Tyler Palma leaned on the railing of the freight ship, taking in the droning of the vessel's engine and the salty aftertaste of the air, watching the rich red sun melt into the ocean. He swore, to no one in particular.
It had been a bad day.
Palma was a Foundation Containment Specialist, and though that usually carried many problems with it, today had shown itself to be particularly troublesome. He had been ordered to permanently leave the comfortable office he'd spent years making into something of a home for himself just so he could work in the field with an active SCP, one that had already killed seven people in a single day, and then stick with the thing until they finished moving it from rural Portugal to a secure base on the French coast. This "SCP-002" was already shaping up to be a handful.
And there was also the throbbing, bitter pain in the forefront of his mind left from knowing this operation he was in had resulted in the deaths of dozens of innocent people. Even if he was there when it happened, maybe there wouldn't have been anything he could do to stop it. All they'd done was take a look at the meteor that had fallen outside of their village. Protecting Foundation secrets, the General said. How should they have known the thing was a skip? The General didn't want to take any chances, though, and they were all out of amnestics.
Of course, not all of this information was officially provided to Dr. Palma, but word gets around fast when everyone's stuck on the same boat. Still, the deaths weighed on him. They were unnecessary, in his opinion.
But it wasn't about his opinion, was it?
The only opinion that mattered was The General's. General Mulhausen, captain of SCP-002's containment operation, was a strict, severe old man; he was a militaristic relic that had passed his prime ages ago. His insistence that he be referred to as "General" was one aspect of this, as were his expeditious decisions and the stubbornness with which he upheld them.
But he was damn efficient, and everyone knew it. He may cross the line from time to time, but he would get results. It was lunch time though, so he banished the thoughts and put on a smiling face. Just gotta stay positive.
At the mess hall, Dr. Palma found his pal Rob sitting alone with his hamburger. He was older, and balding a little, but Dr. Palma felt like he was one of the few sane people working this operation.
"Need a partner?" Dr. Palma said as he slid to the opposite side of the table from Rob, putting down a small stack of case reports next to him.
"I'm just eating, not ballroom dancing. But sure, have a seat." Rob said in a friendly, if not dry, tone.
"Can you believe this operation? Stuck on a boat with some important anomaly and we can't even see it?" Dr. Palma complained, poking at the food on his tray. "Classified information? Now that's a joke. I'm supposed to keep it contained. Can't do that if they won't let me know what it actually is."
"Yeah, they're being real hush-hush about whatever they're keeping down below us. I mean, I don't know a thing about it, and I still have to process the papers for it? It's bullshit." Rob grumbled.
Rob had the stature and dead stare of a man working a job with too many hours and too little explanation. Workplace rumors and secrets, particularly the classified kind, were the only thing that provoked a bit of liveliness in him.
"And you know me, gossip's the only thing that keeps me alive! Yet I've heard nothing! It's driving me crazy."
"I know, I know." Dr. Palma agreed.
"Tomorrow I should get more details though, since a bunch of people are gonna get involved in testing." Rob told Dr. Palma as he inspected his dry hamburger. "But you got stuck studying it up close, didn't you?"
"Ah, just overseeing the research. If the General wants to get me up close to this thing, he's gonna need to find a new containment specialist fast." Dr. Palma let out a chuckle. "I don't know what he wants to do with this, but stick any important personnel close to something as dangerous as that and we'll be abandoning ship faster than the hair abandoned your head."
"Oh, come on." Rob rolled his eyes. "That's like a joke Mathilde would say."
"That's your daughter, right?"
"Yeah. Miss her to death." Rob stared off into the distance, then, catching himself, slammed his fists against the table. "This damn boat! I miss being home."
"I think we all do." Dr. Palma nodded sympathetically. Dr. Palma thought of home, but his mind came up blank. His parents had never given him a real home, those scumbags. And since he lived at the Foundation he didn't have much of an actual residence besides what was provided to him. He banished the confusion to focus back on the conversation.
"Anyways, you are seeing what this thing is, right? What it does?" Rob asked, the curious glimmer returning to his eye.
"Honestly? Not a clue. All they've told me is that I gotta transfer across the seas on this heap of metal to beautiful France, land of snails and wine." He mimicked the last part with an atrocious French accent. "At least, until they have this new skip sealed away into a tight metal box where no one will ever have to deal with it again."
"So it's small enough to fit in a box?" Rob raised an eyebrow.
"No, I don't-" Palma sighed. "You probably know just as much as me right now. I'm overseeing testing in about two hours though." Dr. Palma grabbed his files as he stood up and prepared to leave. "Sorry, but I gotta go through these case files again before we begin any testing. Take it easy."
"Hey, I think I wrote one of those reports." Rob craned his head over to snatch a glimpse of the papers. Dr. Palma pressed them close to his chest. "Sorry, need-to-know basis. Can't have a number cruncher knowing about the person cruncher."
"That is literally my job." Rob said with a bit of hurt in his voice. "But anyways, good luck out there." Rob called as Palma left the dining facility.
"Seriously, don't die!"
He was only partially joking, and Dr. Palma knew it.

In a cramped metal office, Dr. Palma looked over hastily-scrawled notes under a dim, faltering light. The only information available came from the containment team when they weren't overseeing the troubled capture of this thing, so there wasn't much to work with. Different reports pulled together a picture of a ball of flesh, twice as tall as a person, crashing into a field back home in Portugal. Notes from one agent described three villagers being ordered to walk one-by-one into a hole on the side of the ball under threat of gunfire. None of them came back out. Another report documented seven total deaths from the thing. There was no information on who the other four deaths were. Personnel, maybe? Either way, it was impossible to understand with what he had. He dreaded it, but it looks like he'd have to ask the General about it.
"So much for a trouble-free voyage." Dr. Palma muttered to himself. "Discrepancies in the books already. Looks like someone's gotta fire Rob." He let out a small laugh at his own joke, but it didn't alleviate the growing dread of facing the dangerous unknown.
He didn't have time to worry about that, though. It was time to begin the testing.

