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NAME OF TALE The "Existential Maw of Despair" National Park!

Across the stars of the Second Night, beyond the Michaels Continuum and the Embargo Line, on one of the farthest stops of the Coal Roads, there is a tear. It's not a tear in fabric or paper, but a tear in reality, a spot where the laws of physics and common sense break down.
Some people call it a black hole, the greatest black hole of its galaxy. But it wasn't one. It was something else, where reality itself had begun to break before some chance event had stalled it. When people stared into it, they saw things that they wished they had forgotten. They saw themselves, the eternity that lay before them, the infinite smallness of even that. They saw the horror of existence, the faces of those they'd lost, the billions of ways they were irrelevant. They saw a darkness that gripped and maddened them and they could never turn it off, even when they closed their eyes.
So they turned the place into a national park and opened it up to tourists. It seemed like the fitting thing to do.

Look closer. There, on the edge, do you see? That ring of fire. The Engorged Line, they call it. A thin stretch of light where one reality meets another, flames pouring into the hole like melting chocolate. Hundreds of thousands of lightyears in diameter, an untameable mass of something that was made to be wrong.
At four points around the circumference, there are docking stations; vast, floating things where millions of tourists disembark every year. It's not so busy; it takes a certain kind of person to look into the Maw, the foolhardy, the insane or the despairing. But enough come by to justify the expense of maintaining the stations.
Then there are the explorers, those hardy few who are willing to brave any obstacle for riches or glory. Rickety pioneer-vessels would descend from the stations into the maw, letting their very beings distort and change for the sake of some frail purpose.
Most came back. Some did not.

But look a little closer still. Look between the stations. There, on the edge, balanced precariously, are the lookouts. Tiny stations, three-person occupancies, designed solely for the purpose of checking the edges of the line. Scientists stuck on the edge, repairing the fractures and the fraying threads, keeping the structure of the ring intact.
It's not too difficult. A little dangerous, perhaps, but it's all very basic kineto-fragmentation science. The real problem is the boredom, the loneliness. When it's just you, your mind and a couple of other people whom you've probably never met, you tend to get a bit warped. And there's always the temptation, eventually, to just stare out of the window and keep looking down.
It's too much for some, but others love it. Some can only see the beauty of the place; the fire, the endless night, the emptiness below. Many love the rugged feel of the frontier, the simple comforts of books or interesting food, or distance from the Empire's endless politics. It's a nice enough place to while away a few decades or centuries while you think of what to do next.
Because when you possess eternity, you often need to run away.

"Oranges." Mary's voice broke the silence suddenly, causing the dozing Mehmed to start. "That's what I really miss. Oranges."
"We can always import some", said Mehmed, yawning. His shift was coming up soon, but he'd had a late night watching old films. He liked old movies, books, anything like that; they gave him a feeling of connectedness to the past.
"You're on soon, aren't you?"
"Presumably, if Tsukiko ever gets out of the hole. What the hell takes her so long?"
Mary shrugged. "She likes to stare at it. Doesn't seem to affect her much, though."
Mehmed sighed, tapping his feet in boredom. He'd been out here for a month, now; Mary for two. They were complete newcomers, brought in after the last pair had decided to run away on the job out of fear of the Maw. The board at the back of the common room had photos of everyone who'd ever worked at Lookout 281, and Mehmed often looked at their picture. They were happy, smiling, postcard-perfect.
Tsukiko didn't talk much about them, but Tsukiko didn't talk about much of anything. Her body looked younger than theirs but it was clear that her mind was very much older. One of those faces that has seen too much, someone beaten and worn like old leather. She always wore plain black, unadorned but for an old medal strapped to her chest. She did her duty well, but Mehmed would often have to stop her staring at the Maw for too long. They said she'd been here for decades.
Mehmed didn't like to think about the Maw. Something about it unnerved him.

"Got any milk?" These were first words Tsukiko had spoken to either of them in days, and all they could do was shake their heads at her. It was one of those rare hours where nobody was needed on-call; Tsukiko had been reading a book in the corner while Mary and Mehmed played chess.
The huge window that dominated the wall of the common room was pointing towards the stars; they winked and danced at the trio. Mary could tell which was which just by looking: the Isembard Cluster, the New Jade Nation, Emily's Wake. Hundreds upon thousands of suns, each with their own sprawling stations and colonies. It hurt Mehmed's head a little to think how much life was out there.
"Ah, well." Tsukiko stood up, and stretched. "D'you want some tea anyway?"
The other two shared a glance. Tsukiko hadn't said more than a dozen words to either of them, and here she was offering to make them tea. Slowly, warily, they both nodded, to Tsukiko's amusement.
"I don't bite, you know." She got up and put the kettle on, considering them. "I bet I can guess the life stories of both of you."
Mehmed grinned. "Fine, but we get to do the same to you."
"Alright." She squinted at Mehmed for a long time. "Let me see… you're five, six hundred years old? Your parents were both Newcomers, barely older than you, and probably split up by the time you were five. You got into kin-frag work by chance, had some kind of personal tragedy, and came out here to get away from it all. That about right?"
"I'm only three hundred and twenty. But otherwise, unnervingly accurate."
Tsukiko laughed, a strange guffawing thing. It was nice to see her doing something other than glare. "Alright. And you, Mary, you're the opposite. Your parents are one of those rare few who have been together forever, stuck in some moribund monogamy for millenia. You're young, too, but not as young- eight hundred? Nine? And all you wanted to do was reach the frontier, to break away from it all, do something new. You probably studied kin-frag with the express purpose of coming out here. Couldn't wait to start this life."
Mary raised an eyebrow. "Did you look at my file?"
"Nothing so dramatic. I've just been out here long enough to have seen every type of person there is. The decaying, the mad, the dreamers, the broken-hearted nomads. At some point in their personal eternities, everyone will pass through here, or somewhere similar. It's like a caravanserai between one permutation of life and the next."
Mehmed cocked his head. "What about you, then? I can give it a shot. Ex-military, younger than you seem, so fed up with the world that you're looking for anything to give you a fix, even the Maw's oblivion."
Tsukiko chuckled as she brought their tea over. "One out of three ain't bad, kid. But that's a story for another day."

One night, they saw a ship plunge into the Maw. The thin metal rope suspending it from Northern Station simply snapped. The three of them stared from the window as it span around, twisting and flailing, until thin tendrils of night wrapped around it and dragged it all the way down.
Mehmed was horrified, Mary disturbed, but Tsukiko kept drinking her tea, almost bored. "I've seen it too often", she grunted. "The good old days of the sky-sailors, those heroes of the descent, they're long gone. They knew how to pull back, and when, but these new ones- well, they have no restraint. Too greedy, too warped. They'll do anything for glory or treasure."
"That's very cynical of you," said Mary. "Maybe they see it differently. Like a romantic adventure, where risks are part of the purpose."
Tsukiko looked at her sharply. "How many people do you think live in the sky? 500 billion in the Empire? Another three hundred in Celestria, another hundred in the Confederacy, Great Jade, and all the rest? And how many of them do you think are bored out of their skulls? Do you really want to call this "romantic", when that word can inspire millions to throw themselves down there?"
She reached out a hand and placed it on the glass. "We can't die. None of us can. Even if our bodies break, our brains survive. The things in our heads might be trapped by flesh now, but they don't have to be. Have you ever wondered what happens if you go through? We would have died in an instant, once, but now…"
The three of them stared, silently, at the Maw. Then they turned away.

That Tsukiko was hiding something had become clear to both Mary and Mehmed. She was very cagy about her past; guarded it like a close secret, smiling off their sporadic attempts to guess something about her life. They'd tried to get a closer look at her medal, once, while Tsukiko laughed at their schoolchildren's Japanese.
What Tsukiko wasn't cagy about, however, was politics. Mehmed, for whom politics was a foreign field, would watch with faint bemusement at Tsukiko and Mary's arguments about the pressing issues of the day. Mary, an ardent Haskellist youth, found Tsukiko's old-style Ericism almost offensive, and the two would spend merry hours throwing different utopias in one another's faces until the alarm for one of their shifts would go off. Then whoever was left would try to convince Mehmed of their line of thinking; he always found the views of one perfectly reasonable until the other returned and pointed out all the flaws.
"You can't just cut the Sallust quarters!" was Tsukiko's plaintive cry today. "They're just about the only thing stopping Celestria from gaining complete control of Andromeda, and God only knows where we'd be then!"
"Celestria isn't the problem, Tsu", came Mary's weary response. She'd just come off an eight hour shift and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, but Tsu had been reading one of Mary's news feeds and was outraged over the "shameless Haskellist bias that has taken over the Times today." Mary had tried giving a few choice yawns as a hint but Tsu was miles away.
"Isn't that going a bit far, Mary?" came Mehmed's distant mumble, followed by a crash. His memetic protection suit was a size too large, and he was forever tripping over it as he stumbled his way towards his shift. Mary and Tsu rolled their eyes in unison, before laughing together.
"I know, I know," Tsu said, sitting down opposite Mary with her perennial tea. "I'm a horrid old reactionary, and you want your sleep. I'm sorry. I was raised without democracy, and it's always been a little exciting to me."
Mary looked up, surprised. "It's been over two millenia since we were last under a dictatorship. Just how old are you?"
"It's impolite to ask a lady her age", came Tsukiko's riposte. She sighed, and fingered her medal. "I'm very, very old, Mary. Older than you think."
There was a long pause, punctuated only by the roaring of the fire beyond the window and Mehmed's occasional swearing. Then Mary said, "You're an Original, aren't you?"
Mehmed, hearing this, stuck his head out of the door. "Are you? We were wondering…"
Tsukiko didn't reply for a long time, staring out of the window. Then she unclipped her medal and rubbed at it. "Great East Asia War Medal. Midway."
Mehmed's eyes widened. "How old wer- I mean, were you-"
"Ninety-nine. I was ninety-nine when the Reaper died." The fires roared against the window; the electric lights hummed and whined. "Born December 24th 1920. Christmas Eve, although in Japan that kind of thing didn't matter. Fought in the war. Almost died so many times. Managed to last until the end. Spent the years after… well, that doesn't matter. But when it happened, I was ridden with demetia, with a wasted life. Realised my regrets far too late. Regrets about my family, my gender, my work, my- my everything. And then a miracle happened."
She sounded more tired than Mary. Mehmed opened his mouth but shut it at a sharp glance from Mary, and ducked back into his room. Mary cleared her throat gingerly. "You must have seen so much."
"I did, but memory is fickle. You youngsters don't understand what it's like to be one of us, one of the first. You know why the population took so long to really start growing? Because we remember what it was like to lose people. To see your parents die, siblings die, to see your children buried before you were. I was the last member of my family left. It was cleaner, so much cleaner, than the torments of eternal life."
Mary took her hand. "I'm sorry, Tsu."
The older woman smiled. "It is what it is. Go on. Go and get some sleep."

