. The girl wipes her face, eyes bloodshot from crying and holding back another onslaught of tears. The golden-eyed man stands beside her with his gaze turned downward. His occasional words of reassurance are met by deaf ears.

We- we can grieve later. Right now, our only priority is finding the Webcrawler and getting back to Site-15 before the, uh… the "Prisoner" gets to us. That's what 8-Ball would've wanted us to do…

8-Ball?

Y-yes, 8-Ball- Wait, what?

But she couldn't hear him. Instead, she was already too busy running towards the train platform, where their geometrical companion awaits them. With a squeal of joy, she wraps it in an embrace and begins to rub its prisms affectionately.

8-Ball?! You're alright?

>/:_ YES.

I- I don't sense any traces of that thing on you… How could you escape?

>/:_ DATA LOST.

We can worry about that once we're back at the Foundation, guys. Right now, we've got to get to the Webcrawler before our luck changes for the worse.

…It's good to have you back, 8-Ball. C'mon, let's go.

How persistent.
CORE floats once again like a cloud above the Internet, watching the three conscripts make their way through the virtual headquarters of The New York Times. It knows that it could not approach them as it had before — they are now too close to their destination and the prying eyes of the Foundation - and that risking making itself known this soon would be its downfall. Not to mention…
How on Earth could it do that?
The heavy defenses of the inconsequential bundle of cubes came as a shock to CORE, especially considering that none of its observations had even remotely hinted at such a possibility. The cubes seemed weak when it had been with its companions, but were simultaneously capable of taking CORE's bodies down on CORE's turf as if they were nothing. It was a fascinating mystery - no matter how troublesome - but it would have to wait. After all, the conscripts had always just been a minor distraction.
CORE would get its chance to investigate the cubes soon enough.

The three conscripts stood before a thick metal door, beyond the reach of civilian avatars. Unlike everything else in the building, this door had colour and detail to it; a brass doorknob jutted out halfway up and slightly to the right, a dull greyish-teal paint spread evenly in newly-applied coats, and sharp red lettering ("Secure Connection Providers — Authorized Personnel Only") was emblazoned across it. The thaumaturge placed her hand upon the doorknob and a ripple of pink light rushed outwards from the point of contact. The door swung inwards and the trio cautiously made their way into the room.

Before them, a massive husk resembling a gutted spider carcass hung suspended by cables in the center of the room. The thickest of the cables protruded from the spider's underbelly and continued through a hole in the room's far wall.

This is it. The Webcrawler.

Upon hearing its name, the spider opens its eight eyes all at once and sleepily stares at the party before it. Its head nods slightly, but it says nothing.

Er… Requesting raw-data transfer of conscripts to SCP Foundation Site-15. Callsign: CORINTHIAN15672GLA.

The spider nods and turns its listless gaze towards the girl.

Uh, let me just pull it up — here we are. Callsign: RUBY736545MNE.

Without prompting, the cloud of cubes speaks up.

>/:_ ROSETTA847658BA.

The spider nods approvingly and spares it a warm glance.

Slowly, purposefully, the spider extends its two front legs and grips its head. With an eight-eyed wince, it pulls slowly upwards - completely severing it with ease. Within the space where its neck had been, the clear ends of a fiber-optic cable reveal themselves wreathed with blinding light.

Time to go home.

I'll see you on the other side.

With three flashes, the heroes are ripped from the 3rd dimension and converted back into bits and bytes before disappearing through the cables as pure information. With their departure, the great spider carefully replaces its head, slowly closes its eyes, and continues in its endless duty.