"All I'm saying is you should take some pride in your work!"
"Meh."
In a lab filled with a sickeningly yellow light, Dr. Palma walked into an argument between two others: his junior researchers. Junior Researcher Santos, a tall, gangly and wired man, berating his equal, Junior Researcher Torres, who was a short and groggy woman.
The small chamber around them was crowded with computers and other scientific instruments. A large shuttered window covered the wall that the equipment wasn't. The junior researchers barely acknowledged his presence as they squabbled.
"Listen, you're going to get errors if you're not being organized." He gestured with his arms dramatically. "And Dr. Palma and I still have to read your notes!"
Torres pinched her creased forehead, eyes shut tight. "Santos, I have had a hell of a headache ever since I left homand got on this boat and I really don't need this right now."
"O Senhor, fine."
A short yet broad military man breached the door and marched through the conversation into the center of the room.
"Rise and shine, eggheads! Here's the monster of the day!" He declared smugly.
He pulled a lever on the wall and the shuttered window slowly clacked its way up. All four of the room's occupants peered through the thick glass, revealing a large, rusted chamber, and a grim monstrosity within.
A large fleshy orb with a sickly black hue floated in the center of the chamber, unmoving. It was bigger than the notes had said, towering almost three times larger than a normal person, with short, tentacle-like protrusions scattered across its surface. A dark hole, large enough for one to enter, was present in a lower region of the sphere. It throbbed and undulated slowly, as if waiting for something.
"Meu Deus." Junior Researcher Santos said, his shaking hand making the sign of the cross as he stood behind Dr. Palma's shoulder.
"Damn," Researcher Torres said, to the other side of Dr. Palma. Her muzzy eyes opened wide with anticipation and fear. "We've gotta work with that?"
"Yep. Sure beats working with safe-class shit, doesn't it? You've got a couple days to tell me what the hell is going on with this thing. General Mulhausen stated, pacing in front of the trio. Though he didn't have much in the way of height, he did have presence. "Don't waste too much time staring. You've got work to do."
Dr. Palma turned to the General. "What does it do?" He asked slowly, carefully.
"See for yourself." Mulhausen bent over a microphone. “D-1005, move closer to the anomalous object.”
A haggard man in his 50s stepped into view. He stepped towards the orb and looked fearfully at the window.
"Look at the SCP, not me."
The old man turned hesitantly towards the object, and took a couple more steps towards it. Silent seconds passed by.
"Now pay attention." The General said to the scientists, as if they weren't already fixated on the scene. "Move away from the anomalous object." He ordered.
The gaunt man stood in place, staring at the black growth.
"D-1005, move away from the object."
"No." The weary man declared, fearful but steadfast.
"D-1005, step back."
Tears began flowing down the withered face. The man took a few slight steps towards the object. Steps turned into strides as the man wailed. He shouted incomprehensibly, echoing throughout the room, as he ran across the rusted chamber towards the blackened fleshy orb. The D-class disappeared into its dark orifice. The shouting stopped. The scientists stood and watched from the window, wordless.
"He won't come back." The General stated, unfazed. "None of them do."
The scientists still waited at the window for some time before turning away. Of them, only Dr. Palma had ever worked with anything dangerous, and even then he had only been a junior researcher at the time. He spoke first.
"General,"
"What?" He asked, proudly.
"Why-why did you do that? Why would you-"
"The test? I had to show you all what it does." Mulhausen said flatly.
The lackluster response provoked Dr. Palma, but he tried to keep it together.
Come on, happy face. Just gotta keep it together. Keep it together.
"Sir, there was no good reason for this test. We've all read the reports, we all know what it does." He felt his voice rise with his temper. "You just killed a man! You killed him and-and there was no reason to kill him!"
The General stepped closer to Dr. Palma. His face was tight and his eyes were wide and goading. Dr. Palma had to suppress the urge to cringe away from that stone-still face, inches away from his.
"You're not in charge of this operation. I do what is right for the mission. There are a million different aspects of this mission that I am personally in charge of. So I make the calls, not you." General Mulhausen said, sharp yet slow. "Remember your place, and let me work!"
The General moved away from Dr. Palma, heading towards the door. But before exiting, he did an about-face into a stiff military stance, a souvenir from his time in service.
"You will follow my orders, and you will trust my orders! You're all going to make sure that thing stays contained," he pointed to the window. "Or I'll throw you in it myself!" He shouted before turning again and exiting the room, leaving the trio stunned.
Santos slowly began to speak.
"You've read the files too, right?"
"Yeah." Dr. Palma replied.
"Maybe we should ask about the four-"
Dr. Palma covered his face with his hand and sighed. "Ugh, you're right." He hesitantly moved out to the hallway.
"General! General!" He called out.
The General turned around and walked over, slowly but forcefully. "What do you want?"
"There's four unreported deaths in the reports! Did you also send them into that-that thing?!" Dr. Palma shouted down the hall before the General could get close. "We don't know anything about it and you're just feeding it bodies! You can't do that!"
"I can do whatever the hell I feel like I need to do to complete this mission! Now get the hell out of my face. That's an order!" The General shouted, staring down Dr. Palma with eyes wide open and angry.
Dr. Palma turned around and briskly walked away with anger in his stride, stuck with only questions and a sense of foreboding.

Within the cramped confines of his room, Dr. Palma went over the events of the afternoon again and again. The man from the test, he had just started running towards that fleshy…thing for no discernible reason. He listened to the audio recordings. He listened to them again. It was all gibberish being shouted by this poor old man. He slowed the recording down, and then realized there was one word being repeated again and again, between the lines of slurred rambling.
"Home."

"Man, I'm homesick. I miss my wife. Mathilde too. She's a sweet girl."
In the dining hall, Rob and Dr. Palma sat talking in-between bites of scrambled eggs.
"Yeah." Dr. Palma replied, his mind occupied. "Home."
Where was that? What was that? What makes someplace a home? Did he even really have a home?
Rob chuckled. "Distracted?"
"Yeah, it's just been a lot these past few days."
Rob's teasing smile turned to a concerned frown. "That bad, huh? Usually you're all sunshine and jokes and stuff."
"There's just so much wrong going on in this operation." Dr. Palma lamented. "The General's acting more like a mob boss than a leader."
Rob responded with a long sip of coffee. "There's only so much you can do."
"But aren't you worried it's all going to go south? We could all be in danger!"
"Like I said, only so much you can do."
A couple seconds passed awkwardly until Rob changed the subject. "You know, I've never heard anything about your home. Tell me about it. Got anyone waiting back there?"
Chaos erupted in the back of Dr. Palma's mind. Shadowy figures yelled and fought. Somewhere, a bottle broke. A scream. Crying.
"Home? Nope. Nobody." He said quickly, banishing the thoughts from his head.
"A shame. It-"
Suddenly the blaring alert of a klaxon deafened the room and cut Rob off.
An alarm drenched the cafeteria in stale reds and piercing wails as the crimson outlines of other individuals started shifting and moving, gradually becoming more and more of a frenzy.
"Shit!" Rob jumped up as Dr. Palma started running towards the door. Everyone was moving towards the main entrance but the emergency exit was closer to them. "Come on, Rob!" Dr. Palma shouted.
They fled through the escape door, running up the stairs that led to the deck. It was dark up above, an indifferent sky gazing down with its million shiny pinprick eyes. There were a few people up here, scurrying about on their way to the safe rooms. Rob was slowing down, distracted by something out of Dr. Palma's sight.
“Rob, arre! Run! We've gotta get moving!”
Rob slowed to a stop, turning and walking away.
“I think I'll go home now.” Rob uttered in a neutral, too-calm tone. His eyes were wide and his movements were sluggish.
“Hey! We don't have time for this! Let's go!”
“No, I want to go home.” He continued staggering away from Dr. Palma to something unknown. “I'm going home now.”
Dr. Palma looked back, only to instantly turn his head and start running away. Behind him was that large uneven circular outline. Despite its color mixed in with the pitch black sky behind it, the shape was unmistakeable. Dr. Palma only got a brief glimpse of its slowly waving tentacles and pulsing flesh before averting his gaze and turning to get away. He tried to grab Rob first, but Rob had left Dr. Palma as his staggering turned to uneven, frantic running.
"I'm coming home! Daddy's coming home! I'm here, bunny!" Rob was choked up, exclaiming his utterances between labored breaths and tears of joy. "I'm here, my sweet Matilde! Daddy's here!"
And then the yelling stopped. Dr. Palma knew it meant Rob was gone, into the fleshy orb that had devoured him whole. It only made him run faster to the nearest door, with the looming bridge close. He sprinted with all his might, trying as hard as he could to not turn around, to not see if the black growth was approaching him, gaining on him. He grabbed the heavy bridge door and slammed it shut.
Around him were the ship's controls, an array of dials and switches on a metal console. Moonlight shone through the windows onto a dead navigating officer, splattered blood painting the aged dashboard. The General loomed above the dead man, his menacing profile clad in darkness, a smoking gun in his hand.
"So you've stumbled upon me, eh, Palma? Mighty stupid mistake. Mighty stupid."
Dr. Palma was too surprised to fully process the scene, only shouting, "Hold on, don't shoot!"
"Oh, this?" The General observed his pistol for a moment, then put it in its holster. “I'll only need this if we come to a…disagreement.” His eyes flashed with that final word. "And you will agree with your general, won't you?"
Dr. Palma kept shaking his head in confusion. "I don't know-I don't understand, what are you-"
"I think you'll be smart enough to come around to my side. Just watch me."
At that moment the bridge door slammed open again, with the timid, gangly figure of Junior Researcher Santos appearing in front of it. He was breathing heavily, rapidly mumbling prayers with each exhale.
"That sick, godless thing is free! It's out there! It's on the deck!" His eyes were wild and frantic as sweat fell from his brow.
The General, as calm as a still tide, addressed his subordinate. "Santos?"
"Yes?"
"As your superior, I am ordering you to turn around." His words were slow and delicate. It was so uncharacteristic that Dr. Palma could only watch as he tried to understand.
"But-"
"Please, for your general. Turn around."
Junior Researcher Santos slowly turned back around and peered through the open metal door. Dr. Palma didn't have to look to know that the black orb was still out there, still waiting. Santos' eyes widened as his pupils dilated at the sight.
"See? There's nothing bad here. We've decided to let you go home." The General's words were uncomfortably kind. "We brought your home all the way here. Isn't that nice?" By the end of the sentence he was enunciating with almost pointed care.
Junior Researcher Santos nodded slowly. "My…home." He began to smile warmly, like a child.
"Yes, now, before you can go home I have one small task for you."
"Yes, General?"
"Junior Researcher Torres is still on this ship somewhere, and I bet you know where. We brought her home here too. Could you please show her to her home? Then you can go home."
"Yes."
And with that, Santos lumbered off into the night. Dr. Palma saw as the General turned back to him.
"Do you get it now? I'm just…taking everyone here home." His voice had switched back to the low, gruff tone it had always taken before. "Now look out the door and help me. That is an order."
Dr. Palma saw the glazed look in the General's eyes, looking right past him, and the awkward way he was standing, almost too straight, and knew that this wasn't the General. He was gone, and only a shell remained. A shell filled with the wishes of that black tumor. The General's dead skin continued to stare at Dr. Palma with a cold malice seeping out from behind his eyes.
Dr. Palma sprinted to the door, running as fast as he could to escape the General-Husk that was so close to him. It lunged at him as he ran, grabbing a leg as Palma tried to shake him loose.
"Look! Look! Look at it!" He was screaming, his voice strained beyond any human's ability. His fingers tightened and his nails dug into Dr. Palma's ankle.
Dr. Palma kicked at The General with his other foot, finally stomping down on his wrist. A cracking sound came with impact, and the hand finally let go. Dr. Palma kept running, keeping his head low to avoid looking at the large creature that was surely chasing him now.
He fled to a staircase heading down into the freighter, and thanked the heavens he had familiarized himself with the ship's map. He stumbled through corridor after corridor, passing dazed passenger-husks who tried to latch on to him, each one empty and hostile. His room was just around the corner. If he could hide there-
But the hallway in front of him ended abruptly.
In front him was the orb of black, twisted flesh, squeezed impossibly tight into the medium-sized corridor. It completely filled up every corner, small tentacles reaching and grasping for whatever they could hold. Dr. Palma was face to face with the dark, foreboding Void in its side. He turned to run but tripped on an exposed electric cord. While getting back up he saw the thing again.
And then the monster ceased to be a monster. It was his house, actually. His lovely family house back in Portugal, with the big window out front and the red door (his Mom always said the red made it lucky) and the grey paint and his family. He knew his family was inside. His mother. His father. His sister. They were in there.
They were waiting for him.
So he went home. And he was right, his mother and his father and his sister were there standing in the living room all perfect and happy to see him back. The living room was the same as he remembered it, and so was his family. They wanted to embrace him. His mom wanted a big hug.
But then, a shadow flickered across the dream. A hint of nightmare rose. Shadowy figures started yelling and fighting on the walls. Somewhere, a bottle broke. A scream. His sister was crying. The voice of his father was yelling in his deep, slurred voice. The voice of his mother was begging and pleading. His family just stood there and smiled. They didn't move. They didn't blink.
This wasn't his family. And this wasn't his house.
His family was broken and shattered. The house had been sold.
So where was his home?
Lost in thought and confusion, his surroundings swirled and blurred together.
Home was where his friends were and were his work was and were he lived every new day as an explorer of the unknown.
Home was The Foundation.
So where was he?
Everything melted away. The chairs and couches and tables turned to brown and grey. The walls were a meaty red. He was in a barren apartment, but something was wrong. He looked at the table, the couch. Instead of wood and glass he saw hair and bone, woven and nailed together intricately to create furniture. A leather reclining chair had faint veins still splayed across it. The walls pulsed.
Then, the shapes became more familiar. Dr. Torres' face peered out of the chair, flesh melded into flesh. Rob's eyes stared blankly from the wall, beady and white. An arm began to slowly reach out of the table, an amalgamation of skin and other body parts in the mockery of a limb. More began to sprout, like fast-growing meat flowers, clawing, reaching. The room tried to grab Dr. Palma from a hundred different angles. It cried in a hundred voices. He could hear Dr. Santos' voice, and Rob's too in the cacophony.
Dr. Palma ran.
Out the door.
Out of the belly of the beast.
He heard a loud humming increase in pitch as soon as he left, the walls lurching more and more. The eldritch globe crawled forward, every one of its sides squeezing against the rusty metal walls, pitch-black protrusions flailing wildly.
Dr. Palma tripped again as he ran over the same electric cord, causing a small rip in the insulative rubber. He had an idea. He may not have had any weapons on hand, but he could make one. He grabbed the cord and yanked on it hard. Maybe it would fail, but it was the only chance he had. If he kept running, those possessed husks of the people he once knew would drag him back eventually.
He yanked once.
Twice.
Thrice.
And with the fourth, its electrical innards broke loose. The electrical wires now free in his hands. He wasted no time and thrust it rapidly into the cramped black mass. The humming from it turned into a deafening screech as he let go. The orb compressed instantly, flesh folding in on itself as it sped past Dr. Palma, blasting through the air as it disappeared down the corridor.
Dr. Palma approached the rusty door that it had been covering. He pulled out his key, and unlocked the room. He looked around, and saw the small closet space in the corner. He ran to it and pulled the door shut.
Not taking any chances, he gripped the handle tightly and listened closely for any sounds.
And he waited.

