Where aphotic sea does deny,
Reflections of a xanthous sky.

And black stars reign without ascent,
Echoes of what was never meant.
A city built in unknown times,
Upon the bones of countless crimes.
Stranger yet is found within,
The chaos court of strife and sin.
The mad dance here without control,
As all must play their given role.
For those beyond our mortal ken,
We die and live, and die again.
Our Lord doth writhe atop his throne,
Before his glory, we atone,
With this, our blood, for the Hanged King,
We give ourselves to his puppet strings.

Preface:
I write to you, dearest reader, from a certain bibliothecal nexus. I have bartered with the shades and expect my latest travelogue to, piece by piece, reach the infinite worlds: they know of the dark corners, the secret places and Janus Doors, in which to deliver my folios.
I bleed words and have obliterated myself upon these pages for your entertainment and enlightenment.
A Wandsman in the Court of the Hanged King:
I remember the rich aroma of decaying flowers as it struggled against a sharp, metallic scent for supremacy - neither lingering odor able to disperse the other. Clutched within my talons was a flesh-bound grimoire, the ill tempered tome biting my hand at its first opportunity. I felt acquainted with its contents, as if having finished reading but moments before, and returned the spiteful book to its shelf.
In retrospect, I am unable to recall a single word of it.
There developed an itch about my left eye. Instinctively trying to soothe the irritation with a scratch, my talon sliding across a polished surface. A porcelain mask, seemingly irremovable, disguised my features.
I cawed in frustration, the grievous itch beyond reach.
A tall and conical entity wagged diverse appendages and trumpeted a shush. The Frmmmk'l Frmamem of Frm was right to be bothered as I was, after all, within a library. Bowing my head apologetically, I took my leave of the aptly named Athenaeum of Severed Tongues, eager to explore.
I arrived at the Hall of Mercurial Virtue with anomalous speed, unaware what occurred between the here and there. Such was the nature of Alagadda, the restraints of time and space being mere suggestion, not law. Even as an experienced wanderer, I too succumbed to the city's dreamlike malaise.
The Hall of Mercurial Virtue blurred the line between the beautiful and grotesque. Pilgrims and emperors, gods and monsters; entities from all possible realities playing their role in the eternal masquerade. Driven by ambition as black as the stars above, most sought a boon from the Hanged King itself.
My talons clicked together, my mind overstimulated by the grand chamber and its curious inhabitants. A decadent display of insidious glamour, Alagadda was hardly the dismal realm initially anticipated. A moniker such as "The Hanged King" conjured forth images of death and decay, desolation and despair - not revelry. My eyes contain sixteen spectral receptors and yet I only observed red, white, black, and yellow - the color scheme unexpectedly limited. Stranger still was the persistent taste of purple - near hidden beneath the reek of lust sweat and sweet meats.
I tried to ignore the perplexing glare of anarchy and watched from a corner (relatively speaking - Alagadda the epitome of non-Euclidian architecture).
Certain observations are simply too salacious for me to put to writing; however, when considering the infinite orgy, one may simply allow their imagination to run wild. Whatever you could possibly conceive - you'll find it within the Hall of Mercurial Virtue. Suffice to say, expect to see a diverse array of shame organs - usually entangled with other shame organs. Which brings me to my first observance:

A Flesh Shaper of Adytum, their pale mask asymmetric, fondled a Blood Vestal of Daeva with hand and tentacle - the two whispering terrible secrets into each others' ears. Their auras revealed a history intertwined, their copulation practically incestuous from my perspective. My revulsion gland nearly full, I sought something more palatable to my senses.
A Centaurial Dreamsmith of Oneiroi bargained with the Deathless Merchant of London, the one closest to real having the apparent upper-hand. The Merchant spat legal jargon, nasally articulating his terms of agreement. I detected no past or future for the Dreamsmith, though an ephemeral existence is challenging to read. In contrast, the Merchant cast a long shadow, where dead souls accumulated and pointed accusatory fingers.
A trio of godlings, entities so often thought to be in opposition, mocked their mortal faithful - their barbed tongues spitting venom and condescension. The three consisted of a Horned Tyrant of Panthiss, a Bedlam Sprite of X'nol'zok'thussss'i, and a Hierarch Cherub of Eldonai. Betwixt the godlings resided an altar, carved with symbols that twisted and blurred and seethed.
A chitinous servitor delivered a hatchling to the shrine as one might deliver a meal. With dagger raised, the retainer chanted words that escaped translation. I averted my gaze, unwilling to watch their mortal strike. I heard the blade enter the flesh and the spill of blood.
The servant removed the ghastly corpse and surrendered a curtsy before vanishing in a blink. Dinner had been served and the cultivores appeared satisfied; feasting upon not the victim but rather the symbolism of the atrocity. Symbols, I remind myself, have power to such creatures.
Casting my eyes skyward, I beheld the legendary Masked Lords of Alagadda:
The White Lord, Wearer of the Diligent Mask - a porcelain guise with eyes narrow, the mouth little more than a flat line.
The Yellow Lord, Wearer of the Odious Mask - a porcelain guise with brow furrowed, the lips curled into a hateful sneer.
The Red Lord, Wearer of the Mirthful Mask - a porcelain guise with eyes wide and manic, a smile carved from cheek to cheek.
I saw no sign of the Black Lord, Wearer of the Anguished Mask. This came as no surprise, they supposedly exiled to some forgotten backwater of dimension. It is written that the cause had been political in nature, the specifics unknown. It is difficult to imagine the court intrigue of such a place.
My feathers raised with a sudden shudder. Dread began its coil - transforming the music of my dual hearts to dissonance. A stranger, lithe and sable, made their opulent entrance. Accompanied by a coterie of harlequin sycophants and paper guards. They wore no mask, their faceless visage an aberration among the masquerade.
My hope grew dim in the presence of the Ambassador of Alagadda.
Their title was a misnomer, the designation unable to encompass the totality of their power and prestige. The Ambassador of Alagadda was the Voice of the Hanged King, their will made manifest, and to whom even the Masked Lords bowed their marionette heads.
I chose the better part of valor and made a casual retreat. The palace was a labyrinth, bereft of rhyme or reason. Drunk were the gods of physics, above and below without meaning – twisted by the pandemonium city.
I encountered myself several times, always located at some unapproachable location - iterations of my past and future self. My attire was red, yellow, white, black, and utterly garish; I apparently having more concern with the enforcement of Alagaddan fashion than the entanglement of time.
And then, a burgeoning terror - an unseen threat closing fast.
There existed a void where a memory should have been, unaware my arrival. Naked in my ignorance, I shivered as the chill gloom embraced me. The wind took pity and sung its sorrow song - as it diminished, it whispered unto me a warning: "In here is a tragedy".
I beheld Alagadda's shadow, an amalgamation of rust, rot, and misery - a dead city at the end of all things. Wandering its empty streets, I stepped over tattered banners and broken glass. Dust gave chase, granted life through my careless meanderings. The palace had come to ruin, its once splendid gates torn from their hinges.
The Hall of Mercurial Virtue was lifeless, a tomb for want and vanity. In the room's center was a gaping hole - no, not simply a hole; more an infected wound. A viscous ichor gushed from the aperture, an amber colored substance imbued with the sick scent of failed creation.
I entered the wound, crawling into the bowels of Alagadda. I know not what overcame me, never intending to come this far. Was I to play this role from the beginning? From where I now reside, I can look back and see the puppet strings. I remember only little of my descent - just the singular desire to find what hid beneath. I was a scholar, an explorer, and would play my part well.
The broken rules of time and space again summoned me elsewhere. A windowless room of humble stone, cloaked in a layer of sepia fog and bereft the opulence so common to Alagadda. I sensed no name among its shrouded corridors. Sickly vapor slithered around me, saturated with the scent of ripened books. At the far wall was a descending spiral staircase, its steps crude and uneven - comparatively primitive to the city above (or below; I could not know).
And still, to the boredom of my readers, I advanced - facing the banality of more stairs. I felt as if I was the fabled Xitheus, Retainer of the Fungal Crown - who quested through the Slough of Three Million Inconveniences. One step, then another - all fairly straight forward. As I neared the bottom I began to hear whispers - spoken in a tongue I could not understand. Cliche? If this was a work of fiction, perhaps, but know that chaos words represent the universal warning for having ventured too far (Consult Otherworld Laws and Universal Constants to learn more).
One step, then another, and I felt my soul burst into flames - immolating the ego and casting the psychic aftermath into the wind as cinders. Around and around my fragments twirled - pulled by gravity of something incalculably vast. I was as thought - a fugitive sentiment before an ancient intelligence.

