I like it here.
I always liked the little pockets of forest left over between cities, the places where it wasn't worth anyone's time to level the ground or log the trees. It's not exactly the wilderness, but it's peaceful enough to give you the feeling, and there probably aren't bears.
Since my eardrums got busted, of course, it wasn't the same. The sunlight and shadows were the same, but half the quietness of the woods is actually the little sounds of leaves and twigs and maybe water. Just enough noise to make you feel like there's hardly any. Sometimes people ask me (with those long pitying faces) how I can live without music, or voices, but I think it's that not-silence that I miss the most.
When we secured this place back in '03, and the others told me how the sound was baffled almost out of existence, I figured hey, everyone hears the same nothing here. I'm not missing anything. I guess I was pissed off at Mace for a while when we found he'd brought Smith here — who the hell did he think he was? What gave him the right? But whenever I had some time off in the area, I would come up here and sit and it started to make sense. Nowhere safer in the world.
Zhao's saying something. The others are looking at her like they can almost hear her. Dee rolls her eyes and waves impatiently at the area. Zhao sighs and starts signing instead.
Any ideas?
I think it's pretty obvious, Richards signs. Maybe it's just a visit. He made this place for her — I'm not surprised he can't keep away.
Dee and Zhao nod, but something's bugging me — something I've forgotten. It's happening more often than I'd like these days. I should know why this is important, but it's jammed in a crevice in my head and I can't dig it out.
Up the hill and I can feel years of dead leaves crunch under my feet. Can't remember that sound anymore either, but half of it comes through the soles of your shoes anyway. Speech-to-text scrolls down my HUD as Dee grumbles about the hill, but I tune it out as usual.
I find the right vantage point behind a tree leaning back from the crown. From there I can see moving undergrowth in three directions where my teammates are coming, and one sorry-looking old man (old? no older than me) with a gun shoved in his belt, standing in a shaft of afternoon's last sunlight like he planned it. Knowing him, he probably did.
There's an older iPod and a pair of portable speakers sitting next to the cairn he left for Specialist Zoe Smith. And a hole in the ground just before them. And a tarnished silver urn overturned, a white sheet over the spilled contents.
I hoped they would send you, Charles Mace signs to me.
I hoped I wouldn't find you, I respond. Haven't you done enough to her?
Not yet.
The iPod screen shows something's playing. Of course no one else can hear it either. I flip on the HUD's zoom function to read the screen.
It's safe for us. The sound waves won't travel far enough. But it'll work for her.
"Two four zero two," I say out loud. It feels hoarse and for a moment I'm not sure if the software's picked it up properly, but then I see Richards's face through branches of red leaves, across the clearing about one o'clock. He looks… I don't know what that look is, but he damn sure knows what's happening. "He's trying to bring her back."
She knew this song before. Mace smiles. I'll teach it to her again.
The white sheet ripples a little. The leaves aren't moving.
I thought all I could do was give her peace. I should have known it wasn't enough. I won't fail her again.
He must see how I'm watching over his shoulder because he turns and pulls his gun on Richards. From the way his head moves I think he must be talking. Good luck with that, Richards can't lipread for shit.
And then Zhao just walks out of the bushes at my three. Her hands are empty, and it's hard to tell through the glare on her visor but I think she might be crying. What does she think she's doing?
It started going downhill when she left, she signs to Richards. It fell apart when she died. We need her back.
Oh.
We can't just come out of the woods with a dead colleague, Richards signs, but I can definitely read that expression. That's "please talk me into this" if I ever saw it.
We're facing armed resistance, Zhao signs. No alternative. If we can't stop him…
She and Smith were close. For me she was the kind of friend you make at work. You're glad to see them there, but nothing follows you home. I felt it more when she went on leave than when she died. But that doesn't mean Zhao is wrong, does it? Maybe we never had Eta-10's cachet, but we did lose something and it wasn't just a skill set or someone to spend coffee break with. She was the heart, or maybe the spine. Something you can't replace.
Mace looks from Richards to Zhao, then smiles and tucks his gun back into his belt. We can all go back, he signs. I lost something too, when she died. Don't we all want another chance to fix our old failures?
Sure, don't we all — if it were that easy. But what if it is? What if this is all it takes, and you really can go back?
Richards stands upright all of a sudden. Failure, he signs, and his hands are trembling. Paris. And the song at the party.
The memory I was digging at suddenly tumbles out. Decades ago we got called out to Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques?, it must've been the '84, because the organizers wanted us to mop up after this pretentious little shit Smith kept running into. Someone who kept harping on how everybody around him was a failure (except for him, of course) and this time he'd written some interminable po-mo requiem that turned half the anacoustic enthusiasts in Europe into screaming neurotics.
Because of the nightmares.
I was wondering when you would figure it out, Mace signs, looking at once smug and disappointed. Consider yourselves lucky. My original plans for that piece were far more elaborate.
Richards looks stunned. He's saying something to himself, but I can't quite catch it. I make a move toward the iPod, which has just kept on playing while we debate. They burned her body to ashes and laid her in an unmarked grave, and suddenly I'm glad for that sheet. How long now before those ashes swell into blackened meat and reeking rendered fat, wrapping around unshattered bones, slick with jellied blood —
Zhao stops me. I try to pull away, but she's got her fingers dug deep into my arm and she's not letting go.
She would have known right away, Mace signs. She wouldn't have forgotten me. No one will forget me anymore.
"She fought it!" Zhao shouts silently at me, shaking my arm to make me look. Her face is grotesque behind the visor, wrenched with desperation, streaked with tears and with colored lights from the HUD. "She wanted to live. The Foundation could have saved her, she begged them to save her, there's a dozen skips that could've done it but they let her die!"
Yeah. She fought it. It chewed up her belly and bred in her bones and still the doctors tried to burn it out, she wouldn't let them stop. They drowned her in poison and she still called for more. Last time I saw her she was yellow as old linoleum, skin hanging loose even on her skull, she was so thin. And that's where she'd wake into life, too weak to scream.
"You have to give her this chance! This is what she would've wanted, you know it is, you know it!"
Yeah, I know it.
I don't care.
I don't want it.
I grab a noisemaker off my belt. 110 dB, thirty seconds. More than enough.
Zhao tries for it. She misses.
Mace turns around just in time to see the sonic grenade land dead-center on the sheet.
He pulls his gun on me but doesn't fire. He knows it's too late.
The air ignites around us. There's no way this many butterflies could live in this small an area, but here they all are anyway, the guards Mace created to defend her. He was right the first time: she didn't belong in an unmarked grave. She belongs here. Safe. At rest after that last terrible fight, and all the ones that went before. Not dragged backward out of an ugly lingering death just because sometimes it's hard to let go.
As the monarchs swarm her grave, I can see tiny jewel-green pellets dropping out of the air. 2402's only defense: shrink them back into the chrysalis. It won't be enough. I can feel the pressure shift against my poor blown-out eardrums and I know the silence has won.
Mace is screaming, pulling at his hair — gun's still in your hand, buddy, bad idea. Better let me have that so you don't hurt yourself. It's probably not necessary to hit him in the face too, but I can't for the life of me see why I shouldn't.
Zhao and Richards come out of cover, looking poleaxed the both of them, whether from sensory deprivation or something else I can't tell. Dee scrambles up from my left a few seconds later. How much of this she's put together is anybody's guess, but she looks… approving? Satisfied, anyway. A good day's work. She puts the restraints on Mace, none too gently, and gives me the thumbs-up. I pick my way through the tremor of orange and black wings to recover the iPod and its speakers.
When I turn back Zhao is looking into the ragged grave, where no butterflies have landed. I don't think she meant for me to see her face.


