Title: Prelude to Presents

Other Articles of Mine

SCPs

SCP-4966

SCP-1401-EX

SCP-4052

SCP-4088

SCP-5522

SCP-4109

SCP-7441

SCP-5020

SCP-4286

SCP-4035

SCP-4664

SCP-4270

SCP-3462

SCP-6663

SCP-7966

SCP-4570

SCP-6633

SCP-5693

SCP-5261

SCP-444-J

page 1 of 212next »

Tales

Something Glowing

Log Of Extranormal Events, Vol II

Prelude To Presents

Your Memory Forever Seen

The Bears

Other

The Bread Box

Secure Facility Dossier: Reliquary Area-27

SCP-005 Proposal Hub

Experiment Log-4035

Collab Articles

SCPs

Page
Title
Co-Author

SCP-4733
But Not Forgotten
Lamentte

SCP-5225
The Abyss Stares Back
XilasCrowe

SCP-5785
Craptivism
Sonderance

SCP-5993
We want you to come visit Heaven, just don't fuck with those bees
ch00bakka

Tales

Page
Co-Author

The Bathrooms Wiki
Too many to list

Snippets of an Unveiled World
Nykacolaquantum does not match any existing user name, Lt Flops, IFBench, Westrin

Gone,
Lamentte

Your Imaginary Friend
Fishish

Check out Deadly Bread's Author Page

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

December 24th, 2023
Reliquary Site-27, Ontario, Canada

Brent Halligan walked into Randall Bannock's office, clipboard in hand, assuming he'd be met with the doctor either passed out on their desk or blearily staring into a computer screen. To his credit, he was at least half-right. It took him a few moments to realize that the containment director was garbed only in a coffee-stained lab coat and flannel pajamas emblazoned with cartoon cats. It took a few more moments to notice they were also floating several feet above their computer chair, supported only by a far overextended standing desk.
"Randall, why are you-"
"Wearing Garfield pajamas? I was hoping to sleep some time tonight Halligan, but unfortunately I've been stuck in my office drinking my weight in coffee just to stay conscious."
Halligan noticed that the mounted shelves now at level with Bannock's head were packed with mugs, coffee pots, and empty tin containers. They grabbed a mug emblazoned with the words "World's Best Forklift Operator and Grandmother" and tossed back the remaining liquid. As far as Halligan knew, they were neither a grandmother nor forklift certified.
He started once more. "That doesn't explain why-"
"I'm so overworked? I appreciate it Halligan, I really do, honest." They grab a coffee pot off a nearby shelf. "I'm just the only person on-site right now who has enough clearance to approve containment reports before they go online. The problem is I'm also somehow always backed up thirty containment drafts deep, and at least half of them are updates that need to be compiled with another report I approved an hour ago. I swear-"
"Bannock," Halligan interrupted, "why are you floating?"
They stop themselves mid-pour, glancing down at the floor. "Oh, right. Don't worry, it probably isn't anything serious." They hesitate. "Probably. Do you remember the tortoise that got transferred here from the Memetics Division last week because they were too busy and overworked? The same one that kept manipulating junior staff into giving it piles of tomatoes?"
Halligan nods. Tortoise is a bit of an understatement, given the miniature planet embedded in its shell, but the moniker fits well enough.
Bannock nods, sipping from a mug. "Well, it's not exactly happy that I cut off its supply of fruit and that I denied its request to run a massive aquatic network through the middle of the site, so I believe it's currently trying to launch me into the sun."
"The sun?"
"Mhm, the sun. The only problem is that the cell's previous occupant was a rather spiteful medium and resulted in us coating the walls with enough dampeners to paralyze an omniscient. Now the best it can manage is making getting through doors a nightmare for me." They gesture to themselves. "Suffice to say, it's on the back burner in the meantime. Right now, I should be at home with my husband getting a nice four hours of sleep at best, but instead I'm stuck here sifting through the incident reports from the last few days."
Halligan sympathized with the doctor. There's no such thing as a winter vacation in the Office of Tactical Theology. "Actually, that's what I was meaning to talk to you about." Halligan said as he slowly stepped further into the office. "I just got an updated incident report from the team at Outpost-76, the site that reported an explosion near the Arctic Circle? Some of the agents apparently found remains in the crater and told me to get it to you as soon as I c-" Halligan is cut off by the sound of Bannock's head impacting the terminal keyboard.
"Of course." They groan through keycaps. "Look Halligan, no offense to you personally, but right now I would rather grind my teeth into a fine paste than add another report to the pile. This is probably the worst season we've had yet, and we still haven't recovered from the last solstice." Halligan couldn't deny it. Almost half of the containment cells he'd normally pass on the way to Bannock's office were either empty or undergoing renovations.
They grip their face with their hands and sign heavily, the director's minimal guise of confidence seemingly vanished. "We've lost so many anomalies in the past week alone, and for the life of me I have no idea why. It feels like almost anything with more than a shred of religious relevance has been affected. I've had to label everything on-site with even a sliver of connection to a higher plane of existence as volatile; even that planet-bearing reptile's been reclassified as neutralized. I've got piles upon piles of reports from practically every theologian in the Foundation saying the supposed prophet they were tracking was found with a brain the consistency of oatmeal. One of them told me he'd never seen someone so thoroughly dead! At this point I can't tell if I've developed tinnitus from the sheer number of mental detonations or if more bees have gotten into the vents."
Halligan began to speak but stopped himself. He made a mental note to tell maintenance to check the ventilation system. They were used to bee removal by now.
"Compound that with the already massive amount of incidents we get around this time of year, and you've got yourself a recipe for disaster. There's barely anyone left in Administration, let alone the Containment Department. Practically every agent on duty is out on deployment to check on some problem in the wake of this mess."
A moment of silence between the two passes as Bannock starts another pot of coffee. Halligan braces himself and slides the clipboard out from under his arm and onto the desk. "It's… urgent, I promise. They told me to get it to you as soon as possible because you weren't answering your emails."
"Almost as if I was preoccupied with some other matters of urgency right now. I swear this had better be important."
Bannock picked up the clipboard. Were the department not as barren as it was, anyone nearby might have been able to hear the thwack of forehead against plastic followed by a loud and very tired groan.

INCIDENT EE-0164429 INVESTIGATION REPORT
INCIDENT LOCATION:
 Arctic Outpost-76, Northern Geomagnetic Pole, Arctic Circle
INITIAL REPORT:
 Large-scale detonation reported by researchers stationed at Arctic Outpost-76. Minor hearing damage experienced by all individuals nearby. Exploration discovered a massive crater approximately 2.4 miles in diameter. Formation suggests high-speed impact from an extreme altitude.
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:
 Investigation has failed to yield intact detritus, although significant levels of ash in the surrounding area suggests a large combustible mass not expected of an extraterrestrial collision. Minor amounts of viscera have been found within the area, although biological testing has proven largely inconclusive with the exception of several cervine bones. Several personnel stationed at the outpost noted a luminescent red light in the sky prior to the impact, although no direct connection has been confirmed.

rating: +23+–x


Operation Report #A271
STF Phi-23
(“Dream Defense”)

On the night of 2020/12/16, Dr. Alto Clef was arrested by SCP-4917 for various crimes committed at the Somnia Coffee Bar within the Oneiroi West collective. Dr. Clef's beverage order was unclear, and the barista asked him to clarify. Dr. Clef then began threatening the barista with a loaded shotgun. When the barista threatened to call the police, Dr. Clef fired two rounds into the barista's head. Upon realized the severity of the situation, Dr. Clef set the building on fire and fled the scene, resulting in an hour-long motorcycle chase with SCP-4917 instances.

DATE: 2020/12/17
TO: [DATA EXPUNGED]
FROM: matthew.tempest@████.net
Re: Clef Trial

I just had a long talk with Dr. Clef. He's a little disoriented on account of not having lucid dream training, but his account more or less lines up with 4917's. Still don't know what the hell he's doing here. I'd think Clef of all people would understand the dangers of plugging a high-rank Foundation researcher into a subconscious hive mind with their prefrontal cortex shut off. But I digress.
The good news is, Clef was wearing a black jacket when he was arrested, so we were able to get him tried as a penguin. Thanks to a freak accident of environmental protection laws, this means that Clef can't be sentenced to death or more than 20 years in prison. So if anything goes wrong, he'll at least get off with a lighter sentence.
Still, even with the kind of shenaniganry we can get away with in OW, I can already tell this is going to be one of the toughest cases we've dealt with. We're going to need to pull off every trick we have if we're going to keep Dr. Clef out of dream jail.
Agent Matthew Tempest
“Precipitory Buckler”
STF Phi-23

Dr. Clef was indicted on 2020/12/17. The trial took place from 2020/12/18 to 2020/12/22. Agent Matthew Tempest served as Dr. Clef's defense attorney.