Hours later, the door was broken open with a BANG. Armed Foundation guards spilled into the room, opening the closet and revealing Dr. Palma. They kept their sights on its sole occupant at all times. Dr. Palma obliged. These men didn't have the same gear as the boat's team did, which meant the Foundation had found the ship. They were saving him.
He may have had six guns aimed at him, but for the first time since he had gotten on the boat, he felt safe.
He felt at home.


"That was the Site. They said it would take a little bit for the tow truck to get out here." Robert rubbed his bare face and sighed, phone returning to his pocket. "God dammit."
Alison sat in the car, frowning as she tried turning the key over and over. "It worked just a little bit ago. There was gas in the tank and everything." She hit the steering wheel. "Mother fuckit. I guess we're walking."
The Goatman hobbled to the car, leaning on a cane that had been produced from somewhere. He beckoned Alison out of the vehicle and shook his head. "Least I can do for you is show you a quicker way back to town from here. Shortcut through the forest, if you will."
The two agents looked at each other, and sighed. Alison locked the door to the car, and strode alongside the Goatman. Robert followed them both, with Sinning Jessie by his side. They walked through the woods, and as they went, the two of them felt a sense of uneasiness.
There was birdsong, the leaves on the ground made pleasing crunch sounds as they walked through them, and October sunshine was filtering down through the trees. But everything about it felt off-kilter. It took them a moment to recognize why. Alison held up her hand, and stomped on one leaf with force hard enough to hurt her foot; it made a crunch sound. She walked on, and the exact same crunch sound was made, as if it were pre-recorded. Robert realized the same was happening with the birdsong. And… the sunlight. He swore that it felt… regulated. Curated, even.
"Something's askew." The Goatman frowned as they came into sight of the town, far sooner than they should have. He looked back at the two agents and tilted his head. "…shouldn't you be wearing face masks?"
"We are—" Alison touched her face, realizing the paper covering she'd had on her face was gone. She turned out her pockets, the tactical pouch on her vest, even looked on top of her head.
Robert did much of the same, eyes widening. "Where's our PPE? We're gonna get sanctioned if we're seen without it."
"Weird fear for it to latch onto. Unless…" Alison frowned, stepping out of the woods and onto Clark Avenue, which was completely vacant of housing for reasons too complex to explain in a paragraph. While the Goatman stayed behind, Alison, Jessie, and Robert walked further into the town.
Clark Avenue connected to Benedict, which connected to Main Street. Up until they reached the light to cross it, the town was abandoned; they all stared with eyes wide in horror as they saw the sight around them. Civilians were going about their business, talking with each other, sitting inside of Rudy's Cafe to drink coffee, going in and out of stores. The Jackson Sloth High track team— which hadn't been a thing since April— crossed the street in front of them, sounding off a chant.
And not a single person on the street was wearing a face mask.

