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Unusual Incidents Unit Hub
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Riemann

The little boy didn't really know what to do with it.
“Daddy, what is it?”
“Well, son, it's a toy.”
“Why does it look so funny?”
“I made it for you myself! That's what makes it special.”
“But…I wanted a soldier toy. The one that fights aliens.” The boy's lip was positively quivering.
The boy's father kneeled down and put a hand on his son's shoulder, squeezing it fondly as he pushed the rather mismatched-looking robot toy towards his son.
“I know you did, and so did I. But we just couldn't get the one you wanted because we don't have enough money. This one's a soldier toy too. He fights evildoers with his robot claws of death.”
The boy's father picked up the robot and turned it on before setting it down on the ground. The voltmeter on its head flared up for a moment before the robot began to look around.
“I am Sergeant Robo Boticon. Point me towards alien scum! I will destroy them with ease.”
It clacked its claws menacingly, or at least attempted to do so. Given that its claws were half-broken tools, it merely opened and closed them very slowly.
The boy didn't seem amused.
“Daddy, this toy already looks like it's broken.”
“Oh, that's not true. Why, when I was a kid, I would've been glad to have a toy as good as this one. I'm sure you'll have a lot of fun together. I have to get to work now. I'll see you soon, son.”
The father gave the boy a kiss on the head before heading out the door. The little boy sat on the ground, staring at his new toy with no small amount of confusion.
“So, Sergeant Robo Boticon, huh. What can you do?”
“I am the greatest soldier your planet has ever known. I hail from far away in the cosmos. Entire worlds of evil have burned beneath my iron boot. I destroy evil wherever I go. I am Sergeant Robo Boticon, the destroyer.”
The boy giggled. It was funny at least. “Can you destroy a great evil right now?”
“Evildoers shall taste my deadly claws of justice. Find me enemies to destroy, master.”
“Well, let's go see what kind of enemies we can find, sergeant.”

“Look, to the north.”
The robot swiveled its head.
“No, that's south.”
The robot swiveled its head again.
“There. The evil monstrous witch known as Sis Dur. She can crush an entire platoon of soldiers with a stomp of her foot, and her wild wail summons the great beast Momon to end playtime for good. Can you handle her, Sergeant?”
The robot stretched its nonexistent neck, as if it were trying to crack it.
“She will taste death.”
The toy moved out of the safety of the blanket on top of the couch, and promptly stepped off the edge of the couch, hitting the ground. The boy reached out a hand and flipped the flailing toy over, putting it back on its feet.
The robot inclined its head in thanks, before turning back to its dangerous mission. It strode with deadly purpose (and rusty joints) to confront the menacing Sis Dur.
The boy's sister sat on the ground, playing with her dolls.
The toy whispered to itself. “Prepare yourself for the grave, Sis Dur. Sergeant Boticon comes on swift wings of death to crush you.”
The robot waddled slowly toward the girl. It came up to the foot of the girl, who looked down at it. The robot looked up and waved its claws as a warning.
“I will destroy you.” The robot issued a challenge.
The girl wrinkled her nose at it, and yelled at her brother. “Get your dumb robot out of here, we don't want him around. We're playing house.”
“Your wishes are insignificant, Sis Dur. As is your remaining lifespan.”
The toy bumped into the boy's sister before slowly backing up and doing the same thing, over and over. It swiveled a claw to emphasize its point. The little girl wrinkled her nose at her brother again before standing up and walking away. She turned around for a moment.
“You're so annoying! Ugh, I'm gonna go play house in my room.”
The toy swiveled around to face the boy and raised its claw in a salute. “Mission accomplished, master. The threat of Sis Dur is gone from this area. I will follow her to the ends of the universe to crush her between my claws to eliminate her completely.”
“No need, sergeant! We've done more than enough already. Let's go find some other evildoers.” The boy smiled widely. Perhaps the toy would be more fun than he had thought.

When the boy's father got home that day, he came upon his son screeching with joy and playing with his toy. A broad smile on his face, he sat down next to his son, who was evidently reenacting some kind of battle between his new toy and a group of toy soldier figurines.
“Sergeant! Crush those enemies with your claws!”
The robot picked up one of the soldiers and closed its claws.
“Before the air is crushed out of your lungs, take heart in knowing that you were defeated by a worthy foe as I.”
The father smiled again. “Enjoying your new friend?”
The boy laughed and hugged his father. “Daddy! Sergeant Robo Boticon and I are fighting evildoers. He's good at it.”
“Ah, creator. I have ensured that the last breath on the lips of alien evildoers across this living room is ‘Sergeant Robo Boticon.'” The robot saluted.
“Good job, Sergeant. Very good work. And now, I think it might be time for dinner. Let's go son. We can play with your new toy later.”
“Aw, okay daddy. Let me just do one last thing, okay? I don't want him to get bored.”
“Well, alright. Wash your hands and come to dinner right after that though, okay?”
“Yes, daddy!”
The boy ran off to his room, with the toy under his arm, and dug around in his toy box for one special accessory.
He pulled a shining white rocket out of his toy box. Then, he set down the robot on the ground, who looked up and down at the rocket.
“A fine model. Excellent power. Energy efficient. Am I going on a voyage?”
“Yes, Sergeant Robo Boticon. The Interstellar Space Command has discovered that our galaxy is filled with evil-doing aliens.”
“Monstrous.”
“Your mission is to use this rocket to travel from planet to planet and fight these alien scum for the good of the galaxy. Do you accept?”
The robot saluted. “Yes, master. They will know the name of death: Sergeant Robo Boticon.”
The boy handed the robot a list of planets, picked up the robot, and stuffed it into the rocket. Then, he ran outside and placed the rocket down outside.
“Sergeant, there is a high chance that you will not survive.”
“Yes. But to destroy great evil, you need an even greater evil. And that is my claw of death. No one else is qualified.”
“Godspeed, Sergeant.”
“Tell my wife and children I love them.”
The toy gave a solemn salute, before preparing himself for launch. The boy pressed some buttons on the remote and dial as he saluted the robot.
With a massive roar, the rocket exploded out of the yard and shot straight into the sky, piercing through the heavens and out of orbit itself. The robot rattled in his bolts as the rocket reached supersonic speeds, slipping the gravity of the boy's planet.
Looking at his home and where he had spent his brief life up to this point, the robot pondered what it would be like to fight aliens elsewhere. Were they going to be ugly? Perhaps. Strong? Who knows? But his combat prowess would solve any problem, he was confident of that much.
Settling into his seat, he decided to doze a little before arriving at his first destination.

The robot was awoken by burning heat.
Awakening with a start, he looked around. He was entering his first planet. Consulting the list his young master gave him, he read the name.
“EARTH. What a strange name for a planet. No matter, they will taste death nonetheless.”
The rocket smashed through the unfamiliar planet's atmosphere and plowed into the ground below, ejecting the intrepid soldier.
“The hell was that?!” The robot tried to look at what had spoken, but he had fallen over once again. Squirming around, he managed to turn slightly. He saw two things.
First, his rocket had been completely destroyed in the impact. He cursed this strange planet's dangerous atmosphere and terrain for ruining his beautiful craft.
Second, he saw the ugliest alien he had ever seen. It was a soft-looking, pinkish, disgusting creature. It was accompanied by another one, equally disgusting. The robot held back the urge to vomit, even though he didn't have anything to vomit, or a mouth, for that matter.
But if his rocket was destroyed, he would need a new one. This planet surely had rockets, he just had to find them. But it was a little hard to find someone to place him in a good rocket when they were all dead beneath his foot. And who's to say they wouldn't betray him?
No, he needed a different strategy. Sergeant Robo Boticon was not a dumb soldier. He graduated top of his class. He would blend in with the evil alien scum. Even pretend to be one of them. Then, when he had gained their trust by doing evil things, he would acquire a rocket, and then destroy them all.
He glanced at the ugly alien, and analyzed what it was saying. He quickly absorbed the new language.
“Cower in fear, fools. My name is RoboLord the Destructor, and I am here to end your miserable lives. I am evil and death incarnate.”
He tried to clack his claws again, but he was still stuck on the ground, flipped over. Soon. Soon.

He had been in luck, because the aliens brought him to a big laboratory, filled with the aliens' primitive technology. The first thing he did was attempt to fight them all. They responded by locking him in an incredibly sturdy transparent prison, evidently fearing his power.
It was all working exactly according to plan.
They called him names in their strange language, dubbing him fearsome names such as “Pesterbot” and the terrifying “Patheticon the Garglemost.” Yes, they quaked when they saw him pass. They couldn't even bear to look him in the eye before quivering and uttering a strange howl from their lips, while pointing at him and looking at each other. Fear positively corrupted their minds. The robot couldn't have been more pleased.
Soon, he would conquer them all.
Soon, he would reclaim his true identity.
Soon, he would return to his home and young master.
He need only wait for the right moment to strike.


In this world, the clouds cannot bear to cover the sky's splendor. Rain falls unbidden, like unsaid sorrow. Snow floats down in fluffy flakes and remains white until springtime. The winds are too gentle to bring sudden storms.

Dr. Iceberg presented his mentor with a single, thornless rose on Valentine's Day. He confessed his feelings. He acknowledged that, if he stayed, he would grow cold and indifferent to cope with his job. Just as his mentor had done. If he was rejected, he would transfer out and put this all behind them both.
"I'll stay with you, and we can both be cogs in this machine."
Dr. Gears decided that accepting the offer was the logical, efficient choice at the time. He had wanted to smile but could only bring himself to nod. By that evening, he had presented his new partner with a box of chocolates and fed them to him at the rate of precisely one chocolate every two minutes.
The first year together was the most difficult. For a solid month, nothing changed save for a morning kiss that Dr. Iceberg initiated; Dr. Gears never responded, nor did he pull away. In frustration, Iceberg attempted to spark a jealous reaction. He flirted with various women for months. Dr. Gears said nothing, except to offer a breakup if Iceberg was no longer interested.
On their first anniversary, Dr. Gears walked in five minutes late and placed a vase of freshly cut roses onto his partner's desk before attending to the morning paperwork.
Dr. Iceberg had forgotten. Embarrassed, he skipped lunch for some shopping. By the evening, he had presented Dr. Gears a box of chocolates.
"Sorry. I didn't find anything better— work took up my time. I forgot the date-"
Dr. Gears merely nodded, then opened his mouth in expectation.
That night they shared a bottle of wine. Gears offered Iceberg his bedroom, then they had sex in his bed. The sunrise met them asleep in each other's limbs, no different than any other couple on the morning after Valentine's.
The second year was easier. Dr. Iceberg stopped trying to get reactions. He learned instead to understand his partner's affection. It came in convenient breaks during heavy workloads, the occasional plate of muffins on his desk in the morning, and mid-afternoon fresh coffee.
Every year for the next six years, Gears brought Iceberg roses on the morning of Valentine's Day. Iceberg brought chocolates in the evening. Then they had sex, each time a little less passionately.
Iceberg got colder.
Gears watched. He wanted to stop this. He wanted this to never end.

