Dr. Adileh Khayyam entered the Site-43 cafeteria with analytical eyes, scanning from table to table with a slight frown until they settled upon a pale, tired-looking woman with short, black hair. The woman poured over several notes over a mug of coffee, pausing to look up at Dr. Khayyam, then immediately looked down. Dr. Khayyam chuckled to herself and quietly went to make herself a mug of coffee. She could feel the woman watching her the whole time, but when Dr. Khayyam turned back around, once again, the woman pretended to look over her papers. Dr. Khayyam quietly carried the mug over, and took a seat.
"Good afternoon, Researcher Mabel," Dr. Khayyam said softly. "Do you mind if I join you?"
"You can call me Carolyn," the woman replied with a sigh, "and no, feel free."
Dr. Khayyam nodded, and took a long sip of her coffee. Researcher Mabel continued to avoid her gaze.
"I didn't see you at the seminar today," Dr. Khayyam continued. "Heard from a little bird you were planning on dropping the Anomalous Humanoids Certification entirely. Is this true?"
Researcher Mabel sighed.
"That's the last time I tell Ian anything…" she mumbled and finally locked eyes with her senior. "Yes. It's true."
Dr. Khayyam took another sip from her coffee before setting the mug down.
"Why though, exactly?" she asked. "If you don't mind sharing."
"Because, to be frank, Dr. Khayyam, if I've learned anything from your seminars these past three weeks, it's that Ana Hums positions burn people out fast," Researcher Mabel explained. She then clenched her fists in emphasis. "It's… soul crushing. And honestly, I don't think I'm cut out for it. I do appreciate your recommendation, but you have the wrong person."
Dr. Khayyam smiled as she listened, eventually chuckling softly again. Researcher Mabel tilted her head.
"You find that funny?" she asked.
"A little, yeah," Dr. Khayyam replied. "It's just… I remember thinking that exact thing when I was in your shoes, way back when…"

"Congratulations!" Dr. Freedmen said with an ear to ear grin. "Heard you all just got certified. Welcome to Ana Hums!"
A young Adileh Khayyam gave a small smile in return as well as a half-hearted nod.
"Still feel like I'm making a huge mistake," Adileh replied, looking again at the Anomalous Humanoid Specialist Certificate she loosely held in her grip. "Let's give it a shot though."
Dr. Freedman waved away her concerns with a roll of his hand.
"Dr. Khayyam," he replied with a confident laugh, "I've been in Anomalous Humanoids at Site-43 for 30 years now. I've seen a lot of talented people get that little gold star you have in your hands, and I can promise you that all of them, regardless of how successful they eventually became, felt the same way you do now! Trust me, Adileh. You're going to do fine."
Adileh nodded and looked down at the certificate again, concentrating on the print.
"I've got this…" she reassured herself.
"Do you know what team you're going to be assigned to first?" Dr. Freedmen's voice broke her concentration.
"Oh, uh, 2370..." Adileh replied. She then gave a small chuckle. "Here's hoping the assignment doesn't suck the life out of me"
"Au contraire," Dr. Freedmen replied with an ear to ear grin shrinking to a small melancholy smile, "You'll find that it's just as likely that we'll suck the life out of them."

"I guess I just don't know how you do it then," Researcher Mabel went on. "You told us the horror stories yourself. When Ana Hums work gets bad, it gets really bad. They aren't abstract ideas or world sized eldritch horrors that destroy worlds by accident the way a human unknowingly crushes an ant. These are people. They look like you and me. They know how people work and how to get under your skin. Worse, they can do things like exsanguination with a touch, or turn people into marble. Real monsters. How do you do it?"
"Practicing jazz piano mostly," Dr. Khayyam said with a smile. "In all seriousness, you are right and there is no escaping that. We see really twisted and evil souls in Anomalous Humanoids, but there is a reason why we are there. We're the ones who analyze. We get inside their heads, and consult the Containment Specialists on how to best contain them. What kind of tricks they might try. Sure, we have to go into the lion's den on occasion, but in the end we are rewarded by helping make a better cage to keep them in. In the end, that's a big part of the drive."
"And the horror doesn't stick with you?!?"
"I mean, it does. Like I said before, there is no escaping that…"

Adileh sat in the interview room in silence, organizing several papers in front of her as she gathered her thoughts. Across from her was a slender, tan man dressed in the typical anomalous humanoid jumpsuit. Upon his face were several bruises and scrapes where security personnel had beaten him.
"I guess I just don't know what to do at this point, Terry," Adileh sighed. "Why do you feel the need to use your abilities in this way? Grind down others into raw nerves until they lash out at you."
Terry looked at her stoically, without a word. His eyes occasionally scanned her up and down.
"Your emphatic abilities could bring so much healing to others, if you wanted them too, but instead you seek to hurt others. What do you gain from it? Help me understand, Terry."
"There is nothing to understand," Terry finally replied in a soft voice. "People go entire lifetimes without saying what weighs on their minds, without embracing their emotions, and unfortunately those thoughts swarm to me from miles around. I just repeat them to finally set them free. No malice. Just clearing the clutter that's getting dumped on me."
"And the best time to do that is when it will hurt the people around you?" Adileh asked, jotting down some notes, then looking back up at Terry with a quizzical expression.
He sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Perhaps instead of picking my brain you should get the mess that is yours sorted out," he returned. "They don't like you, by the way. That really is weighing you down."
"No," Adileh said sharply. "We're not doing that Terry. I won't let you try to get under my skin, especially since for all I know you could be lying."
"Maybe," Terry gave a sheepish grin. "But you'll never be sure, won't you?"
Adileh sighed and made her way to the door.
"I really am trying to help you, Terry," she said. "I do hope someday you'll realize that."

"The other side of the spectrum is even worse though," Researcher Mabel commented, looking into her now empty mug. "Innocent people, sometimes children locked away like cattle, and Ana Hums is on the front lines to watch them wither away and despair. It's easy to justify locking away a monster, but a toddler?"
Dr. Khayyam nodded in agreement.
"It's not a part of the job I particularly enjoy, but if that toddler melts the flesh off people on contact…"
She faded out, gesturing her hand in a circle.
"But on the other side, we're the ones who provide the little bits of hope. Suggestions on what can be done to keep our subjects, while not necessarily content, still feeling like someone sees them as a person. It's far from ideal, but between us and the Ethics Committee, we help keep the Foundation from shifting from cold to cruel."

"Any luck, Dr. Adileh?" a little Asian girl asked. She sat on the cot in her containment cell, her jumpsuit at least two sizes too big for her. She looked around the room aimlessly as she waited for a reply.
"I'm afraid not," Adileh's voice came from over the intercom.
The little girl nodded in silence, her eyes falling down on the floor.
"I guess… I hoped…"
"Now now," Adileh's voice interrupted. "I didn't say there wasn't something I could do. Check your chute."
The little girl blinked and nodded, heading over to the small door on the nearby wall where her meals were usually delivered. She opened the sliding door carefully, inside she found a handheld game console.
"You said you used to have one of those at home, right?" Adileh asked.
The little girl nodded, taking it back to her bed and flipping it on. The title screen soon appeared.

Nintendogs

"Not the same thing as a real puppy, but it's as close as I can offer, sweetie," Adileh said.
The girl smiled.
"Thank you, Dr. Adileh," she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
The cell then filled with the sounds of barks as she dove into the game.
In a nearby observation room, Adileh turned off the intercom and smiled at the little girl on the monitor.
"You're welcome," she said to herself.

