"I'm not a racist, Rhie. I just recognize the world we live in and I adapt accordingly."

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Anabasis Mongrelization
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

The school officials gathered around the scene had masks on for the smell. Priss thought that a bit much. She wasn't accustomed to dealing with corpses, but this one had an almost pleasant smell compared to some of the other horrors to smell when living in a big city.
"The door was locked?" Agent Sharpe asked again.
"Locked," The school official repeated, giving a quick look at Priscilla Locke, as if he were so clever.
Priss knelt down, cracking her knuckles through her latex glove, and dragging a finger across the mush of gore that was nearly flattened down. The body looked as if it had been roasting in the hot sun for years, long past the point of identification. She looked up, and breathed in deep the stench of the room. Rot, and dryness and mothballs.
"Anything special, Locke?" Sharpe asked.
Priss glared up at the woman. She shrugged, and looked to the school officials, "If you'll excuse us, please."
The group — the school principal and the faculty members who'd discovered the body — shuffled out of the room. The background noise of the school's plumbing system would drown out their conversation.
"Well?" Sharpe asked softly, crouching down to Priss's level.
"It's not dry," She mashed her finger down on the spot she'd first touched. It gave way, but didn't crumble, like greasy ground beef.
"It's Florida, Agent Locke. Of course it's not dry."
Priss sneered, and pointed up. Sharpe looked. "Smell."
Sharpe shrugged, "Smells like death."
"Smells like death down here. Stand up and smell. What it doesn't smell like is mold or mildew."
"Because it smells like death," Sharpe put in.
"You've never lived in a condo by the beach. If it were humid in here, you'd be able to smell the mold and mildew. Like… mud and piss and stale tobacco. It can smell like decomposition, but then someone would've noticed it a long time ago."
Sharpe picked up on what Priss meant then, "So if this corpse had been here the whole time, it would have dried out, or else people would have smelled it way before just two days ago. I don't know, how is that enough to justify bringing the Foundation in?"
Locke nodded to the device nearby. A stout little device, with wires streaming out of a teapot-like spout. The wires appeared cleanly severed at the end. Dust coated the near side of it, with the imprint of a hand shaped against it. A strip of paper was taped onto the side, with writing on it.
"I still don't see why this warrants our attention."
Priss sat back, resting her arms over her knees as she carefully examined the room, "Janitor said he checked this room a few weeks ago looking for a missing student and it was empty."
"The janitor thought they checked this room. That's not proof enough. The door was wedged shut, we almost had to bust it down."
"Regardless, what we have here is a corpse that has been here far longer than a year or two. We have clear evidence that this room, while not abandoned, has been opened up a few times in the past year or two. Meaning that up until two days ago, this corpse was not in this room."
"Did they ever find that missing kid?"
"Yeah, he was in the auditorium," Priss took out a notepad and started writing notes, "Someone told him about old fallout shelters beneath the school and he started looking for secret entrances around the school."
"Doesn't seem unlikely that someone could hide a body in here. That janitor looked a little Hispanic-y… you know how those types are…"
"No," Priss finished writing, and got up to her feet, "I don't." She knocked on the door, waiting for the school officials to open it up. She noticed they still had their masks on as they came back in.
"Could you smell it out there?" She asked.
The principal nodded, averting his gaze from the mass of meat on the floor, "In the room upstairs, especially. It was the smell that got our attention. We thought it was rats in the ventilation system, but shutting off the air only made the smell worse. We tracked it down here."
Locke didn't bother giving Sharpe a smug glance, the woman was already looking glumly resigned to the upcoming paperwork.
"Alright. Thank you for your time. If you'll please step outside and meet with Dr. Horner above. Just a quick examination, just in case."
The group nodded, and started to trudge out of the small room, heading up the stairs outside. Sharpe pursed her lips, resisting the urge to prod the body with her foot, "You think they caught something from the body?"
"You know that's not what Horner does."
"Mmm… what class do you think they'll get? I was always partial to Class-B's. One hell of a hangover without the hangover."
"Do I look like I care?" She didn't look up from her notes, starting to take note of the clothing the body wore — or what remained of it, "Look at its clothes."
Sharpe looked back down at the body, "What clothes?"
She pointed, and Sharpe knelt down, carefully tugging at a strip of fabric near what had been a person's shoulder. It was blue, and brightly patterned. The threads were still connected to a longer strip going down its arm, and ending in a wide opening.
"Looks like a robe. Not seeing any buttons." She knelt down closer, peering beneath its neck, "Can't see any tag, but I'm not gonna touch it to find out. What do you think?"
Priss shrugged, "Could be nothing. Fabric looks like it was nice. Patterns might be Oriental. Principal mentioned the clothes looked Chinese."
"Could be a Hawaiian shirt."
"I'm operating under the assumption that this person was not a Florida native. Probably not even a US native."
"Probably not an Earth native, even?" Sharpe stood up, "Come on, I'm tired of guessing. Call it in."
Priss looked to the body, then over to the device, "And that thing?"
"I don't know, I can't read it. Fucking ancient Sanskrit or something."
"It's Greek, you fool. Says 'Anabasis'." Priss tried to decipher the rest of the letters. She could read ancient Greek, but couldn't understand it.
"She's too ugly a thing for a pretty name like that," Sharpe snorted, and turned towards the door, "What numbers are free? In case it's somehow involved?"
"You're jumping the gun here. We don't know anything about it. It might just be a tank of gas."
"If it does turn up something, use '1856' for it."
"Why?"
Sharpe smiled, "I like that number. Plus, it's the year the Qing beat the Limeys out of Canton."
Priss shook her head absently, "I don't get why you're so obsessed with China."
"The Great Qing Empire is our top political enemy, Priss. It is good to know everything about your enemy."
Priscilla stepped out of the room, ignoring her as she headed upstairs.

Priss held her notepad up over her head, shading herself from the sun as she stepped out of the school and to her car parked nearby. Foundation vehicles and local police swarmed the area, and school had been cancelled for the week due to the discovery of the body. Out of nowhere, Rhiannon appeared, walking up to Priss before she could get away.
"Hey Hey HEY Prissy-baby! You going back to school?"
"It's work, you idiot."
Rhiannon pouted, looking over at the police vehicles nearby, "It's hard to tell sometimes. Shadowy men in black-types don't like flaunting their shit out in public. What's going on that brings you here?"
"Work," Priss repeated, "you idiot."
That made Rhiannon smile. Her lips looked dry, and her teeth weren't reflecting in the sunlight, "Talk ugly to me, baby sister, you know how much I love it."
Priss stepped closer, and noticed how Rhie slid back subtly, making it look like her usual saunters and sways. Priss winced, "You've been drinking. Rhiannon, it's not even 10 in the morning."
Rhiannon pouted again, standing up straight and lifting an arm up, bringing it in and touching her nose with two fingers, as if taking a field sobriety test, "I swear, baby sister, I have not been drinking this day. This day. This day." She winked.
Priss grabbed her arm, and started for her car again, "I'm driving you home. How'd you end up sleeping at the bar?"
Rhiannon didn't resist, but moved jerkily, "I resent that, Prissy-baby; the bar closed at 5 AM, I didn't sleep at all."
Priss thrust her into the passenger seat, and slipped into the driver's seat, setting her notepad aside. Rhiannon grabbed it before she could react.
"Rhiannon, that's classified."
"Fuck off," She thumbed through it, holding the pages upright between thumb and index finger, knowing how much Priss hated that. If she tried to snatch it away, the page would likely tear, "'Chinaman', you still use 'chinaman'?"
"That's what the principal said, based on its clothes."
Rhie kept thumbing through, skipping all the technical stuff, until she came upon a page taken up by a sketch of the device. "Anna Basis. Pretty name for such an ugly little girl."
"It's not a girl," Priss watched as Rhiannon gripped the notepad with one hand, letting the page fall free, then reached out to snatch it away. "It's an inanimate object."

