Well, well, well… What have we here?
You've managed to survive yet another year?
A year of work, of screaming children,
A year of delving into things unbidden.
Oh? What's that? We shouldn't know?
All those terrible things you didn't show?
Of course we do. We are your friends.
Confidants. Allies. And more again.
We know the stories, even those you don't tell.
You see Gears… You give us our visions of hell.
Happy Birthday, oh Leader of men. We come to you again. Bearing tales. Tales of the third side of the mirror. Tales of the taste of the air when a child is screaming in sorrow. Happy tales. Sad tales. Tales of games that eat your mind. Tales of books that give you a black brilliance, the kind that gives answers, but only the kind without comfort. Tales of the song you hear when you sleep, but not when you wake again. Tales of the righteous throne of terrible glory. Tales about tales. Tales about you. Tales about us.
Some of them are even true.
Happy birthday…! And many more.

"Doomed" by RhettSarlin

Congratulations on the first iteration of your 29th birthday. May there be many more 29th's to come.

It's coming for me. I try to hide, I run and do my best to avoid it. But it is a patient predator, and I know that with time, it will catch me.
I can evade it for now. I still have to find a way to fix things. But I don't have long.
It has begun to consume my parents, my wife, one of my siblings…none of them even realized the end had come for them. Now it has begun, and they are all doomed.
I can see it, I know what it is doing. I have to stop it before it consumes the rest my family, my friends, my children….hell, the entire human race.
But it can see me. It knows what I am doing too. I am next. And it is laughing.
It knows it has found me, it mocks my futile attempts to escape, following my every move. And once it begins its work, it will never stop until I am dead.
It will decay my body slowly and painfully, withering my skin, tainting my hair, weakening my bones. It will rob me of my ability to run, to walk, to think, to breathe. It will slowly rob me of my sanity and my life, and all the while the world will think it normal, simply because they are used to it. Why do none of them ever think to look….
It is a predator. It found us on this world, and latched onto us. Ancient scriptures tell of the men it first began to affect, draining them of their eternal youth, unnaturally ending their lives. They invented other excuses for it, not knowing what was happening to them.
It grows more powerful every year. It has learned to begin younger, ever younger. Once you turn 30, it is too late. It has you.
But I still have time.

"Daddy" by Bright

Happy Birthday, boss

The light was out. It was her worst dream, having the light be out. They always came for her in the dark. The monsters, the bad men, the creatures who hated her. She waited for them, shivering, her eyes closed, as she felt the harsh, warm breath on her bare ankles.
They called her name, from the shadows. She crossed her legs, then pulled them under her, trying not to let tears drift down her face. Gentle, sharp claws traced indelicate patterns across her arms, no matter where she put them. She wouldn't call out. Not this time. She would be brave. She would be strong!
She would bite her lip to keep from screaming when a tentacle crawled across her leg. No. She had to call out. She had to call:
"DADDDDDDDEEEE!"
Andrew rushed to his daughters bedroom. Only two and she had such horrible nightmares. He flicked the light on when he came in the room, and scooped his little girl into his arms. "Aw, lookit that, your nightlight burnt out! Don't worry little lady, Daddy will leave the door open." After a couple of minutes reassuring her, he set her back in her bed, and walked back to his own bed.
He lay down, sighing at the imagination on his daughter, and turned off the light.
The last thing he thought before he fell asleep was to wonder what was slithering across his feet…

"Delicacy" by Roget

Happy Birth Day!

I'm sorry, where are my manners? I haven't said a word to you this entire meal. You can't really blame me though. This food is so delectable, so…exotic. It really is a shame you won't try any. Can I tempt you to take just a bite? No? A pity. You of all people would be able to enjoy it. Appreciate the subtleties, the textures…it would be so foreign, but so… familiar.
How are you feeling? You look a little pale. I know you are in good health, we made sure you were very fit. The sedatives might be causing you to be woozy, but you should have been used to it by now. I know this is a bit stressful, but you can't be sick at dinner. It would be quite sad to see your palette dampened by illness.
Let you go? But you've only just arrived! We barely even started the first course! By the way, your feet have the look of a traveler-a man who's been places, seen exotic flavors, trodden on strange and wonderful fauna. Where are you from? Ah, don't be like that. Please try to be civil at the table.
You have very muscular legs. Probably from all the travel and training. Interesting tidbit, the exercises we had you do were to keep your muscles firm and lean, not too tender and not too tough. The pinnacle of physical perfection. If you weren't being so modest, I'm sure you would agree.
You know what they say about a mans heart? They say it holds out a mans secrets, and all the things that he's experienced in his life. Everything touched by his blood flavors the heart, and keeps it unique from any other. No two hearts are the same.
Bon appetit.

"Demon" by Drewbear

It only comes once a year. Enjoy yourself!

On my 21st birthday, my sister gave me a Chinese wall scroll. A mountain view, simply done is strokes of black and green and purple. Spare and soothing, I keep it in a prominent place in my living room: a moment of peace in the turbulence of my life.
A couple of years later, I noticed something new in the scroll. A lone figure, perhaps a scholar, small but somehow exuding a sense of purpose as he trudged up the narrow, winding path towards the mountain. I wondered at how I'd missed it before. It filled a space within the scroll and provided a measure of balance while adding a slight note of tension to the scene. But overall, I forgot about it as I dealt with my troubles in work and school.
Last year, a friend was looking at the scroll and asked me about the figures and what I thought they were doing. Figures? Yes, another inspection showed the same scholar, only further up the path. And standing in front of him was a large creature, an oni, all done in swipes of intricate red and black. The scholar's back was to us, but the oni's face was almost… quizzical, rather than the twisted scowl they traditionally wore.
I kept an eye on the scroll ever since, but nothing else changed. Yet somehow, the tension in the scroll seemed to ooze out and inhabit the entire living room. Sitting in there, even walking through the room, filled everyone with a sense of… horrible expectancy. And somehow the thought of removing the scroll seemed even worse. ANYTHING could happen if it wasn't watched.
Today I looked at it and the scholar lay sprawled in the path, his robes askew around him. The oni is almost at the bottom of the path, at the edge of the scroll, claws lifted as if to rip at the edge of the scroll. And its face is looking straight out of the scroll at me.
I can't even touch the scroll now; when I lay hands on it, it feels like someone is stabbing my arms with knives all up and down them.
Last week was my birthday.
I have a year left to do something.

"Dues" by Jekeled

Happy birthday! Here's to a (hopefully) great year!

Ah, you're finally here.
Come on in, have a seat. Want anything to drink? Some wine? Whisky? I have a great Scotch that you might love-
No? All right, but you know you can mix buisness with pleasure, right?
White or black?
White?
E7 to E5.
D8 to H4. Mate.
I'm disappointed. I thought you would have learned, after all these years. A fool's mate is unbecoming for you.
Now, what'll the cost be? Something extra for that pathetic performance, at the very least.
Let's say, a year from you, and a year from your child. That should be acceptable.
Better luck next time. I'll always be here if you need another match.

"Die" by Tanhony

Enjoy your birthday, Gears!

I am in Hell, I am sure of it. The place where I am made to walk, with no control over my movement, looks like a city, but it is empty of life, other than the unspeakable things that share its roads with me.
There is no sun, only black holes in the sky, eight in all, that stare at me. I fear that they are the eyes of indescribable gods waiting in the darkness. Waiting for the strength to leave my legs, for my arms to be burnt to useless crisps. Then they will pounce quickly, and there will be nothing left of me but a scrap of clothing, or perhaps a single rib.
The train passes me, a reminder of my sins. In its windows are the faces of children, their faces accusing. Water pours from their mouths and their empty eye sockets. They are the children that plumetted of the bridge that I built, formed from fragile wood and hollow beams. Are they crying or screaming? I cannot tell, and I suppose it no longer matters.
The train is but the kindest of my torments, and as it speeds away, the car comes around the corner, my wife at the wheel, There is a butcher knife protruding from the back of her head. She stops the car a short distance in front of me. I pray she will not speak, but God still gives me no compassion.
Her neck twists and cracks as it turns to me, her head soon facing the other direction from the rest of her body. Rats are eating her eyes.
"Curtis." Her voice is the sound of uncivilized feasting, of the drip of rainwater and of a final, dying scream, repeated over and over for eternity. She waits for a reply, but my condition prevents me from giving one. She smiles, and her teeth are small, sharped and barbed.
"You deserve this, you know." She explains, and speeds off.
It is my turn to move. I am walked up the street and turn the corner. As I take each step, I can hear blood splashing against the lumps of skinned meat that were once my feet. I hear a smashing behind me. I already know what it is, the worst of these terrible apparations. The only thing I can describe it as is a hat, but a hat it is not.
It stops next to me, and as it brushes against my hand, I see horrific images. Men thrown into pits to die, a child being strangled by a man with many hands, and those are the best of those visions. The hat speaks in its terrible, alien language. Does it offer sympathy, contempt or indifference? I will never know, and I do not wish to. I wish only for my existence to cease, to be no more. Finally, I am allowed to move again in the slow, plodding pace that is forced upon me.
I pass go, and collect two hundred dollars.

"Desperation" by Dmatix

Happy birthday, Gears, and many more to come.

"The end has come, at last. Tonight Montségur will fall, and we will be released from the demonic bonds of flesh, free to join the true god in the spirit. Do not weep, my child, for this just death spares you for a fate most cruel- living in the flesh is a sin even the best of us cannot avoid, and only the clean death hold salvation. In a way, we should be thankful to the crusaders, for their cruelty releases us from the necessity of abiding the devil's work any longer. In killing us, they are only proving how false their way is. My only regret is that when we, the last of the true perfecti, die, there will be no one left to free the souls of man from their bonds. Our holy words will die with us, and humanity will remain in this false world forever. Such a shame."
"It is an act of desperation, in a way. The devil must have been so afraid of us."
"They are growing closer, and time has run out. I will release you now. It is fortunate you are old enough to understand the words."
"Only in a world of demons would I have to perform the rite of Consolamentum on someone so young."

"Domain" by Enma Ai

Happy Birthday, Gears! You're an inspiration to us all!

