The New Houston crater is as wide as the city it now exists in the place of and is deeper than any other crater on the Martian surface. It is impossible to the see the bottom — even with midday approaching the shadows within it still mask the interior. Agent Alessio Calabrese stands several meters from the edge, at the point where the western dunes enter their gradient from dust to shrubs to trees, ending in the forests to the east. He peers in. What little of the crater's walls he can see are completely smooth, like the city had been cleanly cut from the planet and whisked away.
"The whole day felt, odd, you know," says Gareth Traves, standing next to Alessio while trying to ignore the complete lack of city. He's a squat man with an unkempt beard who's spent far too much of his life working in the iron mines, and he's one of few New Houstoners to have been out of town when it vanished.
"How so?" Alessio asks, continuing to take in the full scope of the crater.
"Felt like I was… Waiting, for something I didn't know about."
"Was there anything else in your life you could've been nervous about?
"Nothing. Wasn't just me, too. Everybody at the mine felt the same. We all had that look on our faces, y'know, the teensy bit of worry. Tried to talk it out but nobody could guess. Like we were all expectant of something nobody was ready for. Some people shrugged it off but no, you gotta trust these feelings, y'know?"
Alessio gives a slight nod.
"So I stayed the night shift. And then I stopped feeling it at the time… At the time…"
"The time the crater showed up?"
"The time the crater showed up."
The only reason they consider it a crater, instead of some demented sinkhole, is from the unidentified object that cut a blinding trail through the sky and boomed over the downtown markets at midnight. Exactly one minute later all communications from the city cut out. In that time the few AresNet communications from the populace were all confused shock over whether it was space junk that just hit them or, worst case scenario, a missile. The hole left behind was found an hour later, when a transporter truck nearly drove off the road's end and straight in. Its driver called for emergency crews and the Foundation scrambled.
Even if they assumed this was a "meteor" impact, what the hell had it done?
Gareth crosses his arms and taps his foot. "You know, I dunno about you, but I get the feeling it was the Martians that did this."
"The Martians."
"Them tripods have always been up to something, I'm telling you. They want their planet back and they're gonna— I'm telling you, they're gonna make more of these craters until we got nothing."
"You honestly believe they have the technology needed to do this? Think that weapons that could do this survived that war of theirs? And the reset?"
"Well maybe not the Martians, but the cones. Cones could've done it."
Alessio raises an eyebrow. "Cones?"
"The cones, those arthropod things with all the tumors on them. They're hiding in the shadows enough that they have to be doing something." Gareth's eyes keep tracking invisible shapes, like he's expecting a clue for a grand conspiracy to emerge before him any second now. "Oh! One of my pals in New Houston said he saw one in the woods last night, and a guy I heard about in Luna Korea swears that something like 'em exists in… In… where was it…"
"Can I make a request, my friend?"
The rapid fire theorizing stops. "What?"
“People will say a lot of stuff to get attention. Don't believe every urban legend you hear.”
Alessio walks off and hopes the conversation ends at that. It's too early in the morning to be amnesticizing anyone.
Low rumbles. More of the Foundation's trucks roll out of the forests, carrying their burdens of scanners, satellite uplink masts, personnel habitation modules, and, in the event everything goes awry, the massive cylinder of a Scranton Reality Anchor. All around the crater emerge monitoring outposts of bulky, cubic electronics, with researchers darting between them and the trucks to drag more equipment out. It feels like a containment site is growing before his eyes.
He walks along the sand to the outpost nearest to him. Beneath a small tent Researcher Marika Pentti unfolds the solar panels of a soon-to-be backup electrical generator, barely noticing Alessio enter.
She jumps up when she hears his footsteps. "Anything from him?" Marika is just a few inches taller than Alessio is and her hair hasn't been washed in a week, likely from how much lab work she's been stuck in. Unlikely she'll have any time soon now that New Houston is gone, too.
"No. He's in the dark like everyone else we've interviewed. Only common thread is sneaking dread before the event."
"Drat. Hold this for me." She throws a liquid nitrogen cooling unit into his hands while she shifts focus from the panels to an aetheric resonance imager's computer screen. "Best progress we got is the satellite readings from when this happened. Massive ARad surge from the spot when the meteor came. Like a thaumonuke went off. Thanks." She pulls the cooling unit from his hands and hefts it into a slot on the imager's chassis, slamming the slot's lid shut.
"…You believe a thaumonuke went off?"
"Nope. No fallout. But it had comparable power."
"So it was magical in nature."
"At least to a degree. Problem's that…" A moment of pause while she concentrates on adjusting dozens of dials on the imager to the precise settings. "Problem's that we got nothing else. No EM rad, no Hume weirdness, absolutely nothing we can detect. Aside from how ill-fitting your clothes are in the damn Martian outback."
Alessio frowns and tugs on his shirt cuffs. "This is standard issue. Designed for this terrain, too."
"Stillllll stupid. Okay, done."
A last switch is flipped and the imager whirrs on. Its main sensor, an insect eye array of small cameras that's as wide as Marika is tall, starts receiving all of the thaumic particles given off from the surrounding area, displayed as a heatmap on the computer screen. Nothing from the crater is detected.
"Up to help wheel this and the panels outside?"
"Well, you have caused severe emotional trauma by insulting my clothing…" He smirks. "But yes, I can help."
All around them the Foundation continues to thunder in.

* * *

Midday arrives and the crater remains an abyss. The shadows didn't leave as the sunlight entered, only flowing over to keep the bottom obscured. Alessio bites into his lunch sandwich, watching the green reflected light of scanning lasers drift along the crater walls. The moment they touch the shadows the lights vanish.
"Best guess is it's either perceptual or a visible light barrier." Marika's face is practically in her laptop screen, catching all the new data the instant it arrives.
"Maybe both?" Alessio says.
"Maybe both… Oh. This is odd."
To make his life easier, she projects the computer model on her screen into a hologram — a ring-like rendering of the visible portion of the crater.
"If the scans are giving the right hints about this structure, it may be… less cratery then expected." Keyboard clicks and the rendering extends down, walls sloping into a central point.
"A cone?"
"Yup. Approximately 10 km deep."
Alessio idles, trying to piece together the implications. Assuming this wasn't an impact crater, which it was becoming increasingly unlikely to be, and ignoring the possibility of the whole city and its chunk of land popping out of existence, then there was was the possibility of the ground losing its cohesion, causing the city to sink down a narrower and narrower chute while being crushed into itself. Attempting to take the ever enigmatic shadows into account only led the theories down darker paths.
His walkie-talkie buzzes.
« This is Agent Lovell. Get back to the base pronto, the media's taken notice and we need as many people to handle the situation as possible. »
"They've found out already?" The overlapping chatter of a nearby crowd comes into focus.
« Yes. I'd advise you start thinking of cover stories now. »
"Alright, over."
Throwing his half-eaten meal into his bag, he says a brief goodbye to Marika before leaving — depending on how engrossed she is she may not have even noticed. As he jogs to the Foundation's perimeter around the area, he becomes disturbed with how his sole thoughts on New Houston are how glad he is that it wasn't an actually important place that was lost.

* * *

The sun is halfway down the sky and the horizon is hues of flame orange. The provisional containment site slows its growth for the day, having successfully formed a ring of research stations and security outposts around the crater. Agents usher the New Houstoners from the area despite their protest, providing them with empty promises of how they will be informed on any updates to the anomaly to ease their nerves — the situation is beyond them now. Alessio exits the provisional office, having bid his farewells to the civilians, and takes a deep breath of the chilling Martian air.
This is when he and everyone else hear the horns.
They are discordant cries, like an off-key orchestra of trumpets and humming. At first it bellows from everywhere around them, blotting out any other sound, but after several seconds of its wailing it narrows in origin, first from the crater then from somewhere deep inside it. Tremors shake the ground.
Alessio fumbles for the walkie-talkie. "What the hell is happening?" He spots Marika dashing from her outpost to the provisional office.
« We don't know, » says Lovell. « I'd advise getting away from… » The voice turns to white noise.
Gauging the distance between himself and every nearby shelter, Alessio doubles back on himself, sprints to the office door, flip his keycard over the scanner and steps in. The door slams shut. No staff are on this floor, every cubicle left unoccupied. Up a stairwell comes hushed speech. He quickly ascends the stairs to Floor 2, where researchers take nervous glances out the windows while hiding under them, then ascends again up a ladder to the top of Observation Tower 3. Marika and several other huddle around the same computer terminal. Agent Vivian Lovell keeps watch on the crater through the tower's wide windows.
« They're all silent. All of them, » buzzes a radio. « Even Traves stopped talking. »
"Hello, Lovell?"
"Are they doing anything else?" he says, still focusing on the crater.
« Just… Staring into… Wait. One of them's humming now. »
"Humming?"
"Lovell?"
« It sounds exactly the same as… » White noise then radio silence.
"Lovell."
"Oh, yes Calabrese." They glance at Alessio, nod, and turn back to the window. "Good to know you made it inside."
"Does anyone know what's going on out there?"
"No. It felt safe to get everyone… in…. doors, though…" Their eyes are drawn to something.
Leaning over, Alessio peers over the landscape, the Foundation's perimeter, the crater, searching for anything that could have drawn Lovell's attention. Behind them, the crowd of researchers around the terminal turn silent.
"What is it?"
"…"
He spots it. The rust colored sands. Lines emerge in them, as if the fingers of an invisible hand are dragging themselves through it. And as if the hand pushes its palm downwards, three imprints of a six-fingered hand emerge. The imprints shift and leave fractal trails, expanding in size to fill the full space between the Foundation's buildings and the crater edge, fingers twisting to individually "grasp" each outpost before moving to the next and the ones after. Dust turns to glass and blinks crystal eyes at the onlookers in the tower.
The horns blare again. The glass and imprints are blown away in torrents of winds from the crater's center, scattering equipment from the outposts and dousing the buildings in red iron dust. What Alessio sees as an absence of a body retracts into the pit, vanishing.
They are both silent. Marika taps Alessio's shoulder and beckons him to the terminal. Pushing aside the crowd, he sees the aetheric heatmap of the crater on the computer monitor. Something was in the crater. Something with a pyramid-shaped head, body blinding white with intensity unrivaled by any other source of thaumic energy detected by the imagers, dragging a tangle of three arms into the pit depths. Something that slinks into the crater's shadows and drops off the heatmap.
The horns hush. Alessio swears he hears a voice saying "It is nothing, only onlookers" as the last trumpet goes from whisper to quiet.

