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Five of us stalk the scrubland: monsters, crawling up and down the Koh-i-Baba mountainside, waiting and watching for an army of zombies to flush out a man with fire in his eyes. He's holed up at the base of the mountains, a village nobody cares about in the middle of a war that nobody knows about. I bet it was a nice place to live. Quiet, comfortable, peaceful. A place where everybody knew your name.
It's empty now: a collection of houses and streets stalked by Soviet corpses we dredged from the desert. The only name that matters belongs to Anwar. His backup — a force of the best counter-snipers the mujahideen could muster — are being picked apart by vultures across the ridge.
The sky is gray but too dry for anything but dust. Heat lightning streaks through the sky and crashes to earth out in the desert. My sweat is poaching me in my ghillie suit and I haven't eaten anything in almost a week. I'm covered in mosquito bites and forgot to take my anti-malarial pills. The Browning machine gun is so heavy that my arms ache even with the tripod. And to top it all off, my helmet is stuffy. All that orichalcum in the lining to keep Anwar's thoughts out. Unfortunately, it also keeps mine in.
Harriet sees the way my fingers lock around the rifle and wriggles over to my prone form, feeding a wad of chewing tobacco into my mouth. The chewing vents my nervous energy and nicotine does the rest. My fingers soften and my head clears up. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.
Exhale. I tweak the Browning slightly and center my scope on a small shimmer of light under a dusty tan overhang across the ridge. It might be a heat mirage, or a freedom fighter with my team in his sights. I'm positive we killed them all… do I want to take that bet?
Goddamn it. The nicotine punctures the wound-up ball of hate in my gut; its caustic cargo floods me with a sense of righteous rage. Fake righteousness, but how else do you kill for fake reasons? Everyone has their ways. Mann drinks; Kondraki's racist; Clef just enjoys killing people. At least Harriet —
A sharp crack derails my train of thought, picking up amplitude and distortion as it bounces around the caldera: the source, a Lee Enfield rifle somewhere across the ridge. Harriet pushes my scope downwards until it highlights a ragged, man-shaped thing in the middle of the village street — a mummified Soviet corpse we hauled out of the desert sands last week, sans its arm and most of its belly. The zombie takes one more tottering step through the village street before falling on its back, a bullet hole where one of its eyes should be. Courtesy of one of the surviving mujahideen.
Harriet grits her teeth and takes a deep breath. My wife's face fragments into staticky bits, emitting syllables from an undead language that crawls over my skin, infests the commlines, and worms across space into the corpse's ear, threatening it into jerkingly standing up and pointing a decaying finger towards its killer. Satisfied with the answer, Harriet's face reassembles itself as she ends the hellish chant. The Soviet keeps pointing, waiting for orders that will never come.
“The bullet hit from the north,” Harriet says into her earpiece. “Based on the angle, I'd estimate a klick up. See anything?”
“There's an overhang on that side I was scoping out,” I say. “Mann, take a look?”
A Browning heavy machine gun barks once in response. A moment later, Mann calls in. “Kill confirmed. Anyone left?”
Harriet concentrates again, reciting a short ditty in a crucified language that bites into our ears and waits.
“Just the target,” she says after a moment.
Clef follows up. “Third eye's lit up the northwest quadrant of the village. The schoolhouse. All points, confirm eyes on target.”
I look at the overhang for another second, then point my scope to the schoolhouse. The glow is metaphorical, but if the ukulele man's third eye is seeing something then it's probably Anwar.
“Eyes on target,” we all repeat.
“Harriet? Kick it in.”
We all hold our breaths as a half-dozen corpses with guns assemble outside the schoolhouse. Five of them shamble to the windows; one drags itself up to the front door. Dust swirls around them.
Pin-drop silence.
Six undead bodies crash into the building. In response, its roof spontaneously transmutes into fire and smoke. Hovering over it is a man with an immaculate white turban, embroidered vest, and fire in his eyes.
“Shoot!” Kondraki barks.
Four fingers pull their triggers. Four experimental railguns scream. Four hypersonic bangs ring out through the air as our beryllium-bronze bullets bore through Anwar's body at Mach-26, blowing him into a firework of bone and blood. The sounds ricochet around the caldera, overwhelming all others in a perverse form of camouflage. As it fades out, we all exhale.
Anwar reappears unblemished in my scope.
Clef has just enough time to say, “He's alive —” before becoming two-dimensional in an explosion of blood. Anwar's fist reaches out from the space between his words and crushes Mann like a bug. Kondraki's got sights — pulls trigger — dies screaming. But a beryllium-bronze BMG round bores through Anwar's brainstem as he apparates between them. Anwar staggers, screams, bursts into an afterimage as he's reaching for Harriet.
We don't breathe. A million and a half thoughts run through my head before an explosion down below shakes them all away. It's Anwar, hovering over the village: splintering in mid-air, clutching at his head every few seconds before his limbs and head detach from his torso and then re-attach.
“Clef? Mann? Kon?” Harriet whispers hurriedly onto the comms. No response. She recites a short ditty in a crucified language that bites into our ears and waits.
No response.
“Fuck!” Harriet says. “He flattened them. There's not even enough of them to puppet!”
She squeezes my hand. “It's just us.”
I feel it before I hear it — something cracking off my helmet and rattling my brain, then Harriet's reflexive grunt as it crunches into her chest, then the distorted bark of the Lee Enfield proclaiming her death. Scrubland bites into our clothes with every bump as we roll down the incline to the safety of the ridgeline.
I hit the rock first and then Harriet smacks into me, winding me with her rucksack. My head is spinning and I can't breathe but still sit up and roll Harriet onto her back. Reflex inhales for me; the pain bites through my diaphragm and shocks my head into stillness. I inhale again and slice through her clothes to examine the damage.
Her ghillie suit is soaked in blood. The entry wound is ugly; the exit wound is uglier still. She grips my hand as her breathing becomes more labored. My head burns and my stomach seizes. I don't understand it. There was nobody left to shoot. Harriet made sure.
And yet there's a hole through her aorta. She's going to die and there's nothing I can do about it. My breathing accelerates and my hand shakes in hers. Her grip tightens and she splashes my hand into the sticky puddle of blood pooling in her suit. I instantly grasp its significance and dip shaky fingers into the puddle.
Harriet starts to sing — quietly, in a martyred language, as I draw a haphazard but intricate series of inlaid pentagrams on her forehead. Her song quiets as her breathing slows, but the lyrics are steady. As she finishes the song, she squeezes my hand one more time and I squeeze back. Then I kiss her forehead as she dies.
An electric shock travels up my jaw into my limbic system as the soul of Harriet Eisenberg, necromancer and pianist, enters my hippocampus. The process feels like an aggressively bad ketamine trip.
Good grief! Harriet says in my phonological loop. I wasn't sure that would work.
You told me you had tested it! I think.
Yes! On myself.
I roll onto my back, behind a nearby pine tree, and exhale in relief.
What the hell happened? You said his backup was dead!
They were! Harriet sounds as frustrated as I feel. Nobody said he could resurrect them.
How do you feel?
Sick, Harriet admits. I can't reach any of our ground assets.
Ouch. What do we do with your body?
Let me see…
Syllables in an undead language echo through my phonological loop. I stare intently at the corpse, expecting it to sit up. It doesn't.
Why isn't it working?
I was worried about this. Honey, you're the funniest and bravest and smartest man I know but… your brain is kinda cramped.
Ooog. Should we abort?
Absolutely not, Harriet thinks. He's wounded — we'll never get a better chance. We're getting that prick and then we're going home.
I inspect my rifle carefully and find a blown fuse on the side. Looting my wife's corpse for a fresh one makes me feel like a bastard, but Harriet seems amused. I pop the fuse and a fresh magazine into place, then drop to my belly and start crawling up.
It's slow going. I'm terrified of sneezing and expect to be turned inside out at any moment. As I wiggle up the slope, my thoughts drift back to the first time I met Anwar — in Kabul, three years ago.
“Charles?” That's the first thing I hear from the man with fire in his eyes: skinny brown man in jeans and a T-shirt, sporting a trimmed black beard and low pompadour, stowing a dead lighter into his pocket just outside the theater. The night is dark and I'm inclined to share; I saw him leave my auditorium ahead of me. We're friends by film reel.1
“Charles Gears?” he says.2
I light him up first to be nice, then reach into my pockets and pull out an empty wad of cardboard. He snorts once at my bemusement — before I can think to be irritated, he proffers a cigarette. I accept the token and light up gratefully.
He inhales, then speaks in Dari, tilting his head to the cinema. “< You're here to kill me? >”3
I shrug. “< My wife is dead. Someone has to pay for that. >”
“< You! > ” the man says. “< You brought her here. Her death is on your head. >”
“< I tried to stop her! Tried to get someone else. She came to keep me safe and you killed her, >” I challenge him.
“< I didn't kill her, and you didn't have to come. >” He exhales through his nose, watching the smoke waft upwards. “< Could've — nn — could've had someone else come put a bullet in my head. Would feel less personal. >"
“< You want me to apologize? >” I say. “< Because I will. Anwar, I'm sorry you have to die. I'm sorry that my wife is dead. I wish these things didn't have to happen. >”
“< They wouldn't have if you hadn't come here, >” Anwar says.
“< If it wasn't me it would have been someone else! >” Tobacco smoke rolls over my tongue. “< It had to be me. You deserved that much. >”
“< I feel — arg — honored, >” the man says. Our cigarettes run out at nearly the same time. He offers me another. “< What a privilege it is to die at your hands, meri jaan! >”
“< Would you have preferred if Kondraki did it? >” I say. “< Because he'd have called you a towelhead while he did. >” I take my lighter out and spark him up. The lighter is going for my lips when it slips from my grasp and breaks into bits on the concrete.
I curse. Anwar looks amused. “< You have a lot to answer for. Lucky I have a way you can redeem yourself. To make sure Harriet didn't die for nothing. >”
Instead of pulling out his own lighter, he leans forward so our death sticks are touching. I'm too baffled to do anything; he holds steady for several seconds as the embers on his cigarette light up mine.
“< Help me fake my death. >”
He pulls away as I breathe in. Seconds pass. I nod. < “Okay.” >
“< Excellent. Ach — that white dog got me bad, Chuck. I'll need your utmost cooperation… >” he says as he swivels and starts walking into the night.
My hand drops to my hip, tightening around the butt of a Makarov. At this range I'll have no problems taking him out. I breathe in deeply, eying the back of his neck. He pauses, standing on the sidewalk, illuminated by a streetlight.
“< Chuck? >” he calls.
My lips suck at a cig that isn't there as a sharp pain radiates through my arm and an unexpected sun blinds me. I almost scream but bury my face into the dirt at the last second.
Chuck! Harriet thinks. Breathe. Breathe…
I obey, settling back into place and exhaling silently as I wipe flecks of grass from my face. I'm almost at the tip of the ridge again — where I was when she died.
You weren't saying a thing. Had to give you an Indian burn. You okay, sweetie?
I — got caught up in some thoughts. Old war stories.
Honey, now is not the time. Do that on the plane home.
Sorry, I think as I crawl the last agonizing yard and look out across the awful caldera.
Corpses stagger blindly through the village, stumbling and tripping and shattering themselves. They crawl on shattered knees and drag their dismembered torsos forward by their one remaining arm. Far above the scattered army of the damned, halfway between the earth and sky, Anwar reconstitutes himself. His limbs are attached, but now they're rotating around his body: hands, legs, even head traveling around the perimeter of his torso. I scramble for a reason to hold my fire —
Ugh, Harriet thinks. No way I want to risk that shot.
Agreed, I think.
Let's find his —
A geyser of dirt splatters my face and sends me reeling. A split-second later, we hear the distorted echoing bark of a Lee Enfield.
Fuck!
The last sniper. Bastard must've spotted me. No time to find another spot. We have to make our stand here, under this cluster of pines.