I wake up, but I don't want to open my eyes. No light reaches them, so this makes black my color.
I groan, tired. I really don't want to get up, but it's morning already and I must move.
My sky greets me as I open my eyes.
And this makes blue my color.
I groan again. Why does it always do this? It makes my head dizzy. It makes me shudder.
All the earth rumbles as I rise from my ditch.
Standing, I brush my hands over my body, removing the dirt from it. I raise my eyes and then look at my fields.
And this makes green my color.
Walking around my fields, my mind starts working. I start thinking of important things.
Like… if God is my father, and also their father, doesn't that make us brothers? I shudder at the thought.
I mean, just to think I could have anything to do with—
I see something in the distance. Two small shapes. Two small, deformed, monstrous shapes.
Standing on my fields.
So I walk…

"Hey… hey, Simon. The hell is that?"
"Dunno… don't like the way it's moving, though…"

…towards them.

"It's… it's getting closer."
"Yeah, maybe we should—"

Now red is my color.

"Oh my God, what the hell is that thing?"

Ugly, but still, those things…

"Shoot it! Shoot it, dammit!"

…they…

"Run! Run, go get help!"
"What about you?!"
"I'll try to ho—"

…are…

"ohgodohgodohgodohgod"

…mine…

"ohgodohgodohg—"

…too.

"Denizen" by Bunton

Happy birthday, you wonderful old man. Didn't know what else to write.

I don't know why my mummy screams. She just keeps scratching me and yelling and crying. It makes me feel sad. Is it my fault? I thought she liked having me here, I thought… I thought…
Why doesn't she love me? Is it something I did? She keeps… she keeps saying that she's not my real mummy. But she raised me. I don't care who put me here. My mummy is my mummy. She's warm and nice and lovely. I love my mum
She doesn't really have any other children. I'm her only daughter, and I have her all to myself. I think she's all alone. Nobody else ever comes here, not since what she told me about my other mother's arrival. I don't like my other mother. She abandoned me and left me. This mummy gave me a home. It's a good home. So big and comfy. I just wish she'd stop scratching. She'll hurt herself.
Ahhh… she keeps… she keeps doing it to me. Why? Why does my mum keep hurting me? I thought she loved me… I thought she…
I'm just trying to rupture. Doesn't she want me to leave her body?
Should I stay?

"Dark" by SRegan

Happy birthday - may your drive chain always run smoothly and your teeth never chip!

New York, August, 1911.
He had never liked birthdays much. Every year people had asked him how it felt to be sixteen, eighteen, twenty. And his answer was always 'the same as it felt yesterday'. It nonplussed him that people couldn't see that time existed irrelevant of human demarcations. But then, he had always viewed the world differently from those around him. They had stopped asking after twenty-two, as though one ceased to acquire new experiences or change one's perspectives after that date.
Today he woke, as was his custom, one minute before the bell in the alarm clock beside him burst into life, and flattened the brass pip with the ball of his palm. He was twenty-nine years old. To be accurate, he thought, he would be twenty-nine as commonly reckoned at nine thirty-five this evening - until then he was merely a spritely twenty-eight. But as far as he could see, the conventional way men measured their ages was incorrect anyway; everyone was nine months older than they thought.
He rose, lit a cigarette at the window then went over to the washbasin, regarded himself in the shaving mirror. He saw the same long, lugubrious face with dark eyes he had seen for as long as he could remember. I have not changed, he thought, though he knew it was untrue - you just changed more slowly than you could perceive it. Those near you were under the same glamour of repetition - they would remain convinced that time had no grip on you, until the day they noticed you were losing your hair or wearing your glasses all the time or were suddenly struck by the way your eyes creased when you smiled. Death would sneak up on everyone, he thought, and there was something beautiful in that thought. Death the Great Leveller. The movie stars, the debutantes, the great and the good would all collapse and putrefy one day at a time, and they would adapt to and accept it, just like everyone else.
He went over to the ice-box and took out a bottle of Pemberton's cola, pressing it against his forehead. One product of this country he could live with, he thought. He could already feel how unconscionably hot it would be today, and the docks would give him no allowance for the day of his birth. Soon he would have to go and clock in. Things could have been different, he thought. He could have applied himself at the little rural school back in England and pursued a career as a doctor, or lawyer. Or perhaps that would have only increased the world's demand on him - to shut down his mind, to stupefy him. At least engaged in the menial task of loading and unloading the lifeblood of world commerce he had some time to think, to construct edifices and structures of cognition. When five years ago he had crossed the Atlantic to make his fortune in America he could not have imagined that he would have come to this, slaving fourteen hours a day in the hot sun, cursed at by his mental inferiors.
The letter on his doormat as he made to leave took him quite by surprise. In the first instance, the room he rented for eight dollars a month didn't even have a postal address - it was a cramped box that had been half a parlour, subdivided by his landlord to fit in another credulous wealth-seeker from England. He picked it up - the envelope crisp, white paper of a sort he hadn't seen before - an ornate cartouche on the upper right hand corner. There was no stamp or postal mark, so it must have been delivered by hand. He turned it over and saw his own name in a swirling, faintly familiar hand on the front. He had a minute or so, he thought, closing the door again and slitting the letter open with a breadknife. Inside was a small bundle of letters, tied together with a deep crimson ribbon. He untied it, carefully. Was it too much to hope for deliverance, that someone had seen him and believed in him, his power to change the world - that he might have a patron? He lifted the first sheet and read what it said.

Dear Bartholemew,
I am most apologetic for the delay in sending these documents - I could inform you that the method I have discovered of transmitting them did not allow them to reach you prior to this point. That, however, would be a lie. And we must never lie to ourselves, must we? I have chosen this day and this moment because you are ready. You have seen what I have seen and are mentally prepared to act upon it. Do not consider me your master or a tyrant; I am simply accelerating the process that took far longer to reach fruition in my case. It may well be that you never discover yourself the means by which I prepared or sent these documents - I have prepared for this eventuality and in these papers you will find guidance that will serve you through the coming decades.
At this time you still harbour dreams of industrial prowess - of making your wealth in oil, or gold, or the railways. I have something grander in mind for you; an empire. There are partners you must seek out and persuade - their counterparts have persuaded me of the dangers of too great an interference of my part, so these documents are to remain secret from them at first. In the nineteen-thirties you are to write out some of the information I provide to you in this document and share it with them; instructions on what to copy and when are provided therein. If you heed my advice, your empire will expand over continents and encompass Presidents, Prime Ministers, the law and police - I bequeath this to you. I think of you as a son, though of course this is entirely inaccurate.
Your first task, Bartholemew, will be to pen a letter in your own hand. It will seem to you of a most strange and troubling character, but you must deliver it to an organisation whose name will become familiar to you in the years to come. You will establish yourself in their trust and what you obtain from them will furnish the beginnings of your work. It is to be addressed to Dr Hermann Keter and concerns recent events in the country of Guatamala…

Bartholemew read on, eyes widening. At the bottom of the letter was the same swirling signature he had seen on the envelope. As he looked at it it resolved itself into letters. They said:
B. Dark

"Delight" by Drewbear

Time for something happy, I think.

I try to be good in small ways. You know, doing little things that brighten someone's day. Sometimes I go a little overboard, but that's a learning experience, is all. And hardly anyone is around to complain.
One day, many years ago, I was walking around a college campus when I overhead a young woman crying at a picnic table outside one of the dorms. Listening in, I overhead that it was her first birthday away from her family (only 17! Such a precocious young thing!) and that no-one here had wished her a happy birthday or gotten her anything. She sounded very, very sad and lonely. Poor thing, all alone on her birthday.
So I wandered away for a bit, keeping my eye on her in the meantime, and took a birthday card from the campus store. I wrote a birthday wish in it, in my elegant handwriting, and sealed it with a smile and a kiss. She didn't even notice when I slipped it into her backpack as she passed me on her way to class.
I didn't follow her ALL of the day (that would be impolite), but I did return to her side when I felt her touch the imprint of my kiss on the envelope. Graceful fingers and a gentle touch. She seemed hesitant as she opened the envelope, but she seemed so surprised and happy when she opened the card and the spray of light erupted from my writing. Seeing the tears of joy roll down her cheeks, I was so happy to make her feel better, and took my leave of her to spread goodness elsewhere.

May your eyes ever sparkle and your voice ever soar.
May your pockets never empty that you never shall be poor.
May your lovers find you winsome and your husbands treat you kind.
May your womb ever quicken with the children of your mind.
Happy Birthday, dear one
Enjoy your gifts well.

"D-1243" by ChazzK

Happy belated birthday! Better late than never!

"D-class subject number 1243." That was what he had been called for the last 39 days. Twenty nine days of "community service", following ten days of transfer and orientation after he signed the form that got him off death row for a charge that was trumped up anyway. That was what he said and stuck by, it couldn't be first degree murder if he never met the other guy before, and besides that guy was the one with the gun. Not his fault he was just quicker, nor that the guy had such a short temper that the gun was pulled to start with.
So strange that someone in his position could get off with "community service", but then again this was a strange community. His first three days involved cleaning some awful sludge out of the holding pen for some sort of statue. Just once, someone blinked a split second too early and 0781 fell right on his ass, due to the concrete hands an inch from his neck. Then it was a week watching a television that kept playing some kind of footage of Ronald Reagan; he had to write down all the horrible ways the tape kept changing, and man it was horrible. He actually kind of liked the couple of days that he got to spend with the bugs, the researcher involved with them was so nice, especially since he wasn't one of the poor saps who got bit.
Yes, D-1243 was a lucky guy. Bouncing back and forth between tests because of minor contrivances, being part of the group (or only one of the group) to unexpectedly survive, or just get an easy one. D-1243 had seen other men in orange jumpsuits beaten, shocked or outright gunned down because they wouldn't cooperate, but he hadn't been hardened by prison enough to think "sticking it to the man" was more important than seeing freedom.
That morning, D-1243 woke up in the dormitory with the same three men he had shared it since D-8775 got stuck in a hole in a wall. Today was the day. They would be given drugs that would make them forget everything they saw, and be released back into the world. It was an extra special day, and few things were as disturbingly heartwarming as seeing former-death-row-inmates gathered around singing "Happy Birthday." They were all happy though, they were getting out too.
"So how old are you, anyway?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Man, what a birthday gift!"
The five D-class subjects were eventually gathered up and moved by armed escort through the wing. The room they were led to was small, with smooth metal walls and no windows. The door made a distinctive clang as it closed shut. D-1243 then heard the slight hiss of gas being released; that must be how the mind-wipe drugs worked, he thought. The five men got sleepy fast, and laid down on the bare metal floor. The last thing D-1243 thought before his mind shut down was that he hoped he would wake up soon; he wanted to be able to have some cake on his first birthday as a free man.

