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Interview Transcript: Site Director's Office
Date: 08/07/2016
Present:
- Site Director Praveen Arora
- Edward Barnes (PA)
- Junior Researcher Emma Stark
<recording commences 19:34>
S-D: Emma, for the record I'd like to start by apologising for the behaviour of site security. They were a little too -
Stark: They tased me, and then confined me to quarters for weeks! Sorry sir, but that's not why I signed on as a Foundation employee.
S-D: As I said, I'm sorry about how you were treated. And your quarantine was merely a precaution against a potential memetic hazard, as I'm sure you'll appreciate.
Stark: So what am I doing here?
S-D: I'd like to hear what you know about the musical anomaly that was stolen - SCP-012.

Interview Transcript: Holding Cell 29-B
Date: 08/07/2016
Present:
- Senior Security Officer Judith Parker
- Commander Samuel Richards (MTF Eta-11)
- PoI-463 (Charles Mace)
<recording commences 20:26>
Parker: Let's start with your name, for the record.
Mace: No, let's start with the fact that I have been imprisoned for weeks without due process. I have rights - I'm an American citizen!
Parker: An American citizen with a history of creating anomalous artistic works, including memetic hazards. I'm sure you appreciate that you're a long way outside standard jurisdiction.
Mace: What is he doing here?
Richards: I'm here to help them work out whether you stole a musical anomaly called “On Mount Golgotha”.

Stark: Do you think I stole it?

Mace: Do you think I stole it?

S-D: Did you?

Richards: Didn't you?

Stark: You know I couldn't have.

Mace: You know I didn't.
Parker: We know that you've had access to Foundation resources in the past – amnestics, anomalous blood plasma – that you were planning to use to harass Commander Richards' task force. You must have had a contact on the inside – they could have helped you steal the music.

S-D: You might not have taken it from containment, but the locks weren't broken, so whoever took it had access. You could have helped someone else steal it – been their contact on the inside.
Stark: Then why aren't you looking for them?

Mace: Then why aren't you looking for them?
Parker: Let's concentrate on you, Mace. How is it that one of your anomalous compositions ends up on a CD inside the Foundation, which is played at the exact time the score was stolen?

Stark: Hey, I was at the retirement party when that song knocked everyone out. And if I stole Twelve, why would I have been asking about it, even after it was stolen? That doesn't make any sense.

Richards: We don't have to understand your motives, Mace. You need to tell us how you smuggled that music into the Foundation.

S-D: Honestly, I don't think you could have done it, Emma. But I have to consider every possibility. Everyone at that party is potentially a suspect.

Richards: How well do you know Roger Anderson?

Stark: Roger?

Mace: Who?
Richards: Foundation agent – has a history with the stolen music. And he'd only be a little older than your age.
Mace: Our age.

Stark: At his age?
S-D: That's only a little older than my age.

Richards: Watch it, Mace.

Stark: Sorry sir.
S-D: Roger was at the party.

Richards: He could have brought your CD with him.

S-D: He has been exposed to Twelve in the past.

Richards: I've been suspicious of him for some time.

S-D: He could have sold it to an outside contractor for a chance at a better life in retirement.

Richards: He could have shared your obsession with the music, and given it to you for whatever your ultimate purpose is.
Mace: One problem with your theory – I have never met this Anderson person.

Stark: I've only met him once, but I can't imagine he would have done this.
S-D: Then what do you think happened, Emma?
Stark: I don't know. But I'll tell you what I know about 012.

Parker: Why don't we leave this topic. Tell us what you know about SCP-2402.

S-D: Of course. Barnes, push back the next interview. Go ahead, Emma.
Stark: I guess you've read the file, sir. But there's something about twelve that is much bigger than we knew.

Mace: You should know that there's a bigger picture to my arrest. Why don't you ask him? We have history.

Stark: It's not just that we have more pages than before, that the score is nearly finished. Twelve seems to have a history, to have connections that we never anticipated.
S-D: What do you mean?

Richards: This man was fixated on one of my team, he harassed her for years. It was her grave he was – was desecrating when we captured him.

Stark: Well, for a start, ProfetiX – I mean, SCP-2992 – said something about “scores”. He said “when they have all the scores” – could there be more than one copy? Wait – in Sandoval's journal, he said something about “our Lord” being “tossed to the four corners of the earth”. What if we only have part of the music? That would explain why it sounds cacophonous – we don't have the full score!
S-D: And what did 2992 mean by “they”? There's a group out there trying to obtain the anomaly?

Parker: You've never been associated with any of the major anart groups, have you Mace? Didn't they want you? Is that why you became obsessed with Agent Smith? Did you think you could mean something to her?
Mace: Shut up. You know nothing about it.

Stark: I don't know. But Jayden knows about music, and he knew Twelve. Something else he said – a name. Saint Alagadda?
S-D: Alagadda? Barnes, is she cleared to know this?
Barnes: No sir.
Stark: Well I think you'll need to get me cleared for it, because the journal refers to Saint Alagadda as well.
S-D: Saint Alagadda – are you sure it was a name?
Stark: Yes. And Jayden said it was returning.

Parker: So why were you trying to bring Zoe Smith back?
Mace: Don't say her name! You don't get to say her name.
Parker: Did you think she loved you? Do you think Zoe ever even thought about you?
Mace: Fuck you! Say her name again and I'll –
Parker: You'll what?

Stark: Whatever it is, it sounded horrific. Jayden said humanity would be destroyed – something about everything coming together.

Parker: Did you think you could be together if you brought her back? You and Zoe? Don't make me laugh.

Stark: Sir, I think this is serious. KM Sandoval died, Roger was almost sent mad, and the D Class testing… If Twelve is finished, and someone plays it, something terrible could happen.
S-D: If someone plays it? But I thought it was a visual hazard – we haven't even classified it as auditory.

Parker: You're barely even a musician. You try to create art about failure, and you should know. Everything you've done you failed at.

Stark: Sir, it's not a visual hazard, it's a cognito – oh my god. Auditory! What are the auditory and musical skips on this site?

Richards: Mace –
Parker: No, I want him to hear this. Mace, you failed to join the anartists. You failed to make a career out of your art. No fame or fortune for you. Hell, even your shitty Rush cover band failed.
Mace: Fuck you! Fuck you both!

Barnes: Twelve, of course. 92, 1398, 1860, 2112, 2402. Auditory is 2992.
Stark: What about acoustic?
Barnes: Um, 126, 339, 932, 1493. 1860 and 2402 again. 2337.
Stark: Delegated Level 4 Clearance. Jesus.

Parker: You failed to disrupt his task force – they barely noticed your “events”. The woman you claim to love barely even knew you existed.

Stark: And he knew – he knew it was a cognitohazard. He knew the whole time.
S-D: Emma, what are you talking about?

Parker: You're a failure as an artist. You're a failure as a man. And now you've failed to save Zoe - even with the help of 2402, she's still ashes and dust.
Mace: Shut up, shut up!

Stark: And Mike said he wasn't there during the recontainment.

Parker: So why wouldn't you fail when you tried to steal “On Mount Golgotha”?

Stark: Commander Richards stole SCP-012!

Mace: I didn't steal it! He did!

S-D: What?

Parker: What?

Stark: I know how it sounds.

Richards: Ridiculous! He's trying to divert attention from his own –
Mace: He's the one that gave me your SCP-2402. He knew what I planned to do with it – it was my price for giving him the nightmare music. Although you were surprised when you remembered what I'd based it on, weren't you?

Stark: But he wasn't surprised at all by the CD we found at the retirement party. In fact, he tried to stop Mike looking at it.

Mace: I didn't know his plans, but he wanted a piece that would put everyone in earshot into a nightmare-filled sleep for around an hour. Long enough to steal something, I bet.

Stark: He has level four clearance for anything categorised auditory or acoustic – that includes all of the skips that broke containment. And I bet it extends to anything musical - meaning it includes Twelve.
S-D: I don't – Barnes, can you get records of Richards' movements? If Emma is right, he'll have covered his tracks – get RAISA onto it, and check his SCP database searches as well.
Barnes: Will do, sir.
S-D: And find him!
<door closing>

<door opening>
<whispered conversation>
Richards: What is this?
Parker: Commander Richards, I have Site Director orders to remand you on suspicion of the theft of SCP-012.
Mace: Ha!
Parker: For the record, let's start with whether you admit or deny the charge.
Richards: No, let's start with the fact that this accusation is completely spurious and comes from a known anartist. I am a decorated MTF officer!
Parker: With access to all of the relevant anomalous items, including memetic hazards. We've found the real records, Commander, so you have to appreciate that things don't look good for you.
Richards: Well what is he still doing here?
Mace: Enjoying poetic justice.
Parker: Get him out.
<door closing>
Parker: Now, what do you have to say about the theft of the musical anomaly, “On Mount Golgotha”.

S-D: So talk me through what makes you think an MTF Commander stole SCP-012.
Stark: So that's what I'm still doing here.
S-D: Well you're the one who knows about musical anomalies and memetic hazards.
Stark: I'm not sure where to start.

Richards: I guess it's time for the truth.

Stark: Let's start with this: “On Mount Golgotha” isn't a visual hazard.

Richards: SCP-012 is a cognitohazard. It affects anyone with knowledge of it – the more knowledge, the more dangerous.

Stark: Roger Anderson realised this, and Commander Richards knew it as well – he almost gave it away when talking about it. God, he lied so many times.

Richards: Mace was telling the truth – I gave him access to 2402. I never thought we'd end up bringing him in. In return, Mace gave me music to put the party to sleep – to keep people out of the way.

Stark: “Someone spiked the punch” – he must have known it was the CD that knocked us all out. Everyone except -

Richards: Bloody Hennessey. He wasn't meant to be there – completely unaffected by the CD, so the squad got called in too early. I needed more time.

S-D: So then he releases more auditory anomalies to keep the MTF and site security busy while he stole 012.
Stark: Mike told me it took them ages, and he only appeared at the end. Zhao nearly got killed!

Richards: I never meant to put them in danger. It was only harmless distractions I released – I didn't know they would make enough noise for 339 to breach.
Parker: Commander, where is SCP-012?
Richards: It's safe, but I can't tell you where it is.