It was a week after that that Mehmed found Tsu staring at the Maw again. A small rift in the Line had begun a few hundred kilometres away, so Mary had flown out there to fix it. Tsu had been a little quieter recently, but seemed happier, unburdened.
But now her eyes were wide and her hand was pressed against the glass, and she was weeping. Mehmed didn't really know what to do, so he put a hand on her shoulder in a vaguely comforting fashion. He glanced at the maw and saw Marcia's face calling for him, so he looked away.
"I've been out here so long, Mehmed." The words were unexpected. Tsu always seemed so tough, so confident. So self-possessed. But this was something new. Something worrying.
"Is it what you want to be doing?"
"Yes. No. Maybe. But I have to stay out here."
"Nobody's forcing-"
"No, no, you don't understand." Tsu sighed, and sat down in her chair. Mehmed shuffled to the kitchen to get her some tea, just as Mary came through the airlock. She glanced at the scene for a moment, before frowning.
"What did you say, Mehmed?"
"I didn't-"
"It's not his fault." The window had moved to face the stars. Tsu was still staring.
Mary sat down, Mehmed brought the tea, and they all drank in silence for a moment. Then Tsu said "There's something in my head."
The others frowned, quizzically, but Tsu didn't seem to notice. "A long, long time ago, before it all happened, a woman called Marion Wheeler put something in my head. Something that had to be forgotten, so they made me someone who forgot. Amnestics, they called them. It was an old technique to suppress an antimeme, but just about the only thing they could think to do with this one. I was old and retired, and would be dead soon, or so they thought. The idea would die, buried inside. And that would be an end to it."
The stars shone. Their weak light spread across the room. "But then Omega-K happened, and there was far too much to worry about. A lot happened back then. Too many breaches, too much that needed to be contained, too much… everything. I got lost in the cracks, and then they lost track of me, and… well, I couldn't remember anything anyway, so what did it matter? Wheeler was gone, and it was centuries before they could knit my brain back together."
"I've heard that term before", said Mary. "Omega-K."
"But then I started to remember again." Tsukiko's voice seemed to come from a mile away. "Amnestics can only work so long. It's still buried, for now. But it was dangerous; one of the most dangerous. As long as I'm near the maw, it- it twists my mind. Delays the memories from returning. But it won't last forever. One day, it'll come out, and I don't know what happens then."
Another long silence, another view of the Maw. Mehmed thought about rotations. Things spinning round and around, forever. That was the thing about eternity. When time stretches out, is drawn and pulped and dragged from point to point, it's not a succession of new events. It's the old ones done over and over again in the same configuration, slowly decaying, slowly declining. Nothing changing until there was nothing more that could be done.
So Mehmed stood up. "Then let's find out."

/

End of Death

Memento Vivere


James falls asleep in the passenger seat. As his body leans towards the window, one of his glasses' arms rests on his ear; the other one slowly slides off to caress his cheek. Fortunately, the window is closed. Hair falls loosely across his forehead, pushed against the glass, squeezed into a brown cluster like a squirrel's tail.
A smile grows on my face. I can't help myself from glimpsing in his direction. My dear James. He already took off the lab coat, but the smell of the site is still there. The unique smell is hard to describe. But when you bury your face in your love's collarbone, it's surely unpleasant, yet bearable. That fictitious, cold odor, though not acrid, is everywhere; every single person in residence at the site gives off this smell.
The shadow of the streetlamps interlaces with the night light and shoots across the window. People tend to fill their minds with nonsense when they're tired. It's the same for me at this moment, as light and shadow blend into my eyes. The shadows coalesce like black spears and scatter beneath my irises, and the traces of light sear above my retinas like meteors.
"Draven, what are you thinking of?"
I hear a rustle beside me as James adjusts his glasses and sits upright. I pluck my imagination out of the air. Although it's a terrible narration without drafts, he gets what I mean, as always.
If I'm actually thinking of a cake, I end up talking about a sugar flower on that cake – sometimes, the flower is not even an intact one. But James, my love, shy but considerate, he understands. There's always someone who can tell the flavor of the cake by the time they finish the sugar flower and see the touch of cream under it.
It's a cloying analogy, but I guess we should be tolerant of the trifles happening between sweethearts. Love, the force with the ability to distort the world with only a wink, and you won't even notice it. You're willing to believe what your feelings tell you is the reality, and you indulge your bias nevertheless.
James figures out the cake's flavor correctly, once again. He looks out of the window thoughtfully, embellishing my associations, those naive, simple thoughts like that of a little boy's imagination. He's always happy to do meaningless things with me. Staring at his face, the tendrils of his hair, those dreamy eyes behind his glasses and the curve of his lips raised slightly, I think, He finds it out again. He always can.
Occasionally, I feel confused. Is he in love with me because of the understanding, or does he understand me because he is in love with me? Did the chicken come first or the egg? And what about me? No matter who came first or whether they deepen each other in circles, the fact that I love him is undeniable. I accept his love without any qualms and love him with my peace of mind.
Such people are rare – people who know you and are willing to love you. They are your pillar, your fuel, your armor, your exposed open wound. But it's not always like that, because love comes with desires, and it's fierce. I think, eventually, the pillar turns into toy bricks, fuel into plain water, armor into pajamas, the wound a heal-up piece of skin, and the blood is the leftover oil used to fry bacon. On the day when both of our heads are hoary, half of him will be my love, and the other half will be my family – inseparably bound together as a whole.
After talking for a while, James comes to a pause and waits for my response.
"Draven?" he asks.
A glint of guilt flashes across my mind; I feel sorry for being distracted. I lower the speed and tell him I love him in the dim light. He's not confused by the sudden statement, nor does he ask if I'm anxious about something. He just whispers softly, "I know, Draven, I know".
"I know, darling," he replies, "Me too. I'm here with you."
I park the car by the roadside. Despite the five minutes' drive left to reach home and the fact that we can make out outrageously after only a few moments, I can't hold back. I unbuckle the seat belt to embrace him. He rubs his thumb back and forth on the side of my head. We kiss again, but just a little peck on the lips – no lust whatsoever; it's more like comfort. A few minutes later, I fasten my seat belt and pull into the driveway.
That night, right before sleep, James inquires, "Is something bothering you?"
"I'm alright," I reply, pressing a kiss on his brow. "Nothing." I give him the riddle only both of us know about. "I was just thinking of that pitted plaster cast."
He stares at me; his tender gaze lasts till the lamp is turned off. I brush my fingers over his eyelids in the dark, closing his eyes. He laughs quietly. "Don't. Don't do this, it's a bit frightening." Suddenly, I realize that's the same thing I do to the dead comrades. If they still have eyes, a voice hisses from the shadowy corner of my heart.
Shut up, I snap wearily with hatred, but those bloody scenes slide through my mind uncontrollably. Some of those faces belong to the living. Now, it's usually that of James, but before that it was …
I know these scenes are from the weakest part of my soul. It's as if they lie deep within my heart, and I'm begging those people to not leave me alone. I used to abhor this kind of weakness, but now I'm learning to live with it.
"Okay, actually, it's okay," he whispers.
I rest my head on his chest, as he wraps his arms around my waist. At that moment, I nearly sink in the drowsy warmth. "It's time to patch up the plaster cast, Draven. He's dead; he'll never come back. And you should not regret that anymore."
"I don't regret it … I'm just," I try to struggle through the drowsiness, "I can't tell. But it's not regret, or not just regret. Don't worry, James. I can deal with it."
I am clearly aware that he wasn't convinced by that, but I feel exhausted. A few seconds later, I cling to my love as dreams flow over me.

Plaster cast is a riddle between the two of us – a rare instance when James failed to tell the cake's flavor.
Plaster cast – I have to tell you what it is first. There's not much to say actually. Just imagine the most common drawing cast, a white one, and if it needs a shape, it should be a sphere.
What does that mean?
Draven Kondraki holds the white plaster sphere with both hands, as though he holds his life in the palm of his hands.
It still seems too vague. Let's take another look in order.

