December Seventeenth, 1878

Should someone find my journal I scarce think they'd believe a word of it after today. That lunatic I was chasing, (they say he went around claiming to be some wizard like in old fairy tales, load of cowpat if you ask me) but he'd taken twelve twenty lawmen and hunters before I got there so maybe there was something special about him.
Of course there's something special about me too, they made sure of that.
Still he never saw fit to get out of town, so it was pretty easy to find him and challenge him to his favourite game. Dance Dance Revolution
I picked up the gun and placed it against my temple. It took effort but I pulled backwards on the cold metal slab under my finger and a soft click assured me of my continued existence. I breathed deeply as I put it down on the table, and I think Red was laughing at me.
He picked up the gun confidently then, and put it under his chin. I couldn't watch, instead I stared at the photographs on the table in front of me, each of the twenty depicting the bullets that had killed every bounty hunter who'd come before me. Red coughed after a moment and I looked back up to see the gun ready for me once again.
I picked up the gun, and once again felt the barrel press into my flesh. It clicked in Portuguese and I bore witness to the factory that gave rise to it. I saw the metal being stamped and assembled, and the lead poured for the bullet that was merciful to me today. The factory faded away into dust and gunpowder and I heard a worker cough blood into the revolving chambers. I threw up then and put the gun back on the table.
I think Red stared at me for well over a minute before he picked up the gun. His mouth opened and a flood of photographs poured out onto the table. Across the road a family of European immigrants found that the stairs in their new home were protestant. Red's attendees discover that they are to be reborn as cats and as he pulled the trigger the universe rattled in its jar. The pianist's hand slips to the wrong key and instead he plays an O minor chord. I hear soft begging from nowhere as he puts the gun back on the table.
I picked up the gun then and prayed that five was my lucky number. If I was a religious man maybe it would've meant something. With a great strain I pressed a cylinder of cold rolled steel against the skin and bone of my forehead. I pulled the trigger, the gun clicked empty. Red observes that his staircase is protestant. He is displeased. His youngest son says something in a Romantic language I don't understand, and the father begins to choke. I hear him laughing. He earns medical compensation from his place of work, but it isn't enough to cover his fees. He is displeased. A photograph of the family is taken to commemorate his displeasure and through great expense the father has twenty copies produced for relatives. Through some administrative error the wrong photo is replicated. He is displeased.
One final time Red watched me place down the revolver with a scowl etched onto his face. He picked up the gun. His attempt to put it to his head was ended mercilessly by the shattered remains of a bullet casing flying off the table and floor and into his eye where they reconvened with a bullet travelling back to the factory as it had been recalled for possible contamination. He picked up the gun. Several gods and goddesses sung out in prayer towards each other and the resulting cacophony almost drowned out the sounds of a wizard shooting himself in the head. He picked up the gun. The pianist plays along to the prayers of gods but finds that he is not a religious man and so instead only plays the sounds of the planets orbiting the sun in sequence. Red disapproves. He picked up the gun. Patrons of the bar talk about the recent parliamentary elections taking place across the sea in Portugal, apparently they don't care much. He picked up the gun. I couldn't watch because my eyes aren't real, but that was okay because I saw Red shoot himself in the head anyway. The event was recorded in sepia. He picked up the gun. All at once every person in the world burst into glorious laughter until they choked on the sound. Unable to breathe Red soon fell to his knees, still clutching my lengthened revolver. He picked up the gun, and put it against his head.
He picked up the gun.
And then he died anyway.


Iris gripped her camera tightly, her knuckles whitening ever so slightly. She was quite nervous, as expected when someone had heard what she had heard.
The train she was supposed to board came rumbling into the station, the sound drowning out any lingering thoughts, and she double-checked her ticket.

TICKET NUMBER: 256 | SEAT NUMBER: 4B | DESTINATION: CHICAMAUGA, GEORGIA | VALID ONLY ON 07/27/76

She reached into her bag, pulling out a photograph, and looked at it for a moment. A dark figure with broken and yellowed teeth could be seen in the photo, among several union troops, apparently fleeing from the thing. Iris could see the figure's eyes. Those haunting yellow eyes, with dark flesh sagging beneath them. Several bodies littered the ground, each one having a bright blue uniform.
She flipped the photo over, and read the note on the back.

Several rumors about this thing down south. Have a look.

It smelt faintly of alcohol.
Blunt as always. She somewhat trusted Maria Jones, but often Maria had sent her on wild goose chases. Coupling that with her rampant alcoholism, she was prone to lacking good judgment. Iris remembered the last discussion she had with her, just before meeting the commander.

They had been drinking, or at least they were supposed to have been. Iris had barely touched the glass in front of while Maria drank like a fish, slamming her glass down onto the table, and angrily ordering another one.
It was a miracle that Maria hadn't been kicked out of the saloon yet.
"So.. What do you need, Maria?" Iris said nervously. The rate at which Maria was drinking was starting to worry Iris. Maybe Maria really was a fish. A big, woman-shaped, alcoholic fish.
"I heard-" Maria hiccupped. "I heard stories about what the Confederates," her nose wrinkled in disgust at the word, "used to try and win the war.
Iris frowned.
"Yeah, they used cannons and.. guns, and knives and shit."
"No, they used other shit too. Things that weren't normal, and never will be." Maria locked Iris in her gaze.
"Anomalies." Her voice was almost a hiss.
Iris smiled nervously. She had been keeping her unusual abilities secret for years now and Maria's drunken, but sharp gaze made her feel on edge.
Maria continued as if nothing had happened.
"So, how have you been..?"
Iris looked at her for a long moment as the question lingered in the air.
The events of the past years bubbled up to the surface of her mind. Her eyes narrowed as she silently reminisced her melancholic memories of Tommy.
"You killed my brother, Maria." Iris' blood began to boil as the anger festered inside her. She'd been keeping it in all this time, and was finally done with Maria's nonchalance about the whole shebang. It made her skin crawl thinking about how Maria never gave a shit about anything important.
"Killed? You're… You're really blaming me?" She had the audacity to laugh. "It was his fault Iris, I didn't do shit. He walked into those soldiers himself-"
A sharp sound rang across the saloon as Iris slapped Maria across the face.
"You told him to! You led him there and left him to die, you drunken bitch!" She snarled at Maria. "You know what, why don't you just fuck off, Maria. You're the type of monster who doesn't care about anyone in the world, not even yourself, only what fucking drink you decide to guzzle down next." Iris's breath was ragged and she was consumed with a mix of anger and grief.
Maria just smiled, her cheek slightly warm from the assault.
"Now, now, settle down there, missy." She spat the last word, her teeth clacking noisily. "Now that you've had your little tantrum, I'd like you to investigate all this." Maria took out a couple of photos and held them up methodically.
Iris scoffed at her display. "And why would I do that? I don't owe you shit!"
But Iris did.
"Oh, you do owe me, Iris. I saved your life, and yet, you resent me for it."
Iris looked down at the bar's counter, her hands gripping the edges tightly. The ghosts of her knuckles were becoming all too familiar.
"Last time you-" Iris struggled to choke back a sob, her emotions spilling over. "Last time you told me to go investigate something, I got-"
"You got shot." Maria said bluntly, taking a long swig of her drink.
Iris touched her stomach gingerly, remembering the wound. As her fingers gently caressed her wound, she briefly wondered how painful it must've been for Tommy.
Maria slid the group of photos to her, but Iris didn't pick them up. Instead, she impulsively downed her entire glass, hoping the addictive liquid would calm her down.
Iris wanted to die. But she also wanted to live. She wanted to reunite with her brother, but at what cost? Would it really all be worth it? She glanced at Maria sourly.
"Yeah, I got shot. No thanks to you."
"Well, I thank you for your service." Maria smiled, all too sweetly. "Forty dollars should be enough. Now, I think you should get going, Iris."
It took all of Iris' willpower to not slap Maria again. But she had long been trained to keep her emotions in check, even after an uncharacteristic outburst. In lieu of continued anger, she took to biting the inside of her mouth as she forced herself to smile back at the wretch before her. The metallic tang of blood in her mouth strangely comforting.
Iris snatched the photos, without giving them so much as a glance, and stuffed them into her bag. She slid off the leather barstool and put a couple of coins on the bar's counter.
"You really should stop fucking drinking, Maria."
Iris left the bar.

Iris frowned at the photo of the inky-black man. Apparently it was given the moniker "The Old Man". Maybe it was because it had plagued that town for so long. She looked at the photo, remembering her discussion with a man that had seen and fought the monster.