"Doll" by Reject

And a belated happy birthday to the Father of the site!

Stuffed animals are so much better than people. Just like Mommy said. When a stuffed animal rips, you just sew it back together. Stuffed animals always listen to you talk and never tell you to do anything you don't want. Best of all, stuffed animals are with you forever.
Daddy said that seven is too old to still have teddy bears and stuff, but I think he's wrong. Other than you Freddybear, there's Buttons the rabbit, Millicent the moose, and Socrates the squirrel. I've had just about all of them as long as I can remember. And they've never broken. Well, too badly at least.
But apparently, there's this thing called a "prostate" in Daddy. Or, well, there used to be. They said that "luckeemy" or "lookemiaw" or something like that got to his. They said Daddy would be taken away from me and I wouldn't see him any more. They would never say something like that about you or Buttons or Millicent or Socrates. You'll be with me forever. I guess all you need is thread and stuffing to really change someone.
And I got my way, Freddybear. Now Daddy can be with us again. Mommy was so right. I haven't seen him look so happy since he got sick. I'm tired though, I think it's time to go to sleep.
Good night Freddybear.
Good night Buttons.
Good night Millicent.
Good night Socrates.
Good night Daddy.

"Dust You Are" by thedeadlymoose

Holy shit I am late. Happy birthday Gears!

The wretched creature was alive once. Before it - she, then - walked down the wrong back road, stepped into the wrong copse of scraggly trees. Something laid in wait there in the backwoods, a tiny monstrosity nesting in a hole in reality. A flytrap.
It's important not to misunderstand the nature of this tiny monstrosity. It was hardly unique. Nor even at the top of the food chain. Nor was not even preying on this woman, at least not in the way we might understand that term.
It was aiming to reproduce.
The flytraps catch many things, but their favorites are the thinking ones. More suitable for the precious eggs desposited in its carapace. The flytraps fear the eggs, as the eggs are not their own. The eggs are not dangerous, but their layers are, and the flytraps know that the thinking things make better minds to add to the embryos in the eggs.
This flytrap caught the woman in its snare, and injected her with its venom. The venom would keep her alive for eons. Paralyzed, conscious, fresh.
Once the eggs were implanted, the flytrap spun her up into the cocoon of rock and dirt and crawled back through its hole. Back to its cold, black, infinite den, from which none escape.
It arranged the woman and several other victims in a careful circle around a tiny flame. The tiny flame would provide enough light and heat to keep the woman alive in her prison, with the venom doing the rest. The flytrap spun carefully, gently. After all, this was a nest, and these were its charges, the children it would raise for its masters.
The flytrap watched the woman for a time, to ensure that the temperature was right and the woman would not wake up before the eggs had grown into her.
The flytrap was very patient, and it watched for a long time. It watched the boils form on the rock prison as the woman tried to scream inside it. Tiny rivulets of melted rock run along the prison's surface like tears. The prison trembled, and the flytrap watched with concern.
A tiny part of the prison broke off, taking a piece of the woman with it. The flytrap shuffled the broken part back into the nest next to the imprisoned woman. Maybe this extra piece would form a child too. It had been known to happen. The woman's torn body writhed in agony for a long time after, but the prison held firm.
The flytrap waited until the woman's screaming cooled to a silent insanity, and the prison cooled with it. The broken piece was forming into its own, smaller, cocoon as well. By now, the eggs had grown into the woman so much that they could no longer be considered separate entities. They were now a child in a cocoon.
Then the flytrap crawled away, satisfied. Soon enough, now, the creature would be ready to be born, and more eggs were waiting to be laid. The woman's quiet, undifferentiated, mindless fear would be just right for the fledgling child. The first few eons were so critical.
So the flytrap missed what happened next.
The cocoon became infected.
Boils spread again across the woman-thing's cocoon, and burst to form rivers, lakes, oceans of pus. A haze of gas clouded over the cocoon's once-pristine surface. Tiny parasites swam in the infected swill and multipled. The woman-thing struggled anew as the parasites swarmed across the cocoon's surface, biting and crawling like an army of fleas. The woman-thing's quiet, sleeping insanity became a mad existence of paralyzed torture.
Floating in its solar nest, in the corner of the flytrap's den in the vast expanse of space, the creature called "Mother Earth" by its parasites waits in increasing madness to be born.


Note: Naturally, this should only be read after Favors-Part One

Colonel Arjmand wasn't sure he made the right choice. Granted, it was either using the talisman or certain death, but the latter seemed like a more attractive option with every passing moment.
He was standing in a lavishly furnished dining room, surrounded by plump, richly dressed men, each wearing a different bizarre hat. One of them, sporting a hat that Arjmand was sure was made to look like two goats fornicating, approached Arjmand with a huge, smug grin on his face.
"Captain Arjmand!" The fat man said, intentionally getting his rank wrong, "How pleasant it is to see you here again! What brings you to the demesne of the Djinn today?"
Arjmand loathed the Djinn. The very idea of dealing with them was an affront to God, to decency, and, frankly, to common sense. The Djinn fancied themselves traders, honest businessmen, but they were much more similar to loan sharks. Behind that jovial, colorful facade lay a mind like a razor, and Arjmand knew he wasn't leaving without getting thoroughly sliced by it.
"You know damn well what I'm here for, spirit! I know you keep a close eye on items like the one I was searching. Those pigs from the Foundation got the drop on me, and I need to repay them. With interest."
The Djinn smiled warmly at him, and produced a notebook from the folds of his robe. Arjmand shivered. People always spoke of the terrible powers of the Djinn, but they rarely mentioned their complete mastery over numbers, real or imaginary.
"Hmm, let us see," The Djinn peered at the notebook, now filled with page upon page of numbers. "Carry the one, reduce a week for bulk discount, add four months for multiple assailants…I would say you'll need one year of condensed time to deal with them and stay alive, in a reasonable condition."
Arjmand relaxed a little—a year wasn't so bad, he could live with that. The Djinn wasn't done, however.
"Of course, there is the matter of our commission. Let's see…stun removal, conversation fees, regeneration overload prevention, instant death fail-safe, friction nullifiers…that comes to five years overall."
"Five years!? That's ludicrous! It's highway robbery!"
The Djinn flashed his wide smile again, but there was nothing warm in it this time. "Come now, no Djinn would be caught dead on a highway. Five years, or no deal."
Arjmand sighed. "If I give you five years, you guarantee I'll be able to dispose of those who attacked me?"
"Of course. You know our word is good."
"Do it."
The Djinn placed a thick finger on the talisman still around Arjmand's neck, which started to emit a steady argent glow. Most of the silvery light flowed to the Djinn, whose grin could now only barely be contained by his puffy cheeks. Some of it, however, stayed in the talisman. And grew brighter.
"It is done."
Despite himself, and despite the knowledge he just lost five years of his life, Arjmand answered the Djinn's smile with one of his own.
"Yes. And so are they."

Agent Gladstone couldn't help but winch at the sound of gunshot. When he told his men to neutralize the stunned Iranians, they knew what he meant. It was dirty work, but he couldn't risk them following his team on the way out. Overall, things went surprisingly well for the Mirth Busters.
"Colt, go check on their commander. I want to question him before we get rid of him."
"Got it, Sir."
With this, Gladstone began looking for the object. The great stone hall with its great pillars and columns would take ages to properly search, but now, with the Iranians gone, they had all the time in the world. Maybe the Iranians already found the object. Their commander would know.
"Colt, what's taking so long?"
No reply. Gladstone turned to find the commander's body gone, and replacing it was Colt's, his throat crushed.
"Defensive positions! We got a possible Zero-Thirteen scenario on our hands! Backs against a wall, now!"
Well, so much for things going well.

Colonel Arjmand hid behind one of the great pillars, having used three days' worth of strength and speed of his condensed year to crush the soldier's throat and escape unseen. He could feel time leaking out of him, a few minutes for each second- the human body was never meant to hold so much time at once. He knew he needed to act fast, lest he won't have enough time time left to finish the rest of them—their commander was already ordering a defensive position, and he would have to spend a lot more time to penetrate it. He knew his sidearm would be entirely unreliable under the influence of the Djinn's talisman, so hand-to-hand was the only option. The entire affair was giving him a headache. Damn the Djinn and their temporal nonsense.
Arjmand considered his options. With his sloppy control, it would take at least two weeks worth of time to pick one of the soldiers off and just barely avoid the hail of bullets that would follow. There were fifteen of them. With him leaking time all over the place, and his muscles already aching from the abuse of using them in such a careless manner, he knew he had no chance to win using strength and speed alone. Luckily, even a novice like him could use concentrated time in other ways. While he was protected from some of the more horrid effects of the Djinn's intervention, the soldiers were not.
Gathering two hundred days of concentrated time all at once, and leaking time everywhere, Arjmand charged. The moment he left his cover, the soldiers spotted him and opened fire, but he was moving at such speed the bullets seemed to barely move as they floated lazily in the air. He knew he couldn't maintain this speed for very long- he already ate through months of speed, and his muscles screamed in protest. Luckily, he didn't need to. As he reached the first of the soldiers, he placed a finger on the man's forehead. Using the time leaking out of him to his advantage, Arjmand forced three weeks of wakefulness into the man's brain. Without the Djinn failsafe to protect him, the soldier collapsed immediately, suffering the equivalent of three weeks without sleep. With blinding speed, Arjmand turned and elbowed another soldier in the stomach, sending him flying across the hall.
Arjmand was beginning to enjoy himself, despite the enormous temporal pressure his body was under. In less then thirty seconds, or several months of concentrated time, ten of the fifteen soldiers were down, out cold or dead. Arjmand accelerated the air flow in the lungs of one of the survivors, causing the friction to burn the man's lunges to cinders. Another had his bladder and intestines explode, caving in under the pressure of a month of waste that wasn't there moments before. This was true power, Arjmand thought, this was glory! He laughed as he ripped the guns from the hands of the surviving men, casting them aside. It was time to finish this. He was going to enjoy this, oh yes.
A sudden shock of pain in his back brought his euphoria to a sharp end. Turning around, he saw a figure in grey holding one of the discarded rifles. He gathered what little remained of his time and tried to rush to it, but the figure was somehow too fast, even for him. Three more shots, and Arjmand felt himself falling, as slow as a feather, as heavy as a tombstone.
"You promised there would be enough time…you said I could kill those who attacked me…"
"And we kept our word. You never mentioned the man hiding behind that corner."
Arjmand would have cursed the traitorous bastards, but he just felt so very tired…
Colonel Abtin Arjmand's time had run out.

