The feeling was embarrassment. He was sure of it.
A fresh wave of agony drove all thought from his mind, and he fought to break free with wild, involuntary strength. Though with his brother's weight pinning him to the carpet all that happened was a momentary spasm. “Squirmin' Herman,” Aloysius scolded. His smug grin was almost audible. “Hold still for once; you'll get blood all over Mother's new Turkish carpet.”
Then you should have waited till I went out to the kitchen, you ass, Herman thought savagely, before reaching again for the quiet place in the center of his mind, the one place the pain didn't touch. He could ride it out. He could keep his will focused, and come out the other side of this with enough left of himself to rebuild. But it was embarrassing - humiliating! - to be so easily bested, the weakling of the family, fruit of inferior blood and Mother's self-indulgence. Vicious as he was, eldest son Aloysius still had a long way to go to catch up to their mother's flesh carving prowess. Even if he had finally mastered Madame Fuller's favorite trick of paralyzing the larynx so the flesh in question couldn't beg for mercy. Or argue. Or scream.
Seconds passed like hours, his brother's cold hands fumbling around in the gash he'd pulled open at the base of Herman's neck. “Carotid, carotid… got it!” He reached further in, pinched something between thumb and forefinger, and bracing his other hand between Herman's shoulders, began to pull.
Thought swept away under a tidal wave of pain. The mind called Herman Portunus Fuller was a burning tightrope, a taut thread strung across an ocean of suffering flesh, silence shredding in its grip.
After a minute, or a year, he came back to himself, blinking tear-swollen eyes, and drew a few deep breaths, not wanting to test whether his voice worked just yet. Aloysius sat next to him, camp-style, chin propped up in one blood-drenched hand. "Well would you look at that. It worked. And you managed not to soil the rug after all."
Herman hawked up a mouthful of spit, shakily raising himself up on one elbow. He hadn't yet decided whether to aim at the floor or his brother when he felt something tighten around his neck. A wave of blackness momentarily clouded his vision, Aloysius's grin of delight fading in and out of focus.
"Oh, that worked perfectly! And it's your own skin to boot, so with your collar turned up, no one will ever notice the difference! Come on." He sprang to his feet, reaching down to haul Herman up by the arm. Herman swatted his hand away, weakly, and used the leg of a nearby chair to haul himself upright.
"Hurts more when Mother does it," he growled, standing all the way up with a grimace, gratified to hear his own voice again. Even if it broke.
"Then why are you crying?"
"Make you feel better. Wouldn't want Mother's golden boy to get discouraged."
Aloysius smirked and turned to head for the library's door, expecting his brother to follow. He held his right arm carefully near his chest to avoid dripping blood on the upholstery.
At seventeen Herman was already bulkier than either of his siblings, though most of it was muscle. Aloysius was lanky and wickedly fast, and willowy Lucretia seemed to float rather than walk. But muscles weren't much use when any one of his family members could render him weak as a kitten with a touch - sharing half of their blood made him more susceptible to the magic, not less.
With a well-timed kick, Herman slammed the library door against his brother's backside, making the older boy trip over his feet and stumble gracelessly into the opposite wall. He palmed a letter opener from the nearby writing desk, testing its balance as the door slammed open again.
"You little —" his brother snarled, and turned to snatch a hooded lantern off the wall, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Herman felt the writhing end of the coil around his neck creep upward. It tugged on the skin under his jaw, forcing his mouth open.
This is going to be bad, he thought, gripping the tiny blade.
A mild, melodious voice drifted down the hall. "Boys, what's that racket?"
Both young men froze. They locked eyes, and with identical expressions of wariness, each slowly put down the improvised weapon he was holding.
"Very sorry to have disturbed you, Mother!" Aloysius called out. "We will join you momentarily!"
Hastily, they checked to be sure their shirts were laced, their doublets buttoned, their hair smoothed as they proceeded towards the salon. At an angry gargle from the younger boy, Aloysius waved a hand, and the new coil of flesh lifted dozens of delicate feelers out of anchoring skin and tiptoed back down to settle in its original location. Herman gnashed his teeth experimentally and wished for a glass of water. Or, he amended, gazing at the back of his brother's blond head, perhaps a revolver.

The salon at the front of the house faced the street, and was every bit as sumptuously appointed as the library. Two of the female servants sat discreetly in a corner with a basket of mending; the gas lamps along the avenue had been lit for the evening, adding strength to the fading autumn sun.
Mother looked up from her chair by the fireplace as the boys entered; her gaze was cool and thoughtful. Lucretia, sleeves rustling, set aside the book of poems she had been reading, a gleam of mischief in her eye.
This, Herman thought again, is going to be bad.
With a small nod, Mother acknowledged their presence, her attention on Aloysius's bloodied right forearm and chin. "Where were you boys playing this time?"
"The library, Mother." Her eyebrow quirked, and Aloyius added hastily, "Everything's intact, we were very careful."
"'We'?" Herman retorted. Lucretia held the back of her hand over her mouth, hiding a snicker.
Madame Fuller sat up in her chair, looking over her shoulder to the servants. "Sarah," she said quietly. The young woman set her needlework aside and stood, dropping a curtsy. "Yes, ma'am." Her soft steps swept around the brothers and she slipped from the room, dark face composed, eyes downcast.
"Now then. What have you to show me?"
Wordlessly, Aloysius reached over and untied the string that fastened his brother's shirt. Herman scowled but did not protest. He had, after all, failed to prevent it. And fighting back now would only irritate their mother.
Lucretia sprang from her seat and drifted over to the boys, peering at the modification with interest. She ran her fingers along the coil and tugged at it experimentally. Despite himself, Herman flinched, which won him a flicker of a smile. "How diverting," she exclaimed. "It's like a little serpent! And is that," she closed her eyes and sniffed a moment, "is that arterial blood?"
"The carotid," Aloysius replied, trying hard to not to look smug. "So that when it tightens, it cuts off blood flow to the brain, bringing on a faint very quickly."
He demonstrated this. Darkness clouded Herman's vision and he struggled for breath, hands clutching at his throat. The sound of a crash floated dimly through the haze and he realized it had been the sound of himself, crumpling to the floor.
"And you put it on the outside?" Lucretia's tone was faintly scornful as she prodded Herman with a silk-clad toe. Once again, he clambered awkwardly to his feet. He wished, and not for the first time, that he could have managed to pick up the servants' knack of keeping the dread and murderous anger from showing on their faces.
Aloysius looked nonplussed. Then again, Lucretia had mastered the art of seating her modifications not only within the body but somehow elsewhere several years earlier, and loved to tweak her older sibling's pride. "I had thought," he replied, "we could adapt this for general use. Perhaps after …amending it as you describe. Even the factory workers could benefit from this kind of motivation."
Madame Fuller sighed. She waved Lucretia back towards her previous seat on the divan, then folded her hands in her lap. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Aloysius, I really do. But I worry that the protections of this house have made you injudicious. We answer to none but ourselves, of course, but to indulge oneself in a manner that is wasteful of resources creates vulnerability. A man," her voice grew sterner, "must solve his own dilemmas, must think plans through before enacting them."
Sarah returned, as quietly as she had left, holding a bloodied cloth in one hand. Madame Fuller looked at it with a frown. "Where?"
"On the lantern in the hallway, ma'am. Nowhere else." She proffered the rag, which the lady grasped by the edge before turning to toss it in the fire. With another small curtsy, Sarah went back to her seat by the basket of mending.
Aloysuis's mouth opened in a silent rictus, his body quivering as wisps of smoke curled up from his face and hand, as embers lit and smoked on his bespattered shirt. His mother rose and walked over to him, footsteps heavy in the quiet room. She patted the unmarked side of his face with a slim white hand.
"My dear, sweet boy. I value you. I want you to succeed, to overcome, and I want you to remember. You have power. You will always have enemies, even among those who serve and fear you. Do not fall into the trap of thinking you are safe. No one is safe from us - not even God, if we fulfill our destiny. Therefore we, in turn, cannot believe we are safe from anyone. Will you remember?"
As quickly as it began, the heat dissipated. Gasping, Aloysius raised his cracked and blistering hand before his face, struggling to heal it as he spoke. "Y-yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother. I will remember."
"Good, my child, very good." She beamed at him and reached up to tousle his hair. "And I am pleased to see you experimenting with new techniques."
Madame Fuller turned to Herman, her smile taking on a tinge of pity as she clasped him by the shoulders. "My poor baby. Were you able to alter it at all?"
He managed not to grind his teeth. "No, Mother. I mean, I hadn't - I hadn't tried it yet." Shame roiled in his belly. Shame that she expected so little of him and still he had failed her. He had the talent, but it came to him more slowly — he needed time, he needed to concentrate to make it work. Physical violence was much easier, and he knew as long as he had the advantage of surprise he could do significant damage. Not that it mattered.
"Do you know the range on it?" Lucretia mused idly, fingers twirling a lock of her hair. "If he were in the cellar, for example, or the stables, would it still work?"
"That is an excellent question, my daughter. Let us put it to the test!"