It is the evening of their seventh Valentine's Day. Dr. Iceberg feeds Dr. Gears chocolates at precisely one every two minutes. Every three minutes, they sip wine in unison. When the chocolates run out, they fall into bed together.
The sheets are not particularly soft— standard Foundation grade. Neither says the other's name. They don't have the lungs to kiss in the heat of it; their lips rest against each other, sharing breath.
After it is over, Dr. Iceberg holds his mentor against himself. Fear, insecurity, and sadness sparks in his blood. His heart races even as Gears' slows in preparation for sleep. Do you still care? Do I? How much worse will I get? Am I already your mirror image?
"What is the purpose of continuing to acknowledge Valentine's Day in this manner?"
The question brings Dr. Gears out of his sleepy state. He dwells on the question. If I said there was no purpose anymore, would you leave? If you left, could you recover? But he could not give this up for the world.
"I have learned from you it is important to maintain established interpersonal relationships."
Iceberg can only nod. He wants to do so much more.
The sunrise finds them fast asleep in each other's arms.


Barely visible in the cold dark before sunrise, rain fell softly onto the streets as dawn threatened to break on this abandoned neighborhood. The burnt-out streetlights once shone brightly in this place once full of families and friends, but only vermin and those who are regarded poorer than the vermin reside here now. In this bleak hour between day and night, a pale man staggered into a nearby building, a ratty tarp loosely hung over his thin frame as protection from the storm. To the casual observer, it would look as nothing more than a homeless vagrant stopping for a place to rest (or perhaps engage in less savory activities, depending on the observer's cynicism). But this building was not chosen at random. This stranger had purpose.
The heavy wooden door creaked loudly as the man entered and slumped to the ground, completely exhausted from his journey. He lifted his head and surveyed his environment. This decrepit old building was once a library, a proud institution of learning for all. But time and vandals had taken their toll on this place: books were scattered all over, torn to pieces; shelves were knocked over and walls either spray-painted or destroyed. A faint flickering glow illuminated a room to the back of the building, the only sign of civility in this otherwise emaciated husk of society. The man sighed a sigh of relief as he shakily stood up and cast off his makeshift coat, revealing a body near starved of care. Unkempt black hair fell wildly onto a gaunt, unshaven face, and his wire-thin body clothed only in a wife-beater tank top and dirty jeans appeared weak and feeble with the exception of his right arm, which appeared to be a richly intricate mechanism of gears and cogs made to resemble an arm that extended just beyond the shoulder. Steadying himself, the man slowly made his way to the back room and entered.
Unlike the rest of the building, this room was clean, if a bit wet from cracks in the ceiling. Candles nestled in each of the corners provided light for this building (the city had disconnected power from this area years ago), and shelves once used for books had been broken down to create makeshift beds for weary travelers, upon which one man more impoverished than the stranger lay resting. In the center of the room lay a now empty brass bowl on a pedestal adorned with images of hammers and gears. At the far left corner of the room, an elderly gentleman sat reading a book at a librarian's desk, the only original piece of furniture well looked after. Not wishing to disturb the sleeper in the opposite corner, the stranger weakly called out, "F-father Williams…?"
The old man snapped his head up from his book and looked above his half-frame glasses to see who had called his name. With a warm smile, he beckoned the stranger to his desk and replied, "Alex! Come in, have a seat! You're always welcome here!". As Alex made his way to his desk, Father Williams noted that Alex's eyes were puffy and red, as though he had just been crying. Internally, Father Williams sighed sadly. He felt he knew what Alex had come to him for.
Alex pulled up a chair on the opposite side of Father Williams' desk and sat down. "Father, I…I…" was all he was able to mutter before breaking down into tears and sobbing. Father Williams waited patiently for Alex to finish, but inwardly he was not surprised. Alex had come to them at a low point in his life: no friends, no family, no home and near death. Father Williams remembered the day Alex was brought into their makeshift church, how his curiosity and fear fell away when he was enlightened by the scriptures of their Broken Lord. Father Williams knew Alex's spirit was strong, but even the most hardened souls are crippled by the Rebuilding, and even months later Alex's mind was still recovering from his baptism.
Alex sniffed and composed himself, wiping his eyes with his hands. He took a deep breath before attempting to speak again. "Father Williams, I need to talk to you. I have transgressed against our Lord, and I have had heretical thoughts that I don't want to have anymore. Please help me."
Father Williams paused for a moment, then spoke. "Alex, you are one of the most faithful parishioners I have ever come to know in my time as a priest for our Lord. Forgive my disbelief, but I find it unlikely that you have done anything to offend Him."
"I-I know, Father, and more than anything do I want to believe that. It's just…I…these thoughts…I…"
Father Williams extended his hand to calmly interrupt the young man's stammers. "I understand, Alex. Please, tell me what troubles you."
Alex took a deep breath. "Father, I have felt more at home in this church than I have anywhere in my entire life. The thought that our Lord loves me is a comfort unlike anything I've ever felt before. Our Lord God has done so much for me…" Alex trailed off and looked down in shame. Before Father Williams could reply, Alex spoke up again. "That is why I come to you now, Father. I know the texts say that He loves me, but…but why? Why would He love me? I am just some worthless bum who couldn't even handle the Rebuilding, so why…" Alex's voice trailed off into a whisper, "…why would He ever want me?".
After a moment of silence, Father Williams knew how he could convince Alex once and for all. "Show me your arm, Alex." Father Williams said warmly, extending his hand to take Alex's arm. Confused, Alex extended his right arm. Father Williams smiled as he said, "No, Alex. Your other arm."
Alex gently laid his clockwork arm onto the desk, and Father Williams carefully examined the brass limb. A beautifully constructed testament to the Lord, it was easy to forget that this was once a diseased, barely functioning appendage used only to imbibe toxic chemicals in a futile attempt to seek comfort from daily living. Alex was unclean, he needed to purify himself, and this arm had been the gateway to sin. Even now, the divine oil used to Rebuild Alex's arm (as well as the septic appendages for the other devout) was kept safely hidden in Father Williams' desk, ready to flow into the sacred basin in the center of the church to cleanse sickness.
Father Williams carefully considered the arm for a moment, then carefully removed one of the outermost gears. "There. Please try to move your arm, Alex."
The cogwheels in the upper arm moved as they always did, but the gears below the elbow stayed perfectly still, and the arm refused to move. Alex began to panic as he desperately tried to lift his arm, the gears spinning madly in an attempt to produce an effect.
"Please, Alex, calm yourself." Father Williams said soothingly. Alex looked back to see Father Williams staring at the removed gear. "It is interesting, isn't it? How something so small can affect so much?"
Father Williams turned his attention back to Alex. "When we give our praises to our Lord, we are not simply worshiping a mindless machine that knows or cares nothing about us, despite what the heretics may think. Our souls, that which make us what we are, this is what we give to our God. He is not called 'The Broken God' because He is some robot that needs physical repair. He is called 'The Broken God' because each of us, our souls, are a missing piece of Him."
"And that, Alex, is why you should not fear to lose our Lord's favor, because just as you need him, He needs you. He loves you because you and He are the same in spirit. Just like He needs me, and He needs every one of us. You will never lose our Lord's love, because much like this gear and your arm, He cannot be without you. So when you are alone and fearing that you have nothing to give to our Lord, remember one thing:" Father Williams looked down and replaced the missing gear back into its socket, then looked back up at Alex. "That even something small is needed to make the whole complete."
Alex tried once again to lift his arm, and this time it moved as though nothing had happened to it. Alex looked at Father Williams for a moment, then smiled. "Thank you, Father. I feel much better now." Alex stood up, shook Father Williams hand and left, this time with a newfound spring in his step. Father Williams chuckled as he turned his attention back to his book, a text from an archaic religion that nevertheless had many good selections that evoked thoughts of his own Lord. That young man reminded Father Williams of himself when he was younger. Perhaps next time Alex comes to visit, he should bring up the possibility of joining their Church's clergy. In his book the old man found his favorite passage, which he murmured aloud to himself.
"Humble yourselves, therefore, under Gods mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, for he cares for you."