At least he still needs to pull the bolt action back.
My scope highlights the overhang across the ridge, centered on a boulder just big enough for someone to lie damn near under it. There's a fuzziness around the space that could be heat shimmers. Or a collection of mental patterns tricking my brain into ignoring the man whose sights are centered on my forehead.
Do I want to roll those dice?
A flat patch of haze at the base of the rock suddenly becomes sharp white — like a beam of light through a curtain. A reflection, angled directly at me.
I pull the trigger. The Browning kicks a beryllium bronze slug into a man's body at hypersonic speed. Not mine.
Still alive one second after hearing the bang, I exhale in relief. No doubt he was already lining up the shot when I saw him. He might have even pulled the trigger first — my bullet was just faster.
“< Hell of a shot, >” Anwar says. “<Spectacular, the way you put a bullet in a young man's gut like that. Even a new personal best — two kilometers!>”
He props himself up on the pillow. The sun's too high to see through the window now and the bed is stiff, with eggshell white sheets, but the blanket is too warm to leave.4
“<He shot my wife!>” I say in groggy, broken Dari. “<What was I supposed to do?>”
“<That ghoul?>” Anwar replies. “<You married it?>”
“<Her name,>” I say. “<is Harriet. She can control the dead — and she's exceedingly good at what she does.>”5
“<You consort with those kinds of people?>”
“<Sodomy is punishable by death, innit?>”
Anwar's eyebrows raise up. “<We imported that from the West.>”
I lie back down and wait. “< Don't look for an apology. That sniper would've killed me otherwise.>”
“<He would have, wouldn't he?>” Anwar languidly takes my hand. “<A seventeen year old boy who wanted to be a singer, handed a broken gun older than his father and told to shoot an invisible man, all because he liked to play with slingshots. He would have absolutely gotten you, the crack Foundation agent with buckets of blood and a shaytan's rifle in his hands. >”
“< You're the man of God. Could've saved him, >” I shoot, pressing Anwar onto his back. It's too early in the day to do anything but put an inquisitive chin on his chest and wrap my arms around him.
“<You're right! >” he says, staring at the ceiling. “< Maybe I could have made him invisible. Maybe I could have stopped a bullet made of untouchable metal. Maybe I could have told him to run far away. >”
He sighs. “< I couldn't because I can't. Gharsanay was dead the moment he entered the story. >”
“< Who? >”
“< A teenager. >” Anwar cranes his neck to match my gaze. “< How do you do that — reduce us so instantly? What makes me a god, and him a target — but neither of us men? >”
“< You're a weapon >” I say. My hand clenches across his skin. “<I have three dead comrades proof of that. >”
“<And you aren't?>” he shoots back. “< How many Afghanis have your bullets in them? How many of my comrades did your wife tear from the ground to stalk me? How many more children are going to walk on land mines? Why are our deaths normal? >”
“<They aren't!>” I explode. “< This is literally the best-case option. We had an entire division of people look into the future to make sure! >”
“<Best case for who?>” Anwar throws a hand over my back and presses me against him. “<Chuck, I just want to play football and watch cinema. Instead I have to whore myself out to the Americans because they aren't the ones shooting at me!>”
He squeezes me tighter and bites my hair. Bastard. I clench my teeth and push out of his arms, rolling onto my side away from him. His breath rolls down my neck as he moves closer and spoons me. “< Please, Charles. I need your help. >”
“< To fake your death, >” I breathe. He's warm and soft and prodding. “< I'm in… on one condition. >”
I can feel him squinting at me. “<Which is…?>”
I roll over so that our noses are touching. His eyes are a beautiful shade of hazel. “<My wife. Harriet. Bring her back to life. >”
Anwar blinks and licks his lips. “< I don't have that power. >”
“< I'm already in your bed, no need to lie to me, >” I say. < “ You brought Gharsanay back, didn't you? Resurrect my wife and tell him to leave her alone. >”
“< And then you'll help? >” he asks hopefully.
“< And then we'll help. >”
“< Are you kidding me? >” Anwar sits upright. “< She'll shoot you in the face the moment you suggest it! >”
“< She won't! >” I prop myself onto my elbows. “< I'd stake my life on it. I'm not part of your plan until she is. >”
Outside, clouds obscure the sun and darken the room. Anwar swings his legs over the edge of the bed and contemplates the wall.
“< You need my help, meri jaan, >” I say. “< Deal or no deal? >”
Harriet grits her teeth and takes a deep breath. My wife's face fragments into staticky bits, emitting syllables from an undead language that crawls over my skin, infests the commlines, and worms across space into the corpse's ear, threatening it into jerkingly standing up and pointing a decaying finger towards its killer. Satisfied with the answer, Harriet's face reassembles itself as she ends the hellish chant. The Soviet keeps pointing, waiting for orders that will never come.
“Hey sweetie,” I say.
Harriet looks down at herself, then back up at me. Then I pull her down the hill and she's sitting on top of me and we're making out like teenagers again. Sweat fills my eyes and mosquitoes snack on my face but all I care about is her tongue inside my mouth and her hands fumbling with my pants.
“< Charles! Do that some other time, >” Anwar chides me. I shake my head. There's a table in front of me: white, square metal, with an intricate filigreed design inlaid on top. Anwar sits in a black metal chair on my left. I remember this place now: a cafe in Kabul.6
Three years ago, a pair of Foundation auditors sat on identical chairs opposite us. In this diorama pilfered from memory, they are Harriet, to my right — and a young Afghani boy across from me, wearing a Soviet ghillie suit that's two sizes too big for him. He's too young for the thousand-yard stare on his face.
“Gharsanay!” Anwar says to the boy. He jerks and looks to Anwar. “<Brother! What's happening?>”
Harriet gives me a side-eye. I forgot she doesn't speak the language.
“< It's fine, >” Anwar says to Gharsanay. “< I'm here. I'll take care of it. >”
“I saved you too,” he tells Harriet in English. Four coffees arrive in front of us, on a nondescript platter held by a faceless man wearing clothes that I assume are stereotypical. The coffee has no taste.7
Anwar lays his hands on the table. “Harriet. I brought you back to life at Charles' request. Take it as a show of good faith. ”
Harriet's eyes flicker in my direction. “For what?”
“I need Charles' help. Let me fake my death and… well, for lack of a better term, co-habit him .”
“Excuse me?!” we both say. The boy just looks confused.
“Listen,” Anwar says. “Charles is special.”
“Damn right he is,” Harriet says. “Your powers have rotted your brain if you think you'll lay a finger on my husband.”
“No. He's special,” Anwar says. “I can read minds and work miracles — not because I'm a man of God, but because I can see Him! The being at the loom of destiny, the being weaving the threads of fate. I can pull those threads. That's how I brought you and Gharsanay back to life. I changed those stories.”
“What's this got to do with me?” I ask.
“There are layered forces at work here,” Anwar continues, “guiding the stories we're told and the stories we write. We're propagating their interests through forces they've even made us averse to thinking about. Even He isn't immune to them — they influence the very cloth of destiny. I can only touch what's already been written — help the people that destiny chooses to name.”
He points at me. “But Charles, those forces work for you. The powers that be control fate to work for men. For men like you.”
“You want to hijack those threads,” I say out loud. “Pull on them so they give the people you want a happy ending.”
“So they give everyone a happy ending!” Anwar says. He chugs half his coffee and wipes his mouth. “The Soviet's war is pointless. The Foundation's is pointlessly cruel. Let's combine our strengths. Let me live in your mind — you retain control of your thoughts, your body, your being. I pull fate's threads to accelerate your rise to power. We reach the top of the Foundation — seize control, change the status quo, make this world a better place.”
“Our mission is bigger than politics,” Harriet says.
“Your mission is politics!” Anwar says. “We have the same goals. Normalcy doesn't mean stagnation. Normalcy doesn't mean defending the power structures that grab our necks and rub our faces in the dirt. It's a fiction fed to all of us by our masters.”
He takes my hands in his. Harriet glances between us. I can't parse the expression on her face and it worries me.
“Normal should be a world where this war never happened — but it can also be a world where no more war will happen. Please!”
He looks directly at Harriet.
“I want the best for us all! The Foundation would have let you stay dead!”
“No,” Harriet says. “They taught me to stay undead.” Her voice deepens and her face splinters. I look away as she chants in a martyred language.
Anwar looks baffled. “What is she saying?”
Bite marks appear on his shoulders. Then his body. He screams.
I blink furiously, struggling to adapt to the sudden dusk. I hide under my dust cover for a moment on instinct, then hear the screaming from down below. My scope highlights Anwar reborn — a man with an immaculate white turban, embroidered vest, and fire in his eyes.. Rotting bodies in desecrated uniforms bite at him and instantly burn at the touch.
Harriet pulls at me and rolls me down behind the pines. A moment later, a man's roar obliterates the trees entirely. This must have been what it was like for Oppenheimer at Trinity — a blinding flash, scalding heat that forces us to press our faces into the dirt for salve, and an earthquake that shakes my wisdom teeth out of their sockets. I lift my face up gingerly, sharing a glance with Harriet, then spit them out.
We peek over the ridge. Anwar stands on the ground, surrounded by huge piles of ash. There's nothing left of the village.
And then a bullet blows through the Browning and drives a thousand little metal and glass flechettes into my side. I groan in pain and roll down the incline, clutching my wounded arm. Gharsanay.
“Charles!” Harriet says. She slides down the hill and examines the wound. I try to move my shoulder and it slaps me in the face for it. My grimace tells Harriet all we need to know.
“This is normalcy?” Anwar bellows, his voice carrying not through the air but our minds. “Ruined lives, shattered homes, an entire culture wiped to bits because I was next to it?”
I look desperately at Harriet. I'm out of ideas. We're as good as dead.
Harriet does not respond to this the same way. She stands up and pulls a white hankie from her suit pockets, climbing up the hill and waving it.
“Harriet?” I ask. She turns back and winks at me.
“We surrender!” Harriet calls. “A parlay. Rebuild the town, merge with Charles. In exchange for our lives.”
I can feel Anwar's confusion without even seeing him. The exact same feeling is running through me.
“Do it,” she invites him. “Rebuild the town.”
The feeling of a ketamine high, mixed with a ripping hangover and a sudden, biting urge to vomit sweep over me. In the next moment, I look out at a collection of houses and streets stalked by Soviet corpses we dredged from the desert. The only name that matters belongs to Anwar. His backup — a force of the best counter-snipers the mujahideen could muster — are being picked apart by vultures across the ridge.
The sky is gray but too dry for anything but dust. Heat lightning streaks through the sky and crashes to earth out in the desert. My sweat is poaching me in my ghillie suit and I haven't eaten anything in almost a week. I'm covered in mosquito bites and forgot to take my anti-malarial pills. The Browning machine gun is so heavy that my arms ache even with the tripod. And to top it all off, my helmet is stuffy. All that orichalcum in the lining to keep Anwar's thoughts out. Unfortunately, it also keeps mine in.
My arms ache. I have a functional Browning. And a line of sight on Anwar.
Harriet barks a short line in a martyred language. A horde of monsters closes in on the man, dogpiling him and ripping into his flesh.
The crack of a Lee Enfield rings out and rips into the zombies. It only takes me a moment to swivel the scope on the overhang across the ridge, centered on a boulder just big enough for someone to lie damn near under it. There's a fuzziness around the space that could be heat shimmers.
I pull the trigger and look back at Anwar. His eyes burn as he lays waste, so I shoot him in the eye. He collapses in the air, hovering on hands and knees.
“< Please! >” he wails. My hands shake. I don't look at Harriet. The railgun screams again, followed by Anwar as it removes his other eye.
“< Charles… >” he moans piteously, sinking to the ground.
The horde of zombies falls upon him. Harriet and I grip our skulls as sheer pain overwhelms us: the instinctive bite of betrayal and the simple physical burn of being eaten alive. Anwar's face is distorted in a rictus of agony. His scream is inaudible under the gnashing of teeth. I can't bear to look at it — so I help him the last way I can.