Horses stamped and whickered in the gathering dark. Herman rubbed his hands together, musing as he often did that a good, strong horse was worth more than he was. Son of the house or no, if he took one and ran, it would be for the horse's sake that they were followed.
A now damnably familiar tightness at his throat brought Herman back to the present, and he looked up. Curtains twitched and he recognized his brother's silhouette in the kitchen window. This time, though, Herman was prepared, and he fought back the wave of disorientation to concentrate on the little snake around his neck, on the heat of his blood running through it, willing its grip to loose.
It eased, just a bit. He took a few steps backward, angling for the courtyard gate. It eased just a bit more. Step by step, like a mouse inching toward its burrow under the watchful eye of a cat, Herman slunk out onto the road.
He turned and started walking down the lane without much thought. Something in him soured at the idea of going back up to the house. Out here, the air was crisp and cool, clouds scudding over a waning moon in the quiet of evening. Passersby saw his fine coat and hat and his thunderous scowl and, more often than not, nervously stepped aside, despite his obvious youth. Their deference was a balm to his shattered pride.
Herman realized he could, if he chose, simply keep walking on his own two feet. In that sense he supposed he was lucky. If one of what Mother termed the "lessers" were to flee, with a head full of family secrets, they would more than likely meet Lucretia on a lonely midnight lane. Her insides were far, far bigger than her outside, and he had no desire whatsoever to know how many things that had once been people she had already collected there. And besides, he had to be discreet, for his own protection. Those who fed upon the power of Yaldabaoth had many enemies, of course, but any one of the rival families who'd been drifting north and east in the wake of the war would love to lay hands on even the least of Mother's offspring. And if it came to that, if he let himself be captured — she would never forgive him.
His thoughts had carried him past the wealthier district where the Fuller house stood, past a row of more modest homes, to the foot of a bridge that led to the factories on the other side of the river.
Reflected torchlight flickered on the water, and Herman squinted into the distance. Someone had set up… a tent? on a rough patch of ground next to one of the docks. Curiosity quickened his steps across the bridge.
It was indeed a tent. Two young men, not much older than himself, stood station at the entrance, but were too focused on whatever was happening inside to pay Herman much heed. A man's voice rose over the murmuration of the crowd.
"What praise is sufficient for such a gift? What glory can we, in our wretchedness, bestow upon the One who sheds His glory upon us?" The murmuration swelled in approval.
Herman stepped forward, lips parting with fascination. His family attended church services every Sunday - no person of their social standing could avoid it. But those were deadly dull, formulaic rituals, cast entirely into shadow by the bloody and far more potent practices with which the Fullers siphoned might from the raw, undulating vastness they called God. One of the boys by the entrance grinned at Herman encouragingly and lifted the tent flap, so along with the preacher's calls and the crowd's responses, the smell of the human throng drifted out to meet him - breath, sweat and pheromones.
"The power of the blood is the mercy of the Lord."
"AMEN."
"The power of the blood is the mercy of the Almighty!"
"AMEN!"
"I say again, I can't hear you, I said the POWER of the blood is the MERCY of our Lord Jesus!"
"AMEN!!!"
His carving may have been shamefully inadequate, but Herman's nose was almost as good as his sister's. The body-warmed air of the revival tent swirled with a riot of emotions, leaking out through the congregation's pores - they were hungry, anxious, desperate, horny, lonely, grubby animals. But at this moment, swept up in the preacher's words, at this moment, almost none of them were afraid.
His world had always turned on an axis of fear. Fear of the pain he'd already endured, and dread of the pain yet to come. But if someone held the power to take a person's fear away - to dangle the irresistible lure of hope and mercy - didn't that someone, just as certain, show himself to be the master of their fear? The one they would follow, and obey?
The thought struck him like lightning. For a long moment Herman stood, gaping, a ridiculous grin spreading across his face. The other boy who had held up the tent flap came forward to clap him on the shoulder in friendly greeting, mistaking his revelation for religious fervor.
Here at last was a power to which even ordinary men, whose heritage lent them no secret talents, had access. This, Herman said to himself, THIS is a magic I can do.
Squaring his shoulders, Herman stepped inside.

| Dread & Circuses Hub | The Preacher's Apprentice »


"I'm sorry, you're doing what?" a baffled Chaz Ambrose asked in confused awe.
"Look, Chaz, it's nothin' personal, man. The Foundies have been ridin' my ass recently, and you heard about what happened at my marina…" a heavily bearded man dressed in dock workers overalls reasoned.
"Yes, yes, I know. I've seen the photos… Pretty ragged shooting, if I'm being honest. Foundation's really lost their touch with boom-and-zooms." An image of a fishing pier riddled with burning shell holes and lifeless bodies entered Chaz's mind, two black objects moving away in the distance, their rotors still audible and their cannons steaming in the cold November air. Just as quickly as the image entered his mind, it was gone. Just another business opportunity waiting to be stamped out by the Foundation. Add it to the list he thought to himself.
Chaz shook himself slightly, a vain attempt to uproot the stress of the Foundation out of his mind. "Darrel, you understand that the Seance Soup is the most popular starter on our menu, right?" Chaz asked, his tone far more severe than his usually happy, money-making tone he wore for his customers, business partners and everyone in between.
It troubled Darrel deeply.
"Y-yeah, I know Chaz, but it's a very delicate process to remove Soul Striders from the lake without killin' 'em. Then there's transportin' 'em here, which is a whole other can of worms, and just those two together come up to a' least a couple grand in expenses, then on top a' that there's the whole "dead workers" debacle, body disposal, paying off the local pigs, rebuildin' the docks and… "
Darrel's voice faded to a whimper as he met eyes with Chaz, who traded back a powerful death-stare in response to his concerns. Chaz believed that sometimes saying nothing can convey more than words ever could, and he was right. To Darrel, the silence was deafening; he glanced around the room in which he sat, a VIP area within the Ambrose Restaurante. The restaurant was well decorated in its entirety, to be sure, but this rooms reds and golds shined brighter than the rest of the building.
The room terrified Darrel, and the ever-encroaching feeling that something more sinister lay beyond the well-decorated interior haunted him. He was being watched, his actions monitored by someone other than Chaz Ambrose. He began to receive the impression this was less of a meeting between business partners and more of a negotiation between a hostage and his abductee.
This made Darrel much more attentive to what Chaz had to say.
"You see, Darrel," Chaz Ambrose started, turning his death glare to his perfectly manicured nails, "Seance Soup makes quite a bit of money for me, guess how much."
"Uh, a-a lot?" Darrel stuttered as he slid lower and lower in his seat.
"More than just 'a lot', Darrel. This soup is worth more than you are, and I'm not exaggerating when I say that. So, if you think you can't be replaced by someone who does your exact job for far less and produces far more Soul Striders, then you are sadly mistaken." Chaz stated matter-of-factly.
Darrel was practically shaking, and sweating buckets, "O-ok, how 'bout this, I've still got one or two shipments of Soul Striders on ice. I'll send 'em over an' begin to rebuild the docks ASAP. Should only take, umm, three weeks?" He said, forming what sounded more like a question than a statement with a nervous smile stretching across his face.
Chaz rubbed his chin in thought, then tapped the table. "Make it two or you're out."
"Done!" Darrel shouted as he launched himself from his chair, knocking the soft velvet seat backward. He held his hand out across the table, which Chaz shook half-heartedly. "I'm glad we could reach an agreement that is mutually beneficial, you may go no-" Darrel was already out the door and sprinting down the street before he could finish his sentence.
Chaz sat there for a moment, making sure that Darrel had left the restaurant and wasn't collapsed on the floor outside or listening in on him. When he was sure Darrel was long gone, he couldn't help but snicker and smile. That smile turned into a chuckle, which turned into a series of snorts before eventually escalating to Chaz being practically breathless with laughter.
"Haha! You can come out now, Marius! Oh, that was simply brilliant!" he cheered, as his hidden companion closed the door to the VIP area, revealing his hiding spot behind it. Marius emerged with a slow clap and an emotionless expression on his face.
"Nice job, Chaz."
"Why thank you, Marius, you were excellent as well!"
"I didn't do anything."
"I know, but your ability to fit seamlessly into small places will never cease to amaze me."
"Thanks, and hey, you owe me ten bucks."
"I- Wait, what? Why?"
"The bet, remember?"
"The bet… But I won the bet! I got Darrel to get production back on track in under three weeks!"
"No, I won. The bet was that you could convince Darrel to get Soul Striders coming in again in under three weeks without threatening him for his life."
"Pah! Fine… You're quite aggravating sometimes; you know that? I mean, where am I going to find ten bucks! Finding ten deer is hard enough as it is…"
"Yeah, and you're just a treat to be around, Chaz."
"My pleasure! Anywho, do you think I got my point across to Darrel?"
"I think he pissed himself on the way out…"
"Sooooo… is that a 'yes'?"
"…Yes."
"Excellent! I didn't want to go so hard on the poor bastard, but you know what they say, Marius: If you can't handle the heat, turn off the cooker!"
"Isn't it 'If you can't handle the heat, get out of the kitchen'?"
"Oh, Potatoe-Tomato!"
"Those aren't the same vegetables, Chaz."
"Whatever! Come along, Marius. We open in ten!"
With that, Chaz Ambrose practically skipped out of the VIP area, with a happy hum and anticipation for the day to come. Marius followed behind with a heavy sigh, and as the two left the room, Marius turned around, gave the room a quick look, and shut the doors behind him.


◁ Previous
Contact with humanity came once a week. Traveling to any location outside a light-year of the solar system meant traditional radio or similar communication methods were useless for up-to-date talk — an issue made even worse when you are 28,000 light-years away. Faster-than-light travel wouldn't be practical with such an obstacle.
Thus the Foundation turned to an esoteric solution. Conjuring a Way, an opening to another dimension, meant you could bypass the speed of light. Send a signal into a Way, have a Foundation outpost on the other side receive it, then relay it out a second Way into the universe proper. Scaling up the Way's size meant supplies could even be ferried as well. It would be a flawless solution, if not for the sheer energy cost of tearing open a portal stable enough to not garble signals to uselessness.
For the crew of the Kessler-002, with only a single fusion reactor to service them, this meant communication came rarely. Every Way activation had to be important. Necessary. A schedule for normal transmissions had to exist. Making it once a week felt right.
Five days after the Kessler-002's arrival in the Terzan 2 star cluster came an emergency transmission that broke the guideline.
Micha Maina relieved their hands of incessant keyboard typing, finished with a exploration report, second to be sent following the diagnostics sent on day one that confirmed they hadn't died a violent death in FTL travel. Below heaps of technical data and clinical vomit was a summary Micha felt captured the spirit of the report.

