Nota Bene: This was writted for an April Foll's Day contest, and misspellings were part of the jugging criteria.
Dr. Bridge was board at his desk. He was known all over the Fondation for his epic feet with the Pokemon, but after that, reality felt so boring. So he desided to get 826 again and do sumthing cool again, expect with a book this time. He worried about how the SCP was ment for books and mite be unstable if he used it on another video game. So Dr. Bridge sneaked past the guards at the entrance to SCP-826's containmet sell. Ever sense the incident, they locked up the book kens in a sell, reclassing them as Eulicked. Safe classication was only for items that were predicktable, and the Fondation didn't predict that it could do video games.
So Dr. Bridge went and got a book from his liberry. It was his favrite, cause it was about a boat salling on the ocean and his name was Bridge so he felt a special kinship with it because bridges go over water and the ocean is water. The water in this book was especially impotent because the book was Moby Duck and it had an evil wail in it! Bridge vowed to fight the evil wail and become epic again, cause people semened to forget about him now that it had ben so long sense the Pokemon thing.
So he sneaked past all the guards who were really intimate with there guns and Keller vests, but he wasn't afraid because he was Dr. Bridge. He put Mob Dick in the kens and waited. Then suddenly, he was on a boat and all the people gatted around him. "Who the hell are ye and wherefore are ye in my boat, ye scurvy stowaway?" demanded a voice that Bridge knew was Caption Ahab.
He quickly thought of an excuse for his anchor nistic clothes and randomly appeering on the Peequad. "I'm a follow wailer and I want to kill Moby Dick too!" he shouted. "Mody Dick bit my brother's head off and now he has a head made out of wail bone like your peg leg!"
Caption Ahab snarled at the reminder of Moby Dick's terrible deads. "Then ye be one of me crew, me hardy!" he said. His first mate Starbucks, who invented coffee, quickly went to the crom's nest. "Caption! Thar she blows!"
Bridge new it was the epic fight now. He groped a spear and yelled, "I'll handle this!" He and Arab went out on canoes to the water where the great white wail was menacingly. Moby Dink shot water out of his hole at Ahab, who fell overbored and was fished up by Ishmale. "It's up to me now!" Bridge realized, and stealed his nerves. After all, he defected Pokemon. A wail was nothing.
Mony Dick opened his big moth and Bridge saw the book kens in his moth. He realized he had to sacfirice himself…it was the only way out of the SCP. He jumped into the wail welding his spear and screaming epically. As he toughed the books, he stabbed the great white wail and killed him forever. Even though he only knew Ahab for a short time, he was glad his caption's vengence was complete.
He went out of the book universe and knew he couldn't sneak past the guards this time, because Lament and Dodrig were looking at the screen like last time where it showed his aventures and probably reported him to the sight security because there good employees. He knew it was nesessery for him to get cot so that people would know the epic story of him killing the wail, but he stealed himself for trouble.
He was in a meating with the O5s, who were lectoring him on using SCPs for personal fun. But then one of them assed, "Even though this is a broach of protocol and you will be consequenced, I'm curious to know how you managed to do such an epic feet like killing the great white wail! In the origami story everybody died when they tried to do that!"
"It's simple," Bridge smiled and explanted to the awwed O5. "When it's a contest between me and the wiled ocean, I'll always come out on top. The result will always be…Dr. Bridge over troubled water."


EXT. PUFFER KITTENS GENTLEMEN'S CLUB - DAY
The exterior of the building EXPLODES as CLEF-SAN is tossed through the window like a weekly shonen jump tossed through a shoji. He hits the ground bounces once, twice, rolls to a stop in front of a large figure. The figure's face is hidden. WHO COULD IT BE?
PAN UP and we see that it is the last person anyone could have expected… NOBODY has survived the brutal beating he received in the GEARNIVERSE, and to survive, has outfitted his entire body with cybernetic enhancements, the most cutting edge of science available. He is now MECHA-NOBODY
Clef leaps up, does a FUCKING TRIPLE BACKFLIP off the ground and ROUNDHOUSE KICKS Mecha-Nobody RIGHT IN THE FACE. The shadow-machine figure stumbles and falls. Clef darts away. Noise behind makes him turn. He sees NIGHTQUEEN ULTRABACK X pushing her way through the storm front. His attacks have done absolutely no damage! How can this be!?!!?
Mecha-Nobody has recovered and is advancing on Clef-san along with Nightqueen Ultrablack X. Clef-san is surrounded. Clef-san glares down at the keter-bracelets. They are almost dim and cracked and he knows there is not much time before they fade and he loses his Pretty Magci Gaiden Mecha Tokyo=Mon Demon Ninja Sailor transformation and when that happens he will die because he will not be strong. There is only one thing Clef-San can do.
He must use
TWENTY TIMES POWER
Clef-san screams as the energy flows out of him! His aura is too strong, the enemies are forced back. The walls begin to crack. His power is too much. Site 19 will not be able to survive it. But Clef-san keeps going. TE TIMES POWER. ELEVE. TWELVE. It is too much power! He must attack.
He leaps forward, smashes a mighty GAIDEN SERPENT FANG TWO HAND FIVE FINGERS POINTED DEATH STRIKE into nightqueen Ultrablack X's chest. She is sent FLYING back into the Gentlemen's club and CRUSHES A STRIPPER.
Clef is at SEVENTEEN TIMES POWER and still growing. The keter bracelets are about to crack. He leaps at Mecha-Nobody for one final attack, his most powerful move the secret technique learned in the temple of MOLOCH the FINAL MOTION MOTHERWEEPER TRIBUTE SMASH no one has survived it before. It smacks Mecha-Nobody in the face. Clef has one!
But no!!! Mecha-Nobody looks up. He grins. HE spits out blood and a tooth!

MECHA-NOBODY
Is that… all you got?

He reaches up and grabs clef-san's arm. Just has he does, The keter bracelets SHATTER. Clef-san's energy disappears. Mecha-Nobody squeezes. Clef-San's arm CRACKS. Clef-san screans in pain…. This is the end. He cannot do anymore. There is no more power left, he is about today. Cut to behind him. We see Nightqueen Ultrablack X standing up. She is stll alive, somehow! She advances. These two villains are about to kill Clef-san.
Then there is light and a figure flies down from above. She slams into the pavement, in a cool triangle drop pose, her shiny black long hair waving in the wind, swirling with energy. We are able to see she has her own set of Keter bracelets! She looks up. Her dark green eyes shine.

PRETTY MAGIC GAIDEN MECHA TOKYO-MON DEMON NINJA SAILOR CLEFELLA
Get your hands off him!

ZOOM IN

PRETTY MAGIC GAIDEN MECHA TOKYO-MON DEMON NINJA SAILOR CLEFELLA
Because he is!

ZOOM IN

PRETTY MAGIC GAIDEN MECHA TOKYO-MON DEMON NINJA SAILOR CLEFELLA
My ROOMMATE!

FADE TO BLACK! ROLL CREDITS! TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR THE STUNNING CONCLUSION OF SEASON SEVENTEEN!


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◄ previous
WARNING:
THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT ORIGINATES FROM THE ARCHIVES OF THE

AND CONTAINS MATERIAL NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
~GAY BUTTSEX~
SO EITHER GET YOUR LUBE READY OR KINDLY CLOSE THE TAB

“Alto Clef, there's something you'd better understand about me ‘cause it's important, and one day your life may depend on it: I am definitely a mad man with a box!”
~the Doctor, some irrelevant year

The year was [REDACTED] and the place was the TARDIS. Alto Clef had come spiraling through a Level 4 Actualized Spatial Suction and Fragmentation Unraveling Cylindrical Circumvention (L4 A.S.S.F.U.C.C.) Event Field and landed on the floor. He looked up and gasped. It was the Doctor. The Doctor was wearing a bowtie. Then Clef fainted.
Then Clef woke up. As soon as he looked up into the Doctor's bright something-colored eyes, he felt a pang in his heart: a throbbing, emotionally charged sensation that sent his head spinning before traveling down through his stomach and into his dick, which immediately shot straight up. “I- I am here on behalf of the SCP Foundation,” he stammered out, trying to remember standard operating procedure for encountering sapient entities in foreign reality constructs. “…One moment.” He rolled to the side, slapping his naked eight-inch cock against the floor, and pulled out his radio. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, tuning it to 69.69 MHz.
“It's Ukulele,” he said. “We've just experienced interference from a Level 4 Actualized Spatial Suction and Fragmentation Unraveling Cylindrical Circumvention Event.”
“You mean an A.S.S.F.U.C.C. Event?”
“No,” Clef growled, and eyed the Doctor as he leant against the wall with his pants unzipped, “but we're about to.”

“I'll show you my Keter-class cock if you'll show me your Sonic Screwdriver,” Clef whispered into the Doctor's ear, his lips brushing against the taller man's soft hair with a rough hand braced on his hip and his cock hard against his ass.
“I- I don't know what that means, but sure-”
“Excellent,” Clef grunted, guiding him over to the couch that for some reason existed in the room. “I'm sure we can learn a lot about each other.”
the Doctor nodded, letting the ukulele-carrying, lab-coated man push him down onto the leather cushions. “So, uh… who're you?”
“The name's Clef.” He tossed his hair to the side and gave himself a migraine. “Alto Clef.” He looked dramatically into the sunset. The sunset was really a lightbulb. He looked into it anyway. Then his migraine got worse. “Shall we begin?”
“Allons-y.”
Clef turned the Doctor onto his stomach and yanked his annoying brown pants off. He then removed his Scranton Reality Anchor from his belt and started smearing it with Foundation-issue lubricant. “Sorry, but the Hume levels in here are fluctuating between three and five-point-six and I'm going to have to address that somehow.”