Back when I was about seven years old, one day, my father said, "Draven, let's hang out by the beach this weekend."
When you recall the memory about someone, you tend to place them in a scene. This person is certainly not flat, not like a magazine cut-out. You can see the look on his face and the gesture of his arms; you can hear his voice, catch sight of the heavy shade and mottled tint. You can even smell the wind.
And speaking of my father, most of you are probably more used to calling him Dr Kondraki or simply "the director". I always thought giving such a man titles like "doctor" or "director" was hilarious, because everyone looked more like a researcher or manager than he did. He was abominably rude and dangerously volatile, so most of his first meetings with people got screwed up; they even doubted if he could handle the easiest paperwork.
About that last point, I'd say I have to be counted as one of those people. Though I didn't doubt his working ability, I was just not sure which pile was thicker − teared-up documents or handed-in files − including the considerable sum of disciplinary reviewing reports.
Your Dr Kondraki was such kind of a person. This person did not fare well with his family. At times, he tried hard to show his tender side but ended up making an extremely clumsy move. Sometimes, he wanted to tell you something; maybe it was some sort of advice or just random, absurd talk from a tipsy man. Regardless of these intentions, his words were always sharp. Even if he somehow managed to be part of a crowd before he spoke, the moment he uttered a word, he would get kicked out. His love was a dead elephant, crushing down the grass, quashing the flower, slow, dull, rigid. And you could never expect him to be any better. His emotions sprayed out in such a spontaneous manner, like drunk men throwing up or if your flesh was covered by the skin rather than the other way around.
Where was I? Right. Anyway, whenever I speak of my father, the background of his scene always fills up with an autumn sea – not like those good times in summer but not as bad as it looks in winter.
He was the epitome of problematic parents. No, these so-called problems were not intended neglect, domestic violence, or a room where one is thrown into the darkness alone. The real problem was his volatile temper. Dr Kondraki, my father, was a typical example. When he was messing around, acting like an alcoholic, he never remembered he had a son. And when something reawakened the buried love in him, he'd waste his day away in the kitchen, spending the entire afternoon to cook an elaborate dinner. He was like an obsessive maniac standing beside the light switch and pressing it every three seconds.
Then there were those nights. Meals on the table, though he barely ate. He'd keep drinking, at least with a glass, not the bottle itself. He'd keep peering at you till you clenched your stomach, fearing he'd lose his temper any second. In fact, casting my mind back to those moments, he usually wouldn't lose control when he was trying to fulfill his obligations of being a father. He might even take your suggestions at that time.
My memory of that incident is crystal clear. One night at the dining table, he said, "What's wrong, boy? Why aren't you eating?"
After deliberating my answer for a while, I finally replied, "Can you please stop drinking? I'm scared."
He stared at me, green eyes heaped with alcohol. I wasn't afraid anymore after saying it out loud. It was as if all of my burdens had unloaded from my chest, but I was still very cautious when making any eye contact with him.
Those eyes suddenly lit up; something limpid mixed with the muddied green stained by alcohol. They became a bit brighter. My dad looked wistful – a wistful look even a kid could recognize easily, and his voice was the same when he started to talk again.
"Alright, Dad won't drink anymore," he murmured. His words thickened dolefully at the bottom of my heart. "I won't drink anymore. Don't be scared, okay?"
I slid off my chair and ran to throw my arms around his waist. Heaving a sigh, put down his glass and stroked my hair. We stood still for a while, then I let go of my hands as he rested his on top of my head.
"Dad owes you more than an apology."

So when he said he was going to take me to the beach, it was both surprising and, by no means, not out of the ordinary. I had already gotten used to his whims by then.
We packed up our things for the trip – sunscreen, life belts, swimsuits, goggles, so on and so forth. He left me in front of the grocery store to grab our lunch sandwiches first, while he went to refuel the car. Although I did go shopping by myself a lot, I was still not comfortable enough to face the cashier. However, I couldn't help but go there, because I hated that taunting look on Dad's face and his scathing remark, "What? You scared?" I despised those two things more than anything. They were like guns jabbed against my back, forcing me to walk into the store to complete my task.
He was already waiting outside by the time I finished. Getting inside the car, I handed him the lunch and the remaining change. He kept the coins and threw the sandwiches on the backseat, letting them be my company for the journey ahead.
Once we were out of the urban area, he immediately sped up. Lowering the window, he started to sing – the only part I couldn't hate him for. I liked his voice, especially when he was singing. It sounded different from when he spoke, not that rude but still deviant. Lyrics I couldn't understand extended with the wind, floating far away, so the first sentence already melted in the fair sky the moment he shouted out the last word.
His music, his song, and his piano – all were inconsistent and identical to this rough outer shell. Especially, the piano songs he played were so slick that it felt as though he'd fall apart any second while hysterically coughing out blood. When a trait was particularly distinctive, you couldn't help from focusing on it; just like black spots on a white wall. You'd only notice it at the time it became neutral and vague; you couldn't explore it further until then.
When I recollect my memories of that middle-aged man standing in the autumn sunlight, as his songs start echoing in my ears again, I finally realize how careless he was … or, how free he was.
The beach trip itself is not the point actually. And, to be honest, I can't even remember most of the details now.
The seawater in autumn was already cold, and the beach was pretty empty. We killed more time on the shore instead of staying in the water. He seemed calm, picking up those things that washed up on the beach, showing them to me, and explaining their habits.
When we found a starfish, he smiled sarcastically and told me, "This is a no cerebral tissue fucker." He was referring to someone when speaking of these "brainless" creatures, I thought, but until today I still didn't figure out who the person was when he cursing the starfish. Perhaps it was the entire foundation or just Dr Clef messing around with him the day before that.
We spent some more time there, though I can't really remember what we did. Until countless seagulls hovered overhead, the sun sank into the sea, and aflame waves glinted on the horizon, leaving the nearby sight in the dark; we stood there and only went back home afterward.
This trip was commonplace, but I don't know why flashbacks of this day always recurred whenever Dad was mentioned – the middle-aged man singing loudly in the car, squatting upon his hunkers next to me while watching the dying marine creatures, and facing the burning sunset in silence at last. I was always reminded of that day, that cool wind, that black sea, and that pair of confusing eyes.
Even today, I don't think I can read the mood he was in at that particular moment. Was it joy, acerbity, terror, or sorrow? Maybe he himself couldn't tell and was just engulfed by the waves of emotions unilaterally. Perhaps it's because no one except him knows the actual answer.

Then I grew up. Our relationship became absolutely dreadful as I reached puberty. The flared-up tension spun out of control day by day. The great Dr Kondraki, you should believe, was just as bewildered as every parent facing their pubertal son for the first time in their life.
However, he barely beat me up. I remember only one instance when some physical violence broke out for real – when we stirred up a fistfight. Rather than blaming him for all of those things, I'd say I was the one who should take on more responsibility. Things would probably have ended better if there was a woman in our home, but unfortunately, there was none. So we were like two raging bulls, two revolving gears that would never fit even when they collided with each other recklessly. It seems, on that day, I had shouted something on purpose, something provoking, and glared at him with a defiant look.
But it'd be unfair if you say it was totally my fault. I was in the middle of that phase where I acted no better than a dementia patient, and was overcome by my sexuality. This happened less than a week after I had sex with my girlfriend for the first time. Embarrassment and frustration swept me through that night; I found I couldn't respond adequately to her … she consoled me, and it made things even worse. I ran away like a deserter when she went to take a shower.
I didn't understand, and I didn't want to understand. I looked at men, and I was hard like a stone. I had also experienced those erotic dreams with another man on my bed. It was utterly painful; I tried everything in my power to get away from all of this, but then I realized I could never make it. By that night, I finally knew it was something inborn – something you couldn't change or run away from. It took me a long time to accept this and live with it. In short, my whole world collapsed at that time, and no one was able to provide me proper counseling.
Back to where we were. I felt my face burning red while we grappled with each other – suppression caused by sex unleashed itself through violence. He swore something but found no sign that I was about to stop. Our eyes met for a moment, I noticed his anger was replaced by a calm gaze. And the very next second, the entire world spun around me; my right arm and wrist hurt like as if my muscles were close to breaking off inch by inch. He weighed me down on the ground, breathing heavily.
"Chill, boy." He gasped. "You're still far away from winning your old man you amateur."
I looked at him dead in the eye; extreme anger filled my heart, and an aggrieved feeling locked my chest. I aimed my eccentric choices for a partner at my father back then.
I ended up telling him nothing, and he released me without another word when my mind cooled off. We raised the dining table together, pushed the couch back in place, picked up the napkins and paper boxes, and as for those broken bottles, we swept them into the garbage. Five minutes later, all signs of this fight were gone. It looked just as good as nothing had happened.
The crack between us grew wider and deeper, although we never took the hatred to our hearts. This kind of crack could be closed up. However, it needed a push from both sides.
Unfortunately, neither of us ever tried doing that.

So, after all this rambling, what is the plaster cast?
It was a question James asked a long time after. We had just gotten into a relationship, lying on the bed where we had just made out, and he threw the question at me – a conventional, heart-warming question.
"What was your life like before I came into the picture?" James asked tenderly. Muffled chirps and whirs were rising from outside, as I put my arms around him, scrambling for an answer.
"My life is a plaster cast," I mumbled, eventually.
James levered himself up on his elbow, immersed in deep thought. But this time, he couldn't work out the answer. So he probed with a simple "Why?"
I told him it wasn't only me; we were all the same. Our life was a plaster sphere; it looked orbicular, but in fact, it had many small facets. Our sense amplifies these facets, so we think we are holding a hexadecahedron or a cube, or even a triangular pyramid. But its identity is always that of a sphere rather than that of something else. We extract what we want to feel, magnify what we experience, and finally become the person who only existed in our own imagination.
James' contemplation was gentle and calm; at that moment, he was more like the researcher Talloran at the site.
"Don't wince, darling," he said, "You know what I'm asking."
I sighed quietly. Alright.
"My life is a plaster cast," I explained, "You're the highlight on it, and my father, my family, they're not even the shady sides. They're just a big hole, a dent on the plaster cast, a dent that cannot be fixed. I can still feel a cold wind gushing in through that empty hole, though it doesn't draw me in agony anymore."
James turned on the lamp. Maybe he thought I was about to cry, but I didn't. I simply lay there watching him, then pressed a kiss on his lips few seconds later.
I decided not to think about the past. I had already started working at the foundation by then, confronting what my dad had been through. And I knew quite well how lightweight I was. Other task forces would replenish the spot if I was down; there would be GOC and many others intervening to save the situation from worsening. But you could never think like this when you are in danger; you had to fight tooth and nail to stop the thing in front of you, without taking a single step back.
At that time, I was sure I had already found the one who would always have my back; I had found James Talloran.
Only him … only for him.

Then, he died.
My dad, Dr Kondraki, was dead. It wasn't unexpected at all – the nonchalance even surprised me. My heart accepted the fact before my mind did.
James was worried about me, but I didn't feel anything. James was smarter than I was and more sensitive. He realized the fact way earlier than I did, that it wasn't an actual recovery but merely a temporary numbness after a catastrophic shock.
After some time, I took a vacation with James; we went to the beach. We swam for a while, then went on a short walk. James spotted a starfish slowly crawling towards the sea.
"A brainless echinoderm," I told him. The aversion, sorrow, and sarcasm scared both of us. I almost immediately realized I wasn't thinking of the starfish at all but of my deviant father.
And, at that moment, something burst out from their banks.
It finally dawned upon me that my green-eyed man was gone – he was dead and would never come back.
I didn't even realize when tears started to roll down my cheeks. I found myself hunched on the beach, trembling with convulsive sobs. James knelt by my side, as countless seagulls hovering overhead.
Lying, I cried at myself, you are always lying. Not only to James but also because of the ridicules from that scumbag dad of yours. Every time you rush to the forefront, his voice echoes over and over in your ears. 'You scared?' That's what he'd always say. "You such a terrible father, you damn … damn…" I wailed but couldn't pronounce another word.
At the dent on the plaster cast, cold wind gushing out endlessly.