In the main briefing room of Sigma-66- also the recreation room, kitchen, and gymnasium- there were two couches taken, one chair, and one footstool. Another chair, covered in bloodstains, was unoccupied. The owner of the blood leaned over the back of the chair, staring dubiously at the documents that covered the table in the center.
The woman in the labcoat sat with her back ramrod straight, eyes directed at the pile of papers she had set on the table. The man with the New English accent and the salt-and-pepper beard was the first to speak.
"So what you would have us do is… infiltrate my company, avoid or kill all of the guards, and leave everything else except for…"
"Except for the digital ham, yes." The MTF's handler- Via to her friends, Davis in a land where your last name was the only part of you that mattered- was having a bad day. She had double-checked all of the papers on the table, and they were stamped properly, signed in the right places- once by an O5 council member, no less- and they all said she had to tell her team to risk their lives at a major Marshall, Carter, and Dark auction for a chance to convince a sentient ham on a computer to come with them. The initial layout check showed that MC&D had lived up to the power and money their name suggested when it came to security- she had counted the item to guard ratio in a fit of childish pique, and it showed that the numbers were almost exactly the same. Going in there would be suicide.
She sighed. That, of course, was why her team was called in. No one cared about them living- not even her, a level 4 researcher. She had gone to college for something better than this, dammit. Not a literal dead-end job where the only thing she could ensure her wife got was a good benefits package when she passed. She was pissed at what had landed her here, and pissed at the people who had done it.
Sometimes, she hated the Foundation just as much as some of the organizations they fought against.
The gaunt man from the Serpent's Hand was tapping his fingers on the table in bullet-time. "So we're dying today for something idiotic. Great, just like every other mission. Another chance to suicide run for the Jailers, and I have to do it surrounded by you ballfuckers."
The lady who was already wrapping up her arms in preparation for fighting glanced up at him. A medical bag sat at her feet- prepared as always. Jackson would never risk a death when she didn't have to, even for people she disliked. "I take offense to that," she grunted as she began on her other wrist.
"Good." Dominic deliberately looked away from her. His tapping intensified, but that was most likely from the concern of getting on a stabby medic's death list.
The woman hanging over her chair flipped into it with a soft squelch. She eyed the patterns that she was still completing in blood on her arms, then the documents. She raised a hand.
"Yes, Ms. Berlot?" Davis didn't bother looking up from the papers. The anartist always had a question.
"First off, last names are probably for treehumpers. Aries. D-W-I." She spelled out, slapping her hand back down on the table. "Second, why does my packet say I'm with chaotic Mc-Devilpants over there?"
"Excuse you, ma'am, I am a Dreadlord engineer," the Insurgency's representative told her, sticking his tongue out. She stuck hers out in retaliation. Rude! "My pants own no devils, and I am here solely to do the work set out for me, as a tried and true member of the Chaotic Team of Dreadlord Engineers!"
She didn't bother countering that. Dreadlord-guy had been convinced he was at a legitimate Chaos Insurgency facility from day one. She'd give good money to know how they'd pulled that sort of intense brainwashing off without damaging him too much, but most of her shiny shit had been confiscated when she was caught. Davis took her silence for an opportunity to provide an answer.
"Yes, that. It has been determined that Mr. Grenich is the most probable of us to convince the object to come with us in this," she set a small black rectangle carefully in the middle of the table, "USB drive. You are to be his lookout as he manages the job, and provide him cover should he need it."
"Ugh. Fine, I'll make sure the crazy dude gets the ham in the drive." Aries finished dotting a small rune in red before returning to her syringe for more blood. "Good thing most of these were for safety anyways. The guard grapevine said 'suicidal auction', so, you know. I prepped."
Edwin, the group's main source of knowledge on all things Marshall, Carter, and Dark as a member himself, was shuffling quickly through the papers as though he expected that on the fifteenth time around, they'd say something different. "You must be joking. All of these anomalous artifacts, all of that money, and we're leaving it for a sentient meat virus? It doesn't even do anything useful!"
Olivia tapped one of the papers lightly. "This object has a time limit and a completely unknown group behind it and the things chasing it. Whatever this group is, as a whole? They're good. Dangerously so. Our Foundation thinks that this little leak was just an alpha test gone awry. The object has serious potential computer surveillance abilities, and could spread fast and hit hard on other anomalous organizations- such as ourselves. It can do neither right now, and the group wants it back off the radar." She first circled a graphic labeled 'Hammy' on a screenshot of a monitor desktop, then pointed to a patch of fuzz near it that had the label 'eat_m3at'.
"This thing here is the reason Hammy as a whole is disappearing from computers at all. It, as you might have guessed, eats the object. Convinces the little sucker he's dead, which we've discovered is the only way to get rid of it whatsoever aside from smashing the computer in with a hammer."
She scooped up the papers and tapped them on the table to straighten them out. "This is the last version of the object we've found. All other leads show that wherever he's popped up on other computers, he's been taken out- so, in a way, we're lucky MC and D has the best virus protection money can extract from their coder friends. We need him to trace the group that made him, and we can't do that if he doesn't exist. He's our main priority, and the higher-ups don't want to risk the whole operation by going after smaller stuff. Any other questions that won't give me a headache and-slash-or be unanswerable due to classification issues?"
Aries's hand slowly lowered in disappointment. Dominic glared a hole through the papers for a second, then shook his head. Jackson simply velcroed the end of the wrap to her wrist and flexed both of her hands in appreciation.
"That's a no, then. Good. We have four hours before we set out, and it'll take another three to reach the destination. We should have plenty of time before the auction to go over the map and cover the details that weren't mentioned in the individual packets. Do what you need to to get ready."
She stood, and the rest of the team stood with her. Dominic walked off at a brisk pace towards his room, grumbling softly to himself as he sifted through his papers. Jackson's mouth sharpened, and she undid the wraps on her hands piece by piece. As the door to her room softly closed behind her, one could hear her redoing them, only to undo them again later. She had said, once, that the repetition helped her think.
Edwin left the room fumbling a rosary tucked around the explosive collar on his neck- the collar that marked all of them except for the single Foundation member, who had exited through the only door to the outside. He wondered when things had gone so wrong, as he always did, and would mutter meaningless prayers on his bed with the door shut, where no one could hear an old man's regret.
Aries- Clara, a girl giving herself rams' horns to pretend she didn't care who she had to butt heads with- left the main room last, shoving her brushes into her pocket. The dried blood on her arms and legs cracked, but that didn't matter. She'd be painting her face in the bathroom she shared with the other women in minutes. Then, as long as she didn't wash it off and let it rub away of its own nature, it would do its job. She'd be clear to work on her letters to the friends she had met in the pursuit of true art- some of whom, she had heard, now worked with the Foundation in an entirely different capacity. The envelopes were blank as always, and she planned on getting another letter placed in one before she had to leave. Every letter she finished counted, even if they would stay in a pile in a corner of her room. If she lived long enough, maybe she'd get a chance to deliver them.
There was never a letter to her father or mother.
This left Isaac Grenich in his long cape, bird skull earrings, and faux microchip-tailed hair scrunchie to stretch out on the couch. He stared at the ceiling and hummed a little tune, happy to be doing a job he loved for an Insurgency he adored. This was going to be a fun mission, despite all the pessimists lolling about in their rooms and expecting death.
It was going to be great.
< MTF Sigma-66 Post-Mission Psychological Evaluation | Two Transcribed Conversations In Very Different Tones >


Sci-Fi Apple Pie waited in the crowded mass between dreams like a busy street corner of a too-large city, playing with her holographic hair. Buildings of non-euclidean design towered above, each window a door to some sleeping mind. They winked in and out like a child cutting onions. A gloved hand touched her shoulder. Beside her stood a girl that hardly met her shoulder, wrapped in red ribbons and pink glitter. Golden doll-like eyes watched her, adorning a face with a perpetual tinted pout. From her glittering, rainbow hair peeked two white cat ears. Behind her swung a tail with a softly jingling bell, attached by a shimmering ribbon in a bow.
"Where do we go, Hans?"
"Mako-chan, greenhorn." She reminded her, patting her arm with a glittering pink-and-gold wand.
Sci-Fi Apple Pie sighed. "Fine. Brief, then let's go. Mako-chan."
"We've found a Bryce Fox that has what we need. Big in-between place but with more diplomatics. We've got intel that our spiral-toothed friend's got an eye on the place. We can inflame her and frame West at the same time."
"Right. Lead the way."
Shortly after, Sci-Fi Apple Pie found herself twenty stories in the air, spraying graffiti over a billboard, painting mustaches onto Qi Shao's image and replacing the provided hashtag with a sticker for Oneiroi West. Mako-chan worked to flutter through the air with conjured sparkling wings, tossing glittering pamphlets below. She scanned the faces and not-faces of the crowd. They were all oneiroi one way or another. Some West. No Collective, at least, none that she could register. A flicker of movement, too fast to be an accident, speeding up the building face. "Greenhorn! We got company!"
Sci-Fi Apple Pie felt something tug a rocket-boot, then slam her into the floor. The world swam more than could be justified in Bryce's dream. Distantly, she wondered if Bryce was aware of the territory spat going on in his subconscious. Someone, muffled, commanded her to fight but the dream clung to her mind, slowing her movement as if running through molasses. The creature was all sharp palette shadows and fever delusions, biting into her arm; its breath reminded her of acetone, she remembered thinking.
She could see Mako-chan slam away the creature with her wand, transformed to a nacreous warhammer made to look like a shining rabbit's head atop a golden pole. Her captain kneeled down to her and touched her on the arm, tsking.
Sci-Fi Apple Pie was Sherry again, awoken. Hans stood by her body, no sign of waifishness on his toned form. He held her by her shoulders as she trembled and regained her footing. "Greenhorn." His voice was soft. "Come on now."
"…Mako-chan?"
Hans looked like he would either punch her or cry. He did neither and pushed her to the floor instead. "Hans Drescher out here. You clear your head, greenhorn. Too slow a reaction. Go work on your beta-ameilorace hyperglutanomous response."
"What was that?"
"One of Qi Shao's. At least it felt like one on my weapon. She knows now, I'm betting. Good. Check the trawler off Urooj's last session with Glass."
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Jessick a la "Jacob" Meowntang - UCLA - Los Angeles, USA
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Sherry drank coffee to recover from her first stint at action. Hans glided behind her, silent as a memory. He reached down towards her. She blinked and looked up at him. "Did you need something, Hans?"
"You're aware. That's good. What did Glass's readings say?"
"Just one thread. 3 comments, one of them a bot." She tried to ignore as Hans sat beside her, too close.
"You trust Glass?"
"Yeah, sure. He introduced us."
"Through a pane," Hans said as he poured himself more coffee.
"He said it was necessary."
Hans grunted and drank, then moved to leave the break room.
"Wait, Hans."
"Hm?"
"How do you make a NoPage profile?"

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Sci-Fi Apple Pie watched her captain with the x-ray vision on her holoLens goggles. Mako-chan was talking to something Sci-Fi Apple Pie couldn't rightly understand. It had too many shadows to be any shape, and yet it formed so many shapes, like a pollock painting of conceptual ideas. Too big to fit in the tiny coffeeshop of Cassidy Campbell's mind, and yet sitting on the chair and drinking coffee as if nothing was wrong. She could tell her captain was having a hard time of it too, by the way the ribbons clutched her silk gloved hands and her cat tail's bell jingling back and forth.
Outside of the dream, she confronted Hans as he walked from Cassidy's still-unconscious body and out of the dirty apartment. The man never showed the hint of surfacing-trauma like the rest of them. No, Hans was unlike them all, stiff as a board. He separated as Mako-chan and Hans Drescher with an iron curtain between dreaming and wakefulness. "Hans, what were you doing there?" she asked, before the thought slipped from her.
"I ordered you to stand guard outside."
"Hans. What were you doing."
"Feeling out for options."
"What?"
"You've been here maybe 6 months, Sherry. I've been going on more than four times that much."
Sherry grabbed his arm. "Can't you retire?"
"Ask Glass."

