Canon Hub » From 120's Archives Hub / The Man Who Wasn't There Hub » GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS Hub » I Was the Queen (Before It Was Cool)

close

Info

X

Co-written by Ralliston and Trotskyeet
Ralliston's Authorpage
Trotskyeet's Authorpage
The following article is a part of the GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS storyline. Whilst you can read it on its own, it's highly recommended you read the previous installments to get this article in its fullest.

2004

13th of January
Esterberg's Living District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

There were perhaps only two more pleasant things than sleeping.
The experience was just so seamless, so… natural, Dr. Jessie Rivera thought, giving in to the nonsensical logic of her dreamscape without much resistance. Letting herself get carried by whatever narrative was getting woven in her rest this time, she didn't ask it any questions — as long as her body was safe and sound in the Esterbergian motel Surratt paid for yesterday, Rivera let her mind wander wherever it pleased.
Tonight was quite nice, actually, she realized as she half-consciously observed the action unravel before herself. It was some mixture of her and her… close friend, yes, Magdaleine Cornwell, walking down the streets of the City of the East, aimlessly wandering across its sunny alleys. The wind was gentle, the people kind, the temperature just ideal, and her smile just charming enough to make both blush. Rivera shook her head. If she could, she'd look down in repressed embarrassment, but her point of view being deadlocked didn't quite allow that.
Trying to reach for Mag's hand in some sub-intentional gesture, judging it excusable as nobody else was a witness to this but her, Rivera realized she couldn't. Panicked, she tried once more, this time with all of her ontokinetic force, but to no response. The dreamscape remained indifferent to her power, forcing the pair to eventually run out of her vision, laughing and smiling as if nothing ever happened.
No longer allowing Rivera to even blink, the dream forced her down the streets through the cobblestone that laid them into the dirt beneath. She had no mouth, yet still tried to scream in some disillusion of potential success. The increasingly-dense stone and clay the city was built on however made sure to make all attempts at sound nothing but futile, squeezing her immaterial body continuously down to experience all the horror with its own eyes.
She fell and she fell, eventually making her way into… where, exactly, she did not know, she realized as her ears were filled with a silent beating. Confused like never, Rivera looked around the void that made up the entire world now, realizing what she was trying to see was in arm's reach. Because she was what that beating heart stood as.
Pumping its blood into each street, each plaza, each building Esterberg was made up of, the organ beat, relentless to ever stop. It was quiet, as if it didn't want the rest of the city to hear its existence. Regardless of this, it remained alone, forever protecting the Free Port with the shattered magic of the near-dead soul of the being sleeping inside the heart.
Jessie didn't know how she was able to understand all of this, but it seemed this confusion was irrelevant to whatever her mission there was. In every moment, she felt a million shoes step on the pavements of the city — nay, step on the heart's body, step on her. With each day passing, she felt the outer world banging on the haven's doors. And, with each season turning the world around, she could feel her body rot, making the force that made Esterberg be able to protect its people wither away and away.
Dr. Jessie Rivera always expected that death would come with the grace of an elephant in a china store. But she couldn't be more wrong; for tonight, death came to her without a sound.
Seeping like a hungry serpent from the souls of some of her people, the river of blood and evil flowed in a horrid mockery of nature, forming streams down Esterberg's streets. It filled them with hatred, with a particle of nothing but pure anger, tainting the holy ground she once established to keep it at bay. Down from the Ruling District where this waterfall began it sailed, making its way into each corner of the city as its moisture tainted every citizen she once swore to protect.
There was an old Fae legend she once heard, Jessie remembered, that said there was no such thing as true reality-bending. When the Inventor died so many millennia ago in her battle with Mab, they said the essence of her infinitely powerful being scattered throughout space and time, embuing parts of itself into random individuals throughout history, forming those that could directly rip up reality.
Rivera always dismissed it as nonsense, but if it was true, then tonight was the first time since the First Diaspora the two sisters met. Even if just through parts of their once god-like hearts.
She tried to look away as this demon strangled more and more of her children with each passing day, grinning directly into the heart of her sister below. For a single moment in time, their all-seeing eyes met, spawning a spark of pure opposition against everything the other stood for. And, in that moment, Jessie became herself again.
Thrown back up into the now restored previous dream of the sunny streets of Esterberg, Rivera blinked twice, unable to comprehend what just happened. Though Mag extended her hand, trying to get them to run along for just one minute longer, the doctor rejected it, staring directly into the ground from whence she was just banished. As time stopped, reality shattered, forcing her very being, now once again devoid of a body, to look into the eyes of the two Sisters that were buried under Esterberg.
"Hurry," the Inventor barely whispered, her voice disappearing like mutter across wind. "There is little time left."
And just as Rivera was about to ask her what she meant, a Scouse-tinged voice drifted back, "In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea…"
And then, with a violent force, Rivera woke up.
Recognizing the unmistakable tunes and lyrics of The Beatles' Yellow Submarine vibrating on her nightstand, she struggled to open her eyes. With a blind hand, she turned on the lamp, frantically searching for the device that rang at such a barbarous hour.
Worried like death, Rivera picked up her still-ringing phone, putting it next to her ears. Before she could even ask who it was, however, the rough voice of Marie Surratt burst out, letting a single horrid phrase enter her ears.
"I felt it, too."

13th of January
Esterberg Penitentiary, Esterberg's Sewer District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