Hey Kev! I need a ride home from Candy's house. :)

If you can't Bridget's mom can get me in like an hour

Sure thing

Awesome! You're the best :)

The light of the moon shone through the translucent curtains, a dim blue light being cast over the quiet hospital room, even the wind had gone still.
Laura drifted her dull gaze from one picture frame to another. The possibility of sleep was one she had abandoned half an hour ago; it was looking as if her thoughts had other plans. She'd made plans to see a movie with Candy after class; they'd mutually decided after weeks of working on the Romeo and Juliet book report, and earning an A, that they deserved a break. She hoped Candy still went if she didn't make it.
Laura sighed. She attempted to sit up, but her body didn't register the attempt, as only her arms had maintained any strength. Had this been it? A silent, midnight passing? Kevin would never know she wasn't angry; it all went so fast. Despite her fuzzy thoughts, she could still vividly remember that moment.

“Thanks for picking me up, Kev.” Laura said, buckling her seatbelt.
Kevin nodded. “No problem.”
Laura looked out the window as her brother pulled off. The strong smell of cigarettes and beer suddenly hit her. Something had happened.
“Kev, are you okay?” She asked slowly.
Kevin nodded. “Yeah.” His eyes were blankly staring down at the road.
Laura bit her lip. “Are… are you sure? You look a little… off. It smells like beer in here.” She glanced around. “Maybe you should pull off the road, I'll call mom.”
Her brother shakes his head. “I'm totally fine. No need to worry, Laura. I can drive just fine.” He said slowly.
Laura opened her mouth to respond. Her eyes widened as she noticed the car was headed for a red light; they hadn't slowed down.

Looking back on it now, even in her weak state, Laura knew she should have done something more. If only she could have talked to him about what happened. If only she could have helped him see that it was going to be okay. Maybe… things would have gone differently.
She sighed. Things didn't go differently. This is what happened.
Laura noticed a flash of light out of the corner of her eye. She didn't feel like she was going to an afterlife, not that she believed in one in the first place. She then noticed accompanying the now faded light was a man, who was sitting in the chair next to her bed. He held a cigarette out towards Laura.
“I… don't smoke… normally. But my brother—“ Laura pauses to cough. “I wanna… remember him as I go.” She said slowly. She took the cigarette and put it to her lips.
The man lit a cigarette for himself. Laura and the man sat in silence, waiting for her life to fade. It was nice to not be alone. Laura had always feared abandonment. It seemed the grim reaper guided its victims to eternal rest. Huh. She smiled softly at the thought.
Laura closed her eyes. She wasn't going to be there for her brother anymore; the thought scared her. They'd always been there for each other. But, her turn as Kevin's guardian angel was over. There was bound to be someone meant to watch over him.


“You know how many Class-D died last year, Dolarhyde?”
Dolarhyde makes that traditional “deer in the headlights” look, before finally some cogs start turning and he sputters out, “Uh. No. I mean, uh, a lot?”
Foundation Appointed Prosecuting Attorney Coyle leans back on her office chair, gives a kick, slides open to the window. “Gimmie a guess.”
“Uh, a thousand?” It's not a question, but Coyle tastes the question mark. Dolarhyde screws up his face into a grimace then gives some vague approximation of a shrug, as if he isn't even sure about not being sure. When she doesn't answer, he adds, “Ten thousand?”
She glances out the window, knits her fingers together, says, “Twenty.”
“…thousand?” he adds, hopefully, because it makes his wild guess marginally less humiliating.
The office is hot; Dolarhyde is small and pale at the best of times, and right now he's sweating so hard that Coyle has the sudden image of him melting into a puddle. Coyle takes a moment to hate herself for her aversion to fans; any consistent noise drags her away from her work like a tongue drawn to a gap between the teeth. So she swelters through the heat, watches great dark patches of sweat stain her favourite shirts…but she can tolerate it. Barely. If it means no painful drilling groan of machinery.
She swings her chair round, scoots back over to her desk with a nameplate reading FOUNDATION LEVEL THREE PROSECUTOR BETHANY R COYLE; it's heavy and metal and there is something immensely satisfying about holding it. “Twenty. Just twenty.” She considers smirking, letting Dolarhyde know she's not as scary as she seems, but suppresses it. Let him be frightened just a little while longer, she thinks. Until he gets the point.
“Twenty?” Dolarhyde looks less surprised than she expected, like a child who has just learned that a tomato is a fruit and not a vegetable from the back of a cereal bar; vague disbelief, but also acceptance as if he has yet to comprehend how this information pertains to him in any possible way.
She starts counting them off her fingers. “Two died fighting among themselves, two more from natural causes. Three more were killed in a contagion breach, another fell off a ladder and burst her skull open, one poor bastard had a loose roofing tile land on his head. Four died in containment breaches, and that leaves seven who died during testing.”
“Seven,” Dolarhyde repeats, as if he still hasn't quite understood it. Then, “I thought that-“
“I know, we're “the man”. The men in black. Cold, not cruel. A big, sprawling entity locked in an eternal battle against the invincible incomprehensible things lurking in the corner of our peripherals.” She considers it a moment. “Which is true, in part. Also completely made up for the other part.
Consider:
“A class-D is presumed to have little to no specialist knowledge. The initial containment and preliminary research into an anomaly will be performed almost entirely by trained professionals.” Well, that isn't quite true- sounds like a line from those godawful information films they pumped out in the early nineties, after The Change in Managment- but this isn't the time. Dolarhyde is already looking like he's regretting every single life choice that lead up to him sitting in Attorney Coyle's office, sweating away the majority of his bodyweight.
“Then, if the anomaly is found to be a direct and present danger to Foundation personnel, the vast majority of testing will be conducted without the direct human involvement. Assuming that approval for testing is given to begin with. Our MO is to contain these things, not poke them with sticks until they inevitably kill us.” Again, the time before the Change in Management flashes in Coyle's mind…of the piles of orange jumpsuits, used again and again each month.
“If it isn't of any serious danger, then Class-D testing will proceed, but as we've already established that they're probably not in any serious danger. And again, ever since the Change in Management, we've put less priority on testing and more on containment. As a result: testing has killed seven Class-d over the course of the last year. I believe that's seven too many.”
Dolarhyde blankly nods, as if he hasn't comprehended a word of it. “Seven too many,” he repeats, then nodding again with a smile as if he's getting behind it. “Seven too many.”
“So, tell me-“ she pauses; was it Robert or Ryan? She guesses. “Robert, why in the hell did you join the Foundation's prosecution division?”
He wipes back his greasy fringe, swallows hard, and says, voice cracking, “Make a difference.”
And with that, Bethany Coyle gives herself the smirk. Then she yanks open a draw, deposits three sheets of paper. “Let's begin.”
TERRENCE BLACKWELL
Terrence Blackwell did nothing wrong. I think everybody believes that except Terrence Blackwell. He was young even for an assistant researcher- about as old as you are now, Dolarhyde. Head Researcher Baines reported him as “vaguely competent, devoid of all intuition, all booksmarts.” Whatever she thought of him, she held him in enough esteem to give him control of testing regarding SCP-9806.
The anomaly? I'll keep it brief; a bible that kept flicking to a seemingly random page whenever an individual approached. Doctor Baines hoped to establish a pattern to what page it turned to, theorizing that the pages were not judgment, but rather an attempt at communication. After multiple tests involving D-Class without so much as a papercut, she was given her annual two-week leave and gave Blackwell charge of the next few experiments.
Blackwell, if anything, took too many precautions; he checked the testing chamber with a Geiger counter beforehand, for God's sake. He reported later he threw up an hour before the test began out of nervousness.
The first few tests went off without any complications. But when D-9806-19 and D-9806-20 entered the testing chamber and stood before the book, they both exploded.
Why? We don't know. Yet. Baines is heading the team looking into their backgrounds, looking for anything unique about them, but human testing has been suspended indefinitely until further notice.
We brought Blackwell on trial, because we have to. One of the reforms they brought in after the Change in Management; if a Class-D dies during testing, an inquest is launched into their death.
I went out there and argued to the council he could have taken further precautions, because it was my job.
They found him innocent, because anyone could see he'd done nothing wrong. He was utterly unfortunate to combine two unknown elements in a way that caused death; we still don't know what happened with hindsight, so how in hell could Blackwell be expected to see it before it happened?
Of course, Blackwell requested a transfer, and he got it. Six months on, he's still getting counselling over it.
That has been the majority of our cases since this department was founded; just cases of bad luck that, unfortunately, could never have been prevented.

