January 18th, 2020

As the doctors, nurses, CNAs, and other hospital personnel carried out their duties within Portland's St. Vincent's Hospital, a man in a blue and silver suit weaved his way towards a room in the facility's med-surge unit. His name was Vincent Anderson, and he was there to visit an injured employee.
"Keep up, Isaac," Anderson said to a man trailing behind him. "We don't want to be here longer than we have to."
"Sure thing," his associate replied, and quickened his pace. Before long, the two of them had arrived at their destination, one of many identical hospital rooms.
Inside this room, a young woman laid in a hospital bed. Her face was swollen and bruised, and her right arm was held against her in a sling. It was clear that both her legs had been amputated below the knee. Sitting beside her was an older woman in a dark blue business suit.
"Mr. Anderson," the older woman stood up at their arrival. "We weren't expecting you to personally pay a visit."
"Afternoon, 45," Anderson replied. "Thank you for looking after our friend here."
He then approached the woman in the bed, giving her a sympathetic smile as he approached.
"You must be Rebecca Quinn," Anderson continued. "I'm Vincent Anderson. This is my associate Isaac Dillard. I do believe you work for me."
The woman on the bed gave a weak smile and slowly nodded her head.
"Yeah…" She coughed and gave a small chuckle. "Distribution Center in Three Portlands... Had a bit of accident with one of the Taita units."
"Just a small one," Anderson chuckled. "Isaac told me you chose to come here over Sacred Gear in Portlands. If you don't mind me asking, why? It would have been faster…"
"I… just felt more comfortable receiving treatment that wasn't bedazzled, or from a Witch Doctor," Rebecca replied. "Besides, the Taita incinerated my legs after severing them. Not much they could have done there that they didn't do here."
Rebecca's smile then became a worried frown.
"Am… am I fired, sir?"
"Oh of course not," Anderson said, taken aback. "You've put in over 10 years of top-notch service, and these kinds of things happen when you work with prototypes."
Rebecca's smile returned.
"Thank you…"
"Of course. My employees are my family. We're going to put you on paid leave until you feel you're ready to return. At that point, we'll set you up with a voucher for two Gyrfalcon series prosthetics. Throw in two upgrades as well. Then, once you're comfortable with your new hardware, your position will still be there."
Rebecca's mouth hung open in shock. The room fell silent, save for the tapping of Isaac taking notes on his smartphone.
"Mr. Anderson…"
"Call me Vincent," Anderson interrupted with a chuckle. "And I insist. Here at Anderson Robotics we take care of our own, no matter where they fit into the company machine."
Rebecca nodded. Tears rolled down her face as she smiled.
"Thank you, Vincent," she finally managed to say.
"Any time," Anderson replied. "I'm afraid Isaac and I will need to take our leave now. Mrs. Saker here will stay with you until your emergency contacts arrive."
Without another word, Anderson and his assistant took their leave. Isaac finished typing up his notes, walking beside his employer as they made their way through the hospital parking garage, toward an entrance into Three Portlands.
"I'm not in accounting, but I'm pretty sure your 'Get Well Soon' present is going to cost the company a pretty penny," Isaac commented. "The Gyrfalcon series are not just things to give away as party favors."
"It's my private company," Anderson replied. "I'll do whatever the hell I want with it. My employees are my family and I will do well by them, just as they do well by me. Am I clear?"
"You're the boss," Isaac agreed with a shrug. The two men entered an elevator, and tapped an intricate pattern into the buttons. Despite being on the top floor the elevator began to ascend and carried them into Three Portlands.

August 15th, 2020

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt
Agent Sasha Merlo stirred from her sleep. She brushed a lock of brown hair out of her eyes and looked at the digital clock on her nightstand. 2:16 AM. She grumbled under her breath as she grabbed her cell phone.
"Go for Merlo," she said sleepily, sitting up in bed.
"Sasha, it's Clarissa," came a woman's voice over the other end.
"Shaw?" Merlo asked. "It's two in the morning… what's up?"
"It's Anderson. We got a call from Labelle at Site-19. He's awake. We're getting called in to do interviews."
Merlo's sleepiness immediately left her.
"I'll be at Site-64 within the hour," she replied, and promptly hung up. At the same time, the lump in the bed that rested next to her began to stir.
"Getting called out to save the world again, sweetie?" Gabe Merlo asked groggily.
"I'm afraid so," Merlo sighed.
"Jessie's going to be pissed," Gabe commented with a small chuckle.
"I know… Think you can cover for me?"
"No worries. Just make it up to her when you get back. Please be safe."
"You know me," Merlo said with a tired smile and pecked her husband on the cheek as she got out of bed. "Love you."
"Love you too."
Within 30 minutes Merlo was dressed, packed, and ready to leave her apartment. Before making her way out the door, she quietly dipped into the apartment's second bedroom where a small girl slept soundly.
"Love you, Jessie," Merlo said under her breath before giving the little girl a kiss on her forehead. Without another sound, she grabbed her bags, her jacket, and made her way to her car. She had a flight to catch.

March 23rd, 2020

At a small Portland coffee shop overlooking a public park, a tall, pale woman watched the foot traffic pass as she occasionally took sips from her oversized coffee mug. Her name was Jill Herring, and she was waiting to see someone she hadn't seen in nearly a decade.
"This seat taken?"
Jill looked up to see Vincent Anderson smiling at her. Her mouth hung open briefly. When she had last seen him, he had pale skin, and was bald. The man in front of her did look like Anderson, but not the Anderson she was expecting to meet with today.
"Vince…" she said softly. "You're looking good. Like, when we first met…"
Anderson nodded and sat down.
"This isn't my real body, I'm afraid. Just a puppet I'm controlling while the real me is a bit tied-down. Still, glad you like it."
Jill nodded and gave a melancholy smile.
"How have you been, Jill?" Anderson continued. "How's life treating you?"
"Can't complain. Work's the same as ever."
"Still teaching studio art at that high school?"
"That got closed down in 2008. I've been working at a graphic design firm since."
"Heh, that kind of work suits you," Anderson nodded in approval. He then paused, looking down at the table for a few moments before asking, "How's Erica doing?"
"She's doing very well," Jill sighed. "She'll be graduating from OSU next year. Bachelor's in Computer Science. Really takes after you in that regard. Plans on moving on to her Masters."
"Does she still ask about me?"
"Occasionally. She accepted Tom as her father a long time ago, but the subject of Vincent Anderson still makes her curious from time to time. I think at some point she'll ask if I can help her track you down, but not anytime soon. She's still rather bitter…"
Jill frowned and closed her eyes briefly, then quickly attempted to hide her expression by taking a sip of coffee.
"Well, when she enters the job market, I'll always have openings on my staff. Let me know if she's interested," Anderson continued.
"Will do," Jill replied.
Anderson pulled out a paper check, and slid it across the table. Jill picked it up and examined it briefly before folding it and putting down on the table in front of her.
"I thought I told you that I'm not comfortable accepting these." Jill frowned. "Tom's not comfortable accepting these."
"And I've told you that you are more than welcome to rip them to shreds. I can get that money into your account in other ways. This is just a courtesy," Anderson replied sharply. "Are the checks I've been sending you enough, though? I can increase them if you want. Money's no object for me now…"
"The current amount is more than enough, Vince! Erica has more than enough to pay for the rest of her schooling and then some. Tom and I have already paid off our mortgage and debts. At this point it's just piling up. The only thing I can see us using it on, is if Erica decides to buy a house, or wants to live in the city after graduation…"
"Let me know when that happens. I'd be more than willing to help."
"Of course…" Jill took another sip of her coffee, then sighed. "So, in the end, was it worth it?"
"Do you have to ask me that every time?" Anderson's brow furrowed.
"I will until you give me a straight answer. Was it worth it? Leaving us."
"Sticking around would have just put you and Erica in danger. Besides, Tom's twice the husband I ever was, and at least four times the father. You two ended up way better off."
"That's fucking bullshit, Vince!" she hissed. "You never even gave yourself a fucking chance!"
"I didn't need to," Anderson replied coolly. "This year alone I've had multiple attempts on my life. My real body is currently in the possession of the Suits. Did you want to be a part of that? Did you want Erica to be a part of that? At least this way you two are safe."
"Oh, don't even pretend you chose your path for our benefit. Everything you did was for you! You found out how to make your little toys and then jettisoned us!" Jill gave a sarcastic laugh, stood and shredded the check before Anderson's eyes. "Well, now we don't need your patronage, we don't need your support, and we sure as hell don't need you! If you ever come near my daughter or I again, I'll let the Suits know where you are, I swear to god!"
Anderson watched with a blank expression as Jill stormed away. He pulled out another check from his pocket and neatly folded it, then reached into his other pocket and pulled out a hand-written note and a small silver ball. He placed the ball on the table and watched as it sprouted needle-like legs.
"Afternoon, Benny," Anderson said to the tiny Amur drone. "Go ahead and make sure Erica gets these, will you?"
The tiny robot gave a small salute, and stuffed the two slips of paper into an internal compartment before scurrying away. Anderson watched it bolt out of sight, as the waitress approached.
"I'll take an Americano, please," he ordered. "Extra shots. I need something strong right about now."

