Sunday, May 9th, 2021

Agent Sasha Merlo sat within the office of Edgar Holman, Director of Foundation Site-64 and a longtime friend. As she relaxed in one of the comfortable chairs he kept in front of his desk, she looked around the room at the various pieces of minor anomalous artwork that covered the walls. Her eyes snapped back to her host as Holman finished filling out some paperwork and cleared his throat.
“You're probably wondering why I asked you to stop by,” he said, taking off his reading glasses.
“Well, you haven't started yelling at me, so I assume I'm not in trouble, yet,” Merlo replied with a grin. “I figured you just liked my company.”
“Cute,” Holman chuckled. “I'm afraid it's a little more important than that. You are aware that William Johnson, my Assistant Director of Task Forces is planning to retire in two months, yes?”
“I heard rumors…” Merlo furrowed her brow. “Why?”
Holman slid a small folder to her and gestured for her to read. Merlo's eyes widened as she scanned the words on the pages therein.

As such, I am recommending Agent Sasha Merlo (Commanding Officer, MTF Gamma-13) to fill the position of Assistant Site Director of Task Forces following Johnson's retirement…

“But… why?” she asked.
“Because you get results, messy as they are sometimes,” Holman explained. “That, and you are an exceptional leader who has proven herself time and time again as part of the Gamma-13. If anyone is qualified to take over for Johnson once he leaves, it's you.”
“Doesn't Johnson get a say in this?”
“He agrees with me, and will be filing a similar recommendation.” Holman smiled. “Job's basically yours already.”
Merlo rubbed her temple. She opened her mouth to speak, blinked, then closed it again. The process repeated itself twice more before she managed to get her thoughts in order.
“But what about the Lawbringers?” She asked. “If I climb the ladder, who takes their reins?”
“I was under the impression that Agent Shaw was a good candidate,” Holman answered. “Is that not the case?”
“No, Clarissa would easily be my top choice, I just…” Merlo gave a flustered sigh. “I guess I never saw myself ever being on the admin side of things.”
“We never do.” Holman shrugged. “But in the end, someone needs to step up to the plate and get the job done, and right now, you are the person I think will do the best in the position.”
Holman then swiveled in his chair, turning away from Merlo. He then chuckled as Merlo watched the top of his head shake.
“That also puts you in a position to take over as Site Director when I eventually retire,” he added.
“Wait, what?!” Merlo went pale. “Say that one more time, please?!”
“Oh, come on.” Holman swiveled his chair back to face her. “I've had this job for over two decades. At some point, I need to pass the torch. You're the only person in this facility who I feel comfortable doing that with. You know the locale, you know the anomalous communities, you know Site-64.”
Merlo remained silent. Her eyes remained locked with Holman's. There she could see his absolute sincerity.
“I'm at the point in my career where I need to start thinking about my legacy, Sasha,” Holman went on. “Passing the torch to you, and knowing the site was in competent hands after I leave will be a positive part of that.”
“Will you give me a week to consider?” Merlo asked.
“Take all the time you need,” Holman replied.
Merlo gave a small smile and nodded. As she made her way to the exit, she turned to look back at her superior.
“I'm glad you think so highly of me, Ed,” she said. “It means a lot.”

2007 - Saturday, March 3rd

As the van came to a stop, the members of the mobile task force inside did their final preps. An anonymous tip from within Seattle's anomalous community had informed them of a massive anart and paratech dump within a warehouse. Within half an hour, the raid would commence.
The rookie triple checked her gear. She had helped conduct raids for the FBI when she was a cyberoperations specialist, but this times things were different. She was fresh out of MTF training. Magic, ghosts, eldritch horrors, and all the wonderful things that go bump in the night had been shown to exist. How anyone could feel prepared in this situation, she did not know. She tied her brunette hair into a ponytail and let out a nervous sigh.
“First op?” the veteran agent sitting next to her asked. The rookie quietly nodded.
“Is it that obvious?” she asked.
“I'm afraid so,” he replied with a chuckle, and scratched the stubble on his chin. “All the newbies have a certain way about them. No worries, we've all been there before. Stick with me and I promise you'll do fine. Guaranteed, or your body back.”
The rookie smiled and nodded, then fell silent as the task force lead cleared her throat and turned to them to remind them of the key points of their briefing.

Monday, May 10th, 2021

As Merlo finished telling Agent Clarissa Shaw about her pending decision, she watched her colleague think in silence for several moments. Shaw took off her glasses and chewed on the arm, the gears turning in her head. Eventually, Shaw sighed and shrugged.
“So, which way are you currently leaning?” Shaw asked.
“I have no idea…” Merlo sank into her office chair. “Field work is what makes me feel alive, you know? It's all I've ever done and all I've ever wanted to do. Being a paper pusher seems… unnatural.”
“So, what's the problem? If being in the field is so important to you, if it's what you live for, your answer seems pretty cut and dry.”
“Yeah, but what about Gabe and Jessie?”
“What about them?” Shaw raised an eyebrow.
“I'm far less likely to get shot if I take the job.” Merlo explained. “Plus, I'll be around them more. I've missed four out of five birthdays for Jessie. Can't count how many times I've left Gabe high and dry…”
“They both seem fine with things the way they are now.” Shaw shrugged. “Listen, Sasha, in the end this is going to boil down to what you want. I'd think you'd make a really good MTF Director. I really do. Hell, you'd make a kickass Site Director. But at the same time being in an office day after day would just crush the life out of you. I feel like I've known you long enough that I can say that. Don't do that to yourself.”
“Right…” Merlo sighed. “I guess part of me thinks that if I don't take this, I'm letting tons of people down.”
“And if you do take it, you'll let yourself down,” Shaw chuckled. “Maybe even Gamma-13, too. I mean, who would they even get to replace you?”
Merlo smiled and gestured at her friend. Shaw's grin immediately vanished.
“Nooooooooo…” Shaw said slowly, pointing an accusatory finger at Merlo. “Sasha, if you think we're Asimov's Fuckups now…”
“It's what?” Merlo interrupted. “Going to get worse? And here I thought I was selling myself short. Shaw, none of our problems as a task force were ever leadership based and you know it. You'd excel as task force lead. Believe me, I'd know.”
The two agents looked at each other in silence for several seconds and then burst into laughter.
“You fucking hypocrite!” Shaw finally said between gasps for air. Her voice then took on an imitative tone. “I don't think I should take this job, Clarissa, but here are all the reasons you could take mine.”
“Would you though?” Merlo asked as the laughter died down, “If I take the job, would you step up for the Lawbringers?”
“No one could lead this team as well as you do.” Shaw shook her head. “The thought of attempting terrifies me. But yeah. I'd do it. I hope you don't make me though.”

2007 - Saturday, March 3rd

The rookie stood fourth in a line of her fellow task force members. The veteran stood in front of her, and looked back to give her a small nod of confidence. She nodded in return, then watched as the lead agent quickly took out what looked like a tube of red paint, and applied it to the handle of the nearby warehouse door. The lead agent gave them the signal to hold as the handle, then the entire door, became red hot and disintegrated before them. The dust from the door had not even settled by the time another agent threw a flashbang into the warehouse interior. The explosive went off, the interior of the warehouse filling with the sound of confused voices as the team funneled in.
Armed thugs attempted to draw weapons, but were quickly taken down by bursts of rifle fire. The rookie watched a muscular woman topple as she discharged six of her rounds. She gave pause as she watched the woman's body limply slide down the side of a crate, but snapped back into focus as the veteran tapped her on the shoulder.
“Come on!” he shouted over the din, and pointed toward the interior of the warehouse where a cacophony of metallic sounds, confused shouting, and gunfire filled the air.
The rookie nodded and quickly fell in behind him, her weapon held tightly in her hands. She gave one last glance back at the woman she killed before snapping her head back to the matter at hand.

Wednesday, May 12th, 2021

Agent Merlo sat within a booth at the Secret Crest Pub, a brewpub in Portland's Pearl District that had become a popular spot among Site-64 personnel during their off time, mainly due to the fact that its original owner had once been a retired Site Director. Across from her was a lanky and stubble coated agent by the name of Daniel Navarro.
“How's the robo-hand treating you?” Merlo asked after taking a sip from her beer. “I'm still surprised you went ahead and had it installed.”
The anart specialist sipped his drink with his left hand and then shrugged.
“It gives me phantom pain from time to time,” he replied, “and I can't use my left arm to do magic anymore, but hey, at least I can do this again.” Navarro then proceeded to extend his left middle finger.
“Classy as always.” Merlo shook her head as she chuckled.
“I try.” Navarro smiled. “So, what's all this Shaw told me about you getting a promotion?”
“Site-64's Director of MTFs is retiring,” Merlo explained. “Holman wants me to take the job.”
“And you didn't tell him no then and there?”
“You would have?”
“You bet, but keep in mind that the day I'm considered is the day Hell freezes over, so we'd have bigger problems on our hands,” Navarro replied. “Fuck that kind of responsibility. Being a field agent is far too much fun, plus my mistakes only affect a handful of people at most, usually. Last thing I want on my conscience is to be the guy who sent an entire task force on a mission and got them all banished to the deepest circle of Hell.”
Navarro paused as he noticed Merlo was staring intently into her half-finished pint.
“You're still on the fence about it then?”
“Well I was,” Merlo frowned, “but now I'm not so sure. I don't want to be the one who sends a task force to the ninth ring of Hell.”
“I mean, that's just me. I'd doubt you'd ever get your people in that kind of situation to begin with. You think things through too well.” Navarro sighed. “Alternatively, if you take the job you wouldn't be able to go on crazy magic adventures with me anymore.”
“True,” Merlo conceded, “but if I take the job, when your magic adventure backfires, like it always does, I'll be in a position to help with your whole ‘not getting fired, amnesticized, and/or shot' thing.
“Where's the fun in that, though?” Navarro chuckled. “Listen, Sasha, in the end you do whatever you feel is best for you. Personally, I think your talents would be wasted as a paper pusher, but what do I know?”
Navarro then gestured to the server for another round.