A long yawn rumbled out of Finnegan. He couldn't quite call what he had just been through sleeping, and so the weariness from recent work weighed him down. He groaned and sat up, shifting his hat from his face to on top of his head. Joints popped as he tossed his head side to side, another yawn escaping him. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes he found himself sitting on a couch rather than on his mattress. In Indiana, not California.
At the foot of the couch was Jakeob Aldon, sleeping on a pile of blankets. She was curled into a loose ball, an even looser smile on her face. Nestled against her chest was Everett, the magic polecat she had apparently adopted after she poured it out of a faucet.
Finnegan took care to step well beyond her frame and eased himself off the couch and onto the carpet. The room itself was fairly cozy, if mismatched. The couch didn't match the armchair, which didn't match the coffee table they had moved to make room for Aldon. Assorted miniatures and collectibles adorned various shelves and countertop backsplashes. Nothing but things found on discount or scavenged during moves. It reminded him of home, which only made him want to leave.
He made his way over to the dining room, which was basically just the part of the living room that had a table and some chairs. To his right was the kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the room by a counter. It was little more than a nook with the bare essentials of a kitchen. He flipped open the various cabinets until he found some cereal, and then set about finding a pair of bowls and spoons. At least the milk was easy to find.
After pouring everything and returning the milk to its home, he dunked the spoon into the bowl and sat down. He took a bite and blankly stared at the box. The ugly, offensively bright box. It looked like something produced in the fifties, if not earlier. Standard's Super Coco Pows. His eyes were drawn to text in the top right, within the tree, and within the box boasting of a prize inside. His subconscious mind paused the connections that the text was trying to force him to make, and he chuckled when he consciously realized it.
Super Coco Pows.
The crafty bastards.
When he finished the cereal he tilted his head back and drained the bowl. He slid out of the chair and rinsed the bowl and spoon, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. By the time he loaded them into the dishwasher, Aldon was up and groaning.
"Morning," he said.
"Mmng." Aldon never was much of a morning person. Bones popped as she stretched, and then she bent over and scooped up Everett. She pressed the creature to her face, splashing herself with water. She shook her hands and Everett reformed at her feet, where he pawed at her ankles playfully.
Clean-faced and clear-eyed, Aldon spotted the cereal box and grimaced at its design. Then her brow furrowed and she stumbled forward. She brought the box within an inch of her face and then dropped it. After a mutter of thanks she dropped into the chair and poured some into the bowl Finnegan had left out for her. When she realized she needed milk she set her forehead on the table and mumbled to herself.
"I'll get it," he said.
Her head snapped back up. "What- no, I can-"
"Getting it," he sang as he opened the fridge. He retrieved the carton and even attempted to pour it for her, but she smacked his hands in a flurry of limbs and snatched it away from him. She poured the milk herself and screwed on the cap, but didn't fight when he took it back.
She took a few bites and set the spoon back into the bowl. "It upsets me how good this is."
Finnegan chuckled. "Think it's anomalous?"
"Eh, doubt it. Magic food is hard. Sugarcomb is the only-" The spoon paused just short of her mouth. "Wait, are you being a smartass?"
"Maybe."
"Oh, fuck off," she said with a smile.
Finnegan took up a seat across from her, his vision roaming around the room. Eventually his gaze settled on her, and soon after his vision blurred as he really looked at nothing. He pondered all they had done recently, images and sounds floating around. Fond memories, by and large. Considered what they would do in the near future, all of which was about as clear as the the unfocused haze of his eyes registering. He didn't see much point in thinking about it. Then Aldon stood and his eyes snapped back to attention. He thought about what they were currently doing. Not always exciting, but never really boring. A happy medium. Contentment.
"So I'm thinking about going back east," Aldon said. "To visit my folks while I have some extra cash."
Surprise pushed Finnegan's eyebrows up. In the two years he had known her, Aldon had only mentioned her parents once. To say she wasn't living with them anymore. Presently, she was staring at his face with a bit more scrutiny than was typical of her. No doubt trying to gauge his reaction. He gave her little to work with.
"How long?" The question was easy enough. So of course Aldon just shrugged. Now that the questioning light was on her, however, she refused to meet his gaze. The back of Finnegan's chair hit the wall behind him as he leaned back. "Do you want to talk about it, or is this one of those things where I just nod and let you do your thing?"
"I had sorta thought about it before we left," she said. She crossed her arms on the table and set her chin on her forearm. Her gaze remained focused on the floral print of the tablecloth. "And being at the drive-in just made me really… nostalgic, I guess."
Finnegan glanced at the ceiling absentmindedly. "Going alone?"
Her head tilted, her cheek resting on her arm. She was finally looking at him. "Yeah. That okay?"
He shrugged. "I'll try not to be offended."
A soundless laugh escaped her. She pushed herself back up and after a moment she stood. Finnegan followed suit, and they collected their things from around the room. Their host had already left for work long before either of them had awoken, so Finnegan took it upon himself to write a note.
Again, thank you for everything. We really appreciate it. Cereal box is from a Foundation front, by the way. You did know that, right? -A&F
Aldon caught sight of it and punched him. "What did I tell you?"
Finnegan just grinned and rubbed his stinging arm.
"Gimme that pen."
Thanks. Bye. -A&F
"Pertinent," he said, reading it as she jotted it down.
"As it should be," she said, tugging on her backpack. "Now. Let's dance."
"Ugh."
Standing beside each other, the duo glanced at one another. In tandem, they threw their arms up in opposite directions. After a flurry of arms and knees and burning cheeks on Finnegan's end, they ripped through spacetime and stepped into their Way.
Adjacent to the counseling center, with the food truck parked right in between them, was the Moonlight Theater. It was fresh in their minds, and bold in detail within their Way. Bits and pieces flickered as their mental pictures of it did battle, but as a whole it seemed much more real than the rest of the Way's contents. After a brief stride they were at their doors, and then they were in the Library. The walk to the door containing a Way to her hometown was made in silence.
"Guess this it," Aldon remarked when she reached the archway.
"Yup. You gonna be alright by yourself?"
Aldon rolled her eyes and began to turn. "Later, dude."
"Aw, come on." Finnegan held his arms out. "Humor me?"
She stepped into him almost immediately. It was hard not to chuckle. The embrace was short, but tight. When she released him she stepped back, sighing.
"It'll be fine," he assured.
"Yeah." She half-snorted. "Yeah! I'll see you later, Finn."
"Bye."
The walk back to their local Way was uneventful. Taking the trip from the library to their apartment was easy, quiet. He found the golems playing hide and seek, but their tiny bodies and lack of voices made it a hushed game. The enchantment around their room that prevented sound from entering or exiting, sans for noise made by the door, isolated him from the hustle and bustle of the street below.
To fill the silence, Finnegan activated his personal computer. The desktop quickly powered to life and he checked the various tabs he kept open. Once caught up on local events and goings-on, he opened up one of the various sound files he had been working on. He gave it a quick listen and then opened an editor to play around with it. After about twenty minutes he had to close the program, distracted by the growing bouncing sensation in his stomach. He attempted a different file, another project. It refused to garner his attention.
He closed everything and sat still for a moment. It felt like he had a stone sitting in his stomach. His gaze turned to the empty beds against the wall. At the door across the room, which was empty sans for clay.
For once in a very long time, Finnegan was alone. He had been by himself, surely, but it had always been a voluntary isolation. Aldon had always been right there, often trying to pull his attention away from his work when he was focused and ready to play when he grew restless. Even when she was at work, she often answered texts, and her guaranteed return had been something to anticipate. And now she was on the opposite side of the country, gone for an unknown amount of time.
Finnegan sighed, loud and long, into his beret.
"Oh gods, I'm bored."

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Breakfast arrived at 0700 every day. Iris tried to make sure that she was showered, her bed was made, and her quarters were clean and neat by then. Not that she particularly cared what the white-coated man with the food trays thought of her, but it was the principle of the thing.
She sat at her desk reading a dog-eared novel, waiting for the knock on her door. When it came, she was surprised to also hear a female voice saying, "Hello? Miss Thompson?"
She opened the door curiously. There was an attractive woman of indeterminate race standing there, smiling pleasantly. She was dressed in a neat skirt suit in light grey, over a pale blue dress shirt. The name badge clipped to her lapel read "Adams." It had a Lambda symbol on it, crossed with the number 2.
Mobile Task Forces, then. I'm not familiar with Lambda-2. Must be a new one.
"Iris Thompson?" the woman said. "Andrea Adams. I'm the head of your security detail. I was just wondering if you'd like to join me for breakfast."
Iris glanced up and down the hallway. The two guards at the end of the hall had their weapons slung over their shoulder. They seemed unconcerned about the containment breach. One of them even gave her a smile and a thumbs-up.
"Um," Iris said cautiously. "This must be breaking a ton of rules…"
"Your SCP file was updated this morning," the woman said. "You're being allowed Class 4 Privileges. Consider it thanks for saving all those lives."
Funny that they didn't give me these privileges three weeks ago, right after the incident. "I think you mean my reward for joining Alpha-9," Iris said.
"You really want to stay in that cell? Just accept the damn reward."
"All right," Iris said reluctantly. "Shall we go?"
"Not yet. Blue scrubs are so last year. Here." Adams thrust a plastic grocery bag towards the other woman. "I'll wait for you to change."

"These jeans feel weird," Iris said. "My legs feel all constricted."
"Did I get your size wrong?" Adams asked. "I looked up the report from your last physical."
"The jeans are fine. I just haven't worn jeans in nine years," Iris pointed out. "And I'd almost forgotten how to tie shoelaces, too." Special Containment Procedures humanoids were only allowed soft slippers. Less opportunity to hang yourself or improvise a weapon without shoelaces.
"Ah. Well, hopefully, you'll have a chance to get back into practice in the near future," Adams said. She opened the door of the Site-17 cafeteria. "After you."
The din of conversation in the mess hall didn't ebb as the two women entered. Word of Iris' updated containment procedures must have gotten around: no one turned to gawk at the SCP walking free in a restricted area. A few did stare at the strikingly attractive woman in the grey skirt suit. Probably some of those stares were also intended for her, the moderately attractive one in t-shirt and jeans.
It was strange how comforting just being looked at felt, compared to wondering if the armed agent was going to decide that you'd taken a threatening action and go for his weapon.
Adams shrugged off the stares like rain and walked confidently up to the counter, picking up two orange plastic trays and passing one to Iris. "Hey, Flames," she said to the bearded man in the white chef's apron. "One Denver Omelet Special." She glanced over at Iris. "What do you want? I'll buy."
"Oh. Um." Iris felt a brief moment of panic: she hadn't had to decide what to have for breakfast in years. She thought back over the variety of meals that had arrived at her cell room door over the years and settled on the one that she'd found most appealing: "Bagel, cream cheese, and fruit salad, please."
"Ah, yes. Breakfast Menu 12," the bearded man said. "You don't need me for that: you can pick up continental breakfast stuff at the cold bar."
"O-oh! I'm sorry," Iris stammered.
"It's all right." The bearded man smiled pleasantly. "First time in my cafeteria, Miss Thompson?"
"… well, yes," Iris said nervously.
"No problem. Hope to see you again later. If you come back for dinner, I'm making my special chili…"
"… which you should not eat unless you want to suffer the wrath of SCP-Six Six Six and a Half," Adams interrupted.
"… I'm not familiar with that one," Iris said seriously. "Which containment block is he in?"
Adams and Flames both laughed out loud.