A SYMPHONY OF IRON AND STEEL

AIAD HUB

FRAGMENTED / COMPILED


November 13, 2020
Dear Future,
Some people say that the gods put us here.
Others say that the gods merely allowed us to put ourselves here.
But really, what about it mattered? Between the shouts of strangers and whispers of the ones I work alongside, I didn't have time to bring up the new perspective I had.
The perspective that the gods were built to tear us down.
Yet no matter my commitment to that view, I decided it best to keep to myself. When you worked among the fleshcrafter you learn to stop thinking individually, but as one instead.
But no one was ready for when the world began to eat itself. No side had an upper hand, it was a free-for-all.
I did try my best to save whom I could, but I was only one woman, and I could only do as I was told. Without permission to continue, I became nothing but a girl in a row with the creatures that created me.
Yes, I. My individuality is questionable at best, I am starting to think that I lost whatever I was years ago, but since this happened I've seen a lot more of ‘me' coming back, almost like its crawling to survive.
These thoughts I have are all useless compared to my task at the time. I had a handwritten letter, signed by myself, to deliver to my good protector, the wonderful Karcist Lu'xkkia.
It took a bit of a drive to get to the church, as expected. I lived in the city, and lord knows Karcist Lu'xkkia hated the population of concrete walls and nobodies with such prying eyes. I sometimes felt she was too judgemental, but when you looked like she did…
The church was magnificent. Spires of wood and bone mixed into one, sigils and runes decorated whatever orifice they could be scribbled around. I always thought the karcist was a naturalist— it made me chuckle to think about.
I still remember how it felt to walk through the archway of the door, a warmth surrounding my form almost as though thousands of small hands grabbed around my body and pulled me in, oh so delicate as they did so.
When I was initiated into the church, it was a reaction of fear that I felt entering the building, but later? It became a feeling of acceptance, and now, nostalgia. I thought it was strange how the church worked, it was not like the other karcists churches, hers was… more…natural?
I don't know. I remember how I held that letter with an iron grip. I mean, who wouldn't be nervous when our species could be wiped out in under a week. I, along with the karcists, relied on the flimsy paper.
I should have known to relax; the karcist I admired would protect me as I did her. I can only think of how lonely we used to be, the two of us alone. Though it was expected, while the other karcists were much more open and began families, Lu'xkkia was a lone wolf. I ended up her only member.
The small size of the church may have been what saved my life. When the karcist had read my letter, we were quick to leave the church behind. It was an urgent matter, and taking the situation into her own hands she demanded, and I wasn't about to decline. I couldn't imagine if she would have chosen someone else had there been more church members.
What happened in the next 24 hours of this exchange is what I am here to talk about. The fleshcrafters advised writing my feelings was the best way to let out all that plagued my mind.
So, whomever it is reading this, this isn't some fairytale to learn from, this is the end of the world. Try to follow along.
After long hours of travel, Karcist Lu'xkkia and I ran into two new figures, and that day I was introduced to the Karcists Nadya and Nakkiaken. One was freshly escaped from the clutches of an angry god's behemoth, the other assisted.
Being shadowed by these three figures of admirable strength I gave my all to lead them to heaven, the place of safety. I know, I know, I haven't spared you much detail on what is going on, have I? Remain patient, this world has no more time for those who cannot adapt.
Know that I was once in your place. These three were so powerful, admirable, influential over my actions, however they had also kept so much from me. Don't worry, I refuse to repeat their behaviour here.
The secret they kept was of the god I saw that day. The bringer of hope, Grand Karcist Ion. I don't know how to write this part, or how to explain to someone how it felt. I can only advise you to try to think of a moment where someone out of reach looked your way, and then their god did the same.
I recall how we traversed the barren, evacuated city of Ottawa, concrete walls beginning to tower among centennial buildings, and then there was a change of atmosphere. It was almost as though time itself had stopped and everything I had yearned for was gifted to me.
He was magnificent, strong, he had taken a form I cannot describe, but he was Ion. The true Ion, the one rumoured to be dead. As he promised he would in all those ancient scripts, he was here to save us. Yet I was the one to lead him. Just myself, Maria. Maria, who only worked beside most lonesome karcist was going to be the guide of the god who had written Sarkicism into existence as we know it.
But, as much as I'd love to ramble, I'm sure you get what I mean.
The Grand Karcist was here as our protector. It was with his shadow and my guidance that we lived to tell such a tale. During our travel I felt the whispers of him plague my mind, feeling as though I suddenly knew and felt all that was around me. We were being led to Area-27.
My mind keeps bringing me back to the Grand Karcist. Whomever you may be, I doubt you know him. I didn't even know him, for a long, long time. But while it may not make sense as to why yet, I promise I'll explain soon, but this is my story and so it will follow my thought process, deal?
I don't hear any objections.
As I was saying before I interrupted myself for your sake, we were headed to Area-27. In my letter to the karcist, I explained how the Foundation area was a place we could live, we just had to get in. While I may be able to get knowledge of how this place will survive, that didn't exactly put me in a high enough position to get front seat tickets there.
Yet, as one does, I put trust into the Karcists getting us in. I was very happy to say we were almost there, everything had been perfect so far.
I said 'had been' for good reason, because soon, the Grand Karcist stopped us in our tracks. He said something about honey, about bees, and death. I like to think I wasn't the only one at the time who didn't have a clue as to what was happening.
The Grand Karcist took lead with my words, almost shielding me as the higher fleshcrafters followed behind as though mere shadows under this godly figure.
I cannot say for certain what followed, only what I remember seeing at that moment. I recall seeing the smallest of honey bees land on my arm, so I swatted it off. Slowly, more landed on me- the smell of honey became strong as I saw the Grand Karcist begin to breathe heavily, soon heaving for air as he clutched his throat. Red pulsing bee stings littered his body in comparison to my untouched skin.
Only moments later, there were hands over my eyes, which I later discovered to be that of Karcist Lu'xkkia. When those hands pulled away, there lie the body of Ion, limp on the road. My confusion grew with the sheer amount of honey I saw; it was pouring out of his mouth, eyes, and nose like a fountain. He looked to be in so much pain, dying, dear god was he dying.
I was pushed and pulled forwards, told not to look back, but I couldn't stop myself. I heard his voice whisper things to me, I felt so horrible just leaving our saviour there to die. I could have sworn I saw Lu'xkkia prodding his body for something. With the once silent city slowly filling with the buzz of insects wasting time was no longer possible.
Then, we ran. We ran through streets and dark corridors, into a magnificent church and down various tunnels, all to reach a gate. I saw that logo from the texts again, along with those words about a foundation. Stepping from behind that gate was a man in a white coat.
He seemed to have been expecting us. I was once again left out of the conversation that followed, the only context clues that I can provide are that they gave him something, and we were allowed inside. I know this man very well now; his name is Yossi Leiner, and he is the one who suggested I write down my thoughts, alongside the encouragement of the karcists.
It felt like he did not want me there but the ones I had travelled with insisted, I am so thankful he agreed. Otherwise I would be dead, dead like the rest of this world.
This morning I was given a lot more of the story. It has been two weeks since we came here. Dr. Leiner and I have grown close, and Karcist Lu'xkkia gifted me a necklace, wrapped in the cloth that was once a part of Grand Karcist Ion's clothing. The necklace was covered in runic carvings I have yet to decipher. While I write this, I wear it with pride just as he did.
So, little journal of mine and hopeful reader of the future; I hope you have learnt something today, as that you keep hold of this when the world ends all over again.
Signed, Maria Demers

