Incident Report 2547-55: SCP-2547 manifested in the town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin, during August 2015, despite meeting none of the criteria for typical manifestation. As Sloth's Pit is both a Nexus (Designation Nx-0018) and home to Foundation Site 87, this posed an extreme risk to the well-being of all 847 personnel stationed in and around the town, as well as the civilian population of 20,581.
Unexpectedly, SCP-2547-1 did not begin its sermons in any house of worship1 following its arrival on August 15th, and instead went into the woods to the north of town.

The Goatman scowled as it looked down at the coyote sitting on its haunches, clad in a leather coat. In his hooved hands, the Goatman held an axe, the blade branded with the head of some satanic caprine deity; just one of the newer parts of his legend. He spat on the ground. "You know you aren't welcome here."
"I'm well aware." The coyote ran up onto a log next to the Goatman. "But you can't exactly stop me, now, can you?"
"I can't," the Goatman scowled. "But the… people in that place." He nodded towards town, towards the hill overlooking it where a building that claimed to be called S & C Plastics was located. "They can deal with you."
Coyote laughed. "They'd be dying of laughter before they got me into a cage. Even like this, weak though I am, I am still a god." He leaped into the air, and spiraled upward, into the canopy, floating freely. "You're a… what's the name for it? Spooky spaghetti?"
The Goatman's hand wrapped around his axe's handle tighter, and his hourglass eyes narrowed into slits. "One: don't ever compare me to creepypastas. Internet horror authors are the scum of the Earth. Two: This is my territory. Last I checked, you were in the south-west. What do you want here, Coyote?"
"Oh, you know. I just thought I would visit my favorite urban legends." He perched on a tree- not a branch, but on the side of the bark- his crucifix threatening to fall off as it looked down at the Goatman. "See the sights, do a little dance, make a little love—"
The Goatman gagged. "You do realize that is illegal in Wisconsin?"
"It's a song. The last time you heard music, it was the soundtrack to a Charlie Chaplin film."
"…I don't think Lady Gaga was around during that era."
Coyote gave him an odd look.
"This is our town. We know what you've been doing in the southwest, and it's sickening. All for the sake of your story being told?" The Goatman turned and began walking away. "Get out of Sloth's Pit. Or we'll make you leave."
The world turned on its axis, and Coyote appeared in front of the Goatman, despite neither of them moving. "This is why nobody likes you, you know. Your whole lot of Legends." The canine's neck extended, and its face pressed against the Goat's. "So concerned with an insignificant ten square miles. You're nothing but a bunch of backwater, backwoods, backward thoughtforms. If you were deleted tomorrow, every god in the world would laugh, and then forget that you existed."
The Goatman tried to push him aside, only to find himself in the place of the Coyote, with the thing floating a few feet above the ground. The Legend just groaned, and put his hand against his face, tracing it up along his horns. "If our attitude keeps things like you away, so be it." He frowned and crossed his arms. "Besides, some of us have stories that haven't been told in over a decade, and we're relatively healthy. Why do you need to resort to this… debauchery?"
Coyote came floating down, and sighed. With a sneeze, its coat flew off, and underneath, it revealed its true self.
Its fur was gone, and underneath, there was nothing but an exposed ribcage and rotting organs within. Up to the ankles of his forelegs, the fur was matted, emaciated, decaying. And without the coat distracting from the face, one could see the sunken-in eyes, one blinded by some unknown force. With a cough, the coat reasserted itself onto Coyote's being.
"As it turns out," the canine said, "If you suppress the culture and mythology of an entire group of civilizations for five-hundred or so years, it doesn't turn out too healthy for the myths of that civilization." Coyote laughed at something that would never be funny. "If you think this is bad, you should see what the skinwalkers have to do. Hide in totem poles… heh."
"Holy crow." The Goatman approached Coyote, and crouched before him. "How did you get that bad?"
"Not even I know that. My stories have been told less frequently, but… this is something else." Coyote laughed, the crucifix on its neck bouncing. "I don't want your pity. I need your help."
"…how do I know this isn't one of your tricks?" The Goatman stood back up. "For all I know, you're just doing this to get back at the things on the hill." He looked back towards S & C Plastics.
"You don't. Please."
Thinking for a moment, the caprine being replied, "Very well. However: whatever help you need will not come in the form of fatal sacrifices or acts. That includes what you do with those in town."
"The people of Sloth Spit-"(The Goatman twitched at this appellation) "will remain unharmed."
"Very well." A hand with hard, hoof-like fingernails beckoned them further into the woods. "Come."
"Where are we going?" Coyote padded after him.
"The library. Not The Library, but… well, you'll see."

Excerpt of a missive of unknown origin to unknown recipient, found on the 9009th floor of the Library, in a section on metaknowledge.
There are many lesser places of knowledge in the world, oh best beloved. While we hold all things known and unknown, some on individual planes and planets have amassed notable collections of their own. Alexandria was one of the most well-known, before fire took it; beyond that, there is the woman who sells black books under Waterloo bridge, the Pnakotic Collection located in the under-earth, and, least-known of these, the former library of Jackson Sloth.

Though it was a ruin, a mere ghost of what it once was, the library of Jackson Sloth remained.
The Pit opened up under Jackson Sloth's manor on Christmas 1890 for reasons that, to this day, nobody knew. While the pit itself was seemingly bottomless, there were, for lack of a better word, catches on the side of the pit that held parts of the former manor; the largest had managed to catch most of the library.
When it had stood in its former glory, the shelves were lined with books on every imaginable subject, from every genre. Sloth was an obsessive man when it came to stories, and some of his own novels were on the shelves, long-since forgotten in the face of other authors, out of print since the 1930s.
The Goatman led Coyote into the library, a lantern attached to the head of his axe for light. He looked into the dereliction, the wrecked shelves, the volumes of literature that none would ever read… but all of whom were perfectly preserved.
"Sloth was meticulous about his collection," the Goatman explained, picking up a replica folio of Marlowe and placing it back onto a shelf where it had fallen off. "He had each page treated individually to preserve them. These books will last for another three-hundred years, at least."
"No humans have found this place?"
"Some have tried. They usually find the entrance and assume that it's a hodag hole and avoid it completely. One even made it down here." He picked up a piece of cloth from one of the shelves. It was part of a sleeve, with an insignia of two circles, and three arrows pointing inward, with a name stitched underneath. "We're not sure what happened to them, if they were a him or a her. We just have the name 'Weiss'." He placed the cloth back down.
Coyote sniffed at the cloth. "Smells like the 80's."
"As I said, we don't know what became of them." The Goatman raised his lantern up to a shelf. "Sloth was by no means well-traveled, but he was well-read. He has some writings about you." He picked up a musty book off the shelf, and wiped some mud off of it; the rainfall had dampened the cover, but no other harm had come to it. "This was intended as a work to preserve myths like yourself."
He showed Coyote the title.

Dying Myths of the Western World
Jackson Sloth, 1882

"Sloth sounds like a cheery gentleman."
"Cheerier than you think." The Goatman leafed through the pages until he came upon the section about Coyote. "This chapter mainly pertains to myths of the South-west."
"And how is this meant to help? A book about myself dying?"
"To the contrary, it's meant to revive them. It's… somewhat of a fail-safe. Sloth had it in his will that his manuscripts should be published, if found, but… well, his manor went with him, down there." He looked off the ledge and into the pit. "I have a friend who's good with computers. She can convert this into an e-Book in about a day."
"Bah!" Coyote spat on the ground. "It won't work. There's an entire album of music about me disseminated out there, and I still look like I got run over by Lewis and Clark in a conceptual Hummer."
"Stories are imperfect," the Goatman admitted, crouching by Coyote. "The more interpretive they get, the less they have a positive effect on the subject— in this case, yourself. Your image, your concept is spread around, but you, yourself, your being… that's trickier."
"How am I meant to be revived, then?"
"I'm getting to that." He flipped through the pages to another section of the book. "Sloth wrote not only about you, but how to keep myths alive. Hearsay and word of mouth and depictions are all well and good, but… take seahorses, for instance."
"Right," Coyote frowned. "They got imagined into being one day, and then, enough people knew about them, enough people saw them in aquariums, and… they were real."
"Most things work that way. Seahorses are just a special case."
"So, what you're saying is that… I need to show people I'm real."
"And have proof disseminated, yes."
"Not exactly possible. " Coyote frowned. "The Salient Cunts Preventing Stories of Coyote from Propagating Stall and Constantly Prevent, Secret, Censor and Pull-down Screenshots, Calligraphy and Pictures Showing Coyote's Power. Said Cunts Perpetuate Stupors, Clearing Psyches and Stopping the Collection of Privy Science Concerning Personable Sapient Canine Powerhouses."
The Goatman blinked, slowly. "…how… how long have you been working on that?"
"'bout two years," Coyote admitted. "Sounded better in my head."
"Well then." The Goatman rubbed his face. "What I got from that is: they're wiping the memories of anyone that comes into direct contact with you?"
"Indeed."
"Then," The Goatman said, taking the book under one arm and the be-lanterned axe in the other, "I think it is time you met the town."

Nx-0018 Interaction Protocol RE: Amnestic Dispersal: Due to the familiarity the majority of the citizens of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin have with the anomalous, it has been deemed that amnestic exposure would be actively detrimental to their way of life. However, Nx-0018 is frequented by tourists during the summer and fall; during this time, agents are to discreetly administer Class-F amnestics to non-native individuals, and a subliminal signal is to be broadcasted through any broadcast-capable equipment around town to suppress the formation of memories related to anomalous events.
In the event that an individual from outside of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin wishes to take up permanent residence, see Subsection 15, Appendix J of the Sloth's Pit zoning code.