Parker: Commander –
Richards: I'm serious. I know it's safely hidden, but not where. Targeted amnestic therapy.
Parker: Well there's at least one more question I have to ask.

Stark: There's still something I can't work out from that night.
S-D: What's that?

Parker: Why did you steal it?

Stark: Why did he release SCP-932?

Richards: To keep it safe.
Parker: What do you mean? It was in containment.

Stark: I mean, most of the skips he released from containment were harmless, but 932 - those things have killed people.

Richards: That anomaly is more powerful than you realise. I think someone wants to misuse it. To kill with it. Someone inside the Foundation. That's why Mace's music had to induce nightmares – that's why I released 932. I thought they would converge on the person with the worst fears – the person compromised by SCP-012.

S-D: Perhaps he was compromised by On Mount Golgotha, and it sent him over the edge?
Stark: I've seen people obsessed with Twelve. The Commander didn't have any of the symptoms of someone affected by the anomaly.

Richards: The music is using people in order to be completed. It's like it's trying to come into existence. And the Foundation has been helping it.

Stark: I've seen so many D Class in its grips, and it's always the same.

Parker: What do you mean?
Richards: It's like the Foundation is deliberately trying to complete the score, running test after test.

Stark: The complete obsession with the score, with trying to complete it at all costs. Withdrawal symptoms when not around it, irritability, mood swings, inability to – oh no.
S-D: Emma, what is it?

Parker: Even assuming I believe a word you're saying, have you got any hard evidence to back this up?

Stark: Sir, who has executive editing privilege over SCP database entries?
S-D: What? Um, RAISA of course. I suspect I probably do. And the relevant project lead.

Richards: Look at the health records, the nightmares. Agent Anderson had them.

Stark: Uh, sir – have you ever heard of a compulsive effect being “exhausted”?

Richards: The girl too.

S-D: Emma, where are you going with this? I've never heard of anything like that happening in a dozen years as Site Director.

Parker: And dozens of others, but none of them are trying to complete “On Mount Golgotha”.

Stark: Oh god. How could I have been so stupid.

Richards: Oh god. How could I have been so blind.

Stark: It was Dr Pherson.

Richards: It was Dr Pherson.

S-D: What do you mean?

Richards: He was the one who re-started testing on the anomaly – he's been working on it for five years. He has a musical background. He had nightmares at the retirement party.

Stark: I saw him after the theft – he was devastated, twitchy, flustered. He was suffering withdrawal symptoms.

Richards: Everything fits.
Parker: Except he wasn't the one breaking in to steal it.

<door opening>
S-D: Barnes, good. Dr Pherson is my next interview, isn't he? Can you get him here now please.

Richards: Not yet, but he could do something at any time.

Barnes: What? No, I'm sorry sir – I was just coming to tell you. Dr Pherson is missing.
Stark: Oh god.
S-D: Missing?
Barnes: I went to find him for the next interview, but he's nowhere on the site. His security detail thought he had been locked in his room – he could have been gone for days.

Parker: What makes you so sure?
Richards: If he is under the influence of the anomaly, there's no telling what he's capable of.

Barnes: Sir, we broke into his quarters. There are items in there – some of them associated with alchemical thaumaturgy. Scraps of paper referring to Alagadda.
Stark: Alagadda?
S-D: How did security not detect this?
Barnes: Sir, there's more. We've had a report from Site-73 – a theft from one of their storage locations. The item taken has an association with SCP-012, and they think Dr Pherson's clearance was used to get in.
S-D: Christ – he just walked in and stole it, before we even knew he was missing.
Stark: Two thieves…
S-D: Barnes – get site security up here. I want explanations now.

Parker: Well Commander, whatever your explanation, the fact remains that you were responsible for the worst breach of security this Site has seen in years.

S-D: This is the worst breach of security we've had in years. Looks like you were right about Twelve.

Richards: But I'm right about Pherson!
Parker: That may be, but for now, you're relieved of your Foundation responsibilities.

S-D: Emma, I'd like you to take a role in capturing Pherson, recovering Twelve and finding any other scores out there.

Richards: You can't do that!

Stark: I'm not sure how I feel about that.
S-D: Emma, we need your expertise. You're the one who worked out that Richards and Pherson were involved. And frankly you're almost the only person who knows about Twelve who hasn't betrayed the Foundation.
Stark: Okay. But if you need my help, there are some things I need too. I can't conduct that big an operation on my own.

Richards: Pherson can't have acted alone - what about the girl, what about Anderson?

Stark: I'd like Roger Anderson to be involved as well.
S-D: Uh, sure, I guess so - if he's willing.

Parker: That's no longer your concern. Samuel Richards, I am hereby officially demoting you pending a full investigation.

Stark: To run a full investigation, I'll need a few other things. Promotion to Senior Researcher.
S-D: Well, I'll see what I can -

Parker: You will no longer have Class C privileges or Level 4 Clearance.

Stark: Appropriate authority and clearance.
S-D: Sure, we'll need to discuss that in due -
Stark: And if there is a chance that Twelve might be a musical anomaly after all -

Parker: And you are relieved of your command of MTF Eta-11.

Stark: - then I'd like to be appointed acting commander of MTF Eta-11.
S-D: Wait, what?

« End of First Suite »


October 1st, 2017

Site Director Edgar Holman sat in his office at Site-64, a small file's worth of paperwork spread out before him. Researcher Cooper sat in a chair on the opposite side, her expression confident as she watched him read the article. Anomalous items would bubble up from Three Portlands all the time, usually ending up within the site's low security storage wing to gather dust until the end of time. What was rare was when something from Prometheus Lab's days of using Three Portlands as a tax haven would surface. In this particular instance, the artifact in question was an electric blue powder which, when inhaled, allowed the user to speak with the dead. Holman put down the Experimental Object file and furrowed his brow.
"Where did you say Tau-51 recovered this, again?" He asked.
"Old town, sir," Cooper replied. "A few young anartists were using it as part of an experimental performance in which all the actors are deceased."
Holman nodded.
"So it works then? This isn't just a bunch of people getting stoned?"
"Well, technically it is," Cooper chuckled. "MRI's showed that it lights up the same regions of the brain as LSD, and auditory and visual hallucinations abound. But D-class trials confirm that subjects are able to speak with the dead, or something that has the memories of the dead."
Holman gave a small smile as he noticed the excitement in Cooper's eyes. Most of the objects brought into Site-64 from the Portland's anart scene warranted little more than an anomalous item number. It wasn't often that they got to submit an item for SCP designation.
"Provided the draft here meets your approval, we're ready to submit as soon as we have your signature," she said with a grin.
Holman nodded and reached for his pen, but stopped. Cooper's smile vanished.
"I'm going to hang off on that for just a bit…" he began. "As soon as Analytics hears about this stuff they are going to start looking toward the paratech devs to make our own version. The ability to speak with the dead has high mileage. Now that we have the AMAT lab up and running at full speed, let's see if we can figure out how to synthesize it first, and really put Site-64 on the map."

October 31st, 1998

Edgar and Rita sat on the upper deck of their house, overlooking the leaf-covered street below. A chilly wind blew as the sun vanished behind the distant Portland hills. Rita was wrapped in a large quilt. Edgar handed her a mug of spiced cider before taking a seat next to her and smiling. Down the street they could make out the forms of their youngest child trick-or-treating with a group of friends. She was dressed as a hot dog, complete with mustard. Their eldest was downstairs, passing out candy to their colorful guests.
"Happy Birthday," Edgar said, brushing a small bit of his wife's long black hair behind her ear and giving her a peck on the cheek.
"Happy Halloween," she replied with a warm smile. "You didn't have to call in too many favors to get today off, I hope."
"Not at all," Edgar instantly replied with a chuckle. "They begged me to stay away."
The two of them clasped hands and turned their attention to the menagerie of costumed characters roaming the street below.

October 2nd, 2017

Researcher Conwell blinked a few times as he absorbed Director Holman's words.
"A-a month?" He stuttered. "You want this done in a month?"
"Can you do it?" Holman asked.
Conwell looked over the paperwork and nervously ran a hand through his messy hair. Eventually he shrugged.
"I mean, maybe?" He replied. "You're not giving us a lot to go on here. We don't have any of the original PL documentation, and if this powder underwent any form of anomalous processing I don't have access to, we're sunk. My team is good, but we're not alchemists."
Holman gave a sly smile.
"I'm not hearing a no…"
Conwell frowned.
"I'm going to have to put at least three other synthesis projects on the backburner for this, you know that, right?" he asked. "I'm going to redirect those angry researchers to you."
"You do what you got to do." Holman shrugged.
"Alright then…" Conwell sighed.
"Grand. Keep me in the loop," Holman said with a sheepish grin. He then gave a wave as he exited the office.
Conwell sank deeper into his chair as he looked over his paperwork and the samples on the desk in front of him, then flipped on some music.
REM's Losing My Religion began to play.

October 31st, 2014

Edgar and Rita sat in the living room of their house, looking out into the rain as it pelted the trick-or-treaters. Rita was wrapped in her large quilt, her eyes slightly sunken as she silently looked at the children scurrying from dry doorway to dry doorway. Edgar offered her a mug of spiced cider, but she waved it away. He silently sat beside her, and joined in on watching the trick-or-treaters pass.
"Happy Birthday," Edgar said softly. He gave his wife a peck on the cheek. There was no hair to brush behind her ear this time.
"Happy Halloween," she eventually replied with weak smile. "You… you didn't have to call in too many favors to get today off… Right?"
Edgar remained silent for several moments.
"Not at all," Edgar finally whispered. "They begged me to stay away."
Edgar felt for his wife's hand, and gently worked his between her fingers until they were clasped tightly. Her skin was clammy in his grip. She turned to look at him with an apologetic smile and then rested her head on his shoulder.

October 8th, 2017

Hello, you've reached Karen and Ted Holman. We're not available to come to the phone right now, so go ahead and leave us a name and number and we'll get back to you as soon as possible.
"Hey Ted, it's Dad.
I was wondering if you and Karen had plans for Halloween. I know the twins are getting to that age where they're old enough to go trick or treating… and I was hoping you'd wouldn't mind if I tagged along. You know? Something to get me out of the house…
Anyway, hope to hear from you soon. Give Karen my best."