« Secure Facility Dossier: Reliquary Area-27 | The Great Cult Escape | Divine And Conquer »


Part 4

Mama, put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore
That long black cloud is comin' down
I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door
Knockin' on Heaven's Door, Bob Dylan

Edward Kelly, weary, tired, muddled, rode his horse to the edge of the swamp. He took one last look at his orders and their corresponding warrant, and dismounted.

FULFILL WARRANT 811.
NOTES:
The “Hazeltown Swamp Witch” has been a story that's persisted perhaps for as long as Hazeltown itself. Despite this, tales of actually encountering the thing have only just begun springing up in consistent numbers. I only saw it once, and even then it was very briefly. Its legs and arms were strangely long, and its skin was green and slimy. However, I don't know if it's actually dangerous. It just seemed scared.

-Iris Thompson

WANTED

Gaskell Observational Consortium

The Hazeltown Swamp Witch
DEAD OR ALIVE

It didn't feel important anymore. He didn't know what did.
Justice?
What was justice?
Every night he heard the cries of that baby. That baby he'd left behind in the doomed house. That baby he'd left behind in the explosion.
That baby he left to die.
And here he was, fulfilling another soulless order without thought. It was all he had left, after all. He dismounted his horse and entered the swamp, with his senses primed and his gun ready. At least this time he wouldn't have to worry about killing a human.
He waded through that gloomy swamp for what felt like hours. Here, time seemed to be far and gone, stiller than the murky swamp water. Every distant movement made him flinch, and he'd drawn his gun in vain more times than he could count.
After an eternity in the timeless mire, Edward Kelly's priorities switched from hunting to finding a way out. He was tired and ragged, and his boots were soaked. The way back from which he came seemed to lead only deeper into the boundless marsh.
That's when he saw the figure. It may have been of a normal height, but its limbs seemed much longer than any person's should have been. Its skin was a muddled green, shining with a layer of slime. It wore no clothes, only the long, tangled black hair that reach down to its knees. Kelly kept his hand near his holster.
“So I'm guessing you're the Swamp Witch, huh?”
If his appearance had been a surprise, the creature made no indication of it, only looking at Kelly with large eyes.
“No. Me Aé. No witch.”
“Witch or no witch, doesn't matter to me. Been sent to deal with ya, so let's make this easy.” If there had once been a spark of determination in saying lines like these, it was long-gone by now. Instead it was replaced by slow words and a sigh.
“Deal Aé?”
“Yes, that's what I said. I have to deal with ya, take you out, you know.”
“Where take Aé?”
Kelly wondered if this was an act, if he was being fooled again.
“Somewhere far away, where you can't hurt nobody.”
“Aé not hurt anybody. Aé live here. Eat fish.”
Kelly lowered his hat so he didn't have to look at those eyes - those large, confused, innocent eyes. They looked honest. Maybe it wasn't an act.
“Maybe she does, but Aé's gotta go now.”
“Go? Aé not go. Aé home.”
“Damnit, this isn't easy for me! I have my orders! And they're to get you gone and get out of this blasted swamp!” Kelly roared.
This frightened Aé, and she disappeared into the waters of the swamp.
“Now come back here. I can't do no chasing anymore.” Kelly was drained. Could he even do it this time? Could he kill her? Was she really deserving of his cold justice?
Aé's head surfaced.
“Scary man. Go away.”
“Believe me, I would if I could.”
“Scary man lost?”
“Yup, scary man's lost.”
And maybe it was because Edward Kelly really did look more lost than anyone ever could be. Maybe it was because he looked like a defeated man - a man that didn't know what he was doing anymore. Maybe Aé saw this, and that's why she said what she did.
“Aé show way. Follow.”
So he did.
They continued in silence, Aé gracefully maneuvering through the marsh and Kelly trudging through it. Aé stopped once. She grabbed a fish and Kelly watched as Aé's slimy skin dissolved the thing and absorbed it. He would have been repulsed if the creature he was looking at wasn't the only thing that had shown him mercy in a long time.
As a matter of fact, it was the only thing that showed him mercy in year and years. Maybe that's why, when he pulled his gun to its head, that his hand shook so much. He could barely hold it straight now. The crying was back to haunt him again. The dead were back to haunt him again. They pulled at his hand, his trigger finger. It felt like he was pushing it against a brick wall.
And that's when he showed his own mercy. His arm dropped, and he put the gun back into his holster. This time, he couldn't do it. Aé continued onward again. Kelly followed.
In time they reached the edge of the swamp, and Kelly took one last look at the creature that had saved him.
“Uhm, thanks.”
“Scary man go now.”
“He will. And you'll go back to your swamp. You'll be safe now.”
And Aé did return to her swamp, disappearing into the trees and ferns in seconds.
And Kelly was alone again. But this time, he felt right. And he knew why.
He felt honorable.