August 16th, 2020

"How long has he been awake?" Agent Merlo asked. As she spoke, she walked through the halls of Site-19's high-security humanoid storage wing. Beside her was Agent Clarissa Shaw, who effortlessly rolled herself along in a wheelchair, matching Merlo's pace. The two of them were being lead through the facility by a researcher named Rose Labelle.
"About two days now," Labelle replied, looking over her shoulder as she led them towards the cell that supposedly contained the now-conscious body of Vincent Anderson. "One moment, completely brain-dead, the next, wide awake and demanding to speak with the leader of his containment team. We sent Site-64 a message as soon as we met all our protocols."
"Are his systems operational?" Shaw inquired. "Magic? Weapons Systems? Comms?"
"We have him in an anti-thaumaturgic cell, so he's dead in the water on that front unless he can break the geis there," Labelle answered. "As for his other systems, they're operational, sure, but still heavily damaged. He's not going anywhere without serious system repairs. You two can relax. We've got him under lock and key."
"Paint us impressed," Merlo commented with a grin. "Out at Site-64 they had us trying to hold him with the containment equivalent of a cage made out of sticks."
"We do try our best," Labelle gave a small smile in return. They then arrived at a large blast door that Labelle swiftly opened with a swipe of her keycard. "Here we are."
Beyond the door was an observation room in which several of Labelle's colleagues monitored read-outs of Anderson's systems. Several anti-thaumaturgic security personnel stood in the room's corners, their expressions blank as they kept their eyes on the contents of the adjoining room. Through a large observation window, Shaw and Merlo could see their old enemy sitting on a cot, his hands and legs restrained as he stared blankly ahead. Merlo approached the window, her expression a mixture of fear and awe as she looked over Vincent Anderson from the business end of a set of one-way glass.
He seemed almost skeletal. His pale, nearly translucent skin had been replaced by scar tissue, a remnant from having most of his flesh seared off by nuclear fire during their last encounter. Only one of the camera lenses he had in place of eyes glowed with a faint green light; the other lens sat dark with a large crack running down its center. Occasionally he'd give a violent involuntary shake.
"Jesus." Shaw gave a sharp whistle, "he looks like shit."
"Looks better off now than when we originally shipped him here," Merlo replied. She turned back to Labelle. "I take it you guys received a copy of our objectives for this interview."
"We did," she replied. "We're ready whenever you are."
"Dandy," Merlo said with nod and placed a hand on Shaw's shoulder. "He's all yours. Make us proud."

Vincent Anderson looked up as Agent Shaw rolled into his cell on her wheelchair. He gave a small smile and waved as she stopped several feet away. She looked over some notes on a clipboard in her lap, adjusting her glasses before looking up.
"Afternoon, Clarissa," Anderson said. "Was, um, Merlo unavailable?"
"I'm the interrogation specialist for this task force," Shaw replied coolly. "So, I'm afraid you'll be mainly interacting with me."
"Oh? Is this an interrogation?"
"Let's consider this an interview for now."
"Swell. Did Labelle tell you what my SCP item number was? She, uh, won't tell me."
"As far as I know, you're not going to be assigned one."
"Oh…" Anderson sighed. "That's, um, a little disappointing, to be honest. Why?"
"Because if we gave an SCP number to every wizard or cyborg we picked up we'd quickly bloat our database. You have a Person of Interest number. That's about it."
"Ah, well… Better than, um, nothing. I suppose. How can I, uh, help you today?"
"Just going to ask you a few questions. I'd appreciate answers."
"Wouldn't we all," Anderson chuckled. "Try me."
"First off, something simple. Who's in charge of Anderson Robotics in your absence?"
"Phineas I would think."
"Yeah, no…" Shaw replied with a tsk. "We are aware that you killed Albert Frostman in Three Portlands shortly before the incident at the Tristan Academy. Who is really in charge now?"
"Ah, well…. guess that cat's, um, out of the bag," Anderson shrugged. "To be honest, I don't know. It's a company, Clarissa. Not a kingdom. There is no line of succession. The board probably appointed someone else to be the new acting CEO in my absence. I don't know who. I've, uh, been here. Can't exactly update my news feed in this anti-magic, anti-tech cage you slapped me in."
Shaw leaned on her wheelchair's armrest as she scribbled down a few notes.
"Fair enough. Onto something a little more complex. We know about the distribution deal you have with MC&D for your Gyrfalcon series. We want the names of the MC&D reps you've been going through."
"Talk about shooting myself in the foot. Why on earth would I give you those names? That's just bad business."
Anderson gave a violent shake for several seconds. Shaw smiled and continued to write down more notes.
"Because, according to Labelle's scans of your systems, you need to make repairs, badly." Shaw gave a sly smile and Anderson began to shake again. "We're prepared to provide you with the supplies, but you have to play ball. That means MC&D names. That means identities of any other public figures you replaced with Sakers. That means letting us in on what exactly this Taita Series is."
Anderson paused for a moment at this last phrase.
"Oh yes, Vincent," Shaw continued. "We've heard whispers about the Taita Series."
"I'm willing, uh, to bargain," Anderson finally replied. "But unlike Phineas, I, um, am not going to cash all my chips at once. You'd be surprised at how few materials I need to make most of these systems work again."
"Fair enough," Shaw shrugged and closed her notepad as she began to wheel her way towards the door. "We'll give you some time to think about it. Give us a ring when you've decided what you're willing to provide."
"By the way, um, Clarissa," Anderson called out just as she was about to leave. Shaw paused, turning slightly to hear what he had to say. "I never got a chance to apologize for what I did to you at the Tristan Academy. So, uh, yeah… I'm sorry."
"You shattered my spine," Shaw commented. "Really hard for me to accept an apology for that."
"Yeah, well, you kidnapped two of my closest friends and used them as bait," Anderson snapped back. "In fact, so far, all my actions taken against the Foundation have been in retaliation for something you guys have done to us, unprovoked! I operate out of Three Portlands. You have no jurisdiction there. You guys, uh, poke a bear with a sharp stick, and then are surprised and offended that it tries to maul you."
"That all?" Shaw asked, her face turned into a scowl. Anderson waved her away.
"That's all," he replied. "Sorry for the damage, um, done. But perhaps it would humble you to remember that it might, uh, have been a teensy bit your fault."
Shaw shook her head and rolled out of the room, the blast door sealing shut behind her as Anderson began to violently shake once again.

May 6th, 2020

"Uncle Vince!"
Two small boys, one ten and the other seven, tackled Vincent Anderson to the ground.
"How have you been?"

"Did you bring Benny?"

"Did you bring us anything?"

The boys spouted question after question as Anderson wrestled them off of him, chuckling the whole while. Eventually, with swift, fluid motion, he lifted the two boys up, one in each hand, and then placed them on their feet. He ruffled their sandy hair, and pretended to ponder.
"Benny?" he asked in mock confusion. "Do I know a Benny? Small robot? Silver? Looks like this…"
Anderson held out his palm. Benny stood at its center, the little droid shaking its nubby legs in a fashion reminiscent of a 'tada!' The tiny droid leaped off his hand and scurried away across the grass, the two boys shouting in glee as they chased it. Anderson smiled and brushed loose pieces of grass off his slacks as he watched them run around.
"You really are their hero, Vince," said a voice from behind.
Anderson turned to see the familiar face of his brother, Adrian. Like Anderson, he had dark hair and tan skin, but stood half a foot shorter, and was seven years younger. Adrian had his arm wrapped around a woman with sandy hair, whom Anderson recognized as his sister-in-law, Phoebe.
"I try," Anderson said with a grin. "To be honest I think they just like me for my toys."
"Maybe," Phoebe commented, "but to be fair, your toys are pretty cool."
Anderson chuckled, and watched as his nephews jumped up and down at the base of the tree, trying to reach the small Amur drone that was taunting them from the branches.
"You look good, Vince," Adrian continued, gesturing up and down Anderson's figure "What all did you do this time?"
"Heh, If I had known my regular body was so jarring I would have made this switch a long time ago," Anderson said with a melancholy laugh. "I'm afraid this is a puppet I dressed up to look like me. I got a little tied-down in person, and so I had to send in the next best thing."
"Well, in person or remotely, the kids and us both appreciate the visit," Phoebe replied cheerfully. "Seriously, we know you're a busy guy, so these are always a treat."
"Thanks," said Anderson. "Always nice to be appreciated…"
The trio fell silent for a moment, watching as the two boys in the distance used one another as stilts, only to lose their balance and fall back to earth. Benny proceeded to drop down onto them as they lay in the grass before scurrying away towards another tree. The boys lost no time resuming their chase.
"Speaking of trips," Anderson broke the silence, "where do you two want to go for your anniversary this year?"
"Vince," Adrian began, smiling as he shook his head, "you really don't…"
"If you don't tell me, I'll ask Josh and Craig," Anderson threatened with a smile. "I bet they'll say Disneyland again."
"Could we offer a counter-proposal?" Phoebe chimed in. "Instead of paying for us to go on a trip for our anniversary… maybe you come with us? We'd love to travel with you. Adrian said you spent time in Europe when you were younger. Said you'd be a fantastic guide…"
Anderson remained in quiet thought as he watched the boys in the distance succeed in finally catching Benny, the older boy holding the tiny drone aloft in success as the younger stomped around in victory.
"Why?" Anderson finally asked.
"Why?" Adrian repeated.
"Yeah, why? What on earth do you two want me tagging along for?"
"Vince," Adrian said, taken aback. "You're my brother. You've always looked after me. If you're going to insist on sending us on these trips you might as well tag along once in a blue moon. We really don't see you outside these short visits…"
Adrian stopped as his sons returned to them, triumphantly holding Benny high as if he was a hunting trophy.
"We got'm!" the younger boy shouted. "He tried to climb a tree, but we got'm!"
"You sure did," Anderson said as he ruffled the boy's hair again, and got down on a knee. The boys gently placed the robot in his out stretched palm and watched, wide-eyed, as Benny proceeded to crawl up his arm, around his head, then down his back before vanishing into his pocket.
"So…" Anderson looked back at Phoebe. "Where did you want to go?"