Here among the dreaming dead,
I am ash,
Embers,
And burning feathers,
Drifting through the firmament.
Carried by wind,
As if my wings were not vestigial
To land I am anchored
By murderous gravity.
I am reformed,
Only to be torn apart,
Again,
And again
Every trace
Recycled reminders,
Of who I used to be.
I became blood,
On the hands of criminals.
I became the noose
Around my own throat
From death I am become
One step closer to real
From within the center of chaos my fragments felt the vibrations of a great scream, a living emanation of mad anguish. Matter and form grew enamored and gathered around the existential wound. Neither sacred or profane, the Hanged King took shape - the shards of my ego becoming one with the walls of its throne room and dungeon.
The veiled entity, asphyxiated by a noose of thorns, writhed upon its throne - bound in place by shackles, hooks, and spears. There, unmoved by the cosmic scream, stood the Ambassador of Alagadda. Although dwarfed by the Hanged King, the two were of a similar countenance - a resemblance not shared with denizens of their kingdom.
The Hanged King lunged at its tormentor, more primal than regal - their faces a mere breath apart. The Ambassador, callous and calm, lifted the veil with an ebon hand.
Instead of a face, I beheld a visage of nihility - a god shaped hole.
All was void.
First came a familiar aroma - a hint of vanilla, a drop of citrus, with a fixative of mold and mustiness.
I opened my eyes and saw a lantern aglow with spectral fire. Shelves overflowing with tomes both eldritch and mundane.
I dipped a finger into a clay jar to my left, swirling the contents within. Satisfied, I withdrew a now ink-soaked claw, placed it upon a scroll of parchment, and began to transcribe my experience from memory.
Ickis the Wayward, Wandsman of Kul-Manas - Walker of the Astral Plane, Sailor of the Celestial Sea, and Spelunker of the Dimensional Depths


Rashaun shook his head. What did I just watch? he thought, as he opened his laptop. He entered the keycode for a Foundation online conference room and waited for the other members of his emergency meeting to arrive. He watched his webcam light pop on. Who else sees this?
The first person to appear was a large, heavyset man, black hair cropped short, wide spaced eyes, upturned, pursed lips. "Hey," he said nonchalantly, lifting his head in a quick jerk in greeting. "Jorge Ruiz. Beta-5. Babysitters."
"Field Agent Rashaun Washington," came the reply.
The next window opened. Red hair and beard, black glasses, black shirt. "Hi. Jason Allen. Mu-4. Debuggers."
Immediately thereafter, a third appeared. Long, straight black hair, bony face, sharp cats-eye spectacles. "Karen Wu. Gamma-5. Red Herrings."
"Please to meet you," Rashaun replied. "Rob'll join us in a bit, but he wanted us to start without him. Something about his daughter. Did you all get to see the video? Bits, anyway?"
Jorge looked away from the screen and swallowed. "Um, yeah."
Karen scowled and clicked her tongue. "Disgusting. Can't blame Rob on checking."
Jason smirked. "Nope! But that's SOP for me. I deal with cognitohazards and memetics regularly. I'm more interested with how it travels instead of what's on it, anyway. Let me guess, it's about a girl and a rope?"
Rashaun, a bit stunned by the question, replied, "Yeah…"
"Right, I don't need to see that. But I checked her user page out. She's posted 5 videos, none getting more than 50 views. She posted this one after school today and got…" Jason tapped away on his keyboard. "…3,407 views. Not terrible, but rising fast. Where did you get your link from?"
"Uh, my friend James?"
"Do you know where he got it from?"
"No. I better ask."
"Do that. In the meantime, I'll get it taken down, send out the crawlers to track any other postings. I'll check the comments on this and other videos, see if there's someone in common who would spread this, get the word out."
"We'll likely need to pick her up, too, Jason. Could you send us her address, please?" Jorge asked. His voice was quieter than his frame suggested.
"Absolutely."
Another window appeared, showing a balding, middle-aged man, neat, middle-management corporate. "Sorry I'm late."
"No problem," Jorge replied. "How's Olivia?"
Rob smiled. "Doing well, thank you, Jorge. She's writing a new song. I'm sure she'll want to share it with you when it's finished."
"I'd love to hear it," Jorge added brightly. "So I guess that means I'll be headed out to debrief and contain Maci?"
Rob nods. "Once we determine the nature of the anomaly we're dealing with. Rashaun, I want you flying out to…"
"Montclair, New Jersey," Jason responded.
"Newark Airport first thing tomorrow. Jorge will have a team available to complete any extraction necessary, but you'll field interview Maci first and make sure she's actually anomalous, and also not going to turn into a black hole or anything like that."
"Actually anomalous, sir? Do you think this might be all some trick?"
"Well," piped in Karen, "the video is a hoax."
Rashaun spurted. "A hoax?! You mean we're running in circles over nothing?"
"Sure, just look at the video. There's a region of anti-aliasing artifacts just to Maci's left. Someone accepting the rope has been edited out of the footage. I'll show you the error level analysis in a bit."
Really? I'm just an overreacting doofus? No, that's not me. Rashaun shook his head. "Are you sure? Why would someone spoof this?"
"Plenty of reasons. People wanting to show off their editing skills. Something designed to go viral. Guerrilla marketing for a movie, perhaps. Think Occam's Razor, Rashaun. It's far more likely that this is fake, anyway."
Rashaun sighed, disappointed in himself. "If you say so, I guess that's that, then."
Karen grinned impishly. "No, Rashaun, that's just a bunch of image forensics technobabble. Truth is, this looks like the genuine article. I'm just working on the cover story that we'll release to the public should we fail to get this thing out of the web. If we can't get the video removed everywhere, we'll replace the YouTube one with our version, edited to look like things were erased in the background, and then debunk our own work. Legerdemain is still a possibility, but it would have to be expertly executed. Considering that she's only posted a handful of other videos and doesn't have any growing web presence before this event, the chances of guerrilla marketing are slim to none. What would they be selling, anyway?"
Rashaun rolled his eyes. "Why'd you have me going on about the whole thing being a hoax, then?"
"I love my job."
Rob interrupted. "Well, then, it sounds like we all know what to do, then. Rashaun, meet up with Jorge in Newark and track down Maci. Jason, clear out any and all repostings you can find."
Jason sucked in some air and replied, "Easier said than done, this will have entered into the dark web a couple times. But hey, we Debuggers are the Mole Rats of the Internet. I think I've found who'd advertise this video in the first place. Someone hiding his tracks called baaasheep. He was suggesting dares to Maci. Might have an interest in her."
Rashaun shuddered, and everyone else went silent for a moment. Jorge was first to speak, urgency in his voice. "Get me anything you can on baaasheep, Jason. And Karen, if we Herring the video, promise me you'll throw in a clause about telling the kids not to try this at home? Please?"
"I and every single investigatory website out there, of course!"
"Great," Rob concluded. "Thanks, everyone, for signing in on such short notice after hours. Protocol for a viral, but we all know why. Good night, everyone!"
The meeting ended. Rashaun slipped into professional mode and purchased his ticket and packed a bag.

« 100 Feet of ROPE! | »


♫ Everythin', everythin', everythin's gonna be alright this mornin' ♫

"All I'm saying is that we've listened to this for two straight hours."
Dietrich rolled his eyes for the third time. "Yah? And I had to sit through yer playlist across two state lines, Bridge. It's my turn."
♫ Now when I was a young boy, at the age of five ♫
"Yeah but the Pumpkins have a little variety." Bridge fumbled with the tuning knob. Dietrich quickly slapped his hand. The hand was retracted followed by a scoff. "Rude!"
♫ My mother said I was, gonna be the greatest man alive ♫
"Serious, Bridge. If'n you don't like Muddy Waters you can just get the hell out. I'm sick of yer belly-achin'."
"Don't make me pull rank, Diet-bitch."
"Cute. Pull rank all you like, I ain't changin' the channel."
«Guys! I've been listening to you two piss and moan over the radio ever since Kansas. I'm turning it off now.»
♫ But now I'm a man, way pa— ♫
Alexandra then cut-off XM radio privileges.
"Alex, that's not in the least bit fair." Dietrich fumbled with his phone in the cup holder. "Alex, turn it back on… Alex?"
Bridge folded his arms, closed his eyes, and slouched into his seat further. "Silent treatment."
Dietrich tossed his phone over the shoulder and into the back seat. From the rear view mirror he could see Merle enjoying the breeze from the open window. Their eyes met and he signed Dietrich a response.
YOU-PLAY-TOO-MUCH-FUCKING-BLUES-MUSIC-ANYWAY
Dietrich batted the rearview mirror into a cock-eyed position so he didn't have to look at him. But Merle remained visible in the reflection of the dash. "Whatever. Not even halfway there and I'm already fixin' to drive this car to the nearest river and drown all three of you." His mother's words coming out of his mouth.
"Three? Yourself included?" Bridge snorted. Dietrich only grumbled more under his breath. "… Hey, how come we didn't just fly to Site-17?"
"Flying means havin' to put in requests; means yer name is on the manifest; means paperwork. I was hired to avoid paperwork as much as possible. Half of spyin' is keepin' low to the ground, Bridge."
Bridge looked out the window. "… I guess that's true. I'm probably just antsy, but it would have been a little nicer to just get a two hour flight over with."
UP-AHEAD
"Just shut the hell—."
Dietrich glanced at Merle's reflection. Then jerked his head back up to see a police checkpoint up ahead. Orange cones and squad cars funneled traffic on the road as they let other cars through slowly. Each one was being examined. He gently stopped behind the line of cars.

NOT-POLICE
"What's wrong, Dietrich?"
LOOKING-FOR-HIM
"That ain't no everyday police checkpoint." Dietrich cut the steering wheel hard to make a turn to cut across to the other side of the highway.
Alexandra chirped over the speakers. «He's right, sir. Local dispatch has them responding to a fire.»
DUCK
"DUCK!"
"Duck?"
Dietrich pulled down on Bridge's collar just as the passenger side window glass shattered. The bullet raced by and put a hole in his empty headrest. For sure, someone was shooting at them from behind the trees. Dietrich floored the gas pedal almost through the car itself as they sped away in the opposite direction.
"D'you see the shooter, Bridge! Is it the same lady?!"
"It came from the woods! I don't fucking know!"
HOPE-YOU-LIKE-BULLETS
Automatic gunfire chased them down the lane as bullets ricocheted off the lightly armored roof and trunk. Fortunately for them, nothing standard issue armoring on Foundation motorpool vehicles couldn't handle. Dietrich looked at his driver side mirror just in time to see a .45 ACP round whiz through it.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"
TOLD-YOU
Bridge muffled a response while keeping his head between his knees. "This wouldn't happen if we were on a plane!"
"Bridge, Merle, shut up!"
"WHO THE FUCK IS MYRTLE?!"
«Guys, take the exit here into town. Get off the highway. We can lose them in more populated areas.»
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
The SUV squealed and nearly tipped as it made a 40mph drift onto a main road into town. Alexandra was nice enough to work ahead of them, switching the next four intersections to green simultaneously. «Green. Green. Green. And Green. All clear.»
"Outstanding, Alex! Now find us another way out." Bridge fumbled with an outdated road map in the glove box as Dietrich kept his eyes on the nearby buildings for more 'policemen'.
«Recalculating.»
"ALEX!" Bridge frowned.
«Sorry, sir. Um… take this next Route. It's up on the—»
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
«—left.»
"I saw it. We need to ditch this car though." Dietrich gripped the wheel harder as he sped down the empty asphalt lane. «Three more miles and there's an old rail-yard. We can park in there.»
"Fuckin-A. Alex, call for a pickup too. Make it a Level-4 priority." Bridge folded the map back up and shoved it back into the glove box.
«Okie dokey. I'm online with Site-17 dispatch, we're in range for chopper E-VAC. Redirecting them now.» Alexandra chirped over the car speakers with a comforting and positive tone.
Bridge sighed with relief. "Rank has its perks."
Dietrich didn't respond. He slowed down and eventually pulled into the rail-yard. It was a museum of rust and bird droppings mostly. He set the parking brake, and sat silent.