"All right, so SCP-666 1/2 is… horrible digestive problems," Iris said, "SCP-006-J is gigantic bugs, and SCP-095-J is Comic Sans. Any other stupid in-jokes I should know about so that I don't embarrass myself again?"
"No, that's about it," Adams said. "I'm surprised you never picked them up during your time in the Mobile Task Forces."
"I hung out with geeks," Iris said. "They mostly made jokes about Portal and Half-Life. 'SCP-003 Lambda is a video game that has the anomalous property of never being completed ever.' That sort of thing."
"Hm. I guess even a group like ours has its cliques and circles. I suppose it's inevitable in an organization as large as ours."
Iris picked up her knife and began spreading cream cheese over her toasted bagel. "I suppose that's true."
Adams smiled. "You agree, then? You're a member of the Foundation?"
"When did I ever say that?"
"Right now. When I referred to 'our' organization and you didn't object."
"Maybe I'm not one of those Sherlock types that picks up on tiny turns of phrase. Not everyone makes a big deal out of the specific words people choose to use."
"You also took interest in the in-jokes among the staff," Adams pointed out. "Which means you have an interest in being part of our culture."
"So what the fuck's your point?" Iris took a vicious bite out of her innocent bagel.
"No point. Just trying to get to know the person they want me to take a bullet for." Adams picked up another forkful of omelet and chewed thoughtfully.
Iris took a bite of her fruit salad.
The silence continued.
"You're supposed to ask me something like 'Well?' Or 'And what do you think'?" Adams prompted gently.
"What, does this conversation have a script now?" Iris retorted.
"Your containment file didn't say anything about sarcasm."
"All right, then, here it is without sarcasm," Iris said, spearing a piece of cantaloupe with her fork. "As long as you do your job, I don't care what you think about me. You're my minder, not my friend."
"Ah." Adams waved her fork in Iris' general direction. "If I'm not your friend, then who is?"
All my friends are dead. Killed by him.
Iris looked down into her fruit salad. The dark red grapes looked back up at her.
"Is he really that frightening?" Adams asked. There was no accusation in her voice. Just genuine curiosity and concern.
Iris closed her eyes. "He's like… have you ever looked into the eyes of a shark?"
"I've never seen a shark. Not in real life," Adams said.
"Neither have I, but… I've looked into Able's eyes… and I think that if a shark were human, that's the kind of eyes they would have," Iris said. "The kind of eyes who would kill a billion people just to see what their corpses would look like strewn from here to the horizon."
"I can understand why that would be—"
"You don't understand," Iris interrupted. "I wasn't afraid that Able would kill me. I was afraid I'd be the one that he'd keep alive to see it happen."
She pushed her fruit salad away. She wasn't hungry any more.
Adams, meanwhile, had cleaned her plate. She folded her paper napkin up and tossed it onto her tray, then leaned back in her flimsy plastic chair and tapped her fingertip against her lips. "How do you feel about taking a trip off-site?" she asked.
Iris laughed. Then she stopped laughing. "Wait, you're serious?"
"Class 4 Privileges include limited off-site excursions, so long as you're accompanied by Foundation security personnel. I happen to count as Foundation security personnel," Adams said. "You should feel flattered. There aren't many Skips with Class 4 privileges."
"I don't know…"
"Come on," Adams said. "It'll be fun. We can go shopping for clothes and giggle a lot and try on jewelry and drink cosmos and gossip about boys and pretend I'm actually your friend and not just your bodyguard."
"… all right," Iris said. "Except for the 'gossip about boys' part."

"So," Adams asked. "Any thoughts on what you want to do?"
She'd changed her clothes in the intervening time: black jeans, a sleeveless top that looked like a Tiffany lampshade, and a pair of black velvet shoes with dangerously high heels. Iris felt envious of the older woman's ability to walk in those things, or the bold confidence with which she climbed into the driver's seat of the blue sports car in the parking lot.
"None at all," Iris said. "I was just going to follow your lead."
"Well, first of all, we need to get you some clothes. I know the Foundation provides uniforms, but a girl can't wear digi-cam and tac gear all the time. After that, I'm thinking we grab some dinner at this awesome wine bar up-town. You like wine?"
"I actually don't know," Iris admitted. "I've never had any alcohol before."
Adams gave Iris a Significant Look over the tops of her sunglasses.
"I was thirteen when the Foundation recruited me, fifteen when Omega-7 was shut down, and I spent the nine years after that in a cell," Iris pointed out. "Alcohol has never really been in the picture."
"So you never had a twenty-first birthday?" Adams asked.
"Um. Nope?"
A slow, devious smile spread across Adams' lips. "I know exactly what we're gonna do tonight," she said.

"I'm not buying it," Iris said.
"C'mon. It'll bring out your eyes."
"No," Iris said angrily.
Adams sighed and put the baby blue halter top back on the rack.
They were three stores into their shopping trip, and their pile of bags was, quite frankly, ridiculous. Iris wasn't sure how the hell they were going to fit them all into the trunk of Adams' car. Which brought up another issue.
"Where the hell am I going to put this? I don't exactly have a closet big enough to store all this."
"You'll get one," Adams said. "You're due for a living quarters upgrade."
"Class 4 Privileges?"
"Yup. Yet another carrot for being a 'good girl'." Adams rummaged through a rack of cardigans. "You know, maybe I've been getting it all wrong. Everything we've bought so far has been 'girl next door,' but I bet you could totally rock the 'hipster' look. Horn-rimmed glasses, knit beanie, tartans…"
"I don't need glasses," Iris said.
"Neither do I. Doesn't mean I don't look damn good in them." Adams pulled a white cardigan out of the rack, and held it up to Iris. She frowned, shook her head, and replaced it on the rack. "I'm not seeing anything I really like here. Should we move on?"
"Sure. Where next?"
"Well, we could hit up another department store, but I think you've got enough casual wear." Adams grinned. "I think it's time to buy you a suit."

"I feel ridiculous," Iris said.
"You look like a badass," Adams said.
"How come these pockets are all sewn shut?" Iris poked her finger at her jacket pocket, annoyed.
"Because women's fashion sucks that way," Adams pointed out. "Give me a minute with a razor blade and I can fix that for you, not that you'll want to put anything more than a handkerchief in there unless you want to ruin the lines… Damn, that reminds me. Purses. We need to get you some purses. And shoes. We need to do this again soon…"
Iris whimpered. Eight hours at the mall, trying on dozens of outfits, enduring Adams' never-ending critiques and opinions on fashion, and the younger woman was exhausted. They had stopped only to have a quick lunch in the food court before rushing off to continue shopping. Iris wanted nothing more than to collapse onto her cot and take a nap.
Adams, on the other hand, seemed like she could keep this up for days if she wanted. The woman was a machine.
She was tuning out Adams' rambling monologue regarding future fashion expeditions when a familiar-looking sign caught her eye. She cleared her throat. "Hey, Adams?"
"Call me Andrea," the older woman said. "What's up?"
All her hands being full, Iris gestured to the store with her chin.
Adams smiled. "Ah. Sure. Let's check it out."

"Welcome to Camera Shack," the bored-looking teenager behind the counter said. "Can I help you with anything?"
"Yeah," Iris said. She ruthlessly dumped her double-armful of clothing into Adams' arms. "Where's your Polaroid Film?"
"Polaroid?" the pimply-faced teen said dubiously.
"Yeah," Iris said. "I need some film for a One Step 600."
"Shit. I don't think we've carried that in years. Hang on, let me get my manager." He climbed down off his stool and opened up the door to the back room. "Hey, Greg!" he shouted.
"Yeah?" a voice called back.
"Got a lady out here asking about Polaroid film."
"Hang on." There was a shuffling sound, and then the clink of tools, and then an older man in a plaid shirt with an impressively large beard came out of the back room. "Polaroid, huh? You and me both, kid," the man said sympathetically. "What model?"
"One Step 600," Iris said. "G1."
"Ooh wow. That one's a classic," the older man said. "Yeah, we haven't carried 600 series film since Polaroid went out of business in 2008."
"Oh," Iris said in a small voice.
"There's this company, calls itself Impossible, bought out the machinery and manufactures the film under a new label. You could try them."
"Could you put in an order for me, then?"
"I could. But to be honest, it would be easier for you just to order it online. It would arrive at about the same time, and you could probably get it for cheaper," the older man said.
"Oh. Thank you."
"Hey, no problem." The older man gave her a friendly smile. "Just glad to see someone out there still appreciates the classics, you know?"
"Thanks," Iris said.

Adams waited until they were in the car before asking the question that was on both their minds: "Is this going to be a problem?"
"I don't know," Iris admitted. "I tried off-brand film once, and it didn't work as well as the real stuff. But it could have been a quality-of-manufacture issue." She gazed quietly out the window, her contemplation only slightly ruined by the gigantic pile of clothes and boxes stuffed into the back seat of the tiny blue sports car.
"You know, I never did get a clear story about your abilities," Adams said. "Does the type of camera matter?"
"I'm not sure," Iris said. "With my old camera, I get full manipulation of the scene. Real-time window. Other cameras… it depends on a lot of things. Film quality, sharpness of picture, development time… Other Polaroids worked best. One theory was that the sooner the negatives get printed, the better the fidelity."
"Hm. So one reason why the Polaroid works so well might not be the camera itself, but the speed at which it develops the photos?" Adams said thoughtfully.
"That's one theory. We never really tested it, though," Iris said.
Adams immediately pulled a U-turn across three lanes of traffic, prompting a round of loud honking from irate drivers.
"What the fuck!?" Iris shouted.
"We're going back to the mall," Adams said, her jaw set with determination.

"Hello!" the chipper young woman in the khakis and blue polo shirt said. "Welcome to B—"
"I need to buy a tablet and a smart phone," Adams said forcefully.
"Uh… okay," the Best Buy employee stammered. "Which bran—"
"I don't care." Adams took off her sunglasses and fixed the hapless employee with an intense stare. "Just show me the ones with the most megapixels."