It was typical for Rhiannon to be out drinking all night, managing to slither back home unnoticed well past midnight. It was always up to Priss to get her up in time for work. That Rhiannon hadn't even come home the night before concerned Priss the most. As they came home, Rhiannon carelessly tossed her shirt aside, lazily dropping onto the couch half-naked. Priss noticed a new set of tattoos on her hips, stylized figures wielding spears caught in an explosion of incoherent colors and designs.
"You were fired," Priss groaned.
Rhiannon glared at her, "I was not fired. I quit willingly."
"What happened this time?" Last time Rhiannon had 'quit' had been to pre-emptively avoid being fired for stealing office supplies and trying to blame it on the custodial staff.
"You remember that speech President Shithole gave last year while on campaign?"
"'We don't support subhuman mongrels'?"
"'We don't trade with or support subhuman mongrels'" Rhiannon needlessly corrected. She put her fingers to her nose, pinching it upright like the president's nose did, Then she let go and looked over at Priss, "My boss was chewing out an intern. At some point, he called her a 'subhuman mongrel' and fired her."
"What'd she do?"
Rhiannon lunged at her, leaning off the arm of the couch as if to strike her sister. Then she shrugged, and shook her head, whispering, "Nothing. Something. What difference does it make?" Then she spoke out loud, "The girl was crying. I saw her pass by. She was whiter than me, Prissy. What does that make me, Prissy?"
Priss stared at her for a while, before responding, "You serious? You want me to…?"
"What does that make me, Priscilla Locke?"
"You know skin color doesn't matter a damn. It's all… genetic and ethnic stuff these days. As much white as you are, that's how much of a citizen you are. It's why mulattoes get half a vote, third of a vote, etcetera, no matter if they're darker than a full-blood."
Rhiannon shook her head, "I'm tired, Prissy-baby. I am so, very tired." She flopped onto the couch, covering her face, "The racism… the institutionalized racism. The categorizing and subdividing of people into blocs and sub-blocs and 'special interest groups', like having a white poppa and a white momma is a 'special interest' you can pick up or drop when it suits you. Why are you a racist, Priscilla Locke?"
Priss rolled her eyes, "I'm not a racist, Rhie. I just recognize the world we live in and I adapt accordingly."
"You shouldn't haaaaave to, Prissy-bitch."
"Well I do. Why the sudden ethics lecture?"
"You don't get it, Prissy."
Priss snatched up Rhiannon's shirt from where she'd left it, and tossed it over Rhiannon's face, "No, I don't get it. You quit your job because your boss lost his temper at an intern. You're gonna have a whole lot of fun in the real world, Rhie."
"Not his fault… he's just a man of the times, where racism is the norm."
"When has it ever not been the norm?"
Priss sneered at Rhiannon's silence, then went to the bathroom to wash her face and hands. When she got out, Rhiannon had re-dressed and was on Priss's laptop.
"Columber still pesters you with three or four long-winded e-mails a week?"
Priss's lip curled slightly and she slowly approached her sister, "Yes, Colonel Umber does. You should read the stories he has to tell. He's just like you — a cynic and a freeloading liberal. Bitches about institutionalized racism as much as he can without getting into trouble. You could learn subtlety from him, too."
"He's another man of the times. A good man. And a coward. The good coward who whines about the bad men running this broken world, then goes to work the next morning working for those same men."
"Because there's absolutely nothing wrong or flawed with you, is there."
Rhiannon slowly turned to face her sister, "My flaw is I care too much. About people other than me and my precious white fucking race."
"What are you doing to help them, then? Up until yesterday, you were going to work every morning for the same 'bad men running this broken world.'"
That finally shut her up. For a long time, it seemed. Rhiannon casually closed all the browsers, shut down the computer, and got up from her seat. She pulled her sister into a hug, "Thank you, Priscilla."
"You could at least volunteer for some charitable foundation or something."
Rhiannon let her go, and drifted past her, heading for the door, "Thank you, Priscilla" she said again in a wistful tone.

Mongrelization | Motivation of Man »
Anabasis Hub


Manna.
 Manna the power,
 manna the food,
 manna the drink,
 manna the entity and Manna the Entity,
 manna the authority,
 manna the respect,
 manna in the far past,
 Manna the person.
 Manna.
 Who is Manna?

In a small room, darkened, filled with dirt and the smell of decay, there was a little boy.
This little boy was hungry. He had always been hungry, so his very need for food was usually overridden by his need to escape the monsters. However, this was the hunger of those who can't think of anything else but the burning heft in their stomach, draining their sanity and what little strength they had until only an animal was left where a person was, and then draining the animal until-
But no, this is not yet the time.

Manna saw the lights in the sky. Manna took them and brought them to the ground, where the Children would use them to lighten the perils in their way.
Manna saw the fruits up the trees, far, too far away from the Children. So Manna jumped into the air, climbed the trees naked and threw their fruit down when battling the shadow people that lived on them.
Manna saw the river that came down, down from the mountains, down, down, down. It came from the peak of the highest mountain, but only those who touched the peak could take the water and share it and live. And so Manna went to the summit, carrying only a bowl and the skins of a few beasts to shield themselves from the cold.
Manna was wise and good and brave before the wardens of Trust, Conviction and Memory, whom were bested and stood aside in shame. Manna reached the summit after four days and four nights of cruising the terrible mountains, and then, exhausted, they plunged their bowl into the ice-cold water that was the unending tears of the dead Gods.
And, knowing they needed to drink the water more than anyone in the world, for they were exhausted and hungry, they drank it.

What is Manna?

A woman was bringing forth a child. The woman had been forced into life, forced into marriage, forced into conception; she never asked for the first, never wanted the second and never forgave the last. But living to give birth to a new life was a choice she made on her own, in the way only a mother could.
Manna was born that day, and they would shape the barren Earth into a place new and plentiful were the Children would live and thrive.
As Manna grew, their mother grew old, and withered, and died sooner than all who knew her, for she had been generous and kind even to those who did her harm. Manna, generous even in their anger, took those who hurt them and talked to them for a day and two nights, and they all saw the wrongness in their ways.
The father of Manna took his own life. The grandparents of Manna pledged to follow them and lead the Children true to their mothers' spirit. The Children cried once every night, and laughed once every hour, to remember Her the Mother and keep Her memory alive, for she had brought them to the Children.

What is Manna?

And Manna reached the gates of Death after a life of grand tasks and grander achievements. They were hurt and old. Their Good was under perpetual siege by disillusion, their Wisdom was assaulted in every step by doubt, their Courage was plagued and weighted by memories, for in the end, they were only a person.
And they were wary.
But then, their children, their grandchildren and all their Children came to them and said: "Oh, You, Who have guided us your Children, please, tell us what can we do for You, our first and greatest Benefactor, in your last day on this world."
And they Manna, the person, the human, the Benefactor, saw they had done good for others. And Good was all Manna needed. So they told their children, their grandchildren and all their Children, and for the rest of their shortening lives, they told them of Generosity, of Empathy, and of Solidarity.
And then, they died and passed on and were interred, and on their bones fed the orchards that fed the Children.

What WAS Manna?

As the years went by, the Children grew and changed.
Many resented the Benefactor, for they saw Manna abandoned them in a dark, uncaring world that would never give them anything nor share its fruits, and they called Manna a traitor and a liar; and, to fill the hollow emptiness left in their beings, they learnt Hate.
Many resented the Benefactor and they saw Manna abandoned them in a grey, filthy world that would never understand them nor love them, and they called Manna a fool and a dupe; and, to ignore the hollow emptiness left in their beings, they learnt Mistrust.
Many resented the Benefactor and they saw Manna abandoned them in an empty, barren world that would remember them once they came to Death or Death came to them, and they turned their backs on Manna and forgot them; and, to get rid of the hollowed emptiness left in their beings, they learnt Cowardice.
But many would never resent their Benefactor, whose bowl they kept, containing that which came to be called the Manna. The Beginning of all Humanity, the Concept of Abundance, the End of all Suffering. And, even once the bowl was stolen and hidden away, they remembered.

But then, what is Manna?

It is the proper time to talk of the child.
The hungry, lost child.
"You okay there, little kid?"
The woman was a short, stocky person hidden under a mass of hair, turning and wriggling in ways the boy had never seen. She offered him a hand. "Come with us, kid!"
The child was desperate, and so he reached for her hand…

What indeed.

… the child was now a youngster who had learned to trust. The woman was now a friend, and a master, and he was just a trainee that wanted to help with an orchard that had emerged from the solid, darkened grounds of a wasteland.
He bit the fruit, thinking of its sweet taste, its weaving meat bleeding an acid juice that conquered his tongue and made him smile, eyes half closed. And, for a short second, he looked at the Work Group and realized he didn't just trust them; he would go to the ends of the Earth for them.
They were more than family. They were equals. They were kin.
He turned back to watch the poor, hungry refugees behind the fence, who were being given the food, and the seed, and the water and the land. They were kin, too, his people. They knew they could trust the Work Group, for they had earned their trust.
And so they should do everywhere else, the boy thought, for weren't they all Humanity? Were they not the good, generous brethren roaming the Earth and feasting upon her generously ceded fruit?
He looked at the fruit, half eaten, and laughed. "Hey, guys! Anyone wants half an orange?"

What could it be?