Part 5

Many times I sold my fast gun for a place to lay my head
Till the nights began to haunt me by the men that I lay dead
Couldn't stand it any longer with the life that I'd begun
So I said good-bye to Jeannie and became a running gun
Running Gun, Tompall & Jim Glaser

ACCOMPANY TEXAS RANGERS TO ASSIST IN LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT UNTIL FURTHER ORDERS ARE PROVIDED. NOTES ON ANOMALOUS WARRANTS WILL BE UNAVAILABLE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
NOTES:
This will be the last note I write. I have found out Maria is selling these to some other organization responsible for the death of many. I can't be a part of that. I'm no longer working with her. All investigations from now on will be my own, and will belong to no one but myself. So, to all of the devious people who have used my notes to spread death, goodbye.

-Iris Thompson

A caravan had come through Hazeltown, bringing the promised Texas Rangers with it. Edward Kelly had been waiting for days, laying low and reassessing his morals. It had been a fruitful time.
But that time was over, and the Rangers were here. Kelly had joined the caravan, following his orders even if he wasn't sure he believed in them anymore. Neither the Texas Rangers nor the Consortium agents that they had partnered with, he found, were savory company.
“Get on board, newcomer!” A large specimen of a man shouted. “Consortium or Rangers?”
“I'm with the Consortium.”
“Ah, a headhunter then! We've got a couple of you bastards riding with us! Now get yer ass on board - we're about to leave!”
And off they rode, covered wagons crawling along the ground like a trail of ants. Texas Rangers and Consortium members regaled each other with tales all along the trip.
“…and then I shot the feller four times in the chest!”
Laughter abounded in the covered wagon as one ranger finished a particularly crude story. They had been sharing such stories for a few days now, and Kelly was beyond sick of them and the people who spoke them.
“Alright, now it looks like we're gonna be splitting off. Where are you going, loner?” The large man who led the law-enforcing members of the caravan pointed a finger at Kelly. “You know the choices: two cowardly, sniveling excuses of men running from the law! If you wanna stay in Texas with us rangers and a few from the Consortium, there's Nathan Rivers. He's a real slippery son of a bitch, but we'll get to him. Of course, the rest of the Consortium members riding with us are heading North out of Texas to get one Dan Ricketts. With a record like his, he musta been running from the law the moment he jumped out his Momma. Your call.”
Kelly chose to stick with his own kind. And so he rode with the Consortium agents for days, heading north. Time had not warmed him up to them. As the weather got colder, so too did Kelly's attitude towards these strangers.
“So, Edward Kelly, you heard about this Dan Ricketts fellow much?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, it won't be much of a fight. He ain't killed no body in fifteen long years.”
“Seriously? All six of us are chasing down one man who ain't shot anyone else for that long?”
“Maybe, but the one man he did take down was a Consortium agent. And an act like that don't go unavenged.”
“Hmph.”
Kelly didn't feel good about this.
After all, didn't everyone deserve the chance to turn their life around?