August 19th, 2020

In the end, Anderson provided the SCP Foundation with a list of five names of current and former MC&D suppliers who handled the Gyrfalcon Series sales. In exchange Labelle and her team provided parts and tools he needed for repairs. Shortly after completing one of many repairs, Anderson fell asleep and reentered the coma-like state he had been in since being captured by the Foundation. Without anything else to be done, Shaw and Merlo were called back to Site-64, while the diligent members of MTF Kappa-10 began their work within the MC&D intranet to make use of Anderson's report. The adventure concluded in the same manner as all MTF Gamma-13 adventures: A brief trip to the Secret Crest Pub in Portland, followed by paperwork.
"How are you and Lily doing?" Merlo asked her friend as she placed an empty pint glass down on the table.
"That broke apart weeks ago," Shaw said with a sigh. "It was… complicated. I've started seeing Roland again."
"I'm sure Roland appreciates that," Merlo chuckled. "Still, sorry to hear about Lily. She was nice."
"She sure was." Shaw stared into her drink. "How's Gabe and Jessie anyway?"
"Can't complain. Gabe's a huge dork as always. Jessie's, well, a preschooler. So, you know, fun times there."
Shaw laughed and nodded in understanding.
"Still can't believe that the great Sasha Merlo ended up marrying one of the Site-64 accountants. You could have had anyone, but you chose the math guy."
"Screw you." Sasha grinned, "Gabe's the best. He's on the right side of the veil so I don't have to tiptoe around him. I don't have to worry about him getting dragged to the seventh circle of hell unless he manages to summon a calculator demon. Plus, he's a good father and an even better cook. I'll take my accountant over whatever it is you're doing."
"You sure shot me down quick." Shaw let out a laugh and held out her hands in mock surrender.
"I play to win."
"Ahem."
Shaw and Merlo turned to find that they had been approached by a man in a black and red suit with long black hair tied back in a braided ponytail. He grinned at them and placed a small box on the table.
"My name is Mr. Saker," he said. "The board at Anderson Robotics wanted me to present you with this, Agent Shaw."
"We really have to stop meeting like this…" Merlo commented as she watched him slide the box across the table. "Also, Christ, do they even bother to name you guys anymore?"
"There are hundreds of us, Agent Merlo," he replied. "After a while they stop caring about names unless it's something mission-critical. Don't need a fancy name to be a courier."
"You think we are just going to open a box from a known enemy agent?" Shaw asked.
"You think we'd be stupid enough to launch an unprovoked attack against the Foundation, in one of their fronts, for shits and giggles?"
Shaw looked at the box for several moments. She looked to Merlo who only offered a shrug. With a sigh, Shaw picked up the box and opened it. Inside was a small black strip of medical grade plastic, with several tiny mechanical probes running down its side. Shaw examined the piece of equipment and then looked quizzically at the Saker.
"It's a new model of the Gyrfalcon series," he commented. "It will serve as a repair for your damaged spine. Should allow you to walk again. Nothing fancy."
"And this is what?" Shaw asked. "A way for AR to say sorry for what Anderson did? Just going to offer up equipment to the SCP Foundation, and hope for us to be buddy-buddy?"
"Consider it a sign of good will while you have our CEO in lock down at your Site-19."
"I'll have to turn this in to containment! They're not going to let me use this!"
"They don't have to know about it," the Saker shrugged. "Honestly, what you do with it at this point is your business. Our conscience on this matter is clear."
He gave them a nod and began to walk away.
"You two have a nice rest of your evening."
Shaw and Merlo watched the android leave in silence, then both stared at the small plastic strip that tantalizingly sat within the box between them.
"Are you thinking about it?" Merlo eventually asked.
Shaw nodded, and continued to stare at it in silence for several moments before finally asking, "Did Dan ever get around to installing that robo-arm?"

Earlier…

It was late in the early afternoon when Vincent Anderson knocked on the door to a nondescript apartment within a Portland suburb. He was surprised when a man with glasses and stubble answered, and not the SCP Foundation agent he was expecting.
"Afternoon," the man said, with a raised eyebrow. A child's voice could be heard from somewhere beyond the door. "May I help you?"
"Ah… yes," Anderson replied, "is this the residence of Sasha Merlo?"
"It is…" the man replied cautiously. "I'm Gabe Merlo, her husband, how may I help you?"
Anderson paused for a moment and then chuckled.
"Oh man," he said. "I had no idea she had a family…"
He pulled out a silver business card and flashed it at Gabe. The man's eyes became dilated as the card's memetic effect took hold.
"I was just stopping by to drop something off for her and one of her associates," Anderson continued. "May I come in? I'd love to talk to you."
Gabe gave a slow nod and stepped aside, allowing Anderson to enter.
"Who's that, daddy?" a little girl who was coloring at the nearby coffee table commented. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, a style that reminded Anderson of Sasha Merlo.
"He's just a friend of mommy's," Gabe answered as he closed the door. "Feel free to have a seat, Mister…"
"Call me Vince," Anderson replied with a sly grin. "What a lovely family you have here…"

Later…

The sun was beginning to set when Sasha Merlo finally returned to her home and family. With a tired sigh, she opened her front door to the sound of Jessie playing and the smell of Pad Thai.
"Done saving the world, sweetie?" Gabe called from the kitchen. His bespectacled head poked around the corner with a grin.
"You know it," Merlo called. She trudged into the kitchen and had a seat at the table. Gabe gave her a quick peck on the forehead before returning to the task at hand.
"You had a visitor while you were away," said Gabe as he prepared several plates.
"What?" Merlo raised an eyebrow. "Someone from the site?"
"No, he was definitely something else. Figured he was a contact of yours from Third Portland, or whatever it's called."
"What was his name?"
Gabe paused and thought for several moments, then chuckled as he shook his head. "You know… I don't remember. He left a card though."
Gabe put a plate of Pad Thai down before her, and then slid a silver business card into her hands. As Merlo began to read it, he left the room to bring Jessie to the table. Merlo became pale as she read the front, then quickly flipped the card over to the back.

&

You really have a wonderful family, Sasha. Your daughter is absolutely adorable, and Gabe is a pretty decent guy.
Thank you for your hospitality
Vincent Anderson

Merlo's hands shook as realization set in. Her mouth felt dry, and her arms felt heavy as they rested on the tabletop.
"Hey Gabe," Merlo called after her husband. "Do you remember what this guy looked like?"
"Tan skin, braided ponytail, and a red and black suit," Gabe commented as he carried a still giggling Jessie into the room and set her down in a booster seat. "Why?"
"Mommy!" Jessie exclaimed, "Look what your friend let me play with! He said I could keep it until you got back!"
Merlo looked to see Jessie holding Benny in the palm of her hand. The tiny droid gave a wave, and then vanished in a puff of black smoke. Jessie laughed and clapped at the tiny display of magic.
"You okay, honey?" Gabe asked.
Merlo had become pale. Without a word, she stood up and went over to Jessie, and began to hold her daughter in a tight hug.
"Sasha?" Gabe asked again. Merlo shook her head and waved him over. As soon as he was in range, she pulled him into the hug as well.

August 22nd, 2020

Vincent Anderson sat in his office at the Anderson Robotics Headquarters. As always, there were stacks of papers to be read, things to sign, memos to browse, meetings to plan, and designs to review. However, rather than bothering himself with running his business, Anderson plugged a flash drive into the large monitor on the wall behind his desk and waited. Within several minutes, the screen began to display a different cluttered office. Sitting at the desk was an old man with a long white beard, dressed all in black save for a red tie.
"Afternoon, Phineas," Anderson said solemnly.
The man on the screen remained silent. His eyes were filled with a cold hatred as he stared straight ahead.
"I don't have to remind you that I can force your AI construct to speak, do I?" Anderson eventually asked.
"You do not," Phineas replied. "But considering how you keep me around so you can talk to an unaltered version of my AI construct, I doubt you'd actually do that. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I recycled the Saker I was using to represent you, just as you asked. Is there anything else I can do for you? Make you more comfortable. Absolutely anything is possible in your space."
"To what benefit?" Phineas inquired. "Albert Frostman is dead. You killed him yourself. I'm just a program designed to simulate his thoughts as close as it can. I'm not real!"
"You're real enough in that virtual world of yours, and given an internet connection you'd be real enough in this world as well."
"But you won't give me internet access for obvious reasons, so I'm left king of my little pocket dimension. A real Ozymandias! Look at my works and tremble!"
The background around Phineas faded into black, leaving him standing alone in an empty void.
"You might as well delete me, because this whole charade has gone on long enough."
"I'm not going to delete you, Phineas," Anderson whispered. "I need you…"
"God, damn it, Vince! You're always so fucking selfish!" Phineas shouted. "You left your wife and daughter to pursue your dreams alone, you killed your best friend for holding a dissenting opinion on the direction you were steering the company he helped build, and now you trapped a construct of his memories in a virtual prison forever! You might not be the worst person to ever drag their sorry ass across this planet, but you are certainly a bad man!"
"I'm not selfish," Anderson weakly mumbled in reply. "I'm a generous man…"
"That's the beauty of it," Phineas sneered. "It's still selfishness. You do these horrible things to people, then you go out on the town doing good deeds as you find them as a way to balance the karma scales and clear your conscience. In the end, there's nothing altruistic there. You're just a frustrated, lonely man who's become so unhinged from the world he resides in that -"
Anderson pulled the flash drive from the monitor. The screen instantly blacked out.
"Good chat, old friend…"
Anderson placed his head in his hands and sat in silence. On his desk, Benny watched him with a curious eye, and gave a little hum as Anderson gently pet the top of the droid with his finger.
"I'm a generous man, right?"
The little droid nodded in agreement. A small, tired smile came to Anderson's lips.
"You always know what to say."
Anderson grabbed a silver tragedy mask that sat on his desk, and placed it on his face. He flicked it with a finger, and the expression of the mask changed to comedy. He held out his hand and allowed the tiny droid to crawl up his arm and perch on his shoulder, then stood and made his way towards the door.
"Let's see how Ms. Quinn is settling in to her new legs," Anderson said. The little droid nodded and pointed a single leg onward.
"I bet she'll say she loves them. Everyone does. Everyone loves Anderson."