… the child was now a grown man and had learned conviction. He was strong, he was brave, he knew bravery had to come every day in an unending battle against hunger, disease and hatred.
He covered a closed wound in bandages; then he cleaned another one with quick expertise, stitched it up and covered it in bandages; then he cleaned another one, rapidly taking out dead flesh and dirt and splinters of wood and metal and rock, and closed it.
And then he raised his sight and saw the next wound had bled until the next one had bled through it.
The old man stared at the dead woman. For the first time in his life, he did not feel anger, frustration or sadness when loosing a life.
He felt pure desperation.

Manna is…

… the man was dead.
Opal glanced down to the naked body. Then looked up, a grin in her face.
"You know, I met him the very day he joined. Thirty years ago. I was just a newcomer. I was as innocent as they come, and so was he. I knew he was gonna have a goddamned hard time when we took him with us, but the thing is… he lived!"
Tears went down, rolling down her smiling face.
"He gave me his trust. He lent all his strength to our beneficiaries. He went on, forward, forward, forward. He never stopped," she laughed and sobbed almost at the same time, "-he never stopped loving life and loving us, his family, and he never, ever gave up on us, on anybody. And he never ever found that to be a sacrifice or a weight or a hurtful thing."
She raised her sight again, still crying, still smiling, and fiercely stared at them all.
"He was like us."
They all nodded in silent understanding. They were all different, they were all imperfect, and yet they were all alike. Opal nodded and silently took the bowl, filled to the edge with crystal-clear water.
"You know how this goes, people. Let's give him the life he wanted."
And so those of the Children who did not hate, who turned their backs on suspicion, who would not forget, covered the body on leaves and seeds and then threw fertile soil on both until a mound was erected and surrounded with vertical stones. Then, Opal dropped its contents on it.
Some of them cried; those were youngest. Some of them looked distant and pensive, one or two silent and lost in their memories of the departed. A few prayed whatever their minds had learnt to pray over their lives.
Most of them smiled. They had known him.
But Opal, who went on embracing and caressing and kissing cheeks and whispering comforting thoughts and giggling with her nose drenched in snot, knew. She knew the truth. Not the truth of a sect, or a law, or a vision. Nor the truth of a mad woman, or a fanatic, or a self-imposed belief. In a dozen different ways, with a dozen different beats, their hearts were all doing the same thing.
They were all silently remembering Manna, the Charitable.
"Come on, boys and girls!," Opal shouted. "It's time to leave Niger, we're needed in Somalia!"

Dead Is Manna,
Buried Deep Within The Earth,
From Which Bones And Flesh That Drank From The River Of The Dead Gods Sprout Back Into A Now Verdant World
But We Shall Never forget Manna And What Manna Did For Us
Because Manna Loved As We Love
Because Manna Dreamed As We Dream
Because We Are All Alike
Because Manna Helped Us,
And What Can We Do But Share That Same Help With All Of Their Children?

« Share Your Burdens | Live | Share Your Happiness »


Ms. Harrison sat quietly in a rundown inner-city apartment, the table before her and the chair she sat in being the only furniture in the room. Directly across from her, four objects were obscured beneath black sheets. Harrison brushed a lock of brunette hair out of her eye and sighed as she leaned on her hand. Before long, she checked her watch; both it and the suit she wore suggested she was not accustomed to waiting long for anything. Her host had already kept her waiting fifteen minutes.
The door behind her then opened as a well-dressed man quietly let himself into the apartment. He was balding and pale, and a pair of glasses sat crookedly on his nose as he locked the door behind him.
“I'm terribly sorry for the delay, Ms. Harrison,” he said as he crossed to the other side of the table, “as well as for these dreadful accommodations. Unfortunately, due to the nature of my employer's business, things need to remain away from prying eyes.”
The man reached out and offered a handshake. Harrison paused for a few moments, but eventually accepted. His hand was both cold and clammy, immediately making Harrison regret the decision.
“I am Mr. Saker,” he said with a small smile. “Shall we begin your consultation meeting?”
“I'm confused,” Harrison replied, “I thought I was meeting Anderson today.”
“I'm afraid that's not possible, Ms. Harrison.” Saker shook his head. “Some of our competitors are not exactly known for playing fair, and as such Anderson is only seeing to matters of the utmost importance. No, I'm afraid it's just me for today.”
“If that's how it has to be, I guess…” Harrison sighed. She then looked over at the objects covered by the sheets, tilting her head to the side as she stared.
“Anyway,” Saker began as he noticed her interest, “The fact that you were able to contact us to arrange this meeting shows that you are both trustworthy and have the money necessary for the purchase of one of our droids. May I ask what specifically you are looking for, Ms. Harrison?”
“Why don't you show me what you have and I'll tell you if anything catches my eye?”
“Very well,” Saker said with a shrug. He then reached in to his pocket and placed on the table what appeared to be three small black rubber balls, each with a single red dot at their center. The balls quickly turned on their own so the red dots were facing Harrison.
“These little guys are our Amur Series Recon Drones. Think of them as a sort of spy bot.” Saker then snapped his fingers, causing the balls to spin to face him. “Amur Series, Demo!”
Each of the balls then began to roll around the table, stopping every now and then to produce a set of four needle-like legs and crawl for a moment before retracting the appendages and resuming their rolling motion.
“Each of these guys is capable of recording up to 48 hours of video or audio. They can change color to camouflage with their surroundings and have the ability to scale sheer surfaces. Each can produce a small needle for the injection of medication, or something a little more lethal if you choose. They are available individually or in packs of three. Each is programmable to follow commands from only your voice, as is standard on all our models.”
Harrison watched as one rolled over and proceeded to crawl around her hand. She gingerly placed the miniature droid back on the table as she smiled.
“Astounding, but not really what I am looking for,” she said. Saker nodded, and gathered the droids before him on the table. He then approached two of the sheet-covered objects and stood between them as he lightly tugged the covering off both.
The object on his left stood no taller than about 60 centimeters and resembled a large black vase with a lid. Four thick spidery legs emerged from its bottom as it stood up, increasing its height by a meter. A thin red line formed a ring around its middle, emitting a faint light. Side panels opened up to reveal what appeared to be four gun barrels.
The object on his right resembled a small jet plane, less than two thirds a meter long with about one third of a meter wingspan. At the center of each wing was a rotor that reminded Harrison of a helicopter. The rotors began quietly spinning as the droid began to hover. A small camera emerged from a panel on the droid's underside and focused on Harrison as the rest of the droid hung in the air.
“Perhaps you are more interested in security, then,” Saker said as he pointed to the two new droids. “The one on my left is our Aplomado Series Facility Defense Unit. It can be equipped with a variety of armaments, possesses thermal-imaging and comes equipped with a thick bullet-proof shell. The one on my right is our Merlin Series Aerial Drone. It too has thermal-imaging capabilities, can be equipped with a variety of armaments and is also capable of recording up to 96 hours of video. In addition, it is virtually silent during flight and is invisible to all forms of recording devices. Both droids are capable of networking with each other and with other droids of their series to provide a comprehensive security system. As always, both are programmable to follow commands from only your voice.”
“Those're… well, those're a little extreme for what I have in mind. I don't think I've ever been in need of this kind of fire power…” Harrison chuckled. Saker laughed briefly and then nodded, the two droids returning to standby as he then moved to the right, towards another sheet-covered object.
“I sometimes forget that not all of our clients need such a high degree of security or privacy,” he said as he pulled away the sheet. “Perhaps something a little more domestic, yes?”
Beneath the sheet was a small cube vaguely resembling a tiny leather foot stool. Just as with the Aplomado, four spidery legs emerged from its base as it stood up, reaching about a meter in height. A large blue slit on its front appeared to form its eyes. From its back emerged four thin metal arms, each with a claw attached. One of the arms extended across the room towards Harrison, offering a handshake. Harrison giggled as she enthusiastically accepted.
“This is our Kestrel Series Domestic Utility Unit,” Saker grinned. “Each comes equipped with a standard four arms, but can be equipped with more for an additional cost. The standard arms can extend up to four meters and are equipped with a camera so that the droid may see what it is doing. Specialty arms are available for a variety of tasks. The droid is programmable so it may learn a multitude of domestic skills.”
“This is definitely the right direction,” Harrison smiled, “but, don't you have anything a little more… relatable?” Saker raised his eyebrows.
“Humanoid?” he asked.
“That would be preferable,” she replied. Saker gave a triumphant grin as he approached the final sheet.
“You're in luck, Ms. Harrison, as I have saved the best for last. Allow me to introduce you to our most popular model, the Peregrine Series Humanoid Utility Droid!” Saker enthusiastically ripped away the final sheet to reveal what looked almost like a crash test dummy sitting in a chair, but covered in a skin of sturdy black fabric. Two white plastic disks that appeared to serve as eyes stared blankly at Harrison as the droid lifted its left arm and waved. A red serial number, 045, was visibly stitched into its arm.
“Evening Ms. Harrison,” the droid replied in a computerized voice.
“Each PSHUD comes equipped with our specialized aramid covering and self-repair capabilities. Complete fluency and literacy in three languages is standard, but more can be programmed in for a small fee. In addition, each PSHUD unit is equipped with a highly advanced artificial intelligence and one of our seven preprogrammed personalities. These personalities evolve and adapt based on your use of the droid, and as such they have a unique capacity to form relationships not seen in our other droids.”
Saker paused as he placed a hand on the droid's shoulder. Harrison crossed the room and knelt down beside the droid, lightly taking its hand in hers before looking back up to her host and beckoning him to continue.
“On top of all that, we have several modules for a variety of skills that can be programmed into each droid, from combat to house work. This is by far our most flexible model yet. If you want, you can give your PSHUD permission to issue commands to any of our other droid models on your behalf. It can serve as a command unit for your Merlins, Aplomados and Amurs, or a foreman for your Kestrels.” Saker scratched the back of the droid's head. “Indeed, these are my favorites.”
Harrison nodded in agreement. She returned to her feet and looked at all the other droids, and then back to the PSHUD.
“I think you might have a sale, Mr. Saker,” she said. “However, I would like to know whether I'll be taking my purchase home with me today, or waiting to receive my new droid at a later date. Are these units ready to go?”
“I'm afraid not,” Saker frowned. “These are just our demo models. No armaments, no modules, no personality, just the most basic of our programming. You're looking at the shells we will be adding your features onto.”
“Excellent,” Harrison smirked. “This makes my job much easier.” She then proceeded to draw a pistol from her jacket pocket, her finger on the trigger as she trained the weapon on Saker. She then spoke towards a microphone hidden on her person. “All clear, control, send in the team!”
Saker looked down at the gun unamused.
“Ms. Harrison, you lied to me,” he sighed as he shook his head.
“I'd be more worried about putting my hands behind my head and getting to the floor if I was you,” Harrison snapped back. Saker refused.
“Now who do you work for? Not the Global Occult Coalition, since this building has yet to be firebombed into oblivion. Those thieves working for Prometheus wouldn't have tried something this direct, and MC&D's men would have already made a bulk deal. Guess that makes you Foundation personnel…”
“Get down!” Harrison interrupted. Saker sighed again as he complied.
“We were wondering when the Foundation would try a stunt like this. Congratulations for being able to set up this meeting and for getting this far without tripping any alarms. Honestly, considering how long you guys have been slicing up 31, Anderson thought it would have been much sooner.”
“Quiet” Harrison shouted. Saker shook his head again.
“I'm sorry for having to do this. All units, activate Foundation protocol.”
The room then filled with a horrific shriek, forcing Harrison to cover her ears in pain. As she looked around her to try and find the source, she was horrified to find all the droids were falling apart. The Amur units flattened and melted into small piles on the table. The Aplomado tipped over, its tough exterior cracking before shattering into a thousand pieces, revealing the interior had already disintegrated into rust. The Merlin came lightly tumbling down to the floor as a cloud of dust. The Peregrine's skin shriveled and the plastic casing underneath bubbled up through the fabric. Each continued to issue its own high pitched screech until the room became quiet, save for the sound of Saker's laughter.
Harrison turned to him, and gasped. His skin was melting away into a white froth that became more and more pink as blood joined the mix. Beneath this, a plastic skeleton became visible, resembling the PSHUD without its fabric skin. Before long, this too had melted away. The laughter ceased and the room fell into silence.
Harrison looked around at the various black puddles around her. Any second, the rest of the sting team would come barging in, but it would be of no use. Anderson had once again proven to have the upper hand.

