Five-thousand years ago from humanity's thoughts and ideas on the unknown, we coalesced into self-aware beings without physical form. Humanity's current trajectory is counter to that of the natural flow of the universe. They verge on matters that we must keep out of their reach.

Part 1, Some Assembly Required
An autumn breeze rolled into the studio apartment, rustling papers and fast food wrappers. A brown haired and lanky man lay on a bed in a corner of the room, unmolested by the draft. The picture of a blond haired woman with a red scarf sitting precariously on a dresser fell to the ground with a thud.
Ted's head greeted him with a pounding pain, a token of appreciation for the adventure he had led with the other researchers the last night. The "Beer Pong King" got off his bed and stumbled towards the coffeemaker.
Ignorant of the invader, the humbled royal mumbled.
"Coffee, must find coffee…"
Ted looked to the fallen picture, clutched his hands, and sighed deeply.
Claire…
He picked the picture back up and gently stroked it with his thumb before returning it to the dresser. Then the bachelor shambled through the living room and stood next to his laptop, still open on the end table.
A foreign urge to check his email had interrupted his caffeine quest.
Closing Leisure Suit Larry III and opening his personal email, his mouse pointer hovered over the vestigial folder titled "Spam" in the lefthand column.
Struck once again by an uncharacteristic pang of interest, he began chuckling at the thought.
I wonder what offers for male enhancement and declarations of love I will find?
Bemusedly skimming the pointer across the titles of a few blatant scams, a message caught his attention. All interest in Brazilian milkmaids and methods to "increase your income from home" was forgotten.
Most puzzling was the fact that it had no sender. The correspondence also lacked a subject and any contents, save one attachment, a Microsoft Word document titled "Print Me".
Curious, Ted complied.
He walked up to the wireless printer, the start of the first page only beginning to emerge.
As Ted stared at the device, a thought entered his mind.
Good, it's nearly out of red ink.
Wait, why would that matter? It's probably all black text, anyway.
Ted shook his head. Coffee, that was what he needed.
With a beep, signaling that a cartridge was empty, the printer continued whirring for a few more lines and stopped.
Ted looked at the document, now halted halfway out of the machine. He nodded, recognizing it as the beginning of a novel. It was in a rust-red font with some occasional letters blue or purple.
Ted inspected further. A hidden message remained in the blue letters.
"Huh?"
Ted took a step away. A shiver ran down his spine, unsure of exactly how he had arrived at the decisions that led him here. He stood staring at the computer screen, a look of indecision on his face.
In the end, his curiosity won out over his caution.
He approached the printer to review the page.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
Through one of the obscurest quarters of London, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen of the police, a man, evidently of the lowest orders, was wending his solitary way. He stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated, and tended inquiry for some article or another which did not seem easily to be met with. All the answers he received were couched in the negative; and as he turned from each door he muttered to himself, in no very elegant phraseology, his disappointment and discontent. At length, at one house, the landlord, a sturdy butcher, after rendering the same reply the inquirer had hitherto received, added, “But if this vill do as vell, Dummie, it is quite at your sarvice!” Pausing reflectively for a moment, Dummie responded that he thought the thing proffered might do as well; and thrusting it into his ample pocket, he strode away with as rapid a motion as the wind and the rain would allow.

The sound of a knock at the door tore his gaze from the text.
Approaching the entrance to his apartment, he scratched his unkempt brown beard. He peeked through the peephole to see a figure in a brown uniform walking away.
Opening the door, Ted turned his attention downwards to a UPS package on the floor.
Wasn't that Xbox supposed to arrive next week?
Like the email, the UPS package also lacked a "From" address.
Arching an eyebrow, Ted brought the package inside. Opening the box, he found an assortment of metal components.
For a moment, stupidly, he wished Claire was there.
He then returned to the printer and clicked "OK" to its offer to "Continue Print Job with Remaining Ink".
Ted read the visible portion of the decoded message aloud.
"We are the Attendants of Requital. Connect the rods to the spheres…"
Assembling the strange device, Ted noticed an Anderson Robotics logo on one of the pieces.
"Didn't they open a location not too far from here about a month ago?" Ted said, grabbing a few more pages from the printer and continued unabated.
In the end, the device looked like a steel Rolodex, with sphere centered disks on a segmented rod replacing the cards. All that remained in the box was a small bottle with two small pills inside and a label reading "Open Upon Activation".
He tried spinning the disks, poking it, and turning the little knob on the side to no avail.
With a frustrated look on his face, Ted picked up the phone.

We are self-fulfilling prophecies. Called forth and born of humanity. Oracles to our purpose. We guide their fate. We will prune the buds seeking and spreading the forbidden and shepherd the flock. Go cover our tracks and plant the seed.

Part 2, When You Need Someone

Part 2, When You Need Someone

Claire brushed her blond hair out her face and put on her red cashmere scarf. Heading outside to the central business plaza, she smiled looking back at the building. Anderson Robotics stood out proudly declaring itself to the commuters and businessfolk in the plaza before it.
She caught sight of her lunch companion, smiled and waved. Even though she'd only been here a week, she was already looking forward to chats with Dr. Welles at every lunch break.
As she approached she saw the tired expression on his face. He looked around as if expecting an assailant to attack him.
After she had sat down, she wondered: is he going to say anything or just sit in his chair and let whatever is bothering him eat away at him?
A moment later, she looked up from her salad and at her clearly upset coworker.
"Something bothering you?"
"Not really." Dr. Welles responded, adjusting his glasses.
Claire's expression did not seem convinced. She let the conversation pause, for just enough time to take a sip of Earl Grey tea.
"If it's me, I can find somewhere else to have lunch."
Dr. Welles quickly said. "No. It's that people are whispering about me behind my back."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
Claire paused, not wanting to be blunt with her sensitive friend. Yet, wanting to aid in whatever way she could.
"I think you're being paranoid. Working too hard. You really need to relax. Take a break."
"Yeah… I guess. This next development could change everything, you know?"
"That's still work-related."
"I really am overdoing it, eh?"
"It's fine. If you really want to talk about it, I promise not to fall asleep or anything."
"No. No. It's ok…"
Claire frowned. "How about we go see that new superhero film after work today? My treat."
Dr. Welles paused, opened his mouth to speak, then looked back to the building with a conflicted expression.
"Sure, but I really do need to get to work though."
Claire nodded, picking up her empty plastic container.