Agent Gladstone, nursing a broken arm, was gazing sullenly at what remained of his task force. Over half his men were dead, and of the rest, only three were in any sort of fighting condition, including himself. Of course, there was also the man in grey, who was at the moment checking the dead colonel's body for something, while taking care to keep his weapon pointed firmly on Gladstone and his men.
"Huh, would you look at that," the man in grey said, removing a silver necklace for the colonel's corpse. "It seems like this trip wasn't a complete waste of time after all."
"Yeah, I'm real happy for you."
"Come now, no need to be like that. I did just save your lives."
"Oh yes, and I'm sure you didn't wait until most of my men were disposed of before acting on purpose. You must have been busy building an orphanage for the blind behind that corner."
The man in grey just shrugged and turned to leave. "I would advise you to wait an hour or so before making your way back to your rendezvous point. The good colonel here didn't come alone. Oh, I've almost forgotten," he produced what seemed to be an ancient toy. "Are you a father, agent?"
Gladstone shook his head. "Good, then it should be safe for you to handle this. I believe this is what the Iranians were looking for." He tossed the toy to Gladstone, who awkwardly caught it with his good hand. Then, he threw his rifle away and stepped out of the stone hall's mirage doors. Gladstone, without a moment hesitation, recovered the gun and went after him. He'd be damned if he let the smug bastard get away with a possible SCP object. The desert sands were blowing outside, as the sun was beginning to set on the salt flats. Of the man in grey, there was no sign.

As the dry and salty desert air began to smell of rain, the man in grey knew he was out of harm's way. Passing the corner of what seemed to be an abandoned butcher shop, he sank to the floor and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He seemed to have misplaced his hat, which annoyed him.
A fortunate turn of events. The talisman of the Djinn could speed the growth of the Maker's chainfruit. They are creatures of avarice, but they will serve.
He hated talking to the Breath without his Gem of Aspects. Ever since he was forced to give the Gordian Stone away by the Breath's own instructions, his ability to discern which of its aspects was currently dominant was much reduced. This sounded like the Mind, but it could have been the Eye or the Mouth just as easily. The Breath was a solid, impenetrable storm front now, and trying to have a conversation with it was like trying to fly a kite in a Jovian maelstrom.
The others are stirring. The Pulse has attained powerful tools already, and the rest are not far behind. The fruit will be needed. Acquire the services of the Djinn.
He knew there were other Gems out there, like the Pulse's stone, but he had no way of knowing where they were. Besides, he knew the Breath did everything for a reason, and the blasted thing must not have wanted him to have one anymore.
Do not tarry.
With a sigh, the man in grey twisted the talisman, and the dirty butcher shop was replaced by lavish dining hall, all ivory and gold. An enormous man, wearing a hat which could not be described in civilized company, rose from a cushion and waddled towards him, a wide grin on his face.
"A new customer, how pleasant! Welcome to the demesne of the Djinn, my good man. Are you here to trade? We have such marvelous wonders waiting for you, and all for just a humble price of time."
"I'm sorry, but all my time is already in the possession of another. No, I'm simply here to take a few years of concentrated time. Twenty-five or so should suffice."
The grin vanished. "If you have no time to trade for it, we have nothing further to discuss."
The Djinn began making his way back to his cushion, and, feeling a rush of air at his back, dived just in time to avoid a large stone bust colliding with his skull. Turning, he saw the man in grey was standing in the midst of a swirling mass of air, which was rapidly reducing the dining hall into piles of expensive rubble. The Djinn, with surprising agility for a man of his size, accelerated his movement and smashed into the interloper with the force of two centuries, but found that all of his time simply vanished into the air flow around the man. Later the Djinn understood why—the thing was so old, two hundred years were nothing more than a quick lunch break for it.
"Who are you?"
The man in grey felt himself disappearing, fading into the gathering storm, and the Breath of the World, sometimes known as the Wind in the West, the sum of humanity's secrets, considered the question for a moment.
Nobody.


Welcome to the FBI's second least popular division; the Unusual Incidents Unit.
Most of you are probably here as a punishment, because someone wants you out of their hair.
Any of you here because you told your superiors the truth, and they didn't believe it?
Ah, just one. Well then, I'm going to need to make a demonstration. You see; the UIU is a joke, but not for the reasons you guys think. I'm sure most of you will recognise this as a Desert Eagle. It's loaded with .50 bullets. So seven rounds in the magazine.
Let's count them out: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven… eight, nine, ten, eleven… I could keep going, but I'll hand the magazine around so you can see I'm not using sleight of hand.
So, if what we're investigating is real, why are we a joke? Because we're way out of our depth.
You guys aren't trained for the sort of stuff that we're meant to be investigating.
Of course, you do get really good bereavement benefits.
Pop quiz: How many rounds are there in that magazine?
Nope, the guy I found it on thought it was limitless too. It holds one thousand, two hundred, ninety six rounds. He ran out while shooting at me.
Now for the terminology. We deal in Carts and Cans.
A Cart is a confirmed artifact; an object that doesn't belong within this world.
A Can is a confirmed anomaly; an event or area that involves something impossible.
A Can Man is a person who is anomalous. These tend to be particularly dangerous, and you'll probably find someone else is there looking for them.
We're not the only ones dealing with this stuff. When you're out on an investigation, keep your eyes out for other interested parties:
The Suits.
Men in suits, sunglasses, the works, your stereotypical spooks. Men in Black. If you get a chance, keep eyes on them. They're bastards, completely untrustworthy, but if they give an order you follow it.
They work for the government, apparently. And they outrank us.
The Fireworks.
Militia groups, highly trained, sometimes armed with Carts. We figure there's more than one, we've seen them fighting each other. They come in and take, or destroy, whatever it is they're after. Then they leave, and we have to cover it up. Don't try and interfere without backup; and be aware that they are better equipped than us. They're dangerous, ruthless and vicious. But at least they're honest. If they give you an order, follow it.
If you don't they'll kill you.
The Cart Shoppers.
Marshall, Carter and Dark; they're an auction house, and a gentleman's club. Their customers are extremely rich, and tend to have rather disturbing tastes. Official policy is to raid any known Cart dealers, but you should be very careful around MC and D. Their security forces don't want to make a scene, so wait for backup before going in and you should be relatively safe. If they give you an order… well, decide for yourselves; assuming you have free will at the time.
The Can Collection.
They call themselves The Serpent's Hand. They often interfere with the actions of other groups, generally to free or protect Can Men. They are happy to use artifacts, and have very little interest in secrecy. They understand anomalies better than most because most of them seem to be anomalies. Do not confront them in public, you won't win and the Suits will be annoyed about having to clean up your mess.
If they give you an order consider following it, they can probably set you on fire with their mind.
And finally, the guys we actually get on with: The Skippers.
You'll know they're there, you'll see something labeled Soap and Care Products, Superior Consumer Produce, Sudden Career Possibilities or Security for Corporate Profiteers. They're not trying to hide from us, just from the public.
The Skippers are well trained, know what they're doing, and they're helpful. Their aim seems to be similar to ours: find anomalies, quietly, and get them under control and out of the public eye. If they're there then the problem's probably out of your league, but you can go introduce yourself if you like. If they ask you for help… well they'll make sure your family are looked after if you die, in addition to the standard bereavement package from us.
If you receive a call starting with “Hey Skipper” it means there's something they can't be bothered dealing with. It's almost certainly a minor artifact. Those things help us keep our funding, so make sure to take Skipper calls seriously.
If a Skipper gives you an order, follow it. Because while they probably won't kill you, the anomaly will.
I once took orders from a pizza delivery guy. Didn't even realise he was from Spicy Crust Pizzeria until it was all over.
That is why we're a joke.