Part Two: Simple Sketches | Peregrine | Part Four: Building Up


The passions of the dead can be vast and mighty, but we are not all-powerful.
There are things I can never see. There are things I can never touch. There are things I can never overpower. Because of that, there are many things I can never protect my-children-who-birthed-me from. Because of that, oftentimes they die in bitterness and pain. Because of that, their deaths can also birth Hates, large and small.
Hates are things I can see and touch. I must see and touch them, because my-children-who-birthed-me cannot. I must protect my-children-who-birthed-me where I can, just as my strange brethren are driven to curse them. I do not have the power to unmake Hates. The best I can do is bind them to a seal made from things that my-children-who-birthed-me can see and touch. The truth of our nature is all we have and are, and denial of that truth is denial of our power, but, more importantly, my-children-who-birthed-me can guard themselves against what they can see and touch.
The form of a ladybird beetle or butterfly is a fine seal for small Hates. In a seal of that size, it is easy for me to reduce the power of their curses to almost nothing. The larger seals needed to hold larger Hates are more difficult. A Hate sealed as a cat can still cause sickness and misfortune.
Then there are vast Hates, birthed from wars and plagues that kill together many of my-children-who-birthed-me. There are few Loves vast enough to deny the truth of their nature, but I have tried once. It was a Hate birthed out of the smoldering rage in the hearts of so many who died knowing that their bodies would be burned together in a pit of pestilence and anonymity. I rarely call upon the power of the light that brings life to create a seal, but there was little choice against a Hate natured so strongly of death.
The weakest part of any seal is always in the eyes, because they are the windows to the soul. My-children-who-birthed-me only believe in that as a concept, but concepts are far more real to my brethren—whether they are strange or not—and I than what my-children-who-birthed-me would think of as "concrete". To line up the windows is to make an open path between a soul and the most vile curse a sealed Hate can still inflict. I used every method I knew to reinforce the seal's eyes, but even then I could not stop it from setting a cause of death in anyone it met gazes with. My blessing could only delay the curse's full effects for a single cycle around the light that brings life.
My misguided children, why did you take its eyes?