“Any word from Ukulele on the reality distortion, Kit?”
Blanchard's coworker turned to him, leaning back in their chair and propping their feet up on the control desk. “Nope.”
“Really? Nothing's coming through your radio?”
They shook their head, but stopped. “Well, I mean… there're some distorted sounds, like scratching and interference.” They held the radio up to their ear. “Electromagnetic interference. Moaning.”
“Excellent.”

Clef was balls-deep in the Doctor when his migraine started getting worse. He knew he had to finish soon, because the lube-y reality anchor was staining the couch. He started thrusting harder, enjoying hearing the Doctor cry out every time the head of his dick rubbed against his prostate. Clef spilled into him with a shuddering gasp, picturing Kondraki's scruffy beard for just a split second before tightening his grip on the Doctor's coattail with a satisfied groan.
Truly their respective reality constructs had a lot to learn from each other, Clef thought to himself, pulling out and dripping into his pants. He got up and went to the nonexistent bathroom. "Kit, Blanch. I have an update."
"Fantastic," Kit said. "What're the Hume levels?"
"They were between three and five-point-six for a while, but I addressed the issue using the proper equipment."
"I see." They shuffled paperwork around. "As what should we document this event, exactly?"
"Level 4 A.S.S.F.U.C.C. Event Field issue, taking place in a structure referred to by the subject as a 'Time in Relative Dimension and Space' device."
The Doctor nodded from behind the half-open door.
"But tonight," Clef added, eyeing the older man, "it was a Love and Relative Dimensions in Fate device."
Then they made love all night by the lightbulb.

continue ►


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"Hello? Little weak people, what's wrong? Oh, all doubled over in agony from a little something? Unable to guard the containment chambers while your bowels empty? Hahaha! Oh, I will get my revenge on each and every one of you, once Montezuma is done! Hm? Oh, hello, there. Nice mask."
"Hello."
"Oh my, what a lovely voice you have. I do believe I'm getting a fever. I am Vector, Madam of Malaise, Damsel of Disease. And you, my mysterious masked malcontent?"
"I... am the cure for you, baby."
"We'll see about that."
"My cure is most effective."
"Is this your doing?"
"No, they all suffer from The Disease."
"Let me guess, voëltjie, the Bubonic Plague?"
"No, crab-stuffed mushroom day at the cafeteria."
"Well, that gives us time to get to know each other, doesn't it?"
"I already know plenty about you, dear. I sense… all the diseases in you."
"Wait just a second, sweetie, I need to sample this new infection."
"Did you just lick that man's anus?"
"Best gotten at the source. And I'm going to lick more than that on you."
"You'll be at it a while. My bag is quite full."
"Oh my, your bag is so huge! Is that real [DATA EXPUNGED]?"
"The finest Corinthian [DATA EXPUNGED]."
"I must touch your bag."
"Touch all you like, my dear. But be careful, the contents may… jostle."
"Oh, when I get inside you, you'll swell in places you never expect."
"It will take more than a simple palpitation to give me the tremors. But my touch will cure your ailment."
"I carry over a thousand diseases. Do you honestly think a single touch will get my juices flowing?"
"I have a surgeon's hands, cutie, we have all night, and when I administer my cure, you will so desperately need it."
"Oh! That lovely black robe… isn't a robe, is it? You're totally naked."
"I see your glands flush and pulsate in antici… pation. I will relieve the pressure with my scalpels."
"Mmm, show me what you can do with a little sharp pain."
"I do believe I've caught your virus."
"I leave myself in your capable hands, doctor."
"This… I am afraid the constant sounds of vomit and gastric distress do ruin the mood some."
"It's not exactly Beethoven."
"Perhaps I should administer my cure to a few of these researchers, so that we could have some peace."
"Well… I've always wanted to make love under a fountain…"

"I say, doctor, you are a genius. Your zombies hold their place and let their stomachs empty in a quiet, compliant manner."
"And without your mastery of disease, we would not be able to maintain the cafeteria infection in place after I administered my cure."
"Now let us return to make love under the fountain of our own design."
"This effluvium makes a most wondrous lube."
"Uh… Excuse me?"
"What? Another doctor? Who are you?"
"They call me the Rocket Surgeon. I'm looking to fix Steely Dan."


The following is an O5's (adult?) tale
“No I'm telling you, there's no fuckin' way we'd have a goddamn robot in upper management.”
“But a fucking dog is perfectly acceptable to you?”
“That's different! I think if the guy was a goddamn robot we'd know, right?”
“The man walks and talks like a fucking Stalinist clock with no friends and mommy issues! He's as bland as a colorblind librarian corpse and more formulaic than my damn calculator! If he's not a robot then the dude is seriously off-kilter.”
“I think I know how to settle this,”
“How?”
“We gotta see his dick.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“No no think about it! If he was a robot, why would he have a dick? Right?”
“I… I guess. But he's totally a robot. So I guess we gotta see his… robot… parts.”
“Fuck you. I know who might be able to help. Karen! Get me Iceberg on line one.”
BEEP
“Hello? Yes, this is O5-6. Have you ever seen his dick? You know who. Oh you have! Good! Could you, uh, describe it? That's an order doctor. Yes, go ahead.”
“What's he saying?”
“Shh! What? No not you doctor, I'm talking to three. Go ahea- yes he's here too, get on with it. Wait. What? Three of them? On fire?”
“Dude what the fuck.”
“Well…uh, thank you Doctor. I guess I never would have guessed that Gears would- What?! ALTO? Of fucking course. I was asking about Gears, doctor. You know, your direct supervisor? The man you share an office with? Not Alto goddamn Clef who is based at a site on the opposite side of the fucking country. Sigh No, it's fine. Not his dick then? Great. Well thank you for your time.”
Click
“No dick news then?”
“No.”
“He's definitely a robot.”
“No, I'm telling you, there's no fuckin' way-“
FIN


☦Dr. Gears takes his gecko out for a walk. Written for the Crackfiction contest.☦

For the Crackfic Contest.

Site-19's cafeteria rumbled super loudly for no apparent reason, and everyone looked up to see the majesty of one Dr. Charles Ogden Gears and his Super-Sized Beloved Pet Gecko1 riding into the room, just like in novels with the horses.
"Hello everyone," Dr. Charles Ogden Gears monotoned in a bored fashion. He couldn't fathom why everyone looked at him with jaws agape (because it was hard to understand people and their silly emotions). It took one brave soul to speak up amongst all the other bystanders.
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!" said Troy Lament, embarassed to see his boss in such an unbecoming manner.
"I was taking my beloved pet gecko out for a walk. I fail to see the issue, as I will return him on time to his cell as per Protocol 5.6, Subsec—"
"You can't just take that… that monstrosity out of its cage! It'll eat us all!" Lament said as he threw his arms out in the air as a sign of frustration. He never took his mentor to be a madman, and the simple shrug Dr. Charles Ogden Gears gave him made him even more angry. He glared at 682, who stared back deep in the eyes of Lament. For a second, he felt his soul falling, pierced by the lightning of 682's non-human hatred for mankind.
i will end you and humanity. you are all disgusting creatures. everyone shall be trampled under my feet, you worm.
"Now now, Betsy, I realize you are hungry, but do not get carried away. I will provide you with your favorite D-Classes when we finish walking." Dr. Charles Ogden Gears leaned over and pet Betsy on the head, who grumbled a deep, 120 dB grumble of indifference.
"Look, I love you Gears, no homo, but this just ludicrous. I can't expect you to do this. You're not even following proper ettiquite for SCP walking! I have to report this to head security!" Lament said as he threw down his roast-turkey, liver-flavored onion, steak, and radish calzone with a side of refried black beans his ex-girlfriend made for him to the floor, the contents of the food spilling everywhere. This was the final straw! He would not have any more of it! Who cares if some dumb janitor had to clean up this mess? He had to get someone to clean up the most important mess!
Injustice.
"I am afraid I can not let you do that right now, Lament." Dr. Charles Ogden Gears stared down Lament, and for the second time, Lament felt a piercing in his eyes and souls.
It wasn't the same as Betsy the gecko's this time. It felt more… cold. It felt more sinister in a calculated way, like Dr. Charles Ogden Gears wasn't fucking around. Was he starting to… feel? An indifferent man's emotions were the most dangerous, as all it took was one wrong move before your life was destroyed, especially since Lament swore at times to anyone who would want to listen to him that Dr. Charles Ogden Gears was an insane robot. But this proved it. Underneath Dr. Charles Ogden Gears was a robot! This had to be it. First 682, then 106, and then he'd take over the whole Foundation, and who would stop him? The Church? They must have been his allies and planned this!
Someone coughed in the background and Lament spun around, a sudden fearful look in his bloodshot eyes. "You! You must be working with him! What's your plan in this breach?" Lament said as he pointed at the man. The kid cried, scared of the strange and transformed man going on a rant in a perfectly normal circumstance. Lament spun back around and glared at Dr. Charles Ogden Gears. "You won't take over! I'll stop you, Gears!" With that said, Lament stormed to the exit before approaching a horde of cockatrices, piercing his eyes for the third time.
"Fuck."
It was too late to look away, as his body hardened and slowly turned to stone. As he underwent rigor mortis, the final thoughts he said aloud were:
"Damn you Gears! Now I'll never take the place of —" and then he turned to rock.
The audience was quiet again, afraid to do anything. No one knew how to react, the new Lament Statue2 having been erected in the cafeteria as a grim reminder of the battle of the egos. 682 stomped towards the statue, licking it like a lollipop.
what a disgusting flavor. human…
One brave individual got up and shook nervously, unsure on what to say.
"U-Um… Gears?" he stuttered shyly.
"Yes, my new protégé?"
"C-Can I join you in your walk? I… I have something I think you and 682 would like…" he held out a bomb with the fuse ticking down, and everyone screamed and bolted out of the exits over the cockatrices.
"Of course. This gift is an acceptable present for us. What is your name, protégé?"
"D-Doctor Iceberg…" He shook even more, more nervous. Dr. Charles Ogden Gears didn't smile, but Iceberg was sure he heard a chuckle and grin come out of him.
"Of course. Approach Betsy, and she will give you a ride." Iceberg nodded and cautiously approached the creature, careful as to how to react. He stood there for a minute before deducing it was okay, and put a hand on her to climb up to Gears. Suddenly, —
crunch
682 bit Iceberg's head off and threw the body up to Dr. Charles Ogden Gears, and the bomb to the wall. It blew up, leading to outside.
hurry it up, you disgusting filth, i wish to take my nap later.
"Of course, my beloved gecko," Dr. Charles Ogden Gears murmured in a monotone voice as he sweetly cradled Iceberg's body without a hint of emotion on his face.
good. let us go before i satisfy my hunger with you.
Dr. Charles Ogden Gears, Betsy, Iceberg's body, and the cockatrices marched out into the desert, enjoying the sunset as they walked.