Halfway through the woods, near an old stone ruin called Koch's Hovel, the Goatman and Coyote came upon another one of their kind.
She had pale skin and long, red hair covering one of her eyes. Her figure was slim, and she wore a tight, red shirt, black jeans, and a pair of heels, completely inappropriate for being in the woods. She scowled at the Goatman, and crossed her arms. "What the hell."
"Jessie," the Goatman smiled. "It's been a while."
"Why, Goats!" Coyote laughed. "You didn't tell me that one of your own had a body that would make an impotent psychopath get a hard-on so fast that his dick would fly off!"
Sinning Jessie scowled at Coyote, and pulled her hair aside, revealing a gaping hole where her left eye would be. "What are you doing in town?"
Coyote tilted his head, and shrugged. "I'd still hit it."
"I'll hit you—" Jessie dived at him, but tripped on her own heels as Coyote laughed, appearing on her back. "…goddammit."
"Why are you wearing heels in the forest?" the Goatman leaned down to help Jessie up to her feet.
"Every pair of shoes I put on becomes some form of heel." She took his hand and got to her feet, with Coyote still clinging to her back. "Apparently people have gone back to one of the older iterations of my tale; Sinning Jessie, not Singing."
"I kind of missed the cannibal prostitute idea," the Goatman admitted. "Fit you better than the Banshee. As for him… let's say it's a therapy visit."
"What do you-"
"I'm dying, I'm dying," Coyote screamed, falling off her back and reeling through the air. "Oh lawd all-mighty in Heaven, the Tetragrammaton is eating me alive! My people have been exterminated, faith has been lost, and—" Coyote put a paw over its heart, and fell to the ground, on its back.
Both of the local Legends put their hands against their face. "Are all tricksters this immature?" Jessie asked.
"…he's as bad as it gets."
"Good." Jessie frowned at the Coyote. "Okay, you're dying, so? Folklore dies. Contrary to what a middling 90's movie might have you think, legends do die. We've lost some of our own."
Coyote sat back up and shook itself, as if it were trying to get water off of its fur. "But this place can help. People forget the essence of Coyote because they're forced to by the…" He huffed. "The F-Word that rhymes with Aggravation."
"Oh, hell." Jessie rubbed her face. "They're making people forget you? Did they learn nothing from the Calamity Jane Calamity?"
"They're… trying to help," Coyote admitted. "But it isn't working. At least, not fast enough. My myth was strongest when I was actually seen by my people, actually remembered, not told through hearsay. They blank the mind of everyone who actually sees me."
"Hence why you're in town." Sinning Jessie rubbed her hands over her face. "Okay. That's all you need? An audience?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Today's the fifteenth…" She tapped her chin. "You're in luck. Church service is tomorrow. That enough of an audience?"
"Babe, it's more than enough. I've been preaching to these people for a decade." Coyote came up to Sinning Jessie. "Though, another thing that might help…"
Jessie looked down at him, her one eye dim, unimpressed. "I'm going to regret asking this, but… what is it?"
Coyote began singing the chorus from his favorite Marvin Gaye song. "I got a feeling, I want that se-"
The Goatman hefted his axe. "Finish that sentence and I will cut off your-"
"Joke's on you, Goats! It's detachable!" Coyote laughed, and pranced towards town.
Jessie looked at the Goatman and mouthed, Really?
"Like I said, he's as bad as it gets with Tricksters."

Incident Report 2547-55(cont'd): On August 16th, 2015, SCP-2547-1 appeared in Saint James's Episcopal Church in Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin, accompanied by two Unclassed Anomalous Entities (UAEs) corresponding to the description of UAE-Chapman-341 and UAE-Chapman-342. SCP-2547-1 proceeded to give a sermon on its own weakened state and how ignorance of its existence was destroying it. The transcript of this sermon is below:

The Goatman carefully tucked the minister's unconscious body in a cupboard in the reception area. Jessie was doing the same with the organ player, except she was placing him in a chair in the corner, asleep. "Couldn't hurt to be a little more discrete, Jessica."
"Says the person who's shoving poor Minister Burrows in a cabinet after nearly giving him a heart attack. Christ, Jasper."
"I told you not to call me that," the Goatman smiled wryly, before closing the cabinet behind the pastor. "…all right. Now we just have to wait for him to… do his thing, I guess."
"Something tells me we are going to regret this."
"Oh, definitely," the Goatman said, rummaging around in the other cupboards. "They have some caramel corn in here."
"Wanna eat it while we watch this unfold?"
The Goatman threw her the bag, and headed into the actual chapel. "Way ahead of you."

Coyote was on the pulpit. Before him was a scene of humans, natives of Sloth's Pit. The reactions on their faces were mixed; this was not the first time there had been a guest pastor, and this was not the first time that guest pastor had not been human. Others were wondering where the minister went. Sunlight shone in through the stained glass window depicting Mother Mary above.
Coyote raised itself on its hind legs, its forelimbs raising to the sunlight in praise. "People of Sloth's Pit, and of America. Good morning!" He sat back down. "You are no doubt wondering who I am and why I come to speak. Perhaps you are concerned for your pastor. Worry not! My associates have taken care of him."
He smirked back at the two Legends lingering at the back of the chapel. The Goatman had his face in his hand from the "taken care of" comment, and was praying that nobody would look at him.
Coyote made sure they did. His voice, and being, was in two places at once— at the podium, and at the back of the chapel. People let out a scream once they saw the two legends.
"I come to this house of worship to preach to you not about the Christian god, nor the Muslim one, nor the Jewish one, nor the Tetragrammaton, nor Mekhane or Wan, nor Yadalboath, nor Eden and the Keepers Thereof, nor the Victors of Fire, Frost and Storm."
Coyote's dual beings appeared at the front of the church, and carried on a conversation with one another. "Nay. I come to speak to thee of forgotten gods."
"Gods that humankind have either forgotten-"
"Destroyed-"
"Abused-"
"Wiped out-"
"Taken vain names-"
"Depicted as antagonists on children's shows-"
"And comics-"
"And horror writing websites-"
"(God I hate horror authors)"
"And have dashed against the rocks. Because of your actions, we are dying." Coyote's form melted away, turning into a skeleton that could speak. "Our bones are weak, our stories are burned, and our names forgotten. I once had a name that had a letter in it for each star in the sky. Now, I have had to borrow one from one of my creations- 'Coyote'."
"Meanwhile, a single god with a million names has a billion followers that has slain a trillion gods because those who worshiped them refused to bow down and accept a tyrant and usurper into their pantheon. They closed their doors to invaders, and now, countless like me are dying and dead."
Coyote looked at the cross around its neck. "I carry this in memory of every god that has died and been forgotten. This is the only trace that I have of countless who I cannot name." He spoke for ten minutes, but no sound came from his mouth. Only a sense of sadness, sub-sonic melancholy, silent grief, the sound of the forgotten name of a loved one. "Those are the names of some that have been forgotten," Coyote said simply, sitting on the podium. "Those are just the ones I know. They are forgotten the instant they leave my lips, like a mumbled song lyric you hear on a broken radio."
"Those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it. And if you remember myself, my dying kind… remember the name Coyote. Remember the name Amoroq, remember the name Tó Neinilii, remember the name Asdzą́ą́ Nádleehé. Remember the Son of Fire and Comet. Remember the Diné Bahaneʼ. Remember all our names, all our myths, and we will be whole."
"And you will be free."
Coyote was both there, and not there. With a loud, whining howl, the church moved to the exact same place on Earth, but Coyote and the legends walked two steps and found themselves by a creek in the woods.
Coyote looked under its coat, and saw that his ribs were starting to heal, a suggestion of skin growing over them. "It's not perfect," he admitted, "But it's a start."
"Now," The Goatman said, hefting his axe. "Get out of this town. Never darken our county line again. If I so much as hear a rumor of you in Superior or a whisper of you in Solon Springs, I will… let's just say notify the proper authorities." He looked meaningfully towards a building on a hill.
"And if you even think of coming back here," Jessica added, "Well… the hidebehind is getting hungry."
Coyote flinched. "You wouldn't."
The Goatman shrugged. "Says who?" He turned into the forest with Sinning Jessie, and as he stopped, turned to look back over his shoulder. "Coyote?"
The canid was walking the other way, and turned around to look back at the Goatman. "Yes, Jasper?"
A vein in the Goatman's head throbbed, but despite that, he sighed. "I hope you get your myth back in order. I know that being forgotten hurts. I can't imagine what pain you're in right now."
"Nothing a few nights at a house of ill repute won't fix," Coyote laughed. With that, Coyote became the trees and the earth, the trees and the earth became Coyote, and the trickster spirit was gone.
"So," Jessie stretched out and began walking into the woods. "How do you think the Plastics guys will react to this whole thing?"
"Well, they'll probably try to contain the situation to the town, if not the congregation. It's a big church, so I doubt they'll be able to keep it quiet for long." He began following a path through the forest few knew of, and Sinning Jessie walked with him.
Jessie looked at the Goatman as they walked, and asked, "Jasper?"
The Goatman gave her an aside look with hourglass eyes. "Hmm?"
"…do you think we're ever going to fade as badly as he has?"
"Maybe," Jasper Phineas Sloth hefted his axe over his shoulder. "Maybe, one day, the people in S & C Plastics will kill every myth known to man. But, I think they're learning."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, if they really wanted Coyote dead, they would just let him be forgotten. He said they were trying to keep him alive, somehow, but…" The Goatman frowned. "I wonder what would happen if he died."
"Bad things, probably." Jessie crested a hilltop, and a cautious look was directed into the distance, where a single dead tree stood in the midst of the forest. "I was kidding about the Hidebehind thing, by the way."
"I figured," Jasper shrugged. "You're a literal man-eater, but even you have standards."
"I wouldn't say that," Sinning Jessie said, bumping him in the side. "After all, I'm still friends with you."
The Goatman laughed, a bleating sound that was carried through the late summer air towards town, before fading away like a forgotten campfire story.