Time was slowly trickling down into the deep subterranean complex of Site 17, flooding its corridors, conquering containment chambers, drowning cells and labs, seeping through meter-thick blast doors and laughing in the faces of armed guards. Time knew no hindrances. Even an almighty Foundation that stood above governments, defeated gods and overcame demons, even it did not possess a cure for Time. No special containment procedures could ever stop this keterest of all Keters. Humanity accepted its power and presence so much that it didn't even try to find a way to stand against time, let alone fight it. Only the digits on watches and timers were clicking away, grimly confirming Time's presence. And all the while Time flooded every room to the ceiling, dissolving things and events - some momentarily, like sugar, others remained longer. Yet all of them were dissolved eventually - dissolved and carried away with Time's inexorable flow.
The keterest of all Keters was roaming among the containment cells, touching everyone and everything. The horns on a goddess-daughter's head grew by a hair's width yet again. Her screams thirty years ago when she had realized they were piercing out were quite loud. Alas, genetics is incompliant, and if one's mother was horned, one would be doomed to be horned as well. Now she was praying humbly upon a rather dog-eared Bible. Horns suited her well and her aging was quite slow, so she probably would have looked no day older than 25 - but Time scorned her skin as if in retaliation. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, as they say.
Her petite neighbor didn't grow an inch, although the changes in her were considerable. The only thing left of her original self was a small part of her brain an a right eye. Somewhere in her twenties her body came to think that mechanical organs suited it more than "natural" ones and began to reject whatever human parts were still left. That was when pieces of some long-scrapped gadgeteer came in handy, especially his artificial skin. Some ten years later the only thing betraying a human presence in the petite cyborgess was this very eye which was prone to drying out and inflammations. She clung to it for a long time, like a child to her favored toy, but Nature took its own eventually. Request for a replacement eye was pending approval, and a more practical implant was soon to be installed. That was a logical and practical decision, worthy of a perfect mind.
Time was consuming objects and entities, events and experiments, leaving behind only ashes of burned logs and reports. Reading those still made some people's hair stand on end, but who could imagine the events described therein at least half as vividly? Maybe those who experienced them firsthand would, but their numbers were dwindling… some chose not to remember things. Memory was gone with the smoke, and documents were but ash compared to it. Another object decommissioned by Dr. Time due to old age, its last shadow imprinted on a bed sheet in its containment cell. And then its decrepit body became visible again.
Some pretty resilient and pleasant memories were slowly dissolving in Site 17 director's office. A bunch of birthday cards with the number 55 were lying on the table, thrown by a careless hand. How many times was she 55, again? Her colleagues feared she might get angry, and did so for a reason. Still, a good specialist is entitled to her quirks. Funny thing is, these congratulations only made the pain worse, reminding her of her true age. So did the photos on the walls. Among those depicted, only the office's tenant remained alive - cats, dogs and even ornithosaurians have shorter lifespans. All dogs. Even a Foundation professor.
Time was knocking at the doors of those who sought refuge from it, like lumps of earth. A woman lying dormant in a containment cell suddenly screamed and jumped awake, pitifully gasping for air. "What did you dream of?" - asked Time, a stony tenderness in its voice. "Boiled children, maybe?" Time snorted and ran a cold finger across the woman's face, leaving another wrinkle behind. "You will cease, you will die" - hushed the whispers in the old hag's head, and it seemed to her that it was sand dropping on a coffin lid. For now, the only thing to cease in this "home" was a light bulb. Time chuckled as the old hag screamed and darted away from the lamp that cracked and went dark. "Dark in here. Grave darkness, eh, old hag?" - the darkness queried as the old woman's heart skipped a beat, seemingly thinking about stopping once and for all. But her heart went on, and so did Time. Not today, old woman. Time was not interested in her conscience. This time it came here for the light.
A man in a cell with soft, padded walls raised his eyes, red and maddened, as if sensing some intangible presence. "You managed to escape death," - Time said to him. - "Me, you will not escape" An antediluvian doctor, always a bother to the O5, was able to swap bodies as he saw fit, but his mind grew ever older, more senile, eventually going completely blank. New Council members - did you think you'd become one of them some day? - did not put up with the shenanigans of a doctor slowly lapsing into madness. His usefulness grew lesser and lesser… at first he got an SCP designation and a comfy cell. Later on, when people had enough of his suicidal inventiveness, he received a strait-jacket and a daily diet of sedatives.
"You won't get a new body until you wear this one out, Jackie," - said Time in an annoying voice through a nurse who was tinkering with medical probes. - "Oh, and by the way - another namesake of yours was caught yesterday. This time it's a she. Only the Spades left. His time will come too…"
Next to the insectarium, Time caught up with another Foundation hero of days past. He started frequenting this place lately. His beard became completely white, his glasses - disgustingly thick. Now he was moving a finger along the insectarium cage, looking at a man standing inside. It was himself, but young, brash and armed with a sword. None of the booooterflies that put this show on for him remembered him young, not even their great-great-great-grandmothers witnessed the times when he was still able to keep a firm grasp on such metalware. Time's brief laugh made the butterflies' wings flutter, and for a second the illusionary sword became rusted, and the young doppelganger's eyes became lifeless, empty sockets. The old man gave a jump, then wiped his eyes, sighed and resumed building his living card-castle. Time went on.
Time's breath touched everyone and everything, making no exceptions, caring not for age and authority. A seemingly young man who sat there with a stiffed gaze, blinked and touched his forehead. It seemed like Time did not dare touch him - no one could ever harm him. His body did not grow old, his hands were ever strong, but he had long forgotten the taste of bread. Time, as if taking revenge for an invincibility so egregious, sped up thousandfold against all plants the brazen immortal dared approach. This too was, as it turned out, possible to get used to, so Time generously gave him much knowledge, in which, as it is known, is much grief. Time did not care what he was thinking, be it Procedure 110-Montauk or Protocol 10-Israfil-B - neither knowledge would let him sleep in peace.
Time even had a means against the Creator himself. For all eternity, every moment Time was whispering an ancient curse in the Lord's ear - a curse called Boredom. This curse has led Him into these walls one day, like a puppeteer's string. This very curse made Him leave by his inscrutable ways. At least that was what he told his hospitable jailers in his farewell letter. Was he really the Maker of Time itself, or was it just a manifestation of lunacy inflicted by boredom - only Time could tell. Anyway, one day God just left his temporary abode deep in Site 17, quickly and without trace, leaving behind only a note and impotent panic.
Time slid into a tunnel, as quickly and deftly as only Time could manage, and went into an Existential Isolation Facility several kilometers away. Its only inhabitant sat in front of his screens, gazing at the stream of world news, remembering things he lived through with every passing moment. This abnormal old man was Time's favorite, for he, unwillingly and bravely, challenged this invincible force of nature. He was living the inside out. It wasn't a big difference for Time, though - some people live from birth till death, this one lives in reverse, but it all began with an appearance, and it will end with a disappearance, although a very unusual one. Maybe Time perceived this man as some quirky diversity, touching his hair and taking pieces of silver away instead of giving more.
Hands on the clock completed their turn. Calendars moved a tick forward. Some people died, some were born. For the majority, it was just a day - good or bad, Time did not care or even understand. Time, if you're inclined to personify it, saw in its boundlessness how the purest enterprises grow into blackest villainy, and how absolute atrocities become the greater good. Colors were changing too fast in its wake, and black and white were blending into gray, the moments' circle never meant to end.


I awoke on an examination table. Monitors built into the walls displayed medical information: height, weight, dental X-ray, MRI data. There were several unfamiliar charts that I couldn't read. I sat up and saw a doctor taking notes, so I inquired.
"What is this screen describing?"
"That's an inventory of augmentations to your body. We scan for everything from pins holding bone together to nanomachines in the blood." The doctor turned toward me and approached the monitor I had referred to. I noticed that his voice and appearance were nearly identical to mine. "Looks like you're completely natural."
"Why have I been taken here?"
"I would have shown you when you woke up, but you've come to a few minutes ahead of schedule." My double tapped the closest screen. I discerned that he was checking the measurements of medications administered to me.
"A timing error. That means you probably aren't actually my duplicate."
He chuckled. He must have thought I was making a joke. "I'm you if things had gone a little differently, Doctor. I would continue the exam, but I know you won't cooperate until you get answers. Come along."
"Our most popular hypothesis is that a reality-bender opened a bubble between universes for personal use." The physician told me this as he led me across the wing. "Those of us who study spatiotemporal anomalies believe it's far too stable to occur naturally. I trust them on that.
"The earliest known arrival was first detained here six years ago, so we believe that to be when initial construction finished. However, the base has continually expanded since then to make allotments for certain outliers in our population."
"That doesn't satisfy my previous question."
"I know, Doctor. I try to err towards caution with new arrivals and ease them into the knowledge, but I know enough about you to know that you're only intellectually aware of the concept of shock. So here you are." He opened a door to another hallway, and we entered.
As we did so, a second duplicate of myself approached the first, and they exchanged information on tablet computers. Down the hallway, a third and fourth conversed while gathering medical supplies.
"The population I mentioned earlier, Doctor Gears? It's you. It's us. Two hundred and eighteen instances, gathered from across the multiverse. Welcome to the House of Gears, Charles."
"I know what you'll ask next. Just a moment." My tour guide opened a picture on his tablet and showed it to me. "Is this the woman who abducted you?"
"Her face was concealed, but I recognize the mouth."
"The face is the least important part. The suit and gun, did she have those?"
"She did."
"Okay, that's almost definitely Black Queen Persephone. Which is good, she's one of the kinder ones. Her real name is Alison Chao, but she probably told you that."
"She mentioned her first name."
"She's your daughter. Or rather, she's a version of your daughter. …More precisely, she's the daughter of a version of you." He scratched his chin. "Do you have children, Charles?"
"I never married. Please don't call me Charles."
We passed out of the medical wing and into a carpeted hallway. "Here we have the recreation wing." He opened a door to a room with a dozen chess tables, each occupied. "I can get you in on a game, if you like. I'll even make sure you get white."
"No, thank you. I've never been one to play chess with myself."
"Fair enough. Where were we… oh, yes, a lot of the Gearses in here don't have living daughters. Not all, but…" He trailed off as he tapped idly at the screen of his tablet a few times. Perhaps he was impatient at a load time. "And I'm sorry about that. It'll be 'Dr. Gears' for the rest of the tour. It's just that you don't have your designation yet." He pulled his arm a few inches further out from his coat sleeve to show me a tattoo on his right wrist. "We get them during the third stage of processing, after the exam and initial orientation. I'm C-44."
"C-44. Is the tattoo mandatory?"
"Yes. It's the most efficient way the logistics officers have found to avoid confusion." He scrolled through columns of information under the photograph of Black Queen Persephone. "The only way to get out of it is if you can think of a more practical system and convince them to adopt it. Which I encourage wholeheartedly."
We turned a corner into a row of doors. "This is the housing section. you'll likely end up living here. It should fit your tastes — maximum efficiency, easy to clean, a computer with access to all the information I can give you."
I opened an unlocked apartment. "These remind me of Foundation containment chambers."
"I think that's the aesthetic they're going for."
I didn't respond.
We reached a fork. "At this point," C-44 told me, "we can go right, toward the cafeteria and the workspaces. your specialty is…" Two taps on the tablet. "…mechanical engineering, right? I can show you the lab."
"And on the left?"
"Maintenance, the garden, and… other housing arrangements."
"So the question is which end of the facility you will show me first?"
"Trust me, we'll only have time for one."
"I see. Who is responsible for the equipment in the lab?"
"The engineers make requisitions for parts or equipment, and the logistics officers pass these on to the Black Queens, who approve or deny them. There are a few limits… spacetime research is severely restricted, and you'd have trouble getting things that could catastrophically damage the facility—but the engineers have pooled their knowledge and it's resulted in quite a few innovations."
"Pooled their knowledge? Elaborate."
"Each Doctor Gears adds the sum total of his knowledge to the facility's resources. There are alternates of you from universes where quantum physics is decades ahead of what you'd know, where materials science has produced things you may have theorized were possible… everyone works with the best that the multiverse has to offer."
"Take me there, C-44."
And so he did.
For the sake of time, I shall relate several examples of what I saw there rather than a complete inventory. The initial notes I made on the engineering labs, which I took down from memory once I had access to paper, filled my first journal, and continued into most of the second journal that I was provided.
I saw entanglement experiments at a scale such that they involved apples and billiard balls. I saw innovative human organs designed to provide new resources to the body without rejection. A small team had devised a method of encoding messages into genetic material that could be read in a blood or tissue sample, a process they tested during the cloning of species that had become extinct on their respective planets.
One laboratory was dedicated to advancements in clockwork technology. I watched an analog computer evaluate sorting algorithms powered solely by a wind-up key. In a corner, researchers took turns monitoring a complex arrangement of gears surrounding a receptacle. It was explained to me that occasionally the readout shifts to one of several settings, such as Coarse or Fine, and an object emerged. It was partly a game and partly a compulsion amongst the clockwork researchers to determine what sort of object the machine was requesting based on its output.
"I hate to cut this short," C-44 told me, "but it's getting late. you'll need to squeeze into the last shift of processing if you don't want to spend the night on a hospital bed."
"Very well." We adjourned to the medical wing. C-44 found the room marked Processing - Housing And Designation.
"This marks the end of the tour, Doctor Gears. Ah, right, one last thing I need to tell you." C-44 tapped a nearby wall monitor. He opened a menu and dragged it downward, off the edge of the screen, and it appeared on his tablet. "This is the information on your retrieval. It should be released to you before long."
"I expect it to include the reason I was abducted."
"It varies depending on the instance of us and the instance of them. Some take us because they think we've blocked out the memory of our children, or have had it removed. Some think the doctors they bring in are psychologically damaged and in need of treatment. Some of them just consider us resources to be used to labor in labs and workshops. If we were the targets they actually sought out, we wouldn't be tossed… in… Here it is."
"Like I said earlier, one of the kinder ones." He turned to me. "She brought you in because she doesn't want you around for what she's going to do to your Foundation."
The processing clerk gave me an apartment key and a badge which denoted that I worked in engineering Lab 3. He asked me to place my arm into a machine, and I did so. A cuff restrained my arm to prevent movement, and a tattoo was inscribed, relatively quickly and painlessly, onto my skin. "I hope you enjoy your stay, B-85," the clerk said. I looked at my wrist and verified that he had called me by the correct name.