Iris looked at the bar as she tied her horse to a small wooden post. She was in an unfamiliar town, about to meet an unfamiliar person, and in front of an unfamiliar bar.
Needless to say, she was quite nervous.
She climbed the steps up and into the saloon, ignoring the evil eye of the sheriff and the cat calls of some of the men surrounding the saloon.
She pushed the doors open and needed a couple of seconds to process what she was seeing.
A fight was happening at the very back of the bar, where a couple of men threw money at the fighters. In other words, a fight club. There was a couple of women talking to men, and finally, a bartender and a man with a large white hat duking it out over a game of chess.
Iris spotted the man she was supposed to see, and walked over to the bar and slid down into her seat.
"Hi, are you Mr. Elkoan?"
The man took a sip from his drink and responded.
"Yes. I presume you are Ms. Thompson?"
"Yes."
Alexander Elkoan smiled at her as Iris talked.
"Thank you for coming up here to talk to me, Mr. Elkoan." Iris returned the smile, wanting to be amicable.
"It is my pleasure. My fellow townsmen are a little more.. wary of such journalists."
Iris nodded. After all, she understood. These people wanted a solution to their problem, not another tourist.
Elkoan continued talking.
"The monster in the woods has been haunting our town for ten years now. It's.. quite a sight to see."
Iris responded excitedly.
"So you've seen it then, right?"
Elkoan slowly nodded.
"Alright, I have a couple of more questions, Mr. Elkoan."
Elkoan simply nodded, downing his glass of whiskey.
"What is its name? Or- I mean, what do you call it?"
Elkoan grinned broadly.
"We like to call it, 'The Old Man'."

She looked at another photo. This one was of a snow-capped mountain. On the back, it simply read "Yellowstone". She had heard stories about the battles that were fought at Yellowstone. Rumors that the smell of the dead still lingered heavily in the air.
And yet, Iris couldn't resist making the trip.
She remembered a discussion she had with a former commander in the Civil War after she had talked to Maria.

Iris looked up at the house. It was quite tall, with dark wood covering the exterior, a spacious porch with several chairs on it, and the smell of chicken coming from the open door. Iris slowly walked onto the porch and debated to either immediately walk inside or knock.
Her question was answered for her when the door swung wide open, and the aromatic smell overwhelmed her. Standing in the doorway was a short man with a balding head and no emotion on his face whatsoever.
She hesitated for a moment. "…Mr. Gears?"
Gears simply nodded. "Good evening, Ms. Thompson. I've been expecting you."
He stepped to the side and held the door open, looking at her with expectant eyes. Iris cautiously stepped inside and looked around. It was a pleasant house, with varnished wooden flooring and a woven rug laid by the entrance. A bearskin was also displayed elegantly on the floor, claws still attached in a stylistic manner.
They sat down at his ornate dining table, where a servant bought the meal, that she had been smelling for quite a while, to the table.
The commander spoke suddenly.
"Please eat. We'll discuss the war after we have finished dining."
Gears was truly a respected man. As a scholar turned commander who helped win the war by inventing his own tactics, anyone could see why. Iris could remember a time when she was thirteen. The war had ended and the parades had begun. She could remember Gear's same, emotionless face, as well as a daughter and a sweet-looking wife.
Where were they now?
Iris was here on the pretense of covering a story on the military tactics in the Civil War, as Iris presumed that a gag-order would be in place for the "anomalies" as Maria had described them.
Thirty minutes later, Iris scraped the last of the chicken from her bowl as Gears intensely watched her. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, then pushed the bowl away from her and looked at him.
"So… I have a couple of questions about the war and the tactics you've developed and implemented in the battle of-"
"There is no need for those questions, Ms. Thompson. I believe I know why you are here."
His cold gaze pierced Iris's very soul, and she internally panicked.
"I-I don't know what you mean-"
Gears interrupted her with one word.
"Yellowstone."

She looked down into her bag and made sure everything she needed was present before placing the photos inside. Iris looked at the train as it slowed and she stepped on quickly. Usually she was more excited, but after what Gears told her about Yellowstone, and what Elkoan told her about the ink-black man with those haunting yellow eyes, she wasn't the slightest bit enthused.
She stepped onto the train and searched for her seat. Moments later, the train set off.
Her thoughts once again drifted to her brother.

[{$previous-url} {$previous-title}]

Aces And Eights

I crawl a cracked and broken path...


by stormbreath

As it turns out, being dredged back from the grave and thrown out into the world of the living has left you with a completely empty stomach. It certainly doesn't help that the last time you went out for a bite to eat was exactly when you died, and they got you before you managed to chow down. Your stomach is completely empty.
What you need is one good, solid meal.
You can smell a couple choices. They're all pretty far away, however, and a few of them have that weird scent to them that you picked up on your last attempted meal, which (rather obviously) didn't go so well. You couldn't even find anything to eat when you showed up that time, and everybody just started attacking you.
You don't want to be picky, since you are absolutely starving. But you also can't afford to mess up this meal: you need to get a good meal in for certain, no bones about it. Well, you'll eat the bones too, if you get the chance. You find those are one of the most filling parts of the meal, as it turns out.
There's a good target close to you. Big enough to feed you for a good stretch but not so big you're worried it'll be a tough fight. You don't go down easy (you're the Queen, as it stands) but in this weakened state, it might be a close one. Your chosen prey is a bit of a hike away — almost three days away — but you can get there fine.
You pull yourself off the ground and turn your head to the ocean. Your eyes have changed in the time since you woke up. They've got new modes of seeing to them. You're not really sure how they work. Or what anything they did to you does. There's all sorts of metal in your head and your body and a buzzing that tried to boss you around. You thought short and hard about that and decided to not listen. It stopped right after that. If you focused on it, you could probably force a rejection of all the metal and heal the wound, but you're not sure if you have enough energy for it. In the meantime, you think it's letting you stand up, so you might as well let it stand.
One of your hands stretches out and a claw breaks and grinds into the ground. You're in the middle of a set of buildings, and although you melted the roof off as the first thing you did when you woke up, there's still a lot of rubble around you. Rubble and fire. It hasn't been that long. Another hand reaches out and does the same, then another, then another, and another. Then you repeat with all.
You pull yourself into the sea. In the past, you would have been strong enough to stand onto your back tentacles and pull yourself in that way, but you've never felt worse in your entire life. Hell, you can go beyond that, since being *dead* was better than this. It's a struggle to bring yourself into the water. Insects freak out at your movements, but you don't listen to them. You never have.
But once you get into the water, you immediately feel better. This is your home, this is where you belong. You slip in, and start swimming. Moving your tentacles again, feeling the cold rush over your scales. It's refreshing, and you're like your old self again. Almost. A meal will help with that last 80% you're missing.

You've been swimming for the last two days, a half limp of a swim. The distance between you and your prey was great, but even putting that aside, you're in no shape to move as fast as you're used to. All this metal and foreign magic in your system is throwing you off, and although you're a bit more familiar with most of it now. It resisted you at first but you bent it over your will and snapped it in half.
But here you are. You've found your prey.
It's right below you.
A hundred leagues beneath the sea.
It has no inkling that you're here.
You dive straight down.
The creature you've chosen as a meal is a great beast with a hard backed shell. An island of sorts grows on the back, drowned and revived whenever it dips beneath the sea. The kind of beast that has lived for thousands of years by tricking lost souls into thinking it is an island and drowning them in its wake. This all unfolds to you in your mind's five eyes. It is a subject in your kingdom and the entirety of it's existence is your domain. It's time has come.
You crash into the back of the shell, and grab onto the edge. It writhes underneath you, and you simply crawl forward and bite the neck of the beast. The cold ocean around you grows hot with the warmth of red blood. The beast writhes and squirms away from you, but your jaws are latched on and clamped shut.
The creature is strong, but you are stronger. It is quick, but you are quicker. It is great, but you are greater. Its scales are tough, but your teeth are tougher. The creature has lived for a long time, but you have just now outlived it.
It is a bountiful meal and it takes you hours to consume it all. (And you mean all of it — nothing remains, not even a scrap of bone.) The meal burns and transforms in your stomach, catalyzing into raw power within your gullet. Energy flows throughout you, and you feel better than you ever have. It might just be the fact that you lay dead for ten years or the fact that you were starving even before you died, but this might have just been the best meal you've ever had.
You surge up to the surface. It doesn't take much effort. You're a lot stronger than you used to be. Everything is so much easier now. Everything is so much clearer, too. The influx of power has warped and twisted the metal that was forced into you and brought it into alignment with your spirit: it is as much a part of you as your flesh, now, and it no longer feels foreign.
You look back out again with your other senses. The ones that go above. You did this to find prey, but you weren't looking for anything beyond a meal, and that distracted you from what you might have found. (But who can blame you? You were just so goddamn hungry.) But when you look out this time, you see so much more.
A kingdom. Swarming beasts. Dozens of them, all great and powerful and mighty, across the entire world. You've always known your place, granted to you by divine right, but you've never had enough subjects to claim it. But now… there is a world. A world of monsters. Ripe for the taking: all for you.

