Previous: Dark Side Discography

The 1982 Chrysler Fifth Avenue she nicked down in Bristol has a V8 engine with enough pep to plow a Sherman tank straight through Hell. Once it gets going, nothing on God's green earth can stop it — nothing except a gas station.
They're a hundred miles up I-81 North when the needle nudges over empty. Alex growls something under her breath. About fifteen minutes later, she's pulling into the last rest stop between here and the Virginia State Line.
Sunny's brown face pops up in the rear-view mirror, chewing on the scar where his lip-piercing used to be. He mentioned needing gas over two hours ago. Alex told him she'd take care of it. She knows he won't hold it against her; he won't even say 'I told you so'. She almost wishes he would. Then, at least, she could get angry at him.
The pressure builds under her skin. She focuses on something else: "How's Seph holding up?"
Sunny looks down at the floor of the back-seat. Seph makes a chittering sound. Sunny looks back up and smiles at Alex, still gnawing on his bottom lip. "He's okay. Needs more water, though."
Alex shoves the car into park. "Okay. Sit tight. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes… call the President."
Sunny makes a snrkt. Getting him to almost-laugh lifts Alex's spirits, if only for a moment. She checks on Machine-Head (still peacefully sleeping in the passenger seat, buckled in tight), pops open the driver-side door, then slips out into the bright, sunny, mid-Summer day.
The rest-stop is an over-glorified parking lot — just a slab of tarmac someone slapped down to give overworked truckers a place to catch some quick Zs. There's a small visitor's center with bathrooms, half a dozen vending machines, and a display of brightly-colored pamphlets labeled as 'FUN VIRGINIA FACTS'. Alex takes one, folds it, and squeezes it into her back pocket. Something to keep Machine-Head busy, maybe.
Out of the four lab-rats, Alex is the least conspicuous. Nobody around these parts is going to pay much attention to some sixteen year old white chick; not even one with her hair shaved down to an amber-gold peach-fuzz. That, combined with her dense, broad build makes her look like just another local farm-girl. The loose denim trousers and gray tank-top probably don't hurt.
People tend to miss the fractal-like patterns of geometric scars that wind down her neck, arms, and hands — like branches of frost expanding across a windowpane. When they do notice them, she just shrugs and says something about getting struck by lightning. Hell — technically, it isn't even a lie.
Alex hovers in front of the vending machine and pretends to mull over her choice of snacks. A mother-daughter pair make their way out of the bathroom; she waits until they're out of sight. With one last glance to make sure she's clear, Alex darts over to a nearby trashcan and fishes out a plastic bag. Then, she returns to the vending machine and flattens her right palm against the keypad.
The pressure builds up under her palm. She lets a little bit of it seep through, guiding it with her hand. Sparks of white-blue electricity twist and writhe between her spread fingers. The machine creaks, pops, and sizzles. A wisp of smoke curls out from behind the electronic panel, accompanied with the fragrant odor of burnt rubber.
The machine starts spitting out candy-bars.
Alex repeats the process on two more vending machines. By the time she's done, she's loaded the plastic bag with enough snacks and bottled water to keep everyone going for another day. It'll give her some time to pick out a new ride.
She's made it half-way back to the car when she hears the commotion. Someone's yelling on the other side of the parking lot; a group of people are gathered near a cherry-red semi-trailer. Alex turns her focus back on the 5th Avenue. Whatever is going on, it's none of her business.
She gets two more steps before catching that brightly colored skirt from the corner of her eye.
Fuck.
It looks like the semi-trailer's brakes failed. There's a big, burly man in a flannel shirt near one of its back wheels. His face is gleaming with sweat and his brow is crinkled in pain. One of his legs is squished beneath the weight of the truck's tire. Two onlookers are scrambling to get into the cab and start it back up, but Sunny is already standing next to the trucker.
The teen's deep, sable-brown skin stands in sharp contrast to the swirl of bright pastels that spiral across his ankle-length lungi. Sweat has soaked through his white sleeveless shirt; it clings tight to his lean, muscular form. His dark, bare arms glitter in the sun. Both of his hands clasp the wheel's undercarriage, while his brow furrows beneath the force of his concentration. A soft, warm, yellow-white glow envelops him.
The truck makes a low creaking sound — followed by a series of pops and metallic pings. The tire's weight shifts up. Sunny shouts something to the crowd around him. Alex rushes forward, the plastic bag swishing back and forth in her tightening grip. She swears she can feel sparks jumping between her grinding molars. A furious, hateful heat swells up from her belly and tingles against her skin, threatening to break free.
You fucking idiot.
Several people from the crowd dart out to help move the man out from under the truck. Sunny lowers the wheel and exhales. The glow around him vanishes.
He's already pulling away from the crowd (many of whom are staring and pointing) when Alex reaches him. She snatches him by the side of his shirt and tries very hard not to light him on fire. "Are you fucking stupid?" she hisses.
" — sorry, he — I heard the commotion and I saw he was hurt, and — " The focus vanishes from Sunny's face in an instant. He's all apologies, now — nibbling and worrying away at his bottom lip. He looks like a chided puppy. "I couldn't — "
Alex shoves the plastic bag into his arms and grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him along. "Shut the fuck up and — "
Tiny bursts of silver-green arc between her knuckles. Her whole body is heating up; she can feel her saliva sizzling on her tongue. With each thump of her heart, the pressure under her skin intensifies. Alex lets go of Sunny, closes her eyes, and forces herself to count backwards.
The pressure recedes.
"Sorry. For yelling. Just… just get Seph and Machine-Head. Get all our shit together. I'll find us a ride. But we gotta go. Now."
Sunny frowns, but nods. He clutches the bag of snack-foods and bottled water tight to his chest, then runs back to the car.

The worst part?
It wasn't the sedatives, or the needles, or having to piss and shit where anyone could watch. It wasn't the shitty tests, or the shitty meals, or the shitty once-a-week sessions she spent with a psychiatrist who had to consult a chart just to remember her name. It wasn't even the creepy fucking guard who refused to leave the room whenever she changed or showered.
No. The worst part? The absolute worst?
It was the waiting.
You waited for everything. You waited to be given your food; you waited to be given your pills. You waited to use the shower; you waited to use the toilet. You waited to enter the test-chamber; you waited for your instructions. Then, you waited to go back to your cell — where you patiently waited to die.
Alex hated the waiting. She hated not knowing how much longer she had to wait. Every time she asked when she could leave, they upped her dosage. She stopped asking.
Once, she lost control during a psych session. She broke down. She tried to explain it to him through choked sobs — tried to tell him that she was so tired of this. She didn't want to spend her life as their fat, ugly, sedated cow. She just wanted it to end. She pleaded with him to just let it end. Let her go. Send her back home. Or, kill her. Anything. She didn't care what it was, just so long as it wasn't more of this.
He calmly made a mark on his clipboard, made a sympathy-frown with his mouth, and said: "I'm sorry you feel that way, honey. I'll up your dosage. We'll see if that helps."
She felt it, then: the pulsating pressure that the drugs suppressed between tests. Her skin was a dry, flaking crust spread thin across an alien planet. Her bones were its tectonic plates; her beating heart was its spinning ferromagnetic core. With every thump, ionized clouds of sulfuric acid expanded through crevices and vents, surging out to fill her body. With every moment, those clouds crashed together to form an electromagnetically charged mass.
Alex closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Then she exhaled lightning right into that fucker's face.
They tripled her dosage.