October 31st, 2016

Edgar sat in his living room alone. He was at Site-64 when the hospice worker called him earlier that month. Due to a security breach at the time, it had taken him another four hours before he had managed to get home.
Edgar watched the trick-or-treaters go by his house silently, stopping only when a mug of spiced cider came into his view. He turned to face his eldest.
"Mom would kill you if she knew you stopped this tradition," Ted said, handing his father the steaming cup. Edgar took it half-heartedly.
"Thank you…" Edgar whispered. "And thanks for being here…"
Ted put a hand on his father's shoulder.
"Of course."
"Any word from your sister?"
Ted shook his head.
"I don't think she's coming. She's… still pretty raw. Give her time. She'll come around."
Edgar nodded in understanding.
"Happy Birthday…" he eventually whispered.
"Happy Halloween," Ted answered.

October 12th, 2017

You've reached the voice mailbox of: Edgar Holman. Please leave a message after the tone.
"Hey Dad, it's Ted.
I apologize that it took me this long to reply. Things have been really hectic at work, though I'm sure you know more about that kind of thing than I do…
I'm sorry to say Karen and I were going to a Halloween party at one of her friend's places that night. Karen's folks agreed to watch Arthur and Laura.
Listen, give me a call back when you get this. We'll set up lunch. Catch up. I know this time of year is a little hard…
Talk to you soon."

November 15th, 2016

"I guess I just don't understand why this is necessary," Holman sighed, the psychologist who sat across from him nodded, and jotted something down in his notebook.
"Loss of a spouse often hits people hard, Edgar," Dr. Aeslinger replied. "The higher ups just want me to make sure you're okay."
"What… do they think I'm going to contract some demon to revive Rita?"
"Are you?" Dr. Aeslinger replied with a sympathetic chuckle. Holman frowned.
"Rita fought the good fight for years. The hospice workers made her comfortable in the end, and she had her friends and family around her when she passed. Few people can say that. I'm fine, alright? I'm not going to fly off the handle. I'm not going to release the skips. I'm fine. I just want to get back to work."
Dr. Aeslinger jotted down several notes.
"Ed, I do need to do a complete evaluation, so we're going to be here for a bit. Care to answer a few questions for me?"

October 14th, 2017

Hey. It's Linda. You missed me, so go ahead and do your thing after the beep.
"Hey Linda, it's Dad.
I was wondering if you were free this Halloween. I know this is last minute, but I figured maybe we could use this chance to catch up… maybe watch some of those horror movies you love. I still haven't seen Cabin in the Woods.
Anyway, let me know if you're free. My number is still the same.
Love you."

October 18th, 2017

Researcher Conwell and Researcher Cooper looked into the exam room through the one way glass. Inside the room was a gurney which bore a single cadaver. In a few moments, one of Site-64's few D-class would be sent in.
"Here goes nothing…" Conwell sighed, and grabbed a small vial from a nearby rack. Inside was an electric blue powder.
"Think it will work?" Cooper asked, eyeing the vial curiously.
Conwell gave an exaggerated shrug.
"I have literally no idea," he replied. "Chemically what we cooked up is identical to the PL stuff, but we won't know if they did additional hocus pocus to it until we run the tests. At that point, until we get the original PL documentation we're screwed."
"Ah…" Cooper frowned. "Fingers crossed then."
"Fingers crossed."
Conwell handed the vial to one of Cooper's assistants and watched at the observation window as it was given to the waiting D-class.
"D-1260," Cooper spoke into the microphone after the D-class inhaled the powder. "In a few moments you may experience visual and auditory hallucinations…"

October 22nd, 2017

Director Holman idly scanned reports on his computer when his secretary buzzed in Agent Sasha Merlo. With a heavy sigh, the director's tired expression quickly faded into one of professional indifference. He adjusted himself in his seat, fixing his posture, and waited for the door to open. Sure enough, a few moments later, the agent slid into the room.
"Merlo," Holman addressed her, already knowing the answer to the question he was going to ask. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Got plans for Halloween, Ed?" Merlo asked with chuckle.
Holman raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"What?"
"Myself and several other members of the site staff are going to be at the Secret Crest Pub on the 31st. Unofficial Halloween party of sorts. You are more than welcome to come. We figured you'd like some company."
Holman looked down at his desk and then shuffled a few papers in silence before he replied.
"Thank you for the offer Sasha, I really do, but I already have plans. I'll be fine, trust me." Holman gave his best reassuring smile. Merlo gave an amused nod.
"Suit yourself, offer's still on the table if you change your mind."
Agent Merlo gave a half wave and began to take her exit.
"Thanks for looking out for me, though. It's… it's appreciated," Holman said as she arrived at the door.
"Anytime, sir. You take care."
Holman watched her go and then looked to his personal phone.
"At least, I hope I have plans…"

October 28th, 2017

Holman whistled as he looked over the numerous vials of the electric blue powder neatly displayed on Conwell's desk. The young AMAT specialist held a satisfied smile beneath tired, sleep deprived eyes.
"So your team pulled it off, huh?"
"Sure did," Conwell sighed. "Took us multiple all-nighters, but we got it. If budgeting wonders why we burnt through so much coffee this month, the reason's right here."
Conwell gave a small chuckle at his own joke.
"Give us a day to catch our breath, and another to type up the synthesis instructions, and you should be good to send this in for its designation."
Holman nodded.
"You drive a hard bargain, but I think we can manage with that. Just don't take too long, Cooper's chomping at the bit."
Conwell held up his hands in exhausted mock terror. Holman noticed the titanium ring on the researcher's left hand.
"I didn't know you had tied the knot," Holman pointed at the silvery band. "How long?"
"A year in November," Conwell replied. "Seems like just yesterday, though. Time sure flies when you're trapped here."
Holman gave an awkward chuckle in response. "It sure does… Two of you got plans for Halloween?"
"I'm afraid not," Conwell shrugged. "I didn't know if we'd be done in time, so I told her I'd likely be busy. Kate's already taken a shift that evening. I'll probably go to that thing Merlo invited me to. You?"
"Ah, well, you have fun." Holman answered after a few moments of silence. He then gave a nod and began to make his way toward the lab's door.
"I look forward to reading the synthesis report," Holman said on his way over the threshold. "And savor the time you get top side. You never know when you're going to get stuck down here for a bit."
Conwell watched his superior leave, blinking a few times in confusion.
"Alright then…" he said to himself. "Weird."

October 30th, 2017

You've reached the voice mailbox of: Edgar Holman. Please leave a message after the tone.
"Hey Dad, it's Linda.
I'm… sorry I haven't responded to you sooner. I'm afraid I traded shifts with a coworker at the hospital so he could take his kids trick-or-treating. So I don't think I'll be around.
Heh, just like old times, huh?
Erm, sorry. That was mean.
Teddy already told me about you two getting together on the 4th. I'll see if I can join you guys then.
Take care, Dad."

October 31st, 2017

Before he started climbing the Foundation's administrative ladder, Edgar Holman had been a field agent, and a decent one at that. For this reason, he had found it to be particularly easy to sneak into Conwell's lab and skim enough of the electric blue powder off each of the prepared samples. Then again, he was the Site Director, and had access to most of the facility. Perhaps his espionage skills were not quite as sharp as he remembered. Either way, he made a mental note to propose security improvements for the facility as he settled himself on his living room couch in the dark.
Holman looked across the room at his mantel, toward the plain silver canister that resided at its center. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, then inhaled the powder. Several minutes then passed in silence. He looked down at the floor and sighed.
"Edgar?" A familiar, but distant voice broke the silence.
He turned his head, and there she stood. She was barefoot and wearing a plain dress, her entire form colored in sepia. Her hair was done up in ponytail as she often wore in life, but her eyes still had the sunken appearance they had acquired near the end. Edgar's mouth hung open for several moments.
"He… hey, Rita," Edgar finally stuttered, and got to his feet. "Ha… Happy Birthday…"
His wife's lips turned in a melancholy smile.
"Happy Halloween," she replied. "You didn't have to call in too many favors to get today off, I hope."
"Not at all. They begged me to stay away."
She grinned, and he felt himself do the same. He watched as she looked him up and down.
"You look like death, sweetheart," she finally exclaimed.
Edgar gave a tired laugh and quickly crossed the room, spreading out his arms wide and attempting to wrap Rita in a bear hug, only to have his arms close in around himself, and his entire body sheathed in cold.
He looked around in confusion briefly, his wife was standing on the other side of the room.
"I think this is a look-but-don't-touch kind of deal, Ed," she replied with a frown. "I'm sorry…"
Holman gave a chuckle and sighed.
"Well, shucks," he said. "There go my plans to take this to the bedroom."
Rita giggled.
"I've missed you so much…" Holman said, his tired smile turning to a frown as he sank into a nearby chair.
"I miss you too," she replied and sat on the chair's arm. She placed her hand near, close enough that he could feel the coldness of her skin, but not actually touching. The two looked at each other for a few seconds in silence.
"How are the kids?" she finally asked.
"Fine enough I suppose. Ted and Karen are busy with the twins. Linda… hasn't really spoken to me since you passed."
Rita looked down and frowned.
"Why?"
"When you passed… I was stuck at work for hours before I could get home. Guess that struck her as a final nail in the coffin. That I cared more about work than you."
"Ah… Yeah… that would do it."
Holman closed his eyes and turned away.
"Did you think that?"
Rita shrugged.
"Sometimes, certainly. Others not so much."
She raised an eyebrow as Holman gave a relieved sigh.
"That's weighed on your mind a lot, huh?" She asked.
He nodded.
"Well…" she said. "You're here now. That's good enough for me."
"Thanks," Holman smiled, tears in his eyes. Rita bent down and gave him a peck on the cheek, the coldness sheathing him again as she vanished, and appeared across the room. It was there she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She frowned, inspecting her features, then broke into an amused smile.
"I take back what I said earlier," she said. "I'm the one who looks like death. How am I here, anyway? Did you pull some Orpheus bullshit?"
"That's one way to put it," he replied. "I took something. Its temporary. Eventually you'll vanish."
"Probably for the best," Rita sighed. "The dead gotta stay dead after all…"
"But they don't have to…" Holman smiled. "You don't have to. Even if I can't touch you, that's better than nothing. This last year was just so painful…"
"That pain eventually fades," Rita interrupted. "This is like picking off the scab. Keep doing it and you don't heal, or worse, you create an infection. Don't do that to yourself."
Holman closed his eyes and looked down. He could feel Rita return to sitting on the arm of the chair.
"Sweetie, whatever you think you need to be forgiven for, you're forgiven. But please… just don't."
Holman nodded and looked up, his eyes red from dried tears.
"Got to say, I thought you'd have been a little more ecstatic about all this…" He gave a sad laugh.
"Life's full of surprises."
"It sure is."
"Love you, hon."
"Love you too."