Once Coyle finishes, Dolarhyde asks, “Is he all right?”
Coyle only shrugs. “I sure as hell hope so. But you've got to remember; we don't have reserves, we don't march Class-D into the dark to “see what happens”, and we don't think human life has no value. Blackwells pop up, usually a few every year- and we still need to go out there and try and prove their guilt for all we're worth, because every so often there's one who really could have prevented it, and no matter how hard it is to look into a Blackwell's guilt-ridden face and accuse him of gross negligence, it just might save some lives.”
Her office is all beige, because she likes beige, thinks it gets a bad rep. It makes her think of soft sand between her toes, and that makes her think everything's going to be all right. The only outlier is the red and white NO SMOKING sign screwed into the wall beside her, always digging its claws into her peripherals. She has torn it down on multiple occasions, but that just leaves those two ugly holes staring at her where the screws once where. And of course sooner or later some jobsworth janitor will file a complaint and she'll get a lecture and a new sign hammered in.
Dolarhyde has caught her gaze, and then glances down at the ashtray right in front of her.
She shrugs. “I'm only human. Anyway: onto the next case.”
JOSHUA BUTTERMAN
Josh Butterman had three decades of experience on Terry Blackwell, and was assigned to a far more dangerous anomaly. Results are the same: two dead.
I can tell you that their names were Aaron Ingram and Carolina Greyson. Oh yes, that was our latest win: no more classification numbers. Encourages researchers to treat D-class as expendable commodities, even subconsciously. Didn't stop Butterman, of course.
Butterman was known by those under him as friendly, affable, and soft-spoken. Which makes it all the more surprising he murdered two people.
You see, Joshua Butterman's son was murdered by an ex-girlfriend of his named- yes, you've guessed it- Carolina Greyson.
SCP-6309 is an unknown creature that guards a man named Jeremey Lambert from any possible threats; any who approach are killed, and it has also prevented Lambert's numerous suicide attempts. That is all we know. Sending more D-classes into the chamber to die would have told us nothing we didn't already know.
Butterman sent them both in anyway; Ingram only to avert suspicion. The creature tore out Ingram's neck then ate Greyson's face while she screamed
We needn't have bothered with mounting a prosecution; he didn't bother to deny it. “The cunt deserved to die screaming a thousand times over,” he told the adjudicating council. “Kill me if you want, but I'll never apologize.” And the bastard smirked.
SCP-6309 has consented to containment as it aids in the protection of Lambert; I don't think for a moment it couldn't break out if he thought Lambert was in any real danger. When Butterman sent them in, he killed two, but he put hundreds of lives at risk. For what? Revenge? Greyson would have rotted in prison for another fifteen years.
Of course, Greyson's reassignment wasn't a coincidence; we prosecuted Meredith Dortmund, the Class-D administrator, for assigning Greyson to Butterman. Turned out she wasn't even bribed; Butterman simply asked her, because they were friends. And she agreed to help him murder two people.
And their punishments? Dortmund got demoted and six months of Class-D duty. When her sentence is over, she'll have the choice between going back to civilian life or re-joining the Foundation at the lowest level.
Butterman? Fifteen years Class-D duty. He'll never serve all of it, of course, they never do, but he'll never work for the Foundation again. Fuck him. I hope three weeks into his sentence he suddenly starts to regret it all.
Sorry. Shouldn't get angry. That was what made Butterman do it in the first place, I suppose.

“Is, uh, that a common thing that happens?” asks Dolarhyde. “Ryan.”
“What?”
“Ryan. Not Robert. My name's Ryan.” He stares at her for a few moments, before adding a meek, “Sorry.”
She takes a moment to figure out what exactly he was saying sorry for, then realizes it's probably his default response to everything. “Ryan,” she repeats. She takes a carton of cigarettes from her breast pocket, removes one for herself, then offers them to Dolarhyde. “Want one?” Coyle asks, before adding, “Ryan.”
He looks at the cigarette carton as if he's a small child in a bad PSA who has just been offered to inject heroin directly into his eyeball by his best friend. “It says no smoking.”
Coyle sighs. Dolarhyde, so far, has had all the agency and activeness of a corpse; he seems more genuinely confused than making any kind of statement of incorruptibility.
“And that brings us to case numero tres: Catherine Wheeler.”
CATHERINE WHEELER
Those awful propaganda videos imply they needed more staff after so many died during the conflict, but whatever they say it was more of a coup than a civil war. Most of them simply resigned, because when the Overseers were still in power they gave researchers free reign. No oversight, no checks, no balances. Also that issue of massive institutional discrimination. Don't want to mention any individuals, but one of the big names back in the day? Christ, he sounded like a Tarantino script if you removed the foot fetishism.
Wheeler didn't resign. Whatever Wheeler did, I don't want to imply for a second she did what she did out of malice of sadism. I think she truly wanted to learn more about our impossible world.
Of course, with the Change in Management came the change in priorities; the Overseers wanted to know how it all worked. And what we learned pretty quickly is that it doesn't make sense. Most of these things don't have stories. They were spat out by the churning void that exists just offscreen without a point. You want a narrative, go read a book. I don't think the Overseers ever truly realized that.
Wheeler was pro-Overseer, but when the revolution came and went she carried on without any major career changes- Governor Thomasson declared an amnesty to save the life of Overseer Seven, because she was his friend, and so a minor cog like Wheeler didn't even get a slap on the wrist.
But you can bet when her superiors decided on who to promote, they kept that all in mind.
Doctor Wheeler should have received a promotion years ago. That is a fact. Compare her record to her fellows who got advancement ahead of her- it was an injustice.
She was assigned to SCP-5117, which was simply a doorway that lead to another world, empty, filled with grass and a small hotel. Every drone that had gone into room 237- yes, everybody else gets it too- immediately lost all connection.
Wheeler wanted out. Once she found out what was behind that door, her superiors promised her that long-deserved promotion.
She ordered radiation-proof drones from Logistics and Allocation, but they're not cheap, nor readily available. Not for another three months, in fact.
So she sent three Class-D in instead. Why wouldn't they be able to kick the door down, realize there was nothing in there aside from perhaps some particularly strong EMP or something, and get her promotion. A site director. At last.
The three were all dead of radiation poisoning before they could even make it back to Earth.
And here comes the interesting part: the adjudicators have a very high percentage of pro-overseer members. Only way Thomasson ever could have kept the peace, really.
The fact was, Wheeler should have gotten her promotion years ago, and the Adjudicators wanted her to get it; hell, she was friends who two of them. Now these judges had also overseen- poor choice of words, maybe- the Blackwell and Butterman cases, and they gave out justice there.
So they gave me a deal: they would triple my funding. They would try to tighten the restrictions on Class-D testing. They would increase backgrounds checks to avoid any further repeats of what Butterman did. They would release files from back before the Change in Management; not for prosecution, of course, just to keep an eye on those who engaged in the most reckless actions.
In return, I would drop the case.

Dolarhyde looks up at her. "What did you do?"
Coyle sighs, takes another drag on her cigarette. "I didn't drop the case entirely. Wheeler got two weeks of wages docked and an official reprimand."
"You took the deal?" Dolarhyde looks like a kid who's just been told Santa isn't real.
Taking her cigarette from her mouth, Coyle says, "Two hundred a month. A fucking *month*. That's how many Class-D died before the Change in Management. Killed them all at the end of the month. I don't know why. They just fucking murdered them because they could. Because this organization was once ruled by people who saw no inherent value in human life. I've seen piles and piles of orange jumpsuits washed free of blood over and over and over. I've seen guards pump Class-Ds full of lead for fucking looking at them funny. I took their deal not because I gave a shit about the money, or the status, but because my job isn't to punish the guilty, it's to save the innocent. How dare I place my own peace of mind above lives?"
It all comes out at once, like water from a busted dam. She takes another drag of her cigarette, wipes something from the corner of her eyes, and offers Dolarhyde a cigarette.
He looks at it for a long while, then at Coyle.
And he doesn't take it.


close

Info

X

Self. Similar.
Authors: Oboebandgeek99 Dr Lake
Written for the Collaboration Contest!

sketch copied from old documentation

Richardson Island

Aliases - "Mandelbrot Island," "Fractal Island," SCP-8249

Summary - An island shaped like a fractal, believed to have repetitive recursive(?) properties. Reports of strong return of memory.

Threat - Med.-High, reports of strong, debilitating hallucinations of events past, present, and imagined. Unconfirmed reports of disfiguration. All current intel comes from Foundation— could be a trap, or at least a very dangerous idea.

Interest - Could help me remember who I am.

Conclusion - I'm going there. The Foundation is giving me a ride from the mainland. We leave at dawn.