2007 - Saturday, March 3rd

“What the hell is that thing?!” the rookie shouted over a continuous wave of incoming machinegun fire. Her and the veteran had hidden behind a forklift for cover. At the center of the nearby clearing what could best be described as an robotic sentry turret opened fire at them.
“Hell if I know!” the veteran replied, taking a series of quick potshots at the robot before returning to the safety of the rapidly deteriorating forklift. “But it's pissed, whatever it is.”
The rookie peered over the forklift's side to get a better look. The robot's main body resembled a large black vase standing on four thick spidery legs. A thin red line formed a ring around its middle, emitting a bright light that intensively glowed in their direction. Two gun barrels adorned each side. All four fired a stream of bullets rapidly in their direction. The rookie flipped her rifle into full auto and quickly took aim, shouting as she emptied the rest of her magazine into the mechanical beast. She watched it take multiple steps back from the force of the impact, however, the bullets only made small dents in its armor. The turret began a process of self-repair as it stepped forward to reclaim its lost ground, and begin its stream of fire once again.
“Shit!” the rookie shouted as she ducked back behind the forklift and reloaded. “Bullets aren't cracking this thing. Got any other ideas?”
“Just one…” the veteran replied, and pulled out a knife.
“You brought a knife to a gunfight? Are you crazy!”
“Probably!” the veteran shouted, cutting his left hand with the blade.
The rookie's eyes widened as she watched his hand immediately burst into flames. The veteran gave a shout as he shot to his feet and pointed his palm at the droid, a giant pillar of blue flames engulfing the automaton as it let out a horrifying shriek. The veteran then closed his fist, the flames immediately dying, leaving a smoldering pile of charred metal and melted plastic where the turret once stood.
“I'll answer your questions later, provided they let you remember them,” the veteran told the rookie as he began to bandage the cut on his hand. “Preferably when all the bad guys are dead and bullets aren't trying to find a home within us.”

Friday, May 14th, 2021

Merlo sat in Site-64's cafeteria, a cup of stale coffee in her hands as she looked over the notepad in front of her. Jotted down on it was a pro and con list regarding taking the assistant director position. Both columns were of equal length, and held equally compelling arguments. She sighed, and looked at the clock on the far wall.
12:00 AM.
“Why the hell can't I make up my mind…” Merlo mumbled as she rubbed her eyes. “I can make split second decisions during an op, but I can't decide on this bullshit… Fuck me.”
She sighed and rested her head on the table. She still hadn't told Gabe. Mainly because she already knew what he was going to say. Same as Shaw and Navarro. Follow her heart. The only problem was her heart wasn't keen on leading her anywhere. At least not this time.

“Well that is that and this is this.
Will you tell me what you saw and I'll tell you what you missed,
when the ocean met the sky. (You missed, you missed)
You missed when time and life shook hands and said goodbye. (You missed)
When the earth folded in on itself. (You missed)
And said "Good luck, for your sake I hope heaven and hell (You missed, you missed)
are really there, but I wouldn't hold my breath." (You missed, you missed)
You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death? (You missed, you missed)
You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?”

Merlo raised her head as the sound of monotone singing became audible. Soon after, a slender man in a lab coat with messy blond hair entered the cafeteria, a pair of earbuds visible within his ears as he made his way directly to the coffee machine. An amused smile came to Merlo's face as she recognized him as Researcher Conwell, primary investigator of the site's Anomalous Materials Lab. She listened to him continue to sing while preparing his coffee. Eventually he turned around, and upon seeing her, stopped mid-sentence. He blushed as he pulled his earbuds out.
“Uh, sorry,” Conwell mumbled. “Normally no one is here around this time…”
“Oh, don't mind me.” Merlo chuckled. “You keep doing your thing. I won't tell anyone, superstar.”
Conwell gave a small smile and approached her table.
“What are you even doing here?” he asked. “I thought MTF members had normal hours when not on ops.”
“I needed to think through a few things,” Merlo answered. “What are you doing here?”
“Lab's running a reaction that needs round-the-clock surveillance and samples collected every hour or so. Tonight's my shift.”
“Fun times,” Merlo commented. “Hey, Jacob, mind if I pick your brain for a bit.”
“I've got a bit of time, sure.” Conwell shrugged. “What's up?”
“You're married, right?”
Conwell raised an eyebrow, then flicked the titanium wedding band on his finger.
“A little under six years now…”
“Kids?”
“Kate and I have a three-year-old son and a one-year-old daughter. Where're you going with this?”
“Just humor me for a few more questions,” Merlo sighed. “You don't travel a lot for your position, right? Like, most nights you're home to see your family?”
“Yeah, most of the time I am.” Conwell scratched the back of his head. “Exceptions being when I'm here for experiments or get called out to Site-77 to help with some of their AMAT projects, but that's mainly because I'm on good terms with their Site Director. I imagine its different if you're on an MTF, though. The whole ‘mobile' thing.”
“Bingo,” Merlo replied. “I have a chance to change that though, the Task Force director's position is opening up, and Holman is offering it to me…”
“Well hey, congratulations!” Conwell exclaimed. “You should totally take it. You'd be great there.”
Merlo remained silent and looked at the pro and con list on the table before her.
“But you're not so certain, are you?” Conwell observed.
“I have no idea why. Part of me knows I'd probably do fine there, and that it would be better for me and my family if I take the job, but at the same time I can't stand the thought of wasting away over paperwork, sitting in meetings, and hobnobbing with the big wigs. It's just not me.” Merlo sighed deeply. “I don't know what to do.”
“Well, if it was me, I'd take the job,” Conwell said, sitting down across from Merlo and looking over her pro and con list. “Then again, I'm not a field agent who eats danger for breakfast. Have you asked your family what they think?”
Merlo shook her head.
“Gabe's just going to say, ‘do whatever makes you happy.'” Merlo rubbed her temple. “But the problem with that is if I choose what makes me happy I'll feel like shit. ‘Sorry sweetie, rather than take a better paying job that is safer, and allows me to be a bigger part of our daughter's life I'm going to choose to keep on galivanting off into the sunset on my merry adventures, cause it's what I want. See you later if I don't die.'”
Conwell chuckled and shook his head.
“What's so fucking funny?” Merlo snapped.
“You already know what decision you're going to make,” Conwell commented, looking at his watch. He then stood and returned Merlo's pro and con list to her. “You're just afraid of the repercussions.”
He then put his earbuds back in place and finished the rest of his coffee, chucking the paper cup into a nearby trashcan.
“If I was in your shoes, I'd take the job,” Conwell continued. “Safer spot to be, you get to see your family more, and you would be good at it. But, hey, what do I know. I'm just a scientist. You take care.”
Merlo listened as Conwell began singing to himself once more as he took his exit.

“As life gets longer, awful feels softer.
Well it feels pretty soft to me.
And if it takes shit to make bliss,
Then I feel pretty blissfully.”

2007 - Saturday, March 3rd

The battle within the warehouse had begun to wind down. Most of the hostiles had been either apprehended or killed. Most of the anomalous art pieces and paratech had been secured. Only a few pockets of resistance remained for the MTF to mop up.
One such pocket, that the rookie and the veteran had been assigned to, was in the form of a lanky black android that had fortified itself among multiple crates with its supposed owner. An MTF sniper had downed the owner, but the android's bullet resistance and impressive skills with small arms had prevented the rookie and the veteran from closing in to complete containment.
“Can't you just flash fry this guy too?” the rookie whispered from their cover behind a pile of crates.
“If I wanted to burn this whole place down, sure,” the veteran replied. “It's surrounded by wooden crates. That's not happening.”
“What good is being able to summon fire if you can be bested by a pile of wooden boxes?” the rookie asked, peering over their cover, only to duck to avoid a burst of bullets flying past her head. The force of the shots hitting a far stack of crates knocked a smaller crate off a larger one, and onto the floor. “I have an idea. Can you provide me covering fire?”
“Almost getting shot gave an idea?” the veteran asked. “If this idea boils down to shooting the guy, I'm docking you for no originality.”
“Humor me,” the rookie hissed back. “Can you provide covering fire? Get this guy focusing only on you?”
“Just tell me when…”
The rookie grinned and counted down on her fingers
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The second the final finger went down the rookie shot up and dashed towards the android's fortress, the veteran letting loose a spray of bullets that kept the robot behind cover. Eventually the rookie vanished from the veteran's view. He quickly ducked back behind cover to reload, the android sending a barrage of bullets toward his location. The veteran held his breath, and waited for the click of an empty magazine, before peering out from cover. Sure enough, the black droid was reloading, unaware of the rookie on top of the pile of crates behind it, forcing a crate off the top of the stack…
“That's just stupid…” the veteran said to himself with a smirk as he watched the crate fall, landing right on top of the android and flattening it under its weight. The rookie lost no time hopping down and quickly pinning the incapacitated droid beneath yet another crate.
“Going to dock me for originality?” the rookie asked with a smug smile as the veteran approached.
“I mean, you just knocked a box onto it. That's not exactly, well, thinking too far outside the box is it?”
“Everyone's a critic…” the rookie said as she rolled her eyes and quickly flagged down the rest of the containment team for assistance.
“I'm afraid so.”

Saturday, May 15th, 2021

Agent Merlo sat in her living room, curled up in a blanket on her couch. As the credits to Empire Strikes Back ran across the TV screen, her husband was in the other room, putting their daughter to bed. By the time the credits had finished their crawl, Gabe had returned, lazily crawling under the blanket with her and pulling her close. She rested her head on his shoulder and then sighed.
“Got something I need to talk to you about,” she said.
“Oh no, that can't be good.” Gabe chuckled. “What's up?”
“You know how the Director of Task Forces is retiring?”
“Yeah…”
“Holman's offered me the job.”
“That's fantastic,” Gabe said with a smile. “You going to take it?”
“I don't know yet…” Merlo said after a pause.
“Do or don't, I'll support you either way.”
“Do you think I should take it?” Merlo asked, turning her head to look at her husband's stubble covered face. She could see her reflection in his glasses. She looked so tired.
“I think you should do what will make you happy,” Gabe replied. “If that means staying an MTF agent, go for it.”
Merlo shot up and put her head in her hands before she let out a deep breath.
“For once, Gabe, could you please lose the chill? Please?” She snapped. “Tell me what the fuck you want! Have a fucking opinion! Tell me you want me to take the job, that you and Jessie miss me and want me to be here more. Tell me that its selfish to continue being an MTF agent when such a better opportunity has come up. Get mad! Just… do something! Please! This is why I waited this long to tell you! You never have a fucking opinion.”
“Grr? Arg?” Gabe said with a frown, halfheartedly shaking his fists. “Sasha, I mean what I said. If you're happy on the sales floor, there is absolutely no reason to bump up to management. Stay head of the Lawbringers if you want. I'm fine with it. Really. I knew what I signed up for when we got married, and Jessie seems to understand things in her own way.”
He then wrapped his arm back around her and pulled her into a hug.
“I take it you told others first? What did they say?”
“Shaw and Navarro think I should pass. Holman and Conwell said I should take it.”
“And what do you think?”
Merlo looked at Gabe. He smiled and gave her a kiss on her forehead.
“I don't know…” she mumbled.
“When do you have to let Holman know?”
“I told him I'd have an answer by tomorrow.”
“Well, think on it tonight. I've told you what I think. Whatever decision you make, know that I'm proud of you, and will support you.”
Merlo gave him a small smile and rested her head back on his shoulder.
“Jedi?” she asked as she sank back into a comfortable spot.
“Love to,” said Gabe as he got up to change the disk in the Blu-ray player.