Someone gently nudges her shoulder.
A few hours after stealing a new car, Alex pulled over for what was supposed to be a quick nap. Now it's night. Seph somehow managed to move her into the passenger's seat without waking her up. He was even polite enough to buckle her in.
It's quite a sight to see that lean, teenage octo-pup hunched over the steering wheel. His silver-blue skin glistens in the dim glow of the car's dashboard. There's an elfin quality to his face — his eyes are a bright moon-yellow with black slits across the center. He squeezes the wheel with his webbed, four-fingered hands.
Instead of hair, he has a dozen or so broad, silver-gray tendrils mottled with splotches of white and gold. They're nearly as thick as a wrist at their base, and end in tapered, delicate tips. He keeps most of them wound around his waist or shoulders.
"Fuck." Alex grinds her fists into her eyes. "How long was I out?"
Seph partially turns to her; a few of his hair-tentacles weave down below his face. Three approximate a flat palm, while several more simulate a hand with four raised fingers. He 'rolls' the 'hand' down, then rolls it back up again. FOUR HOURS.
"You shouldn't be driving," Alex tells him, making sure that he can see the movement of her mouth from the corner of his eye. "What if the police pull you over?"
He signs back with the tentacles: STOLEN CAR.
Alex frowns. "Okay, yeah. Fair point."
They let the silence stretch out between them for a while. The soft hum of the road under the tires is all that Alex hears.
Eventually, Seph starts signing again. He taps a tentacle against the top of his head and wiggles it away, lifting his eyebrows.
DREAMS?
"Yeah," Alex sighs, stretching her arms back. She glances in the rear-view mirror; Sunny and Machine-Head are both asleep. Sunny is sitting up, with the 'FUN VIRGINIA FACTS' pamphlet clutched in his hand. MH's bald sienna head is laid across his lap.
The name started as a really dumb joke back at the Osworth Institute. Machine-Head has six quarter-wide metal plugs positioned along their cranium; two near the front, two near the middle, and two in back. Alex once said they looked like batteries poking out. MH asked what the batteries would be for, and Sunny immediately replied: 'Your Machine-Head'. Everyone thought it was the most hilarious fucking thing.
Maybe you just had to be there.
Seph continues signing: INSTITUTE?
Alex nods. "Yeah."
He uses a tentacle to touch his chin, then his chest, raising his eyebrows once more: TELL ME?
"It's —" She pauses, then looks out the passenger side window. " — not important."
CANNOT SEE MOUTH.
"Sorry." Alex turns to face him, then repeats it: "Sorry. It's not important." Something occurs to her: "Wait, why did you wake me up?"
NEED WATER.
Oh. Right.
She finds the plastic bag on the floor next to her feet. Fishing through it, she pulls out a bottle of water and pops the cap, offering it to him. Seph curls one of his tentacles around it and lifts it to his mouth. He drinks half of it, then pours the rest of it on his head. His skin shimmers and slickens.
SUNNY AFRAID. WORRY. YOU ANGRY.
"Well, I am angry. The fucking — " She feels that pulse of rage again. She reminds herself to close her eyes and silently count backwards. When the anger fades to a dull ache, she opens her eyes and continues: " — he put all of us at risk because he wants to play at being a superhero or something."
NOT PLAY. CANNOT STOP. OTHERS HURT. MUST ACT.
"Well, I can't keep looking out for him. I'm not his fucking mom. I'm not anyone's mom."
YES. AWARE. MOTHER LEAVE ME BEHIND. The right side of Seph's mouth twitches upward. His eyes are still mostly on the road, but a hint of amusement flickers through them. YOU DO NOT.
Alex rolls her eyes, folds her arms under her chest, and does her best not to smile. "Oh, fuck you, you sweet-tongued cephalopod."
NOT SWEET TONGUE. SWEET TENTACLE.
"And a fucking pedant, to boot," she adds. Then, a little softer: "I don't know. Sometimes I don't think he understands how much danger we're in. How bad it could get —"
Seph's tentacles move suddenly, emphasizing the force of his words:
HE KNOWS. REMEMBER ESCAPE?
Alex remembers. Back in the 'Land of Oz', Sunny was always the cheerful one; the one who tried to make everyone happy. Fuck, that's why they called him Sunny. The fucker never cried, never cracked, never came down on anyone. It was like nothing could knock him over. He was fucking unbreakable. She once asked if he was some sort of Terminator sent from the future to try and cheer all the emo kids up.
And then? As soon as they cleared the fences — as soon as they set foot on something that wasn't part of the lab? He shattered like glass. He collapsed to the ground in a crumpled up ball and sobbed for nearly an hour, just rocking back and forth. They had to take turns talking to him, trying to soothe him and keep him from hyperventilating.
Alex couldn't understand it at the time. It didn't make sense. She was elated; ecstatic. They were finally out of that fucking hellhole. Why on earth would that make you want to cry?
It wasn't until later that she realized that he wasn't unbreakable. No one was. Sunny was just really, really good at hiding the cracks.
"Yeah. Fine. I'll…" Alex rubs the center of her nose. "I'll talk to him, when he wakes up. Let him know it's okay. Just, y'know. He should try doing less stupid shit that's gonna get us caught."
Seph flattens several tendrils to his chin, then sweeps them down to motion to Alex — mouthing the words: THANK YOU. He extends the tentacle with the empty water bottle out for Alex to take.
Alex takes it. She throws it on the floor next to the bag; she then looks from Seph's tentacles to the bag — and back to his tentacles again. Her brows crumple, collapsing into a single point. "Woke me just to get you water, huh?"
Seph pauses. His tentacles move slowly, forming the words with clear reluctance: YES. JUST WATER.
Alex gives him a crooked grin. "Okay, octo-boy."