My initial visit to my apartment and sleeping were uneventful. At the cafeteria, I was served corn flakes with slices of banana, which is my preferred breakfast. Once I had finished eating, I began to travel to my workspace. At the fork in the hallway, I decided to head left to briefly survey that area, but was told by a security officer that I would require an escort with the proper clearance. I accepted this.
That evening, I left my shift early (relative to my normal schedule; at the Foundation it would have been considered two hours late) and registered an appointment with C-44. He would agree to complete the tour. The clerk asked me why I was interested in touring the wing. I deflected the question, as I was unable to answer.
I met with C-44 the next day after work. (Details of my research fill my second journal. By request of the supply supervisor, I began keeping digital records only after that to save on paper.) He asked to see my badge, and I complied. I expressed my intention to visit the maintenance and "alternative housing" he had mentioned, and he led me. As we walked, C-44 engaged in small talk.
"So, you're B-85… and you got a job in the lab? Congratulations."
"Was there any uncertainty?"
"Unfortunately, not everyone can get the position they prefer. Someone has to do the unpopular jobs. Human Resources does a good job of providing most of us with a position that best suits us. Those of us without doctorates go into low-qualification tasks, while those of us who are more, ah… personable are assigned to work in the more social jobs."
"Is that what happened to you, C-44?"
"That's it, yes. I worked as an MRI technician at a private hospital, but now I handle these initiations, because apparently few of us are good at that sort of thing. But enough about that. You should see the garden."
C-44 brought me into a solarium outfitted with artificial sun lamps. Rare species grew here [list some], caretaken by assistants of a Dr. Gears A-20, who greeted me cheerfully.
"Isn't it beautiful?" he asked me.
"I'm sure it's a useful collection."
"Useful…" A-20 removed a work glove and rubbed his chin. "Empty your mind for a moment, B-85. Just feel the energy here. As each cell drinks in sunlight and each plant reaches toward it… don't you feel God here?"
"I don't."
"Well… yes, it's a useful collection. you'll probably appreciate the hydroponic crops. They're just past that door." A-20 replaced his glove and began to prune a bush.
"Don't mind him," C-44 whispered to me. "Back home, he was part of something called The Church of the Winding Branches."
"Alright. I suspect he's correct about the crops, C-44."
I saw a chamber filled with staple crops, herbs, and other edible plants growing in water.
"This is where most of the cafeteria's food comes from. Here, and the cloning lab. Some things are transported here, but we try to be as self-sufficient as possible. The Black Queens spend less and less time here."
"I think they just want us to find the Tree." One of A-20's assistants muttered this while taking tomato inventory.
"Don't tell me," C-44 said to him, "that your boss converted you."
"It makes sense, doesn't it? Biodiversity is cranked to extremes in that botanical garden. Literally more plants than a universe has to offer."
I interjected. "Only in the sense that the garden contains plants from multiple universes. That's a very misleading statement."
"And when and where is the only other place that has so many plants in one place, with only one man to take care of them?"
"Again, that's not—"
"The Garden of Eden, brother. Humanity branched out from that one spot, from the Tree of Knowledge. I think… that the Black Queens are trying to remake it."
"C-44, why don't we continue the tour?"
"That, uh… yes, very well."

C-44 took me further west. Additional security guards patrolled this wing—Dr. Gears in face-covering visors. I was shown a locked vault door.
"No badge reader here, B-85. No electronic systems of any kind in the door's mechanisms. There's a key that a few security staff and Black Queens carry, but otherwise…"
"What's behind it?"
"Behind it is a similar, but separate facility. It's that alternative housing I mentioned. It's locked because… well, I'm not sure you're cleared to know that."
"What information can I access with Level 2 security?"
"You don't have a tablet yet, do you? Here…" C-44 held the screen up to me; the front camera was engaged. "Show it your card."
I scanned myself in.
"Ah, okay, here's a report." C-44 summarized the information for me. "So… if a Gears arrives with any artificial body parts or other implants, such as a digital eye, surgeons detect and remove or replace it with a part cultivated in the cloning lab. (Rejection is almost nonexistent, due to inhabitants sharing virtually identical genes.) Some, however, are beyond corrective surgery. Those are quarantined from the rest of the population in their own facility."
"I don't see the reasoning."
"Some of them have transferred to or been augmented with strong AI. If we gave them a moment to make their case, they would likely completely control the facility within a day."
"If they're that qualified, it sounds like a practical decision."
"The Black Queens don't see it that way. So they strictly enforce quarantine, and keep them next to… that room." C-44 pointed to the end of the hall. "I know you can't approach there."
A pair of security officers stood two or three yards away. The door they guarded was matte gray and bore an insignia painted in red.
"Recognize the symbol?"
It was a ring, with five arrows pointing outward from the center in the shape of a star.
"Something about it is dimly familiar."
"Maybe because it reminds you of the Foundation logo. I understand that there's a splinter group of the Foundation called the Insurgency, or Chao's Insurgency, or the Porridgemongers, or…"
"The Chaos Insurgency."
"Correct. That's a cast-iron door, B-85. Supposedly it protects us from their magic. I don't know anything about it, but the Black Queens work with a Gears, A-something, that calls himself a 'sorcerresearcher', and he handles CI policy."
The door opened from inside. A Gears was behind it holding a clipboard. "Requesting clearance to exit the salty ring of my fatigue."
The two guards turned toward him and tapped their badges. The Gears held up his card to them with his right hand. "Careful. your hand will break if you touch this vent."
"We can't read it from there."
"I don't want to approach you without permission." He pointed toward the side. "The hook in your neck is the contact you've made."
One turned to the other. "Don't invite him out. He needs it. He's a warlock."
The suspicious Gears raised his voice. "I need a brand new skin! Incarcernated debts!" I repeated the strange words to myself, under my breath. They tasted bitter. He withdrew his left hand from his coat. It was soaked in blood. He began to splatter it on the walls and floor on the other side of the door. One guard pressed an button with his palm that caused an alarm to sound.
As the door to the Insurgency cells began to close, the warlock shouted over the klaxons. "Goliath, are you receiving? Desecrated, you've arrived!" For a moment, he made eye contact with me.
"I'm really sorry about that." C-44 examined my clothing. "At least you didn't get any of it on you."
"That's good," I said.
"I think I should take you back to your room now."
"That's also good," I told him.
"I'm afraid you'll have to get an extra examination, though. They'll want to check for exposure to any 'spells' or 'cognitohazards'."
"Very well."
The examination found no effects from the incident, mental or metaphysical. The purpose of the CI agent's disturbance was not discovered. I personally am still not sure whether he was somehow alerted to my presence by informant or divination, or perhaps he merely chose to make an attempt to contact the general population and hope for the best.
That insurgent was not attempting to use a cognitohazard, I determined, nor magic. He was running through trigger phrases. He wanted to activate sleeper agents.
How did he know what their trigger phrases would be? Perhaps elements of the CI coordinate across universes. I must ask him later, when we are together.
I have been brought here on the pretense that I am a Foundation researcher, and I was. I am thought to be a man of science. I still believe that I am. As Whitman said, I am multitudes.
Every machine breaks, eventually. Sometimes, to do so, they require a little help.