As they walked eastward down Main Street, Alison inspected her phone, going through dozens of websites and search engines. "The only thing that shows up for 'Coronavirus' is a few Wikipedia pages describing them, and… something about the SARs thing in '02." She looked around. "Did… did the phobic entity somehow un-make COVID?"
"Can't have." Robert frowned. "What reason would it have to? People are afraid of the disease, and it really, really likes fear. I don't know what the hell's happening—"
"Alison!"
The two agents turned, with Sinning Jessie slinking under a nearby awning to hide. Raymond February, who had been in a wheelchair not twenty-four hours earlier, was running towards them in a pastel-colored tracksuit like he was in a goddamn cartoon. "There you are. Site's been looking for you, you weren't where your car was."
Alison looked him up and down, and decided to play it cool. "We walked back to town. Robert wanted to—"
"To check up on something regarding a costume I ordered." Robert finished the thought. "But the Witch's Hut looked busy, so we decided to just head back to the Site." He tilted his head. "You good, Ray?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" He stretched, cracking his knuckles. "You aren't still concerned about the traffic stop earlier this month?"
Both of the agents simultaneously thought, Traffic stop?! "Well, we just…" Alison kept the disbelief out of her voice, barely, "…thought you seemed a little rattled from it."
"Good book says: let bygones be bygones." He shrugged. "Anyway, I gotta get to the site. Need to help decorate so that the poultrygeist doesn't come back. Later!"
February dashed between them, and both the agents and the thoughtform traded incredulous looks. "'As the good book says'?" Alison frowned. "February's religious, but he's not fucking preachy."
Robert frowned, and looked at Alison, and then around them. "It looks… sterilized. Boring." The same looping birdsong played, and a radio in a car played a song that was only ever played in one of two contexts; that song being Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes, and the context being either dreamworlds, or altered reality. "Well. That's a sign, I guess."
Sinning Jessie frowned, inclining her head to the music. Then she pulled aside her fringe haircut, looking into the window of an Lessler's Antiques, which had closed back in March— but was now very much open— to check her reflection. The normally cyclopean thoughtform's eyes, plural, widened. "While I appreciate having depth perception, this is very much cause for…" She frowned, any amount of alarm draining from her voice. "…concern…"
Robert looked at Alison. "Say something snide about my sense of humor."
She always had a comment ready about Robert's puns. But nothing came to her mouth. "Uhm. Tell me how much I stabbed you in the back with the whole Nobody thing?"
Robert should have felt fury rise in his chest again, but nothing happened. "Religious opinions?"
"Nothing. Political views?"
"…jack all. What's your view of the Houston Astros?"
Alison had launched into an Astros-based polemic while she was very, very drunk. But now… "I don't really have any strong feelings about them."
Sinning Jessie looked between them both, rubbing at her own head. "I don't suppose either of you have ever read Finnegan's Wake?"
"It's actually part of the basic training when you're assigned here— you have to read it, and then write a response to it in one page or less." Robert looked sheepish. "Mine was just the words 'fuck you James Joyce' repeated until the page filled up."
"Finnegan's Wake is an example of a… work of fiction that doesn't have a plot. And that's in part because it's indecipherable to the point where we can't even determine what the central conflict is— and I think that's what's happened here." To demonstrate, Sinning Jessie picked up a piece of concrete that had been torn loose from the curb by wear and tear over time, and tried smashing it against the window of the antique shop.
Instead, the concrete harmlessly shattered in her hand. "This… you called it a 'phobic entity'? I think it ate the conflict in the town."
"Why the hell would it do that?" Robert frowned. "It's been trying to make our lives hell for the whole month, now it gives us paradise? It doesn't make any sense."
Alison rubbed her head. "We need to regroup. Get into the Site and see what's up in there." She looked at Sinning Jessie. "Probably not a good idea if you come with."
"…and why not?"
"Because…" Alison paused. This was entirely uncharted territory. For all she knew, Robert and herself were the only ones to be unaffected by this particular manifestation. Sinning Jessie and the Goatman could both be valuable confidants, but they would have to actually get into the site. "…I remember Pryce told me that you managed to make yourself look like a Foundation agent at one point. Think you can do that again?"
"If you can spin a yarn about me being an agent, I can make it happen."

In all clandestine institutions, the best place to gather intelligence is not in the server rooms or the research labs; rather, it is the cafeteria. Site-87's cafeteria was like most at Foundation Sites— monitors displayed the menu above the actual serving area, while televisions dotted about the room showed news shows from around the globe, sports games, and the occasional snippet of a talk show.
It was here that Tofflemire, Alison, and Sinning Jessie— Agent Vallaincourt to the rest of the Foundation— sat, inspecting the room. Nobody questioned the third member of the posse, why would they? They were all too busy living their best lives.
Tofflemire frowned in the direction of Dr. Sinclair, who was both out of the hospital, and possessing both eyes. "It's erased conflict and consequences. What kind of logic is that?"
Alison looked uneasily in the direction of Drs. Pike and Mattings. The latter was far more relaxed than he should have been; she had always considered Claude Mattings to be an uptight bastard, but he looked like he was actually in love with his wife.
"Gotta admit I'm not familiar with the dynamics here." Sinning Jessie looked around the room. "But… I expected it to be less saccharine? And have worse food?"
Alison looked down at the meal that had been served today, which seemed to have been prepared specifically for her. The entree was breadsticks filled with cheese— something which she had searched for in vain since high school— with a fresh apple, tater tots that weren't soggy, and pudding that… was remarkably unchanged. Most of her favorite foods in one place.
"You're right on the food part." Alison picked up one of the breadsticks, inspecting it. "…I know, Grimm Countenance protocols means we can't eat anything in an altered reality, but… gah." She threw it back down on the plate. "It's taunting me, is what it's doing."
The thoughtform frowned as she looked around the cafeteria. "You said that Jasper was in the Site earlier this month? What did he do?"
"Uh…" Robert frowned. "Something that looked like him dragged Director Weiss out of a manifestation that looked like the Pit."
"It's just Weiss now, remember?" Alison raised a brow. "Bailey's acting director."
Sinning Jessie looked over Alison's shoulder. "This Bailey guy… ambiguous age, stubble, kinda messy black hair?"
"…he's sitting at the table behind us, isn't he?" Robert turned.
"Directors aren't meant to eat with ordinary members of personnel." Alison turned with him, and found Bailey conversing with other members of his little D&D group, one that had split off from Mattings's after constant scheduling conflicts. "Hold on, how'd you know what he looks like?"
"There's a Christmas tree farm that opens up to the Yggdrasil that has a board of people who they no longer serve. His mug is on there."
Alison's eyebrow vanished into her bangs. "…is that really the least ludicrous lie you could come up with? You know what, nevermind. If Bailey's not the Director, then who—"
In response, the intercom crackled on. Nina Weiss's voice came over it, sounding far too young. "Attention all personnel. Despite the objections of Site-19's memetics department, we are extending approvals for Halloween costumes until the 29th. Turn your forms in by then, or you will not be allowed on the rooftop for the main event."
The three of them turned to each other. "Since when the hell is the party held on the roof?"
"The only reason people go onto the roof anymore is to smoke or access the helipad." Alison frowned. "It doesn't make a lick of sense. What's going on here?"
"…full moon on Halloween this year," Robert ventured. "Maybe whatever this is needs people to be on the roof during it for some reason?"
Sinning Jessie's eyes went wide. "The first road ever built in Sloth's Pit. If you walk it on a full moon, you can get to anywhere in the city."
"…even into the Site?" Robert frowned. "Then… hold on, why did it need to beat up February to get access codes to the Site? He was attacked on the first, and that was a full moon, too."
"The codes are changed every week, though." Alison puzzled it out. "This thing needed to get into the Site in the first place so it could access the new codes every week. But to do that, it would need biometrics, like a a blood sample, or a retinal scan, or a—" Alison's heart skipped. "Fingerprint." She slapped her forehead. "Weiss gave it her credit card, and it said it was going to buy a burger. That has to be covered in fingerprints, I am a damn idiot."
"But you said she had her clearance rescinded." Jessie's eyebrow raised. "Wouldn't that mean she was out of the system?"
"It took over six months for Dr. Matterson to have his biometrics wiped after he got his clearance rescinded. God knows we haven't gotten better about it since." Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, so it has the Director's biometrics, and therefore directorial access, on top of the fact that it can access anywhere in the Site on a full moon, and has access codes. What does it do with that?"
"…what the hell are we missing?" Alison frowned, looking at the cafeteria around them. "Hey, Sloth's Pit, Narrative, whatever. I know you don't like us, and we get sick of you a lot. But if you can drop any hint as to what's going on, it would be appreciated. Just… please?"
Across the cafeteria, a song played as part of a ringtone. Johnny Cash's cover of Hurt played as an agent excused themselves to take a call.
"You're in pain?" Robert frowned. "Is that what you're saying?"
Roundabout by Yes played from another phone, and a researcher complained about her ex calling her.
"This is freaky. We're talking to the town." Alison frowned. "Can you tell us what's going on? In as simple terms as possible."
There was several seconds of silence, barring the clattering of silverwear, the chatter of researchers, and the chewing of food. Then, Blake Williams's phone played the most ironic song a stealth operative could have as its ringtone:
WITH CAT-LIKE TREAD, UPON OUR PREY WE STEAL, IN SILENCE DREAD, OUR CAUTIOUS WAY WE FEEL, NO SOUND AT—
Blake Williams cursed and got up, apologizing and retreating to a corner of the cafeteria to take the call.
Sinning Jessie looked between them, confused. "What the hell was that?"
"Narrative Manipulation Technique Omega-3. 'Direct Question, Musical Cue Answer'." Alison frowned. "What the hell does Pirates of Penzance have to do with anything?"