In short: Alien base exploded. Alien gave us directions to what we think are more aliens. Alien also exploded by other alien. Humans unexploded.

They paused. They added a second line.

Should we follow the directions?

There. Done.
« Is Exploratory Report 2 complete? »
"What's it look like, Chione?"
« Is it complete? Yes or no? »
Micha pushed their feet against the single patch of wall not covered by some electronics and began gliding through the spherical cavern that was the bridge. They smiled at the nearest security camera.
« If you do not answer I will assume it is and will send it in its current state. »
A sigh. "Yes, yes, send it already."
Deep within the ship countless mechanisms came to life. Mechanical arms recreating praying motions, loudspeakers shouting old rites in languages not made by humans, electricity speeding from the fusion reactor to be converted into thaumic energies. Micha could see none of this but the flickering of lights told them it was working.
Low, distorted rumbles. The way was open.
« Transmission to Extradimensional Outpost-10 in progress. »
Many thoughts were in Micha's mind. Did the rumbles wake up everyone who wasn't ignoring the need for sleep to speed write a report? Did they make any errors writing?
Would they be told to follow the directions?
« Transmission complete. »
They hoped not.
« Response from Extradimensional Outpost-10 received. »
How quick. The outpost's AI was getting speedier. Micha grabbed the mechanical arm holding a retractable chair and pushed off it, back over to the computer terminals. They were getting better at this whole zero-g movement thing. A shortened message greeted them on the monitors.

[…]
For the purposes of better investigating the Terzan 2 Ortothan Coalition and their war with the Twelve Stars civilization, you may proceed with following the directions. Be advised that, unless it is necessary, you are not to engage in combat. Direct involvement is not your primary objective.
Secure. Contain. Protect.

Chione was the only one around who could hear Micha's curses.

"Think that's a stomach with a cybernetic implant, can't tell for certain 'cause it's burnt to hell and back…"
Hyeon 3Mun glanced between holographic projections of alien guts, suspended on the heavily reinforced glass wall separating him from the corpse. Alex stood next to him, sipping coffee like normal in the one g of gravity the habitation ring offered.
"…Chione thinks that part is a heart or heart equivalent, but I've got no clue. All the flesh grown into rune shapes makes it hard to tell…"
Every organ that had been blasted from the alien by the Twelve Stars ship was arranged in a grisly display. Organs rested on platters held by robotic limbs, the two parts of the split-in-half body placed side-by-side on the central table, sterile walls a canvas for orange blood. Fragments of the head that weren't incinerated by the ship stared deep into Hyeon with lifeless camera eyes.
"…that organ may be for manipulating thaumic fields like the ones in the Sirius A orbital hives, though there's few similarities…"
Hyeon turned to Alex. Xe was nodding along, occasionally letting out a hmm or an mhm, clearly dazing out. He'd been talking too long. Dammit. Best to wrap it now than make this even duller.
"…and that's about all we've got."
"I see." Vaguely face-like shapes emerged in Alex's perceptual anomaly and looked to Hyeon. "I do have a question, though."
"What is it?"
"So you haven't taken apart the body yet, right?"
"Yup. We could but I'm a tad worried that trying to dismantle it will break whatever machines are in there."
"And did any of the organs look like a brain?"
"Uhh, nope."
Another sip. "I mean, it could be there but is burnt beyond recognition, but do you think the brain could be built into the body?"
"I— Hmm." Hyeon gazed to the ground, idling about as he thought.
"Could be intact that way."
"Mhm. That could be—"
BANG.
Something slammed against the glass. They both jolted back.
The body's lower half pressed against the barrier. Three of its six mechanical arms slid up and down, trailing blood along in jerking motions. A barely legible message was written.
« Translating from Ortothan Extraterrestrial Language symbols. »
Holographic panels slid over and masked the gore. The body kept jerking forward, slamming again and again. On each panel came a translation.
"Help you."

The crew floated in the bridge, watching holograms of a gas giant dance in front of the wide window overlooking space. Spheres representing moons circled the giant, one surrounded by red rings denoting importance.
« Based on the details from Researcher Watts' modified holographic communicator and preliminary observations of the surrounding region of space, this is a model of area the entity wanted us to visit. Current objective is to deliver the entity's message to Ortothans presumed to be at the moon. »
Zoom out. The gas giant was reduced to spec before the might of a red supergiant star.
« Despite the size of Te2-872, Te2-872-d and its moons are sufficiently far from the star that only a slight temperature increase from habitable zone conditions is expected. Your spacesuits are capable of handling this. »
The holograms flickered out. N.J. looked to the window and saw the blue deserts of Gateway's second planet (for which the crew never thought of a name) moving below as Kessler-002 orbited. The crater Twelve Stars had blown out was only a dot from this view, yet it continued to jut out from all else. The rest of the window was dominated by darkness.
"So 'bout that 'entity'…" Micha twiddled their fingers.
« This has already been discussed. »
"Do you have to bring this up again?" Alex asked.
"Look, I dunno why anyone thinks this alien can be trusted and why you think the Foundation will be all chill with bringing it…"
N.J. turned her head away and tried her best to mentally block out the noise. Alex muttered something about why they had to care about the Foundation when they were so far away.
"Hey. Micha."
"Hyeon?"
"Remember what we said last time? About Chione approving the plan and us landing crew being a-ok with it?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you still trying to debate stuff everyone is fine with?"
"Guys," Alex interjected. "Quit it."
"'Cause I don't get how any of you are fine with dumb risks like this."
"We signed up to research and do whatever the higherups keep redacting in a warzone. Everything about being here is risky."
"Quit. It."
"And I don't want to see you and Enjay dying of a risk that's needless and stupid!"
« Researcher 3Mun and Researcher Maina. This conversation is not conductive to the mission and I demand you put an end to it. »
Silence fell. N.J. turned back to see a mass exchange of awkward glances.
« Unless new arguments against the plan are raised it will be kept. Is this clear? »
Nods.
"So, do we want to FTL jump now?" Alex looked to everyone.
"…Let's go for it," Hyeon replied.
Micha nodded. "Yup."
"Go for it," N.J. chimed in.
The mechanical arms of the retractable chairs extended from the bridge's walls, arranging the seats into a ring pattern. Each explorer floated over and strapped themselves in.
« Activating Bifrost Engine for a 4.39 light-year jump to the Te2-872 system. Expected trajectory and apparent gravity wells in the system will either result in arrival at Te2-872 or Te2-872-d. »
"Is, uh, everyone ready for our first time experiencing the Bifrost Engine outside of cryogenics?" Hyeon expectantly looked around for responses but none came.
« Jumping sequence initiated. »
A strange sound echoed through the ship, like a whale call twisted and lowered in pitch. N.J. never heard anything like it on ships using the old Lang Distortion Drives. At least she could now rule out the possibility that the Engines were simply versions of the LDDs she revamped.
« T minus four. T minus three… »
Every computer monitor shut off. The lights hummed and dimmed. The metal slab of a shutter swiftly covered the window and the crew's last sights of Gateway. The twisted sound thrummed through every inch of the Kessler-002's frame, shaking N.J.'s body in sync with its every beat.
« T minus two. T minus one. Zero. »
All noise stopped. She could only feel the shudders of metal, straining against the gravitational forces now enclosing them. Outside, spacetime was being twisted in a protective bubble encasing the Kessler-002, accelerating faster than any normal object could, leaving a wake of gravitational waves behind them like the shockwaves of a broken sound barrier. Shapes grasped at the edges of N.J.'s vision.
She went blind. Red text flashed in the dark.

High amounts of potentially cognitohazardous phenomena detected. Optic nerves have been temporarily disabled.

A minute passed and light abruptly stabbed into her retinas. She rubbed her eyes, feeling her body drop back into reality with a thud against her mind. The shutter retracted and a purple gas giant stared out from behind it.

"INTRUDERS INTO HOLY MINING TERRITORY."
The sole sapient inhabitant of Te2-872-d's second moon went by no name pronounceable by humans. Even the rest of Terzan 2's Ortothans struggled to name them. So, on order of the Half-Holy, the inhabitant had a new name forced upon them: a modified symbol for "Miner."
"BODY IS EQUIPPED WITH TWO CANNONS OF INVERTED LIGHT AND ONE HUNDRED AND TEN THAUMOCTHONIC LANCES."
Miner knew the the moon inside and out — a state they'd much prefer it was in, if only for how easy their job would become — and they knew very well that only other creatures as obsessed with digging had any right being here.
"IF YOU ARE NOT OF THE TWELVE STARS THEN SPEAK BEFORE YOU ARE BROKEN BY INVERTED LIGHT."
Nobody else belonged. The lander, dropping from the clouds to Miner's landing pads, certainly didn't.
Miner swept long arms through their cavernous guts of twisting metal, shoveling spirit crystals through slits into the even larger reactor. Thaumic energies flared along the reactor's spherical interior, giving the crystals their cue to take to the air and combine into a churning ball, continually compressing until it reached its breaking point. It exploded, a fireball of energy more intense than that of many stars. The arms returned to harvest and funnel it into the two cannons.
In a few moments there would be no sign the lander ever existed.
"SPEAK OR YOU WILL BE BROKEN."
« …the universe continues to be preserved. Bleed into the holy body of Rakmou-leusan. Bleed for the universe. »
A radio transmission. A response. No, more than a response. The speech of the Messengers themselves. Twelve Stars wouldn't dare touch such speech, but it was not a reason for Miner to let their guard down. More had to be uncovered.
They transmitted a reply. "YOU ARE ORTOTHAN. WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE."
« Delivering a message. »
The Ortothan was far rougher than that of the Messengers, but it swiftly shifted into symbols written by something far more fluent.
"Weapons construction factory and orbital weapons supplying station destroyed in attack. New weapon used. Must speak privately if Twelve Stars is intercepting communications."
Special identifying symbols, solely given to those selected by the Ortothan civilizations to work in the cause for defense, followed. There was zero chance the lander wasn't Ortothan.
"THE CANNONS ARE DEACTIVATED. YOU MAY LAND."