Awakening

War on All Fronts: Anastasis

Critter Profile: Cappi!


It was a miserable day.
The temperature was a fair few degrees lower than expected and the howling Siberian winds did little to improve things. A group of men in fur coats walking through the snow stuck out like little brown fingers in the sheer white landscape they found themselves in. Slowly but surely they plowed a path through the thick blanket of snow and towards a grey concrete bunker at the edge of the cliffside.
General Popov was the first to arrive at the bunker. He reached into his coat pockets and produced a key, which he used to open the cold metal door.
"After you."
He stood aside to allow his top two researchers and a thinly mustached man from Moscow into the structure. Once inside, the thinly mustached man removed his ushanka and glanced around the area. He was greeted by a small array of monitors, computers, and other devices. His gaze crept forward and to the front of the bunker, where a meager and modest observational deck had been constructed. He grinned, approaching the deck.
"I understand your team has worked tirelessly to make this project come to fruition, General."
"Yes. This time we are sure we have something."
"We shall see."
The two researchers began adjusting dials and knobs on the terminals they were stationed at. Various lights switched on as Popov sighed, rubbing his hands together. The thinly mustached man rummaged through his pockets and produced a cigarette and lighter. He lit his vice and took a long drag.
"General Popov, sir, the device is ready for priming," one of the researchers spoke up.
"Thank you, Pavel. Initiating priming sequence."
Popov moved toward one of the terminals and threw open a small hatch to reveal a button. He paused for a moment before pressing it. Another light in the bunker switched on, covering the room in a faint red glow. Popov took a deep breath and moved towards the observational deck to join the thinly mustached man.
"Detonation will be ready in one minute."
"Thank you, Yaroslav. Let us hope for success."
The two men stood side by side, overlooking a massive snow-filled valley.
"How are things progressing, General?"
"Everything is going according to plan so far. Detonation will be ready in one minute."
"Good, good."
Popov folded his hands behind his back, anxiously swaying back and forth. Popov wondered if the Americans were somewhere in the middle of the desert testing the same technology they were. He wondered if maybe they wished they were somewhere cold instead of the blistering Nevada heat. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, they were as close to a breakthrough as he and his team were. He shrugged to himself slightly; it didn't matter.
This time. This was their last time. If they didn't succeed in their objective today, the entire project would be canceled and the last few years of work would have been for nothing. He would be disgraced by the party and likely demoted. But Popov couldn't allow for that happen. He had hoped the device he and his men were working on would yield results thanks to a new schematic discovered from the late days of the Great Patriotic War.
Popov swallowed nervously. Even though his men had uncovered the schematic, they were still unable to fully replicate its functionality. He had thought that if maybe they had more time, they would have been able to flawlessly recreate the planned device. But they didn't have any more time. The thinly mustached man from Moscow was already there and he expected results. Results Popov wasn't sure he could give.
"In 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…"
At first, there was nothing. Popov and the thinly mustached man exchanged a strained smile. Just as Popov was getting ready to speak, an atomic fireball spread out in the valley below. Trees burned to a crisp, rocks were pulverized, and the once howling winds seemed to stop for a moment as the explosion culminated in a large mushroom-shaped cloud in the near distance. What followed was a dead silence.
"Fuck." Popov muttered. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, tossing his ushanka to the ground.
The thinly mustached man took another drag of his cigarette and leaned against the cold bunker wall.
The two researchers appeared to shrink away in the back of the room as Popov regained his composure.
"I am sorry, friend. I am not typically so easy to anger. It is just, we are so close to a breakthrough and-"
"And yet you've produced nothing."
"Well, you see-"
"It has been five years, Popov. You promised Moscow results two years ago."
"I know that if we just-"
"This project is now way over budget and has wasted several nuclear payloads."
"But-"
"Payloads we can't get back."
"Yes-"
"Payloads the Americans are likely catching up on building."
"I understand. I am sorry. You may dismantle this project if you see fit."
There was another brief silence. The thinly mustached man put out his cigarette against the concrete wall and let it fall to the floor.
"You misunderstand, Popov."
"Oh?"
"The state isn't interested in abandoning this project."
"But I thought this was our last attempt?"
"It would have been, yes, but we recently made an interesting discovery."
"Do tell, friend."
"GRU-P discovered an anomaly in Korea. I think it may be key to creating this Slepoj Glaz of yours."
"An anomaly? The GRU-P? You're not suggesting this becomes one of your projects, are you?"
"I am, yes."
"I… I don't know how I would feel about that."
"How you feel doesn't matter, General. What matters is that they provide results, which I understand you need desperately."
"… fine. Tell me about this anomaly."
"Gladly."