Next: On the Run


I woke up to the taste of ink.
There was a numb pain in my left arm; I looked through my swimming vision to see my left sleeve rolled up and a small amount of blood on the outside of my forearm.
While my head throbbed, the spinning of the room started to slow down. I checked my wound; it was a bleeding gouge mark of some kind, and ten similar gouges were healed alongside it. I was on the floor of a bedroom, but the house looked to be condemned; windows broken, furniture tossed, the ceiling had a hole knocked through it. Using the bed for leverage, I got to my feet and noticed that I was wearing an MTF uniform. Agents aren't typically issued tac-gear unless… shit.
I found a cracked mirror on the floor and propped it up against the wall. No head injuries. Black substance on tongue and teeth. I've been amnesticized. Shit, okay, remember what you can.
My name is Alan Williams. I'm 37 years old, ginger, and handsome. I've worked for the Foundation for 8 years. I'm an agent specializing in Euclid, non-sentient, object anomalies. The year, as I know it, is 2078. I wonder how hard I got inked this time…
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the reflection of somebody lying on the ground on the other side of the bed. I whipped around to help, but nobody was there. Turning back to the mirror, the body was still reflected.
I picked up the mirror and carried it over to the non-person. The reflection was fuzzy, as if they were being shown in a low resolution video. She's also wearing tac-gear, and she was frozen reaching for her belt pouch. Front left. I checked my front left belt pouch; empty.
Leaping is the only word that describes how I maneuvered over the bed, and underneath the bed was, as expected, a small white canister. The spray lid had been torn off; the inside coated with a thin layer of the same inky substance that coated my mouth. I did this to myself, and saved myself from what happened to my former compatriot.
What the hell is going on?
One soldier down, one soldier dumb; I really hoped that someone in command knew what the hell was going on. I pulled back my shirt sleeve and activated my halo-bracelet, the light-interface blazed to life and I selected the comm-link; hopefully someone was listening on the Foundation Emergency Frequency.
“This is agent, I mean, I guess, Sergeant Williams if you ask my tac-gear; serial number alpha - whiskey - one - two - one - five - eight - six - golf. Does anyone have ears on this channel?”
“We copy, Sergeant. What's your status?”
“As far as I can tell, I self-amnesticized. There's another member of what I'm guessing was my team here, sort of-”
“Sergeant Williams, this is extremely important. Do not follow that train of thought any further. Due to the current situation, the Foundation is operating under an ‘Ignorance is Bliss' protocol. Any additional knowledge of the situation is a danger to your well-being. Are you injured?”
“No, I'm fine.”
“What year do you think it is?”
“2078.”
“And is it accurate to say that you remember nothing past your time as a Foundation Agent?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. We've got your position from your halo; there is a Foundation Motorcade passing through your area in approximately four hours. To meet them, you need to head five miles north to the interstate; I've marked the rendezvous point on your map. I'll radio ahead and let them know to be looking for you.”
I rotated my halo-interface and pulled up the area map. I was in a housing district, and there would be what looked like some commercial space in between me and my target marker.
“What can I know on my way there?”
“ANY information is dangerous, so much so that we've locked the Public Internet and Foundation Intranet functions of your halo. Any civilian, anomaly, newspaper, television, anything should be avoided by any means necessary; get to the motorcade as unmolested as possible.”
“Son of a bitch, that's just wacky fun, isn't it?”
“Yep. Good luck, agent.”
“Sergeant…”
“Do you remember how to be a Sergeant?”
“… shit.”
Before leaving, I took stock of the room; nothing that can be considered a supply to be found. My gear had a Foundation-issue Glock 142 in its holster, two stun grenades, and a set of motion/heat sensored goggles. Other utilities like a flashlight and a multi-tool were in various pouches. There was also a handgun I didn't recognize; it looked like Foundation reverse-engineered extra-terrestrial tech, all sorts of curves and bronze inlays. You never use REET weapons unless you know what they are; alien shit can tickle someone to death or stun them with the painful burning of a thousand suns for a fraction of a second. I considered examining my fallen squadmate one more time, but the dispatcher said not to and fuck me if I've decided not to trust the company line on shit I needed to know or not to know.
I pushed through the dilapidated living room and out onto the street…
The afternoon daylight was blinding for a moment. After shading my eyes, I surveyed the area. It wasn't just this house; the whole block was a warzone. I wish I had asked what level of worldwide apocalypse I was walking into, but I'm sure dispatch wouldn't have told me either way.
I started making my way north, staying close to the houses for cover. All of the houses in the neighborhood had the same bombed-out look; kind of a “Suburbs of World War Four” chic. I could see into most of them through the plentiful holes; besides the random flock of pigeons or squirrels, most of them were deserted. The street ended in a cul de sac and beyond the last house, I could see a treeline.
As I approached, I could see the tall, laser-grid fence meant to keep the suburb separated from the plaza on the other side. Well, the good news was that the apocalypse hadn't knocked out the power supply. Checking my map and assuming that this fence wraps around the suburb, I'd have to go a mile south to get around and come back up; I could make it, but it's pretty out of the way and I'd rather save the time if I can.
Maybe I'd get lucky and this was an upper-class neighborhood with a hard-light fence. I picked up a nearby branch and tossed it at the grid. I swear I could hear the sizzle of the burning wood and leaves say “Your bad luck sure is coming to a middle.” I headed over to one of the pylons to see if I could remove a panel and shut it down somehow. Before I could touch anything, the whole fence went out. Holy shit, dive or think?
I chose dive. I leapt full-force across the fence line before it had the chance to reactivate. Successfully, I might add. Well, unless you count leaping before looking causing me to tumble down a hereto unnoticed ditch full of wonderfully aromatic standing water as a point against me. My tac-gear protected me from the bulk of the bumps, thankfully.
The fence had turned back on, so at least I felt good about that decision. I found a nice, hefty rock and tossed it up at the fence to add injury to its insult. The rock ricocheted off of the fence in a decidedly not-being-burned-into-nothingness fashion. That's… that's not how fences work. You can't be standard laser one second and flip a switch to hard-light, the pylon technology is different. Or, at least, it was when I can remember, which is I-don't know-how-long ago.
Just to be safe, I pulled out my halo and scanned the area for Hume fluctuations. The Kant Counter gave a perfectly normal reading of the reality of the area. I guess time and technology just keep marching on. I switched to the Suit menu and activated the autodry. My suit buzzed as its interior created a warm air flow that quickly dried out my gear, and also felt nice if I'm being honest. I dusted off the dirt that used to be mud and started walking.
As I rounded to the front, I saw that this plaza is anchored with a large grocery store. I don't know how long I was unconscious, but I did know that I was suddenly very hungry now that I've remembered that food is a thing that exists. Weighing the distance I have to travel versus the time, I should be able to get in and out and make it to the pickup. Just had to stay on the lookout; I hadn't seen any people yet, but supermarkets are the kind of place people head to in an apocalypse and Dispatch seemed very serious about that “Do Not Engage” order.
I prepared to take out my flashlight, but the interior of the store was lit by daylight streaming through multiple holes in the ceiling. What struck me first was how much food was still on the shelves. There wasn't a run on the store? No raiders after the fact?
I didn't remember how long it had been since the event, so I made a beeline to the canned food aisle. As I passed by a frozen food case, I spotted someone out of the corner of my eye. I wheeled around and pulled my pistol on the empty air. Scanning around, I found them again; it was a reflection in the cold case door. A man, civilian, blurry like my squadmate back at the house, face contorted in horror staring back at me blended with my own reflection. Holstering my gun, I opened the cold case door and slowly tracked the reflection across the store; there were more civilians here. All of them invisible except for their blurred reflections. What sort of anomalous shit was this?
I jumped as a woman's voice shouted from behind me, “Oh god! Are you a soldier? Thank God you're here!”
I looked where the voice had come from. Stumbling towards me from a few aisles down was a woman, a little shorter than me, blonde hair, stringy, wearing ratty civilian clothes.
“Please, I need your help!”
I had to make a decision fast. My orders were not to engage anyone. What were my options?
“Please!”
I could run. I could shoot her.
She was sobbing, hysterical.
I took a deep breath and stood my ground as she rammed into me and hugged me. It was honestly nice to see someone alive after all of these mirror ghost things and-
Did she just sweep the leg?
With a loud thwack, I was flat on my back. Thank God for helmets or I'd be concussed as well. She went straight for my Glock, but I got a hand on her left wrist. Her right hand boxed my elbow and she followed through with her right elbow straight into my nose. My vision exploded and I choked as I snorted blood. She was good, and that wasn't good news for me.
I could feel her pull my Glock out of its holster; I took a risk on a blind flop with hope that my weight advantage might be able to knock her off balance. I managed to slam both of us into the potato chip display, but I didn't have any bullets in me yet so I considered the risk a success. We wrestled for the gun, trading body blows and arm locks. I had the advantages of size and body armor, but she could take me apart seven ways from Sunday with her technical skill, and I didn't have body armor on my face which she kept hitting.
She knocked me down to my knees and pointed my gun at my head. Gasping for air, head swimming, bleeding out of my nose, lip, and cheek, I didn't see a way out of this. Then I didn't see something else.
A hole appeared in the potato chip rack behind her. Almost as if the shelves just melted out of existence. Something, or nothing, something I couldn't see grabbed my assailant by her wrist. She dropped the gun to the ground as she was lifted into the air by the unseen force. Her arms and legs splayed wide and her back arched as if she was being pulled apart. She started hyperventilating as her face turned beet red. She managed to choke out two words:
“Kill… me…”
As I stared slackjawed at whatever was happening, her fingers and shoes started to dematerialize; it looked like she was pixelating and dissolving. This is what happened to my squadmate, to all these civilians, and it looked like it fucking sucked.
I reached to grab my gun off of the ground, but stopped. The REET. I had no idea what it did, but maybe I have it because it has some use in this situation. I pulled it out of its holster, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The gun short circuited in my hand. No kickback, no projectile or energy beam, nothing happened when I pulled the trigger…
but she fell down anyways.
I slid down next to her and saw her extremities snap back to existence. Her breathing slowed and she passed out. I holstered my intact Glock and my burnt out REET, picked her up over my shoulder, and didn't stop running until I made it to the rendezvous point.