Nightfall. For kilometers around the provisional containment site is the sole light source in this part of the Martian outback, even then still fainter then the bustling cities far away. The crater remains pitch black.
Drones lift from the edge and arrange into triangle formation over the pit, hovering in circles as a test to ensure their rotors are in working condition. Each ones trains a laser — intended to detect any potential spatial distortions — on the other, the camera lenses focus themselves, and the radios bleep out a message confirming that all equipment is operable. STALKER tracking units complete the psionic triangulation startup while feeds of orange data stream along computer terminals before the eyes of researchers. They are go for descent.
In-sync, the drones lower, passing the edge and clicking their floodlights on to illuminate the crater wall. At first the interior seems identical to the imaging of it from the edge outposts, up until scanning lasers pick up an irregularity. The walls lack the progressive sloping inwards observed earlier. The outposts run their scanners again. Same result: conical when viewed from outside, cylindrical drop straight down when within. The spatial alterations are noted and the drones continue further.
At the two kilometer mark come the shadows that had kept obscuring the bottom enter. The darkness forms a literal sea of blackness beneath the drones, which oscillates and blows around as the rotors near them. A mechanical arm extends from Drone 3, lowering past the shadow's surface, finding that below it is just more empty space. They lower further. Static floods the radio feeds then ebbs out. Under the shadows is more of the same, with no bottom in sight.
They lower further, and further, and further, witnessing no changes in structure, spotting no sign of New Houston or any remnant of it. The drones break formation. No orders were sent to shift position and yet it happen in the span of seconds. The lasers they had trained on each other are still detected exactly as they were before, despite camera feeds showing meters of displacement between them. The walls lose the rough Martian dirt texture and smoothen out. Lights like broken pixels flicker in the dark.
Reality glitches. Zig-zags of fluorescent light spasm out of the broken pixels and the drones instantly shift into horizontal linear formation. Shards of energy rain from overhead and they shift into vertical linear formation, then back to horizontal, then to square formation, with a fourth drone emerging from nothing then disappearing back into the nothing. The crater walls shift hue from rust to bright red. It jerks like invisible arms are tugging it in opposite directions.
CRUNCH. The walls smash into Drone 1's rotors. The drone launches through a hole of blue into another tunnel, and another, and more as the tunnels branch into a luminous fractal that leads nowhere. A six fingered hand descends and dices the machine into microscopic slices from the sheer force of its presence.
Drone 3 goes blind; too many irises block the views of its cameras. Planck temperature plasma shoots from the corneas and footage ends.
Drone 2 survives, if only for a moment. The walls detach from the rest of the crater into a hollow cylinder, thinning to a ring and thinning into sparks in a starlit abyss that becomes existence. Stars rearrange into an infinitesimally wide spindle with spectral threads looping around it and launching into the cosmos. The drone is tugged in. The drone burns.
On the Martian surface, computers register the STALKER tracking units as merging into a single point in spacetime, 9.999 km from the surface. One by one the units fall silent.

Murmurs fill the Central Command chamber. The researchers lean back in their chairs, still staring at the three wide computer displays at the front of the room and the red text marking them.

[CONNECTION LOST]

As much as some wish they could, the messages don't change. What the specifics of the drones' discovery mean are far from clear, but the ramifications certainly are. Everyone has come to the same realization. No one is comfortable enough to say it.
Two of the lead researchers start whispering to themselves about filing an SCP designation, turning the provisional containment site permanent. Chairs creak. The room grows stuffy. Alessio pulls his coat from his seat and leaves the room.
A corridor later and he's back outside, stepping down a few stairs to the stairs. His breath is visible in the heavy chill that clings to the Martian night. Phobos is a shining blotch in the sky, and if he looked hard enough he could spot the pinprick dot of Earth, but he doesn't bother. The world feels stiller than it had been at any other point that day, most of the Foundation's personnel either in the process of falling asleep or quietly moving through the motions of their night shifts. It's been a long day.
« Calabrese, are you outside right now? »
He lifts the walkie-talkie and turns to Observation Tower 3. "Yes. You're still awake?"
« I have business with regional site directors in a few hours, so I need to occupy myself. »
"Catching no breaks today."
« Indeed, but that's not why I'm contacting you. »
Light scratches echo from someplace far off. Probably just the movement of any machines that still need to be set up.
« I wanted to tell you that, as of now, you're the only person outside by the crater. »
"…The only person?"
« The only person. Outposts are running autonomously for now and the guards are being briefed. I doubt you'll encounter any problems but after the incident with the horns we need to ensure everyone's safety. One person alone isn't the safest. »
Further light scratches, somewhere nearby.
"Don't worry, I'm only here to here catch my breath. I'll be heading back inside…"
Scratching.
"…in a few…"
Scratching.
"…moments."
Scratching. Ten meters to the perimeter of the site, between Central Command and a block of empty offices, is the electric fence the the sound likely originates from. He can't see the origins, though. A wall of unopened crates blocks it off from him.
"I'm hearing an odd scratching sound coming from the perimeter fence nearest to me. Do you have any visuals?"
« Negative. This tower only has a view of the top of it. Relaying this info to the other towers. »
Walking ahead and inching to the crater edge to keep a safe distance, Alessio peers past the crates. The fence is intact. The scratching continues.
« Towers 1 and 2 are spotting nothing. »
"Should I proceed?"
« Only do so with caution, we're sending in guards to accompany you. »
"Understood. I'm heading in now, over."
He hooks the walkie-talkie back onto his belt. With every step he takes forward the scratching intensifies, reaching a point where it no longer sounds like scratching, more like high pitched whispers. Red lights blink on a power box by the fence. It's out of power. No other lights are on.
Alessio clicks his flashlight on. It scans the shadows as he inches closer, warding them off and finding nothing abnormal. The revving of a nonexistent car interrupts the whispers. Behind the fence is nothing. Nothing but tire treads stretching out into the dunes. They stop just at the very edge of the fence.
The whispers seem to quiet as he takes out his walkie-talkie again. "I've only found tire treads leading to the fence. The scratching is—"
« ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ »
White noise screeches and he lunges back, instinctively hurtling the walkie-talkie. It ricochets from the fence. Ripples spread along the barrier's surface, wires dripping like they were fluid, tire treads swaying in invisible waves. As Alessio raises his gun the whole fence bursts outwards in a slow motion explosion while the space behind it morphs into the wreck of a United Mars Mining Co. transporter truck. Debris glitches and the thaumic illusion collapses. All there are now are broken wires and the truck that had been driven straight into it.
"Calabrese? What's going on over there?" shouts an approaching security guard.
But Calabrese can't respond. He's noticed the bodies inside the truck cabin. They're crushed under metal and shattered glass. They're still moving. Their eyes glow.
"Calabr—"
The cabin explodes. He's launched back by the blast and his gun spirals out of his grip, witnessing the bodies inside throwing themselves out and shambling upright. One of them staggers out of the dust cloud.
"Sorry about the damage but we need to be let in," says Gareth Traves, voice oscillating between pitches under a layer of static. "We need to be in there." Glyphs arranged into a third eye stare at Alessio in synch with Gareth's normal pair, all three erratically flashing.
"Gareth? What happened to you?" Alessio reaches for his holster and grabs empty air.
Alarms across the containment site blare. The others, the rest of the New Houstoners who avoided the city's vanishing, shamble and slowly enter a mad sprint. The guards fire but their bullets vaporize centimeters away from impact. Space warps in trails behind their forms.
"The horns made us realize what was inside us. Never had a clue 'til we heard heaven."
"I don't know what you think is down that crater but trust me, you don't want to be in there." His hands shift further along his belt. He still has his hypercuffs.
"And trust me, New Houston needs us down there. We were supposed to be in there when the crater took it. Humanity needs us down there."
A monitoring outpost and its aetheric imager smash apart, a New Houstoner pushing through it like water. They all reach the edge simultaneously, leap up, and plunge in. Gareth is walking far slower than his companions, too focused on Alessio.
"If so then I don't think there's much I can do to stop you…" He fumbles for the cuff's activation button. "…but can I ask you one question?"
"What?"
He throws the handcuffs. Runes along their sides blast neon pink and it magnetizes straight to the thaumic signature Gareth radiates, latching onto his hand and pulsing electrical currents through his nerves. The third eye ignites, glaring. He careens forward while dragging spacetime along with him, whipping the sand and Alessio in a blur of twisted light. They shear over the edge fast enough that Alessio has no time to react. When he can finally comprehend what's happening the world is rapidly dropping out of view and the crater's darkness creeps in.
Gareth becomes a comet of arcane energies, his eyes the focal point from which it flares outwards. He joins the New Houstoners in being lances of light that shoot down at rates faster than Alessio can understand. Shrapnel from what used to be the hypercuffs trails off. The walls turn to blurs with the glitching reality the drones witnessed entering and transitioning straight to the starfield, the spindle entering view. Nebulas shift into visions of New Houston, a city on a conical spire of rock. Every third eye plots new courses and the New Houstoners fly to their home. Alessio doesn't. He soars on, only able to watch as the city contorts into appendages he can only rationalize as hands that crush the New Houstoners between their pincers.
And he keeps soaring. Soaring through constellations whose stars link by chains up higher-dimensional light. Soaring through planets that stretch out of space's blackness into white space and green space and an endless rainbow of spaces. Soaring through megastructures of pure crystalline information ringing lightning bolts of consciousness that dance through a matrix of shimmering hiveminds, Existential Planes 1 to 2 through $\aleph_{0}$ and onwards and that's ignoring how many other axes worlds are stretched along like daggers of light, everything orbiting the spindle in a tsunami of colors and concepts he never could've imagined.
A hand dredges him from the waves. Spacetime becomes a cage that loops on itself no matter what direction you run, ringed by flourescent nothingness that skewers thoughts no matter how hard you try to unthink them. It that grabs him stares into his sub-sub-subatomic structures with a head of obsidian eyes, bringing to mind images of burning worlds and deities gutted for their crimes, casting its Judgement: Alessio Calabrese does not belong here.
Pincers crush him—
—and he's back on the crater edge. Gun barrels are trained at his head. Marika stands by one of the two artillery cannon-like Scranton Reality Lasers that aim at him. She says something about ARad readings to the agents standing by, looking to Alessio nervously. He can't hear. The hum of the anchors is too loud. He shakes, experiencing gravity like he was a newborn child who had never felt its presence until now. To the east the sun rises.
"Put me into containment. Now." he says.
He faints.