A valuable heuristic to follow when working in a science lab is this: for each piece of equipment worth more than twenty dollars, assume that, at some point, it will fail. To summarize for the layman, there are machines in my workspace that will become drastically misaligned if a researcher sneezes within a yard of them. The Foundation has built redundancies upon redundancies so that one part of the facility can malfunction without affecting the system. Each of the individual machines, eventually, will break.
I was fixing an uncooperative laser printer on the day I was abducted. I can picture the exact specifications of the part I was soldering when I heard conflict break out behind the blast doors of the containment chamber. Several M4s discharged, which are standard issue for this sector's guards, but I heard no other gunfire. This caused me to rule out several potential attackers. I considered the most probable containment breaches, and in the absence of roaring vocalizations, clanging metal, or screams in proto-Akkadian, dismissed them. Judgment: situation unclear. Response: suspend the current task, observe.
Something collided loudly with the wall above. The object traveled forward until it was directly above me. A humanoid body passed down through the ceiling, accompanied by a long note, descending in pitch, played on a slide whistle.
The intruder wore an indigo suit made of a ribbed material which pulsated at a frequency of approximately 100 beats per minute. Save for her eyes (in my time here, I have learned her gender), which were beneath a set of goggles, the garment covered her face completely. She withdrew the mask by pressing against it with the fingertips of her left hand. I determined that she was human, superficially.
This woman reached between her suit's abdominal ribbing with both hands. Each appeared to open into a void where her body should have been visible. On the right, she stored the whistle and withdrew a pistol of unfamiliar design. On the left, she produced an object and told me to describe it.
I took the item from her to gauge its weight and examine it on all sides. Save for one moving part, it was carved from a single piece of low-density wood, possibly balsa. A small extra piece has been fasted to one end with a wooden bolt in a way that allowed the part to spin freely on an axis. The body was coated in red acrylic paint, applied inconsistently; it chipped with little resistance against my fingernail. I began with the most basic description of the object: it was a toy plane.
This summary caused her extreme displeasure. Grasping for a solution, I began to relay the other details, but she interrupted me before I could finish. Do you remember this? I considered that this woman had disabled a fire team in order to deliver this question, so I affected a reassuring tone. I explained to her that I have use of what is colloquially known as a "photographic memory". If I had encountered this object at any point in my life, I would know so. Even after amnestic usage prevented me from recalling it of my own free will, the sight of it would almost certainly evoke at least a vague sense of recognition.
At this point, the woman nodded. Although I am not a psychiatrist, and the assigned tasks of my job for the Foundation made any degree of human interaction optional, I had a reputation among my coworkers for the ability to succinctly and dispassionately convey information. Too often was I pulled away by staff who promised favors in exchange for delivering bad news: a family death, an anomalous disease, various other occupational hazards. As a result, I have seen, at least a dozen times, the particular sort of nod that the woman employed at that moment.
The woman put away the toy and restrained me with a pair of handcuffs. I asked her who she was, and what her intentions were. She told me to call her Alison, and that she planned on permanently removing me from the Foundation. I would not be harmed, she explained, but I would never be able to return. I told her that my test subject wouldn't like that.
Up until this point, Alison was either unaware or indifferent to the nature of the containment chamber into which she had forced herself. Outside the room, a station contained a reference document for containment procedure, a laser printer, and a set of reinforced suits and flamethrowers, available in case the test subject becomes uncooperative.
The containment chamber itself appears to be featureless; in fact, each wall is lined with roughly one dozen layers of industrial-grade paper, to facilitate the free movement of its occupant. The entity is contained within the paper, and can manipulate it to a degree.
Upon my mention of a test subject, Alison spun around and saw the entity in action behind her. It superficially appeared to be a life-sized ink drawing of an angry young woman. Pieces of the paper surface tore away and folded together at a rate of dozens of folds per second. In an imitation of the intruder's passing intangibly down through the ceiling, SCP Object Zulu Hotel Echo emerged from the wall in a humanoid body and advanced towards us.
My captor fired her pistol. The bullets passed through Zulu Hotel Echo without effect. Alison crouched, pulled a lever on the gun, and discharged beams that tore large cavities into Zulu Hotel Echo's body. The paper humanoid pulled material up from the floor to repair them. Then it lunged at Alison.
The two of them tumbled across the floor. Zulu Hotel Echo's claws tore into Alison, and Alison ripped away parts of her assailant as quickly as it could produce them. Alison pinned Zulu Hotel Echo to the floor, adjusted her pistol, and applied a jet of fire point-blank to the entity's head.
The paper body convulsed and folded into itself in an attempt to smother the flames while Alison rolled away and surveyed her injuries. Numerous cuts covered her face, and she was bleeding heavily from the shoulder. She dropped the pistol and pressed her trigger hand against the wound. The other held one of Zulu Hotel Echo's hands, torn away at the wrist.
The entity withdrew from the smoldering heap and onto the side of the chamber, then crawled to the wall Alison had leaned against. It formed two arms, one on each side of her. I noticed that Alison had folded the severed hand's claws together into a single point and smudged it with her blood. The smudges formed a drawing of a knife. As the hands closed around Alison's throat, she stabbed the point into the wall behind. It pierced the paper and Zulu Hotel Echo convulsed, causing the paper on the wall to shake and tear. The strangling arms went limp. Alison pushed herself onto her feet, leaving bloody handprints on the floor.
Alison pulled me away from the fire, which was spreading to fill the room. She sprinkled green powder in a circle that surrounded us. She noticed my fidgeting as I looked for an opening for escape, and pleaded that I not disturb the ring, for the sake of our own safety. She extracted a few jewels of various cuts from her suit and arranged them with care in the center of the ring, then wrapped an arm securely around my neck.
I decided that, while helpless, I could still at least gather information. I asked her how she was going to escape, and she told me that she would "open the Way".
This went without elaboration at the time, but my captor would later explain what was meant by the phrase. Alison can access a passage that intersects multiple universes, a phenomenon which she and her ilk have termed "the Way". The Way varied in geographic location, as it manifested in the immediate vicinity of "the most dangerous ten-foot square in America". Although the Foundation I worked for lacked the means to detect and analyze this portal, the qualifying ten cubic feet was almost always in or near a Foundation site. Whenever Alison herself was in a Foundation site, she found it trivially easy to "attract its attention".
During my initial capture, as I watched the flame advance toward us, I skipped the matter of what exactly "the Way" was, as the name made the basic concept evident, and asked if this powder was the method of opening it. She denied it. She held a sewing needle into my range of vision, point lightly pressed against her thumb, and said that she merely had to draw blood. The flames were centimeters from contact with the circle.
I inquired further: in that case, what was the purpose of the powder?
Explosive, she said, as she pierced her hand, and I felt an acute physical sensation similar to motion sickness.
Continued in Part Two.