I woke up to the taste of ink.
While my head throbbed, the spinning of the room started to slow down. I was on a bed — well, a cot — and the cramped room had that familiar, rumbling shake of an RV. Using the bed for leverage, I got to my feet and noticed that I was wearing Foundation-issue sweats. Agents aren't typically issued military style clothes unless… shit.
I staggered over to the mirror hanging on the wall. Broken nose with matching raccoon eyes, split lip, stitches in the cheek, black substance on tongue and teeth. There were stitches on the outside of my left forearm, a small gouge mark and eleven similar ones alongside it. I got my ass kicked, and I've been amnesticized. Shit, okay, remember what you can.
My name is Alan Williams. I'm 37 years old, ginger, and handsome, well, underneath these bruises anyway. I've worked for The Foundation for 8 years. I'm an Agent specializing in Euclid, non-sentient, object anomalies. The year as I know it is 2078. I wonder how hard I got inked this time…
There was a callbox next to the door to the room, and I jammed the button a little too hard for the bruises on my fingers that I didn't know were there.
“Am I being contained?”
The door opened.
“No sir. Glad to see you awake,” says the smiling man in Foundation BDUs.
“Good. That bedroom/bathroom combo was a little cramped.”
“Glad to see the amnestics didn't cost you your sense of humor.”
“… have we met?”
“No, I'm Michael. We didn't meet until after. I saved your life once, you saved mine three or four times depending on who's counting.”
“After what?”
“We don't talk about that; ‘Ignorance is Bliss' protocol is in effect. Don't worry, I've forgotten you once as well.”
“Ah… were we friends?”
“Not my first two times, I'm told, but third time's a charm, eh?”
“Yeah, who knows?”
Michael beamed. “Get cleaned up and head down the hall, they'll give you your ‘Wake Up' briefing.”
I grabbed my towel and headed to the back of the hall where the shower was; occupied. While I waited, I went over what memories I could recollect. The most vibrant thing I remembered is saying goodbye to my wife on my way to work: I could remember she was drinking coffee, I could remember she was reading the paper, but I couldn't remember what she looked like… I looked down at my left hand; no ring. Something could have happened in my missing time. Maybe she died, maybe I left… hell, I don't even remember if she in the job or if she was a civ. Those amnestics were hell. They liked to tell you that they targeted specific memories or certain timeframes, but it's times like these that I knew they were full of shit.
My attempts at memory were interrupted by the door to the shower opening; a woman, brunette, a little shorter than me, in a towel stepped out. She stopped in shock when she saw my face.
“Wow, I'm sorry for what happened to the other guy.”
“Yeah, he never stood a chance. Not that I can remember…”
“Oh, me too.” She bared her teeth to me, covered in black ink the same as mine.
“Party on. Who are you now?”
“Brianna Tackson, Staff Sergeant, U.S. Army Special Forces. You?”
“Alan Williams, Foundation Agent.”
“Ah, so you have more of a clue than me. What's next?”
“I don't have a damn clue; I'm just supposed to shower and get down to the briefing.”
“Well, see you there. Al?”
“Alan. Bre?”
“Well I was going to say Bre's fine, but if you're being all stuffy then Brianna it is.”
As she turned to walked away, the hallway shook from what must have been one hell of a bump in the road. As I smacked against the wall, Tackson braced herself with both hands, and as for the towel…
I successfully grasped for it, and as I ardently attempted not to perv out on this woman I just met, I noticed the bruises on her abdomen.
“Looks like I'm not the only one who got in a fight,” I said, averting my eyes.
“Yeah, she never stood a chance. Not that I can remember…” She extended her hand, which I filled with her missing towel.
“See you at briefing?
“Yeah.”
My shower was, honestly, just me thanking God repeatedly for the motorcade's hot water heater. I've changed my mind; I don't care what any technophobes say about humanity's need for “the will to survive,” the ability to use a miniature cold fusion reactor to have a portable, hot shower at will was more than enough to justify mankind's march into The Future.
I finished up, threw on my BDUs, and made my way to the briefing room. The cadet at the door waved me in, not looking up from his halo. The room was cramped, but the familiar, black walls with orange lights gridding them told me it was about to get much bigger. Brianna was standing at attention in the center of the room, and I stood a pace back so I wouldn't hit her elbows and the wall. The cadet in the back closed the door behind me, and the I could see the gridded walls unfold away from us as a large holoscreen appeared in front of us. A scientist's face filled the screen, his face awkwardly close to the camera.
“Tackson, Williams; welcome to today's briefing. I'm Doctor Stewart. As you probably don't remember, the specific cocktail of compound Y-909 we give to Agents working in the field has-”
I had to say something. “Doc, you could move a foot or so back? I'm getting distracted counting your nose hairs.”
Brianna snickered, and the Doc gave a bit of a chuckle as well.
“Sure, man. Glad to see you made it back in one piece again, and that we can't ink out your sass threshold no matter how many times we try.”
I chuckled and nodded politely; I didn't remember the Doc, and he probably knew it as well. No need to remind him. As he moved away from the camera, I could see expensive looking bookshelves behind him; apparently, he was not bumming around the country in a motorcade.
“Anyways, long story short, the specific type of amnestic we give you doesn't affect motor neurons. All of your advanced physical training that we worked into your muscle memory before is still there, you just don't remember what it is so you don't know how to access it. Today, we're going to crash course you back up to your previous rank. Tomorrow morning, we're going to give you your assigned intel in accordance with the ‘Ignorance is Bliss' protocol, and we'll have you ready to launch for your next mission after that. Please link your halos now.”
Brianna and I both activated our halos and linked them to the room. The room lit up into an endless sea of white, and two large gun racks with benches appeared on either side of us. Down range, we could see a target apparatus swinging around.
“Please start by assembling, loading, firing at the target successfully, cleaning, and disassembling each weapon on the rack. Your halo has been linked to the Foundation Weapons Archive if you have any questions. Proceed.”
We got down to the long process of cycling through every weapon we had. I had no issue with the standard pistols and a couple of the rifles, but as the guns got more esoteric, I found myself checking the archive more and more to get an idea of where to start. Brianna made it farther than I did, even into the first few REET weapons, before breaking out the FWA as well.
“Hey, Al?”
I grumbled. “Yeah?”
“Why do you Foundation guys do this?” she asked, pointing at her halo-screen. The archive page she was looking at was about 90% blackboxed.
“The only information available is basically: Point. Shoot. One time use.” she muttered. “They even redacted the ‘Effective Against' section, so we don't even know why this gun is worth having.”
I looked down at the weapon she held in her hand. It was one of the REETs, a curvy handgun inlaid with bronze. My vision began to blur, and a screaming migraine kicked me in the teeth and took me to my knees. As I squinted my eyes shut, visions of that gun in my hands danced across the inside of my eyelids. I saw potato chip bags on the ground, and I heard someone screaming. I looked in that direction and saw a woman hovering in the air; I could see she was in pain by the way her body was spasming, but her features were blurry like a bad photo. I took aim and fired the REET…
And immediately vomited onto the floor of the sim-room. The migraine started to subside, and Bre was there with one hand on my shoulder and the other up to her mouth, she was yelling into her halo to get some help as I was propped up against the bench. As the Cadet stormed into the door and the simulation powered down, I waved my hand at them.
“No, no, don't worry. It's just an intrusive thought. It's already gone.”
“That's an intrusive thought?” Bre asked, concerned. “Like when a memory tries to break through the amnestics?”
“Yeah, usually triggered by something or other. What, this hasn't happened to you?”
“Nope, I'm not a little bitch though.”
She smirked as she said it and I laughed which hurt my head. Bre helped me up to sit on the bench and the Cadet released us to lunch while we were stalled out anyways.
What counted for a kitchen on this heap was up in the front. It was unnerving that I didn't see any other soldiers or agents present. I wondered just how fucked we and the world were. We drank down the protein shakes scavenged from nutrition stores and filled up the rest of the way with gourmet canned meat and beans, then made our way back to the sim-room.
The second shift started with strategy in the field. Bre was already trained in this sort of exercise, so this section was a lot of me playing catch-up. It was my turn to be head of the class when we got to the Foundation standard protocols regarding anomalies and containment. We ended the day with physical fitness. After several mile runs, wall climbing, and long jumps, we were supposed to wrap up with sparring.
“Of course they put this at the end of the day,” I opined.
“You ready?” Bre replied, all business.
Hoo boy, I thought. Here goes. Bre and I took our stances. I circled cautiously, and Bre was having none of it. She moved in fast with a right hook and had a straight kick for my leg going seemingly before I blocked the initial blow. I backpedaled and she responded by throwing another kick toward my midsection that I managed to fall away from. She was intent to keep the pressure on me, that's for sure. She jabbed forward and I managed to get ahold of her wrist; I pivoted my weight and threw her past me; the old Irish Whip never failed. While she regained her balance, I lunged at her. She flipped around like lightning and ended my tackle with a knee to my abdomen, knocking the wind out of me. She got her leg behind mine and THWACK, I was lying on my back on the ground. Bre held her fists at the ready in case I got back up.
She whispered, “Finish Him.”
“Are you serious? You fucking nerd.”
She offered her hand and helped me up. As I stood, she noticed the line of cuts on my forearm.
“What is that, a kill count?”
“Nah, a forgetting count. If I can manage it before blanking out, I leave a mark for each time I've been amnesticized.”
“Ah,” she nodded. “I can see why that would be useful in your line of work.”
“Before the fall, I only had two. Waking up and seeing so many extra ones that I don't remember is a trip every time, so I'm glad I keep these mementos to know where I've been.” Bre put her hand on my shoulder and I breathed a sigh of relief and put my hand on her hand; comfort was in short supply these days.
The sim-room powered down as the Cadet entered and told us to clean up and head to our bunks for the night. After my shower, I laid in my bunk. My head was swimming with everything I'd taken in today. Going from Agent to Sergeant in one day is rough to be sure, but I was also thinking about Bre. She was smart, funny… I sat up on the edge of my bed debating whether or not to go visit her and decided that yes, I would, because curfews are for assholes anyways. I opened my door, and almost collided with Bre.
“Oh, hi…” I mustered.
“Hi.”
“Can I, uh, help you?”
She took a deep breath. “Well, it's the end of the world, and I don't know how many people are alive out there, and curfews are for assholes. Can I come in?”
I smiled, stepped aside, and she walked in. I closed the door.
We laid there all night, her in my arms, my face in her hair. She smelled like cheap soap and something I couldn't place. It was nice.
In the morning, she kissed me on the cheek as she went back to her bunk. I suited up in my tac gear and headed to the sim-room for the mission briefing. Bre was already there; she smiled at me as I stepped in beside and slightly back from her. The room didn't expand today, but the holoscreen appeared in front of us and Doc Stewart appeared on it, facing down and frantically scribbling on some papers while talking on his halo.
“What do you mean Iota-77 is MIA?! That means-“ He looked up at us in surprise. “Oh! You're here, finally. We've had some difficulties with the, um, no, the, memetic hazard. Yeah, okay, so here's what you need to know to succeed in your mission.”
“Two years ago, a memetic hazard traveled through social media and annihilated most of the human race within hours. If you are affected, you have precious little time to self-amnesticize before succumbing. If your squadmate is in the midst of succumbing, you can utilize your one use high density particle firearm to give your partner slightly more time to self-amnesticize.”
“Wait, Doc,” I piped up, “why would high density particles have any effect on a person suffering from a memetic hazard?”
“They, uh… hey! It's part of the protocol, you don't need to know that. Continuing on, the motorcade is approaching your mission site. Your job is to breach the facility, find the terminal marked on your halo, and use it to manually upload the, uh, inoculation meme into the satellites. Once they broadcast worldwide, we can start the rebuilding process and 2000 and all that without having to worry about infection spreading again.”
“Why can't you do this remotely?” Bre asked.
“The-” Dr. Stewart took a sharp breath and exhaled, “The facility you're headed into is a highly secured government facility, and their network intrusion protection is top-notch. If we had our full resources, we'd easily be able to break in, but it's useless with our current capabilities.”
“What kind of resistance will we be facing?” Bre asked before I could. Damn, she was on the ball.
“There's an automaton-based security system. We've uploaded the proper security credentials onto your halos. Wave yourself in as an employee and you'll be fine.”
“Anything else you can tell-”
“No. You have everything you need to know to succeed in your mission. Humanity as a whole is relying on you right now, so no matter what, you have to upload that meme. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” we both replied.
“Good, dismissed.” Dr. Stewart spat at us, and thrust his hand into his coat pocket. He pulled out a familiar white canister and brought it to his mouth as the feed cut out.
“Damn, Ignorance protocol is serious business,” I muttered out loud.
“About how much of the intel he told us do you think is accurate?”
“Probably the stuff pertinent to the mission like the security measures and the job, but everything about the memetic hazard is crap. If knowing things is that dangerous, they aren't going to tell us anything factual about it.”
“Ready to roll?” she smirked and extended her arm.
“Let's do it,” I said, clasping her wrist in mine.
We were unceremoniously dropped off by the side of the road and the motorcade rolled away. Despite training us on every simulated weapon known to man, we only had our sidearms and our REETs for this mission. I only hoped the automated security was as easy to shut down as they said.
Across the overgrown grass of the campus landscape and past the fountain was our target: Jet Propulsion Laboratory. The sun was shining, and there was a cool breeze as we walked across the field. As we walked around the fountain, I could make out that the front wall of the facility was collapsing. I cursed and took off running towards the door, Bre kept stride beside me despite our height difference. I didn't hear any explosion, but if there's activity in the facility then this mission has already started in the shitter.
As we crossed the front parking lot, it became apparent the collapse wasn't slowing down. The wall in front of us was cascading, I guess is the best word. Rocks fell slower than gravity, and there seemed to be a never ending supply of debris cycling repeatedly. I pulled up my sleeve and activated my halo.
“Dispatch, this is Sergeant Williams, are you there?”
“We hear you, Sergeant, what is your status?”