Very few prisons left out there could still claim the dungeon status these days.
Sure, you could call yourself a dungeon all you want, but the very minute you started talking about "prisoners' rights" and cruel and unusual punishments and blah blah blah, that's when you've lost the essence of what a proper dungeon really was. They don't make 'em like they used to. Not even Paramax, the golden child of prisoner cruelty, could really call itself by that name. It was just too clean and non-magical.
But Esterberg Penitentiary, that was a dungeon alright. Complete with cobblestone floors and walls and rusty chain, they still made use of the cruel, old-fashioned ways to imprison hostile god-mages there.
With his dimly-lit lantern in his extended hand, the warden gingerly walked down the crumbling steps, followed by the two Foundation doctors closely behind. The red-haired one — Jessie, he remembered — was having quite the terrible time. Judging from her eyes, she couldn't catch even a wink of sleep, and was now trapped in the hell that was being too sleepy to function while being too alert to nap. Her partner wasn't better, though, partly because she realized her shoe was now the home of something wet. But mostly because that something was also moving.
With the move of some keys which probably remembered the city's founding, the man opened wide the bottom-most floor, filling the tight staircase with the smell of rotting water, decay, and death.
"Is… Is this really necessary?" Mag said, raising her eyebrow and forcing a groan onto her lips simultaneously. Carefully, she stepped inside the stone corridor in front of them, illuminated only by the few ceiling candles burning with a faint and almost human glow. She shivered.
The Fae scratched his head. "If anyone we have can interpret visions like that, it's those guys." He pointed towards the ancient cells with his head. "And 'No Level-7 prisoners are allowed outside of the bottom-most level'," he recited the final rule with an almost religious adherence and shrugged. "I don't make the rules."
"That's more than fine," Rivera chimed in, separating the two with her hands before Mag said something she very much shouldn't have, gently stabbing her in the ribs and pointing towards the rest of the corridor with her eyes.
"How much time do you need? There's no technical limit, but, uh," He scratched again. "I'd rather two skippers didn't spend too much time with the biggest wolves we got down here, no offense."
Jessie smiled politely. "None taken. And around an hour should be more than enough."
"Great," the guard stated, already starting to climb up the spiral staircase up to the warmth of his office near the surface. "I'll be back in an hour, then. If you need anything, just, uh, shout, I guess?" The final sounds of his voice faded as his body distanced itself further and further from the two.
Mag sighed, and turned her eyes towards the rest of the room.
Extending over the yonder, the corridor was home to many cells, though only ten or so of them contained a still-alive light within. Filled with a dim atmosphere and a wet floor, the anti-magic cobblestone bricks that made up its walls overwhelmed it with a claustrophobic feeling. Even if Jessie knew it was by design, it didn't help one bit.
"Soooo," she began, taking the first step forward, trying her best to ignore the puddle her shoes stepped into. She came closer to the doors to the nearest lit-up cell, near which a stone tablet hung, loudly exclaiming it belonged to a "Jozue Szeòras, Triumviraté member and terrorist, imprisoned forever." "Which one do we begin with?"
Mag joined her partner, opening up the inmate list they were given by the warden on her phone. "I… Well, We're not exactly going to wake up a dormant demigod, neither will we talk to the ones that have gone insane," she stated, going down the list and crossing out each of the people on it in her head. "Which leaves us with… three people. A member of a terrorist group, a medieval seer, and the leader of the aforementioned terrorists." She tapped the sign in front of her. "And the first one's here."
Jessie shrugged. "Guess that doesn't leave us with a choice." She reached for the door handle, closing her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, they were no longer her sky blue, instead replaced with a vibrating purple of fully awakened reality-bending. With a face full of determination, she pulled the handle, and entered through.
Rolling her eyes, Mag soon followed. "Guess it doesn't."
The two didn't think the place could really get any less pleasant, but the cell proper proved them very wrong.
A two by two by two cube with no source of light but a candle in a hole in the ceiling, it was nearly pitch-black. If their entry wasn't accompanied by the sound of shackling chains and a low grunt, they would have never guessed it contained a person within, because it very much shouldn't have. The only thing of note other than the most-likely generation-old bars that separated the room from the main corridor was a single chipped wooden blank, which most likely acted as a bed, and a hole in the corner, thinking about the purpose of which Mag didn't want to entertain.
The twig-thin figure laying on said bench slowly moved upwards, barely capable of doing so through the myriad black, metallic chains binding it to the wall next to it.
"What… do… you… want…?" The deep and guttural voice slowly exclaimed in broken English, gently moving its miserable butterfly-like Fae wings upwards. Slowly, the man's tongue circled his dry lips, forcing them to grin just slightly.
"Your help." Rivera stopped, directly challenging the prisoner by looking into his emerald eyes.
A pause. They laughed, or more accurately coughed several times, wheezes reverberating through the lungs of the malnourished terrorist. Unable to contain the hilarity, he slapped his thigh with a nearly-skeletal hand, choking through rotting teeth. "You?" He met Rivera's gesture. In just a moment, the masquerade of a poor victim fell down, revealing a sneaky devil, capable of striking with full force at any moment, no matter the death-nearing state. "Ha!"
Cornwell massaged her temple. "…Yes."
The Fae proper himself up against the wall behind him, crossing his legs. "And why would that be, oh mighty Foundation?" He barely contained another wave of laughter.
"We…" The blonde Director began, only to be stopped by her partner wordlessly telling her she'll handle it alright.
"I need you to interpret something for me," she exclaimed with a tone accepting no resistance, putting her hands together. "A dream, to be exact."
He smiled again. "A dream? What the hell am I, some two-bit fortune-teller? You'd be far better off—"
"It's related to your little Queen."
His second mask disappeared almost as quickly as the first one, bringing forth a face of curiosity. "That… changes things, yes. What do you need, and — more importantly — what can I gain from it?"
"I'm sure the city council will—"
He waved his hands. "No, no. I don't want promises. I want something real. I'm sick of rotting away in god-knows-where. I want out."
"I…" Rivera started carefully, judging her options here as best as she could. "I have information that could lead to Mab's quicker revival."
He raised his eyebrow.
"The dream has certain… qualities… that can help further the goal of your little band. And you've spent enough time with Mab to know what they mean."
"And how would I know you're not lying?"
Her purple eyes snapped into position, drilling exactly into his soul, sending a march of shivers down his spine. That's all it took for him to understand. He swallowed hard.
"I see. I… Yes, I think I could be of most use. Spill forth your secrets, Jailor."
Jessie took a deep breath, and told him everything, with all the details. He didn't even bat an eye, instead inhaling, too.
"I… If my interpretation is correct, then it's a wake-up call. It's a siren before the storm, raging in the port city before a tsunami comes." He grinned again. "Because it's quite close, all things considered. Closer than those guarding the port thought."
The reality bender sighed, gathering her thoughts. "And why would that be?"
He shrugged. "Reality's falling apart due to hate, as it always has. And through those cracks, the Queen peeks, comprehending more and more until she can fully materialize." With each word spoken, his eyes glimmered more and more with utmost adoration. He licked his lips again. "And once the entire glass shatters, there will be no return."
"What must we do to stop it?"
He chuckled. "Stop it? Stop her? Have you lost your mind? Why would anyone, why would anything want to stop such beauty? Why would you ever try to intercept the rightful ruler, the final god, the utmost obelisk of all the world was ever meant to be, from manifesting? Why? Why? Why?" His eyes were nothing but pure black at this point.
"You're insane."
The Fae ignored her. "Tell me, Jailor," the prisoner practically spat out, grinning unnoticeably from below the shadow of his face. "If you knew a hurricane would inevitably consume your hometown, no matter how hard you tried, would you stay, throwing rocks at the immovable wave of air in hope of delaying it, or would you run, with the dimmest glimpse of hope of getting out?"
"That's not—"
"No, that's exactly what this is. You're the heroes of Valhalla, stupidly postponing an unstoppable Ragnarök instead of seeing the only way out, blinded by your 'honor'. There's a reason these two myths are so similar, y'know."
If Rivera wasn't burning with utter fury, she would have even raised her eyebrow. Her face pale with a mixture of anger, fear, and frustration, she came forward, trying to intimidate the prisoner into talking with sense. He just laughed, forcing even more rage onto Jessie. As she reached forward with a palm trembling with power, she suddenly snapped out as the hand of the other doctor reached her back.
"It's not worth it."
Their sights met.
"Not on him. He'll rot here anyways, and we've got more work to do."
"But I—"
She shushed her.
"It's okay. There's always the second one."
Rivera closed her eyes.
"…Yeah. You're right. It's not worth it."
And, without turning back, they walked out into the corridor, shutting the heavy door behind them, cutting off yet another wave of laughter from manifesting in their ears.

13th of January
Esterberg's Living District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