Why am I here? This place gives me nightmares, but never really the right ones to discourage me from coming back. The horrors and chills are the waking kind, which manifest in the darkness when I'm alone and still walking through a silent hallway, trying to find a light switch and freezing every time I hear a thump or a crack or a creak.
These are the nightmares that evaporate the instant the sun shines again, these are the nightmares fueled by curiosity and the reality that no one really knows what tomorrow will bring. Why is there something eerily familiar about SCP-173 that draws me to watching footage of it, when I know that in several hours' time, I'll be looking over my shoulder every few minutes trying to get the image out of my head and trying to convince myself that the Sculpture is not right behind me?
Why am I here?
Inherently, I feel I should know.
It's because the nightmares fascinate me, have always fascinated me.
Fear—deep, dark, enthralling, exhilarating, it reminds me that I'm alive and reminds me that things are in motion all around and that here, regardless of what office or hallway or containment area one walks in, there is danger lurking in the endless streams of numbers that chronicle years of the anomalous and threatening and horrific.
I'm going to visit 1457 again. I don't know why. There's something calming about immersing the mind in the woes of others. Even though the memories feel like mine, may even have been mine all along, I know that they're not mine and cannot harm me.
But as such, I've seen things that I couldn't have prepared myself for. Muted gunshots in the dark, skin being peeled off inch by inch with a black knife to the cacophony of screams of pain and insanity, needles, electric shocks, was it always an observed effect of 1457 to force relapses on someone receiving memories?
I've tried to steel myself against it. Train myself through use of 1457 to become resistant to these sort of things. Empathy, which I once believed to be my strongest quality, can no longer be used as a shield.
Before, when I saw those pairs of broken eyes, I would be able to do something about it. Now, all these memories, all these stories, all these tragedies so close they're almost tangible and yet completely beyond my reach and my help—I don't understand how a butterfly could have possibly witnessed all of them.
I'm not the spectator anymore.
1457 removes the protections that distance offers. This little life form carries the deaths of mothers and fathers, the sights of suffering friends, the crippling hopelessness of being without anyone else to confide in, without anyone else who knows the extent of the pain and the meaning of the tears.
It's all useless.
It's not like anyone else will volunteer. I've applied for medication, but I've heard whispers that until my mental health starts to show serious signs of deterioration, all my requests will be denied.
The Mourning Cloak even somewhat remembers me now, flies to me whenever I enter its containment area, becomes agitated if I happen to have forgotten to remove the sterilized gloves. Looking back, I can understand the sudden order requiring me to feed this being. I once spent my time counseling the heartbroken, once spent my time untangling complicated tales of anguish, once spent my time sharing away pain. And I happened, just happened, to get that score on the EI test.
Emotional intelligence. I once thought it meant something different, I once thought that conquering my fears meant admitting I had them and refusing to confront them until I was ready.
Things are different now.
I don't know where these memories have come from, but with each broken heart or shattered soul or scarred mind, I don't know if I've become stronger or weaker. These are bootlegged experiences, false images, and maybe in the end all I am is desensitized because I know that the memories don't mean as much, don't strike as hard to me.
But what happens when these memories are replaced by realities?
I swear, with all this strain, I'm surprised I haven't developed a heart condition.
The butterfly doesn't care, or perhaps it doesn't know enough to realize how uncaring it is, but then I never know, maybe no one really knows, maybe no one will ever know. It lives to eat and make sure it keeps eating.
And so another hour passes as I'm taken through a whirlwind of death and disease and darkened dreams. The butterfly remains perched on my shoulder, serenely folding and unfolding its uneven wings, tilting its antennae gracefully as I slump forward, head in my hands.
It's beautiful…


Checkmate
Command-02, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 26 December 1988, 2130 hours local time
This time, it was Harper waiting for Seven in the darkened conference room. Alone, she entered the dimly lit room to find the counterintelligence officer facing her from by the window, casually smoking a cigarette. "Ma'am," he said quietly.
"Mr. Harper," Seven replied. "Do you have a status report on your investigation?"
"I have," he said, blowing a puff of smoke. "Initially, it appeared as though some vast and unknown conspiracy had managed to penetrate every major organization operating behind the Veil. But that turned out not to be true. The information discovered in the warehouse was carefully prepared bait, gathered by a few individuals with access to nearly omniscient intelligence apparatuses. After one of the key conspirators called Director McDonnell's direct line from an untraceable number, Robert swallowed it hook line and sinker. Being the by-the-book operative he has always been, he reported it to his direct superior: O5-5. Five had, for years, handled counterintelligence, while you handled intelligence collection, until his untimely demise left a skill vacuum on the Council you offered to satisfy until the appointment of a replacement Overseer could occur, likely after the holidays."
Seven frowned slightly. The report was not going as expected.
Taking a breath on his cigarette, Harper continued, "The death of Five and Director McDonnell was easy enough for the conspirators to arrange, for they had knowledge of a device which could explosively detonate a mundane-looking object from half a world away. This device, the explosive coins and their associated atlas, had been used by the Foundation once before to destroy an American naval vessel, causing a war that directly benefited this organization. Unfortunately, the coins had been stolen by Marshall, Carter and Dark after Fidel Castro had nationalized the site where they were stored. This presented little obstacle for the plotters, however, for they had inside access to the club's records. Whether Lord George Smith-Cumming was a willing member of the plot or an unlucky pawn sacrificed for the game, or even, indeed, if he had actually ever owned the coins at all, we may never know. But the red herring was there to confuse anyone who made it that far."
Seven swallowed. Her right hand ever so slowly slid towards the pistol concealed in the small of her back, moving carefully to avoid notice.
Harper exhaled, and said, "The conspirators were clever, really, for they held positions from whence they could not only monitor the investigations, but they could direct it. They could play both sides off the middle, and for a while it worked. My investigation took me to Europe, the Middle East, and the Soviet Union, while I'm sure the Global Occult Coalition's investigations required similar globetrotting. I was sent chasing the illusive C. In the meantime, the conspirators worked to either secure, or look as though they were securing, some SCPs with the capacity to not only inflict significant collateral damage if turned loose in a populated area, but also lacked stringent protective measures preventing their being seized with relative ease."
Seven's fingers felt the grip of her pistol.
"I would rather you didn't do that," Harper said, producing a weapon of his own with his right hand, his left still holding a cigarette. "I'm not finished yet," he said coolly. "You came to an agreement with Regional Deputy Director Keith Bain at the GOC, another of the key conspirators," Harper continued, "having him hire a drunk to kill my family ten years ago, so that I would agree to take a promotion that would eventually land me here: as the investigator who would be keeping you apprised of your own conspiracy to seize control of the Foundation. Unfortunately, Bain made a mistake. The drunk he hired was his bodyguard's twin brother - the same bodyguard he used to assassinate O5-3 and his own direct superior as part of the conspiracy. By shooting his bodyguard, he neatly prevented the assassin from giving up the secret of his employer, while simultaneously becoming the hero of the situation for the GOC."
"Foundation-Coalition relations will be set back decades because of this," Cornelia said.
Harper shook his head, "Possible, but unlikely, given that the O5 Council provided the Coalition's leadership with incontestable financial proof of Bain's treachery. Greedy bastard, Bain. I understand they have placed him under arrest." Cornelia looked slightly ashen. Harper paused to take a breath on his cigarette, then continued. "I don't know who in the Chaos Insurgency you were in bed with, but having them hit Research Site-29 right after I left was a nice touch, as was leaving Ford around to say what had been taken. And, if he took the blame for the attack, so much the better."
If looks could kill, Harper would long since have been blasted backwards through the tinted window behind him. He was relatively unconcerned with dirty looks, however, as his pistol was leveled neatly at his adversary's chest. "I have been cleared to know the truth about SCP-006. Clever bit of acting, buying Sir James' service in the conspiracy with water from the fountain of youth. Unfortunately for you, I determined the real identity of C, Cornelia."
Cornelia Dark let out a quick, barking laugh, "You know nothing."
Harper smiled, "Sir James mentioned how you and he had first met: 'in university, one giving a lecture the other attended,' he said. I realize now that you were the lecturer, not him, despite the appearances of your ages. You've been planning this for a very long time. It's over now. You will spend the remainder of your natural life in as cold, dark, and damp a hole as the Foundation can find."
"Like Hell!" Cornelia snarled. With astonishing speed, a tiny pistol appeared in her hand out of the sleeve of her suit jacket. She raised her arm to fire. Two shots rang out, and Cornelia Dark, née Roosevelt, formerly O5-7, fell to the floor dead, two bullet holes through her heart.
"A pity," said a low voice. "It would have been nice to know who her contact in the Insurgency was." A figure stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. A nondescript man, unremarkable in nearly every facet of his appearance, he was O5-1, the first among equals of the O5 Council.
"I apologize, sir," Harper said respectfully.
O5-1 replied, "You need not worry, it was self defense. The cleaning crew has had more substantial messes than this to clean - they are getting quite remarkable at getting blood out of carpet."
"Yes, sir," Harper said.
"Now, Mr. Harper, I have spoken with the other Overseers," O5-1 said, "and we would like you to assume the duties of O5-7, effective immediately. Do you accept?"
Me? An Overseer? Harper thought to himself in surprise. He took a long moment to consider, then answered, "Yes."
"Very well," O5-1 said, producing a black identification card with a gold border, Harper's photograph, and 'O5-7' printed in gold. "Welcome aboard, Seven. The Council's first assignment for you is to oversee the closure of this conspiracy investigation. Allow me to make something perfectly clear: this never happened. There was never a plot to overthrow the Council or to seize control of the world behind the Veil. Your predecessor was not shot; she retired. Please see to it that Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel understand how events took place, and see to it that all documentation reflects what happened accurately."
"Yes, sir," the Foundation's newest Overseer said.
"One more thing, Seven," O5-1 said, turning to leave. "Make sure you got them all."

« Part XII | HUB | Epilogue »


Endgame
The Mall, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 26 December 1988, 1130 hours local time
Harper decided to take an early lunch to clear his head and consider what he knew.
Since Muir's interrogation of Ford, he'd learned the Foundation had managed to cover up the warehouse explosion in Finland as the result of "improperly stored volatile materials." Recovery teams had pulled a number of human remains from the rubble, including the now positively identified body of Lord George Smith-Cumming, a member of the British Parliament and a known member of Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Forensic accountants employed by at least six different agencies, of course including the Foundation, were already examining the late Lord's finances. The preliminary evidence was promising: by all appearances, the illusive C was no longer a concern. Harper had his doubts, but no corroborating evidence to back up his gut feeling.
As Harper strode past the Smithsonian Castle munching on a sandwich bought off a food truck, he was approached by a boy no older than twelve. "Hey Mister!" the boy said, running up to him. "A man paid me five bucks to give this to you!" He pulled a crumpled envelope from his back pocket.
Frowning slightly as he accepted the envelope, Harper thanked the boy, who ran off. He looked around, but recognized no one in the vicinity. His name was written in neat script across the envelope's flap. Tearing it open, the counterintelligence officer discovered it contained a single sheet of paper covered in the same small handwriting.