“I'm sending you a video; we've encountered an apparent spatial anomaly at the front door of our mission site. Please advise on how to proceed.”
After a moment and some muffled whispers, Dispatch came back.
“Find an alternative entry to the facility and continue the mission.”
“This isn't a coincidence, is it? This is involved with whatever the hell we're dealing with? Is there more of this inside?”
“There shouldn't be. Get into the facility and complete your mission, Sergeant.” They hung up.
“Fuck. Okay, we need to find another way in.”
“It's the apocalypse,” Bre said, “there must be a hole in a wall somewhere.”
I chuckled. “Really?”
“Hey, humor is my coping mechanism, and as far as I remember, I've only been in the end of the world for 36 hours.”
That was an interesting way to think about it. I guess working for The Foundation for years conditioned me to think that the world could end any day, so I got used to the idea as if it's always been happening.
We walked around the north side of the building and easily found a knocked out wall to let ourselves in. We made our way through the conference room and into the hallway slowly, and determining the coast to be clear, we made our way back to the front lobby area. It wasn't as grand as I expected; you could almost mistake it for any business if it weren't for the large model of the space shuttle hanging from the ceiling above it. We found the entry terminal and keyed our halos for safe access. Bre lingered at the terminal for a second.
“What do you see?”
“I'm just checking what level security access we have; making sure we're not going to trip any doors outside of our access range and what sort of capabilities these automated units have. They're Galvatron units; heavily armored, rolling tank bots. I'm very happy to see that we aren't going to have to mess with these today.”
“Good call. Let's roll.”
We made our way up the stairs and past the tourist area of the building, virtual screens and mock-ups of classic aerospace designs sitting relatively untouched. As we reached an “Employees Only” door, we badged in with our halos and entered the more utilitarian hallways; this was a place of work and science, and although it wasn't as cold as a Foundation facility, it was still a research center.
Suddenly, every door around us opened at the same time. A swarm of people poured out of the doors and mobbed us to the ground. I could feel them grabbing my Glock and REET and emptying my pockets; I'm sure they were doing the same to Bre's gear as well. They dragged us down the hallway and around the corner where they seemed to have a base of operations. Tables on end reinforced by desks for defenses, various melee weapons and a few guns here and there. We were brought before a man; unassuming, office worker type, civilian clothes in disarray. He had a clipboard, and seemed to be counting supplies. Before I could speak, my mouth was covered by a thick strip of black tape; Bre's was as well.
“What should we do with them, Glen?” asked the guy holding my wrists.
“Judging by their uniforms, I'll bet they know spoilers; toss them in the boardroom. Toss their stuff over there and I'll add it to the inventory roster.”
The guy with our gear walked into one of the hallway doors while Bre and I were dragged back in the direction we came. They turned the opposite direction at the corner and brought us to a pair of large glass doors. We couldn't hear anything from inside, but we could see holograms standing around the board table having a discussion. They were hard to make out through the streams of daylight that fell through holes in the ceiling above them.
Two of them moved forward to open the doors.
“Check their ears.”
“Clear.”
They opened the doors and shoved us inside.
We hit the ground and they shoved the doors shut behind us. I twisted around and saw that all of them were leaning against the door to pin us in. I turned my head back to the table and saw what I can now see were scientists speaking in a very heated fashion.
“What are the capabilities of a creature made out of the fabric of reality itself? I'm sorry, Brian, what did you call these things?”
My face drained of color instantly.
“They're called Pat-“
I ripped the tape off of my mouth and put my hands over my ears and started yelling at Bre like a crazy person.
“COVER YOUR EARS AND START YELLING NONSTOP! YOU CAN'T LISTEN TO THOSE SCIENTISTS OR YOU'LL FIND OUT WHATEVER WE'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KNOW!”
Bre followed my lead and yelled back, “WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO TO GET OUT OF HERE?”
I started to yell my response, but choked when I looked at the glass door again. From the light's reflection, I could see dozens of people's reflections all over the room. On the tables, under the tables, floating in mid-air, their faces contorted in pain, trapped as nothing.
Bre saw what I was looking at, and I saw an idea flash over her face. She dropped her hands and started pulling at her wrist, discovering that they didn't confiscate her halo.
“COVER YOUR DAMN EARS!”
She kept working on her halo, and whether she was paying attention or not, all of that information is going in her ears. I had to try something. I started a long yell and turned around and grabbed a chair and flung it at the door. One of the guys flinched back, but the others held strong. I rammed against the door to no success.
“-about the Screamers from a distress signal from the Europa Synchotron.”
I covered my ears again. I eyed the hologram projector; there must be some way to shut it down. I started examining it and figured I'd found the console. I took a deep breath and let out another roar as I tried to pry the lid off it. I grabbed for a nearby pen to pry it open, and almost stabbed myself in the ear as I tried to cover my ears between breaths. I screamed again as I tried to pry open the lid, but I was starting to get lightheaded and couldn't keep yelling at top volume.
“Values don't just max out and roll over to the bottom again in real life, Steve! That shit only happens in-“
I turned around, ears covered, and kicked feebly against the door, but perked up when I saw a seven foot mountain of chrome shaped like a man — or, vaguely manlike if you ignore the tank treads and six arms — roll around the corner. As the Galvatron unit turned to face the crowd, blaze-blue sparks lit up at the ends of its arms. As it started accelerating towards the group at the door, I turned to Bre, who shot me a cocky look.
One of the guys in the back heard it coming, and whirred his head around only to be met by a taser to the face. His body shook as he crumpled to the ground, and the whole crew turned around. The charging mess of swirling taser arms cut the crowd in half, causing the Galvatron to slam into the door. It righted itself and started whirring after one half of the goons while the other half fled, only to be confronted at the corner by a second unit.
The path clear, Bre and I leapt through the freshly unblocked doors and slammed them shut behind us. I quickly turned to Bre.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough. The Earth is pretty fucked. I don't know how the Foundation has held the end at bay for this long; around 95% of the population were wiped out at the end of day-”
“Stop. I'm not sharing what I heard, you're not sharing what you heard. The more you know, the more dead you are. Let's just finish the mission and forget about this for the…” I trailed off and thought of my arm, “-thirteenth time. Ha, lucky number, huh?”
I patted my pockets; the amnestic slot was empty along with the others.
“We have to get our gear and finish the mission. We're not getting out of this alive without that amnestic.”
Bre nodded, and we turned toward the direction of our would-be executioners. We jogged down to the corner and I peeked around. A Galvatron unit and two hovering drones were inside the makeshift hallway village wreaking havoc, giving us clearance to creep up to the outer “walls” of their fortifications. I could hear fighting in the adjacent rooms of the hall. Bre and I breached, or really, slid around their tables and desks and sat with our backs to wall beside the first set of doors on either side.
Peering into the room, I spotted our pile on the table in the center. I could see someone's feet lying on the ground on the other side of the table; those autos are really efficient at tasing. I signaled over to Bre and ducked into the room. I just needed to grab the essentials; the guns, the REETs, and the amnestics. Or I would have, had they all been there.
“Shit!”
Bre followed into the room. “What?”
“We're down one set of gear. Missing gun, missing REET, missing amnestic? Who would take the amnestics, that stuff isn't known to the public…” I looked around the table to see if it had maybe fallen, and locked eyes with the face of our knocked out friend; black ink on his hands and face. Idiot.
“Found our missing bottle; we're down to one. The “finish and get back fast” plan is one step more serious than it was before. Do you want the REET or the Glock?”
“Shit. Okay. I'll take the REET. I heard more, so I'm more likely to see the Patter- I mean, them, coming.”
I pocketed the amnestic canister and handed Bre the REET, and-
“NO SPOILERS!!”
We both turned our heads to see Glen burst into the room, gun raised. He aimed at Bre and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He pulled the trigger repeatedly, his face changing from twisted rage to quizzical frustration as he stared at the REET he held in his hand. I took this opportunity to use my perfectly functional Glock to put two holes in him. He slumped against the door of the office.
I sighed. “Well, we know where the other REET got to.”
“Good. No need to waste time looking. We have one amnestic, one REET…” Bre ducked down and checked Glen's belt, “and two Glocks.”
“Let's go.”
I poked my head out of the office and saw the rest of the hallway in quiet disarray. Bre and I bolted over tranqued and tased bodies and made our way to our final destination: the Satellite Control Room.
The room was like a warehouse of giant computer terminals; the first floor was a sea of different holodisplays and the second was a ring of catwalk with more terminals lining it; it was almost disorienting. Our halos led us left to the terminal we needed and Bre got to work on uploading whatever the Doc wanted us to onto it. I paced nervously around the terminal floor.
I thought I saw something move out of the corner of my eye; something that shimmered. I whipped my head and raised my Glock, and it was gone.
I projected to the other side of the floor, “How long we got? I'm getting nervous about some visitors.”
“Almost done!” I got in reply.
I started making my way back towards Bre, mapping out our fastest way out on my halo. I lifted my eyes to see Bre, and something else grabbed my attention. I snapped my head up just in time to see a terminal tipping off of the second level directly above Bre.
I chose dive.
I knocked Bre out of the way and cleared the fall path of the terminal. Mostly. My brain sent every signal at once to go along with the crunch of my left ankle. I heard gunshots going off from nearby, then Bre was by my side with her hands under the terminal. She bent her legs and the terminal started to budge upward. I crawled out and rolled over, gasping for air.
“I didn't get him; I'm going up there. I don't think he's armed, stay here.”
As Bre ran off to shoot the bastard, I activated my halo and scrolled to the Suit menu. I activated my left boot's interior splint, and I felt the material of the boot form around my ankle and harden. It wasn't a fix, but it would make limping out of here easier.
Two more gunshots. I craned my neck up towards the second level and saw Bre holding her gun out in front of her. She lowered it, turned to me, and nodded. She turned to start heading towards the stairs when her arm was wrenched behind her by… nothing. Her arm was just being held behind her in the open air.
“NO!” My scream echoed across the room.
She reached for the REET on her belt, but her other wrist was wrenched outward.
“BRIANNA!” I clambered to my foot and a half and started limp-running toward the stairs. I lifted myself up the stairs using my hands on the rails more than my feet. Clearing the second floor, I used the railing to steady myself as I lurched toward the other side of the room. My eyes locked on her; her hands are gone. My breathing started to get labored as I was twenty feet away; at ten feet, I collapsed to my knees. My mind was shattering, I couldn't open my eyes, it wasn't just the ankle…
I forced my eyes open and saw myself in my old house. A woman I don't know was drinking coffee.
I blinked and I was in a grocery store, potato chip bags were strewn about the floor. My wife was hovering in front of my feet, dying. I can't see her face, but I know it's her. Wait. That wasn't right; that memory didn't make sense.
I coughed and pulled myself up to my knees; I could see Brianna hanging there in the air, dissolving above the knee. I lunged forward and almost fell to the ground before grabbing her belt for support. With my other hand, I grabbed the REET from her belt, fell onto my back, and fired upwards.
Brianna crumpled to the ground beside me.
She was gasping for air, I was gasping for air. She looked me in the eyes and started breathing deeply, purposefully, and I did the same. We had to get it together; there's no telling how long the REET held the Screamers back for. After a minute, we were able to start picking ourselves up off of the ground. She looked at my ankle.
“Can you walk?”
“I got up here, didn't I? Did you finish the upload?”
“Yeah, it says the satellites will take about an hour to calibrate for whatever Dr. Stewart wants them to do. I was about to tell you that before you dive tackled me.”
“I didn't think about yelling. Would you rather be in my braced shoe right now?
“No, and thank you for saving my life twice in a span of three minutes.”
“Anytime. Thank you for activating the robot army so we didn't die earlier.”
“You're very welcome.”
She grabbed my arm over her shoulder and we started making our way out of the facility at a hobbling pace. Past the unconscious survivors of the hallway village, past the tourist mockups, and into the lobby. Across the way, we could see the infinite cascade debris of the front door. There was a Galvatron whirring around in the rain of rubble. We walked down the stairs across the JPL logo on the floor when we heard a sound above our heads.
Without looking, we both dove forward just in time to avoid the falling mock space shuttle. We rolled over to see mostly blue sky; several holes had opened up in the ceiling, and floating towards us was what had to be the Screamers. It was like a trick of your eyes; there was clearly nothing there but you could see every detail of the writhing mass of nothingness perfectly. Tendrils that I could both see and not see reached out towards us.
Brianna yanked on my tac-vest, and I snapped out of thinking and back into action. We scrambled to our feet and ran. We dove through the debris wall, and as I struggled to keep going on my ankle, I could see the Screamers come through; the debris stopped infinitely cascading when they passed. What didn't disappear just fell to the ground. We ran across the parking lot, past the fountain, and into the grass of the business park. I tripped on some weeds and brought us both to the ground with a thud. I looked behind us and saw their wraith-like forms gaining on us. We couldn't outrun them. I couldn't outrun them.
I pulled the amnestic canister out of my pocket and thrust it into Brianna's hand.
“Get out of here and amnesticize.”
“NO! I'm not leaving you!”
“Yes, you are. We've got one bottle of amnestic and two people who know enough about these things to see them. They're going to get both of us or one of us.”
I could see her checking off strategies in her head trying to find one that gets us both out of here, but she and I both came up with nothing. She grabbed me by the head and kissed me; I wrapped my arms around her for a sighing moment and then pushed her away.
“Go.”
Brianna took off running. I watched her for a moment, then I turned around and watched the oncoming Screamers.
They didn't scream, I thought. That's weird.
I thought about the world.
I thought about what the Screamers did to almost all of humanity.
I brought my Glock to my head.
I thought about Brianna.
I thought about my wife.
I thought about