* * *

Humanoid Containment Cell A21 is as cozy as a metal box with no access to the outside world can be. Alessio lounges on the chamber's bed, finishing a mental integrity-testing mind game for the 16th time since he's woken up, spinning the tablet it displayed on between his fingers.
« Calabrese? » Lovell says over the intercom.
"Aren't you breaking memetic hazard quarantine by speaking to me?" Putting the tablet aside, he leans up.
« "We would, if we picked up any hazards on you. Whatever you encountered down there spared you, seeing as the video feed your implants picked is one of the most potent infohazards we've come across. »
"Infohazards? Really?"
« Yes but they're dealt with, so the memeticists say. For now we need to temporarily let you out. »
One wall panel slides open, displaying garbs more suitable for outdoors, desert travel than the D-Class-style suit he is currently wearing.
"I'm assuming something has happened."
Lovell doesn't respond. Instead, another wall panel opens and folds into a computer monitor. An image flashes onto it.
« This is a live feed. »
"It— How is it—"
« Aside from Gareth and his crew of now comatose semi-thaumaturges, you're the only person that was down there. We're hoping you can figure it out. »
He rushes to the clothes and immediately starts changing.

* * *

The live feed didn't lie.
New Houston was back.
All of it.
The four skyscrapers in the city center, the amassed and deteriorated apartment blocks, the swaths of ramshackle homes constructed from 2030s-era colonist insta-home kits mixed with any scrap available, the solar panel farm. The trees, the grass, the citizens — none of them even realized something had happened until, from their view, the world instantly switched from midnight to midday — the animals, the few Martians wandering through.
All back and in perfect condition. Like the city had never even left.
Guards flank Alessio, who has a mechanical muzzle that screens his every word for memetic hazards strapped over his mouth and his hands locked behind his back with hypercuffs, and lead him through the markets of New Houston. They pass by rows of stores selling bootleg paratech until reaching a roundabout where several roads converge. In its center, where a simple patch of weathered concrete once resided, is an eight meter tall jet black obelisk. The only remnant of the anomalous.
The guards lead him past the crowds of onlookers, pushed back by additional security, and lift a hazard tape barrier so he can enter the roundabout.
"Is this what you wanted me to see?"
« Affirmative. Can you see the symbols along its sides? »
He looks closer. The shining sun hinders his inspection, and with hands cuffed there's no hope of blocking the glare. Despite this he still spots the glyphs, shifting along the obelisk's sides like waves. None have a definite form yet his head knows they are a language. This is the only conclusion his brain can rationalize. All alternatives are refused.
"I— I can. I can." His breathing quickens.
« Alright good. Would it be possible for you translate what you see? Memeticists have had no luck and, considering your exposure to— »
"Stop."
« Is something wrong? »
"S-s-stop. Stop."
The obelisk face was pulsating. The glyphs arranged into sequential blobs he interpreted as "open file."
« We aren't witnessing any unusual behavior. What are you seeing? »
The glyphs break apart, arrange, break apart, arrange. Thinking about the best possible response, he chooses "open."
"I'm seeing the glyphs—""
The obelisk side nearest to him twists into a corkscrew that extends and drills straight into his head. Alien concepts intrude into his headspace, swarming his thought process in a chaos of glistening azure light. The ones unrecognizable to humans weed themselves out, leaving behind a message etched into his thought and sight.

We regret to inform you that, during analysis of a sample size of your civilization, the following issues and errors arose:

Insufficient quantities of metaphysical organs within brain structures.

Deficiencies in third eyes and the lacking of knowledge for third eye-bearers to commence quickening.

Overreliance on the Thaumatic Body and its vitals for reality alterations to Existential Plane 0.

The complete lack of knowledge on infovores…

The mental equivalent of a record scratch occurs and his mind jumps past monolithic walls of text that extend for kilometers into his subconscious.

Attempts by third eye-bearers to alter the sample size.

Attempts by third eye-bearers to combat Inspection Hiveminds.

Inabilities to identify ▓▓▓▓▓

As such, HUMANITY has not been selected as a candidate for ascension. We wish you better luck next time.

"…"
« Calabrese, do you read me? »
"I'm here. I'm here. I was— I saw…"
A sigh of relief passes through the radio speaker. Alessio glances to the guards, then to the crowds. Nobody has reacted. Everything that happened had all been in his head.
« What did you see? »
"…Since I've joined the Foundation I've… I've never been sure about god, or the gods, or whatever else may be above us, so I don't… understand, everything that's happened. All I know is that we—"
Half a kilometer above them is a bang. The agents and the crowd turn to see a ball of light cut a blinding trail from a spot above the markets up into the air, turning into a bright mote over the horizon. As quickly as it arrived it fades out of being.
"…We failed a test and I don't know if we should be glad we did."