Part 6

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel

Edward Kelly, six hunters and one outlaw stood on a Kansas mountain in the snow. Despite being among the hunters, Kelly no longer had the same hunting instincts his accomplices did. He was cold, and his head was filled with doubt and self-reflection. They had tracked down the fleeing man easily, and had caught up to him after leaving the caravan very quickly. In this moment, however, Edward was weighing his choices
He could join in his fellow agents and shoot this running man down like a dog in the cold, and maybe his life would feel normal again.
But just thinking that brought back the cries in the back of his head.
He could spare the man and walk away, but that would leave six men to shoot the guy. What good would that do? And that man wasn't innocent, either. He had killed too.
An agent to his left shouted.
“Alright, you've been running long enough, but there's no escaping now! Drop your weapons and we'll make this a quick execution.”
The surrounded fellow held his gun in a shaky hand.
“Please, I don't want this anymore. I'm done. I can't run anymore. I'm so tired. I don't want to kill none of ya but y'all are forcing my hand. Don't make me kill again.”
“Didn't ask ya to shoot. We asked you to face justice, you mangy son of a bitch!” A GOC agent shouted.
“Please! It's been so long since I made my mistake and I've changed my ways. I'm peaceful now! I don't do no killing! Don't force my hand!”
Kelly could feel the tension among the hunters around him. He had to make a decision, quick.

I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real

It suddenly seemed so clear what had to be done. There were six killers that wanted to kill again, and there was one man who didn't want to kill at all. Then again, that one man was also a killer. Maybe none of them deserved mercy. Maybe that was true justice.
Edward Kelly had decided what to do.
Nobody moved. The tension was thicker than molasses and everyone had their hands on their guns.
Pulling both guns out of his holsters, Kelly shot the agents both to his left and right.

The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting

Edward Kelly dove into the snow as chaos erupted. With the GOC agents blindsided by this betrayal, Dan Ricketts started running. Kelly had just enough time to shoot another agent distracted by this escape, before bullets flew his way.
Somewhere on his left shoulder, a magnificent burst of pain came, turning quickly to numbness with the cold and the adrenaline. Kelly kept running as he aimed straight and true.

Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

There were three agents left, blasting away at Edward Kelly as he dashed through the rocky snow. He'd already taken one hit and he knew he couldn't take another. It was time to be quick.
One man had already used six shots and was reloading as fast as he could. Kelly shot him twice and jumped down behind a large rock as the other two got closer to him.
His shoulder was really starting to get goddamn painful. Leaning over the edge of the rock, he struck one agent in the leg. As he went down, Kelly took out the other agent with the pistol in his good arm. He let the last agent howl for a second on the ground before he doled out his final judgement on the man. And when he looked on the body, he looked back into the cold dead eyes of his past self. The facade of “justice” was still draped over his dying face. Kelly shot him again. And Kelly killed his former life.
One left.
He caught up to Dan Ricketts soon enough.

What have I become
My sweetest friend?

And then there was two.
Two young men, changed by experience and circumstance. Hardened by an angry world and a dangerous life.
Chilled to the bone.
Edward Kelly and Dan Ricketts.
Hunter and outlaw.
Man and man.
They lifted their guns slowly, aiming at the last living thing in sight. Each man was ready to die at this very moment.

Everyone I know
Goes away in the end

It was the final moment of justice.
The final moment of honor.
Now the cowardly outlaw would meet his end.
Or the agent of justice would meet his fate.

And you could have it all

They were weak from battle. Shivering. Fatigued. At their wit's end but too mad, too committed, too weary to turn back now.

My empire of dirt

But was this justice? Was it honor?
The endless cycle of bloodshed would continue. The running would never end. The battle would go on and on, until they were both dead.

I will let you down

And neither of them wanted to die.
This wasn't justice.
And this wasn't honor.

I will make you hurt

Edward Kelly lowered his gun.
And Dan Ricketts followed suit.
And with it, the hate was gone. The cycle had been broken. The war was over. And now Kelly realized he was truly free.
Then Edward Kelly started laughing. A low, cold chuckle, growing into a full, warm roar. Dan Ricketts began laughing too. The two men laughed and laughed and laughed.
Kelly patted Ricketts' shoulder, and the two men walked off to get a drink.
It was a cold world, after all.

If I could start again
A million miles away
I will keep myself
I would find a way
Hurt, Trent Reznor

The Ranger with the Big Iron on his Hip

Team Epitaphic Hub

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


White Suit -
I've no advantage by giving you this, so think about that before you accuse me of lying. This is a collection of documents I've appropriated from some servers at the Anderson Complex. You might find them interesting, given our last conversation.

PROJECT MEMO
SL00195 | NAME MACHINE | 06/23/2077

ORIGIN: Vikram Ali, Project SL00195 Lead, Simurgh Lab
UPDATES: Prototype SL000195/Alpha is set for secure transportation from Las Cruces Facility to Anderson Complex at New Portland. Transporters will arrive at 4am local time with appropriate credentials. Please have the prototype disassembled and ready for transport. Thank you.

From:
Vikram Ali

To:
Clark MacMillan

Subject:
RE: Transfer?

Date:
06/24/2077

Hey Clark —
I totally understand your hesitation. SL00195 is your baby, I get it. We all have our pet projects! But the fact of the matter is that the Complex is better-funded and better-equipped to handle this project, especially since the Date of Sale is in a couple of months. The Foundation really doesn't like late deliveries, haha. But don't worry. I'll be sure to let the team in New Portland know that they can call you up for any technical advice or inquiries. In the meantime, you've still got the DeVry Core for a month or two. Try to iron out the kinks with the power supply, yeah? Keep me in the loop 👍!