The helicopter comes to pick us up the next day, on the outskirts of the mountain. I've never been happier to see the olive pelican and actually look forward to bruising my tailbone on its seats. Harriet's barely spoken to me since I killed Anwar. I don't know what happened to Gharsanay. I hope I missed.
We clamber into the chopper and take our seats. I look out at the Afghan desert for the last time before the ramp raises and seals us in the stuffy bird.
The ride is smooth but tense. Harriet's never this quiet. She's always hyping me up to the pilots. I don't know how to start a convo either — she always does it for me. I try to hold her, but she pushes my arm off.
The pilot announces that we're an hour out from Kabul and perks Harriet up. She reaches for my hand, then stops, looking pointedly at the cockpit.
“Harriet?” I ask, extending my own.
My wife doesn't answer. I wait, my stomach churning and my head pounding.
“Charles…” Harriet's voice is quiet. “You've always been open with me right? Always told me the truth?”
“Always.”
“Did you sleep with him?”

« Tip of the Spear | Necropotence - The Coldest War | Mile High Club »

Footnotes
1. But he didn't know my name then. He just asked me for a light.
2. This isn't a memory. That sniper's bullet must have cracked my helmet and let him in.
3. I try to think about Harriet — the mission — my dead comrades. Their names bubble into my mind — then a twisting, wrenching ache stretches down the side of my head into my arms. I retreat instinctively to the safety of Anwar's mind game.
4. Anwar always did have softer sheets than me.
5. I hope the pride in my voice comes through. Can't tell in a flashback — even one this twisted.
6. I'd never been here before but had heard rave reviews about the coffee; it seemed like the perfect place to plead for Anwar's life.
7. All I remember from that day is Anwar, and his fate in my hands.


« Prelude | Necropotence - The Coldest War | Tip of the Spear »

“You want him dead.”
“Yes,” Overseer Six says, taking a sip from her teacup. “You won't be the one to do it, if that helps.”
Amitha Sanmugasunderam reads and re-reads the file of the man she's trying to kill and tries to convince herself that this isn't a thinly-veiled death threat. Any of the other Overseers she knows would do it: Four wouldn't have the guts to tell her, Five would do it to cover their own ass, and Eight would've done it just as foreplay.
“Given the circumstances,” Amitha says, “I don't think it does.”
Six sets her now-empty cup back on its saucer. Every so often, she turns it a few degrees clockwise with her fingers. “It's practically routine for you.”
It takes a force of will to even state the obvious implication of her orders. “This isn't just decommissioning, or sabotage, or— you're going to war with Two.”
“Like I said,” Six says crisply. “Practically routine.”
Amitha isn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted. Instead of feeling either, she opts to spend a moment with her eyes closed, enjoying what might be her last chance to relax this year.
The decor of the Overseer's tea garden is both functional and tasteful: stained glass and wrought cold iron, just in case the garden's prior inhabitants try taking it back. If you were to ignore the eyes growing from the hedges and the pebble-sized skulls of long-dead fae, this place could pass for beautiful. Just inches away from beautiful enough to make her forget about her job.
A week to break an Overseer's new toy. What a world.
Amitha opens her eyes, chooses her next words carefully. “Any resources I'll have on hand?”
“My personal guard,” Six says. “Without the bullet I might as well just try to stab him, so you'll be his biggest priority. Aside from that, no — most of my resources are tied up with the upcoming base change.”
“Base change?”
Six refills her cup before she speaks again. “Oh, yes, the Council's downsizing. Thirteen was cute for a while, but twelve's far more ritually pliable. You'd know. Even if the rest of the council doesn't quite get the mathematics behind it, they're not going to pass up an excuse to get a fraction of a vote each.”
“Suppose you're staying Six, though.” The significance is obvious: the median voice; the straight man; the tie-breaker.
The Overseer doesn't bother replying. “Any other questions?”
“Just the one.” Amitha taps the page in front of her with a finger. “This plan passed twelve to one. Who was the dissenter?”
“Nine.”
Amitha blinks.
“In Two's own words: ‘Try it.' And who are we to argue?”
No good answer to that.

She meets the Overseer's bodyguard on a bench in Central Park.
At a glance Egret looks so painfully civilian — Yankees cap, sunglasses, bubblegum — that for a moment Amitha thinks Six made a mistake sending her here. Then Egret locks eyes with her and smiles with a mouthful of fangs.
‘Upsetting' would be an understatement. Amitha takes a couple of steps back in surprise, eyes flicking back and forth to see if they've caught an onlooker's attention. “Do you do that to everyone you meet?”
If Egret's smile was bad, her laugh is worse. “Only if I know they'll flinch.”
Amitha mutters something and turns to head deeper into the park. She doesn't have to turn around to know that Egret is stalking a couple of steps behind her, eerily silent on her feet save for the occasional pop of her bubblegum.
“Not even gonna shake hands with your new best friend, Ami?” Egret says.
“You don't get to call me that. And I wouldn't touch you through a fucking sheet.”
The laugh is a raspy, slobbering thing. She can practically imagine the scent of rotten meat on Egret's breath. “Oh, she's got moxie. I can see why the boss likes you.”
“I thought she hated working with anyone she didn't lobotomise herself.” It's hard not to jab at Egret; hard enough she's having trouble concentrating on the route to her new office. Four rights in a row, bank a left by the marbled rock…
But there's something about every one of Six's homunculi — the way they're built to set off her lizard brain's prey instinct, the thought of every atrocity that went into making them — that she's sick to her stomach if she's so much as in the same room as them. A mutual distaste on a biological level.
“Take it as a compliment, babe. Six needs you real bad if she'll put up with you having thoughts she doesn't like.” The bubblegum pops again as Egret takes a deep sniff of the air around them. “Place smells weird.”
Amitha's taken them to a dense grove of barren trees, whose branches knot and join to form a rough wooden archway over seemingly nothing. The support pillars of an old magic made to hold up one of Six's myriad thrones. “The fae don't rot like people do. The body's too small for even the bones to last more than a few decades, but there's enough in it that the bacteria that feed off them can live for centuries. Different metabolic byproducts; lavender notes, mostly.”
The same hideous un-laugh, softer this time. “You're gonna make me hungry.”
The image of the park beyond the trees puckers and bubbles like fat bubbling in a pan. Then another path snaps into view to replace it — rusted iron gates again, closing off a forested path to a distant concrete bunker.
“After you,” Amitha says, and tries not to retch.

“So tell me about who we're trying to kill.”
The bunker is about as well-stocked as you could expect a bunker to be: neat stacks of Foundation-standard MREs for Amitha, wet bags of giblets and rolls of nutrient pills for Egret. They tuck into their respective meals at opposite sides of a baroque glass table far too small for Amitha's liking; if it was up to her they'd be having this conversation at opposite ends of this place.
She stirs the yellow mud that passes for scrambled eggs, rattles off what she can of Six's file. “His name is Anwar. He's the mujahideen's sole paranatural asset — Psychotronics says he's a one in a hundred million million talent, a real freak. The first word we got of him was a Division P mole being told they'd just lost most of their psionic field assets. Total decapitation strike.”
“Literally?”
“Almost. Cranial supercavitation, technically.”
“Sploosh.” Egret licks her lips. “So how come your pretty head's all in one piece?”
Amitha considers responding to the needling, thinks better of it. “The inverse-square law. Distance matters: he might be able to turn a man in Kabul inside-out, but he couldn't so much as say ‘hello' in my head if his life depended on it.”
Egret nods, silent while she scarfs down another fistful of meat from the bag. She doesn't bother closing her mouth as she chews. “And what does Two have to do with this?”
“He's leaving.”
The bodyguard furrows her brow, brain clearly struggling with even the thought of being disloyal to the Foundation. “Leaving?”
“He made a deal with the Americans: they don't have the expertise to handle Anwar, he doesn't have the manpower to run away from us. So the Pentagram gets the kit to deal with the most powerful psychic on the planet, and he gets out of a court-martial and execution for crimes against humanity.”
“Thought that was just a life sentence,” Egret mutters.
“It is.” Amitha gets up to dump her untouched rations into the bin. “But desertion is an aggravating factor.”
“Give it here if you're not gonna eat it.”
“Drink it from the bag if you care that much.” Amitha scrubs her hands under the sink, more to get the stench of Egret's meal out than anything. “Now, do I have to keep putting up with your excuse for small talk, or can I actually start doing my job?”
“Suit yourself,” Egret says, stuffing the empty plastic bag into her pocket. “I'll be setting up screamers outside if you get lonely.”
“You can't fuck off soon enough.”
That sickly, pointed tongue; that mouthful of knives. “You'll miss me when I'm gone, Ami.”