Upstairs, Kit knew, if he ripped out his small intestine, he could write, at the very least, ‘Happy X-Mas, fuck you all' using the organ.
Experimentally, he ran his hands from his ribs to his hairless stomach to something someone once, long ago, called his ‘happy trail'. It was tinged with the occasional grey now, but it was hardly surprising, given the year Kit had just had.
Hands resting on the angled lumps of his hips, Kit let his head tilt back so he was staring at the ceiling, where he saw policemen screaming down on him, an insignia he never knew or cared to know, a baby reaching out with need and love, and Dawn before she was Dawn but she was still called Dawn.
A review of the year, in splotches, incomplete because one room is never space enough to tell a single person's story, not even the driest, boringest person that you knew.
Kit turned his head away and, just for a moment, let himself think about the man he had found, gained, lost, found again, lost again. Just a moment of guilt of letting that into his brain, eyes squeezed tight. Maybe if he imagined it long enough, something would happen (it often did) but, when he opened his eyes, there was nothing to be seen in front of him.
‘Potato peelers,' Kit thought, absently, ‘are so unimportant to the meal at hand. To any meal. It's skin. Most people like skin. Most people have skin.'
Kit felt a kinship in its uselessness.
Arms spread out like a broken angel on dirty purple bedding, he reached across and, with only a moment of hesitation (‘please, Gabriel, please') dragged the peeler across his arm. He felt every layer of skin and even pieces of yellow, lumped fat, come free with even the first dig and yank. If he could pull enough tendrils away, he knew he could free himself on the sentient umbilical cord that tied him to this world that no-one else could see. He could be, once more, normal.
Reaching his upper arm, Kit took a trained breath, and went back to start from the wrist, for as long as it could take.
Downstairs, the girl wrapped in a duvet waited. Her feet were cold, but her feet were always cold, so she could hardly complain. She could feel the shiver on her back as someone walked over her grave. It was never a magnificent time of year to be dead, and rarely a quiet one. On snatches of a sea breeze no-on else was privy too, she heard sobbing, and didn't know if it was for her, but it hurt either way. And, of course, being incorporeal meant food would literally go right through her.
Even so, it was nice to be invited.
The skull with the black hair and the lonely eyes waited. Their invitation had, of course, been a text message. It had had plans today, rather pitiful plans that involved a one-man-show, very, very off Broadway, and based on the Dickens' classic, A Christmas Carol. Still, it had to think it had probably never celebrated Christmas before, and the occasion was all rather colourful, which was less to its liking.
Even so, it was nice to be invited.
The man with the torches for eyes waited. Away from his dim and dark alleyway, speaking slang that still went over Kit's head, he could be a merry soul, and had changed his lights to match the room's theme – purple and silver. With each waiting moment, however, they grew more towards their dull red tone.
Even so, it was nice to be invited.
The entity who had a thousand lips waited. It had none that could eat, no stomach to put food in, but still, it had cooked. Using the Magic 8 Ball it called its eye, it instantly dismissed help and had shuffled off into the kitchen as if it were second nature. It had gotten hot and the robe had to be dismissed, something the entity felt particularly unwillingly to sacrifice on many occasions much more important than this.
Even so, it was nice to be invited.
Upstairs, Kit waited for the faces on the ceiling to disappear, and for his dinner party guests to fade one by one, until it was only him, and reality.
'…It would be nice…. to be invited back …'

Hub


☦An anartist wants to get an anime produced.☦

12/14/2018

"Mister…"
Silence hung in the room as the executive's glare shot through him.
"I'm sorry, what's your name, again?"
Thom shrugged his shoulders forward to get his coatsleeves up a little before adjusting his tie. "Nack. Thomas Nack, sir."
"Mister Nack."
It had only been twenty minutes since the meeting started, but Thom's throat had gone dry already. He stretched his hand across the table to grasp the pitcher of water, poured himself another glass, and brought the jittering cup to his lips.
"I don't think you'll ever find a market for this, uh, 'Japanese style cartoon' of yours. Least of all here. You are aware our main product is merchandising for kids' shows, right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm, uh, quite aware! Just, think about it, sir! I'm sure it's clear to a man so wise as you."
The executive coughed. "Uh-huh."
"It's, um, it's a scathing critique on how corporations and mass marketing shove us, as individuals, to hating ourselves, providing useless junk to make us feel better, bringing our society as a whole to nothing more than apathetic slaves to capitalism, it's ironic! Well, I guess what I'm trying-"
"Mister Nack, I believe I understand what you're trying to do."
"Y-you do? You do! Ah! I'm so glad!"
"Yes. I finally see that you intend to waste my time with your, your…"
The man swiveled his chair to look out the window, and Thom took this chance to quickly dab his forehead of sweat with his tie.
"Your idiocy. Though, I'm not even sure you're that much of an idiot. An idiot couldn't have wasted my time as, shall I say, elaborately as you've done."
Thom brought up his hand to his chin, rubbing it as his mouth went to first a frown, then a hesitant smirk, eyebrow raised at the executive.
"That wasn't meant to be a compliment. But, that said, this conversation is over. Have a pleasant day, one that hopefully is involved with… more productive activities for the both of us."
With that, the executive swiveled back, a small smile hanging on his furrowed face. He extended a hand, and Thom shook, got up, and left the room.
A smile, Thom thought. What a face. What a face.
He walked into the elevator, head down, staring into the tile as he tried waxing poetic about the spectacle. Anything to find some inspiration, anything to get anything.
In the rawest of arts, in the barest of makers, nothing found such a pure synthesis. Perhaps one day a form will arise which can properly capture it. Perhaps such a form would even be based on it… Such a form's foundation would be one that anim-
"Sir?"
He jolted out of his thoughts and looked out the doors, an elderly woman peeking from the left edge back at him with a mix of concern and confusion. He coughed and stepped out of the elevator, stopping to face her.
And so he faced her.

It was a beat too long that they had been looking at each other and waiting for the other to speak before the lady handed him a t-shirt. He unfolded it to look at the front.
"Would you like a complimentary 'Poly Action Zorx Hybrid Rampage' shirt for being our guest today here at The Denville Programming?"

The door slammed open-
"Jesus fucking Christ Thom! What the fuck are you doing back here? I'm, uh, I didn't expect you to come back so soon, did the meeting go that well?"
Isaac sat in their apartment, shirtless, pantsless, and covered in newly toppled popcorn on the couch, TV playing Hitch on a well worn VHS casette.
"God, you kidding me? Hell no. I even kept track, it was twenty one minutes. I mean, it wouldn't have been SO bad if he hadn't been a condescending asshat, but… Ugh. Anyway. I got us some more clothes."
Thom threw a t-shirt onto Isaac's lap and fell onto the couch next to him before looking at the television and frowning. "Don't tell me you're watching this shit again."
"Shut up. Hitch is good."
"Good enough to watch, like, what, is it 30 times now? The tape's probably weeping in the VHS, begging to be put out of its misery."
"Whateverrrr, at least its not Japanese cartoons, like a NERD would watch." He looked over to Thom with a smirk as he unfurled the shirt, holding it up to get a good look at it. "Um… Hm. How much, how much did this cost you?"
"Absolutely nothing. The receptionist gave one to me, no charge."
"One?"
"Yeah, but they gave me another when I asked. Probably got a warehouse filled with 'em. But hey, a shirt's a shirt." Thom felt an impact and a lingering sting on his arm, courtesy of Isaac's fist. "God. Glad you enjoy it that much."
"Heh, no problem. Just know that if I didn't love you, I'd probably throw you out a window right now." That said, Isaac wore a genuine smile, even if he was still a little confused about the odd colors and robots and explosions on the shirt.
He put on the shirt, rested his head on Thom's shoulder, and the two sat watching the movie for a while.

"Hey, Isaac?"
"Yeah?"
"… What am I going to do now?"
"… You could snuggle with me."
"No, I. Well. No. I meant with my idea. This was my big chance at really making it, really earning us some money. And… nobody wants anything to do with it."
Isaac looked into his lap, and Thom sighed and curled up into him.

"Is it… is it that bad?"
"No."
"Then…"
"Then we'll find someone who will do something with it. It's like, it's like in The Muppets Take Manhattan, with all those directors refusing Kermit, but then one finally takes a chance."
"Kermit gets hit by a car in that, Isaac."
"Well, okay, you know what I meant."
"Yeah, yeah. I know. God. You and your dumb movie fascination." He rested his head on Isaac's, and the two sat in the glow of the television, letting the movie wash over them.
Well, over one of them.
"I still don't get why you like this so much. Thirty times, man."
"C'mon! It's a cinematic masterpiece, that's all the reason I need. Now shush, I can't hear Will."
"You are aware of what thirty times two is, right? It's sixty. You've spent sixty hours of your life watching Hitch. You've watched this movie for so long the audio's fucked up and the video's all funky."
"I like the effect!"
"If this is your way of getting back into art, you could've just told me, you know. I'm gonna support you in it no matter what."
"Aww."
"Plus, you know what we could've done instead with that sixty hours?"
"Shush!"
The two sat, bathing in the cathode lights, picking out bits and pieces of recognizable english or visuals whenever they showed up. Through the miracle of cuddling, Thom managed to endure the garbled utterances of Wlil Stmih for… an hour, he reckoned. He watched the colors and shapes and listened to the strange sounds one moment and fell onto the couch the next, and as he looked up, he saw Isaac picking up the phone.
"Huh? What's up, you hungry?"
"No, no. I think I know someone who might be able to help you."
"Really?"
"How do you feel about going to Japan?"
Thom blinked and stared at Isaac for a good, long time.
Japan?
What?
"Uh, like a vacation? Sure, why?"
"No, I mean for your, um. Your… animation. Or, should I say… … Japanimation?"
The two looked at each other blankly, soft static coming from the TV set the only thing filling the air.
"What? I, what?"
"Do you remember that time I told you about Sugako?"
Silence.
"… Sugar."
"Oh, her! You were in a, uh, punk band together? Yeah, I vaguely remember that."
Isaac sighed. "Glad to see you care. Anyway. I've kept in touch, and I think she'll be able to help."
Thom closed his eyes and hitched his head on the back of the couch. Japan was far, far from Fuckall, Massachusetts. He'd know absolutely nobody. And he'd have not a single clue where he was.
But on the other hand… this could be exactly what he needed. Blank slate, fresh audience. People who would understand his vision.
"God. Why not. Fuck it. I'll give it a shot." Thom turned back to the television, and Isaac dialed up his friend, now and then calling Thom's attention for a question.
"How long you wanna stay?"
"Three months, tops." He snapped back to reality. "Can we afford that?"
"We… have savings. It'll put us in the red for a bit. If you really feel bad about that, you can pick up an odd job here or there, yeah?"
Thom nodded.
"How much Japanese do you know?"
"Um. Other than, like, 'kamimashita,' or 'omae wa mou shindeiru,' and other random quotes, not anything."
Back and forth the pair went went for a while longer until Isaac finally slapped the phone back onto the receiver. "Get packed, your flight leaves in three days!"
"Th… Three? Three days? But, but you just,"
"She works VERY fast. There's, uh, some catches though. First, we've gotta find you tickets to Tokyo. Second, you gotta pay for her tickets there and back, both of you's food, as well as any miscellaneous costs you two end up with."
Christ, this is already a lot more expensive than I expected.
"Third, you're gonna have to find the place you two are staying, and you gotta pay for that as well. She said she'll help you find somewhere, so at least that'll be… okay."
"You shitting me? I gotta live for three months in a place I don't know with a girl I don't know, and we're footing the bill for all that shit? What about you? Christ, can you even make rent after this?"
"Thom. Don't worry about it. You know me. I can work two jobs, no problem. Plus, other costs should be easier if I'm only pulling for one. This is for you. This is for us."
Thom couldn't help but pull out a teary eyed grin and hug Isaac as close as he could.
"Thank you, thank you so much. Thank you so much! I knew I loved you for a reason!"
"God. Love you too, Thom." Isaac frowned a little, but hugged back and had it fade into a smile. He knew the dummy meant well. Words were just hard sometimes.