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A Gentle Painting
by アノニモス
怖いでしょうね…
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 Shaper Deathbell Urooj
 Scifi do you need to talk…

A thousand dead circle the Oneiroi Collective entity as their massive form tears into the subconscious territory. The Xiupanians, knowing no fear, swarm to kill with a thousand papercuts what they can hardly perceive. Sci-Fi Apple Pie watches through her holoFocus goggles, painting the world in serene orange and data points. The Oneiroi Collective has a temperature of a summation as an imaginary negative number quadratic reaches the square root of negative three point thirty five. The three of them- Mako-chan, Concrete Tomb, and herself- stand away enough to avoid the damage, and yet the Collective seems too close for comfort. The entity's existence on the same plane is too close to be safe.
"Good job, Sci-Fi Apple Pie. It was a nice idea to leak the story of a West official getting arrested," Concrete Tomb speaks, his voice wavering. "I'm heading out before we get spotted." Sci-Fi Apple Pie notices that he hadn't moved his stony gaze from the massive conglomeration, killing even in its immense death throes. Broken Xiupanian consciousnesses float through the milky way in the night sky above, leaving trails of moving stars. Their shells crack onto the population of fleeing Oneiroi West forces below, catching the wind and creating a dust storm through which only a massive silhouette could be seen.
The entity lets out a roar or a groan, and slams something between a pseudopod and a claw down on the remaining Xiupanian forces making a tactical retreat.
"Why are they leaving?" Sci-Fi Apple Pie asks.
Mako-chan puts on her cherry pink lip gloss, the one that made her lips look like animated sequins. "'Cause this entity's a scouter for the main mass, testing the strength of Xiupania. Qi Shao's not gonna show her full might over a territorial skirmish."
"Right, I'll see you, then?" Sci-Fi Apple Pie says, almost bored. She didn't look forward to the paperwork she'd have to write when she got out.
"Naw. I'm going to go take them up on their offer."
"What?"
"The collective's offer. Welcome all, all walks of life."
Sci-Fi Apple Pie closed, then opened her eyes again. Looked at her captain. The ground shuddered underneath her feet with a slow awakening. "Mako-chan… Hans? What do you mean?"
"I'm just tired. Of being either. Of being both. You still look like you on both walks of life. I'm… I thought I was an awesome marine. A real jarhead. The real manly man, clean and shoot to kill in the blink of an eye. Used to keep trophies of hunts, mounted and stuffed… And here I am… not that person, and yet who I'm supposed to have always been." The last of the old Omicron-Rho guard lets out a sigh from small, petite lips. "I don't know… and I don't want to think about it anymore. The Collective's a big enough mass of people that you're not just you, you're everyone else, and everyone else is also you. I'm just tired of being me."
Sci-Fi Apple Pie reached out to grab her captain's slender, soft arm. "But the Collective will know everything if you do. New recruits need you. Glass needs you. Who will teach your replacement? Who will know about beta-ameilorace hyperglutanomous response efficiency?"
A flash of light blinds her for a moment. She feels her captain slip from her grip and recalibrates the brightness adjustment on her holoFocus goggles. Mako-chan flutters on conjured wings, letting out a trail of glitter like the aurora borealis. "The Collective's so expansive I'm not surprised if they knew this whole time. And don't worry about the other things."
Mako-chan smiles and cups Sci-Fi Apple Pie's cheeks with her gloved hands. Kisses her forehead with her rhinestone lips. "I have faith in you. When this is all over, in some other life, maybe we'll meet again. I'd like that."
"Yeah." Sci-Fi Apple Pie notes that her captain's breath smells like acetone. The dust from cracking Xiupanian corpses reduces her visibility to ten meters. She watches Mako-chan's form meld into a silhouette against the storm. In a shadow puppet play of dead bodies and moonlight, she watches an uncomprehensible mass of once-were-people swallow a little catgirl in pink frills and ribbons.


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Team Name: We Deny The Existence of Other Games In Town (Sigma-3, "Bibliographers")
Team Members: Gaffsey does not match any existing user name (Captain), thedeadlymoose, TwistedGears, Dexanote

Entries:

Lessons Learned by Dexanote
Site 11, Conference Room K, 8:58 AM, July 12, 1982 by Gaffsey does not match any existing user name
Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over Your Head by TwistedGears
Making a Scene by TwistedGears
Magic Orientation by thedeadlymoose
The Conspiracy Of "Sigma-3" ("The Devils") by thedeadlymoose
SCP-2975 - Another Sun by thedeadlymoose

(Contains After Action Report, attached to the end of the SCP document.)

« A continuation of: Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over Your Head