Heading back into the building, she smiled.
He seems to be feeling better. I will have to make sure he doesn't worm his way to deep into his work before the end of my shift. Now to power through another rewarding day of customer service.
The phone rang as if on cue.
"Hello. Anderson Robotics' Customer Service Center, how may I help you?"
"Claire?"
Claire held her breath and grasped an engraved locket on her neck.
"Ted?"
"What are you doing working at Anderson's?"
"I couldn't stay at the Foundation, watch Marie fall apart!"
"Claire, I…"
"Why are you calling, do you have business with us?"
There was a pause. Claire tapped her fingers on her desk.
"I assembled one of your… things and somethings wrong with it… it's not doing… well, anything. Claire, I am sorry. I lo…"
Standing up, she interrupted, "You could have…" before sitting back down and continuing with a sigh, "Just give me the product name and serial number."
"I… It doesn't have a serial number anywhere on it. I also don't know what product it is."
"How then exactly do you know it's ours?" Claire said rolling her reddening eyes.
"Well, it has your company's logo on the side of one of the parts."
"Then why don't you mail it in? I can see about getting someone to take a look at it."
"Actually, I am pretty close and I don't feel like disassembling it. I'll swing by and bring it in myself. If that's ok?"
"Fine. Bye."
Claire slammed brown the receiver. Her eyes were red and puffy.
Why didn't you come with me?
She went into the bathroom to redo her make up.

Nearly an hour from the end of her workday, Claire stood up and walked towards the stairs. Dr. Welles worked on the 3rd-floor laboratory. Claire used the opportunity to grab her favorite snack from the vending machine.
She opened the door to the R&D lab and met flush-faced Dr. Welles, wielding a heavy metal hatchet. Peregrine unit security androids surrounded him as he stood by an elegant and wonderous mechanism.
"Stay away! They are after me! Trying to use me!"
Claire offered her hand and a pleading expression.
"Dr. Welles, we are friends here. No one is going to let anyone hurt you."
"NO! THEY'RE HERE TO STEAL IT! I WON'T LET THEM!"
The hatchet plunged into the very expensive looking apparatus. An android grabbed Claire and shielded her with its body.
Glass shattered. Circuits sizzled and a bright light filled the room. An evil laugh cackled in the back of Claire's mind.
The blast knocked her and the android out of the laboratory and against a reinforced window. It hurt like hell.
Claire grabbed the windowsill and struggled to her feet. She checked herself for injuries. The worst being a twisted ankle, the mechanical entity had taken most of the damage. The battered woman gazed into the room, which had quickly become an inferno.
"What the hell is going on!"
She looked around as the androids attempted to quell the flames. Some rescuing equipment from the blaze. Thinking of Dr. Welles, she vomited. Tears burned her eyes and she shuddered.
She spun around, wiped her eyes and mouth.
Ted was outside.
He was staring right at her, the firelight gleaming in his eyes and clutching a suitcase in his hand.
Barking a command, Ted threw the case to a teenage boy. As he sprinted toward her, she murmured.
"Now that Jackass finally chooses to come back after me?"
Claire choked on smoke and tears, as she hobbled towards the stairs.

We act as humanity's shadow, ever-present should they approach the forbidden light. We grow and respond to their advances, safeguarding the forces that hold the universe together. We quarantine the pestilence that humanity harbors from the multiverse. We are not evil. We are necessary.

Part 3, Curiosity

Part 3, Curiosity

Bret stood in the plaza, clutching the suitcase that the man had told him to hold onto.
Everyone else had their eyes on the blaze. Bret set down the case and scratched the back of his head.
The object lay on the sidewalk.
His ear perked as he looked at it. Strain on his face, he turned away from the case.
It could be yours.
The guy ran into a burning building and gave me this. So going by that logic, if he doesn't make it out I am supposed to take it?
No, this is sick.
You are meant to do it. Activate the seed.
The expression of curiosity the boy wore contorted into an ugly grin as he thought: If he isn't back in 5 minutes, I won't have a choice, right?
Bret turned back to the suitcase, then around him, desperately turning back and forth
Minutes passed and ecstatically began hopping up and down. He looked to see that while the firefighters had gone into the burning building, the case's owner had yet to emerge.
The manic child dropped to his knees. Listening to the voice, he entered the code for the case's combination lock and opened it. An unusual device, that seemed both pleasant and cruel in its appearance and demeanor, lay before him.
The voice told him the way to activate the device.
He did so exactly as instructed, his back to the man exiting the burning building and carrying a battered sobbing woman.
A horrible sound, like the moment a priceless item breaks due to carelessness, wretched the attention of every person in the vicinity to the boy kneeling and laughing manically on the sidewalk. The shadows of the firelight seeming to dance ceremoniously behind him.
The beat of a drum called out from the device for something beyond the manic child's imagination.
The man holding the soot-streaked woman withdrew a bottle from his pocket. He opened it and produced two small pills. He gave one to the woman and one to himself.
They both collapsed, the rest and the flames alike followed suit soon after.

The seed was recovered by the next target. It will grow to be useful. We seem to have a new agent or two as well.