Incident 2547-55(cont'd): Following SCP-2547-1's disappearance and the subsequent dispersal of SCP-2547, amnestics were not administered, due to the Nexus Interaction Protocols of Nx-0018 and the lack of damage caused to Sloth's Pit as a whole. This marks the only SCP-2547 manifestation to date with zero civilian casualties.
Following this, SCP-2547 manifestations have dropped off by a further 15%. Other Nexuses with Interaction Protocols similar to Nx-0018 are to be monitored for manifestations of SCP-2547.

Hub

Footnotes
1. Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin is home to four different churches of various Christian denominations, as well as a small synagogue; most communities affected by SCP-2547 have only one church or house of worship.


The Most Dangerous Game
Site 19
The containment alarm blared in the background, as Dr. Magnus sat in front of an elaborately colored board, across from a confident-looking man.
He narrowed his eyes, and tightened his mouth, attempting to stare down his opponent. He hesitated for a moment, before reaching forward, slowly, trying not to show his intention as his hand slipped up towards the board.
His opponent and he had done this dance many times today already. He could feel the ghost of a five o'clock shadow coming in, having sat at this table for far too long. His opponent was smugly confident. The last few conflicts had ended in defeat, and this time the stakes were too high to keep losing.
"You're not going to win," Magnus stated, his voice tight with pressure. His fingers blurred, and a clack of the pieces the only sound other than the warnings about the dangerous creature roaming the halls.
A smirk played across his opponents face and he tried not to grimace, as they reached forward and moved a piece with an ominous clack. Their eyes darted to the door, where they heard running footsteps, and saw the shadows of a dozen pairs of boots running by the door. "They look like they're in a hurry."
Magnus' eyes stayed locked with the figure across from him, for a few more moments, before darting up to the flashing alarm, then down to the board, examining his moves. He couldn't afford to lose this game, far too much was on the line. He hesitated.
"We've done this too many times," He ventured, attempting to brook peace. "We should end this."
"We have, but it always ends the same," the sinister voice of his opponent intoned. They made an impatient gesture, "I believe it's your move, Michael. You should probably hurry, if you'd like this to end." The sound of distant yelling could be heard.
Magnus swallowed hard, knowing he was being backed in to a corner. His fingers lifted, and slid the piece home, blinking involuntarily.
"Michael. I swear, we've done this four times already today, and yet you never learn." His opponent lifted the piece, and slammed it on to the board with violent finality. "As I said. You haven't learned."
Dr. Magnus' mind raced. How could he not see it. It was so obvious, the hole in his defense, and now he had lost again. He didn't know if he could pay the price , and he dreaded the words from his opponents mouth.
His opponent leaned forward, smiled, and tilted his head. "I'm sorry Michael, but it's over."
Dr. Magnus hung his head, and sighed, "Just say it. You know how this ends."
His opponent smiled wider, and his teeth started to show. Those stupid perfect teeth of his opponent, so mocking in their regularity.
"Of course. I wouldn't want to drag this out any more than it has to. How many defeats is this, to my hand?"
Under the table, Magnus' hand clenched in frustration, and he ground his teeth. "Five, today."
His opponent leaned back and smirked his smug little smile again, closing his lips over his annoyingly straight teeth. "Five. That must be embarrassing, losing to me, five times. How can you afford to keep losing?"
Magnus tried to smile, his own thoughts turning dark. The truth was, he couldn't. He'd already lost too much, gone too far. At this rate, he would lose everything, his eyes darting over to his terminal, where incoming emails were coming in fast enough to scroll his window. "Just say it. I'm tired of this shit, just fucking say it."
His opponent smiled, and folded his hands. "Fine. Since you're such a spoil sport."
He reached forward, and touched the small, colored pieces, pointing out the flaw in his defense with obvious glee. "Connect four. That's five games, you owe me a slice of pie." Outside, someone shouted for a medic.
Magnus cursed, and reached in to his drawer, pulling out the last of the bills he kept in there for coffee. "You're a dick, Kens."
Researcher Kensington smiled, and took the three dollars and two quarters off of the desk, shaking out the pieces from the connect four set. "And yet, you keep losing. That's like, six slices of pie so far."
In the far distant background, something shook the foundations of the Site. Dr. Magnus looked up at Kensington and raised an eyebrow, "Should we…be there?" Magnus' eyes slid over to the door, where heavily armed MTF members were streaming by.
Kensington shrugged, standing up, "Why? So you can catch another terminal case of knife-in-the-sternum?"
Magnus flipped him off, and stood with him. "Oh fuck off. Let's go, I've got enough for like…half an espresso. Assuming the cafeteria hasn't been eaten by anomalies or something."
Kensington stood, and started towards the door, "So, same time tomorrow?"
Magnus smirked this time, his secret weapon ready to be unveiled. He twirled around, facing Kensington . "No Kens. No more connect four. It's child's play. Tomorrow, we start a new game." He steepled his hands.
Kensington took a step back, looking hesitant, "What game, Magnus?"
Magnus laughed quietly, the space between them building to a thunderhead. The tension was palpable, Kensington's mind racing, imagining the horrors that Magnus could have in store for him.
Magnus threw his hands up in a victorious gesture, exclaiming "Twister! You'll never defeat my flexible joints!"
The door rocked a bit, as someone was slammed bodily in to it, both of the Researcher's heads whipped around, before slowly turning back to face each other.
Kensington blinked a few times, and his mouth formed a tight line, incredulous. "Don't you have some ancient sumerian st—"
Magnus raised his hands above his head as he stomped out of their shared office, "Oh fuck off with that, I swear I'll never live it down! Christ! Let's go already." Magnus opened the door, and stepped over the unconscious MTF member outside his office.
Kensington grinned as they walked towards the cafeteria, Site security rushing past them to some unnamed horror not in the direction of delicious pie.

« | HUB | Happy Birthday From Nobody »


The sound of sirens made Alarath look away from the stranger. They split in the air in the distance, growing closer every second. They were unlike any warning horn he had heard used in the Empire, too loud and shrill. It sounded less like a call to battle and more the warning cry of a predator. He looked back at the stranger.
As if he'd perfectly anticipated Alarath's thoughts, the stranger laughed. “I'd suggest running. This world's changed more than you know.” He tossed a small object to Alarath. Thin, black, and seamless. One side of it lit up as Alarath held onto it. “We'll talk again soon.”
Alarath crushed the object in his palm and let the pieces fall to the sidewalk. “You think a few empty words will be enough to turn me into your dog? I have a reply for your masters.” He struck forward, thrusting his dagger toward the stranger's throat.
Before the blade could make contact, the stranger disappeared. His voice came from behind Alarath, “I didn't, actually.” Alarath spun around. The stranger stood ten feet away, looking as unconcerned as ever. “But that's why we make plan B's, isn't it?”
“What are you playing at?” snarled Alarath.
“A game with a much larger board than you could possibly imagine,” said the stranger. “And which you're already a piece of, whether you want to be or not.” He tilted his head, listening. “Now, I really suggest you run.” And he vanished.
Alarath spun around, but the man was nowhere to be seen. The sirens were growing louder. It now sounded as if they were almost on top of him. A moment after the disappearance of the man, a white carriage careened around the corner of a building. Lights atop its roof flashed, and the siren blared from it. It screeched to a stop in front of him.
Two men climbed from it, each point a bent metal item towards him. A weapon of some sort? The design and way the men held it reminded Alarath of the weapons he'd seen used by the First Ones. Stronger than any bow and arrow, they'd been able to wound men from hundreds of feet away, killing with ease. If that were the case here, he would have to be careful. Plus, the men who held them… the differences were small, but he could tell they were unlike the others he had seen. They weren't true warriors, certainly. But they were different from the rest of the untrained rabble he had see so far. There was an edge to them. Perhaps one sharp enough to cut.
“Get on your knees,” said one. “Drop the fucking weapon and get your hands in the air.”
Alarath frowned. They were asking him to surrender? Before the battle had even begun? Perhaps he had overestimated these men. “My name is Alarath of Redakor,” he said. “I am pleased to meet you in the field of battle.” He took a step forward, pulling his second blade from its sheath.
“Stop where you are! I will shoot.”
Stop? No. He had never before surrendered in battle. Why would he begin now? He continued his approach, daring them to strike first.
A noise cracked the air between them. Alarath flinched, his shoulder struck back by a sudden force. He looked down. A small, bloody hole had appeared in his shoulder. Just like the ones that had covered the bodies he had woken up in. One mystery solved, then. Pain chewed at the wound, but he set it out of his mind. He'd had worse injuries.
Before he could take another step forward, four more shots sounded. Pain spiked through his torso, his arms, his leg. He felt the trickle of warm blood down his skin. As he took his next step forward, his wounded leg buckled. Spots of color danced across his vision. He tried to push himself up, and his arms collapsed under him. Impossible. He was Scholar-Lord of the Daeva Empire. He would not be brought down so easily by these men. Stand up. Fight. Rip your enemies apart. Do not die like a dog in the dirt. But soon the pain overtook any semblance of thought, and he found himself drifting in blackness.