Daniel Navarro, newly fledged MTF Sigma-3 operative, was making use of his new-found super secret agent status by skulking through an abandoned building. What had once served as a copper refinery in the early 20th century had been remade by the 21st into an art house dedicated to Japan's industrial heritage, and Navarro struggled not to get distracted from his ultra secret objective.
Navarro approached the eastern wall and examined it, giving the wall a few pokes. He found a spot where the mortar clung to his fingertip. One of the adjacent bricks vibrated slightly, but only for a moment.
Wiping the supposed mortar on his pants leg, Navarro dug into his pocket. "You guys might want to try something a little stronger if that's all it takes to break it. Let's see, password is…" He slowly sounded out the Japanese.
A few of the bricks rattled. One rattled louder, followed by an adjacent brick edging its way out of the wall, revealing a thin rippling film behind the bricks. Navarro aided it in its escape and snapped his hand back when it began to turn into a person.
"I guess I'll let that count," the woman said in accented English, brushing off some of the fake mortar from her skirt. In Japanese she gave the wall a sharp comment, and other bricks began to work their way out of the brickwork. A ring of bricks emerged, and they morphed into people and heaved the proper bricks they had been supporting out of the way.
The wavy portal shimmered lightly, catching what little light there was and refracting the view. Behind them was a small area consisting mostly of pipes, likely blocked off during the revitalization. Navarro nodded at the woman and stepped into the portal. It felt like walking through wet cement. He could feel the cold air at the refinery on his trailing ankle, yet his leading foot felt pleasantly warm. The portal stretched across his face like elastic, but he pressed onward until it finally tore and he was looking somewhere else entirely.
Much like the proper Japanese island he just left, it once served as a refining facility. The key differences were that this place was still active, and that rather than copper it refined ideas. Buildings sprouted up across the gravel roads, stories and levels budding from the base floors to form various shapes. Brains complete with spinal columns, spiraling coils, and various canines made of brick and mortar and wood filled the area, with similar buildings cropped together. Above him was the angled dome that encased the area. The "proper" Japanese name didn't translate particularly well into English, but according to his informant it was often referred to as the Okayama Attic.
Behind him, a safety railing prevented onlookers from tumbling down into the other pocket prefectures. He gripped the railing and leaned out to get a look below. Anomalous reflections of Hiroshima, Shimane, Tottori, and Yamaguchi stretched out below him, twisting and melting together where they met, together making up the Chūgoku Cellar. Even with the vastness of a pocket reality, Japan had found a way to overcrowd. Above him, blurry but still distinctly there, the other regions that made up the Honshū island hovered above the Chūgoku Cellar. It reminded him of the Wanderer's Library in a sense, though the Library always held a distinct air of order and purpose to the madness of its layout. Here the pockets simply bled together at the seams.
Slipping a hand from the rail to his pocket, Navarro spun and walked deeper into the Attic. Down the street, a small group of mildly drunk Japanese men in business suits exited a building in the shape of a humanoid mecha. They chatted away as behind them the building struck a salute, snapping its legs together. One of them spun around and gave it a salute back, though he swayed slightly. With little more than the grinding of gravel the earth consumed the building until nothing but a flat plot of land was left. The man swung his arm forward to end the salute and hurried after his companions.
Toward the center of the Attic the buildings became more clumped together, brickwork seamlessly running into wood into stone as the various shapes of the buildings stood trapped in stolid interaction. Amidst a herd of stone animals he didn't recognize stood a perfectly cuboid building, an open door frame in the center of the wall. Above the archway was a blazing sign that Navarro couldn't actually read. It certainly looked impressive, though.
An earpiece buried probably too deep sparked to life, leaving an odd taste in his mouth. "About time you got here."
Navarro just nodded. Sigma-3's sending a single man into only moderately well-known territory wasn't the best of ideas, especially when said man was a newcomer. So now he had a new best friend to chide him from a distance. How fun. Navarro couldn't spot her with a few glances around the street, which he supposed was probably a good thing.
Another shocking taste. "Shop's empty of customers right now. Now is as good a time as any. Start screaming if you need backup."
More nods at his hidden teammate and Navarro entered the workshop. The place held a warm glow that grew progressively more aggressive as he approached the counter. Behind said counter was a towering humanoid, probably standing at around ten feet. It had grey skin, mottled with faded brown, an overabundance of arms, and a distinct lack of a face. When it turned to look at him it was like staring into a furnace.
It rose a pair of arms in greeting, the fires in its head licking at the edges its "lips." Smoke plumed out, forming words in several languages.
שלום こんにちは Bounjour Hola Привет مرحبا Hello 你好 Guten tag
Navarro broke out in an easy grin. "Hey there."
The golem nodded and then smoked, How can I help you?
"I've heard good things, and I want to see what you have to offer," Navarro said. "Word is you have a collection of various items, but your specialty is custom orders."
It is true. Do you wish to see my wares?
"Very much so."
A section of the counter swung away and the golem gestured toward a door leading to the back. Navarro slipped by and found himself flanked by two mountains of metal. To the left were a series of shelves holding a vast assortment of items, and to the right were a pair of vertically stacked cubes with portholes dotting one face. Both were making quite the metallic racket, and Navarro could spot a partially disassembled sedan poking out of the top cube.
Navarro raised an eyebrow. "What's going on here?"
The golem retrieved a ladder from behind the cubes and held it against the cubes. It gestured up and Navarro began to climb until he could see into the lower tank's porthole. What looked like a massive amount of termites were clustered around various odd machines. Climbing higher revealed that the second tank contained an army of ants, which were busy disassembling the sedan and transferring the parts down to the termites below.
"I take it this is the source of your collection of various items?" Navarro asked, a knowing smile on his face.
A slow nod when Navarro descended, and the golem stowed away the ladder. The smoke came in small bursts. They are quite capable. Occasionally they manage requests. But ultimately they are trinkets. The shop is my own, and my purpose is the forge.
"So you only work with metal?"
I am capable of much. But I specialize in metalwork.
"So, if I were to give you, say, a hyper-dense wood. You could make something from that?"
Can you be more specific?
Navarro frowned slightly. He was hoping he would be able to play around this for longer, and he had a strange feeling on the back of his tongue. "Can you work with bladewood?"
I can. I do.
The taste in Navarro's mouth intensified to that of a very thick rug. "Navarro, there's a group coming down the street," said the voice in his ear. "They seem to be headed for you."
"That's interesting," Navarro said. He tried not to appear antsy. Or termitesy. "Do you often work with it?"
No. I have only begun recently when The rest of the words scattered before Navarro could read them. The golem stopped waving its arms and stood as awkwardly as several hundred pounds of living rock can stand. Apologies. Client confidentiality.
"Navarro, can you hear me? They've entered the building. They've got weapons holstered. If you don't say something I'm going to have to assume your radio is busted and I'm coming in."
Navarro cleared his throat and tried to finger the communicator. "Just relax, Cartwright."
? The golem tilted its head.
"I'm going to wait outside the door, at least."
"Sorry, nothing," Navarro said a bit louder. "Just, uh, how much bladewood do you have stored? I have a bit of a project in mind."
The golem straightened up and puffed out a sentence at a time. I do not have direct access. I am only able to work with what my client brings me. My apologies.
"I see. That's too bad. Well, would it be alright if I perused your trinkets?"
Of course.
Navarro examined the various doodads, purely for his own amusement. The Foundation wouldn't have any interest in a bunch of random anomalous items. For now they were only concerned about the sudden appearance of SCP-143 in the yakuza's arsenal. He lifted up what looked like some kind of ray gun when there was a ringing from the front room.
The golem had to walk backwards so Navarro could read what it had to say. Excuse me. I must attend to that.
"Of course, take your time."
Navarro lined up the sights with one of the overhead lamps and pretended to fire. He set it down to look over something else when the golem came thundering back.
My deepest apologies. My client wishes to converse with me alone. Confidential matters. I will have to ask you to leave the premises.
Navarro eyed the trio hanging in the doorway. "Yeah, alright. No worries. The visit has sated my curiosity, at least."
Four hands clasped together. Please feel free to come again. You will receive a discount for the trouble.
A broad smile. "Appreciate it. Have a good one."
שָׁלוֹם
Navarro gave the men a quick nod and slid by them and out into the front room. He resisted the urge to vault the counter and exited the shop. Cartwright was outside waiting for him.
"Did it have the tree?"
Navarro shook his head and started walking for the closest building that looked easy to climb. "No, but it gave me a lead."
A few minutes later agents Cartwright and Navarro sat atop a giant marble tiger and stared at the doorway of a cube building. Sooner or later the triads, or at least the people Navarro had to assume were triads and on reflection was putting quite a lot of eggs in that basket, would have to leave the golem's workshop. At which point they were ripe for being trailed, hopefully to a location Sigma-3 could relate to one of the bigger, stronger MTFs so it could be suitably punched in the metaphorical throat.
Navarro pulled out a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and extracted one. It was halfway to his mouth when he realized this wasn't another one of his solo ops. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"I do, actually," Cartwright said. She eyed the cancer stick for a moment. "Quit a few years ago. Plus the smoke may attract attention."
"Oop, sorry." He quickly jammed it back into the box and stuffed that into his pocket. After a few seconds of sitting awkwardly he asked, "So how long have you been with Sigma-3?"
Cartwright didn't move for a moment, like the question froze her system. "Are we doing this right now?"
"Yyyes?" Navarro shifted back and forth. "I mean, we're just sitting here. Who knows how long those guys will take. We might as well get to know each other, right? We're on the same team or whatever."
Her gaze returned to the door. "Look. I am not exactly thrilled to have you 'on the same team or whatever.' I'm well aware of your habit of making a scene. A good part of the reason you got brought on is because it doesn't matter nearly as much if you spontaneously combust in some pocket reality than if you did it in, say, Salem."
Navarro felt his face light up. "You're oversimplifying that situation! And even then, nothing too bad came of it. We got the bad guy and no civilians got hurt."
She shrugged. "All I know is you don't have the best reputation, and trying to shoot the shit in the middle of a stakeout doesn't exactly bode well."
Navarro crossed both his arms and legs and glared at the workshop below. It wasn't so much the accusations that bothered him so much as it was the fact they were mostly right. He closed his eyes and tried to think about Disneyland. All he got was the mental picture of standing in a slow line, regret squatting in his stomach.
Minutes stretched out and made themselves comfortable while the Sigma duo fidgeted atop the rough curves of the roof. Navarro took to sucking on an unlit cigarette which quickly devolved into him chewing on it. When the trio of potential triads finally exited the building, he groaned with relief and spit out the frayed mess.
It was a bit of a journey trying to follow the trio from across the rooftops. Clambering from the marble tiger's head to the tail of a monkey to the branches of a tree left the two of them almost out of breath. Cartwright wrenched open a window to the next building, and rather than going over or around it they darted right through it, leaping out the other side and landing on a distorted skull the size of a silo.
Their quarry turned down an alley and descended into an unlit staircase. Navarro lowered himself down into one of the three eye sockets of the skull and continued to the nasal gap as Cartwright dropped into the eye. They rushed over to the stairwell and stared down into the darkness.
Cartwright nudged Navarro and pointed up. A sign explained, in several languages, that one simply had to think of which of the destinations they wished to arrive at when they entered. Below that it gave a list of possibilities, and below that in very big letters was a warning that no lights were to be brought into the stairwell.
"Do you understand?" Cartwright asked slowly.
Navarro looked back at the large flashlight with a line through it. He tilted his head and then looked to Cartwright. "Set it on fire?"
"Yes, well done." She entered the darkness. Her voice already muffled, she said, "Try not to get lost."
With one last glance at the instructions Navarro followed after with the intent of going wherever the triads were going. He did his best not to think about how dark it was within and how easy it would be to misstep. He did slightly less than his best to avoid wondering what would happen if he lit up the stairs. It occurred to him that he couldn't hear Cartwright's footsteps despite the fact she only had a few seconds head start. He wondered just how thick the darkness was, and if light would even be able to pierce it.
A few more seconds passed before he snapped his fingers and produced a small flame. The staircase twisted and turned and doubled back on itself. He stopped and turned around. Above him the stairs did several vertical loops and branched off into several paths. Below him, a dot that he assumed — or at least hoped — was Cartwright looked to be a mile away. And on an entirely different path.
Navarro sighed and snuffed out the flame. There was nothing to it but to descend and hope he could use the staircase again to arrive wherever he meant to initially. After another thirty seconds or so of slow-paced darkness he could see a light. It was the nice, rectangular sort of light that signaled the giant staircase of confusing potential-doom was coming to an end. Or at least it would have, if the rectangle would get any bigger. For another twenty seconds it looked to remain a solid forty feet away. He turned his head to look behind himself, for some reason expecting to be able to see anything in the pitch black. When he faced forward again, he was standing directly in front of the light's threshold. Temptation to look behind himself again crept up, but he ignored it and continued through the yellow curtain of light.
The room was dimly lit and was littered with bean bag chairs that were covered with people who looked utterly plastered. The air smelled of acrid fire, and even a shallow breath felt heavy. A quick glance around told him everything was in Japanese. Which wouldn't have been so bad, it was a Japanese pocket reality, but everything else in the Attic had been multilingual.
His ear crackled. "Navarro, where are you? Did something happen on the staircase? I can't wait any longer, I'm going to follow them."
It clicked. He had told the tunnel to take him where the triads were going. Rather than the proper exit they had likely come out of, it had dumped him right into the middle of their final destination. He had to wonder if this was due to producing light or if the triads had never thought to try walking directly into their little drug den.
Navarro spun in place to go back but only found a door to a hallway. As he heard several people behind him speak in Japanese, likely at him, he took out a cigarette. He chomped down on it and snapped a spark into it. He took a long drag and considered his options.

Running sounded good. If he wasn't still tired from the haphazard parkour and ridiculous staircase.
Trying to talk it out was out of the question, he couldn't speak Japanese to save his life. Which is potentially what it would accomplish, if could he speak it.
Shooting was out the question, for a variety of reasons. He didn't particularly like the idea, there were too many of them, too few bullets, and if what he heard about Spirit Dust was true it wouldn't matter how much firepower he had.

Navarro could feel his lungs burn. The talking behind him had grown to yelling. Very angry yelling. Bullet-shooting, lightning-blasting kind of yelling. English began trickling into it, demanding who he was, how he got here. Drunken questions of whether he had just appeared in the doorway or they had imagined that. Despite the fact he hated himself for it less than thirty minutes ago, Navarro had to smile at the last option.

Make a scene.