2007 - Saturday, March 3rd

Overall, the raid was a success. Minor personnel casualties, high anomalous object turnaround, and numerous apprehended persons of interest. Still, when the combat dust had settled, their job had only just started. By the time cleanup was done, amnestics distributed, and all hands evacuated for the disinformation guys to take over, the sun had become low in the sky. However, the work eventually came to an end, and the MTF members were loaded back into their vans for transport back to the site for debriefing.
“That was fun,” the veteran said to the rookie. “We should do this again sometime.”
“Do you want to bring the auto-turret, or should I?” she asked with a sheepish grin on her face.
The veteran chuckled and shook his head.
“Never caught your name, by the way,” he said, extending a handshake.
“Sasha Grimmer,” the rookie replied, accepting the gesture. Her grip was strong.
“Daniel Navarro,” the veteran said in return. “Not bad for your first raid. Holman should keep an eye on you. You're going places.”

Sunday, May 16th, 2021

Merlo stood in front of the office door and hesitated, reading the entry plaque several times.

Edgar Holman, Site Director

It was about the third readthrough that the words on the plaque began to change in her mind's eyes. By the time she had read the plaque for a fifth time she thought the engraving actually read:

Sasha Merlo, Site Director

“In or out, Agent Merlo.”
Merlo blinked as she snapped out of it, the voice of Holman's secretary breaking her train of thought.
“Right, sorry,” Merlo apologized, and let out a final sigh as she opened the door. The Site Director peered at her from his desk and smiled.
“You wanted to speak to me, Merlo?” He asked.
“Yes sir,” Merlo said. She moved across the room and took a seat in one of the chairs.
“Oh? Whatever about?” Holman chuckled, and neatly folded his hands.
“I've made my decision…”

+ I'm sorry, Ed, but I can't do this... It's just not me.

- Close

Sasha Merlo knocked on the door of one of a handful of accounting offices in Site-64. A familiar voice informed her it was open, and with a deep breath she entered. Inside she found Gabe Merlo sitting at the room's only desk. He gave her a warm, but confused, smile.
"Well this is a nice surprise," Gabe said. "What brings you to math land?"
"I turned down the job," Merlo answered as she gave a tired smile.
"I figured you would," Gabe chuckled. "Business as usual from here on out, then." He paused, his smile briefly vanishing as he raised an eyebrow. "Are you happy with your decision?"
"I am, but part of me wonders if I made a huge mistake," Merlo shrugged. "You know, the usual."
Gabe's smile returned instantly.
"Oh, you certainly made a huge mistake," Gabe replied sheepishly. "You married me."
He stood and wrapped his arms around her. Merlo held onto him tightly.
"Seriously, though," Gabe continued. "I'm glad you did what you wanted, and not what you thought you had to do." He then gave her a peck on the cheek. "Love you, sweetie."
Merlo gave a relaxed sigh and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Love you too."

+ Ask and you shall receive, Ed. I accept

- Close

Sasha Merlo knocked on the door of one of a handful of accounting offices in Site-64. A familiar voice informed her it was open, and with a deep breath she entered. Inside she found Gabe Merlo sitting at the room's only desk. He gave her a warm, but confused, smile.
"Well this is a nice surprise," Gabe said. "What brings you to math land?"
"I took the job," Merlo answered. She gave a tired smile in return.
Gabe blinked a few times as he processed the news, his smile widening to an ear to ear grin.
"Really?" he asked. "That's awesome! Didn't think you'd go for it"
"I didn't either," Merlo replied with a shrug. "But something just ended up convincing me this was the right move. That shooting Holman down would have been a huge mistake."
"And we both know I'm the only mistake you have room for in your life," Gabe said with chuckle. "Do I have to start calling you Director now?
"Only in the bedroom," Merlo answered impishly.
"Kinky."
Gabe then stood and wrapped his arms around Merlo, pulling her into a tight hug.
"In all seriousness," he continued, "I really am proud of you. This is what you want though, right? You're not doing this because you feel obligated…"
"This is what I want." Merlo nodded. "It just took me a while to figure out why."
"Wonderful," he said, then proceeded to give her a peck on the cheek. "Love you sweetie."
Merlo gave a relaxed sigh and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Love you too."

« No Good Deed | Anderson Robotics Hub | The Blackbird and The Falcon »


Aubrey Dell missed the days when coming home was a respite. When she was free to leave work at work and pretend for a few hours a day that she was a normal biologist, one not surrounded by world-ending horror. But it had been… twenty? Twenty-five? Years since she'd enjoyed that luxury. Every promotion had dragged her deeper into the folds of the Foundation, tightened the chains keeping her from a normal life. Until she'd reached the top, and the thought of freedom was a distant as the stars.
There were a dozen different different tasks she was mentally running through as she entered her house. Researchers at Site 78 were beginning to grow concerned over unpredicted tectonic activity, and its possible connection with their contained objects. Rumor was spreading of Chaos Insurgency strike teams preparing memetic attacks in metropolitan areas. SCP-5824 was showing the first signs of entering its final stage of pupation. She had to analyze, triage, plan, praying just to scrape by and stave off destruction for a few more weeks. And as soon as one problem was solved, another would leap forward to take its place.
It was these thoughts that distracted her from seeing the intruder until she reached the kitchen and flicked on the light. She jumped back, hand instinctively groping for a weapon but falling on empty air. The intruder didn't move from his spot behind the island. Not just any intruder, she realized. Pavlo Kharkiv. Looking like she had never seen him. His hair was dirty and tangled. Bags hung from his eyes. His suit was rumpled, his tie crooked. There was no sign of the normally immaculately groomed man she was used to working with. And in one hand he held a gun, pointed at the ground. A glass of whiskey sat on the island next to its half full bottle.
“Hello, Aubrey. You know why I'm here.”
She looked from the gun to his piercing eyes and back to the gun. She nodded.
“How much do you actually know?”
“I… suspect a lot. You and others are planning a coup. You've allied with a Group of Interest currently unknown to the Foundation to help make that happen.” No point in being coy. There were only two ways this scenario could end. “You're developing a Foundation headquarters beneath Navi Mumbai. One capable of surviving a wide variety of K-class scenarios. I have a few theories why. I hope none of them are correct.”
Pavlo nodded. “One of them probably is. You are missing a few details, but that is most of it. Too much of it.” Without taking his eyes from her, he drained the whiskey in the glass and refilled it. After staring at each other for a minute, he spoke again. “I used to think I would do anything for our cause. I assumed that's what allowed us to reach the positions that we did. It wasn't that we were smarter, or better leaders, or more experienced. It was we were the ones who, when we looked downward into the abyss, did not blink. Did not turn away. We confronted the horror, even if we had to become horrors ourselves.” He paused to drain the glass in a single gulp. “I was wrong. The abyss is so much deeper than we ever could have imagined.”
He raised the gun and fired at the same time she leaped forward. The bullet caught her in the shoulder. She ignored the pain. It barely registered underneath waterfalls of adrenaline pumping through her. She slammed into him, grabbing his wrist as they tumbled down. He grunted as they slammed into the ground. Striking at his face, she tried to wrench the gun from his wrist, but he turned, slamming her against the island. She held on.
They scrambled wildly at each other, messy, savage. There was no elegance in the struggle. They were old, out of shape. It had been at least five years since she'd last sparred, and a decade before that since she'd had to fight for her life. It wasn't any skill or training that fueled. Only a mad, animal will to survive.
It was a single shot to the head. As they struck at each other, he managed to place his pistol under her chin and fire. For several long minutes he lay there, blood pooling over him. Then he pushed himself to his feet. The pistol fell from his trembling hands, clattering hollowly against the floor. He took the whiskey bottle in his hand and didn't stop drinking until the last drop was gone. He stared down at the body of the woman who had, only days ago, been his friend.
He'd killed a fellow member of the O5 Council. And his work was only beginning.

« The Man Who Sold the World | Hub | Why? Where? What? »