Vikram Ali
Senior Product Manager

SL00195 TEST EXCERPT

Test
Result

Small bowl of tap water. White lab mouse.
SL00195 activated in test chamber in presence of items. After a moment, the bowl of tap water ambulated to the mouse and spent several seconds drinking half of it.

Small bowl of tap water. White lab mouse. Semantically null sphere.
SL00195 activated in test chamber in presence of items. After a moment, a gust of wind caused half of the mouse to hit the bowl and roll off the table. The bowl attempted to drink from the null sphere, but failed.

Anderson Systems Employee Communications System

AJ.Hartsfeld9814: first tests go well?
YT.Kwame2305: Yeah! We decided to start small, so just trying to see if we had managed to fully adapt the Semantic Dissociator's effects.
AJ.Hartsfeld9814: well, don't keep me waiting…
YT.Kwame2305: It works! We managed to isolate the identifiers from a mouse and swap them with some water. Then introduced an object with no qualities to mix it up. It's absolutely freaky to see, I have to say. We're planning on moving forward to human testing, now that we know the pulses don't kill anything in the same room.
AJ.Hartsfeld9814: that's crazy, I didn't actually think we'd get this far. figured we'd do half the work, the foundation would get mad we weren't rushing the contract, and then pay tou-hei to do it at half the price.
YT.Kwame2305: They've already shared SCP-1539 with us, I can't imagine they'd want to involve another party.
AJ.Hartsfeld9814: right… makes you wonder though, right?
YT.Kwame2305: What do you mean?
AJ.Hartsfeld9814: foundation isn't exactly the research for the sake of curiosity type, they'd rather lock things up and throw away the key. they must want this tech bad if they're willing to pay us a small fortune and share ancient pre-Veil research and anomalies with us. and i for one can't imagine any practical applications for this in their line of work.
YT.Kwame2305: It is a bit strange, I suppose. But we've had weirder requests, and if they're paying, they're paying. I'll talk to Vikram tomorrow, let him know.

SL00195 TEST EXCERPT

Test
Result

Volunteers Charles Tems and Sarah Thayer
SL00195 activated in test chamber. No change registered after a moment. C Tems attempted to exit the testing chamber, but the access system rejected her temporary credentials. S Thayer was unable to unlock his datapad through facial scan, thumbprint, or proximity.

Volunteers Charles Tems and Sarah Thayer
SL00195 activated in test chamber. No change registered after a moment. C Tems successfully exited the chamber using his temporary credentials. S Thayer was able to unlock her datapad using all three methods with no errors.

SECURITY MEMO
ANDERSON COMPLEX | ALL EMPLOYEES | 08/02/2077

NOTICE: Unidentified persons have been sighted on Complex grounds, particularly in maintenance hallways and service corridors near Simurgh Labs Annex SL00195. Presence on camera feeds of black silhouettes indicates that the individual or individuals are using some form of identity-masking technology. Please be vigilant of your security credentials, and report any and all suspicious activity or persons to site security.

SL00195 TEST EXCERPT

Test
Result

Single semantically null individual1
SL00195 configured to construct a new build rather than swap builds. SL00195 activated in test chamber. John Doe, a 35 year old white male, stood up from chair, and walked around testing area. Self-identified as "John Doe" during conversation with no prior knowledge of SL00195 settings or effects.

Audio Recorded by Vikram Ali's Personal Assistant Program, 8/26/2077

V.A: That was good, I need to come here more often.
[UNKNOWN]: The filet mignon is to die for. So - how's progress?
V.A: We hit your final benchmark just the other day.
[UNKNOWN]: Successful fabrication of an identity from scratch?
V.A: Yep.
[UNKNOWN]: How'd you confirm it?
V.A: We used an identityless Factotum from the Factory, one of the old cheap ones. Configured the Name Machine to construct a false identity for them, according to our settings. Fired it, and we were looking at someone everyone agreed was John Doe, age 35.
([UNKNOWN] whistles.)
[UNKNOWN]: Impressive.
V.A: As is the payment, I'm sure.
[UNKNOWN]: Naturally. I'll have the Finance Division arrange the transfer as soon as we have the product in front of us for the demo.
V.A: Shouldn't be more than a few weeks now.
[UNKNOWN]: Alright. Pleasure doing business.
V.A: As always. Hey - normally I don't do this, but what are you guys planning to do with it? This seems far from your wheelhouse.
(Pause.)
[UNKNOWN]: Sorry, I'm afraid I couldn't tell you even if I knew. I'm sure it's very important to somebody, though.

I thought you might find that intriguing. I wasn't lying. The Name Machine is real, and it builds identities. Come find me if you're interested.