DATE: 2020/12/18-2020/12/22
LOCATION: Oneiroi West Central Courthouse
NOTES: The following is a partial transcript of the trial People v. Cinderbrick Banjo, taking place within the Oneiroi West collective. Dr. Alto Clef and Agent Matthew Tempest are frequently referred to by their Shadows' names within this text (Cinderbrick Banjo and Precipitory Buckler, respectively).
This transcript was reconstructed from the memories of Agent Matthew Tempest and 4 other members of STF Phi-23 present at the trial. Extraneous information has been omitted, and this text may contain inaccuracies in certain places.
CLERK: Docker number 2330518, People v. Cinderbrick Banjo. Two counts of homicide, three counts of manslaughter, possession of an unregistered firearm, resisting arrest, arson, and one parking violation.
JUDGE: What do you plea, Mr. Banjo?
CLEF: Not guilty. And that's Dr. Banjo.
[Agent Tempest elbows Dr. Clef]
CLEF: …Your Honor.
JUDGE: Very well. Bailiff, show the jury to their seats.
[12 penguins of various species waddle into the courtroom, quacking softly amongst themselves]
JUDGE: Let's get this over with, gentlemen. Mr. Hammer, you may make your opening statement.
[The prosecution and defense make their opening statements before the first witness is called to the stand]

Witness #1
“Literary Apple Strudel”

HAMMER: What time did you arrive at the scene of the crime on December 16th, 2020?
STRUDEL: About 9:30.
HAMMER: Describe what you saw outside the store.
STRUDEL: The parking lot was mostly empty, aside from a blue SUV and a silver sedan. There was a motorcycle in one of the handicapped spaces. I don't remember any of the makes.
HAMMER: What car did you drive, Ms. Strudel?
STRUDEL: I didn't drive, I walked.
HAMMER: Now, describe what you saw when you entered the store.
STRUDEL: There were two men inside. A barista was standing behind the counter. The other man was across the counter from him, with his back to me.
HAMMER: Did you recognize either of them at the time?
STRUDEL: The barista worked there often. I didn't recognize the other one.
HAMMER: How often did you visit the Somnia Coffee Bar?
STRUDEL: About once or twice a week.
HAMMER: Can you describe the man in front in more detail?
STRUDEL: He was tall, with a slim build. He wore a black jacket and a wide-brimmed hat. He also had some kind of instrument on his back, a guitar I think.
HAMMER: What were the two men doing?
STRUDEL: The one in front was holding a gun and yelling at the barista. He was screaming at him to hand something over. I didn't know what he was talking about; I thought it was a robbery.
HAMMER: What did you do then?
STRUDEL: I turned around and ran.
HAMMER: Do you see that man - the one who was holding the gun - in the audience today?
STRUDEL: Yes. [points to Dr. Clef] It's him.
[The jury gasps melodramatically]
HAMMER: I have no further questions, Your Honor.
[Agent Tempest steps into the well]
TEMPEST: You mentioned the defendant's motorcycle was in a handicapped parking space. How could you tell that it was disabled?
STRUDEL: …what?
TEMPEST: How could you tell that the space was handicapped? Was it missing limbs? Did it have a crutch? Maybe a wheelchair?
STRUDEL: Uh… no. There was a sign.
TEMPEST: So your only indication that the defendant was parked illegally was a sign that anyone could have put there?
STRUDEL: Well… yes.
TEMPEST: Interesting. When you entered the store, where were you standing in relation to the attacker?
STRUDEL: I was directly behind him. About 8 feet away.
TEMPEST: Then how could you see his face?
STRUDEL: I… I'm sorry?
TEMPEST: You claimed that you could confirm that my client was the attacker, but you also claim that you were standing directly behind him. How can you make any statements about who the attacker is or is not if you couldn't see his face?
HAMMER: Objection! Argumentative.
TEMPEST: It's a valid question, Your Honor. I want to hear what she says.
JUDGE: I'll allow it. Answer the question, Ms. Strudel.
STRUDEL: I… I could look around him, so I could see his face that way.
TEMPEST: Interesting. One more question. Was the barista holding anything?
STRUDEL: I couldn't see, his hands were behind the counter.
TEMPEST: No further questions.

Witness #4
SCP-4917-A-2 ("Deyis")

[Witness's appearance is consistent with other SCP-4917-A instances. It wears apparrel resembling that of an 1980s American motorcycle officer, wearing an 8-pointed badge and Aviator sunglasses, which it removes upon entering the courtroom]
HAMMER: Mr. Deyis, how long have you been a member of the Oneiroi West police force?
DEYIS: About 30 years now.
HAMMER: On December 16th, 2020, were you dispatched to respond to an incident at 278 Carol Street?
DEYIS: Yes, I was.
HAMMER: What was the reason for the dispatch?
DEYIS: We had reports of an armed robber at the Somnia Coffee Bar.
HAMMER: How long did it take you to arrive at the scene?
DEYIS: About five minutes or so.
HAMMER: Did you see anyone else when you arrived?
DEYIS: The paramedics and firefighters were already there. They were loading two bodies into an ambulance. My partner Astrachan was also there.
HAMMER: Did you notice anything unusual about the scene?
DEYIS: Other than that it was on fire? Not really.
HAMMER: Did you enter the building at any point?
DEYIS: No. Like I said, it was on fire.
HAMMER: What did you do once you arrived?
DEYIS: After looking over the crime scene, me and Astrachan went looking for the suspect. He was right where we knew he'd be; heading southbound on I-21.
HAMMER: What type of vehicle was the defendant driving?
DEYIS: Harley Iron 1200. License plate 436C3366.
HAMMER: How did the defendant react when he saw you?
TEMPEST: Objection! Speculation.
JUDGE: Overruled.
DEYIS: He sped up. Went from 80 to 110, speed limit 65. People were swerving to get out of his way. Caused some real nasty crashes. Took over an hour to stop him and get the cuffs on.
HAMMER: When did he finally stop?
DEYIS: He hit a curve too fast and went flying. Hit a few trees on the way down. Bounced like a pinball. We had to peel him up three miles away.
HAMMER: Thank you for your time, officer. No further questions.
[Agent Tempest steps forward]
TEMPEST: Officer Deyis, how did you conduct your investigation for this case?
DEYIS: We quickly surveyed the crime scene, and then went looking for the suspect.
TEMPEST: Really? No forensic examination or anything?
DEYIS: It wasn't necessary. They're mostly a hollow formality anyways.
TEMPEST: Oh, are they? Then why did you decide to arrest my client?
DEYIS: [chuckles] You realize where you are, right?
JUDGE: Answer the question, officer.
DEYIS: Okay then. We aren't like you and your client, Mr. Buckler; we're a part of this place. We already saw everything go down.
TEMPEST: Unbelievable. You singled out my client on a hunch?
DEYIS: It's not a hunch. Like I said, we see everything around here.
TEMPEST: You spent over an hour terrorizing my client without a single solitary scrap of evidence other than a wild superstition!
DEYIS: You know I'm right, Mr. Buckler. This is just for show.
TEMPEST: With the kind of kangaroo court you people run around here, I'm sure it is!
HAMMER: Objection! The witness is not on trial here!
JUDGE: He's right, Mr. Buckler. That's enough.
[Agent Tempest takes a few deep breaths]
TEMPEST: I apologize, officer. I didn't intend to offend you. [turns to the judge] No more questions.

Witness #7
Crispy Demitasse

[The witness appears humanoid and stands approximately 1.6 meters in height. Subject's head is missing, and visible skin is notably charred. The absence of a mouth or vocal chords does not inhibit the subject's speaking ability]
HAMMER: Were you working at the Somnia Coffee Bar on December 16th, 2020?
DEMITASSE: Would I be missing my head if I wasn't?
JUDGE: Answer the question, Mr. Demitasse.
DEMITASSE: Yes, I was.
HAMMER: Were you previously scheduled to work on that day?
DEMITASSE: No, I was filling in for someone else.
HAMMER: Was there anyone else on-duty at the time of the incident?
DEMITASSE: There was Solar Wreath. She was upstairs at the time. She died in the fire.
HAMMER: Did the defendant enter the store at any point during your shift?
DEMITASSE: Yes, at about 9:35.
HAMMER: What were your initial impressions of the defendant?
TEMPEST: Objection! Relevance.
JUDGE: Sustained.
HAMMER: [grumbles] What did the defendant do once entering the store?
DEMITASSE: He ordered, and I quote, “one of those vanilla bullshit things”. When I asked him what the hell he meant by that, he got angry and pulled out a shotgun.
HAMMER: How did you respond?
DEMITASSE: I told him to leave before I called the cops.
HAMMER: And did he?
DEMITASSE: No. He blew my head off.
[Jury gasps in horror]
HAMMER: One final question. [points to Dr. Clef] Can you confirm that the man who killed you is the defendant?
DEMITASSE: Without a doubt. It's him.
HAMMER: I have no further questions, Your Honor.
[Agent Tempest steps forward]
TEMPEST: Before we begin, Mr. Demitasse, I must say that you are the most well-spoken dead man I have ever met.
DEMITASSE: [nods] Thank you.
TEMPEST: Are you familiar with the results of your autopsy?
DEMITASSE: I've read the report.
TEMPEST: Then you know that the coroner claimed you died of natural causes in his report.
[Confused murmurs from the jury]
HAMMER: Objection! The victim died of a gunshot wound!
TEMPEST: Exactly! It's only natural that he would die from the loss of his head.
DEMITASSE: What are you trying to imply?
TEMPEST: Had you ever met the defendant before December 16th?
DEMITASSE: No, I'd never seen him before.
TEMPEST: Then you'll be surprised to hear that your second cousin's roommate once bumped into my client at a chinese grocery store.
[Murmurs from the jury box]
DEMITASSE: First I've heard of it. Should I have?
TEMPEST: Records show you are a licensed handgun owner. Is that right?
HAMMER: Objection! Relevance.
TEMPEST: I'm going somewhere with this, Your Honor.
JUDGE: Get there faster, Mr. Buckler. It's almost lunchtime.
DEMITASSE: Yes, I am.
TEMPEST: Did you have a handgun with you on the day of the incident?
DEMITASSE: No.
TEMPEST: Why not?
DEMITASSE: It melted. I left it in the sun too long.
TEMPEST: On accident? Or because it would weaken your case?
DEMITASSE: Get to the point.
TEMPEST: Simple. I'm saying you pulled a gun on my client on the day of the incident. You wanted to avenge your cousin's roommate. And when he naturally killed you in rightful self-defense, you went crying to the police about murder!
DEMITASSE: [stands] You son of a bitch!
> JUDGE: Mr. Demitasse, sit down.
DEMITASSE: I was murdered by this bastard, and now you're trying to pin the blame on me?!
JUDGE: Mr. Demitasse, I told you to sit down!
[The witness begins levitating two meters above the stand]
DEMITASSE: I DID NOT ASK FOR THIS! DO I LOOK LIKE I ASKED FOR THIS?!
JUDGE: Oh for the love of… bailiff, restrain that man!
[The bailiff tackles the witness in midair]
TEMPEST: [laughing] Don't lose your head, Mr. Demitasse. You might get killed a second time!
HAMMER: Objection!
TEMPEST: Withdrawn.