Brianna woke up to the taste of ink.
There was a pain in her left arm; she looked through her blurred vision to see her left sleeve rolled up and a small amount of blood on the outside of her forearm.
While her head throbbed, the spinning of the world started to slow down. She checked her wound; two bleeding gouge marks. She was outdoors, night time, in the grass of a park on a business campus of some kind. Struggling to get to her feet, she noticed she was wearing tac-gear, but it wasn't Army issue. Her head ached and she couldn't seem to get a clear idea of how she got here; had she been drugged? She focused on what she could remember.
My name is Brianna Tackson. I'm 39 years old. I'm a Staff Sergeant in the U.S. Army, Special Forces. The year, as I know it, is 2078.
An alarm on her halo started ringing; it'd been set to go off every 15 minutes starting an hour ago. It read “The marks are to remember, with love from Alan. Radio this frequency for pickup.” Alan? Her head started to hurt.
She took a deep breath to bury the oncoming headache and radioed in.
“This is Staff Sergeant Brianna Tackson, requesting a pickup?”
“We copy. What's your status?”
“I don't, remember? I'm not injured.”
“Roger that. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”

« Exploration Log 3426-UA-22C | Ignorance is Bliss | Present Tense »


I spent my life afraid of change because I knew that a better world would have no need of me.

SCP-7994 refers to a collection of antiquated hunting equipment that predates the establishment of the Foundation. The pieces were thoroughly obsolete at the time of their internment and may contain substances or materials prohibited by the Ethics Committee. Any further use of these items is considered contrary to the interests of the Foundation.

By 1905, anomalies weren't a hobby for the nobility any longer. Civilization crowded against its borders and stirred up nasty things. More anomalies, and these more dangerous. Too many witnesses to silence, too many monsters and too few huntsmen. Too much for us to do, and too little that we could do. When the Administrator started talking about changing the game, all the old hands listened.
It's time to stop hunting, he said. Time to start preserving. Seekers scrabbling for trophies and riches — that time had passed. It was time, he said, to industrialize.

An obsolete military rifle unsuitable for fieldwork. Martini-Henry rifles, popular during the late 19th century, were withdrawn from service in 1914. Individual agents continued to use personal examples until the early 1930s. Though not itself anomalous, the weapon has been exposed to multiple Safe and Euclid class objects prior to retirement, and entered permanent storage in 1947.

My grandfather patrolled his farm with the same rifle for thirty years. My father passed it on to me. I killed eight anomalies with this rifle and wounded three more sufficient to capture. Today we order rifles by the hundred thousand. But holding this old thing, I remember how we used to chase the Headlight Beasts.
Give a headlight beast any kind of room and he'll break a hundred miles an hour easy. We used to take them from the backs of jeeps, engines straining, rifles cracking. Best damned game in the whole world.
Seventy, eighty miles per hour, bumping up against the limits of our engines before we get close enough to shoot. All throughout, the beasts kept up their synchronized gait, bright heads blinking distress to any others in range. I'll never forget the glow breaking through the darkness, nor the beams of our lamps nipping at their heels. Those moments, those thrills, made the job all worth it. But I digress.