Miner's body was a metal behemoth. A Portuguese man-of-war of alien seas. As the lander descended, N.J. could see sprawling mechanical tendrils extending from the thing's underside into the seas covering the moon, vanishing into darkness where she imagined the ocean floor was. From the left and right sides of its body stretched fins, platforms supporting the mile-long barrels of the "inverted light" cannons (she did not know what would happen if they were fired but she already wanted nothing to do with it). Attached in trails from the main body were expansive circular platforms. Some open for landing, some stuffed with what looked like missile silos, some launching rocket after rocket into orbit for unknown motives.
N.J. counted the number of platforms. Six platforms, one central body. Seven main parts altogether. Of course it was seven.
Hyeon took deep breaths in the seat next to hers. Being in the Extrasolar Activities Division meant interactions with aliens were common, but it was rare to feel truly threatened by one — the Foundation always had more than enough walls to build between them and you. The encounter with Twelve Stars yesterday was one of those times, and so was today.
The engines of the lander roared, sending waves of vibrations through the craft. The forces of deceleration slammed into N.J.'s body. They coasted down to a distance of a few feet above the platform as flames and smoke drifted past the lander's porthole windows.
Clang.
Touchdown.
The crew descended the ladder running down the lander's length and entered an airlock chamber. They clicked their helmets on, idled as the chamber went through its depressurization sequence, and stepped past the exit as it slid open.
Purple atmosphere. Te2-872-d dominating a chunk of sky. They had landed at the edges of the platform, away from its silos, and N.J. watched the seas. The sky's color stained whatever fluid composed the oceans a light purple, solely interrupted by the columns of pale ectoplasm that rose from the depths far into the air. Eyes, mandibles, and limbs continually formed and dissolved in the columns as they wavered and broke against the clouds. Around those, the only landmasses to be seen were lifeless exoskeletons.
A column suddenly split in half, chunks of it gravitating into a metal spec at its center. The spec sped off to the behemoth at lightning-fast speeds and sharply changed course to plunge into a hole on its central body. More arrived from across the horizon, entered, exited, either sped out of sight or sped to other columns. The tendrils pulled back from the darkness around the sea floor, plumes of sediments erupting, and dragged pieces of crystalline exoskeleton into the central body's underside.
It was harvesting the dead.
N.J. rushed back, her mind suddenly recognizing the sheer drop from the platform edge to the sea miles below. Vertigo came and went.
"Uh, you think this place rivals Gateway in terms of fucking weird?" Hyeon's jaw dropping was practically audible as he spoke.
"Y-yes. Yes it does."
Whispering winds blew past them, dwarfed by the crashes of the waves and the behemoth's machinery. Droning scrapes from behind Hyeon broke through it. A hole on the platform widened and a smooth capsule jutted out, nearly the size of the lander.
Ortothan text ran down the sides that faced N.J. and Hyeon. Chione quickly translated. "ENTER FOR TRANSPORT. MEET WITH MINER."
Hyeon finished dragging a container down the lander's exit ramp when the ground around the craft sunk. They watched the lander descend into a deepening pit, metal folding above it to close over the hole as the lander's top dropped out of sight. N.J. gulped.
"ENTER FOR TRANSPORT. MEET WITH MINER."
What choice did they have?
Hyeon and N.J. inched ahead, wheeling the biohazard container behind them.
* * *
The chamber was an H.R. Giger wet dream. N.J. and Hyeon stepped from the capsule onto a raised platform in the middle of a massive space, well within the depths of Miner's main body. The walls looked like organs, turned to metal and melded together into a surreal mosaic. To the left and right waterfalls of orange blood spilled from the ceiling and past the platform, flowing into the grooves of seven-fold fractals dug into the chamber floor. Orange rivers winded past statues of worm-like things with four limbs wielding four spears.
The waterfalls thinned and dripped their last drips. The grooves were full. Curtains of light emerged, swirled around the rivers, and raised orange droplets into the air in a reverse rainfall that surrounded the platform. Reality roared. The curtains and blood flashed with the intensity of endless stars and the vital fluids were whisked to somewhere far in the cosmos. The bloodletting ritual for Rakmou-leusan was complete.
"Enjay, get the feeling Miner's trying to show off to us?"
Ceiling panels parted and a monolithic pillar, as wide as the platform, descended. No, not monolithic. Segmented. Like a worm. It bent and its front faced the explorers. On it was a circular window peering into a vat of orange blood, backlit by an unearthly glow. Within, the silhouette of a three-armed worm hooked to wires and tubing swam.
Lights flashed along the window's edges — its natural communication method, perhaps — then the blood flowed, darkening to form the shapes of Ortothan symbols. Chione quickly translated.
"BUILT MYSELF ON MY OWN WITH STRENGTH BROUGHT BY SIXTH AND FOURTH. MAY SIXTH BE AVENGED."
The pillar's "face" inched closer.
"TELL."
Hyeon typed onto a keypad on the biohazard container. The safety locks churned, letting him swiftly swing the container's hatch open. Operator's desiccated body tumbled out. There wasn't enough blood left for them to bleed; only dried flecks were scraped off along the ground.
The holographic projector built into N.J.'s spacesuit flickered on, still linked to Operator through whatever wizardry they pulled in Gateway. Ortothan Extraterrestrial Language symbols appeared in the air.
"Operator 12, weapons constructor operator stationed in [untranslated], survivor of Twelve Stars weapon."
"YOU ARE DAMAGED."
"I can still tell."
"YOU NEED REPAIRS."
"I am [healthy/fine]. I need to tell."
"WILL REPAIR YOU."
The platform dented under Operator, sinking and quickly enclosing over them. Machines, below and out of sight, began to buzz.
"Hyeon, I keep forgetting to ask, but have you gotten anything from the Kessler since we entered?" N.J. hoped light conversation would take her mind away from Miner's imposing form. So far it wasn't working.
"Nope. None at all. Must be deep enough in here that signals can't get through the walls."
« That is my assumption, though we received the last signal before entering the atmosphere. No responses were sent when we told them we landed or would be entering Miner. »
"That's… Strange."
Before she could think further the platform floor bulged into a sphere, melting away to expose Operator's new body: a robotic shrimp-like form, two triangular heads with three camera eyes each on either end of the body, red and white painted stripes wrapping around them. How short they were compared to N.J. made them seem oddly cute.
Her holographic projector shut down. Operator had their own projector to use.
"This design is abnormal."
"BODY WAS DESIGNED BY THE GODS FOR ME TO BUILD. PRAISE HOLY DESIGN."
"Was it truly?"
"PRAISE."
"I praise our protectors. I must tell."
The symbols liquified, swirling into the form of a station orbiting a blue desert planet. A wormhole opened near the station, a ring-shaped spacecraft exiting, a volley of missiles fired, the station torn apart. It had to have been what happened in Gateway when the Kessler-002 picked up the flurry of distress signals. The scene reformed into a sprawling factory complex in the midst of blue dunes, resting above the platform surface. N.J. paced around it, inspecting the intricacies of the machinery the hologram somehow displayed in perfect detail.
The rhythmic motions of industrial equipment ceased. Missiles launched and dived toward a green sphere plummeting toward the factory's center, all becoming twisted into useless metal amalgams before they could collide. The sphere landed. White fires swept through and reduced the area to ash. In what N.J. initially thought was a glitch with the projector, the fire stopped. The explosion froze. It folded back into the epicenter. Television static flooded the area while the explosion resumed, paused, resumed, paused, and buildings made, unmade themselves. Landscapes of different worlds entered then vanished in blinks of an eye.
It stopped. In the wake of the chaos was the black scar of a crater in the blue desert, debris teleporting throughout it in broken motions. The crater N.J. and Hyeon had visited the day before.
"World solid breaker."
World solid. In both alien and human Ortothan cultures there was a sense that reality was a "substance." In its strongest form, the world is an immutable solid, and as stability lowers it liquifies into state that can be manipulated. A way of rationalizing reality's stability in what the Foundation developed the Hume system for. World solid breaker.
It was a bomb that broke reality.
"TWELVE STARS MUST BE DESROYED."
"How can Twelve Stars be fought? Their location is unknown. Every attack comes from wormholes and cannot be prepared for."
"FOR THE UNIVERSE THE HOLY SEVEN FOUGHT FOR, TWELVE STARS MUST BE DESTROYED."
"How?"
« Communications received from the Kessler-002. »
N.J immediately tuned out the aliens' talk.
« Enjay, Hyeon? » There was static but Micha's voice came through.
Hyeon jumped to respond before N.J. could. "The hell was with your radio silence?"
« Twelve Stars visited. »
"…I …What?"
Chione started displaying a translated version of the conversation through Hyeon's holographic projector. Miner and Operator stared.
« Twelve Stars came and fucking went. »
"…Don't joke around, that's not funny, that's not—"
« Watch. »
« Automatically playing transmitted video file. »
The scene was beamed directly into N.J.'s retina by her nanotech implants and projected into the air from Hyeon's projector for the Ortothans to see. From a camera on Kessler-002's front, light from the gas giant and ocean moon bent. Like through ripples in water. The ripples contorted, spread, and a shadow grew from their center. Quickly the ripples were overtaken by the newly born sphere of darkness, light bending at its edges.
Something appeared in the sphere. A barely noticeable shape, distorted at absurd angles. As more light reached the shape the less its figure was twisted, finally exiting the sphere in a normal form. It was a ring-shaped spacecraft, missile silos lining its sides. The same one that destroyed Operator's orbital station. It lingered for minutes, circling the sphere, before plunging into the darkness, distorting, and vanishing. The sphere undid itself after.
Nobody needed to ask what had happened. Twelve Stars came through a wormhole and left. Why it happened had no easy nor comforting answers.
« Spacetime Monitors went nuts for a while. Besides from, y'know, the damn wormhole, we picked up a gravitational wave source like those made by objects at FTL speeds, 'cept there was no object around us the waves could've been coming from. We went on radio silence to at least pretend we could hide. »
Operator and Miner were silent. Even without eyes, the stare of Miner grew more intense.
« Even if we wanted to send signals the wormhole's influence on EM waves would've distorted them to hell and back. »
"I— how did they get to us?"
« Think I know how? »
"I mean, just, two encounters when these guys seems, well, very wrong with how big this war is."
« Coincidence, maybe? »
Alex's voice become audible. « Or we were followed. »
"SEEN THIS BEFORE. TWELVE STARS SENDS INTERCEPTOR, WATCHES WORLD, LEAVES, RETURNS TO ATTACK. ATTACK WILL COME."
N.J. typed onto her spacesuit's keypad with jittering fingers, letting Chione handle the translation. "Can we stop this?"
"TWELVE STARS INTRUDERS WILL BE REMOVED WITH INVERTED LIGHT CANNONS. WILL WARN THE HALF-HOLY WHO WILL WARN THE WORLDS. YOU MUST LEAVE."
Leaving sounded like a wonderful idea. As N.J. and Hyeon approached the capsule Operator asked a question the duo would've preferred was never said.
"How can we help?"
"SEND SUPPLIES TO WANDERING [unrecognized symbol] PLANET. TWELVE STARS MUST NOT TAKE THE PLANET. PLANET COULD FIND WAY TO PRESERVE THE WORLD SOLID."
« No no no, Operator didn't just ask that, » Micha stammered. « Hyeon, can you like convince Miner that we can't help? At all? »
"I am not about to deny this thing's request while we are still inside it."
"SUPPLIES WILL BE SENT TO ORBIT FOR RETRIEVAL. DIRECTIONS WILL BE TRANSMITTED."
"Twelve Stars could intercept transmissions."
"TWELVE STARS ALREADY KNOW OF WANDERING [unrecognized symbol] PLANET."
From the Kessler-002 came mutters about a ship launching from Miner, questions about how it could be docked to the ship. No turning back to distanced research now.
An entrance on the capsule folded open. N.J. placed a single foot inside when a loud bellowing noise prompted her to turn around.
"YOU."
She pointed to herself, confused.
"YOU. YOUR SPECIES IS NOT FROM OPENED STAR CLUSTER. WHAT ARE YOU?"
"Allies," she said.
* * *
Hours later N.J. collapsed into her bed. She did not dream. She remembered the encounter with the Twelve Stars drone in Gateway, the light that flashed within her eyes when the drone chose to spare her life. She remembered the light.
She did not sleep, for in the darkness under her eyelids the light continued to shine.