He had arrived at the docks early. Apparently, “dawn” was a vague time period for the Foundation agents that did not mean the second the sun rose above the horizon, but rather early morning. It was no matter to him. He had waited this long, he could wait for a little longer.
In any case, it gave him time to figure out what ship they were going to take. Normally, his eye might've turned toward the larger ships, the ones designed for scientific research. But he knew better than that; as far as the Foundation was concerned, this was a simple courier mission; drop off the researcher, let him research, come back for him (assuming he survives). They'd want something less conspicuous, something that would be more likely to blend in. This would make it hard, but he knew what to look for. He knew to look for a ship trying its best to look normal, so normal you wouldn't even remember it. Much like the man himself.
His eyes eventually fell to the most ordinary one. A nearly unidentifiable trawler, named St. Conrad of Parzham. That had to be the one.
He had docked the ship, quietly as he could. He snuck below deck, hoping to find out more, but the Foundation had been careful about the ship's facade. It was painfully normal, betraying no signs of distinction from any other privately owned vessel of that type. He hadn't expected to find classified documents lying around at every corner, but he'd hoped that perhaps the Foundation had been just a little careless in telegraphing their intent. As soon as he thought that, he realized how ridiculous that thought had been.
Just at that moment, the boat lurched, and the man felt a surge of curiosity that others might've mistaken for unease. This certainly wasn't Foundation protocol. As the boat steadied, he quickly realized the boat had departed from the dock. And from what he could tell, the unexpected captain was heading straight for Richardson Island.
So who was this captain?
Cautiously, the man made his way up to the helm, careful not to make noise.
A young woman sat below the steering wheel, leaning over a bag that seemed much too small to contain anything of importance and looking over several documents and muttering to herself. It was almost comical. This girl had managed to trick several high ranking Foundation personnel. Did that say more about the Foundation or about her?
“Beautiful morning for a boat ride, don't you think?” he said, throwing caution to the wind. The girl's head snapped back as she heard his voice, eyes wide in surprise. He had scarcely finished his question before she had a knife to his throat.
“Who are you? I thought I had taken care of all of you Foundation goons back in town.” The man, unaffected, blinked in response.
“Easy,” he said, a futile attempt to calm her down. “I'm not with them.” He quickly looked down at his clothes. “Obviously.”
This didn't sway the girl one bit. “But you're working with them. Give me one reason I shouldn't throw you over right now.”
“Ooh," he winced. "'Working with' is a rather strong phrase. Let's just say our interests aligned. In fact, you've done me a rather massive favor by significantly decreasing the odds that I'm walking right into a trap.”
“You still haven't given me a reason.”
He rolled his eyes. “Because it would be a waste of your time and energy. Yes, I have no doubt you could throw me overboard with no problem. But I have no real reason to hurt you, and vice versa. Wouldn't you rather focus on navigating us to the island?” He glanced at the horizon as he said this. She looked back and saw they were quickly drifting off course.
“Damn it!” she said, reluctantly dropping the knife to take the helm again. She quickly corrected course, constantly looking over her shoulder. “If you even think about betraying me—”
“Wouldn't think of it. We're heading to the same place. You're really making my job easier.” He almost chuckled. “I really should thank you.” The girl groaned in response. He moved to the railing, looking at the distant island as it approached and breathing in the sea air. "So why are you heading out to Richardson?" he asked her. Her head quickly turned to look at him, her face a mixture of confusion and suspicion.
"What's it to you?" she asked dryly.
He shrugged apologetically. “Just curious, I suppose. I mean, it's not every day you see an island with a fractal coastline.”
She turned to the man and raised an eyebrow. “You know most coastlines are fractals, right?” The man looked confused.
“I'm sorry, what?”
A smirk slid across the girl's face. “You have no idea why it's called Richardson Island, do you?” She chuckled to herself, turning away again to look at the island in the distance. Clearly, she was having some fun with him now, being the only one on board with the knowledge she had attempted to tempt the man with.
It was surprisingly effective.
“My point being, you've surely heard the stories of this island. And surely you know enough to know they aren't unfounded claims. Why would somebody as young as you dare to venture there on your own?”
“I could ask you the same question. Minus the young part. Don't think your age will save you. Did you even bring anything to help you get through the island?”
The man held his breath, annoyed, before admitting, “The Foundation was to provide everything for my travels.” The girl laughed. “But you're not one to talk,” he quickly followed up. “What do you have that ensures your survival over mine?” She quickly held up the knife, glinting it at him in the sunlight. He nodded, trying not to put his head in his hands. “Right, a knife, but you really think anything else in that small bag of yours will do anything?”
“You'd be surprised. And you never answered my question about why you're here.”
“No, you never answered mine.” The girl shrugged, keeping her lips sealed. The man sighed, resolving that he would have to compromise to learn anything. “I'm hoping to gain a better sense of myself.” The girl looked at him strangely, clearly not understanding. Not that he cared to explain. “Can you at least tell me your name?”
The girl considered this a moment before responding. “You may call me The Black Queen.”
“Wow. That's not pretentious in the slightest, your highness.”
The girl scoffed. “And just who do you think you are to mock me?”
“Oh, I'm Nobody of note.” The boat beat on against the current, bringing them closer to the island, and closer to understanding.

A girl took on several Foundation agents and commandeered a vessel that was heading the place she wanted to go anyway. Wonders never cease. She could've simply stowed herself away, and instead she stole a whole boat. I think we'll get along well if she stops being such a petulant brat.

I recognize I'm not being entirely fair to her. I must just be tired. It's not as if she's a child. I just sense this youthful energy, this anger. This hunger that she's trying so hard to satiate. It seems so…

Familiar isn't the right word. Familiar is never the right word in my situation. But it just seems so normal. It's almost refreshing when it isn't annoying. She introduced herself as The Black Queen. Of course I've heard the name before, but never encountered anyone who used it. I know enough to know there are multiple Black Queens, but not enough to know how to distinguish between them, or even what their goal may be. I mean, why take the risk of going all the way out to the island? Enlightenment? There are easier ways of achieving that. She's not like me, she's self-assured in who she is. In fact, who she is seems to be driving her.

In any case, she hasn't yet picked up on who I am. Perhaps she doesn't know of me. Then again, it seems unlikely she'd know of the island but not me.

Is it strange that I'm looking forward to her discovering the truth?

“Stop following me!” The girl yelled.
“I told you before, it's not intentional. Also how could I be following you if I left the dock first?” The two had tried to separate at the dock, but somehow they'd already run into each other several times.
“You tell me.”
“Look, I know you're doing this whole, like, teenage-angst—”
“I'm not a teenager.”
“—go it alone, coming of age quest… thing, but is that really the smartest idea?” The girl looked indignant, about to interrupt. “What I mean by that,” he quickly said before she could start, “is the intel I've gotten on this island suggests the anomalies take hold more quickly if one is alone. Working together, we slow down whatever anomaly poses a threat.” The girl looked to the side carefully considering what she was being told.
“Why should I believe you?” He pulled out his journal, looking for the right clippings.
“Because I have information directly from the Foundation.” He handed her several excerpts of the document.
“How the hell did you get these?” She interrogated, reading them voraciously.
“A contact within the Foundation got me the info when they realized I was planning on coming here.” She looked up after reading them, carefully taking in the man before her.
“Okay, fine. You can tag along with me, but don't get in my way,” she said fiercely.
“Of course not, your majesty.” She rolled her eyes at this, turning away and walking deeper into the wilds of the island. “You know, you never told me why you're here.”
“And you never told me who you are. Frankly, it's none of your business.”
“It is my business if we're working together.”
“‘Working together' is a rather strong phrase,” she parroted. He could tell she was rather good at using one's words against them. When she thought about it. “And if we are, in fact, ‘working together' as you say, I should know what to call you.”
He smiled slightly and shrugged. “It's like I said before, I'm Nobody important.”
He saw her eyes get wide in realization. “Oh my god. You're Nobody. And I'm an idiot.”
“Oh, not at all, your grace. It's just a game I like to play with the people I meet.”
“For the love of god, stop calling me that, it's just the Black Queen.” She stopped in her tracks, looking around, anxious.
“Is it really that big a deal, you—”
“We've been here before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look, all the trees are the same as they were at the dock. Like we should turn around and be right back at the boat.” As the man looked around, he realized she was right. The environment was eerily familiar. He was positive they had been to this exact place. But they had only wandered away from the dock, and the boat was nowhere in sight. How was this possible?
The glint of the knife interrupted his thoughts. He quickly looked toward the girl, preparing to defend himself. With two quick moves, she had slashed an X shape into a nearby tree.
“There. Now we know we've been here. We can find our way out more easily.”
A small smirk formed at the corner of his lips. “Well done, Ariadne!” She looked back at him, eyebrow raised in anticipation of an explanation. “You know the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur?” Her expression didn't change. His face returned to a neutral-annoyed expression. “Ariadne gave him the string. She helped him leave the labyrinth.” She stared for another second before shrugging and walking forward.
“At least you went for that instead of Hansel and Gretel.” He stared after her, taking in his surroundings. As he looked around, he saw the trees towering over, in a way they hadn't seemed to before. As he stared at the sky, a large shadow that looked like a giant bird passed overhead.
“…Huh.”
“I'm not going to wait for you!” The girl called back. The man looked back to her, walking quickly to catch up as they braced themselves for the coming exploration.

I think I'm starting to see some of the anomalous properties of the island. More exploration is needed, though, as none of the anomalous behavior I'm seeing is what I'm looking for. Though I have to wonder what my reluctant companion is here for. Ariadne (as I've decided to call her for the purposes of this journal) is still headstrong, but has recognized our team-up is in both of our best interests. I still wonder what she could be here for. Does she not recognize the dangers posed by this island? Surely she does, and has gone so far as to chastise me for being unprepared. No, she knows the danger. She's weighed the risk and decided her goal is worth it. And knowing that I'm only enduring the island for very personal reasons, I can only assume her reasons must be personal as well. She hasn't reached any sort of “greater good” or “greater evil” phase quite yet, so her motivation must be a very personal or sentimental self-interest. Not that I can blame her. I can't imagine a self interest more personal or sentimental than mine.

Why do I want to help her?

The girl had figured out the landscape seemed to loop about every three or four kilometers, and they had settled into a rhythm based on the same path. It had been his deduction that they were actually shrinking as they approached the edge of the island. The Foundation would have a (figurative) field day if they could get the information the two were discovering simply by observing. None of this was in the file they had. Or at least, none of it was in the file the Foundation had given nobody.
“Okay, I'll bite,” The man said as the girl gave him a leg up to the now familiar rock blocking their path. “Why is it called Richardson Island?” He reached back down to pull her up. Like a well oiled machine, they had seemed to figure out the pattern to the island. The girl smirked at this question.
“The Richardson Effect. Also called the Coastline Paradox.” She slashed another tree. “The smaller the unit you use to measure an irregular shape, like a coastline, the longer the coastline gets. It actually approaches infinity the smaller you get. Lewis Fry Richardson, a mathematician, is noted as the first to notice this seemingly counterintuitive fact. Mandelbrot later expanded on it, and at some point the work was used to show that most coastlines are not one-dimensional lines, but are mathematically of a fractal dimension. Watch your head,” she finished, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch.
“Wow. That was… surprisingly insightful. You're really smart, you know that?” He said, somewhat in awe.
“You're just noticing this now?” The man felt the urge to laugh at this statement. He suppressed it to the best of his ability. “I don't blame you. But I've had a lot of time. And I've been doing research on this place… for as long as I've known about it.”
“And how, exactly, did you find out about this place?” This question intrigued him almost as much as the one about her motivation. “Because I have heard of this place as well, but you know, I can't seem to recall where or when. All I have is a few notes, probably copied from old documentation. I don't see any other reason that would require me to copy that kind of information except a risk for the original documentation to disappear… Or was it me, the one who was about to disappear? Regardless, I must have thought that I would need it later when I copied that. Did you have a particular source? A reading that you would recommend to me?”
“I read about it in a Library.” He looked at her with rapt curiosity, expecting her to continue. “Hold on,” she said, stopping in place. “I need to stop for a break,”.
He looked at her suspiciously, but decided not to dig deeper. His questions would eventually find an answer, and the risk of returning the young woman against him with an interrogation was not worth it.
"Good idea, I can take a little time to write."
“I thought we would've seen some of the weirder stuff by now.” The girl set her bag and knife down and sat against a tree, eyes closed in relaxation. “I guess that's not a bad thing, but… I dunno. I just want to be done.”
“Believe me. I get it. But the silver lining is as long as none of the quote-unquote ‘weirder stuff' has happened, it means we're safe.” The man leaned against a tree, quickly writing everything he could think. As he wrote, he felt something begin to irritate him. Something at the end of his finger. He wrote as long as he could stand before closing his journal and opening his hand. Though his expression betrayed no emotion, he recognized what he saw as very bad news.
At the tip of his ring finger, five small finger-like appendages had formed. At the tip of the fourth appendage, five more appendages had formed. He imagined this was continuing microscopically as he watched. He had to do something about this, and quickly. He looked over to the girl. Her breathing was slow and steady.
“Hey. Ariadne. You awake?” He heard a slight groan from her. It seemed she was somewhere between consciousness and sleep. He had to be quick about this. He slowly walked over, bending over the knife. “I need to check something in that grove over there.” He picked it up. “I'll be right back. Promise.”
He quickly walked away, making sure he was far out of sight. Working quickly, he pressed the knife to the excess appendages. He knew this was going to hurt. As a last second thought, he pulled out a handkerchief, putting it in his mouth to muffle the noise. He braced himself, then quickly sliced through the excess appendages, grunting through the pain. He tried not to look at the blood as he quickly ripped the handkerchief apart and wrapped it around his finger, but no sooner had he wrapped the finger than it was soaked red.
“So we've gotten into this position again. How curious.”
He quickly turned around, trying to find the source of the voice.
“Ariadne? Is that you?” He cautiously walked a few steps in the direction he heard the voice. He walked around a tree, doing his best not to make any noise, when—
“Ah!” The girl yelped in surprise. When she saw who she had run into, she pushed him back. “What the hell is your problem?” She looked down at his hands. “And why did you steal my knife?” She yelled at him. Calmly, he offered the handle to her, which she quickly took. “Were you going to turn on me? Or go it alone? I thought you were the one who wanted us to ‘work together' or whatever.”
“Easy. I just had a splinter I had to take care of,” he said, holding up the bandaged finger. “And your knife was a lot sharper than I had anticipated.”
“Yeah. It's a knife. And for that matter, why did you call me?”
“What are you talking about? I didn't call you.”
“Yeah, you did. You said something about my task being a fruitless one.”
“Ariadne, I promise I didn't say that.”
“That's really not my name.”
“Furthermore, I thought I heard you call me.”
“What?”
“Something about us being in ‘this position' again.” She stared pensively at him. “You know what this means?”
“The hallucinations. We're that much closer to our goals.” Though both felt a sense of excitement creep over them, they both felt the same thought cross their mind: yes, they were closer to their goal. But they were also in much more danger than they were before.