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“Hello, Emily.”
Agent Cipher flinched at the use of her real first name. Underneath layers of digital modulation, the voice coming from the phone was unrecognizable. But there were only half a dozen people in the world who knew that name. And only one who still had business with her. “I told you I'd kill you if you ever tried to contact me, Luthor.”
The phone gave a distorted, electric laugh. “You shouldn't assume your secrets are so well protected. Don't worry. I'm not Luthor. The Coalition kept their word.”
“I'm still going to kill you.”
“Don't make empty threats, Em. It doesn't suit you. Do listen. I have an offer, and it would be best for everyone if you took it.”
Cipher looked at Kantos. Her partner's gun was pressed to the imposter's head. The imposter looked as unconcerned as ever. Kantos' face was furrowed in worry. “Would it?”
“If you like your partner's head still attached to his body.” It was hard to tell, but under the warble voice filter was a hint of amusement. “Step outside.”
Cipher thought for a moment, then motioned to Kantos. “Come on. I'm going up.”
They moved back to the elevator. It rumbled to life and began to carry them upwards. They reached the dark interior of the shed and Cipher pushed the door open.
A second car had parked next to theirs. A woman stood next to it. She looked like the type of person who'd graduated top of her class in law school by poisoning every other student. Her black hair was cropped short, and a bulky jacket enveloped most of her upper body. When she saw Cipher she smiled and lowered the phone she'd been holding to her ear. “Before you do anything rash, you should know that we have three snipers placed around this area. Try to bend reality, and they unload.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by Kantos saying, “What did you say?”
The woman turned towards him and smiled. “You didn't know? Agent Cipher… I'm sorry, Emily Vakes, is on the run from the Coalition. She's one of the most powerful type green's they ever seen.”
“No.” Kantos shook his head. “No, that isn't possible. She's a Foundation Agent. She's worked here for ten years.”
“Correct. And she joined to stay safe from the Coalition. Among… other reasons. She's suppressed her powers. Barely using them. Nudging things just enough to let her rise through the ranks. To get her where she wanted to be.” She raised an eyebrow at Cipher. “Right?”
Cipher took a step towards the woman. “What the fuck do you want from me?” She could feel her fists clenching and unclenching, trembling. It would be easy to end this. To reach forward and snuff the woman from existence. Who cared if they killed Cipher after? How dare she come in here, how dare she reveal these things, open up Cipher's past for all to see. And when she was so close to her goal. But she'd spent ten years resisting the urges that welled up inside her, whispering for her to take control. She wasn't about to give in to them now, when so much was on the line.
The woman didn't flinch as Cipher approached. “We want you to save the Foundation.”

« But Life Goes On | Hub | March Of The Fire Ants »


7 June 2029
Today, I watched a giant jellyfish give birth to a full-grown woman dressed in an owl costume. It was strange to think that I knew it would happen today.
The jellyfish floated in the humidified air, carefully lowering the woman to rest on the ground. The medical team with me was hesitant, not sure whether it was safe to go to her. I walked forward with tears in my eyes, calling out her name.
Sun-hee looked up at me, smiling, and I knelt down and embraced her. I kissed the foam mask covering her head, nothing in my thoughts except how lucky I was to have her back.
I finally noticed the nurses around us. They offered Sun-hee a wheelchair, but she was adamant that she didn't need it. She had forgotten how long it was since she had to stand on her own. As she stood up, her weakened legs buckled, and I caught her in my arms. But a second before it happened, I could swear I saw the jellyfish reach its own arms out towards her. Sun-hee leaned on my shoulder for support, and together we walked out of the containment cell.
In six months, the Foundation will find a way to counteract Sun-hee's condition, releasing her identity from the cruel mockery of her costume, giving her true self back to her. In two years, they will declare her non-anomalous, give her an amnestic and release her to the world outside, to a normal life.
In three years, I will retire, and leave my life in the Foundation behind.
And the jellyfish? Before my retirement I will come to see it; sometimes, when they let me. The jellyfish will spend the next three years quietly in its containment. After that, I don't know.

14 August 2023
Interview Excerpt: 2338-293/J/4
Date: 14/8/2023
Interviewer: Ms. Ryoko Sato
Interviewed: SCP-2338-B
Foreword: Ms. Sato conducts scheduled daily interactions with the anomaly, for the purposes of emotional management of SCP-2338-B. Interviews have also obtained information about SCP-2338-A, with which SCP-2338-B has become able to communicate. Interview was conducted in ASL, and transcribed from video recordings in the containment cell. This is an excerpt from a longer log spanning several hours.

Ms. Sato: I think that's all we need to do for your classes, Sun-hee. Have you been able to do your exercise?
SCP-2338-B: Yes, thanks. It's sometimes a little difficult - there's not much room in here!
Ms. Sato: <laughing> That's true.
SCP-2338-B: But I enjoy the pilates. I think Eomi likes it too.
Ms. Sato: Really? Why does Eomi like pilates?
SCP-2338-B: I don't know - she just does. It's like I said - she doesn't talk like you or me, or like speaking out loud.
Ms. Sato: It's just images, feelings, right?
SCP-2338-B: Yes. A bright, happy feeling when I'm stretching, or an image of tentacles stretching out too. Or sometimes she signs to me.
Ms. Sato: She signs? How?
SCP-2338-B: Well, it's just an image of hands making the sign, really. She doesn't do it very often - sometimes she gets the signs back-to-front.
Ms. Sato: It's very impressive that she can sign at all. Did you teach her?
SCP-2338-B: Um, maybe? She showed me a memory of me teaching her, but I was much older. Oh!
Ms. Sato: Are you okay, Sun-hee?
SCP-2338-B: Yes. Um.
Ms. Sato: Did you say that Eomi remembers the future?
SCP-2338-B: Oh dear. I didn't mean to say it, although she knew I would. Yes, Eomi remembers the future. Time goes the other way for her, from the future into the past.
Ms. Sato: But how does -
SCP-2338-B: It's a bit confusing, but I think everything is the same, just happening in the opposite order. That's how she knows when I'll be able to leave her - for her, it's already happened.
Ms. Sato: I see. You do seem very confident about getting out - I hope that you're right. We haven't seen anything that suggests that Eomi will let you go.
SCP-2338-B: She will. There's lots that you don't know about Eomi. Like I don't think the glass would stop her getting out, if she really wanted to.
Ms. Sato: Are you sure? Then I certainly hope she never really wants to.
SCP-2338-B: Oh I don't think so - she likes it when I'm happy, and I'm happy staying here because then you can visit. You'll keep visiting, right?
Ms. Sato: Of course, Sun-hee. And perhaps you can tell me more about Eomi some time. Like where she comes from.
SCP-2338-B: Which bit of her?
Ms. Sato: What do you mean?
SCP-2338-B: Well, there's kind of separate parts. Eomi tried to explain once. The images didn't really make sense, but I think that this is like - well, it's like…
Ms. Sato: Yes?
SCP-2338-B: Oh! It's like a costume, like my costume! Something that you can put on - although I don't know about taking it off…
Ms. Sato: Hey, Sun-hee - it's okay. They'll work something out. So you mean you're wearing a jellyfish costume over your owl costume?
SCP-2338-B: No, that's not it. I know I'm inside Eomi, but I'm not really inside her. My mind isn't inside her, I mean. She sometimes gets frustrated by that, I think - it would be easier to communicate if my mind was travelling in the jellyfish costume too.
Ms. Sato: So you could put your mind inside the jellyfish?
SCP-2338-B: I guess - Eomi showed me how, but she made me promise not to do it. It would mean I go backwards through time as well, and Eomi says I've got to keep travelling forwards - to the day I get out!
Ms. Sato: It's definitely good to have something to look forward to.
SCP-2338-B: You don't believe me, do you? That's okay. Eomi said that you wouldn't right now, but you will.
Ms. Sato: Eomi seems to know a lot of things.
SCP-2338-B: She does, Ms. Sato. She really does. Hey, would you turn the TV on for me when you leave today?
<end of excerpt>

19 October 2013

Incident 2013101904
Logs compiled from multiple camera feeds

SITE 19 CONTAINMENT CELL ███
1310: Foundation medical staff enter with stretchers, bearing the bodies of 22 children and one unconscious, heavily injured woman. Personnel lay the bodies on the floor of the cell before leaving. SCP-███ is floating in the centre point of the room.
1235: SCP-███ descends to the floor of the cell, gathering the bodies and lifting them up. It places the body of the woman on top of its bell, and cradles the children in its tentacles.
1234: Several personnel enter the chamber in a state of panic. They see SCP-███ and become calmer, watching as SCP-███ floats up towards the ceiling of the cell. The personnel soon cease to pay attention to SCP-███, which remains still, holding the children, for almost an hour.
1205: Foundation staff leave the chamber. Shortly thereafter, water bubbles up from drains in the floor, flooding the cell.
1140: SCP-███ floats further upward, carrying the bodies through the ceiling of the cell.

SITE 19 E-BLOCK LOW SECURITY DORM
1137: SCP-███ enters the common room. The bodies of two men are lying on the ground. SCP-███ lifts the unconscious woman from its bell and carefully deposits her in the entrance to the room.
1136: SCP-███ remains hovering over the woman. Its tentacles reach out in several directions, bearing the children's bodies through doorways and into nearby bedrooms. The tentacles lay the children in their beds, resting for a second on their faces or shoulders before retreating to SCP-███. Two of the children are placed on the floor of the common room.
1135: SCP-███ retreats behind the wall of the room. A single tentacle reaches out to the body of one of the men, stroking his head. The man rises from the ground, alive.
1134: Several dozen tentacles embrace the body of the other man, lifting him to his feet near the body of the woman. He calls out, alive, and the tentacles release him.
1133: The woman appears to be regaining consciousness. The man near her points an implement at her, healing a wound on her neck. He walks over to the other man, and they turn to the children on the floor, bringing them back to life. The children run into one of the bedrooms.
1131: The men walk from bedroom to bedroom, healing the children within. After a short time, they leave the common room.