The corner of the door frame exploded, a bullet lodged into the wall. Darkness encroached on the edges of Navarro's vision, his lungs trying to leap out of his chest. He stumbled while turning around, and he could vaguely hear laughter. Was able to see a light emanating from one of the triad member's hands.
He finally exhaled. Dense black smoke coiled out of his mouth, gathering as a wall before him. At least, he had to assume it was black. Pretty much everything was at this point. A gun went off and the smoke distended slightly, but continued to expand into the room. As much as he wanted to take a breath, he knew he had to expel all of it or else he'd have one hell of a case of emphysema.
When he finally felt he hit empty, he gulped down as much air as he could and backpedaled. His brain felt like something crawled inside of it as oxygen finally reached it again. Colors swam back in, almost more vibrant than before. Not that the colors in the room were particularly vibrant to begin with.
Navarro stumbled through the doorway while the black gas continued to spread. More gunshots and zaps of discharged energy resulted in it twisting as it moved, but it remained taut. Once he could breathe a little normally Navarro sparked a small bit of fire on his fingertip. He closed an eye and pretended to take aim, shooting his little finger gun animatedly.
The little fireball lobbed itself through the air, and while Navarro did not actually see the result of its contact with the gas due to having frantically shut the door, he knew what the soft sizzle on the other side of the wood meant. There was a brief pause, and then a loud crack that shook the door.
Navarro poked his head back into the room, fighting to get the door open as a thick layer of some tar-like gunk now coated… everything. He chortled to himself and shut the door again, then booked it in hopes of finding an exit. He followed the sound of pounding music.
The first door he took led him out into a nightclub, or he supposed just a club, since the pocket reality didn't really seem to have a day cycle. His head already started to hurt from the level of noise. Bouncers took notice of him immediately and he sprinted for what looked like the exit, apologizing in horrible-sounding Japanese as he ducked and dodged through the crowd. Thanks to the level of noise it was unlikely anyone out here had heard the mess in the back, and thanks to the crowd he was safe from gunfire.
He slammed his way out the front door and immediately took to running down the street. "Cartwright! I found out where the triads have a little hideout. If we deploy a strike team now they might be able to get them before they get themselves free."
"Free? From what? And where have you been, how did you get there already?"
"Talk later. Running hard."
The entrance of the club exploded open. Literally, with a ball of fire, the doors exploded outward and off their hinges. A small group of men with guns raced out, and one man trailing behind was floating in midair. He looked to Navarro and raised a hand.
"Running very, very hard!" he hissed without hitting the comm.
Navarro veered off down an alleyway at the first opportunity and turned onto the next street. Legs melting, he pressed onward as he pushed to the outer limits of the Attic. Occasionally, he heard yelling and a few gunshots, but they seemed to lose more and more vigor as they went, drifting farther and farther from their club. Eventually they must have decided they would draw too much attention and Navarro didn't see or hear anything of them. He hit the railing at the edge of the Attic and panted.
"Please tell me you called in reinforcements," he said into the radio between gulps of air.
"They're coming but they don't know where they're going."
"Club toward the middle of town. Big, doesn't have any front doors."
A static-filled pause. "Why does it have no doors?"
"I didn't do that part!" Navarro felt himself grinning. He looked out over the railing. "I did, however, detain a bunch of them in one of the back rooms. Hard to miss, but will be a little hard to open. You'll know it by all the black stuff everywhere."
"I don't even know how to react."
"I get that a lot. So, uh. I'm going to, um. Try to catch my breath. Maybe lay low in case they're still looking for me. I'll catch you later, Cartwright."
"I swear if I get my ass chewed out for this…"
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Navarro said. He dug into his ear and somehow managed to extract the earpiece. He leaned against the railing and looked down. "Huh. Is that Aldon?"

To be tangentially continued in: Organic Organs ~NEVER~ »


+ Open for other entries from this team

- Close

Team Name: We Deny The Existence of Other Games In Town (Sigma-3, "Bibliographers")
Team Members: Gaffsey does not match any existing user name (Captain), thedeadlymoose, TwistedGears, Dexanote

Entries:

Lessons Learned by Dexanote
Site 11, Conference Room K, 8:58 AM, July 12, 1982 by Gaffsey does not match any existing user name
Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over Your Head by TwistedGears
Making a Scene by TwistedGears
Magic Orientation by thedeadlymoose
The Conspiracy Of "Sigma-3" ("The Devils") by thedeadlymoose
SCP-2975 - Another Sun by thedeadlymoose

(Contains After Action Report, attached to the end of the SCP document.)

A sack covered Daniel Navarro's head. Not exactly the most elaborate way to keep someone in the dark, but it certainly wasn't the first time his employer had utilized the tactic. At least, he was assuming it was the Foundation behind this. The chair was certainly uncomfortable enough to hint at that possibility.
He could recall sitting in the lounge of Site-19. That had definitely been happening. It had become a habit of his to remain in the lounge for so long that the graveyard shifters started to drift in. The room was empty, last he could recall. And then he was in a seat that was definitely not the armchair he had been previously occupying, with a bag over his head. His head felt slightly woozy, but as far as he could tell he was unharmed.
"The files weren't kidding," said a neutral, distant voice.
Navarro perked up. "Some of them were, they're just not particularly funny."
"It says here you were reassigned to Site-19 for unauthorized actions out on the field earlier this year. For… retrieval of a variety of items from the anomalous items department in 2011, also unauthorized. This, on top of practicing magic in front of unauthorized Foundation personnel some years prior— you just can't seem to keep your head down, can you?"
"Oh, boy, you're pretty high ranked if you know all of that." No response. "Still not everything, but hey, you do what you can. But I don't remember doing anything lately, so I have to ask. Why do I have a bag over my head?"
"You're also handcuffed to the chair."
Navarro lifted his hands and finally felt the tug of metal, heard the click of the chains. Perhaps he was getting too used to this.
"Right. Well. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage…"
There was a slight pause. "Director Tilda Moose."
This meant he was probably still in Site-19. Hopefully. Did directors actually stay at the Site they held dominion over? "Heh. Really? They go to the trouble of giving someone the cover name 'Moose' and don't even give it to someone with a Canadian accent?"
There was a light thump at the other end of the table. "Moose is my actual surname."
"…Right, sure. Listen, could you get this bag off my head?"
A lighter tapping this time. Navarro listened to Moose drum her fingers for a few seconds before the room filled with the screech of wood on tile. A group of clicks signaled that his hands were free, and then footsteps retreated. Navarro struggled with the knot around his neck for a few seconds, barely getting the bag off as Moose sat down.
The director was tall and her moves were slow, methodical. Navarro had never been particularly good at judging ages, and it was made all the more difficult by the somewhat androgynous features, but she looked somewhere shy of 40.
Navarro eyed her another moment before smiling. "You know, it's pretty rare for me to speak to a director. Does that make this a very good meeting or a very bad meeting?"
"Inherently? Neither. I'm here to make you an offer."
"Oh. One of those meetings. Those are always fun. Okay, let's hear it. How are you going to ruin my life this time?"
"You've been a candidate for a mobile task—"
"Nope."
Her face was completely still, save her mouth when she said, "I didn't finish."
Navarro grabbed the bag and put it back over his head. "And yet I've heard enough. Thanks, but no thanks."
Her voice remained flat. "Which part of your situation implies that declining is an option?"
"The part where you called it an offer."
"And if I rescind that wording?"
"Eh, I've gotten out of worse situations."
"You're in a Foundation facility under who knows how many tons of earth, surrounded by some of its most highly trained personnel. With a bag on your head."
He wiggled his fingers. "But my hands aren't cuffed."
She only gave him a sort of half laugh— a quarter laugh, really, but he took it all the same. "You have no way out, Navarro. At least, not for today. You should at least listen to the rest of this pitch."
Navarro shrugged and took off the bag. "If it'll make you feel better."
"You've been selected to join Sigma-3. Your entire career has basically been a trial run for this."
"And… despite that big file in front of you… I… passed?"
Moose made an expression that was not quite a smile. "Why do you think you have such a long disciplinary record?"
"Is this some kind of trick question?" Navarro asked. When Moose didn't react he hazarded, "Because I sometimes work around the rules?"
"An interesting way to put it. But no, that is not why. If that was the only factor at play, your record would actually be quite short. And your employment terminated."
He propped his elbow up on the table. "With drugs or bullets?"
"Does it matter?" She kept going before he could reply. "The reason you have been allowed to continue working with the Foundation is that someone has been pulling strings."
Navarro leaned his cheek onto his palm. "And that would be you, I take it."
"No. They don't give me those strings to pull."
Navarro didn't believe her, but he let it slide. "Then who?"
"I'm not authorized to tell you that."
"Of course not. And now I'm supposed to ask why?"
"You have an obvious opposition to what have been traditionally considered the core tenets of the Foundation. However…" She paused. "Simply put, those core tenets aren't important anymore."
Navarro felt an eyebrow raise.
"Things are changing within the Foundation. We're learning all too quickly that the anomalous world is just too large for us to continue on the way we have. More and more secret projects are being approved despite the amount of failures. I don't like it, but I can't fight it. They're already holding my arm behind my back as it is. So I need people like you to grease the wheels and ease the transition."
Navarro closed one eye. "You want me to…"
"Continue what you're already doing. But in a more covert, yet more accepting environment. I need you to work with the anomalous communities, and I need you to teach our people how to do it too. This includes proficiency in occult and thaumatological practices previously considered off-limits by the Foundation, as well as—"
"You want me to make a bunch of Foundation guys into wizards."
A strange look crossed her face, something like momentary fright. "Yes, in a way."
"Am I going to be shooting anyone?"
"While we do have paramilitary members, it is not our focus."
Navarro stared at the wall for some time.
"I am not unsympathetic to your position," Moose said. "But you know your loyalties have been… called into question. On more than one occasion. Personally, I'm not going to assume you're disloyal if you refuse to cooperate. Even if we agree to put you back where you were, wipe your memory of this ever occurring — I'll understand. But I'm not the ones who brought you in here with a bag over your head. What do you think they'll think about this? What would you think, if you were them?"
"'Damn that handsome devil and his devil may care attitude! Let's put a bag on his head!'" When Moose didn't react, Navarro slouched into his chair. "Seriously, I am less than popular in certain circles. Vague threats don't mean much anymore."
"Let me contextualize these threats. You can enter the Wanderer's Library," Moose said.
Navarro had to pause at that. "Yeah, and?"
"Without being rerouted into the… into some hell-pit. Or being made into a Librarian. With no special effort. Did you really have no idea what a valuable commodity that makes you?"
"What, there's no one else in the Foundation who can do that?"
"Who aren't already members of Sigma-3? There are three, including you, who we have specifically identified."
"Three? Huh."
"Three people in the entire Foundation, who are not members of Sigma-3."
"There's gotta be more than that," Navarro said.
"There probably are. We can't exactly test that safely. I believe we're missing the point, however. Have you really thought about what you're trying to turn down?"
Navarro sighed. "Last time I was part of a team, pretty much everything involved went very far south. I still get pissed off when I think about it. I can't not associate being in a task force with that. And now you seem to think threats are going to work."
"It worked last time."
"When the Foundation brought me in you actually had a life to take away," Navarro countered. "This ultimatum is cute, but you seem to be missing some key details here. Or you're hoping I am. I can 'agree' to this, go to the Library, and then just fuck off forever. You have two guys—"
"Two people outside of Sigma-3."
"— You are really oddly specific with that wording— that can follow me. And even if they can enter the Library after me, they can't touch me there. So you just lost a valuable commodity by being overbearing assholes."
"That's exactly my point."
Navarro closed his eyes. Stared at the table. Looked at Moose. "What?"
"You're free to think I'm shifting blame on who will fault you for declining this, but consider this. If you do decline this, the one thing whoever is pulling the strings has been aiming for, they have no reason to keep you on. This disciplinary record suddenly goes from necessary evils to irreconcilable differences. The fact that you would continue to do your current job is unimportant. At that point you're just another anomaly. And we both know how the Foundation treats those."
Navarro patted his pockets. He could really do with a cigarette right about now. "You'll understand if I still don't really believe that you're not the one behind this."
She shrugged. "You're free to think whatever you want. The point is that the Foundation just isn't equipped for dealing with these situations, they lack the knowledge and tools. So they strong-arm their way through it and hope for the best. Now they're trying their hand at magic, and we both know you cannot strong-arm that."
Navarro let out a small chuckle. "Yeah, that, uh. Heh. That'll go real well. Okay. Look. I'll work with you, fine."
"I'm not part of Sigma-3."
"Still dunno if I believe that, but sure, them. However! I am not shooting anyone. I am not going to be responsible for securing unwilling anomalies. I will act as a communicator to others through the Library but I am not going hunting for any information on the Library itself — no strengths, no weaknesses, no entry points, no Librarian fingernail clippings, no nothing. I'm not 'retrieving' even one Library book, and I am sure as fuck not trying to bring anyone else into the Library. Okay?"
"Suddenly you think you're able to negotiate."
Navarro grinned. "You strong-arm me, I strong-arm you. Upside of being a valuable commodity. Plus pissing you off is much more preferable to pissing the Library off."
"Regardless," Moose said. "While you don't get to negotiate any of these terms, and this should not be constituted as any form of acquiescence to demands, I can give you assurances that you will not be required to do … anything you just mentioned. Not even indirectly. If we were going to ask you any of that, you would not have been selected for Sigma-3. And no, you're not getting an explanation for that yet. Do you have anything else you need to ask, or do you have an answer for me?"
Navarro shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Moose started to speak, but Navarro hastily held up a hand. "I can't believe you actually have an answer ready for that. Yes, I'll join the bloody team."
"In that case," Moose said, "welcome aboard Mobile Task Force Sigma-3."