"Alex, what's the ETA on that pickup."
«Twenty two minutes, sir.»
"Don't call me sir." He shook his head, glancing over at Dietrich with a cold glance. Just enough time to interrogate someone.
"Now… want to tell me what the fuck is going on?"
Dietrich squinted his eyes. "I don't know what the fuck yer talking about. But yer tone is gonna get you cold-cocked."
"Uh huh. You knew those weren't cops. And you look over your shoulder every other minute like you're being followed. And you talk to yourself all the damn time." Bridge cracked his neck in irritation. "And who the shit is 'Merle'?"
TROUBLE
Dietrich started to sweat and chuckled nervously. "I-I do none of them things."
«Yeah, you kinda do, sir.»
Dietrich quickly shut off his phone. "So what? You thinkin' I have somethin' to do with us gettin' shot at? I just saved yer life, asshole!"
Bridge backed up a bit, then glanced at his donut of a headrest. "Look I know something's… up, with you Dietrich."
KILL-HIM
Dietrich's eyes darted between Merle and Bridge. Bridge glanced in Merle's general direction, then back at Dietrich.
HE-WILL-REPORT-US
KILL-HIM-BEFORE-THEY-ARRIVE
"S-stop." Dietrich stepped out of the car.
"Stop what? Tell me what's going on, Dietrich." Bridge followed.
"No!" It was MTF Mu-13 all over again. Merle surrounded him on all sides, no matter where he turned he was there in the rail-yard with them. Even when he closed his eyes, Merle stared back at him in the dark.
"Dietrich, take a breath and calm down."
HE-WILL-PUT-YOU-IN-A-CELL
"Stop it, Merle."
JUST-LIKE-YOUR-BROTHER
"Fuckin' stop!"
plcht. Dietrich fell to his knees and flopped forward, dropping his phone and car keys. That time, Bridge really had tasered him. Bridge let off a short burst of voltage and approached.
TOLD-YOU
"Now that I have your attention. Who is this Merle?"
DO-NOT-SAY-IT
Dietrich caught his breath back and picked his face up off the dusty ground. "Bridge… I can't. They'd lock me up fer good. I-I can keep it together… I can… honest."
Bridge took a seat on a pile of railroad ties. "Maybe you think you don't need a psyche eval for whatever your condition is? Maybe you think that gives you some kind of advantage out here?"
Dietrich clenched his fist. "I ain't crazy, Bridge."
Bridge held up his hand to finish his point. "I don't care. I skimmed your file before we left. Six transfers in twelve months. I don't know what you're hiding, but you're abusing Foundation bureaucracy to keep low."
Dietrich shook his head, but it was apparent that Bridge hit the nail on the head.
"You keep it together while we do this, I'll put in another transfer for you to anywhere you want with full endorsement. You or Mister Hyde cross me… I'll hand you over to internal affairs and they can deal with you. Or I'll crush you myself. Savvy?"
HE-WILL-BREAK-THIS-DEAL
"Yah." Dietrich took a knee and pulled the taser darts out of him. "What guarantee I have?"
Bridge picked up Dietrich's mobile phone. "You don't. Nobody ever does around here. But I could have shot you with an actual gun."
Dietrich chuckled and took his phone back. It was a sincere and awkward kind of laugh. "Alright. Deal."
They both shook hands in the rail-yard while Merle adamantly shook his head against it.
THIS-WILL-NOT-END-WELL.
"Shut up, Merle."
Bridge smiled, looking in the wrong direction from Merle. "Yeah, shut up."
In the distance, the helicopters could be heard closing in. It wasn't but a few minutes before a red and blue news helicopter landed in the rail-yard with the words 'Sasakwa County Press' decaled on the side. Dietrich and Bridge backed up as the dust cloud enveloped them. A slavic-looking gentleman with tussled brown hair in a very expensive looking hunter green suit hopped out and hustled over to Dietrich and Bridge.
"Agent Lurk and Doctor Bridge?"
Bridge shouted over the helicopter. "That's us!"
"Show me yer ID!" Dietrich yelled.
The man gave him a perturbed look, then fumbled for his Foundation badge and tossed it to him. Dietrich nodded in satisfaction. "Aleksander Foxx, Agent… no offense! Assassins are tryin' to put us in the dirt!"
Foxx nodded and motioned for them to get into the helicopter. All three hustled inside, but not before Foxx pulled the pin of an incendiary grenade and tossed it into the open SUV. "Leave the car! We're taking off!"
KER-FOOM
The car erupted into black smoke and flames as the helicopter rose up over the hills in the direction of their final destination.
Foxx leaned in close to Dietrich and Bridge. "When we land, rooms will be set up for you. You will be debriefed in the morning. Clear?"
Both nodded. Dietrich then leaned back in his seat next to Merle. "We made it."


Probability in the Foundation's multiverse is a fairly fluid concept, able to be pumped and dammed as the higher players see fit. Some, such as a certain Nobody, are not entirely conscious of the eddies swirling around them. They simply plunge forward and leave others to deal with the resulting wake.
"Sir?" said a voice in Armenian. "Sir! I asked you what you think you're doing here."
Nobody eyed the Foundation employee disguised as a member of the Armenite State Forest Service. The words were lost on him, but he had the distinct feeling he should wait a moment. He felt a small pressure in the crown of his head, something distinct from all the kicking and screaming coming from Finnegan.
"Sir, nobody is allowed in this area."
The dam burst and Nobody rode the wave forward. The Foundation employee did nothing to stop him. As he entered the mouth of the cave, Nobody turned to see them scratching their head and returning to their patrol.
He ignored the Foundation Site and plunged into the heart of the cave system, into the main chamber. As he did so a voice crawled up his back and nestled in the base of his skull.
Such a direct invasion.
"Excuse me?" Nobody halted. Stared at the ceiling.
He felt a probing at his mind. You are not Breath's pawn. Who are you?
"Nobody."
…Interesting. What do you seek?
"It's more how I can assist you. I've got someone's life story to tell." He tapped his temple. It felt like something tapped back. "All yours. Free of charge."
Nobody's spine tingled as the Spine of the World surveyed Finnegan.

6:17 PM
4/11/2012
Finnegan checked the display for the third time in as many minutes. He cycled through several tabs before checking a fourth time. It was almost an hour beyond when Aldon usually returned home from work at the pizzeria. She wasn't answering her phone, either. In the few weeks she had crashed with him, she had never been this out of touch.
After several more minutes of fretting he heard a knock at the door. He minimized his browser, double-checked to make sure nothing particularly incriminating in view, and opened the door.
A wall of white greeted him. Along one side was what must have been Aldon's hand. She had lugged a mattress up several flights of stairs. And likely across town from wherever the hell she actually acquired the thing.
"Help me with this, would you?"
Finnegan swung the door wide open and helped tip the mattress through the archway. After some awkward sidling they tossed it down against the wall opposite the door.
"Get sick of the couch?" he asked as he took his seat.
"I swear there's something inside that thing. Several somethings." She plopped down onto the white fluff. "This is so much better. Oh- and here's first month's rent."
He nearly fell out of the chair from leaning over to grab the bundle of cash. "Thanks."
Aldon stretched and put her hands under her head. She seemed to sink several inches without actually moving. "Nah, man, thank you. Seriously."
"Heh." Finnegan went back to his music and Aldon dozed off.

Nobody clawed at the back of his head in a vain attempt to rip the Spine from his skull. It felt like a door was gaping open in the back of his mind, and it was only a matter of time before Finnegan was able to find it. It took Nobody several seconds to notice Spine had begun talking, having already released its weak grip.
Could fit into Frozen Canvas Wing. Hallway to your right. The path will be shown.
Only half paying attention where he was going, Nobody trudged forward. It took all he had to shut the door and keep it barricaded against Finnegan's incessant pounding. With each beat of his heart Nobody could feel his head pounding in more ways than one.
After almost an hour of walking the pain stopped. The door shifted slightly, and out of a mail slot came a small fragment of a memory. A witnessing of a memory, more like. A script, a note.

"Within every other iteration of reality that he happens to be born in, he subsequently leaves it roughly twenty-five years later. Can you guess why?"
"I be- I mean he, Finnegan, becomes Nobody."
"Or Reality tries to make him one, at least."
"What do you mean tries?"
"It doesn't always… take, so to speak."

Nobody leaned against the mental door and gritted his teeth. Was Finnegan hoping to distract him? Weaken his resolve to allow an escape? Well, it wouldn't work. Only a short while longer and Nobody would have his head to himself.
The door rattled and a second, smaller note shot out between his legs.