Verdict

JUDGE: Has the jury reached a verdict?
[One of the jurors stands and honks loudly. A translator steps forward]
TRANSLATOR: They have, Your Honor.
JUDGE: What do you find?
[The juryman continues quacking, while the translator relates their words]
TRANSLATOR: To the charges of second-degree homicide, the jury finds the defendant… not guilty.
TRANSLATOR: To the charges of manslaughter, the jury finds the defendant… not guilty.
TRANSLATOR: To the charge of possession of an unregistered firearm, the jury finds.. not guilty.
TRANSLATOR: To the charge of arson, the jury finds… not guilty.
TRANSLATOR: To the charge of disabled parking abuse, the jury finds the defendant… guilty as charged.
[There is a long pause]
TEMPEST: Well… I guess you can't win them all.

Dr. Clef was sentenced to a $500 fine for the parking violation. He is scheduled to undergo lucid dreaming training to prevent similar incidents in the future.


My song echoes an old epic unsung by the masses.

My song echoes an old epic unsung by the masses.
My words come, not of what I know, but what I have been given,
not from mortal mind, nor by minds unconcerned by the passing,
nature, she is mischievous, with tall tales and betrayed vows,
but these fables are not to be sung by the rhythm of wilds.
The bards who pluck strings will profess no recognition
when asked, whether in bars or, for certain events, in the fine halls,
via drunkards or royalty, all who desperately beg them
to strum this one old and peculiar verse to their good friends.
These vows, while not intended as falsehoods, disguise the key facts.
Namely concerning the dreams of musicians and poetry masters
which all, through fate's strong hand reach to the part of the world
were these lyrics assemble in chorus, sadly departing
when they wake. Here I name myself unlike the others,
due to absence of agency. I shall recover a mythos
empty of thought and without will because this bit of folklore
cannot be my own. I write with the quill of a thousand.
I shall write on the paper of more. This is not a story.
But the story. The one that grants us all others.
It is a love letter scripted by pen to the parchment.
These are the syllables past that were drowned through corruption and failure.
This is the rhythm that quiets, but shall not and can not be silent.
This is the dawn of a Hero.
Ages and eons ago, there lived one ruler of all things.
For each vassal he took himself a new name, with it came strength.
To one servant appearing as master of forges and blacksmiths,
to others, guises of love, beasts, travel, and light were what they knew.
But one name was above all others, king, and as all know,
a king who is without heir must rule shamefully. Therefore,
this man, who would halt in response to no force in this world
except challenges that his own pride could not let him ignore,
saw this disgrace as no frivolous issue, flensed from his kingdom
mighty pieces of land and beside them mightier titles,
and forged this strength all in a powerful mass so it could be
his son. Then, the remainder of these lost letters of lifeblood
found themselves in a crude snare, gripped by an emperor forlorn,
all for the purpose of further creation and passing of birthrights.
These strange faces enrapt by the one who lacks a description
had their shapes transfixed into something new, unexpected,
cold. One circlet of pure gold, inlaid with gemstones of two types.
The first: black. True darkness embodied, with all of its comfort.
Gentle embraces of night shall always provide the requested
chances to sleep, which any of those who work have in their prayers.
The other: Red. The color exactly of blood, with its vibrance.
Coursing along in the veins of a soldier, fighting for glory
just as he fights for his freedom and honor, valiant virtues.
After assembling this trophy, the fool who surrendered his power
handed it down to his sole heir. Then, because all of his names fled
the man, once an immortal, degraded with time, as do all men.
Whether the loss was in mind or in body is known to but one soul,
whichever took place, through some means or another, the grey one
had sod layered atop him. But some things always refuse death.
From fresh grave dirt, the names grew. Rapidly, at the beginning,
slowly, upon their correct form taking its roots in the soil.
Shapes of a city rose from the deep ground, then, all at once, stopped.
The city was complete and its gold throne seated the named heir.
In turn, this crown bearer had one offspring, such a daughter
whose fame outweighed all, even his, not due to her title,
the cause lied in her beauty, which surpassed even thoughts of perfection,
since mortal minds cannot understand what such a word means
most souls choose to envision their personal interests as ideal,
what they miss is the force that unites them collectively,
beauty of this sort transcends past the subjective to reach truth.
This is the reason behind the amassed suitors in the courtyard
From all stations and walks they come, like a roaring inferno,
drawn to an insect, which grows in cocoons, that has been dried,
left to the mercy of nature, the one who is fickle and heartless.
Flames could always go up the defenseless tree and in one move
swallow the bug with a passionate kiss until both of the hearts warm.
This was her fate, which she all but accepted as certain and noble.
This was her fame, which her parent embraced. Henceforth, he was known as
Father and she, the Girl.
There are, however, towns not part of the city of named ones.
These towns fail to appear on the maps that travelers carry,
due to the strange fact that no wandering soul can arrive there
(setting aside some entities who need no introduction).
Entrance is not an option, only escape, which only a few found,
most through death, which, as all know, serves as the easy solution,
some through tricks so real that even the memories were fooled,
one through nobler means, unexpected by kinsmen around him,
mainly because the one who left was a stranger to their minds.
They knew only of the boy, who would toil for hours,
grow, painstakingly, sown seeds, saplings, and sprouts in the soil
and reap all that he could from the world around him without care
but, at the same time, there was no ill will in him, simply
put, he was just young, selfish at times, as are mortals eternal,
when they tell white lies to convince their friends and companions
that they are not that thing which they happen to seem like.
This boy, who lived lacking a father or parent of different
sort, thrived using the farm that his departed adults left,
but, that does not grant him the life he is destined to handle.
Sensing his future ahead, this boy found passion in tall tales,
seemings of things that were not real, and distortions of what were.
That is a beautiful thing, but not one that is approved of
in one's own lifespan. So the boy lived sadly and lonely.
Then, as he labored to plant all day while the sun, in its cruelty
seared skin just as a flame that climbs up a tree to assault those
who most days would seek out fires in foolish amusement
rapt in the dreams of a light that they can hold in a sixth leg,
illness came and fatigue rose sharply until the essence
left his internal chamber and passed on. Thereby, losing his bright spark,
this boy fell to the ground, dead.
That is impossible. This tale hurts to inscribe. It is something
wrong, or mistaken. This boy lived, most certainly, just not
held in the same form that he expects. This change is a comfort,
brought by his own deeds. While Death swept through unfinished fields of his labor
wrapping around roots, stalks, and a few scorched flowers, sinking
teeth in the sun-seared flesh of the life-starved boy in the dry fields,
forces amassed to allow the betrayed boy life yet renewed. With
cries to the dead and alive soul watchers, he rose up off black ground.
The boy died, but the Hero lived.
Heroes awaking in fields lack memory, yet they replace it
with drive, destiny, dreams, and desire, the virtues expected
from eyes that watch their lives. Who could not be incensed with
purpose upon seeing their work half done? And the Hero,
who is as driven as any, attacked ruthlessly the labor.
Spade serving as a weapon to crack stubborn and unyielding
dirt. In his dextrous phalanges abundance of kernels cascaded,
spilling onto the soil until ripe trunks and spelunking
roots thrived. Like monsoons tear lifeless topsoil from stone beds,
leaving pools in their wake, this brave Hero, who nurtured along life,
left bright vibrant trees in his domain, watered with cold sweat.
Harvest approached him before dusk fell. In his heart, the conscripted
Hero observed an affection for home, although it had never
shown him the same love. So, as a gift from his newly acquired
fate, he assembled the town as one mass, calling together
youthful and ancient until they questioned his motives for meeting,
as would any in their shoes.
Thus, in response, did the Hero assert with a cunning announcement:
"Friends, you will always astound me with your fear. Please, am I so cruel
that to be seen in the same building is a sin? Can I not hope
that a companion would be beside me in my weak attempts to grow?
I only wish to unearth your kindness. Or, is the concern
not me? My produce is pristine I assure you of that much.
Then is the flaw in my home? It is small, I confess, but if that is
all, then I must recognize nothing binding our communion
to the interior. Come, sit on grass, eat from trees, I am hosting
you, and the town as a whole, for a reason. After we live free,
just as we all must someday, you will awake to an absence.
I will have left for the city and never returned to this wasteland.
I do not need to command you against crying, as I notice
no tears. Sad, but expected. Fame is a wonderful concept,
thus why stories are told of the famed, but it means less than nothing,
to me, at least. No, this performance is not an attempt to
make myself loved. I do this for a simple and plain cause:
I can, therefore I should. What else could be the central
drive of a Hero? So eat well"
These words carefully chosen, the Hero concluded and then lied
down on the ground, but in doing this, faded to sleep in an instant.
While he was splendid in spreading his spoils, he proved to be, sadly,
quite inexperienced at the commanding of guests and so they took
all of the treasures they could. While hardly amounting to greatness
their hoard marked a betrayal the Hero enraged his own self by.
Thus, like a cyclone carving a course of attack he announced his
exit and through the aggression he brought each traitor to their knees
(such statements shall kindly be left unspoken by this tale).
Then, with his boots laced fully, he strode until home was a distant
memory. During the journey he felt watched. But he was not quite
cunning enough to observe the observer and so he continued
walking along to the city
Valiant deeds made themselves known to the Hero whose name was
called by the world itself. Here, soldiers recruiting for bloodshed,
there, lost victims in need of a leader. The Hero who sowed grain
knew that his true goal rested away from the noise of the needy.
So, he discovered the true gemstone of the city, the Girl,
standing upon her balcony just as a stone on the mountain
pinnacle perches precarious, crowds from around the entire
world amass to observe how long it survives in its strange stance.
The brave Hero observed this cruelty and vowed to defend her,
shoulder the weight of her hand, and to give her his hand in return. But,
such threats stood in the way of his quest: the convening admirers,
laws of the city denouncing an outside marriage, and worst yet,
the Father, so strict he would stop his own daughter from wedding
rich, poor, noble and cruel. All suitors regardless of merit
are cast far from his door. The dauntless Hero, a brave youth,
openly wept at the challenge. These wise lacrimal drops pooled
down by his feet and created a gate for a being to cross through.
Hearing his carefully-chosen emotions, it felt that it must take
pity and came to his aid.
This old entity hails from before the Hero, the Father,
even the one whose names are innumerable. This visitor called
herself Mildiga, Matron of Magic when names were a treasure,
staking her claim as a figure of power she clutched her possession,
halting attempts to remove it until she was seen as an equal,
even a threat, by the patron of titles, and barred from his kingdom.
Mildiga, Matron of Mischief, became forever unique. Thus
unrecognizable to his domain. This failed to prevent her
finding a way inside. So, Mildiga, Matron of Monsters,
whose jaw coils down to her legs, set out on a strange hunt.
Seeking a crack left unchecked. She found one in the Hero,
whose sad thoughts are enough to control his surroundings until they