Deep below Site-87, I am forced to look through a cage that nothing 'anomalous' can penetrate. It is a cage of blessed beryl-bronze, with charms from every single bar, with a reality anchor at each of the cardinal directions around it, all encased in a field of electricity that is responsible for the deaths of exactly 23,028 flies this last year.
bzzt
23,029.
Every Foundation site in a Nexus has one of these chambers, and each chamber has the same type of munition within. A nuclear weapon was deemed too inhumane and impractical for nexuses; once researchers start interacting with people outside of the Foundation, they tend to get sentimental about things such as their favorite coffee shop, or their children's school, or the value of human life. So, the Ethics Committee commissioned the design of Penumbral Zone Anomaly Canceller and Eradicator— or, for short, a PenZAnCE Device.
One flick of the switch, and the whole Nexus is erased— and with it, its barrier. And when that happens, I will be in two places at once: here, guiding the hand of Nina Weiss, and at the edge of the barrier, ready to escape this damnable locale.
I am no mere number. I have thrown off my mask, and clad myself in fear. And what better day for me to show my new costume than on Halloween?

«Losing the Plot| Hub | The Long Fall, Part 1»

Interlude: Famous Last Words »


Drip. Drip. Drip.
Alexander Rasmus raised his eyes from the frosted window ahead of him, glancing at the condensation that now dripped from an exposed pipe that ran along the length of the window's lintel. It collected at the centre of the pipe, swelling gently, before collapsing under its own weight, and dropping to the floor with yet another loud drip. A sound just loud enough to cut through the deafening silence that permeated the room.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
'Are you willing to talk yet, Rasmus?' The voice called out over a scratchy intercom.
It had been repeating the same message for the last hour. Rasmus was beginning to suspect that it was a prerecorded message, unless his interrogator had nothing better to do with their Saturday - no - Sunday afternoon. He'd been placed into the room, his arms bound behind him, after the botched Containment operation. That was the Saturday night. He'd been here the entire night with the faint echo of condensation as his one and only companion. But the faint peace of solitude had been rudely shattered by this whining, mechanical voice.
'Are you willing to talk yet, Rasmus?' It repeated.
No change. Same intonation. A faint Eastern European accent, though Rasmus couldn't place a definitive answer as to which former Soviet state his torturer originated from. Russian? No, that "W" was far too soft to be Russian.
'Are you willing to talk yet, Rasmus?'
The "A" of his surname rolled harshly across the back of their throat. Polish or Lithuanian, perhaps then? Yes, that would make far more sense, he concluded. A woman's voice, deep with the scars of chain-smoking packs of cheap Soviet cigarettes for years. No, he had to stop thinking like that. He wasn't about to psychoanalyse them just yet. It was far too soon for that.
'Are you willing to talk yet, Rasmus?'
What good would it be to talk? What would he even tell them? Yes, I let my senior officer die. Yes, it was me that willingly set off the detonation knowing full well that it would cause damage to the anomaly. Yes, it was me that looked those poor civilians in the eyes as they bled to death on the floor, shards of shrapnel and bits of concrete mixing with their spilled guts.
'Are you willing to talk yet, Rasmus?'
Drip. Drip. Drip.
'No. Not yet, bitch.'

Maria Beck slowly drew the file across her chipped nails, regarding the statue of a man sat in the steel chair.
'Those are the first words he's spoken since we first flung him in there, you know?'
'Not that surprising. He's one of the old guard that was drawn from the military uniforms, back before we started recruiting and training our own,' Maria's supervisor responded.
Beck took a cursory glance over at her suited supervisor and smiled. 'Did you like my "Eastern European of dubious origin" accent? I've been working on it recently and wanted to give it a spin.'
'You roll your "A" wrong. Far too harsh.' Her supervisor answered with disinterest as she stood up and slowly made her way towards the door.
'Where are you going now, boss? You're really going to miss the best part?'
Her supervisor glanced down her nose and gently rolled her shoulders. 'I've got three more interrogations to finish before the night is over. He's not even in any trouble with Upstairs. Buzz me when he actually says something interesting, Beck.'
Maria watched her supervisor, O5-5, leaving the interrogation chamber for a moment, before returning her attention towards Alexander Rasmus. A man disgraced from his job because he was too damn good at it.

'Dresden MacAlister. Your service record truly is impeccable. Distinguished night operations. Various Containment missions carried out without a single casualty; Foundation-asset or otherwise. Numerous assassinations and PoI extractions carried out without a single witness. One might say you had some form of divine intervention on your side.' O5-5 smiled.
MacAlister deftly rolled a coin across the back of his hand. It danced lightly along his knuckles before becoming trapped between the inside of thumb and his index finger.
'I've heard people say that before. I just think I'm bloody good at my job.'
O5-5 licked her finger and delicately turned the page of the manila folder containing MacAlister's entire history, which among many other tantalizing secrets, included his real name. Well, the name he was born with, anyways.
'Promoted after a single year with MTF Gamma-5. Where did you end up again after Red Herrings?'
Startled, MacAlister slipped his coin into the pocket concealed within the inner lining of his sleeve. 'You're the one with my file. You tell me.'
'I'm afraid that there's a thick black line running through the name of that particular MTF-'
Recovering from his stunned response, MacAlister responded in turn. 'Quit the bullshit, Fives. You know exactly where I moved to between the Herrings and the Runners.'
O5-5 nodded slightly and withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder, sliding it across the table towards MacAlister whose eyes widened at the sight of the page.
'What do you want me to do with this?'
O5-5's eyes lit up and her smile tightened as her eyes met MacAlister's own. 'Quit the bullshit, Dresden. You know exactly what I want from you.'

Drip. Drip. Drip.
That constant companion was becoming ever louder, Rasmus thought to himself. The frosted mirror was beginning to fog over with the heavy humidity of the room.
'Could you repeat yourself, please, Rasmus?' The intercom's tune might have changed but the voice was much the same.
'No. I don't think I will.'
Rasmus imagined, for just a second, a sigh of impatience coming from the intercom. Little more than the false notion of hope hammering away at the back of his head. He adjusted his eyes and moved his head upwards, gazing up at the fluorescent tube light illuminating the room with a sickly, orange glow.
'That's weird,' He thought to himself. 'They normally use blue LED bulbs in these rooms to crank that annoying mosquito hum into the interrogated's ears.'
'Alexander Rasmus, second-in-command of the Nine-Tailed Fox, why do you think you've been locked away in here?' The voice teased him.
'Because they want to make an example of me. Upstairs, that is. They're obsessed with it. They want me to break down and humble myself in front of the Council. Beg them to let me back in. But I'm not going to do that.'
'I won't dispute their obsession with humiliation. That much is true. Would you believe me if I told you that you're not here because of what you did wrong?'
'So what am I in here for, my self-imagined voice of delirium?'
'I don't particularly know, but she does.'
Hearing the crank of a heavy steel bolt, Rasmus lowered his eyes from the orange sun, and gazed across at the deadlock door before him. The door was opened wide and a pantsuited woman walked into the room, accompanied by a frowning man rolling a coin across his hand.
'Hello, Alexander Rasmus. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance again.' The woman smiled, gesturing towards the frosted mirror, which immediately became transparent.
Rasmus could make out a single woman sat within the interrogation booth, a steaming coffee at her desk as she idly ran a nail file across her broken nails. The woman waved sleepily at him.
'I see you've already been introduced to my deputy, Maria Beck. She does a terrible Eastern European accent, you know?'