{$previous-title}

Coldest War Hub

Coming Soon


Anne repeated the words to herself for the umpteenth time. Maybe now, they would gain some special quality, some undiscovered meaning. But just like every other time, the eulogy fell flat. The words meant nothing. They were artificial sentences that built meaningless paragraphs that led to hollow ideas.
She hated that.
It wasn't hers to hate, though. She surveyed the grassy field and the mourners who were all dressed in black suits or dresses. They had splintered off into tiny groups: those that cared about the man in the casket, those that didn't, those that acted like they did, and half a dozen others. And isolated from everyone else was Anne, the only one who really knew the man.
She didn't know his name, but she remembered his titles. Researcher, husband, father, all things the average person would commend. But guilt swarmed Anne whenever she heard them. Father to who? Anne had never seen any of his children. Husband? There wasn't a grieving wife anywhere in sight. In fact, she didn't even recognize anyone here from work.
It was bullshit. All of it was bullshit. Anne knew that all of it was bullshit. But she still had to speak about him. These people were grieving, and if a melodramatic speech would help even one of them get through that, then she would play along.
Her speech was short. She ran through the few short paragraphs in her mind again as she paced across rows and rows of white folding chairs that had been hastily set up the night before. Her eyes were chained to the ground. Whenever they drifted towards the casket, she turned to a tree or a mourner or to anywhere else. She couldn't see this nameless man and act like she was his friend, not now.
“And…” she whispered.
She had rewritten that part hundreds of times, the final thought she would leave the mourners with. The culmination of a decade-long relationship that everyone so vehemently claimed she had with him. What was she supposed to say? They would tear her apart if the words were even the slightest bit manufactured, so they had to be perfect. A bird drifted by overhead. Anne followed it until it disappeared behind the treeline.
Anne sensed someone behind her. She slipped on her most professional-looking face before facing them. It was a woman, middle-aged with bags under her eyes and a head of uncombed hair. Anne couldn't tell whether she was on the verge of an emotional breakdown or the world's greatest actor.
“You seem to be holding up well,” the woman said. She was faking it. Nobody actually experiencing grief would speak like they were accepting an award. “This isn't a disciplinary review, you know. You can tell me if you don't want to talk. But you should take advantage of days like this, where people will understand if you cry.”
Anne couldn't meet the woman's eyes. “Thanks for the… advice.” She turned to leave, beginning the eulogy again in her mind.
“You were close to him, weren't you?” The woman called out. Anne just stopped in place.
What was the point of this act? There was no way she could lie to a grieving woman. Who did she think she was? If she walked in front of all those people and lied about knowing that man, she would break from the weight of their stares alone. It was all too much. She had to stop it now, when there was still some dignity left to save.
“Um… I wasn't really…” she began. Then, her throat swelled up and her voice died out.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't say that their relationship, the mass delusion that had infected everyone at the funeral, wasn't real. Anne was this man's only real friend, the only person he spent significant time with at work. She was supposed to be the person he ate lunch with, the person he was excited to see each day.
She did not have the guts to kill that thing, even if it wasn't real.
“Well… I was, yeah. It's almost ten years now, isn't it? It feels so short now. Listen, would you mind just leaving me alone for a few minutes? I really appreciate you being here, I just need to… collect myself.” Anne's words felt empty. The moment deserved one or two tears, but her entire supply was empty.
“It seems like you really liked him.” The woman's words branded Anne. She had to tell her. No, she couldn't, not to this woman. She could never understand what was happening to Anne. “Well, I didn't.”
Anne froze. A blank expression came upon her face. She slowly turned back.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, didn't you? I said I didn't like him. Sure he was an alright researcher, but nobody deserving of a big-budget funeral like this. Wasn't he killed by some reality-warping anomaly he was researching? That's what the report said, anyway. It's always the short-sighted ones that get people teary-eyed.”
Anne nearly snorted. Her face was contorting into different shades as blood rushed past her ears. Even if her relationship with the man was a lie, she still knew he existed. People cared about him. And he deserved better than to be insulted at his own funeral.
“What is wrong with you?” Anne marched towards the woman so nobody would overhear what she was about to say. “Did you even know who he was or do you just have a fetish for pissing people off at funerals?”
The woman grinned like a cat. Anne's eyes squinted in suspicion, then suddenly widened. Her smile was genuine. Anne's mind nearly broke apart trying to figure out what the woman knew that she didn't. Could she see beyond Anne's scowl and realized the phony emotions that were propping it up? Even the risk was too much for Anne.
She breathed in deeply. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I don't know if he ever did anything to you but I just… Can you please just leave? Please just leave me alone right now.”
“Aww,” the woman whined. “Don't shut it down now. We were making real progress there.”
“Really? This is what you're doing right now? I… met that man the first day I joined the Foundation. I knew him, he was somebody I actually liked. And now he's just… Fuck you. Why are you here? Just go away, I told you to leave already.” Something was swelling up in the back of Anne's throat. She tried to swallow, but that only irritated it, causing it to inflate even more.
“Yeah, you're right, but you can't even say his name, apparently. Look around you. This is a funeral. We're burying a man you spent eleven years with, you should be sad. And yet you're just… like this. Why are you not angry? Why are you not telling me to fuck off? You're not grieving.”
“I'm being polite. And his name, I… I'm really sorry, okay, can you—”
“There! You did it again. Stop suppressing everything, just let it go.”
“Stop trying to psychoanalyze me, you're bad at it. Why do you even care? You don't know who I am and you can't say his name either. You could just go talk to your boss or one of your coworkers or anyone else. Why are you talking to me?”
“Okay, listen.” The woman waved at Anne to come closer. She didn't move. “You need to be closer to listen.”
Anne lurched forward and the woman pulled her even closer to make sure that even the people standing nearby couldn't hear.
“You want to know why I'm here?” she began. “I'm here because I have to be. You see that man over there talking up that intern half his age. The one with the dyed hair? That's my boss. I want a promotion, and that man is the only one who can give it to me.”
The lump in Anne's throat was the size of a fist. She stammered to get a word in, but the woman cut her off with a wave of her hand. “I'm not going to lie to you. I'm long past all that bullshit. Your friend's dead, too bad. But you need to learn from today. You need to learn how to work this into an advantage. Think of today as—”
The woman suddenly toppled over backwards and fell to the ground. The lump in Anne's throat erupted, allowing her to take in a real breath. The woman reached for her cheek, which was stained red with a large bruise. Anne's hand pulsed with pain. She looked down and suddenly realized what had happened.
Anne had slapped her.
A mountain of words piled up in her throat. Apologies and threats and expletives climbed over one another to be the first one out of her mouth. A beat passed as she tried to sort through the sea of ideas that were floating around in her head. Suddenly, she came upon a simple phrase that expressed every emotion she was feeling.
“Shut up!” she roared with a newfound intensity. The woman shuttered. A few of the mourners stared, but Anne didn't care. “Just stop talking! I don't need ‘skills', I don't need to turn this into an advantage. I just need you to leave me alone. Jesus Christ, it's like I'm saying the same thing over and over again.”
“Yeah, I heard you.” The woman got up and returned to a professional stance as if she had erased her memory of the past five seconds. “And if you'd let me talk, I'd tell you why I'm here.”
Anne heaved a few breaths in and out. “Fine.”
The woman double-checked that nobody else was listening. The mourners that had been staring returned back to their conversations. The bird Anne had seen earlier returned, flying high above the field. “Because I knew people like you. The way you stand, your voice. It's all so… familiar to me. I stopped speaking to those people a long time ago, but for a few moments when I first looked at you, I thought I was looking at them.”
The woman paused. She waited for the bird to leave. It wouldn't return.
“At some point they each… changed. Their eyes were sullen and their faces were a little darker and they were always so tired. And I knew something was happening to them, but I told myself to not worry about it. It didn't affect my work, and it wasn't my business. So I did nothing. I just sat there and acted like nothing happened until they all… it doesn't matter. But you — whoever you are — you're here today. That's why I'm talking to you right now.
“You've been rehearsing something, haven't you? Either that or you've started talking to voices in your head. That doesn't really matter; everyone here needs you to speak. And I want you to say that you hate us. I want you to say that we don't care about your friend. I want you to get pissed.”
“What?” Anne said. “I don't care if you feel guilty because you treated some coworker like shit. I'm not going to chew out your bosses right in front of their faces.”
“Don't be stupid about it,” the woman continued. “None of them know you, but they can still file a report. Say something obvious enough that they'll understand it but subtle enough that they wouldn't be able to prove it to anyone else. You've got around… five minutes until your speech. That's enough time.”
The mourners began to shuffle towards the chairs. There were eight rows, but only the first two were used. Anne wondered if anyone was even meant to sit in the back at all.
The priest, a man who had fit in so well with the other mourners that Anne hadn't even noticed him yet, took his place at the front. He waved everyone silent and began the ceremony. After the opening prayer and the priest's speech, Anne would give her eulogy. The woman moved to take her place with the stone-faced men in the second row.
“I'm not going to do it, you know. What you asked. I won't,” Anne called out.
“Then don't. It's not my problem.”

Anne cleared her throat. Her ears were on fire — the casket was right behind her. If she turned her head even an inch, she would catch a glimpse of him. The mourners were all staring at her, and she couldn't recognize a single face. Anne looked down at her hands like she was holding a deck of invisible index cards. The words were there, they had to be, but none of them dared to make themselves known. A few long seconds passed.
“I'm a friend of the man behind me, the one in the casket. You all probably know him, he has a few titles. Father, scientist, son. But I'm…” Anne looked out over the crowd, but couldn't see the woman anywhere. “I'm not like you. I wasn't just somebody he chatted with once or twice, no, we really talked. And whenever I looked at him, I always just had this feeling that I had built something. Something tangible, that I could hold in my hand. So when he left, I thought that it would just go but it feels like… that thing is still in my hand.”
Anne cringed at the words. She felt a cloud floating above her head, taunting her with a few glimpses of the things that were going through her mind, but never revealing enough for her to understand. It was like trying to drive at midnight with no headlights; she was bound to crash. But she couldn't stop. She had to keep speaking, keep giving the people what they wanted. Anne was the friend that cared, and the mourners needed someone like that.
So, she drove off the road.
“He was an asshole some days.” A few people started murmuring to one another, but most stayed silent. “I would walk into the office and all I would need was just the tiniest bit of kindness, a crumb of respect. And then he'd just stonewall me like I hadn't been dumping my problems onto him for years. And when I'd ask him to give me some kind of help, he'd just walk away and ignore me for the rest of the day. Right when I needed him, he'd be gone.
“And I know that I'm supposed to have some big perspective on him because I've known him for so long, but then I try to think about him and it's like… it's like he was speaking a different language and I was only catching the words I understood. I didn't know anything about him. I still don't know and I keep listening to people talk about him and I try to glean something from that but it's like everyone else had their own private language with him and I can never put the pieces together.”
Part of that was true, but Anne didn't know what. Maybe it didn't matter. The mourners were all wide-eyed and silent. She wondered if they were waiting for her to continue or allowing her to dig her own grave. But again, it didn't matter. The words continued to descend from the cloud and land in her hands.
Anne looked off into the distance, past the trees and the clouds to the sandy mountains that rose so far up into the sky that there was sand at the bottom and snow at the top. The nearest mountain was a massive, pure white shield that jutted out of the ground and shot straight up several thousand feet.
She pointed to that mountain.
“Do you know what that is? That is Site-θ. I met him there, I worked with him there. I built something with him there, and I know I did because I can feel it and point to it and say that it is there. But you probably don't see it that way. None of you work there, I don't recognize you. You probably looked at it and thought that it was just another rock. Maybe you're right, but it's more than that to me. It's something that I can… I can feel, almost. And maybe you don't understand that, but you know what? That's okay.”
Anne turned and her eyes met the man's face. He was smiling. That must have been the expression that was on his face when he died. Right when he knew he was going to die, he didn't scream, he didn't grow furious and roar, he just smiled. Laying on top of him was a dead and rotting flower, the leaves already withering away on his chest.
She frowned before turning to the mountains. The closest mountain was still all white, but there were noticeable stains of brown and blue on the edges. The color was fading. But Anne's mouth fell a little when she realized something: it didn't matter. The mountain would grow old, but it would stay. It would wither, it would die, and it would be forgotten a thousand times in a thousand different minds. But at least some part of it would remain inside hers.
And that was okay.