bend to his will and attempt to repair what wrongs he has lived through.
The wise Hero knew half of the matter, his tears were a technique,
summoning such a monstrosity never was what he intended,
but he knew that his sadness caused a solution to answer.
Thus, to the stranger he spoke:
"Specter of one face, speak, and address what aid you may grant me.
I know not what legends you hail from, but I beseech you, take
pity on this poor soul and his humble predicament. I am
no king, prince, nor even a man. I am but a dismayed boy.
seeking assistance to wed such a splendid Girl as this one,
but her Father refuses her hand. Sway, smite, or supplant him
so that I may care for her often and sing to you praises
from our happy abode so much that the city repeats it."
These words carefully chosen, the Hero concluded and then lied
his strong body against stones laid by his feet so his senses,
vision and texture and body and mind, could leave his awareness.
Those thoughts flew from the Hero and entered the mind of the stranger,
Mildiga, Matron of Malady, planting their roots in the closed ears
that so often are peeled to entrap sounds, words, and emotions,
only to seal tight so they can no longer escape. Then,
contemplating the meaning and repercussions of each one.
She stood, silent, gazing upon this form of the Hero.
Each word used to describe him attempted to strengthen his visage.
Then, her appearance adjusted itself so a smile along the
stretch of her mouth would form. She concluded the Hero was named right.
Thus, she bestowed him her favor.
With these forces of nature assembled together, the world
saw no choice but to yield and provide for the Hero a window,
like a paternal decision to give to their son the potential
chance of a failure. This judgement was made unbeknownst to
souls of the world and kept that way to avoid a deception.
As fate's pen can be swayed by a crafty conspirator's cunning.
Destiny hid its involvement by masking its actions as free will,
just as it always attempts to.
The next fortunate day, an announcement came from the father.
That past night, in his dream he observed what he feared was the future,
his own self, but alone, no one to protect him and no one
guarding his daughter. This dream felt so real that he lost his
senses and swiftly contracted a mania once he awakened.
Such an insanity sent this announcement to all of the city:
"Long have you lingered and waited for glimpses upon steps.
I have forced you away in the past, but I find that I must now
turn and embrace your attempts to embrace me and my daughter,
joining the household that bears the crown. While my reception
used to be cold, I now must thaw my icy demeanor.
No good thing will appear if I fail to allow it to hurt me,
medals are not won without risk, and rewards are not given
out but to those who are willing to suffer. So, I proclaim this
out to the world to send me the best that you have and to let them
try to impress me to win a betrothal to her, my beloved
daughter whose beauty can bend lands, oceans, and heavens alike, yes,
shown by the crowds by my door, but among those suitors there must
be one worthier than the remainder who truly deserves my affection.
Come all. Prove your merit until none raise an objection.
Come if you think it is your fate."
Suitors arrived by the score. Not unlike a migration flock
flying to southern oases in winter to drink of the nectar
and to consume the botanical wonders they are to but dream
their mouths will touch during the summer and spring. Then, in colder
months, when all life finds no food, their desperate attempts are
in good company. They and the father are hungry for kin.
They, for a family they can protect, and the father for children
that can protect him. Now, as the hordes are approaching he feels pride.
Standing above his paternal domain, eyes glancing between eyes
watching for signs of success or of failure before the beginning
even arrives. That one stands poorly and pitifully, that one
speaks too loudly to neighbors and friends, that one and that one.
Miserly, every contender appeared to him sad and pathetic.
He, as a beggar and chooser combined saw champions as fools.
None more so than the Hero, the worthiest challenger, whose worth
seemed to the father the worst of the lot. None even compared in
value to what was imagined inside of his mind, so he only
saw the reverse of the truth. Those close to his vision were horrid
since they reminded him what his desire was truly, and furthest
ones were the only he trusted. The Hero, by such an imperfect
paradigm, was the worst.
Even the father though could not send them away without reason.
"On to the first of the trials" declared the paternal announcement.
Swifter the start then the swifter the end, in his head, so the less time
spent with explaining the task to the fools he already discounted
based on their merit, the better, he thought. Thus, this he declared once:
"Show me strength. Face one foe. Take from them a concession."
Silence rang through crowded courtyards when the assembly
knew what was meant. Each came here prepared for a battle
but most ones had expected a battle of words where displays of
confidence triumphed atop the displays of their worth and their lies reigned.
But, as the strict judge viewed their attempts with wisdom and cunning,
knowing the cowards who filled these grounds he proclaimed this to scare them.
He wished not for a drop to appear as a stain on his soil.
Though, when he carelessly spoke, his intentions failed to be made clear,
so did it go, as the words left him, the malicious and desperate
sought out who in the crowd was the easiest person to target.
Their eyes held no merciful shreds of humanity. They were
monsters shaped to their pinnacle.
Like hunting hounds placed in a kennel upon their return home
after their chase of a frightened quarry who barely evaded
them and their fangs. The hunger they feel slaughters their patience
so they snap and they bite at the dogs that stand in between their
jaws and the meat that the hunter propels to the crowd of the cruel curs.
This is the force that surrounded the Hero who seemed, in the cunning
vision of these beasts, merely a farm boy, thus a delicious
morsel of prey. Waves folded in themselves vying to strike him.
Quickly the Hero deduced who led the attack by the eyes of
Mildiga, Matron of Mystery, outcast who from above sees
all. That person he saw was wielding a blade that he feared could,
just as he feared that the bearer would choose to, kill, and their hand would
not back down. So, then did the Hero decide that he could not
face this person in bloody assault. As a seafarer scribes maps,
naming and claiming the lands that belong to the sun up above, and
then as the voyager takes those lands as they hammer a flag, and
just as the long forgotten and buried lord had procured all,
not by his birth or his strength, but by his commanding demeanor,
in this way by the Hero's imposing will he acquired
that blade, dreaded before, it became hallowed by his action.
He chose not to respond to his foe likewise, and instead bowed,
no true Hero attacks those not in control of their actions.
This old, unknown kindness showed that the Hero deserved this,
causing the cad to concede to him.
Then, as the Father observed what only is said to be chaos,
his heart started to feel for the plight of the suitors and speak out
but some force chilled him and refused to allow him to show love,
making him just the opponent the Hero desired to conquer.
The first task was complete, for the Hero at least, and he felt proud,
but as the rage of the Father accrued, he chose to proclaim forth
new rules. The bold strength, he presumed, could not be of purpose
when this Hero was tested on wit. So he spoke to the suitors:
"Cease this nonsense. You are worthless brutes even when at your
best. I will weed out which of the crowd can face the conflictions
that will arise as you live in the world of class that the marriage
sought will entail. I have faced the destruction of things that I held dear.
Here I refuse to lose what above all else is important,
my young one, to fools that lack wisdom in its best form."
Silence spread as the Hero and others awaited with ears peeled.
"My crown, passed from the one who rose the community lives safe
in this home. Now, enter and grasp it to prove you have cunning,
or turn back now in shame."
Fear spread through men, women, and others amassed to the contest.
They all knew what the house hid, ancient assortments of risen
threats, remnants of the lost and forgotten progenitor. All feared
this force. All with exception of one. A fool in a manner,
brave in another, the Hero, a foreign traveller, knew not
what others feared, as he never was audience to what the folklore
said. Oblivious, he ran with no pause at a bolt's pace
into the door and across the demesne as the innocent threshold
made him believe that no names lurked in the shadows around him.
Strangely correct, as by rot and decay, they lost their descriptors,
but whatever remained did so a definitive disgrace
both to itself and the one it came from. Only defined by
what, where, when. How, why, and especially who were disposed of
ages before the intrusion today. That Hero, who now saw
what the competitors feared, stood firm as the something or other
gathered around to consume all that they lacked. But the Hero,
with the grace of a butcher's knife that slices between bone,
gristle, and viscera with ease, cut each threat with the chartered
sword and acquired the crown. This symbol of power perplexed
him. What use is a tool kept secret away from me? Thought the
Hero, expected to hand back what he had rightfully deserved.
simply complied, as is proper.
Having defeated the first two trials the Hero proclaimed his
triumph. The father, however, objected on steadily less ground.
No test could stand up to the Hero who vanquishes dissent
as to his right to the hand of the Girl despite his ignoble
birth. But something spoke to the Father in waking and slumber,
saying to doubt this man's motives, but he failed to discern why.
He took time, with the rest of the suitors disposed and bereft. Still
even in speaking directly and testing the Hero again he
could not shake what he feared would occur if he granted his blessing.
But then, Mildiga, Matron of Mystique, she who belongs not
where she prospers arrived as discretely as possible to speak
words in the ear of the Father to guide his hand as he gives his
verdict. Through him she says that the decision is best left
granted to who it affects most, thus an additional trial
was called, not for the Father to judge, but instead for the Girl.
So she requested an ordeal proving his honesty. He must
simply address her to firmly and truthfully give her the reason
that he thinks he is worthy.
"Dearest one, not only of me, but of cities and kingdoms,"
started the Hero's address, "you are your Father's beloved
daughter, manifestation of that which existed before him,
ruler of what comes after, and greatest of all, the epitome,
beyond what most dream of and whisper about to the night sky
when they rise from sleep to the cruel revelation that they dreamt.
I am the one who has travelled for leagues for a chance to address you.
I come not from a proud life, though it has given me much pride,
nor was my life full of great strength, though I have ended it stronger.
Currently, there is a place in my heart where I live a deceased boy,
there is another where what I am seeking will never be my own.
I am those fears. I am also the one who will break them.
Give me your hand, let us unite. I, the protector,
you, the embodied compassion of ages eternally lacking
teaching your knowledge and giving your treasures to all who surround you.
I ask only to aid you in this perfected desire
with my perfect destiny. Speak to yourself and your Father,
look at my language and talk to my triumphs. They will convince you.
If this is done, I already have given my effort by taking
this long journey to your land, now I will give more.
I give you my boots and the thousands of journeys to walk next,
I give you my sword and the fights I will leave as a victor,
I give you my words and the essence of my self,
and ask only for your love."
These words carefully chosen, the Hero concluded and then lied
prostrate, his plea made, and the Girl consulted her feelings.
By what means could she say no to the offer he gave her?
This boy, chosen by fate and the world itself had arrived here.
By what means could she say no to the offer he gave her?
She called out for a force to respond with an answer to her plea.
By what means could she say no to the offer he gave her?
No words came back. There was no way out of this ending.
So she accepted the offer.