When most people try to imagine an oracle's house, they picture some ancient cave located in the middle of some dirty jungle. Full of myths and darkness, it sits at the edge of reality, they'd tell you, afraid of the people with powers beyond their recognition. Yes, that was the general consensus for a farseer's place — old, and evil. Deeply evil.
What most people didn't expect, however, is the modern (and quite frankly boring) truth of those that could see into the future and interpret dreams. Caves seem a lot less appealing when you look a couple of centuries ahead and find out about germ theory. And forget about dream interpretations, look ahead a couple of months for lottery numbers or the best stocks to invest in. Make the right moves, and in a couple of years, the average oracle could be living in a mansion off the shore of their private island. By contrast, Adam Angevin, the most powerful oracle since the one of Delphi herself, seemed perfectly content in stashing away inside some run-down and utterly uncharacteristic alleyway in the backs of Esterberg's Living District, living like he was trying to be a true nobody.
"You know this person?" An actual and true Nobody calmly asked, taking the first step towards the building in front of him. He'd never seen it before during his time in the city nor had he even heard of its inhabitant, but with just a single glance, he could see at least ten structural flaws in the walls holding the small but proud shack together. But he was sure the man that lived inside knew of them better than he ever could.
"Oh yeah, we go waaaay back," Surrat responded, meeting the Hunter's walk. She carefully looked around them, trying to discern whether anybody was following them — it's not often one could see two skeletons walking in the middle of the day, even in such a peculiar place as here. Making sure they were utterly alone on this abandoned and just depressingly-looking street, she continued without worry. "Met him back when I was, y'know."
His skull didn't even twitch. "Alive."
"Yeah. That."
Nobody surveyed the door. It was nice; iron with intricate curves and designs etched into its face, making for one hard protection against the outside world. In its middle was a mail slot and — he bent down slightly — an immaculately carved knocker in the shape of a wounded eye, surrounded by many arms. Vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, trying to mark it in his memory to remember down the line.
"Nadox." Marie forced him out of his trance.
He stood up, throwing dust off his coat and wide hat with an almost mechanical gesture. "What?"
"The door knocker. It's in the shape of Klavigar Nadox. Symbol of good luck, apparently."
At sound's speed, his skull turned towards her, his sight practically shouting at her, if he was capable of such emotions. "He's a Sarkic."
"Nälkä. But only culturally." Surratt crossed her arms. "Is that a problem?"
"You know I hate them," he said without even a trace of emotion within his tone, once more turning to the depiction of Ion's saint.
"Be a bit more open-minded, he's good people. I'd trust him with… well, I wouldn't trust him with my life, but I'd trust him with yours."
Nobody didn't comment. Using the knocker, he instead rapped against the door three times with equal intervals between them. After a moment, there was some shuffling behind the door, and two bloodshot eyes peered from the mail slot, carefully looking around the alley, eventually landing on the two skeletons.
"Look, you lot already came by once, and the answer's still the same: I'm not paying you for any 'protection'. This door's got more wards than the Presidential Palace, so good luck trying to make me."
Surratt sighed, massaging her temples. "Adam, it's me. Marie."
"Nice try, imbecile. She's dead."
She sighed again, this time with much more frustration. "Look, remember that story you told me?" The two almost colorless eyes raised their eyebrows. "You were seven and had been selected to play Ion at the Fall Of Kurst Pageant? The Karcist was sitting in the front row, and you were so nervous that you—"
The brows lowered almost immediately, forcing a happy expression onto the eyes below. "Alright, alright, that's enough." The door swung open, and a lanky man rushed out and wrapped his arms around her before either of the newcomers could react. "I saw the news reports, but couldn't believe it. Welcome back."
"Glad to be back, too." She returned the gesture, patting the pale thirty-something-year-old with messy brown hair on his hunched-over back. "Can you, uh, let go of me? Think you're crushing my ribs."
"Right, because of the— sorry." He let go, and jerked his thumb towards Nobody. "And who's this guy?"
"Nobody."
"I mean, I'd like to know his name."
"No, it's— Look, it's a long story." She carefully peeked into the darkness of the rest of the house behind Adam. "Can we come in?"
He clicked his tongue and glanced at Nobody, judging whether he should let someone wearing more paratech than a dozen Eurtec speed junkies into his home. But then again, he had no reason to not trust his mafioso friend next to the Hunter. Deciding he was way too exhausted by the last two days to judge what the better decision there was, he shrugged, and showed the two to follow him inside.
The apartment wasn't the biggest abode, but what it lacked in size it made up for in comfort. Illuminated by nothing but a few dim lightbulbs, it consisted of one living room slash kitchenette and a corridor presumably leading to a bathroom and a bedroom. Surratt and Nobody entered through, stooping under the low doorframe. Whilst the former cleaned her shoes on a mat exclaiming "Ion Bless This Mess" in ancient Adytite, the latter barged just in, tainting the already-dirty carpet covering most of the living room with the mud of his shoes. Adam sighed, but didn't say anything. He was way too tired for that.
"So, uh," he started, extending his arms and smiling slightly. "Welcome to my humble little house. Susan's out right now, so I, uh, I have a bit of a little fella on my h—" he was quickly interrupted by the cries of a child, coming from the bedroom. He sighed again, and massaged his temple. "…Yes, that. I, well, I'll have to excuse the two of you for a moment, make yourselves at home!" The cries got louder, and with a murmured apology, Adam practically sprinted into the other room. This time, Surratt was the one to sigh.
Walking towards the old, most likely wet, and bleakly green cough, Marie took a good look around herself. The wooden walls were covered floor to ceiling in a near-endless series of notes and calendars, each containing some random numbers Surratt guessed to be future dates by the squiggly sentences written next to them. Where no predictions hung, however, a series of beautifully-crafted paintings did.
There were six of them, each held in an overly-detailed golden frame, similar in style to the doorknob they just used a moment ago. Surratt couldn't decide just how old they were, but she knew they were old. Really, really old. Bordering on ancient, they depicted a young and beautiful man, interacting with a series of increasingly bizarre figures. The paintings were untitled, but she couldn't mistake the subjects for anyone else. The Grand Karcist Ion and his Klavigar, in all their long-gone glory, illuminating the room with their presence.
The depictions weren't quite religious, but there was a certain mystical quality to them, like the house owner really respected them. Maybe it was because they were the only ones in the entire room that weren't dusted, or just because the sheer beauty of their imagery didn't feel like it belonged inside such a run-down place. She couldn't quite decide which one it was. Thankfully, this debate with her inner self was cut short by Angevin arriving back to meet his guests, somehow even more tired than before, a small human inside his hands. Surratt smiled subconsciously.
"Sorry," he yawned, putting the kid inside a small chair next to the cooking counter. Reaching toward a strange kitchen machine standing beside the stove, he gently touched it, clicking a few buttons next to its side. As his eyes temporarily turned all black, it munched and it flushed, eventually spitting out some milk into a bottle that stood in a niche inside of it. Adam's nose temporarily started to slightly bleed, before the droplet travelled up once more just a second later.
He took the bottle, gave it to his son, and scooped the little guy up, taking a seat on the couch as a fat oomph reverberated through the room. The two newcomers joined him, resting on two chairs made from an unidentified hide, and leaned in towards the oracle. He cracked his knuckles.
"So," he said, reaching under the table. "How exactly can I help you?"

13th of January
Esterberg Penitentiary, Esterberg's Sewer District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

Jessie exhaled, blinking twice. She touched her face, forcing her eyes to once again adapt their blue.
"I… Thank you," she said, panting slightly. "Shouldn't, shouldn't have done that."
Mag touched her shoulder. "Don't mention it."
For a moment that felt like an eternity, the two stood there among the hell-cold corridor, the silence only occasionally broken up by a droplet of melting ice or wax hitting the cobblestone floor. It stunk and it felt claustrophobic, but it was fine. For as long as they were there together, all was calm. As long as they held each other strong, all was safe. And as long as their eyes met, all was good.
Suddenly, Rivera blushed, turning away as two rapid blinks in succession interrupted her vision. She swallowed hard inhaling moments after, and quickly walked towards a cell further down the hallway. Mag didn't roll her eyes, though she very much wanted to; instead, with a slow march, she joined the other doctor in her position in the never-ending corridor, where light still existed, but just barely.
The doors they arrived at were nearly identical to the ones that held the previous inmate. Though their structure and the formation of the walls around were the same at first glance the prison, the unmistakable metallic smell of telekill tainted them quite well. Whoever the "Fionn Aod'han" inside was, he must've been quite the big fish, she thought. Mag wrinkled her nose.
"You sure we want to do this one? Not to be a party popper, but, uh," she gently banged on the doors with her knuckles, forcing them to make a dull sound. "If the last one was any indication, I doubt we want to meet someone here that needs telekill to have them sit in place."
She just shrugged in response. "Not like we really have different options here, do we? Besides," she tapped her head. "I'll trust myself to stay calm this time."
"Fair enough, I guess," Mag said, slowly moving between the door and Rivera, propping herself up against the former. "Just let me come in first to make sure all's well, alright?"
She nodded. Recognizing that as a sign of approval, the blonde scientist inhaled, and opened the door, entering into the blinding darkness that laid within.
The first thing that hit them was the dead silence. It wasn't like the rest of the dungeon was particularly loud, of course, but this was a special case even for this. It felt… wrong, in a sense; the combination of the lack of a light source and water dripping made them both more than uneasy.
With a spark of worry in her eye, Mag glanced around herself desperate to notice anything within the night that befell them. At least the place was roughly in the same shape as the previous one, she thought. Turning her sights towards the corner where the "bed" in the last cell was, she realized that it was empty. Where a mostly healthy Fae hybrid magic warrior should lay, she saw nothing but the underground wall. Its structure lacked exactly one brick.
Before she could think twice, Cornwell took yet another step forward, squinting once more. But when her eyes could not properly adjust and tell her what a horrible idea this was, the world itself did so more than well.
With the force of a mining drill, a shard of cobblestone as sharp as diamond came down from the ceiling, a briefly-visible figure atop it. Pushing it down with his bare foot, what the two women could only presume to be Aod'han grinned widely, making it dig deep into Mag's shoulder.
As blood sprouted forward, accompanied by the sound of shoulder bones cracking, Mag shouted into the aether, falling onto the ground. Though the Fae prisoner no longer had any ground to land on, he fell on two legs alright, quickly retrieving the still-falling dagger. With a shit-eating grin, presumably meant to show the two women he'd already won, he rushed forward, aiming the weapon directly into Rivera's eyes. Unfortunately for him, however, they were already purple.
And then, the entire world stopped existing.
As the violent sparks engulfed more and more of her person, Jessie screamed, throwing the terrorist against the wall at the other end of the room. The place was no longer full of darkness, with each part of the night within now replaced by the fury surging from her body. Like a wet dog that just threw water off its fur, the anger flung into every corner, every piece of matter that previously dared to share a place with this devil.
And then, that anger exploded. Before the Fae's spine could break by coming into contact with the hard wall, the sparks of thunder that travelled between the particles of wrath made contact with it first, snapping it in half. As time stopped, so did everything but Rivera, allowing her to come forward, and snap the dagger in half with just a thought, sending its shards towards the malnourished skin of the perpetrator. She forced the fabric of local reality to once more comfort to normalcy, allowing for the body to fall like a ragdoll, hoping it'd splash on the tough telekill-enforced cobblestone below.
But it did not, because reality did not deform back into its standard state; instead, as something even bigger than the reality bender took control of it, it bent itself even further.
The nearly-dead prisoner flung upwards, as if moved by some strings neither could see. As the world turned gray in just a second, Rivera blinked, realizing she was no longer the one in power there; in fact, as the only subject even capable of seeing this assault on normalcy, she noticed that Mag didn't move, now frozen in an expression of agony Jessie could not help. She subconsciously knew she should shiver, but no such expression came. And so, instead, she looked up at the levitating attacker, realizing his eyes were no longer his own, instead replaced with a blinding white. They shifted with a sickening and unnatural movement, immediately dead-locking on Rivera.
"JESSIE HANNAH RIVERA," the corpse spat out in a flat tone, forcing the doctor to freeze in space as a wet thud travelled down her spine, electrocuting every part of her being. It was no longer whoever Aod'han previously had been, of that Rivera was sure. From each orifice, each surface of the Fae body an alien presence emanated, entangling the past terrorist in a fog of something much, much greater than all three people present in the room. "HEAR MY WORDS."