Resurrection – New Faces
| New Faces: Overture | Recruitment Drive >>


« Duets | On Mount Golgotha Hub | Pt. 2 - Padovana Dell'Ambasciatore »

No one talked. The room was quiet save for the sounds of Mike softly weeping in the corner and Zhao's too-loud breathing. Emma took a long moment to center herself, then looked up into the accusatory eyes of Sandra Dee. She tried to keep that gaze, but guilt tore at her and she was forced to look away.
She attempted to disguise the weakness by fumbling at the clasps on her combat harness, but she could feel the tips of her ears go hot as the shame of her failure burned through her chest like acid. The expedition into Alagadda had at least produced results, and she patted the pocket of her BDUs where John Dee's journal rested.
But at what cost?

June 24, 3 days prior -
"Get your shit in gear, ladies. We've got thirteen minutes until we're due at 2264-A, and Director Ruslav doesn't like to be kept waiting." Emma put steel into her voice, trying to instill a confidence that she didn't yet feel into the men and women that had been assigned to her.
They'd all gone through the simulators, again and again. Eta-11 had put more hours of training into the past few weeks than they had in the past few years, and they'd been pushed almost to mutiny by the grueling schedule that Emma had kept them to. In fact, she was fairly certain that the only thing that had kept them all from outright going on strike was that she had been right there with them, every step of the way.
Now, the hardened veterans of Eta-11 were at least obeying her, albeit grudgingly, and the newcomers looked at her with nothing short of awe. She'd have to be careful about that, as she glanced over to catch Mike Carter doing exactly that. She gave him a wan smile and went back to fiddling with her gear.
It didn't help that she'd read up on everything the Foundation had on Alagadda. While Dr. Narváez' two excursions into the place hadn't resulted in his death or even obvious madness, it was the report that she'd finally been cleared to read last night that had given her true pause.
"Ok. Mission parameters. We're looking for clues regarding 012. Our research into the anomaly and the events surrounding it leads me to believe that "our" version might not be the only one in existence. We need to find confirmation if possible, but getting our hands on any other copies would be even better."
She shakes her head, pushing back the mental image of Agent Papadopoulos laying in his hospital bed.
"Under no circumstances is anyone to go near the throne room. Our destination is the library. If we cannot get there, the mission is to be scrapped. If we hear any indication that the Ambassador is in the city, the mission scraps. If anyone shows evidence of succumbing to the distractions of that place, the mission scraps."
She takes another deep breath. "I know you all have deep reservations about doing this. Hell, I do too. But if I'm correct, and all the evidence points to it, we have no real choice. It's this or nothing." She pauses again, looking out at the apprehensive faces looking back at her.
"We're professionals. You all know what to do."

June 27, Present Day -
"I don't give a FUCK if the goddamn mission is going to be classified as a success, that madwoman nearly got all of us killed and Hennessey might as well—"
"D-2047, need I remind you that continued good behavior is the only reason that you remain assigned to Eta-11?" The distorted voice on the other side of the one-way mirror interrupted Sandra Dee's rant, and for a moment Dee stared at the glass with barely-suppressed rage.
"So, we're back to that now, are we? I see. I give you assholes a decade of my life, get two commendations for valor in the field, and we're back to 'D-2047', as if none of that fucking matters." She glared daggers at the glass and crossed her arms across her chest in helpless defiance.
"We are not here to discuss your classification, D-2047. Just answer the question."
Dee rolled her eyes at the mirror and muttered something under her breath. "Fine. We entered Alagadda-"
"SCP-2264-B"
"Whatever. We entered 2264-B through the gate in Martin Tower, on schedule. Stark had fed us some stupid line about all the precautions that were in place to ensure our safety, but that did shit to help those of us that knew better. We went in anyway, because that is our fuckin' job, and Zhao believed her."
She sighed and uncrossed her arms to rest them on the table in front of her. She stared at her fingers for a few moments before shaking her head and looked back up at the mirror.
"I don't know fuck about shit in that place. We read all the reports, went through all the training, but none of that really mattered once we got there. I'm pretty sure that 2264-A opens someplace new every time we activate it, 'cause we ended up in the palace proper as soon as we stepped through."
She paused again and looked back down at her fingers.
"The first few hours were fine. We never saw that Wandsman guy Narváez was babbling on about, but the library was easy enough to find. Seeing people fucking on platforms built sideways into the goddamn walls was distracting, but the filters worked well enough."
A sarcastic snort escapes from between her teeth. "Narváez said we'd look different over there, and he wasn't wrong. It didn't feel any different on the inside. I was still wearing all my shit, but I caught my reflection in a mirror. I didn't know a regulation-issue helmet and face shield could look like a stylized rat mask, but it did. Mike tried fiddling with his mask until Stark yelled at him about leaving the shit on, and-"
"The library, D-2047." The voice interrupted her again, and Dee snarled an invective in response before spitting off to the side and continuing.

June 24, SCP-2264-B -
"Carter. Cut that shit out." Emma wasn't certain if she was speaking over their communications channel or if her voice was being distorted by the mask she wore. The voice-to-text was still working, and she could see the words she'd just said scrolling across the glass plate of her visor.
The others didn't look like they were wearing their gear, but that had been expected, planned for. She looked around at the bizarre architecture of the building, trying to find her bearings. She'd interviewed Narváez extensively, read every scrap she could get her hands on about this place. She'd thought she'd been ready to navigate through this maze, but now she was having second thoughts.
"I'm pretty sure this is the palace. At least, this looks like the type of decor Dr. Narváez described in his reports. If that's the southern part of the city, then the library should be this way." She pointed down the long hallway to their left, then quickly looked back towards the group as the distance spatial distortions played merry hell with the optics in her helmet.
She caught Hennessey's eyes and the sparkle there told her he had noticed the reaction. He gave her a thumbs up and she just shook her head and started walking down the hallway. The walk wasn't nearly as unpleasant as the view had promised, though the almost-random way that the floor seemed to tilt and angle was just as confusing as she'd anticipated.
The others seemed to enjoy themselves, quietly joking among themselves with the familiarity of long companionship. Even Flores seemed to have integrated herself into the team in a way that irked Emma. She thought briefly about quieting the team, but decided that their relaxed chatter was a better alternative to tense silence. Not like the locals seemed to even notice them.
She averted her gaze from a twisting group of naked bodies that cavorted in one of the alcoves off to the side, then looked up as Zhao called a halt.
"Commander, you said to look for a door with an open book on it, right?" She gestured at the elaborately decorated door in front of her. The double panels of the door was carved to look like an open book, it's pages slightly curled, and covered with a scene straight from one of the odder portions of The Garden of Earthly Delights.
Emma grimaced at the obscene carvings and nodded. "Yeah. That's the library. Let's go."