"How do you not get dragged down then?" Researcher Mabel shook her head. "I just don't see how you can be so cavalier about this position. What keeps you on the surface? Besides the 'Locking up the Monsters' and 'Being Santa Claus' shtick. What is it?"
Dr. Khayyam finished her mug of coffee and shrugged.
"I'm going to let you in on a little secret here, Carolyn," she said. "No one in the Foundation, not the Researchers, not the MTF agents, not the O5 or even the custodians, stays above the surface all the time. Sometimes you will see something that will cover your legs in concrete and pull you into some pretty dark places. The thing about Ana Hums, though, is that when your subjects learn that they can trust you and that you are a friend, they start to depend on you. So, you'll pull yourself back up to the surface, if not for yourself, then for them."
"That sounds like it can backfire…"
"Heh," Dr. Khayyam chuckled and nodded. "Sometimes it does, most of the time though, it doesn't. It's hard to explain…"

The Site-43 alarm klaxons filled the halls as Adileh crouched behind her desk, a pistol held tightly in her hand as she waited for the breach to end, or security personnel to find her and remove her to a secured sector.
"Come on, come on…" she said under her breath as she watched the door. "Where are you guys…"
She stifled her breathing as she noticed the handle move and the door slowly open. A lanky teenage boy with dark skin entered, dressed in a typical anomalous humanoid jumpsuit.
"Doc?" he asked as he entered. "You in here?"
"Evan?" Adileh asked, getting up from her hiding spot, her pistol aimed at the young man, "What… how did you get here?"
"Wow, I didn't know you packed…" he said, and closed the door behind him. He then placed his hands over his head and sat down on the floor. "If I sit here until security finds us, will you not shoot me?"
Adileh lowered the gun.
"Evan," she said sternly. "How did you get here. I do need to know."
"Power got knocked out to my cell door. A bunch of us were able to get out. I figured you might be in danger and so I found my way here."
"That's… sweet?" Adileh raised an eyebrow questioningly. "And the others?"
"A few stayed in their cells. The rest made a break for it."
"You didn't join them?"
He shrugged.
"I thought about it, but as much as I hate it here, I imagine I would hate getting shot more. Besides, I have literally no idea where we are, so what's the good in escaping if you're on the moon, or beneath the ocean."
"Smart."
"My parents didn't raise a fool," Evan grinned. "Also, you've always been so kind to me. If something happened to you during this, and I was just sitting in my cell twiddling my thumbs I don't know what I'd do."
"My hero," Adileh said with small smile. "I appreciate the thought, Evan. Thank you."
"What are friends for?"

"Listen, in the end, you're going to need to do what's best for you," Dr. Khayyam sighed, getting up to bus her dirty mug. "If you don't think Ana Hums is where you need to be, I'll gladly give you any recommendations you need so you can get there. But I truly do think you'd miss your calling, Carolyn."
"Why is that?" Researcher Mabel frowned.
"You've got everything we look for in our specialists. Attentiveness, compassion, empathy, and you remind me a bit of myself when I was in your shoes."
Researcher Mabel looked down at the table, the gears of her mind rapidly turning in thought.
"It just feels like I might be making a huge mistake…"
Dr. Khayyam smiled.
"Carolyn," she said. "I've been in Anomalous Humanoids at Site-43 for 15 years now. I can promise you that all of us started out feeling the same way."
Dr. Khayyam watched as Researcher Mabel looked down in doubt once more, then look up and nod, a small smile on her face.
"Trust me," Dr. Khayyam patted her on the shoulder. "If you take this path, you're going to do fine. See you at the next seminar."


Dr. Anderson rubbed his bleary eyes, and rolled over in his bunk. He jolted awake when he saw the blinking light on his digital alarm clock. Why the hell didn't anyone wake me up?
“Come in, Bravo Two. Bravo Two, do you read me?”
Dead static was his only answer. He jumped to the floor, grabbing his coat off the door and shoving it open in one fluid motion.
“Bravo Two, come in, this is Bravo Three, radio check. I say again, radio check,” shouted Anderson, straining to get the words out in the howling Siberian wind.
He trudged through the snow to the Site-3034 central building, in a hundred-meter journey that felt like it took hours. As soon as he opened the door, a foul smell of vomit and urine hit his nostrils, and surveying the room, he knew why nobody had replied. The furniture and equipment lay strewn across the floor, shattered into wood splinters and broken electronics. Something was wrong with the lights, too, with only a single flickering bulb illuminating the wreckage. His eyes darted across the room, and the breath caught in his throat as he saw the bodies strewn across the floor. As he took a step forward, he felt the crunch of broken glass beneath his feet. Anderson gave the nearest still form a tentative poke. With no response, he rolled the man with the callsign Bravo Two over onto his back.
“Vaslov! Agent Vaslov, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
Agent Vaslov let out a small groan. Blood trickled from his forehead.
“Couldn't… control…”
“Vaslov, speak to me! Misha!”
“… Anderson? I'm sorry… we should have… should have told…”
Vaslov spluttered, groaned again and lapsed back into unconsciousness. Anderson cursed under his breath. What the hell happened here? At least he's alive.
A series of electronic tones interrupted his thoughts.
Oh, no, no, no.
Двести, said the girl's voice. Two hundred.
Not now. Please, God, not now.
сто девяносто девять. сто девяносто восемь. сто девяносто семь. One hundred and ninety-nine. One hundred and ninety-eight. One hundred and ninety-seven.
Anderson ran to the middle of the room, where the radio equipment was. His heart sank as he saw the smoke and sparks coming out of the set. What the hell did they do to the radio? This can't be a coincidence.
He began pushing buttons and fiddling with dials.
“все хорошо. все хорошo,” he repeated, his voice cracking with desperation.
сто тридцать один. сто тридцать. сто двадцать девять. One hundred and thirty-one. One hundred and thirty. One hundred and twenty-nine.
Oh God, oh god. “все хорошо!” he yelled into the microphone.
“все хорошо?” a voice replied. Anderson jumped, and spun round to see the body of Dr. Walter lurching towards him, swaying from side to side, arms outstretched.
“Jesus, Walter! What the hell is going on? How do we transmit the kill code? Where is the backup system?”
“все хорошо?” said Dr. Walter, as he shambled towards him.
“God damn you, Walter, the kill code! все хорошо! All is well! все хорошо!”
девяносто пять. девяносто четыре. девяносто три. Ninety-five. Ninety-four. Ninety-three.
“все хорошо. All is well. All is well. All is well,” Walter slurred, comprehension beginning to dawn on his dulled features. “All is well!” he laughed, wild eyes flashing.
“All is well!”
“All is well!”
“All is well!”
Anderson looked around the room in terror, as the prone forms on the ground stirred to life, turning to stare at him, repeating the phrase in unison.
“All is well!” the others shouted, their voices building to a crescendo of demented laughter. They began to advance upon him, shuffling and swaying.
“Get - get back!” screamed Anderson, his hand fumbling for his sidearm, finding nothing at his hip. Why did I leave the gun in the barracks? “Get away from me!”
Тридцать. двадцать девять. двадцать восемь. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.
The broadcast was now loud enough for Anderson to make out the screaming in the background, building to a fever pitch.
“This is Anderson at Site-3034!” he yelled into his receiver. “We have a Level 1 emergency! 3034 containment protocols have failed. I repeat, Site-3034 has a full containment failure!”
Only the crackle of static was his reply. He let out a strangled sob and threw the radio to the ground, where it shattered, its remains mixing amongst the rest of the debris. The voices were getting louder and louder – the shouting of his colleagues and the girl's radio broadcast mingling in a cacophony of noise. He put his hands over his ears, and sank to the floor, watching the others continue their march towards him. This is it. Is 3034 an XK object? I'll be the first to find out.
Три. Два. Один. Three. Two. One.
He heard the muffled sound of far-off gunfire and explosions, drowned out by a colossal, booming roar, shaking the foundations of the building.

с новым годом.

Before Dr. Anderson fainted, he felt Dr. Walter's arms close around him, and smelt the stench of alcohol on his breath.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR, COMRADE!”