The fractilization has begun. I knew it was coming from the preliminary Foundation reports. I didn't expect it so soon. So severe. So…
I can't think of another “s” word but it hurt like a bitch to cut off my body.
I have to imagine most of it isn't that intense, based on my intel, but who knows. The Foundation could've lied. Or we could experience the worst of the average. We could be the outliers.
I haven't told Ariadne yet. She's heard the hallucinations, she knows the body horror is coming. I have no doubt we'll start seeing things too. I have no clue what that's going to be like. How real it will seem. The voice I heard seemed really, really, real. But if I'm being honest, I'm less concerned with the hallucinations than I am with their content. The hallucinations are theorized to be events that happened in the past, or will happen in the future, or that have some connection with the hallucinators identity.
So what does it mean that my hallucination told me that we were back here again? Is it me and Ariadne? Has this happened before? Surely she would've known, or told me. What does it mean?

The two had gotten much farther, and had stayed much closer together. Together they had avoided most of the fractalizing patterns, marked the trees they passed, and had figured out a sort of double-checking system for the hallucination: if the other didn't hear it, it hadn't happened. And now, for Nobody, if she hadn't seen it, it wasn't real. It was imperative at this point that they work together in perfect harmony.
Nobody took one step off the path.
“Well, fancy seeing you here.” He turned around at the voice. The girl was gone, and where the voice had come from, he saw a woman in a grey suit.
“Ariadne? Is that you?”
“Close but no cigar,” the woman replied. “I'm Nobody. Who are you? Are you Nobody too?”
“Dickenson,” he grimaced.
“Forgive me. It's not often I get to use that joke.”
“You sound… just like her.” Something about this person was eerily familiar.
“Maybe she sounds just like me. Or maybe she used to. Either way, I don't think that's relevant.”
“Just tell me already. Who are you?”
“I just did.”
“But that's impossible. I'm Nobody. Only one individual at a time incarnates Nobody. Or so I've been told.”
“Ah! Then there's a pair of us, don't tell—”
“Enough with the Dickenson! What do you want?”
“Same as you. And same as her.” He looked at her, trying to puzzle out what she was saying. “Did you really think you were the first Nobody to come here? Did you think she was the first Black Queen?”
“I thought I was supposed to be seeing my past,” he said, losing patience. “Or my future, or… something to do with me.”
“I am you, in a sense. And I am her, in a sense.” She sighed, circling him now. He watched her closely, ready to pounce if need be. “We usually come together. Nobody and the Black Queen. We're not quite sure why.” She chuckled to herself. “I think your Ariadne is trying to figure that out as we speak.”
“Ariadne!” He said, realizing they had lost each other. “Where is—?!”
“But something's different about the two of you. I'm not sure what it is, but… you work well together. Almost like you've done this before. And who knows? Maybe you'll both get what you want.”
“Are you going to let me go now or what?”
The woman stepped back, hands up to proclaim innocence. “I'm sorry if I made you feel that you couldn't leave. But I've done nothing to hold you captive. You're free to run off and find her any time you feel like it.” He stood up straight, preparing to take off down the path. “But! Before you go, I'd like to leave you with one last piece of information.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Consider it a peace offering. Or a sliver of hope on my part. Whatever the reason, don't waste it simply because you mistrust yourself. In any case, remember this: T-six-seven-two-two. Tell her. She'll know what you mean.” He looked at her, uncertain. She only smiled back, as if encouraging him to find her. Finally, he looked away and back towards the path, taking off in search of the girl.
“Ariadne! Where are you?” He quickly ran down the path, following the marked trees until they stopped. She was nowhere in sight, and the marks had run out. She could be anywhere. He had left her, and now she was—
“I'm all alone,” he heard her mumble. He looked over to a nearby grove, and saw her standing there, not looking like the confident girl he had come to know. He gently walked over to her.
“No you're not, kid,” he gently reassured, “I'm still here, and we're going to get out of this.” He gulped. “Together.” She slowly turned her head to look at him, her face looking so fearful and confused. He locked eyes with her, staring at each other.
All of a sudden, she pushed him away. “I told you not to leave the path, you jackass!”
He nodded. “I know, and I understand why—”
“No, you don't,” she curtly cut him off. “We were working together. And you left me. You let me down.” She walked back to the path, angrily cutting another mark into a tree as she did so. Like a dog who had chewed on one shoe too many, he timidly followed behind.
“I'm… sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” She sighed and shook her head in response to this. “But… why did that feel like it had nothing to do with me?” She stopped in the middle of the path, closing her eyes and taking several deep breaths. He calmly waited as she did this.
“To make a very long story short, a long time ago, someone left me. And… basically that's why I'm here.” His brow furrowed in something that might have been mistaken for concern.
“Trying to relive the memories of yesterday?”
“Something like that. Something in my hallucination reminded me of that… I guess. I don't know. I… don't really remember it. Or it hasn't… happened yet?” She sighed. “God I hate this place. So,” she said, pulling herself together and trying to change the subject, “I presume you strayed because of a hallucination you had. Do you remember anything from yours?”
“Well, there was one thing,” he admitted. “I met… a different version of Nobody. And she said you would recognize the sequence T-six-seven-two-two.”
She frowned. “That… sounds familiar. But I don't really know it. Sorry.” He shrugged, unaffected, but she didn't see. She stared at the ground, pensive in thought
“I don't know that sequence, but that sounds like how we organize timelines in the Library. T-dash-six-seven-two-two is a valid combination.”
As she said this, he looked up. Everything was wrong. Everyone was… not dead. Worse than dead. And Braindead was too kind a term. Everyone he had ever known, worked with. Anyone he had worked with in the past. He was certain, it had affected all of his friends, anybody who had been his family. Now his only chance was—
“Hey! Snap out of it!” The girl's voice grounded him. All was well. Relatively speaking. And he had realized something.
“Ariadne, I think that's it. I don't think I'm from this timeline.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “What? What do you mean?”
“I just saw it. A hallucination, or a-a-a memory! Oh my god I had a memory. Oh my god.”
“Calm down, I'm very invested in this new development, but what happened in the memory?”
“It was horrible… the whole world was practically ending— or, not the world,” he quickly said, barely able to contain the sudden surge of emotions at his newfound memory. “But human life, it was— It was… it was an EK class scenario. I think.”
“EK?” The girl asked.
“Yeah, it's, um—”
“No, I know this, it's… end of human consciousness. Right?”
“That's right.” He looked at her with a tilted glance. “How did you know that?”
“I…” She stopped a second to compose herself. “I'm not sure. I guess I just… do.”
“I had a memory. You had a premonition. And now we both have knowledge of terminology we shouldn't have access to.” He frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means we're close. We've almost found what we came for.” The girl nodded, determined now more than ever. Together, the two took a step forward.

A memory. I had a memory. Timeline T-6722. EK Class Scenario. How did I escape? What caused it? A memory. I had a memory.