The effects of the powder lasted throughout the night. In the end, the two of them sat on the balcony of their house, watching the sun rise. She kept close enough that he could feel her cold. Eventually the cold began to disappear. He turned and looked at her. Slowly, her form was fading from sight. She gave him a warm smile and was gone. Edgar Holman was once again alone.

November 1st, 2017

Director Holman sat in Agent Merlo's office, wrapping up a meeting regarding MTF Gamma-13's most recent exploits. While he maintained a smile and eye contact, his head was pounding with a headache so fierce it put the worst hangover to shame. Once this meeting concluded, his plan was to sit in his office, ideally undisturbed, for the rest of the day. He gave a subtle sigh of relief when Merlo handed him the file containing all the recent reports, and began to make his way to the exit.
"Oh, by the way," Merlo called after him as he made it to the door. "Conwell came by this morning. Showed me a little bit of security footage from his lab yesterday. I think you might want to see it."
Holman froze. Merlo maintained an amused smile as pulled out a little camera from within her desk and set it to play. The image of Holman taking the powder from Conwell's lab danced across the screen.
"He hid a personal camera in there…" Holman commented with a sigh.
"He sure did," Merlo chuckled. "Apparently one of the other researchers in the AMAT team lost someone recently. Conwell was afraid they might take some of the 'Séance Dust.' Didn't expect to find you with your hand in the cookie jar."
"So what happens now?"
Merlo shrugged.
"That's honestly up to you, Ed. I'm the only one Conwell has told, so far. It's funny. He's unsure as to whether this is an ethics test, or if you might have him offed to cover your tracks…"
"What are you going to do, Sasha?" he interrupted. Merlo frowned.
"Are you going to try to pull this shit again? If you get the chance?"
Holman shook his head.
"Rita made me promise not to, not that I could get more if I was so inclined."
"Did you get the answers you were looking for?"
"Some of them, yes," Holman replied after a pause. "Though to be honest I'm not really sure what questions I wanted answered."
"So it was worth it then?"
"I'd like to think so."
"Fair enough," said Merlo, chuckling. "Heh, well, there go your chances at hitting Level 5 clearance."
"I have a hard enough time keeping myself sane managing one backwater Site," Holman replied with a tired grin. "I don't want to have to deal with all the others."
Merlo nodded in approval. She then quietly deleted the video file from Conwell's camera and made a gesture of zipping her lip.
"I'll talk to Conwell. We'll get him on the same page," she grinned.
"So that's that then?" Holman asked.
"That's that."
Holman began to head toward the exit.
"Do you meet up for Halloween at Secret Crest every year?" He asked, pausing at the threshold.
"Sure do."
"Count me in for 2018," he said with a smile, and stepped out into the hall.


Foxx pressed play on the Blu-ray player and the iconic Disney castle appeared followed by the intro to Frozen, the sing-a-long edition.
"Can I sing loud this time?" Lucille asked as she slid on her Dad's BOSE headphones.
"If you want to, sure. I just have to talk with Mr. Lurk and Mr. Bridge. You good?" Foxx fluffed a couch pillow for her as she leaned back and nodded. "Good. And uh— honey? You don't see… Mr. Fuzzy do you?"
Merle in the corner of the room shook his head 'NO' vigorously. Lucille looked at him for a good second and lied as fast as her 7 year old brain would allow.
"Um… nope!"
"Okay then. I'll be back in a bit." Foxx looked at the empty corner of the room, sighed, then headed into the garage.

"Foxx! You gotta believe me. I didn't— she didn't—" Dietrich was desperately trying to explain a reason he didn't even understand. Bridge leaned against a tool bench trying to find the words, or really how to follow protocol after this point.
"Dietrich, calm." Foxx said reassuringly. "Can I call you Dee? As Bridge explained, it's a harmless thing and will probably just leave, when you leave. Alright?"
Dietrich took a long breath and rubbed his sweaty face. "Yeah. I'm sure that's wha— HORK!!!"
In one swift half-second motion Foxx pulled out an 8 inch stiletto knife and with almost surgical precision, pushed 6 inches of it past Dietrich's gag reflex. Foxx's other hand squeezed tightly around his windpipe clenching harder and harder.
HACK
Bridge quickly stumbled over. "Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa! Foxx! Stop! What the hell?!"
Foxx pressed the knife further down the throat. "Stop? He's compromised. He's just paperwork at this point. Just a lift and a twist to sever the base of his skull. It'll be real fast. More than what he deserves."
GURGLE
Dietrich flailed helplessly as his eyes teared up and his skin turned a deeper shade of red. Bridge approached carefully, "Uh, no. Listen. We still need him. You need him. I looked at the flash drive Clef gave us. There's bigger things in there. Things that are more than you and me can handle by ourselves."
"Bullshit. I don't care. I can handle things myself." Foxx's knife gently sliced the inside of Dietrich's cheek as he struggled to keep a grip. Dietrich could only continue to make horrible choking sounds while trying to breathe.
"Yeah, no, I know what I'm talking about. Let him go, I'll deal with him afterwards. I can fix this."
"I want your word Bridge. I want your fucking word on a gold platter served with caviar that you will make this right. Because I give no fucks about killing either of you."
♫ Do you want to build a snowmaaaan?! ♫
♫ Come on let's go and plaaaaay! ♫
Ignoring Lucille's singing in the next room, Bridge looked into Foxx's eyes. Eyes that had seen men die badly. Eyes that had seen more evil than Bridge cared to even be aware of.
"I understand. Now drop him, please."
Foxx closed his eyes and paused for a moment. Then very quickly, unsheathed his dagger from Dee's throat.
COUGHING
"Ffffugh… Thanks for listening." Bridge relaxed his shoulders as Foxx walked by him. Bridge was a little too distracted to react when Foxx swiped his taser from his hip. Without looking, Foxx walked back into the house and tazed Dee.
"G-g-goddamnit!" Dee dropped like a sandbag onto the hard concrete floor.

All three of them sat, awkward, around the kitchen table. Foxx gave a death stare at Dee, Dee rubbed his sore throat, and Bridge typed at his keyboard ready to start an impromptu briefing.
"Alright Alex, go over what you found on the drive."
Bridge swiveled the laptop around so Lurk and Foxx could see.
«So… very interesting intel on what has been gathered on General Bowe. Specifically those related to him and what they've been doing. However, these files are… well scattered. For sure, I can tell that at least some of this intel has been lifted off the Site-19 servers.»
Bridge tightened his grip a little. "And also off the Site-66 servers. Least someone's using them, right?" He glanced at Dee who was still rubbing his sore windpipe. "Show them the other thing, Alex."
«Yes… a lot of this intel is really REALLY encrypted. I thought it was corrupted at first but there's a lot more here that I can't access.»
Dee tilted his head. "What do you mean you can't crack it? It's Foundation encrypted."
«Yes, but this data has Gershwin-Laramie cipher algorithms. That's anti-AI ciphers developed for human-only privileged information.»
Dee pursed his lips and leaned towards Alex's avatar on the screen. "Okay, so how do we read the documents?"
"You can't," muttered Bridge. "You'd need a Gershwin-Laramie decryption device. That's all newer Foundation tech developed by the AIAD. And the only ones I know of that we could even pretend are easily accessible were in Site-19."
"So?" Foxx finally focused on Bridge. "Can't you get access to one on site?"
"No, nononono, it's not that easy," Bridge shook his head and gave an uneasy chuckle, with a too-toothy grin. "You're thinking about the current Site-19. I'm thinking about the old Site-19."
"Old Site-19?"
"Alex. Pull up the layout of Site-19 with the classified layers."
«Sir. They don't have clearance to—»
"They don't, I do. I'm giving them clearance. Show them."
Alex shrugged and pulled up a diagram of the entirety of Site-19. Nothing new honestly. There were containment wings, labs, offices, break rooms, a weapons armory, etc. Bridge pointed to what looked like a shaft extending down underground and then cutting off some hundred feet.
"Now, load up the rest."
Suddenly the screen zoomed out and panned down to reveal an entire installation under it. Just as complex and as vast as above. Several access shafts seemed to stretch down from the surface but they all seemed to be cut off.
"This is the old Site-19. The one that got destroyed."
Dee rubbed his temples, trying to process this. "So you mean to tell me… they done built Site-19… on top of Site-19?"
Bridge nodded, twitching a little, cracking his neck. "What I'm about to tell you is waaay the fuck above your clearance level. The current Site-19 installation is partially responsible for containing the dilapidated Site-19 installation. After the blast, many anomalies were lost, but some… well… some just up and broke. For lack of a better word."
"Broke?" Foxx got up for a coffee and to check on his daughter in the living room around the corner. She was still preoccupied with her movie as far as he could tell. But if he could see, he'd see a looming figure sitting next to her preoccupied with the movie as well.
"That's Elsa." Lucille explained to the invisible space next to her. "She's not a bad guy." Then she whispered, "It's actually the prince."
Foxx pinched the bridge of his nose and suppressed the anger inside his gut. He knew he needed to get this Lurk fucker away from his daughter before that thing decided to make a home here.
Bridge continued to talk even though he wasn't sure Foxx was listening. "Let's just say old Site-19 was destroyed, and what was left just became an unstable mess. So they buried it and built a lid on top."
He and Dee waited patiently, and Foxx eventually walked back over, coffee in hand. "So what are you suggesting?"
"… I mean we need to access old Site-19."
«Road trip!»
"W-what?" Dee shook his head vigorously. "No fuckin way, Bridge. How the fuck do we even get down there?"
«There's an old ventilation conduit on the south end of the base. Utilities should still be—»
Foxx reached over and shut the laptop.
"Hey what the hell!" Bridge exclaimed.
"That's a suicide mission, Bridge."
"It's probably not. Look, there hasn't been any real activity under Site-19 in years and most of the old underground is flooded. We'll be in and out. Just need to make it to the Computer Labs. Literally the biggest dangers are a cave-in or rats."
"So we get in, find this device, then head out?"
"Listen, I'm not Ellen Ripley. In. Out. Nothing fancy."
"We'll need at least one other to drive us in and post as lookout while we're down there." Foxx crossed his arms and continued his death stare at Dee. Dee shrunk in his chair, feeling the burning hate from across the kitchen table.
"I know a guy. He's kinda off the books and knows his way around Site-19. Plus, he owes me a favour. Let's leave tonight."