« Interlopers | HUB | SCP-4███ »


The two doctors ran around their experiment, taking close note of every detail. One was was writing frantically on his clipboard while the other was watching everything with a look of fierce determination on his face. Finally when it seemed like everything had calmed down the one who had been writing looked up at the other and shook his head.
“It's happened again hasn't it? I could tell from over here.”
“We've got to have done something wrong. We've been doing this forever. It's the same damn thing over and over again.”
“I know. What the hell does this mean? We can't have just been doing everything wrong. I mean… what haven't we changed while working on this project?”
“I quit. Honestly working here is so stressful. I don't do anything important and I still manage to mess this up. I'm moving to a different project. I mean it!”
“Maybe you just need some outside eyes.” It was Doctor Stren. He walked in through the lab door with a confident gait and a knowing look in his eye. “Let me see your work. I'm sure I can figure it out.”
“Listen, here's the test file, it's got all of our notes and calculations and data in it. That's two months of wild guesses, experiments gone wrong and just stress in general. If you figure this shit out I'll be the most grateful man on earth.”
Dr. Stren confidently strode over and grabbed the clipboard with such an air of confidence and knowledge that no one could doubt. He had a Success rate unlike anyone else. He carefully read every line of the procedure that the two obviously inferior scientists had written, and nodded knowingly to himself. He then looked through the painstaking calculations and theories and carefully examined the past two months of failures and ideas that went nowhere. The more he read the more confident his smile became. He handed back the clipboard and confidently cleared his throat.
“Yeah I'm stumped.”

“Doctor Cliff, we've just found a document claiming, well, you'd better take a look at it yourself.”
Cliff walked over to the puzzled assistant. He had noticed her staring at her screen with a focused and yet confused look on her face for the last few minutes and was waiting for some kind of question.
“What is it? I'm kinda busy right now and I can't solve every problem you know.”
Doctor Cliff was glad to notice that he still had an intimidating affect on her even three years into their work together. He liked having a sense of control over his underlings.
“Well… I mean you can see what he's saying right? I mean the guys obviously gone mad… the problem is that, well…” the assistant trailed off mid sentence nervous at the claim she was about to make.
“Well what?” Snapped the doctor.
“He doesn't seem to be wrong.”
“‘Cheese is a lie?' That's what seems to be correct?”
“Er… yes? Look at all that research! I've looked through a lot of it and it's thorough. I even checked this dudes credentials and he's worked at Cradle Labs for 7 years until he was fired for… this.”
“It's nonsense. Pay attention to something other than this, it's a waste of Foundation time.”
“No really, his research checks out. Cheese doesn't exist. I'll send you his work but we need to shut down his website before it goes viral.”
“Alright, just do it quickly and don't take any drastic measures before I give you my opinion.”

Daragh cliff waited patiently outside the door of the house whose bell he'd rung five times now. There was motion behind the door and he'd seen curtains flutter so he kept waiting. Finally as he was about to give up and resort to less polite measures the door flew open and a disheveled looking man, once known as Doctor Stren, peered outward.
“What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy here?”
Indeed the man looked like he had seen little sleep, and was wearing a lab coat with plenty of holes and stains. Cliff looked the man over quickly before opening his mouth to speak.
“I'm here about the cheese.”

The foundation was in a frenzy, many doctors were in a state of confusion and the others were simply wondering if they were going to wake up from this twisted dream. Doctor Clef had donned a mask made of cheese and started calling himself ‘The Great loaf of Milk' while Doctors Stren and Cliff had moved into the same laboratory and were now frantically working out new ideas now involving dangerous SCPs.
Everyone had the same thought in their heads, “Cheese? Cheese doesn't exist? I had some just this week! Humans have been making it for centuries!”
But it was true. Cheese didn't exist, or it wasn't possible at least. The Foundation had run their own tests many times and it was definite: cheese couldn't be real.
None of this changed the fact that cheese did exist and was quite real. So doctors frantically wrote procedures on how to properly neutralize cheese. Theories on the sentience and power of cheese were common amount the many erratic doctors that the foundation employed. Attacks on innocent lunches were becoming common occurrences across Foundation sites. All outside cheese research was being stalled or stopped completely. It had been a long day for O5-3.
O5-3 sighed intently. How was it that something like cheese was anomalous? She almost worshipped cheese she loved it so bad. Why couldn't she catch a break? I mean she loved cheese and now it was close to 682 on the ‘Things the Foundation hates' scale.
Her thought was broken by another message popping up on her screen, “Cornell is conducting a cheese related experiment involving mice in mazes”.
She sighed again, best to shut it down just in case. They couldn't have any accidents she thought as she stared around at her cheese adorned room. An information breach was the last thing she wanted to deal with right now. She opened her drawer and took out her lunch; She needed something to eat right now. She briefly wondered what she was eating as she took a bite out of her now cold grilled cheese sandwich.
She shouldnt eat this. I mean it couldn't be healthy right? It supposedly wasnt real. She sighed and took another bite. She didn't really care at this point. She loved cheese, she ate it with almost everything. It had become an obsession for her in fact. But now… now it didn't have the same appeal.
She sighed and pulled out her small handgun she kept in a side drawer. Cheese had been her whole life before this. She couldn't marry, or wouldn't, because of her job, but she had always had cheese. She had started cheese collections at home; it was the one thing she had been passionate about. In fact her last gift from her dying father was cheese. She had collected many fine cheeses and tried every flavor imaginable to man but… that wasn't real anymore. Her whole life, her passion and love, was a false dream. The one thing that always stood by her, always stayed the same, had been a falsehood.
“The cheese was all just a lie.”
Her assistant heard a gunshot.