You're not a person, you're a coping mechanism.

Nobody ran.
He sprinted as far as he could as fast as Finnegan's legs would carry him. He only had to reach his destination, and then it would be over. After several turns his lungs burned and his legs ached, but his ears pounded to the drum of a pursuer.
A mere glance over Finnegan's shoulder was all Nobody took, but he saw Finnegan following him through the tunnels. Hurdling over shattered statues and ducking under speakers jutting from the ceiling, Finnegan hounded him for what felt like miles. Under such duress several minutes stretched into what felt like well over several hours.
Whenever he blinked he was treated to images from his pursuer's perspective, alternating between the chase and a hodgepodge of assorted memories. He was aware enough to see the liquid crystal on the cave surrounding him, a droplet falling down and half-blinding him. One eye chased the other until it seemed Finnegan had caught him. He wiped his eye just in time to be almost blinded by a sea of white.
Twists and turns through snow, sand, stone, and salami. The last of which was a bit of an odd experience for both of them. Lunch meat collapsed underneath him and he fell into a jumble of instruments inside what looked to be a band room. Tossing aside trombones and trumpets in a haphazard effort to get away, tossing aside his own memories of Aldon with them, Nobody traversed the sea of brass.
Once free, he hit a dead run. He passed by columns of bookshelves and rows of pews, ignoring the clay humanoids that clawed at him. Nothing would stop him. Not this winding maze of a cave system, not Finnegan, not foreboding memories of his conversation with the devil himself, and certainly not-
Several thousand tons of rock hitting him square in Finnegan's forehead could bring him to a stop. Or rather, him running straight into one of the cave walls could. And did. Nobody toppled over and hit the back of Finnegan's head on the hard ground. Blood soaked into Finnegan's hair in several places.
Finnegan groaned.
What are you doing?
"Hurting. Bleeding. Possibly suffering from a concussion."
What were you doing?
Finnegan sat up as slowly as he could. His head hurt. His mind hurt. It felt constricted, like a net had been thrown over it and pulled taught. No doubt what little of his Nobody persona remained constituted said net. But it was still there. Squeezing, hoping to shove his entirety back into a little cage.
But Finnegan, unlike what seemed to be so many other Finnegans, had a compelling reason to stick around. Something to keep him from acquiescing to Reality's demand for another Nobody. Someone that made life interesting enough to be somebody with.
"Sorry, minor mental crisis," Finnegan said, picking up the hat. "I know… 'I' told you I had an artist's life story to tell. But how about a Nobody's life instead? That's gotta be worth something."
The cave was silent for a short time as something seemed to thrum in thought.
It would.
Finnegan grinned.

The memory of a Way is almost as good as the Way itself.
After stomping his way through a small flurry of snow, Finnegan could faintly feel the presence of a Way. It seemed to be located within a small wood cabin in the center of a snowy grove. While he had gotten this far without shivering once, his bones ached with cold the moment he was inside. He piled wood into the furnace, hurled books into the fire. Yet he still couldn't get warm.
With a secondhand sense of recollection he sat in the already smoldering coals. He shut the furnace door and withdrew a lighter he didn't own from his pocket. A few fumbled flicks later Finnegan stepped out into the Wanderer's Library. He rubbed his arms for warmth and set out to find the air filter he, as Nobody, had left behind.
After a stop at the Utterly Bazaar to collect his earnings for the ghost goo, he departed from his local Library and entered his local library. The walk home was uneventful, and Finnegan's mind was peacefully empty. So to speak.
The following days were likely unremarkable. He spent his days on his computer, going to work, and sleeping. It was oddly relaxing, to have the place to himself. Save for the golems and Everett, of course.
On the sixth day there was a rattling at the door. It swung open to reveal an exhausted looking Jakeob Aldon. Finnegan regarded her coolly for a moment before nodding.
"Have fun?"
"Ugh." Aldon slipped her pack off and stumbled over to her bed. She collapsed unceremoniously. "So ugh."
"Regret going?"
Aldon playfully poked at Copper. She was silent for a few seconds and then shrugged. "Nah. So what have you been up to without me to keep you company?"
Finnegan stared at her for a moment, his gaze drifting to his nearby mattress. There, instead of the room that was now Aldon's workroom. He looked into her eyes for a moment.
Then he shrugged.
"Eh, same ol', same ol'."

« Library Lifeline | Hub | Nazi Nonsense »


“Yo Rashaun, I know you always like the weird shit, check this out!”
It had been a long day at the Foundation, and Agent Rashaun Washington just wanted to see what his friends—his normal friends, the ones who still live normal lives—were up to. He was kind of up to his ears in weird shit. But… always on the lookout for anomalies, he let on that he “likes the weird shit” just in case they run across anything. So James sent him a YouTube video. Okay, fine, let's see what this is about.
He looked at the thumbnail. A cute teenage white brunette girl, smiling that innocent brave slightly-smug smile of adolescents about to complete a dare on camera, holding up a big pile of white rope. The video was called, “100 Feet of ROPE!” WTF, James, are you sending me creeper shit? On your feed where everyone can see it? I'm not into that shit and now everyone's going to think I am. I'm going to be flagged in some database somewhere. What the heck. Just… why, James, why?
Rashaun shook his head and sighed. Welp, nothing to it. He waited until he got back to his apartment, stuck in his earbuds, and tapped the link. I'm not into this. I'm not into this.
The video opened. Typical webcam, girl's bedroom. The teenager adjusted the camera and stared into it a moment to make sure it was working. She doesn't even know how to edit these things, apparently. Then she spoke. “Hi! I'm Maci. So I figured out I can do this thing, and Kelsey said I should show everyone on YouTube. So I stopped by the store and got… this rope.” She held up a large clear plastic bag. “100 feet of white cotton braided rope. I got cotton because it was that or polyester, which, ew.” She tore open the bag, and pulled out the pile in a long, semi-tangled mess. “One moment, let me find the end of this thing.” She picked through the loops, loosely wrapping herself up. I'm not into this. She's got My Little Pony on her bed, still. Not cool, James, not cool. She grabbed the end, triumphantly displayed it to the camera, and replied, “Got it! Now watch this!”
Maci gamely looked into the camera, wiggled her eyebrows a couple times, and stuck the end of the rope in her mouth. She started chewing and sucking it in like a giant spaghetti.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
So this was the weird shit James was talking about. She was eating the rope. Sucking it down. And she wasn't stopping. She awkwardly disentangled herself from the ropes as they tightened around her and disappeared down her throat. How the hell was she doing that? It clearly took effort. She was grimacing and squinting. She slapped her chair's armrest a couple times. But she kept going. A hundred feet? Really?
Wait, is this even possible? There are sword-swallowers, but this isn't that, is it? James, you bastard, thank you. I gotta tell the Foundation.
Rashaun carefully examined the video as it played, quickly scanning for clues as to what she's doing. Cast-iron stomach? Spatiotemporal distortion? Hyperdimensional portal in her gut? He tried to figure out what this might be. Yet… A couple of minutes in, and when you've seen a girl eat the first thirty feet of a rope, the next thirty feet goes in pretty much the same pattern. Really, Maci, you need to learn how to edit. Rashaun looked over the rest of the webpage. User name: crazymaci99. Crazy Maci, that's for sure. I'm going to have to report this video. He looked at the view count: 301+. Crap, this is going viral. He braced himself and looked at the comments. Ugh. Most of them fell in one of two categories: guys telling her what else she can shove in her mouth, and guys telling her what else she can do with the rope. Lame-ass armchair perverts. But then, there were a few that were honestly surprised at what she was doing. “How can you fit it all inside you like that?” “Can I give it a try?”
The fear at watching this display spread to everyone around the world, the damn weird sense of watching a little girl continue to wolf down a rope, the idea that there were kids that were going to hurt themselves trying to copy Crazy Maci, and Rashaun felt his stomach go hollow and constrict. He could have sworn he was the one eating the rope. The Foundation needed to know this. How many amnestics was this going to take? He sent the link on to his boss, marked URGENT, and watched the rest of the video.
Maci had come to the end of the rope, it having somehow all managed to fit in her belly. Not distended or anything. She was kind of skinny and small. And with a final little flip of the rope's end, it quickly slipped completely down her mouth. A sudden look of panic crossed her visage. She felt her mouth, stood up, and walked around in a circle, flailing her arms. Then, her face filled with fear, she thrust her hand and wrist down her throat, deep. I'm not into this. I'm not into this. Regaining his composure, Rashaun wondered how deep someone could get their hand down their throat. He stuck his hand in his own mouth, but could only get as far as a couple knuckles before he started gagging. But there she was, digging deep like her life depended on it.
Suddenly, she yanked her hand out of her mouth, grasping the end of the rope. She started pulling, quickly, reeling it out of her, her tongue hanging out, tears in her eyes. It was slow going in, but fast coming out. Well, good guy James. Here, I thought this would be pedo fetish fuel, but it's really just… He scanned the comments again. …Anomalous pedo fetish fuel.
Holy fuck.
Rashaun's boss replied.

Emergency meeting in 5 minutes. Rashaun, finish the vid, flag as inappropriate, and brief the MTF reps. Will have Beta-5 for humanoid retrieval, Gamma-5 and Mu-4 to deal with the video fallout. Suppress what we can, but we might need to debunk it. This could stick around the dark web a while.
Start without me. I need to check up on my daughter.

In the video, Maci regurgitated the last bit of rope. She caught her breath, gagged a little. She clumsily sat back down in front of the camera. She grinned.
“Well, that's my thing. Thank you so much, guys! Byeeeee!”