"We're gonna get in trouble," Iris groaned.
"We can't get in trouble. This is what they're asking you to do, right?" Adams placed the empty smart phone box on the roof of her car, next to the box from the tablet computer.
"They want me on a Mobile Task Force, yeah," Iris pointed out. "But it hasn't even been activated yet!"
"Call it a training exercise, then." Adams stepped away from the car and glanced up and down the beach. At this time of year, the beach was nearly empty of tourists. "All right," she said. "Give it a shot."
"How!? I don't know where the shutter button is! There's all sorts of… little pictures and stuff!"
"Oh, for crying out loud… I keep forgetting you've never seen a smart phone before. Press that. Then press this. To take a picture, touch this thing here. Get it?"
"All right," Iris muttered. "Here goes."
She held up the tablet computer in front of her eyes and tapped the part of the screen Adams had indicated. There was a flash of blue light, painfully bright in the dimming orange sunset.
A moment later, an image of the two empty cardboard boxes sitting on the roof of Adams' car appeared on the screen.
"Okay," Iris said dubiously. "What now?"
"Well, give it a try. Do your thing," Adams said.
Iris swallowed hard. She timidly placed her hand upon the smooth, cool glass. She flinched. "Feels weird."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not exactly. More like… trying to push my hand through tightly-packed wet sand." Iris took a deep breath and pushed a bit harder. Her fingertips sank into the glass like still water. At the same time, a ghostly image of a hand appeared in the air in front of Adams' car and pushed against the two empty boxes.
They tipped over onto their sides.
"Nice work," Adams said admiringly. "That's gonna come in handy."
"I'm out of practice. And this thing doesn't feel right." Iris frowned. Her fingertips were a bit numb. Rubbing her hands together helped. "With my old camera, I could have picked up one of those boxes and stacked them on top of the other."
"Well, keep practicing," Adams said. "If you can pull it off with a digital, you won't be limited by the amount of film you're carrying."
"Yeah." Iris wiped her fingers on the hem of her T-shirt. "I think there might be a knack to it that I just don't get yet."
"Well, if all else fails, you've at least got a neat little toy to play around with," Adams said.
"I'm not sure what I'd ever use it for, but thanks," Iris said.
"You say that now, but wait until I show you Youtube."
"Youtube? That stupid little site with the home videos?"
"Oh man… you have no idea." Adams grinned.
They threw the boxes into the trash and got back into the car.
"Most people, when they find out about my powers, start talking about ways I could use them to kill people," Iris said.
"Your psych profile says that's a bad subject to bring up with you, so I didn't." Adams checked her rear-view mirrors and pulled out of the parking space.
"Oh." Iris looked out the car window as they headed down the coast highway. "Yeah, they tried to make me do it, but I refused. Locked myself in my quarters. They threatened to drag me out of my room, but the Omega-7 guys wouldn't let them."
"Your Mobile Task Force got into a fight with site security?"
"Oh yeah," Iris said. A fond, happy smile crossed her face, the first peaceful expression Adams had seen all day. "They set up a barricade in the hallway outside my room. Oversight threatened to demote them all to D-Class. Adrian told them to suck his ass."
"Adrian?" Adams' brow furrowed.
"Adrian Andrews, yeah," Iris said. "We called him 'A.A.' He was kind of like a big brother to me. He and Beats."
"Beats… ?"
"Beatrix Maddox. His fiance." Iris flinched as she remembered how that love story had ended. She soldiered on. "She died. He died too. I can't remember how. A lot of us don't remember the details about things that happened back then. Some kind of CK-Class Restructuring. But when I think about it, I feel sick and sad, so I'm sure it was horrible…"
Something caught Iris' eye.
Adams was gripping the wheel tightly. Her knuckles were actually turning white. The expression on the older woman's face was blank and still. Empty, even.
"… are you okay?" Iris asked.
"Hm?" Adams replied. "Yeah, I'm fine." Her voice was completely calm and collected as she released the steering wheel from its death grip. "Well, we're here," she said cheerfully. "We'd better get inside, and then you can get changed."
"Why the hell would I want to get changed?" Iris asked.
"What, you seriously want to go clubbing in jeans and a t-shirt?"
"Clubbing…" Iris was perplexed. Then she got concerned. Then she saw the beach house.
"Adams?" she asked. "Where exactly are we?"

"We're definitely going to get into trouble now!" Iris groaned. "This has to break some kind of regulation. Misuse of Foundation Resources, maybe…"
"If an agent comes by needing to hide, he can duck behind your shopping," Adams said primly. "Besides, I don't think he'd complain overmuch about having to lay low in a safehouse with a pair of pretty ladies."
"You're a bad influence," Iris moaned. "You're going to get me demoted before I even join the teams. Aren't you supposed to be protecting me?"
"From bullets, not from bad decisions. Shower is upstairs. We have one hour until our dinner reservation." She pulled her smart phone from her pocket and began to dial.
Iris shook her head and marched upstairs, grumbling annoyedly.
Adams walked to the window. The phone didn't even finish ringing once before it was answered. "Clef," the voice on the other end said. "Go."
"Adams here. Mission report follows: everything is fine, we're having a good time. Rest and relaxation is proceeding more or less as planned. Expect SCP-105 back in containment by tomorrow noon at latest."
"Cool," Clef said. "How's it going?"
"Like I said, it's fine," Adams said curtly. "She's fine. We're all fine. That's all."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Tomorrow noon, huh? You guys having a slumber party?"
"Fuck off, sir." Adams hung up. She took a moment to vent her frustrations towards her boss with an angry groan, then dialed the next name on her list.

This is a bad idea. There's no way this can end except in tears.
So was picking up that agent's gun and shooting back. As long as you're doing stupid things, may as well go all the way.
Yeah, but this is a different kind of stupid.
Exactly. For one thing, this probably won't get you killed or kidnapped.
Depends on where Adams wants to go clubbing.
She's your security detail. I don't think she's going to take you anywhere you're likely to get shivved.
Unless this is actually a complicated decommissioning.
Are you gonna wear them or not?
Ugh. Fine.
Iris pulled on the boots and carefully got to her feet.
The girl that looked back at her through the mirror… looked like a girl who'd spent the last nine years locked up in a cell and still wasn't used to wearing civilian clothes. The high-heeled boots made her knees all wobbly. The skirt felt breezy and exposed. The scarf was uncomfortably reminiscent of a noose.
This isn't fair. I'm supposed to be all confident and sexy at the end of the dress-up montage. Pretty Woman lied to me.
She pulled the boots off and tossed them away and searched through her bags until she found the red canvas sneakers she'd insisted on buying along with the more hazardous footwear Adams had picked out for her. She traded out the skirt for her jeans.
The scarf could stay. The scarf was awesome.
Downstairs, she heard the doorbell ring.
Iris froze. Cautiously, she moved to the bedroom door and eased it open, just a bit.
She could hear the front door open. "Hey!" Adams said. "You made it!"
"Yup!" an unfamiliar female voice answered. "We're the only ones who could, though. The rest of us are swamped."
"It was short notice. Not too surprised. Iris is getting dressed, but she should be down in a few minutes."
Iris sighed, relieved. She opened the door and walked downstairs.
There were two unfamiliar women in the living room. One of them was taller and plump in a motherly kind of way. She dressed like it too, wearing comfy-looking jeans and a light blue blouse with ruffles. The other one had glasses, short wavy brown hair, and wore a sweater vest over a white blouse and dark brown slacks.
"Cool," Adams said. "She's here. Iris? This is Blaire Roth and Chelsea Elliott. Friends of mine."
"Hi," the shorter woman (Chelsea) said, waving shyly. She had a friendly, if timid smile, and her oval glasses perched delicately on the end of her prominent nose.
"Good to meet you," the older woman (Blaire) said. She gave Iris a friendly hug, which was oddly reassuring.
"Awesome. Everyone's friends. That'll make it easier to celebrate," Adams said.
"… celebrate what?"
"Your twenty-first birthday, of course!" Adams said. "It's a few years late, but every girl deserves to have one!"
A moment of silence as three of the women in the room digested this new piece of information.
"… bar crawl?" Blaire asked with some trepidation.
"Bar crawl," Adams confirmed.
Iris turned pale.

Girls' Night Out
« Dressing Up | Getting Drunk | Raising Hell »


In this world, the sun cannot bear to be too far from the horizon. The day lives in perpetual sunrise and sunset. Stars fill the night-time sky like spilled glitter, immune to any brightness below.

The summer breeze wafted through an open window to an empty office. A red leather chair spun with no one to sit in it. Papers flickered with the wind, unattended. Dr. Wondertainment was not in today. He would not be in for a week.
Only the few employees whom he had tasked with covering his absence would know he had disappeared. Fewer would know why — that he left for a week every summer in the hopes of reconciling his greatest regret as a creator. And, more importantly, a father-figure.
In the noon sunset, Dr. Wondertainment wandered unnoticed through the crowded city streets. He danced between the shadows of a kissing couple, friends out for bike rides, and children walking home from school. Through silhouettes, he arrived at a decrepit apartment in the slums.
Dressed in a pinstripe suit worth more than half the city, the Great Toymaker sat in a moldy lobby and waited as he had for the past decade. When the sun ducked behind the horizon, he retreated to the rooftop to keep company with the stars.
For two days and three nights, he waited in this manner. On the third day, exhaustion claimed him and he slept in a rotting bed. When he awoke, he thought he saw a coat as scarlet as blood.
It was only the sunrise.
On the fifth day, his hope had lost its battle to despair. Dr. Wondertainment wept, bitter and alone.
On the seventh and final day, he wrote an apology letter in golden ink. He confessed his regret for abandoning Mr. Redd to rot in this apartment. He expressed his desire to make amends.
But Mr. Redd was long gone, chasing adventure with all the anger and violence of an unloved, lonely child.

"P.S. I'll be here again next year, on the anniversary I left you. If you'll forgive me, we can go back home together."

The letter was left at the desk of the lobby, among all the other untouched apologies.