A little silly maybe, but was listening to a song and felt like writing something short and sweet.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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"I'm on my way."
Dr. Jeffrey Jacobs put the phone down. He kicked the door open before moving into the hall with his pistol leveled. The hallway was empty except for the collapsed ceiling. Smoke rose from the pile of broken ceiling tiles. Electrical wires hanging out of the ceiling sparked in the darkness. Jacobs heard the sound of something wheezing behind him and spun around.
Dr. Jacobs sighed at the sight of a green haired monster that scraped the ceiling. It loped in his direction as soon as he noticed it. Dr. Jacobs shook his head and opened fire while running forward. The beast screamed in rage and continued forward. Dr. Jacobs slid to the floor at the last second and continued to fire as he went through the thing's legs. The beast took spun in place and took two steps towards Jacobs before it stopped and fell backwards.
Dr. Jacobs stood up and replaced his empty magazine. The containment breach siren began to sound. The entire facility rocked as he stood up. He ran down the hall and turned left at the end of it. A huge fire blocked his way in this direction, so he grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and went to work. The fire wasn't quite out before he heard the screeching of metal.
The wall behind Jacobs exploded outward into a spray of shrapnel and motes of fire. A dervish of flame and dust screamed at him as he lifted the nozzle of the extinguisher. It rushed forward as he pulled the lever and the scream intensified. He could feel the heat on his face as the entity fought through the chemicals that spewed out of the nozzle. The entity reached forward and swung at Jacob's face as the living flame flickered and died out.
Jacobs wiped his brow and turned to run through the flames. The blaring of the breach alarms were constant as he ran down the halls. It became harder and harder to tell the red light cast by the flames from the emergency lights on the walls.
Jacobs burst through the cafeteria doors and made it about halfway across the floor. The sound of automatic gunfire caused him to drop and flip a table for defense. To Jacobs' surprise, the medium velocity rounds failed to pierce the table. Foundation engineering. Jacobs was running out of time. The gunfire continued until Jacobs heard a high pitched scream.
Jacobs hazarded a peek over the top of his shield. The man on the far side of the cafeteria was lying face down with a young boy attached to his back. The child looked up at Jacobs. He saw the child's mouth, round and filled with layers of razor sharp teeth, covered in blood. It went back to its grim work and Jacobs ran out of the cafeteria.
Outside of the cafeteria was an office door with a nameplate: Dr. Charlotte Lafayette.
Dr. Jacobs knocked.
"Wh-who is it?"
"It's me," he said, cursing himself immediately afterward for not saying his name.
It didn't matter, he heard a loud sigh of relief and the moving of furniture on the other side of the door. The door flew open and he went inside. The two of them pushed the furniture back up against the door before taking a moment to look at each other.
The look turned into a hug. As they began to separate she pulled him in to a kiss.
The building rocked again and they stumbled together.
Dr. Lafayette smiled up at him. "I thought you were dead."
"So did I."
"What do you want to do?"
Jacobs brushed frazzled hair from the side of her face. "Already did it."
The two of them leaned back against the wall opposite the door and slid down. She leaned her head onto his shoulder and they sat together for Site-13's last few minutes.


He was always surprised at just how simple it was to steal from the gods.
The Librarian was a robed semi-human thing with an ink-stained hand for a head. Despite its frail appearance, whatever it wanted, the Library gave it: which only made the fact someone had stolen an entire section of the Library right in front of it even more perplexing.
Landen Eckhart twirled his pen and tapped its top against the notepad he'd been scribbling on. "Every book from that entire shelf over there." He motioned with his head at the recently-emptied bookshelf next to him. "And nothing else?"
The Librarian's head dipped forward in response.
"Right. But you didn't stop them, because-"
It smacked the flat of its hand-head against the the shelf, before beginning to scrawl on the wood with its fingers. As they squelched against the surface, ink welled from gaping pores on its skin and stained the shelf's finish. ACTORS (BY (TIME (DETECTED (CRIME))) (OUTSIDE (LIBRARY))).
Landen didn't exactly consider himself an expert on the niceties of Library architecture, but the shelf was enormous even by its standards. Just looking up at it gave him vertigo, and the omnipresent 'ASCPAB' acronym spray-bombed onto its side was written in letters taller than he was. "But.. how could you not have picked up on the theft while it was in progress? I mean, there's space for, what, a million books on that shelf, it couldn't have been done that quickly."
The Librarian's hand balled into a fist in response and for a moment Landen thought it was going to punch him in the face for what he'd said. Instead, it began scribbling on the shelf with renewed intensity. DURING (CRIME THREAT (NUCLEAR)). ATTENTION-ON (CRIME). ONLY-DETECTED (THIEVES DURING (EXIT (LIBRARY))). COMBINED (ATTENTION-ON (CRIME) HARD (DETECTION)) IMPLIES (UNABLE-TO (DETECT (ACTORS))).
"Sure." Landen transcribed the rant onto his notepad and tucked it back into his pocket, unable to wholly suppress a sigh of disappointment. "Well, in that case, I can't say I blame you. Thanks for your time-" He squinted at the red-and-white name-tag someone had slapped onto its robe in an (unsuccessful) attempt to make it look more approachable. "-Ham."
Its palm opened up to reveal rings of teeth and tongues that gargled something like 'no problems' at him, before it turned away and left Landen to wipe strings of fluorescent spit off his suit.
He took a moment to search for his partner twice-over amidst the hundreds of levels of the shelf. Eventually, Landen found him taking photos of the thirty-somethingth level and waving a chunky-looking detector over it. With a quick whistle and a minute's climb down the ladder mounted to the shelf, the two were reunited on the ground floor of the building.
"Anything?" Landen asked.
Ari Perkowitz fiddled with the camera for a few more moments before handing it to him with a look of faint disgust on his face. "If there was anything, it's gone now. Everyone got their hands on the crime scene ages before we showed up and fingerprints are a nightmare, let alone thaumic bullshit. Only promising thing I found, I photographed."
Landen glanced at the photo on the screen; a single black chess piece lying in the corner of one of the rows of the shelf. A quick zoom in on the piece in question revealed an ornate crown sculpted into its head. "Hhhhuh. Any artists you know with that signature?"
"None on my watchlist, nope." Ari scowled at the ground and scuffed it with a foot. "Detector didn't pick up anything too suspicious about it, either. It's not a nuke and it's not magic. As far as it can tell, it's just a really nice carving."
"Could we get Noemi to look at it?"
Ari began walking away, gently leading Landen by the hand to the Way out. "You think someone's running a book-based Ponzi scheme? Rob Peter to pay Paul's late fees?"
"She's not just a mercanturge, Ari, Christ." Landen deftly weaved out of the way of a woman made of terracotta who was toting a gigantic tray of gaiwans and other tea-themed paraphernalia. "It's just that Thorne's busy, and she's the next available Blue we could call to check out the thing you found."
"Point."
Before Landen could respond, Ari pulled him behind a tent bordering the 'road' they were on and gingerly unzipped the tent's back. "Way out's in here."
A stiff breeze from the Way's interior blew the scent of burnt coffee and spoilt milk into Landen's face, making him tempted to add vomit to the list of smells coming from the dark passageway. "Ari, I love you, but I literally don't trust the smell of this."
"Well, too bad, because it's the only free Way out to Portlands for two miles." The older agent fished a couple of napkins out of his pockets and tossed them roughly at Landen. "Wedge them up your nose and get crawling, loverboy."
Landen swallowed.