« | Twisted Together »


It turned out that finding a book containing the location of a single cave against the backdrop of the entirety of the multiverse was not an easy task. Rows upon shelves upon sections upon floors upon wings of books loomed around Nobody as he searched for a book in a bookstack.
Wandering through the sections, air filter still in hand for some reason, was a painfully nostalgic experience for Nobody. Painful in the sense that the nostalgia-induced memories were not strictly his.

Finnegan sat at one of the many tables within his branch of the Wanderer's Library. Flanking either side were rows upon rows of empty tables further flanked by equally empty chairs. His only company was Joaquín Pablo Izquierdo de San Felipe in the form of his autobiography titled Heisenberg Shit, his only conversation a one-sided debate by Grant Kirkhope. He was in his own little bubble, where he was… well, perhaps not quite fully happy, but certainly content.
Said bubble was popped by a blonde individual moving into the one seat, among thousands, that was directly opposite of him. Well, one to the right of directly opposite of him. Regardless it made his stomach coil.
Finnegan examined them from over the rim of his reading material. He couldn't quite pin whether they were male or female. They had the sort of childish face that stood straight in the center of the scale and grinned. Their hair was cut at about chin length, but that didn't mean much nowadays. They weren't paying any attention, as they were already engrossed in their own book.
Finnegan returned to his reading and that was that. Several hours later he closed the book and departed for his apartment without either of them speaking a word.

Nobody whacked himself in the temple and the memory jarred out of place. Through the haze of recollection he had apparently found his way to a small section detailing various paranormal phenomena within Armenia. He grabbed several volumes detailing geographical oddities and piled them onto the filter, stumbling over to a table and setting it all down.
After several trips he shoved the books off the filter and moved it to the floor. He situated himself in one of the chairs, using the filter as a footrest. Choosing a book at random, he cracked it open to the index and felt something explode in his head. His vision stretched and tore, a fuzzy scene visible through corrupted film of his surroundings. The last shred of his surroundings snapped with an inaudible-

The following night he returned to his usual reading place to find that the blonde had amassed a small tower of books on the table. They were nose-deep in a thick book titled The Hypostasis of the Archons, or a History of Sarkicism as related by Sage Sabaos the Blind. As much as he preferred to read alone, he wasn't about to give up his spot. The blonde offered Finnegan a small glance when he sat down, their eyes ringed black from lack of sleep. They blinked dumbly and then went back to reading.
Several hours passed, Finnegan poring over a single volume while his pseudo-companion skimmed through several. Eventually their stack was exhausted and they looked to Finnegan, taking in what he was reading. They said something, but Finnegan only saw the raised eyebrow and the moving lips.
He paused his music. "Sorry, what?"
"Are you an anartist?" They pointed to his book.
Finnegan considered lying. It would have been fairly easy, anartists across the ages had uncovered many unique ways to go about doing things and if all else failed he could simply claim to be a history buff. But the earnest tone and the hopeful look on their face made it difficult to deny them this small respite.
"I am. Mostly sound stuff," he said, marking his place. Then out of automatic courtesy rather than curiosity he asked, "What about you?"
"Sculpting, but I use a bunch of stuff. Clay, metal, bone. Did glass once."
The mention of glass sparked his curiosity. "You know how to blow glass?"
"Nah, it was a bunch of individual glass pieces I got from a friend. I just put it all together. Was a miniature glass house, heheh."
The spark fizzled slightly, but he pressed on. "Ah. I worked with glass once. It was a modified glassblowing technique that basically let you blow it out of sound."
"How'd that work out?"
"Poorly."
They barked out a laugh, and he chuckled. They picked up one of their books back up and cracked it back open, and after a moment Finnegan did the same. After another hour of silence Finnegan yawned and pushed back his chair.
"Night," he yawned.
"Night," they replied, only glancing up from the page.

This time he was walking down a staircase. Behind him was the pile of books he had amassed, still waiting on the table. Errant scraps of information floated through his senses. His own footsteps despite standing still, the faint rustle of pages.
Taking deep breaths and massaging his temples, Nobody ascended the stairs. He paused at the platform, leaning against the railing, before slouching over to the table. After crumpling into his chair he held his head in his hands and panted.
It had to be the Library. All around Nobody were sights and sounds that played a vital role in some of Finnegan's strongest memories. But he had no choice, the Library was the only place to find the place he was looking for. So rather than flee he cracked open a book and began to read.
Deep inside, Finnegan stood up from the chair inside his cocoon and began to Wander.

The night after that, Finnegan hoisted a bag of food from Red Bear Bob's Food Truck onto the table with as big a thud as he could. The blonde awoke with a jolt.
"Wazzit?" they mumbled, hair in their face.
"Bob's," he replied, lifting a meal out of the bag and sliding it over the table. He grabbed his own meal and sat down. "Hurry up, it'll get cold."
"You know what that stuff does to you, right?"
"Yup." He pulled a small plastic card from his pocket. "Got the cure right here."
They nearly choked from how hard they shoved the food into their mouth.
"So," Finnegan said before he took his first bite. "I'm Finnegan."
A single finger rose as they chewed and swallowed. When it was lowered they replied, "Name's Aldon."
That did not particularly help in the gender department.
"What's keeping you here, Aldon?"
Rather than reply they took another particularly large bite.
Finnegan took his first bite and relished it deeply as something told him this was the best thing he would ever eat. The next bite was in his mouth before the first was gone. He swallowed and reached for a napkin, his gaze chancing upon the yellow card. The madness quelled.
Even then, Aldon continued to stuff their face. When they put the burger down for a moment Finnegan held up the card. Their face screwed up in confusion while they chewed, eventually settling into an uncomfortable grimace when their mouth was empty.
"It's not so much anything keeping me," they eventually said. "I just have nowhere to go."
"Hmm."
Finnegan took another bite, and Aldon followed. The two of them finished their respective meals and wiped their mouths of the resulting carnage when it was over. Their eyes lingered on the card before their gazes met.
"Would you like to have somewhere to go?" he eventually asked.
He watched conflict tear across their face for several seconds. They seemed to try saying something several times, only to grit their teeth and think some more. Eventually they took a deep breath and let out an even deeper sigh.
"I could use a place to stay the night, yeah."

"Fffuck."
Sweat poured down FinNobody's face. Nobody's face. Not Finnegan's. Finnegan didn't exist anymore. He was nothing but a pile of memories sitting in the recycle bin that was Nobody's mind. It was just a matter of discovering how to empty it.
Slowly, Nobody lifted his hand. Practiced opening and closing it. It felt like he was watching it happen from behind his eyes, just sitting in cramped headspace and craning his neck to get a better view. His head felt heavy at its core, but as a whole it felt light and foggy.
Focusing on the book before him, he carefully analyzed a variety of geographical anomalies. Page after tortured page he flitted through the tome, feeling something pressing at the back of his head like the barrel of a gun.
Then he found it.
An entry on a cave, burrowed somewhere near Mount Aragats. At its heart, a curator of sorts. A teacher, and a knowledge seeker. And Nobody had a sizable chunk of memories sitting in his head he'd just love to donate.

« Killing Knowledge | Hub | Mental Mazes »


Jerry swept the floor of the hallway while the guards looked on. This used to be Mr. Henderson's job, but then his poop started glowing, and now he was in Cell 14, with Mr. Iheme. The guards would have had to do it, but they had him do it instead in exchange for paper and pencils.
"GOOD MORNING, JERRY!" the screaming man screamed.
"Good morning, Mr. Stewart," Jerry said.
"I HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY TODAY!" The screaming man returned to screaming wordlessly. He could never stop screaming, though it didn't seem to matter much what he screamed. No one had gotten much sleep when he'd first arrived.
Jerry was glad it was a cleaning day. There were no tests on cleaning days.
As he passed by Cell 8, the man in black and white stripes reached through the bars and held out a cookie from his lunch. Jerry took it gratefully, and the man gave him a thumbs up. He couldn't talk, but he was still one of Jerry's best friends.
He carefully swept around the edges of the devil's circle. The thing inside the circle hurt Jerry's eyes to look at. It sometimes whispered things, but Jerry was never able to quite understand it. He was glad for that. The others said it made the most terrible promises.
Finally, he was near the end of the hallway.
"You! Boy!" A pair of haunted eyes stared from over a long, broken nose.
"Sir?" Jerry said politely. He always tried to be nice to the other subjects. He didn't have any other friends.
"Send for help! CHICANEROUS GANGSTER CONSPIRACY! The Dracula men from Venus are a constant threat, and we must be warned!"
"I tried, Mr. Decray," Jerry said. "I tried calling the police. They all left, and I got put in the time-out box." That was when the phone in the guard's break room was removed.
"Not the police, this is too big! CHICANEROUS GANGSTER CONSPIRACY FASCISTS! Call 555-727-7560! Press five, and say bixby actual to save the world. Bixby actual!"
"I don't have a phone," Jerry said. He really wished Mr. Decray would stop shouting. It was better when things were quiet (or as quiet as they could be with the screaming man). People didn't get angry. Sometimes they wouldn't even take anyone upstairs for a while.
"Then you need to find one. A phone. 555-727-7560! Five and bixby actual!" The man tried to grab at Jerry, but was just a few inches too far.
"I'll remember," Jerry said, taking a few more steps back. It was better to humor him. He couldn't get out, but he could yell, and one man screaming was enough. Besides, it wasn't Mr. Decray's fault he was like that.
"I'm not crazy! 555-727-7560! 555—" The man's voice cut off to a sputter as a spray of water hit him in the face.
"That's enough," one of the guards said, putting down the hose. "Don't make me put you in the box."
The man gibbered a bit, but then choked off the words, and huddled back in the cell. Jerry felt bad for him. He'd been almost normal when the guards first brought him in, but after a few sessions with Mr. Greenberg, this was one of his better days.
Jerry finished the sweeping, and one of the guards took the broom. As Jerry walked back to his own cell, he heard a defiant voice whisper "7560! Five and bixby actual."
Jerry sat down on his bunkbed. He had the bottom bunk. Duncan had the top bunk. Duncan was sometimes a cat, but was currently a man. "How's the gang?" he asked.
"They're fine," Jerry said. "Mr. Quiet gave me a cookie."
"He's good people," Duncan said.
"Do you have any problems for me?" Jerry asked.
"Hmm. Get out the paper," Duncan said.
Jerry pulled out some sheets and a pencil from under the bed.
"51 times 14. 714 divided by 6. Aaaaand… The square root of 1156." There was a shifting, and then Duncan was a cat, jumping down to watch Jerry.
These were hard, but they passed the time.
The door opened, and a tall, burly man looked in. He grimaced, showing off triangular, shark-like teeth. It was Rodriguez, the head of security. "Break room, now," he growled.
Jerry quickly got to his feet. Duncan would make sure the papers were put away. He didn't want to make Mr. Rodriguez mad (though, Mr. Rodriguez was usually mad anyway).
He followed the guard to the breakroom. Someone had spilled a pot of coffee. Jerry went and grabbed the mop and bucket. He began working.
"Fuck," Rodriguez said. "I'm needed in the office. This better be cleaned by the time I get back, you little shit."
It didn't take long. As Jerry put the mop and bucket away, he noticed someone had left their phone on the table.
He hesitated a moment, then picked it up, and dialed the number Mr. Decray had said.
"Sal's Calzones and Pizzas," said a man on the other end. "This is Sal."
Jerry's heart sank. Mr. Decray was crazy after all.
"Hello?" Sal asked. "Anybody there?"
Jerry decided he wanted to be able to at least tell Mr. Decray he'd done what he'd asked. It might make him happy. So, he pressed five, and whispered, "Bixby. Actual." He closed the phone and was putting it back when a hand grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the table.
"Who'd you call, you little fucker? Who'd you call?" Rodriguez squeezed his arm so hard that tears started to fall down Jerry's cheeks.
"Nobody," Jerry said, trying to keep on his feet as his arm was wrenched around. "I was just…"
"Don't lie to me! You want to be put in the box? You want that?" Rodriguez picked up the phone with his other hand, and pressed some buttons, before listening. He closed it again. "You were trying to order a fucking pizza?" he asked, contempt heavy in his voice. "You little shit. Get back to your cell."
Jerry was lifted to his feet and shoved back into the hallway. He ran back to the cell. He made a tent from his blanket, and Duncan sat down and told him stories until he felt better.