Foxx hugged Lucille at the front door. "Where's Mr. Fuzzy going, Daddy?"
"Away. Forever. He has to move." Foxx buttoned up her collar that came loose.
"…oh…" Lucille looked at her red shoes sadly.
Foxx tried to find the words to comfort her but nothing came to mind specifically. Instead he gave her another hug and a peckish kiss on the head. He wasn't particularly worried about having Lucille spend the night with the babysitter, but moreso he would be out of reach and unable to get back to her if something should happen. He wouldn't let that happen.
Dee huffed a duffel bag and laptop case up off the ground and walked to the curb. "Who's this friend of yours, Bridge?"
Bridge was already standing at the curb of the quiet suburban street as he smiled softly. "Just a handy guy to have around. Just a guy."
A short while later a white van roared down the street and parked a house away. Then backed up and parked again at the right house.
"Heyyyy!" Bridge spread his arms awkwardly in greeting. "Strelnikov!"
"Ah. Bridge. How is the things, comrade?"
Dee looked over Bridge's shoulder as Foxx loaded up the bags, some equipment, and some… other equipment. The loud Slavic sounding lyrics blasting from the tape deck. And a curious earthy vegetable smell. Strel slouched in the drivers seat in his leather jacket, squaring up the rest of the team. His messy hair and one bloodshot eye scanned Foxx and Dee. Merle looked at Strel back from over Dee's shoulder.
Bridge made introductions as Strel moved out of the driver's seat and opened the large panel door. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Agent Dmitri Ark- arka-day-vich Strelnikov. As per tradition, I've butchered your name because I can't pretend to have an accent. Sorry about that."
"Arkadeyevich." Strel corrected him as he slunk out of the van and onto the curb.
"Yeah, right, that's the one,", continued Bridge. "And that's Agent Dietrich Lurk and Agent Aleksander Foxx." Both silently nodded.
Strel also bobbed his head with the pleasantries. "This is task force you bring, Bridge? I receive message that you need driver for special task force? But can't tell me why over phone. Explain. I had very busy weekend planned."
"I'll… I'll just fill you in on the way. You still know how to get to Site-19 from here right?" Bridge started loading bags into the van.
"19? That gulag? Yes." Strel leaned against the van and watched the bags being loaded. "I guess if you bring guns and computer it means we are breaking in like the burglar cat. It has been long time since I have ran stealth OP. If I had been told, I could have brought better vehicle. Have Hind attack helikopter in storage doing nyet, Bridge. 30mm autocannon. HEAT rocket launchers. Black painted. Death of Many Chechens.
"You… you've killed Chechens with it?"
"Nyet. That is name. Death of Many Chechens. I use the air brushing to make art on side." Bridge simply nodded and let Strel continue venting.
"Have to beg to keep in budget. Direktor make me write justification each year to keep Hind in hangar. Have to make quota on combat missions or else Direktor replace Hind. I need to know these things, Bridge."
"I'm sorry, Strel. Next time, I promise."
Strel kicked the panel van lightly in frustration over the lost opportunity. He mumbled to himself as the last bag was hoisted in. "Hind better than shitty Japanese van with no cruise control."
Dee eventually piped up. "Are you drunk?"
Strel casually smiled, showing off his stainless steel replacement teeth. "I'm Russian."
"And there's your answer." Bridge turned to Dee and chuckled. "Also, shotgun. Trust me."

EPILOGUE
"Ok, ok… rewind that shit again." Clef giggled as Adams took the video back about 15 seconds.
"HA! Wow, I had no idea Lurk could deep throat like that. Color me impressed." Clef chewed his snack food loudly as he leaned in his seat in front of the video screen. "I'd say there's some natural talent for sure. Usually Foxx's house is so boring."
Adams tilted her head a little. "I guess. So. You knew about this MalO thing already?"
"Kinda." Clef reached for another handful of mini-pretzels. "I mean, it's not like it's a big deal or anything."
Adams turned to face him. "This is probably what Bridge was warning me about." Clef shrugged and swallowed. "That guy's way uptight. He doesn't understand how this plays for us in the larger scheme."
"Sir?"
"Leverage, Adams."
"Ah. Gotcha."
Clef slouched further in his seat. "Okay, rewind it one last time for me."


The God of Unknowable stands proudly in the Great Void, and hungers for those existing. The Fifth Coming is imminent, and those blind and weak have worshiped the edges of his existence. But he dares not venture into the realm of the Lord of Non-Existent, with whom he shares the same void. The Lord of Non-Existent rests in her black, silent corner, her seven horns that are not there call for Negation. The God of Unknowable fears the likes of her, and seeks their destruction. The former has an unspeakable name, the latter with no name existing.

The dark clouds gathered, bolts of lightning twisting down, and the ocean roared in response. Rain drops rushed down, scratching the deck and people on it. But the crowd didn't seek shelter, and the cruise ship sailed steadily forward.
On the horizon, a dark island could be spotted afar. An island made of dark, bare rocks, with seven tall mountains, rose high above. A slumbering beast with its black bones exposed, protruding from its enormous body. Amidst the great thunders and the turbulent sea, the mountains were silent. And if they were to grow eerie eyes, they would look judgingly at those sailing towards them.
A woman stood alone at the deck, facing the crowd. Her blonde hair mismatched by the long, coal-black robe. The scars on her face were long and ugly, and told of her torment. She held up a book, one with a shiny green star on it. Then she laughed and tossed the book into the sea. It was swallowed by the waves in an instant. The crowd gasped, and the rain poured, streaming down her face like tears.
“Sister!” a man shouted, “This is madness!”
More voices joined the man, reciting the fifth glory, chanting the virtues of smoke and calling for the stars to come forth. But the dark clouds were thick, and no light was shed. The crowd was disturbed, but their voices drowned out by the rain and the thunders.
They accused her of harming the flow of energy. They accused her of hatred and disbelief. They accused her of existence.
But she smiled, hearing the faint voice of her persecutor coming from the bowels of the ship. Even during a storm, the voice seemed crystal clear: “May their names and memories be obliterated! For they have called upon the false lord!” She could almost make out hands scratching on the cell door, desperate but futile.
“Five,” she said, and the crowd quieted down, their attentions pointing at her once again, like sharp thorns of doubt and poison. “Five is indeed a number of grandness, but it is not the number of our Lord.”
The crowd was disturbed once again, but they were interrupted by a giant thunderbolt, striking inches away from the deck. The ship shook, the crowd panicked, but the woman didn't move.
“It is two numbers short from true greatness, as Seven excludes them all!” She laughed. “The Colorless Green is not the true color, for now we shall praise the Horned Black!”
“Nonsense!” one of them shouted in protest, and began to cite the verses from their Book of the Past Stars. “The first one was Saint Protor, who pointed upwards and reached the stars; the second one was the One that Speaks Not, but showed us the Signal and taught us cosmos; the third was Brother Terres, who breathed out the Smoke, granting us the shapes of souls; the fourth was Sister Susan, who held the true color in her hand, one only eyes cannot see; and the Fifth was the Great Horace, who stood by the bottomless pit and introduced the face of God.”
As he cited the holy text, it was as if the rain was slowed down, and the lighting had ceased. The sea roared, not of horrifying anger, but in a way that harbors strange, alien things deep beneath. The island now seemed smaller, shrouded by mists, dark and distant. But the woman, standing alone, laughed again at the crowd.
“But the sixth one has abandoned his name, and holds the Tomb that curses and denies, its sharp teeth grind through masks and lies; and the Seventh one has her name lost in Lord's realm, and hands over the dark emblem that negates.” With her laughter, the mist was suddenly clear, and the things beneath the great waters seemed to have been torn to pieces brutally. And the increasing rain beats and the cracks of lighting are almost like their dying screams.
“Heretic!” a woman shouted, “You will—” Several were about to join her, but she stopped mid-sentence, and began to scream. The crowd was silent again, this time fearful.
She ignored the struggling women, and proceeded. “I pay no mind to you, for you are but ignorant beasts. I know that six others are dancing with me, that the dead stars are dead, that the sea shall devour, that the smoke smells of black coal, that the color is darkness, cold and silence. It is because the truth was not revealed, but I am now revealed to the Lord that is not.”
The crowd shifted, but didn't dare to move away as they watched the one struggling on the ground become motionless and silent.
“You have brought me here, towards the hole at the bottom of the sea, for I will not adhere to your false god of five.” She smiled. “But here also stands the Seven Mountains of Thorns, the New Abode.”
As she said this, bolts of lighting struck, one after another. The darkness momentarily faded, as flashes of light moved towards the island. The island was still far on the horizon, but the jagged mountains seemed closer, and had grown pitch black horns.
The people on the deck held each other tightly in fear. Their prayers to their God of Fifth escaped their minds. Six others come forth from the crowd, three men, three women. One of them carried an obsidian amulet, in the shape of a seven pointed star.
“I have searched for the item of my Lord, the symbol of destiny, from the forgotten corners of the Library to the dead silent center of the Earth,” she said as she was handed the item.
The crowd screamed, as the dark clouds rained down ever so fiercely; as the seven dark mountains drew near in an instant; as the sea shattered in pain, revealing a enormous hole underneath the ship.
“This is my trail, and this is the day that we welcome our Lord!” She laughed, and put the seven-pointed star around her neck. “This is— the narrative of the existence.”