Good morning. I hope that your vacation was alright. Lately a lot of things have happened in the Foundation; several problems have appeared. I'll list the most important ones briefly.
A containment breach occurred in Site-08 and the outpost was lost. We managed to recover most of the lost objects and save some of the personnel; exact data can be found in the provided documents. That containment breach occurred due to a lack of communication between the research personnel and the personnel responsible for the containment chamber of one of the objects. The supervisor of the research project took a day off due to the fact that he needed to see the doctor, and the surveying of the object was suspended for that time. Management of that containment room hadn't issued any permission to move the object before the end of surveying though, claiming that it was caused by a systems clean-up process and bureaucracy. Before the new containment room could be prepared, the object managed to break free and cause significant damage, even to other objects' containment rooms, which caused a chain reaction. The project manager refuses to admit that it's his fault.
A walkout of agents occurred at Area-17, which paralyzed a significant part of the site. It was caused by too low wages and inadequate hazard pay. The agents demand higher benefits, more flexible work hours and better conditions. Additionally, they demand the return of the travel compensation. They have threatened to barricade the entrance, set up a tent camp in front of the Site and impede work. I'd like to point out that it would probably lead to the exposure of Area-17 and the necessity for a media disinformation campaign.
The Department of Internal Affairs has arrested Dr. Koźmiński, who classified the anomalous objects as Keter class. He did this after receiving a bribe from Level 4 personnel. Currently 13 employees connected to that incident have been found. Thanks to the reclassification of these objects and the creation of fictional Special Containment Procedures, employees in charge of containing these artifacts were receiving higher wages. That practice became clear when one of the researchers took a notice that, I quote: "That fucking pencil just doesn't run out of scriber, I spent twelve fucking days on it and I didn't notice it sending anyone to any other dimension. Someone is screwing around".
The planned operation "Sanctuary" ended in a failure. We couldn't contain the entity. The MTF vehicle destined to seize it, probably due to road conditions, fell off of it and crashed into a tree. 3 members of the formation suffered serious injuries; the driver died. The vehicle turned out to be incapable of driving further and a helicopter was called. Its crew got caught by surprised by bad weather. Eventually, transport of the remaining MTFs was carried out by local police, but due to the danger and secrecy of the Foundation, the squad had to walk the last 2 km to the entity. Due to the time lost, the object changed its position by 168 km and then the signal was lost. Tracking of the entity was reinitiated.
The penalties for a few of these criminals, initially condemned to death, are now coming to an end. These death penalties were changed to 25 years of prison. Exact characteristics of these prisoners are included in the transferred documents. The problem: they were recruited by the Foundation years ago. D-1783 was shot to death when he tried to escape, D-3297 was teleported to the Moon, D-2140 died due to contact with one of the objects, D-8363's termination occurred because of his extreme depression caused by contact with one of the objects, and D-2489's termination was issued because of an infection. Usage of clones is being considered in case legislative intervention should fail.
One of our fronts, a company called "Sopot Centimetric Pierogi", has gone bankrupt due to nearly zero sales. It turned out that people weren't interested in said food. An incident concerning the quality of the exported meat was also a major contributing factor. Along with that bankruptcy, two new problems have appeared: a new front company and a new way of disposing the bodies of D-Class personnel is required.
The Ethics Committee has asked to remove the cross from the Sector's 2 mess-hall, citing secular policy and the risk of offending the feelings of personnel. The complete document is included among the transferred documents. I'll quote its small fragment from it: "Above all things, the Foundation needs a good internal cooperation. And this depends on trust, common help and mutual care. We cannot foster these virtues when we risk offending our co-workers. The Foundation is a serious institution which deals with the fate of the world, it must not waste its precious time on such foolish trivialities as religion". The Department of Internal Affairs has noted its extreme dissatisfaction and irritation caused by Committee actions.
During the transport of the resources and building materials necessary for the proper functioning of Sector-5, a theft by unknown culprits occurred. Due to a number of traces and documents, that incident isn't considered to be caused by a hostile group. The value of the stolen materials is estimated to be about 10,000 zł. It's the third similar incident this month. An entrapment operation to catch the culprits is being considered.
Due to an increase of the Foundation budget, we are seeing market fluctuations that can, in extreme cases, lead to a repetition of Incident "Raising Vat". Other possible scenarios include galloping inflation and a stock market crash. Cessation of local funding, an influx of foreign capital in Foundation activity and reduction of salaries or terminations of employment is recommended.
The Department of Technical Affairs would like to alert us about the critically bad condition of certain sites; immediate renovations are required. It is also calling on us to stop trying to save money on materials purchases, claiming that "cheaper doesn't mean cheaper." A lot of Keter containment chambers shouldn't be approved for usage, and finally: "hanging a plate with an inscription reading 'Warning, Keter!' doesn't anomalously transform a closet into a safe".
Yes, that's all of the most significant events from last month. What actions should we take?
Give amnestics to everyone who knows about my return. I'm going back to the seaside.
I really don't recommend it, a Keter from Research Site-08 is on the loose there.
Why has nobody caught it?
It's pointless. Currently, there isn't a proper place to contain it in any site.
I have a different request then. Contact the English Branch, announce my arrival. And buy me a plane ticket, preferably for today.