The office of Dr. Isaac Seidelman was quiet in the early evening, the pale yellow light of his desk lamp warming the building's old walls. The sunset was vanishing beneath the veil of night, the last of the red and orange light fading from the sky out the windows of his corner office. The old security lights outside began to flick on one by one as the sun fell, as Bio-Site 66 settled down for the night.
Seidelman was a thin, tall man, dressed in a pale old grey suit. He and Dr. Bridge were co-directors of this site, and while Bridge headed most of the… hands-on research, Seidelman handled inter-site communication and a host of administrative duties. Somebody had to, after all.
He sat back, feet up on his desk, reading the paper as he waited for his usual visitor. He was the first person in every day, and tonight he'll be the last one out.
There was a knock at the door as the clock hit seven-thirty, and Seidelman's guest let himself in. A tall, older man, older than Seidelman, balding and fair skinned, wearing a heavy brown overcoat. He carefully shut the door behind him, as Seidelman pulled himself to sit upright and fold his paper.
“Good evening, Administrator.”
“Good evening, Dr. Seidelman.”
Seidelman smiled, gesturing to the admin's usual worn old chair in the corner. The Administrator's hands were folded, as usual, as he sat back in the chair, letting out a quiet breath. Seidelman, in the meanwhile, produced a bottle of scotch from beneath his desk.
An odd tradition manifested between the two, some time long ago. Once weekly, they would spend a few hours and enjoy one another's company. If Seidelman brought the booze, the Administrator brought the stories. The doctor was sure that some of them were true. But the man across the room never seemed to keep it all consistent from week to week. Not that either of them minded.
Seidelman poured them each a glass, and set both on his desk, leaning to set one near the closest edge to his guest. The two sat in silence in the dim office for several long minutes, before Seidelman finally broke the silence again.
“Another bad week, my friend?”
“Every week is a bad week somewhere, Dr. Seidelman,” an arm slid from beneath the Administrator's coat, stretching and reaching across to pick up his scotch. “You already know that.”
“Mmm. Shall we talk about it? Or about something else?” asked the doctor.
The Administrator took a sip of scotch, the glass still held daintily from the peculiar tanned hand, extended from his coat of arms. His own two remained close to one another, clasped in his lap. After a moment he stood up, out of the weathered armchair, and stepped towards the window, his own hands drawing to clasp behind his back.
“I'd like to talk about something else tonight, Dr. Seidelman. If you wouldn't mind.”
“Not at all,” Seidelman sat back in his own chair, a fingertip tracing a circle around the lip of his glass. “What kind of ‘something else'?”
“How about something terrible, Dr. Seidelman?”
“Personal demons?”
“… in a manner of speaking,” the Administrator turned to glance over his shoulder, his own little grim smile apparent even in the dimmed office light. “Tell me, Dr. Seidelman. This Site specializes in biological SCPs, right?”
“… Why yes, it does.”
“What do you know about number two-three-one?”
There was a palpable silence on Seidelman's side of the room, as he straightened up and set both hands on his desk.
“… I'm vaguely familiar. Outside my wheelhouse, but most Level Four personnel know of -”
“You don't need to pretend I don't already know of its notoriety, Dr. Seidelman. Many Level Threes know of it as well. Rumours spread like a pox in our line of work,” the Administrator took another sip of his drink. “Relax, please. We've had more interesting chats.”
Seidelman took a breath, relaxing a bit. It's true, they have had more… interesting discussions. This shouldn't be any worse, just because it happens to be… that story.
“… Okay, Mr Administrator,” Seidelman reached below his desk, to pull out a plain bottle of water. “Where shall we begin? The secure containment document, or…?”
“It all started with God,” the Administrator said. He said it with a kind of finality, even at the beginning of the story.
“… Three four three?”
“No! Not that God. The other-other one. The Catholic one,”
“Mmm.”
“… One of the Catholic ones,” the old man glanced back at Seidelman with a shade of grim humour in his eyes. Or at least, what Seidelman thought could be humour.
“You know this nearly as well as I do, but there's always somebody contrarian, Dr. Seidelman. Contrarian to evil, and contrarian to good. Sometimes they're driven to it themselves, sometimes circumstances press them in some new direction,” the Administrator looked back out the window.
“One of these contrarians was against faith, and everything good it brought. He wanted to bring about Armageddon, or some silliness like that. You know the type, I'm sure,” he took a sip of his drink, pausing both for effect and to help him decide what to say next. “And so he decided to do some… light reading. You've read two-three-one's redacted report, correct?”
“…”
“Yes or no, Dr. Seidelman.”
“… Of course, I have.”
“Mm-hmm. So you recall the part about the Satanic sex cult?”
“Yes. Quite starkly.”
“Seven ‘sisters', Dr. Seidelman. Not literal sisters, of course, but sisters of their ritual. Hell on earth, in more ways than one.”
The Administrator took another sip of his drink, the tanned arm reaching and twisting behind himself to set the glass down on Seidelman's desk, gracefully and silently. It quickly slipped back beneath the coat, vanishing before its wearer began to speak again.
“We weren't entirely sure what we were dealing with, when the raid was initiated. We knew there was some sort of supernatural disturbance, and the calling cards of religious ritual behind civilian disappearances. But… we were unprepared, and learned a lot from the experience. Resistance was met, struggled against, and overcome,”
His hands behind his back shifting to clasp more comfortably. “And the first born of the seven became one of the earliest blackbox artifacts. I'll be visiting that site next month.”
Seidelman nodded, listening quietly. He wondered what became of the mother. He knew better than to ask.
“The second was a shame on our part. You can't abort evil, Dr. Seidelman. There's no such thing as nipping it in the bud, when it's True. Contrary to goodness at such a primitive level.”
“Mmm.” Seidelman nodded again, his eyes following his friend.
“Needless to say, we never made that mistake again,” the Administrator murmured, as a moment of melancholy passed across his face. “The third sister killed herself, to avoid our containment procedures. It was a dark day for everyone on-site. Very dark.”
“And… the fourth?” Seidelman asked, a careful curiosity in his voice.
“… and then somebody decided it was a good idea to try and heal one of the poor girls. You can't heal something that broken, Dr. Seidelman,” the Administrator looked out through the blinds, bitterness in his voice, the yellow of outside lights crossing his face. “Something that was made broken.”
“What happened?”
“Overseer Command decided to try and utilize our panacea to heal the poor girl,” he closed his eyes, turning as if looking out the far window again. “Their logic was sound, of course… Her child was an affliction, Dr. Seidelman. It cured her, causing her to… reject the evil within her. And the evil did not take a human form. It never has, and never will. It loathes everything pure and good in this world, for it was cured of goodness as its mother was cured of evil.”
He inhaled deeply, his gaze out the window and towards the night sky. After a moment, he sat in the old worn armchair, his hands clasped in front of him.
“The dragon, Dr. Seidelman. The fourth is a bastard against nature, and remains one to this day. You know exactly which I mean. The great beast.”
“… that beast?”
“The only one. Of course, we can't say whether it would have been better or worse if nothing had been done. It's sister is nearly as terrible.”
Seidelman's heart skipped a beat, and he coughed in stunned surprise.
“It's sister?”
“The fifth sister's fate remains a shame upon the Foundation,” continued the Administrator. “The ritual was botched, and she bore her child, which was born to a human mother in the human fashion. And so the evil took a human form, human in origins not its nature. I've fought to have it black-boxed, but Command sees differently.”
He sat back in his chair, looking across the office to meet Seidelman's eye.
“And so we contain it, as item number zero-five-three.”
It took a moment for Seidelman to connect the dots, recalling what number zero-five-three was, and what -
“… the Young Girl.”
“But with every mistake, we learn something, don't we?” the Administrator leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped together in front of him. “Everything must be born eventually, Dr. Seidelman. Even things that aren't really born at all, in the real sense of the word.”
“… Do you know what the worst part of this is, my friend?” the Administrator suddenly asked. “It's the pain. The humanity being scorned, innocent souls being harmed without mercy, to save this earth. Mercy is the bane of safety in our line of work, Dr. Seidelman. But there it is. Without mercy, we aren't human. The absence of mercy in one man's heart sparked this entire saga of hell on earth.”
He sat back. “But then, a friend, a good man - a good man - wanted to save the sixth sister's life. Save her from the hell on earth he saw each day, in that concrete prison we keep them in. And in his mercy and stupidity, they both died, and the sixth child was born.”
Seidelman opened his mouth, before his friend spoke again.
“I would like to say that many died that day,” said the Administrator.
The Administrator fell silent, as Seidelman shifted and looked out his window.
What felt like hours passed, before the Administrator spoke up again.
“… You had an interesting way of starting this conversation off, Dr. Seidelman. Personal demons.”
“Oh… oh, dear, I'm sorry sir.”
“No, don't apologize. It would be worth a chuckle, if it wasn't so terribly accurate.”
The Administrator stood up, stepping off towards Seidelman's desk, a long, thin, pale arm extending from within his coat.
“I'll be off, with that. I need to be in Uluru tomorrow.”
Seidelman shook the hand, standing up. “Thank you for the visit, my friend. Safe travels. Same time next week?”
“Of course, of course. Goodbye, Dr. Seidelman.”
The Administrator opened the door, and stepped out of Seidelman's office. Seidelman sat back in his chair as the door closed - he could barely make out conversation, before it shut, leaving silence behind.
He sat for a little while, before reaching for his newspaper and opening it up again. Just another Thursday night chat with a friend.


The man who would one day be known as Savior awoke in a field of corpses. The ground was hidden beneath the carpet of blood and flesh. Men, women and children lay slaughtered, stacked upon each other like discarded trash. He looked down at himself. His naked body was stained red with blood. It didn't seem to be his.
He stood in the gap between two buildings, larger than any he had ever seen, seemingly tall enough to scrape heaven itself. The night air was thick with the smell of rot and pollution. As he looked around, flashes of memory came to him. A ship on a raging sea. A serpent whose coils stretched across an entire countryside. A mad Queen putting thousands to death with a word. And his name- Alarath, Seventh Scholar-Lord of the Daeva empire. But nothing of where he was, or how he had come to be here.
Alarath knelt down to examine the closest body. The flesh was maimed almost beyond recognition, but the wounds were unlike any he had seen before. Dozens of small holes covered the skin, too round and even to be stab wounds. He turned the body over and saw dozens of similar injuries. What weapon could have caused this? He moved to the next body. It too was mutilated by the strange injuries.
An object among the corpses caught his attention. He pulled a bloodstained brown bag between two bodies. A white card was attached to the end. It read, in a language he didn't recognize but could somehow understand, “We hope these will guide you in your journey towards truth.” He turned the card over. Drawn on the back was the image of a slit-pupiled eye.
The bag had two drawstrings that he used to pull it open. Out spilled a bundle of black clothing and two sheathed daggers. He ran his fingers through the cloth. It was finer than any he had seen in his time with the Daeva, light and soft. Embroidered on the breast of the shirt was the same slit-pupiled eye as the card. He pulled the outfit on. Its folds caught the starlight, shimmering as the cloth moved. He turned to the daggers, taking one in his hand. It felt perfectly balanced in his grip. He gave a few tentative thrusts, and it felt like moving an extension of his arm. He unsheathed it and gently pressed his thumb to the blade. When he drew the finger away, he saw a line of thin blood.
The sound of shattering of glass made him look up. Two youths stood at the entrance of the alleyway, staring at him with wide eyes. They held glass bottles, and were dressed in garishly colored clothing styled unlike any armor Alarath had seen before. Before they could react, he rushed forward. He grabbed one by the collar, slamming him against the building. He placed his dagger at the throat of the other.
“Where am I?” He growled. The words that came from his throat were not the Daeva tongue, but he understood their meaning. Another mystery to unravel.
The youth he held began to babble. “Please please please, I just wanted to grab a drink, please just please, let me go I'm sorry please-“
Alarath looked between them and snorted in disgust. He dropped his hands. The freed youths scrambled away. Clearly this place did not know how to train their men properly. No matter. He would find answers some other way. He thought of the note on the bag. A journey towards truth? A pleasing thought. He would find their truth. Then he would slay those that brought him here.
The man who had once been known as Destroyer took his first steps into a new world.