MacAlister pulled one of the thin - and frankly uncomfortable - steel chairs up to the table beside Fives. He felt out of place. There was a visible history between these two - a thin line of conflict written onto both of their faces. He deftly wove his coin across his knuckles as, once again, his mind wandered near and far. He could still feel the taste of metal in his mouth and flecks of dried blood still clung to the coin dancing across the back of his hand.
Alexander Rasmus, the disgraced MTF agent with thin brown hair, spoke first. 'To what displeasure do I owe this meeting, O5-5? I presume you've come to berate me over getting Wash killed and letting that anomaly tear through the civilian populace of downtown Shanghai?'
'We both know you didn't get Agent Washington killed, Rasmus. You do prefer Rasmus and not your former designation, correct?' Fives replied, gently dropping that damned manila folder onto the table surface.
'Rasmus will do fine.' He replied curtly.
MacAlister had freed Rasmus from the cuffs earlier and his hands had yet to move from their palm-down position. His hands shook noticeably as his frown tightened. MacAlister straightened in his seat, placing one foot beside the leg of the table. Just in case.
'From what I and my sources have gathered, you were not responsible for his death, and despite the report's findings, you weren't responsible for the Containment Breach either. I find this very perplexing, Rasmus. Were you set up to be the fall guy?'
MacAlister could feel the tension in the room like his foot was dancing around the mouth of a bear-trap. The slightest amount of movement from any of them would release the spring and the teeth would close about their ankles. That would hurt. A lot.
'I failed to check the appropriate deadlock seal. If I'd looked properly-'
Fives interrupted him with a voice of ice. 'You would have seen the tamper seal had been broken. You would have prevented a major Containment Breach. You would have prevented the unnecessary deaths of civilians and Foundation staff. And you wouldn't have had to shot Agent Washington.'
The spring had released and Rasmus's ankle was caught deep inside of those brutal, rusted, snapping teeth. MacAlister's coin dropped to the table as his breath halted inside of his mouth, rolling around and around and around. A frozen moment hung in the air like eternity.
'Yes. O5-5. I could have done all that.'
Exhale. The coin settled to rest on the table's scarred surface. Heads.
Crisis averted. Just his rotten luck that now would be the time that Lady Luck pulled him aside. If only it had been but ten minutes earlier.

MacAlister pulled his eyes away from the sheet of paper that Fives had just passed him.
After a long pause, he finally found his voice. 'You can't be serious. You want me to sign this?'
'I don't want you to sign it, MacAlister. I need you to sign it. The Foundation needs agents of your calibre now more than ever.'
'You're singing me songs of praise as you hand me the death sentence.'
Fives pushed herself away from the table and turned her back to MacAlister. She steepled her fingers and placed her arms against the windowsill, allowing herself a quiet exhale. 'In this world, we need scapegoats. We need our very own Judas, MacAlister. I'm sure you'll be remembered for your decorated years of service.'
'Jesus Christ, Fives. I'm only twenty-seven. I was planning on retiring with dignity in another ten years or so. Maybe taking up the cushy job of drill sergeant or something along those lines. Hell, I'd even take the pill retirement over this.'
'We're not going to kill you, MacAlister.'
'You might as well be! You want me to declare that I betrayed the Foundation, dump me on some street corner in New York for my crimes, and then wash your hands of it all. What about my girlfriend? What about my family?'
'This is for the greater good, Agent MacAlister. Rest assured that our contingency plans in the event of an agent's death will be activated regardless.'
'So Sophie and my family will learn that I died serving my country in glory? A lie to soothe the minds of the living?'
'Better living a lie than the bitterness of truth,' Fives turned back around to MacAlister, her eyes burning with the tempered fury of cold iron. 'You're a betting man, are you not?'
His voice caught in his throat as he choked on his own words. 'Don't ask me that, Fives. Please.'
'It's your call, MacAlister.' She turned her back once more, regarding his reflection within the frosted glass. The building was far underground, located in the subterranean bowels of the Foundation's British administration base. The image in the frosted glass, that of the English countryside, was little more than an illusion.
MacAlister bit into his lip, tasting the bitterness of iron on his tongue. He slipped the coin from his inner sleeve, curling it into his palm, and regarded the embossed image. A woman's face in profile. Roman, in design. He brought the coin to his mouth and kissed it; the mixed flavours of iron and copper dancing about his mouth.
'Please Lady Luck. Just this one time.'
He tossed the blood-smeared coin into the air and watched it tumble around in the air. Descending slower and slower and slower.

'Is that your entire report, O5-5?'
'Yes, O5-1. I believe that MTF Yodh-30 will serve us well in advancing our position within the world. It is necessary for us to maintain a body that can be used to surveil targets, whether aligned, unaligned, or hostile to our cause.'
O5-6, a woman with brittle and grey hair that O5-5 despised thoroughly, raised her hand. 'You propose that we spy on our closest allies?'
O5-5 rolled her shoulders and nodded, 'Six, do you really think that our closest allies are not acutely aware of everything going on within this very building? If you think otherwise, you're either living in denial or a fool.'
Grimacing with her ugly, stained teeth, O5-6 dropped her hand and gazed about the room, likely hoping that anyone would support her protestations. A chipper voice rang out from her left.
'In this proposal of yours, O5-5. You would have these assets quite literally unpersoned, correct?'
Answering this cry of derision, O5-5 replied. 'That would be correct, O5-12. Their names would be taken off every list, even those most secretive documents of ours, and we would publically announce that they have been removed from the Foundation. They would be disgraced and vilified. I call this "taking the libel" within the document.'
O5-12, the pompous waste of a human being, pointedly turned away from her, and returned to his regular air of arrogance.
'Any further questions?' She allowed herself a moment as she looked about the room. Two hostile faces. Five smiling and nodding faces. Four blank faces. One face regarding her with intensity. 'No. Very well. I rest my case and await your votes.'
'All present who regard O5-5's proposal as necessary. Say aye.'
A chorus of ayes rang out around her. Eight in total, including her own.
'All those who would reject MTF Yodh-30's activation. Say nay.'
Five nays. Not enough.
'MTF Yodh-30 will be activated effective immediately. Five, remain seated. The rest of you, get yourselves out of my sight.' O5-1 chuckled to himself as the remaining eleven council members departed the room.
'Thank you, One. If it wasn't for you, I doubt they would have agreed to my request.'
O5-1 reclined into his seat, lighting a cigarette with his silver gas lighter. He was an old man. A veteran of the Foundation. A relic of a past that went unsung and unspoken of. His eyes were heavy and clouded with the doubts of histories long forgotten.
'Nonsense, lass. You convinced them before you even opened your mouth. A wonderful choice of name, by the by. "Iscariot's Chosen", named after the greatest traitor in human history, I presume?' He coughed as O5-5 deliberately wafted the smoke away from her face.
'Quite.' She replied, directing a furtive look towards the manila file upon his desk. Within it, the shortlist of candidates that she was willing to interrogate, blackmail, and threaten into joining the newly founded MTF.
O5-1 noticed her glance and smiled knowingly. 'Do you want to know who I've selected from your suggestions? I've agreed to list Alexander Rasmus as active Team Lead. I've also agreed to your suggestion of appointing Dresden MacAlister. His… untimely skills will be of great use to them, I believe. As for the others, you will find their names beneath the folder.'
O5-5 pulled herself from the seat and scooped up the manila file, gently licking her finger as she turned the pages. The first was a shot of Alexander Rasmus within his interrogation chamber; his face faintly illuminated with the orange light of a dying fluorescent lamp. Turning it over, she found a photo of MacAlister, his signature lucky coin suspended in time within the shot. The next was a picture of a young woman with short-cropped dark hair, punching a wall with a bandaged fist. The final photo was that of a young black man with a plaster across his nose, his fingers resting against his temple.
'Charlie Hale and Booker Evans. They're awfully young to be doing this job, One.'
'So is MacAlister, but that didn't stop you, did it?' He inhaled another wisp of cigarette smoke and exhaled slowly. 'Now, get going, O5-5.'
O5-5 nodded, pulling herself up, and backing out of the room. She gently closed the door to One's office.