13th of January
Esterberg's Living District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

It took a few cups of coffee and a few raised eyebrows, but in a couple of hours, all was explained. From Mab's fall during the Third Diaspora through Surratt's resurrection to the Site-01 heist and the shared dream; it was confusing, but Adam nodded along, catching up better than most people did during their first "we need to stop a being of pure hate from returning to this realm for the sake of all humanity" talk. And so, after what felt like ages of explanations, Angevin put his hands together, and fell silent for a moment, trying to process everything he was just given.
Putting his hand on the table in front of him, Nobody leaned forward and spat out in a dull tone. "So, what do you think?"
Adam leaned back, as if intimidated by the skeleton's closeness. "Truthfully? No idea."
Nobody did not scoff, but if he was fully human, the seer could swear he would. "'No idea'? You're the best oracle on the planet and you have no id—"
"Look," he put his hands up, smiling apologetically. "I'm a sightseer, not some sort of phony street magician. If you want anything better than a tarot card reading, I'll need something more tangible, y'know?" He grabbed some ceramic cup painted with fleshy tentacles that laid on the table and took a sip from it, groaning immediately after.
"Such as?" Surratt asked, gently pushing the Hunter back into his chair.
"Entrail readings are usually reliable, but given your lack of, you know, we'll need to use actual magic." Adam answered, standing up. "And it just so happens…" he exclaimed loudly, grabbing something from one of the shelves above the couch. It was a large leather pad, full of strange teeth and gems on its corners, vibrating with something Marie could swear was excitement. He unrolled it, and sat back in front of the newcomers. "…I've got something just for this situation."
The skeleton mafioso crossed her arms, an unasked question hanging in the air.
"It's a noospherically-connecting—" he put it on the table, realizing his mistake upon meeting Surratt's gaze. "Look, it's a magic mat that connects our consciousnesses into one… shared folder, let's call it. I could explain the magic and jargon behind it and how it was formed, but I think you'd be better off without knowing… certain things." Surratt wasn't sure if she wasn't just too tired for this nonsense, but she was almost certain the mat moved and purred again. He pointed towards the three very visible hand-shaped deformations within it with his sight, putting his palm in the first one. "You just have to touch it, and I'll do the rest."
With an uncertain expression, the two listened to the order, forcing their levitating bones to connect to the artifact. As a single spark of… she wasn't sure of what, actually, came through their bodies, something deep within the three snapped. Like three shapes falling into their respective places, it felt… it felt right, and though neither of the two skeletons could tell if it was a good thing or not, Adam's smile ensured them it very much was.
"So, what now?"
"Right," he replied, blinking ten times rapidly and inhaling just as quickly. "You two, close your eyes."
Nobody, once again, did not sigh. "We don't have any."
"Put your head down on the table then, and stop being a smart-ass." He turned towards Surratt. "Marie, head on the table?"
"Right.
"Great." He closed his eyes too, tightening the grip on the edge of the table with his second hand. "So, I need you to envision a couch."
"A couch."
"Yes, a couch. One you have some sort of connection to, preferably. Centers us in the dreamplane." He paused. "Picture it in your mind's eye and describe it."
"…And it has to be me?"
"Hey, it's your head."
"Right." She inhaled, and focused on the image slowly forming inside her imagination. "I, uh, I lived in New York as a kid. Grew up in a tiny brownstone around Loisaida. We had a crappy little leather couch from my mom's college days. All black and burnt like hell in the summer. Spilled a milkshake on the cushions once, and no matter how hard we scrubbed you could still smell the vanilla." Surratt inhaled once more, this time through her bony nose. "Can still smell it, if I focus hard enough."
"Good, that's real good." The place was no longer just some long-forgotten memory, but a proper place. She imaged herself sitting on it during cold winter nights, sipping fruit tea and watching the news as snow landed on the windowsill. With each second, she could smell more of her mother's hair, she could see more of the TV, and she could hear more of the ambient around the apartment. Adam began tracing runes in the air, veins pulsing with the magic of Delphi. "Now hold onto that image, because this is some highly sensitive stuff that we can't afford to get wrong."
"And if we do?" She said, half in memory and half in reality.
"We'll end up inside the couch and not on it." With his free palm, Adam tapped something on a few crystals aligned color-wise next to his hand. They made a few sounds that sounded like… like the past, in a sense, drilling themselves into the heads of all three. They reverberated through their souls, forming into a single symphony that took control over their entire consciousness, hugging it tightly.
Though Nobody did not move, something within him, for just a moment, snapped. Angevin's living room he clung to for so long was gone, and, for a split of a split of a split of a millisecond, he could feel something. A dream from two universes ago, of a dark-haired man with a face of determination, burning with anger. But just like a dream, it faded away before he could analyze it well enough, once again feeling the song take over his mind. And so, too afraid to ask what that was, he gave into the harmony.
"Alright." The oracle cleared his throat. "Three, two, one, and away we g—"
Before he could finish the sentence, reality collapsed in in on itself, reforming seconds later on a couch. It was black, and smelled of vanilla — but more importantly, the couch contained all three of them, sitting there as slightly blurred (as all things are on the Dreamplane) expressions of themselves. They were silent.
The surreal Adam reached with his pale and melting hand into Surratt's liquid skull, touching her nonexistent brain and soul with the now french-fried fingers and tickling them to the sound of the universe falling apart. Her bones turned into cream and her clothes into seawater, dirtying the couch even further as it grew legs and three heads, barking loudly in languages she could not understand. And as all that happened, the world squeezed itself back together and mixed and electrocuted all of its insides, sucking them in into a vortex of a mouth beyond the crying sky. And reality died once more, breaking through its ashes like a phoenix just two seconds in the past of the future that was never to come.
And then, there were no longer three of them. Instead, in a place that almost resembled a cell, six people stood, with a levitating and glowing corpse above all of them, glowing with both hatred and love. Before they could react, one of the emotions was cut off, destroying the dead branch as best as it could.
The corpse thrust its voice forward, banishing the snake of her sister out of her host's body. It spat with blood and fury, not wanting to go; but with the now-unshackled power of the Inventor, Mab was nothing. She grabbed her with a furious grasp and tightened her first, smashing the soul shard in half. As it gave up, the Inventor looked at all five of the remaining at the same time, making them hear her thoughts.

Somewhere out there, tens of feet below
Where no man ever was supposed to know
A vicious queen of fires burns
As paint around her forms and turns
Where salt and ships take together toll
The empress of anger takes her control
Below the cool, below the harsh
That is where you five must march
So waste no time, children of crime
For you are almost out of time

And then, as everything fell together into place once more, they all woke up. And they knew exactly where to go.