After a much-needed change of clothes and a few calls to the branch office, Ari and Landen found themselves directed to meet up with Noemi at a warehouse on the outskirts of Three Portlands. It was a shabby-looking building with a corrugated-iron roof and little caterpillar legs designed to let it crawl about as needed. The house was midway through the process of doing so when they arrived, at which point it quickly froze in place and tucked its legs underneath itself.
As Landen knocked on the door, he could swear he felt the building tremble a little in fear. Before it could try to roll over and play dead, the door slid to the side, revealing a harried-looking woman in a purple bathrobe with her brown hair in a chopsticked bun and a still-steaming coffee in one hand.
She spent a few seconds patting the wall comfortingly and whispering soothing things into the wooden doorframe, to which the warehouse responded with a content purr. Ari interrupted the display by coughing as indiscreetly as possible and arching his unsinged eyebrow at her. "Noemi. Didn't know you lived here."
"I don't," Noemi Simonides stated flatly. "Girlfriend does. What do you want?"
Ari pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it with a noticeable effort. Its corners exploded out with a loud pop to reveal a plastic evidence bag sitting pretty in the center of the crumpled sheet, the black queen they'd found earlier ensconced in its zip-lock depths. "Robin's busy with some other case, and it's not worth calling in MOOT on this one. We think we've got a lead on a theft case, but hell if I can do anything with it, I'm a shitty wizard: you mind giving this a look-over for us?"
If it was even possible, Noemi's look became even more non-plussed. "Perkowitz, I've got the Infernal Revenue Service hounding me about Faust Bank again in a week. Tell me why I should blow off the Skippers, the Gockers and the Pentagram for some pickpocket with a chess fetish."
Landen cleared his throat quietly. "Actually, they stole every book on artificial intelligence in the Wanderer's Library. If you think the Bermuda real estate economy's going to land you in hot water with the IRS, try 'AI research behind the Veil grinds to a halt.'"
Noemi opened her mouth, thought better of it, then turned to Ari. "He's serious, right?"
Ari shrugged and let his grin speak for itself, to which Noemi responded with a resigned huff. "Come inside, then. Touch anything-"
"We get it, Noemi." Landen bowed his head obligingly and tailed after Noemi, holding the door open for Ari as he did.
From a glance, Landen could tell just what Noemi's girlfriend did for her day job. The apartment was littered with the same artistic detritus that cluttered Ari's home in Chicago, most of them test runs instead of failed final products — a Rubik's tesseract on the beaten-iron coffee table, a few stress balls strewn about the floor that exploded and promptly reformed when Ari walked too close. Arguably the whole house looked like an experiment in style, albeit one that worked.
Noemi motioned for them to sit on a transparent couch that looked like it'd been carved out of a single lick of glass but felt like it was made of cotton candy, and headed off to one of the rooms upstairs. A few moments of staring at the rickety ceiling fans later and she returned, now properly dressed and holding a bottle of pills and a chunky plastic thing that looked like a projector's weird aunt.
She unceremoniously dropped it into Ari's lap, earning a yelp from him as she cleared the table of detritus to reveal an outlet in its surface. "Plug it in," she added, uncapping the bottle of pills.
When the plug was in, Landen ventured to say something: "So, what are you-"
"Following the money," Noemi snapped, downing two of the little capsules and dropping on the couch beside Ari. "Hit the switch, Perkowitz?"
Ari obliged and on the wall opposite the couch, a butterfly-shaped projection of the Earth began to take shape. The projector emitted a high beeping noise like a dial-up modem and Noemi's eyelids snapped open, revealing eyes of solid silver.
Noemi turned to face him with eerie smoothness, and Ari couldn't help but shrink back a bit when faced with those unblinking eyes. "Pass me the evidence bag."
He gingerly pressed it into her upturned palm. As it made contact, four needle-thin beams of light shot from the head of the queen and began converging slowly, each crawling across the map and growing brighter as it wandered inexorably towards its home, somewhere in-
"New Mexico?" Landen murmured under his breath.
Before they could meet at a point, however, Noemi let out a strangled yelp and shut her eyes as if she'd just looked out of a window and come face-to-face with the Sun: metallic tears began to roll down her face as she wiped a surprisingly large sheen of sweat off her brow.
Ari quickly moved over to support her as she sank into the couch, the projection and all with it fading out of existence as she did. "You alright?"
"Albuquerque," Noemi blurted, "South side, warehouse by Holly Avenue-"
"Not alright. Not alright, then. Landen, get her the coffee, she needs energy."
"No, dammit, I'm fine." She waved Landen off as he was midway to bringing the coffee mug to her face, and busied herself with wiping the reflective tears from eyes. Eyelids twitching, she refocussed on something in this plane of existence and grunted. "Feedback loop."
"Wait, hang on- feedback from what?" Landen asked.
She tapped the chess piece through the bag. "Your lead's owner. I'm assuming you know how scrying functions, yes?"
Ari spoke up. "Part affects the whole. If something's been in contact with you or it's important enough to you that it'd be metaphorically part of you, Noemi could use it to find you."
"Reductive, but accurate enough." Noemi began to massage her forehead, sinking back into the couch. "The more of 'you' something has on it, the easier it is to find you with it. This-" She pointed at the bag. "-has so much of its owner on it that it was almost impossible not to know where they were. I'm good, but you know how hard it is to get city-level accuracy across dimensions?"
"Well then, that makes this whole thing pretty open-and-shut, doesn't it?" Ari said wryly.
"Unfortunately not." Noemi grimaced. "That's only one explanation for why the signal's so strong: the more likely one is that this is waffle."
"Magic Eggos?" Landen asked, a trace of hope in his voice.
"I wish. No, it's something that magically pretends to be you, throws a wizard off your actual 'scent'. Like running through a cologne factory to shake off drug dogs."
"Of course. The one lead we have and it's a double-blind." Ari grimaced, folding his arms over his chest and chewing resignedly at his lip.
"That's the most likely possibility at the moment. Somehow I think your culprit would be a bit more careful than to leave something as damning as this at the scene of a crime, no?" Noemi pursed her lips in thought and spent a few moments contemplating a section of the wall, before glancing over to Landen and promptly swatting him on the shoulder. "Is this really the time to play with your phone?"
"The lead might've been a double-blind, but it might still be worth something." Landen stuffed his phone back into his pocket and motioned for them to head out, face drawn and lips a grim line. "We need to get back to the branch office- the Skippers have a situation in Ohio."

Five minutes earlier in the hellish backwater of Sandusky, Ohio, someone had just finished desecrating a grave.
The process was about as messy as you could have guessed, knowing that the final resting place in question was a room deep within the bowels of a Foundation site. By the time the robber in question finally prised open the stainless-steel coffin her arms had been thoroughly basted in an elbow-deep mix of blood and cerebrospinal fluid. Only about half of it was hers — well, she had recycled some from her earlier victims to make up for the occasional bullet wound she sustained, but at that point it was mostly splitting hairs.
She grunted as she lifted the recently-separated cover off the coffin and roughly tossed it to the side, the metal cover smashing against the wall of the cool room with a heavy clang. After a quick glance at the entrance of the room to make sure nobody was in any state to do anything about the noise, she peered into the coffin with a critical eye and examined the body.
The Warrior's body looked like it had been frozen in the moment of death, the only sign that time had even passed for it being the fact that its cheek had stopped being plasma and started being solid matter once more. She nodded mutely as her eyes ran down its length, confirming once more that all the necessary parts were still intact and in place — when every point in her mental checklist was satisfied, she set down the bag of tools slung round her shoulder and took out a wicked hacksaw the length of her arm.
Marking out the cut she needed with the blood that had congealed on her finger, she took a deep breath in and began the process of disassembling divinity.
Everyone knew how simple it was to steal from the gods.
What the Foundation didn't know was how simple it was to steal the god itself.

Next: Suspect Ratio


Inoculation of Solidarity textual memetic carrier completed.
Thank you for your patience.
Please proceed with visual observation of text.

Introduction
The Picture of an Unian is a visual depiction of one unknown specimen of the Unians, a species which were native to the currently-uninhabited planet of Un. It is found in one of the sites belonging to the “three-arrows-in-circle” culture, known for its immerse wealth in material culture during the pre-Un age. Analysis of constituent carbon atoms with the atomic mass fourteen indicates that it is dated to the twenty-first century of the pre-Un calendar, pursuant to synchronised calibration with the great atomic clocks of Un. The discovery of The Picture of an Unian has posed many new questions within the field of Unian Studies.
Identity of the Unian depicted
Similar to other extant Unian visual depictions such as The Four Unians, the identity of the Unian specimen depicted in The Picture of an Unian is not known. That being said, there are theories that posit various indicators of the depicted Unian's social attributes. They are: the ‘lord theory' and ‘outsider theories'.
The ‘lord theory' posits that the Unian depicted in The Picture of an Unian is an important member of the “three-arrows-in-circle” culture, specifically the lord of the site it was found at. Proponents of this theory often cite the picture's presence inside inside the inner sanctum of a “three-arrows-in-circle” cultural site as evidence, claiming that only artefacts important to the “three-arrows-in-circle” culture would be placed there. If accurate, this would be the first known depiction of a member of the “three-arrows-in-circle” culture identified.
The ‘outsider theories' are united in their counter-argument to the aforementioned ‘lord theory', and posit that the Unian depicted in The Picture of an Unian is instead a member of an unknown separate cultural group that has interacted with the “three-arrows-in-circle” culture. Proponents of this theory are quick to highlight the lack of the “three-arrows-in-circle” rune in the Unian specimen's attire. Instead, an undecipherable rune is identified on its attire – presumably denoting the depicted Unian's cultural group.
That being said, as the term ‘outsider theories' suggest, there are multiple factions that advocate a distinct persona for the depicted Unian. Some examples of the pluralism of the ‘outsider theories' include a captive from a hostile culture, a candidate for marriage into the “three-arrows-in-circle” culture, or even a deity revered by the “three-arrows-in-circle” culture.
Sounds of the Unian
The most distinctive feature of The Picture of an Unian is its capacity to generate sound waves in response to visual stimuli transmitted into the picture. The means the visual depiction does so is not known to conventional methods, rendering it an incredible trait to Un Culture Exploration Society. To date, contemporary research into natural processes are unable to offer an explanation for this phenomenon. This is perhaps indicative that the myth of pre-Un Un's primitiveness is indeed a myth, or at least for the Unian “three-arrows-in-circle” culture.
To date, this incredible trait is only seen in The Picture of an Unian. Prevailing theories to explain the trait's uniqueness range from a novelty item, a prototype, to a specification intended by its unknown creator(s). Unlike the theories surrounding the identity of the Unian depicted in The Picture of an Unian, there has not yet been any factionalism regarding the theories surrounding The Picture of an Unian's generation of sound waves.
Of note, the intensity of sound waves generated by The Picture of an Unian increases when an observer is nearing it. These results were reproduced in over one hundred experiments, involving a unique species native to Orion Arm in each iteration. Thus, the sound waves are believed to a response upon the sight of non-Unian species. The presence of a live Unian specimen would be beneficial to verify such a theory, although a live Unian needs to be recovered or cloned first. Until then, this will make do.
While it is within reason that the sound waves generated might possess semiotic function, there is no means to verify or disprove it. The Solidarity textual memetic carrier, while hypothetically a plausible solution, has no effect on sound waves transmitted.
Physiology of the Unian
With no extant fossil or physical remnant of any Unians to be found, Unian Studies have long relied on visual depictions to gain some manner of insight into areas such as Unian physiology.
The Picture of an Unian offers a noteworthy contribution to the understanding of Unian physiology, verifying the existence of an upper torso in the Unian's physiology. The existence of the upper torso (and appendages) would allow Unians to manipulate objects and modify the surroundings, leading to the numerous ruins across Un and its abandoned colonies.
Most other extant Unian visual depictions such as The Four Unians simply comprise of the head, which is presumably an ancestral form of the Unian species. This theory is highly probable, as it aligns with the evolutionary patterns of 75% of sapient species native to Orion Arm. Unlike the previous two aspects that are heavily debated upon, there is minimal debate among the scientific community over the evolutionary patterns of the Unian species.
After all, it is only natural for all sapient life to begin existence from the head. The entities once native to Un cannot be any different.