When the call came, she'd figured out enough that she'd been expecting it for a while. There had been an air of distance — rather than quiet interference — from her superiors. Like her actions were being watched. Radio silence.
Were they going to ask Dr. Sophia Light about Site 41, her pride and joy buried in the freezing wilderness? About one of her projects? About Erdenet, even?
The meeting was arranged in a small, well-lit antechamber in the depths of the Svalbard Site, with Light's assistant Vaux watching and taking notes. The Council member — Seven — was a tall woman with deep brown skin and a fishtail braid. She also wore a teal skirt suit that looked like it was bought at a Value Village in the 80's. Light had to adjust her understanding of reality to account for this fact. If she can't wear that, who else can?
"Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Light."
"Likewise. I wouldn't refuse."
Seven smiled a lot, and it was nothing but teeth. "I've come on behalf of the Council to ask for your thoughts on some recent matters. You've had a storied career thus far. More objects under your care reclassified as 'Explained' than any other research director, if I recall."
"Not by me directly, but yes, I've heard I hold the record."
"Nobody else has really focused on that. Haven't you said something to the effect that the ultimate goal of the Foundation should be to explain everything?"
Light grimaced. "Not quite. Even I don't believe that every single anomaly has a reasonable explanation. I've just said that while the main priority of researchers is necessarily aiding containment, we also have a responsibility to the Foundation and the world to increase our overall ability to explain reality. Raise the scientific waterline, I suppose."
"Oh, yes. That's much less ambitious."
Light shrugged. "Anomalies are part of reality. Most research seems to ignore the fact that any effort to make them go away and conform to 'normal science' is fundamentally flawed — the anomalies are already here."
"Interesting."
Several seconds ticked by. Light asked, "What did you want my thoughts on?"
“Well. You've seen the documentation. You were around for some of it. What did you think of Mobile Task Force Omega-7?”
This was not the tack she was expecting. Light considered. “Kind of a clusterfuck.”
“It was a bad idea.”
“Extremely.”
“They say hindsight is twenty-twenty.”
“Hindsight bias is a factor. I still wouldn't have planned it that way.”
“What would you have done?”
“Gotten rid of Able.”
“What else?” Seven smiled.
“Um. Decentralize them — having to travel as a unit increased response times. Reduce the burnout rate from training, and move leadership into a hierarchy within the unit. Flexibility is more important than strict order —”
She paused. She'd never been good at reading people, but saw Vaux's service dog bark and jump into his lap, reacting to some sign of his anxiety. This alerted Light third-hand that something was wrong. Seven was really smiling.
“Vaux,” said Light, “If you need to leave, go ahead.”
“It's fine,” said Vaux.
“Keep going,” said Seven. “Excellent points.”
“What do you want?” asked Light.
“Director, we're re-opening Pandora's Box. A similar task force: Alpha-9, 'Last Hope.' We'd like you to be the director."
Permission to get some of whatever Command was on when they made that decision. "…That doesn't sound at all controversial."
"It is. It will be. But it is proceeding. When possible leaders were discussed, your name came up."
Time seemed to slow down. Light's eyes went a little distant. She started thinking very, very quickly. "Who else?"
"We asked Lament first. Another senior operative with an impressive track record."
"What did he say?"
"He said it was the worst idea he'd ever heard and told Four to fuck off."
Light snorted. That's my boy! "Who else?"
"After you, we'd ask Dr. Gears. Past that, we're looking at options."
Gears? He would absolutely do it. He'd probably do it very well. He'd fulfill High Command's goals precisely. A person like that was dangerous.
On the other hand, if the Council didn't have a fourth lined up, they'd be looking at someone less competent. That was very dangerous. Still…
"I've never led a task force. My plate is full."
"We expect you to leave your post as Site Director in any meaningful capacity. We're confident you'll do fine."
"When you're in a car with no brakes, it doesn't matter how skilled of a driver you are. I don't want to be your figurehead when you crash."
"We don't intend to crash. We're changing things up. You'll have autonomy, resources, whatever you need. Traditional methods are failing to keep up with the influx of anomalies worldwide. Things are getting worse, Director, and we don't want to lose the progress we've made. The world needs Alpha-9."
"Excuse me," said Vaux. He stood up and unsteadily left the room, with Mango in tow.
Light looked at Seven. "You're serious."
"As the bodies in the wake of a containment breach."
"Are you my O5?"
Seven blinked. "What?"
"Well —" Light searched for the words. "I've learned that most senior staff were promoted because, well, because some overseer thought they had potential and followed them along the way. I never found out who mine was."
"Oh, no. I'm Clef's."
"Ah."
"Yours… is more hands-off. But they're also recommending you for this position."
Light considered the evidence. Weighed the options. "I'll take it."
"Good." Seven nodded. "I thought it would take more convincing than that."
"As you said. I don't want someone less competent than me in charge of this. Lives are at risk. I think this is a mistake, but I believe I have a track record at averting disaster."
"Not quite the attitude I was hoping for. But as they say, any port in a storm. We'll be in touch, Director."
Any port in a storm. Yeah. Huh.

Afterward, Light sat down next to Vaux in the atrium. Wordlessly, Vaux handed her a cup of coffee. She took a sip.
"Did that woman really look me in the eyes and say 'we're re-opening Pandora's Box'?"
"Yep."
Light groaned. "I don't know how they take themselves seriously."

Three days later, the most urgent administrative duties were reassigned. The suitcases were packed and the office cleared out. One of the more familiar-looking suited Council representatives had been hanging around the Svalbard Site and reviewing preliminary details about the task force. Seven herself flew off shortly after their meeting.
The fluorescent bulb in the meeting room flickered, barely perceptibly. Sophia Light tried to ignore it. Closed her eyes. She'd be out of here soon enough.
"Protection," she said. "I don't want my name attached anywhere to this. Don't want to be traceable, don't want anyone connecting my file to this. In the Foundation, or outside it."
"That's not going to work, Director."
"Every Group of Interest out there with a gun is going to be out for blood once this goes live. I need protection."
"You do," agreed the suited Council representative. "But Alpha-9 won't be seen as a hopeful act within the Foundation. People need to know that someone they've heard of and respect is in charge. They do actually have to see you doing it."
"Fuck. Can you at least keep my name out of it until it goes live?"
"That seems doable."
"Alright. Guards, then. Well-trained, diverse skillset, highly loyal. Maybe a popemobile? If I have to be a target, I'd prefer not to be an easy one. I find dying sub-optimal, personally."
The representative, to their credit, kept a straight face. "You will have access to our resources. Guards, absolutely."
"And anomaly-derived personal defenses. I know Command has their own. You're their representative, you probably have them. Well, I want some too. New designs."
"I assume you have ideas already."
"Yes."
"So did your predecessor. You'll find more in the file."
Light frowned, running her fingers over the yellowed folder and its peeling label. "GENERAL BOWE". "Is he my predecessor? Technically?"
The representative shrugged. "Matter of definitions. Symbolically, maybe. With naming the task force Alpha rather than Omega, he's not anyone's predecessor."
“Hm. Lastly…” She thought. She wasn't commonly sentimental, but power is just the ability to make uncommon things happen. “I want a layover."
They groaned. "Right now? Command doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"The task force has been shelved for nine years. They can wait another six hours."
"Where?"
"Site 14. Have a few last goodbyes before I drop off the radar indefinitely."
"Hrm. They won't be happy about this."
"If I had to be happy about everything I did, I'd never get anything done. Work with me here."
"I'll see what I can do. That all?"
"For now. Thanks, Jay. See you around."

She met Vaux on the surface, waiting with their bags by the runway. He was bundled in a parka and throwing tennis balls for Mango. She warned him the flight had an unexpected layover, told him that he could keep himself busy.
Then she fished out her cell phone and dialed an old contact. The other end picked up before the first ring finished.
Light drummed her feet on the ground. "Hey Troy, it's Sophie. Still kicking. You? Yeah. Listen, I know it's last-minute, but I have a flight that's stopping in 14 for a few hours. I wondered if you could free some time up —"
(Vaux mouthed to Mango, "Sophie"?)
"Yes, that sounds great. Yes. Plane's on the way, I can't talk for long. I'll call you once I'm there." Light smiled. "You too."
She hung up.
"It's a nice day," said Vaux.
It was, as far as days go in Svalbard. Chilly, but sun bright on the tundra meadows and rolling rock hills. She supposed she'd add the cold and quiet site to the list of places to miss.
Vaux was still watching her.
"What?" she asked.
"Why did you take it? The position. It's, um. It's strange that they offered it to you."
“They say that in the entire universe, not one unusual thing has ever happened.”
“Liiiight. That's bullshit.”
Light cracked a grin. "Arguably. In this instance, I know that High Command has had some kind of interest in me since very early in my career. Used to think I only got promotions because people thought I was either with the Olympia Project or related to Bright. But that's not true. There's something else.”
“Is this why you're not worried that they're going to shoot us if this plan fails?”
“They'd only shoot me.” She sighed. “Vaux — When she offered it, I wasn't sure. Imagine you believe in nuclear power. You can't support it outright, because it's politically taboo. For… inane bureaucratic reasons. But you've seen that it can supply humanity with cheap energy, pure water, food, health, opportunity."
"But it's dangerous," ventured Vaux.
"Of course it's dangerous. But you strongly suspect it's less dangerous than the alternative- not using it. You just can't convince anyone to try it."
"Then," she continued, "Imagine the government puts you in charge of its nuclear weapons program."
"…Oh."
"What else could I do?" She leaned back, staring out at the tundra.
Vaux nodded. "You sure nobody's going to try to kill you?"
"Someone will, almost assuredly, but not Command. Like I said, they like me, although I have no idea why."
"Ah." Above them, a whining engine indicated that their ride was inbound. Vaux whistled Mango back to him, clipped on her leash.
"But," said Light, "I intend to find out. And then I intend to make use of it."


Junior Researcher Marcher was not having a good day. His favorite parking spot by the door had been taken, leaving him to drive all the way back to the end of the lot to find a space. His coffee had burned his tongue, and his pen had leaked, getting him tackled by an overzealous new agent who had heard about SCP-505.
Granted, running for his life from an ancient war god/murder victim gooned out on the "ancespirits of his forewarriors", as he had screamed it, made the other mishaps seem almost pleasant by comparison, but that was the only good thing about today.
He turned a corner, and slammed into Dr. Biltmore. Okay, he thought as he helped her up, maybe there are two good things about today.
"What the hell is happening!" she screamed over the alarms.
"76-2's broken out and he has the belt!", he shouted.
"What‽"
"ABLE HAS THE CHAMPIONSHIP BELT!"
"Oh, god! How many casualties‽"
"About half of this wing is dead," Marcher told Biltmore as they stumbled into a nearby closet. The alarms were a bit quieter here.
"Only half?" she asked.
"It would have been more, but he stops every five minutes to throw taunts at you at the top of his voice. That's the only reason I'm still alive."
"Jesus…" she muttered. "Do you think that security-"
"Most of them were in the cafeteria when he broke out," Marcher said soberly. "Everyone in one place, it was a slaughter…"
They were silent for a few moments, the solemnity of the occasion calming even the little voice in the back of Marcher's head informing him that he was alone in a closet with the love of his life.
It was Dr. Biltmore who managed to get herself together first. "So," she said, "how do we take him down?"
Marcher stared at her. "We? Are you joking? We need to wait here for reinforcements."
"They won't get here fast enough," she said calmly.
"It'll be suicide!"
"If the situation out there is as bad as you say it is, then the first priority of the Task Force that gets here will be the on-site nuke, not to look for survivors," Biltmore said in the same bland, matter-of-fact tone. "It's suicide either way, unless we find another way to end this."
"And if we don't?" he demanded.
"I'm Level 3. I know the codes, too. I'd rather not die today, but I won't hesitate if that's the only option."
There was another moment of silence, this time clanging with the unheard sound of two people's minds working desperately to think of a way to not die. Marcher happened to glance into a dark corner of the closet. "Hey…" he said slowly. Biltmore turned and looked at the dusty old thing that had drawn his attention. Their eyes met.
"Not that thing," she said.
"I read the documentation. It creates a pacifistic mind, it said. It already worked on Able once."
"Did you read about what else it does?"
"The effects are supposed to be slow to develop. We can deal with them when we're safe."
"…Fine. Who's going to distract him?"
"Not it."
"Shit."