Footnotes
1. ™
2. ®


Borrowed books covered the floor of the room. They lay open around Amy, and her focus darted from volume to volume. Processing the information glut was like trying to isolate melodies from twelve songs playing at once, but she found little trouble in it. She had never been a reader, never a talented student. But this, these books of magic, felt right. More right than anything had before, even the swim team. It was so simple, now that she thought about it. Instinctive. Like she had gone a lifetime without breathing, and was finally tasting air.
A notebook lay on the floor next to her, used to mark down particularly interesting sections of prose. The journal had been empty when she begun; now it was ¾ full. It seemed as soon as she set the pen down, she would read a reason to pick it up again.
She turned the page of a worn volume. Its paper crackled between her fingers.

Honestly, how rituals became the multi-universally practiced form of spellcraft boggles the mind, considering the hundreds of methods available, of which they are, by far, one of the most boring and obtuse. Look at the world of Kell, with its color-bases systems of casting, or Hyliss, home of the God-metal magic, or even O (a world whose true name cannot be pronounced, or even inscribed, by outsiders), where rites are fueled by expending memory. And with all these wonderful, fascinating, glorious paths available to us, we have decided to settle for drawing pictures and thinking really, really hard at them, which is not even the simplest method, when you get down to it, or the most efficient, or even the most practical. When did spellcraft lose its spark, and what can be done to recover it?

types of magic? kell/hyliss/o She wrote, and turned to the next to book.

“You seem to be grasping the basic idea,” said Snake. “This is about balance. Magic is stockbrokery- the predictions of value, the risks of trade, the debts of failure. How to squeeze the most worth from a limited good. The universe does not tolerate inflation.”
“How can we do that, if we don't decide the payment required?”
“Simple,” said Snake. “We cheat.”

The book was a single discussion between wizened Snake and the nameless, faceless creature it had taken as an apprentice. The lessons started simple, but quickly rose in complexity. The later pages were little more than long equations accompanied by dense charts and drawings.
Few of the books contained specific rites or rituals. Most stressed that individuality was a key component of spellcraft- castings could be replicated, but most effective would always be the ones personally developed.
The room was dark. While reading, almost without thinking, she had attempted several simple rites. An orb of conjured light now wavered above her head. Rumpled clothes sat on the floor, moved by a poor attempt at telekinesis. Black singes marked where a shower of sparks had rained onto the carpet.

In the mountains of a forgotten land I came across a curious village. The people within seemed to be the only sapient life in the world. And despite their primitive nature, they were capable of rites that would turn an archivist pale. The villagers had little knowledge of spellcrafting theory; they viewed these feats as natural gifts from their ancestors. Curious, I decided to study with these people. Over the course of three years, I learned enough to rewrite the laws of spellcraft entirely, the most important lesson being-

Amy. Your hand.
She looked up. Rivulets of blood dripped from her arm, hiding the skin beneath a slick gleam.
“Fuck!” Careful not to damage the books, she leaped up and snatched a towel from the clothing pile, pressing it to the wound. Blood welled back up almost as fast as she could clean it, but eventually the flow lessened and she could see the cuts beneath. Runes carved into her flesh, large, twisting marks that covered her flesh like scales.
“Jesus,” she muttered.
You must be more aware of your casting. The Witness had been mostly silent during her reading, responding only when she needed a question answered or point clarified.
Yeah. Right. Thanks for the warning. She tiptoed around the books and into the hallway. The bright light made her eyes water. She felt her way to the bathroom, twisted the faucet handle. As hot water soaked the gashes, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Rupinder appeared in the mirror, leaning against the doorframe.
He glanced at the wound. “I could heal that for you.”
Without looking back, she shut off the water. “Will you?”
“No. Get packed. We leave tomorrow morning.” He left. The door clicked shut.
She stared down at the wounds. They had already started to scab over, forming a gnarled mark that twisted around her arm. “Jesus,” she said.
You pulled too much, too quickly, too forcefully. Reality pulled back.
Yeah, I think I'm beginning to understand that.
Back in the room, she sorted the books and laid them on the dresser. Probably a bad idea to take them, considering where they were going. The notebook lay open on the floor. She kneeled to flip through it.. Funny. She barely remembered writing half of this. The whole week since arriving at this building had been a blur.
It was difficult to think of it as anything other than “the building” because she had no other reference point to name it. She wasn't even sure of the route they'd taken. There'd been at least three car rides, a plane, two buses after that, and what felt like a Way. Since then she hadn't left. The place was massive, luxurious- eight hours of exploring on the first day hadn't brought her near mapping it all.
Looking out the windows, she could see the distant silhouette of a mountain range. Impossible to tell how far away. Maybe a few miles. Maybe a dozen. When she looked down, she saw the perimeter of illuminated grass that surrounded the building, and the steel fence that marked the boundary. The outer light from the building disappeared as soon as it crossed its bars. It was always dark outside.
Back in her room, she took a seat on the bed. Not for the first time this day (this hour, even) it occurred to her that agreeing to assist Rupinder had been an award-winningly shitty idea. Had there been other options? Likely not. But that knowledge didn't drive away the feelings. She fell back on the mattress.
You said you'd heard of Rupinder before, she thought.
It took several minutes for the reply to come. Yes. Predominately rumors and speculation, but yes.
What were the rumors?
Contradicting stories of feats which, if true, would rank him among the most talented known spellcrafters. Travel between universes using only his will. Raising entire armies of the dead to fight for him. Besting gods in combat.
Amy sighed and rubbed her temples. That shit he pulled back in the jungle doesn't make me feel super confident they're wrong.
Perhaps. Most experienced crafters are skilled at not tipping their hand.
But either way we basically have zero hope of even becoming a minor nuisance to him.
Correct.
Man, she thought, this gets better by the minute.