Continued in: Making a Scene »


I SEE YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO TRANSFER FILES. WOULD YOU LIKE SOME HELP WITH THAT? [Y] [N]

Isaac grunted in frustration as he analyzed the computer, hoping that the current owners were dumb enough to leave any information on the device, looking for clues to other warehouses like the one he was currently raiding. Turning his attention to his earpiece, he could practically hear the frantic pantomiming of everything one of his teammates said as the man prattled on to his commanding officer.
"So I'm bleeding out from my left arm, my neck is still fucked up from the noose, I'd just gotten thrown into a rather disgruntled Docent, and I only had a single shell left in my shotgun…"
"Davis, can you please shut off Dom's comm? Some of the less self-centered of us are trying to work here. And can anyone answer my question? I'm stuck and the ham is getting suspicious." He continued to tinker away at the computer, copying over any files that seemed to be of use and trying to coax the AI into entering the storage device.

OH DEAR, YOU SEEM TO HAVE ATTEMPTED TO ACCESS MY ADMINISTRATIVE FILE. THAT'S RATHER RUDE, DON'T YOU THINK?

"…Thinking quickly, I reached out into the air and brought an entire shelf's worth of books down on their heads at terminal velocity. It was pretty hilarious."
"Okay the whole story about how you busted up the nutso death cultists in the Library is just riveting, Dominic, but I don't see how that answers my question on how to politely code a file transfer request, and none of that is anything in comparison with my battles over the years against the Dreadlords of the Insurgency."
"Oh, no I wasn't trying to answer your question, Isaac, I was just illustrating how much more exciting my life was before I got dragged in with you lot. You're a lucky bastard, y'know? And please don't start with that Dreadlord shit again. We're stuck with the actual Foundation now, not the Insurgency chucklefucks you used to work with."
The commanding officer's voice rang out sharply over the intercom and throughout the surveillance vehicle, pinging off rapid-fire orders for each member of the team. "Look, both of you, save the reminiscing for later. Alvares, I need eyes on the cameras so you can help Holst pick out the minotaur in the main party room. Grenich, just try saying "please"? I have no idea how to deal with computers, much less a sentient AI that looks like a ham shank. Also, as much as I hate to say it, I'm agreeing with Alvares. We're the Foundation, we took you from the Insurgency. Holst, stop picking unnecessary pockets or you're going to draw attention on yourself. Berlot, poke around in the store room see if there's any other artifacts that you can carry out discretely when Grenich finishes his work."
With an impossibly melodramatic sigh, the former Hand member returned to his observations of the video monitors. Grenich, the resident tech expert and a former Chaos Insurgency operative was hunched over a computer in a storeroom.
Holst, their inside contact with Marshall, Carter, and Dark, was stalking through the main party area, swiping money from people who looked like they had some sort of security clearance to power his plutomantic divination, as well as a few others who just looked easy, muttered his reassurances that all the money he stole was completely necessary.
Aries, the anartist blood-witch and artifact hoarder, was in another corner of the storeroom that Grenich was in, looking over row after row of artifacts. Alvares' voice made her roll her eyes as it came over her headpiece. "Aye-aye, Cap- wait what the fuck? Aries, be a dear and turn that lovely body of yours around again. I need to look at something in the case behind you."
"I swear to whatever god or gods you believe in if you mention my body again, you will be my next blood source, Alvares." Still, she turned around and read the placard. "The hell is this? 'Antique Siberian Warblade, 1 of 7 in total, 1 of 4 in the possession of Mssrs Marshall, Carter, and Dark. This item was recovered from the personal armory of Genghis Khan. It is believed to be a war trophy following his conquest of the Dae-"
"Ah hell." Alvares cut her off abruptly. "That's exactly what I thought. Please hold. And for the love of Christ, don't touch it."
"Right. Like I was going to grab the fancy artifact that does who-knows-what through two inches of glass." Aries rolled her eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that night and continued to survey the room for useful or dangerous artifacts. Preferably something heavy to bludgeon Alvares with when they left.
"Oi, Liv!"
"That's Captain Davis, Alvares. What's wrong?"
"Oh whatever you say, glorious captain. We uh… Have a bit of a problem. Looks like our buds here at Marshall, Carter, and Dark have procured some Daevite weapons."
"Daevite? What's that?" She hovered over his shoulder, staring at the screen that caught his attention.
"Long story short, the kind of nasty civilization of warmongering necromancers and psychotic cannibals that would make George Miller and Sam Raimi proud."
"Who's George Miller and Sam Raimi?"
"GAH! Turn on the tv sometime, damn! Also irrelevant. It's bad news. And she definitely doesn't want to grab it. I mean, unless you want a rampaging Protomongolian war goddess on the team. God only knows how that would turn out."
"… Right. Okay. I'm going to file that in with the higher-ups. Aries, tag it with that tracking spell Alvares taught you." She immediately began tapping away at her cellphone, sending off a message to the Overseer Liaison for her team. Over her comm device, she heard a faint ding, presumably from the computer Grenich was working on. Shortly after, this was confirmed by a tinny electronic voice coming over the comm.

FILE TRANSFER COMPLETE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO MOVE ANYTHING ELSE WHILE I'M HERE? THIS DRIVE IS KIND OF CRAMPED. [Y] [N]

"Alright, Davis. It's been transferred, and I got pretty much everything I could find. Now what?" Grenich disengaged the drive and stood up.
"Alright. Aries, Grenich, See what else you can grab without setting off any alarms and get out of there. Holst, do you have eyes on the security team or the minotaur? Can you get out without alerting anyone?"
Holst's tinny voice came over his communication device, out of breath. "I do have eyes on the security team, but I really don't see myself getting out of here without drawing their attention."
Alvares' laugh caught Davis off guard. "Oh yeah, send in the klepto with poor impulse control to a fat cat party with a billion security guards. Excellent idea, Captain. Aries, Grenich, run like hell."
"Shit." Aries scrambled to fill up the bag with any artifacts in arm's reach and lurched for the door. "Grenich, come on!"
"Coming, coming! Fucking Holst. Alright." The Insurgency operative grabbed Aries' arm as he ran past and dragged her towards the hallway, much to her protest. She felt as he dropped the drive into her bag.
"I CAN RUN FOR MY LIFE WITHOUT HELP, THANKS." She readjusted her bag, yanked her arm away from Grenich's and headed for the door, outstripping him and drawing a handgun.
A voice exploded behind her. "Not fast enough, unfortunately."
The wall slammed shut in front of Grenich and Aries. A gigantic, well-dressed man with vaguely Mediterranean features stood behind them, one hand on the wall beside him. On one of the man's hands was a Chicago Bulls championship ring. The other was occupied by an improbably large handgun.
Grenich broke the silence first. "Uh. Davis. We found the minotaur."
The man smiled. "Correct." He slammed his hand against the wall again and with a sickening crunch Grenich was crushed by the wall. Aries felt the rush of wind behind her, and turned around to see a red smear where Grenich had been standing. Without thinking, she fired her gun a half dozen times in the general direction of the Minotaur and clipped his arm, breaking his concentration. The door behind her suddenly opened and she dived through it, and she ran as fast as her legs could carry her straight into the surveilance van the others were waiting for her. Alarms began sounding as Davis grabbed her by her collar and yanked her into the van.
Everyone was silent as Davis wrote up her report to the Overseer Liaison as Alvares drove the team back to the base and Davis treated Aries' and Holst's wounds. Some time later, they finally got a reply.