12/17/2018

He watched the buildings, and the sights, and the people, all blur together in his gaze outside the train, forehead placed against the glass, feeling the slight bounces and wiggles of the car.
His backpack felt heavy, and his legs felt weak, and his arm was straining from holding his bag for so long.
He brought up the back of his other hand against his mouth, reconsidering his position. He expected that he wouldn't throw up again, he'd done more than his share on the plane ride over, but… he underestimated his body's hatred for him before.
His eyes burned.
He looked down at his phone again. Time: 2 A.M., JST. Last call: twenty minutes. Connection: none. He slipped it back into his pocket and stared into the blur.
As it went…
And it went.
And it finally slowed, the doors sliding awake, and he pushed back, walked out, and stared into the streets with its buildings rising stories and stories. He took a square out of his pocket, unfurled and consulted it, began to walk, and after several minutes, turned to face his building.
Aching, he entered, and quickly confirmed his reservation with the hotel. Room 447. He took the keycard, slipped it into his pocket, and stepped into the elevator, head down, staring into the tile as he tried waxing poetic about the experience. Anything to find some inspiration, anything to get anything.

 I

 cant

He brought his gaze up, looked at the doors, and listened for the beep telling him he'd arrived.
Beep.
Step out. Find door. Open door, enter room.
The room barely fit a bed, only a desk and a chair complementing it, and a narrow strip for walking. He slipped to the foot, peeking into the bathroom. Box shower, toilet, sink, no free soap.
He slipped off his backpack, placing it on the side of the bed, and let his knees buckle to body fall onto the bed.
He laid on the bedtop, listening to the buzz of fluorescents above, and slowly, uncomfortably fell asleep.

He awoke to knocks at the door.
Many, many knocks.
After the fifth rap, he began groaning and pushing himself into the bathroom before standing up. The knocking continued, and he finally maneuvered to open the door.
"Mister… Nack, right?"
He looked up to meet the gaze of the six foot tall woman in front of him.
"I, yes. Um. Hi. You Sugar?"
She closed her eyes and reached her right hand to rest against her forehead. "I know Isaac told you my name, dude. Sugako. But… Yeah. Yeah, I'm her."
"Sugako. Got it."
"… I see you've rented a… choice room."
"… You could say that. At least it's only 8k per night."
She looked down at him, hesitant to step in, before finally relenting and closing the door behind her.
She took off her denim coat and looked towards him. "Place it just… Anywhere. Just throw it anywhere." She complied, placing it on the back of a chair before sitting on it backwards.
"…"
"…"
The two sat.
Time passed.
Thom wiped the sweat off his forehead, slicked back his hair a bit, and sighed heavily. "So, um… Why Sugako?"
She looked up at him with a look that can only be described as 'I expected nothing, and yet I'm still a bit disappointed'. He gulped, and tried again. "Why go by Sugako? You used to go by Sugar, right? Why not go by that?"
"… Are… are you really asking why I use my name?"
"Um."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I, y'know, thought it might've been a nickna-"
"Nickname?"
"Y-yeah."
"You thought Sugako was a nickname?"
He dropped his gaze down to his lap and placed his hands in it. But even still, he could feel Sugako's chilling gaze, beating down on him.
"…"
She sighed.
"It's… It's whatever. You're here because you want to get your anime produced, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then give me your best pitch."
He blinked, looking back up at her. "Right here? Right now? Uh, okay? I thought Isaac told you over the phone what the deal was."
"He did. But I want to hear it from you."
"I-"
"Go ahead. Just do it."
"I… okay." He shrugged his shoulders forward, puffed out his chest, and instinctively reached for a tie to straighten that wasn't there.
"It's about a NEET who works from home so he can buy anime merchandise. The usual stuff: posters, dakis, figmas, whatever. Total hikikomori otaku. The person who always delivers his stuff is this girl, a hot tomboy, and they become pretty fast friends. Together they resolve to destroy capitalism and go on an over-the-top adventure with high-energy fights to destroy merchandising companies who keep society under their thumb. But, and here's the kicker, when people watch it they only get more apathetic and lethargic towards capitalism, and so they buy merchandise for the show! It's a critique on h-"
"Stop."
Thom felt hands on his shoulders and stopped dead in his tracks, now finding himself staring eye level at Sugako.
"Take a look at yourself."
He found himself standing on the bed, arms bent and resting on his sides in a power pose. He looked around, and found no audience but the small, small walls and the popcorn ceiling. The hands pressured him down, and down he stepped, sheepishly taking back his seat on the bed while Sugako removed her hands, put them back in her ripped up jean's pockets, and took back her seat.

"I'm sorry," she said.
"S-sorry?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. But I can't work with you."
He slowly turned his gaze back to her, boring holes into her left cheek.
"You can't work with me?"
"From what I've seen, it would be best for the both of us."
"It's been ten fucking minutes."

"I know it's only been ten minutes."
"Wh- Why? Why are, what?"
"I… Listen. I only did this, I only met up with you, because I owed Isaac a favor. A favor to an old friend. But, you…"
"But I what?"
"…"
"I can't… I can't believe this."
"Are you confident in this?"
He furrowed his brow.
"You fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding? I fly the redeye halfway around the world, rent a shitty hotel room, meet up with a complete fuckin' stranger even though I'm unsure? Fuck yes I'm confident in this. I'm confident that this shit right here is gold."
"That's why I can't work with you."
"E-Excuse me?"
"I can't work with you because, well. Your ideas on art, on anime, are…"
Thom reached his hands up to his head, scratching his nails down his face before coming to a rest under his chin. "What? What are they?"
"They're childish. Amateur. Your ideas on what makes anime good, what makes art good. I was frankly surprised when Isaac told me you weren't an Aussie."
"Is this a joke? What the fuck? Australians? What are you talking about?"
"I… Oh wow, you are. Even less informed than I thought."
He gripped his skull in his hands and pressed as hard as he could before letting go. "You're not even going to give me a chance?"
"I did. And, I'm sorry, but you didn't make the grade."
Thom's head bumped against the wall behind him.
"What did I do wrong? What makes you say that, what's wrong with it?"
She blinked a few times before reaching her hand to rub the back of her neck. "You have the aura of a… A cunt. I got the feeling you thought you had some kind of clever critique on capitalism, and judging where you were going with it, you probably though you could tackle, what, femininity? Sexism? Maybe nationalism? And, the way you delivered that last bit, too, I bet you thought it was clever to have a dissonant effect, right?"
It bumped again, and again.
"It's so, so incredibly… well, it's dumb, too dumb to ever be clever. You know what a critique, a satire that propagates the aims of its subject is? It's propaganda. That's what you're trying to call art, here."
He held up a finger, pulled a pillow over his face, screamed into it for a solid minute, and dropped it back, meeting her gaze, still shaking a little.
"I'll, um. I'll buy your ticket back. It's the least I can do. But, I think it's about time I left."
Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.
Because… this meant that his idea, that idea he thought could finally bust open the industry and make real money, was… awful. It was horrible. Genuinely, truly horrible.
He was in the middle of nowhere.
Alone.
Broke.
And his idea, the idea he went to this length for, was…
Awful.
And even Isaac had sugarcoated that for him.
"…"
"I'm sorry."
He opened his mouth for a moment, closing it after a while of nothing. "…"
She turned around and picked up her bag.
"Wait."
She stopped in her tracks.
"I believe in my vision.
I believe in my work.
I want this to work.
To be a work of art."
She turned around.
"I want this to be a genuine criticism. I, I don't even need three months. Make it two. But I need help with this. I need help to perfect this. I need someone who's as willing to push me like this as you. I need someone to help me with this."
She paused a minute.
She turned around and sighed.
"I… Isaac wouldn't have called me if you weren't worth it. If he didn't really believe in you. I'll… fine. I'll give you one day to convince me it's all worth it."
"You… you mean it?"
"I mean it."