The air outside was freezing. Five of them stood in the yard. Amy had buried herself in a puffy green parka, but it hadn't helped stop the shivering. A bulging backpack hung from her shoulders. The second was Rupinder, who looked completely unbothered by the cold, dressed in jeans and a thin sweater. Next were the Nish-Hyet. Amy had avoided talking to them since her arrival, and they her. At the moment they looked human, and oblivious of the weather.
The final member was an East Asian-looking woman who, in Amy's week long stay with the group, hadn't said a single word. Like Amy, she wore several layers of clothes. Dark coats, gloves, a hat. Her face was twisted in discomfort, but she hadn't uttered a word of complaint.
They stared into a hole in the universe
It was a large circle, about six feet tall, floating a foot off the ground. A bright light shone from it, shielding the other side from curious eyes. Amy had to squint just to glance at it.
Rupinder nodded to the silent woman and stepped to the side of portal. She advanced. Their eyes met, briefly, before she crossed the light, and hers flashed with hatred. Rupinder wore the same bemused expression as always.
After the light swallowed her, the Nish-Hyet crossed through. Amy and Rupinder stood alone in the yard. He extended an arm in a “no, you first, I insist” gesture. She glared at him and stepped into the light.
It was like having ten thousand ants poured over her body at once. The sensation ran across her, pins and needles across every inch of her skin. She felt the crawling in her teeth and gums, and instinctively clamped her mouth shut. The sensation only increased. The light swelled in intensity, so bright that even with her eyes shut it burned red in her vision.
She took another step and felt solid ground. She opened her eyes, saw a wooden deck of a ship around her. The sky above was clear and pale blue, surrounding a red sun. The air was warm. A soft breeze pulled at her hair. She unzipped the parka and let it fall to the ground.
A small handrail guarded the edge of the platform. Amy approached it and looked down. The ship was gliding through water so clear that if it hadn't been for the wake, it would have been invisible. Hundreds- no, thousands- of fish flicked through the water, a living rainbow that went down until the water turned too dark to see. She watched, eyes wide, as a shark cut through the crowd to clamp its jaws around a large striped fish.
This isn't really what I thought it would be like.
You should try to grow accustomed to that feeling.
She released the rail and backed up. Whose ship is this?
Ours, for the moment.
“Expecting something different?”
She turned. Rupinder was standing a few feet behind her, hands in his pockets, gazing into the water.
Leaning her arms on the rail in the most casual way she could muster, she said, “Dunno what I was expecting.”
He nodded. “Not a terrible attitude to have. Useful, in some situations.” He turned and beckoned her to follow. Scowling, she did. “This is your first time sailing?”
“First that I remember.” They reached a staircase and followed it up to a smaller deck. The woman and Nish-Hyet waited.
“I suggest you enjoy it, then. There won't be much need for your help as we travel.”
“My own tropical vacation. Awesome.” She stood at the edge of the stairs, watching the group.
“It should be a unique experience,” said Rupinder. He turned to the others. “We'll deal with the sailing. Make yourself comfortable, please.”
In response, she turned and walked away. The ship was somewhere between a yacht and cruise liner in size. A metal door opened into a thin staircase, and the dust-filled air within shuddered. A thick gloom masked any view of what lay beyond.
She let the door fall closed, backing up quickly. Making her way to the railing, she looked back down. A large eel-like creature had picked up the boat's trail. It swam behind, trying to hide in the shadows. Plumes of liquid clouded the water behind it, like blue smoke. A gathering of minnows fought to get at the trail.
The red eye of the reflected sun stared at her from the water. What would it be like, to jump into the sea? She pictured it enveloping her, tugging her down to the sandy bed. Silent. Still. Alone, where she would never be found.
I wonder what's at the bottom.
It was an idle thought, a mental muttering, but the response came. No one knows. It has never been reached.
How many have tried?
It is difficult to keep an accurate record. Few return.
I wonder if they wanted to.
A breeze flicked her hair across her face. She tucked it back behind her ear. To her right, one of the Nish-Hyet was fiddling with a lock. It stumbled as the door fell open, and she stopped herself from laughing.
By the time she left the dock, the sun hung half-beneath the horizon, and the sky was the color of blood. She lingered at the stairs for several minutes before descending. The echoed sound of her footsteps sounded like the rhythm of a war drum.
Following the hallway, she entered the belly of the ship, a dining hall that made her think of old cyberpunk films. It was empty, and she was all too aware of the whine of the engine as she crossed it. Down another hallway, the walls streaked with a greasy black substance, and she reached an empty room. There wasn't much to it but a mattress, sink, and a bed welded to the wall. A window looked out to the water. She grabbed the mattress, dragged it up to the deck.
By the time she fell asleep, the sky had turned pitch-black. The night held no stars.

It was hard to tell which was worse, the walls of the interior that felt like a metal fist crushing her, or the openness of the deck that left her in a state of constant observation. Amy settled for nesting in a corner of the deck that was hidden from any of the crew as they worked. For the most part, they left her alone. The Nish-Hyet would leer at her as she passed. Rupinder occasionally tried to start up a conversation. To the woman, Amy seemed completely invisible.
With the sun to her back, she cast spells in the shadows. Small ones, and she kept a careful eye on her body and surroundings for unintended damage. The Witness tried to coach her through the castings, but it was hard to follow the lessons. It kept forgetting how little time she'd spent studying, and skipped from teaching the basics to getting lost in musings over advanced theory and techniques she could barely comprehend. She was able to sift out useful information from parts of it, but it was slow going, like trying to chip through a stone wall with a spoon.
From what she could gather from the information torrent, the cost of a rite was tied to what the caster valued, but not unavoidably so. It was entirely possible to cast a spell, only for the universe to decide it felt like taking a stone from three mountain ranges away as a cost. But it also seemed to accumulate- the longer you went without being personally affected, the more would be taken when it finally came back around. Most attempts seemed to just drain her energy. After a dozen or so attempts, she was panting as if she'd just swam a mile.
After lunch, out of curiosity, she'd grabbed a plate of food from the kitchen and placed it near her. It didn't seem affected as she worked. Next, instead of eating dinner, she took it up with her and swapped it out with the lunch plate. This time, chunks of food vanished for most castings.
So, extra food I grab from the supplies is worthless. Skipping a meal gets me farther.
Essentially. The excess food would eventually be used, but not for more than one in twenty castings. Most likely. As I have said before, this is a fickle art.
Right, she said, and closed her eyes. An image took shape, of a thorny stem spreading its roots in the dark and sprouting up. The stem sprouted a bulb, and the scales opened into a flamingo-pink rose. Her eyes still shut, she sucked in a breath and thrust her hand out. Something spilled from her palm; she opened her eyes and saw a pile of petals on the wood.
Fuck, she thought. I thought I had it that time.
You must hold the image clearer. Picture it as if it were truly here.
“Shit, well now it all makes sense,” she muttered.
“I'm impressed you were capable of even that,” said a familiar voice. She looked up and saw Rupinder. “It takes many practitioners over a year of study to learn to work even trivial summonings.” He knelt, taking a petal. He rubbed it between between the pads of his fingers. “Stable too. This is good work.” Glancing over his shoulder he said, “Taking the food was clever. Impractical, but clever.”
“Seems pretty practical to me,” she said.
“Many spells of the unpracticed already take from your physical energy. Skipping meals will only drain you that much quicker.”
Dammit, that actually made sense. Bastard.
He flicked a wrist, tossing a handful of daffodils into the air. They drifted back to the deck and disappeared with another wave of his hand. “Did you see what I paid for that?”
Amy shook her head.
“Look down.” She did. The petals had disappeared.
“That's not fair. How the hell did you do that?”
Rupinder grinned. “I cheated.” He rose to his feet. “I have shipwork to do. I can show more tomorrow.”
As he walked off, the Witness snorted. I could have showed you that. It was just too simple.

After lunch, Rupinder joined her on the deck. Amy scowled as he approached. “Didn't say you could help me.”
“That's fine.” He walked a short distance away and stood, staring at her.
She tried to ignore him, but even looking away she felt his gaze on her, like a centipede on her skin. Each time she looked up he was in the same position, motionless. His dark eyes tracked her smallest movements.
As yesterday, she'd brought up her lunch instead of eating it (though taken a larger breakfast to compensate), and the casting came easily at first. The rites were simple- exercises described in one of her books as a sort of warm up. Holding a small flame in the air. Creating the noise of barking dogs. Shifting the color of a wooden slat. By the time she had run through all of them, the plate of food had become a plate of scraps, and she was breathing hard.
“Another problem,” said Rupinder. He hadn't moved, but like in the jungle, his voice seemed to come from over her shoulder. “Unless you have massive stores, edibles run through quickly.”
Instead of responding, Amy closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. She let the air trickle from her lungs, then drew in another. The cycle continued, in and out, slow and calm, as the rose's image took shape within the darkness. She raised her hand, exhaled, and imagined the stem flowing from her palm. When her eyes opened, she held a small sprout with a single thorn.
“Fuck!” She hurled the growth away. It flopped to the wood. “What the hell was wrong that time?”
Remember, it is about focus and clarity. You must-
“Quiet,” she growled. The stem still lay on the deck. She kicked at it, smearing green across the wood.
Rupinder stood statue-still. Amy glanced at him and quickly looked away. She looked at the plate. Calling up the rose had used the last of the meal. Trying the trick again might be risky. The cuts on her arm had faded to scars, but the wounds still ached.
Movement caught her eye. Rupinder had turned to look out at the ocean. He stared, arms still crossed, and a blob of water fifteen feet across rose from the sea. The insides churned with the movement of dozens of fish, unaware or uncaring of their new environment.
Rupinder raised a hand. The sphere separated into four. The quadruplets tumbled around each other, spiralling in and out, over and under, coming within inches of collision but always dipping away. Again the water split, and sixteen droplets danced.
“It may look impressive,” said his voice beside her. “But compared to creating being from nothing, it's a children's game.” He raised the other hand. The droplets slammed back together. Amy flinched back as water sprayed her. “You would easily prove capable of it, given a few days. Now, what do you think was the payment?”
She glanced down. The rose-stem still lay on the wood.
Rupinder flicked a wrist, and the water sped towards her. It stopped just in front of her face, and she saw what he meant. Corpses of fish floated in the bubble.
She almost asked how that was possible before remembering she was supposed to be the stubborn one. “I don't need your help.”
“If you insist.” The sphere drifted back to join the others. Rupinder remained in place, propped up by the rail. Amy tried to ignore him. Drawing in a slow breath, she closed her eyes. Piece by piece, she began sorting the thoughts cluttering her mind, tucking fears into the drawers of subconscious, sweeping worries from the corners of her memory, until all that remained was the dark.
Now. Form the image. Thousands of green flecks appeared and turned slowly, growing closer together until they formed a single strand. The stem. Thorns began to curve out. A dot of red poked through the tip, hesitated, then burst into a rose.
A rose with a thin beard and smug eyes. The pupils turned towards her, and she heard giggling. Gritting her teeth, she forced the image away and started over. This time she didn't even get to the thorns before Rupinder's face forced the whole thing away.
Her eyes snapped open. “Stop doing that!”
Rupinder raised his eyebrows. “Is it a crime to stand here?”
“Not that, asshole. Stop making me imagine shit.”
“I'm not doing anything. If you're imagining anything, it's a product of your own mind.”
Amy snorted. “Whatever.” She shut her eyes, inhaled, and began again. This time the image formed with little trouble. Holding it in her mind, she lifted her hand, and spoke.
Green sparks sprayed from her palm, fizzling as they hit the wood. Amy screamed in frustration and slammed her hand against the deck.
“It would be an excellent party trick. Makes for poor magic, though.” Rupinder had moved closer as her eyes were closed, and now stood only a few feet away. “There are two mistakes here. The first is preparation. The other is payment.” He moved his finger through the air. Red light trailed behind it, and a diagram began to take shape. When he was finished, an elaborate system of lines and circles lazed in the air. “You are talented. Talent has limits. Attempting a summoning rite with so little experience is one of them.”
He flicked his finger. The diagram separated into three symbols. He directed his finger at the rightmost, which looked like an angular peace symbol. “One of the marks for Existence.” The finger moved left, to a series of layered spirals. “A giving of thanks.” The final one was a straight line, from which three squiggles rose up. “Growth, or alternatively, light.”
Amy watched, silent.
“There are, quite literally, thousands of runic combinations for any ritual you would want to enact. Finding the best is a matter of trial, error, personality, and prior knowledge. This will be the best for your purposes.” He wave a hand, dismissing the symbols into embers. “You should be able to figure out how to form the light.”
He was right. Extending a hand, she began to draw. She wasn't halfway through before Rupinder swiped a hand through, destroying it. “Wrong.” The second attempt provided similar results. The third earned silent approval, and she drew her hand back. The markings were a bit sloppier than Rupinder's had been, and they trembled slightly, but they held.
“Touch your hand to the runes. Gently, you don't want to disturb it. Now, try the rite again.”
Amy closed her eyes, formed the image, and forced it into existence. At first she felt nothing. When her eyes opened, the rose floated in front of her, the runes gone.
“Holy shit,” she said, before she could stop herself.
Rupinder smirked. “She can listen. Wonderful.”
Amy looked away.
“Now, the second missing piece is the price. The cost of which for summoning can be daunting, if uncontrolled.”
She plucked the rose from its bed of air, examined it. “It didn't feel like I paid anything.”
“Your spare clothing downstairs is burning.”
Amy didn't bother asking how he knew that. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Now do you understand how important it is to manage cost?”
She glanced at her arm. “Pretty sure I already knew that.”
Rupinder ignored the comment. “What do you understand of cost so far?”
“That the universe really likes to fuck with us.”
A grin spread across his face. “A succinct way of putting it. A common metaphor used is a financial system. It's clumsy, but apt. Reality as a predatory lender. When you try to receive payment, it doesn't intend to let you break anywhere near even. Thus, like all good servants of capitalism, we negotiate.”
“Okay,” she said. What the hell was he talking about? She'd slept through most of Economics class. She still wasn't quite sure how you took out an actual loan.
“A method you've already discovered is to simply bring appealing payment with you. Easy in theory. Maddeningly impractical in reality.”
Amy nodded.
“Some spellcasters will simply enact their rites and hope nothing too harmful comes of it. These tend to rest on the lower end of the lifespan bell curve. What rational casters do is pre-negotiate. Set up a system of rules for payment, one that tends to favor themselves. Most start simply, then build up to a complex web of terms and limitations as they gain experience.”
“That sounds uh… complicated.”
“It is, at first. I trust you'll learn quickly. I'm sure your friend would be willing to lend a hand.”
Nothing he says is uncommon knowledge.
Well, you should have told me earlier.
She refocused on Rupinder. “Why are you telling me all of this stuff?”
His expression grew serious. “Because it's been a long, long time since anyone deserved it.” He stepped away, motioning for her to follow. “Come. Time to barter with existence.”