…

-Booting sequence completed-

…

-Ontokinetic shielding online-

…

-Minimal necrosis in biological tissues.-

…

-Motor skill subroutines Loading-

…

-Combat superiority subroutines loading-

…

-Target data updated-

…

-Primary target- Temporal Anomaly 013. Secondary target- Ontokinetic Anomaly 647-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark would like to thank you for using its services!-

"Look if you're happy with us losing our whole ass on this project, I have to respectfully disagree. I think we can recover the girl."
You open your eyes for the third time. The man and woman are discussing your purpose a few feet away. You sit up and look around the room.
The white tile walls are lit by a series of small LED lights above the center of the room. A side table filled with medical tools and equipment shares the space with a large computer that is currently hooked into the port on the left side of your head.
The two people at the periphery of your vision are coming into focus now. The woman is wearing a dark purple pencil skirt and a blazer over a lemon yellow ruffled blouse. She stands slightly taller than the man, who is wearing a fairly well maintained purple suit of his own.
She points a finger down. "The girl is secondary. The boy, now that's where the money is."
"You think we should shift focus because of crappy Prometheus tech?"
The woman smiles in the dark. Your eyes are now fully adapted. The whites of her teeth almost glow as her lips curl back. "It's a functional temporal anomaly." She smirks and leans back. "You know. Mr. Reese, your biggest failing has always been a lack of vision."
You speak. "Miss Carter, I am now online."
The woman turns to face you. "Ahh. Good, Mister Cameron. One moment."
You begin to disconnect the various tubes and cords attached to your body and head.
"Mister Reese. Your approval of the plan to build an ontokinetic entity under our complete control was the last good thing you've done with the Tokyo branch. And that was Doctor Sho's plan, not yours."
"Excuse me, Miss Carter. I have to…"
The woman turns to you and points at the man. "Please restrain Mister Reese and keep him quiet."
The man looks over at you in horror momentarily as you hop down from the table and reach for him. Your massive hands close around his head, and you hold his jaw in place, forcing him to face Miss Carter.
"We've tolerated your excesses for quite some time. But you've created quite a headache for us."
Miss Carter moves her face inches away from Mister Reese.
"The terrible thing is that you haven't adjusted. You tasked every resource and asset you had access to in order to recover the anomaly. Not only have you failed at that, you've lost us valuable staff. You've lost us prestige."
She leans back. "We'd excuse all that if you had just enough vision to see what is right in front of you. The boy is a hundred times more valuable than some ontokinetic we can make new copies of." She pauses and looks at you. "Let him speak."
You move your hands to the sides of his head and continue to hold him in place.
"Miss Carter, with all d-d-due respect, I-I don't answer to y-y-you. I answer to the shareholders." Interesting. What is he afraid of?
"Yes. You do. They sent me. Mister Reese, I will be taking over the Tokyo Branch effective immediately. Your services are no longer required. You will, however, be given a generous severance package."
The woman nods to you. You tear Mister Reese's head from his body and toss both to the ground.
The woman giggles slightly to herself as she looks down at the blinking head, then composes herself. "Mister Cameron, I need you to recover a piece of technology for me."
"Of course. I have the target data. I can begin immediately."
"I assume you know where the armory is?"
You nod and leave.

…

-Target's last known location reached-

…

-Connecting to local network-

…

-Activating combat protocols-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark would like to thank you for using its services!-

The scene is quite messy, even by your standards. One of the agents is missing his torso. Another has had a spike of concrete driven through his skull and abdomen. A stone statue in the shape of a Marshall, Carter, and Dark recovery agent looks over both bodies, unmoving.
The building is a rundown flophouse masquerading as a hotel. A shame it is not an MC&D property as that would make things so much simpler. It would be cleaner as well.
The woman at the front desk objected quite heavily when you entered, but quieted when she saw the short barreled MCD-39 Smart Shotgun you carry. It is clear she respects quality tools.
The emergency services call she made was expected. You killed the signal. You also returned to the desk and prevented her from making additional calls. You will need to move quickly before another guest enters the hotel and finds her corpse.
You move through the scene to the window.
It is still raining, and it is still night. The targets are clearly illuminated by the streetlights and storefronts a few dozen meters from the back of the hotel. They are still together. Excellent. You connect to your smart shotgun and switch to a slug.
Before you can acquire a target lock, the two round a corner and disappear from sight.
You leap from the eighth story window. The road slightly crunches as you land and a taxi comes to an abrupt halt to your left. The driver ducks immediately from view. You ignore him and take off down the alley after the targets.
Around the corner is a collection of trash. The girl has turned to face you. Small shards of glass and metal tear their way out of the garbage bags and fly in your direction. They lose momentum as soon as they impact your ontokinetic shield, and fall harmlessly to the ground.
The boy, more pragmatically, fires a weapon at you. It is an NX Liger. Cheap. Why he did not purchase a Marshall, Carter, and Dark branded firearm is beyond you. Several bullets embed into your endoskeleton. The majority of the shots go wide. He is not very good at this.
The fence behind them must be why they stopped. You level the shotgun at them as the boy's weapon empties. When it makes its final click, you raise your own weapon.
"Recovery priority is alive and unharmed. Come with me if you want to live."
The two look at each other, and the girl turns to the fence. The unmistakable sense of wrongness takes over as you see a hole open up in space.
You run towards the pair, who disappear into the hole in space. You just make it through as it closes behind you.