June 27, present day -
"-so we spent a few hours in there just scopin' the place out." Mike Carter paused to take a sip from the glass of water in front of him. "I mean, I guess we were scopin' the place out. Flores an' Stark were looking for somethin' specific." He shook his head, still holding the glass. "You know, I'm used to not knowin' everythin', you know? We get sent to places all the damn time without a full intel load, an' that's just how this shit is some times."
He raises the glass to his lips, his hand trembling a bit as he does so. He frowned at that, then threw back the rest of the water like he was taking a shot.
"But I was always confident before that the Commander- uh, that Richards was tellin' us every thing HE knew. Like, he was only keepin' the secrets he was required to."
The uniformed Internal Security officer across the table from him frowned. "You know why Richards was removed from his position. He deliberately lied to you and to us. He's a traitor to the Foundation."
Carter shrugged and appeared to draw into himself. "I know, I know. I guess… I guess the guy had a real good reason for doin' what he did. He said he was protectin' the Foundation, an' I…" He trailed off and looked down at the table.
For a few moments he was silent, then began again when the officer prompted him to continue.
"So, we was lookin' through the place. It was a helluva library, I ain't gonna lie. I ain't never seen books on the ceiling before. An' not just stuck there like some kinda prank. There were ladders an' staircases goin' every which way. You could start up one, make a turn, an' be sideways to the one you jus' walked up. There was places that just sorta- I dunno, stuck out at odd angles 'n shit. We was expectin' that, with all the non-euclidean trainin' we went through, so I wasn't too turned around by it."
He gestured with his hands, crossing them about in front of him as if pantomiming a slow WWI-era aerial dogfight. "The place went every-which way, like I said, an' we was just gettin' the hang of things when Stark called out over the radio. I was with Zhao- Stark had us split into buddy groups, so I was with the LT, Dee an' H was on the other side of the room, an' Stark was with Flores down on the floor."
He paused for a moment, a contemplative expression on his face.
"Yeah, so we hear Stark call across the radio, and I look across to see Dee an' H climbing down the stairs towards them. There was no "quick way" to get there, 'cause just jumpin' a banister seemed like an awful bad idea. Zhao took the lead like she does an' we started headin' back."
The officer nodded and made a few notes in the pad on the table in front of him. After a few moments he looked back up. "And was that when you saw 2264-4?"
"Is that what you're callin' him now? I guess that's when the others did, I never saw him."
The officer frowned at that, looking up from his notes. "In Zhao's testimony, she stated that Stark had been in conversation with 2264-4 for almost an hour."
It was Carter's turn to frown, and he scratched lightly at his head, a confused look on his face. "Did she say that? I don't know nothin' about that. I distinctly remember Stark callin', then Zhao leadin' us down the staircase over to them, an' seein' Dee and H across the way. It took us about 20 minutes to get back to where Stark was, an' she was all excited 'n shit, talkin' to Flores about some book she'd found."

June 24, SCP-2264-B -
This whole place was a hazard, of every conceivable type. The music playing constantly, from everywhere, was filled with compulsive effects. The art on the walls seemed to want to draw her in, gave the impression that she could, quite literally in some cases, step through their ornate frames and join in whatever revelry that was depicted there. Even the very air they were breathing tasted odd, like she was breathing in fumes from some heady drug-laced incense.
Emma shook her head for what seemed like the thousandth' time. She was surrounded by forgotten and forbidden knowledge. Every bookshelf she looked at seemed to be filled with treaties by authors she vaguely recognized. Empedocles, Anaxagoras, Heron of Alexandria, Ficino. Musicians, philosophers, mathematicians, theologians. The library was astounding and deeply unsettling.
She sighed and looked over at Flores who was busily pouring over the books stacked neatly on a nearby shelf. She regretted lying to the woman, but it was the only way to both maintain protocol, and keep the knowledge she had to herself. She shook her head again and returned to contemplating the small glass case in front of her.
The compulsion to break the glass and withdraw the instrument that hung there was immense. She'd been looking for this, she'd known it was here. It had been something Dr. Narváez had said, an off-handed comment about something he remembered seeing in the library. It was a quill. Made from bone, one end hardened and sharpened to a point. Dr. Narváez had mentioned something about how even the writing implements were strange, that there had been a quill that still had wet ink stains on it.
Except that it wasn't ink. Wet, yes, but it wasn't ink, it was blood.
"Yosef ben Matityahu's pen. What significance does it mean to you, I wonder."
She turned, startled. The library had been empty of people when they arrived, and she'd only seen or heard the other members of Eta-11 since entering. For a moment she swayed, her vision and balance confused by the sudden impression that she was surrounded by people that she couldn't see, feel, or hear.
The old man in front of her reached out a bony hand and steadied her, a crooked smile on his gentle features. "Careful, girl. This is not a place to lose one's way."
Emma nodded, distractedly, her hand briefly dropping to the table beside her as she fought off the sudden wave of vertigo.
"I'm sorry. I was just startled. I didn't see you come up." She shook her head again, then looked back at the quill in its case. "Yosef ben Matityahu? That name sounds familiar."
The old man chuckled as he stepped up beside her to look into the case with her. He stood barely to her shoulder, and he was dressed in ornate black robes that reminded her of the cassocks that she'd seen the priests wear whenever the news showed a story from the Vatican.
"Yes." He gently stroked the glass in front of them. "Though, you might know him as Josephus."


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"Such a Shame It Didn't Work"
Ten years, and still no surname.
More by this author!

"Check destination."
He pressed a button on his console, and a tinted screen dropped down across the hatch window. He looked directly at the sun.
"Destination confirmed. The sun is still there."
"Can you try taking this seriously, please?"
"It's my life. I'll take it any way I want to."
The radio fed him a few moments of judgemental silence. "Fine. Check ignition sequence."
He didn't bother. "Ignition sequence checked."
"You didn't check shit. I know how long that list is."
"And I know this craft like the back of my hand. I spent months designing it. I watched them cast the panels from a live feed in my cell. I watched them bolt it together. If I say it's ready, it's ready."
"You understand the consequences if this goes wrong?"
"Better than anyone. I'm killing myself to avoid those consequences, forever, for everybody."
"You killed yourself a long time ago. This is just the burial at sea."

"Okay," she said. "I've definitely heard en-"

He smiled. "Now you're getting into the spirit of things. Let's light this candle."
Silence on the radio again.
Finally: "What?"
"Alan Shepard. It's a quote from Alan Shepard."
"Well, you said it wrong. And you're no Alan Shepard."
He began flipping switches on the console with the assurance of muscle memory, every motion scheduled weeks in advance and drilled with Marine precision. "I'm pre-heating."
"We haven't given you launch clearance."
Within seconds, all the readouts were at maximum. "Well, you'd better, because I'm ready to fly." He placed one gloved finger against a big, red button.
He'd had to fight them tooth and nail for that big, red button.

"Hey! Ground Control to Dr. Dan!" She snapped her fingers.

He reached up and pulled a faded, creased photograph from the overhead Velcro stripping. It depicted a snowy mountain range; he knew that from memory.
He didn't look at it, yet.
"Ignition." He pressed the button.
He looked at the photograph.