"We've got a call. It's a front known to Decray, but we're 90% sure it wasn't Decray on the other end of the line."
"Trace it."

It was testing day, and Jerry was pulled roughly from the cell. He didn't struggle. It never made anything better.
Rodriguez hauled him up the stairs, and to Mr. Greenberg's laboratory. There was glassware everywhere, though Jerry had never seen Mr. Greenberg do anything with it. The Bunsen burner had seen some use, though.
"Mr. Rodriguez." Mr. Greenberg sat at his desk, wearing his lab coat, stroking his greasy brown goatee. "You are late. You know how much store I put in punctuation, and yet you cannot rub two neutrons together in your head and make it on time."
"Sorry, Dr. Greenberg," Rodriguez said. His eyes had the glassy look most people had when they talked to Mr. Greenberg.
Jerry wondered about that, sometimes. Everyone else, even the other test subjects, had trouble saying anything against Mr. Greenberg or doing things he didn't want to. They weren't scared to, they just couldn't. It didn't work on Jerry. He wondered if it was because he just didn't know better.
"You cannot imagine my exacerbation right now," Greenberg continued. "The Greenberg Anomaly Group is at the forefront of human endeavor, and you can't keep to a simple timetable. Sometimes I wonder why I pulled you back from the circle."
Rodriguez's fingers tensed. He always got nervous if you mentioned the devil.
Jerry got nervous when Mr. Rodriguez got nervous. The guard had a tendency to take it out on anyone smaller than him.
"Now, Dash Five, what is to be done with you? Speak up, now."
"Nothing, sir," Jerry said. He just wanted to be back in his cell. But he knew that they wouldn't let him, not until they'd done something to him, some sort of test. Hopefully it would be quick. Sometimes it hardly took any time at all, and he could leave. Though, that almost made it worse, because he never knew how long it was going to take. It was a terrible thing to have hope, sometimes.
"Nothing? But we must do something. Do you not realize that you are a threat to humanity? A danger to the very realities of nature? You must be studied, and we must learn your secrets. You are a nigma, and I will decipher you."
Jerry didn't say anything. He just looked down at the floor and waited for Mr. Greenberg to decide what to do with him today.
"Now let's start with a simple test. Let's test your regenerative propensities, shall we?" Mr. Greenberg pulled out a scalpel. "Hold his arm out, Mr. Rodriguez."
Jerry struggled in the heavy-set man's grip, but he was no match for the adult.
"Now, a simple incision… like so." The knife bit down into Jerry's arm, opening another cut. "Now we watch."
Jerry bit down on his lip as he watched the blood flowing down his arm. He focused on the bowl they used to catch it. He hoped this was all they did to him. It hurt, but that's all it did.
"Sir, how long are we going to keep doing this?" Rodriguez asked. "You been at this for years. He'll bleed, and then he'll have a cut, just like all the other times." It wasn't, Jerry felt sure, that Rodriguez cared about the pain. But the guard constantly complained about having to haul "test subjects" up and down the stairs.
"Mr. Rodriguez! Are you critiquing my technique? Perhaps you would like another playdate with the class four devibolic entity!" Mr. Greenberg's eyes glowed. They did that, sometimes, when he got upset.
"No, no, Dr. Greenberg. I'll be good." Jerry couldn't see the guard's face, but he took a quiet satisfaction in his fear. Rodriguez nervous was cruel, but Rodriguez scared was too busy cringing to lash out. He probably wouldn't ask again for weeks.
"Now, it appears that nothing is happening, but when we wipe away the blood, we find… that nothing is happening. Why are you frustrating my efforts, Dash Five? We know you are anomalous, but you refuse to cooperate."
"I'm sorry," Jerry said. He wished he could do something that Mr. Greenberg wanted. Then maybe he'd stop hurting him and just leave him in the cell. The others got tested hardly at all.
"Not sorry enough. Next test, we shall determine how the subject responds to simulated respiracy arrest via drowning. Mr. Rodriguez, get him strapped to the gurney, and I'll ready the hose. Then we can proceed to some cognitive tests."
Tears streamed down Jerry's face, but he didn't protest. He knew from hard experience it wouldn't help.

Iris felt like sinking down as low in her chair as possible. She didn't feel ready. But after two months of training, Adams had given her the thumbs up, and that was good enough for the Council. Back in the old days, she could just shrink back, let others get the details down, and do whatever they told her. Now she was supposed to run the mission personally. She sat up a little straighter, and tried to look professional.
An intelligence agent stood at the front of the room, a clicker in their hand as they flashed through PowerPoint slides. "The building is three stories. Greenberg lives on the top floor and his people live in the other two. We believe that Doctor Decray is being held underground, along with the one who made the call."
"What do we know about that call?" asked Director Light.
"We believe it was a child. Teens at the oldest, younger if it was a male. There's not enough to tell anything else."
"Do we have a layout for the building?" asked one of the agents. "Blueprints would have been filed, surely."
"When Greenberg acquired the property, it was one story tall. A farmhouse. As there are no records of it being expanded or renovated, we believe it was altered by Greenberg's abilities."
"So we have no idea what's down there," Light said flatly.
"That's correct, ma'am. We could try seismic readings, but frankly, that has a good chance of tipping them off. Besides, we don't even know if this is a creation or an active manifestation."
"What?" Iris asked. She immediately flushed as people turned to look at her. "That is, can you explain the difference, please?"
The intel agent nodded. "Sorry, ma'am. Jargon. A creation is a rearrangement of matter. Think of it like a hole. The Type Green just moves dirt out of the way, and there's a hole. They don't need to do anything more with it, and when they stop working with it, there's still a hole."
"And an active manifestation?"
"An active manifestation would be more like… They don't actually move any dirt, they just project new space where they want the hole. It lasts as long as they keep working at it. If you dug in from the side of where it should be, you'd go right through without ever encountering the hole."
"Oh," she said. Her eyebrows furrowed. "That sounds like a lot more work. Why don't they just do creations?"
"Some don't know they can." The agent was comfortable with the question, as though it came up a lot. "Others find that it's easier to make changes to a manifestation rather than going through the creation each time."
A thought occurred to her. "What happens to the hole if the bender dies?"
The intel agent winced. "If it's a creation, nothing. If it's an active manifestation… Don't be in the hole when that happens. You could end up standing next to the hole, you could end up buried where the hole should have been, or you may end up nowhere at all."
"That could be a problem if we're going to have to go into the hole to find Greenberg," said one of the other agents.
"He leaves the grounds once a week to 'liaise with local governmental authorities,' which consists of a closed-door conference with the mayor and members of the city council, followed by a meeting with a local chemist. Your op will take place while he's out. We'll shut down cell and phone service on the grounds while you go in and take the property, removing all persons and items of interest from the property. You'll confront Greenberg as he returns."
"Makes sense," Iris said. She was glad they'd be tackling Greenberg separately from his guards and prisoners. It made the job seem more manageable. "How will we get there?"
"You'll go over the fence. They have guard towers, but they don't seem to have enough personnel to actually keep them manned. We don't anticipate strong resistance, but keep your guard up."
There were more details. Comms frequencies, contingencies, but in the end, intel's plan was fairly solid.