FROM: Overseer Liaison Office
RE: MISSION REPORT

Per Overseer directive, all casualties are acceptable and expected for this team, Officer Davis. Report to base and your team will receive further instruction pertaining to the Daevite artifacts after emotional and physical recovery.
— O5-7


Dunn shuffled his papers while rushing to Conference Room C. The trembling in his hands was easy to stifle; it was his stutter he needed to worry about. Calm down, Roger. It's not like you're undercover anymore… This is supposed to be easier…

Dunn shuffled his papers while rushing to Conference Room C. The trembling in his hands was easy to stifle; it was his stutter he needed to worry about. Never did shake that from that time in France… He reassured himself, Calm down, Roger. It's not like you're undercover anymore… This is supposed to be easier… He reached the door, catching sight of the paper posted beside it:

"RESERVED: MTF Briefing"

Roger Dunn creaked the door open, instinctively checking his 9 o'clock and panning to his 3. Doing so, he locked eyes with each Foundation rep seated at the long board table. His eyes drifted back as he closed the door behind him, keeping a steady gaze on the steel-faced man in the center.
"Dunn. It's about time you got here. You got something to say, or should we just leave?" Donald Woods, Director of Task Forces; Former MTFC of Beta-22.
"Terribly sorry about that, sir. This Site's layout is more confusing than the Library." His slight smile was met by unimpressed stares. "Let's get on with this, shall we?"
"Yes. Let's start with why you want to form a Task Force more expensive than the Seventh Occult War."
Dunn was taken aback as he inserted his flash drive into the console. "Umm.. Of course. Getting to that." As he picked up the laser pointer from the podium, his black-haired associate entered. "Ah, Laura. Nice of you to join us," he hissed through a lock-jaw smile. "Everyone, if we haven't introduced ourselves yet, I am Major Roger Dunn, Former Commander of MTF Rho-4, and this is my colleague Laura Guzman, Human Resources and Internal Affairs." The projector switched on, displaying a large icon of a raised hand with "M-3" displayed under it.
"We are here to propose the formation of a Mobile Task Force, designation Mu-3." he swallowed dry as he continued. "I think you'll be convinced by the end of this presentation that this Task Force will be very beneficial, despite its initial costs." God, I feel like a sellout.
Laura stepped up, "If you would all look to the proposal letter you were issued earlier, you will see the stated objectives for the Team and the intended means of achieving those goals." The board leafed through the assortment of papers spread across the table. Laura leaned over to Dunn, "I thought you were going to set everything up neatly."
"I was pressed for time."
"I have a question," the bird-nosed Doctor raised his hand. "It seems as if this is actually a request for three teams. How do you—"
"Yes, I will be addressing that; mm.." Dunn scanned the papers on the podium in front of him.
"Nope. I'm sorry," Director Woods interjected. "I just can't see prioritizing this sort of team over one that would be more pertinent; say, a Containment Task Force."
More like an Armed… Dunn had a sense of the old commander's agenda. "Actually sir, if you'd allow me to continue, I'll state expressly why this team must be formed." The Director of Task Forces conceded and gestured for him to proceed.
"Thank you." The Major advanced the slideshow, displaying an assortment of graphs. "As you all are probably aware, Marshall, Carter, and Dark LLP have increased their acquisition rates to over 125% compared to last quarter. Our field operatives can barely keep up with the amount of items being transported. Informal agent squads we've deployed have proven useful for tracking specific POIs and items, but this is simply not prudent in the long run. This MTF will be able to oversee these responsibilities more efficiently and act with a faster response time than most Containment forces."
"What about the operatives we already have in the field?"
"Ideally, they would be absorbed into the Task Force, sir." Laura snatched control from Dunn, clicking through to the 'Divisions' slide. "The roles of these agents fall into one of three categories, sir. These divisions will be: 'Profilers', the Tracking branch; 'Probes', the Undercover branch; and—"
"Thieves?" The Doctor spoke up in monotoned disdain. "You expect me to believe that the Containment branch of this team will be able to just sneak the items under the LLP's nose? Dozens of past operatives have had their cover compromised or been outright lost trying to secure items from them."
"Yes. This is why I'm proposing Agent Samuel Aguirre to personally train and command the Containment division."
"A thief to lead thieves, eh Dunn?" Captain Rainier, officer of Internal Affairs spoke her piece, "He isn't fit for a Task Force yet. He's little more than a consultant at the moment. You expect him to lead a whole Containment division?"
"Agent Aguirre's service and contribution to past missions and MTFs has been beyond exemplary. I believe he is more than capable enough to be the cornerstone for this team." Dunn turned to Laura, "For the other branches, I've chosen Agent Guzman here for the head of the 'Profilers'; and, having previously served as senior officer within several U-MTFs, Agent Dennis Ford as the liaison for the 'Probes'."
"Your agents' qualifications for these teams is contestable, Dunn."
"Not at all, ma'am," Laura opened a folder she'd held discreetly at her side to this point, dispensing its contents to each member of the panel. "I was a Profiler for the FBI for almost fourteen years. Top of my class at Quantico, and over 75 unsubs identified, tracked, and apprehended on my record. While Agent Ford was a field agent with the CIA for five years before his arrival at the Foundation, and currently acts as a training instructor for the Foundation's Internal Investigations division. He understands the duties of an operative, and is also a capable handler."
"Getting back to my original point: I have to say, while money sure ain't everything, it's still pretty damn important." The Director pointed his large, weathered hand at the funding tables displayed on the screen, "And you're proposing we spend millions on a single branch of this team; over ten times as much as the other two cost!"
"Sir, up to this point our limited sleeper agents have had to rely on a strict budget, even dipping into their personal accounts just to keep up appearances with MC&D. This funding will be used to supply our 'Probes' with luxury vehicles; fine clothing; upper-class properties; and, notably, the funds needed to interface properly with contacts."
"I just don't see any justification for the use of Foundation resources to purchase luxuries." My God… He's a sellout too.
"Director Woods. I understand that your background is in Armed Containment forces, but this team will revolutionize how we track, locate, and obtain anomalies moving forward."
"Well, I don't know how things are done across the pond, but I do know that my superiors aren't going to commit this much money to an unproven conceptual archetype."
"I believe, sir, that with an opportunity of this nature there should be little, if any, hesitation to take advantage."
"If I may, Major Dunn," Rainier butted into their face-off. "My major concern with this Task Force is the amount of secrecy needed for success."
"I'm sorry?"
"For these 'Probes', transmitting their data to outside personnel will require a delicate process. One slip, and we lose very valuable sleeper agents. How do you plan to reconcile this?"
"Um, Agent Ford is an extremely thorough operative. I don't expect such a mistake would happen under his ward."
"Just to be safe, Director," she turned to Woods. "I propose that the 'Probe' branch's handlers work in tandem with our own Information Security department, as to ensure protection from data breaches."
Director Woods sat in silence for a minute or so. "I agree with you, Rainier. Such a leak could be extremely costly." He stood up, picking up the proposal forms, "I'm granting the formation of this MTF for a trial period. That means: limited funds, limited personnel, and that any information related to currently embedded covert assets will be channelled through InfoSec." He slammed a stamp on the forms.
As the board members filed out of the room, Dunn and Guzman began picking up the leftover papers.
"Well, at least it's something." Laura forced a smirk.
Dunn sighed to himself, "I didn't even get to finish my powerpoint…"


While you will find collected in the official file all the pertinent reports from my Force's operatives in the field, I feel obliged to append my own review and rationalization for the actions that were taken and their results.

To:
The Office of The Foundation's Director of Mobile Task Forces

From:
Major Roger Dunn <MTFC, Mu-3>

Subject:
Re: Operation Free Market

Likely you have already heard some of the immediate details of this operation's aftermath, through unofficial channels, before receiving this account. While you will find collected in the official file all the pertinent reports from my Force's operatives in the field, I feel obliged to append my own review and rationalization for the actions that were taken and their results.

The first point to address is that, in spite of our own focus on tactical espionage, our plans were hampered by a spy within the Foundation. Please note that this double-agent was not a member of MTF Mu-3, but nosed their way into our mission regardless. The complications which arose are, almost entirely, to blame on this unexpected element.

I say almost entirely because I am not above shouldering my share of the responsibility. Our ambition was to strike an unexpected and severe blow to Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP (which, remember, we did do in the form of removing a valuable Item from circulation, and a Broker from their roster). Our decision to recruit a U-MTF Handler from outside our own Task Force, for access to their long-standing deep-cover contacts, is what created the information gap that gave the former Agent Roman the opportunity to insert themselves into the operation.

Let me state now, for the record, that this is not an admonition of Handler Aaron Moore. I fully understand his concerns for the safety of his contacts, and maintaining their cover. But the inherent value of the information, and strict adherence to InfoSec practices in response, limited Mu-3's overall ability to communicate and effect a truly cohesive plan of action.