Something was following Foster. He was certain of it.
It was no foul beast, it did not prey on him in bloodlust nor in hunger. An unseen presence hung from him like a heavy chain on his form, a miasma. It plagued from the background, and although he wasn't sure what it was exactly, the man was certain there was something inherently wrong about it. He did not know why it chose him, nor how long it had been following before he had caught on. It faded in on a slow gradient, leaking into him and fraying the few strings left that held him together as a human.
Driving back to a filthy hotel from his nightly food run, paper bag of hard liquor and empty carbs beside him, the rolling hills of the Carrizo Plain in the distant opposite, Foster felt the sudden and cool hand of paranoia laid out on the back of his neck. Innate fear, the universal motivator, crawling and itching with restlessness and ants, imaginary ants, just under the skin. He knew the feeling well, like a friend he had far longer than it was possible to recall. A friend that put bugs under skin, sure, but only out of concern for your wellbeing.
Ignoring the usual cloud that followed his head on any given day, Foster took a slow breath, growing hyperaware of the space around him, vision sharpening enough to pierce through the inky darkness surrounding the vehicle- although nothing was there. The silence increased in lack-of-volume to unbearable levels, and to mitigate the rising hum his mind would use to fill those silences, Foster switched on the radio and tuned it to a random station, a talk show. He was still alone, yet oddly comforted by the company of the disembodied voice, listening to it mumble on about some conflict or other in whatever impoverished, war-torn nation it was nowadays. The presence was still there, lingering in the folds, and it exhaled misery out into the ether with each invisible breath.
That thing had taken everything from him. It tore him from his family, his friends. His children. His home. Now, slowly, it fed on the man's sanity and sense of self, just outside of view, of knowing, and of form. Somehow, it was still everywhere; he saw the tracks it left behind as it consumed the world. The gaps and the blank pages, things between things, gone but for the space they left behind and nobody blinks an eye. He was not better for it. Ignorance is bliss.
Yet this ghost of an idea would not be ignored. After a moment, as the host droned onward about military spending, Foster was taken off guard by sudden changes in the quality of the broadcast, like artifacts in an image, distorting and decreasing in pitch, warping into discordant ugliness, then to nothing. He changed the station, but static grew on that one as well, and the next, the music detuning and fading as chaos overcame the sound.
It would not be ignored.
Foster switched wildly through the stations until there was nothing left. Just emptiness and a harsh white noise. He turned it off with a sigh. This is how it goes. Everything and everyone he ever had ties with, it would cut them loose and he would never see them again. Nobody would remember except for him, and life seemed to find a way to adjust history to fit that definition. Yeah, they didn't believe it either, presumably until they too vanished from the world.
The man checked the clock. ██:██. Right. His watch read 02:30. He should be tired, but this was not the case. Foster was wired. And confused.
So confused.
In fact, it took a minute to realize that he didn't actually know where he was going, aside from that it was a hotel, the name and location of which now escaping his mind. Pulling off to the side of the road, Foster checked his tattered wallet for the room key. After a minute, he succeeded, although it appeared strangely foreign to the man as he studied the plastic card closer.
████████ Hotel. Okay.
Foster pulled out his phone and searched the name, hands trembling, mind forgetting and relearning on the fly as information slipped away like sand through his fingertips. After a bit of effort, the hotel's address was found, at the cost of its name. Luckily, the location still existed and wasn't far from here. Relief was a strong word for how he felt; existing is a bare minimum for many things, but it was a nice change. Glancing around for identifying street signs, he was reminded of his urgency, finding that they were unreadable; Someone stuck tape or something over the words, leaving a single white rectangle on a now useless landmark-
It would not be ignored.
Punching the fading street address into his GPS, the Unraveling Man was again reminded of his pursuer, then once again of the fact that his destination was close. Foster breathed another sigh of half-relief, growing unaware of his own increasingly scattered mind. He pulled out onto the now unmarked road and sped down the freeway, ignoring speed limit signs he was pretty sure he couldn't read anyway.
The ride, although uneventful, was thick with unease. He couldn't help but feel the weight of it on his back. Looming. He couldn't believe how unrecognizable the area was. It was near the home he lost, or where it had been in another life, surely he had gone through this area before?
And how did Foster even end up at the hotel in the first place? How long had he been there? He tried not to think too hard about these things, pushing the rising concern down in favor of the gray cotton that filled the spaces between his thoughts. Approaching the address, Foster reached to shut off his GPS, only to find his phone with a black screen. It wouldn't turn on. How long had it been off? How long had he been driving?
Glancing outside, he realized quite quickly that this was not the right place at all; between vast stretches of desert was an abandoned strip mall, some empty lots and a restaurant or two, but no hotel. He couldn't remember the name, nor the address for that matter. The man reached into his pocket for the room key once more but this time around it emerged completely blank. The universe was full of holes, and they were only getting larger.
Panic gripping him, sense of direction waning, Foster decided to attempt to calm himself by walking off the restlessness and finding something to occupy the time while he gathered his bearings- if it was even possible. Heading down the street, the man with no past moved towards a neon-clad diner that was situated diagonally across from the empty lot he had parked in. It existed like a bright beacon of pinks and reds in the otherwise all-consuming darkness. He wasn't even hungry, but it was a distraction and something real- that was all he needed.
While walking away from the lot, the car Foster had owned since his mid-twenties and loved for many years was lost from his mind, keys still in the ignition. These final memories were burnt to gray ashes, and from those ashes a faceless thing derived black ink that soaked through the margins, the in-betweens and beyond- staining the Real with an ocean of nothing. Behind Foster, his cherished vehicle lost form, then color, and eventually all meaning whatsoever. He wouldn't look back, he couldn't. There was only forward, and right now that forward led to a greasy and unkempt eating establishment.
The inside of the diner was about as run-of-the-mill as you can get, arguably how most diners exist naturally. It was themed in half-hearted, 50's-adjacent fashion, and their newest patron was nonplussed by the furnishings, opting to sit at a booth regardless, knee knocking against the underside in uncomfortable agitation. A waitress came over to him shortly afterwards, a young woman, sporting bushy hair and a stained, white apron. She gave a look that implied the woman had already made judgements of Foster's character based on his disheveled look and anxious, jumpy demeanor. He didn't mind and stared straight ahead, away from her nametag; if he never learned her name, it couldn't be taken away from him, perceived rudeness be damned. She wordlessly handed off a menu and gestured with a pot of coffee in an apparent attempt to keep vocal interaction with the strange, distressed man who refused to look at her to a minimum. It took a minute for him to realize what she was doing and what she had meant by it. He mumbled a small apology and declined the caffeine- it probably wouldn't help his paranoia.
It wasn't so much paranoia as it was warranted caution though, wasn't it? He knew the Formlessness was in the diner now, sitting beside him, eating the words off the menu. Good thing it had pictures, not that Foster planned on ordering anything. He didn't know what would be left of the place or the people around him by the time his food arrived, anyway.
Glancing at the low-resolution images of platters and overpriced sandwiches, the man was reminded of the many times he must have eaten at an establishment like this with his family. A wife, and his kids? He had kids, right? He tried to picture them, to envision just one feature he remembered, but nothing was there. He wasn't even sure if there was a wife, he wasn't sure of anything. Not anymore.
It was all too much. There was a lump in Foster's throat, twisting knots in his abdomen, and soon after, a rising nausea that began deep within him. It steeped in the knots and grew towards the mouth, that awful feeling. The man swallowed the saliva that filled his lower jaw, and it filled again. The smells that wafted from the kitchen were wretched to him, as perfectly mediocre as they may have been in reality.
Standing up, head spinning, Foster swiftly moved across the building to the bathroom, following signage that annihilated itself just as his eyes connected with it. Anxiety returned to him in waves, accompanied by a profound feeling of dread and churning insides as he entered the blue-tiled restroom and discovered it was more of a closet with a mirror; the toilet and sink were completely absent, along with whatever plumbing there should have been- the things that make a restroom a restroom. Still, he quickly locked the door behind him, buckling in front of a small trash can and vomiting acid. It burned his throat and nose, eyes watering as he continued to gag and cough up hot bile. It persisted for some time, and when it finally relented, he laid on the disgusting, cold tiles and tried to wish himself out of existence. It didn't work.
He didn't have the energy to right his pale, shaking form. Why would he try? Where would he go? The man had nothing and was nothing, continuing to reduce ever further with each passing moment, ad nauseum. Foster tried remembering who he was supposed to be, back before his mind was unwound by the Great Eraser. These lines cast caught little, but he did remember something- the small, black wallet in his back pocket, currently pressing uncomfortably into the soft flesh of his upper thigh. The man fished out his license and stared for a while. An unfamiliar face stared back at him, laminated and real. There was a light in those eyes, a light he was sure had vanished eons ago. Even though he couldn't recognize the picture, a Foster █████ was indeed there. No address was present anymore, just a few dark lines that obscured the existence of his once-home.
Touching his face, dragging dirty hands down the skin, Fos█er felt for the features on the photo and tried desperately to connect them. His mind was fully untethered, without a frame of reference or focal point to ground himself and orient whatever crumbs of sanity were left. The man tried to reassure himself of who he was, despite not really knowing what it meant to be that person anymore.
F█s██r █████ glanced over at the empty space where a sink would be, adjacent to him, and then to the mirror above; he could always look at himself. Would that help him remember the life that was lost, who he was, this man on the card? He sat up with some effort, eyes trained on the mirror, contemplating. ██████ peered back down to find the picture black, no trace of his visage was seen.
Now, he needed to know.
The man pushed with the last bit energy he had and stood. He moved towards the reflective surface, looking into it to reveal ████████████████ ████████████████████ ██████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████
██████████ █████████████████████████ ██████████████ ████████████ ████████
And then he was no more.