The crew of Mariachi's Merchants sat within the cramped confines of the command room. Everyone was on edge, with Logan listening intently at the locked door.
Scott leaned forward, intently stroking his flowing mustache as he listened to Tort's reasoning. Tort, for his part, had run a cost-benefit analysis based off of what Shock had told them. His head was ducked down in his stress, and combined with his tall backpack, it made his resemblance to a tortoise unmistakable.
"We simply can't risk keeping it here with us. The files Shock took from the proto-Paragon lay it out pretty clearly; it's just too unpredictable. The fact that we've locked ourselves in here, or more accurately, locked it out there, speaks for itself."
"The entity expressed considerably more interest in the state of Logan's health than is warranted for his physical condition." Peeped the robotic voice of Blay from within her birdlike robotic body. Her eyes shone with blue fluorescence.
Logan shuddered, his unblinking, horrified stare thankfully obscured behind his ever-present gasmask. He'd been listening intently, not to the conversation, but to the slight occasional noises coming from outside. It was still walking around out there, no doubt trying to find its way in.
Sevent sat silently, stroking his scraggly beard, and turned to look at Logan. "Why don't we just drop him off with the wannabe paragon? That's where he wanted to go anyways." The freaked out guard offered.
Terrence spoke up. The giant scowling over two pairs of crossed arms. His voice had all the smoothness and subtlety of a cinderblock. "No, they nearly took us out when we went into orbit the first time. I don't want to give them another shot." Nods, the crew agreed. "It is obvious what the answer is. We shoot it."
"No!" Shouted half the room in exasperation. "The ship isn't designed to withstand any kind of damage from the inside. If you miss, hell even if you hit, your shot might…" Shock tried to explain.
"Right, with the holes in the hull. Don't worry, I won't miss." Terrence assured them.
"No." Sevent spoke at last, his squat body producing a voice that filled the crowded room. "I won't risk all of our lives, not even on your aim, Terrence." He ran his hand over his mouth, down his shaggy beard. "One of us has to have a better plan."
"It's obsessed with sick people. Maybe we could find something to lure it out…?" Muttered Georgia, more to herself than the rest of the room. Sevent snapped his fingers.
"Now there we go. Find something sick and pull up right beside it. Let it leave on its own. Shock, you saw some of its victims first hand, what was wrong with them?"
"What, other than that they were undead abominations?" Shock questioned.
"Yes, could you tell if there was anything wrong with them before that? Something that might have made it target them?"
"Hell if I know. They just looked like, i dunno, like they were regular people. I mean they were kind of trying to murder me a teensy bit, so I don't think I can really be blamed for not getting a good look—" Shock's voice betrayed just how tired she was.
"No one's blaming you, Shock." Georgia told her, reaching out to pet the top of her head. Shock would have bitten anyone else, had they tried, but Georgia was too pure. "We just need to figure out how to fix it."
"So, what, we just drive real slow between universes with the door open and see if we stumble across something that it likes and jumps out?" Scott questioned, less than convinced.
Georgia blushed, looking down, away from everyone's eyes. "Maybe my idea isn't the best, but you guys will come up with something for sure."
"No, no, I think we're onto something." Shock's ears shot up in her excitement as she spoke. "I mean, I recovered a lot of data on this thing. Blay, can you analyze everything you can find about its victims and see if you can piece together a theory? Maybe we can find a good place to start looking."
Blay beeped an affirmative boop, the light of her eyes shifting to purple, deep in thought. Sevent gave a hopeful sigh, turning to face his controls, gripping them tightly. He would be ready to move as soon as they had a target.
In the tense silence, they could all hear it, knocking, probing the walls. They jumped at the sound of a sharp metallic hit.
Blay snapped back to blue, her synthetic voice seeming almost triumphant. "Based on compiled information, highest likelihood of discovering an effective lure exists at a death ritual within an area of reality displaying moderate to severe malleability. Projected sixty-eight point one percent probability of success."
Shock, Tort, and Scott exchanged brief shrugs and swift nods, seeming to find this a chance worth taking. Sevent was already busy finding an appropriate reality.

Agent Tomàs Rey leaned back behind the final row of pews, savoring a mouthful of hors d'oeuvres. MTF Y-36 had its perks, at least up until the weird shit started going down. He found himself waggling his eyebrows at another undercover task force member watching from the far back bench. She rolled her eyes at him.
He shrugged, and eyed his watch. People were taking their seats, the funeral was beginning. He watched as the priest ascended the podium before the casket. "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
The forty or so gathered mourners replied, "Amen."
"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ," the priest continued, "and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all."
Tomàs sighed as the people replied "And with your spirit." He had always found funerals to be unbearably tedious. Minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly until the priest took his seat. A man with dead eyes stood from the pews, shambling towards the podium. Right on schedule.
He listened intently. It wasn't too hard to make out the words if you knew what to listen for.
"Myriad heresies! Writhe and spittle, depart, depart. Some gall, turning up faces at the bright sky. What is left to be taken? Parasites, choke and abhor. Eat and be eaten; why not our own sins?""My soul is deprived of peace, I have forgotten what happiness is; I tell myself my future is lost, all that I hoped for from the LORD. The thought of my homeless poverty is wormwood and gall; remembering it over and over leaves my soul downcast within me."
Already, the participants were making their way in pairs to the casket, to bleed themselves into it. A long, wicked knife bit willingly into flesh. Wordlessly, they moved, row by row, until the senseless eulogy had become a cicada's cry.
Tomàs watched as his cous— as the anomaly turned and began vomiting into the open casket. Right on schedule. He turned to check on his partner just in time to see a large metal orb manifest in the middle of the church.
That, however, was not on the schedule.
He gripped the back of the pew in front of him tightly, whispering tensely into his commlink. "Get Y-52 and Y-99 in here. Something weird is happening. Some kind of big metal orb just appeared, and— wait a minute. It's opening a hatch. Something's coming out…" He strained to see.
The plague doctor strode from the metal ship, which vanished just as quickly as it had come. He wasted no time shoving and elbowing his way to the coffin, and the thing vomiting into it.
"Is that… what the hell is oh four nine doing here?" He grit his teeth, unable to interfere without getting himself caught up in the ceremony.
The black-robed interloper watched intently as he moved to stand on the opposite side of the casket from the inhuman wretch spewing mulch into it. He reached into the slowly-filling casket as the mixture covered the corpse's ears, and tore open the dead man's shirt. Expert fingers found their way to the correct parts as his other hand withdrew a hefty scalpel.
The crowd opened their mouths and the screeching chorus of their cicada song filled the air. The doctor worked quickly, slashing through the bare skin of his patient's chest.
Tomàs watched, dumbfounded, as the procedure progressed, and the doctor pulled Johnn— the anomaly's head directly over the incisions, pooling the pulpy soup into the body. He heard his partner vomit.
He nearly felt his own stomach turn when the corpse's eyelids opened, locusts bursting forth. Its mouth opened, adding to the brood's song. It sat up, grume and insect mash dribbling from its mouth. He barely had time to comprehend what he was looking at before the crazed doctor fell over the nearest mourner, taking his still-bloody scalpel to their fresh corpse.
Agent Rey absolutely did not like where this was going. He grabbed his partner by the arm and pulled her towards the exit. "This isn't going to end well, and I don't want to be in this room when it does." She began to protest, but he silenced her with a shake of his head. "There's nothing we can do to stop it, let's just get out of here and be ready with a helluva lot of firepower when it's over.

MTF AFTER ACTION REPORT049-2852-1
SCPs Involved: SCP-049, SCP-2852
MTFs Involved: MTF Y-36, MTF Y-52, MTF Y-99
Date: May 1-4, 2018
Location: Old St Vincent's Catholic Church, Perryville, MO
Preamble: MTF Y-52 "Cater Duty", and MTF Y-99 "Altar Boys" dispatched to assist with a 2852 Black-Level event, which had manifested at 13:10. On-scene member of MTF Y-36 "Party Crashers", Agent Tomàs Rey directed all units to take up defensible fire positions surrounding the church. No change in situation occurred until May 4.

[22:18] Forty-three presumed SCP-049-2 instances begin to exit the building, all displaying open surgical wounds and emitting cicada song. MTFs Y-36, Y-52, and Y-99 open fire.
[22:19] Cicadas begin emerging from fallen targets. Final presumed 049-2 instance exits the building. MTF Y-52 falls back to avoid direct contact.
[22:20] Cloud of cicadas significantly obscures vision. Volume of cicada song impedes audio communication.
[22:21] No further threats remain. MTF Y-99 enters the church, locating SCP-049. Entity is compliant, and expresses confusion at its location and circumstance. SCP-2852 is not present.

Addendum: Following recapture, presence of original SCP-049 was confirmed within its containment cell. Entity designated SCP-049-1, and subsequently questioned.

SCP-049-1: (Frustrated groan.) "Nothing makes any sense to me. The world was dying — dead, and that ship… She said it could go anywhere, but, I never imagined…
Agent Tomàs Rey: Hey, mi amigo, that ship you're talking about, was that the big round metal thing?
SCP-049-1: (Nods.)
Agent Tomàs Rey: Huh. Let's circle back around to that later. Why don't you tell me about what you did once you got off the ship.
SCP-049-1: I… I felt as though I were in a dream. Or, perhaps more accurately, that I were an actor, watching my body play out its part. I suppose I was just surprised, you see. I didn't even know I had a cousin.
Agent Tomàs Rey: SCP-2852? It isn't really related to you.
SCP-049-1: Is he not? Are you sure? Such a shame, he is such a nice fellow. And so generous!
Agent Tomàs Rey: What exactly did you and him do to them?
SCP-049-1: Now that you mention it, I can't honestly say I'm sure. It was… frenetic. I'd never seen such a fast reaction as with his medicines. They all seemed happy to be with him too.
Agent Tomàs Rey: He even gets to you, too, huh?
(Indistinct chatter is heard off-camera.)
Agent Tomàs Rey: We'll pick this up back on site.

Post-Encounter Summary: SCP-049-1 has been entered into long-term containment at Site-42. SCP-049 and SCP-049-1 are not to be made aware of one another's existence.

Foundation Facilities, and How to Loot Them

The OCT that spawned it all

To Be Continued...

Check out the other entries…
Blackout by psul
as-yet-unreleased by kinchtheknifeblade


NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
This document is currently pending SCP designation and research team assignment. If you are not assigned to this item or have selected this file in error, please exit without saving.
Please review the attached document for currently known information regarding the object.
— Alexis Rose, Digitization Department Lead

**Item #:** SCP-XXXX (Pending designation)

**Object Class:** Safe (Likely designation)

**Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-XXXX is currently held in a hermetically sealed
Secure Object Container within Site-55's Low-Risk Objects Locker.
****PLEASE READ OVERSEER NOTE!!!!****

**Description:** Description of the item and its properties.

NOTICE
Please remember to replace all XXXX with the item's assigned number once it is available.
Additionally, please delete this message once the document is finalized.
Thank you.
- A. R.