For the next three weeks, they practiced. Rupinder used every moment not spent sleeping, eating, or sailing the ship for lessons, running through drills, theory, tests almost faster than Amy could learn. The entire first week was used to determine the prices of spells. A room was set up in the cabin, small, lightless, where she would sit and commune with the world. The first day gave few returns. The second, the same. On the third day, after five hours of meditation, it spoke to her. Four hours of vicious negotiation followed, and by the end of the week a system of three rules had been established to stabilize her casting.
The second week was used for runes. Hundreds of them a day before noon. After lunch, she would invoke the same castings over and over, never allowed to repeat a ritual's combination. They practiced bending the air, calling flame, manipulating the sea-life, summoning increasingly arbitrary and complicated objects. From there, they moved to transporting objects through space, illusions, reshaping solid materials. Rupinder barely gave her time to grasp one form of casting before bounding to the next. Every day she fell into bed, tired beyond the point of movement, and it seemed she barely blinked before it was time to rise again and begin practice.
In the final week, they practiced impromptu casting. For the first few days, as before, she could barely call forth a flower, barely teleport stones a few meters while retaining their shapes. Rupinder stalked circles around her, yelling advice disguised as beration. Slow down. Speed up. Move your hands. Keep your body still. Don't speak. Mutter under your breath. Think carefully before you act. Release by instinct. When she collapsed into a pile of spasming muscles, he forced her to her feet and demanded she begin again.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she said through desperate gasps of air. “You can't give me one piece of fucking advice that's simple?”
“The methods for each crafter are different. It is through experimentation that we learn what best suits us.”
She sighed. “So what about those other methods of casting? Not just rites and rituals and stuff. When do we experiment with them?”
Rupinder wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps learn the basics first. They will come, eventually.”
So the voyage passed, and by the time they reached the island, it seemed that no time had gone by at all.

Land was a sliver of sand peeking from the waves, gray and stale and beckoning beneath a slate sky. Thin fog blanketed the strip. The water grew darker the closer the ship drew towards coast, and the sea surrounding shore was the shade of wet tar. The tide lapped eagerly at the ship's bow as they drifted onto the beach.
The travellers gathered at the front of the ship. One of the Nish-hyet (Amy had given up trying to distinguish the two) lowered a rope bridge. The silent woman descended first, followed by the shapeshifters. Rupinder was next, Amy last.
She landed ankle deep in the black water, and it stained her skin even when she made it to shore. The others had gathered at the edge of the water, and watched her with expressions of anticipation. Moving forward felt like approaching the edge of a cliff, bottomless, black.
“Lead on,” said Rupinder when she reached them.
Amy nodded, swallowed. Just straight, right?
Yes.
She began to walk. Even away from the beach, the sand was saturated with water. Her feet sunk half an inch deep into the sand. Within minutes, her feet were heavy with mud. She didn't slow. She couldn't slow. It was far too late for that.
The fog thickened as she walked, until she was moving through a veil of white, the path ahead hidden.
Keep going. There is only one path to follow.
What was that noise, in the distance? Unintelligible muttering that touched her ears like poison. She could hear footsteps behind, too many to just be her fellow travellers. Were they still there? Had they left her? Had they disappeared? Was this a trick, a simple ploy to get rid of her? She took another step and almost stumbled into a pool of frigid water. It grew deeper, past her ankles, her calves, her knees. It reached her hips and she felt movement against her legs, thin shapes snaking across her skin.
And then the fog lifted, and she was looking at the sea. There was sloshing in the water behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rupinder moving by her side. The other three joined him. The pool they stood in was as clear as the open ocean, the bottom red sand. They were the only movement within it- if there had been any creatures at all, they remained in the safety of the fog.
A jagged, pale stone rose from the beach. A woman hung limp from iron shackles. She was naked, skeleton thin. Her black hair hung to the small of her back, the bangs curtaining her face. As the group approached, her head rose. A single brown eye studied them, and Amy realized that despite the woman's state, she was still a knife that cut.
Nobody moved until the silent woman stepped forward. She moved to the stone and began to work at the shackles with practiced method. After a minute, one clicked open. The second soon follow. She caught the chained woman before she could fall, lowered her the ground, steadied her. The two stared at each other. Studying the two, Amy realized they were identical.
“I told you we would come, Sister,” said the first.
The freed woman smiled. “I've missed you, my Queen.”

« Living Through Shattered Glass | Hub | True Places Never Are »


A xenobiologist and a botanist sat beneath the shade of a tree in the forest outside Site-93. The latter rested her head on the former's shoulder and softly hummed. After several moments, she brushed her short blond hair behind her ear, and reached into her jacket pocket where she pulled out a thin chain. A small silver carving of a tulip dangled from its end.
The xenobiologist delicately held the metal flower and looked it over, one eyebrow raised.
“So you'll come back…” the botanist clarified. “Tulips are perennials. They always come back.”
The botanist tightly squeezed her companion's hand.
“Promise me you'll come back…”
The xenobiologist ran a thumb over the pendant. A small heart was engraved on the center of the stem.
“It will be a routine mission,” the xenobiologist replied with a reassuring smile. “What's the worst that could happen?”

Dr. Sandra Gonzalez sat at the foot of a tall pine tree beneath a violet sky. All over her uniform, several small cuts could be seen where a horde of mechanical spiders had attempted to grab her, tan skin visible through the holes in the jet black fabric. Her neck length black hair was let down as she quietly hummed to herself, running the thin fingers of her right hand over the cool metal of the tulip pendant that she kept in her pocket.
Around her the surviving members of Eta-13 quietly chattered among themselves, having just escaped one danger and possibly setting themselves up for another. They had started the day twenty strong. Now they were diminished to thirteen.
“Okay.” Well's deep voice broke her concentration. She looked over to see the battle torn sergeant motioning toward a spot at the center of the clearing. “Gather round people, we have some things to discuss.”
Dr. Gonzalez sighed and tied her hair back before she joined the small semicircle that had formed in front of Wells and Dr. Baldric. When all hands were accounted for, Baldric drew a small schema into the dirt.

“Alright,” Wells began, pointing at the X. “This is where we are. For obvious reasons we can't go back the way we came." Wells pointed towards the doodle of an angry spider next to the X. "Lucky for us, this particular part of The Gate has another means of accessing SCP-2344 not too far from here.”
“This second Gate is located at a former Foundation outpost,” Baldric spoke as he began to add onto the schema.