'How was the meeting, boss?' Maria asked, offering her beleaguered supervisor a coffee from the canteen.
'Slow as per usual, Beck.' O5-5 pulled herself up straight, holding the manila folder close to her chest, as she took the coffee from Maria.
'Life goes on, eh?' Maria answered in her faux Eastern European accent.
'That it does.' She took a sip from her coffee and sighed softly as she began walking. 'Let's go, Beck. We've got a lot of work to do.'
Maria followed after her supervisor as she glanced down the long, cold, and isolated corridor. There was not a single soul around the pair as they made their way to the scissor-gate elevator that occupied the end of the hallway. O5-5 stepped inside as her heels clacked against the metal floor. Maria was happy to be wearing pumps or she would have never been able to catch up with her boss's hurried pace.
'Where are we going, boss?' Maria asked.
'We're going to ruin some more lives, Beck.'


…What did I do? That's a complicated question. Honestly, I can't remember parts of the process, and at one point something had definitely happened during the night while I was asleep. I don't think I could ever replicate that kind of imbuing again, and attempting it would kill me…

-Ruslav Diaghilev/Nimue'lar
Apocryphal

A small leaf floated down over the hillock outside of the gates of Camelot. A tiny manipulation of the Aeronous aether brought it to Arthur's hand. He smiled slightly crumbling it in his fingertips. He turned towards his companion in the saddle of his horse, one hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, “Welcome home, Lancelot. It's beautiful, isn't it?”
Beside him, Lancelot looked out over the sprawling town, the keep looming in the distance. “I've never seen it's like, Sire. I'd heard of its majesty even in my village, but I'd never imagined it could actually live up to those descriptions.” Lancelot's simple clothing stood out from Arthur's, sturdy but unremarkable. His hands were scarred and calloused from both the sword, and the plowshare.
Arthur squeezed with his knees, and his horse trotted forward, down the hillock and on to the simple cobbled path which led to the city. They rode in relative silence, townsfolk nodding and bowing to their king, the party behind them a minor uproar as always. Horses, retainers, and armsmen made an absolute cacophony at the best of times, and their approach to Camelot was hardly stealthy.
Arthur dismounted as he pulled up short to the stable outside of the city, patting the palfrey on the neck as he handed the reins over to the ostler at the outer stable, “He's a little tense today, I think his left hind leg is a little tight.” Arthur's aetheric senses had ranged over the horse most of the morning, concerned with the knot of unease in the creature's frame.
The ostler nodded a bit stiffly, “Yes sire, I'll take a look.” The ostler mumbled something under his breath.
The sword on Arthur's hip pulsed slightly with aetheric currents, and Arthur looked over at the ostler and felt a sense of unease. The blade was one of a kind, but Arthur was still trying to determine exactly what it could do. Since he'd taken it up he'd discovered powers and expansions of his senses nearly every day. Nimue'lar's efforts had been successful beyond anyone's expectations, and Caliburn as they'd named it was a uniquely empowered weapon, a fusion of human potential and lunarian science.
Near the gate, the tall form of Gawain loomed, hands together waiting for Arthur. The tall man's shoulders were broad, more used to a felling axe than a sword, but he'd taken to the blade with distinction. Merlin's recommendations for champions hadn't led Arthur wrong so far.
“Thank you, I'll return later. Lancelot, Gawain, with me,” Arthur said, walking through the doors and beyond the gates of the city, several guardsmen posted near the portcullis and on the ramparts of the outer walls. There'd been far too many attacks for Arthur's comfort lately, but there were only so many men that were available to defend the city, while Arthur was out on his expeditions.
Lancelot struggled to keep pace with Arthur, and the taller Gawain flanked their king on the other side as he entered the city. As they passed by, people bowed and muttered their obsequious as their lord passed. It always made Arthur uncomfortable, but asking them not to treat him as a king only made them anxious and angry. “Gawain, report.”
Gawain nodded at Arthur eyeing Lancelot warily, “Yes sire. Fourteen men have responded to our calls, and an additional forty six dependents have come to the city and its outskirts. The plans to expand the wall has been…progressing, but I have to point out, again, that the funds for the wall, plus the new armsmen, plus the various other projects is…” Gawain's voice trailed off to nothing.
Arthur stopped, and turned, “Untenable? I understand. Speak to Merlin, he will find the funds.”
From a shadowy corner of an alley, Merlin strode out in his broad cloak, covering the shoulders of his freshly ensouled host. “Merlin finds the requests to find funds continually demeaning, sire.”
Arthur frowned at his friend, “Merlin, you know why we need it, and you're the only one capable. Quit your complaints, and do as you're asked. Or am I not sar to you, any longer?”
Gawain and Lancelot traded glances as their king and Merlin argued. Just out of earshot, Lancelot leaned towards the taller man, frowning slightly, “Does he always…with…”
Gawain shrugged, and looked at the younger man, his dark brown eyes unconcerned with the odd behaviors of his king, “It's not my place to ask why. He united the britons and pushed back the invaders. I'll forgive a bit of an oddity here and there. And you are?”
Lancelot looked at his hands sheepishly, “Lancelot. Arth— the King told me to come with him. So I did.”
Gawain nodded, as if agreeing, “What did you do before he found you?”
Lancelot shrugged, “I was a farmer, playing soldier.”
Gawain laid a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed slightly, “No more playing, Lancelot. Welcome.” Arthur and Merlin stalked away, still deep in conversation, half of the words unknown to either man. They hurried to catch up, following as closely as they could while not intruding on the conversation.
Arthur's eyes ranged over the smallfolk within the city, various merchants, artisans, and professionals. Each of them a valuable part of the machine of the kingdom. He was always startled at the depths of his affection for them. The affection this man had before Arthur had ensouled his dying body, and saved his life. While at the same time stealing it. “Merlin, I don't know if I'm going to be able to save them.”
Merlin growled at Arthur, and reached for the hairs of his chin which were only fuzzy grey stubble at the moment. He missed the beard he'd always sported in his natural body, “This isn't our war, Arthur'sar. It never was.”
Arthur stopped, and stared in to his eyes, fixing him with his gaze. “If you insinuate, once more, that these people aren't worth protecting and saving, we will have words of an aetheric variety. Am I clear?”
Merlin stood dumbstruck, Arthur's words tantamount to threatening his life. Merlin was powerful, one of the strongest Alchemists their society had ever produced, but Arthur was…even before the sword, he was made for the fight. He swallowed hard, and let out a curt nod. He wasn't sure what it was that forced him to comply, but he knew he would say yes.
“Good. It's our war now, regardless, unless you have a spare lunarian body laying around somewhere?” Arthur's easy smile returned to his face, the sword at his side vibrating slightly. Arthur's hand tightened on the grip of the sword.
A flash of movement caught the eye of Gawain, a streak of blonde. The knight whirled, in the blink of an eye, his feet a blur as he put himself between his king and the moving object, intent on stopping it no matter what it was. A tiny blonde girl stood struck with fear as the tall knight's hand half-drew his sword from his hip, his eyes blazing for a moment before he realized the “threat” was a small child with a flower in her hand. He sheathed his sword sheepishly, and relaxed, the entire town stopping to stare at the knight.
Lancelot marveled at the speed Gawain had reacted. How had he done that? He'd barely even seen the girl and Gawain was there between them. Behind Gawain, Lancelot caught Arthur resheathing the iridescent sword he wore, fully ten feet closer to him than he'd recalled. Gawain was fast, but how had Arthur done that?
“Stand down Gawain, I don't think she's an assassin,” Arthur said, striding forward, his sword safely returned to the scabbard at his side. Arthur crouched down, and looked the girl in her eyes, still wide with apprehension. He smiled wide, and reached out, a small cloth in his hand to wipe away the tears of fear. “I'm sorry about the big knight, lass, he's very protective of his king. What's your name?”
She blinked a few times, and mumbled out “Aeleen…”
Arthur's eyes drifted down to the flower in her left hand. Her right arm was clutched close to her chest, and in a sling. “What happened to your arm, Aeleen?”
The girl shrugged, “One of the sheep was mad and broke it when it got scared.” She shifted slightly, and held out the brilliant red rose, the stem long and thin. It was on the verge of blooming, “This is for you, milord…my ma told me to give it to you, on account of you being our king.”
Arthur took the flower from her, his fingertips cool against her tiny hand, smiling, and taking a deep inhale of the flower. The scent was brilliant, and bright. After eons on Luna, the smells of the earth were so sharp to his nose. “Mmm….I love the smell of roses, Aeleen, thank you for this.” His right hand reached out, and touched her shoulder, that same familiar feeling of affection filling him, contented by the simple gesture of this girl and her parents. His left hand gripped Caliburn for balance as he squeezed, and smiled.
A flash of white and blue light rang out, aether's flowing freely as energy flew from Caliburn, to Arthur, and into Aeleen. Lancelot and Gawain both let out a sharp gasp, seeing the aether currents with their own eyes for the first time, a spark of understanding coursing through them. A feeling of awe came over Lancelot, and he knew that his life had changed forever in that moment.
Arthur's hand pulled away from the little girl quickly, surprised as much as everyone else at the aetheric energies pouring out of him, and the flashes of light. Aeleen gasped and blinked at her right hand, flexing and moving free from the sling. Her mouth opened in joy, and she jumped forward, hugging Arthur tightly. “Thank you! My ma was right, you are a good king!” She turned, and ran back to her waiting parents, both of them dumbstruck.
Arthur stood slowly, looking down at his own hand, the same feeling of love, and connection easing now, fading with the last of the Aetheric energies. “I…don't…what?”
Merlin stumped forward, and looked Arthur hard in the eyes, “What did you just do?!” he hissed, the aetheric currents that had appeared a magnitude higher than anything he'd even witnessed Mordred wield.
Arthur let his grip relax on the hilt of Caliburn, and took a deep breath, “I don't know why this sword would let me,” he trailed off, before clenching his right hand into a fist, “But I know how.” Arthur turned, and drew Caliburn, facing Lancelot and Gawain.
“Both of you, kneel,” Arthur said, his tone absolute. His grip on the sword tightened, and both men knelt without question. Arthur stood before Gawain, and laid the last six inches of Caliburn on one shoulder, releasing the same aethers into Gawain that he had into the little girl, just in a different fashion. He swept the sword to his other shoulder, and released more energies, of a different kind, tying the two of them together. “You are now Sir Gawain, knight and personal arms-guard of your king. Rise, and walk in fellowship and power with me.”
As he repeated the process with Lancelot, Gawain stood to his feet, struck nearly dumb by the surge of power flooding his body. All around him, he could see the currents of Aether clearly, flowing in and out and around everyone and everything. Merlin and Arthur practically glowed, something else inside both of them. With a thought, he drew those currents in, and time slowed, his perceptions expanded a hundredfold. With another feeling, another current pulled in, his hands and fingers a blur to even his own increased perceptions. He met Arthur's eyes…and the creature that inhabited the body of his King's eyes as well. “You see now, don't you Gawain? And you can feel it. Just as I can.” Gawain could only nod in numb confusion.
Merlin glared at Arthur, "What do you think you're doing, you just exposed us to every human in Camelot?!"
Arthur turned, and resheathed Caliburn, facing Merlin. “I know how we can defeat Mordred, Merlin."
…In the end, the powers that the sword gave were less fantastic than you'd expect, and they all came from the same source: Arthur. He forged it, in the end, to the weapon it was. All it did was make him more of what he was…but more of what he was happened to be more power than anyone had ever wielded in history…and the only time anyone would again was the single time I had to brandish the blade millennia later…