« Series Three: Austringers | Anderson Robotics Hub | Decisions We Make »


The document that follows is the first and last written report made by Doctor John Carver Randall during his 1927 expedition to explore the multiverse.

Editor's Note: The document that follows is the first and last written report made by Doctor John Carver Randall — the inventor of the aetheric oscillation detector, and father of modern multiverse theory — during his 1927 expedition to explore the multiverse. It is also the last confirmed communication of any type to originate from his party, having been written on the eve of their disappearance.
Although this report is largely a summary of a larger, comprehensive report that was never produced, the data it contains helped lay the foundations of multiversal cartography, in the form of the Randall Catalogue — the first systematic documentation and description of other universes within our multiverse. My intent in producing this edited and annotated version is to make this groundbreaking work more accessible to the modern reader, while preserving its historical and scientific worth. — L. Rowe

To Marshal Landen Petersen, the Director of Anthropological and Archeological Missions,1
I hope this missive finds you well. Indeed, I hope it finds you at all. I am writing this report from within a fourth-level branch universe inhabited by a rather curious species of ambulatory pastry, which I have tentatively identified as a kind of lemon-flavored danish. (They are docile, delicious, and devoid of any self-preservation instincts.) However, due to the great magnitude of separation between this branch and the mainline, I have had to resort to using thaumaturgy to ensure this report arrives in your mailbox. If it happens to hiss, growl, or begin rapidly vibrating while you read it, I urge you to consult an exorcist immediately.
For ease of reference, I have divided this report into the following sections: the Survey of Three Portlands; the Investigation of JCR-038; the Study of the Mettryns; the Encounter with the Thule; and an Assessment of Our Current Situation and Future Plans. For the sake of brevity, I have omitted descriptions of otherwise unnotable universes from the main body of this report; the attached catalogue2 contains brief descriptions of all universes we encountered, as well as several we learned of indirectly.
Survey of Three Portlands
Three Portlands was chosen as the starting point for the expedition due to a combination of factors, all of which made it an ideal candidate from which to launch our search for second-level branches: the number and spatial distribution of its connections to the mainline; its physical and metaphysical similarity to the mainline; its topological stability; and the amount of existing data and documentation regarding it.
On the first day of the expedition3 we set about attempting to perform a complete survey of all Ways terminating or originating in Three Portlands. By the end of the third day, it had become blindingly obvious that accomplishing such a task within a reasonable period of time would require more manpower than we possessed4. The decision was made to narrow our survey to only those Ways originating in Three Portlands that had a strongly negative flux of aspect radiation, a phenomena that I had previously theorized would be indicative of Ways between a lower level branch and a higher level one5. Even with this narrowed scope, it would take another two weeks for us to complete our survey. In this time, we found forty-three Ways that matched our criteria. Twelve of these Ways would later be ruled out as false positives, and an additional five would collapse before they could be explored.
It was during this time that Eichel6 began experiencing severe insomnia, which necessitated consultation with a local apothecary. He prescribed a tea of camomile leaves mixed with essential oil of lavender, which proved effective in treating Eichel's sleeplessness.
Investigation of JCR-0387
The remainder of the third week was spent making preparations for our descent into the second-level branches. We selected a Way located in the Shadow of the Portland Observatory8 as the target of our first expedition, in the hopes that the topological anchoring provided by the lighthouse would extend to the Way, or even into the branch universe beyond it.
Not wanting to risk the entire party at the first venture, I decided that only three people would enter the Way for this initial investigation. In what would become our standard procedure for exploring unknown Ways, I (or in later cases, one of the other thaumaturges) would lead the vanguard party into the Way. The remaining two thaumaturges would perform what workings they could to stabilize the Way and prevent it from closing9 — until and unless it was confirmed that the Way could be opened from the other side. The rest of the party would only follow us into the Way if and when it was determined to be safe to do so.
The first second-level branch universe we explored, which I have designated JCR-038 in the attached catalogue, has a topology that is both stable and consistent with the mainline's. (In retrospect, this was a rather fortuitous occurrence. Not all universes possess such an amicable topology, and exploration of those that do not is both challenging and perilous.) However, its geometry is highly unusual.
The Way from Three Portlands to JCR-038 opens into the center of a large, empty plaza. This plaza is located in the middle of what can only be called a city, although it resembles no city that has ever been built or that ever will be built by man. Its architecture and layout can only be described as confused. Buildings appear to have been randomly assembled from pieces of other buildings, with no apparent pattern or reason; few, if any, of these buildings form complete structures. One building I observed incorporated aspects of Neoclassical, Oriental, Gothic, and Aztec architecture into its design. It also completely lacked a ground floor.
However, this bizarre jumble of architecture is not the most interesting or unusual aspect of JCR-038. (Indeed, after having seen similar, although usually more coherent, occurrences of mixed architecture in many other branch universes, I would almost describe this as normal.)
There are many doors within JCR-038, but in all our time there we never found one that would become open. That is not to say that these doors were all locked, or otherwise unable to be opened. Rather, while it is possible to perform the physical action that corresponds to opening a door, this will not cause the doors in JCR-038 to become open. If this statement sounds like so much nonsense, then it is only because human language is not well equipped to describe this phenomenon.
Allow me to use the analogy of a bucket of infinite volume. This bucket has a finite width, length, and depth, but due to a quirk of its topology, it has an infinite volume. If this bucket were filled with an infinite quantity of water, it would be possible to upend this bucket to try to empty it of water, while still leaving it completely filled. So too, it is possible to open a door in JCR-038, while still having the door remain closed.
To one attempting to open a door in JCR-038, the door appears to swing outwards until approximately thirty degrees, at which point it "falls" back to approximately minus thirty degrees (in reality, there is no apparent motion during this transition) and continues to swing outwards until the door is closed. To an outside observer, the door does not appear to move at all. I can present no satisfactory explanation for this phenomena, except perhaps as a perceptual or conceptual deception.
We spent a week exploring JCR-038, mapping approximately nine square miles of the city. During this time, we failed to encounter any other life, nor did we discover any Ways other than the one that brought us there.
Study of the Mettryns
We returned to Three Portlands on the thirtieth day of the expedition, where we replenished our supplies and prepared to explore the next second-level branch. Having confirmed the existence of second-level branches, we now began to discuss the option of focusing our efforts on finding higher level branches. On the recommendation of Simonides10, we decided to perform only cursory surveys of later second-level branches in-order to prioritize efforts to find a Way to a third-level branch, leaving more in-depth studies to future expeditions.
Over the next two weeks, we would explore ten more universes. Of particular note was JCR-047, a universe with only two spatial dimensions and the topology of a Moebius strip.
It is difficult to describe the experience of being a three-dimensional figure embedded in a two-dimensional space. At any one time, only a cross-section of one's body is manifest on the surface of the universe and capable of interacting with it. The rest of one's body remains outside and "above" the universe, although terms such as above and below have little meaning outside of conventional space. The closest analogy I can think of to describe it is that of standing above a shallow pool of water and dipping one's finger into it to interact with objects floating on the surface. Such an analogy fails to fully and properly convey this sensation, for unlike the shallow pool, it is impossible to observe any part of JCR-047 that one is not currently intersecting.
Perhaps the most surprising feature of being embedded in a two-dimensional universe is how easily the human body adapts to becoming hyperspatial. Despite the obvious impossibility of drawing oxygen from a cross-section of the lungs, none of us found ourselves in need of breath. And it was the same with other bodily functions. I suspect that we were somehow drawing sustenance from the unspace that surrounds the universe. Or perhaps we simply did not need to breathe because we did not actually exist within JCR-047, except for the small cross-sections of ourselves.
JCR-047 is, to our initial shock, inhabited. The native denizens are complex geometric curves constructed from simple patterns repeated recursively and, I believe, infinitely11. These beings are capable of communicating through a form of telepathy, although we were unable to determine the exact mechanism during our time in JCR-047.
Our first encounter with the Mettryns, as they call themselves, triggered a theological crisis within their civilization. To a two-dimensional being, a three-dimensional figure is an impossibility that borders on the incomprehensible. It is unsurprising, then, that there were those among the Mettryns who viewed us as gods, a notion that we had difficulty disabusing them of.
When it became clear that the Mettryns could not be convinced of our lack of divinity, we decided that it would be best to play along, under the assumption that beneficent deities would be received more favorably than eldritch explorers. Travers12 was able to convince the Mettryns that we were lesser members of their pantheon, come to make an accounting of Mettryn civilization, which we would take back to our celestial home to recount to the rest of the gods. Personally, I had difficulty expecting anyone to believe such fanciful nonsense, but the Mettryns were easily swayed.
We spent three days among the Mettryns, during which we learned a great deal about their culture and history, far more than can be detailed here. I have included the entirety of my notes regarding them in an appendix to this report, although I suspect that they shall pale in comparison to Travers' writings. At her own request, she remained on JCR-047 in-order to study the Mettryns further. We plan to rendezvous with her again four weeks from the time of this writing, on our next return to Three Portlands13.
Encounter with the Thule
Of the many things that we learned during our stay with the Mettryns, the most important was the discovery of a Way to a third-level branch universe, designated JCR-050 in the catalogue. JCR-050 is largely unremarkable, being devoid of native life and possessing no highly unusual topology. The entire universe consists of a plane (which I estimate to be perhaps sixteen kilometers across on each side) of constantly shifting color. If one walks to the edge of this plane, it is possible to cross over to the underside, which is almost identical to the top. Gravity seems to point towards the ground at all times, regardless of which side of the plane one is on.
However, in addition to being the first third-level branch we discovered, it bears mentioning for two reasons; it is a multiversal nexus, containing the endpoints for dozens of Ways, and it is where we encountered the Thule Society14.
Because of the number of Ways that terminated in JCR-050, we had decided to establish a temporary base of operations there. We had already been there for two days when the Thule arrived, to our mutual surprise. The Thule party comprised seven individuals, four of them thaumaturges, under the command of Kord Weiss15.
According to Kord, his party had set out two weeks after our own departure, with a similar intent to explore and catalogue the multiverse. Beyond that, he was recalcitrant in revealing any further information, deflecting questions about his expedition and declining our offer to exchange survey data. From what little information I was able to elicit from him, I was able to infer that the Thule expedition performs only cursory surveys of each new universe they encounter. Given this, I suspect that they are looking for a specific branch universe, and that their true purpose is archeological in nature, not cartographic.
The Thule departed JCR-050 the next morning in great haste, leaving no hint of their future plans or intentions. I believe that they were worried about us following them, a thought which I must admit I had entertained, if only briefly. However, I decided against it, instead electing to remain in JCR-050 to continue our own survey efforts.
We remained in JCR-050 for two weeks, during which we explored over a dozen connected branches.
Assessment of Our Current Situation and Future Plans
We are currently on our sixty-third day of the expedition, during which we have catalogued thirty-five branch universes and explored up to five levels beyond the mainline. It has been twenty days since we last left Three Portlands, but we have enough provisions to continue for at least four more weeks. Everyone remains in good spirits and health, save for Eichel, whose insomnia has worsened as we've continued to venture deeper into the multiverse. I can only guess that it is a side-effect of multiversal travel, possibly caused by the great amount of aspect radiation flux which we have encountered16.
At this time, we plan to continue exploring deeper into the multiverse until we have reached the limits of our provisions, at which point we will return to Three Portlands to resupply, rendezvousing with Travers on the trip back. It is our intention to continue our exploration for another two or three months after resupplying, with the possibility of one or more additional resupply trips during that time.
I shall write again on our return to Three Portlands.
Regards,
J.C. Randall