“Um, curious,” one agent commented as he examined a small black box.
“Yeah?” The other one turned his head. “What is it?”
“Some jewelry box,” the agent answered. “Judging by the shape inside, this thing used to hold a seven-pointed star.”
“Really? Aren't these guy obsessed with five or something?”
“Yeah, that's the strange part. And there's a note here.” He began to read. “Why is five afraid of seven?”
“Isn't the joke ‘Why is six afraid of seven?'”
“Yeah, because seven ate nine. But who knows, madman logic I suppose.”
The two agents shrugged it off, and proceeded to sort through the items on the large cruise ship. The sea around them was calm, and the water was clear.
Because Seven cannot exist. Because Seven negates.


The sound of the horse's hooves echoed off the hills of the pass as the cart made its way along the old highway, thudding against the dust and gravel that a thousand years before had been smooth concrete. The lone rider pulled his cloak tight around him, the reins held loose in his right hand, shivering against the autumn breeze. Another half hour, he surmised, and he would be at the gates of the castle where the Lord Judge held court. It had been a long and lonely ride from Baytown, and he had slept little in the two nights he had been on the road; these roads were far from the lands policed by the Holy Foundation, there was little justice to be had save the swift and merciless dictates of the Lord Judge, and Bright only knew what men, beasts, or others lurked behind the trees. No sooner had the traveler had that thought than he cursed himself for invoking that name - but old habits die hard. Looking warily over his shoulder, he saw that his cargo was still secure in the back of the cart, and urged the horse onward. As he rounded the bend, he caught his first glimpse of the castle on the hilltop, and shuddered to himself as he thought about the fate that awaited him.
"The Lord Judge is a cold and terrible man," his Master had warned him before he set out on this voyage. "He has no sufferance for ignorance or foolishness, for he has been at his task for longer than either of us have lived, and he has had more than his fill of either. Be respectful towards him, but not sycophantic, for he has no patience for those who feign admiration in the hope of winning his favor in return. He will seek to terrify you, but you must show him no fear; he who is timid lacks the courage and constitution the Order demands of all its members. Do not dissemble or seek to deceive him; he has no time for anyone's bullshit. When you speak the Four Words, do so with the utmost confidence; for if you have no faith in yourself, he will have no faith in you. Make your case as well as you can; and if he is pleased, I will greet you with open arms when you return; but if he is not, then it is best that you not return at all, for though I myself would defend you to the death against anyone else, I dare not speak against the word of the Lord Judge."
The traveler withdrew from his reverie as he approached the open gate of the castle, a tall, imposing edifice of black stone, erected on a hilltop amidst the forests that had stood since long before the Breach. At either side of the porte stood a pikeman, dressed in the brightly-colored striped uniforms of the Lord Judge, and they crossed their pikes to block the way as he drew near. "Hold fast!" yelled a third as he emerged from the guardhouse. "Who goes there?"
The traveler alighted from his cart and presented the sergeant with a rolled-up piece of paper, with a peculiar wax seal holding it shut. "My name is Dorik Gatz," said the traveler, "and I am an apprentice from the Baytown Chapter. My Master has bid that I present my masterpiece before the Lord Judge, so that he may determine if I am worthy to become a full member of the Order. I shall need the assistance of two stout men to carry my work to his court."
Drawing a small knife from his pocket, the sergeant broke the wax seal and unrolled the paper, reading the text thereupon. "You may proceed," he replied. "The yeoman at the door will introduce you."
"Thank you, sir," Gatz replied. The sergeant stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and two bare-chested slaves, their designations branded onto their chests, emerged from an unseen doorway to heft the crate off the back of the cart and carry it away. The yeoman, in his bright yellow and green blouse and pantaloons, instructed Gatz to follow him, and they made their way through a courtyard full of merchants and hawkers and would-be apprentices displaying their handiwork into the keep proper. The halls were dark and smoke-filled, and every wall, every door, every surface imaginable was festooned with drawings and paintings that ranged from masterful to crude. Off to one side, Gatz observed a dozen slaves clasped in irons, a dozen men with whips behind them. As each man struck the slave before him, he screamed in a single, perfectly tuned note, their collective shouts forming a melody - he believed it was a song of the Ancients called "Smoke on the Water". An iron gate blocked the entrance to what appeared to be a harem - from within, he heard moans of pleasure, screams of terror, and utterances that seemed to be both at once. At last they reached the great door to the Lord Judge's court, and the yeoman bade him wait a moment while he entered alone, emerging a few minutes later to beckon him inside.
The room was filled with muffled conversation as Gatz entered. If the art in the hallways had been merely offensive, the works that festooned the walls of this chamber were grotesque. These were not the grand historical tableaus he remembered from his childhood in Overwatch, but brutal depictions of humanity at its most transgressive - some ancient works that had survived the Great Breach, some far more recent. There were a few dozen onlookers sitting in the benches, eying him with curiosity as he approached the bench at which the Lord Judge sat on his throne. He was a wrinkled and ancient man, yet well-manicured, his powdered wig flowing halfway down his back, his heavy black robe adorned with all manner of arcane symbols that brought to Gatz's memory the crimson robes worn by the cardinals of the Holy Foundation. Beside him stood the twin symbols of his office; the scales that represented the dispassionate and merciless force of his judgment, and the noose that represented the fate of those found unworthy. Gatz's crate had been set before the bench, two servants more nimble and intelligent than the mere drudges who had hauled it in standing at the ready to assist him. Gatz approached the bench, and the onlookers grew silent as the Lord Judge banged his hammer.
"This court is called to order!" bellowed the Lord Judge. "For what purpose have you come before us this day?"
"If it please the court, milord," Gatz began. "I am Dorik Gatz, apprentice of the Baytown Chapter. I have come before you to request that I be granted full membership in the Order."
"All those who seek membership must present a masterpiece that meets our standards," the Lord Judge replied. "Have you such a thing?"
"I have, milord. It stands within the crate before the court now."
"Very good. Please explain the nature of your work."
Gatz took a deep breath. "Will the court permit me to offer a brief explanation of how I came to the Order? It is necessary in order to provide the essential context for my composition."
The Lord Judge glared contemptuously at Gatz, then nodded. "You may proceed."
Gatz cleared his throat. "I was born into the service of the Holy Foundation." A gasp arose from the audience and conversation filled the hall before the Lord Judge called again for order. "My father raised me to believe all the tales about Lord Bright and the saints, and to continue the work he had carried out his entire life of preserving the Sacred Procedures. When I was younger I enthusiastically trained for my Doctorate, but as I came to be a man, I began to have my doubts. It was clear to me that so much of our catechism was obsolete - we recited instructions for containing things that were dead or beyond our reach, we performed pointless rituals simply because they always had been done. I thought to myself, there must be more to what we do than endless repetition. We cannot simply repeat the old over and over again. We must do something new, we must innovate, we must create.
"And so, late at night, I delved into forbidden texts from before the Great Breach. I scoured the libraries of Monastery Nineteen for diaries from the earliest days of the church. I learned secrets about our heroes and icons that those now in power would prefer the common folk not know of. I came to hate the name of that false messiah Jack Bright. But more importantly, I learned the secrets of the ancients' science that would enable me to do more than just recite by rote the Sacred Procedures, but to refine them.
"Alas, I was still young, and careless, and I was found out. My work was burned, and the cardinals declared me Redacted and exiled from all of Brightdom. For years I wandered, seeking one of what I was raised to know as the pagan temples, that would offer me the opportunity to begin again at the work the Holy Foundation had destroyed, and that is how I found the Order. And it is so, today, that I am able to present my masterpiece. Gentlemen, if you would?"
The two servants lifted their prybars in hand and pulled open the crate, revealing Gatz's masterpiece. It was a figure similar in shape to a man, but standing at least three heads taller than the tallest man in the court that day. It was flat and featureless, its hands and feet lacking fingers and toes, its head strangely enlarged like that of a newborn infant, splotches of paint forming rough facial features. The Lord Judge squinted and examined the figure disdainfully. "At what are we looking?" he asked.
"I call this 'The Painted Man'," Gatz replied. "It is an automaton made in the likeness of a dead demon, the carcass of which is kept in the catacombs deep beneath Monastery Nineteen. Legend holds that St. Alto slew it during the Great Breach with the aid of his Magic Kettle. The actual circumstances of its demise are much less poetic, but I digress. If His Honor would deign to join us on the floor, I would be pleased to provide a demonstration of its capabilities."
The Lord Judge took his cane in hand and made his way onto the floor as the two servants erected three curtains that concealed the figure from the gallery, but left it visible to themselves, Gatz, and the Lord Judge. Gatz stood off to the distance and ordered the servants to stand immediately to the left and right of the open side and to stare at each other without blinking, and asked the Lord Judge to stand in front of the opening. "If you please, milord, close your eyes and keep them closed. You will hear a mechanical sound. Keep your eyes closed until it ceases."
Gatz closed his eyes as the Lord Judge did the same - and just as he had hoped, the grinding and ticking of a multitude of gears filled the air. For five seconds it sounded until suddenly the sound stopped. Gatz opened his eyes just in time to see the Lord Judge stand aback, for the figure had lurched forward and now stood outside the curtains, seemingly frozen in mid-step. Bidding the servants to close their eyes, he then asked the Lord Judge to close his eyes again. Gatz did as well, and the clockwork sound again filled the hall for a good fifteen seconds before the sound of the Lord Judge's scream pierced the hall. Gatz opened his eyes to see exactly what he had expected - the figure stood directly in front of the Lord Judge, its arm raised, settled against his neck.
The performance was repeated several times more in various combinations before the Lord Judge decreed that he had seen enough. "The mechanism of this composition eludes us," he said. "It moves like a man, but only when noone is looking at it. How does it work?"
"The primary ambulatory mechanism, as I am sure you have surmised, is clockwork," Gatz responded. "It also includes several electronic mechanisms - some of which I scavenged from the Valley of Mind and Iron, and some of which I have constructed myself in accordance with the forbidden texts I studied in my youth. Within the cranium of the contraption is an ancient device known as a "motion detector", which is capable of recognizing the subtle movements of a human observer, and activating its mechanism when it is unobserved."
"We see," the Lord Judge responded. "Supposing we had not opened our eyes, what would it have done after touching our neck?"
"The demon after which it is fashioned was omnicidal, milord. It killed its victims by breaking their necks, and it was capable of covering the distance between the curtains and where you stood in less than a second." The Lord Judge, typically stoic, seemed to wince at this revelation. "The Painted Man currently lacks the speed or the motor function to be as potentially deadly as its namesake. As a mere apprentice, I lack the resources to fully realize those properties, but if I were granted membership, I could certainly improve upon its current status."
"We see," the Lord Judge replied. "We are prepared to render our verdict."
Gatz took a deep breath and swallowed. The moment of truth had arrived - it was time for him to utter the Four Words, and receive the judgment that would determine whether or not his life's work would be realized or be for naught. "Milord," he said as he stood up proud, puffed up his chest, and steadied his voice, "are we cool yet?"
The Lord Judge smiled. "We are," he replied.
"Thank you, milord," Gatz replied.
"Our secretary shall draw up our letter of recommendation in the morning. You may return to Baytown with it and present it to your Master, and inform him that you are now qualified to sit as the Sculptor of that chapter. Please bring the Painted Man with you - we should very much like to see the improvements you intend to make. The yeoman will provide you with lodging for the night - you may, at your leisure, peruse our collection and enjoy the facilities as you will. Please do avoid the lake, however," said the Lord Judge with a smile. "There's not a shark in there right now."