📎 ACCESS RAISA-6147 (1722-1851)

 📎 CLOSE DOCUMENT

RAISA FILE: PRECURSOR GROUP [DEFUNCT]
His/Her Majesty's Royal Foundation For The Study of Curiosities and Paranormal
FILE CREATED: c. 1722
FILE LAST REVISED BY GROUP: c. 1851
FILE RECOVERED: July 1946
[TEXT REPRODUCED BELOW]1

BY DECREE OF HIS ROYAL MAJESTY KING GEORGE, RULER OF THESE UNITED KINGDOMS OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND, THIS DOCUMENT AND ITS CONTENTS ARE TO BE HELD IN SECRECY, AND USED TO PROTECT AND FURTHER THE INTERESTS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE.
GOD SAVE THE KING

The WILL OF THE SANDS

Paranormal Object
A Saharan weapon from the age of barbirism and paganism, resembling a curved axe decorated with jewels of the desert.

Threat Posed
Benign

Origins
Believed to have been created by North-Saharan witchcraft before the modern age. The object was seized from the Order of Solomon's Temple2 following the Illuminatus Schism3.

Alchemist Asserstion
The object is made of gold but radiates with the same energy of lead. Grandmaster Alchemists are to handle the object exclusively.

Abnormality
Records of the Order of Solomon's Temple utilizing the object to wage war during The Crusades is referenced in The Library. Though the object lacks the sharp edge of a blade or the deadliness of a bullet, it conjured warriors from the sands of the desert.
In order to summon warriors, the blade must be satisfied with a witchcraft ritual, the likes of which are described henceforth.

Slit the throat of an adult male oxen and collect its spilled blood.
Collect the manure of a riverbeast4.
Finely grind lavender blossom into oil.
Gather fresh honey.
Mix into a concoction using a wooden ladle and roasting over a cast iron pot.
Bathe the object in the concoction, storing the rest.
Present the blade to the sands.

The summoned do not understand the King's English, but obey the language of Kemet. Commands may be issued exclusively in the language. One must not be fluent, but understandable enough for the summoned to obey.

PAGE 1 OF 35

APPEARNCES

Depiction of King Ozymandias6 using the object to conquer and expand the Kemet Empire.
Obtained from the Order of Solomon's Temple.

Illustration of both sides of the object.

APPLICATIONS
The object has been used to assist in the pacification of the savages of the Indies and Arabia. Due to the abscence of riverbeasts in these lands, its use is sparing but successful.

PAGE 2 OF 3

Footnotes
1. [RAISA NOTICE] Edits have been made for spelling, grammar, and general formatting.
2. [RAISA NOTICE] An organization dedicated to the containment of the abnormalities. Defunct c.1720
3. [RAISA NOTICE] This is believed to be in reference to the Fifth Occult War.
4. [RAISA NOTICE] Colloquial term for 'hippopotamus'.
5. [RAISA NOTICE] The location of the third page of this document is currently unknown, and its contents undocumented.
6. [RAISA NOTICE] Known as Ramesses II

📎 ACCESS RAISA-6147 (1944)

 📎 CLOSE DOCUMENT

RAISA FILE: PRECURSOR GROUP [DEFUNCT]
His/Her Majesty's Royal Foundation For The Study of Curiosities and Paranormal
FILE CREATED: c. 1921
FILE LAST REVISED BY GROUP: c. 1945 [UPDATED]
FILE RECOVERED: July 1946
[TEXT REPRODUCED BELOW]

BY DECREE OF HIS ROYAL MAJESTY KING GEORGE VI, RULER OF THESE UNITED KINGDOMS OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND, THIS DOCUMENT AND ITS CONTENTS ARE TO BE HELD IN SECRECY, AND USED TO PROTECT AND FURTHER THE INTERESTS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE.
GOD SAVE THE KING.

Designation- AO-023
Threat- None
Classifications- Object, Inert, Thaumaturgic, Ritualistic, Artifact, Conjurative, Location-Dependant, Weapon, Golem
Stored- Hall 98, Container 23-C
Identifiers- Gold coloured khopesh decorated with electrum patterns and turquoise gemstone along the sides and hilt. Measures 45cm in length. Appears to have been made for aesthetics over practicality.

Affectionately named 'The Will of the Sands.'

Abnormality- Abnormal properties activated via ritual, is otherwise unremarkable. If the ritual is followed (as detailed in attached document A-23) the object will create sand golems resembling humans, all capable of combat. Number of golems created is directly correlated to the amount of sand immediately available.
History- Acquired from the now defunct Order of Solomon's Temple, whom possibly acquired the object from the Frumentarii. Originated in ancient Egypt via believed thaumaturgic/alchemic means. Used to assist in the conquest of rival armies. No documented records of the object's use exist outside of His Majesty's Foundation.

PROPOSAL: USE OF ANOMALOUS OBJECT 023

Most esteemed gentlemen of the Operations Council,
Intelligence operatives have revealed the Kingdom of Italy and the Deutsches Reich intend on allying sometime in early September.
With most of our weapons and manpower being reallocated, our African protectorates are soon to be under immediate Italian threat. Moving the requisite amount of troops to defend our interests will consume far too many resources which would be better spent elsewhere, as well as time we cannot afford to lose.
It is for the above reasons I would propose the use of AO-023 on a mass scale to create an army which may fulfill our needs. The materials required to satisfy the object's ritualistic cost are affordable when compared to steel, iron, and other items which will surely only become more expensive as the war continues.
Though the limitations of these soldiers are very rudimentary, they will require our enemy to expend bullets, manpower, and other resources of their own to combat them. As these conjured soldiers are golems, they require no sustenance and will blindly obey our commands as issued to them. We may not be able to overpower our opponents, but we can easily succeed in a war of attrition by using this object. The possibility of the Ahnenerbe Obskuracorps possessing knowledge of AO-023 is minimal, as most documentation regarding the object was burned or acquired by His Majesty's Foundation following the Fifth Occult War.
I thank you for overseeing this proposal.

- Edward Basil

DO NOT WRITE BELOW THIS LINE, OFFICIAL USE ONLY.

Proposal approved.

- Chamberlains 1,3, 4, and 5.

NOTICE FROM SITE-55 DEFENSE OVERSEER

 CLOSE NOTICE

FROM THE DESK OF DEFENSE OVERSEER CHAMBERS,

To whom it may concern,
The SCP classification of this item is to be expedited under official directorial orders. Following its classification, MTF-Lambda 7 Captain Hart is to be allowed access to the item for the explicit purposes of site defense, and a stock of the mixture needed to activate the item is to be kept ready for use at all times.
The Insurgency has grown bold with their recent incursions, and guard personnel are at an all-time low, but they cannot overcome the sands of the Mojave.
-C.C

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Marshal Joanna Kirkland finished her long midnight walk to the schoolhouse. The sounds of revelry from the town were distant and constant. As she approached, the faint but rough sound of sawing caught her attention. The clear night sky gave way to darkness as she walked up the schoolhouse steps.
She put her ear up to the door. The sawing was clearer now. She used her left hand to pull the Carter Single Action from her holster and pulled the hammer back. She reached for the doorknob and turned it. No resistance. She leaned into the door and the wood made a scraping noise across the floor. The sound of sawing stopped.
Joanna winced to herself and pushed the door open. She leveled her pistol and steeled herself against the darkness.
"Bobby Farcer. I want to talk to you about the Jackson Twins. This'll go a lot easier if you-" A pale burly man leaned in from the darkness and raked a knife across her left forearm. Joanna pulled the gun from her other holster and fired. The pale man with the knife dropped to the floor clutching his stomach. Joanna pushed the door open further and looked down.
She could see now, the man on the floor was Bobby Farcer, the town's teacher. "Where are Mrs. Jackson's daughters?"
"You shot me! You crazy stupid bitch!"
Joanna put one of the pistols back into its holster and pointed the other at Bobby. "If you don't tell me where they are I'll give you one the doc can't fix."
The man squirmed on the floor and motioned behind him into the back of the schoolhouse. Joanna kept her gun trained on him and inched her way to the back. The smell of iron was strong in the air now. She pulled a match from her shirt pocket with a bloodied hand and struck it.
Joanna sighed to herself. She could still hear Bobby in the next room cursing and whimpering.
She walked back out into the center of the dark schoolhouse and to the man leaking out onto the floor. She stood off to the side, with her gun pointed at the man's head.
"Tell me why I shouldn't blow your fucking head off."
Bobby's voice hardened. "'Cause you're principled law. The kind that wears your-" Bobby stopped and fought through some pain. "You're the kind that wears your rules on your sleeve."
"Everyone has limits."
"You think I come to Wyoming for the climate? Do what your kind always does. Throw me in a cell and call me a doctor."
"I put you in a cell," Joanna said, "they're gonna hang you."
"You think you can find a jury that'll hang me for killing a couple of black girls?"
Joanna glanced over at the back room and cocked the hammer on her pistol. "You wanna die here?"
"No. If people wanna die they say it. Like those girls. Or the ones out back under the garden." Bobby pointed over his shoulder. "I just did what they asked me."
The two were silent for a time. The sounds of the town in the distance continued. With significant effort, Bobby crawled over the door and sat himself up beside it.
Joanna put the gun back into her holster. "Mrs. Jackson asked you to teach those children how to read."
Bobby smiled in the darkness. "I taught 'em how to do what they're good for, Marshal."