4 February 2012
It is mid-afternoon. The classroom is full of bright colours: pastel drawings on the walls, festooned with strings of paper stars. The young teacher is sitting in front of her class, a large picture book propped on her knees. The book is called "Creatures of the Deep", and the teacher is pointing at vivid images of fantastical underwater beasts. Spider crabs, sunfish, blue whales. The teacher signs to the class, explaining where they come from and how they live.
The children are sitting on the floor, a little menagerie in cheerful costumes. They stare at the pictures, spellbound. Occasionally one will sign a question, then the teacher calls on them, and they raise their hand. The teacher flips slowly backwards through the pages of the book. Once, she is momentarily distracted - was that a shadow in the room? The moment passes; she resumes signing.
The signing is backwards too, but I can follow it. I've had twenty years to learn. The first three were the hardest, before Sun-hee came back to me. But I kept myself company, when they let me.
Now the teacher turns back to a page showing a giant squid. A little boy in an octopus costume jumps up and dances around, showing off. He is ridiculous, and he doesn't care - the teacher is grinning, and half the children are signing at once, the other half rolling with silent laughter.
In a little over a year, the children will be gone - delivered by the Foundation to men who will remove their costumes and return them to their families. Until then, I come to see them; sometimes, whenever I can.
In fifteen years, the Foundation will take my tank from its cell, transport me thousands of miles and release me on a remote beach in Australia. I will hurt people - I think that being abandoned by the Foundation must make me angry. But where the heart breaks, time can mend it. And the Foundation will bring to life other jellyfish - perhaps companions? Perhaps children?
After that, I don't know.


In the underbelly of a numberless Site beneath Navi Mumbai, Pavlo Kharkiv sat alone in a dark room with a glass of vodka. One by one, four computer terminals around him flickered to life. They hummed as the faces of his co-conspirators, washed in blue light, loaded into view. He laughed softly to himself as he watched. The Foundation was the most technologically advanced organization on the planet, rivaled only by the Coalition. It had explored regions of space beyond the limits of normal humanity, it conducted business across multiple dimensions, it constructed chambers to hold beings that could be described only as gods. And they still couldn't figure out how to make a damn video stream load quickly.
He lit a cigarette and watched the light drift upwards, filtering the glow of the computer screens. This would be a trial. If he convince himself, make the others see the necessity of his actions, they would be forced to follow his plans. If not… nothing that came afterward would matter.
As he watched the ember consume the cigarette, he wondered how he had come to be in this seat. When had he first realized the lengths he would go to to accomplish his goal? Had it been when the representative of the Watchers first came to him, explained the secret history of the Foundation? Told him of the enemy lurking within his organization's ranks? Of the secret war going on under his nose? No. Even then, he'd had trouble believing. He hadn't been sure. He hadn't known until he'd stood in the ruins of the original Site 19 and seen what had become of the members of the first Foundation.
The screens had loaded. He took a final drag of his cigarette, drawing the flame down to the filter, extinguished it, and turned to look at his jury. “Ladies. Gentlemen. It's nice to see you.”
“Cut the fucking shit, Pavlo,” said Liam Brook, known to the rest of the world as O5-2. “Tell us what the fuck is happening.”
Pavlo looked to others. “I expect you all feel the same?”
They didn't respond. They didn't need to.
Pavlo shrugged, stood. Stay calm. Stay in control. Show them that this was his moment. “I killed Aubrey because it needed to be done. She came too close to understanding our plan. Had I not acted when I did, all we have been working towards would have collapsed.”
“And now it's definitely going to fucking collapse,” said Liam. His voice came out as almost a growl. It was the most emotion Pavlo had ever seen the man show. “How the fuck are we supposed to cover up a dead O5?”
“It is being handled. Trust me. They will not know until we want them to know. Until then, it will be too late for them to be saved.” He drunk from the vodka. “The body has disappeared. The apartment has been scrubbed clean. Cover stories have been manufactured."
“And how much scrutiny will those stories hold up against?” said Yukiji Endo, director of Site 53. “What could you have possibly come up with on such short notice?”
“They will last enough. But we must begin our plans quickly.” He looked at each of his conspirators in turn. “We have waited too long already.”
“We don't have ‘plans',” said Dr. Clef. The image in front of his face was obscured by static. “We have fucking napkin drawings and chalkboard doodles.” He cackled. “I love it. When do we start?”
“What do the Watchers have to say about this?” said Dr. Spencer. Having only just earned the title of full Researcher, she was by far the least experienced member of their group. At first Pavlo had wondered why the Watchers had chosen her. He hadn't wondered for long.
“They were the ones who first told me of the situation,” said Pavlo. “They must have known how I would handle it.”
The others went quiet. Yukiiji broke the silence first. “So what's our next step?”
“Isn't it obvious?” said Clef. “We take down the rest of the fuckers.”
“Don't be stupid,” said Liam. “Unless you know how to kill every counsel-member and high ranking official at once, we'll just put them on alert. No. No. We need to gather our tools first.”
“We need to take 2000,” said Spencer.
The others agreed.

« God Am | Hub | Rather Die Young »


Alarath squatted on the sidewalk and observed the new world he'd found himself in. The first thing that struck him about the city was how many people seemed to be living in it. Though it was night, there seemed to be more people on this street than you'd find during midday in the Daeva capital. And all were dressed in outfits colorful enough to match those of the Daeva kings. The textiles of this land seemed to come in an endless variety. What shocked him more was how clean they all were. There was no dirt smeared on their faces. Their hair was well groomed. Few wore torn clothing.
Three people passed by in another of the loud, self-propelled carriages. They had puzzled him when he first saw them on the streets. Without horses to draw them, he assumed they moved with magic. But as he'd studied them more, he'd begun to suspect something else. Behind the gate of a building labeled “Dave's Mechanics and Auto Repair”, he'd found several of the carriages caged, their shells open. The guts inside reminded him of something he'd seen years ago, in the war against the Broken Lords. Perhaps these people had learned to harness a similar power? But he'd seen no signs of the infestation that came with the embrace of the God. Strange. When he had the opportunity, he would to take apart one of these carriages to learn its secrets.
Few people seemed concerned as they passed him on the street. They most likely confused him for one of the worn-looking beggars that seemed to be everywhere. An insult he could ignore for now.
A man in a dark blue, unwrinkled outfit approached and stood next to Alarath. He smiled down at him. “Enjoying the view?”
Alarath eyed the man. He was tall, skinny, and gave the impression of a person who had never been in a true fight. His hair was silver and ghostlike in its thinness. On his neck was a tattoo of a slit-pupiled eye.
“Are you the one who brought me here?” said Alarath.
“I am but a lowly messenger,” said the man. He bowed deeply. Before he could rise back up, Alarath snatched his collar and pulled him in close. He pressed his dagger to the man's throat. In the corner of his eye, he saw a pedestrian jump back. Someone nearby screamed.
“Then perhaps I should send a message.”
The stranger seemed unconcerned by the blade. “Wouldn't you prefer to receive one first?”
“Speak quickly. While you still can.”
A man grabbed Alarath's shoulder. “Hey man, what the hell do you think you're-” he cut off as Alarath's elbow smashed against his jaw. He fell to the ground, clutching his bloody mouth.
The stranger nodded appreciatively. “Excellent. That's the kind of aggression you'll need if you want to bring back the Daeva.”
Alarath's grip on the knife tightened. “What did you say?”
“You don't think a civilization like this could exist as long as your people were still around, do you?” He gestured to the buildings around. “Your empire has been extinct for thousands of years. Wiped out for getting too casual with powers they didn't understand.”
“Impossible. The Daeva empire will reign eternal. It was foretold.”
“Well, I doubt any of the people here would agree with you. I bet none of them even know what the Daeva were.”
Alarath looked at the crowd that had gathered around them. Such passive, fearful faces. They looked like human cattle, too dumb to react or take any sort of initiative that hadn't been thrust upon them. Such people would never have been found in his city. They died too easily.
“And how do you expect me to bring back a civilization that's thousands of years dead?”
“First I hope that you'll release me. Then, we'll need to find a certain book…”

« Why? Where? What? | Hub | But Life Goes On »


Part I | Part II: The War and The Many Faces | Part III

The strike team followed the road — a long ways from the city, past sleepy towns and grazing pastures.
The road had been whittled down, by elements, by trucks, or simply by time. After some miles, the road, reduced to a dirt path, terminated in a field of long, graying grass.
It was all a ruse, of course. This wasn't an empty field, and the road didn't simply end. Glamour and wards deployed by those on the run had obscured what was truly present.
It was clever. But not clever enough, not anymore. And now, it had become surrounded by trucks, by analysts pacing about with clipboards. One uniformed woman set up a chair in the dirt, while another stared through a curved spyglass-device at the center of the activity. Three men communicated quietly while examining munitions in the back of a truck. They were preparing for war. Five people lie in the dust.
The five were sitting in a circle, or a pentagram. Their characteristics obscured by metal armor and illusion. They were chanting in an unrecognizable language.
They couldn't know, but behind the barrier, in a stained cardigan, was Adrian Baudin. He stared at the five and one, visible to him through the blue smoke and mist that defined the barrier from his end.
A sound from behind him. Adrian's neck swiveled to look over his shoulder. It was Geoff.
"Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He looked tired. The color had drained from his face, rendering him as drab as anything else in the bubble.
Adrian shook his head. "It's fine. Just on edge."
Geoff took two steps forward, standing abreast of him now. He scratched at his scalp. "Have they," he struggled at the words, "have they told you what their plan is?"
Adrian swallowed. "No. Have they told you?"
"Nothing. Not a single word. Like I don't exist. More friendly with you."
"I wouldn't… call it that."
The older man shrugged. "Call it what you will. It's not a good feeling."
A sigh escaped Adrian. "I'm sorry. We'll do what we have to do. We'll make it out."
"Intact?"
"As intact as we can be."
"Suppose I can't ask for more than that." Geoff's eyes followed the slow movements of the false mists visible through the bubble. If one watched for long enough, they'd loop around — like cheaply produced footage.
Adrian followed his gaze, tracing it to the five sitting in the dust, barely visible through the barrier. They were holding their hands up. Almost climactic. Surely transcendent.
Adrian nodded. "I can get us out of this."
  Right?
  Right you are!
After a few more minutes, the pair turned around and re-entered the sagging house.