"Thank you, Sugar. This means the world to me."
"Sure, Tommy."
"… Sugako."
"Thom. But save the thanks for tomorrow."

« It Was All Just The Dream Of An Angel | Hub | A Light Read Before Bedtime »


"Well, unfortunately, that option is unavailable to you, SCP-4586."
The man's response came over the device on the wall faster than expected. Almost as if he hadn't spent a second considering the doctor's arguments. Infuriating it was, having been confined to that cubicle, only then to be extorted for his knowledge. It had been too long since he had continued his work, and even with the notebooks he'd received, much remained to be done. And now his escape had been foiled.
"I urge you gentlemen to reconsider my request!" The doctor exclaimed, frustrated. "The intent of my work is not detrimental to anyone whatsoever! It is not as if I am an uncontrollable maniac as-"
The doctor stopped. Was it necessary to inform his captors of his enemy? That would certainly raise questions, which could postpone the continuation of his work even further. Additionally, he ruled, there was the matter of what they aimed to gain with such questions. If they intended to use the Factory's devices for their own purposes, any help the doctor provided them could yield disastrous consequences and hamper his progress indefinitely. He could not risk that. At least, not for the moment.
"As…who?" The man's voice came over the device again.

March 7, 1865
As Dr. Murthwallen woke up, he could already hear the sound of the machinery outside his room on full activity. He opened his eyes slowly to face the rusty ceiling above him. He would have prefered sleeping a few hours more, though he knew that such thing would never occur, not until he was exhausted. Still, Dr. Murthwallen sprung out of bed quickly, invigorated with an energy he hadn't felt in a long time. After months of studying and researching, he had finally done it: he discovered a way to perfect the Factory.
The doctor made his way to the wardrobe on the other side of the room. From it, he proceeded to retrieve the cleanest pieces of clothing he could find there. If he was to deliver the news to Anderson that day, he would do it in the best suit he had there. A white shirt, dark trousers, vest and Oxford shoes, as well as a blue tie were the pieces of his chosing. As Dr. Murthwallen dressed up, he continued to marvel at the possibilities that could come from the newfound development. The machinery, he conjectured, could be easily replaced by more potent variants, which would invariably lead to an increase in the quality of the Factory's output. The machines then could be spatially rearranged into a better display, which would allow a greater production. And… with such upgrades, perhaps he could diminish the suffering of the personnel who worked there. After all, not many people would be necessary to ensure that the new machines operated optimally.
Fully dressed, Dr. Murthwallen retrieved a metal can from a box in the improvised pantry beside the wardrobe. Silver letters etched on the can comprised the same sentence he had associated with eating for the past two years: "NutriMaxTM — Food for all occasions! Product of the Factory". Inside the can, the doctor knew, lay that brown, semi-solid substance that had kept him alive for that long. However, it had not been without his own suspicion. Since he first arrived at the Factory, that thing marveled him. A few months later, though, when he had both the knowledge and devices to analyse it, Dr. Murthwallen discovered several toxic compounds within the substance, which led him to create a filtering device with his newly-learned runic knowledge. In spite of that, once the doctor began filtering the food, its taste went from delightful to absolutely disgusting.
Perhaps a dulled mind is easier to sway in a desired direction?
Dr. Murthwallen shrugged the thought out of his mind. Even if there were nefarious gains behind the food produced at the Factory, he would make sure that they were utterly destroyed once the machines were upgraded. James Anderson would never object to better products, to better profits, even if it came at the cost of altering his current goods.
Once the doctor finished eating the filtered substance, he proceeded to wash his face on the small sink in his room. He could faintly make out his face in the half-broken mirror. The two dark circles under his eyes attested to how long he had been working on his runic research. A good, long rest was all he wanted after presenting his finds.
Dr. Murthwallen walked to the desk beside his bed. He opened the small case on top of the desk to retrieve his monocle, which the doctor then placed on his right eye. On the left side of the case, his notebook, with the information regarding his latest discoveries was open on the last pages he'd written. The doctor then closed it, and placed the notebook in his vest's pocket.
Smirking, he made his way to the exit of his room, placing two plugs on his ears.

Once the doctor exited his room to the walkway, his smirk was gone. The heat that came from the machines underneath made the environment extremely unconfortable. Despite the deafening sounds, the ear plugs and the distance hampered their mechanical roars significantly. Nonetheless, as Dr. Murthwallen made his way through the metallic catwalk, he could hear the familiar sounds in between the machinery's blare.
The workers.
Screaming.
The brutality of that place disgusted the doctor immensely. The way the people were worked there, to be butchered by either the demonic security guards or the machines themselves disconcerted him beyond all else, especially when he recollected the times he'd gone down to the production lines to study the runes on the floors. He knew now that blood was what powered them, the "necessary sacrifice" as Anderson had put it then. Dr. Murthwallen had thought about questioning him about the heinous treatment of the Factory's employees, but never came through. After all, if he wanted to learn as much as he could from that arcane science, he'd have to stay on Anderson's good side. Besides, as a one-armed worker once told the doctor, no one asks questions at the Factory. Perhaps now, however, with some understanding of the technology used on the Factory, the doctor could see that the workers' condition would improve, once the new machines came to be.
A few meters away from his room, Dr. Murthwallen turned his head to look at the Runic Decoder on the right side of the room. The brass triangle in its center spun extremely fast, discharging several pulses. The lines that converged in the center of the Decoder, etched on the wall, were glowing with a bright, red light. That meant it had been a "good" day at the Factory. Repugnant would be a better adjective, the doctor exclaimed in his mind. If that Decoder were to become unstable and explode, he added, that would make it a good day.
The doctor made his way to the stairs at the end of the walkway, and proceeded down to the next level. Here, he could see the door to Anderson's office on the end of the catwalk, guarded by one of his disfigured guards. The noise coming from below, summed with the increased heat, made Dr. Murthwallen rush his pace to the door. A few seconds later, he stood right in front of it. The creature at the door turned to the doctor.
"I would like to speak with Mr. Anderson, my good sir." Dr. Murthwallen said loudly, trying to rival the bellows coming from the ground level. "He will be most interested in hearing my latest discoveries!"
The deformed man stared at him for a few seconds. The doctor couldn't help but feel a mixture of pity and disgust for the guard, that appeared to have had half of his face shrunk, while the other half contained multiple stitches. The existence of a third arm sewn on the guards left shoulder added to the broken appearance of the being Dr. Murthwallen was speaking to. However, the guard smiled at him, and moved out of the way, leaving access to the door unobstructed. The doctor nodded to the creature and proceeded inside Anderson's office.