…

-Recalibrating global position-

…

-Location determined-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark Servers are temporarily unavailable from this location.-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark would like to thank you for using its services!-

The thrumming beat of the music is almost overwhelming to your senses. Extremely bright artificial light buzzes its own tune alongside that of the music outside. With every music beat the lights flicker slightly.
A mirror on the wall is currently blank. You reach into your pocket and place a 1,000 yen coin into the receptacle next to it. The surface shimmers for a moment and then you see a face looking back at you that you don't recognize.
Everything feels stiff and… heavy.
There's a noise when you move your arm that you don't understand.
Wait. Where's your family?
A splitting headache you hadn't noticed you'd had comes crashing down on you.

…

-Connection to Marshall Carter and Dark servers re-established.-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark would like to thank you for using its services!-

The targets. They are not in visual range. You walk out of the bathroom and into the club itself. 103 people are variously dancing on a reflective dance floor or drinking in a variety of sofas and booths along the walls. There's a small commotion of some kind on dance floor. The boy and the girl.
A few of the patrons look over at you as you fire your shotgun into the air. Most of the patrons run for the exits. The flashing purple and black lights alternate, but you adjust your sensors. You just catch the face of the boy as the VIP door slams shut. He was looking back at you, eyes wide. Why does he insist on making this harder than it needs to be?
Two security guards and a bouncer come out of the employee door, 7.8 meters to your left. The guards are holding their pistols in front of them, demanding your surrender.
You level your shotgun and a slug removes the first guard's head. The other security guard ducks for cover behind a sofa as the bouncer runs in your direction.
He is faster than you expect. Two blades shoot out of the bouncer's forearms, and he takes a swing with the left blade. You only have time to raise your own forearm to block. The blade sticks, cutting slightly into your metal endoskeleton. The man struggles to withdraw, and looks surprised as you put a fist through his chest. He falls limp onto the ground.
More security guards are streaming out now. You do not have time for this. You begin firing a spread shot as they stream into the room. Chrome and bone shatter under your assault. If there are more of these obstacles coming, they aren't showing themselves.
You bound towards the VIP section, shoving the few remaining panicking men and women in colorful glowing clothes out of your way.
The trail is cold. You briefly access the city planning documents for this building.
The Oshirasama was built in 2044. Skip to the building data. There are no exits back here. How did that get by the planning commission? Marshall Carter and Dark would never build such a death trap.
You can hear the sound of muffled crying. The glass doors on the VIP rooms are currently polarized, and you cannot see inside. You punch the first glass door. It shatters and falls to the ground. Inside is an older man and a younger woman. Not the targets.
Slowly you make your way down the hall. Crying. Fear. Shattered glass. Relief as you move on. Then you hear the sound of another portal opening. You punch the glass and see the hole in the ground where your targets almost certainly were, moments ago. You jump in.

…

-Recalibrating global position-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark would like to thank you for using its services!-

There is a flash of white light and your eyes are adjusting again. You tumble into a washing machine which crumples on impact. This looks like some sort of basement. The rain is still quite loud outside but there is the sound of footsteps above.
You fire a slug through the roof of the basement at one of the targets, hear a curse, and stand up.
The tracking device in the slug tells you it has passed through biological tissue and embedded itself into wood approximately 2 stories above you. Unfortunate. You bound up the stairs.
The two are gone out the front door already. It appears that the girl is now leaning on the boy for support. She stumbles and falls to the ground. You walk out onto the sidewalk. A number of bystanders scatter immediately as you level your shotgun again.
Emergency calls are made again. You shut down the local network. That will not last long.
The boy tries to shield the girl with his body. You reach forward and grab him by the shoulder. He quickly turns and puts his gun to your temple. He pulls the trigger. It jams. This is why you only purchase MC&D products.
You toss him to the ground a few feet away. He lands with a thud. The girl is unconscious. Dying, it appears. The slug grazed her femoral artery, and she is losing blood quickly. You tear a piece of your shirt and tie it around the wound. Then you heft her over your shoulder.
The boy tries to clear the pistol's chamber as you look at him. He raises it again and fires. A bullet embeds itself in your metal skull, but you do not back away.
He shouts at you. Then he puts the gun to his own head. It jams again. As expected from an inferior product.
You slap him hard. He falls to the ground. You heft him onto your other shoulder and turn to leave.

…

-Locating nearest MC&D safe house-

…

-Coordinates downloaded.-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark would like to thank you for using its services!-

The boy and girl have been deposited in a safe location.
Miss Carter is waiting in her office. The top level of the MC&D offices is, by law, the highest in the city. The entire room is adorned in a variety of gold and purples. Even the men and women around you are covered in purpled gold skin. The Sistine Chapel's ceiling looms high above you.
File access indicates this was stolen from Rome the night before it was destroyed by the Russian nuclear attacks. It never occurs to you to ask how MC&D knew the bombs were about to fall.
Miss Carter's office lies in the corner of the top floor, polarized glass blocks your view of the inside. The receptionist looks up at you with a permanent golden purple smile. "Hi! She's expecting you Mister Cameron. You can go in."
One of the women in lab coats is in a conversation with Miss Carter, who is reclined with her feet propped up on the desk. Behind her is a massive window open to the entire city.
Flying cars and t-vac tubes wind their way in and around the skyscrapers. The MC&D logo shares space with Wondertainment, Pepsi, and Anderson Cybernetics on the most prominent billboard at the center of the city.
Miss Cameron does not seem to care though.
"I don't care if he dies Doctor Sho, I want the implant." She says before sipping from a purple colored liquor in front of her.
"I understand that Miss Carter." Doctor Sho softly answers back. "But it appears to have fully integrated with his neural pathways. We can't make heads or tails of where it begins and where the brain ends."
"So rip it out of him and clean the brain off the chrome."
"Ma'am, it's seen hundreds of activations in the last two days. We don't think it's imprinted, but at this point it may as well be. I'm not sure it'll work in anyone else's head."
Miss Carter looks up at you for the first time and moves her feet off the desk. "Doctor Sho, they tell me you're the best. The most skilled. There's no one in the world with more knowledge about implants than you. Is that true?"
Doctor Sho shuffles back half a step. "As far as I know, yes."
"I guess if you say it, it must be true. But why is it that we don't already have something like this in house?"
"Excuse me?"
"Why is it that the world's foremost expert on chrome has been outmatched by back alley Prometheus trash-tech?"
"Ma'am this is a prototype. It's unstable and causes brain damage every time it activates. It's a terrible implant."
"See sometimes I wish we didn't need your creative minds. Could you imagine what kind of advances we could have if more of your kind were more like his?" She motions to you with her drink glass.
There is silence in the room for approximately 6.4 seconds before Miss Carter continues.
"Mister Cameron. Find the boy's family. Put a gun to their heads and take pictures for a hostage protocol. Then get rid of them. I don't care how, just make sure he can't ever find them. If we can't take the implant out, then I guess he works for us now."
She takes a sip from her drink. "Doctor Sho, do all the imaging you can of the implant and send him to human resources. Hopefully they can make better use of him. Now get out. Both of you."
Miss Carter puts her drink down and starts to work on something on her comp-pad as you leave.
"Mister Cameron!" Doctor Sho grabs your arm as soon as the door closes. "Are you capable of taking orders from people other than Miss Carter?"
You stop and turn. "I can. As long as it does not contradict Miss Carter's directives."
"Don't kill the boy's family. She said she didn't care how you got rid of them. Let them get their possessions and drop them outside the Tannhauser Gate. Make sure they have enough supplies to get to the nearest Scav village. And directions to it, I guess."
"Of course. Anything else?"
"I suppose not."