Editor's Note: Obviously, neither Randall nor his party made the return trip to Three Portlands.
But what, exactly, happened to them?
Three months after Randall missed his scheduled check in — a span deemed long enough that temporal desynchronization was unlikely to be at fault — a search party was assembled, headed by Sir Robert Durant of the British Occult Service. Relying on Randall's catalogue of universes and the traces of microbacklash left from the workings the expedition had used to open Ways, the search team was able to retrace Randall's path as far as JCR-072.
At this point, the trail ran cold. Although there were indications that a Way out of JCR-072 had been opened by Randall's party, Durant's team were unable to replicate the working — the Way had collapsed, making it impossible to follow any further without knowing exactly where they had gone.
In his after action report, Durant described two possible outcomes that he believed could have befallen the Randall party. The first, and the one considered most likely by scholarly consensus, is that the party became trapped in a low-level branch universe after their Way out collapsed. Durant estimated that in such an event the expedition could have survived for as long as a month and a half, depending on how they rationed their provisions.
There are, of course, problems with this theory, not least of which was the fact that the party counted three highly-skilled thaumaturges among its number, any one of whom could have performed a working to send a psychic distress message. This, and other issues, led Durant to propose a second theory: sabotage.
Durant suggested that the expedition could have been attacked and killed by the Thule Society expedition. Randall had suspected that they were secretly engaged in an archeological mission — might it have been possible that his team had unwittingly stumbled upon the Thule's prize, leading them to kill him?
Although there is no evidence to the contrary, there is also little evidence to support this suspicion — for that is what it is. There was nothing to suggest that the Way in JCR-072 was artificially collapsed, and based on the exit Way the Thule took out of JCR-050, it's unlikely they ever crossed paths with Randall's expedition again.
Based on my own investigations, I have a theory of my own. As observed by Randall, and confirmed by later expeditions, branch universes do not generate their own reality, instead drawing it from the mainline. The lower one goes in the branches, the less real they become, displaying greater divergence from the mainline. I believe that in their quest to probe as deep into the multiverse as possible, the Randall party inadvertently exited reality, disappearing into a conceptual unspace. That is to say, they quite literally vanished. When exactly this happened is hard to say, but by my calculations they likely never got farther than a seventh- or eighth-level branch.
However it happened, one thing is certain — Doctor John Carver Randall and his party will likely never be seen again. — L. Rowe

Footnotes
1. The actual Director of A&AM for Prometheus Labs at the time was Lucius Darby, who had replaced Petersen in late July of that year. However, Randall had no way of knowing this, hence the incorrect address. — LR
2. I have chosen not to include the Randall Catalogue in this version, in order to focus on the expedition itself. For the curious, a full copy of the catalogue can be obtained, free-of-charge, from the International Center for the Study of Unified Thaumatology. — LR
3. Randall makes multiple references throughout the report to the current day relative to the start of the expedition. He also occasionally makes note of events that have known temporal coordinates. By comparing the count of days to these known temporal points, it becomes clear that at some time after the 47th day of the expedition, the Randall Party had become desynchronized from the mainline timeline. It is estimated that by the time of this report's writing, the party was out of sync by three weeks ahead. If they were aware of this desynchronization, Randall did not make note of it. — LR
4. A full Way map of Three Portlands was finally created in 1952, a task which took 35 skilled specialists almost 3 months to complete. — LR
5. This phenomenon is known as ontic bleed, and is the result of branch universes drawing all or most of their reality from the mainline. — LR
6. Karin Eichel, one of the party's three skilled thaumaturges. Prometheus Labs personnel records from the time indicate that she may have had a weak form of subconscious precognition, although this speculation was never confirmed. — LR
7. Randall begins the catalogue at 038, to account for the 37 branch universes known of at the time. Although rarely referred to as such, Three Portlands is designated JCR-014 in the Randall Catalogue. — LR
8. The Portland Observatory, located in Portland, Maine, does not physically exist within Three Portlands. However, its metaphysical form extends into the branch universe, manifesting as a shadowy "ghost" of itself. It is this metaphysical shadow that Randall refers to. — LR
9. In 1927, before the invention of the Everhart Resonator, this was a much more challenging prospect than it is today. — LR
10. Markos Simonides, one of the party's archeological experts. He led Prometheus Labs' 1924 expedition that attempted to find an entrance to the Underworld. — LR
11. Fractals, a word which would not be coined until the 1970s. — LR
12. Victoria Travers, a linguist and anthropologist who specialized in studying the influence of the occult on ancient civilizations. — LR
13. Randall's party never made the rendezvous with Travers. She would later be found, almost six months after separating from the expedition, by the search party sent to retrieve Randall and his team. Travers could not be persuaded to return to Earth with the search party, electing to spend the rest of her life with the Mettryns. Her experiences during the months after she left the party, and her later life among the Mettryns, are described in her autobiography, 3D Goddess. — LR
14. The Thule Society were a group of German occultists who performed a number of archeological expeditions during the interbellum. They would later ally with the Obskuracorps during the Seventh Occult War. — LR
15. Konrad Weiss, a veteran of the Sixth Occult War, at the time considered to be one of the five most powerful German thaumaturges. He would later command the archeological arm of Obskuracorps during the Seventh Occult War, until his capture by the Foundation. — LR
16. Aspect radiation flux is the cause of a number of adverse psychological and physiological conditions among thaumaturges, who are more sensitive to shifts in background EVE levels. — LR