The day before the op, Iris felt like she was going to throw up. She'd done things like this before, but she'd never been in charge. It had always been someone else. Sometimes him, sometimes their handler. But now she was the one who was going to be making the calls.
"Nervous?" Adams asked. She was wearing the suit again, although she'd pulled out some of the glowing light bits and put a matte coating over the previously semi-gloss surface. Neither modification seemed to affect the suit's performance at all.
"Does it show?" Iris asked.
"Only when I look at you." Adams smiled. "Relax. It's a milk run. Greenberg shows all the signs of a low-level bixby. Intel has the op planned out from start to finish, and despite what you've heard, the plan usually survives until at least second or third contact with the enemy. Sometimes fourth."
"Funny," Iris said. She knew all about plans.
"You'll be fine. Seriously. I'll be on standby if things go wrong. Your team knows what they're doing. And ask yourself this: Is there any chance this will be worse than—"
"No," Iris said. And she realized Adams was right. No matter what happened, it wasn't the worst thing. That had already happened.
Adams nodded. "You've got this, kiddo," she said. "Go kick some ass." She gave Iris a pat on the shoulder, then picked up her rifle and jogged off to the armory.

Jerry watched warily as Mr. Greenberg walked through the door into the subject's hallway. He had to stand on a chair to see through the bars, but he hated not knowing what was going on. It was supposed to be a no-testing night.
"Mr. Rodriguez, I am going to discuss the matter of our funding with the local constabulation. Please make sure that the area is secure." He glanced around the hallway and sniffed. "And clean."
Jerry relaxed. He wouldn't be going upstairs.
"Yes, Dr. Greenberg." The guard looked pointedly at Jerry.
"Oh, and set a contingency of guards to sweep the perimeter. It will give them something to do."

That night, Iris found herself huddled about a mile from Greenberg's facility with thirty-two of her new closest friends.
"Ma'am, we have confirmation that Greenberg has left the perimeter," said Jiang. He was her second-in-command. He'd been in field ops for over ten years, and had a flawless record. He was, frankly, a babysitter. He'd made it clear that he wasn't going to take over unless things went very wrong, but he would let her know if she was screwing up. He reminded her of Agent Lopez. She missed Agent Lopez. He'd always made her feel safe.
"Thank you, Jiang," she said. "We'll hold for half an hour, and then move."
He nodded. "Any words first?"
She took a deep breath and nodded. If she was going to be in charge, she needed to act like it.
Jiang motioned for everyone to gather close.
"All right, everyone. You know what we're here to do. We take it one room at a time. Most of the guards are above-ground, so we clear those first, then we'll take the lower part."
She looked them over. They were wearing body armor, most of them carrying assault rifles. A few had other equipment, things like axes, crowbars, and a portable ram with "Skeleton Key" painted on it. They had all turned to look at her. Some of them seemed to be listening intently. Some didn't seem to take her entirely seriously.
"You all know who I am. Maybe you don't think I should be here, but at the moment, I am running this op. If any of you don't like that, you should have requested reassignment. Any questions?"
"Sounds good, Iris," said one of the agents. She recognized him. Jackson. He'd been part of her security detail a few years prior.
Jiang coughed meaningfully, and Iris fixed the young agent with a cold, hard stare.
"Er, that is. Agent Thompson. Ma'am." He looked about ready to crawl down inside his PPE.
"All right, people, sit tight. We move in twenty-five mikes," Jiang said.

They didn't bother hopping the fence. A pair of bolt cutters had a hole opened up in under a minute, then everyone was pushing through.
The point man put his fingers up, and everyone crouched down in the bushes. Someone was approaching. Several someones, having a discussion.
"Think it's gonna rain?" the first voice asked.
"I hope not. Hell of a night for patrol if it does," said a second.
"Well, it's not like the rain's going to wait for a more convenient night," the first voice said.
"I didn't say it would. I'm just saying it'd be a shame, is all."
"The real shame is that we got picked," said a third. "Out of everyone in, why us?"
"I don't know about you, but I think Rodriguez has it in for me ever since I was watching that shark show," said the first voice.
"I think he's oversensitive, personally. Not everything's about him."
"Try telling him that. Idiot thinks that—" The second voice stopped. "Did you hear something?"
Iris held the photo out and waited for it to finish developing. The guards were just turning towards her when the first one tripped. The second felt a tap on his shoulder, and then the third found his hat falling down over his face.
The MTF members had them bagged up before they understood they were under attack.
Snapping the shutter felt right. Reaching through the polaroids felt right. Every time she used her powers, she felt like herself again. Ironic, she thought, that the thing that made her feel the most like 'Iris Thompson' was the same thing that got her named 'SCP-105'.
Five agents hung back to keep watch, while the rest moved forward towards a side door.
The team breached the door like clockwork. They'd done this similar times at all sorts of compounds. This was nothing new. Even Iris had done this a few times, though in her previous experience, it mostly meant cleaning up after Able tore through the opposition.
They were in. She moved in with the rest, camera at ready. The first two in already had a prisoner, a skinny man in a grey and black security uniform. His hat, she realized, had the emblem of the SCP Foundation on it, but with the points of the arrows replaced by two capital Gs and an A.
She motioned for the rest to keep moving forward. The rest of her team streamed in behind.
There were two casualties as they cleared the rest of the ground floor, both of them guards. The rest were tied up and bagged for later removal.
The second floor was mostly asleep, and there were no problems capturing the personnel there. The third floor contained several spacious rooms, most of them with expensive furniture and random pieces of art. There was also a fake looking laboratory that looked like it had been made for a movie set; there didn't seem to be much actual scientific equipment. Finally, there was a large door.
"Break it down," Iris said.
Several of her men took the ram and pounded on the door. It ended up taking three tries to break it down.
Inside, there were… filing cabinets. And kittens.
"What the hell?" One of the agents crouched down for a closer look. There was something wrong with the faintly mewling kittens. They were bloated, and their fur was patchy, with open sores in places.
"Careful," Jiang said.
As the agent reached out to touch the kitten, it suddenly doubled in size, then exploded with a loud bang, knocking the woman back.
"Shit!" Jiang grabbed the wounded agent by the back of her collar and pulled her out of the room.
"Fall back!" Iris said.
As they moved, she took a picture of the doorway. As soon as it developed, she started flicking at the living bombs through the photo, detonating them far enough away to avoid anymore injuries.
"How is she?" she asked Jiang.
"We've got the bleeding under control," he said, "but I'm not sure she'll keep the arm."
She felt a twinge in her stomach. She'd lost teammates before. But now she was in charge. The agent had been under her command. It was her responsibility to keep them all as safe as possible.
"Fuck those things," one of the other agents said, spitting towards the smoking remains of the kittens.
"Keep moving, but carefully," she said. It was also her responsibility to get the job done. She steeled herself. They were there despite the risks. She could get them killed just as easily by not doing her job.
They took it slowly once they entered the room, but there didn't seem to be any explosive kittens left.
"Montoya, start going through those files," Iris said. "See if you can get a Cliff's Notes version of what's in the basement."
"Yes ma'am."
"Be quick. We're going down as soon as we have this floor secure."

There was something wrong. There was shouting and shooting upstairs, and Jerry wondered exactly what was going on up there.
The guard, Mr. Busby, kept by the door. "Don't pay any attention," he said. "Just keep sweeping. The guards upstairs have it covered."
That was when Rodriguez came down. "We're compromised," he said. "It's time to liquidate the assets."
"Liquidate?"
"Kill them, shithead! We can't let anyone else take them. Dr. Greenberg is not going to want to see his investment in someone else's hands." He gestured to Jerry. "Start with that one."
Jerry's mouth dropped. The mop fell from his hands.
"What? C'mon, Marco. He's just a kid."
"If you're too much of a pussy, I'll do it." Rodriguez pulled out his gun, and Jerry looked around desperately for someplace to hide.
Busby punched Mr. Rodriguez in his mouth, and a few shark teeth went flying. "Run, kid!" he shouted.
Mr. Rodriguez shot Busby in the stomach, and was leveling the gun at Jerry when something foul smelling and brightly glowing hit him in the face. "What the fuck?" he shouted, as he tried to wipe it from his eyes.
Mr. Quiet made a throwing motion, and an invisible rope snagged Mr. Rodriguez's arm, making the gun fall to the floor.
Jerry tried to grab it, but he accidentally kicked it down the hallway, past the devil's circle. He began running after it.
Rodriguez bit at the air, and Mr. Quiet fell back as the cord snapped. The burly guard began running after Jerry. "You're fucking dead, you freaks! Starting with the brat!"
Jerry was running as fast as he could, but Mr. Rodriguez's legs were much longer than his. He started to skirt around the side of the circle when he realized Mr. Rodriguez was just behind him.
With no other choices, he jumped through the glowing circle.
There was a sensation of something trying to grab him, but somehow slipping past him. He fell out the other side, and rolled to his knees. He heard a scream, and looked behind.
Mr. Rodriguez was halfway through, and he hadn't escaped the grasp of whatever was in there. His body began to grow longer. His mouth was a grimace, and it kept getting bigger, until his jaws were stretching the sides of his face unnaturally wide. His skin was turning grey, and his clothes were tearing. His arms shrank and flattened until they became fins, and a tail began to grow from his rear. In moments, a ten-foot-long shark was thrashing on the floor. The last thing to change were his eyes, going from brown to pure black, the panic fading from them. The thing struggled within the circle, trying to find water, until it finally stopped, exhausted, its gills gasping.
Jerry sat there panting for a few minutes longer, then he carefully made his way past the other side of the circle until he reached Mr. Busby. The man was still alive, if hurt badly.
"Fuck," he said. "He shot me. Why'd he do that?"
Jerry reached into Busby's pocket and pulled out his keys. The guard offered no resistance.
He was about to start unlocking the cells when he heard the door to the stairs kicked open, and suddenly men with guns came streaming down. He stood up and grabbed the only weapon in reach: his mop.