Life with Egret settles into an uncomfortable routine in the first week. Amitha spends most of those first few days getting the bunker's workplace in order: rearranging its stocks of ritual supplies, painting sigils on the walls with the blood from Egret's leftovers, pinning pages of equations and dossiers to the corkboard.
Killing a psychic requires certain precautions. Logistics become fraught when a stray thought can bring down the wrath of god upon your head; even steadfast allegiances turn into attack vectors for a canny opponent. The intent must remain totally hidden until the moment bullet punctures brain.
So the usual avenues are closed to her, especially now that an Overseer is on the other player's team. Six needs a subtle knife for Anwar's back, and that's just what Amitha specialises in.
The first law of magic is contagion: the part affects the whole, so Amitha can change herself to change the Foundation. As above, so below.
The second law of magic is the rule of three: anything more than a small change would cost Amitha dearly, so there's only so much she can effect. She has to be careful about the changes she effects, unless she's happy to start losing limbs.
So she has to work in small, happy accidents to get pieces in the hands of the right players. A single shot is all her kill team will get, so she picks a marksman out of a personnel register, transfers him to the front in Afghanistan with a slice across her palm. They need baffling to disguise their approach, a sea of decoys to distract Anwar from their advance; her marksman's wife will provide in that department, and she comes along as a happy afterthought. Mundane rounds won't be guaranteed to even touch Anwar, so experimental railguns, designed to lobotomise giant coelocanths in the Atlantic, go missing in an unfortunate accident.
She needs Egret's help for that particular play; she just doesn't have the upper body strength to break her own ankle. The bodyguard is more than happy to swing the sledgehammer, and sets her foot in a slapdash cast with a sickening amount of affection.
Slowly, the plan begins to fall into place. She falls asleep in her workspace most nights, too damaged to walk without help and too proud to lean on Egret for the walk back to the cramped room they share — so eventually the bodyguard just sets up a bedroll in the corner of the room and curls up there, one eye closed, the other watching Amitha.
They carry on like this for six weeks before Two makes a move of his own.

The first thing Amitha hears that morning is a high, piercing whine that feels like it's making her very bones ring. At first she mistakes it for the fog of pain she's been in for the past fortnight; then the realisation hits her. Screamers.
She pulls herself awkwardly to an upright sitting position, surveys the room.
Egret's gone. Shit.
It takes a half-minute for Amitha to even stand using her desk as a crutch. Screaming in the hall; two gunshots in quick succession; the slam of someone hitting concrete. No other way to leave except through the fight.
When she gets to the bunker's antechamber, Egret's mouth is bloody. A giant gash across her back cuts a crimson diagonal from shoulder to hip, but she's not the one on the floor with her throat torn out.
“Egret—”
“There's another in the kitchen,” Egret rasps, drawing two masks from inside her coat. One has Egret's face on it; the other, Amitha's. She offers Amitha the mask with her face on it. “They won't send in any more til these two bleed out.”
Amitha nods, shivering with shock, and slips it on. The bones in her face crack as everything reconfigures; her gums hurt like she's just gotten her teeth knocked out twice, and her tongue touches unfamiliar points as she runs it along the inside of an unfamiliar mouth.
“Go,” Egret says. Her face is a mirror image of Amitha's own, but the smile is all her. “Don't say I didn't tell you you'd miss me.”

Mainline
« Prelude | Necropotence - The Coldest War | Tip of the Spear »
Variation
Next: Parabellum Waltz


« Noxious Fumes Fill The Area ||

"We've got a hashtag on Void." Felicity was sprawled across the backseat, her head in Ruiz's lap. "Ruizurrection. The people love us, Tanks."
"Void is a tool of bourgeois oppression." Tanksy was steering with his knees while typing up podcast scripts on his phone. They were cruising at a solid 15 above the speed limit; Felicity wanted to get through Wisconsin as fast as possible, so they could hit Minneapolis tonight and start the long drive down to Texas in the morning. "Also they permabanned me for doxxing Trotskyists."
"How many flags did you have in your handle? Was it like, 'Tanksy 🇨🇳 🇸🇾 🇨🇺 🇰🇵 🇻🇳 🇻🇪 🇸🇯'?"
"Why would I have the Norwegian flag in my Void name? And how are you pronouncing emoji?"
"It's not the flag of Norway, it's the flag of Svalbard. Which is the same flag, but a different emoji for some reason? Maybe it's like, a prediction. Do you think the Unicode Consortium knows something the rest of us don't?" Her train of thought was careening wildly down an abandoned siding, and only Tanksy's glare in the rearview brought it back to the right track. "Oh. Right. It's really not that hard. Like, 💯, you know? Anyway, check it out." She chucked her phone forwards. It landed cleanly in the cupholder. "Fuck yeah, three points!"

zamboni fetishist
⁂icetwink

HE GOT THE BEAN, BABY #Ruizurrection

ECHOES 36
HUMS 207

5:26 AM - 3 October

zamboni fetishist
⁂icetwink

⁂icetwink it's just. pink. so pink. you cant even see shadows on it i dont know how he did that. absolute legend.

ECHOES 24
HUMS 182

5:26 AM - 3 October

zamboni fetishist
⁂icetwink

⁂icetwink lmao parks district came & put a tent over it. tons of cops milling around. no idea what to do. total chaos.

ECHOES 29
HUMS 187

7:15 AM - 3 October

Pisstopher Walken
⁂vengabussy

lol news is just saying an """unknown vandal""" bytch he signed it big ol holographic "R. MUTT" floating above #Ruizurrection

ECHOES 7
HUMS 81

11:01 AM - 3 October

"I think the signature was a mistake." Tanksy's knees jerked sharply left, then back to the right, as he endangered the lives of a school bus full of eighth graders on a field trip to gain an incremental speed advantage over their hypothetical pursuers. "Why not sign it 'Duchamp'?"
In the passenger seat, Casio's print-head oscillated furiously as she sculpted a sideways urinal.
"Yeah, Cass, I know that the original Duchamp did it like that. But did Ruiz?"
Felicity shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Depends." Tanksy chucked Felicity's phone backwards; it bounced off her shoulder and fell down between the seat and the door. "On how closely everyone's paying attention. Because if they realize he's not actually alive…"
"Then we activate Contingency Sigma-Three." It takes a certain kind of person to sound like a criminal mastermind while digging for a cellphone in crushed cans of Code Red Mountain Dew and empty Fritos bags. Felicity was not that kind of person. "Or, uh, we improvise, because there is no Contingency Sigma-Three."

"Well, ya know, Frank, I gotta say that sure is different."
"You betcha. Sure don't see that every day."
Frank Gunderson and Joe Nelson had gotten to the scene pretty late, a consequence of Frank's enlarged prostate, which his doctor assured him wasn't cancer, but which meant they had to pull the squad car into a gas station or a vacant lot every hour on the hour so he could relieve himself. By the time they reached the Walker, there were already a couple other cars there, and some younger guys were setting up the perimeter; so Frank and Joe were free to lean against the car and join in the collective rubbernecking.
The object of their bemusement was a brand new addition to the Walker Art Center's sculpture garden, in the pool around the big cherry-and-spoon that's on all the postcards. Not floating in the pool; the water had all been drained overnight, to be replaced with thousands upon thousands of individually-wrapped cherry Jolly Ranchers. At the moment, they were treating it as vandalism, or maybe littering in the first degree. Frank was secretly hoping they'd find a body at the bottom.
"Hey, Frank, take a look at this." One of the guys setting up the perimeter had passed Joe a Jolly Rancher—technically speaking, they were all evidence, but it's not like they were gonna run out any time soon. "Label's all wrong."
Frank took a look at that. It was the same font, in the same place, but it definitely didn't say Jolly Rancher. "Huh. Who's Ruiz Duchamp?"
"A very dangerous man." While Frank and Joe were distracted by the candy, a black SUV had pulled up behind them. The men who'd gotten out of it were clearly feds; one of them was wearing the classic FBI windbreaker, and the other was in a suit straight out of the Men In Black wardrobe room. "I'm Agent Spencer, FBI, and this is Agent Green, FDA." They both flashed badges.
"Sure thing." Joe halfheartedly checked over their identification; he'd only seen a real FBI badge once before, and he wouldn't know an FDA special agent from a hole in the ground. "Didn't know the FDA had special agents. Learn something new every day."
Green nodded. "Started after the Tylenol poisonings in '82. So, what are we looking at, gentlemen?"
"Well," Frank said, handing Green the Jolly Rancher, "some joker came 'round the Walker last night and filled up the pool with these. I guess he must've printed them up special, since they've got his name on 'em."
Green nodded, and passed the Jolly Rancher to Spencer. "Yeah," Spencer said, unwrapping it and holding the wrapper up to catch the light, "he's been doing this shit all across the country. You hear about that thing in Chicago?"
"The bean, right?" Joe had a cousin out that way who'd posted something on Facebook about it. "That was the same guy? Geez Louise."
"Yep. We're treating his actions as art terrorism." Spencer popped the Jolly Rancher into his mouth. "Mmm. Yep, that's a Jolly Rancher, alright."
"But…" Frank was still trying to wrap his head around the concept of art terrorism, and didn't even notice Spencer eating the evidence. "I mean, how could an artist be dangerous?"
Behind him, a Canada goose had landed on the pool, and was pecking at the tasty treats on the surface. Its flock was about to touch down next to it; and then a pair of sour-apple-green jaws popped up from below the surface, dragging it below in a puff of blood and feathers. The geese and the cops scrambled away in unison.
"That," Green said, "is how an artist could be dangerous."

"Cass, can you rotate his right elbow up by three degrees?"
The rotors on Casio's extruder spun, dragging a nearly-invisible thread of fishing line that connected it to the 3D-printed pulleys affixed to the car's ceiling by duct tape and atheistic prayer. On the opposite side of the van, Ruiz Duchamp's elbow rose ever so slightly.
He was strung up at thirty points of articulation, the nexus of a nylon spiderweb that Felicity was barely avoiding, lying prone on the folded-over rear seating area. She shut one eye and looked through the viewfinder of her camera.
Ruiz's form was projected against a massive matte painting of her own design, a perfect recreation of the exterior of the Boone Tabernacle Church of God in Christ, in Kansas City, Missouri. Every detail was accounted for: the angle of the autumn sun, every leaf on the sickly urban beautification sidewalk trees, even Ruiz's fuzzy shadow on the pavement. The real corpse was lined up to the inch, gesturing dismissively at the floating tangle of ethereal text that spelled "HOLOGRAM LIFE" in the middle of the street.
Felicity's fingers ached. She wasn't used to putting together exploits like that, especially while avoiding detection.
Ruiz's undead face was mid-cackle, achieved by a mixture of clear tape and adhesive that pulled all of his facial muscles into alignment. Much like the fishing wire, the artifice was barely visible, and would prove to be completely invisible once the image was fully developed and uploaded surreptitiously to the relevant CCTV streetcam. The camera shutter clicked softly.
"Cass, you're on fire. We're outdoing ourselves, constantly. Getting better at an exponential rate. Shit, is this the singularity?"
Felicity's science-fiction pondering was interrupted by the buzzing of Casio's gears, as the extruder raced to assemble an outstretched hand. Its rapid movements made the Ruiz flesh-marionette jive violently.
Felicity high-five'd the model, smacking it to the floor. She squinted at the camera screen.
"Mm, perfect. Practically a snapshot of life. Almost makes you think Ruiz is a bit more sprightly than he lets on."
Tanksy looked over his shoulder. "Did you say Lenin?"
"Jesus, Tanks. I said lets on. That's not even close. Besides, we've talked about this: if you want to say Lenin's name, you don't need an excuse. You can just say it."
"What about Stalin?"
Felicity just rolled her eyes and went back to her puppetry.