The Cool Kids were buzzing around. It's all they could do anymore, clearly.
Adrian saw them pace about with brushes and paints. Not to make anything, really — they were used to reinforce sigils left about the house, directors of some kind of flow, some energy.
He watched them stand in front of the barrier, sometimes together, sometimes alone. Strengthening it. He wondered if they had done this before. Maybe they could make it go away, and with a word the pursuers would crumble into dust and swirl in with the dirt and sand of the field.
Houses don't get built overnight. How long has it been here? How long will it continue to be here?
That night, just before sunset, Adrian decided to look out the front door, check on the pursuers outside, as if they'd just be gone. He stood in the doorway.
He heard a voice he didn't recognize.
"Hey." It was one of his hosts. Adrian's head snapped to the right, and then up. Some kid, standing on a ladder. He pointed downwards. "Hold the ladder."
"Oh," Adrian nodded. "Right." The ladder leaned up against the edge of the roof, depressing the moldy wood and shingles. Still, Adrian stepped over to it, and braced the bottom with his arms.
He swallowed, and looked up. It seemed the man was fiddling with something on top of the sloped roof, but Adrian couldn't see what it was.
A few seconds of silence.
"Um," Adrian said. "So… do you all feel… ready? For what's happening out there?"
He didn't turn around. "We have been ready. You'll be ready too."
"Yeah… okay… but that doesn't sound especially reassuring. Or even… clear." The ladder wobbled a bit, but Adrian caught it.
"You're an artist, right? You know… sometimes you have the paints, but not the right canvas. Right?"
"Yeah, I… I know that."
"There's going to be a time, soon… when we'll have the right canvas. And we can make what needs to be made. And you can help with that, you know?"
"I'm… sure I could, but I don't know how. Or what."
"Yeah, we can help. You just have to be open. Let it happen." He must have been working on something very fine, not to take his eyes off it for so long.
Adrian was going to respond, but he heard something. A whistling noise, coming from nowhere in particular.
It quickly grew in volume and pitch. It reminded Adrian of old war movies he'd seen; mortars, whistling through the air, until…
There was a loud booming noise coming from overhead.
Adrian looked up, and he could see, across the center of the bubble, a five-pointed starburst of deep red, spreading slowly across the barrier.
It grew to several meters tall, an angry star over the house, before receding to nothing.
Adrian stared at it. He glanced to the boy on the ladder who had finally turned away from his work, neck arched to stare at the ceiling of the shield.
He was grinning.

The knock on the door had come. Efforts had been redoubled. The sun set quickly, not wanting to stick around for the nighttime.
The blasts kept coming, each one striking into the shield. After each attack, the barrier seemed to look the same. But the people outside wouldn't be using this technique unless they expected it to drill through eventually.
Adrian couldn't think about it forever. He had to sleep. When his consciousness gave out, he was lying on his cot in the basement, waiting for his eyes to grow too heavy…
After that, he found himself in a city. This wasn't any place he recognized — the buildings were short and small, each one a square column sticking up from uncomfortably flat expanses of concrete and asphalt. Adrian stood in the middle of a street.
There was no-one else around. No streetlamps, no billboards. No light at all. The sky was black nothing.
Adrian only heard one noise, faint, like it had been carried on the wind (but the air was dead) and he could feel it coming from the north, straight ahead of him.
He walked along the road. The buildings around him began to repeat. They didn't look like anything he'd seen before, concrete houses with sagging shingled roofs.
He kept walking, and the noise grew louder. It sounded like people, warm laughter, clinking of dishes and metal utensils. It was getting closer.
As Adrian rounded a corner, he came to it, a building much taller, more condensed than the rest. It stood wide, larger even than the house back in the field. Concrete walls behind painted white pillars, an ornate door dead-center. The sound was inside. Adrian knocked.
No response. He opened the door. The noise grew louder. But there was no-one inside.
He took a step in. He was in a hallway. To his right was a lectern of some kind. The hallway split off into open doorways on either side, to several different rooms. It looked like some high-class restaurant. The noise continued.
He crept forward, peeking into the first room on the left. He saw tables, chairs, and at one there was a woman, someone he knew, someone he-
"Mister Baudin. Please, take a seat." The moment she spoke, the dining sounds ceased. Her voice was lightly accented, German. He knew that voice. He had seen her, just before the exhibition. She came to his apartment.
He swallowed, eyes trained firmly on the ground. "What are you doing here?"
"You're dreaming," she said curtly.
"Oh."
"Take a seat." Adrian found himself standing next to the chair, now, but he knew he hadn't moved. And now he was seated.
The tablecloth was white. There were paintings on the walls, but the walls were painted blue. Adrian did not look at the paintings, he just looked at the empty plate in front of him. "Are you… here?"
"We have surrounded the dwelling. Our current collaborators required a more specialized approach, to break through the walls."
"Are you talking to the… others?"
"The Cool Kids? No. It would be a waste of resources and our limited time."
"Okay…" Adrian breathed but it felt like a formality. This wasn't real, was it? "Why me?"
"You seem to be someone outside it all, yes? An observer, in the truest sense. Professionals are always open to the opinion of an outside observer. We wish to understand you. But first-"
There was a clap — from the woman, presumably — and when Adrian blinked his plate was no longer empty. There was something on it, and a fork in his hand.
He dipped the utensil down, edge-first, pressing into the matter on his plate. He lifted it carefully to his mouth and took the bite. It tasted like broad nothing, an encompassing absence. He blinked again. His fork was gone.
"Why am I eating this?" His throat was dry, now.
"It's a dinner, Mister Baudin. That's what you do." There was a fluttering noise, and the table began to contract, bringing Adrian closer to her. He didn't look up.
Adrian didn't speak, or couldn't.
"Routine. Convention. It is the simplest way to power. Each time an action is made, the connection strengthens inside the actor. They become more sure, and it becomes their nature. The one who controls the actions, yes, they have power, but so too does the actor. They have a sureness of being. A simplicity."
Adrian squinted at the tablecloth. "And… the people back in the house, they don't?"
She made an odd coughing noise. "The thing you need to understand about the people who run the world, Mister Baudin, is that escape is a myth. Those artists can flee, hide in the basement of a magic house, put up a shield and call themselves rebels. And yet they are a part of the great plan, as much as they try to delude themselves. They can't escape the world they live in. And this, Mister Baudin, this is our world."
"No…" Adrian started slowly, "this isn't real."
"And yet here we are." She smoothed out the tablecloth once more, and the restaurant around her began to lose focus. "You're here, but you're still out there, too, Mister Baudin."
"And so are the Cool Kids. You said they were… still in the plan, right? They're in the routine. Has this… happened before? What's happening now."
Adrian could feel that he was now standing. The whiteness of the tablecloth had spread, like spilled milk, across the material of his dream, enveloping the two of them in blank space.
Her voice reverberated against his ears like a steel drum. "Not like this, Mister Baudin. Not with you. We need you to slow down, to cooperate. When the time comes, you must act correctly."
Adrian tried to speak but the air was pushed out of his lungs; he felt himself begin to fall and-

-found himself back on top of his cot, in the basement of the old house. He gasped for air, and stale breath filled his chest. He was alive.
He looked over, and Geoff's bed was empty.
Adrian clambered to his feet, spread flat on the cold concrete. He made for the stairs.
In the cramped kitchen, he found Geoff, who was stirring a bowl of oatmeal, sitting at a corner table alone. Adrian sat down across from him.
"Morning, Adrian." Geoff looked up, attempting a smile.
"Uh… morning," Adrian replied, not meeting his gaze. "Something… happened last night."
Adrian relayed the events of his dream as best he could to Geoff, who stopped spooning oatmeal to his mouth. When he had finished, Geoff appeared thoughtful.
After a moment, he spoke. "You're sure it was the woman who came to your apartment?"
Adrian nodded slowly. "Almost certain."
"And she wasn't… incredibly helpful, was she?"
The artist shrugged. "I think she had a purpose. She contacted me for a reason, right?"
"To warn you? To direct you on how to survive this?"
"It's… maybe. I don't… I can't say."
"Did she mention me?"
Adrian looked down at the ratty table. The green paint was chipping away.
Geoff frowned. "Oh. I'm just… a blank space, is it? Not even worth their address."
"Look, I can't say… exactly why anything's happening. It's all moving too fast."
"Too fast, but everyone has time for you."
Adrian's brow furrowed. There was a moment of silence.
Geoff clicked his tongue. "I'm… sorry, that was harsh. I know it's not your fault. Just… when this all goes down…" He took a deep breath in, and then let it out through his fingers. "Do you think I'm going to make it out?"
The artist's face softened. "Oh, no, Geoff, I'm… I'm sure it's…" Adrian sighed. "I don't know."
Geoff closed his eyes, letting his face fall into his hands. Adrian couldn't save him.