« I Want to Tell You | Hub | Change in the House of the Flies »


TOP SECRET (PILLAR GARDEN) — DO NOT COPY — DO NOT TAKE ABOARD AIRCRAFT
DEBRIEF FILE - FLIGHT LIEUTENANT ██████████████████████

Interview Date: JANUARY 29 1963
Incident: Aerial reconnaissance incident recorded February 13 1962 — Operation PILLAR GARDEN
Document call number UNGOC 17u4.233
Witnessing Officer ██████████████████
Stenographer ██████████████████
███████████████████ █████████ ██████████████████ █████

:::BEGIN INTERVIEW — IDENTIFICATIONS TRUNCATED:::

Back in 1955, Kelly Johnson said he'd sell his soul for six more inches of room in the Lockheed U2, but when the Foundation came calling, they added six feet. These planes are 90% engine and 10% camera, but the Skunkworks boys jammed a love seat in there anyway. That's just how it is with them. The Foundation, I mean. You can't bring civilians on missions that never happened, and you especially cannot fit that big camera into a two-seater Dragon Lady. But for the Foundation, the Air Force did both.
They issued the double-birds to us in 1962 when we deployed to Pakistan — we'd only been in-country for four days when they broke the news that our flights were getting passengers. Six young women in rotation, to be specific. Sure, the extra weight was a bit harder to drive, but I think stewardesses are just what our spybirds were missing. Of course they didn't tell us why.
Gotta say, the girls livened up the joint — the Lady wasn't built for two and the full camera, so quarters were nice and tight. Those flight suits are hardly revealing but fifteen hours parked eighteen inches from a real live woman is pretty damn superb even if there is an ejector seat in the way.
But I digress.
The program was hard-edged from the beginning. Cruising over the Russkis at 70,000 feet, no weapons, no concealment, and no cavalry coming when shit hits the fan - but we had done Korea, Cuba, and Edwards AFB. These instructions hardly bothered us. Glide over Russia in a hundred-foot wide tin can, why not? Carry some broad along — Even better! There may have been some dissenting opinions about letting women work the million dollar Perkin-Elmer camera, but the brass tamped all that down.
They didn't live with us, eat with us, or talk with us. It was like flying around with a shop-front mannequin. There was strictly no in-flight chit-chat, just some designated phrases — "Instance November, begin photography; Instance Oscar, prepare for descent" and stuff like that. At the end of each mission some spooks rushed whichever girl you'd flown with off in a black chopper before the engine even cooled.
All very hush-hush, Secret Squirrel bullshit — more so than the rest of what the CIA jackoffs get up to. More so than the rest of the U2 program, for that matter. These ladies were capital-S Special. I'm talking about the Special Talents, the 388th Company; fuckin' Superman and Captain Marvel too, and every other half baked idea off Jack Kirby's desk. The parascientific combat team — same jokers responsible for the stalemate on the Yalu and the whole Inchon mess.

DO NOT COPY — DO NOT TAKE ABOARD AIRCRAFT

We used to hear all sorts of things from up top about how they were going to win the war this week — a new bomb, or plane, or supersoldier. They — the Pentagon — had told us that the Sidewinder was a sure thing against the MiG too but a third of the things wouldn't even launch. People said the U2 flew too high to be shot down, but they forgot to tell Lieutenant Powers. So when word went around that these girls could reach through a photograph and touch the other side, I was not tremendously impressed. Call it jaded or cynical or dumb as fuck — later on I wished I'd listened.
Sometimes on the long flights, up at 75,000 feet where I ought to have been hearing precisely nothing I heard conversations in Russian, right there in the cockpit. Sometimes it was alarms, or gunfire, or churning machinery. The ladies would chatter or mumble to themselves and you had to ignore that too. I just kept my eyes on the dials and the plane in the air.
Still, every time I heard something, every time it got weird up there, I got a feeling I hadn't felt since Edwards AFB when we were taking the X-15 up to space. When your engine kicks you in the pants with sixty thousand pounds of thrust you know you are doing something Mother Nature did not intend for you to do! Up over Russia with those silent ladies I felt it again. Like I'd peeked behind a curtain — and some big ugly thing had noticed me on the other side.
I still remember the last day of the program, every moment of it. Thirteen miles over Leningrad I hear this little pop, like a jar opening. Look over my shoulder and my cargo — Instance September was her designation — has her arm jammed half way into the loading aperture of the main cam, shoulder-deep in what is supposed to be a six inch loading slot. Orders here are clear: Ignore everything, fly the plane.
Some Russki is shouting right behind me, angry voice echoing and distorted. Ignore everything. Finally September pulls her arm out of the impossible space with an honest to god briefcase in her hand, her knuckles scratched to hell and white from squeezing. A lesser man might have crashed from pure shock — but I just said to myself, ignore it. Fly the plane. The shouting cuts off like a switch has been flicked. She's laughing, smiling. A thousand times more expressive than I've ever seen her. Seen any of them. Honestly it kinda shook me.
Fly the plane. Ignore everything. I don't say a word as we fly the five hours back home. Never saw September again after we landed; the spooks hustled her off and that was that. No more girls, no more flights, no more sunny Pakistan. But I remember what she said as we were touching down, every word of it. You could hear the crazy. Hear the loss.
She said, "I did real good today. They won't be mad anymore. They'll let me see my Iris again." Lots of stuff like that.
Me? I just ignored it. Kept flying the plane. There was something in her voice — it's like, on all those flights I'd been pushing the envelope, and that was bad enough. But September, she lived clear on the other side.
After a couple of more days we shipped back to Germany. We never learned where our passengers ended up. I still don't know who those women were. Don't wanna know. Never learning their names made it — easier. Still, I come back to it every once in a while. Whoever she was, I hope things turned out alright — for her and for Iris.

:::END TRANSCRIPT:::

FILE No. ███████
███████████
Receiving Officer █████████████████████

TOP SECRET (PILLAR GARDEN) — DO NOT COPY — DO NOT TAKE ABOARD AIRCRAFT

« SCP-2350| Hub | They Will Leave Us with a Shaken Earth »


“So what's the worst Site you've ever worked at?” asked Cipher.
“I don't know. Difficult question.” Kantos paused in solemn thought. “Seoul. Seventy-One. The place barely functioned.”
The BMW they sat in could have belonged to any corporate executive in America. Its black paint was newly waxed and buffed, the interior leather spotless. Parked outside one of the largest banks in the city, no one would give it a second glance. Few would notice the extra layers of window tinting, just outside the realm of legality, or the slight bulges of the guns the driver and passenger wore.
Agent Cipher sat in the front seat, the window open, holding a cigarette outside of the vehicle. As her partner spoke, she leaned out and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Yeah?”
Kantos nodded. He was the type of man who wouldn't have looked out of place in middle management. Just shy of six feet, on the better side of his thirties, his hair was still thick, short, and beginning to grey at the edges. Muddy brown eyes sat behind a pair of white-frame glasses, and his chin was as hairless as the day he came into the world. The black suit he wore was tailored to hide both his gun, and the physique of a man who'd visited the gym every day for the past twenty years. “Half the time we didn't even have central heating. In fucking Seoul.” He spoke with a deep Greek accent.
“Jesus,” said Cipher. Slightly shorter than Kantos, and possibly a few years younger, she wore her dark-brown hair in a bun and a suit similar to her partner's. She watched the outside as she talked, eyes flicking across the sidewalk, sizing up every pedestrian. “Let me guess, repair was always ‘On Order'?”
Kantos laughed. “Shit. I mean, the work was not terrible. Half the time, I was too far from the facility to give a shit. Now,” he waggled a finger to emphasize the point, “Sixteen. Canada. Awful, awful place. Behind a desk, sorting records, attending meetings, not a day in the field. For four fucking years.” He paused, shook his head, sighed. “One time, you sleep with the Site supervisor's wife…”
Cipher cracked a grin.
“What about you, then?” asked Kantos.
“Mmm,” said Cipher, still scanning the passersby, “I have to pick one?” She took another drag from the cigarette, then flicked the spent filter to the sidewalk. “Probably the Red Lodge, but if I told you about that, I'd have to kill everyone on the block. So let's say Thirty-Five. Shitty peers. Shittier leadership. I must have gotten this close to going AWOL half a dozen times. They found out a research director had been fucking scips once.”
Kantos whistled.
“Yeah, right? They found out while they were reviewing the security cams after a breach. Idiot had totally forgotten about the cameras. The guy who replaced him was an even bigger asshole.” She gestured outside the car. “There she is.”
Cipher opened the car door and stepped out. She crossed the sidewalk to where a woman was emerging from a black-windowed door. The woman was over a head shorter than her, and pushing her sixties. Black hair was cut short over brown skin, and she wore a white jacket, wrapped tight to protect against the winter air. As she walked, the river of people parted almost unnoticeably to let her through.
“Ma'am,” said Cipher as she reached the woman. She turned, and they both began to walk towards the car.
“Agent Cipher,” said O5-4. The voice carried no emotion. “I didn't expect you to start duty so soon.”
“I get antsy if I'm away from the job too long, ma'am,” said Cipher. They reached the car. She opened the backdoor so the Councilwoman could slide in.
“Well, good to finally have you,” said the O5. Cipher gave an appreciative nod and closed the door. She slid back into the passenger's seat. Then she slammed her fist against O5-4's face. Before the councilwoman could react, the muzzle of Kantos' pistol was pressed against her cheek.
“Now,” he said, “Tell us what you did with the real O5-4.”

« Giving Bad People Good Ideas | Hub | The Man Who Sold the World »