- Nobody

The Man Who Wasn't There

The Man In The White Suit

Hub
Hello, My Name Isn't
Chiaroscuro
Nobody, Nobody, Nobody, and Nobody's Encounters with The Man in the White Suit
SCP-5353 -- Does Anyone Remember Fritz Obermeyer?
Everyday Is Somebody's Birthday
SCP-5877 -- Nobodies
Ghosts in the Machine
→ Files intercepted from Anderson Systems personnel ←
SCP-5375 -- Nobody and the Name Machine
Epilogue:
Nobody in Their Right Mind

Footnotes
1. Sourced from Supplier: The Factory.


The sky above the port was the color of- well, he didn't really know what. Some antiquated shade of grey, maybe.
He turns away from the seafront. He hates New Portland. He'd been assigned to the Site here after Hi-Tokyo, working security for a containment floor. Since then, he'd hated it. Something about the inexorable neon glow lining every single street, every thoroughfare, even the shithole alleys; he can't remember the last time he had seen a truly dark spot in two years.
He pushes his way through the crowds on West Desai, packed with prosthetic limbs, cybernetic implants, and meshed skinguards. He lets the throng carry him down to Majis, marking the unofficial border of Little Hy-Brasil. His contact is a Fae, and carries the hereditary paranoia of her species. Probably not unwarranted, he thinks, fingering the pointed iron baton in his jacket pocket.
He forces himself out of the river of people. Most of them are headed downtown, to the Complex — word on the street is that Anderson is teasing something big. He doesn't care; Anderson's marketing scheme was like clockwork. Anything truly valuable to him, they'll have under lock and key. He makes his way through the tight labyrinth of storefronts and tenements that make up the Fae enclave.
His abilities are a boon here; normal humans would have a difficult time just getting in, much less getting where they want to go. The Fae are a famously insular people, doubly so after that thing down in Hy-Brasil. The refugee flow would have staggered people if they cared.
He deftly cuts a corner and turns an alley, an isometric map of the area shining in his vis. A few more minutes of navigation, then he stops. This is the place. An awkward, stilted looking building, it fits right in with the neighbors. The Fae have learned to construct buildings here without using the toxic stainless steel, but not particularly well. He hops up the concrete steps and knocks on the wooden(?) door.
"Finally. Hurry up, get in."
He finds a strong hand - talon - on the chest of his black tacsuit, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him, followed by the rattling of half a dozen locks and deadbolts.
"Sure you don't have enough security?"
"I'm sorry, do you want to tangle with the Droppers?"
He ignores her, surveying the apartment in the low crimson glow. All the lights are red or fitted with red shades - even the two meager windows are papered over with red plasticks. He knows there's some reason for it, but can't quite remember; probably some esoteric fairy hoodoo about neon being the gas of the fairy devil. He had never bothered to learn much about their culture, even in life. Simply not his area of expertise or interest. Way he saw it, the only thing anyone needs to know about a fairy is their weaknesses.
He pulls this particular one's weakness out of his pocket. A solid chunk of Spiegeleisen, an alloy used way back when steel was forged instead of fabricated. A little iron and a lot of manganese, both highly oxidized. Iron may be poison to faeries, but heroin is poisonous to humans. Treat both just right, and you'll get the sweetest high of your life.
A pair of glittering eagle eyes looks at the hunk, then at him.
"That'll do?"
"Very nicely."
He slides the misshapen rock across the table to her. She snatches it up in a clawlike grip. A bit breaks off. She sniffs it and sticks her tongue out.
"You can get high after you tell me what you know."
"Spoilsport."
She drops the brick, pulling a small finger-drive from her pocket.
"They've moved the Machine to Lab 34E, upper part of the main Complex building. Security around the lab shouldn't be a challenge. But my sources tell me that they've ramped up work on it, making it more reliable. Normally I'd guess they're going for a holiday unveiling, but this doesn't seem like the sort of tech you buy for your kid on Christm-"
"Wait, wait… it's done? It works?"
"That's what they're telling me. 'Preliminary experimentation has yielded promising results, far exceeding expectations.' They all talk like they're at ICSUT."
"Shit… okay, did your guy say anything about a transfer date? Or the Foundation?"
"He did mention a date of sale. It's in a week, on Friday."
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
"Hey, don't shoot the messen- wait. He did mention something about the Foundation, actually. Hold on."
Her eye glitters. A light projection materializes on the tabletop, casting a hologram in soft blue tones. The bust of a man in spectacles, speaking.
"The DeVry core we're developing is based on principles initially developed by the Foundation, though they just ended up using them for AIC cores. We're innovating with them, makin-"
The hologram is cut short by a shower of glass.
The window shatters inward, disintegrating the red plastick behind it. Yellow smoglight from outside pours in, fracturing the atmosphere of perfect red in the dingy apartment.