13th of January
Esterberg's Port District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

It took two hours to get from one part of the city to another, a journey equally exhausting for both parties, but they were finally there. Esterberg's Port District. Or at least a part of it nobody — lowercase — really cared about, devoid of anything but a series of abandoned storehouses.
Nobody — capital — cared not about that, however, as exhaustion was not something he troubled himself in. With relentless feet he marched forward, leaving the panting and confused Surratt more and more behind with every step he took. All he had in his empty mind was now the vision of Mab, sitting somewhere beneath these endless buildings in front of him. He did not dream, for he wasn't brave enough to embrace that part of himself, but somewhere deep inside his empty soul he dreamed of piercing her disgusting body with his crossbow like nothing else.
But eventually, they arrived at their destination. Two parties, so different yet so similar, both standing in front of rusty doors leading to an equally rusty place. Nobody stopped, looking at his other companions. And, for that very moment, he felt that… that strange spark of thought he experienced during the oracle session for a second time.
As he looked at the red-haired Jessie Rivera, he thought he… he thought they met some time ago. Prior to last night, he'd never heard about her nor seen her, but now… now he wasn't so sure. He skewed his head, trying to drill into her still-young eyes, trying to remember. But before he could realize the truth that perhaps laid before him in plain sight, she put her hand on the door handle.
They all exchanged looks, understanding themselves without a single word spoken. In a moment's notice, they sharpened their knives and they readied their crossbows and minds. Rivera looked around them, each nodding after the other, until everyone confirmed their status. They were ready.
She slammed the doors open and walked through.

Four Knights' Tango

GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS

Nobody's Home


The Saint walked towards the peak. The stars dazzled above him, like a chandelier in the pitch black night. They were all going to come, sooner or later. They were all going to be there, at the top. He reached the apex of the mount. At the other side, he saw three people on crosses. He did not pay attention to them. They were human. Beneath his notice. Much like nearly everything else in these barren lands of Golgotha. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at a cat that was walking up the Mount. He thought it was beneath his notice. It had the eyes of a man, but no mouth. For a moment, the Saint felt it peered into his mind, in some way. That it affected him. But he swooped these thoughts away. The cat could not be of his notice, could it?
The cat came up the mountain,and reached the peak. It saw the men on the crosses. For a moment, the Saint felt it could understand what had led to their fate. Could it be, that this cat was of his notice? The cat turned around, and stared at him, with its big, humanoid eyes. The Saint felt the little creature could peek into his soul. Within its eyes, he saw horrors untold. He was sure, it was of his notice. He was relieved. There had been no creature of his notice in this dark universe. He did not care about the stars. He did not care about the hanged. He did not care about the men of three arrows. He did not care about the machine. But for this creature, he cared. The cat sat beside him. For the first time, the Saint felt a feeling. A human feeling. That this cat understood him. That he understood the cat. That they could be peers.
Maybe this world was vaster than he thought.
The cat sat beside him, and they peered at the stars. They could feel each vibration, each single burst of energy emitted. They saw the constellations wage war on each other. The Scorpio hunted Orion. It would do so, forever. The Saint looked at the cat ‘s eyes again. He saw a crying mother. Bloodshed, death, revival. Lands far away from the barren periphery of the Mount. What other wonders did these lands have? What other adventures awaited this creature? He patted the cat on the head. They looked over to the horizon, and saw the dawn of the sun. The waves sparkled with its rising. This world was vast, vaster than he thought.
He showed the cat what he had seen. Men which he did not care about.
They who roamed the streets of Chicago like spectres. They who let their art go wild and free. They who jailed the weird. They who destroyed the weird. They who strived to rebuild a machine. They who only valued profit, selling to friend or foe. The cat told him. It told him that they were human, too. That their hearts beat with fresh blood, that they lived, they laughed, they loved, they hated. That he should care about them, as they cared for their god. The Saint thought about it. After all, they gave their blood for their lord. A man searched years just to reach him at the gala.
Maybe, just maybe, he should've cared more about them.
The world is faster than he thought, after all.
He turned towards the cat, which was leaving. He waved goodbye, and the cat responded. It vanished into a blue light. The Saint hoped he would see it again. He liked the cat ‘s company.
He got up, and set foot for the gala. It'd be rude not to go, after all.
And man? He had no idea of what effect this simple, random encounter, would have on his future.


≡ HR Menu

≡ HR Menu

▷ Numbers Lie
▷ Re: Potential Anomalous Activity
▷ The Transfer
▷ Journeys: The Tale of Dane
▶ Just Enough

"You definitely have a very impressive resume," she said, eyeing the papers up and down in awe.
Dr. Luxall's CV was a body of Adonis in itself, from his three—yes, three!—PhDs and his prior experience with the UIU. He had received awards, commendations—most of them in secret, of course—but anyone who was anyone in the realm of anomalous psychology knew Dr. Luxall's name. There were Foundation guidelines he had penned himself. Multiple containment files of which he had seen the creation. He had even contributed to the design of two Keter-class containment units and personally oversaw the containment design and subsequent reclassification of an anomalous object from Keter to Safe—a feat accomplished by few.
He tried to sound humble as he sipped his paper cup of hot tea. "I appreciate that. I'm only where I am now because of the people who came before me laying the groundwork."
She nodded. Dr. Luxall honestly didn't know what to make of her. Petite, possibly athletic build. Hard to tell underneath her suit. A firm but polite demeanor. No ring, no indent on her finger—single, for a while at least. Slight redness between her eyebrows. Evidence of waxing? A potential there for self-confidence issues. Perky breasts, though it was hard to judge through her suit. No glasses, but the thin line of contact lenses. She also—
"There's a lot of trust put in you, Doctor. The kind of trust that puts you here. Human Resources doesn't headhunt directors out of anything less than the best."
"Nor would anyone expect you to," he replied with a smile. Time to get down to the brass tacks.
"You've had quite the career, Doctor. You seem to like to take on some of the biggest challenges we have. And then, of course, out of work, it's the same." She leaned in, her eyes squinting like she was sharing the juciest gossip. "Is it true you climbed La Dura Dura without a harness?" She was showing off now—displaying how much she knew of his outside life. Trying to put him on the defensive. It would never work. His demeanor was unbreakable.
He laughed. "No, no, I'd never do it without a harness. There's never an adrenaline rush that's worth such a huge safety risk." A safe, calculated answer. The answer of someone who only takes the right kind of risks.
She took in a deep breath through her nose. "You're very confident in your abilities to perform the tasks required of you." It wasn't a question. it didn't need to be. "So let's discuss this." From her paperwork, she produced a single sheet. She slid it across the table.
The color drained from Dr. Luxall's face.

071
166
347

The text was scrawled, somewhat haphazardly, across the page. It wasn't possible. It was. Not. possible.
"I iterate," She said, rising from the desk, "That we don't headhunt out of anything less than the best. For that matter, Site Directors are investigated on an unimaginably deep level. We don't just probe your records, Dr. Luxall."
Luxall was already playing out multiple possible ways to escape from this hell unscathed, though few seemed practical. And if they'd been inside his head, they probably already knew what his evasion tactics were. He stalled. "Can you explain what this is?" he said, as calmly as his demeanor could muster. "Because I'm not sure I get it."

3080-1
3265
3651

"I'm not here to play games with you, Dr. Luxall. You know what this is. You know which of these containment files you have access to, which ones you don't, and which ones you shouldn't know about at all."
He swallowed involuntarily. "So you…went in my head, found a piece of information, and assumed its context?"
She walked around the desk. Daintily—delicately, even—she leaned against the desk and picked up the paper. "Oh, there's no assumptions. There are pictures, Dr. Luxall. pictures of your fantasies." She sneered. "If you'd believe it, lists like this in one's head are relatively normal. The friends and coworkers and acquantances we know who we secretly fantasize about. Who we'd risk our marriages and jobs and situations for. But you…" She traced a finger over the paper. "There are no names. Only numbers."

4269
4690
2396

There was silence for a long time. Luxall was sure that his heart was beating loud enough to be heard.
She spoke again. "Have you ever wondered why you've never been assigned to these objects, Dr. Luxall? As such an expert in anomalous psychology it's certainly crossed your mind that for some reason you never get assigned to these."
He looked up, fixing her with a glare. "So you've known this a long time." The game was up. more room for pretense.
"And you might have been perfectly fine, Doctor. You might have been able to just live with your fantasies. But then, you started scheduling consults, didn't you? Utilizing your authority to get a foot in the door for some off-the-record consults. And that is a problem." Her explanation was calm and measured. "Who approved that consult, Doctor? Had to have been someone with a decent amount of influence, I'd imagine."
Luxall's skin was burning, feeling like it was peeling from his bones. "Armstrong," he replied. "Agent Armstrong asked me personally. I didn't request it or anything—"
"But you took advantage of it, didn't you?" Her voice was ice as she tapped one of the numbers on the page. "She told me what she saw."