The icemen slowly crossed the mountain pass, moving with utterly implacable confidence. A good two or so days since they had left the Cloud, but the mission was one of utter importance. They could not fail. They could never fail, not when their Tsar needed them. The peaks of the Urals stretched very high above them, but only one–a lone straggler stumbling somewhat near the back–looked up at them. Whether he saw anything, it was hard to tell, what with his lack of eyes. But still, the straggler shrugged gently, as if in sigh, and continued to push onward. He marched in unison with the rest of them, identical to the rest. They were moving as one carefully coordinated organism. One organism composed of so many frozen parts interlinking and interlocked. A siphonophore of soldiers. Their guns were identical, their faces identical.
This time, there would be no belligerents, no enemies for the Tsar to stop. Today they carried only the most basic of their vast capabilities for weaponry. There was still a purpose, however. They could not live without a purpose. Two days earlier they had arrived at the Cave, an ancient thing tucked away in a foothill. Within the cave it was still cold, and so they simply went through the motion of making a campfire. The real thing would be too dangerous to their fragile forms, but they collectively felt in their frozen chests that it was the correct thing to do in this situation. Following this shambolic parody of a camp, they attended to their tasks. It was a rare burst of individual time for the community, ordinarily not permitting themselves that kind of frivolity. A select few gathered snow from the bitter windswept hill, and took to work polishing their weapons. Most kind of wandered about, miming meaningless arguments and bumping into walls.
There were a scant handful though, who looked up in wonder at the scratchings and figures decorating the cave walls. The straggler was among them. They stroked icicle fingers across a female figure, as ochre as a field of wheat. Between her legs, exactly twenty-eight red dots spilled down the rock plane, forever falling towards the cave floor, forever stuck halfway up the wall. The straggler stroked the dots tenderly, simply. Behind him, an iceman cleaning his gun mimed an especially rude gesture, something private, sexual, and singular, himself unaware of it's true meaning, but feeling it was correct towards the softness of the straggler. The straggler of course, felt his comrade make the gesture, but made no indication of awareness, of consciousness towards it. Perhaps not of consciousness at all. He simply stroked the dots at an exalted pace.
They marched another two days through the Southern Urals. In actuality they were not far from their base at all. From the Tsar. The entire region was stuffed to the bursting with ёлка, but none seemed to the icemen to be at all correct.
After four days from the Cloud, the straggler wandered ahead and found an ёлка that seemed satisfactory, and so alerted the rest of his squad, who in turn, alerted the rest of the army. As one, they turned and drew broad, strong axes of ice, and began to march to the beat of some simple drum. Around them the Urals were still, their collective footsteps echoed off the lonely mountains. The deep snow muffled their movements, pushing them back. They had no cares for this. It just was. They simply pushed the snow, reaching far over their heads in places, back. There was as much thought and contemplation in it as a man putting on his shoes.
At the ёлка, instinct took over. Memory knows nothing compared to time and the thought patterns of an all. An all which has thought in the plural for as long as they have lived. In the minds of the iceman there was a calm peacefulness, as muffled as the snow from which they emerged. In essence, they were snow-creatures, blessed with the inner peacefulness and calm chill of snow, the instinctual drive towards grace and simplicity. Even in combat, where they performed the most heinous acts of violence to serve their Tsar, there was no passion, no rage, no inner violence to match the battlefields. Calm. Calm.
The rhythmic chopping of seven or so ice axes, sturdier than they would appear for their material, was soon replaced with a cracking of wood, and a great crumbling. Methodically, but with haste and speed they moved out of the way and the great ёлка, the spruce which for over a hundred years has stood in the snow of the Urals, fell topping down into the expanse of rock and white. The straggler raised his arms, and with grace directed his comrades. From an outsider's perspective, he seemed to be nothing more than a conductor directing some vast, terrible and inscrutable orchestra. A Eugene Ormandy of the mountains. A Leonard Bernstein of Sverdlovsk Oblast. It is clear now, to that mysterious outsider figure. Perhaps they have been watching the icemen since they left the Tsar, perhaps he has noticed the straggler's seeming individuality. Far from a straggler, this is a leader. One granted the tiniest bit of command so that all perform more efficiently. Together they hoisted the mighty tree onto their backs and set out for home. Or is it home? They turn in the opposite direction from their destination. They must know where they are going, however.
Glance now at the one who was the straggler, observer. See now, know that he has achieved his goals. That he, bestowed with whatever faint shadow of a mind granted to him by the Tsar, has done his job. See how he leads onwards through the thick snow, downhill, downhill, downhill further still under the mountain's shadow, until the forests untouched turn to forests razed by the industry of the Tsars in days gone by, and even then downhill, downhill into where the burned wood, and petrified stumps give ways to vast fields of rock and snow deeper and wetter than on the mountain. Less still, more sorrowful. There is no life here. Observer, you are only with your icemen.
Within this bleak landscape there used to be mines, where men would sacrifice health and life digging up the ores and minerals used to fuel the Tsar. The icemen came across one such mine, where vast swaths of marble and gemstones were hauled out of the earth in tonnes. A few of the men in the back, not carrying their tree, began to pick up the scraps, sifting through the snow and venturing down the shaft, spider-like, to scavenge what had been plundered so many years ago. Their dextrous weapons soon freed a meager bounty, and they scuttled out into the darkness again. The sun had set so long ago. These were the dark months. There was still a purpose, however.
The straggler watched them gather their bounty into woven, crystal sacks given by the Cloud for this sole purpose. The straggler didn't understand what they were doing exactly. They had their gemstones, they had their ёлка, now what? What was the point, if any? If the Tsar wanted it, still it would be done. The straggler shrugged and scooped a handful of rock into a crystal sack of his own. Then he fell in line.
He did not deviate from the group for the entire four day hike back to the Tsar. There was no need for him to be on lookout right now.
At the Tsar, under the Cloud, they hoisted the ёлка into a large, pre-dug pit, and bolstered it upright with snow and rocks. Clambering up, they placed the gemstones reverently within the branches and then waited as the Cloud formed new weapons. A long string of exposed lights. Strips of metallic ice. The straggler stepped forward for the first time in a while. This was the final moment. He served the Tsar, the Tsar served God, and God served the universe. This was everything. This was the moment. The Tsar wanted a tree, the Tsar wanted it decorated, it shall be so.
He clambered up the branches and began to string the new weapons. He vaguely wondered how they would be used to claim belligerents, but since he did not think much at all, these thoughts never came forward. It was only now he thought, once he finished this task he would no longer be apart anymore. He would never think again.
The ёлка glowed, a spruce on fire in the middle of the Urals. The radio station where the Tsar lay asleep and commanding shot straight up into the night sky. This was all they could see. Them to the Tsar to God. God above all. God who made the Cloud and the Tsar and their weapons and their belligerents and them. The Tsar made them circle the tree; their weapons fell to the ground. Joining hands, they felt their ice-sculpture fingers freeze into each other. As one, they craned their heads up to the skies.
They were one.

Addendum 2617-9: The following message is decoded from transmissions emitted from SCP-2617 on January 7th, 1974.
"ANASTASIA, COME SIT BY THE FIRE. HALFWAY OUT OF THE DARK. IT'S SO DARK. I WILL BRING THE LIGHT. MOTHER, WHEN DOES GRANDFATHER FROST ARRIVE? I CAN'T SEE. THE SAVIOR! THE SAVIOR!"