"And then he died," she finished for him, tossing her copy of the file onto the table between them.
Dr. Dan glared at her. "Not before I break atmo, taking 096 with me."
She scoffed. "You look at the photo at the moment of launch, 096 bursts into the lower levels of the rocket—"
"I look at the photo after the moment of launch. 096 has to run all the way up the tower, then jump onto the rocket as it's picking up speed."
"And then it reaches the capsule—"
"Spacecraft."
"—the spacecraft well before you're out of the atmosphere, kills you, jumps out and goes on a tear through, what? The Kennedy Space Centre?"
He flipped his copy back to the cover page and tossed it onto hers. "Obviously we'd use one of our own launch facilities."
She sighed. "Dan, this is the worst plan you've come up with in ten years. It's not the first time you've submitted a draft involving space. It's not even the first time you've tried to shoot 096 into the sun, although tipping it off for no reason at all is certainly a new wrinkle, for what little that's worth. Last month you suggested killing it with boredom by making it listen to On Mount Golgotha on loop. Why even use skips? You're not cleared to know, oh, about four thousand of them. Your data's a decade out of date. And that's not the worst of it, not by half. Your old proposals at least followed proper experimentation format… this one's a short story! What's next, a screenplay treatment? A graphic novel?" She blew out a breath in frustration. "Even your own characters are calling you on your shit, now."
He'd felt tired, when he'd started to recite the plan to her. Now, he felt angry. "My old proposals? Do you want to talk about my old proposals, Sophia? All five hundred of them? Most of them would have worked. But for some reason, some goddamn reason," and he was clenching both fists now, desperate to go full jarhead on the metal table, "you people won't let me follow through. I thought we had an arrangement."
Sophia Light crossed her arms and regarded him coolly. "Our 'arrangement' was that you'd devise a means for terminating 096, and then we'd terminate you. For causing… how many deaths? Dozens?"
"Forty-seven," he responded, without hesitation. "To show you what your boy is capable of."
"Our boy, okay. And to show civilians what we're capable of? AND show them the horrors they share their world with?"
He shook his head. "We did our homework, Oleksei and I. Made sure the incident could be covered up properly. Made sure the loss of life would be… minimal. Just enough to get the job done."
She laughed, mirthlessly. "Tell that to Oleksei. Or the motorists on the freeway. Tell that to the baby—"
"Fuck off about the baby."
She blinked.
"You think it doesn't bother me, what happened? It bothers me. It bothers me that so many presumably innocent people were…" He sighed heavily. "By that thing. It bothers me that that was my plan! But you know what bothered me more? Knowing that we were going to just let it keep inflicting its thousands of tiny cuts on us, year after year, all the while risking a full-blown breach with potentially endless civilian casualties. All that waste, all that danger, all so O5 didn't have to strike a number off their precious inventory." He was getting hot under the collar of his detention uniform; he badly missed the breezy formality of his labcoat.
She shook her head. "They approved your decommissioning request."
"They approved it so long ago that we'd just coined the terminology!" This time he did slam one fist down on the table, and was perversely pleased to see it dent. Still got it. Some of it, at least. "Kondraki wants to throw cat piss on a vampire? Rubber-stamped. Iceberg wants to throw a snowball at a shape-shifter? Go for it. Dr. Dan wants to properly dispose of a practically-uncontainable murder monster, and he thinks up five hundred feasible proposals for doing so, and not one of them is good enough? I'm calling bullshit. Right now. Today."
"That so?"
"That's so."
"Took you long enough."
They stared at each other for a moment, not saying anything. The door to the interview room opened, and Light's assistant Vaux appeared with a satchel and a cardboard coffee tray containing two cardboard cups. "Sorry," he said. "Couldn't find the break room." He set the tray down between them, next to Dan's latest masterpiece, and handed her the satchel. She placed it in her lap.
She picked up one of the cups, and gestured for Dan to take the other. He crossed his arms and glared at her, and she shrugged. "Your last five plans have been just as bad as this one," she remarked between sips. "I get the idea that you wanted someone to come ask what's going on."
He barked out a hoarse harrumph. He'd been practicing those a lot, in his advancing middle age. "That's me, the master manipulator. Weaver of plans most devious and excellent. I got Sophia Light to pay me a visit after ten fucking years. My twenty-year plan is to get a go-karting play date with Gerald."
"Gerald's retired," she said. "And Iceberg killed himself. And someone put a bullet in Kondraki's head shortly after the cat piss incident, although you kinda buried the lede on that one."
He clearly didn't know what to say about all that. She watched him thoughtfully for a moment, letting it sink in, then reached into the satchel. She pulled out a slim binder, and slid it across the table.
He glanced down at it.
He glanced up at her. "Decommissioning Department?"
She nodded.
"I didn't even know we had something like that."
"Well, WE have had something like that for a few years now. YOU, being a subject in detention, weren't cleared to know about it."
He unfolded his arms and tapped the binder. "What would I see, if I read this?"
"A comprehensive overview of the long and storied career of one of the DeD's best consultants. A man who crafted over five hundred feasible decommissioning or neutralization methods, some of which have been successfully employed."
He let a moment pass, just the space of one beat, then grinned.
She raised an eyebrow.
He laughed, for real this time. "What, were you expecting me to be surprised? I did what I did a decade ago. There's no other logical reason to keep me around for this long. If I'd written up five hundred failed decom plans, you'd stop asking me for input and just fire me by firing squad. I always suspected you were doing something like this."
"And you played along?"
"Played along? No. I genuinely believe that a lot of these things can't be allowed to keep existing, Sophia. They're too dangerous, and we're too eager to play with them, test the limits, risk lives. You think I'm Machiavellian because of what Oleksei and I pulled off? Well, I am. Machiavelli endorses cold means for warm, fuzzy results. The greater good. I'm not fucking Clef or Mann or any of your power-mad glory hounds." He paused. "They're still alive?"
She nodded.
"Too bad. But I'm not like them. I'm willing to take a bullet for my own plans, if I have to, because they're the right plans. For everybody. I still believe that."
She retrieved the binder, slid both copies of his proposal inside and dropped it into the satchel. "Speech done?"
He nodded. "Speech done."
She stood up, and reached across the table with her right hand.
He frowned. "What are we shaking on?"
"I'm offering you a job."
"With the… Decommissioning Department? I thought I already had that."
"I'm not from the Decommissioning Department. I'm doing something you won't approve of, and I want you to give me a hand with it." She nodded at hers, still outstretched. "Today, preferably."
"I'm in detention," he reminded her. "Indefinite detention."
She nodded. "You've just been paroled. That prepared statement was a real doozy, how long have you had it in your pocket?"
He rolled his eyes.
"Take my hand and stand up," she said. "Get a breath of fresh air, and start your new life."
"My new life doing what?"
"Machiavellian schemes, of course. Somebody just pulled George Bowe out of mothballs, so I thought hey, why not break out a museum piece of my own?"
He stood up, and shook her hand. "Bowe. You're serious."
"Yep." She handed the satchel to Vaux, and he held the door open for her. "Let's get a move-on. We've got devious plans to lay, you and I."
Dan grabbed the extra coffee on his way around the table. "What about 096?" he demanded, as Vaux walked past him to retrieve the empty tray.
"Oh," she said, over her shoulder. "We shot it into the sun nine years ago."
Dan rushed across the room to follow her. "Wait, what? Actually?"
He had to run to keep up.
"Actually? Sophia?!"

« Footage Recovered From a Private Server | Old Foes Hub | Him and the Other Him »


#144

No matter how much they automate these places, there will always be someone standing in the convenience store, unable to choose between two brands of cheap cigarettes. Tonight, that someone is me. I sway between the two choices like an indecisive metronome. Each pack is encased in a shell of screens showing the same advertisement on repeat. The decision isn't that important. I can't taste the difference between a Cuban Cigar and a regular cigarette. There's no way I'll care about a Marlboro versus a Newport. I'm just choosing between the two names, and nothing else.
The whole convenience store stinks of alcohol and chips. I can still hear a low thudding noise from the night club across the street vibrating through the walls. Not that many people leave their homes for fun nowadays. Everyone has some kind of VR Headset or Sensory Immersion Device to keep themselves entertained. My brother has one. Spends his evenings locked in his room talking to people who will never know his real name, real face, real body. It was all avatars and usernames.
I snatch a pack of Marlboros and start towards the door. I stuff my hands deep in my pockets to stop myself from taking a hit. Two large consoles stand before the exit to scan customers and automatically pay for their snacks and booze. No one works at stores anymore anyhow. Hell, no one really goes to stores either. Outings are reserved for bars and parties. But I need the excuse to leave that stuffy apartment. Get away from the neon advertisements right outside my window. I have this nice, dim alleyway where I can just sit back and wreath myself in smoke. It's my little slice of paradise.
"Please halt!"
I freeze in my tracks. The consoles flash bright red. An exclamation point blinks on their central screen.
"Your personal identification insert is invalid. You are an unregistered citizen."
My insert? It'd been working fine all day. What happened to it?
"Do not move. City officials have been alerted."
Everyone has to be registered. If you're not registered you're either a fugitive or a human trafficking victim. I hadn't met anyone who was unregistered but I know what they do to jaywalkers and shoplifters.
"Do not move."
I run. Of course I run. It's the dumbest fucking decision but I make it anyways and run. Past closed stores and powered down kiosks. Past a man wearing a white suit who I almost topple. Past the street signs and buildings lighting up with virtual wanted posters. I turn a corner and suddenly I'm in the only dark place on the block. My alley. I slam myself against a dumpster and slide to the ground. My stamina is not what it used to be. Or maybe it was just the cigars taking their toll on my lungs.
The signs I passed in the streets. They all have my face, and my description, and my… wait was that my name again?

#63

7:42 PM
hey

Hey

hows the heat treating you?

Miserably. I've been helping my dad with the garden all day. I think I'm totally sunburnt.

yikes. ive been inside all day but like, our air conditioning is broken so it still feels hot and sticky. its been stressing my mom out. i think she went through half a pack of cigs to calm herself down.

Sorry to hear that. I can't imagine how much worse the smoke makes everything.

im kind of used to it by now. but still i wanted to get out of the house tomorrow anyways. i know the y has an indoor ice rink. u want to hang out with me there?

That sounds like fun! I just need to check in with my folks. I'll let you know when I hear back from them.