187

She opened her laptop and turned on the camera, turning the screen to face him. His own pallid, sweaty face stared back at him.
He "What—"
She was fast. Her foot, with its vicious heel, found Luxall's stomach. He doubled over, screaming, as his body exploded into pain with the sudden traumatic invasion. Her hand was at his throat and her lips were at his ear. "You are a waste of a human being." The pain was so intense he could barely feel the grip of her fingers around his throat. "Do you like the thrill of it, Dr. Luxall? That is the root of your fantasy, isn't it. THe thrill of…touching the supernatural. You just didn't expect it to touch you back."
She dropped him on the floor, leaving him squirming on the carpet. Walking to the desk, she put the papers away in a folder and then put something into a small case and into her pocket.
His heart was racing. No, not racing…absolutely pounding. He was sweating. He was cold. He was hot. He was——
"Overdosing," he coughed out. "Epinephrine?"
Things were becoming bright. And swimming. His blood pressure was skyrocketing. Any moment how he'd go into cardiac arrest, or have an aneurism. "You can't…you'll…"
"I can," she corrected. "You're not the first and you won't be the last." She turned the computer to be sure Luxall remained inside its field of view. Luxall squirmed in the chair, fighting the pain between his legs and the creeping darkness around his eyes as the room shuddered and then went dark. Luxall folded over in the chair and slumped onto the floor, blood dropping from his ear and eyes.
She turned off the webcam, clicked on the video, and uploaded it.

Kristina was a psychic. That had been the determination when she was almost seven years old. An unhappy child, she talked to herself and to people who weren't there. She knew when her parents were angry or resented her. She used words she had never read. And she knew things—things a girl her age should not possibly know.
So her parents had called an expert.
It took one single round of tests for them to determine, unequivocally: The child was a psychic. The voices she was hearing were in the heads of those around her. And she needed very specialized care. A government agent contacted her parents, telling them that they had a place for people like her, where she could be an asset to protecting freedom and the American Dream. She would be paid well. She would be cared for and protected.
Her parents said no.
It's an interesting thing, when you examine how people react to opportunity. Some squander it, some cherish it cautiously, and some sieze it, squeezing it for every drop it is worth. This last option is the route chosen by Kris' parents.
Each weekend, her dad put her in a car and took her somewhere. Sometimes it was a long trip, the hours spent winding through forests and hills and small towns, while other times it was less than an hour and a few highway exits away. But they were always the same kind of place: loud, smoky, and with lots of tables. Not large establishments, with ID checks at every door—those would not do. the places to go were ones where "I've got custody this weekend, ya know" would merit a pitiful guffaw and a seat at any number of card games where, with careful whispers into daddy's ear, he tended to come out ahead.
He was a smart player. He didn't win every hand. But he won more than he lost and, when the bets were big, that was enough. Just enough.

"Armstrong again." Scranton's brow was furrowed in concentration as Lee adjusted strings on the investigation board. The board only held a few things: the faces of Drs. Luxall and Winthrop, an image of Agent Armstrong, a
"His reach was longer than we originally thought," Kris replied, closing her laptop bag. "And in every case, he targeted people in the Foundation who already had issues. It's almost like…like…"
"Like a whistleblower?" Scranton looked away, seeming to zone out for a moment. "Pointing out the flaws in the Foundation so we have to use the resources changing protocols and replacing people."
Kris started toward the door, glancing back as two D-class personnel entered the office to begin cleanup of her meeting. "There had to be a reason. A bigger plan. Where's the connection? An electronics HMCL. A Psychologist. A containment specialist. Different levels of the organization, different departments, different locations. Why is the Chaos Insurgency helping us take out the trash?"
Scranton said nothing until reaching the door of the secured site, had signed out, and exited the facility. "Kris."
"Hm?" Kris glanced at her phone and dismissed three more Fred notifications.
Scranton stopped, taking out their hawkbill pipe. "You know I wouldn't have authorized this," they said, gesturing to the facility entrance. "Had it not been for the context. I do not like terminating employees in this manner."
She put her phone away. "But you approved it. And I'm fine," she added with more than a hint of indignation in her tone. "I do my job."
"And sometimes more than your job." Scranton lit and puffed on the pipe. "Go see your sister."
"Scranton," Kris protested, "We have to find out more about who else Armstrong came into contact with. I don't have time to—"
Scranton held up a hand. "You will make time."
Kris glared for a few long moments. "Why?"
"Because you are not a tool here like you were at the UIU. I need you at your best and you're not if you're distracted. I'll see you back at the office tomorrow."

OONeverAgain updated her Showcase: https://jack.███@@/NeverAgain/Showcase + - Score: +117


0404SITE82AB1
We sit on the bed. It's a simple iron frame and a comfortable mattress.
The room is quiet.
They see nothing unusual on the CCTV.
I run my hand down his face.
It's going to be okay, Blake. I'm here. I'm always here.
Nobody else is going to treat you like I do.
I'll always be here. Don't worry about them.
He lays on my lap. A single tear runs down his face. He stares at my face.
You're such a piece of shit. I hate you.
His hand reaches and lays on my chest. I smile.
I know. Jackass.
I reach down and kiss his neck. He sighs.
What would I do without you, Blake? I think I'd be dead.
I can see he's torn. I know this is right. He thinks this is wrong.
I… I have shit to do. I can't be late again.
Make an excuse. I don't get to see you enough. I'm stuck in here all the damn time.
I know, but-
No buts. If you really cared about me, you'd stay.
He falls silent, clinging to my side.
We sit there for a moment.
I'm aware of what I'm saying, of course.
But it doesn't stop me. I know what I must do.
It's for their benefit, really. They just can't see it. They won't, or can't.
He'll make the right decision. I know he will.
I'll… I'll find an excuse.
Good. I knew you'd make the right decision. I love you, Blake. You're… really good to me. And it's a better time than the dangerous SCPs, right?
A short chuckle escapes him.
My hand reaches down to caress his side, and to search his pockets.
I s'pose.
Besides. It's not like you have anyone else.
He coughs. Looks left, then right, glancing at the control panel window.
Wait. What time is it? A-ah, fuck… I really, REALLY gotta go, just… I'm sorry, please don't-
It's fine. Truly. Go ahead and do what you must do. I'll be stuck in here by myself. Thanks for that.
…
I'll see you later.
I- I hav-
I said, I'll see you later.
…goodbye, Lilly.


Note: The following text is a rough translation of a page delivered into Foundation custody by Agent Yulius Barzakh, a long-term infiltrator of the Serpent's Hand who returned on 4/6/2022 from a three-month deep cover assignment in the Wanderer's Library. Barzakh reports that this page had been inserted into an innocuous tome he was perusing in the course of maintaining his cover, and since marginalia of this sort are not protected by the Librarians to the same extent as their registered texts, he chose to risk pocketing the paper and returning prematurely from the Library to drop it at a clandestine SCPF safehouse. The page is covered on both sides with glyphs which were determined to be a previously unseen dialect of Old High Daevic, and is believed to predate all other written material describing the Daeva civilization. Publication of this translation was delayed in order to avoid compromising Agent Barzakh's connections prior to the formal completion of his assignment. The page both begins and ends in mid-sentence, and there are so far no matches of this excerpt with any other recovered Daevite texts.
…with the assistance of her loyal azalea-handmaiden, proceeded to make all necessary preparations to receive this visitor. The folk of Koror knew that it was dangerous to accept an overture from such creatures as the Sorcerer-Nawabs, but it was Alakhai's determination that the potential benefits of this meeting were worthy of the risk.
When all of the necessary glyph-lichens had been properly sculpted/planted at the boundaries of the designated space, the Daeva crossed those boundaries herself, and shouted the signal of assent for the emissary to make its presence known. Without delay, the aromatic air of the chamber grew thick, not with the expected indoctrination-pollens, but with an entirely unfamiliar miasma. As it was the practice of Koror to inter the deceased either in wood or in stone, and never to burn them, Alakhai did not recognize the foetor of the charnel incinerator in the smoke that had begun to gather, but it was later confirmed by her azalea-handmaiden that this scent did indeed match that which the spleenwort-infiltrator had detected on its intrusion into the tomb-furnaces of Mamjul.
Then when the stinking black cloud had fully manifested, a process completed at remarkable speed, Alakhai did perceive the appearance of two smoldering orange eyes within the vaporous mass, and below them the merest hint of a mouth cracked open, seeming to smile mockingly. Despite her own dreadful station, the gardener-priestess was compelled to take a step back in surprise at the visage's abrupt appearance, and the smoke-creature's smile seemed to widen at this, as if it was pleased to have intimidated the one with whom it was sent to treat.
"My master thanks you for agreeing to receive this unworthy vessel of his will," the intruding phantom/demon spoke, with a voice that seemed to echo from the depths of a great and fiery pit, and to have been spoken by the grinding of bones that rubbed across each other until they caught ablaze. Alakhai made no effort to conceal her displeasure at the offense that had been done to her ears. "He has the ear of the Asuras themselves, and what agreement you strike with him, they will be given little choice but to accept."
The gardener-priestess recovered her composure through practice rendered effortless by near-infinite repetition. "Tell the Sorcerer-Nawab of Mamjul when you return to him, if he wishes to enlist the allegiance of one who has so recently been his enemy, he would do well to minimize the outrages against proper etiquette which his emissary displays by its mere existence. Surely, a human messenger could have been found who is of correct station, and would not have required such elaborate precautions to receive in security."
"My master has no time for these games," the phantom/demon blustered. "Our war has been a costly one, and these two city-fortresses will soon be populated only by servitor creatures such as myself, or your moist little plant-slave, or the spy who you thought we did not notice creeping into our most sacred places of cremation. The eyes of the mighty Asuras who rule Mamjul may overlook such lowly intruders, for they fix their attention on the distant horizons which they plan to conquer someday. But the Sorcerer-Nawab whom I speak for does not ignore such trivialities. He knows that you and the other Daevas of Koror think they will win this war with life after life, patiently crafting the magics that blossom in soil and in mind and in bloodline. But you are ignorant. It is our arts which truly bend reality, and produce results within a mortal lifetime, not taking five thousand years to craft a kingdom for ourselves. You and your loyal slaves will be only fuel for the Asura's furnace, if the battle should continue for another century with no change."
Alakhai was silent and thoughtful for a long moment. At last she spoke. "Your master is wise, and not merely clever. Koror can fight Mamjul for a thousand years; we will never lose, but neither will we win. The Daevas should not war with the Asuras, but the Asuras do not understand. Therefore, a Nawab should sit upon their throne instead, is it not so?" She gave a slight smile, and the phantom/demon responded in kind.
From that exchange, the pact would be forged; only the details needed to be negotiated over the remaining nights. Soon, the armies of smokeless fire were recalled behind Mamjul's walls, and a rumor began to circulate among the common folk of both city-fortresses that an Asura no longer…