Stillwell resisted the urge to scratch beneath the cast on his arm. Cigarette smoke had never been something he was fond of, but in the close room, with the interviewing officer exhaling it constantly like a bellows, it was distracting. It reminded him too much of Spinella.

DIRECTOR WALTERS: Can you confirm the status of Doctor Frank Spinella and Agent Laszlo Juhasz?
AGENT STILLWELL: The last contact I had with them was at the GRU-P safehouse. I can't speak to where they are now.
DIRECTOR WALTERS: That was after you turned over Dr. Geissler's research to Dr. Spinella, with instructions to give it to KGB?
AGENT STILLWELL: That's right.
DIRECTOR WALTERS: You realize what you're admitting to? Passing classified information to an entity we're at war with?
AGENT STILLWELL: We're not at war with KGB. It's all in the report.
DIRECTOR WALTERS: That's not to mention responsibility for two MIA personnel.

The soldier's flashlight shone down the darkness of the tunnel. He held a handkerchief to his face. The stench of new death was present alongside the musty odor of ancient death. He must be close. For a moment, the terror at not being able to fulfill the commissar's orders subsided. The briefcase, or at least clues to where the briefcase must be, were close. But the scent of death was freezing him. Something about it spoke of a deeper decay. He was no stranger to carnage; GRU-P afforded many opportunities to acquaint oneself. But he shivered.
He proceeded further into the catacomb.
It wasn't long before the source presented itself. His flashlight fell upon a body, splayed on the ground. A man in a rumpled coat, middle-aged if he didn't miss his guess. Pretty sickly looking. There was a knife protruding from his heart. No briefcase in sight.
The soldier cursed, holding the handkerchief closer to his face as he knelt down to inspect the body. If the Major survived, he would likely skin all of them if the briefcase was not recovered. He prayed to a God he no longer believed in that there would be something here to lead him to the missing research.
He rifled through the dead man's pockets. A wallet yielded a Polish identification card; fake, but expensive fake. He checked the name against the details in his memory; the man who had been stopped at the checkpoint. This must be one of the Foundation operatives. Something to go on, anyway.
As he examined the identification card closer, a small drop of black sludge dripped onto the dead man's photograph. His face was rapidly eaten away as the sludge dissolved the card before the soldier's eyes. Quickly, like something burning, he tossed it aside.
He trained his flashlight at the ceiling of the tunnel, just over his head. It was covered in dark, viscous slurry, that seemed to shimmer iridescently as his light traveled across it. In the middle of the sludge covered ceiling, a grinning, dead-eyed face looked back at him, as thin black tendrils began to reach down from around above.
In moments, screams filled the catacombs.

DIRECTOR WALTERS: And the matter of Agent Patrick Coogan. You've sent him on a subsequent detail, from which he has yet to return.
AGENT STILLWELL: That's right. I think he'll be busy with that for a while.
DIRECTOR WALTERS: You mean absconding with a designated SCP object. A humanoid, at that.
AGENT STILLWELL: Absconding? No. Just part of the evacuation. Agent Coogan is maintaining control of SCP-1041.

The feeling of frigid air on her face woke her from a deep, dreamless sleep. She was in a man's arms, being carried like a child. Her first impulse was to flail out of his grasp, but when she tried to move, her muscles resisted, her body racked with aches and profound, crippling fatigue as she returned to consciousness. She shifted barely in his grasp.
"Where…where am I?" SCP-1041's words came out weakly, barely audible over the wind.
The man carrying her responded. "Ma'am, I don't have a whole lot of time to explain, but you're in the care of an organization that I'm not at liberty to talk about right now. We're on our way out of here."
She was confused. Who was she? She struggled to remember. The man's voice was hurried, but kind. "I wasn't sure you were going to wake up. Thank God for that."
SCP-1041 opened her eyes a little more. It was dark, streetlights blurring her vision, the cold wind bringing tears to her eyes. "Where are we going?"
"I have orders to bring you to safe haven, ma'am. I'd explain more, but I really don't know a whole lot right now. Sorry."
The man stopped at an intersection. The streets were deserted at this time of night. He appeared to be looking for something.
"What's your name?"
He continued searching the night. "Coogan, ma'am."
She paused. "I don't know mine, or I'd give it to you."
"That's okay. Stillwell tells me that'll probably change tomorrow."
From the direction Coogan was looking, a black car came speeding down the street. Snow kicked up behind its tires, the back end fishtailing slightly as it rounded a corner, but still under the driver's apparently expert control. The sound of brakes squealing, and the car came skidding to rest in front of them. Without hesitation, Coogan opened the rear passenger door, gently placed SCP-1041 in one seat, and sat in the other. His door had barely closed before they lurched back into motion, tearing down the empty streets of industrial Krakow.
A man, not clearly visible in the dark, addressed them from the front passenger seat, not bothering to turn around.
"You must forgive my man, here. He drives very fast. But then, we need to go very fast." His voice was warm, a slight German accent to her ears.
Coogan took off his coat, and laid it across SCP-1041. "Thank you, sir. I wasn't sure that we'd make it out."
"No trouble. We look out for our men. And our women." The man in the front seat rolled down his window slightly as he lit a cigarette. "I hope you don't mind. It's important to remember that we're not out yet. We have several countries to go before we're past the Iron Curtain."
"So where am I headed, sir?"
The man in the front seat exhaled, his smoke taken quickly outside by the rushing night air. "With any luck, to a friend's house," replied O5-8.

DIRECTOR WALTERS: You spent fifteen hours in KGB custody. What information did you reveal to them?
AGENT STILLWELL: Beyond pleasantries and what they already knew from Dr. Geissler, nothing.
DIRECTOR WALTERS: So you weren't interrogated?
AGENT STILLWELL: No. I was treated quite well, actually. As they promised.

The train car rattled, the wind whistled, the straw on the ground and the rickety wooden slats of the boxcar scant protection from the cold. Stillwell had had meetings in strange places, but this was one the more unusual offices he had been in.
The man called Petrov held a piece of gauze in place over the wound in Nechayeva's leg as another operative wound tape around it. He offered a flask to her; she waved it off. To Stillwell, with his long, white beard and bald head, Petrov looked grandfatherly as he cared for his wounded operative. He was tempted to think of Tolstoy, but paused to consider that one didn't grow old and get to be in charge of a KGB Directorate by being grandfatherly.
Petrov took the flask from his man and doused the gauze with some of its clear contents. "Once again, the planners were wrong. They never listen. These are new times, I told them. Things in play that weren't there before. They play chess in the middle of a prison brawl. Ah, well."
"Any word from your contacts?" said Stillwell.
Petrov shook his head. "No one present at the meeting point. Our sources haven't alerted us to anyone new in GRU-P custody. It's possible that they escaped elsewhere into the city."
"You don't need to soften it. We all knew what we were getting into here." Stillwell's good hand crept to his stomach.
"Mm. No one can know that. I didn't think I would be escorting a Foundation operative to safety yesterday." Petrov tightened the wrappings around Nechayeva's wound. She muttered curses in Russian. "If that's what I'm doing."
"I think we have bigger problems than pointing guns at each other right now."
Nechayeva braced herself as she planted her feet on the ground. She grunted as she struggled to stand on her bandaged leg, biting her lip with steel teeth. Stillwell extended his good hand. She grabbed onto his wrist, hoisting herself upright.
"There, good as new," said Petrov, laughing.
"December is a problem for all of us," said Nechayeva, catching her breath. "We didn't do much with the research that Geissler shared with us. It was mostly to be able to sabotage GRU-P's project."
Nechayeva nodded at the owner of the flask. He fished around in his pocket, retrieving a small canister. He offered it to Stillwell. The Foundation operative accepted.
"That microfilm has everything that we know," said Nechayeva. "It looks like we both have an idea what's going on, though."
"What about the rest of our sites?," replied Stillwell. "We're pulling out of the Soviet Union. Are you going to stop us?"
Petrov frowned. "This is nasty business. None of us can deal with the holes in reality by ourselves. I think even in different times we all understood that."
The old man motioned for the flask again. He took a pull. "Our first order of business is Zherdev. Then we can get back to shooting at each other. You'll receive no interference from KGB."
"And my men?"
"Safe passage, same as yourself. We'll need every person we can get for this fight."
Stillwell nodded. Rationally, they would have shot him long beforehand if there was a problem. But the thought had never really entered his mind. The thought of guns reminded him, however. He reached into his coat, and took out Nechayeva's pistol. He offered it to her.
"Thought you should have this back," he said.
She took the flask from Petrov. She shook her head.
"No need. It's out of bullets." Nechayeva smiled, briefly, a glint of reflected moonlight. She took a pull from the flask. She offered it to Stillwell. He took it.
"To new friends," Stillwell said as he raised the flask. "May we live long enough to be enemies again."