"Found something, ma'am," Montoya said, handing her a file.
The file simply had a -5 at the top. A quick glance showed it was about a young boy. "Our caller," she guessed. The report was thick, with pages and pages of revisions. She wondered how long Greenberg had been holding him. There were a few pictures. He looked so scared.
"We're ready to breach the basement," said Jiang.
"Right. Let's do it," Iris said. She followed him down the stairs back to the first floor.
The breach team was ready, and on her signal, they proceeded down the stairwell and broke through the door.
On the other side, they found themselves confronted by a short, skinny little boy holding a mop, standing over a guard bleeding out from a gut shot. Behind them was a… a shark? In some kind of glowing circle? There were doors along the hallway, and faces could be seen looking through little barred windows at them.
"Don't… don't hurt my friends!" the little boy said. He was obviously terrified, but nor was he making any move to back down, despite his shaking knees. Iris recognized him from the file.
"We're not here to hurt you," Iris said. "We're just looking for our friend."
"Then why do you have guns?" he asked her.
Jiang looked at her for orders. Even a ten-year-old could be dangerous, depending on his abilities.
Instead of answering directly, Iris opened the file again and glanced through it. "'Subject refuses to reveal anomalous abilities. Proposing further experimentation.' What kind of tests… 'Exposed to open flame… aggressive dogs… low-to-mid-level interrogations…'"
Iris looked back at the little boy standing between her and the other prisoners. There weren't many scars. Not that showed, anyway.
She walked forward, knelt down, and pulled the mop aside. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she said, "It's okay. We're not going to let him hurt you anymore."
The little boy looked at her solemnly. "You promise?"
"I promise," she said.
"And you have go help my friends, too," he said.
"We'll do our best," she said. She wished she could promise him more, but it all depended on what the Foundation decided. She was still sure, though, that they'd be better off with the Foundation than with Greenberg.
She turned back to her team. "Agent Jiang, please inform the Director we won't be able to bring Greenberg in alive. We've determined he's too dangerous."
"Yes ma'am," the agent said grimly.
I can help you She felt the voice as much as she heard it. It reverberated inside her head.
"Greenberg?" she asked, warily.
I am not Greenberg The voice was almost painful. I help people
She realized the voice came from the glowing circle. She could almost see… something in there, but she couldn't tell quite what. It was watching her, though.
"What kind of help?" she asked.
Joseph Greenberg wanted to contain me I told him how I could be kept Here I am
She realized suddenly, that it was sending whole concepts to her directly. Her own brain was translating it into words. She realized that what it meant by contain and kept were not quite the same thing.
"Why is there a shark there?" she asked, stalling.
He wanted to be stronger I made him stronger He is at the top of the food chain
"He's dying," she said. She felt pity for it. She wondered who it had been before it had been transformed.
He will not die He would not be strong if he were dead I keep him alive in the circle
"Miss?" said one of the prisoners, a twenty-something black man. "It can't do anything to you if you don't let it. Don't pay it any mind, and stay out of the circle."
That seemed like good advice. "Everyone, keep clear of that… whatever it is. Get all civilians and anything that looks important out of here. I think we've got what we came for." Of course, that left the harder task for the night.

As they exited the compound, the little boy looked around, bewildered. Jiang frowned, and started to say something, but Iris motioned for him to be quiet.
"Those are stars, Jerry," she said.
"There's so many," he said. "How can there be so many of anything?"
"Keep looking," she said. Whatever happened to him, she wanted him to have a chance to see it now.
"Ma'am?" Jiang said. "We have Professor Decray. He's a bit addled, but he seems to be doing better now that he's out of the cell."
"He gets better when he hasn't seen Mr. Greenberg for a while," the little boy said.
"Thank you, Jerry." It was sad, she thought, that he referred to such things so casually.
Helicopters were arriving to take the prisoners back to a Foundation site for debrief, study, and hopefully, at least for some of them, amnestics and release.
"Some people are going to take you someplace safe," she said, putting a hand on Jerry's shoulder.
"Are you going to kill Mr. Greenberg?" he asked.
Iris was caught between the easy lie and the hard truth. "…Yes," she said. "If we can."
He seemed to think about this for a moment, and then nodded. "Good."
She saw him into the helicopter, and then watched as he and the others were flown away.
"Are all assets in place?" she asked Jiang.
"Yes ma'am. Observers are currently watching Greenberg. So far, he's keeping to his schedule. We should expect him in two hours."
"So we wait," she said.
He nodded. "We do that a lot."
"We didn't, back in Omega-Seven. Able would charge in, and it would all work out. For him, at least." She shivered. "I prefer waiting."
"Mmm. Beats dying," Jiang said, his expression unreadable. She wondered if he practiced his poker face in the mirror.
"You ever take out a reality bender before?" she asked.
He nodded. "Twice." A faint smile crossed his lips. "Makes me an expert, just about."
"Well, let's try to make it three."

It was just past midnight when the Rolls Royce approached the gates of the facility.
The first assault happened about five feet in, as a concealed charge detonated under the car. The entire vehicle jumped nearly ten feet in the air, tumbling as it fell back to the ground, smoking pieces of wreckage falling off. It bounced before coming to rest right-side up. A broken, bleeding body slumped over the steering wheel.
The rear left door opened, and a balding, greasy-looking man in a sweat-stained shirt and unwashed labcoat stepped out. A— No, a very professional looking man. Well dressed. A researcher. A doctor.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
Iris made sure the flash was disabled, and took a picture. There was still a whir as the camera released the photo.
"Who's there? I heard that! You are interrupting the noble and virtual work of the foremost authority on megaphysical phenomenals in the world. Do you not understand the imprecations even the slightest interruption has on my inquiries?"
Iris almost apologized to Dr. Greenberg, but she focused on the developing picture. "Open fire," she said over her radio.
Guns flashed, and Greenberg twitched several times as bullets hit his center of mass. But a moment later, he was standing, unharmed. "My internal dampener slows the momentum of your bullets! My science is impeachable!"
She reached through the picture, and tried something she'd been asked many times before, but had always refused before. She grabbed at his head (so much smaller in the picture, and somehow much less handsome, respectable, and intelligent-looking) and tried to twist.
"Anomalous meddlers, I see how it is! Always trying to ruin me. You're just like the rest, you ought to be locked away!" he said, trying to resist her pull. He pulled out a piece of metal, and suddenly Iris's hand burned. "Element 246 will block any telecaster's abilities!"
The photograph caught fire, and Iris had to drop it to the ground.
"Aha! There you are," Greenberg said, turning towards the fire. "You thought you could win, but I am vicarious!" He marched towards her. "I am Joseph Greenberg. Did you think you could possibly beat me?"
Iris looked down at her feet. She wanted to just give up. Go to one of his cells. He was the better man, after all. But she gritted her teeth.
"I'll bet," she said, "nobody ever wanted to play with you on the playground. Especially not cops and robbers."
"Are you mocking me?" he said. "Don't you know who I am?" He shoved her in the chest, knocking her to the ground. He stood above her, hands on his hips, a sneer on his face.
"Yes," she said. "And I know how you work now. Take the shot."
"Take the shot? What are you talking ab—" Abruptly, his head and the upper part of his chest disappeared in a shower of red gore, staining the grass behind him.
"I wasn't talking to you," she said, shaking slightly as she stood up. "Asshole."
"Did it work?" Adams asked over the radio.
"He's not getting up," Iris said.
"Then it probably worked. I don't think he'd shut up if he could still talk."

"…and the body's being sent to Mann's lab. He might be able to learn something useful, though there wasn't much brain left." The intel agent closed his notepad. "That does it for the debrief."
"I'll try to leave him more to work with next time," Adams said.
"Please don't. He's much safer this way."
"Greenberg or Mann?" Adams asked.
"Take your pick."
"What's going to happen to the prisoners?" Iris asked.
"Most of them aren't demonstrating any anomalous properties anymore. Our best guess is that those were active manifestations. They'll be debriefed, given amnestics, and released with plausible cover stories. Enough money to start again if necessary."
"What about the boy?"
The agent looked down at the cover of his notepad, avoiding her eyes. "Greenberg was unable to affect him. That's anomalous in itself."
"So one reality bender couldn't do anything to him. Maybe Greenberg had a hang-up about changing children."
"We administered mild amnestics for the ride onsite, to keep the subjects from finding their way back. They had no effect on him."
Iris glared. "Agent, at worst, he's unaffected by certain anomalies. That's the opposite of a threat to normalcy."
"Ma'am…" The agent fidgeted. "The thing is, he could be an important asset when dealing with exactly the kind of threat we saw tonight."
"Bullshit. He's ten."
"The GOC spent millions of dollars and hundreds of hours to make Clef resistant to certain anomalies. This boy has it naturally. Can we just let him walk away?"
"He's a child!"
"Well, that's a decision for someone else to make. I can only make suggestions." He turned and walked away.
"Fucking weasel," Iris muttered. She packed her camera back in its case and latched it shut.
"Eh. At least he's on our side," Adams said. "By the way, you said something back there about cops and robbers?"
"What? Oh, Greenberg. He was reacting. He'd see what was hitting him, and then he'd have whatever 'science' he needed to survive. You ever play cops and robbers as a kid?"
"Um." Adams's expression was blank for a moment. "I… not that I remember."
"Well, everyone points and says when they shoot. You're supposed to stop when someone 'shoots' you. But some kids won't do that. They'll insist the other kid missed. Or if they're very imaginative, they'll say they have a bulletproof vest, or a force field."
"Heh." Adams smiled.
"Or…" Iris frowned. "Or a clone."
Adams stopped smiling. "You don't think…"
"I think… I think I want to go back to my room now. It's been a long night."