When Dr. Murthwallen entered the office, he saw Anderson working on his desk a few meters away from the door. The fact that the door had opened, and the sounds coming from outside had poured into the room didn't bother the proprietor of the Factory at all, as he remained with his head down on whatever he was doing. The doctor closed the door and began to slowly approach Anderson, expecting him to notice his presence. As he walked across the office, Dr. Murthwallen was instantly reminded why he disliked that room. The warped carvings on the floor. The patterns on the walls forming runic symbols. The gleaming bronze furniture that he couldn't stare at for long.
Right in front of the desk, but still without Anderson's attention, the doctor spoke:
"Excuse me, Mr. Anderson. May I have a moment of your time, sir?"
Anderson stopped writing almost immediately after Dr. Murthwallen finished the sentence. The proprietor of the Factory then raised his head and met the blue eyes of the doctor.
"Dr. Murthwallen." He responded in his bizarre voice. "What is it that you would like?"
"I would like to discuss my latest breakthrough concerning my studies on the runes present on the Factory, sir." The doctor said, scratching his mustache. "I'm certain that whatever benefit may arise from my investigations can be safely converted into a marvelous asset for this enterprise."
"Very well. Tell me." Anderson said.
"Well, sir, after extensive research into the functionality of the runes I was able to observe, I am certain that they can be replaced by ones that could ensure excellence in the production of all the articles that are crafted here." Dr. Murthwallen began. "The experiments I have done in the past weeks corroborate my theory that the current manner of harnessing power, which is then converted into the products, is not only comparably imperfect, but disperses much energy with no valuable output whatsoever."
Anderson stared at him with his two yellow eyes, silent. The doctor cleared his throat and continued:
"It would not be of my intention to bother you with the particularities of my research, Mr. Anderson, although it would be of my utmost joy to display them, if you so desire. If I were allowed to alter merely one of the devices that lie on the ground floor, I am sure that the efficiency of such transition will be evidenced beyond all questioning. Furthermore, sir, such direction would be equally beneficial to the staff who currently provide the labour required for the runes to function properly. If my calculations are correct, the upgraded machinery may require fewer, or even no personnel operating them. Think of all the scientific possiblities that may arise from such miraculous development, good sir! All I would require to alter the runic proprie-"
"No." Anderson responded.
Dr. Murthwallen stopped talking, shocked by Anderson's response. Had he really heard that? Had Anderson rejected an improvement that could only lead to further prosperity?
"Forgive me, sir." The doctor spoke after a while, in a much lower tone than before. "My enthusiasm might make my position appear much more subjective than it truly is. I would be glad to submit my findings for experts to analyse them on their own."
He then proceeded to reach into his vest to retrieve his notebook, but Anderson answered first.
"No."
The doctor sighed, but despite the dread Anderson's figure caused him, he defended his position sternly: "Sir, with all due respect, this method is far superior to the one we utilize today. The rearrangement of the current runes would not only be beneficial to the Factory as it would not demand the monumental amount of workers that there are here today, but would also ensure an incredible leap in the quality of the goods that are produced here. Is it not the objective of all this, ultimately, to ensure profit?"
Dr. Murthwallen locked eyes with James Anderson for a few seconds. The doctor expected an answer to his claims. The industrialist made no sense by purely dismissing the truth about the runes. He was turning down such an obvious opportunity to expand his profits that-
What if it was never about profit?
A dark hypothesis slowly revealed itself within Dr. Murthwallen's brain. He directed his sight away from Anderson's eyes, lost in the possibilities that now were appearing.
What if the purpose of the runes is not production?
The doctor began to walk back towards the door. It made no sense to consider such-
What if he wants the workers to suffer?
"The Factory, Dr. Murthwallen, will do as the Factory has always done" Anderson said, breaking the silence.
And in a second, it all made sense to the doctor.
The roaring.
The suffering.
The workers.
The creatures.
The blood.
It had never been about money.
Dr. Murthwallen nodded to the proprietor of the Factory, feigning defeat in an attempt to mask his dark realization. He proceeded to exit the room, hoping that he had convinced Anderson. He would need all the time he could get.
He'd asked a question about the Factory. THE question. And now he had the answer.
He knew he had to escape that place.

The doctor finished reminiscing about his past. He had to come up with an answer to his captors, one that would divert them from his mistake.
"-as the harmful artifacts I have mentioned to you, good sir!" He finally said. "All I ask is that my request is rationally analysed."
The response came not long after: "I'll, uh, be sure to forward your requests to the responsible personnel as soon as possible. Thank you for your cooperation, SCP-4586. That will be all for today."
After the device went silent, Dr. Murthwallen remained in front of it, gently tapping his cane on the floor. His recollection of past events reiterated the need to continue his work. Anderson's doings could not be allowed to corrupt the world any further. Impounded in that cubicle, restricted from his tools and experiments, the doctor could do little to stop it.
Such issue, however, was not one that would preoccupy his mind for long.
After all, he had fled from the Factory.
His current predicament would be overcome.


Like an hour ago someone whose wikidot name I don't know pitched this idea in chat and I kinda liked it. Sorry not sorry.
Edit: Apparently it was "CephalopodStevenson".

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Date:
December 24th, 2018
Warning.
Breach in progress. Please remain in place.
Annual recovery plan is to be executed.

Jacob heard a loud thump on the roof above him. He peeked out from under the covers of his race car bed. The Spider-Man nightlight beside the bed cast a warm white glow that illuminated the room. His clock on the night table beside him read 6:44 AM. Jacob stretched and yawned and stepped out of bed. His spongebob pajamas reached down to his ankles and he put on a pair of brown slippers with a dog's face and floppy dog ears on the sides.
He opened his door just a crack, and looked out into the hallway. The noise above him had stopped but he was too excited to care. He stepped out of his room softly and looked down over the railing at the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room beside the big front window. The lights of the tree reflected off of the myriad of shiny balls and baubles that hung on the tree's branches.
Just then, a man in a red coat came walking out of the chimney. Oddly, this wasn't a man sized chimney and this was no normal sized man. The jolly fat man passed through the brick of the fireplace like it wasn't there. Behind him a trail of little bright lights illuminated the space he'd passed through. He had no bag, unlike what Jacob had expected, but began to make his way to the Christmas tree all the same.
The man reached a hand out and more of the bright light appeared in the air beside him. He reached into the hole and pulled out a beautifully wrapped present. Jacob, beside himself with excitement let out a small gasp.
The man in red stopped and looked up. He spotted Jacob and gave him a cheeky grin, the redness in his cheeks increasing just a bit.
"Ho ho ho. Come down here little one!" The man in red called out in a loud whisper.
Jacob hurried down the stairs as softly as he could. By the time he'd made it to the tree the man in red had already pulled another gift out of thin air.
"You've been very good this year, haven't you Jacob?"
Jacob nodded.
"Don't tell your mom and dad and I'll let you open this one right now."
Jacob's eyes brightened even more in the light of the Christmas tree. He reached forward and took the box, pulling on the bow and ripping off the paper. Inside was a stuffed animal in the shape of a puppy, with big brown eyes and a curly tail. Jacob hugged it close and looked back up at the man in red.
"Now I know you asked for a real dog, but your mother was right." The man in red squinted at the boy, "You're still too young to take care of one! I hope this little guy will be enough until you grow up big and strong."
Jacob nodded even more forcefully and hugged the stuffed doll even closer. The man in red winked with a slight twinkle in his eye, before the color in his cheeks began to fade.
The two of them looked out the large bay window next to the tree and just the slightest hint of sunlight was peaking out from above the horizon. Jacob looked back at the old man next to the Christmas Tree. The old man smiled at Jacob and cocked his head to the side, the same twinkle in his eye as before.
Jacob's eyes went wide again and then suddenly the floor dropped out from underneath him. He was sinking through something sticky that burned him. The old man, now skinny and with blackened skin leaned in with an impossibly wide smile.

You better watch out.

You better not cry.

SCP-106 recovery information:
Standard annual recovery protocol has been executed. SCP-106's transformation lasted approximately 13 hours and 25 minutes.
During this time it visited 1,067 homes. Following the end of the entity's transformation it was responsible for the death or disappearance of 3 individuals aged 38, 34, and 7. No Foundation personnel were lost during the recovery effort.
Recovery evaluation: Success.


by Captain Kirby

Agent Richard Tennison cracked open another beer from the cooler. He sipped from a comfortable position against the wall as he watched his colleagues mingle and laugh. Richard allowed himself a smile.
"What're you up to all by yourself?" Stephanie asked as she took up a position next to Richard.
"I'm really not cut out for this sort of thing."
"I mean, that doesn't make it less weird. It's your retirement party. These people are here to see you off."
Richard shook his head. "I know, I know. I'm just not great with attention."
The two stood there for a bit, just taking in the crowd. Eventually, Richard's eyes stopped focussing on the people, and drifted around. His muscles loosened so much that he almost lost his grip on the beer bottle.
"You're spacing out," Stephanie said.
Richard snapped back to reality. "It was that obvious, huh?"
"Yes. Yes it was."
"Maybe my old age is getting to me."
Stephanie elbowed Richard in the side softly. "What were you thinking about?"
"Oh you know—"
"Stuff?"
"Why did you ask if you already knew the answer?"
"We've gone on how many operations together? Like forty? At least? I know you never answer this question seriously the first time."
Richard couldn't help but let out another smile. "Fine. Although I'll tell you somewhere quieter. Hard to think with all the noise in here."
Richard and Stephanie both slipped out of the break room and took a stroll down the halls of Site-19. They walked in silence, just letting their footfalls against the tile floors echo around. It was nice. A serene little journey down nostalgia lane.
The two passed by some pictures that hung in the hallway. Just a couple of commemorative shots of contained anomalies, along with the people who brought them in. Richard had his place in more than a few. There was one with Richard and ten other agents in front of the 682 acid vat. Took that one after they recontained the lizard during a containment breach a few decades ago. Thirty names were carved around the frame of the picture; they were the rest of the agents who got caught up and killed in the breach.
They both turned left at the fourth intersection. It led to a small balcony that overlooked a garden behind the Site. The garden was built four years ago for morale purposes, but since it was early November most of the flowers were dead and the trees were drooping and orange. Richard liked the spot. He used to come here to smoke before he quit.
Both Richard and Stephanie forgot to bring their jackets from the party, but their professionalism kept them a few feet apart, so they each shivered in solidarity, too dignified to ask for the warmth of the other. Richard thought about that warmth as he stared at the withering garden. He didn't mind the cold much. In fact he'd grown used to it over the years. But now, he just wondered what it would feel like if he didn't always need to remember to bring his own jacket.
"Richard, you're spacing again."
"Right."
"So, what's on your mind?" Stephanie said as she leaned against the railing.
"You really want to know?"
"I mean, if you're not going to tell me I'll head back inside."
Richard let out a sigh. "Fine. I was thinking about my job."
"That's fair. You are one of the best. You were reliving the glory days?"
"Nah, I wasn't thinking about my old missions. Nothing that nice," Richard said at last.
"Then what were you thinking about?"
"Just wondering if uh… well you see, I'm still not married."
"You're feeling lonely?"
"Not exactly but— I also used to play guitar. Back many, many years ago. Haven't picked it up in forever and I'm not sure my hands will let me work the strings the way I used to."
"So, you're lonely and you want to play guitar?" Stephanie tried to hide a snicker, but failed. Richard punched her lightly in the shoulder.
"Let me finish. I'm not married, I don't really have any hobbies or like, useful skills outside of this. I've been working at the Foundation since I was in my mid-twenties. Just to become the best anomaly-wrangler out there."
"And you are."
"But why? Why am I that? Why did I… why is that what I thought my life needed? I abandoned so many opportunities to start a new kind of life in pursuit of that. I just… was it worth it?"
Stephanie looked Richard once over. It was probably the first time she'd ever seen him this distraught. He wore a faded smile but it was obviously just a disguise. He was looking down at his hands like he didn't even recognize them. He looked like a lost fifty-year-old man, struggling to come to grips with the fact that he was about to lose a job opportunity because he missed the train. He looked frail.
She slid next to Richard, and put an arm around him. Together they both slid to the floor, with their backs against the balcony railing. Richard didn't move or react, but that's just because he felt surprised. He had forgotten what warm felt like. Come to think of it, he hadn't touched another person in any significant way in four months, when he last flew out to see his brother.
"Richard, Richard, Richard. You did something very few people can do. You set yourself a goal, and you pursued it, and you never lost sight of it. For thirty years. That's an act of perseverance that probably borders on anomalous itself. And you did it."
"I know, but was that the best use of the last thirty years? Could I have spent my time better? Could I have just… been happier?"
"I don't know. Are you happy now?"
"I don't know. I don't know anyone who really knows how happy they are. I don't think we can really answer that question. Maybe some people can. But I can't."
Stephanie took Richard's head and pulled it against her shoulder. She did it out of some mixture of obligation and instinct rather than a conscious decision. Like the old man just needed a shoulder, and hers was the only one around.
"I think you were happy. Hopefully you'll one day agree."
Richard heard her, but it never quite registered. His eyes lost focus and he swept back into day dreaming again. Just imagining a life without the monsters and the shadows. Just him, on a couch. Next to him the woman who he met during a stint uncover in New Jersey, and two kids on the floor in front of him.
It probably would have been warm there too.