Joey, Overgang, Rita and Molly's zombie artist hunt had become less about the zombies and more about the art. They'd made a beeline for New York, but turned around once they hit Chicago; when they hit Minneapolis, they decided to head south, instead of back west toward Seattle and the Men In Black who'd almost caught them earlier in the week. There was a full day and a half of radio silence from their quarry as they crossed the vast plains of Iowa and Missouri; but then someone hung Jeff Koons in thirty-foot balloon-animal effigy from the Gateway Arch, and they knew they were in business. They only missed his tasteful memorial to the victims of Hurricane Katrina (a FEMA trailer in the center of the Superdome's field, staffed by holograms of Bush administration officials) by eight hours; next up, they hoped, would be Austin.
They were right.
"So, what do you think Ruiz has against LBJ?" Molly was staring up at the massive windowless façade of the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, which sat on the University of Texas campus like a big square building made of concrete. It was currently occupied by a very well-made interactive audiovisual installation; they'd joined the steadily growing mob of onlookers who were enjoying the show.
"I mean, he was the one who sent troops into Vietnam," Overgang said, polishing his sunglasses so he could get an unobstructed view. "That's pretty bad."
Joey had found a bag of kettle corn somewhere. He was perched on top of the van, occasionally tossing individual kernels down through the sunroof into Rita's mouth. "And, you know." He waved the bag vaguely at the library. "He had the CIA kill Kennedy."
The video was projected from an invisible projector, and the music came from invisible speakers. John F. Kennedy's head, three stories tall, dominated the frame. At the moment, Darude's "Sandstorm" was playing, more than loud enough to be heard above the crowd; and on every beat, Kennedy's head jerked as Bernard Montgomery Sanders' bullet found its mark. (Or, if you believe the official story—and Rita very much did not—Lee Harvey Oswald's.) There was a link at the bottom to a site where you could vote on the next song; at the moment, "All Star" was winning.
"I keep telling you, the CIA had nothing to do with it," Rita protested, pausing to catch another piece of kettle corn. "It was Bernie Sanders on the grassy knoll. The man plays the long game. Holy shit, Joey, what flavor was that?"
"Uhhhh." He looked into the bag. "Should've been kettle corn, I didn't do anything to these. Why?"
"Hand to god, it tastes like cheddar." Rita swirled the flavors around for a moment. "Yeah. Cheddar cheese."
"I mean, there's an easy explanation for that one," Overgang said. His sunglasses were back where they belonged. "It's a baggler."
"What," said Molly, wrenching her gaze away from the Zapruder Film, "is a baggler."
"You know, like when you get an onion ring in your tater tots or something? Snuck in there at the factory from some cheese corn." Overgang shrugged. "I dunno, 's what my friends in high school called it."
"It sounds like a slur for the Belgians." Rita had given up on the cheese-corn enigma, and was trying to hack into the voting website to get it to play Futanari Titwhore Fiasco's latest single, "Decrystallize My Pineal Gland Harder, Mommy". It was, as the kids say, a bona-fide banger.
"I think I'm part Belgian."
"Damn, Joey, you fuckin' baggler. Get outta here." For someone who grew up in New York (well, ok, Connecticut, but it was in the metropolitan area), Rita was remarkably bad at a classic Brooklyn accent. She sounded more Boston than anything.
"Rita?"
"Yes, Molly?"
"Don't do the accent, it hurts my tender ears."
"You know what else will hurt your tender ears?" Rita typed a few lines, and let her code do the rest. It was remarkable how easy it was to hack into stuff when you stopped thinking of scripts as data and started thinking of them as invisible spiders. "This."
Darude ground to a halt, and Kennedy started banging his head to the tender screaming of Staten Island's own Annie Cline.
Decrystallize me mommy
"Hey, Rita?"
Decrystalize me harder
"Yes, Molly?"
I've been drinking too much flouride
"Look, the girls are great, they're excellent friends."
They hide it in the water
"But?"
I'm putting my third eye into your hands
"Their music fucking sucks."
I NEED YOU TO FUCK ME IN MY PINEAL GLAND!

Felicity smiled at her cracked phone screen. "I think it's time for us to break the silence."
Tanksy didn't look over, as he was too responsible of a driver to take his eyes off the road while he weaved into the bike lane to pass a cop car. "Like, we actually talk?"
"Oh," Felicity said, "No. He talks." She pointed her thumb at the corpse in the passenger seat. "He's got fans and I've got a wifi hotspot, so why not capitalize on it?"
The Tankie Banksy frowned.
Felicity sighed. "Why not use it, I mean."
"You think you can replicate his style?"
"I've been replicating his style all week! It's time to embody him, you know? I think we're at the point in our friendship where it's acceptable for me to impersonate him on social media."
Casio produced the edifice of a thumbs up.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cass." Felicity nodded to herself. "Alright."
She was silent for a moment.
"⁂ruizduchamp is taken. How about ⁂ruizduchamp1?"

Ruiz Duchamp
⁂wowwee

Alright, everyone. Listen up. #Ruizurrection

ECHOES 336
HUMS 1081

3:30 PM - 6 October

Ruiz Duchamp
⁂wowwee

This trip across the country has been fun, and all. Kissing hands, shaking babies, and leaving a trail of breadcrumbs just for You Know Who.

ECHOES 201
HUMS 995

3:30 PM - 6 October

Ruiz Duchamp
⁂wowwee

But, unlike myself, all good things must come to an end. There's one last stop to herald my inexplicable Resurrection, let the angels sing on high, and so on.

ECHOES 196
HUMS 950

3:31 PM - 6 October

Ruiz Duchamp
⁂wowwee

I'm staging a grand exhibit, and the invite list is killer, featuring every derivative bastard who thought they could get away with just leaving me in the ground for a few years.

ECHOES 192
HUMS 838

3:31 PM - 6 October

Ruiz Duchamp
⁂wowwee

Two days. Fog city. Don't worry, you're too cool to be there. The revolution will not be televised, but it will be live-shouted from this account.

ECHOES 197
HUMS 877

3:31 PM - 6 October

Ruiz Duchamp
⁂wowwee

Good night, undead society.

ECHOES 261
HUMS 1033

3:32 PM - 6 October

« Noxious Fumes Fill The Area | The Warmup Act »


« Everywhere, NY | Necropotence - The Coldest War | Mile High Club »

Navigation:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | End

1.
Picture this:
Five men coming up the trail to the village, their shadows sharp as knives. Outsiders from the looks of it, notes the teacher—moving slowly, as if under the eye of God.
No—not all from the outside. There's the two at the front, identical in stature, taking turns to lead, almost as if racing. That old Hazara pride is recognisable in their step, even at this distance: they walk with their chests squared, at ease with the thin air.
There's the smaller figure behind them, struggling to keep up. A quiet doggedness in his stride, like his body can't keep peace with his feet. His brother behind him—for one can tell the kinship of men from the way their bodies talk—nipping his heels with his toes, trying to set the pace. Both men are new to the highlands—they'll collapse before the night's end.
And the last man: thin, tall and harder to read. He's slouching under his cloak, lagging behind his compatriots, though with a firmness that belies intent. A deliberate holding of slackness—like the fine gait of a wolf.
A glimmer in the moonlight. They are carrying rifles. Kalashnikovs, from the weight, and perhaps heavier guns in their packs. The teacher tenses: the war moves further upland by the day. But if his countrymen have lent them their trust, there is nothing more he can say. And perhaps a certain level of overpreparation cannot be faulted for, in times such as these.
A movement, down the trail. Something is behind the men, moving with animal intent. In the darkness, it appears to him like a swarming of flies—or it's just the motion of their shadows, flitting across the moonlit rocks.
He stamps out his cigarette and returns to his cot. A frivolous game to play at his age, guessing at half-truths. There'll be light in the morning soon.

The men arrive at dawn. Two of them, at least. The first is visibly foreign—a Pakistani, from the looks of it, tall and well-fed—though his dressing does well to hide it. The other is young, his face still that of a boy's. Their weapons and packs are nowhere to be found.
“We need help,” explains the tall man haltingly. His accent is harsh, picked up from the roads. His eyes glance at the men the teacher has brought—the headsman's two sons, armed with little more than antique Garands—and he quickly decides they are not a threat.
“Up the trail,” he says. “There's one of us that fell. We'll pay if your men can carry him.”
The teacher shakes his head, gesturing to the younger man. “What's your name? Where in the mountains are you from?”
“Ismael—after the poet, sir. We've come from the city, but my brother and I grew up near the pass.” The boy's face is sallow with sweat. “He is down the trail, watching the scientist.”
The boy flinches at his own loose tongue. If the Pakistani is displeased, he does not show it.
“There was a fifth man,” observes the teacher.
“He couldn't make it too, sir. They told us to get help.”
The teacher motions to the village boys behind him, who sling away their rifles. “A stretcher—or a sheet. And a flask of hot tea.” They nod, hurrying off.
To Ismael, the teacher says: “You are lucky to have come. The mountains are not what they have been, as of late.”
The boy bows. “May God walk with you, sir.”
“But before you leave, a question.” He pauses, spits. “This war, your part in it. Has it reached us, at last?”
The Pakistani answers, stepping smoothly in front of his partner. “This war continues, whether we decide to or not. Rest assured that we will compensate for your trouble.”
“Then answer this plainly—whose side are you on?”
He watches the men carefully. The Pakistani merely laughs.
“Between you and me, old man, I think we're on the side of the vultures.”