…Lepidoptraetheia. Tiny nuisances to be destroyed. Eat up aether around your experiments. Easily dispatched with the fulminous aether…

-Excerpt, Alchemical Creatures, K. Ledenoff, 1213

Ruslav Diaghilev looked down at the scrap of paper in his hands. He'd scrawled something on it the other night in his sleep, but couldn't easily make out what it said. His divination had worked perfectly, his penmanship, not so much. "Kir…kir……..I cannot even read my own handwriting anymore." He grumbled as he walked silently down the hallway. His flowing robes earned him no lack of stares, as he walked through Site 19, unfamiliar with the layout.
Behind him, Arturo Genuomo struggled to keep up, weighed down with a large backpack full of clinking glassware, and topped with a cast iron cage. The young man's much brighter robes were cut short, almost in the style of a labcoat, and his sandy blonde hair was perpetually disheveled as he tried to keep up with the Elder Alchemist. "Master, you did write it in your sleep. You can't exactly expect perfect accuracy. I've told you about keeping your pens inked up, your pen was basically dry when you wrote this. It's why you couldn't finish the note." The cage appeared empty to those not trained to be sensitive to the Aether flows. Inside, there were dozens of tiny creatures, but they'd run in to a bit of a snag, and it was time to consult an expert.
"Excuse me." Ruslav held up a hand, stopping a nearby labcoated doctor. "Is there a researcher Kir…" his voiced rumbled out again. "Is there a research lab with a butterfly expert here?"
The man in front of him blinked a few times, taking in the flowing bottle-green robes and bright purple shoes on his feet. "I…are you lost?" The doctor reached towards his belt, to the small pager located there.
"I am not lost. Nor am I a security threat." He indicated towards the badge on his chest, which helpfully stated 'R. Diaghilev. Director, Alchemy Division. Level 4/ASCLEPIUS.' "I am, however, looking for someone."
"I…oh. I'm so sorry." He held his hand out awkwardly. "Dr. Zartion, but you can call me Christopher if you prefer. Apologies for the mix-up director. I'm not sure if you're referring to a specific researcher or not?"
Ruslav nodded his head, shaking Dr. Zartion's with his right, the heavy knuckles of his left hand holding up the scrap of paper. "I divined that there is a researcher here, who understands butterflies. They work in some specialty lab. I cannot read the handwriting."
He looked down at the scrap of paper, with the badly scrawled 'S19. R. K I R' with a trailing few letters. "I know that feeling, getting old sucks." Behind the Doctor, Arturo passed one hand over his head, and made a quiet 'woosh' sound.
Ruslav smiled slightly in amusement, as the Doctor tapped his temple with one finger, "I think Kiryu labs has a researcher who's interested in butterflies. I hope that helps. Excuse me, Director." He smiled, and walked down a hallway towards some other section of the facility.
Ruslav nodded with a ponderous motion of his head. "We must find this Kiryu labs, apparently."
The pair of alchemists set off with silent steps, the only sounds of their passage being the clinking of glass, and rattling of cast iron.

…Are to be immediately recalled, as they present a harmful picture of Alchemical Creatures to all involved. Any copies turned in are subject to compensation in the amount of 17 thaler per copy…

-Excerpt, College of Alchemists literature review, 1751

A few more odd stares, and some directions from a security officer who thankfully respected Ruslav's position more than his own curiosity left the Elder alchemist at a door in a small attached wing to Site 19. He swiped the magnetic badge through the access panel, and held the tiny NFC chip for verification. The door slid back with a soft woosh, to reveal a series of rooms and offices surrounded by large windows. The light from between the nearby trees flowed in naturally, and lit the offices with a soft green glow.
The two alchemists strode in to Kiryu labs, and Ruslav couldn't help but smile. Most of the Foundation's alchemical flows were minimal, as most places were after the Seal. Even still, the clinical and detached nature of the Foundation caused the currents to seep slowly through the cracks in the doors, and along the floors.
Kiryu labs was different. The terronous aether sang in the air, along with the Aeronous. There was something…more here. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. "Ahh…Adebeyo, you would have appreciated this…"
Arturo stepped up, attempting to be helpful, "Master…?" He held a small notebook along with a very old pen that Ruslav had given him a few months ago. The apprentice alchemist had taken to using it for everything.
"Nothing, Arturo. Simply commenting on the flows in this area. Concentrate…" His hands swept in front of him for a moment, as he drew them in to shaper focus.
"I…oh, oh! I hadn't ever felt…something like this, in the Foundation." The young man's eyes opened wider, and his feet, shod in the same purple as his Master slipped a few inches forward.
Ruslav smiled, the light from his deepset eyes a rare treasure on his face. "Now, we find this Kiryu."
A head poked out from a nearby door. "I'm sorry, did you ask for me?" Dr. Mark Kiryu's head was half visible out of his office door. "I heard my name."
Ruslav shuffled forward on silent steps. "Da, I am looking for researcher Kiryu. I have an item I need assistance with. I was given information that you are the person to talk to."
Mark stood up from the office chair, and walked out to greet the pair of alchemists. He surreptitiously took in the badge on Ruslav's chest, and held out his hand. "Director Diaghilev. It's good to meet you, I'm Director Kiryu. This is Kiryu labs, I'll help however I can. Is the item logged as anomalous?"
Ruslav nodded, reaching back to unhook the heavy cast iron cage from Arturo's pack. "Da, all alchemic creatures are considered anomalous at this time. We came across these in Macedonia, and needed assistance."
Mark cocked his head to one side, "I…apologize, Director. I'm not familiar with Alchemy, or these…creatures? And, this may just be my own ignorance, but I don't see anything." To his credit, Dr. Kiryu kept a straight face the entire time.
Ruslav clucked his tongue, "Of course, my apologies. They are not visible to the naked eye usually. Arturo, will you please reveal them for the Director?"
Arturo nodded, and gently lowered his pack, stepping forward, and drawing his half-finished marble and ebonite crozier, "Of course, Elder. Director, if you could take a step back?"
Mark nodded, and held his chin in one hand, his eyes narrowing slightly, "Is this…"
Ruslav nodded, "Alchemy, yes," he turned to Arturo, "Take the aeronous…yes, like that, now the igneous…"
Arturo's hands slowly moved in a circle, as the crozier spun a figure eight in the air. The fourth language flowed from his lips, as he recited the proper formula. The air around the cage shimmered, and several small creatures came in to view. Smaller than a thumbnail, the tiny butterflies were made of different materials. Some were tiny crystalline things, others were made of fire or water.
"Alchemical butterflies. Lepidoptraetheia. I need assistance creating a more permanent containment vessel, and figuring out how to care for them. The alchemy I can handle, the butterflies," Ruslav's voice rumbled off, as he looked at Mark significantly.
"I think, you may have the wrong person. I'm Dr. Kiryu, but researcher Kiryu is the one with the butterfly affinity. Can you wait here a moment?" Ruslav nodded, and Mark stepped away, turning down the hallway to the left, to Room 205, and knocked. A hollow boom could be heard from the depths of the labs. Ruslav's eyebrow raised as the igneous aether swirled.
Dr. Kiryu and a young woman came around the corner. She was smoking slightly, and wearing a heavy silver colored suit of some kind of fire-resistant material. Ruslav's robes contained several of the same properties, but didn't have that industrial chic about them.
"These are the two alchemists, Zyn. I think they need your help." Dr. Kiryu waved her forward, and nodded at the two alchemists. "If you'll forgive me, I have to get back to work. You know where my office is, and Zyn is at your disposal." He gave them a curt nod, and walked back in to his office, closing the door most of the way.
The young woman in front of them was wearing a fireproof suit, and held the helmet of the suit under one arm. "Hi, I'm Zyn. Did you two need help with something…?" She couldn't help but be a little off-put by the two men in robes. She eyed Arturo especially suspiciously, holding a marble and rubber mace in his hand.
Ruslav took a step forward, and held out one heavily scarred hand. "Da, I am Ruslav Diaghilev, Director of the Alchemy Division. I was told you were the expert if I had a butterfly that needed studying."
The twinkle in Zyn's eye told him everything he needed to know.