DIRECTOR WALTERS: How would you characterize a mission in which four men and a provisional SCP object are sent out, and only the mission leader returns?
AGENT STILLWELL: Given this mission? I'd call that a success.
DIRECTOR WALTERS: If this were a normal time, we would hang you out to fucking dry, Stillwell. This was a goddamn disaster. What do you have to say for yourself?
AGENT STILLWELL: These aren't normal times, sir.

Lafourche laughed uproariously, jabbing his thick finger at the transcript in his hand. "Holy shit, you really said that to him?"
Stillwell smiled. "Yes indeed, sir."
The Subdirector continued laughing as he read, pausing occasionally to spit a stream of tobacco juice into a disposable paper cup in his other hand. When he finished, he tossed the document into a wastebasket in the corner of his office. He leaned back in his chair to recover from his hilarity.
"Make an Agent of you yet, kid. Hot damn." Lafourche spat again. "You know Dean, I'll be straight with you. I didn't expect to see you back here again. I mean, I'm glad. But that mission was a goddamn suicide run. I told chain of command that."
Stillwell nodded. "Yeah. Guess that made it easy to face being drummed out in Walters' office."
Lafourche spat derisively. "Ahhh, Walters is an asshole, but he's not a dummy. You ain't gonna get canned, even if we weren't hiding out in a rented office in Mexico City. You did good out there. I ain't gonna forget it, and even ol' Walters won't either."
The young Agent sat. A great feeling of desolation came over him at the prompting of Lafourche's praise. An emptiness that sat in his chest, making him feel lighter, insubstantial. The distant sound of twisting metal and gibbering voices rang in his ears. For an instant, he closed his eyes. A single light in the darkness went out. He willed the feeling away, breathing deeply. After three breaths, it left. He was getting better at this.
Lafourche had the professional courtesy to not notice. "So kid, I've gotten a buzz in my ear from the higher-ups. What've you got cooked up for Coogan and that skip that he's bodyguarding?"
Stillwell, calm and steady. "I have some thoughts on that."

Colonel Ruslan Zherdev, Hero of the Soviet Union and commander of Fourth Department Abnormal Occurrences Commission, also known as GRU-P, took his seat in the balcony of the People's Auditorium, as his organization had arranged, and looked down at the stage and all of the other functionaries attending this planning committee tonight. Rumor had it (rumors that he had started) that Stalin himself was to congratulate the committee on the successful preparations for the 19th Congress. As it happened, he knew those rumors to be correct. He had arranged Stalin's presence here personally.
The General Secretary emerged onto the stage, to thunderous applause, exactly as he had anticipated. As Stalin spoke, it was difficult to hear his words from as high up as Colonel Zherdev was, but it didn't matter. He had read a copy of the speech weeks ago, as his adjutant was drafting it. It was committed to memory.
The Colonel looked at his watch. Two minutes into Stalin's speech. He would have given the signal to his men right about now.
Zherdev watched the second hand on his gold Blancpain watch sweep by. Twenty-five seconds after his signal, all essential personnel would have cleared out of the building. Ten seconds after that, the doors to all of the balcony seats would have been locked and armed guards posted. He still had the personnel in place to do just that. Such a waste.
Stalin's speech was full of party approved rhetoric and empty congratulations to men and women who had lived in mortal terror of him just several years before. Zherdev had some reservations about his plan, initially. It took him several hours, in fact, to convince himself to go through with it. He did not entertain any regrets since then. At the first mention of the new five year plan, the front section of the audience would have stood up, simultaneously.
Five minutes into Comrade Stalin's speech, it would have been too late to turn back. The first five rows of the party attendees would have been on the stage. Zherdev had relished the idea of watching the look on Stalin's face, as the tide approached. In the next minute, possibly minute and a half, the crowd down below, possessed of murderous, white-hot hatred not of their own making, would have torn Stalin limb from limb as the rising stars of the Communist Party looked on. Zherdev had specified to his scientists that those not complicit in the act must be made to feel approving of it. They had been close.
Colonel Zherdev watched the entire speech, superimposing what could have been onto the banal, unproductive events down below. When Comrade Stalin had finished, the crowd rose to its feet, a lusty ovation for their triumphant leader, all Party members showing the proper enthusiasm for the General Secretary.
Zherdev rose to his feet as well, clapping for the expected minutes of praise that were due to Stalin. He looked down at the scene before him. Anyone looking back up would have seen a reflection of the scene that Zherdev had tried and failed to orchestrate, thwarted by what his men told him was a combined Foundation-KGB operation. Anyone looking up would have seen Zherdev in a rare moment of dropping his impassive mask, his true face radiating the hatred and fury that he had sought to transplant into his would-be accomplices through otherworldly means.
Zherdev had expected to proclaim a national tragedy this evening, along with a message to the nation to find the courage to forge a new course in the face of American provocation. Instead he was one of a thousand obedient lapdogs, clapping for favor, capering for Koba's good graces.
The Colonel continued clapping as Stalin basked in the adulation from the audience below. Someone was going to pay dearly for this.

« | Part Nine | Matryoshka | The Coldest War | »


Dear All Of You Money-Grubbing, Arrogant, Sycophantic, Empty-Skulled, Lying, Poorly-Animated Asslickers, Especially Freddy "Fucking Backstabbing Judas" Fox And Kenny "Never Worked A Day In His Sexless Life" Crow:
Well, you finally done it! Great job, you broke me. You broke me enough to bash down my door until this piece of paper turned up in my bed. I'd give you the "if you're reading this, I'm dead" business and say my tearful goodbyes to you hateful sons of bitches, but what would you say to that? "Daaaah, why is he still using a typewriter in 2016, Paddy needs to give up on letter-writing, it's even worse than his shitty cartoon acting, I mean, it's not like I could do any better if I tried twice as hard as Paddy has been trying all his life, but I'm gonna go ahead and make Paddy's life a dick-in-the-garbage-disposal party because I'm about as smart as a dixie cup full of gatorade!" You can all go fuck yourselves forever and ever.
Don't worry about revenge. I'm gonna let you live your sugar-coated plastic imitation cheddar lifespans as long as you want, being the grease-drenched toxic gorilla rabies shitstains you are. That's more than enough punishment. I wouldn't wish it on Hitler, or even Super Hitler.
There is someone I'm gonna completely fuck up before I stick a Remington up my nose, but unlike you, they're a smart enemy. They're a patient enemy. They're an enemy that doesn't lie through their teeth and call me their "friend." They're the ones that call us SCP-2835. Wanna know more about that? I fucked your mom.
And when you die scared and alone, and find yourselves in the pitch-dark corner of hell reserved for weaklings, I'll be the first one to shit caustic misery down your throat. I will torture you in ways that haven't even been invented yet. I will piss on your graves, around your graves, in your graves, and in your coffins, until your skeleton is a fucking piss pickle. You will gargle your screams through your boiling entrails until the last star goes black and all the Universe is cold and quiet.
And before I forget,
REAP WHAT YOU SOW REAP WHAT YOU SOW REAP WHAT YOU SOW
REAP WHAT YOU SOW REAP WHAT YOU SOW REAP WHAT YOU SOW
REAP WHAT YOU SOW REAP WHAT Y

The typewriter keys fell silent. With a shaking wing, Paddy Pelican took a long drink from his red Solo cup of pre-mixed margarita. Surrounded by the failed drafts of his note on his desk, he wiped a tear from his drooping eye.
Recalling a coaching session from his animator—

"What the fuck are you doing, Paddy? Are you fucking crying?!"
I-I'm sorry, Mr. Singer… you're just shouting at me, and…
"You don't fucking cry in the cartoon business!"
…why not?
"Because I have no idea how to draw a crying pelican!"

Paddy closed his eyes. He grabbed the duffel bag from under his broken bed frame. Two shotguns peeked out from the opened zipper. He sighed.
He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't bluff. He wouldn't ask how he was doing.
For the first time in his life, Paddy Theophrastus Pelican would make good on his threats.

"Is that like the castle you work at, Daddy?"
Lisle Naismith awoke from his nap on the couch as his 6-year-old daughter, Penny, pointed to the TV, The interior of a gigantic animated castle filled the screen.
"Oh, did Mom put in Sleeping Beauty?"
His daughter nodded.
"Right. Well, our castle is at least three times that big. But usually it's so full of kid-eating trolls that you can't see the ceiling."
When your kid had an imagination, it was easier than usual to keep your job as a Foundation Site Director a secret.
Lisle's eyes closed again as Maleficent came into the hall to cast her famous spinning wheel curse. His tension faded away amidst the sounds of bickering fairies. Shocked soldiers. Evil magic. A cocking shotgun. A firing shotgun.
There were no shotguns in Sleeping Beauty.
Lisle opened his eyes. As red splatters colored the walls of King Stefan's palace, horrified attendees of Aurora's christening ran for the doors.
"What the devil is going on?" said Maleficent, turning her attention away from the King and Queen who hadn't invited her. "You can kill whomever you want after I'm done here, you meddlesom—"
In a flash of buckshot, Maleficent's jaw became a red cloud. From the left side of the screen, a black and white pelican, drawn with significantly less effort than the rest of the cast, let out a drunken laugh as he mowed down the cast.
2835. Lisle was on his feet in an instant.
As the pelican jammed the smoking barrel into the mouth of the young princess, he stared into Lisle's terrified eyes. "Naiiiiii-smiiiiith!!" he shrieked. "Reap what y—"
Lisle punched the eject button on the DVD player.
Penny stared at the TV with pursed lips. Not frightened, but she hadn't blinked once throughout the scene.
"Sleeping Beauty's a really weird movie," she said.
"I'm sorry you saw that," said Lisle.
Penny shrugged. "It's a lot better than that clown show."