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | End
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Within The Walls I by Greyve and JakdragonX

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Marshall, Carter, and Dark.
Adrian stood silently at the peak of Babel, under the light of his realization. He still had no idea where Jaiden was being held, obviously, but at least he'd narrowed things down from the entirety of Eurtec to the few MC&D compounds in the city.
You'll get the details in due time, assured Mamba's voice in Adrian's head. Now, we've got to go.
Mamba nodded towards the crates, which he'd rearranged into a levitating platform. Adrian stole one last glance at the Undercity as Mamba lifted them back into Eurtec proper.
He felt a tinge of regret for leaving Baron and Lucia behind without so much as a goodbye. They'd saved him from the shadow walkers without any idea who he really was, then fed and sheltered him for nothing in return. In the end, Adrian Ross never came here in the first place — he'd just be a passing memory in someone else's life.
As Babel faded out below him, Adrian decided that he would return one day to repay the estranged souls of the Undercity.
Maybe I can bring something shiny for Baron. Yeah, and hair extensions for Lucia. She'd like that, right?

After wandering through the sewers for several hours, the two of them finally found their way back into the Blood District through a gaping manhole at the center of what appeared to be an impact crater. From a distance, Adrian was able to spot a lump of metal pierced by hundreds of brilliant white feathers. Angel, he recalled. How the hell did Mamba even survive that?
We don't have time for questions, Mamba's voice asserted. The telekinetic snapped open a pair of black, square glasses and placed them gingerly on the bridge of his nose; A holographic disguise, Adrian thought to himself as the scar along Mamba's eye suddenly disappeared.
Mamba readjusted the frame to fit his awkward face before gesturing for Adrian to follow him into the dilapidated ruins of the bar where they'd initially met. Dim flames burned throughout the building's carcass, illuminating collapsed crossbeams through gaps in the torn walls.
What are we going in here for? Adrian asked rhetorically. He had assumed that Mamba was taking him to some secret Way that could send them directly to Golden Square.
But the hint of annoyance he felt in Mamba's artificially-induced thoughts told him otherwise. I'm a telekinetic, not a djinni.
"Then where are we going?" Adrian retorted as he ducked under a crumpled steel beam.
The voice returned in a calm, gentle tone. We're going to meet with Garter in Lightline.
The Lightline was a small buffer region, just below the Golden District, where most of the middle-class resided. Named for its ever-present glow, the district arced around Halfway downtown in a brilliant crescent. Although not as wealthy or prosperous as the Upper City, residents of Lightline lived in relative comfort and safety when compared to the other Halfway Floor districts. Although they gained these benefits at the cost of tens of thousands of euros each year. After all, Coalition Enforcers weren't cheap.
"Why Lightline?"
We have a safehouse there to resupply and rest. The thought of an actual bed allured Adrian — he'd spent the past 48 hours in various states of consciousness, and, compounded by the dull pain in his limbs and a pounding headache, he desperately needed to lay down.
He forced a slight smile. "That sounds good."

As the pair passed through what should've been the bar's basement, they stepped into another world. Brightly colored apartment buildings and markets lined the streets as pedestrians bustled about, filling the scene with life and color. An array of aromas drifted out into the crowd from vendors' stalls and up into the air where, for the first time in days, Adrian caught a glimpse of the evening sky.
It wasn't long before Mamba paused in front of a dingy apartment duplex. The two walked around to the back of the building and stopped at a large steel door that had just barely fallen off its hinges. Mamba adjusted his glasses again and nudged the door back upright.
This is the place. Garter's already inside. I'll be back later.
Without another word, Mamba walked away, leaving Adrian alone yet again. He sighed softly before cautiously rattling the door's handle, testing whether it was unlocked.
Eh, screw it. Adrian turned the knob and shoved the heavy metal door with his good shoulder.
Empty bookshelves lined the walls of the narrow corridor which quickly widened into a large commons populated by a few dozen busy individuals. Large skylights bathed the interior with the golden glow of the Upper City's skyscrapers. In the center of the room, a large bonsai caught his attention.
Adrian was removed from his thoughts by the mention of his name. "Over here, Ross."
He scanned the room, spotting Garter near the back of the room. A black snake tattoo ran down the length of his raised hand, partially hiding inside the rolled-up sleeves of a pale green dress shirt.
Adrian made his way over to the back of the room, spotting Python lounging on a couch, Purple Haze in hand, from the corner of his eye. Their eyes met for a moment until she blew out a puff of violet smoke, obscuring her face once again.
"Mamba told me to find you?" Adrian inquired.
Garter nodded. "You still have the file?"
The file. He awkwardly patted the inside pockets of his heavily damaged jacket before realizing it had fallen into the black pool during his climb down.
"No. It's probably dissolved in a pit of black acid by now."
Garter's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"
Adrian nodded. "Positive."
Garter shrugged, tucking a lighter back in his pocket. "That works too, I suppose. I just have to make sure there's no trace of us," he smiled, gesturing towards the crowd.
He paused briefly before continuing, "We can talk more tomorrow. There's an extra bedroom upstairs with a change of clothes and a bathroom waiting for you." Garter pointed towards a stairwell at the edge of the hall. "Just up there. First door on the right."
Adrian simply nodded. His fatigue had overtaken his will to speak and the prospect of an actual bed was much too alluring. He didn't even bother to take off his shoes before collapsing, stained jacket and all, onto the mattress.
His mind drifted away as he finally succumbed to exhaustion, falling into a deep sleep.

Adrian's eyes snapped open to the sound of ricocheting gunfire.
He stood in the driveway of a some small, suburban bungalow. Trees twisted in strange knots up towards a weeping sky and the house contorted into a shifting mass of windows, rooves, and misshapen walls. The whole scene was reminiscent of some obscure Dalí painting.
Around him were four other individuals, all dressed in blacked-out tactical gear and carrying semiautomatic rifles. The Coalition emblem was embroidered on their uniforms, over a silver crescent numbered 280.
Assessment Team 280 "Quicksilver".
A familiar figure stood near the front, brushing her raven-black hair back. Adrian could just barely make out the woman's azure eyes and high, angled cheekbones.
"Jaiden?"
She turned to face him, smirking. "It's Comma in the field, Sparks. See, this is why you didn't make it into Overwatch," she teased.
His mind suddenly clicked. AR-5117, the day he lost everything.
It was their first real mission. They'd been support for larger operations in the past, but this time they were alone. The operation sounded easy enough when they were briefed — get in, grab a pair of rings, get out. But, apparently, the situation was dire enough that High Command pulled the nearest available team for the assignment — even though it was clearly meant for a Strike Team. That should've been their first hint that something was off, but they'd been so enthusiastic about actually getting into the field by themselves that they didn't bother to worry about the details.
A Hispanic lady looked back towards her teammates. Medusa. Sofia Muñoz's messy, serpentine curls, in conjunction with an unfortunate incident involving wet concrete, inspired her fearsome callsign. In reality, though, she was a kindhearted, motherly lady who always made sure to bring donuts to team meetings.
Adrian glanced to his left, where a tall, imposing Scandinavian man squinted at the mesmerizing patterns formed by the twisting suburban structure. Lynx. No one really knew how Gunnar Bjerke got his callsign, but he had a hearty laugh and a firm handshake, and that was enough for Adrian.
Behind him, the last operative triple-checked her rifle, looking down through the scope. Vesper. A short Japanese girl, whose real name Adrian could never pronounce correctly, had always been extremely loyal to the group. They'd never really bonded on account of her shyness, but he still considered her part of the team.
Part of the family.
They'd laughed, cried, and bled together, and Adrian was happy to see them complete once more. He knew they weren't really family, but they were close enough. Their differences didn't matter so long as they were together.
Lynx nodded towards the others, approaching the winding steps first. "Let's do this," he declared, grinning from ear to ear.
Adrian knew exactly what would happen next — Lynx would make his way into the building, where he would sink into a liquid floor. Another shift, and his half-submerged legs would be torn from his torso, ripping him in half. The others would have no time to react as the walls bent again, isolating them in endless labyrinths. Medusa would find her way out first by folding through a painting, where she stood alone before the brokenhearted Type Green at the center of the chaos. She tried to reason with him and he let her go, sending her falling into an infinite darkness.
"Wait!"
Adrian looked up towards Lynx, before turning to face Jaiden. "Don't leave me, Jaiden," he whimpered. "Not again."
Her gentle face stared back in silence as the rest of the world faded away, swirling around her in a spiral of dust and decay until it was consumed by that same black abyss. Darkness set in around them until it was only Adrian and Jaiden in a silent, empty void.
I don't want to leave. Not again.
Fear flashed in her eyes before a shadowy tendril blinded her. She screamed, writhing in agony, until the shadows flooded her mouth and dragged her away.
Save me from Dark.
Her fingers were the last to be engulfed by the gaping maw.
Save me from the Black Lord.
A manic laughter drowned out her last words, and this time, there was no silence.

Adrian woke the next morning still exhausted. The sight of Jaiden drowning in darkness flashed in his mind again, sending shivers down his spine.
Focus, he commanded himself. None of that was real.
In the bathroom, he sat on the cold tile of the shower floor, water slithering down his bare skin. It was too bright, too clean. He turned off the water and stared at his reflection in the mirror, and his own tired eyes stared back.
He closed his eyes, finding the abyss again.
Dragging himself back into the bedroom, a set of neatly folded clothes greeted him on the nightstand. Ignoring the smiley face scribbled on a note, he pulled a pale yellow dress shirt over his head, not even bothering himself with buttons.
After a few minutes, he'd wander back into the commons — the only other room he knew about. He was unsurprised to see Garter, Python, Mamba, and several others waiting for him, situated on the sofas and chairs scattered around the room.
Welcome, Adrian. Mamba's thoughts covered his own.
Adrian seated himself on a cushion. "Did I miss anything?"
Those present quietly glanced at each other. After a brief pause, Garter took the stage. "Not yet. We were waiting for you to get started."
Adrian nodded, turning his attention entirely to Garter.
"Sorry for the wait, everyone. I've called everyone here today," he glanced at Adrian, "because there's going to be a change of plans."
The crowd mumbled before Viper stood up, obscured entirely behind her mask.
"Why?"
"I'm getting to that," Garter responded, meeting Viper's gaze. "But let's just start with what we know."
"Last week, against all odds, we were able to take out the All-Seeing Eye. Even the most generous estimates give the Bookburners a week before they can get it up and running again. Unfortunately, in the absence of their systems, they've doubled down on manpower and weaponry. And this is on top of the defense systems we encountered at MAGE Computing."
A quiet murmur broke out among the attendees before Garter continued.
"Now, as we all know, there's no way the Coalition should have their hands on extradimensional weaponry. And yet, most everyone here has had some run-in with rubedo which, as Mamba has demonstrated before, can be utilized to produce thaumaturgical explosions."
Garter continued. "In the past few days we've had some of our suppliers trace and record their shipments. It took a while, but eventually we were able to find a pattern."
A very interesting one, Mamba added.
"Indeed. It seems that all of the rubedo in Eurtec can be traced back to the exact same facility, run by a certain Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Limited."
Dark, Adrian remembered. They were behind the rubedo, the trafficking, everything.
"Now, we still don't know how they're accessing Alagadda, but I'd say that this is ample evidence to suggest that the Merchants have been supplying the Bookburners with weaponry."
"I thought the Bookburners were on bad terms with the Merchants," mumbled Cobra.
They are, confirmed Mamba. We can only assume that this decision was made by corrupt local officials.
"But what does MC&D have to gain from any of this?"
All eyes fell on Adrian as soon as the question escaped his lips.
"We have no idea," Garter answered. "But if it matters to you that much, you'll find out soon enough."
He turned back to the crowd.
"Before we can stand against the Bookburners, we must steal their fire. Tomorrow we attack the Merchants. Then we show the Bookburners the full might of the Serpent's Hand."