close

Info

X

More by this author

dispatches 01/12/2020 (Sun) 15:11:23 #34260094

In 1995, Clarence Prometheus sat at his mother's grave for five hours straight. Even when his family was pleading with him to come back inside to the rest of the funeral service, there he sat, lost in thought. And when he finally stood, he walked with purpose.
The next day, Prometheus Labs was founded as a means of researching into the field of paratechnology— using malevolent spirits as a source of energy. They were one of the first of their kind, only successfully preceded by the great Anderson Robotics, which partnered with ghost hunters across the country to generate power for the entire west of America. They didn't see Prometheus Labs as a threat, however. Many paratechnology companies have risen and fallen… and Prometheus Labs was no exception. Their company headquarters exploded in 1997, taking every single employee with it.
Now, a satellite stays in perfect orbit directly above the ruins. Nobody has dared to approach it— mostly due to the rest of the Prometheus family setting up strict security around the perimeter of the area. But for those who have managed to get past the fences, the impending dread is more than enough to scare them away.
Nobody knows what really happened. How that satellite can stay there, what Clarence's goal was… The Prometheus family is trying so hard to keep everything under wraps, and that only means one thing: they're hiding something big.
And I know everything.

dispatches 01/12/2020 (Sun) 15:20:55 #34260430

Clarence never really got over his mother's death. The company's first few months were dedicated to researching into the concept of resurrection. It'd been attempted before, but bringing someone's spirit back from the afterlife was simply impossible. But then Clarence had a thought: what if he created his own afterlife? The following is an excerpt from one of his public Prometheus Labs press releases.

I believe there is a reason some spirits linger after death. They are smart enough to know that otherwise, they are destined to be lost in eternal darkness. For this reason, I fear death. I believe we all do.
I do not want to change this world. It is already broken.
I wish for a world without death. A world without pain, loss, or hatred. A world where we can all live in eternal peace. A world of my own creation.
My fellow citizens, I hope that you join me on my mission to make that world a reality. Thank you.

Suffice to say, Clarence gathered something of a cult following. People started looking up to him, from the lowly homeless to the rich businessmen, and slowly but steadily, investments came pouring in.
With all these newfound riches, Prometheus Labs was able to develop their new world. A large device in which spirits could be inserted to assertedly 'live in peace for eternity.' They had no way of proving the machine did anything but automatically exorcise or store the spirits, of course, but their supporters ate it up.
It helped that a picture of the very first spirit being placed inside was published in the newspaper. Inside of a glass device, a flickering wireframe of a human floated there, curled up in the fetal position. Clarence himself smiled warmly, cradling it in his arms like a baby as he stood next to the machine.
After that photo was released, people lined up by the dozens at Prometheus Labs to toss their lingering loved ones into the device, paying a hefty fee to do so.
Clarence had succeeded in his goal of building an afterlife rather quickly. But to him, it wasn't enough. Outside of his loyal following, newspapers called him a hack, and people ridiculed him on the streets.
Strangely enough, all of this hostility didn't bother him one bit. After being at the center of a cult for so long, he started to see himself in a new way. He was going to be the savior of them all, even if they did not want salvation.

dispatches 01/12/2020 (Sun) 15:26:38 #34260826

The satellite was going to be one of their most ambitious inventions yet, but Clarence could afford it. They built it live in a stadium on the roof of Prometheus Labs, where you could buy a ticket to have a front-row seat to 'the development & launch of the device that will change the world.'
Needless to say, the stands were full every single day with people attentively watching the employees tinker with the machine. As months passed, it went from a hunk of scrap to its true form, a massive satellite. And on the launch day, Clarence finally revealed its purpose:

All that die from here on shall live forever in Heaven!

He'd built a true afterlife.
They watched as it launched into the sky, tears streaming down their faces, cheering… but it didn't last long. Seconds later, Prometheus Labs exploded into a fiery inferno.
And do you know what?
I was one of Clarence's top supporters. I gave everything to him, all in hope of a better afterlife.
I'd been late to the launch, and that saved my life. But even when the shock wave shattered my car windows, I kept driving, and arrived at the ruins. It took a few moments for the dust to clear.
Through the dwindling smoke, I saw it. An amalgamation of spirits stretching into the sky to the satellite, like a haunting chain. I could hear their voices, their screams, their pleading to be free.
My heart began to quiver, and I almost collapsed right there. With what felt like the last of my strength, I dragged myself into my car, turning it around and stomping on the pedal. I think that saved my life, and perhaps even my soul.
And now… I don't know. I don't know if the satellite still collects spirits or not. I can't bring myself to go back and risk being drawn into that endless hell. All I'm certain of is one thing:
I am scared to die.

|Supernatual Affairs Hub (coming soon)|


by stormbreath

wasteland-baby 04/12/08 (Sat) 13:03:12 #18239491

The Pruder Record was one of the most circulated VHS tapes of the late 90s. It was never officially released, but due to the mystery the tape contains it was heavily duplicated and passed around. Of course — we are talking about popularity within an obscure subculture based on a dying medium, so it wasn't that common at the end of the day. However, it is absolutely captivating, if you can find it.
The film begins with a well-groomed man entering the frame from stage left. He sits down in a chair in front of a window. Only his chest and head is visible — the rest of the room is not, and the window behind him is an out of focus field of green. He sighs and introduces himself as Georgie Pruder.
He is twenty-eight years old and is currently working at an Indie game developer in the Pacific Northwest. In his free time, he likes to make movies — like the one you are about to watch. He thanks you for taking the time to watch it, but says he needs to make a few things clear before you watch it.
The first is that the VHS is a work of art, primarily intended for himself. The act of production was the entirety of the experience. However, he recognizes that the final product is something that people might find interesting, so he is making it available to the public. But if you don't get it — well, it wasn't meant for anyone but Georgie himself.
Second: Georgie wants to make two things very clear about the production of the Pruder Record. He created it alone — without any outside help — and without any usage of special effects. He is insistent on these two points. It is simply a transcription of events that happened to him — not so much a film as a journal. A record.
This is the most controversial element of the tape — the end product is something that would have been impossible to create individually … but it's also impossible to create at all. The fantastical elements of the film look perfectly real, despite the fact they don't exist in reality. To have convincingly portrayed them would have required millions of dollars and special effects that don't even quite exist today, let alone a decade ago. And further — nobody has ever found or heard from anyone else who worked on the tape.
Finally, Georgie asks that you not contact him about the tape. He is a private person and wants to keep that boundary. I ask that you, too, respect this point and not reach out to him.
With that, the film finally begins, a title card appearing on the screen, simple white lettering on a black field.