…Elders Diaghilev and P. Flamel will be in charge of further review of Alchemic creature lore in the future. An official reprimand has been issued for Alchemist Ledenoff found at…

-Excerpt, College of Alchemists literature review, 1752

A few minutes later, Zyn, Ruslav, and Arturo stood in Room 217. "So, tell me once more, they're made up of…?"
Ruslav nodded, his hands moving in slow circles. "Aether. The fabric of the energies that make up atoms and molecules. Cut and tie everything together and apart. Mostly. Alchemists can manipulate these, but there are also several creatures in this world, and others, which can interact with them. These Lepidoptraetheia are one of them."
He reached his hand out, and a small butterfly composed of ice, and tiny drifts of snow alighted on his finger. "They collect excess aether from plants and animals for sustenance. Their bodies are less…physical, and more manifestations of what they eat. This one, is not literally ice, for example. It is made of a combination of Aeronous and Aequeous aethers. Your eyes and mind simply interpret these as 'ice'."
Zyn leaned in, and stared at the tiny creature. "Amazing. I had no idea this all even existed." She turned her hand over, a slow smile creeping across her face as the tiny creature which appeared to be made up of slightly dusty winds swirling around her fingertip crawled to her palm, and lifted off to the side of the cage in silent flight.
Ruslav nodded, "That is by intention, researcher. It goes without saying that the things you work on with us, are confidential." He closed his hands, and the flow of air around the three of them slowly tightened until they were in a personal soundproof bubble of air.
"Of course," she nodded, reaching out with a match to feed a tiny butterfly made of dancing flames. "So, how can I help you all?" The tiny butterfly alighted on the match, and the bright flame at the end petered out as the butterfly sucked away the aether of the miniature fire.
Ruslav's hands returned to the cage, the two dozen or so butterflies circling the area inside. "We are…unaware of how to care for these creatures, long term. Several have been dying, and others keep appearing, and we cannot determine why. We've tried all of the alchemic means at our disposal." He looked across at Zyn, and smiled very slightly, "So we naturally assumed it must be something more basic. Adebeyo and I have no idea how to care for butterflies, and Arturo prefers cats."
Arturo leaned back against a nearby table, idly trying to gather enough aether together to ruffle the linen skirt on a nearby lab table. "Cats are the best. Fish are second best."
Ruslav waved a hand idly at Arturo, a familiar gesture of concession. Zyn leaned back and looked at the ceiling, before returning to look down at the cage, a thought striking. "How long have you had them?"
Ruslav rotated the cage a few times, summoning the tenebrous aether to feed some of the butterflies made of shadows and negative space. "Six weeks. Some more, some less."
"That'd do it. Butterflies only live about two weeks. What do they look like as caterpillars?" she replied, idly reaching in to the cage. The two alchemists were uncharacteristically quiet as Zyn raised an eyebrow at the two of them.
Arturo and Ruslav exchanged a sheepish glance. "We…had not considered this. I had never encountered Lepidoptraetheia as anything other than this form." Ruslav's voice rumbled in embarrassment.
Zyn waved a hand, "So, the key is to find the eggs and the caterpillars." She reached forward, and closed the cage door, lifting the bottom up slightly. "I don't know where they'd keep them. They don't exist in our dimension right?"
Ruslav waved a hand non-committedly, "Without going through significant training and instruction, yes. I do not really…hrm…"
Arturo stepped forward, and raised his hands. He spoke quietly in the fifth language, and his hands exuded a soft glow, as the tenebrous aethers were washed away by the luxorous aether. Several small caterpillars could be seen among the tiny rocks and twigs at the bottom of the cage.
Ruslav's voice rumbled out in a pleased noise, "Of course. They were hiding in the tenebrous. Arturo, that was very good thinking. They live off of the luxorous aether, until they're adults. I wonder how they determine which aether they'll subsist on as adults…" The light winked out as the tiny caterpillars eagerly gathered up the energies.
Zyn smiled at the two alchemists, "This was fascinating. I'm glad I could help." She crossed her arms in front of her, and looked up at the clock, not realizing how quickly time had passed with the two strange men in robes.
Ruslav raised an eyebrow, feeling an opportunity at hand, "Miss Kiryu, are you interested in being involved in the containment project for these creatures?"

…Lepidoptraetheia. These creatures present as small butterflies to the third eye. They are non-harmful, and consume small bits of extraneous aether. They are useful as cleaning aids after excess aether flows, and can be found…

-Excerpt, Alchemical Creatures, R. Diaghilev, 1774 (Revised)

"I get the theory, but I'm not getting the practice. What exactly should I be doing?" The three weeks of training Researcher Kiryu had passed quickly, and she'd been insistent on learning everything needed to care for the Lepidoptraetheia.
"Bring your hands in front of you. Do not visualize the flows. Feel the flows. They are all around us. They are not visible, but tangible. Do you feel them?" Ruslav's voice flowed in a familiar cadence of teaching a novice the basics of Alchemy. They had gone over them for three weeks now, but isolating Luxorous aether flows was difficult, and took intense concentration.
"I feel them, but what do I do? How do I get the one I want?" Zyn's hands shook slightly, as she concentrated, small beads of sweat forming on her forhead, as the Aether flows sluggishly responded to her will.
"Yes. Like that. It is not…a mechanical thing. It is a matter of will, and focus. You have the ability within you, now pull the flows apart, and let the luxorous flow through your hands. It's lighter than the others. Less…weighty." Ruslav stood behind the young researcher, his arms folded, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Several minutes passed, and the room grew several degrees colder, but nothing happened between Zyn's hands.
Arturo glanced over at Ruslav with a questioning look from the corner. Sensing his attention, Ruslav nodded ever so slightly to the young Alchemist. Arturo concentrated, and nudged a stream of aether closer to Zyn, picking it apart slightly. Light gathered in her hands, like a blob of particularly viscous jelly.
Her eyes went wide, as the flows gathered stronger, and poured out from her outstretched hands, in a soft white beam of light. The caterpillars at the bottom of the cage drew towards her, and eagerly ate up the flows of energy she poured through the fine mesh.
"I- this isn't…I have no idea how I'm doing this, but I'm doing it!" She laughed under her breath, unable to believe the frankly impossible sight in her own hands. "This feels like magic."
Ruslav took a step forward, and cupped his hand, making a quick circular motion with his wrist. A small globe of water happily sloshed around between his fingertips. "Alchemists have always had a flair for the dramatic, but it is science, I assure you, Miss Kiryu. Repetition and experimentation."
The light faded out from her hands, as she leaned back, exhausted. "Well, whatever this is, it's pretty crazy. I didn't expect to be able to turn my hands in to a flashlight."
Ruslav smiled, and collapsed the small ball of water, returning it to its component Aethers. "You would have been far more impressed several centuries ago. Alchemy was…different then. Alas, needs must, and times change." Ruslav held out his hand towards Arturo.
Arturo rose from the chair, and crossed the room, handing Ruslav his cold iron crozier. "Researcher, your help these last few weeks have been invaluable. I'm sorry to say that we've been called back to Site-82 for another project."
Zyn slumped slightly, frowning, "That's unfortunate. I really enjoyed watching these little guys mature. The metamorphosis process for these creatures is fascinating. I hope my research notes helped."
Ruslav smiled at her, and his heavy-lidded eyes bored in to hers, "They did, I have more than enough to update the texts. On a slightly more important note, you have the required aptitudes to come assist us at Site-82 if you wish. Those with the necessary alchemic aptitude are rare to say the least. I could speak with your Director for transfer to the Alchemy department. Should you desire it."
The air hung heavy with expectation, as a sad smile spread over Zyn's face, "I really appreciate that, Director, but my place is here. Everything you've taught me has been fascinating, but the work goes on so to speak. If I have time, I'll be sure to pop over to Site-82 to visit when I get the chance."
Ruslav smiled slightly, and nodded. "I assumed as much, however, it does not hurt to try. You are a brilliant young researcher. Do not give up that curiosity, and if you ever have questions about Alchemy, or change your mind, you know where to find us."
The alchemists gathered their belongings, and clipped the heavy cage back to Arturo's pack. A final sweep of the lab confirmed they had everything, and Ruslav ducked in to the Director's office to say his farewells. As they headed through the door, Arturo turned to wave goodbye to Zyn one last time before ducking through the door.
Zyn smiled, and returned to the research lab, to tidy up her notes, and get back to work on the latest containment project. She gathered together the loose sheets, slapped them in a manila with a quick jot of a label, and filed them in her little cabinet in the corner.
Just before she pulled out the next set of files, she stopped, and stared down at her hands. She closed her eyes, and concentrated, feeling the flows of the Aethers around her. As she opened her eyes, a small spark of light winked in to existence on her fingertip, for just a moment. She grinned to herself, and pulled out the next set of files.
…Lepidoptraetheia. (Lepidopterus Alchemica zyneria) These creatures present as small butterflies to the third eye, and as small caterpillars in the larval stage. The luxorous aether can be used to reveal this form……