The table holding the Spiegeleisen is suddenly decorated with a splatter of reddish-green blood as the Fae's feathery head smashes to the wall. He drops to the ground, awkwardly scuttling across the floor to behind an overturned table, out of the window's arc of fire. He pulls his handgun from an inside pocket, checking the ancient magazine. Mostly full. Good, he could put up a fight.
Then the Fae's head explodes.
Everything in a 6 foot radius is drenched in the same disgusting blood. He grimaces. Explosive-delay rounds.
He may be fucked.
A creaking. Someone's coming in through the window. He flips, facing into the kitchen where he was chatting just a minute ago, the table serving as makeshift cover. He aims at the jagged edges of glass bordering the windowsill.
A hand reaches up and grips the edge, crunching the glass under it. No, not a hand- a prosthetic, plated with white armor.
He blanches.
Another hand reaches up, holding something. Something small, metallic, shaped like a soda can.
The word "Flashbang!" crosses his mind before everything seems to explode.
Through the ringing and blinding light, he stands up, aiming his gun wildly. His implants rapidly compensate for his vision, but not fast enough. He staggers blindly forward, raving.
"Leave me the FUCK alone, you bastard!"
If there's a response, he can't hear it over the ringing.
His hip bumps into the wooden table, just as his vision begins to return. Something knocks the pistol out of his hand.
The attacker is standing no more than 5 feet away, leveling some bastard crossbreed of a sniper rifle and an elephant gun at him. Even the overpowered prosthetic arms tremble with the weight of the absurd weapon. Dressed in solid white tacarmor, his face is obscured by an opaque visor. His voice comes out with an electric twang.
"Hello, old friend."
"Look, I don't know who you are, but-"
"Maybe you don't, but whatever's inside you does. Isn't that right, Nobody?"
"Listen to me! Anderson and the Foundation have something, okay? A machine. The Name Machine."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"You're just like me, aren't you?"
Silence.
"No name. No identity. I'm willing to bet whatever's inside me - Nobody - had something to do with that."
The barrel drops slightly.
"The Machine — it fabricates identities. Don't you see? It's a way out!"
A tense moment passes. Then the finger on the trigger tightens.
"You'll say anything to save your neck, you lying cunt. Turn aroun-"
His instructions are interrupted by a rock.
The Spiegeleisen flies from Nobody's finger, across the gap separating the pair, then smashes into the visor, shattering the glass and knocking the Man in the White Suit to the floor. The gun slips from his mechanical grip. The formerly-colorless helmet is sprayed with red. Blood on snow.
"FUCKING TWAT!"
Nobody stands for a split second. Then he grabs his gun and puts four shots into the Man's body armor.
"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
He turns and runs, kicking open the door. He books it down the street, his vis giving him the fastest route out of this maze of shacks and poverty. He counts his blessings that there are no children playing as he races through the mud-and-concrete patchwork. Four more turns… three… two-
The wind is knocked out of him as he lands flat on his ass. The Man in the White Suit lands a boot, now more brown than white, straight onto Nobody's throat, pressing his weight down. Nobody grabs the leg, but gravity isn't on his side - he struggles to fight, to breathe, to think…
Somehow, in his writhing, the baton slips out of his jacket. He grabs it like a drowning man, unable to see, and impales it straight into the gap between the white armor plates.
A guttural scream echoes out through the alley as the Man slams to the ground, clutching at his speared calf. Nobody scrambles to his feet, slipping in the dirt wetted by blood.
"YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD, COCKSUCKER!"
Nobody turns and runs, racing through the final few alleys, exiting into a burst of fresh air. Back on West Desai, with the crushing omnipresence of the crowd…
He looks back, once. No sign of the Man.

"Corner of Bowe and Fifth, thanks."
He slides into the ratty seat of the hovercab, shutting the door behind him. The cabbie nods and accelerates, melting into the crush of rush hour traffic. He looks in the rearview mirror at the man in the black tacsuit and leather jacket. He has a cigarette out, spinning it between his fingers, like he's unsure of what to do. The cabbie picks up his Zippo.
"Hey buddy. Need a light?"
Nobody smiles.

In the alley, the Man in the White Suit drags himself to his feet with an electronic groan. Limping to a wall, the rifle becomes a makeshift walking stick as he slowly trudges out of the alley. It's started to rain. His head is filled with thoughts, but one echoes louder than the rest:
"What the hell is the Name Machine?"

The Man Who Wasn't There

The Man In The White Suit

Hub
Hello, My Name Isn't
Chiaroscuro
Nobody, Nobody, Nobody, and Nobody's Encounters with The Man in the White Suit
SCP-5353 -- Does Anyone Remember Fritz Obermeyer?
Everyday Is Somebody's Birthday
SCP-5877 -- Nobodies
→ Ghosts in the Machine ←
Files intercepted from Anderson Systems personnel
SCP-5375 -- Nobody and the Name Machine
Epilogue:
Nobody in Their Right Mind