“This is going to hurt a little.” The girl had started to grow an appendage on her leg. Neither her nor her companion was willing to risk letting the horrible process go on without doing anything.
“Yeah, I know, this is the third time. Just do it.” She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the incoming wound. Quickly and methodically, he sawed through the growth. “Motherfucker!” She screamed at the pain. He pressed on the disinfectant bandage against her leg as quickly as possible, taking a second to let her wince.
“We keep this up there's not going to be much left of us.”
“Yeah, no shit…” She chuckled to herself. “Splinter my ass.”
“I didn't want to worry you,” he protested.
“Yeah, sure, that's the reason you didn't tell me when it started. You told me about the hallucinations and the several Nobody's you've seen, but this is the part you thought would disturb me too much. You're lucky I packed these bandages in my bag. That handkerchief was not going to get us through.”
“Yeah, why does it seem you have more bandages than could possibly fit in that bag and still have room for a knife, a map, several secure documents and books, several days worth of rations—”
“Okay, I get the point, and I do not appreciate it.” She was about to say something else when she suddenly looked up. She looked around,a sudden seriousness in her eyes. “Soundcheck,” she said, activating the agreement.
“‘Okay, I get the point, and I do not appreciate it,'” he repeated monotonously. “What did you hear?”
“I thought—” She stopped. Nobody looked at her, concern mounting. She finally turned back to him. “Soundcheck!” She said, as though in a panic.
“‘What did you hear?' and then you said ‘I thought' and stopped mid-sentence. What's going on? What are you hearing?”
“It's him…” she whispered. She turned back to him, anxiety mounting in her voice. “Look, I appreciate everything you've done here to help me. But I think I've found what I came for. And this is where I leave you.”
He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “No, no, no. We agreed we'd stay together. It's safer, remember? That's the only way we get out. Together.”
“I know, I know, but right now—”
“But nothing, we have to work together if we're going to—”
“Dad!” She yelled out, abandoning him in the clearing.
“Shit,” he yelled after her. He quickly grabbed her bag and her knife and ran after her, marking every tree he could without losing her. He followed her voice, calling into the nothingness for a man who no longer existed. When she was within his sight again, he sprinted after her.
“Ariadne! Listen to me, you can't help him!”
“Dad!” She called, running as quick as she could. It took some time, but finally he caught up to her, quickly running around her and grabbing her shoulders to stop her.
“It's not him!”
“Let me go!” She screamed. “Let me see him again!”
“The man you're chasing after, he's gone! He's not here. It's just a shadow of the man you once knew.”
“I don't care!” She said, trying to wrestle away from him.
“He abandoned you! He left the most wonderful daughter in the world for his own selfish reasons and…” He shook his head, finally achieving a moment of clarity. “I know I messed up before, when I left you. I let you down. But I promise to never do it again, if you come with me right now.” She shook her head, head turned to the ground as tears fell below. “Listen to me Alison,” She looked up at him, eyes widening in realization. “If we don't leave now, neither of us is going to get what we wanted. We will die here, fractalized monstrosities, and I can't afford to lose you like that. Not after I just found you. Okay?” She breathed heavily, unsure how to respond. “Sightcheck,” he said, hoping it wasn't too late.
She gulped. “Just me… a bunch of trees. Me.” She took a deep breath. “And you. You're with me.” She quickly nodded her head. “Let's get out of here.”
The two ran past the trees, following the marks they had made. They didn't have time to stop, not even to deal with the hallucinations that both had come for. They didn't need them anymore.
“I'm sorry I blamed you for everything,” he heard muttered through the panicked running.
He didn't have time to respond. “Soundcheck.”
“You heard me the first time, asshole.”

What the hell happened?

The trek had been long, hard, and hurried, but they were finally at the end of it. He could just make out the dock in the distance, the boat still on the water by the dock.
Next to a second boat. And this one, the man recognized.
“Shit!” The girl said, clearly recognizing the boat as well.
“They must be here for me. They'll think I stole the boat, did whatever you did.” He sighed. “Alright, how are we going to deal with this?” But when he turned to talk to the girl, she was gone. He was all alone again. “Great,” he murmured. He was normally great at stealth, but on the unpopulated island he stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Nobody!” a voice boomed behind him.
“And the day just keeps getting better,” he grumbled.
“Put your hands up and slowly turn around! You're—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, turning around much quicker than recommended. “You're about to tell me that you're part of a Foundation mobile task force. Deep Feeders? No, maybe White Rabbits. Anyway, you're gonna tell me I stole your boat, which I didn't, and I need to be taken into Foundation custody, but let me save you a few steps. I'm tired. I'm done. I just want to get off this godforsaken island.”
The man lowered his weapon, confused. “What?”
“I won't fight you. Just please take me back to the mainland and I'll go with you, willingly, and tell your boss's boss's boss everything they want to know about this place. Everything that I can remember happening.”
The man paused, unsure whether to trust the person he had heard so much about. “Walk towards me slowly and I will—”
“Oh my god,” he said walking towards the man. “Just take me to the dock for the love of god.”
“Right,” the man said, startled. “This way,” he said, letting nobody lead him back to the dock. “I have the PoI in my custody, we are heading to the docks,” he said into his headset. As they made their way to the clearing, the rest of the task force looked completely shocked. They laughed at how simple the man had been to capture as they approached the boat. He didn't care anymore. He was ready for the whole ordeal to be over.
“Hey,” the captain said, leaning over to talk to him, “if it's any help, whatever's bothering you won't bother you for much longer.” Nobody looked over, giving a look of condescending confusion as they reached the end of the dock. “You really think they won't amnesticize after this?”
“Isn't amnesticizing a man who can't remember anything kind of redundant?” a voice came from behind them. Nobody smiled as the rest of the task force turned around. There was the Black Queen, knife to a task member's throat. “Right. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to let my friend go, you're going to let us take the St. Conrad of Parzham back to the mainland, and you're going to let the both of us leave out of your custody.”
“Why should we do any of that?” came the voice Nobody recognized as the man who had first found him.
“You mean besides the fact she has a knife to my throat?!” came the voice of the MTF member at the other end of the dock.
“Because I have his journal,” she said, holding up a very familiar book. Nobody smiled as he reached into his jacket and found it was no longer there. He fondly wondered when she had the time to steal it. “And if you don't let us go, I'll throw it in the water.”
“Captain, I think I can make the shot from here without hurting—”
“Jesus Christ,” the captain said, head in his hands. “Just do as she says. It's not worth it to risk a casualty just to obtain information we're already trying to get. Let her go and we'll agree to all of your conditions.” The Black Queen stared, deadly serious, as if pondering what to do. With a smirk, she removed the knife from the MTF member's throat and turned her around.
“My deepest apologies,” she said to the anxious woman. “It was nothing personal, and I wasn't really planning on killing you. You understand.”
The other woman shook her head. “You're insane.” The Black Queen quickly skimmed through the journal, tearing out a page here and there.
“I think you'll find these pages most valuable. All of the good stuff about the anomalies, how we avoided them and mitigated their effects, et cetera.” The Foundation member looked through the pages, pondering her options, before walking back to the edge of the dock with the pages in hand. “Well?” the Queen's voice rang out.
“You heard the woman. Go to her, before we change our mind. Christ, the paperwork on this one is going to be a mess…” he said, boarding his own boat. Nobody walked towards where she stood, a smile on his face.
“Thanks for the rescue, your majesty,” he said with a bow.
“Think nothing of it,” she said, already heading towards the boat. Nobody eagerly boarded after her. They inhabited the boat as they followed the Foundation boat back to the mainland.
“You know, it's just as well you came when you did,” the man said to his captain. “I'm not sure I remember any of what just happened. On the island, I mean.”
The girl smiled sadly at him. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I think so. But I think I lost it again. It's just… blank. What about you?”
“…Same here. I don't think it was quite what I expected.” The two enjoyed the moment, a calm if discontent silence between them. “When we reach the shore… is this goodbye for us?”
He thought about it for a second. “I think it's more of a ‘so long.' I doubt I've seen the last of the Black Queen.”
She smiled back at him. “And I still have so much to learn about Nobody.”

At least she had gotten a handle on how to access the Ways. It was like taking a familiar side street back home. After all, she had begun to consider the Library home. And after everything that she had experienced she was relieved to go back.
But the Library was not quite as Alison had left it. There was a different atmosphere in the place she had considered a safe haven, and she was uncertain which had actually changed; the library or herself.
She'd been used to living her life alone. But she hadn't realized that she'd spent most of that time desperately fighting to not be alone. She had gotten that chance. And she…
Had she blown it? Was it just not time? What the hell happened on that island?
She sighed. All she knew was that she had gotten a taste of what she wanted, and now it was gone. And she wasn't sure how to deal with that now. Nobody had warned her how unbearable the loneliness was once you had tasted what life could be like without it.
Or had Nobody warned her? She was having a hard time keeping track of everything that had happened, whether or not it was real, and if it was real, what was a memory or a premonition. She had no clue what to do.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to calm down some of her thoughts. She had taken some notes, after all, and she was sure things yet to come would elucidate the experience for her in due time. Besides, in the Library, she wasn't alone. She had plenty of little sisters, who could fill in the gaps and explain that which remained unsaid. She always had the catalogue to fall back on.
Her eyes snapped open. She knew what she had to do. She quickly pulled out her notes, preparing for the research. It took some time, but she found exactly what she was looking for. T-6722. She quickly created a new document to record her findings.

Nobody
It's one of the many Black Queens, who knows and who cares which one.

She gathered her thoughts, trying to piece together the important bits, writing just how she was taught.

Baseline
Nobody is an entity with antimemetic properties, taking on the form of a human who doesn't know who they are.
Prerequisites
Presumably human life and the existence of the anomalous? I don't know. Gnosis is always better at this stuff than me anyway.
Utility
I don't know
Vulnerability
I don't care

She took a deep breath. She was going too fast, and that was going to be a pain to fix. Right now she needed to focus on what she could control, what she knew. She could rewrite the rest later, with help from her little sisters. Right now she just had to write it down before she forgot, and write it well.

Instance: Timeline L-99:
Nobody takes on the form of Dr. Charles Ogden Gears. Having originally come from Timeline T-6722, his mind was wiped and he took on antimemetic properties as side effects of defenses taken against the EK-class scenario that took place in that timeline. He saved himself and escaped to this timeline, but feels guilt over those he could not save, namely the family he left behind. He spends his days trying to remember who he is and searching for the reason for his deep-seated guilt, as well as any way to absolve himself of it. And he came close, he came so damn close, I was right there, and I couldn't help him, I couldn't lead him out of the labyrinth

She abruptly stopped there. It was an odd thing to say, especially like that. Why had she phrased it that way? What could it mean?
She closed her eyes, and for a glimpse, she saw him.
”You remember the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur?”
She smiled, opening her eyes. She went back to the beginning.

This is Black Queen Ariadne. And I swear, I will find my father and save him from the Nobody he's become.