“It was called Cronos Outpost. Since we all still have our keys, we should be able to use this as a means of getting back into SCP-2344. Not only would that place us in a separate part of the passage than the one we were just in, but that section of the Gate Passage is also close to Armstrong Outpost."

"For those of you who don't know, that falls within the territory of 2344-1-Alpha. Or as they would prefer to be called, the Oldomerites,” Baldric continued.
“This particular group is highly cooperative with Foundation expeditions," Wells added. "They'll be sure to help us get home, or at least to Armstrong Outpost. No fuss, no muss.”

Baldric added a small smiley face in the dirt, grinning as he looked up at Wells. The sergeant rolled his eyes. The rest of the task force murmured with the sounds of approval, save for Gonzalez.
“No fuss?” Gonzalez asked. “Before we all jump on board with this plan, I think you should key everyone else into a small detail about Cronos Outpost.”
Gonzalez turned to Candle.
“James, remind me again. Why was Cronos Outpost abandoned?”
The medic sighed and closed his eyes.
“The natives there slaughtered the personnel and razed most of the outpost to the ground.”
“Our crew currently consists of a handful of scientists and seven security agents.” Gonzalez continued. “That's hardly a fighting force capable of raiding an occupied ruin.”
“And what would you suggest we do, Sandra?” Baldric inquired. “Do you expect us to just wait around here?”
“Why not?” Gonzalez shrugged. “Wait a day for those spiders to clear out, and then we go back the way we came.”
“Whatever sent those spiders is going to know they didn't finish the job,” Wells chimed in. “If you think so little of us against the natives, how well do you think we'd do against a force of radical Hand agents?”
“We're going for a ‘lesser of two evils' approach,” Baldric added. “Trust me, if there was a third, less dangerous option, we wouldn't even have considered this scheme. We're just out of luck.”
“You're leading us to our deaths.” Gonzalez shook her head.
“Better to meet it head on than waiting around here for it to find us,” Agent Turner piped up, her monotone voice sounding from the back of the cluster. Gonzalez turned to face the slender Asian woman. As she prepared to respond, whispers of agreement could be heard among the rest of the task force. Gonzalez threw up her hands in frustration.
“Well, alright then,” she conceded.
Wells and Baldric both gave satisfied nods.
“Get ready for travel.” Wells ordered. “We have a fair amount of ground to cover.”

After several hours of travel the sun began to set, causing the violet sky to change to a deep merlot. Eventually, the light began to die, forcing Eta-13 to make camp at the top of a hill. While the rest of the task force drifted to sleep, Gonzalez chose to remain awake. Her eyes were plastered to the sky. While this world had no moon to illuminate the horizon, the darkness was pierced with the faint glow of countless stars.
“Why did you find it necessary to argue with Wells?”
Gonzalez jumped at the sound of a monotone voice beside her. Sitting on a stump just a few feet away was Jia Turner.
“Because I didn't want Wells to get the rest of us killed,” Gonzalez replied flatly.
"Don't we all…" Turner grinned. "This is, what, your third trip through the Gate? Fourth?"
"Fourth…"
"Thought so. Scared?"
"… terrified."
"Me too." Turner nodded. "This is my fourteenth. Not quite Candle's record, but close. Each of those missions was lead by Baldric and Wells. Lots of close calls."
Gonzalez gave an exhausted sigh.
“What's your point?” she asked.
“I've worked with Baldric and Wells for a long time," Turner explained. "They argue about everything. I once saw them get into a heated debate about whether toilet paper goes over or under. So, when they agree on something, there is a very good chance that it's the best option."
She then chuckled briefly, as she looked up to the sky.
“You promised Dr. Hayes that you would return to her, right?” She asked. “She's the one that gave you that tulip pendant, isn't she? I've seen you fiddling with it whenever you can. ”
"What? How did you even come to that…" Gonzalez returned, stopping when Turner held up her hand with a sly smile.
"I spend a lot of my free time in the woods near Site-93, too. My point is that Baldric and Wells know what they are doing. They'll get you back to Cameron in one piece. You just have to give them the benefit of the doubt."
Gonzalez fell silent. She starred at up at the sky for several moments before she pulled out the tulip pendant, rubbing her thumb over the etching of the heart.
"Before we left, I told Cameron that this was going to be a routine mission," Gonzalez said with a sad smile. "'What could go wrong…' I asked."
"Irony sure is a bitch," Turner said as she stifled a laugh. She lingered for a few more moments before finally standing up, returning her gaze to the sky.
“Anyway,” she added. “It sure is a beautiful night out. You take care.”
Gonzalez held the tulip pendant tightly as Turner silently walked away.

Eta-13 continued their trek at first light. The hills and trees of the forests slowly descended into meadows and scrublands. The longer the party marched onward, the more tightly everyone held their weapons. While there had still been no signs of the natives, there was always the potential for a crossbow bolt to fly out of the tall grass.
Gonzalez marched near the center of the party, behind Candle and a young engineer who never seemed to leave the medic's side. The edges of the tulip pendant began to cut into her palm as she continuously squeezed the metal token, her eyes darting rapidly in search of light reflecting in the grass. After another hour of walking, Wells eventually had the team stop for a short rest. Gonzalez sat down, and closed her eyes, humming to herself as she attempted to calm her fluttering heart.
My, my, my. So many humans so far from home.
A faint, familiar, feminine voice sounded in the back of Gonzalez's mind. Gonzalez's eyes snapped open. The rest of the task force was equally shocked, suggesting they had heard the voice as well. Hands dashed for weapons as a small orb of glowing pink light manifested itself at the center of the group.
I thought you had abandoned your little fort here.
The voice came through much clearer this time. Gonzalez recognized it as the same voice that belonged to a certain botanist she knew.
“What are you?” Bell asked in amazement, his mouth slightly open as he looked on in wonder.
“That is a 2344-1-Theta,” Baldric answered. “Also known as a Razumite. They can communicate directly with the consciousness of most beings.”
“That also means that they can read minds to certain degree,” Wells added.
Quite. The entity spoke. The humans who lived at that base you had here called me Lilith. You humans truly know how to flatter. But enough about me, what brings you all so deep into this dull land? Returning to reclaim your castle?
“Our business is our own,” Wells replied.
Oh no. Not anymore. Lilith replied, floating towards Wells. You're the king here, aren't you? Or at least the lead fool. Trying to get back home? Perhaps I can help you?
“Help us how?” Baldric asked.
Well… Lilith lazily floated towards Baldric. Someone has to make sure I don't tell the Camdorians that you're here. After all, they sure do hate the “beings of the three arrows.” Goodness knows what they might do to you if they caught you.
The ball of light then flung itself towards Candle.
Oh, silly me, you already do know, don't you? Even better.
Candle looked down at the ground.
“What are your demands?” Wells asked. The orb's attention returned to him.
Nothing too outlandish. I need a key to the Planestrider's Path. You all seem to have plenty.
"Why?" Baldric's eyebrows rose. "Razumites can apparate into and out of the Gate Passage at will. You don't need one."
My business is my own. Lilith gleefully chirped. Do we have a deal?
“Can't do it.” Wells replied sharply. The pink orb seemed to rapidly bob up and down, as if it were laughing.
And why is that?
“You're asking us to voluntarily leave one of our members behind,” said Baldric. “That's just not something we're going to do. We haven't seen any sign of these ‘Camdorians' during our entire time here. For all we know you're just another con artist.”
But do you really want to take that chance, scholar? Lilith rapidly closed the distance between it and Baldric. Are you going to risk thirteen lives to save one?
The pink orb then zipped over to Wells.
Your poor leadership already cost you seven people's lives. Do you want more blood on your hands?
Lilith then disappeared, and reappeared next to Candle.
You've already left one person behind. You should easily be able to do it again.
Candle immediately tightened his fists as he silently stared at the Razumite.
Or perhaps you'd rather volunteer to stay behind yourself? Ease that heavy conscience?
Lilith then turned its attention to Gonzalez.
Ooooooooh… The orb slowly floated towards her. You have someone waiting for you. Isn't one of their lives worth seeing Cameron again? Help me and I'll help you. My way is that third path that Baldric talked about earlier. Isn't funny how he's still considering that scheme? Go ahead and grab your pistol. Pick one. I won't judge.
Gonzalez looked to Wells and Baldric.
"Are you insane?" Gonzalez asked. "I'm not doing that."
Then I'll kill you. Lilith hissed. And after that I'll kill her too. It will be simple. Easy as 1, 2, 3.
The orb disappeared and Gonzalez felt a hum in the back of her mind. Low at first, but then growing to a loud roar.
"It can't hurt you Dr. Gonzalez," Baldric shouted through the din "They can't physically interact with corporeal creatures! Don't be fooled!"
Gonzalez eyes were wide. She felt her arms go numb, as she clawed at her skull. The roar in her head felt like it was coating her brain in a thick syrup. She quickly glanced over to Wells who simply shook his head, then to Candle, who mouthed, Its going to be okay. Finally her vision fell back on Baldric.
“Sandra,” he said, “Razumites are Loki, Coyote, and every other trickster archetype rolled into one. It's putting on an act. Don't listen.”
Last chance… Kill Baldric, you know you want to… Lilith's snarled.
Gonzalez felt her hands violently shake as one quickly reached towards her hips. She closed her eyes and let out a wail.
SHOOT HIM!
“Get Down!”
Lilith and Turner's voices sounded at the same time. Gonzalez felt herself get knocked down, hitting the grass with a dull thud. Upon opening her eyes, she found Turner on top of her. Gonzalez's hand rested firmly in her pocket, the tiny silver tulip sending searing pain up her arm as she grabbed it as hard as she could. Gonzalez shook her head violently.
GET UP! Lilith screamed in Gonzalez's mind. GET UP YOU STUPID BITCH! FIGHT FOR ME!
The roaring suddenly stopped. Gonzalez blinked several times and looked around. Lilith floated a few feet away, her form having changed from an orb to the pink silhouette of Dr. Cameron Hayes.
Sandra… the silhouette whispered. Fight for me…
Lilith then slowly drifted above the group and disappeared with a loud pop, the MTF's minds filled with the sound of a blaring tuba.
For the next several moments the entire MTF was silent. Each member taking in the proceeding incident with various combinations of exhausted sighs and worried murmurs. Turner helped Gonzalez to her feet. The xenobiologist removed her hand from her pocket. Three small trickles of blood ran from where the pendant had dug deepest into her palm. A few seconds later, Baldric and Wells approached.
"Sandra," Baldric said in transit, "I'm so sorr…"
The anthropologist didn't get to finish his sentence. As soon as he was in range, Gonzalez slammed her bloody fist into his face. As Baldric fell back, the crowd descended into an incoherent jumble of shouting.
"You bastard," Gonzalez shouted. Turner held her back to prevent any follow up punches. Tears ran down her cheeks as she once again violently shook her head, the sticky feeling of Lilith's presence still lingering in her mind. "I told you that this is exactly what was going to happen! Now that thing is going to alert the natives! You're leading us right to the slaughter!"
Gonzalez attempted to shake herself loose from Turner's grip, her eyes bloodshot as she hissed at Baldric. Before she could get loose, however, Wells approached from behind and forcefully gripped the woman in a tight bear hug, lifting her off the ground and beginning to carry her away from the rest of the group. The sergeant grunted as Gonzalez attempted to kick him, but he persevered. Gonzalez's struggle soon died down as she was carried away.
"Candle, with me," Wells shouted. The medic quickly followed behind, the trio eventually coming to a stop several dozen meters away from the rest of the MTF. Without a word the medic proceeded to bandage Gonzalez's hand.
"You going to punch me too?" Wells asked as he watched the medic work. "Cause I don't think you're going to lay me out as easily as you did poor Johna."
Gonzalez didn't respond. Wells sighed.
"Lilith sounded like Dr. Hayes to you, didn't it?" Wells continued.
Gonzalez nodded.
"Yeah… I thought so," Wells mumbled. He then turned to Candle. "What did it sound like to you, James?"
Candle shook his head and chuckled.
“It sounded like Blaire, sir.”
"That's twisted…" Wells gave the medic a small smile. "It sounded like Director Kauffman to me."
"Wow!" Candle laughed. "That's wrong on so many levels."
"It sure is," Wells replied. "You see, Gonzalez, that's how Razumites operate. They get inside your head and move shit around. Needless to say they aren't delicate about it. You did a great job handling that…"
Gonzalez closed her eyes, and turned her head away.
"You have every right to be mad, scared, angry, what have you. I don't blame you for that. But, before you sprint back to the group and start taking Baldric's teeth out, I need you to remember three things. First, he's a good shot, so we'll need him when we finally arrive at Cronos. Second, if you're going to get mad at him, you might as well get mad at me; I helped mastermind this idea. Third, if you're so gung-ho on kicking Johna's ass, you need to wait until we get back to Site-93. Even then, you're going to need to wait your turn. I'm first in line."
The sergeant gave both Gonzalez and Candle a small nod before he began to walk back towards the rest of the MTF.
"I'll leave you here with Candle. Take five to cool off. Once you return, the only thing you are allowed to do to Dr. Baldric is apologize."
Without another word, Wells walked off, leaving the medic alone with his silent patient.
Candle finished applying the bandage and smiled. “Good as new. Come on, Wells wants us to get going before we lose any more time.”
Gonzalez nodded, and began to fall back in line. Along the way, she caught Turner's eye, mouthing Thank you to her. The agent nodded and gave a small smile in return.
Eta-13 then proceeded to move on, Cronos Outpost still far away.