Dear Tim,
I thank you for your facilitating the delivery of the SCP-006 liquid. It made for a most wonderful Christmas gift. I do apologize for the unorthodox means by which this message was delivered; I believed it unwise to trust either official Foundation channels, or my usual unofficial means for contacting the organization. As I had promised, the following is information that may be of interest to your investigation.
First, as I have already informed the Foundation through official channels, I believe a number of items possessed by C are located in a warehouse on the waterfront in Helsinki, at 60.161 N, 24.903 E. Unless it has been moved sometime in the last 24 hours, you will find the chest, explosive coins, and map there. I give you fair warning that it is quite likely that the Global Occult Coalition knows this, though I did not provide them with the information. Accordingly, I would recommend that your recovery forces exercise haste. By the time your receive this message, the Coalition will certainly have taken steps to deal with the items in question.
Second, someone very powerful within the Foundation is a key conspirator, perhaps even the linchpin of the entire plot. I implore you to trust no one, and to be careful when using official lines of Foundation communication. While my sources suggest that neither of your two associates, Mr. Troy Muir nor Ms. Monica Daniel, is involved, it is most certainly possible that my information regarding this conspiracy is incomplete. It is possible anyone could be involved, even someone you have every reason to trust.
Third, though I am certain you already suspected this, the Foundation is not the only institution whose highest levels have been infiltrated. My information suggests there are key conspirators in the Foundation; Global Occult Coalition; the Chaos Insurgency; and Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Ltd. I do not have information to indicate any other organizations contain high-level conspirators rather than simple agents-in-place for intelligence gathering purposes. My sources indicate that Special Agent Harry Granger of the GOC is unlikely to be a witting conspirator, should you require assistance from that organization, though I can neither guarantee his cooperation, nor his loyalty.
By this point, I imagine you are wondering why someone in my position, with information such as this, would not be doing everything in my power to prevent the success of this conspiracy. While you have no reason to trust me, and, considering the game underfoot every reason to not, I beg your indulgence to allow me to offer two possible explanations: it is an unwise investment strategy to give information for nothing when one can receive payment for it, and I am, in point of fact, doing that which is within my power to disrupt this conspiracy. I am providing you this information and taking my own actions to prevent an outcome which would be, shall we say, "problematic". Of course, you are free to believe what I have told you or not, but I would be a rather destitute information dealer if my clients could not trust my word.
This brings me to my fourth piece of information: the conspiracy's goal. We live in a complex and intricate world; even if the preternatural were nothing more than the fairy tales and horror stories the world-at-large believes them to be (thereby reducing the world's complexity significantly), it would be foolish and arrogant for any individual or small group of persons, no matter how powerful, to believe they could dominate and control the globe. The conspirators know this, and have set their sights lower. The world-at-large is separated from life as the informed few know it by a Veil. This Veil is maintained by a variety of organizations with a variety of motives; it always has been, and it is entirely possible it always will be. Even chaotic and anarchic groups, when provided with access to true paranormal, have a tendency to maintain this Veil, if for no other reason as to ensure the continued separation of the "haves" and "have-nots", with themselves securely in the former category. In a way little different from the tremendous power afforded those few with the resources to split the atom, the preternatural is a source of power capable of inspiring both awe and terror. It is this power, this awe and terror, I believe the conspirators seek: the capacity to control, if not the world, then the world behind the Veil.
That concludes the information the Foundation purchased when it provided me the liquid from SCP-006. I have two more pieces of information to provide to you, and you alone. If you should choose to disregard my above advice and disclose the aforementioned, I beseech you to not reveal that I have told you what follows.
Your family's death was not accidental.
Investigate the Roosevelt family.
May your continued investigation be met with the best of luck. If I can provide further assistance on this or other matters, do not hesitate to contact me, either directly or by leaving a message for me at the Diogenes Club in London. I have confidence in the Club's discretion in passing secure communications.
Most sincerely,
James Mycroft

Harper was so taken aback by the letter's contents that he scarcely wondered how on earth the eccentric mathematics professor had known that he'd be walking past a particular building at a particular time, given his recent extensive travels. Placing the note in his pocket, he lit a cigarette and walked back to Command-02.

Muir and Monica looked up to see Harper enter the office. Without a word, he grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and scribbled "ASSUME OFFICE BUGGED, MOVE TO TANK." Silently, the two nodded. Picking up the several boxes of relevant files, the three of them moved to a room deep in the bowels of the building: The Tank. The Tank was a purpose-built room designed to make electronic surveillance ("bugging", as it was more popularly called) impossible. A variety of active and passive measures were in place, blocking both conventional electronic listening devices and several known anomalous listening techniques. Swept daily, it could be reserved by personnel with Level 4 or Level 5 clearance who were handling particularly sensitive classified materials.
After all the files had been transferred, Harper turned to Monica. "Monica, I need you to run up to the Daly Building in Judiciary Square and pull D.C. Metro's investigation file on a fatal car crash that happened on 25 December 1978 at Dupont Circle," he instructed.
"On it," she said, not questioning the significance of a ten-year old traffic accident to their current investigation. She fished in her bag for the fake credentials identifying her as a junior agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and left.
"What's going on, Tim?" asked Muir.
Producing the note from his pocket, Harper said, "A cutout gave this to me at lunch."
After carefully reading the note, not once but twice, Muir let out a low whistle. "This complicates things," he muttered. "Want me to dig through what we have on the GOC and Chaos Insurgency to see if I can turn anything up?"
Harper nodded. "Sure. Focus on those likely to be involved with anything either unusual or related to the Foundation," he suggested. "The investigation file I sent Monica after—"
"—was for the crash that killed your family," Muir finished. "I knew the date sounded familiar. When she gets back, I'll have her cross-reference the file with everything we've pulled relating to this investigation. Mycroft wouldn't have given you that information if it didn't pertain to this somehow."
"I figured he wasn't just being nice," Harper said. "I'll go pull the Foundation's records on the Roosevelts."
That required a trip down to Central Records, a cavernous labyrinth of yellowing documents larger than most libraries, located in the bottom four floors of the basement. Only Level 5 personnel were permitted to freely traverse the stacks, and in some areas even they needed an escort. Harper thumbed through the card catalog, locating the reference numbers for each personnel or person-of-interest file for individuals from the Roosevelt family. As it turned out, there were a large number relevant individual files, plus a collective file on the entire family. He wrote the numbers on an index card and set off to locate the files.
After a productive forty-five minutes of searching, Harper returned to the tank with a thick stack of files. Muir and Monica were already hard at work poring over their own files, so Harper set down his materials and got to work.
The collective file on the family included a detailed genealogy of the Roosevelt family, reaching back to the two patriarchs (Johannes, head of the Oyster Bay branch of the family, and James Jacobus, head of the Hyde Park branch). Each family member's dates of birth and death, marriages, occupations, and descendants were listed, as was whether or not there was an individual file for that person.
The first individual file on the stack was for Theodore Roosevelt (specifically the one living between 1855 and 1919, as "Theodore" was a name that appeared many times in the family tree). Best known to the world-at-large as the 26th President of the United States, he had also been a friend to the Foundation during the organization's early days in the late 19th century. There were a number of rumors that floated around about him from time to time, that he had helped push the United States into the Spanish-American War on behalf of the Foundation, that the Foundation opposed his being made Vice President (which would have gotten him "out of the way" politically had McKinley not died), that the Foundation helped make him Vice President and that McKinley was shot on Foundation orders to place him in power, even that he was a member of the Foundation, and plenty of other often contradictory speculation. The truth was in the file Harper held in his hands. Of course, none of what was in the file turned out to be particularly relevant to the details of the investigation at hand, even if TR was involved in a war the Foundation had fomented with a device used ninety years later to kill an Overseer.
The second file, oddly enough, was completely empty. The name was "Cornelia Roosevelt", and according to the collective file on the family, she was the daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, the older brother of TR's father. The information relating to Cornelia was also, for the most part, missing from the genealogy in the family file. Harper set aside the file, scribbling a question mark in his notes next to her name.
Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882-1945), 32nd President of the United States, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1913-1920); had dealings with the Foundation as ASN during the First World War, and as President, during the Second.
Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962), niece to Theodore, wife of Franklin D., and First Lady of the United States; person-of-interest with no direct dealings to the Foundation.
Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. (1887-1944), son of TR, Brigadier General in the United States Army, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1921-1924), Governor of Puerto Rico (1929–1932), Governor-General of the Philippines (1932–1933); had numerous dealings with the Foundation in each capacity. Harper found it interesting that a total of five members of the extended Roosevelt clan had served in the post. Considering the significance the position had held as a conduit between the early Foundation and the American government, the number of Roosevelts who had interacted with the Foundation made some degree of sense.
Theodore Douglas Robinson (1883-1934), nephew of TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1924-1929); had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN, and suspected of being one of the first supporters of the Chaos Insurgency.
Henry Latrobe Roosevelt (1879-1936), third cousin to TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1933-1936); fought in the Spanish-American War and had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN. Henry Latrobe was also suspected of having sympathies to the Chaos Insurgency. Harper wondered whether Theodore Robinson's and Henry L. Roosevelt's alleged Chaos Insurgency sympathies had resulted in the Foundation both the distancing of the organization from the Office of the Secretary of the Navy, and for some of the hostilities that would later arise between the American military and the organization.
Cornelius Van Schaack Roosevelt (born 1915), son of Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., Foundation agent embedded within the Central Intelligence Agency; served as the head of CIA's Technical Division from 1960-1961. He was part of the joint CIA/Foundation MKULTRA Project, and was listed as having been one of the primary advocates within CIA of attempting to poison Fidel Castro (on behalf of the Foundation). He'd since retired, and the file gave Harper no reason to believe he was involved in the current conspiracy.
Kermit Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1916), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack, Foundation agent embedded within the CIA. Kermit Jr. had coordinated the 1953 Iranian coup, another joint CIA/Foundation operation. Though retired by the 1979 Iranian Revolution, Kermit Jr. still occasionally consulted with the Foundation as an expert on the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution.
Archibald Bulloch Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1918), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack and Kermit Jr., United States Army intelligence, CIA officer. Though never a formal member of the Foundation like his cousins, Archibald Bulloch Jr. was listed as having been a "friend to the Foundation" throughout his entire career, including during his WWII service in North Africa, Iraq, and Iran, and as CIA Chief of Station in Istanbul, Madrid, and London. There was a note stating that he had refused to assist the Foundation when it was at odds with the CIA, as well as refusing to supply classified documents without official approval from the CIA/Foundation liaison. He was now retired, having recently published a memoir.
"Tim, we have something," Monica said, interrupting Harper's genealogical and biographical thoughts. He walked over to where Monica and Muir sat.
"The drunk who killed your family," Muir began.
"Tristan Arnold," spat Harper. The name was hard cut into his memory.
"Right, him," Monica said. "His parents died in a house fire when he and his twin brother were six, after which the two of them went into foster care."
"Now, as adults, their lives diverge substantially," Muir explained. "Both enlisted in the Army. Tristan was dishonorably discharged, and lived the remainder of his life out of a bottle."
"His brother, Benjamin, on the other hand," Monica continued, "was honorably discharged after two tours, then went to work for the State Department's Diplomatic Security Service as a bodyguard. That is, until he was transferred to—"
"—the Global Occult Coalition, where he loyally served as the personal bodyguard for Regional Deputy Director Bain, until deciding to go on a shooting spree yesterday, killing GOC Regional Director Strauss and O5-3," finished Muir.
Harper looked from Muir to Monica. "So the brother of the man who killed my family ten years ago," he asked slowly, "is yesterday's assassin?"
"I mean, it's a small world, but this can't be a coincidence," Monica said. She handed over two photographs. One, a yellowing newspaper clipping, showed a somber man at Tristan's funeral. The other was a security camera still that showed the same man, ten years later, wearing an earpiece and sunglasses as he ushered Bain into a building.
"After my family died, I stopped turning down the promotion to Section Chief," Harper breathed. "Someone, now involved in this plot, arranged for my family to die so I'd take the promotion?"
Muir asked, "That was before we started working together; who was putting pressure on you to take the job?"
Harper thought back, "The Counterintelligence Director at the time - Erik DeVoe. But he was getting pressure from someone on the O5 Council. I kept resisting because my kids were in elementary school…"
"Could this Mr. Bain be involved?" Monica asked.
"It's possible," Harper replied. "He stood to gain directly with his boss' assassination, and the shooter was his own bodyguard."
"And he killed the assassin himself," Muir pointed out.
"Follow that lead," Harper said. "One of the files I pulled from Central Records was gutted."
"Completely empty?" Muir asked, surprised. "Nobody - not even the Overseers - are supposed to completely remove the contents of any file not containing a memetic hazard or infohazard."
"Yeah, Troy, I know," Harper said. "And this was a personnel file, so it should have been fine. It's probably nothing, since the individual was born back in the 1870s, but I'm going to head over to the National Archives to try and reconstruct the non-sensitive genealogical and biographical information."
"Alright," Muir said. "Out of curiosity, whose file was it?"
"Cornelia Roosevelt."