THE NEXT DAY

Foundation Field Agent Markus Mcclanahan stepped over the shards of broken glass and upturned chairs, which littered the tiled floor of the once-diner. His boots squelched against the ground as they waded through a shallow puddle that filled the area- a consequence of the fire sprinklers having triggered at some point in the hours before and continuing, without cessation, up until a few minutes ago. The smell of ash and burnt plastic permeated what was now a scene of an aftermath. Of what, he couldn't be sure, but it was likely nothing the man was unprepared for.
The stranger business was that of all the secrecy surrounding the event; there was no scheduled briefing or coghaz programming upon his routine arrival into the Site-19 Dispatch that morning, suggesting the answers escaped even Site Management. He had simply been instructed to "go to this address" and "report for damage assessment of anomalous event of unknown magnitude". The terminology used had made him snort audibly, giving the woman behind the glass a moment to shoot him a dirty look in response. He had reasoned at that point that he had possibly deserved it for making light of what was likely to be one of many fates worse than death.
Secrets weren't anything new to Markus, who had spent his last few years learning just how many things he didn't know. There was quite a bit, and there were forces on all sides of him working tirelessly to make sure he would never know. He had learned to live with it (and die with it, but that's another story), like many of his peers had done. You learn by what they can't tell you, using the process of deduction, and you meander through the field and try your best to use that information to not get annihilated in one of a million horrifying, unbelievable ways.
There's this common misconception that floats around the new hire pools for Foundation agents. It's said that if nonhazardous, classified knowledge of an anomaly's nature can help lower-clearance personnel in their investigative efforts that administration will always reveal that knowledge. Safety is the name of the game, after all.
Unfortunately, this is not always the reality of the situation. In fact, this is hardly ever the case.
The Administration has their hands in the politics of a billion worlds. Parallel, distant, macro-and-microcosmic, future and past. They would sooner nuke the planet and grow a new one in a petri dish than personally declassify every document that needs declassification to prevent disaster. The Foundation employees underneath them, however, can't help but flex their reach internally. Markus had even heard rumors of in-house spacio-temporal gateways somewhere in the labyrinthine hallways of Nineteen that would allow for unified diplomacy across dimensions. If they accidentally let even one piece of vital information slip through all those layers of black ink and red tape, if it gets down into that metaphorical multiversal ooze, the results would be… unforeseen. And that's the Foundation's greatest fear- the unknown. Their second greatest fear? Loss of control. Too bad for them that every facility is full of loose lips, but it sure beats going through the official channels.
Markus' train of thought derailed without warning as he became aware of a stout woman staring at him with a look of moderate displeasure, arms crossed against her chest to match her demeanor. She stood in the center of the ruined eating establishment, holding a stack of papers under her arm with significant tension. Her eyes looked at him but through him, equal parts vacant and occupied, suggesting she believed her problems were more important than her immediate surroundings. They were, but her surroundings included Markus, who didn't like the idea she knew something he did not and was continuing to waste his time ruminating on it. He wouldn't reveal his disdain for the obvious disrespect, settling for a tone that was both cordial and dry.
"Director", he uttered, and followed it with a curt nod that hid his opinions well.
Seeing a Site Director in the field is not a common occurrence. They are typically vital to the day-to-day operations of their assigned facility, and therefore are rarely risked out in the real world. Usually, the only time a Site Director oversees field affairs is when it pertains to a containment breach. Markus had answered his next question preemptively, but it didn't stop him from prying her to see just how far he was out of the loop. That's the process of deduction at work.
"What are we looking at here?"
Site-01 Director Audrey Phillips clicked her tongue, exhaling her words in sharp, impatient bursts.
"Fire erupted early this morning, no emergency response. No one was in the building when it happened, so luckily no cleanup detail for you guys today." He stared at her for an extra moment too long and she added, "That's it."
"So why are you here, then? Why are any of us here?", Markus wiped his brow and tried to piece it together from what she was allowed to say and what she kept from him, ignoring the unintended existential implications of the question.
"Extranormal event. One time thing. No need to designate", she spoke with decreasing effort. Her mind was apparently too preoccupied to come up with a Level Two-approved excuse for him. Mcclanahan chuckled and glanced around. There was no way this was just a fire, anomalous or not, it looked like the place had been completely robbed of any traces of its own identity. Conceptually gutted would have been a more apt descriptor.
If it weren't for the layout, he probably wouldn't have known this place was one that served food. The address provided by Dispatch was not valid, and instead they had provided the neighboring street addresses as a range. The property had no listed owner nor records, no identifying characteristics or words or any kind, from the labels on the take-out bags to the "Open" sign on the door, from the decor to the sign adhered to a tip jar on the counter. The furniture was strewn about and without design nor color. The entire building was painted in shades of gray and black, and not just the charred bits either.
Audrey piped up again, "If you're done admiring the decor, I need the surrounding blocks canvassed for individuals who may have witnessed the fire."
Markus twinged inside at the idea of what was essentially cold-copping for suspects and then Amnesticizing the lot when they turn out to be innocent civilians. Not one had seen the fire because everyone that was present was gone. Dead, or dead, adjacent. It was just an assumption, but from the way Audrey tightened her form around the papers when he questioned her about the situation, it seemed to him like it was a safe assumption to make. The fire was quite possibly caused by neglect of the kitchen, maybe after some sudden and unexplained happenstance tore through this unlucky business and scrubbed everything to a degree of redactive completeness that would make a RAISA director shudder with delight.
A single, uniformed Mobile Task Force member walked briskly between them with inherent purpose, paying little mind to the others as he did so. He held a stack of laminated menus in his arms, and when he passed by, one slid from top and fell, settling at Markus' feet. As he reached to grab the glossy paper, the Task Force operative snatched it from him, spun on his heel and, in one motion, skulked off, leaving the two to themselves and the sounds of water dripping off ruined, colorless upholstery.
It didn't stop the agent from briefly glimpsing at the menu, and, in that same moment, to the rest, which revealed that the words and pictures were simply redacted off the pages. All of them. The black blocks burned an image into his brain, which he saw again, inverted and superimposed over his vision when he closed his eyes. The image faded with Markus' curiosity about the subject.
Sure, a fire. He decided it wasn't his problem. Not this time. Ignorance is bliss.
"Canvassing. You got it, Director Phillips."