…

-Loading additional information relating to Genji Kin.-

…

-Uncle, Niece and Mother's Locations Confirmed. Logging data for later use.-

…

-Marshall Carter and Dark would like to thank you for using its services!-


by J Dune

My brain, outfitted with an oscillating prayer engine, powered by a monastery in Lhasa. My eyes, altered with perception filters that display Akiva radiation and can induce instant brain-death should the need arise. My muscles, jump-lifted, with pressurized tendons and belief-powered tissue. My soul, anti-blessed with every sacrament, ritual, and custom you can think of. My entire body, and the bodies of my three partners, is modified to carry out our unholy mission.
I am Sovent-Anth, member of Mobile Task Force Kairos-01, SOLA FIDE, and I am definitely going to multiple hells when I die for the sixth time. Not that hells are much of an issue when you can form a coup on your first day, but it's the principle of the thing.
There's an old saying in the Foundation: “If you can kill it, it's not a god.” Cute, right? Not really. The Department of Tactical Theology has struggled with the exact parameters of “god” since their inception, but even they can't change the fact that a god is a human creation. A god is a projection of man; it's given life and form through the strength of the collective, universal force of belief. And if it can be made by man, we can destroy it, too. Of course, not every god can be killed, and even if it can, it won't be easy. It was under this mindset that we were curated from the Foundation's ranks and drafted into an experimental program to create a Task Force of effective, efficient, heavily-modified soldiers.
For the past thirty hours, we've been staked out in Hollusov, Oklahoma. Minor nexus, size of a small town with a large population of some offshoot sect of mekhanites. You've probably never heard of it. We're usually pretty easy to spot, given the heavy armor, shimmering glyphs, and cybernetics, but here we actually manage to blend in some, or at least as well as four nine foot tall metal-bodied super-hulks oozing sin-juice from every aspect of their being possibly can. One woman must've stared for a minute straight, as if it'd illuminate her on what exactly we were if she kept looking.
Hollus' central plaza is organized into a grid, with a beryllium-bronze statue of Bumaro at the center and several places of worship adjacent to it. Amputation temples, standard service houses, and a large spire overlooking the town. Everything shines a steely, reflective gray, polished continuously by fluid-slate technology installed on every structure. I'm loitering near the statue, on my knees and pretending to pray alongside several other pilgrims paying homage to their church's leader. In reality, I'm running a cerebellum-reset diagnostic in case the initial outburst of deitiec action causes my perception to sink, which, given the miracles involved in pulling that off correctly at a fast enough speed, is a prayer in its own right.
Temmon-Auqer is positioned on the top floor of a steel-plated spire that overlooks the main square, where they can see an overview of the Akiva levels of the entire nexus. Soe-Qaddov, the fortune-teller angel, is crouched on the power-cable basilica's rooftop, aiming a miniature railgun driven by the dreams of their endless sleep. Their REM patterns feed into a terminal for the four of us to analyze and digest, predicting hundreds of potential outcomes each second, as well as the likelihood they occur. It's through these ruminations we know the potential to collapse the surrounding area into its own afterlife without a prosecutor is unusually high. We'll be careful.
Rah-Vavon, lacking any modifications save for a series of Scranton Reality Anchor braces and restraints around their limbs, sits on a park bench across from me. He's toying with some sort of mechanical rabbit, though I'm not sure when or where he found it. Hopefully it'll scurry away before the force of 10 trillion weaponized exegesis-class humes warp its copper exterior into microwaved aluminum. I mean, it can't, but for Rah's sake, I hope he doesn't have to see it. He's already reluctant about being used.
Not me though, never me. Maybe it's the prayers brute-forced into my brain, or the feeling of being the epitome of man's spiritual dominance, but I have never felt guilt or shame for my actions on the field. I'm almost certain that it's been programmed out of me. Possibly by my own request. Funny how memory works when you're in control of your consciousness.
Seventy-thousand alarms go off at once. Numbers flash before my eyes. Red-class threat, blood pattern unregistered; a reserve of divine power cramped into an incongruous form. Here comes our god. Sorry, our “C-Class Akiva-Saturated Thoughtform”.
A minor deity of various names that served as a god of blacksmiths, mining, metallurgy, and at one point in an obscure Mesoamerican settlement, fruits. For the past few months, the entity's been seeding itself, as forgotten gods tend to do, in order to disperse its divine influences upon the surrounding area. This is how religion is born, how sects and branches fall from the sacred trees of their father faiths, and how an unsuspecting, happy town of old Mekhanites finds itself engaged in a spiritual civil war a few months from now. If left unchecked. Usually, a lower-ranked deity attempting to assert some control over an area of mass, uniform faith isn't a cause for concern, but when dealing with the Church of the Broken God or other anomalous religions, the board prefers to stay on the safer side of things, keeping the faith as-is. The department classified the entity as Nephilim-09, “Macriel”, and it will be an absolute pleasure eradicating every trace of its divine footprint from this reality.
Temmon, positioned from the spire, warns me that Macriel is within our parameters, that the Akiva levels are rising without a clear indication of where the spike is coming from. Nothing unexpected when dealing with pluripresence, even of the tiniest degree. But the fact that Macriel is even engaging with us tells a lot. An almighty god will outlast its opponents, a cornered one will fight. Maybe we're a challenge to it? An opportunity to prove its strength after centuries of doubting itself. Maybe it knows that if it doesn't come to us, we'll start interrogating its few followers, revealing its rituals and prayers to larger, hungrier beings, or worse, start systemically corrupting its methods of worship and fundamentally changing its nature against its will. Yeah, fighting us is idiotic, but there is far more at stake if it refuses to. Another massive Akiva spike. Something triggers the nervous sensors in my stomach to tell me I should be feeling nauseous. Hello, forgotten devil.
A cacophony of struggling trumpets rock my body and barrel through the streets, no; into the streets. They're coming from beneath. Feedback on the terminals, but we're still clear. I tune into the bodies of my team, and they feel it too. If we could, we would collectively vomit. Thoughts sling back and forth between the four of us, running equations, checking equipment. It all happens in a split second, as I leap to the ground from my kneeled position and immediately fly back into the base of the statue behind me.
Here's the trick to fighting an intangible being: make it tangible. Without missing a beat, seven spore-based dampeners fire off inside the square. The trumpets are more like rocks now, bashing against our collective consciousness. Slowly, we see the outline of something, an indescribable shape unlike anything around it, being forced into this world against its will. It flickers, fighting an impossible battle against the pull of reality to confine to its rules. It's beginning to learn that it's no God. Soe-Qaddov, whose thoughts sink into ours, unconsciously fires anywhere between zero and one slugs into the outline. Their aim is calculated to account for every geometrically sacred weakness, and hits without issue. The bullets make contact, anchoring the beast to the location, overwhelming it with a concentrated holy transgression that forces it into a shape.
A series of inter-linked, blacksteel ovals connected to a top-heavy silver-rock shelved land-mass of impossible earth, floating twelve feet above the ground and extending at least forty. It shines, it folds, it scintillates and sparks, but most importantly, it screams. The trumpets are now screams, and our god can feel pain. Soe's onslaught continues, an unending salvo of bullets to keep the target staggered. Macriel lashes out, slinging its extending cable-like chains in a circular fashion, but before it can wreck any of the surrounding terrain, Rah-Vavon outstretches his arms and sheds his human form. The reality anchors pop, unlock, and dissipate from existence. Our brains fire and overheat in an attempt to keep up with the change in space. We're somewhere lower than we were before, where time stops giving a shit. Here, we have everything we need. There is no Hollusov, there are no civilians, just perception-engines, Akiva levels, and the imprinted, pre-programmed directive that I need to punch this god in the face, metaphorically speaking.
I charge forward, palms open, unleashing a barrage of faith-based ammunition from the two built-in cannons inside my arms. I grab one of Macriel's chains and pull down, swinging the beast into the ground while refusing to let up on my arm's attack. Temmon-Auqer, who has been processing over one thousand rituals over the past two seconds, transmits a signal directly to the symbolized representation of our fight. Macriel begins to fizzle, and its screams turn to sputtered chokes.
A stinging sensation shoots up my left arm as I unsheath a blessed dagger, sharp enough to penetrate Macriel's Ishan Barrier and pierce its barely formed skin. Soe's calculations pinpoint a softer part of its metaphysical shell towards the underside of the mass making up the top half of the entity. Without prompting, Rah further centralizes the reality sink to Macriel's location, trapping the forgotten god against what would be the square's metal pavement. I run forward, stepping over chain-link tendrils and making my way to Macriel's center. My blade bounces back, forced away from slicing due to the Barrier's strength. With precision, I carefully carve a series of sigils intended to soften Macriel's presence. The barrier gives. A wave of light splashes my armor - first blood.
I cleave and slice, turning the knife deeper into Macriel's skin. When suddenly, I'm not. One of Macriel's chains launch me away, slamming my head against what should be a building. In a split second, the god has regained aviation, and is actively fighting Rah's anchor-induced safehaven. I can feel my perception of time returning, the feeling of pain surges through every remaining receptor in my body. Temmon and Rah feel it too, and Soe's stirs send a rush of discomfort through our shared consciousness. Metal works itself back into the shape of Hollusov's square, and coloration returns to the sky. I'm on my feet, my body is here, and Macriel is elevating itself into the sky, no doubt to fire off a damning display of raw, divine power. Rah's reserves are depleted, and using another reality sink would most likely erase the few traces of consciousness he has left. In this moment, we are once again reminded of what we are fighting.
But Macriel stops. Something is wrong. This realization doesn't come slowly, as it would a person, but suddenly, as the entirety of the god's mass drops into the square as if being crushed from above by a weight. The screams are back, and I silently thank Soe for timing this properly. Macriel's Akiva levels are lower than before, but the filter is overcrowded by masses of energy shining from every building, as far as we can see.
Today is a Mekhanite holiday. The anniversary of Bumaro's battle at the golden walls of Amoni Ram. A service far larger and more powerful than anything Macriel has ever mustered up in the entirety of its lifespan. We planned our assault concurrently with the great prayer of enhancement, the divine importance of which pins Macriel to the ground. Every Mekhanite in the nexus is engaged in prayer, in a showing of grace to their god, one that is not Macriel. It doesn't just scream anymore, it shrinks, becoming more tangible than it ever has been. An Akiva rating is barely detectable, and now, we don't have to hold back.
I run towards the god, my entire body fueled by open displays of faith across the nexus. Temmon and Soe continue to fire, this time penetrating its Barrier. Closer. Closer. Here. The dagger shimmers, extending and vibrating against Macriel's shell. Further and deeper, until my nerves inform me that I've reached its core. I thrust my hand into the wound, letting my now-overheating cannon, powered by the church services around me, finally unload. Macriel's form mutates and stretches, brimming with power it can't handle. A final cleave across sends it over the edge, and a shockwave of radiation pours from its body, a final cry that it may be remembered by the world. The corpse transforms into a bubbling mass, some parts searing and disappearing into the fabric of all things, others cementing as worldly objects.
Finished. Not a word was exchanged between us. What's left will be transferred back for research. Once again, I am reminded of that adage. It is true that a man could not do this. In order to kill a god, you must become one.