This is not for anyone but myself.
Thank you for watching this movie.
Presenting: The Pruder Record.

Hard cut.
We find ourselves above an endless sea of trees. The camera takes a slow pan around, moving 360 degrees, briefly eclipsed by the trunk of the tree the cameraman is sitting on. There is no end in sight, only the forest as far as the camera can record. The view sits on top of the tree for a minute before it is pointed up, revealing the tree continues upwards into the clouds. The viewpoint then begins to descend to the ground, remaining fixed on the absent apex of the tree.
It takes ten minutes to descend, and it quickly becomes clear that this forest is far taller than any known to man. There are no cuts here, or in the entirety of the Pruder Record beyond those at the start and end. The entire tape is presented as a single, continuous narrative.
After the long descent, the camera changes angle and returns to level with the horizon line. We are not on the ground just yet, but some fifty feet up, in the midst of a base camp set up on one of the sturdy branches. The floor is a steel network with some kind of tarp pulled taut over the rungs, and it unsteadily supports the weight of the narrator.
The camera is placed to allow it to view the entire camp, and our protagonist finally enters the frame. He shambles into the frame, dressed in an assortment of camping gear. The majority of it is weathered and beaten, some rusted. Along with the state of his hair and beard — both long, shaggy and unkempt — the implication is that this man has been away from civilization for a long time. Although he bears a resemblance to the Georgie Pruder of the prologue, his demeanor is completely different. Most viewers doubt, at first, that they could be the same man.
Down here in the base camp, there is almost no light at all. When our unknown camper cuts the flood lights, the camp is only lit by a gas stove, and it is hard to make out any details of what is going on at all. The camper moves in the darkness, and the viewer is able to just barely make out the outline as he makes dinner and walks around the camp.
Once dinner is finished, the camper takes the camera from its fixed vantage point and places it so it can see his face. Light returns, and you can only see the campers face in the frame, not unlike the famous shots from The Blair Witch Project. He begins to speak, the only dialogue in the entire tape.
We confirm his identity as Georgie Pruder and learn that he has been in the ambiguous "here" for a series of months. He doesn't explain what or where his current location is, only referring to it as "the forest". His mission is unclear and might not even exist. He wants to leave, but, at the same time, there is no evidence that he is even trying. Georgie finishes speaking, and continues to eat his meal.
There is no interruption until a low rumble comes over the forest, from above. Georgie grabs the camera and points it up — revealing a bright green light, shining down from the trees. It illuminates the entire forest, and you can see the monolithic trees standing tall, dominating the field. Georgie screams incoherently, and tries to re-ascend the tree.
The camera isn't angled well in this sequence, instead secured to Georgie's belt and dangling from it. It hangs down, chaotically bouncing around. The base camp always remains in sight, somewhat remarkably. At several points in his climb, Georgie can be heard crying out, yelling incoherently at the light to perhaps stop, or not to leave him.
The light doesn't last long, and Georgie sits in a branch after it leaves, panting. He finally descends, returning to the base camp, where he places the camera back into the vantage point and turns the flood lights back on. He sits in silence for a long and tense period of time. The forest is unnaturally silent.
A shape crashes into the base camp from above. Despite the light of the camp, the shape is pitch black, in the form of a large cat — a panther, perhaps. Georgie's monologue from earlier begins to crackle in as background noise. Georgie shouts at the creature, drowning out the background monologue. His shouts stumble over themselves and are hard to make out over the interference, but he seems to be apologizing. The panther circles Georgie, moving in for a kill. He raises his hands, but it isn't enough. The beast swipes once, and he drops to the ground. Dead. The panther dashes away.
The camera zooms in on Georgie's bloodied face on its own and lingers there for a full minute (exact in the timing) before it cuts to black.
There are no credits. The silent dark remains until the video ends, two minutes later.


by Kothardarastrix

I feel a little lost, a little strange today.

It had happened. Finally, after a blizzard of paperwork, a long, quiet plane ride, and a dizzying orientation, James was walking the halls of Site-17…though "wandering" might have been a more appropriate word. Site-17 was much bigger than James had expected. There weren't nearly enough directories, and the ones that did exist seemed to contradict each other. Either that, or the newly-christened SCP-2432 had messed up James's brain more than he'd initially suspected.
He was standing in front of one of these confusing directories when someone finally noticed his distress and took pity on him.
"Hey, you need some help?"
"Huh?" James asked, whirling around to face the speaker - a security guard, who was now approaching. He had his visor up, revealing the face of a man a little younger than James himself. He was taller, though. Buff, too.
"Do you need help?" he repeated. "You look lost."
"Oh, uh," James said, with mixed embarrassment and gratitude. "Yeah. I'm trying to get to chemistry lab 102B."
The guard nodded. "Alright. You'll need to…" he closed his eyes to think for a moment, then started pointing. "Go that way, turn left at the end of the hallway, make a right at the first intersection, go down the stairs and make another right, go around the next two corners…" Then he trailed off, because he noticed the blank look on James's face. "Uh, why don't I just show you?"
"Thank you," he said, smiling in relief.
"No problem." Then he set off down the hall, following the directions he'd been reciting. James had to speed up a little bit to catch up with his guide's longer legs.
"I guess you're new, then?" the guard asked.
"Uh, yeah. To this Site, anyway."
"Where were you before?"
"Fourteen," James said, with as much contempt as he could muster.
"Ouch. What'd you do to deserve that?"
"Beats me. Something in a past life, I guess."
They both chuckled, a little awkwardly. The silence that followed after was even more awkward.
"So," James interjected, a bit louder than he'd meant to, "uh, how long have you been working here?" It was dawning on James that he'd never actually had a real conversation with any of the security officers at Area-14.
"Couple years."
"Do you like it?"
The guard shrugged. "I guess. Not a huge fan of the security gig, but it's - hey, Iris."
"Hey!" replied a young blonde woman, heading the other direction. James didn't notice the "SCP-105" across the back of her gray jumpsuit until she had already passed them.
"Shit, that's a-"
"It's okay!" the guard setting, putting a hand on James's shoulder. "She's cleared. Didn't they tell you that at orientation?"
Feeling foolish, James relaxed. They had told him, and he was pretty sure he'd even caught a glimpse of SCP-073 - who he'd heard was the Biblical Cain, though he didn't buy it - on his way in. He still wasn't used to the idea of letting anomalies wander around the Site, though, mostly because he still wasn't used to the idea of anomalies that weren't Class 4 biohazards.
"Sorry. Just, coming from Fourteen-"
"Yeah, I know. Most transfers take a while to adjust. But take it from me - you're safe." James looked into the guard's strong, smiling face for a little longer than was probably comfortable, until the guard noticed his hand was still on James's shoulder and they broke both physical and eye contact as quickly as they could.
The guard cleared his throat and resumed walking. "So, as I was saying, the security gig isn't too bad. We don't have incidents here very often."
"Thank God," James agreed. The violent containment breaches were, of course, the thing he'd miss the least about ABCA-14.
"I'm hoping to join a Task Force, though, next recruitment cycle."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Just Village Idiots or something, not one of the big ones like Nu-7. I guess you know all about them, huh?"
"I know they make a lot of noise when people are trying to sleep."
The guard laughed. "Yeah, I guess they would. You won't have to deal with that around here either."
"Just keeps getting better."
"Yeah, you'll love it here. And here we are." The guard gestured at the door to the lab.
"Oh." James turned to face his guide. "Thanks…" then he read the guy's name tag for the first time, and immediately had a miniature heart attack.
"Relax!" the guard laughed. "He's my dad."
"Oh," James sighed. "Phew, I thought this was an Undercover Boss thing for a second."
"Nah. When you meet Dad, you'll know it."
"I will?" James tried to hide his worry but didn't succeed.
"He's not as scary as he sounds," the guard promised.
James nodded. "That's a relief." He'd heard some pretty crazy stories about Dr. Kondraki. He didn't believe any of it, of course, but was still worried about whatever nuggets of truth might underlie the rumors.
"Anyway, I'm Draven," said Draven, offering a handshake.
"James," said James, taking it. "James Talloran."

I think I'll take a hold of whatever comes my way.