There exists a subculture on the internet fascinated by lost media. Missing episodes of long-cancelled television shows, unreleased photographs of important historical events, suppressed news footage of gruesome occurrences, all are sought after, and clues to where the next rediscovered curiosity will surface are discussed endlessly on web forums and chat channels.
Among some of the older and more experienced enthusiasts, there is an ongoing search for something referred to in lost media circles as the Manistique Broadcast, named for the small city in northern Michigan in which the original footage was supposedly aired one evening in 1982. The first references to the broadcast appear in cheaply copied newsletters circulated among pirate broadcasting hobbyists in the Great Lakes region, in which the owner of the newsletter (a person using the pseudonym "Neal Phreak") asks their readership if anyone has a recording of a twelve minute signal intrusion on a Schoolcraft County, Michigan NBC affiliate, purported to have occurred in the early hours of November 2, 1982.
Details of what exactly the broadcast is vary from source to source, and will likely never be known in full, since no known recordings have yet been discovered, and all information recovered thus far consists of the memories of several persons residing in Schoolcraft County at the time. Records recovered from Manistique television station WLUC by an unknown party and posted to the internet image board 4chan corroborate, however, that a signal intrusion did in fact occur during that night in 1982.
Most of those searching for the Manistique Broadcast agree, based on descriptions of those that claim to have seen the original broadcast, that the person depicted in the footage is Elizabeth Ekdahl, a woman reported missing to federal authorities in 1975. Miss Ekdahl's disappearance was one of several occurring in the Midwestern region during the 1970s, believed by the FBI to be the work of a single, still-unknown party. Of note is that Miss Ekdahl had a distinctive facial scar around her right eye, a consistent detail in all known eyewitness accounts of the broadcast. Another point of general agreement is the presence of an electronically altered voice overlying the broadcast; whether the voice is of the person operating the camera, or added to the broadcast by other means is unknown.
The footage is said to depict the apparently deceased Miss Ekdahl, lying on the ground in a wooded area presumed to be in the vicinity of Schoolcraft County, sometime at night. An off-screen voice at the start of the broadcast announces the phrase "how to correct the mistakes of the past, coming at eleven." Beyond this point, descriptions of the broadcast vary.
In several accounts, the broadcast is said to merely be twelve minutes of footage of the body of Miss Ekdahl, before a loud static burst and the end of the transmission. Others state that at certain points in the footage, Miss Ekdahl's eyes appear to briefly open several times, though most attribute this to be a mistaken interpretation of several viewers due to the poor quality of the transmission. Some versions of the account mention that the offscreen voice speak at these points in the broadcast, but descriptions on this point are contradictory.
A person claiming to have seen the Manistique Broadcast posted their account of the footage in the early 1990s, on a now-defunct pirate broadcasting usenet group. While the user's description of the early portions of the footage are consistent with other accounts, their account diverges drastically at approximately the six minute mark, where Miss Ekdahl is described to stand up, despite numerous large wounds and extensive trauma to the chest region. She is then described as shuffling slowly into the surrounding woods, before the broadcast ends with the same static burst at the twelve minute mark.
Due to the lack of widespread television recording capabilities at the time of the broadcast, as well as the timing of the signal interruption, it is unlikely that any recordings of the Manistique Broadcast exist. Still photos purported to be taken from the broadcast have been posted occasionally on image sharing sites; however, most users doubt the veracity of these photos, given the possibility of image manipulation.
Certain details are frequent sources of discussion among those interested in the Manistique Broadcast. Of the four disappearances connected to the case of Miss Ekdahl, hers are the only remains that have yet to be recovered. Two of the persons reported missing were later recovered with injuries similar to those apparently suffered by Miss Ekdahl; the remains of the third person were found in an advanced state of decomposition, making confirmation of the cause of death impossible to determine. Miss Ekdahl's mother claimed on an episode of Mornings With Len in 1989 to have seen her outside of her home during the nighttime on several occasions, and has consistently advocated for authorities to keep her case open, despite the official close of the investigation in 1992. In 1984, a private equity firm purchased 300 acres of forest in Schoolcraft County, located approximately two miles from Miss Ekdahl's former home, and have closed public access to the parcel since. Several lost media forum users have reported receiving threatening phone calls late at night after visiting this area, as well as other forms of unspecified harassment.
While the existence of a signal interruption affecting WLUC in 1982 is beyond doubt, it is unlikely that the true nature, or even the precise contents, of that broadcast will ever be determined.


Cameron Torren gave a sigh, took one last sip of coffee, and waited for the stage manager to give him the thumbs up. The signal came, and in a flash, he bolted out onto the set amid cheers and applause from the various people of Portland, Maine who made up his audience. Behind him, as he waved and smiled to the crowd, was the colorful sign that read: Mornings with Cameron Torren. He waited for the crowd's applause to finally die down, and then spoke.
"Hello hello hello," he cheerfully greeted the men and women before him. "Welcome to our show today. We got a lot of great things planned, a lot of neat segments, but to start us off we have a very special guest in with us today."
The lights in the room dimmed, and Cameron held up a flashlight under his chin. A few members of the audience giggled as he maintained a serious expression, allowing the camera in front of him to pan in before he continued.
"Our guest," he said in a low voice, "is a local legend, and easily one of, if not the most, recognized names in horror…"
Cameron then grinned and raised his voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Stephen King!"
The lights came on as the crowd cheered, a nerdy looking man wearing small glasses came onto the set and waved. As he approached Cameron, Stephen quickly turned to the audience and mouthed the word 'Boo!' and shook his hands. The two men then shook hands and sat down in the large arm chairs at the set's center.
"Good to have you here today, Stephen," Cameron said with a smile.
"Happy to be here," Stephen replied, returning the gesture with his own small grin.
"I got to say, I thought you'd be a lot spookier in person…"
"I try and tone it down a bit for these kinds of things."
"And you succeed, mostly," Cameron ribbed. "So, Stephen, you don't need me to tell you about your success. With novels like Carrie, The Shining, It, Misery, and The Dark Tower series, you've easily made your mark on pop culture. And now, from what I've heard, you're commenting on the marks of others in your column, The Pop of King for Entertainment Weekly. Just where do you find all the time and inspiration?"
"Well…" Stephen looked on thoughtfully, "a lot of things have inspired me in the past with my writing. But what recently I have found that has helped me is a certain book. I always keep my copy on me."
"You brought this book in with you today then?"
"I have!"
Stephen King then pulled out a hard cover book from the bag he brought with him on stage, and laid it down on the coffee table. Cameron looked at the cover with interest, his eyes scanning the title.
Star Signals

Eric Harper kept his copy on his night stand, next to the engagement ring he had offered Jillian, only to have it given back. Despite the last year being enjoyable, she had told him, she was just not ready to make that kind of commitment.
Needless to say, Eric was left crushed. Losing himself in his copy of Star Signals was a much-needed reprieve, and so far, had left him feeling much better about not only his situation with Jillian, but about his general existence. The words from the book echoed around in his mind as he sat in his living room, staring blankly at his wall.

This is good. It's a blank slot waiting for you to fill it up with your deepest desire until your deepest desire is pushing up into your throat. You will gag on your need. And until you do, it is a resonation space, for you to build your will like organ music in a cathedral. Hear the music now. This is not a metaphor. If your will is strong enough, there will be music now. Remember now that nothing in this book is a metaphor.

The void was there, and he had been filling it up with his deepest desire as the book had instructed. He had heard the music, and choked on his need.
A knock on the door broke Eric's train of thought. He quietly answered, surprised to see Jillian standing there. He tilted his head slightly as she gave him a sad smile.
"I've changed my mind…" she said, and threw her arms around him. "Yes!"
Eric grinned like an idiot, his arms holding her tight.
"It's all sideways from here," he whispered to her, and pecked her on the forehead.

"I have to say I'm a little surprised, Stephen," Cameron commented as he looked at the book. "You're a top selling author, a household name even, why does the great Stephen King need a self-help book?"
"Well, Cameron," Stephen replied, gesturing with his hands as he elaborated, "we all have voids to fill in our lives. You, these wonderful people here, and especially me. We all have voids in our lives and we need to fill them, and fill them with real fulfillment. And that's what I have found that this book does. It provides that real fulfillment that in turn fills the void."

Sarah Ray kept her copy on her bookshelf, next to several other self-help books, diet manuals, and other guides on losing weight. Now, one week later and 200lbs lighter, in the best shape of her life, she was jogging through the park near her apartment. As she wrapped up the last part of a five-mile run, she couldn't help but grin. The world bending to one's will has that effect on people.

In your current society, you are encouraged to “be yourself”, as if this is the key to making your desires real. What does that mean? It doesn't mean anything. You can't be anyone other than yourself. If you were to be someone else, you would still be “you”, and “you” would be someone who is someone else. There is no getting out from under existence. Because you can't be anyone else, it stands to reason that, if you want change in your reality, it is the world that must change to suit you. You must mold your phenomenological landscape into one where all your goals are achieved.
Now imagine that the place where your desires are made real has a name. It's called the Fifth World. The Fifth World is the cosmos twisted around you into the shape you will wish for. It has never been, but you can make it so. If the current world is like a tight, collared suit, then the Fifth World is like a flowing robe that allows complete freedom of movement. You will never truly move before you move in the Fifth World. You'll feel like a square on a piece of paper who was only just tlaol about up and down.

The Fifth World is a great place to be. Freedom of movement, both metaphysically and now, thanks to shedding what held me back, physically. Complete freedom of movement…
Sarah thought to herself as she moved towards a drinking fountain. She took a long drink, and then turned to begin her walk back to her car, bumping into a fellow jogger as she turned.
"Oh! Sorry!" he said quickly. "Are you okay?"
"Just fine," she replied with a smile.
"I don't think I've seen you out here before."
"I just started today."
"Ah," he said with a smile. "How are you liking the park so far?"
"Oh, it's wonderful! I've really enjoy all the occidental paths, and the zig-zagged leaves."
The jogger looked at Sarah with a raised eyebrow.
"What?"
"The occidental paths. They've taken me past and future through here. You don't take the occidental paths? Where do you jog?"
The jogger's mouth hung open for a second, then he shook his head.
"Anyway… you, uh, yeah."
The jogger took off running. Sarah watched him go with a small frown, then shrugged. There would be plenty more people to impress with her new physique. Especially now that she had tapped into the Fifth world.