In light of this mitigating factor, Captain Al Yorston's ability to improvise and implement a plan to recover the items deserves particular regard. Our Task Force makes use of advanced equipment and techniques, but instilled in each operative is also a healthy respect for the classic tenets of this work. Cpt. Yorston demonstrated a textbook application of the principle 'Adapt and Overcome', at more than one point in this operation. For exceeding expectations in the face of a constantly deteriorating situation, I commend Cpt. Yorston and his squad.

I acknowledge that the events which unfolded on the river were highly publicized, despite our best efforts to keep the entire operation covert. But the Public Relations Dept has released a suitable cover story to the general population. And MC&D Ltd's knowledge of our involvement, after things played out the way they did, was an unavoidable conclusion.

In summary, I urge you to refrain from making any hasty decisions based on the less successful aspects of this mission. Rather, my hope is you'll measure Mu-3's performance against the full facts of the situation. In which regard, I believe, our operatives displayed quick thinking and capable response to a highly complex and constantly evolving situation. To respond to deteriorating circumstances, not with panic or a loss of resolve, but improvisation and determined spirit, are characteristics of a good team. And, in my eyes, this team put those traits on display beyond any doubt. With the experience of this operation, I anticipate even greater results from MTF Mu-3 moving forward.

Maj. Roger Dunn <MTFC, Mu-3 "Highest Bidders">


On a day a few decades ago, a group of mundane mortals mistakenly thought that they could categorize the concept of knowledge. That they could contain the nexus of worlds, that the Foundation could lock up the platonic concept of a Library.
It was a learning experience, at least.
On that day, a Doctor pored over notes and maps, looking out the window of the temporary base of operations that had been set up for the incursion.
Not an invasion, not an assault. An incursion. That's the phrasing the Doctor preferred. Ideally it'll be more or less a scouting mission, something to gauge the relative scale of the Library.
Three groups, coming from three separate points. Triangles were meaningful shapes, right? The researchers weren't sure if they were or not. They weren't entirely sure of any of this, as a matter of fact.
Of course, only the very top of the command chain knew that. Everyone else was told that there were measured risks involved. It wasn't exactly a lie. Just stretching the truth.
Everybody took their stations, three entrances in three doorways in three small towns. Each in contact with the others, each planned to the minute.

The Library was as it always is. I would say it was a day like any other, if there were proper days in the Library. Or, at least, across the entire Library. Sometimes night is necessary.
The Library bustled as they always did. Sweeping, grand shelves stretching for miles, stocked with the knowledge of eternity; some towered higher than the sky, others were barely a foot stool's height. Every so often one might stumble across a small clearing, filled with couches or tables or whatever else the Library's visitors brought from elsewhere.
Speaking of which, at any given time beings from across time and space were scattered across the stacks, each unique but also not. An unfortunate alchemist, a skittish goblin, a peculiar cat, a soulless shapeshifter, an actual alien, a literal deer, a blindfolded witch - so many different lives meeting in the nexus of knowledge.
Throughout the Library stood Doors, each unique in itself, and each a literal Door to innumerable Ways. Each Way had its own Knock, and each Knock was unique in itself. Nothing was repeated in the Library, except when it was.
There was one corner of the Library, like most others, a clearing with a few tables and desks whose origins spanned across hundreds of years. This was one of many sitting spaces, and normally wouldn't be of special note in the Library; that is, until the moment a certain Door opened.
There was a hard, fast Knock on a tall wooden door set between two shelves. It looked as if it could be set in a farmhouse or old church, dusty and worn and heavy, heavy wood. It creaked a bit before a heavy boot kicked it open, and three dozen black-clad Agents of Red team swarmed in, weapons raised. Seven hundred feet away, another door burst open much the same way with Blue team's entrance; and three hundred feet from that one, another door with Green team's entry.
A single shot was fired, and screams began to ring out.

A field commander shouted as the Door slammed shut. The Doctor called over the intercom, demanding somebody retry the Knock - in a moment the Door opened again, and it opened to a different expanse of shelves. Agents rushed in.
Unfortunately, this was a different Way, and this corner of the Library was Restricted. An unfamiliar human voice began to wail as the Door slammed shut again.

In moments the Library was in chaos. The shot was taken by a newer Agent - nobody's quite sure who exactly, it happened so quickly - who got spooked and fired at… something. The moment the shot struck a shelf, the Library exploded into motion.
There was a palpable shift in the air as the Library came to life. The group huddled close together, tranquilizers and proper shots flying in focused bursts. A small black cat vanished into thin air the moment she was noticed, and a woman that looked almost like a schoolteacher dove behind a chesterfield; a man in a long coat drew his own pistol before being gunned down by the Agents, his body falling limp but bloodless on the marble floors.
In the distance more screams rang out. Agents shouted to one another, realizing the Door behind them was gone. Someone authoritative called for them to ‘find the others and regroup' - and they started off into the maze of shelves.
Then the Librarians came.

The Agents were scattered, gunfire and dozens upon dozens of voices screaming and calling out among the stacks. Occasionally gunfire rang out, and was swiftly silenced.
One of the Red navigators was in a panic, desperately trying to reopen the shut Door. Several other agents huddled close, ready to lay down suppressing fire if anything else approached; he didn't care, he just needed the damned Way to open.
There was a click and it finally swung open; the others looked back as he fell through into a hall of words, his voice perfectly silenced as old grey light poured into the Library like fumes. After several moments, an unfamiliar arm reached back out, closing the Door behind him.

They repeated the Knock over and over, each time afterward opening to a different place. A nearly solid wall of flame, an impossibly cold desert, an abandoned apartment covered in fungus; everything seemed lost.
The Doctor called his superiors. They would be unhappy but unsurprised.

Researchers at each entry point struggled to stay on the same page, each wracking their brains, trying to figure out a way to salvage the day. The Doors refused to work properly, the Agents were divided, the commanders were silent, the phones were busy… it was a nightmare.
Back in the project HQ, the Doctor hung up the phone, expression grim and sick.

Almost a lifetime away, an Agent from Blue was in a panic, crouched between a bookcase and a ratty old armchair. She peeked out to see a tall, mouthless figure practically appear out of thin air among her colleagues. It swung a heavy brass lantern with an eerie, silent grace, taking another Agent's head clean off; it was unfazed by gunfire, silently neutralizing the threat posed to the Library, like a white blood cell would neutralize a germ.
The cowering Agent squeezed her eyes shut, the sounds of carnage and gunfire ringing in her ears for a further eight seconds… before suddenly stopping. Trembling, she opened her eyes - the Library before her was immaculate, the MTF and everything else they brought gone.
Standing several feet before her was the figure, mouthless, a lantern hanging from its hand. Or… rather, the lantern hung from one arm.
It silently stood before her, holding its hand out. The Agent took it and was gone.

The Door was shut tightly again. Agents and researchers shouted amongst themselves, trying to figure out what happened. Minutes passed before the Way burst open on its own, a small group of Agents stumbling out. They scrambled and shouted, confused, ragged, hurt; it seemed like they had been gone for days.
Before anybody could react, one screamed, dragged back into the door before it slammed one last time, the old, grimy handle falling off.

Elsewhere, Green group was completely fragmented. One splinter made the attempt to move out and try to find the other Doors. It started with about twenty agents. Then about sixteen. Eleven. Ten. Eight… Five. Three.
Then there was only one Agent left. He began to run, the stacks growing taller, the air growing heavier, the light dimmer. It began to feel almost haunted, but not; it was the kind of feeling that you get when you know a place was once beloved, but has been silent for far too long.
He turned a corner, finding himself among towering shelves that stretched taller than anything, with books filled with forgotten stories.
Lost, he saw a towering figure atop a shelf, a regal beast with a man's face, looking down with bored curiosity. The beast smiled when the Agent laid eyes upon it, eyes filled with thirst and delight.
The Agent turned to run and ran headlong into a tall, crowned creature with a smile carved into its face. He began to weep, collapsing against the books, terrified and doomed. Somebody who couldn't be recognized said words of comfort to the lost Agent, who realized he had made a mistake.
The other strange figures watched as a Librarian climbed down, watching politely as the Agent tried to gather himself. In a moment the crowned thing scooped the Agent up like a baby, and leaned up, handing him off to the Librarian.

A pair of Agents ran, brothers chased by shapes and movement they didn't dare look at directly. They turned a corner, the first Agent bowling over a frightened child with iridescent eyes, the other jumping over; to where, they never really considered. They just needed to escape.
They ran for a long time, longer than they realized. Eventually they realized that the books were all gone… and the world around them had changed.
Light played above them, and they looked up to see a vast thing, like a titanic pillar on squat legs, a cage filled with innumerable lanterns planted atop its head. Branches like antlers strung with more lights stretched from the cage, twinkling like a tree filled with stars. The living thing's many arms reached throughout the hall, the scraping of quills on paper filling the brothers' ears.
It looked down at them, and they fled.

In the end, nobody knew what happened.
Like in everything else, every single person who was part of the incursion had a different story. Some seemed similar until one read into the subtleties, others had entirely unique experiences that no one else shared. Most contradicted the others.
Recordings of the day only helped muddy the waters further. Some showed chaotic images and sounds of alien worlds, others involved people who had not even been on the trip - that is, if they went on the op at all. Or had even been born yet.
Some of those involved had vivid recollections for the rest of their lives. Some remembered nothing but entering and exiting the Doors. It was like time skipped them over when they went through the Way.
The most peculiar thing happened thirteen days later. A group stumbled through Blue team's door, dressed in the tatters of their equipment, their hair greying and their bodies scarred and decrepit. They claimed to have been trapped in the Library for decades, and only just were able to leave. They each told fantastic tales of their own, of giants who stoked fires, of fantastic lost countries, of black dogs, of breathing ideas, of things they had no words to describe.
Many still remain. Lost souls who broke the rules, they must be punished for their transgressions. And they will, just as countless have been punished before them, and countless more will after.
It is a learning experience.