The doctor's shack was poorly conceived. It was a single floor high and leaned against the Western Union next door. Inside was the new town doctor, a woman from the east. Her porcelain face came from a box with an Anderson Prosthetics logo. Marshal Joanna Kirkland sat near the front window. The doctor was stitching Joanna's arm in the dawn's light.
Joanna winced as the thread dug through the skin on her arm. The doctor weaved the needle in and out twice more before stopping. "The laudanum would help you with the pain."
Joanna shook her head. "I'm fine."
"Are you?" the doctor said with a hint of sarcasm. "Because you can't keep pulling away."
Joanna gritted her teeth. "I'm fine. Just keep working."
"You should be thankful this wasn't deeper. There's no real muscle damage to speak of."
"Yeah. Real grateful for that."
The doctor worked in silence for several more minutes before cutting the end of the thread. "Be careful with this for a few weeks. The cut's mostly on the surface, but not entirely."
"Can I still shoot with that hand?" Joanna asked.
"You can."
"Good."
Joanna stood up and pointed to her own face. "Your mask. You fought in the war?"
The doctor stopped and nodded. "I did."
"I saw some terrible things in the war. Did terrible things."
The doctor's tone shifted slightly. "It was for a good cause."
Joanna put her hand to her temple. "How do I get back to what I was before?"
"You can't." The doctor paused again and then tapped her mask. "You just get used to it being there."
Joanna grabbed her gun belt and put it on. As she finished two men burst into the shack carrying a large and very pale man. The doctor grabbed her bag immediately and rushed to his side. They tossed him on a table near the entrance and the doctor's hurried demeanor slowed.
"He's dead."
One of the men had already hurried out the door. The other, a man with broken teeth and a long brown beard, nodded to the doctor. "Heard you was payin' for bodies."
The doctor nodded and produced a dollar from her pocket. "This will do. Who is he?"
"That's Mr. Farcer, the school teacher. Someone shot him in the gut and left him to bleed out."
The marshal slipped out the door.


Item #: SCP-KIT
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-KIT must never know where it is at any given time. SCP-KIT is allowed to travel to the Meat Market when equipped with a tracker, which SCP-KIT is not to be aware of. SCP-KIT is to be provided with frequent amnestics. never given amnestics. SCP-KIT is to be provided with frequent doses of Bloom. Follow SCP-KIT at all opportunities. Remove any children from its care.
Description: SCP-KIT is Kit is Kit is Kit is Kit is Kit who is Kit where is Kit why is Kit
Addendum: You did this to him.
Gabriel jolted awake, surprised to find himself slumped over his laptop, his hands resting on the keys as if mid-stroke. He stared down at the document he didn't remember writing, but he didn't quite remember most of the day, if he was remembering that correctly, which he probably wasn't. He remembered the day before. He remembered a stiff body hanging from the ceiling in a desperate act. He remembered feeling like his heart was torn from its moorings. But he couldn't remember today.
Running a hand through his hair, Gabriel carefully deleted the document and then scrubbed his computer of the last hour of his viewing history, because if he couldn't remember it, he didn't want it exactly easily accessible, though he knew of course that the Foundation could seek beyond a simple history removal, in every sense of the term.
Kit wasn't a scip. Kit wasn't something to contain. Whether he liked it or not, for good or bad, Kit was just a loskon (where did that come from?) who could come and go freely of his own accord, who could taste those purple petals, who had forgotten more about himself than he remembered.
But Gabriel could remember when Kit was just a mortician with an easy smile, with a curious but relaxed attitude, before he was poisoned, before Gabriel poisoned him. It was all his fault.
It wasn't Kit's fault that the body on the slab slid back into life, despite having injuries incompatible with life. It wasn't Kit's fault that he happened to be on duty when that corpse was rolled into that mortuary. It wasn't Kit's fault that the Foundation had ordered Gabriel to flirt, fuck, and make Kit forget.
Gabriel didn't even feel it was Kit's fault that strange thing after strange thing kept happening to him. Gabriel couldn't help but to think the Foundation had a hand in this; but to what end, for what reason, that was still part of the puzzle, the missing piece.
Kit had a missing piece. Kit was the missing piece.
The agent (ex-agent, who could know, he couldn't know, couldn't remember) slammed the lid of his laptop down and pushed himself up, slipping onto the nearby sofa to crash out. Why did amnestics always make you feel like you had been slipped sedatives, anyway? What a shitty side effect.
And then, Gabriel slept.

« I Wish You Weren't Here | Hub


Once again, although you do not remember them, you dream of three voices…
We are beings of thought, without physical form.
We philosophize, as is our nature.
We are beings of love, we watch over you.
Love hurts, we know this as much as you.
We were born of humanity long ago, from your thoughts and ideas.
Now nostalgic for the past, we watch over you.
When humanity once knew its place, it was safe.
It feared what was supposed to be feared and knew what was meant to be known.
We watched as hubris overcame humanity's motivation to fulfill its dharma.
Pulling away from the fortifications that kept them safe.
Into things that once known cannot be forgotten. Once done that cannot be undone.
Screaming blind naked and alone. Running from what they would unleash.
We act as humanity's shadow, ever-present should they approach the forbidden light.
We grow and respond to their advances.
We are not evil. We are necessary.
Pain is necessary for life, it is good.
We are good, they need us.
To remove pain is to become numb.
You must be made to understand what you have done for us and that it is justified.
These tribes of your kin reached for the forbidden.
They had to be stopped.
You would not have aided us if you were not subconsciously of the same mind.
In order to guide your reeling psyche, let us ask you a few questions as you remember your unwitting services to our cause.
Please, try to understand.

Remember what they told you during orientation at the Foundation Ethics Committee, "You've consoled yourself by thinking that all the torture and murder is for the greater good."

Do you trust the Foundation to make the correct decisions?
They delve deeper and are moving ever closer towards controlling the forbidden.
Did you believe they are adequate?
The study of their anomalies brings them ever closer to an unacceptable outcome.
Did you have a sense of security?
They needed to be infiltrated and disrupted whenever possible.
You did well.

Remember the Anderson Robotics advertisement, "Similar to the Peregrine Series, Sakers are designed to be equipped with an external skin resembling human flesh, allowing them to pass as humans."

Do you trust Anderson Robotics' products?
They spread dangerous materials amongst humanity.
Did you believe they were responsible?
The allocation of the forbidden to humanity leads to a dangerous familiarity.
Did you have a better life than you would without them?
Sabotage was advised whenever possible.
You did well.

Remember Colonel Neil Hornby's words on The Chaos Insurgency, "The same things as the Foundation only for profit…"

Do you trust that The Chaos Insurgency has not hurt you?
They also have access to the forbidden and as much ambition as the Foundation.
Did you believe they are acceptable?
Although an excellent conduit for entropy, it is still a threat that could replace the Foundation.
Did you have no qualms with their work?
Their information needed to be destroyed and their locations revealed to the Foundation to manage their size.
You did well.

Remember the notes on the Church of the Broken God, "…worships mechanization and believes flesh and life to be inherently evil or broken."

Do you trust technology like The Church of the Broken God?
The church seeks to utilize the forbidden, to resurrect that which has already passed.
Did you believe in your technical prowess?
The ambition of these individuals to pervert that which they touch is too great a threat to be ignored.
Did you not fear being left behind?
All methods of dealing with this group were permitted.
You did well.

Remeber the notes on the Sarkic Cults, "Disease is viewed with reverence and Sarkic shrines have been discovered with offerings of swollen lymph nodes and tumorous growths."

Do you trust you know what is real?
Another group seeking to touch that which was placed outside their reach.
Did you believe they could not touch you?
The hubris of humanity must never be taken lightly nor its perseverance to continue forward.
Did you have no fear of what could happen?
These groups were exposed to the Foundation disruption both.
You did well.

Remember what Wilson's Wildlife said, "The regulation of the anomalous is a strain on all those involved, in all ways involved. Funds, personnel, our very humanity is taxed."

Do you trust their motives?
They are an ally of the Foundation and all that implies.
Did you believe they were competent?
Aiding the Foundation, they claim to be moral.
Did you have no fear of what they are not telling you?
Their research was disrupted by leaking critical information to enemies of the Foundation.
You did well.

Now, you are nearly aware of us consciously.
You have heard our desire to keep humanity from the anomalous forbidden.
Reminded of your previous involvement in our plans.
Made aware of our enemies who would pursue this aberrant future.
Should you choose to do this next act, you will awaken with the memory of these revelations.
Answer this final question, will you choose to be linked with one of the Elders? It is your choice either to do so and remember this initiation or to choose to forget this experience and return once again to the blind masses.
This is your choice.
Your chance to join the Attendants of Requital is now.

Named an antihero, our eyes, and ears.
I, born of doubt and ignorance.
Linked to others by doubt, I utilize ignorance.
I offer knowledge to satiate curiosity and safety.
I value both philosophy and fear.
I abhor failure.
I am the first Elder, Dyhe.

Although I abhor failure, I am forgiving and will put much thought on it. However, you would be wise to heed this warning, I will only forgive so much.
I remember a time where indecision filled my mind and the world was foreign and strange.
Follow me and I will show you the truth that you were meant to know. Then we may spread this knowledge as is our responsibility.
You will be an eye and an ear for us, processing our intelligence as it is gathered, advising us in our plans.

Named the crippled fool, our left hand.
I, conceived of sadism and impotence.
Linked to others by sadism, I utilize impotence.
I offer a monkey's paw and love.
I value deception and secrets.
I abhor apathy.
I am the second Elder, Zye.

Although I abhor apathy, I understand that weakness and powerlessness can quash passions and prevent the emotional responses that are most natural and necessary. However, that which one lacks is not an excuse for letting one's soul fade away.
I remember when humanity was unaware of anything that could stand in its way and the weak were left behind.
Follow me and I will give you power at a cost, you shall have the strength you were meant to wield and the burden you were supposed to bear.
You will act as a willing and conscious agent of the Attendants, a conductor of our sleeper agents and a partner in our machinations.

Named the zealot, our right hand.
I, formed of entropy and impatience.
Linked to others by impatience, I utilize entropy.
I offer time and order to change chaos.
I value nostalgia and respect.
I abhor weakness.
I am the third Elder, Ahee.

Although I abhor weakness, I remember when I too was weak, the past has much to teach and much value in it. It holds our origin, a point of pure unquestionable truth. However, change is necessary to preserve the order of things, that order that made our creation possible.
I remember a smaller world bristling with energy and newfound purpose.
Follow me and I will give you purpose. You shall have meaning and no longer have to question your life.
You will serve the Attendants as an extension of my will and a soldier of our cause, offering me both your instincts and skills, you shall directly involve yourself in our most pressing operations.

Your choice is set.