In the Dark

Outfounded Hub

Coming Soon


« Prelude | Necropotence - The Coldest War | Everywhere, NY »

8 October, 1986
For the desk of N. Vasilov, GRU Division “P”, Kabul Office:
Numerous retrieved objects from site. Fire appears to be deliberate, if clumsy, attempt at obfuscation—if the agents of the Foundation have made inroads, as you say, then I suspect that they are not fielding their best, or have been driven to drastic measures. Reconstructions have been obtained by our forensic assets to approximately 99.5% accuracy. Samples enclosed below.

Item #1: Internal documentation, handwritten, nonspecific format. Designations suggest Foundation origin despite nonstandard terminology.

Asset profile: Pashtun male, indeterminate age, medium height. No identifying marks. Further identification difficult owing to circumstances of his transport. Accompanying convoy of estimated 50 armed individuals, supported by embedded logistics network.
Asset capabilities: Unknown. Trace signatures suggest similar nature to botched Andhra Pradesh project—refer to attached files.
Asset location: Triangulated to approximately 20 kilometres up the Hajigak Pass from Kabul. Refer to BLINDSIGHT report for details.
Notes: They're moving him up to Bamyan, though their treacherous choice of route suggests other plans. WANDERING EYE does not think they intend to move fast, indicative of a specific rendezvous mid-route. Call in our favours with the branch office: we've got a long and winding road ahead.

Item #2: Typewritten draft, unsent.

28-09-1984: SUPPLY CONVOY, UNAI HIGHWAY. 28 INJURED 2 DEAD. CAUSE: EXPLOSIVES (INFERRED).
03-10-1984: SUPPLY CONVOY, ALINGAR HIGHWAY. 52 INJURED 7 DEAD. CAUSE: EXPLOSIVES (INFERRED).
21-10-1984: SUPPLY CONVOY, UNAI HIGHWAY. 30 MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. CAUSE: UNKNOWN.
11-11-1984: ARMOURED CONVOY, UNAI HIGHWAY. 38 MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. CAUSE: UNKNOWN.
07-12-1984: ARMOURED CONVOY, UNAI HIGHWAY. 27 MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. CAUSE: PSIONIC (INFERRED).

Item #3: Field report, typewritten, Soviet letterhead. Indicative of surviving intelligence capabilities despite operational fragmentation—to investigate further.

18 January 1985
The sergeant said it'd be a fucking touch-and-go. The sergeant fucking lied.
Bodies in the windscreen, glass sectioning their insides. Bodies stuck in the fucking rocks. There were bodies folded inside the passenger seats, for god's sake. And not a single one of those mountain rats in sight.
And the smell, the fucking smell. Whoever said the cold preserves bodies didn't anticipate the bodies being fucking inside-out.
Improvised explosives, my ass. This war's taken enough out of us. I've told my men to take the rest of the week off; god knows they'll need longer than that.
In the meantime, you can tell the sergeant to explain his secrets, or you'll have my resignation too.

Item #4: Transcript of communication between unknown parties reporting to the 388th Independent Special Company, Peshawar Branch.

INDIGO: There is a pattern, clearly, both geographically and what they are willing to achieve. And your leadership has made it clear that collaboration has been lacking as of late.
ALFA: [unintelligible]
INDIGO: We entirely understand. But the fact remains that what you're talking about, recruitment, it takes time. Six months of conversion, boots on the ground. We don't have that luxury here.
ALFA: [unintelligible]
INDIGO: I am saying we can be willing to strike a deal, Director. To do what your people are best at—secure the threat, contain it, and protect us all.
ALFA: [unintelligible]
INDIGO: Your standing in the region indicates otherwise. How many men and women have you had, trapped behind the border when the curtain fell? How many sites? How many assets? The commies won't be as patient as we've been, Director.
ALFA: [unintelligible]
INDIGO: Safe passage, contingent on your support of this operation. And personnel and additional terms, if you help us get our man alive.
ALFA: [unintelligible]
INDIGO: I understand. You have our word.

Item #5: Typewritten communication, unsent. Assumed to be part of a longer document to be encoded.

30K TO 32B AWAIT EXPLICIT INSTRUCTIONS W SECURE CHANNELS. AIRDROP ARRANGED. LAMPLIGHTERS ENROUTE 45K BY 25.

Item #6: Facsimile, typewritten, Foundation internal documentation.

Description: Object is a modified M2 Browning .50 calibre machine gun manufactured between 1965 to 1967 by the experimental ballistics division of General Motors. Electromechanical components have augmented the firing mechanism to permit round acceleration via a poorly-understood consequence of the Hall effect on beryllium-bronze alloys, allowing for barrel velocities of up to ten times of the original's design.

Item #7: Handwritten note, context unknown.

From one of our repository sites. Don't ask me how we authorised this.
- A.C.

Item #8: Transcript of communication between unknown parties of the Foundation.

To: “PATEK”
From: “LARSEN”
The operation is a go. You'll have vision support from our scry teams, and a few other treats and tricks we've picked up since the South Asian office folded. Even I'm a little horrified at the improvisations we've had to go through to make them work. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll love it.
Meanwhile, you'll have a number of teams playing fire support—the exact numbers don't matter, it's the intent—all double-blinded, as per your advice. The 388th insists on observers, and I can't blame them for that, so I had to play a little bit of musical chairs with the groupings. I hope you don't mind.
We've been running for far too long. This is our one chance to get a fighting foot forward. The Director's deploying everything we've got, and our interference will keep the Americans out of our hair for as long as we're able. But even so—an operation of this magnitude, with this many moving parts—I'd be lying if I told you we know what we're doing. And even with the best of estimates, BLINDSIGHT only gives us a twenty-five percent chance of success.
Still, you've always been a gambling man, haven't you?

Please find the remainder of the evidence at our analysis branch. It's nothing we haven't already known, but I recommend we comb through them to be sure. The loss of the dushman's asset changes nothing—though a reassessment of their infiltration would be helpful for the war effort.
Yours in confidence,
Lt. D. Zhukov, KhAD Second Liaison, Kabul Command

« Prelude | Necropotence - The Coldest War | Everywhere, NY »


They wiped the sweat dripping from their brow, the sun relentlessly beating down on the miles of golden sand as they trudged forward. The structure they had noticed earlier in the distance was definitely growing; they just had to hope it wasn't a mirage.
Strangely, they didn't feel thirsty, despite not having drunk for at least two days. There was a reason for this, but they couldn't quite remember it. Much of their past was locked behind a wall of fog in their mind. Headaches flared up every so often, like something in their brain was trying to break free.
They were unsure what would happen once they got to the structure up ahead. If they were correct in their assessment of it being a city, maybe someone could fix them?
But, did they want to remember? Was it easier to start anew? Questions swirled around in their cluttered mind before a sudden spike of searing pains shot through their head. With a cry, they dropped to the ground, their vision slowly blurring.

"You ready Tom?"
I slowly turned to look at James, my apprentice and partner for the last two years. His concerned gaze warmed me. Despite many tests, backups, and all manner of paperwork, he still fretted over my safety. But, we had finally done it. I could speak directly to Them. The Oneiroi West.
"No time like the present," I said to him with a wink. He sighed, turning the ignition key. A slow hum vibrated through the air, gaining in pitch as I lay back into the leather seat. This fancy machine was essentially just a computer capable of generating pre-planned lucid dreams to allow entry to the Oneiroi. Although describing it in that manner feels like it diminishes our accomplishment somewhat.

~~~

With a quiet sound akin to the rustling of the wind, I slowly sat up. Lush green gardens stretched into the distance, lovingly modelled by James. The imprint of my body in the sea of green rapidly fading. With a groan, I lever myself to my feet and step onto the stone path beside me.
Ahead stands a solitary door. At odds with the rest of the scene, its plastic blue surface faintly shines. Here it is.
I grab the handle, slowly opening it as light leaked through. I step through, the door swinging shut behind me. After a few seconds, some text appears. "Welcome to Oneiori West. Please wait whilst we find a suitable dreamscape."

They woke with a splutter, the coarse desert dunes like sandpaper on their bare skin. They blearily rubbed their eyes, gazing at the crystal clear blue sky, before slowly climbing to their feet.
The structure from yesterday was much closer. Large walls ringed the edge, the surface pockmarked from years of sandstorm weathering. Many of the visible buildings appeared damaged, with sections missing and overgrown. However, some looked lived in. They could faintly make out figures the size of ants moving around in ruined buildings. Unbidden, the name "Canberra" came to mind, images of tall shining buildings flashing briefly into memory.
Slowly, parts of the fog in their head started fading, though their piercing headache made many details unclear. The phrases "SCP", "Australia", "Dr Ark" and "Failsafe" slowly floated into their memory.
With a sudden shudder, they cried out. "Ah! I am…"
"I…"
But before they could complete their sentence they fell to the ground, tears soaking into the sand. They gazed at the sky, their eyes lifeless and dead.

"Sorry, we are currently experiencing some issues with your connection. Please hold"
The soft voice broke through my reverie. Worryingly, I can hear faint anxiety-filled chatter emanating from outside the dreamscape. I feel fine, but the machine may have misfunctioned, possibly denying my access request to Oneiroi West.
I tried the EORT1, but there is nothing but static. Whilst both the machine and James' device failing is a possibility. It seems like extraordinarily bad luck. Probably just best to eject for now and figure out what went wrong.
Huh?
I can't eject.
This shouldn't happen unless my body is unsuitable to return to. Even if the machine misfunctions this should work.
God, I just feel like my body becomes static, then I reappear. Without the EORT I have no way of contacting them outside to ask for help. Although, given the number of issues. I fear the worst… for now I can only wait.

Their eyes slowly opened, a solid concrete ceiling looming above. They appeared to be in a bed of sorts. Groaning, they slowly rolled over, beds like their stretching out the length of the room.
"They are awake Sophie."
"I had heard, please could you grab our guest some food, they look like they could use it."
They heard footsteps slowly coming towards them. Turning back over they saw the origin of the voice. A tall, grey-haired woman wearing what appeared to be a doctor's uniform strode towards him, smiling faintly.
"You are lucky to be alive. One of the scouts saw you laying in the sand outside the city about a day ago. We thought you were dead at first when they came to us, but you appear to have some sort of augmentations that have saved you."
"Where… where am I?"
"The hospital of Saint Ander, in Berra. Founded after the atrocities of the Second Religious War. We had originally assumed you came here on purpose."
"No, no. I needed to find someone to help uncover my history. My mind is… foggy? If that makes sense. I know nothing about this world or myself."
"Amnesia huh? Not quite sure we have anything here to help with that, you could check with Rhesad in Archives, he might have something.
"Er, Miss?" A soft call echoed through the corridor, presumably the girl from earlier.
"Yes, Sophie?"
"There is some men in robes askin—"
Before she could finish, a bell toll rang out through the city, the nurse's face draining of colour. Its echoes slowly fading, she slowly turned back to them.
"Get up, get up now, you have to leave."
"What?"
Her mannerisms had rapidly changed, her once soft face transforming into one of pure fear. "I understand this must seem abrupt to you, but in all likelihood, an army has arrived. I was optimistic thinking I could help you, we were hoping it wouldn't come to this."
"An army? Of what?"
"They are called the "Book Keepers", a religious group worshipping a prophetic Wonder. Recently they have been predicting the End of Days, it is said a Wise Man is going to return us to the age of wonder."
"But why would they attack this city specifically? If the world is ending a last-ditch crime spree wouldn't make sense for a religious organisation."
"They have ransacked multiple cities looking for Wonders and hope to survive the reset, we're just the next in line, but enough talking. Follow Sophie, she knows the best way out." She went to turn away but stopped herself. "Oh, and take this." She said, slowly handing them a small serrated knife, "be careful out there."