The wounded, bleeding janitor poked SCP-049's knee and whispered something, raising her hand to point down the hallway. 049 had hoped it would be able to clean her injuries in peace, but this matter would need to be dealt with first. Beneath the rays of the last functional ceiling light stood a hideous thing that could only be described as a bird-faced ragdoll, gripping a sharp stick.
“Put the bandages down, old man!” Unsurprisingly, it was SCP-049-J, who had no doubt been stalking the older plague doctor, bringing along its inferior medical knowledge.
“Go away,” SCP-049 responded unamused. Normally it would have something to lecture the dumb bird with, but it swore this happened every time it tried to heal someone, and it was getting tired of it. Did that thing actually have a brain?
The poor doctor turned back around to assess the janitor's injuries, but as soon as it had, it heard a horrid shriek and the frantic pounding of feet from behind. SCP-049-J kicked the janitor right in the jaw at full force, sending her rolling in pain down the hallway and into a closet.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU MADMAN?” It was far from the first time 049 had witnessed something like this, but it was horrified regardless.
“Well… a good doctor always applies anesthetics which you would have done if you were a good doctor.” 049-J was very proud of itself for someone who had just knocked a dying woman unconscious. It tried to reach the janitor to finish the job, but 049's quick hand firmly held it in place.
"Now, you listen here, you pest!" 049 was actually getting angry at this point. "You've been nothing but a nuisance since you were born! You call… you call senseless violence a medical practice?"
"But… I'm 049-J. The 'J' is short for 'junior.' I'm the-"
"It is not!"
SCP-049 had no idea what to do. It had done its best to relay all of its medical knowledge to its child, but things were looking terribly hopeless. It had finally been granted someone who might be able to understand the true nature of the Pestilence in this facility, and yet here it was, senselessly beating anyone who so much as coughed. Frustrated and annoyed, 049 began to pull moss and stuffing out of 049-J's robes.
"Help! Help, he's killing me! He's killing a doctor! Medical malpractice!" While 049-J screamed and struggled from 049's grasp, the janitor was slowly crawling through the shadows. She tried to stay silent, as silent as possible so she could receive some real medical attention, but even in the frenzy she just wasn't able to stay hidden enough. 049-J eventually broke free, and gave her another sharp whack with its pointy stick.
"Effective! Most effective!" 049-J raised the stick again for another strike, but 049 had time to seize the weapon first.
"Once more, and I'll break it!"
"You wouldn't!"
049-J put up a very good fight for something that looked so small and soft. 049 had to use all of its strength to hold on to the stick. In fact, they both were so focused on stopping each other that they momentarily forgot how close they were to the janitor. Losing their balance, they trampled her arms, neck, and spine, mercilessly crushing her. By the time they noticed, it was too late.
"Stop! Stop and look what you're doing!" 049 was able to convince 049-J to let go for a moment. It poked her unmoving body with the end of the stick. There was no response. 049 sighed and returned the stick to its child. "This woman is dead. This is your 'most effective cure?' Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
049-J carefully thought about the question for a moment. A very short moment.
"I need a pointier stick," it replied before going to sharpen the tip on the nearest concrete wall.
Defeated, 049 sat down on the other side of the hallway, tucked in its knees, and put its hands over its face. This was all a big mistake. Just a big mistake that could have been avoided if… it hadn't been alone with him.
"Oh Dr. Hamm… what have we done?"

« Boiled, Scrambled, and Fried | Let Me Cure Her, Daddy |


At first, it was a lot of fun.
Durbal had endless things to say about the box he was put in. And he planned to say everything.
“Box is unsuited to contain a sexy beast such as Durbal.”
“Box is too dark, not allowing Durbal to see the box and criticize it further.”
“Box contains soundproof padding, which is uncomfortable and attempts to mute my criticism.”
“Soundproof padding does not realize that no force can stop Durbal's criticism.”
Though Durbal was always right, he was wrong on that last part. There was one thing that could stop the criticism.
Durbal lost track of the time he'd spent inside his containment. Though it didn't really matter. You don't need to know what day of the week it is in order to call a small box a piece of shit. For all he knew, this could have gone on for days, weeks, months, years, even centuries.
No matter how long it had been, it always felt brand new. There was always a new tangent to follow and new swears to be invented and spoken. It was so much fun.
But Durbal stopped to think, every once in a while. What he was doing. He looked around the box. He realized what he was saying no longer related to the box.
Discussions on the box went to the padding, which led to comments on sound itself, which led to talking about air, which lead to chemistry, and then to fire, then cavemen, homo sapiens, bipedal organisms, monkeys, bananas…
That's when he stopped himself.
What the fuck was he saying?
Why the fuck was he doing this?
For once, Durbal fell silent. The criticism stopped.
He thought.
“Why is Durbal doing this?”
He fell silent for longer than he expected, before it caught up to him.
The silence.
The silence, the lack of sound, of anything. It crushed at him. It was his way of keeping it away. To craft something from nothing.
The joy of what he was doing faded. The words he spoke were not his own. They didn't come from passion of the craft, but more to keep the void at bay.
With lost passion came lost criticism. He fell silent more and more. The idea of what he was doing, why he was doing it kept coming back and halting his thought process.
These silences grew longer. He didn't know how long, but they felt longer and longer.
He only spoke so he'd have something, but he soon found that he had a preference for nothing.
It just became too difficult to speak, to think of something to say. Everything he could have said was said.
The criticisms stopped for longer than they ever had. And they would never start up again.
Time passed.
Durbal was sat in the box. He was silent. He'd been silent for a while. How long remained a mystery to him.
He felt like trying something bold.
Something he'd never done before.
He looked to his left.
Durbal saw the realm he resided in. The realm of the sticky note. An infinite expanse of yellowish hue.
He saw a door. Crudely drawn from pen ink. Durbal had never noticed it, and yet it felt like it'd always been there. A new place to go.
He looked back to the dark room.
He'd miss it, but it was time to move on.
Durbal took a step forward, his thin, ink-marked leg taking its first step in eternity.
He approached the door, wrapping his three stick fingers around the knob, and turning it.
He didn't know where it led, but it was somewhere new.
Durbal looked forward to it.

Incident 3556-20D
SCP Involved: SCP-3556
Date: December 20th, 2███
Location: Site-77 Containment Vault
Description: SCP-3556 has ceased any and all vocalizations, and no longer responds to stimuli. The creature depicted on SCP-3556 has vanished, replaced with writing saying “Gone fishing”. SCP-3556 is to be reclassified as a Neutralized anomaly until further notice.