General Bowe's paternal great-grandfather had died at Gettysburg under the command of General Armstead during Pickett's famous doomed charge. He had been one of the brave Confederate soldiers to cross the stone wall at the Bloody Angle, had been shot in the gut by a damned dirty Yankee, stood his ground as his comrades-in-arms retreated, and used his last breath to stab a filthy Irishman in the heart. It was a story passed down on his father's side of the family as an example of the courage and bravery of the Bowe bloodline.
General Bowe's maternal great-grandfather had also died at Gettysburg. He'd been a member of the 69th Pennsylvania, one of the brave men who'd defended the stone wall at the Bloody Angle. He'd shot a filthy slave-owning rebel scum in the belly and stood at the center of the heaviest fighting at the Confederacy's high-water mark, but when the enemy retreated, he hadn't noticed that the one of the damned Johnny Rebs weren't quite dead. The cowardly Southerner had bayoneted him in the heart as he leaped over the fence, and the two of them had died in each other's arms.
There was no way of knowing whether General Robert Ulysses Abraham Jefferson Bowe's great-grandfathers had really killed each other at the Battle of Gettysburg, but it made sense to him. General Bowe was a man at war with everything, including himself. He was a scholar who had chosen a career in the military, a scientist who studied the unscientific, a soldier without a war to fight. Internal conflict was his raison d'etre.
9/11 had been the worst day in American history for many people. Not so for General Bowe. For the General, the worst terrorist attack on American soil had meant a chance to put into action the plans he'd been making for years. It was a chance for his secret negotiations with the shadowy organization known only as The Foundation to be brought into the (relative) light of black ops. The last few years had been very good for General Bowe. Multiple successful operations overseas had resulted in increased funding for the Bowe Commission's projects.
And now, within the last twelve hours, things had gone to shit.
"First," he said, as the leader of the Overseer Council sat down across from him, "You need to assure me that what's going on at Yellowstone isn't a terrorist attack, and that it's going to be taken care of."
The Overseer said, "Yellowstone is not a terrorist attack. It is more like an accident in weapons development testing. The situation will be resolved within the next 24 hours."
"Good," General Bowe said. "I'll hold you to that." He jotted down a note on a pad of sketch paper. "I need a situation report."
The Overseer said, "Yellowstone Mountain is currently in temporal and existential flux. Aside from that, we are still trying to assess the damage. Due to the CK-Class restructuring, all of our Special Containment Procedures databases have desynchronized. China, Korea, Japan, and Russia branches are all showing different file numbers for different objects. We're currently sorting them out by using the American database as a baseline, and affixing a suffix to the foreign branches' desynchronized entries, but it is a lengthy process that might never be fully resolved."
"I disapproved of your organization having foreign outposts," General Bowe reminded the Overseer. "I was afraid that something like this might happen."
The Overseer said, "You were concerned about the security of our foreign offices. This is hardly the same thing."
"Nevertheless, it is the opinion of this Commission that the Foundation's foreign offices now represent an unacceptable security risk." General Bowe turned to the next page on his sketch pad, jotted down another note. "Following the end of this current crisis, you will present a plan to decommission them and consolidate your anomalies in American containment sites within no more than five years."
The Overseer said, "We were promised oversight of our own operations. Relocating our inventory will be problematic. This is not to mention those anomalies that cannot be relocated due to size or other factors."
"That was before you idiots blew up Yellowstone Mountain," General Bowe said, "and before you lied to us about the state of your weapons development division."
The Overseer said. "We have not… "
"I know about Project Olympia," General Bowe interrupted. "Your scientists created a line of production-model super-soldiers and somehow neglected to report that to the Commission. I've read about the capabilites of the Olympia line. Do you know how many American special operations soldiers have died since the start of the war? Do you know how many lives could have been saved?"
The Overseer said nothing.
"Your Foundation's had its fun for long enough. Time to put on your big boy pants and become part of the government," General Bowe said. He folded up his sketch book and got to his feet. "I'll be in touch regarding the consolidation of Foundation assets into the Department of Paranormal Warfare tomorrow afternoon."
The Overseer said, "There is no Department of Paranormal Warfare."
"There will be tomorrow. The President and I will make sure of it."
The General left the office without saying goodbye or asking for a salute.
The Overseer remained in its seat after he had gone.

"This idea sucks," Adrian said.
"It was the best we could do," Bill said. "Get ready."
Adrian took a deep breath, revved the engine, and clutched the steering wheel tightly.
The answer, as it turned out, had been fairly simple. Going in using the front door was out of the question: too many hostiles roaming the halls, too much distance to cover surrounded by hostiles of every possible shape and size. On the other hand, there was the reality destabilization… namely, the fact that Yellowstone Mountain was replaced with an empty field of geysers and hotsprings for about thirty seconds every thirty minutes.
Beatrix had done the math. A vehicle that traveled at approximately thirty miles per hour should barely have enough time to travel through the solid granite and arrive at the location of the main carpark just as the mountain reappeared. It was kind of like driving through a bunch of swinging pendulums, if the pendulums were universes and the metaphor was a little less forced.
Adrian glanced at the other passengers in his humvee. Bill rode shotgun, SAW across his lap. Beats, Effie and Vincent were in the back seat: Effie standing by to jump into the turret and man the .50 cal if things went bad.
If things went bad… The universe was going mad. There was a goddamn mountain flicking in and out of existence in front of him. And he was worried about things getting worse…
"Ten seconds," Bill said, and Adrian gripped the steering wheel even more tightly. "Seven. Six, Five…"
Adrian put the vehicle in gear just as Bill said "Five," started accelerating as Bill said "Three," had a horrible moment when he thought that the timing was off and they were about to drive straight into a granite wall, and then the mountain disappeared and they were driving along a flat volcanic plain. Adrian ignored the other vehicles behind him, ignored everything but the broken road before him and Bill's voice counting down, "eight, seven, six, five, four, three…" and then the flat plains disappeared, and they were driving through a parking garage with flickering fluorescent lights and blood all over the ground, and the wall was getting close, so damn close, Adrian slammed the brakes and the tires squealed and the humvee slewed left and it slammed into the concrete wall and went CRUNCH.
"CONTACT RIGHT!" Bill shouted. His SAW fired off three short bursts. Vincent was screaming something, then Adrian heard the staccato chatter of Beatrix's submachinegun, and then came the low, steady thud of the .50 opening up, and then silence.
Adrian glanced out the right side of the vehicle. Something big, grey, and humanoid lay on the ground, now riddled with bullets and breathing its last. At the front of its head, where a face should have been, was a blank, greyish nothing.
A bloody, wet gurgle from the back. Adrian turned to look. He immediately wished he hadn't. Vince was slumped against the door, twitching and gasping. The entire front of his head, from his ears forward, was just… gone. Effie drew her pistol, put it to his temple, and fired once. The thing that had been Vince went still.
Adrian swallowed hard and turned away. "S… Sound off!" he shouted into the darkness.
"This is Car Two!" came a shout from behind him. "Frederickson! Everyone's fine, but the back end of the car's stuck in the wall!"
Shit, Adrian whispered. The timing must have changed. He took a deep breath before asking the question no one wanted the answer to. "Car Three?"
A long pause. "I can see their front bumper sticking out of the wall behind me," Frederickson shouted. "That's it." Silence again. "How about you?"
Adrian glanced into the back of the humvee. Beatrix was wiping off her bloodied face with a shaking hand, while Effie and Bill wrestled Vince's still body out of the back seat. "One casualty," he said. "It's Vince. Fatal."
Another heartbeat's worth of silence. "Shit," Frederickson said. "All right, what's the plan?"
"Can you see us?" Adrian asked.
"Yeah, I can see your tail lights."
"Then disembark and grab what you can. Move your squad up and we'll proceed from here on foot."
"Roger. Moving," Frederickson said.
Adrian rubbed his upper lip, despair setting in. One minute into the mission, and Team Iris had already suffered five casualties out of their original fourteen. Even for Pandora's Box, those were not good figures.
He checked his carbine, slung it over his shoulder, and climbed out of the driver's side door. Something squished under his foot as he stepped out of the car, and he shone his flashlight down to see what it was.
It was a face. Vince's. Adrian allowed himself a moment of revulsion before closing his eyes and doing his breathing exercises. His fingers clenched tightly, gripping a scalpel that didn't exist.

There are a lot of different ways to think about skulking through a monster-ridden facility in the middle of a temporal flux event. One is "nightmare." Another is "death trap."
Omega-7 called it "movement through hostile territory." Single-file line, weapons raised, checking and double-checking every corner and intersection. Communicating only through hand gestures, taps on the shoulder, and squeezes on the leg. Just another series of corridors and doorways to be checked, cleared, and moved through.
They encountered no further hostiles, although they could, on occasion, hear growls, grunts, and screams from deeper inside the facility. The odd flickering and fuzziness faded away as they proceeded further and got closer to the Scranton Reality Anchors at the heart of the base. All in all, their movement was quick, professional, and by the numbers.
The thing laying outside Security Station Nine resembled a hugely obese human being, albeit one that was over nine feet tall and covered in oozing sores and tumors. A large number of rotting, disintegrating corpses lay all around it, most of them dressed in the uniforms of Mobile Task Force personnel.
One of the least decomposed was an older man with ginger hair, shot with silver. Squire had died in close contact with the monster. His corpse still held a tarnished knife in one hand. The other was sunk wrist-deep into the rolls of fat around the creature's neck.
"They were attacked shortly after you entered the facility," a low voice said in an unfamiliar accent. "Unfortunately, they were all dead by the time I arrived."
The nine surviving members of Mobile Task Force Omega-7 turned to face the figure stepping out of the shadows. He was very tall and handsome, and his arms were made of steel.
"Cain," Beatrix breathed. She lowered her weapon. A moment later, at a gesture from Adrian, the rest of Omega-7 followed.
"I would not approach the corpse too closely, if I were you," the tall, Semitic-looking man said. "Even dead, the noxious fumes could prove fatal."
"Team, fall back," Adrian ordered. "Masks on. Rally at Conference Room Six. Fredrickson, take point."
He spared Squire one last look as the team retreated. The old man's body had dissolved into slime, leaving only a goo-covered skeleton behind. The dagger had corroded into a clump of rust, and a few moments later, even that had crumbled into reddish-brown dust.

"All right," Adrian said to his squad leaders, as the rest of the team took up rest positions inside the conference room. "Let's review the situation. Liquids?"
"Green all around," Beatrix said. "Untainted, plenty of reserves."
"Ammunition?"
"Full loads on my team," Frederickson said.
"Effie and me are down one mag each. Reloaded from Vince, picked up his spares. We're green," Bill said.
"All right. No injuries, KIAs are leave-in-place. As for mission-essential equipment…" Adrian scoffed and shook his head. "At this point, guys, I'm not sure what our mission is any more. Team Able is down, presumed KIA. The nine of us aren't going to make it much further into the site. If this were any other mission, I'd call us combat ineffective and scrub it."
"But it's not any other mission," Beatrix pointed out. "This is it. We're all that's left."
"Right," Adrian said grimly. "So I'm taking suggestions for ideas on what we should do next."
"Has anyone suggested… you know. Asking the ancient Sumerian whatchamacallit?" Frederickson asked.
All three of them turned to regard SCP-073. He alone had not entered the conference room, and was standing in the hallway outside, calmly looking down the darkened corridors, his steel hands clasped in front of him in an oddly demure fashion.
Adrian and Beatrix exchanged a look. "It's worth a shot," Beatrix admitted.