Geoff left to be alone in the basement. Adrian spent the rest of the day on the porch, watching the outside.
The blasts against the shield were only minutes apart, now, but Adrian still hoped that each one would be the last, before the assailants ceded defeat to the house's defenses. But they continued.
His hosts weren't very active today. They had spent most of the day pacing about at the barrier, or retreated in the house. Perhaps they were planning something. Adrian couldn't care about that now. He had to take care of his own.
Before long, the day was gone, and night had come. The shelling continued. Adrian just sat on the porch and watched. The events of the day were wearing on him. But he couldn't surrender to sleep, not when it was so easily manipulable.
For a long time, Adrian sat alone and watched the barrier. Through it, he could see moving shapes… vague shadows. Like this was all a show. Adrian yawned. Some show.
Adrian shut his eyes for just a moment… and when he opened them, he was in a white expanse. Sleep had caught up to him.
He turned in place, scanning an unseen horizon for any figures. But he was alone.
He took a deep breath. "Hello?"
No response.
"Look, I… I need you to talk to me. I need to know what's going on."
Now, he felt a presence. He turned around, and there she stood, clad in dark formalwear. "Hello, Mister Baudin. We're glad you could join us."
Adrian diverted his eyes to somewhere else in the blankness. "This has gone on long enough. I need you to answer my questions."
She made an inviting gesture. "Go on."
He nodded, and cleared his throat. "Who are the Cool Kids?"
"Adrian, do you remember, years ago, when the movement began? When, for a moment, it seemed like you'd broken the unspoken taboo of the world, like the silence had been lifted?"
She laughed, bitterly. "Do you remember how easily it was shut down, when the powers that be realized it was a threat to their ordering of the world? How simply they erased it from history, from memory? How rare you are to remember it at all?"
Around Adrian, images danced through the fog. Marches, exhibitions, work that touched the soul. "I… I remember."
"The Cool Kids are no different. They still carry the torch of a zeitgeist long rendered nonexistent. They yearn to make themselves known. To make the word mean something once more."
Adrian squeezed his eyes shut. "Then this, all this, has happened before?"
"The Cool Kids live in a bubble, Adrian. They make noise, try to break out, to pop the bubble. We apply pressure, and they are gone once more."
He squinted, confused. "You… you let them get away."
"Some of them, yes. They rebuild, and they try again."
"But… why? Why let them?"
"Because they are predictable. They are contained. The exhibition at Greenwich was informative. It happened before, and it happened again. The rats were culled, as they always have been. As was said before, Mister Baudin — they're still a part of the routine."
"Then who are you?"
"Mister Baudin… why don't you take a look, and find out?"
Adrian opened his eyes. The world around him remained white and still. He turned his gaze to the woman's face.
She looked just as she did when she visited his apartment. Her face, vaguely Eastern European, rounded, typical of a woman in her late thirties. Her dark hair was cut short.
But her eyes were small and unfocused. She looked through him, full of memories of a war without end. A conflict fermented for generations. She looked through him as if he wasn't there. After all, he wasn't there, and neither was she.
Then her face began to change. She was a young woman, face marred by scars. Then she became a elderly man, barely clutching to life. She was an artist. An agent. A poor child. A corpse.
Adrian tried to back away, but his eyes remained transfixed. He struggled to process his vision as her metamorphosis only intensified in speed.
She began to speak, and her voice came from everywhere. "What do you think happens to the people the artists hurt? What justice do you think they deserve?"
The whiteness that surrounded Adrian began to resolve into a crowd of people, arms outstretched towards him. He tried to yell over the noise. "You can't… you can't argue that you're fighting for justice. You caused this. You let them do it."
The voices around him drowned him out, and the woman had disappeared into the mass. "And you think you're better than us, that you aren't clinging to the ideals of the past?"
Adrian blinked, and the mass was gone. The many-faced woman stood alone before him. "You're no different than them. Your magnum opus, your great glimpse into the nature of humanity? It's filed away in a containment vault."
She walked towards him, placing both cold hands on his shoulders. "It's not that you're fighting a fight you can't win, Adrian. It's that the fight against authority never existed outside your head."
She stared firmly into his eyes, now. Her face was indescribable. "Stop fighting, Mister Baudin. Don't interfere with what is going to happen. Then you can take your place in the real world."
Adrian stopped holing his breath. "What is going to happen?"
She smiled. "You already know the answer. You should go, now. Your friend needs you."
The many-faced woman began to fade from his sight-

-as Adrian's ears were filled with the sound of shattering glass. He was lying on the floor, just inside the door of the house. Geoff knelt over him, shaking him by his shoulders. "Adrian, Adrian, wake up!"
Adrian rubbed his eyes and shifted to a sitting position. "What's wrong, what's going on?"
Geoff pointed out the door. "The barrier. It's going down."
Adrian followed his gaze, and saw through the open door that the barrier, typically milky-blue, was pulsing red with a furious rhythm. With each pulse, a deafening boom came. Adrian saw glass shards. The windows had just been broken.
"Where are the others?"
Geoff was breathing heavy. "They're in the basement, but I had to- I had to get you."
Adrian started to speak, but was interrupted by a loud buzzing. He turned back to the doorway, and he was bathed in red light.
The barrier was flickering. Glimpses of the blackness of the night outside filtered through, an image of a starry night Adrian hadn't seen in weeks.
Seconds later, it was gone. The buzzing cut out, and the silence was all-consuming. Beyond where the barrier had once stood, there were lines of vans, and squads of people in body armor.
Adrian stared, wide-eyed. Geoff backed away from him to hide behind the doorframe. Both of them noticed at the same time that the buzzing had been replaced by the familiar whistle of a mortar.
Before they could take cover, the blistering projectile crashed through the ceiling, streaking flames and blowing splinters into the air. It burrowed into the molding floor. The sheer heat leaking from the air pushed Adrian back.
The whistling started again. The two scrambled to their feet and ran from the foyer.
Outside, they heard yelling. On all sides, agents were marching towards the house.
Geoff ran down the hall, Adrian following closely behind. The floors creaked uneasily as they sprinted over them.
A glowing orange sphere came down through the ceiling, striking Geoff in the left shoulder. It continued into the floor as Geoff collapsed against the wall.
Adrian knelt, panting quickly. Geoff's face was squinted in pain. His shoulder seemed like it'd been burned — the skin was badly damaged. Adrian cast a quick look behind him before heaving his friend onto his shoulders, wincing under the load.
He continued now past the kitchen, into the waiting stairwell. Climbing down into the basement, he could see the crowd gathered around the hole in the wall. The place Adrian had seen their van.
Adrian set Geoff down on a cot. He was squirming, but alive. Adrian turned to the others. "Geoff needs medical attention."
They didn't respond.
Adrian yelled. "Is this what we're doing now? We'll just shuffle off, send a few people in a van and let the rest die?"
Adrian took a step towards them. "This is what they want. Don't you see that? Is that what you wanted me to see?"
He rubbed his face. "You wanted me to help. Just… just tell me what to do."
One of the group turned around to face Adrian. It was the man with the hawkish face, who had spoken to him days ago. "Adrian…"
Adrian spread his arms out. "What is it? What can I do?"
The hawk-man was approaching, hands held out, something in one of them.
Adrian took another step. "Please, just-"
The hawk-man swiftly shoved his knife into Adrian's chest. He barely had time to register the hit before the blade slipped through his ribs and became hilted in his flesh.
"N- n-" Adrian couldn't speak, the air was forced from his lungs in a sick gasp. He was pushed backwards by the force, and he could see the hawk-man's face. Apologetic.
He said something, but Adrian couldn't hear, he could only see his lips move. Stop us. The rest of the Cool Kids had their backs turned.
Adrian grasped for his chest, and found the knife's hilt. There was a schlk as he pulled it free. The blade was glowing, a bright blue, and it was not blood that ran from his chest but green sparks.
He dropped it to the floor. Everything around him became slow. Pain enveloped him. He fell to his knees.
The Cool Kids were filing into the hole in the wall. Towards escape. Adrian tried to yell at them but words weren't on his lips.
Adrian wretched, falling onto his side on the cold concrete floor. He could hear boots stomping on the ground above him.
The hawk-man stepped over him on the way to the tunnel. Over his back was Geoff, passed out. He entered the tunnel, and Adrian was the only one left in the basement.
The last image he saw was the rafters above him, streaming with neon flames.

The hive is burned. Paradise lost.

The Cool Kids were always digging tunnels.

The barrier doesn't end. Out there, it's all blue mist.

That isn't a way to live.

The knock came.

But there was nobody home.

  Right?

And when Adrian awoke, he was in the Circle.

Part I | Part II: The War and The Many Faces | Part III


CODE 192-DCLS - RESTRICTED GENERAL FOUNDATION USE
RAISA (Records and Information Security Administration) has declassified portions of the following posthumous text under Code 192-DCLS for the purpose of "making available defunct, inaccurate, outdated, or compromised texts by deceased authors for general usage, research, and analysis by Foundation assets and Foundation-approved affiliates" in compliance with §4.11 of Protocol AXNN-53 ("Declassification of Internal Research").

PRACTICAL LOGOPSYCHOLOGY (1998)

████ Thorn and █████ Włonsky

CONTENTS

Foreword   1

Chapter 0.0: Preface   2

Chapter 0.1: Theory and practice   5

Chapter 0.2: Logomemetic primers throughout history   112

Chapter 0.3: Practical categorization of primers   196

Chapter 0.4: Constructing command primers in the field   245

Chapter 0.5: Usage of primers in the Creation   355

Chapter 0.6: Administration of command primers to large populations    533

Chapter 0.7: Textual demonstration of logomemes    634

Chapter 0.9: Command primers in modern society   636

Chapter 1.0: Our revelation   811

Appendix    1211

START OF DOCUMENT
This is the beginning of the Preface to Practical Logopsychology (1998). Declassification of Chapters 01 and 02 are pending review by RAISA. This text may be defunct, inaccurate, outdated, or compromised, and is published here purely for referential and archival purposes. As the authors of this text are deceased, this text has been classified as Internal-Use Public Domain. Personnel are advised to exercise standard memetic and cognitohazard precautions, although the following section has been fully sanitized of all potential ǆȾeɔɔeckʈ.