A nonsensical amount of distance away from home, across an infinifold interuniversal membrane, in an n1-deviated Earth where a series of assassinations had torn apart the United States in bloody revolution, the Foundation still stood. The Foundation still endured. Site 19 still stood in defiance of all sociopolitical and architectural logic. The fluorescent light in the Floor 2 break room still flickered and buzzed.
It would drive the Black Queen mad, if that idea still had any meaning to her.
The Black Queen had seen that light when she was here last, back in her own Earth. Julia Bitterfield had seen it, too. In fact, Dr. Bitterfield may have passed out to that buzzing, audible through the door to the supply closet, where the Black Queen had administered the taserspike.
A more careful Black Queen would have lurked for her target outside of the facility, instead of infiltrating on memory of another timeline. A less cavalier Black Queen might have trusted only her own equipment to disable the target instead of being lured by the charms of the taserspike, a universe-native innovation, a precision instrument which incapacitated for hours if you targeted the proper anatomical locations. This Black Queen was none such Black Queens, and she wore the badge to prove it. Site 19, Level 3 Access, Julia Bitterfield, Engineering.
She took Julia's coat and glasses as well. The unconscious body would be discovered before long (a wiser Black Queen wouldn't have, and so on) but it pleased her to have a time constraint. It kept her focused.
The Black Queen, wearing Julia as she was, took a shuttle cart into the engineering wing. The antiseptic smell of the facility was tinged with ozone and copper. Scent memory… and then she thought of the sleeping body of Miss Bitterfield, soon enough to recognize the door she needed.
There was one researcher inside the lab. He was flabby and bald, and his mouth had settled into a slight scowl more out of gravity than any internal factors.
The Black Queen spoke. "Doctor Gears?"
The man she addressed turned around. "Yes?"
"I need you to come with me."
"Show me the form, researcher. I can't leave this project unattended without the express orders of the Site Director."
The Black Queen knew this would be the response. There would be a problem if it hadn't been. She approached him, and took hold of something in her pocket. Then she reached an arm around to draw him close. The other hand administered the taserspike.
"Sorry, father." She hefted him over her shoulder. "I didn't give myself time to convince you."

The Black Queen was fiddling with a space heater when the father Gears stirred into awareness. "What did you just do?"
"I've hidden us in the city." The Black Queen was examining the dome-shaped apparatus, another work of native design. "Getting out wasn't easy. My wall-slider implant doesn't accept passengers, and the shuttle cart didn't last long beyond the security gate. Too many bullet holes. I carried you the rest of the way."
"I don't understand this." Doctor Gears glanced toward the window; the tattered blinds were drawn, but he could tell that it was evening.
"We're hidden in this apartment because I thought it'd be relatively difficult to find us. Normally we'd be trapped if the task force did close in on our location, but I have something to deal with that." The Black Queen had figured out that the packs of what looked like glow-sticks were disposable batteries. She snapped the tab on one and slid it into the flat side of the plastic dome.
"You seem to be deliberately missing the point. I'm asking about your motive."
The Black Queen flipped the dome over and laid it onto the bare floor. Then, for the first time since he woke, she looked up from it toward her captive. "I'm Doctor Gears's… I'm your daughter."
"No, you aren't."
"How do…" The Black Queen filed that question away. "I spent years looking for my father. And when I found him, he was… lost to me. Lost forever. And that loss snapped me back to my senses. I realized I had no connection to the world anymore. So… I left." She gave a sweep of her hand to add emphasis to this statement. "I found this Earth. I saw that this Earth had a Foundation, so it must have you." She pressed a switch on the dome. Internal coils began to glow orange; warmth spread out into the room. "I've earned a second chance."
Doctor Gears was silent for a moment. Then he adjusted his glasses. "Tell me more."
They spoke together after that. The conversation might have lasted an hour; the Black Queen didn't keep time. He asked her to describe the method by which she had traveled from one universe to another. But the Black Queen was more concerned with describing her childhood with an analogue of him: details of sights and sounds and emotions. She wanted to find some common ground between her father and this one. She evaluated this man that shared her father's design, checking for authenticity.
Ignoring his logistical questions, she began to ask about the doctor's life. He provided answers: his life was much like the life of her father's, except where the deviations in history bent his trajectory here and there. He had a daughter, but he hadn't seen her since he began work for the Foundation. He didn't know whether or not she was alive. The matter hadn't crossed his mind in years.
He began to ask her about herself in the present, and she gave up this information. She told him of the work she had done in wresting various items of great value and power from the Foundation after what they had done to her father. Some of these she had used as leverage to gain connections and influence; some of these she had bartered away to a private firm in exchange for passage on a secret road leading out from the world; some of these she had made into parts of her, so that she would be sure to survive the journey. He followed along carefully. The Black Queen felt like a mechanism being studied. Maybe that was his version of affection now.
After all this was shared between them, Doctor Gears removed his glasses (this one wore glasses, it turned out) and rubbed his eyes, as if they were strained from… hours? with only the heater as a light source.
The Black Queen noticed. "You're tired, aren't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so. When was the last time you ate?"
"It's been… since morning, actually." The Black Queen was astonished to wonder if he was thinking about her needs. "I think there was a vending machine downstairs. It probably hasn't been stocked in six years, but maybe there's something in it that's lasted that long. I can check…"
"That sounds like a good idea."
The Black Queen took his hand to pull him up to a standing position. She handcuffed him to a pipe, disappointed in herself for forgetting to do so before now. Then she slid through the door.
From the hall, she surveyed the streets in front of and behind the apartment building. She saw nothing resembling a threat—and her eyes had a large field of view. So she descended.
Something about the night's events had generated a crawling sensation at the back of her neck. The strangeness of it bothered her while she crossed the stairs. Eventually she realized it was a neurological condition she'd thought had subsided long ago: a conscience. This wasn't her father, as congruent as he might be. Could she let him pass as her father? And what of his daughter? Somewhere there was a woman like her, perhaps searching for this man for the same reasons.
Or perhaps her body had been burned away after elimination by whatever remains of the Occult Coalition. Who could say?
The Black Queen surveyed the provisions available. It seemed that potato chips had never occurred to this society, for all their wartime advances; the grimy vending machine was stocked with packets of roasted, dried seaweed in an assortment of flavors. The Black Queen wrapped her hand in the sack she'd taken along. Then she punched through the glass and filled the bag with packets.
There was a man with her father's face and voice up there waiting for her. Wasn't that what she tore two Foundations open to find? He didn't raise her, but… he was so close to the one who did. She could open the pathway and take them to a world less beaten-up than this one where nobody could find them. It would be a fresh start.
All she had to do was call him "dad".

The Black Queen entered the abandoned apartment once again. Doctor Gears hadn't moved from where she'd placed him. "I brought dinner."
"I can't eat like this."
The Black Queen set the preserved snacks on the floor and unfastened his handcuffs. His arms fell to his sides. "Help yourself to dinner." She pulled out a packet of sea-salt roasted kelp, then looked back up to him.
There was a momentary silence. Gears had that scrutinizing glare again. The Black Queen suspected that he had thought the same things she had, when she'd left him alone.
Then he spoke. "Actually, could you come here for a second?" Doctor Gears stretched out an arm. "I need to do this right now, if you'll comply." It was such an awkward way to ask for an embrace.
The Black Queen hesitated. The crawling sensation on her neck had been replaced with a much more familiar feeling: the jolt of her danger instinct. This felt all wrong.
The doctor watched her halt, and slowly lowered his arm. "Perhaps later, then."
The guilt came back again. The Black Queen saw him reaching out, and then saw herself reacting to the intensity of it. She was giving in to fear. No Black Queen could ever let herself give into fear. So she approached him.
He carefully wrapped an arm around her. For one quiet moment, it was everything that she had expected it to be, and everything she had worked for.
Gears's taserspike dug into the base of her spinal cord. He only released the grip when she crumpled on the ground. The air smelled of ozone and burnt plastic. Gears looked upward at an indicator on his lenses. "Glasses, cease recording." The indicator changed from red to green.
It was eleven minutes and fifteen seconds, by Gears's count, between the subdual and the arrival of the task force. The door was open, the subject still unresponsive. They collected her in a field chamber as Gears looked on. An agent asked if he was alright; Gears said she'd never hurt him. All he had to do was distract her long enough to make the call without interference.
The post-recovery processes were longer and handled by more personnel than was necessary, so the matter was now out of the doctor's hands. Even so, as he watched them cart the subject away, the containment procedures began to form in his mind for SCP-AATR, or informally, The Extrauniversal Woman.