"Yes," Cain said. "I do have some advice on what you can do to rectify this situation."
"All right," Adrian said. "Why didn't you say something before?"
"You did not ask," Cain replied. "An answer is of no use if the question is not asked."
"All right," Adrian repeated. "Well, I'm asking now. What do we do?"
"That would depend on your definition of the word 'we,'" Cain said. "If by 'we,' you refer to you, the woman, and I… that is an answer I do not wish to give. If by 'we,' you refer to your squad in general… most of them will be of no use. Aside from you and your lover, the rest are irrelevant."
"… I'm not sure I understood correctly," Frederickson said, after a long pause, "But I think Cain just told us to fuck off and let you and Beats handle the rest."
"It would appear so," Adrian said, sighing. "Beats?"
"The way I see it," Beatrix said, "Cain's the only one who has any ideas, which means he's already one step ahead of the rest of us. I say we do as he suggests." She gave the tall man a cold glare.
"All right," Adrian said. "Then we're decided. Beats and I will go with Cain. As for the rest of the squad… Frederickson, you're in command now. I suggest you take the rest of the team and retreat to our starting point. There should be an exit in… about fifteen minutes…"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but all three humvees are fucked. No way we can run fast enough to make it outside the mountain before it resolidifies," Frederickson pointed out. "Our only way out is through the front entrance."
"That's going to take you through the thickest areas of hostile activity," Adrian pointed out. "Odds aren't good."
"So in that case, we may as well come along, right?" Frederickson said. "We're dead if we try to escape anyway, so we may as well join the suicide mission."
"Look, Frederickson…"
"Sorry, Adrian," Frederickson said. "You put me in command of the squad, remember? This isn't up to you any more. The six of us…"
The sound of a low growl from the darkness interrupted their conversation. Something big was coming their way. "I think," Beatrix said darkly, "that may be the sound of this decision being made for us."
"Agreed," Frederickson said. "We'll cover your backs. Maybe we'll buy you some time. Get going."
Adrian watched the six remaining members of Pandora's Box setting up a defensive perimeter in the hallway. They looked very small… and very alone. He mimed cutting open a cat's belly with his empty right hand and turned back to Cain and Beatrix. "All right. Form up on me and let's get started…"

And elsewhere in the facility, surrounded by the dead and dying, a stone cube opened up, and a tall, naked man with scarlet tattoos all over his olive skin emerged once more into the world.

Incident Zero
« Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 »


'Attention. I have placed a memetic bomb within the city of Three Portlands, which will be triggered at exactly 6:40 PM Eastern Standard Time, on January 26th. I have no demands.'

|| HUB || A Farewell To Kings »
January 24th, 2017
Three Portlands
4:09 AM, EST
"Well shit."
Agent Kenneth Spencer stared with a mixture of surprise and disbelief at the bomb threat, which had been meticulously painted out in two-foot-high letters (which seemed to flicker when he stopped looking at them, probably the result of an anart exploit) across a large sign and then placed in the center of Three Portlands.
His partner, Agent Robin Thorne, quietly read the message aloud. "'Attention. I have placed a memetic bomb within the city of Three Portlands, which will be triggered at exactly 6:40 PM Eastern Standard Time, on January 26th. I have no demands.'" They paused. "Well, at least it's concise?"
Spencer sighed. "You know what the absolute worst thing is?"
Thorne shook their head. "No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."
Spencer continued. "The worst thing is that I'm sure this is just a twisted prank."
Thorne shrugged. "I'm not willing to take that risk."
"Neither am I." Spencer ran his fingers through his hair. "God, I hate bomb threats."
They stared in silence at the sign some more.
"This is going to spread like wildfire," Thorne finally said. "Could cause a panic."
Spencer nodded, then turned towards one of the municipal security golems that were standing around like statues. "Hey, you! Get a tarp over this or something!"
The golem saluted sharply, then trundled off to fetch a tarp.
"That's not going to do much," Thorne said, gesturing slightly at the ring of spectators that had accumulated around the agents and golems.
"Yeah, well, it'll make me feel better."
They stood silently a little longer.
"You know we don't have the manpower to search the entire city," Thorne said.
"Don't say it," Spencer said.
"We're going to need outside help," Thorne continued.
"Please don't say it."
"I think we should call the Foundation."
Spencer emitted a hissing noise as he inhaled, air whistling over his teeth. "Dammit."

8:23 AM, EST
Agent Green stared at the sign, then blew a smoke ring at it in contempt.
"You're not gonna believe this, but I'm pretty sure we actually know your guy," Green said.
Spencer and Thorne stared at him.
Green pointed at the shimmering letters with his cigarette. "Notice how the letters flicker when you're not directly looking at them? That's his calling card. Everything he's ever done that we've found has had it."
"So who is he?" Thorne asked.
Green flicked the butt to the ground and crushed it under his boot. "Not a fucking clue."
"But you—"
"Said we know of him, not that we know who he is. All we've got are a series of attacks, some skips in lockup, and no real leads to speak of. We don't know who he is, or if they're even a he. Hell, we don't even know if it's just one person. Could be more, could be less."
"So what you're saying is that you know jack shit," Spencer said.
"Hey, that's still better than what you knew." Green motioned for the golem to re-cover the sign. "Right now my guys are sweeping the city for your bomb."
"And do you have any idea what it might look like?" Thorne asked.
"Well, last time this happened, it was a duck sculpture in Reykjavík," Green said. "Ended up passing out amnestics like candies."
"You certainly have a way of inspiring confidence, Agent Green."
"They don't pay me for my public speaking ability," Green said, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette. "Don't worry, we'll find it."
"And if you don't?" Spencer asked.
Green remained silent, opting instead to take that moment to light up.
"We need to have a contingency plan in place that doesn't involve mass amnesticizing the population of a major paranormal free port."
Green sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I'll get on the phone with the local sites. Tell them to start prepping task forces in case we need to lock down the city."
"We tried that in '29. Didn't work out so well."
"You have a better plan?"
Now it was Spencer's turn to remain silent.
"That's what I thought."

3:52 PM, EST
It took a little bit over seven hours for the first protests to start forming outside the UIU building. Honestly, Spencer had been expecting them sooner.
Spencer poked his head outside, saw the array of anti-Foundation slogans being brandished, and immediately withdrew.
"It's for you," he said to Green.
Green stood up from the temporary desk he'd been assigned, glanced out the window, and grimaced. "Did they have those signs already prepared?"
"Knowing this town? Probably."
"Friendly bunch, aren't they?"
"Can you blame them?"
Green frowned. "No. I suppose not." He reached into his pocket for a smoke.
"Outside," Spencer said.
Green glared at him. "Really?"
"Government building, those are the rules. Plus it'll give you a chance to talk to your fans."
"You're an ass, Spencer."
"Thanks for noticing."
Green sighed. He looked like he was about to say something, but stopped and thought better of it. Without a word, he turned and exited the room.
Spencer leaned back in his seat to watch the scene that was about to unfold outside.
Green stepped outside of the building and stopped at the top of the steps. The crowd fell silent when they saw him, waiting to see what he would do next.
Green began lighting up a cigarette, seemingly drawing out the process for dramatic effect. He took a long drag, held it for a moment, then released a cloud of smoke. Then he spoke.
"Alright, I get that you don't want me to be here. To be perfectly honest, I don't want to be here either." He paused to take another drag. "That said, we're here at the request of the Unusual Incidents Unit to assist with an ongoing investigation. That's all we're doing." Another drag. "If you're worried about us coming in and trying to contain half the city, don't be. My men are under strict orders not to interfere beyond what is necessary to finish the investigation. Once that's done, we'll get out of your hair."
People within the crowd began to mutter to each other. Someone turned to leave. It was easy to be angry at a faceless, shadowy conspiracy. It was harder to remain angry when that conspiracy gained a face, and that face was a calm, middle-aged man taking a smoke.
Green took a final drag of his cigarette, then flicked it into a nearby ash tray. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my smoke break's over, and I have work to do."
He reentered the building, and the crowd began to disperse.

January 25th, 2017
6:58 AM, EST
"You know," Thorne said, stirring their coffee. "I had a thought last night."
"Oh?" Spencer raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. What if we're going about this whole thing wrong?"
"How so?"
"What if it's not a memetic bomb? What if it's a bomb that's memetic? The idea of a bomb, if you will."
Spencer frowned. "Didn't you tell me that even if it was a prank, we couldn't risk not taking it seriously."
"Well see, that's the thing," Thorne replied. "What if that's exactly the reaction our bomber wanted to provoke?"
"What, you mean planting a fake bomb threat in order to make us search for a bomb that might not exist? What would that accomplish, exactly?"
"Not sure yet. Let me get back to you on that when I have an answer."
The two of them pushed open the doors of the UIU building, only to find an aggravated Agent Green inside, shouting into a radio.
"I don't care what he did," he bellowed. "Just apologize to the fucking wizard and move on!" He clicked off the radio and forcefully placed it back on his temporary desk.
"Still no luck finding the bomb, I take it." Thorne said.
"No," Green growled. "We've found plenty of other stuff — none of which we're allowed to touch, thanks for that by the way — but so far no bomb." He slumped back in his chair and sighed. "It doesn't make sense."
"Why not?"
"Because a memetic bomb is supposed to be obvious. You want it to be in a place of maximum visibility and exposure, so as many people as possible get infected before you trigger it. But this bomb — if it even exists — is very much not obvious."
Thorne nodded. "There's something we're missing."
"Obviously," Green said. "But what that could be, I haven't the foggiest."
"Well, we've got…" Spencer checked his watch. "A little under 36 hours left to figure it out. Hope you work well under pressure."
Green chuckled mirthlessly. "It's the only way I work."

12:46 PM, EST
THUD.
Spencer looked up as Green dropped a stack of folders on his desk.
"What's this?"
"This," Green said, pointing forcefully. "This is a complete copy of all our files relating to the bomber."
Spencer reached for the top folder, then paused. "Should I be seeing these?"
"Probably not," Green replied. "Technically, you're not cleared to even know these exist."
"Then why are you showing them to me?"
"Because I've gone through these more times than I can count, and I'm still missing the key that will piece it all together. Maybe you'll have better luck."
Spencer frowned. "Not that I care, but won't you get in trouble for this?"
Green shrugged. "Maybe. If it comes up, I can always argue it's an emergency situation and call you a provisional containment specialist."
Spencer nodded, then began flipping through the files.
There was a staggering amount of information contained within. Locations, dates, methods, witness testimony, after action reports, even a rudimentary psychological profile. But despite all of that, there was a distinct lack of evidence. It all amounted to a massive pile of question marks and no answers.
Spencer picked up the locations list again and studied it.
"Why Three Ports?" He asked.
Green looked up from the chair he'd pulled up.
"Reykjavík, Belgrade, Darwin, Tijuana — the list goes on. All of those places are on Earth. All of the attacks were very public, very visible, very much targeted at shattering the Veil. So now why Three Ports?"
Green frowned. "What are you saying?"
"There's something different about this one. If we can figure out what and why that is, maybe it will lead us to our bomber."
Green nodded. "Alright, so, let's consider what would happen if the bomb goes off."
"Panic, chaos, anarchy, the whole trifecta."
"And then?"
"And then people would try—" Spencer paused. "They'd try to leave the city."
Green nodded again. "The flux of anahuman refugees would overwhelm containment efforts. We'd be looking at a major failure in normalcy protection."
"Which is consistent with the assumed motive for the previous attacks."
"Which means that the bomb likely does exist."
Spencer sighed and tossed the file back down. "Which is great news and all, but it still doesn't help us find it."
Green frowned. "You're not gonna like this, but—"
"But what?" Spencer said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"But it might be better to focus our efforts on containing the situation."
"You mean letting the bomb go off and sealing everyone inside the city."
Green nodded.
"Bastard."
Green shrugged. "That's my job."
"Not mine." He stood up and stalked out of the room.