Able worked his way down the hallway, laughing at the pathetic weaklings attempting to defy his mighty eagle heart and tiger blood as he cut them down.
"THIS WILL BE THE FIRST OF YOUR MANY DEATHS AS I CAST YOU DOWN INTO THE LAND OF BLOOD AND HELLFIRE TO JOIN MY DAMNED ARMY!" he screamed as he tore a man in two.
Then, as the crowd cheered in his eyes, a ridiculous female in a lab coat without any sequins at all dared to step out in front of him.
Dr. Biltmore looked behind Able, and saw Marcher getting into place with the wheelchair. He nodded and she nodded back. Then, trying to remember those hazy weekends with her father spent in front of the TV, back when she was four years old, she opened her mouth and shouted at Able.
"Hey, uh… Able! You can't handle the truth! That you, uh, suck at wrestling! Can you smell what I'm cooking‽ No, because you are Un-Able! Because… you're unable to do anything! And I had sex with Torrie last night!"
Able's face became incandescent. He pulled in a mighty breath, then screeched at full volume.
"YOU SNIVELING WORM IN THE GARDEN OF THE SPEARS OF VIKINGS BROUGHT DOWN BY MY VENGEFUL GOD! I AM THE FIRST TO KNOW DEATH, AND I HAVE MADE MYSELF HER UNHOLY PRIEST. I SHALL SHARE HER DEMENTED WHISPERS OF BLOOD AND VENGEANCE WITH YOU, YOU-" but he was cut short as Biltmore caught him in the chest and heaved him into the wheelchair.
There was silence for one perfect, frozen moment, before a wave of pure, testosterone flooded energy burst from the belt around Able's waist, and rippled across the entire Foundation.

Deep in Site-93, a colossal machine was hard at work. After a few hours, its latest creation rolled out of it, covered in spikes, belching flames, with a gun that was only capable of firing folding chairs.
Printed on the front, in a dainty cursive script, were the words, "Relanceur de l'enfer."

A researcher snuck into the soup bowl's testing room, sniffling miserably. His heart brightened, however, at the delicious smell of chicken that suddenly began to waft from the bowl. As he picked it up, ready to slurp every last drop, the liquid began to bubble and steam. He leaned closer, puzzling over the boiling chicken-noodle soup, when it exploded from the ceramic receptacle, splashing every inch of his body.
As the poor man rolled on the floor, clutching at the many heat blisters forming on his bright red skin, words formed on the inside of the bowl.
They read, "C'mon, slugger! I barely tapped you there! Be a man and let's go again!"

The machine woke, listening to a glorious song. The music called to it, singing of carnage and death and shit blowing up. It followed the song, knowing in its engine that, whatever was about to happen, it was the very reason the machine existed.

Junior Researcher Marcher woke up in the middle of a ring, wearing a black and white striped tee shirt, with a handful of red cards.
He turned, to see a beautiful, buxom woman in a black bikini with way too much spray tan holding a card that said "Round 1" on it.
Nothing out of the ordinary here, he thought as the crowd filed in.
In the center of the ring, sitting in his wheelchair, Able adjusted his tuxedo, patted his porcupine hairdo, and grabbed the microphone in his lap. He raised it to his lips, paused, and then spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen, skips and girls… Let's. Get. Ready. To. RRRRUUMMMMMBLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEE!!!"


Iris was trying to solve a crossword puzzle when there was a knock on her door. It wasn't a scheduled knock, which was a bit worrying, but at least there weren't any explosions this time.
Two women in suits came in, followed by guards. The women appeared to be twins, though there was a subtle difference that Iris couldn't quite pick up. They were darker-skinned, with curly hair, wearing matching grey suits with pink pinstripes. One carried a tablet like she was carrying a weapon.
"Good morning, Miss Thompson," one of the women said. She wasn't used to being called "Miss Thompson." It was always either Iris or 105.
"Good morning," Iris said.
"This is Miss Salt," she said, indicating the woman who was almost, but not quite, identical to her. "You may refer to me as O5-10."
"I—Hello," Iris said, caught off-guard. Was this a trick? She'd heard of the O5 Council, but they weren't ever supposed to actually meet skips.
"I wanted to thank you personally for the actions you undertook last week." The woman smiled broadly.
"Oh, well, I just—" Iris began, but the woman waved her off.
"You did what you had to do, I understand, but the fact that you were able to do it? That was remarkable, Miss Thompson. And it's caused no little amount of talk."
"Talk?" Iris wondered where this was headed, and what this woman's game was.
"You were a great help. And it occurs to us that you could be even more help. You and others like you. We've been reviewing the files on MTF Omega-Seven, and we'd like to—"
"No," Iris said, horrified and appalled. "You can't be serious."
"I'm perfectly serious," the O5 said. "You haven't seen how things have gone the last nine years. There are more anomalies every year, and we're stretched thin. We're guarding the doors as best we can, but the howls are growing louder. We can't ignore the resources we already have. We're making a new Task Force. As an anomalous person with field experience, we'd like you in charge of one of the field teams."
"Didn't you people learn anything from last time?" Iris put one hand to her temple, trying to calm down. Just thinking about him made her heart race.
"Yes. And we've learned a lot since, too. That's why we can make it work this time." She smiled.
"You're crazy. He killed the entire team. His own people. And you want to try again?"
The woman shook her head. "We have no intention of using 076-2 again. That was obviously a mistake."
"You don't?" Iris's eyes narrowed. She didn't trust the woman. She was too eager. Trying too hard to convince her. For a woman who claimed to be an O5, that suggested the situation wasn't quite how she presented it. Someone that high up should be dictating, not negotiating.
"We want you and others like you. Agents with anomalous abilities who can be trusted. People who serve because they want to, not because they have an explosive collar or other coercion." The woman had the glow of sincerity on her face.
Of course, she wasn't telling the full truth, either. She wasn't nearly as sure about not using Able as she wanted Iris to think. She was a terrible liar, and the guilt of that omission bubbled to the surface of her eyes, but she was still sincere. If she didn't believe in everything she was telling Iris, she believed in the idea of it, of this new team. That was what made Iris distrust her. The woman in green, who'd convinced her to join Omega-7, she'd never been sincere. It was a toss-up if she believed anything that came out of her mouth.
"Do you remember what it was like to use your camera?" the O5 continued. "To explore your abilities? I have some experience with… things like that. There's nothing like it."
And it did strike home, because Iris missed the photographs. She missed learning the new things she could do with it. She missed being able to just play with it. It had been such a fun game. No, more than a game. It had been magic. Magic that she could touch, magic that was a part of her. It was what the woman in green had held out to get her to cooperate…
Well, Iris had been fourteen at the time. Young, gullible, and stupid. The years had taught her better.
"No," she told the woman. "I'm sorry, but I can't do this again. You weren't there. I lost friends. All of them."
"Well, it's your choice, of course," the woman said. "But we're going forward regardless. We have to. Things are getting more desperate every day. If it's not you, it will be someone else. Someone who's just a child, maybe. Someone who doesn't know what they're getting into."
Iris felt a chill come over her. "You can't do that. You don't—You don't understand what it was like, you don't know what it would do to them."
"You're right," she said. "I don't know. There's really only one person who does. One person who can help them."
Iris wanted to strangle the woman. To break her neck. It would be so easy, before the guard could even draw his pistol, she could probably have the woman dead. He had taught her well.
She pushed the anger down instead. Coldly, she said, "You bitch. You absolute bitch."
The woman didn't say anything for a moment, then smiled. "You'll join, then?"
Iris nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"Very good. The head of your security detail will visit you soon, and give you further instructions. Welcome aboard, Miss Thompson."