The leather jacket designated SCP-7994-B is of ordinary construction, but has been augmented with concealed, experimental protective fibers proof against most conventional firearms and stabbing weapons. One hundred percent of operatives and civilians exposed to these fibers developed totally inoperable cancers of the skin and brain within twenty to thirty years after initial point of exposure.
Expensive to produce, and dangerous to deploy, Foundation researchers have designated recreating the materials of the jacket a low priority task.

There was no money for facilities or uniforms. In 1920, men and women were the only things that came cheap - we found our first teams digging in the scrapheap of civilization. People who, if not given purpose by the organization, would have simply disappeared from modern life. Mercenaries we called them, though what they planned to do when they got their money, not one could have told you. The Secure Containment Project offered these vulnerable people something to do in a world that wanted to forget them.
We didn't know any better, about cross contamination or cross testing. Radiation, toxic fibers and such. I know it's killing me. Killed me, I should say, the day I put it on. Still hard to say goodbye to it.

The third instance, SCP-7994-C, is a brass sextant of Russian origin that has been modified for use in anomalous item location and acquisition. After thorough review, the device was deemed unreliable and unsuitable for further fieldwork.

The sextant doesn't measure where the sun is or where you are. It points out where the game is, it leads you to trouble. There's a little bit of magic in it and not a lot of science - exactly the opposite of what the Administrator wanted to see in the new organization, which is why he had you all lock it up.
Containment - such a clean word for the world we made. I miss the good old days, until I think of the scars and the skulls and the godawful things we did for fun.
And suddenly, I don't.


The Site Security Director sat at his desk, pulling the advanced noise cancelling headphones into place. He looked around the room; thick, padded grey acoustic dampening foam covered the walls, floor and ceiling. Still, he assured himself, it was important that he sat at his desk for this. He nodded at the security officer standing in the room with him, wearing headphones similar to his own. The junior officer exited the room, returning quickly with a solidly constructed metal box. He placed it on the folding metal chair set up across from the Security Director. Gingerly placing a small control device on the desk, the junior officer quickly closed the door with himself finally, thankfully, outside.
The Security Director picked up the small grey device, his thumb passing lightly across the buttons. Had things really gotten so out of hand that this was his best shot? He let out a deep sigh as his thumb flexed and he felt the button click in. He didn't hear the front plate of the metal box snap up, letting the pale fluorescent light spill into half of the box from the reinforced bulbs suspended overhead.
"SCP-2337, before I begin, I will inform you that, as Security Director of this Site, my purview includes the containment specificities of sapient euclid anomalies such as yourself." He flipped open a file folder on his desk as he spoke, pulling a few pages aside to find the part he was after. "The boys down in the research division seem to think you want to help out." He squinted into the open crate, making out the shadowed, squat form of the small avian figure within. "But from what I can tell, you're a rogue element — A loose cannon! Attacking doctors, making what are obviously thinly-veiled threats at personnel. I won't stand for it!" He stopped in a futile attempt to prevent his face from reddening. "Still… You're the best damn chance we've got. I'm giving you a chance here to prove yourself. Are you gonna take it?"
"Jumble your tumble dryer more peacefully if youthinks to batch honeyflies," retorted a titanic voice from within the container. Dr. Spanko strode to the front of his small house and, with a flap of his wings, alighted atop it. "Helpfully, it me! Cack! Drimmel down your Dumbledores, and explactorate the chardonnay."
"I — very well," the Security Director said, trying to understand the bird. "One of the site's Keters has gotten loose." He eyed Dr. Spanko, who seemed more preoccupied in preening himself than listening. "Do you know what that is, a Keter?"
"Better fetter, english setter." confirmed the good doctor.
"Rig — good," he hated talking to this bird. "Its designation is 682. Big, scary lizard." He paused for a moment to look over his dossier. "This was hidden behind a sea of redaction, but you have some connection with this creature, don't you?"
The bird sucked in a tremendous gasp. "And how!"
"Good, and…?" he paused, waiting for the corn crake to elucidate further. Several seconds passed in stark silence. The Security Director tightly pressed the bridge of his nose, air sucking past his frustrated teeth. "Alright, fair enough. That's not all of it, at any rate. 682 managed to get itself infected with both 008 and 217 before it got out of the facility. We've managed to reroute a handful of nearby Mobile Task Forces to keep everything quarantined to the town of Arcadia."
"Bespoken vamoose! Am has impassle without hardy stranglechills." The spry bird gave another quick flap, alighting to strut across the Site Director's desk. "Much beckseachon conveygive. Cack! Calls for an alsogood doctor, says I."
The Security Director's lips mouthed the words, trying to pull apart their meaning. "Convey.. a doctor? We don't have any doctors that would be authorized, or willing, to go. We've already reached the limit of what we can accomplish with humans; that's why I've got you here in the first place."
"Don't sour your purple moon, dickey old chum. Thinkwise anywho Herr Doktor Spankoflex know-has just the assombulance." His beak gripped another folder, tossing it open in front of the Security Director. The man's eyes widened, his face turning pale and grim. This was already the worst idea he'd ever seen.

The Plague Doctor sat in his sterile white cell. He held in one hand sharp forceps and a white cloth in the other. With absurdly practiced hand, he applied a fine sheen of oil to the tool. It had been far, far too long since they had been put to proper use, but it would not do to let them fall into disrepair.
The door to his containment cell slid open with a low beep. The junior officer stood outside, and paled visibly when the black-robed doctor looked over his shoulder to regard the open portal. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" He asked, not breaking from the maintenance of his tools.
"SCP-049, You have been requested to…" The junior officer cut off, thankful he was wearing the headphones, as Dr. Spanko strode from the hallway to stand in the open doorway, turning towards the security officer.
"Excardon while I extrapulate the laceration."
The bird turned, entering the cell. The Plague Doctor, his eyes never leaving the small bird, turned in his chair to better face his visitor. "Eveternoon. Cack."
"Good morning to you as well, Doctor."
"Uncle saltybone went and Garfunkled the whole substrate. Lathered up the spittoon, plain and simple. Leaves us with a grim holdover and a basketful of ladyfingers, and make no mistake. Loose Ruth and the Truth Caboose somnambulates through to the sunset, am flak no cack."
The black robed doctor nodded thoughtfully. "Would that I could, good doctor, but I am unfamiliar with the ailments you describe. I have devoted my practice…"
"Beast ill lens, cack! Spanko know-this, does me. Unspill your ouija board and pock your lepers on me. Am Namecalled Grand Wessel Teachospeak in the land of hungry ghosts. Instructulation is the chiefest of my ambility. Firstways, unstruct yourself on the finer points of dancing down the dandy…"
A short time later, the Security Director joined his junior officer in the doorway, the younger man's jaw slack with something resembling disbelief. He followed the officer's gaze to the two doctors, the small one's feet covered in ink, bouncing around the large one's journal. "What in God's name are they doing?" asked the Security Director in disbelief.
"I-I believe 2337 is teaching 049 how to treat infections of 008 and 217." admitted the junior officer. "At least, that's what I gather. It's been all 'bristleback' this and 'cack' that for awhile now, sir. Then he dipped his feet in ink and started jumping up and down on 049's journal making typewriter noises."
"Yes, I can tell." said the Security Director over the annoying cacophony. He was thankful for the headset's design, transmitting their voices to one another. He was already gritting his teeth at the grating noise, the volume of which, based on the clarity with which he could hear it, would have made a locomotive blush. "We don't have all day to let them dick around, though. I've got Hammer Down and Nine-Tailed Fox stretched to their limits just keeping the town quarantined, and Samsara just threw in the towel. Speaking of which, 682 is apparently immune to magic now, which is just fantastic."
He blinked. The noise had stopped.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, but if you haven't heard, there is an epidemic at hand. Please move aside so my colleague and I may go tend to the infected." The Plague Doctor held his bag in his left hand, the small bird perched on his right shoulder.
The Security Director blinked again. How had he been able to hear 049? He reminded himself to buy the boys down in R&D a round of beers sometime for outdoing themselves. "Yes, good. Except, there isn't anyone infected here, they're about a mile away. If you follow me, I will show you to the specially constructed vehicle we put together for…"
"Cack!" countered Dr. Spanko. "Cack says I. Wrangle up us a constabulary conveyer, partaking to the rooty tooty point and shooty. Is of most importulence to our plantations, see if it's not."
"I'm afraid so." agreed the Plague Doctor, revealing Dr. Spanko's calligraphy to the security officers. "I won't pretend to understand the full complexity of the good doctor's robust plan, but I have gleaned that a police cruiser will be of significant importance to our mission."
The officers stole uneasy, sidelong glances at one another, then again at the bird-tracked page. Throwing his hands up in defeat, the Security Director led the way.