National Archives Building, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 26 December 1988, 1400 hours local time
Most people who visit the National Archives Building go to see the original copies of the American Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights. While famous, impressive, priceless, and interesting documents, they represent only the tiniest fraction of the records maintained and stored by the National Archives and Records Administration. Though few tourists wandered beyond the Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom, any member of the public could become a certified researcher and gain access to the documents stored within. Though not the only reason for an ordinary citizen to become a certified researcher, many genealogists took advantage of NARA's countless records (census records, Congressional private claims and private legislation records, court records, immigration records, military records, passenger lists, passport applications, post office records, and many other archived records) in order to construct detailed family histories. Of course, many of these documents were not made public until at least seven decades after their creation.
This did not present a problem for Harper, however. His notes indicated that Cornelia Roosevelt was born circa 1867, which meant that the records from at least the first sixty years of her life would be available. Just because the records were available did not make the task easy, however. It took several hours of laboriously sifting through documents to begin to assemble a portrait of who this woman had been.
Cornelia Maria Roosevelt, daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, was born in New York City in February of 1867. She was one of five children, she suffered from asthma, much like her older cousin Theodore (who would later become President). Both as a child and as a young woman, she was described in several contemporary accounts as having a fascination with the natural and social sciences. In 1893, she married Jonathan Franklin Dark, a wealthy young British banker and investor who did business with her father through his firm, Roosevelt & Son. Cornelia and Jonathan maintained two houses, one in Westminster and one in Arlington. After Jonathan died under mysterious circumstances in April of 1898, Cornelia disappeared without a trace in August of that year.

The missing Cornelia Dark, née Roosevelt, who disappeared after her husband's mysterious death in April…

Harper was reading a newspaper article about the couple's unusual disappearance when he spotted a photograph of the woman. The resemblance was uncanny - far too close to be a coincidence. And she'd married a man named "Dark"… Harper made a photocopy of the picture, gathered his notes, and walked quickly back to Command-02.

"I have it," Harper told Muir and Monica. "Look at this!" He set down the photograph of Cornelia Dark.
"Is that—?" asked Monica.
Harper nodded, laying a more recent photo next to it. "Dead ringer, isn't she?"
"Damn," Monica said. "I hope I look that good when I'm a hundred and ten."
Muir rubbed his chin as he read though Harper's notes. "Jonathan Franklin Dark," he grunted. "Wasn't he the son of 'Old Man Dark', one of MC&D's founders?"
"The same," Harper said. "No wonder the Central Records file was emptied. That's a hell of a skeleton to keep in the closet all these years."
"Yep," Muir agreed. "While you were out, Monica and I did manage to link Bain to the conspiracy. Turns out he paid both Arnold brothers in numbered Swiss accounts, only to transfer the money back out again once each brother kicked the bucket."
"Greedy bastard," Monica quipped. "But it is evidence the Powers That Be can take to the GOC if they want to mend fences. After all, Bain did whack one of their Regional Directors."
"We have enough to go to the O5 Council," Harper decided. "Monica, head up to the seventh floor and arrange a secure meeting with the following Overseers…"

« Part XI | HUB | Epilogue »


Interrogation
Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 26 December 1988, 0830 hours local time
Harper had only just removed his coat and set down his briefcase when Monica walked in, holding a message. "FLASH traffic from Finland, Mr. Harper," she said. "Xi-13 reached C's warehouse in Helsinki, only to have it blow up in their faces."
Muir swore loudly. Harper pursed his lips and said, "Have the watch office keep us apprised of the situation." Monica nodded and left.
Harper turned to Muir. "Feel like doing an interrogation?"
"Sure," Muir replied, pulling his artificial leg off his desk with a dull thunk. "Who're we talking to?"
"Nick Ford," Harper replied. "He's down in The Dungeon. Be warned, Zimmerman's been at him already."
Muir shook his head, "That gorilla? Will the administration never learn?"
The two men took the elevator down to Basement Level 5. Nicknamed "The Dungeon" by Command-02's staff, it housed the humanoid containment cells and interrogation facilities. As a Foundation Command, 02 was only permitted to house SCPs classified as "Safe" (one of the key reasons for having another Command so geographically near Overwatch HQ was because that facility and its staff was strictly forbidden from having any direct contact with SCPs; Command-02 served as a useful middle ground). Because of the restrictions on what entities could be housed at Command-02, The Dungeon generally housed non-anomalous security risks, such as a researcher believed of selling the Foundation out to the Chaos Insurgency.
At the security desk, Harper and Muir checked in, confirming the transfer of authority to Harper from Zimmerman for Dr. Ford. "How do you want to play this, Tim?" asked Muir. The fact Zimmerman had tortured Ford invalidated the possibility of doing Good Cop, Bad Cop.
"I met him in Oman," Harper said. "You handle it as you see fit, and I'll only come in if necessary." Muir nodded as they entered the observation room. Looking through the one-way mirror, they saw their subject.
Dr. Nicholas Ford, formerly Director for Foundation Research Site-29, was a broken man. Bruised and bloodied, his left eye swollen and missing three fingernails on his right hand, he sat naked and chained to a cold steel chair in the center of the interrogation room. There were scars on his genitals and nipples where electrodes had been attached. He was sobbing quietly.
Picking up the telephone handset in the observation room, Muir called for a physician and a set of clothes. Two minutes later, he and the medical doctor walked into the interrogation chamber. "Dr. Ford, I am Troy Muir," said the former field spook. "Let's get you cleaned up. Can I offer you a glass of water?" Ford nodded weakly. As the physician began tending to Ford's injuries, Muir held a glass of water with a straw to the man's lips. With that simple act of kindness, Muir established himself as a fellow human being who cared about the welfare of the subject, rather than a monster to be feared and hated. Within twenty minutes, Ford was bandaged, dressed, and beginning to feel some personal dignity again. "Dr. Ford, do you think you could tell me about what happened at Research Site-29?" Muir asked as the physician left. "Are you up to that?"
"I think so," rasped Ford. He took a sip of water.
"Take all the time that you need," Muir said gently.
Slowly, Ford explained how, just after Harper left, the sandstorm had overtaken the site. Nobody had realized anything was wrong until masked men with AK-47s had burst into the command tent. The one who seemed to be the leader had pointed at Ford. He'd been taken through the storm to SCP-557, where he'd been tied up in one of the cells on Level 2. It had taken him hours got get untied and out of the cell, by which point the storm had passed. The facility's staff was all shot or missing. Additionally, all the scrolls and translations believed to relate to SCP-557-1 had been stolen. Then the Foundation mobile task force had shown up and hauled him off on suspicion of being a sleeper agent for the Chaos Insurgency.
"Just to be clear, you have no affiliation with the Chaos Insurgency," Muir asked.
"No! I'm not," Ford responded, tears coming to his eyes. "I've been saying that since I was picked up, but nobody believes me!"
"I believe you," Muir replied soothingly. "I really do. Do you know why they singled you out?"
"No," Ford whimpered. "Like I told Zimmerman, if I knew why, I'd have said."
"Thank you, Dr. Ford," Muir said. "I need to go now to work on clearing this whole thing up, okay?" Ford, still crying, nodded tiredly. Leaving the room, Muir ordered the guards to take Ford back to his cell, but to treat him with all due respect and kindness.
The old adage was right: honey gets one farther than vinegar. Torture, while very effective at getting prisoners to sing like canaries, never ever produced good, actionable intelligence. Though Hollywood and writers of pulp spy thrillers insisted on perpetuating the myth to the contrary, students of the history of espionage and interrogation knew that this had always been the case. Not even the Nazis or the Soviets had been able to effectively make it work, efficient as they were at methodically inflicting pain without killing the subject. Unless the goal was to physically and psychologically scar the subject, while turning the interrogator into a callous, unfeeling monster, both of which amounted to actions more punitive than interrogative, there was no reason to torture someone. And yet the Foundation sometimes tried to get information with it anyway. One more thing I'll change if I'm ever an Overseer, Harper thought to himself. Not that that was likely to happen.
As they walked back to their shared office, Harper asked, "You really think he's innocent?"
"Yep," Muir replied. "You?"
"Yes," the counterintelligence officer said. "Old trick, Troy: leave one innocent alive to throw the investigators off the trail of the real stooge."