Lachrymose

Written by me, Machen2.
image 1 under CC BY SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons
image 2 under Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

— - —

Jack Gooday knew a lot of things, guilt and anguish were not one of them. Yet, he felt it, like wormwood had taken root in his heart.
The wind tore the leaves off the trees, pushing against them to a breaking point, against him as well. There was a sickly feeling clinging to the air. There were no birds in the sky; the sky looked too hostile, as though it was a churning sea of magma, ready to crash down at any given moment, to be habitable. The house towered above him, the windows its eyes watching him, sneering at him as he rapped his knuckles on the door. He caught his reflection in the glass, he felt startled at how pale and timid he looked.
He heard shifting noises from behind the door. Jack inhaled deeply, adjusting his glasses. This will go well.
'Go away,' spoke a muffled and strained voice.
'Please—'
'I'll call the police and tell them you've been harassing us,' retorted the hissing voice.
'Fine. I'm not leaving until you let me in.'
There was a long, painful moment of silence, before he heard a clicking sound. A breath of relief began in his throat when the door opened, but caught when he saw her. Dahlia stood, limping at the door, dressed in rags. Her hands were cut, there was a bruise on her face, but her silvery eyes still glistened with anger and tears.
'What do you want?' Her voice sounded dead. No joking about his glasses making him look like an owl, no hidden laughter underneath, just dead. Absolutely dead.
'I came to see James,' he said in as stiff a tone as he could manage, 'I heard he's in bad shape. I'm a doctor, I can help.'
She continued to stare at him angrily, before nodding, and letting him in.
The house smelled like despair itself was hiding in its walls, watching anyone who entered, clawing at their hearts with a hook. Toys were scattered on the floor, many broken, left as though no one could bother to clean it up. Paintings and photos hung on the walls, all looking like black smears to him as each minute send dread crawling up his spine.
Dahlia led him to a room with an open door, which she entered. He cautiously followed. The hooks of despair shredded his heart when he caught sight of his brother.
James Gooday was lying on a bed, his eyes closed, skeletal almost in appearance. A filthy beard covered his face. James looked like a corpse.
Jack wanted to fall to his knees, to scream, to die right there. He felt as though the walls were closing in on him, ready to fall and smash him into pieces. He opened his mouth, expecting to release a scream, but instead, moving closer to the figure of his limp body, he asked, 'How long has he been like this?'
He was relieved to find that James was breathing.
'Ever since-' Dahlia started choking, 'Ever s-since Callie died, he's been on and off. He's been sleeping a lot.'
Quickly, he began searching in his bag. He would not cry. He would not cry. Tears never solved anything. Tears were for the emotional, the weaklings. He was not a weakling. He was an honourable member of the SCP Foundation. He was an honourable member of the SCP Foundation. He was an honourable member of the SCP Foundation. He was completely fine. There was nothing wrong with, he was not weak. He was not weak.
He forced down the image of Callie, butterflies pouring out of her, her screams ringing in his ears. Dahlia and James did not know about that. They did not need to. I am not a weakling. I am not a weakling.
'She was so young,' Dahlia's voice took on a whimpering quality as she sat hard on a chair near the bedside. Tears began flowing down her cheeks, but she did not acknowledge them. He finally found it; the bottle of antidepressants.
Jack placed them on the bed, next to the corpse of James. As though sensing him, James inhaled in a drawling breath. 'Two pills a day,' he stated, 'no more unless it gets worse. And even if it does, consult with me before doing anything.' She placed her face into her palms, and nodded.
They both sat there, in deathly silence, for a while, watching as James began drawing breathes increasing in their pitches.
Dahlia broke the silence.
'She used to wake us both up,' Dahlia laughed, without mirth, 'not the other way around. She would come here, r-right here, and drag Jamie out of it. He grumbled and muttered, but he al-always got up to play with her, or talk to her.'
More tears slid down her face as she stroked hair out of his brother's face. He knew not whether she was talking to him, or herself, yet he listened on.
'She used t-to be full of questions. Wanted a-an explanation for everything. So young.' Her voice descended into despair once more. 'The only reason she ran away was because we were fighting, James and I. I-I don't even remember why.' Tear began to flow, once more. 'I know I began the argument. She ran off because of me. She would still be alive if I hadn't—'
Guilt and anguish had him in its clutches again. It's my fault, he wanted to tell her, I got her killed. If anyone is to blame, its me. 'It wasn't your fault,' were the words that left his mouth.
Her eyes found him, as if remembering he was there, and he flinched as rage and grief contorted her face.
'Get out.'
'Dahl-'
'I SAID GET OUT!'
She threw a toy lying on the floor at him. He got up as it struck him across the forehead. She threw a book at him next; then another toy, then a cushion. She was screaming at him. He got out of the room, out of the house, shutting the door behind, her wails filling his ears. He thought he would cry as well.
I am not a weakling, he told himself.
In that moment, he was not as sure anymore.
— - —

It was raining when the funeral began.
Everyone brought an umbrella, except him.
The rain drenched him, his hair fell to his eyes, and he was in the midst of a large group of people, some of them even elbowed him. Amidst this, he caught glimpses of faces he recognized: Matt Chen and Nomal Writer, both seemed to be watching him with cold, calculating eyes. He felt a momentary anger spark within him, which he quickly snuffed out. Do they not trust me to be silent? He caught a glimpse of James, and Dahlia. Dahlia was crying, James looked ahead at the trees, pale, a tear shining in his eye.
They're going through this because of you. The poison that was pain had spread from his heart, pumped into his veins, with each breath it hurt more. No, I am not a weakling.
All attempts to be calm broke apart when he saw the coffin. That was when his knees began shaking like a weakling, his heart began beating faster and faster into his throat; his fingernails dug into his palms, images of Callie tearing apart filled his head.
I am not a weakling. I am an honoured member of the SCP Foundation; being emotional does no one any good. I am not a fucking weakling. I am not a weakling. I am an honoured member of the SCP Foundation, I am completely fine. I am completely fine. Callie's death was not my fault, I am completely fine, I am completely fine. I am completely fine. I am completely fine. I am completely fine. Stopping thinking about this so much! Just another fucking death, another collateral damage that happened.
We must do what we must do. We must do what we must do. I am completely fine. I am completely fine. I am completely fine. I am completely fine. I am completely fine. We must do what we must do. I am completely fine. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me.
She was so young. She had a future ahead of her. Such a bright future. She used to call you Jackie the Daygood, remember. Maybe, in the future, she could've been a member of the Foundation. A wonderful addition she would've made.
A sob caught in his throat. He swallowed it.
So young.
The words spoken by the man at the front eluded him, his ears felt as though they were blocking off all sound. The rain drummed against him. His suit was getting more damp, not that he cared. The sounds were whistling, slightly clearer, he paid them no mind.
You killed her.
You killed her.
You killed her.
She's dead because of you, Jack.
If only you had seen the light.
Janik and Callie dying would not leave his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Janik was to blame for this. Janik killed Callie. Janik killed Callie. Janik was still out there, somewhere.
You killed her.
No. You are an honourable member of the Foundation. Due to the importance of our mission, collateral damage will occur. Callie is just another collateral damage. It is nothing to be emotional about. You are not a weakling. You are completely fine.
She was a slip of a young girl.
No, don't think about it so much. You are being a weakling.
How much more collateral damage? How much more? I don't think I can take it anymore.
The infection that was pain spread faster. I deserve pain.
He heard snippets of conversation, watched as the coffin was lowered, as the people began leaving. He watched them go, standing there, soaked in the rain, etching of them waltzing away like a ghost of a leaf. Each of them caught in the wind, flying away on its stream.
She died because of you.
Another sob, quickly swallowed. Something inside him clenched.
Dahlia was still crying. Matt and Nomal were still there, shadows in the distance, watching him with their cold, cold eyes. He needed to explain everything to them, James and Dahlia. He needed to. He felt as though he would die if he didn't. The mud squelched beneath his feet, making sounds as though it were a miserable, dying thing. The rain fell onto him, a shower of arrows made of water. Yet the rain was not the dagger in his heart.
He would tell them everything. Everything. He didn't care if the sneering, snarling spiders who wove the webs at the Foundation killed him; he deserved death. He deserved to die for killing Callie. They deserved more than this.
When James saw, his face didn't change. His voice was that of a corpse. 'No.'
And then they were gone as well.
Nomal and Matt were gone as well.
The downpour on him strengthened, the leaves and flowers were torn off from the branches, the trees bent under its force. Some of them might've even cracked off. Jack was completely wet now. He did not care. Jack shivered as he sat down on a bench nearby, his glasses falling off. He watched as they fell, cracking into a million pieces on the ground. He did not care. The rain was not the dagger in his heart.
She got infected because of you.
If you had been at home, if you hadn't been staring at and studying something the Foundation dropped in a cage, she would be alive! She listened to you, no? You could've stopped her from running away. You could've stopped them both from fighting. You could've stopped her from running away. You could've stopped her from dying.
A shudder went through him.
Janik is not the monster. I am. I killed Callie. I should've been the one who got infected.
There was something stinging his eyes.
I should've died instead of her. She was so young.
Jack Gooday knew a lot of things, tears and loneliness were not one of them. Yet, here he was, tears spilling out, pouring down his cheeks, mingling with the rain which dripped down his face. He sat there, sobbing.
All alone.