"Rye on the toad." instructed Dr. Spanko, shattering the glass of the police cruiser's windows. The car swerved, smiting down a federal mailbox in the prime of its life. "Clams below the shoe." he cautioned, performing a small jig of approval as the Plague Doctor's hands slid towards the top of the wheel. Hastily-stopped vehicles littered the sidewalks and made the roads treacherous. On the bright side, all the death and devastation made tracking their quarry simple enough. Still, all these corpses did seem to be making navigation tricky.
Seizing the chance to be useful, Dr. Spanko perched himself on the dashboard, taking in a deep breath and belting out a great, piercing police siren yodel. As the cruiser rounded one final corner, it screeched to a halt; their target was obvious. Augmented corpses dotted the streets, their Foundation-made arms not up to the task of felling the Dragon. However, it seems that they had succeeded in driving it to its lair. The bird's siren faltered when he saw the multinational chain-based superstore the beast had chosen.
"Mall Wart," Spanko intoned grimly, "Mine ancient apiary." His eyes narrowed; this would require all of his cack. The fortunate dead were littered about the great hole through which the Enemy had made his entrance into the structure, and out from it poured the shambling wretches who languished in worship and hatred of their destroyer-god. Neither quite alive nor dead, not fully machine or flesh, these creatures knew only what their creator knew; to hate and to kill.
"It is worse than I feared," the Plague Doctor observed, retrieving a handful of tools from his bag as he stepped out of the vehicle. "I shall tend to the sick here, good doctor. You should see to what lies within." He fixed his attention on the flood of the sick, pouring across the parking lot to meet them. "There is no need to worry, you are suffering from a mild illness which I am here to relieve you of." Whirring gears and necrotising flesh surged at him, desperate to tear him apart.
Steel flashed in the noontime sun. A slash of scalpel here, a flourish of syringe there. The Plague Doctor whirled with dancer's grace, more operating room than man. Each movement artfully evaded the clutches of the sick, and suffered his cold, uncaring medicine on the horde. Corpses flew and the cacophony of metal gears falling loose to the ground filled the air.
Dr. Spanko watched briefly, as his student practiced the remedies he had taught him. Still, there was no time to loiter; the greatest foe lie yet ahead. Taking wing, he soared over the horde and entered that most cursed of places. A bastion of dark power it was, filled with every manner of thing that could be wanted, all at reasonable prices. He alighted on a high plastic sign bearing the number 4. Seconds turned into minutes, punctuated by faint rumblings from within the building. He remained vigilant, alert for any hint of movement.
In an instant, the floor erupted, the tremendous beast bursting from below, its wounds fully recovered. The Dragon locked eyes with Dr. Spanko.
The stench of fear filled the bird's lungs. The great lizard threw itself to the ground, howling an aisle-rattling cry of submission. It began curling into as small a ball as its leviathan bulk would allow, recognizing the oncoming doom.
Spanko descended, strutting closer to the trembling lizard. Then he saw them — the familiar, tantalizing, multicolored protrusions slowly working their way out of the monster's skin.
"S-Stranglefruit!" bellowed the corn crake in awe, "Stewed from the blizzard's goal net!" He hopped up on the beast, plucking one of the red gummy lumps from its tail and swallowing it without hesitation. Or at least he tried to. "Gah—Gacklegrapes! Poison!" the bird exclaimed, finally recognizing the dangerous bear shape that the gummies took. The devilish lizard's toothy maw curled upward in a contemptuous sneer.
The Plague doctor came running at the commotion, his gaze falling on Dr. Spanko. He was in rough shape, his coughs violently cracking the tile floor beneath him. Weakly, and with the faintest of thuds, the bird's body fell, still, to the ground.
"Doctor! No!" exclaimed the surgeon as he ran to his fallen ally, cradling him in his arms. "Do not die, damn it, I will cure you!" His words were cut off as the behemoth stood, emitting a slow, low growl. He stood straight, cradling his companion under one arm. With the other, he thrust his index finger outward at the monster. "I will never forgive you for harming my teacher!" he bellowed, striding forward quickly and lightly touching the tip of the great lizard's nose.
A long moment passed, and the beast continued breathing. "Well, it was worth a shot," the doctor said to himself as he began sprinting towards the police car.

The police cruiser hurtled down the road, ramping off of a steep upward slope and returning to the ground hard enough for the bottom of the car to send sparks flying from the pavement. The fleeing doctor kept his foot pressed as hard to the pedal as it would go. At some point, the radio had come to life, belting out a speedy eurobeat song. Frantically, he eyed the arcane control panel, but hadn't the foggiest idea how to stop it. He gritted his teeth, he wasn't sure why but this was reminding him of home.
The dragon, enraged at the removal of its supplicants and the theft of his rightfully-killed bird, tore down the road, not far behind and gaining fast. Street signs, stoplights, even vehicles went flying before the rampaging beast bearing down on them. Then he saw it, the overturned truck blocking the road, and knew their doom was upon them. With the calmness of a man walking to the gallows, the doctor slammed the brakes on, screeching to a halt alongside the crashed truck. He stood from the car, turning to face death sprinting at him. "It looks like this is the end, my friend."
Dr. Spanko's eyes shot open.
"CACK!"
His cough launched the gummi bear into the ionosphere. The shockwave tore the very molecules of the police cruiser apart, rendering it into a loose cloud of dispersing atoms. The force hit the dragon head on, and traveled through the beast's body, shredding and obliterating the monster's form until all that remained was a hunk of gore no larger than a cat, coming to rest at the Plague Doctor's feet. Buildings began crumbling outward in a radius around the cack, the onslaught losing its potency after it had smashed a mile in each direction. From Sydney to Shanghai, seismologists boggled.
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" the plague doctor asked as he turned, elated to see his friend alive. The two had little time for a reunion, as task force helicopters swarmed in, armed and armored troops sliding down black ropes to survey the situation. The team leader walked up to the doctors as his men worked the regenerating ball of flesh into an acid-filled box.
"Congratulations, doctors. The Security Director isn't going to believe the amount of collateral damage, but we got him contained."
Dr. Spanko stands on his fellow's shoulder and turns to face the camera. He confirms, "Better Nate than lever."
[Laugh track]
[Cut to black]
[Roll credits]

Now in theaters: Cack Hard 2: Revengeance: Reloaded


In a dark, dark, dark closet, within the bowels of Site-30, an intercom crackled to life.
"Janitor Worth, you're needed in the humanoid containment units. A D-Class just got terminated in an experiment."
The janitor groggily pressed the talk button. "Doc, I just woke up. Five more minutes, alright?"
"Oh sure, you can have five more minutes, if you want to be out of a job."
"Doc, ya ever try gettin' to sleep in a closet? No bed? It ain't fun."
"Janitor, get to testing chamber 142 or we're kicking you out of Site-30."
"Alright, alright. Give me a second to get shit organized."
"Thank you, Janitor Worth." The intercom powered down, and the closet was once again filled in silence.
A man stood in that closet, leaning against the wall, huddled with at least 5 brooms and 7 mops. He was half asleep, and not ready to start work. Janitor Worth was his name. His legal name. Janitor Worth took a second to rethink his life, before grabbing a mop and a bucket.
Another day, another bloodstain to clean.
He made his way down the hall, stopping at a testing chamber with two guards standing outside, and one guy in a lab coat. With a sneer on his face the lab coat man looked at the bucket.
"I told you. There's a deceased D-Class. You have to dispose of it."
"It'll fit. Trust me."
The lab coat turned to the guards. He nodded. The guards nodded. They opened the door. The familiar scent of spilled blood poured from the room. The labcoat gagged. Janitor Worth walked in, set the bucket down and looked around. "You made sure this body isn't magical?"
"D-3356's body is non-anomalous. Hume readings have proven so."
The janitor shrugged. He picked up the body, setting it in the small metal bucket. His legs dangled from one end, and his torso hung out the other side. He grabbed the mop, starting to wipe up the blood.
"So, did ya see that game last night?"
"What game?"
"I don't know. I don't got a TV in my closet."
"We're not required to provide you a television."
"I know you've got a computer in your office. Now why can't I get somethin' like that?"
"You do not have to send e-mails every hour to thousands of personnel."
"We both know you use it for porn. Probably why they were originally made. Also, should dead bodies be movin' that much?"
Sure enough, the bucket was empty. One quick scan of the room and the man was in the corner. Scared as hell, which is typical of those who just returned from death. The janitor knew this. Third time this week a body resurrected right in front of him. This was the lab coat's first time.
"Guards! Fire!"
"Nah guys, I got this." The janitor held up the broom.
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
The janitor tossed the mop a little in his hand, before launching it. A split second later, the D-Class screamed. A large wooden pole was sticking from his chest, with a bundle of white cloth on one end, now stained with red. The D-Class looked down at the mop, before going limp. Janitor Worth turned to the lab coat.
"Looks like you owe me an apology."
"What… What did you just do…?"
"I stabbed him. With a mop. Thought that was pretty clear. Anyway, do I gotta dispose of that thing still or can you guys take care of it?"
"Uh… Mr. Worth, can you remove the mop and finish cleaning the blood before you go?"
"Yeah." He walked over, pulling the mop from the wall. The D-Class fell down, revealing a hole in the concrete wall. He finished the job, taking his bucket and mop with him.
Another day, another bloodstain to clean.