-The Administrator, aka Merlin'Aer
Apocryphal

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Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe Euclid I know my place
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be kept in a storage room in Site-22 and covered with any available opaque fabric when not undergoing testing.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a 101cm x 101cm vanity mirror made to be placed on a wall. Its anomalous properties manifest when an individual stares at their reflection for a period of time ranging from 34 minutes to 4 hours. The time required to trigger the anomalous properties is cumulative, therefore, it is not necessary to stare for the required amount of time in one sitting.
Upon activation, an individual's reflection within SCP-XXXX will stare back and remind you of all your past failures and make sure that you know your place.

Junior Researcher Chen was as greenhorn as greenhorn could get. He had stepped down the sterile white walls of Site-22, keycard clutched in hand, ready to meet the Foundation's demands, or so he had thought.
That's always what he had thought.

The reflection, hereby designated SCP-XXXX-1, will begin acting freely from the individual's movements. The early stages of an SCP-XXXX-1 activation event start off slowly and mildly. The reflection's early behaviors are typically non-violent. SCP-XXXX-1 instances are incapable of vocalizations at this stage, so early attempts at communication usually consist of sign language, even if the original person isn't capable of doing so.
At this point, you, yourself know sign language and you know that your reflection is criticizing you. They start off gentle and supportive, but don't listen to them. They're just luring down you into the rabbithole, a spiraling abyss where you never want to see your own face again.

Chen Niu had brewed two cups of coffee, one for himself, and one for his superior. He had hoped to impress, not trip and spill the drink all over her white work dress. Their faces both turned to beets, his of shame, and hers of teeth gritting rage.

Later stages of SCP-XXXX-1 infections will progress to vocalizations and slowly transition to being able to come out of the mirror. Once it started talking, I knew I was stuck with him. He made me know what I am.

That was not the first time Chen had made a fool of himself. However, his days as a bumbling civilian had ended months ago. His eyes dulled and darkened.
One day, the alarms tripped, and a glowing, floating, contorting mass drifted by, tore the furniture to fragments and ejected them in every direction. Slowly, a hand emerged from it before it spit it out completely; a dead MTF soldier flew out, Chen narrowly dodging the body and tipping a table over to cover himself from shrapnel. He then noticed a little metal rod attached to the soldier's belt.
Chen grabbed it, took a chance, pressed the little button on the side, and jammed it straight into the wooden floor. Three spikes ejected from the main body and latched themselves into the floor. A metal hatch opened on top and then nothing happened.
He saw that the floating mass was still slowly approaching him and he got up and backed away. The metal rod beeped once and then the anomalous entity froze in place, still sparkling, but un-moving. Chen had earned a medal that day, as well as a raise.
He had wiped the stain of buffoonery from his own name. Life was good.

SCP-XXXX-1 has taught me that success is a sham that occasionally mistakes me for someone else.

Confidence had returned to him full force. After the cleanup, he brewed two coffees again and marched happily to his superior, medal around his neck. He stopped just out of eyesight, but just within earshot…just close enough to hear several of his superiors talk about him.
"Even miserable little shits like him can do good sometimes."
"I don't care. I'm still getting rid of him. All we need is one more fuck-up."
"Agreed."
Gaze cast downwards, he slowly backed away, poured both coffees down the drain, and spent the rest of the day quietly obeying orders.

I tried so hard to stop having to look at myself, yet here I am, assigned to you of all things.

More greenhorns came to the Foundation. Chen was assigned to help train them. Before he knew it, they were already Senior Researchers while he was still stuck as a lowly assistant.

I hate looking at you. I hate you so god damn much. If I wasn't such a coward, I could get rid of you in half a second. You're slow. You make a fool of yourself everywhere you go. How the fuck did you even get in here? How the fuck did you let a couple of newbies overtake you in such a short amount of time?
You keep telling me not to compare myself to others, but that's just a comforting little lie that you're trying to drill into me as a coping mechanism. I'm not falling for it. I know my place.

Chen sat in the data logging room in the dark, the unforgiving glare of a white document staring back at him from the computer. From the covered mirror on the wall, he could hear SCP-XXXX-1 screaming at him.
He leaned forward and covered his ears and waited for it to stop. It usually did, but not this time. It was more insistent now. Chen put in ear plugs, put headphones on and turned the music to the highest volume.
Still, he heard the banging. He heard SCP-XXXX-1 banging against his prison within SCP-XXXX. Chen clamped the headphones down tightly over his ears, singing along loudly and trying to drown it out.
And still, he heard it. The computer entered sleep mode from lack of activity. His phone light barely illuminated his haggard face just enough to see it staring wide-eyed from the blank monitor. He bolted out of his seat, tore the headphones out, tore out his earplugs, sprinted to the mirror and tore the fabric off. SCP-XXXX-1 had tears streaming down his cheeks.
Chen punched the mirror. SCP-XXXX-1 begged him to stop.
"Just talk to me," he pleaded. He reached out and grabbed Chen's fist, stopping it. "Please…"
Chen roared, wrenched his hand free, and he punched it again. And again. And again, until it broke, kept punching until shards filled his knuckles and blood and shattered self sprinkled to the ground in little red fragments. He grabbed SCP-XXXX by the edges, tore it off the wall and threw it across the room.
Security guards rushed into the room when they heard the noise.

Addendum:
Junior Researcher Chen Niu has been demoted to D-Class.