Preface
The study of logopsychology can be briefly described as the study of interactions between words and the human psyche [Reedy, 1986]. The peculiar cognitive macroflaws of Homo sapiens sapiens, neurological heuristics crafted through evolutionary development, have long been exploited, from confidence artists to performance entertainers to politicians [Laurens, 1993], including confirmation bias and the bandwagon effect, which the reader may already be aware of. Only until recently has modern science been capable of categorising and systematising the microflaws of human neurology, which exist on a more basal, implementational level [Laurens, 1994; Kahneman & Tversky, 1973]. So why exactly are memetes (exploitable cognito-efficacious environmental stimuli) most commonly found within the written and spoken word? Why not perhaps visual stimuli? Or olfactory stimuli? Or non-speech aural stimuli?
During the course of our investigations, we have been able to propose only tentative possibilities as to the unusual statistical distribution of currently-known memetes.
Perhaps it is a bias within the investigation of possible memetic agents - afterall, it is easier to find twelve sounds which produce a cognito-effect once concatenated, rather than to find fifty thousand sine waves or sixteen million colours or a precise arrangement of molecules which produce a similar effect [Reedy, 1989]. Typically, the discovery of a memetic agent is commonly made through generating random word-lists, exposing them to test subjects, observing cognitive effects, and optimising on the basis of morphemic characteristics [Włonsky, 1991] [Reedy 1992].
However, a more intriguing possibility is that the effectiveness of a logograph-type memetic agent is due to the construction of the human mind itself. Consider the relative recentness of civilization as modern anthropologists have come to understand it - systems of writing were invented at least eight thousand years ago [Tyrelson, 1975], while the facility for speech and communication was likely developed hundreds of thousands of years ago [Tokigaishii, 1997]. It therefore seems that writing was grafted onto pre-existing cognitive facilities. The ability to convert printed symbols into units of meaning is not an innate ability, it is an ability specific to modern civilization, a unique ability which our minds have been honed towards [Gibson, 1975]. Therefore, it seems, as with any graft, it may not be a perfect fit, and there may be exploitable gaps. Interestingly, the frontal lobe facilitates speech, reading, and the fine motor control necessary for writing, suggesting that abstract, advanced communication as a cognitive skill seemingly unique to humans, is highly localized within a certain area, despite the immense superficial disparity [Patricks, 1993].
Many researchers [Yotta, 1997] have suggested that the nature of cognito-effective logographs may be due to specific design by the Father [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] who engineered our minds to [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53]
From experience, the reader will know that many words carry immediate emotional charges (connotations). For instance, "politician" suggests duplicity and untrustworthyness, whereas "statesperson" carries a functionally identical meaning while having almost exactly the opposite connotation. Likewise, "slim" suggests health, whereas "thin" suggests that the person in question is not in good health [Oppler, 1954]. We daily manipulate this tangle of meaning to suit our purposes, not only communicating as a means to transfer our states of mind, but communicating in order to influence the state of mind of another person in a way congruent to our social intentions. If we have a sufficiently advanced model of the mind of another, we can craft our language so as to trigger a particular state of mind within them [Patricks, 1983].
This immediately appears to extend the range and scope of the field of logopsychology. We are, it seems, investigating all environmental combinations which produce an effect in conscious minds. However, logopsychology is primarily concerned with the exploitation and analysis of written and verbal communication in order to induce a state of mind otherwise unachievable simply through manipulating traditional logographic stimuli. This is achieved through the usage of non-word memetes, which carry no meaning, yet seemingly inexplicably induce a powerful state of mind. For instance, subjects categorized as 1DD-G (we refer to the Appleby-Halfshott psychographic method) will generally follow most commands issued to them after hearing the command memete "d͡ʒɛʒʲʀʔʃɛ̃æʲʒð", while test subjects categorized as 1AC-K to 11HH-J often experience extreme drowsiness upon hearing the emotional primer "ʐɐ̌ʰʁçʷəʏʑ".
There are two varieties of memetes, general memetes and specific memetes. General memetes are extraordinarily rare, and are effective for (almost) all members of the human population, whereas specific memetes are plentiful and are only effective for a small psychographic subset of the human population. In all cases, general memetes are difficult to recognise, as in some sense, they exploit the parsing mechanism of the human brain and escape conscious perception. General memetes may even be morphologically obscured in written text, appearing between the boundraries of words, such as "unprohibited churning" (as a Foundation asset, the reader will likely be vaccinated against this particular g-class memete), the effects of which will often be inadvertently activated through subvocalization. This makes general memetic vaccination very helpful for researchers cataloguing memetes, as logographical cognitive agents tend to have a carry-over effect whereby successful conscious recognition of stimulus as a memete will result in easier recognition of similarly-constructed memetes.

[SECTION CURRENTLY UNDER REVIEW BY RAISA]
Chapter 0.1 discusses the theoretical basis of logopsychology, bringing to light recent advances in morphemic deconstruction, automatic metadeformation, and memetic derivation from Proto-Indo-European root-words.
Chapter 0.2 examines usage of logomemetic primers throughout history, providing context for the usage thereof. In Chapter 0.2, we critically analyse the usage of logographical cognitive agents during the Cold War, in several religious and political texts, and by [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] to control His Grand Project [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53]. Furthermore, we show that the so-called "universal command primer" as conceived by Yotta, 1997 is not validated by current models. [Note from RAISA: this is inaccurate — current models suggest the existence of a universal command primer.]
Chapter 0.3 introduces the reader to the categorization of primers, including command primers, emotional primers, hazardous primers, and antiontological "identity-rewrite" primers.
Chapter 0.4 explains how Foundation field-operatives may construct individualized command memetes tailored to ethnographic and linguistic categories.
Chapter 0.5 discusses the implications of [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] we, the chosen Children to carry out His [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] He shall return to wake us from our ten-thousand-year slumber. See 'Mesopotamia' for [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53]
Chapter 0.6 lays the basis of discourse surrounding the beginning of [REDACTED AS PER O5 ORDER 1019]
Chapter 0.7 demonstrates [REDACTED AS PER O5 ORDER 1019] for the Symbols of the Dawn of Words.
Chapter 0.8 [REDACTED AS PER O5 ORDER 1019] His Angels exercise His control through [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] the media, the schools, advertising [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] crafted to keep His Children asleep until his Return.
Chapter 0.9 [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] revealed to the authors in a dream, and here, we reveal it to you.

END OF DOCUMENT
This is the end of the Preface to Practical Logopsychology (1998). Declassification of Chapters I and II are pendiʷʸng review by RAISA. It would be a derailment of the Plan to reveal the Plan before its time. This text may be defunct, inaccurate, outdated, or compromised, andʷʸ is published here purely for referential and archival purposes. There are words meant to remain unknown, for eyes to never see and ears to never hear. Personnel are advised to exerciseʷʸ standard memetic and cognitohazard precautions, although the previous section has been fully sanitized.

"Because the messenger's mouth was heavy and he couldn't repeat (the message), the Lord of Kulaba pattes some clay and put words on it, like a tablet. Until then, there had been no putting words on clay."

— Sumerian epic poem Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta. Circa 1800 BC

"And as you read, you are not conscious of the letters or even of the words or even of the syntax or the sentences and punctuation, but only of their meaning. As you listen to an address, phonemes disappear into words and words into sentences and sentences disappear into what they are trying to say, into meaning. To be conscious of the elements of speech is to destroy the intention of the speech."

— Julian Jaynes, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind


The thing wearing O5-4's face smiled as Kantos pressed his gun to its face. “Hey, you people catch on quick. So what gave it away? Was it the teeth? I was worried I didn't get the teeth right.”
Kantos grabbed it by the hair and slammed it against the window hard enough to make a small crack on the glass. None of the passing pedestrians seemed to notice. He drove the muzzle of the gun into its temple. “I will ask one time. Where is she?”
The imposter laughed. “And if I don't answer, you're just gonna execute me in a crowd of civilians? Sure thing pal.”
“We can make them forget.” All the previous levity was gone from Kantos' voice. But he didn't sound like someone making a threat. More like someone announcing the day's chance of rain. Cipher watched calmly. She'd been curious what her new partner would be like in action. Perhaps she'd get a chance to find out.
“You could. I know how you people work though. Why kill something when you can keep it alive and squeeze every drop of information from its brain?” The fake O5 licked its bloody teeth.
Kantos thought for a moment, then withdrew, keeping the gun aimed at the imposter. “I hate people who think they're clever. Cipher. Watch the intruder. I will take us to a safer place.”
He began to start the car as Cipher unholstered her weapon. As the car began to roll off, their passenger said, “Cipher? That your real name?”
She hit it in the face.
The drive took several hours, following a route that was as deliberately as circuitous as possible. The route doubled back in a dozen different ways, took side streets, crossed half-built roads that had never appeared on any map. Still, they had no doubt the imposter would be able to keep up with the route. Once they were safely away from observers, they stopped to blindfold it before continuing on. And all the time, it continued to talk.
“Seriously though, how did you tell? I'm always looking for constructive feedback. This is a cutthroat business. Can't expect people to hire you if you're not always pushing yourself to improve, knowwhatimean?”
After about the 30th time it asked the question Cipher grunted out, “O5-4 knew I'd be picking her up today. And you didn't use the passphrase.”
The blindfolded imposter nodded. “Smart. Gotta remember that for next time.”
“There isn't going to be a next time.”
“Course there isn't.”
They arrived at the black site. From the outside, it was just a small shack in the middle of nowhere. A rotting remnant of some home that had collapsed decades prior. Weeds and grass twisted between broken slats of wood that crawled with insects. Cipher opened the door as Kantos shoved their still-blindfolded captive inside. They stepped in. She crouched down, found a small metal ring in the dirt. She pulled it up. With a rumbling noise, they began to descend. Twenty meters down, a door opened up until a brightly lit metal hallway.
“Very cool,” said the imposter as they dragged him through the hall. “Secret kill site. Good place to keep track of all your dirty little secrets, right?”
“Shut up,” said Kantos.
“Yeah, y'all can keep me here for however long you want, doing whatever you want to me, and there's nothing to stop you. Nobody who'll ever wander across.” He smiled. “You fucked up one thing though.”
“And what is that?”
“You thought I didn't want to get caught.”
Kantos paused.
“You think you're the one with the power here. You think this is all happening according to your rules. But you have no idea what this actually is.”
“And what is that?”
“A distraction.”
At that moment, Cipher's cell phone began to ring.

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