~~~

Once again the dunes of the endless desert stretched out in front of them. Whilst they hadn't seen any fighting, the echoes of explosions rang out through the air and the skies had become clouded with dust.
But, the dunes weren't quite empty anymore. A couple of bags lay in the sand along with what looks like the wreckage of a caravan. Thinking quickly about their options, setting off randomly into the sunset, whilst cinematic, probably wasn't the best option.
Getting closer, they noticed two brown lumps. No, two horses, laying slumped on the ground. A man trapped below one, recently deceased it appeared. As they went to inspect the horse's saddlebags they heard a faint breathing noise coming from the bags. A sound of someone struggling. With a quick slice, the bag slit down the middle, revealing a curled-up figure.
"Please, please don't hurt us." Dr Ark peered inside the bag. A woman lay curled up, one hand hidden behind her back.
"I don't plan to, unless it becomes necessary that is. I'd also rather you put away that sharp rock."
The woman sat up with a start, glancing at Dr Ark's attire "Who are you, and where is Hekan?!"
"The first question is a tricky one, and the second I hope the answer isn't "under that horse""
She cast a panicked glance over to the horse, but let out a quick sigh of relief. "No no, that is one of the assholes that captured me." Gingerly getting to her feet, she motioned to the bag beside her.
"Can you open this one?"
"Sure thing,"
The bag slowly flapped open revealing a small but well built older man.
"Not sure why, I expected someone younger. Raiders probably wouldn't get much for him."
"Information probably, he knew lots of stuff, I assume I was just a pretty face."
"Well, any idea where you plan to go ne—"
Before the sentence ended, they crumpled, their eyes rolling up in their sockets. Caeda instinctively grabbed the body, gently lowering them to the sand beside Hekan. "A man of mystery, huh. Well, we are kind of sitting ducks here, but can't do much else until these two decide that nap time is over."

"Hey Tom, can you hear me?"
A voice finally crackles through the silence of the artificial dreamscape. There is no way to measure time in here, but it has felt like hours.
"We have a slight issue, Site-41 had a large breach. Whilst technically all the important areas were locked down… our research lab area isn't classed as high priority."
"So the machine is destroyed? We can rebuild surely?"
"Good news and bad news. The machine isn't an issue. It did sustain slight damage… But we can fix that and allow you access into the Collective. The bad news was what happened to your body".
"Ah yeah, I had worried about that. How long will it take to recover?"
"I think you misunderstand, your chair took the brunt of the impact. You have no body to come back to, what was left had to be scraped off the walls."
"My body is… gone? Interesting, so… what am I now, a digital soul? Can you— are you going to be able to get me out, or am I stuck here?"
"We aren't sure, as soon as I can get the lab back in order we will start testing. But, it's a miracle that this thing, you included, is still functioning. It is possible that we may not yet have the tech to extract you.

~~~ 12th July 2017: 2 months after the breach. ~~~

"Hello, Dr Ark. Are we okay to speak privately?"
A harsh male voice crisply came through the speakers of the EORT causing me to jump. Luckily, the dream streets of Venice weren't too crowded at this time in the morning. Despite the concept of "morning" having little relevance in the dreamscape.
I head towards the nearest Way, selecting "Home" as the option. A brief flash of light and I return to my house in the meadow, nearly two months after I first arrived here.
"Hey, may I ask who is speaking? I wasn't anticipating another meeting yet."
"We apologize, this is a more… private.. matter. Due to the increased number of breaches, and the heightened difficulty of keeping data secure, we wanted to contact you about other options—"
"I understand, but that still doesn't tell me who "we" is."
"You may call me the Archivist, others call me O5-10."
"Ah, I haven't had the pleasure of talking to an O5 before. I'm glad to make your acquaintance."
Getting on to business, we wish to use the Oneiroi as a backup storage solution for some of our sensitive data. Your colleague recommended we speak to you about its feasibility. You would be responsible for overseeing this data and checking for any security vunerabilities."
"I understand your logic, but why is an O5 telling me this. I accept the data is important but this feels like more than just that."
"Very perceptive, Dr Ark. During a breach at Site-18, the previously designated SCP-1275 became accidentally contained by SCP-1590, or more precisely; inside Tamlin house. Tamlin house was the residence of the late Dir Joseph Tamlin, otherwise known as O5-13."
"I thought O5-13 was just a myth, a tiebreaker vote for O5-1."
"You are partially correct, he was indeed a tiebreaker vote. But he was also a backup. Someone to restore order if the Council fell. Due to his temporal position, he was called on for the last resort to make the final decision."
"Right, skipping all the bullshit. It isn't just the data you want to be kept safe right? You need someone to be your failsafe alongside the data, You need someone with all the knowledge to somehow fix things if the Council suddenly becomes inaccessible. Am I correct?"
"Wonderful, I am glad to see we are on the same wavelength Dr Ark. We cannot stop you from refusing, due to your nature. But we believe this can be mutually beneficial. You have access to all the research from your fellow doctors, and you can study the Oneiroi up close. But, you also act as a sleeper agent, one last hurdle to the enemies of the Foundation."
"This sounds awfully simple, I am left feeling like I have missed a clause that signs my life away somewhere."
"Dr Ark we are just humans out of our depth, struggling to survive. We are not some mythical omniscient force."
"Forgive me if I don't quite believe that completely. But I do see no issue with this deal. I do have one condition though."
"Oh?"
"Researcher James Callan is to stay as my aide and assist me in my research, having someone in the physical realm would be a huge help. He will be not aware of my promotion."
"Sounds good to me, I shall bring the good news to the rest of the council. Thank you for your sacrifice Dr Ark. I am sure we will speak soon."

Dreams of Nothing

Visions of the Future

⠀⠀Bellerverse

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀???

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀???

Footnotes
1. External Oniroic radio transmitter


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The collective dreamscape is a wonderous place. A place of escapism, a place of remoteness from the hardships of the monotonous normality of everyone's lives. It was, at least, as it only is when filled with warm bodies.
Certain events have rendered that impossible. One day, the people there eventually, as always, went to wake up to their miserable lives, only to find themselves still surrounded by their own self. Their bodies were all gone — killed — for a reason uncertain. Vaporized, melted, however it happened, the end result was all that truly mattered in the moment.
The formerly corporeal were uncertain of what to think. It was a breed of uncertainty brought on by a denial to realize the truth. Many panicked, many accepted it. They kept living out their wildest dreams, in hope that they would drown out the floods of intruding thoughts on why the things that happened, happened. This however cannot last, all actions have reactions, all events have consequences.
The minds of corporeal beings cannot be so simply severed from their bodies in such a manner without consequence. Those who knew this did not care at first, consequence seems foreign in your wildest dreams. They didn't care that is, until they began to feel the rotten consequences. The dreams began to feel tasteless, like they were being perceived through burnt taste buds. The people who once loved to fly through the sky had their love snuffed out. They only flew with no reason. Those who walked their favorite breeds of dogs no long cared. The dogs walked, the people's detached minds merely did what they felt was appropriate in instinct.
The null progressed on. There was no longer a tongue to feel burned. The wildest dreams of many no longer felt wild. No longer felt like dreams. They could not be called nightmares either really, as it would imply some form of fear. There was no fear, there was nothing at the end. People hovered off the ground, they walked some sort of animal. The figures and shapes all meshed together. The dreams of the severed minds faded into the empty, the ineffable space between awake and sleep, a true void.
For those incorporeal before that day, there was nothing to do. No therapies, no well wishes, and certainly no dreams, could repair the rot into stagnation. All that they could do was turn away, or watch in fits of morbid awe.

O5-13 opened the door to their dream. They knew what had happened, they knew what would happen, they knew what was happening. They saw the people who once were seen living out fantasies only possible in places like this. They didn't see them though, they could feel their absent of feel, much like feeling cold as the absence of heat. They didn't see the girl who wanted to be in a Broadway play more than anything, they saw a thing on something. Something on something. Nothing on nothing. They could only see the incorporeals, moving the absences.
"What are you doing?" O5-13 asked.
"We're taking them away to a place nobody has to look. Nobody wants to see this anymore."
"Can't you help them?" they responded.
"Why don't you ask them yourself, if you're so inclined."
He moved to the Broadway star.
"Are you there? Is anyone here? We can help you, you just need to wake up, snap out of it please. Please."
"."
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"Well." The mover said, "Seems like you got your answer."
"No. No…"
O5-13 didn't want to face it, they shut the door. They shut themself, they shut their own dream, they shut it all. In a fit of shuts, the O5 pushed. They pushed themself out, pushing their own dreamscape out far enough away so that none of those horrible facts of reality could be reached. They kept pushing until, without a doubt, They were all alone. In that loneliness, They thought back. A retrospective of what could have happened but did not, why lives were lost en masse instead of saved. The thoughts coated his dream into new paint; an awful shade of color often associated with guilt.
O5-13 thought through what could have been done, until the time began to go by faster than countable.

In a long abandoned bunker in the wastes of a place once called Australia, a machine continued to whirr. The power had been lost to the bunker centuries ago, but still it raged on. What fuels it is unknown, the paint has chipped away to reveal a rotten color, the metal had rusted, but the green "on" light still shines. But for once in eons, something happens. The machine whirrs faster, the light blinks. the little screen on the bottom beams a message through a pound of dust:

REQUEST RECIEVED; BEGINNING TRANSFER

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