"…It's really more of a festival than a fair."
"Yes, but then it wouldn't be a pun."
"Chaz, nobody gets your puns."
Chaz Ambrose, owner and occasional chef of the restaurant with his own name, looked at his accomplice with falsified shock.
"Marius! My puns are the talk of the town!"
"We're in a field." The man in question was short and stocky, with a square jaw and square shoulders. If not for his well trimmed hair, piercing eyes, and disapproving grimace, you could quite easily mistake the man for a wall. Indeed they were in a field, far from the prying eyes of the many organisations that would quite like to capture, contain, or burn to the ground the large pavilion tent they stood in front of.
"Figure of speech. Shall we go inside?"
"Lets."

The flaps of the tent parted, and revealed the interior to be a good five times as large, possibly ten if you were paying attention. The smells of cooking meats, cut cheeses, and exotic spices suffused the air. Almost as immediate was the vast array of tables of every sort, arranged with even more dishes of particular fancies from all corners of the globe, and some corners beyond it. Trays laden with dishes of every sort and culture, stands filled with samples from every reality possible, portions of edible esoterica of every impossible sort. Chaz smiled at what he had wrought.
"Looks like those adverts went down a treat."
"It seems that the Circus knows what they're talking about." Marius grunted, even his attitude improved by the surroundings. "Pretermemetics. We'll have to investigate more uses for such a thing."
"Get your head out of business for a little and enjoy yourself." Chaz sampled a cube of toasted bread, and was surprised and delighted to find his tongue believed it to be covered in rich butter. "If even one of these talented chefs is convinced to work for us, then it's all worth it, right?"
"Provided they assist us in staying ahead of the competition. I don't want what happened to Mario's happening to us." Marius had a cupcake virtually thrust into his hands. He looked at it skeptically, and took a small bite. He was about to remark to the chef how bland it was, when he noticed that the sponge had reformed in his palm.
The pair spent the next hour wandering the aisles, sometimes together and sometimes apart. Chaz pulled himself towards a stand proudly labelled "Cheese-it," and was encouraged to try all sorts of objects dipped into the magic orange liquid. Marius spent many minutes conversing with an anartist about the flavoring techniques of various vegetable dishes.
Eventually, they reconvened, and together approached the diminutive stall, advertising impossible cuts of meat. Marius was already deep in conversation with the woman behind the stall as Chaz approached, allowing him a few moments to inspect the wares. Mostly cuts of fish, that moved about and through each other with no regard for physical limits. It took a few moments for him to realise that they must exist in higher dimensions.
"You two seem to be getting on." The pair turned to face him, and Chaz got a decent look at the stallholder for the first time. She was a shorter woman with a round face and bronze skin. Her tightly knotted and tied hair still held some measure of grace, and her rust-brown eyes conveyed strength as she pierced him with her gaze.
"Cassandra here had some interesting thoughts on how we're running front of house." Marius grunted, thick brows knotted in frustration. "She's right. We should be doing more."
"Doing more? How so?"
"Think about it." Cassandra interrupted Marius, deepening his scowl further. "As far as your customers are concerned, all you are is a group of expressionless waiters and aggressive kitchen staff. There's no heart, no soul."
Chaz took a moment to consider this. It held a few too many of his own concerns for him to be pleased by it.
"What do you recommend?" He silenced Marius' complaints with a raised hand, and gestured for the chef to continue.
"Make a show of your cookery. You know, open plan kitchen, let the customers see all the magic that goes into preparing their food. Bit of flash and dazzle, and you're golden." Cassandra finished with a flourish of the knife, cleanly cutting a salmon steak into six pieces, and then reassembling it with a piece left over. She presented the remainder to Ambrose. "Food for thought."
Marius coughed loudly, holding his phone for the both of them to see.
"If you're quite done, outer perimeter reported black helicopters. Probably the Foundation."
"…Shit."