Two Weeks Ago…
In an unnamed garage in a facility that didn't exist, a dog was trying to repair a hydraulic servo.
He raised his paw and tapped away on the specially built keyboard that he'd had put together for him back when his lab was bigger and better stocked. The robotic arms reassembled the servo and plugged it into the pump.
The process was slow. So damned slow. The dog remembered a time, less than a decade ago, when he'd been the head of a major Foundation department. Back then, Research and Development had been the most exciting place to be in the Foundation. A whirlwind of discovery, and he had been the eye of the storm: one of the bright stars of the Foundation, a researcher filled with such vibrant energy that not even being involuntarily transformed into a dog could keep him down.
Nine years ago, everyone in the Foundation had known his code name: "Kain Pathos Crow".
Nine years ago…
He stretched his legs out, whimpering at the pain in his hips. ("Arthritis," his vet had told him. "I'll try glucosamine injections, and painkillers if it gets too bad, but it's a problem not uncommon to the breed.") He tapped a button. The needle on the gauge went up. It hovered around the line that he knew was red.
There was a sudden crack, and the buzzing of an alert siren. A spray of hydraulic fluid spurted from the servo's joint and splattered against the far wall of the garage.
The dog growled angrily at the keyboard and smacked his paw against a big yellow button. The pressure went back down. The spray of hydraulic fluid ceased.
"Still trying to get that old thing fixed up?" a smarmy voice asked.
A man was walking into the room, carrying a watermelon in a neat little carrying bag made of braided nylon ropes. The dog was surprised. He didn't often get unannounced visitors. Maybe Dr. Mann and Agent Lament again, proposing to drag him along on yet another ill-conceived mission… no. It didn't smell like either of them.
Then the dog saw that the visitor had a huge, Cheshire Cat grin, and his eyes hurt to look at, and his nose was too big for his ugly face.
"Clef," Professor Kain Pathos Crow said.
"Crow." Dr. Alto Clef put the melon down on a nearby table, ruthlessly clearing it of its clutter of wires and transistors with a sweep of his arm. "Do you still have that neat laser cutter thing?" he asked. "Would be easier to slice this with than a knife."
"Put it on the work table over there," Professor Crow said. "I'll set up the cutter."
Clef complied as Kain rummaged through a big pile of miscellaneous gadgets, before finally finding what he was looking for: a big grey box with a DANGER: LASER sticker haphazardly plastered onto the side. "Would you mind attaching it to the robot arm for me?" Kain asked. "I'd do it myself, but, you know. No thumbs."
"No problem," Clef said. "Power plugs in here?"
"Yeah," Kain said. "You'll want to get some duct-tape to attach it a bit more firmly. The bayonet mount broke a while back, and I haven't had the time to repair it."
"Haven't had the time, or haven't had the inclination?" Clef asked. He dug at the open end of the roll of duct tape a bit until it came loose, then began to wrap it tightly around where the laser cutter attached to the robot arm. "Doesn't really seem like the kind of thing that would have stopped you in the past."
"I had an entire department in the past. These days I have to do everything myself," Kain said. He was also permitted the assistance of a few robotic devices, which he was grateful for — it got more and more awkward to deal with the few assistants he had sometimes, especially when the ones who'd become used to his unusual appearance got rotated out.
He slid his paw along the oversized touchpad, maneuvering the crosshairs over the image of the watermelon, then began programming in the motion commands to the robot arm. "It could be worse," he admitted. "I could be in a kennel. Or in a shelter, waiting to be put down."
"They'd never do that. Not to one of the Foundation's heroes."
"Hah. Heroes," Kain said bitterly. "Not many of those left in the Foundation these days."
"Not as many psychopaths either," Clef pointed out. "And you can read a containment report without slogging through pages of useless commentary from every single member of the peanut gallery who thought they had something to say." He stepped back from the table and picked up a pair of darkened goggles. One of the lenses was slightly cracked.
"That's something, at least," Kain admitted. "Hand me that hood over there."
Clef picked up the hood and draped it over Kain's head, carefully arranging the darkened glass lenses over the dog's eyes. The Professor tapped a couple more keys on the laser, watched the simulation play out, then hit the big red button.
There was a whirring sound, and the smell of ozone, and a bright blue flash from the work bench. When their vision cleared, the watermelon had been sliced into six even pieces.
"Heh. Looks like it still works just fine," Clef said.
"Is that supposed to be a metaphor?" Kain asked.
"If you choose to take it that way, yeah." Clef picked up one of the watermelon wedges and laid the other one down in the cracked ceramic dish by Kain's cushion bed. The grey-muzzled Golden Retriever lay down on the cushion and took a bite of the sweet, juicy red melon. The two old friends sat in silence for a while, enjoying their snack in companionable silence.
"Still trying to get the old girl working?" Clef asked, gesturing to the hulking behemoth that lay in pieces all around the garage.
"Primary servo in the right hip keeps failing under pressure," Kain said. "If I had the budget I'd have the entire thing re-milled. If I had permission, I'd recreate the original recipe through 914. As it is, I'm trying different welds and patches. None of them seem to hold." He took a big bite of his watermelon, crunching away as he chewed the crisp red fruit.
"Might want to double down on that," Clef said. "Some big, powerful people might come by asking you to get it working again."
Kain stopped eating. He stared intently at Clef, who was spitting his watermelon seeds into a rusty coffee can. "All right, you conniving old fuck," the dog growled. "What do you know that you're not telling me?"
Clef tossed his watermelon rind back onto the work table and brought two fresh wedges of melon over for him and the Professor. "There was an incident yesterday," Clef said. "A Code Tempest Twilight at Site-17. An unknown outside force assaulted the facility. There were casualties and several containment breaches. One of those breaches was SCP-105."
"Iris, huh? So Dantensen finally got his wish, may he rest in peace," Crow said sadly. "I don't think anyone will chase her, given that they've got her camera locked away inside a vault."
"105 didn't run," Clef said. "She picked up a sidearm off of a dead agent's corpse and helped Site Security to fend off the attackers."
"Iris? Picked up a gun and fought back? That shy little girl?"
"She's not a shy little girl any more, Crow," Clef said. "Nine years will change you. Nine years locked up in a cell will change you a lot more. But the important thing is that, even without her camera, 105 was a useful and capable asset. She was loyal to her jailers, even when she had every chance to bug out. So now the higher-ups are starting to get ideas. And some of them are pointing out that we've been falling behind in our efforts, and we've got an entire stockpile of assets sitting around not being utilized. And then eventually one of them will remember a little experiment that we tried under General Bowe that we've kept shuttered for nine years as the worst idea the Foundation ever had…"
"Pandora's Box," Kain said.
"Bingo," Clef said. "And then they're going to come to the surviving old fucks who did it the first time and ask us to do it again. The question now becomes, what do we say to them?"
"Taking a dump on their shoes would seem an appropriate response," Kain pointed out. "They tossed us out into the cold."
"Did they?" Clef asked. "If they were going to toss us out into the cold, they would have given us the Kondraki or Dantensen treatment." He smiled viciously. "We were mothballed, Crow. Like old battleships. Turned into museum pieces, but kept intact in case they ever needed us to go to war again. But unlike old battleships, we can choose whether or not we want to be reactivated or not."
The two old friends continued to munch their watermelon in thoughtful silence.
"… fuck em," Kain said at last.
"Yeah. Fuck them right up the ass," Clef agreed.
"We did what they wanted to once. Followed orders like good soldiers. What did it get us?"
"Nothing at all," Clef agreed. "They used us like snot rags and tossed us in the trash."
"There's no way I'm getting involved with their politicking and scheming again," Kain said.
"I'm done killing," Clef said coldly. "There's enough blood on my hands without adding more."
"So we're gonna say no," Kain said.
"We're gonna say no," Clef agreed.
Clef fiddled with his half-eaten watermelon slice for a moment. Professor Kain stared intently at the green-and-yellow patterns on its rind.
"… they're gonna use her against you," Kain said at last.
"And they're going to offer you the one thing that you can't say no to," Clef pointed out.
"In the end, it doesn't matter what we want," Kain said. "Those puppeteers have us on their strings, and we'll do as they wish." He nudged his empty watermelon rind away from himself with his grey-muzzled nose.
Clef took one huge bite of his melon. His grin turned positively sharklike. "Then we'd better milk them for all we can get in the process," Clef said, spewing bits of melon and juice from his half-full mouth.

When his vet came to see him days later, the dog was refitting a hydraulic servo back into a gigantic egg-shaped robot.
"Hello, Professor," the man said. He was a balding white man in his fifties or sixties, wearing a lab coat and carrying a medical bag.
"Hi, Cog," Kain said.
"How are you feeling today?" Gears asked. He opened up his bag and began laying out his instruments and supplies on the table. His tone was flat, his voice expressionless. In others, his mannerisms would have seemed cold.
Kain knew better. Gears was not a veterinarian by trade. But after Kain had been confined to this facility, Gears had one day announced that he had studied and achieved competency in the field of veterinary medicine, and asked to be assigned as Kain's personal physician. Administration had said yes.
It wasn't often that someone like Gears did something touching.
The golden retriever climbed carefully onto the low table. Gears began his examination: weight, measurements, a stethoscope to the heart and lungs. Taking pulse. Checking for swelling in lymph nodes. Palpitating the abdomen for tumors or abnormalities. Teeth and claws. Paws and limbs. "Slight deterioration in the hips," Gears murmured. "The glucosamine seems to be having an effect. Will try upping the dosage." He examined Kain's face closely. "A few more grey hairs around the muzzle."
"In other words, not too bad for a fifteen year-old dog, but pretty shitty for a thirty-five year-old man," Kain said.
"Indeed," Gears said calmly. He put down his stethoscope and picked up a scaling tool. "Some development of calculus around the gumline," he said. "Surprising."
"My tooth-brushing robot broke down. I've been using denti-sticks," Kain said.
"I'd suggest getting it repaired," Gears said. "In the meantime, I'll do a teeth cleaning."
It was a long and boring process as Gears carefully scraped the plaque build up along Kain's teeth. He was just finishing up with the molars when another figure entered. Kain wasn't surprised. He'd been expecting this visitor for a long time.
The intruder was a black woman of medium height in a pinstripe suit. Her hair was curly, and her mouth was smiling. "Professor Crow, I presume," she said. "Dr. Gears. I am O5-10."
"Nome you're ghnot," Kain said, his words mumbled around Gears' dental equipment.
The woman gave him an odd look.
"Thorry." He waited for Gears to extract his cleaning tools from his mouth. "But no. You don't smell like an O5. They all have… well. You don't smell like one."
"… good to know," the woman said. "You are, of course, correct. I am not, in fact, O5-10. I am, in truth, her decoy. I am called 'Salt.' This is, of course, classified at the highest level. I do not need to tell you the consequences if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I trust?"
"Affirm."
"Yeah, sure," Kain said.
"Excellent," Salt said. "In that case, I would like to direct you to begin research into the issue of the anomalous scent that surrounds members of the O5 Council. Provided, of course, that you can do so in between your other projects." She extended a large stack of papers to the golden retriever.
"Cog?" Kain asked.
"Of course." Dr. Gears picked up the stack of papers and helped Kain to arrange them into a machine that looked like a cross between a music stand and a microfiche reader. It hummed and crunched and whirred and then began to project images of the pages onto a screen big enough for his tired old dog's eyes to read them clearly.
It was all there. The Egg Walker. The Power Suit. The Sonic Pulse Cannon. The Heat-Seeking Atomic Disruptor. The Harmonic Dispersion Wand.
And one more.
Project Olympia. Its shuttering had been the biggest heartbreak of all.
Hot damn, Kain thought, his tail wagging unconsciously. We're back in business.