-Excerpt, Alchemical Creatures, R. Diaghilev; Zyn Kiryu (Credited Co-Author), 2017 (Revised Second Edition)

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The rusted door of the small chapel creaked open as Robert Bumaro stepped in. The head of the Church let out a few heavy breaths, regaining his composure after the long trek. But it was not a dark hall, barely used and covered with spider webs that greeted him. Rather, the dusts that collected over the long years had been cleaned, and the candles around the altar were alight, faintly illuminating the room.
Beneath it, a figure in dark robes knelt, seemingly praying. They were motionless, perhaps too engrossed in their silent chant. Their long hair dripped down onto their robes, which shimmered under the candle light. A low hum could be heard.
Bumaro was alarmed; there shouldn't be anyone at the chapel, for its existence was a secret shared among the few he trusted, and this person was not one he recognized. But the humming assured him that the mechanism installed here was still working. He was alone, with no follower or agent with him, but he had other means of protection here.
As he closed the door behind him, the figure straightened up. The movement came so natural, as if they weren't startled in the slightest, anticipating his arrival all along. Bumaro reassured himself again that this was his place, his territory, and that he had nothing to fear.
"Who is this?" Bumaro demanded in a voice that exerted authority, which he had learned to use through his years as a cult leader. "You don't belong here."
"Is this not a place of the God?" The person's voice carried a unearthly echo, yet it was strangely soothing.
It was indeed, for a complex machinery of brass and steel was placed upon the altar, a humble representation of the Church's deity. And as Bumaro examined it again, he found it to have been newly oiled. All the filth was wiped clean and corroded surfaces were polished anew.
A follower of the Broken God, then, Bumaro thought, and he found the thought reassuring. After the recent failure, it was good to be in the presence of one of the believers again, and he felt slightly more in control.
"Of course, but you should realize that this place is for private gatherings." He then added: "It's good to see someone remain faithful after the recent setback, but I must ask you to take your leave."
"Setback." the person repeated. They made no attempt to move. "Is this what you call it?"
Bumaro felt a sudden surge of frustration. As if it wasn't enough that his life's work had gone to waste. "Listen, I have no time for this, and I will not let you speak ill of the Church or the God. Do you even know who you're speaking to?"
"I know exactly who you are, 'father'." It was the same flat voice that answered him.
Somewhat angered by the indifference of this stranger, Bumaro took a few steps forward. But almost immediately, he was taken aback, as the candle light now illuminated the figure much better. Their hair was no hair at all, but strings of iron or steel, impossibly thin, which reflected the wavering flames of the candle. Black robes shifted to reveal burnished brass instead of skin.
Bumaro made a small gasp, and almost lost his footing. At the same time, the stranger decided to get up and face him, and as they turned, Bumaro's brain finally registered what he was looking at.
The person was no human at all. They were an automaton, a mechanical wonder. Even under the dim light, the fine details were impossible to miss. The brass that composed their skin sealed away the clockwork inside and every joint fit together perfectly. Their face was the most human-like he had ever seen; crystal eyes capable of turning and even blinking. He realized in horror that the humming sound he was hearing was not coming from the machine he put here years ago, but from the metallic being before him.
Was this once a human? Compared with this, the "augmentations" his Church offered seemed crude, graceless, even barbaric.
"Impossible." Bumaro's voice was shaking.
But the person disregarded him. "Do you realize what you have wrought?"
"No, listen." Bumaro stammered, trying to put his thoughts together. "I, I had no idea! This is a miracle, you are a miracle! With this, you and I, we can put the Church back onto its feet again. People will have faith again."
"Is this what the Broken One is for you? An instrument for the Church?" The person's voice was still monotone. Their expression was blank, but their eyes stared intently.
"It was merely a mistake, a mistake that can be corrected!" Authority had long gone from Bumaro's voice, replaced by awe and desperation. "Join me, and we can build the god again."
"No more." The person closed their eyes, as if in pain. Their hand clutched at their chest, trying to get ahold of something inside. "All you did was bring suffering and loss. Even now, I feel the anguished cries of the Broken One – more broken than ever. Can you even understand what you have done?"
"Listen, you must understand, I—" Bumaro attempted again, but another voice interrupted him.
"You can give up now, Prophet. This man is a fool, and knows not what he's meddling with." Another mechanical voice, this time much sharper, grittier.
He turned to see that two other people stepped out of the darkness of the shadow. His eyes widened as he saw another automaton, adorning a red robe, more heavy and crude in design. No attempt was made to hide the metallic skull and the clockwork underneath, making her resemble the dead more than the living. Heavy chains were mounted at the back of her head, sharp teeth were exposed with no lips to cover them, and aperture-like eyes stared right out of the eye sockets, though not at him.
The man with her was noticably lanky, and wore a clean white suit. He was still flesh and blood, yet carried an eerie aura. Perhaps it was because his face was locked in a neutral expression, his eyes unblinking. It felt as if he was less alive than the two automata of bronze and steel.
It took Bumaro a moment to realize that one of the woman's hands was a sharp blade, and yet another moment to realize that she had raised it, coming towards him. He let out a small whimper.
"We cannot afford unwanted attention." The other man said flatly towards the woman. "The basement of this structure may be suitable for this situation."
"No." The Prophet raised a hand to stop them. "He is here to face judgment, not torture."
"Judgement?! No. No!" Bumaro yelled, anger washing over fear as he regained some courage. "This is my place, my chapel! Whatever you are, however you think of yourself and the God, how dare you even imply that! I am Robert Bumaro, dispatch the intruders!"
As he shouted out the command, the machine he had imbedded here, the one he built alongside the building, let out a loud shriek. Then the ticking started and one gear moved the next. Despite the long years of inactivity and rust, it still worked. It was his proudest work and, of course, he had saved it for himself.
Walls were parted, and the predesigned traps were all up. Only he would get out alive; even bodies of steel and brass could not possibly bear this. There was a release of steam and a chorus of ticking, as if the machine was answering to him triumphantly.
But then, it stopped. Silence fell once more, except for the humming from the automata.
He noticed that the woman was staring at the parts of the machine that exposed itself. Inexplicably, he understood that it was not his machine that had malfunctioned; it was her that willed it to stop. She looked back at him, and he felt only contempt from the expressionless face.
She grabbed Bumaro by the collar. The Prophet shook their head; the other man remained still and watched.
"No! You can't do this to me!" he yelled in desperation. "We are all followers of the Broken God, is that not true? I can help you, my followers can help you. Yes, my followers, they still trust me, they only trust me! You can't just take over, the Church would be in disarray. But I can help you, you don't need to do this!"
The woman let out a wave of steam from her mouth, seemingly displeased. Nevertheless, she halted her blade. Bumaro felt hopeful as the Prophet was obviously also considering it.
"May I suggest," the man in the suit spoke. "A full conversion is almost unheard of among the believers of the Church. Any physical and mental changes could be ascribed to the enlightenment of God; and that would be what we tell the followers."
Silence fell again, as Bumaro's thoughts turned, implications sinking in.
"No… no. No! You can't do that!" Bumaro's voice turned from barely a whisper to a desperate cry.
"Can it be done?" The Prophet asked.
"It should work," The woman answered. "You were in need of an identity, after all."
"Very well."
"No, no! I'm Father Robert Bumaro, leader of the Church! I built the God!" But he was no longer whom he claimed to be.
Robert Bumaro came to the altar, and knelt down once again. His long silver hair shimmered in the candle light. The other two witnessed as the leader of the Church swore his oath before the God; the now nameless man cried and begged but his voice was disregarded.
“I, Robert Bumaro,” he said in a mechanical monotone, “swore to remake the Broken Church, and built the God as she should have been.”
“May we break the Flesh,” she said.
“May the God be whole,” he said.
Bumaro nodded as both the man and the woman bowed to him.
The nameless priest was dragged down into the basement of the chapel he once owned, still yelling and kicking, crying the names of God. The woman paid him no mind, and the two men watched silently. His voice shouted out prayers to the Broken One which soon turned into curses. Soon, the yelling stopped and there was no screaming.
"I will need to tend to Her pieces." The suited man said, "I must take my leave now; some could notice my absence."
"Of course, doctor."
As both sets of footsteps led out of the chapel, Bumaro was left alone once more. So he kneeled in front of the altar, closed his eyes, and began his prayers again.