« Part X | HUB | Part XII »


Aftershocks
Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 26 December 1988, 0755 hours local time
When Harper arrived at Command-02 on Monday morning, the tension in the air was palpable. Security was heightened beyond anything he could remember in the nearly thirty years he'd worked for the Foundation, and he knew the platoon of heavy-weapons-bearing mobile task force personnel present in the building lobby paled in comparison to the security that was hidden out of sight. When he finally reached the head of the line to the security checkpoint, the attending guard pulled him aside. "Mr. Harper, you're needed on the seventh floor, sir," the stern-faced guard said. "Now."
A short elevator trip later, not even stopping to put his hat, coat, and briefcase in his office, Harper walked into the same secure conference room he had been in the preceding Thursday. Once again, Seven was waiting for him. The strain of the past several days had visibly taken its toll on the Overseer: she had shadows under her eyes, and her raven hair was beginning to come loose from her usually immaculate bun. "Mr. Harper, the situation is dire," she said, trying and failing to keep the stress and sleep deprivation from her voice.
Harper nodded, "Yes, ma'am."
"How much do you know?" Seven asked, her green eyes boring into him.
Harper coughed, "Apart from your two messages, I've been out of the loop since I left Research Site-29. When I arrived this morning, I was told you needed to see me immediately, so I didn't stop by my office to get updated." He gestured at his coat and briefcase, which he had laid upon the nearest chair.
"Very well," she breathed, turning to look out the tinted window at the Capital Building. "Two more Overseers are dead. Eleven died in his sleep of an apparent heart attack. The timing is too suspicious for it to be an accident; our experts are looking into the possibility that he was poisoned. It's a long shot, since there are plenty of poisons we're unlikely to discover postmortem. Three was assassinated while she was meeting with Regional Director Strauss and Deputy Director Bain for the GOC. The Coalition's Regional Director was also killed, as were both his and Three's bodyguards. Our liaison officer to the GOC is in the hospital, though he is expected to survive."
Harper asked, "Did they manage to catch the assassin?"
"No," spat Seven. "Not alive anyway. He was the bodyguard for the Regional Deputy Director, a man named Benjamin Arnold. Bain killed Arnold during the shootout, and is now apparently Acting Regional Director."
"Do we know why Arnold started killing everyone in sight?" Harper asked.
"The Coalition is claiming no knowledge, and pointing fingers at the Chaos Insurgency," Seven replied. "I have Intel running down leads. Though we've seen no evidence to suggest the Chaos Insurgency is the mastermind for the ongoing plot, they certainly seem to have their hands dirty. The MTF that secured Research Site-29 said it looked like the Insurgency was responsible for that, as well."
"Has there been any progress questioning Dr. Ford?" asked the counterintelligence officer.
The Overseer shook her head. "Zimmerman has been questioning him down in the basement."
"Zimmerman is a brutish, sadistic thug who couldn't get a useful answer if his life depended on it," Harper objected.
"Agent Zimmerman is one of our most experienced enhanced interrogation—" began Seven.
"He's a cold-blooded sadist!" Harper snapped. "Jesus Christ, you might as well have shot Ford and gotten it over with! Torture. Does. Not. Work! People will say anything to stop the pain, truthful or not, so you can't trust any of it without independent confirmation, which if you can get you shouldn't have tortured the guy in the first place!"
Seven turned to face Harper, her gaze icy. Speaking softly, she said, "So be it. You will be responsible for Ford's questioning." Taking a deep breath, the counterintelligence officer nodded. Seven continued, "Most of the O5 Council is running scared. With three Overseers killed in the past week, the surviving members of the Council voted five-four (I abstained) in favor of transferring seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 to Sir James. In exchange, he has provided us with the coordinates of a warehouse in Finland where he believes C's objects are stored. MTF Xi-13 is on route as we speak. In short, that is what has occurred since you left Oman. Now, what are your findings?"
Harper began, "Well, nothing seemed out of place at Research Site-29 while I was there. According to what Dr. Ford's team had been able to translate, SCP-557-1 - the entity formerly held by 557 - could cause some real damage."
"What do we know of 557-1?" Seven inquired.
Harper said, "Not much. Translations are, uh, were, I suppose, ongoing. Most of the records only refer to it as 'the prisoner,' though one refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep.'"
"And now the Chaos Insurgency has access to all our research on SCP-557," Seven sighed. "Wonderful. And SCP-1440?"
"He was apparently approached by a mysterious young woman who offered to 'cure' him," Harper responded. "He declined, and she left."
"Do you think this woman could be C?" asked Seven.
"We have no way of knowing," Harper said. "We have no physical description of C to compare."
"Anything else?" asked the Overseer.
Shaking his head, Harper replied, "No, ma'am."
"Very well," she said. "That will be all. Keep me informed - I want status updates every time you have a major new development. That will be all." Harper nodded, collected his coat, and left.

Helsinki waterfront, Finland
Monday, 26 December 1988, 1500 hours local time
Foundation Armed Rapid Response Task Force Xi-13 sped through the heavily falling snow across the icy waters of Helsinki's harbor. In their winter camouflage and white-gray speedboats, only the most perceptive of observers would have been able to see them through the blizzard, and their boats' engine sounds were indistinguishable from the port's usual traffic. They had deployed from the SCPS Kraken, which waited out in international waters.
Agent Price, Xi-13's executive officer and field commander, knew only slightly more than his men. Orders From The High Muckitymucks had come down instructing his team to secure a waterfront warehouse at a set of GPS coordinates that turned out to be in the Finnish capital. Apparently, some member of MC&D had a stash of artifacts stolen from the Foundation there. That is, if the little vague intelligence he'd been given was correct. Resistance was expected to be somewhere between "non-existent" and "heavy," the report had indicated. Right, that was helpful, Price thought.
A month and a half earlier, the United States government formally acknowledged that the aerospace corporation Lockheed Martin had designed and built a single-seat, twin-engine stealth ground-attack aircraft for the USAF, designated the F-117 "Nighthawk." Production numbers would remain classified for years to come, but those with clearance into the program knew that a total of sixty-four Nighthawks had been built, with five prototypes and fifty-nine production versions. At least, that's what the Department of Defense's numbers recorded. In fact, Lockheed had built another five production versions under secret contract for the Global Occult Coalition. Unbeknownst to Agent Price, or anyone else in Helsinki for that matter, one of the GOC's Nighthawks was lining up for a bombing run on the warehouse Xi-13 was rapidly approaching. With a radar cross section equivalent to a large bird, not even the Finnish air defense forces realized the presence of the intruder.
"Lombardi! Bring us alongside the dock!" barked Price. Xi-13's speedboats raced in formation towards the target.
The GOC F-117 opened its bomb bay doors. Two GPS guided thermobaric weapons, more commonly known as "fuel-air bombs", each weighing in at 1,150 kilograms (or 2,500 pounds) fell silently towards the warehouse.
The Foundation speedboats slowed abruptly as they reached the dock. The troops were about to leap ashore when the Nighthawk's bombs reached their target.
Thermobaric weapons consist of a container of fuel and two separate explosive devices. When the bombs entered the warehouse by crashing through the metal roof, the first explosive charge on both bombs burst open the fuel container. The fuel, now free to mix with atmospheric oxygen, was rapidly accelerated outward in all directions, creating a cloud which almost completely filled the interior of the warehouse, flowing around the crates stored within and the small security force concealed inside to protect the stored goods. A fraction of a second later, the second explosive charge for each bomb went off. These explosives, though tiny by themselves, detonated the now-oxidized cloud of fuel. The fireball, reaching temperatures well in excess of 2,500 degrees Celsius, incinerated the warehouse's contents and inhabitants in fifty milliseconds, one eighth of the time required for a human to blink. The overpressure of the explosion reached three megapascals, or 430 pounds per square inch, over forty times the pressure necessary to severely damage buildings constructed of reinforced concrete. The warehouse, built out of little more than sheet metal over steel girders, was quite literally blown apart by the blast wave. Less than a second later, the burning gases that made up the explosion began to cool, causing the pressure to drop abruptly. This created a partial vacuum, further increasing the devastation as debris was sucked into the still hellish conditions of the explosion.
The blast wave from the explosion, traveling at nearly ten times the speed of sound, rocked the Foundation task force's boats, knocking the entire platoon off its feet. Though it critically injured a full half of the MTF (every agent was injured to some extent), the blast wave actually saved many of their lives by keeping them from being killed either by the outward-moving fireball or by the powerful backdraft. It was later determined that only six members of Xi-13 were killed in the event: four instantly and two later due to injuries sustained.
Agent Lombardi was one of the least injured. As he got to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, he realized that Agent Price was down. Looking around, he couldn't see any of the MTF's senior agents showing any sign of consciousness. With the target warehouse and its precious contents now a twisted pile of burning rubble, the junior agent decided some REMF intel puke had really FUBARed this time. Grabbing the boat's long-range radio set, Lombardi fired off a situation report to the SCPS Kraken, calling for immediate backup and medical assistance, and letting the astonished ship's captain know that it would only be a matter of minutes before the Finnish authorities were swarming all over the scene.

« Part IX | HUB | Part XI »