Ways between the worlds opened and closed all throughout the pavilion, and within minutes the vast array of tables were barren of ingredients. After no more than five minutes, only three people remained inside the now empty tent.
"You're coming with?" Chaz looked expectantly to Cassandra, a bag full of equipment strapped over both their backs.
"I may as well."
Ambrose smiled at this, and nodded to Marius. The shorter man produced a sphere of polished marble, and dropped it onto the floor. With a kick, he sent it forwards a few metres, and it opened into a swirling pool of thaumic energy. Without another word, he threw his own sack of wares into the warp, and stepped through himself. Cassandra took a more cautious approach, looking expectantly at Chaz, before carefully jumping through the breach in reality.
Chaz Ambrose took a last look at the abandoned festival of food, and smiled glumly as he heard the regular beat of helicopter blades.
"I'll miss you, tent." He said to himself, dropping his bag into the way. He tutted as he followed it, and his vision was clouded by the Darkness between Dimensions.

Specialist Watson released the measuring tape from her grasp, allowing it to snap back into position in her partner's hand. The tent was definitely anomalous. Maybe not an SCP, and definitely not her field of expertise, and it was therefore not her problem.
Her immediate problem was the large quantity of recently opened portals. She couldn't count how many there had been, their signals were too close together to differentiate easily, and she couldn't tell where any of them had gone, if any had even gone to the same place. She had been tracking Ambrose ever since the first incident, when Lambda-14 had been assigned to them, and yet she was still as unable to unravel their mysteries as she had ever been. Possibly more so.
Watson kicked a table over, breaking its already shaky frame in two. A few people from the task force looked up at her, but most knew enough to leave her alone. The one exception to this was Agent Gary Janssen.
"Not nearly as good as the November raid, ey Rhianne?" Gary approached Watson with enough of a smile for her to notice and scowl at him before responding.
"No." She replied simply, venom dripping from her voice.
"Still, we shut down what looks to have been quite the gathering of people. Probably stymied Ambrose for a bit." Gary was unaffected by the anger directed at him, as he calmly righted the remains of the table. "We found a few bits and bobs, nothing really interesting besides the tent. Still, I call it a good raid."
"A good raid would be if we caught the bastard!" Watson shouted at him, again drawing eyes from across the tent. "You must have read the reports, every time we've seen this shithead's work people have died. Every second that he remains at large is another damn second that someone, somewhere, is being tortured by his work!"
"We can't say that for sure." Gary tried placing a hand on her shoulder, only to find the air around her approach boiling temperatures. "I agree that we need to capture him, but he's not evil. We've lost far more people fighting random anartists than we have fighting the restaurant. We'll get him eventually, I promise."
"Janssen?"
"Yes, Rhianne?"
"Shut up."


"What do you think boys? Is she a beauty or what?"
The gathered senior researchers looked on in a mixture of shock and dismay at what Clef had hung on his office wall; a framed four-foot by five-foot photograph of SCP-096, its face plainly visible for all to see.
Kondraki hung his head in disappointment, and considered how only the fact that he was now in a relationship with Clef was stopping him from making the man a quadriplegic for a second time.
Cimmerian shook his head in exasperation, questioning his recent decision to cut back on his drinking.
Shaw cocked his head in bemusement, wondering if 096 would only kill him once or each time he took a new body.
Kain lowered his head with his right paw over his snout, which just came across as adorable no matter what he was actually trying to express.
Gears alone remained implacably unmoved by the masterpiece, which is perhaps why he was the first to speak.
"Why?" he asked the single word that was on each of their minds.
"Why?" Clef repeated.
"Yes Alto, for God sakes why?!" Kondraki demanded, gesturing wildly at the offending photograph.
"To celebrate! He's dead, or neutralized, whatever. It's official! It's real! It's, it's canon, if you will. We can look at his ugly mug all we want!"
They all stared at the emaciated, pale, screaming face in the picture for the first time in their lives.
"I don't want to look at it at all," Gears said frankly.
"Yeah Clef, it's pretty damn creepy," Shaw agreed.
"And in poor taste," Kain added. "It's awfully disrespectful to all the hundreds of people this bastard killed."
"It's reckless endangerment is what it is!" Cimmerian said. "096 was neutralized yesterday! We need more than a 24 period to confirm that a neutralization is effective. If he comes back to life, we're all going to die!"
"Back to life? When does that ever happen?" Clef asked smugly, throwing his arm around his previously deceased beau. "Look, worst comes to worst we can forget what his face looks like with amnestics. Did we ever test that? Sounds like that's the kind of thing we would test."
"Clef, if you don't take that goddamn thing down right now I am going to defenestrate it and you out the nearest window!" Kondraki threatened.
"Guys, come on. Think about what this means!" Clef implored them. "How many new researchers have come up to you over the years and said '096's file says it's scheduled for termination. Why hasn't it been terminated yet?'. Well now it is! The day long prophesied has come to pass! We're free!"
The four men and lone dog still did not appear to share Clef's enthusiasm on the matter.
"I never really got why we were so keen on neutralizing him in the first place. He could be contained by putting a sack over his head," Shaw said, with the others murmuring their agreement.
"That's where you're wrong Elias. There could be photos of him from before he was contained, or someone could get a hold of the photos we already have of him," Clef argued. "If they did something like hack Markiplier's Youtube account and put that photo on his homepage, it'd be game over. The Shy Guy would breach containment with millions of dash ones to kill all over the world, and that kind of rampage would guarantee he'd have cameras pointed on him 24/7. Exposure would grow exponentially until the bastard slaughtered most of civilization. As far as I'm concerned, he should have been classified as Keter from the start."
"We had a clear understanding of what triggered his anomalous behaviour and preventing those triggers was relatively straightforward," Shaw countered. "That's a solid Euclid Class, borderline Safe."
"Oh, lets not start this debate again, shall we?" Kain implored.
"Killing him always seemed like the kind of thing the G.O.C. would do, not us," Cimmerian mused. "Er, no offense Alto. But there's a lot we never learned about 096. You know what else new researchers ask me about all the time? What would happen if you saw 096's face while you were in space, or in another reality. We never tested that, and now we'll never have the chance."
"More pressingly, SCP-096's origins remain utterly unknown," Gears said. "Further study of SCP-096 may have eventually yielded insight into whether any similar entities exist or could exist in the future. Such information would have been extremely useful to have, and may even have prevented major catastrophe."
…
"You know what I never got about 096? How his containment site didn't have a break room or coffee, and that Daniels somehow neglected to take that into account in his alibi," Kondraki said. "I don't think that anything that qualifies as a manned site wouldn't have a break room, and if it didn't have coffee that's not something that would ever slip my mind. I'd be bitching about that non-stop."
"Alright, I hear what you're all saying, but shut up, you're wrong," Clef insisted. "The Shy Guy was a Sword of Damocles dangling over the whole world, we killed him, and we're going to celebrate that by doing the one thing we never could while he was alive; looking at his face, each and every day, for the rest of our lives, so that we never forget what we've won and could have lost, and Ben not everyone is as obsessed with coffee as you are tea's actually more popular on a global scale!"
The men and dog considered Clef's passionate plea, and then looked back up at the grotesque and (hopefully) neutralized cognitohazard that he wanted to use for office decor.
"Alto, take this thing down or so help me, I will have you critiquing first drafts of SCP reports by junior researchers for the rest of your days," Kondraki threatened.
Clef narrowed his gaze at Kondraki, attempting to gauge whether or not he was bluffing. Deciding he'd rather be safe than sorry, he reluctantly pulled the picture off the wall.
"None of you appreciate po-mo art."