1:27 PM, EST
Spencer stared at the sign. There was a tarp covering it now, but if he closed his eyes he could still see the letters, flickering and dancing in his mind's eye.
It should have been taken down by now, but everyone had been so busy that it had slipped their minds.
"Thought I might find you here," Thorne said from behind him.
"What are we missing?" He asked.
"Maybe that's the wrong question."
Spencer closed his eyes. So many questions, none of them right, all of them unanswered. It was maddening.
The letters of the bomb threat continued to dance across his eyelids, impossible to forget.
"Robin," Spencer said.
"Yes?" Thorne replied, a worried tone in their voice. It was rare that Spencer ever used their first name.
"Green's men checked the entire city for memetic imprints, right?"
"As far as I know, yeah."
"Did they ever check the bomb threat?"

2:02 PM, EST
"I can't believe we didn't think to check this first," Green said. "It's so goddamn obvious."
The Foundation team were frantically scurrying to and fro, waving detectors around and snapping pictures of the sign. Preliminary scans had shown the presence of a dormant memetic hazard, and they were now busy trying to determine the exact characteristics of the memetic bomb.
"That's why we missed it," Spencer said. "It was so obvious we never even considered it."
"So what's next?" Thorne asked.
"Well," Green said. "First we need to figure out what kind of memetic agent we're dealing with here. Then we can work out an inoculation meme and distribute it to everyone infected."
"How long will that take?"
Green shrugged. "Depends on the agent. If it's a Berryman binder, we're absolutely fucked beyond belief. But if it's not, then we should have the inoculant ready by tomorrow morning."
"And then?"
"Then we track down the sonuvabitch."
|| HUB || A Farewell To Kings »


The diner's light shone like a lone glimmer of hope within the darkness of the city. The waitress wiping down the counter wore a bored expression. It was nearing the end of her shift, and the only customer was an old man, sipping coffee and flipping through a newspaper. He looked like an old stockbroker, or perhaps salesman, with a weathered tan jacket over a brown shirt, wireframe glasses and a black hat. An empty plate sat on the table in front of him. He had scraped it clean over an hour ago. He didn't look like a man who had ordered thousands to their deaths. Such men rarely did.
Movement made him look up. A third person had entered the diner, though the doorbell hadn't sounded. The newcomer slid into the seat across from the man and said nothing. He was at least a head taller than the man, skin pale enough to show the outlines of veins, head completely bald. The navy suit he wore was perfectly tailored, made from material CEOs dreamed of being able to afford. Black tattoos poked out from outfit's the neck and wrists. On the back of each hand was the image of a slit-pupiled eye.
A twitch of displeasure passed through the old man's face. “Go away,” he said, looking back at the paper. His voice carried a thin Slavic accent.
The newcomer said nothing. He rested his hands on the table and stared with four eyes.
The minutes ticked by, silent but for the clicking of clock hands and ruffle of pages. The old man closed the final page of the paper and looked back up, scowling. “I'd hoped to never see you again.”
“But you knew better.” The newcomer's voice was thin, almost inaudible, as if a light breeze was flowing from his mouth instead of speech.
The old man lifted the coffee cup, tilted it back until the last dregs of liquid disappeared. “Out with it, then.” He motioned to the waitress with the empty mug.
“Your friends are becoming curious.” Only the newcomer's lips moved as he spoke. His body was a statue.
The man laughed. “Did you expect anything else? It's in the blood. Might as well ask a lion not to hunt.” The waitresses arrived, refilled the cup. If she noticed the newcomer, she made no mention of it.
“It will not be long before they discover more.”
The man dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “You worry too much. Anything they find will be misinterpreted or ignored.” He took a sip of coffee, gave a smile of approval. “Learn to live in blind spots. Life is easier that way.”
“Maybe,” said the newcomer. “And yet, one has begun investigating Navi Mumbai.”
The man froze, mug halfway to the table.
“Is this one of your ‘blind spots'?”
“You're a fucking liar.” The man rubbed his chin, nails scratching at the flesh.
The newcomer leaned forward. “She has discovered the temple.”
“She?” said the man. Then his face froze. “Aubrey. Jesus.”
“She will not be the last.” The newcomer rose, turned to the door.
“Wait!” the man called. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
The newcomer didn't look back. “What you do best, Pavlo. Contain it.”

Hub | I Want To Tell You »


Site 27 is where people's throats get cut.
There's a reason for this, of course. Kill words, though difficult to get into a person's brain without haemorrhaging it, are some of the most effective personal weapons in the world. Unlike a gun or a blade, they can't be physically stolen from you. They don't need maintenance and they don't break down. They can end a life in any of a million different ways. So, when you have prisoners who can kill with words, there are a few ways to deal with them.
First, the removal of the word from the mind. Amnestics don't help as much as might be hoped. It is impossible to chemically target only the language centre of the brain (or more accurately centres, as Broca's and Wernicke's area are two separate locations). Often, retaining other brain functions of a subject is a very low priority, so it is acceptable to simply wipe the dominant hemisphere. It is, however, possible to drill through the skull and physically access those sections of the brain. Dangerous, yes, but after surgical removal, most subjects lose the ability to form any words at all. This doesn't stop them from trying, though. In Site 27, there are corridors of people screaming, cackling, burbling, giggling, popping their lips together, smacking their faces, trying to push out coherent thoughts from their minds to no avail.
Next, the removal of the ability to speak. If you know the phonemic components of the kill word, you can narrow down your butchery to the minimal amount of flesh needed to be carved out. Often, simply removing a person's lips makes it impossible for them to compose the words they know. It may be necessary to remove teeth, or fuse the top and bottom jaws together. It is difficult, but not impossible, to carefully remove specific muscles from the throat, making it impossible to form particular vowels. To block voiced consonants, simply remove the vocal chords. If the kill words they know make use of the nasal phonemes, one can simply fill the nasal cavity with a permanent sealant, making it impossible to form "n" or "m" sounds. Often two or three of these are done at once.
Pinch your nose. Try to say the word "Mother". "Mercy". "No". Use your other hand to keep your lips apart from each other at the same time. Try saying "Help". "Please". Imagine a hundred such voices, distantly echoing through labyrinthine, clinical white halls.
The security personnel in the corridors of Site 27 wear earmuffs, some of them fluffy and pink.
Gan Ceann knew 48 different kill words. Of those, she'd personally invented 9, two of which she'd found could be non-fatally communicated to others with sufficient training. She was proud of this. The methods previously described were not effective on Gan. Her skull was impenetrable to the drills at hand (though the attempts were still exceptionally painful). Her body rejected any sealant placed inside it, breaking it apart and peristaltically pushing it out, piece by painful piece. Muscles re-knitted themselves in her throat. It was a simple fact of her biology: she could not stay without voice.
Very much against her will, Gan had her head removed from her body and placed in a jar filled with formaldehyde.
This was not as bad as might immediately be thought. Sure, this splintered her consciousness, but it was hardly the first time that had happened. Yes, it constantly felt as though she was drowning, the stinging fluid circulating and mixing with her own blood. Sure, she didn't have much to look at, faced as she was towards the nondescript wall. Yes, it might sound like this is all building up to some kind of positive, but no, it was all quite utterly awful and she wanted to get out of there as soon as possible before she lost her k-ndamn mind.
Gan's body, conscious unto herself, had other thoughts. She knew 48 different kill words, true, but no mouth (nor, any more, head) to form words with. They had, however, made the mistake of throwing her into a cell without binding her hands.
Here she made the equivalent gestures for "sign language, motherfucker".

Infiltrating an Auditory Threat Research Facility is made far easier in that employees are not permitted to directly observe any sound at any time. Thus, the major disadvantage of Lighttwisting - or, as the uninitiated would refer to it, "glamour" - is overcome: provided you appear as someone who should be present, your inability to mask or disguise your voice becomes irrelevant. Vocal mimicry is far more of a Taking skill than a Twisting one, and is far more complicated if you are attempting to provide a voice to another. Fortunately, Lighttwisting constructs are persistent, and can be anchored to a surface. Thus, Olga had been able to Twist both Justice's appearance and her own without needing to personally maintain it.
Justice and Olga walked down the corridor. Justice didn't need to block its ears - its physiological biostuff served little purpose beyond puppetry, and so Auditory Threats were for the most part irrelevant to it. Olga was wearing fluffy pink earmuffs.
They stopped at a map. Justice gave it a quick look over, then confirmed it matched what they expected with a brief thumbs-up.
They started walking towards Gan's body's cell.

Gan's body had felt around the walls of her cell until she figured out where the door was. If she'd had a mouth, she could have just Unseelie'd the thing. Instead, she backed up from the door, sat down, removed her shoes, stood back up, and prepared her hands for the gesture. She'd feel it in her soles when someone was approaching.
Olga Twisted the lock open, pulled the door wide, saw Gan's body wildly flailing her arms, and promptly started puking blood.
Justice saw this happen, crossed the room, grabbed Gan's left arm with both hands, and tapped out "█████" in Morse against her wrist. Gan stopped flailing. Olga continued puking blood.
Gan grabbed Justice's arm and tapped out "KNOW DIRCSHN OF HED USE AS CMPASS BUT GUIDE FRM WALS". Justice tapped back "OK". Olga didn't stop puking blood.
"ALSO OLGA PUKING BLOOD PLZ REVERSE"
"SHIT POINT THS WAY"
Justice grabbed Olga's head, pushed her mouth shut, and rotated her skull so that she'd see Gan as Gan, again, flailed wildly but in a bit of a different way.
The puking slowed to a dribble, a cough, another heave, a cough. A wipe of her sleeve against her mouth. Justice stared. Olga was able to stay conscious despite the extensive blood loss. She felt like shit, though. Like total shit. Like freshly shat shit, all shitty n'… shit. Wow, she thought, the ground's awful red today.
Olga collapsed.
This was bad. Justice needed Olga to glamour Gan, or there was no way they'd get out in one piece. A blood transfusion, maybe… but from who - Justice's heart hadn't pumped for a long time, and Gan was operating on alternative physiology.
That said, thought Justice, there's all this blood on the floor, and I know it's a perfect match…

Olga was fine for a while - they all got out okay - but that blood was puked, and you really, really shouldn't siphon gastric juices into the circulatory system. She got real, real sick - the bad kind of sick - but █████ made sure she got better.
That's just the kind of ███ that █████ is.

The Corpse, The Twister, And The Veteran | █████ | Infer A Penny