I reread the messages for the fourth time while lying in bed. I can't believe he would leave me hanging like this. Kyle sent that last message hours ago, but I can't bother him about it yet. He'd think I'm pushy. But I can't fall asleep without an answer. The room is sticky and the air is stale and all I want is to hear back from the boy I like. I'm miserable.
I get up and pace around my over-decorated room. The walls are smothered in posters and stickers, and the desk was covered in knick-knacks. Sometimes Mom would call me a hoarder in between drags of her cigarette. The whole house always smelled of smoke anyways. I heard Mom fight with Dad about it once. They thought I was asleep but they were real loud. Eventually Mom promised she would only smoke when she got stressed. Unfortunately, ever since Dad left she was always stressed.
That's also probably when I started collecting all the things for my room. Losing Dad taught me that if I don't keep a close eye on things that are important to me, they might just walk away.
Which brings me back to Kyle, who might've been getting away from our date.
I pick up the phone again. I've waited long enough.

11:04 PM
hey, u talk with ur folks yet?

After a moment, pulsating dots appear. He's finally responding! I glue my eyes to the screen.

I'm sorry… I think you have the wrong number.

what do u mean? i messaged you just earlier today

Maybe its something wrong with my phone. What's your name so I can add you back to my contacts?

nobody

Excuse me?

no, i meant to type nobody

i mean nobody

nobody

nobody

I drop my phone. Why can't I type anything else? My fingers they just— they just won't listen. I can't type my name! I can't type— what was my name again?
Nobody.
My head spins. I can't handle it. I bolt down the stairs, which creak under my frantic steps. My name, where is it? I've lost it. Gone. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's dehydration. Maybe it's real. I'm overwhelmed. Mom does something to deal with stress, right? Maybe that will help. I fumble through the kitchen drawers for my mother's last pack of cigarettes. My hands are shaking while I toy with the lighter. Flick, flick.. and a flame ignites.
I light the tube and inhale deep. Smoke fills my lungs. I cough wildly. Is this what helps Mom calm down? This burning sensation in my chest? I take another puff. And another. And then another cigarette. After another coughing spree I look up to see Mom at the stairway. How long had she been watching? When the smoke's cleared for long enough, I catch a glimpse of Mom's concerned face, but it was not a mother's concern. Just behind I can make out a silhouette of a man, maybe Dad, wearing a white suit. A single thought flashes through my mind.
I pocket the cigarettes and run.

#29

I slow down only after I'm sure he stopped following me. I've never seen someone dressed in such a nice suit run so fast. I could've sworn the bank was closed. Who gives a shit if I sleep in the doorway? No one else was using it. And even if someone did care they didn't have to chase me down over it. I guess I'll just lie in the park, like normal.
I did always enjoy parks for sleeping. Sure, the trees only do so much to keep me dry when it rains, but the grass is softer and I can be further away from the streets. The cars are always so loud. My dad told me that when I was really little, the streets were mostly used for horses. They smelled worse but at least they didn't have an engine. But maybe I would be more tolerable of cars if I had a job to commute to, or a home to commute from.
After a few years though I didn't mind being homeless. Always have to make the best of a situation, no? Besides, being on the periphery of life removes a lot of expectations. No one asks where I come from, where I'm going. Not that I have a good answer myself. Even the people I share trashcan fires with don't talk much. No one cares who I am when they'll never see me again.
Finally catching my breath, I survey the new street corner once more. For the first time in years, I feel out of place. Not that I belonged anywhere before, but that feeling is caused by pity and repulsion from people keeping a solid three feet between me and them. This feeling is less about me not belonging here, but rather… being needed somewhere else. For something else.
It's strange. Like a magnetic force pulling me down a new street. Maybe to a new town. But this time to a place I need to be. I haven't felt needed in a long, long time. Someone, something, somewhere is expecting something from me. It's terrifying in a way.
For the first time in a long time, I set off with a destination in mind.

#8

Tired, afraid, and without a dog tag, I trudge back through the trenches. I gag at the smell of rotting bodies and gunpowder. I don't want to die here among the nameless casualties of war. I spent the last thirty six hours doing everything I could to keep myself alive. In doing so, I became a coward. And cowards don't belong in the trenches.
The only thing I know I am is a coward. I have a German uniform, and I'm in the German trenches, but I don't even know if I'm really German anymore. If I'm a soldier anymore.
I move against the wave of soldiers rushing to the front lines. A call for attack came in that morning. Hordes of men with forgettable faces and names batter against me like I'm a fish swimming upstream.
"Soldier!"
I keep moving.
"Halt! That's an order."
I stop, but do not turn around. The sergeant speaks with a raspy voice powered by cigars and coffee. He grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around.
"You will look at me when I am talking to you, son."
"Yes sir," I respond. I even salute. My movements, my speech, it's all on autopilot.
"Where were you going?"
"To retrieve ammunition, sir."
"You were supposed to do that before the attack."
"I just got back, sir."
"Back from where?"
"I couldn't say sir."
"Do you take me for a fool?"
"No, sir. It's been a bad last day and a half, sir."
"What is your name, private?"
"Frankly, sir, I don't think you will remember it, because I don't think you care."
The sergeant looks me over one more time. Only then does he notice my torn up pants, and the blood that runs down my neck, and the cracks in my helmet. I don't have a squadron, or a battalion, or a company with me. I just had to leave the front lines. Someone is waiting for me there that I shouldn't meet. At least, not yet.
Instead, there's a meeting in Berlin which I am not invited to. And an apartment there just for me with a notebook full of empty pages. There's a park bench I need to monitor. Drinks I need to order.
"A gun is useless without its bullets. Be snappy."
I nod, and push on. Both of us know that I won't be returning for the attack.

#0

No two transitions are the same, but they always start with panic. And after the panic subsides, Nobody always finds their footing. Be it in an alleyway, or a park, or a medical tent. There's always a moment to breathe, and maybe even have a smoke.
And when Nobody recognizes their newfound fate and purpose in the world, when they see the interworkings of the universe unfold in front of them, when they find their tools to fix the course of history…
A man dressed in a white suit is always nearby. Just out of sight, just out of mind. Cursing to himself, because he is too late, yet again.

The Man Who Wasn't There

The Man In The White Suit

Hub
→ Hello, My Name Isn't ←
Chiaroscuro
Nobody, Nobody, Nobody, and Nobody's Encounters with The Man in the White Suit
SCP-5353 -- Does Anyone Remember Fritz Obermeyer?
Everyday Is Somebody's Birthday
SCP-5877 -- Nobodies
Ghosts in the Machine
Files intercepted from Anderson Systems personnel
SCP-5375 -- Nobody and the Name Machine
Epilogue
Nobody in Their Right Mind


It is cold.
I felt nothing in my shell as the still ambiance echoed in the deep sea. Placed alongside several others of my kind, I am but an immature being. Despite this, nothing threatens my existence. Baffling as it is, I was left alone.
Together, we sit. Line by line, embryo by embryo, there were hundreds—if not millions—that lay amongst my shell.
And yet, mother never came back.
Left in the deep sea, we grew and grew, with the absence of a parent figure. Why would she produce such a vast amount of embryones and leave us bare? In spite of this, I had grown enough to think my own thoughts, to become self-aware. But these thoughts also brought several ominous ones as well.
Left with my siblings, I began to mull over the truancy of my mother. It had shaken me to my core, thinking that she left me to rot on my own; however, such thoughts eventually left me, washing away in the flow of consciousness.
As I felt the water rush over me, I could feel vibrations amongst the shells. My brethren were shaking, as if to escape, to leave. I watched from my own shell, my prying eyes staring right into theirs.
Where could they go, in this dark environment?
I saw as many of their carapaces started to crack. Wriggling around in their now broken shells, they slowly grew accustomed to the water. Like grains of sand, they began swimming towards the surface—towards the light, which was overshadowed by a tiny figure.
Something was happening, and I didn't know what.
Eventually, I heard the sounds from the surface, loud and abrupt. My siblings have been swimming towards their demise. Why must I watch as they approached their demise? Why must I watch while they took the initiative?
Why have I been left alone?
I shook violently. My stomach started churning, saliva dripping from my throat. At that moment, my brother emerged from my maw; and we both looked—looked up with two pairs of eyes, as a loud roar emanated from the heavens while we thought:
Oh.
She's calling.
It's time to wake up.

Anastasis

War on All Fronts: Anastasis

Queen of the Monsters