"So, Stephen," Cameron said tenting his fingers. "Could you tell us what we could expect to find in Star Signals?"
Stephen chuckled and shook his head.
"I'm afraid not, Cameron. The journey is what's so special about this particular book. If I simply told you what was what, the magic would be gone."
"Yeah, but, Stephen…" Cameron raised his eyebrows in concern. "That's where the skepticism comes in. So many of these self-help books are just wishful thinking hokum, how would we know that this is any different?"
"Have you read it?" Stephen snapped back. Cameron flinched in his chair.
"No… no I have not."
"Then how would you know? Do you want to read it? I'd be more than willing to let you take my copy."
"I'm considering it, but I really wish you'd elaborate, the audience should know there is something to this…" said Cameron as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"That's just the problem though, Cam!" Stephen exclaimed as he got up out of his chair. "You're still using your mud logic. You need to move onto the star logic. The star logic is what makes this book tick. The star logic is what will set you free!"

Jamey White kept his copy on his coffee table, next to a pile of medical bills for his daughter Melissa. She had been diagnosed with leukemia quite a while back. He had spent countless nights working extra shifts, taking her to treatment the next morning, and then clocking back in again. However, despite his best efforts, the bills kept on piling up, and Melissa's health kept on worsening. He was at his wits end when a friend had lent him their copy of the book. Now, having finished it, Melissa's leukemia was in complete remission.

Slon tlir na tlei obr Fifth. Tla slon lpat plr children tln tlo sacp tlei.

How true those words were…
Jamey carried his daughter on his shoulders as they ran through the park. A wide, toothy grin was on his face. An expression of sheer terror was on his daughter's.
"Flrin trb cnor, daughter," he exclaimed, the very grass beneath them seeming to dance as he pranced about with the light of his life sitting on his shoulders. "Tam tassrel cooroo tewrn!"
She began to cry, holding on to his shoulders with all her strength.
"Daddy…" she said as she began to cry, "I'm scared. Please… please daddy, stop talking like that."
Jamey didn't hear her sobs, however; he was lost in ecstasy. His daughter was cured and free, and so was he.

"Stephen, I think you need to…" Cameron began, the fear was present in his face as he sunk deeper in his chair for shelter.
"I will not be lectured to by the mud logic!" Stephen shouted back, and then smiled and turned to the audience. "They will not be lectured anymore either!"
Stephen then grabbed a coffee mug off the table between him and Cameron and tossed it. The mug made a dull thud as it crashed off Cameron's head and shattered to the floor. Cameron and the chair he was in toppled over backwards. The talk show host held his head in pain briefly before slowly getting back to his feet.
"Tlka keyto dorznk!" Stephen said as he turned his attention back to Cameron.
"Christ, Stephen, what the hell has gotten into you?!?"
Stephen then grabbed the other mug off the table and lobbed it at his host. Cameron dodged, watching it smash in an explosion of shards on the backdrop. He fell silent as he watched Stephen point to him and then gesture for him to come over. Instead, Cameron ran off stage. Stephen shrugged and turned his attention back to the audience.
"Where the hell is security?" Cameron asked his stage manager, turning back to watch Stephen spew forth a series of gibberish as he flipped the coffee table and the other chair. The stage manager pointed across the set to where the security guards currently stood. Both of them were blank faced and motionless as they watched Stephen King continue to unfurl.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen," Stephen addressed his captivated audience. "I can't tell you what's in the book, but I can tell you that Star Signals will expand your eyes and open your mind…"
"What the hell is happening? Are we even still rolling?" Cameron inquired, briefly looking away from the train wreck taking place before them.
"We stopped after he threw the coffee mug at you," the stage manager replied. "Then the cameras started again. Jeff can't get them to shut down."
"It is the sledgehammer to break your soul, and the tape and glue you use to reform the shards into something better! Something that allows your desires to spew forth like a wind of bees…" Stephen continued to speak at the audience, his tone becoming more ecstatic with each passing syllable.
"Have we tried calling anyone?" Cameron asked.
"Phones are dead…" the stage manager replied.
"We could send a runner…"
"The doors won't budge…"
"Kindling that will spark a blaze in your spine, and send your very consciousness skyward like a divine firework, destined to explode among the deepest regions of time…"
Cameron and his stage manager locked eyes. Both men carried expressions of terror.
"Mr. Torrens," the stage manager continued, "I don't know what Mr. King is doing, but I think we are stuck here until he's done… if he ever finishes…"
"Ladies and gentlemen, please check below your seats!"
Cameron turned his attention back to the show. Stephen stood mid-stage with his arms held aloft. The members of the audience began to pull copies of Star Signals out from below their chairs, applauding their new host for his generous gift. Stephen then turned his attention backstage, a crooked grin on his face as he beckoned Cameron to come back out.
"I'm not going back out there…" Cameron said under his breath as he violently shook his head.
"But you have to…"
Cameron jumped as he blinked and found Stephen standing beside him, a hand on his shoulder.
"It would mean the world to me if you'd recommend the book to your viewers at home," Stephen cooed. "Your audience loves it. I love it. In time and space, I think you too would love it."
"And if, ah, if I don't…" Cameron whispered. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Not a damn thing," Stephen cackled, causing Cameron to cringe. "The question you need to ask is what are you going to do to you if you don't recommend this book."
Stephen pressed a copy into Cameron's hands. Despite everything, the weight in his hands made it feel enticing. A sense of exhilaration and fear wiggled its way through his mind as he looked over the cover again.
Star Signals
"First chapter is always the hardest!" Stephen chuckled.
"First chapter is always the hardest…" Cameron agreed. He didn't know why.
He blinked again, and he and Stephen were back on stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen at home," Cameron found himself saying, "I am pleased to recommend to you Star Signals for your reading pleasure…"
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Stephen smile and nod in approval. Cameron smiled back. He had little choice in the matter. From this point on, it appeared that he was no longer in control of his studio. Here, Stephen was king.