« We Boldly Went | Hub | What Happened Beneath Cronos »


Personal audio log for Agent Jason Finch, May 13th. It is… 13:02 where I am right now. Currently on route to a reported anomalous incident in the town of Pete's Point, Washington. I have gone over the details of this case, and checked it twice. Travelling via car to move inconspicuously.
Not like the Foundation could have sprung for plane tickets. I guess that wasn't in their budget for the year. ‘Hey, let's send one of our agents on a slow-ass road trip to the possibly dangerous anomaly!' Pricks.
Oh! I should probably state for the record, this audio log is for personal use. So, if you're listening to this and your name is not Jason Finch, you're a horrible person. That includes you, Powell. I know you're the one who's been snooping through my personal shit.
I'm in Montana right now. Never seen so many empty fields in my life. The Foundation could build a dozen facilities out here, and there'd still be room.
It'd ruin the skyline, though. It's a real beauty, too. Not much you can do when you're driving except look at the skyline. Completely flat, all around.
Sorry, got side-tracked. Here's what I've been told about the anomaly: people disappearing out of thin air. That's it. No leads, no clues, nothing to link it to any other known SCP's.
This info comes from our contacts in the UIU, which explains why it's kind of incomplete. Those guys mean well, but they're out of their depth when it comes to anomalies.
So, as usual, it's up to the Foundation to figure out the cause of this, hopefully before the GOC blows the town up or MCD starts sticking price tags on everything.
Kinda wonder what the cause of this is going to wind up being. I've got my money on an anomalous object. Powell thinks it's going to be a humanoid, but Powell's always wrong, so fuck him.

Finch, May 13th, 20:55. It's late, I'm tired, and I'm driving through what seems to be the world's largest vacant lot. I've only passed a couple of farm houses; no road markers or anything. A few billboards, but that's it.
A lot of the billboards are just telling me to read a bible. When I took this job, part of my training was memorizing most of the Old Testament. I don't need to read it again.
If I ever meet SCP-343, I should tell him his advertising campaign isn't very effective.

Just passed the same farmhouse for the third time. I know it's the same one, because it's got a picture of Jesus hugging a sheep painted on its side.
No way more than one farm would have that picture on it. I'm going to keep driving, try and see what's up.

I can't get in contact with the Foundation. My phone doesn't have any reception, and my radio is on the fritz.
Also, my watch says it's 36:55 in the morning, May 13th. Possibly dealing with time-space anomaly. I've parked on the side of the road to see if I'm only affected when I'm driving. If this fails, I'm turning around. I've still got plenty of gas, despite driving for… I don't know, a day maybe.
God, they're going to make me turn this log in, aren't they? Then they'll chew me out for being unprofessional.
Well, I haven't been acting official so far. Why start now?

The sun still hasn't risen. It hasn't risen for hours. I'm turning around.

Finch, May 13th. The time is… I have no idea. I feel like it's been a day since my last recording. I'm hungry and tired. I don't want to go to sleep on this fucked up stretch of highway, but I may not have a choice.
Driving in the opposite direction didn't change anything. I keep seeing the same billboards, the same farmhouses, the same weird painting of Jesus hugging a sheep. The car still hasn't run out of gas, and the dash is saying I've only driven ten miles since my last recording.
Still no word from the Foundation.

Slept. Not sure how long. I feel rested, but still hungry. Ate a few breakfast bars I brought along. They didn't help much.
I just remembered I have my handgun in the glove compartment. I can't bring myself to use it. I'm scared this highway will draw out my dying moments for weeks; maybe forever. I don't want to—
Shit. Damn it. I can see the farmhouse that has the painting of Jesus on it. Only I'm coming up on its other side; the side without the painting.
I got turned around somewhere. Or this highway turned itself around. I have no idea. It seems like this place is just fucking with me. There are no consistent patterns.
The sun just set for the fifth time since I started this recording. I need to take a break.

Just passed a car parked on the side of the highway. My car. I was standing outside of it, watching me pass by. It looked like I had broken down.
I didn't stop. I didn't want to find out if what I saw was real or not.
I think this place is driving me crazy.

May 13th, 00:00 PM. That's what my watch says, at least.
I slept, and had a dream about being back at the Site. I was telling everyone about this highway. I think it was me, at least; I never saw my face in the dream. For some reason, the Site looked like the house I grew up in.
Jesus was in my dream, along with a sheep. Everyone acted like they were researchers. They called him ‘Jerry'. His sheep turned into 682 and ate Powell.
I woke up laughing.
Fuck Powell.

Something happened! Thank god, something happened. My tire popped. I skidded to the side of the road and stopped. I've never been so happy to get a flat tire.
I'm not off of this highway, but at least I'm not driving. I was scared that nothing ever changed here; that things stayed sort of stagnant. Like, you drove and you always drove, with nothing stopping the car from running.
Does that make sense? It might not. I'm a little out of it. I ran out of breakfast bars yesterday.

May 13th. Still stuck on the side of the road. Tried walking to get help. I wound up looping back to my car somehow, only now my car is beside the Jesus farmhouse.
I tried walking to the farmhouse. Knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I waited outside for hours, but there were no signs of life.
After a while, I decided to just force the door open. I looked through the whole house, but didn't find anyone. There was food, though. And beds.
Normally, I'm against sleeping in strange farmhouses, but I think I'll make an exception tonight.