In thirty minutes she will either be dead or the greatest criminal known to Eurtec. Either way, she's going to get one hell of a fix.
The target is a squat, unimposing, one-story concrete block - a blot against the vibrant Art Deco architecture of the crimson-light district. It's also the home of the Bank of Eurtec. There's at least ten million dollars' worth of cash, bonds, stocks, jewels, spices, spells, and tech inside. And in thirty minutes, it'll all be hers. Or her soul will be part of the security system.
Twenty-nine minutes left.
She's sitting on a yellow 2008 Vespa S in an alleyway adjacent to the Bank. The moped has been modified with a small, flat table stuck above the headlight, on which she is dicing, crushing, mixing, and then filling a syringe with product.
Also atop the table is a grey IMI Desert Eagle. It is large, loud, iconic, powerful, and incredibly unwieldy. She has never been to a range in her life. She's more likely to blow a hole through her own head with it than anything else.
The products are ready. She's not. She hasn't scoped out the Bank, examined their security systems, seen any blueprints of the building - hell, she hasn't even set foot inside the Bank. Everything she knows about it, she learned from her inside man. But that doesn't matter. The products are ready.
Twenty-eight minutes left.
She takes a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a cotton swab, and rubber tubing from a satchel on her back. Then she dips the swab in the bottle, swabs the crook of her left elbow, and ties the tubing around it - an unwieldy process with two arms, let alone one. It takes her several tries to get it wrapped tightly.
Twenty-three minutes left.
Satisfied that the tubing is tight around her elbow, she takes the syringe in her right hand and gives it an experimental tap. It screeches in response; the thick, dark slurry inside coalesces into a tiny, red, six-armed gorilla that beats at the glass. She shakes the syringe rapidly to reduce the gorilla back into a scarlet sludge. Then, in a fluid, practiced motion, she gently stabs the needle into the vein in her arm and injects herself with 100 CCs of pure demon.
Twenty-two minutes left.
Her pulse doesn't quicken - it runs for its life. Her vision blurs briefly and then sharpens. Even as her head begins to pound to the drumbeat of the damned, she notes with satisfaction that her left arm has been pixelated. Where once there was continuous smooth skin, the entire limb from the shoulder down looks like a sixteen-bit sprite from a video game. She gives it an experimental flex to make sure that it doesn't fall off, then looks to the Bank.
The Bank and everybody around it are now a sheen of threads: the dull grey of concrete, stone, and metal, the rich tan of wood, the vibrant scarlet of humans, the icy lime of machines, and the frosty blue of spirits. All of them are moving sluggishly, as if caught in an invisible flood of molasses. This is the power of demonic perception.
Helmet and leathers on and cannon in hand, she covers the fifty meters to the main entrance in less than a second. The entrance doors are frosted glass, and shatter to bits when she rams through them with her left shoulder. Her trajectory carries her into a security android, whom she punches in the throat. As he falls, she wraps her right arm around his injured throat, shifts her gun to her left hand, and puts it to his head. She fires. People start to scream.
Twenty-one minutes left.
She's never felt more alive. As part of the ceiling crumbles and the citizens of Eurtec huddle on the ground, she drags the android across the marble floor to the teller - a mainframe intelligence - and warns it that for every minute she is not allowed into the main vault, somebody dies. It hesitates. She leans on the glass window separating them and shifts her gun from the android to the crowd.
Twenty minutes left.
The android reactivates and attempts to elbow her in the gut. She seizes his elbow with the Left Arm of Doom and wrenches it behind his back, allowing him just enough time to look shocked before the entire left side of his body is converted into digital information. He collapses forward, looking for all the world as though he was sliced in half. She gives the stunned teller a wry look, though it probably can't see it through her helmet. It can, however, see her aiming her gun at a small child in the crowd.
Nineteen minutes left.
The door to the bank vault is a meter-thick slab composed of fifty percent unobtaniumTM, thirty-one percent platinum, ten percent iridium, and nine percent metal unknown to all but the corporation formerly known as Prometheus Labs. It is unbreakable.
It swings open, and she tips her helmet to the teller before strolling in. There are still eighty meters of spatially and temporally folded corridor between her and the vault. All eighty meters are guarded by geases, security turrets, metal golems that can melt out of the walls, and a floating necromantic complex composed of the souls of everyone who has tried to steal from the Bank of Eurtec1 in the past.
None of those souls tried to juice themselves with demonics. She breaks into a sprint, Superman-style; her pixelated arm in front. Soon she'll either be rich or dead.
Eighteen minutes left.
The geases come first; unless inoculated against them ahead of time, they compel you to stop breathing. The Left Arm of Doom smashes through them with ease - contrary to popular belief, the Devil has no problem reneging on his contracts.
Seventeen minutes left.
The turrets come next, unfolding from the walls and ceiling. A hail of bullets comes down the corridor at her. It's all a mess of green threads; she swipes at them with the Left Arm of Doom and they come unraveled, disintegrating into computer chips, blocks of various precious metals, and several rapidly vanishing lesser demons.
Sixteen minutes left.
Ahead of her, the walls themselves begin to melt away and seep onto the floor. Then they reform into enormous, massive golems; screeching metal raptors that want nothing more than to rend her flesh from her bones. This is what the Desert Eagle is actually for - it's the only pistol in the world with the triangular barrel that will allow her to fire geomantically blessed bullets. Of course, no amount of geomancy will allow her to aim properly. She fumbles with a pocket on her satchel and extracts two small blue pills: these demons came from the Seventh Plain of the Atlach-Nacha. She pops them like grapes.
This time her right arm physically bulks up; it looks like she stole it from a body builder and grafted it to herself. The arm instantly stops shaking; it is now perfectly oriented with respect to the Seventh Plain, regardless of how much running she does. She drops into a slide and takes less-than-careful aim with the Eagle before firing off five shots. Five golems collapse as the rules of geometry allowing their metallic composition to exist decide to take a break.
Fifteen minutes left.
The last twenty meters are the hardest; this time the ground falls away from her mid-slide. Now she is falling towards the bank vault, trying to keep hold of her helmet as a vortex of red and blue and purple engulfs her. The vault is within sight, but it's falling faster than she is. Then the necromantic complex appears.
A shrieking, wailing mass of souls amassed over three hundred years2 rises up from the vault. Thousands of screaming faces rush up towards her. This is the Curse of Eurtec: the souls of the damned that have tried and failed to steal from the Bank. All of them are cursed to spend the rest of eternity guarding it, tormented by their own greed as they are forced to protect the treasure they worked so hard to capture for themselves.
If she doesn't do something in the next five seconds, the shell that contains her mortal soul will disintegrate violently and painfully. Then she will join them in this artificial hell.
The Curse rushes up towards her. She winds the Left Arm of Doom back, and then connects with a punch.
There is whiteness.
Then she is inside the bank vault.
Nine minutes later, the police have set up a cordon outside the building. Inside, a FLYPAPER team is approaching the door to the vault. The teller is still hiding in the mainframe; it sealed the vault as soon as the mysterious robber entered it. At the FLYPAPER's signal, the teller opens the vault door.
As soon as the door opens, she dives out of the vault and slides across the floor, shooting wildly. The Atlach-Nacha pills wore off thirty seconds ago, so all she manages to kill are a few decorative wall panels. It does, however, startle the FLYPAPER and force them to recalibrate for a second. That's all she needs.
The Left Arm of Doom slams through the wall of the Bank, sending chunks of concrete flying. As she picks herself up to run, a bullet burrows into the back of her skull. The hellfire coursing through her veins melts it down and uses it to repair the damage.
She vaults onto the Vespa. The key is still hanging out of the ignition.
Five minutes left.
Things are moving faster now and the Left Arm of Doom is gone. The FLYPAPER are storming out of the Bank. She can see the crimson of their eye and the saliva dripping from their mouth.
She has one more trick up her sleeve: a line of chartreuse powder on the table she set up on the Vespa. She doesn't have any straws - she'll just have to hope the Vespa table is clean. She scrapes her face across the table and snorts all the powder in one deep breath. Then she guns the ignition.
The engine is now fueled by her mental state - a hyperkinetic cocktail of adrenaline, drugs, and two separate demon possessions. The Vespa's frame can barely contain the roar of the engine, much less the actual thrust as the tiny Italian scooter tears out of the alley at two hundred kilometers per hour.
As she rockets past the FLYPAPER, she sees a line of translucent pink motorbikes emerge in front of them: the FLYPAPER's Psionic Force Deterrent Squadron, a force of undead bike cops that cannot be reasoned with, bargained with, or killed. Only their quarry can see or interact with them, and they will not stop until that quarry is behind bars or six feet under.
Four minutes left.
She spares a glance to the left and suddenly there is a truck bearing down on her from the intersection which she didn't even realize she'd driven into. In an instant, the Vespa is reduced to torn metal and she is reduced to a pulp of organs.
At least, in one possible future. In her mind's eye, she sees Hiranyakashipu collapse all possible futures into the future where she survives. A trillion different possibilities flit through her skull in an instant and then vanish; the shock causes her to swerve away from the intersection and into a small alleyway, breaking out into a park. People enjoying a day out are forced to flee for cover from the Vespa careening through the brush.
The Squadron bursts out of the trees, landing on the ground and flanking her. A translucent pink cop materializes on each bike and pulls out a light pink Magnum revolver; it would be funny if they weren't about to fire at her.
The echoes of five gunshots go off. Every psychic in Eurtec experiences a sudden moment of panic and frantically pats themselves down for bullet wounds.
Three minutes left.
Hiranyakashipu shows her another trillion futures and sends her slumping over the handlebars for a half second - long enough for all five echoes to zip harmlessly over her head. Two of the echoes connect with two of the Squadron's riders, temporarily erasing all four from this plane of existence. She shakes herself awake as the Vespa careens over a bridge, sending a man and his grandson diving for cover. The rest of the Squadron rides over the brook as though it were flat land.
The Vespa barrels through the park gates and back onto the street, blowing through a red light and almost causing a multi-dimensional-car pileup. In the distance, a train horn blares.
Two minutes left.
She steers in the direction of the train horn, blowing past one red light, two red lights, three red lights… the blaring of horns and the screeching of metal against metal fades behind her in the distance. What doesn't fade is the throaty hum of three spectral Yamahas. The Vespa is starting to slow down - the Squadron is not.
Then she spots her salvation: a light blue tanker truck stopped at the intersection. On the side of the tank is the characteristic rectangular biohazard sign of ectoplasm. Nobody with a corporeal form would be affected by raw ectoplasm - but the Squadron doesn't have one. She fishes the Desert Eagle from its spot in her waistband (the realities where it discharged into her pelvis having long since been discarded) and takes aim at the truck.
She unloads the three remaining bullets into the tanker as it begins to accelerate through the intersection; two of them go wild, startling a flock of birds. The third clips the tanker's valve and the thin green sheen of ectoplasm begins to flood out. The tanker clears the intersection, gushing ectoplasm everywhere just as she rockets through it, creating a traffic jam through the main thoroughfare. She looks behind her and sees the Squadron slow to a halt in the spectral goo.
One minute left.
Ahead is her goal - the railroad tracks. The crossing gates are down and the lights are flashing. On cue, the freight train chugs into view from the right.
Things go wrong. The roar of two Yamaha engines suddenly become audible: the first two Squadron cops have returned to the world of the living. And this time they're not flanking her - they're simply going to shoot her in the back.
She makes a split second decision and tips the moped into a slide. Her bike leathers grind against the road at three hundred kilometers per hour as the Vespa disintegrates on contact with the unforgiving asphalt. She skids underneath the crossing gates and comes to a stop directly on the tracks.
Five thousand tons of unforgiving iron and steel smash into her at seventy kilometers per hour, mashing her to bits and splattering those bits across the tracks.
The Squadron does not stop; they simply sink into the ground as they drive.
Time is up.
She sits up with sharp, deep, labored breaths. She is naked, sitting in the center of a chartreuse pentagram, drawn entirely of the same powder that she snorted five minutes ago on her moped.
The pentagram is on a hard, concrete floor. There is a row of fluorescent lights on the ceiling.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Rookie," someone calls.
She whips her head to the right. There are two couches in front of a television. The Inside Man is sitting on one of them, holding a bag of chips and grinning at her.
"Bladdy hell, Rookie," he says, munching on the chips, "you really kicked the hornet's nest. Man, that robbery was on every bladdy channel I have! There were Andycopters following that Vespa chase. I can't believe they sent the FLYPAPER after you!"
She stares at him archly.
"Anyways, you're alive!… How's that work? And how'd you make out?" the Man asks.
"Contract. Lesser Nornir demon. I died. I came back. It got some gold," she responds slowly, with vocal chords that have never been used before. She gingerly reaches out with her hands and makes a motion as if throwing open a pair of curtains. A pile of cash, gold, jewels, bonds, stocks, spices, and spells fall out of the empty air. The Man's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.
"Lekker, lekker, lekker," he says, "you actually did it. You cleared them out. You robbed the Bank of Eurtec."
He sets the chips down on the couch and hops over it, walking towards her. "I guess there's something to your 'demon drug' thing after all."
He helps her up and then offers a closed fist. She bumps it in acknowledgment.
"Congrats, Rukmini. The Chicago Spectre is now on the map!"

« Hypervelocity | Terminal Velocity »

Footnotes
1. A security system pioneered by the Bank of Three Portlands
2. Although Eurtec was only built in the mid-80s, temporal investments and various forms of parathievery ensured that within thirty years it would be subject to a cumulative three centuries of attempted heists