Slept for a long while. Ate a sandwich. Changed out of my suit, into overalls and a flannel shirt. I couldn't take a shower; no running water.
The TV worked, though. I'm not sure what inspired me to turn it on; maybe I was just testing everything.
I turned the TV on to a news story about the Watergate scandal. Changed the channel, and it was the Royal Wedding. Every channel was something different, from some different point in time. I keep changing the channel, but I haven't cycled around yet.
I'm on channel 1,356 now. It's an episode of some show called Cop Rock. I think I'm just going to watch it for a while.

What the fuck, why are the cops singing?

May 13th. My watch is cycling through random numbers at this point. Best guess is it's my third day stuck on this highway. I can't be sure.
I tried listening to this log to get a sense of how much time has passed. The recording is warped, or something; the entries have all been slowed down. I sat listening to the first log for what felt like a few hours.
I'm back by the car. I had to get out of that farmhouse. The TV was showing news stories that haven't happened yet. Earthquakes, mass shootings, and a couple of things that I recognized as the results of currently contained SCP's.
If I get out of here, I plan on telling the sites currently holding those SCP's about what I saw. It might help stop any future breaches. Or I might be going crazy. Either way, it's important to talk to people.

It's been a while since my last recording. I've been trying to change the tire on my car. I don't know why; I guess there just isn't much else to do.
I touched my face a little while ago. I felt whiskers. I looked in the mirror and saw I've grown a beard.
I thought I'd only been here a few days.

I just saw myself drive past. I didn't even stop to help change the tire. Asshole. Past me was a jerk.

Managed to change the tire. My watch is dead.
Had a dream about the handgun in my glove compartment. I feel like it's the only way out.
This god damned highway isn't going to beat me.

May 13th; Jason Finch, personal audio log.
This is either going to be the most unofficial report in SCP history, or the last words of a dead man.
I'm going to turn off the highway and drive off of the road; into the fields, past the farmhouse and Jesus and his lamb. It's the only thing left to do that I can think of. I've got no clue if this will work or not. I'm sort of just holding out hope that this anomaly has some way out.
If it doesn't work…
If it doesn't work, I plan on driving into the nearby farmhouse at seventy miles per hour; maybe faster. I'm going to drive right into Jesus's smiling face and splatter myself all over the house's tasteful country décor.
Pistol's on standby if that won't get the job done. I still hope that it won't come to that, but I've got to think realistically.
To the Foundation: I probably don't need to tell you this, but don't take any chances with this place. Build a wall around it; blow it up, do whatever. I'm not sure at what point the anomaly starts, but I bet you'll throw enough class-D's at it to figure things out.
To Ben: You'll probably never hear this. I kind of hope that's the case, anyway. But I'm glad to have known you. Us meeting each other was worth everything I've gone through as part of the Foundation. I love you.
And, finally, to Powell: Go fuck yourself.
Okay. That's the last will and testament shit out of the way.
Agent Jason Finch, signing off.


Note: This is part one in a multi-part story based around the events leading up to the containment of SCP-2982

Harold Maine sat at the reading desk and leafed through the medical dictionary. The words meant nothing to him - just fancy, nonesuch educated bullshit - but his eyes lingered over the black and white pictures, trying in vain to imagine their lurid, gruesome color.
"Did you even hear me? I've paid you what I can".
He looked up, suddenly remembering the woman and child standing before him, and regarded them intently.
"How did you get here today, Helen?"
The woman looked confused. "The bus," she answered. "We came by bus."
"Then you can still pay more," Maine said. "Next time, you'll have to walk."
"But I - "
Maine raised his hand to silence her. His finger traced a word in the medical book as he spoke it. "Hy-per-tri-cho-sis would be bad for her right now, don't you think?" He gestured towards the child. "Werewolf syndrome.  Very hairy.  Life changing, but not life endangering. Yet."
The child clung to her mother's leg. "Mommy?"
"Don't worry Angela," Helen said. "I won't let anything happen to you."
Maine snorted and turned his attention towards the child. "If this wasn't a public library I'd show you just how fucking incapable of protecting you your mommy is. Or will be, if she doesn't pay me every week."
He let the threat linger whilst the child sank further behind her mother's legs. The library was empty, and for a moment the world around them forgot to exist. There were just the three of them in the whole of the universe; two scared rabbits and a salivating, greedy fox.
And then the world breathed again.
"How am I supposed to pay you?" Helen asked, "When I'm like this?"  She looked down at what used to be her arms. She had been elegant, beautiful, athletic. Her limbs lithe and long, her body in perfect symmetrical proportion. A ballet dancer's poise and grace.
And then Harold Maine had come along. She remembered the day well; mid-afternoon, heavy rain after days of sweltering, unseasonal heat. Squatting directly overhead, the pregnant mother of all thunderstorms had gathered above San Antonio, and its waters were breaking. She drove down Fulton Avenue, late for a doctor's appointment, the road surface slick with water and accumulated oil from drought-dry days. The lights turned red, she stopped. The car behind her didn't, the tyres unable to grip against the frictionless highway. A middle-aged man, balding and greasy, emerged from the stricken vehicle, his arms and legs scrabbling like a hermit crab clambering out of its shell. Although the downpour punished them both equally, instantly soaking them to the skin, he already looked more a creature of the sea bed than of the normal, waking world. The precipitation was incidental, she realised instinctively; even in the most sun-parched of places there could not be a single part of him, or his life, that was not damp and sweating and moulding to the core.
Against her better judgement they exchanged names, license plates, phone numbers. He told her it was for the insurance.
And then days later the texts started, and then the misplaced romantic slime, and then the graphic, grotesque sexts. She tolerated it up to a point, but after five weeks she told him exactly what she thought. Told him in no uncertain terms that she was not, nor ever would be, interested in him, in any way. Harold Maine was not to contact her or approach her again, ever. The unwanted attention immediately stopped. And that was an end to it. She put her child to bed, brushed her teeth, watched a DVD with a glass of wine, and retired for the night.
She woke up at 04:27 the next morning to find her arms and her elegant slender fingers gone. Replaced with these. The desire to cry brought her back to the here and now, but she fought it; she had to be strong for Angela.
"Yeah sorry about those," Maine said, looking at what used to be her fingers. "Didn't even know what 'thalidomide-impaired' meant at the time.  Who woulda thunk it? No hard feelings." His face brightened. "Hey," he said, with mock enthusiasm, "maybe if you do wonderful things for me, like pay me what I tell you, when I tell you, I'll put you back to normal.  Maybe make you rich too. Would you like that?"
Helen could not speak; the words were caught in her throat.
"I'll take that as a yes," Maine said. He became immediately disinterested. "I could just change you again anyway," he shrugged. The chair creaked as he relaxed back into it. "Make you obedient to me." He looked down to the little girl and waved her away. "Go play somewhere else, stupid little fuck."
"Y'know," he continued, addressing the woman, "I could make you my willing slave. You know I could." He studied her eyes, saw the tears welling up and overflowing. His gaze drifted downwards again. "Wow," he laughed softly. "They're not even hands, are they? What would you call 'em? Claws? Pincers? Holy fuck."
Helen shuddered. She tried to hide it, but could not. Harold Maine saw it, and smiled again. "But no," he said. "This way is better for the soul."
"My soul is fine," she answered. "Just fine." The defiance in her voice was unconvincing, but she knew by now that he liked her to have a certain 'resistance'. Too much and it angered him and he got cruel; too little and it bored him, and he got cruel.
"Maybe it is," Maine said. "Maybe it isn't.  Hey what if I overtype your star sign with damned for all eternity?"
"Overtype?"
"What?"
"You said overtype - "
Maine became angered instantly. "Forget I said that," he said. "Just forget it or I'll fix that stupid daughter of yours so she eats through her ass and shits through her mouth. You think I wouldn't?"
"I'm sorry," Helen said. "I promise. I'm sorry."
"Because I could do that.  Easily."
"Yes, Mr Maine."  She used the formal term now; he would accept that. "I just - I'm sorry." But for the first time in weeks she felt hope. He had let something important slip. She had a clue now, a hint, no matter how vague, as to how he worked his horrific, twisted miracles. He changed - he overwrote - something, and the changes came true. What though? A book? A diary?
Maine leant back in the chair and closed the medical dictionary.  The noise echoed around the empty library and was lost. Maine finally looked up at her again. "I loved you," he confessed. "Still do. I could make you so happy. If only you let me."  He took the eighty six dollars from the desk and stuffed them into his wallet. "You can keep the small change," he offered. Again his eyes settled on her deformed limbs. "Oh you can't, can you?"
Helen's daughter ran up, spaded the coins into her hands, and ran off again. "Goodbye for now, Future Mrs Maine," he said, and the woman turned and left; her head bowed in defeat.  Within ten steps, her head was held high again for her daughter, and within another thirty she was gone.
"Future Mrs Maine,"  he pronounced quietly. She would have a long walk home. And then an image came to him, unbidden and out of the blue, and he laughed out loud at his own genius, and the sound reverberated around the library, cold and stark and totally without humour. "Can't even thumb a ride," he said.
Harold Maine reopened the dictionary. "Who's next - Aidan Brown? Fucking shit-heel stinks of fish but money is money."
He was still smiling to himself when the shambling, groaning half-man-half-lobster advanced towards him from the entrance. Ignored and invisible - to everyone else but Harold Maine at least - the monster pulled its bulk slowly towards the reading desk where Harold Maine sat. Once there, it wheezed and gasped and shifted position, desperate for comfort in a form where none could be found, and waited to be addressed.
After counting up to five in his head, Maine looked up. "Ah," he said, looking into the ruined face, the corrupted body, the ribs fused with shell, the one remaining lung exposed, folded over, and grinding against itself as it struggled to breathe. "Aidan Brown. What have you got for me today?"
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