close

Info

X

Impossible-To-Destroy Reptile

You don't know what you've got, 'til it's gone.

SCPs

SCP Number
Rating

SCP-3393
1190

Captain Kirby's Proposal
771

SCP-4514
618

SCP-3448
572

SCP-5552
568

SCP-3844
490

SCP-3388
472

SCP-5003
426

SCP-3866
425

SCP-3305
399

SCP-3449
372

SCP-4877
367

SCP-4321
332

SCP-016-J
261

SCP-7100
252

SCP-3123
230

SPC-1057
215

SCP-3393-EX
214

SCP-3511
206

SCP-6007
192

SCP-3633
191

SCP-4925
184

SCP-4479
178

SCP-3767
166

SCP-4316
161

SCP-4775
141

SCP-4034
135

SCP-5877
103

SCP-3650
98

SCP-5448
97

SCP-3203
64

SCP-5779
61

SCP-3405
53

SCP-3481
48

Tales

Title
Rating

Impossible-To-Destroy Reptile
471

The Nuclear Option
465

In The Clutches Of Life
370

Numbers, Like Stories, Never Die
316

Excerpts From The Societal Census Programme ΩK-Class Report
218

Tales of the Ethics Committee: 5 Reasons The Foundation Wants A Robot Army
216

The Tombstone of Alto Clef
215

With The Reaper On Retirement
214

Do You Remember Funerals?
163

Where Death Used To Live
143

From The Clutches Of Life
141

Don't Get Used To It
140

Project Damnerung
139

The Many Portraits Of Jack Bright
137

Group Date
136

Hello, My Name Isn't
132

Monochrome
129

Hundred-Year Favor
117

Even The Most Masked Of Men Become Themselves Behind Closed Doors
110

You Have 18 Unread Messages
97

Everyday Is Somebody's Birthday
88

The Shape of a Noose
75

A Failed Two Weeks Notice
67

'Til Death Do Us Part
63

Pink Cracks in a Digital Wall
61

Rocks And Trees Are Not Good Company
61

Poky And Pal Scheme Together
54

Is Anybody Home?
52

A Eulogy In 11/8 Time
50

Carnivores
50

Poky And Pal Arm Themselves
49

Tears of a Neon God
48

Virtue
43

When It Rains, It Pours
42

I Felt Numb
39

It's A Nice Day Out
37

Attempts To Salvage Thought
35

God-Knows-Where
34

I Am Wonderful
33

They Are Not Laughing With You
28

Outrun
26

What Is There To Do With A Pot Of Gold?
25

Containment's A Beach
20

GOI Formats

Title
Rating

Captain Kirby's Proposal, Or Something
184

My Head Is On Fire And I'm (Not) Ok
98

Project Proposals 2004-013/2014-114/2024-072: "Losing Your Cool"
70

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The Lizard Is Dead by fieldstone

The Lizard was dead.

'Hypnotraline' (TR7K2/2UD9X/53GN8) by Veiedhimaedhr

t's inaccurate and dismissive to compare life directly to pizza, as the former is made up of novel experiences, bonds and other factors. However, it is also dismissive to declare them incomparable.

The Foundation was never late for termination testing.
On the 22nd of every month, at 1500 hours on the dot, the door would open to 682's cell. Alarms would blare, the site would enter standard lockdown configuration, and then the show would start. What followed was five glorious hours of 682 against the most dangerous contraption that an army of engineers could design.
This was the only break from the monotony of containment that the lizard got. It wasn't much, but it was something. And it was the something that gave 682 hope that the Foundation would one day fuck up so bad that it would finally be able to roam the countryside, doing what it did best: Slaughter.
Except today, they were late. Except they were never late. The lizard glared at the door. It refused to open.

Date: 9/22/2020
From: Dr. ██████
To: SCP-682 Containment Personnel, SCP-682 Termination Personnel
Subject: ΩK
Message:
We have finally obtained x-ray scans of SCP-682. As we predicted, those scans show that SCP-682, like other non-anomalous reptiles, does in fact have a brain. And, as recent research into the ΩK-Scenario has shown, anything with a brain has been cursed/blessed with immortality. If the lizard wasn't unkillable before, it certainly is now.
This means that continued attempts at termination of SCP-682 will be futile. If we can't even kill a rat, the lizard's entirely out of the question. Therefore we will be suspending SCP-682 termination testing indefinitely. All personnel directly working in this venue of research will be reassigned within the coming week. Containment personnel are to take note, as this will simplify the procedures we have in place for SCP-682.
We had a good run.

SCP-682 Containment Log (9/22/2020)
15:00 - Regularly scheduled termination of subject cancelled. No activity.
15:16 - Ripples appear in the hydrochloric acid vat. Not indicative of enough movement to necessitate action.
15:27 - Movement attempted by SCP-682. Appears to be restless thrashing. Electrical shocks introduced to hydrochloric acid stopped the movement.
15:44 - Movement attempted by SCP-682. More dramatic and exaggerated than previous attempt. Loads detected on acid vat walls are significantly lower than loads measured during previous SCP-682 breach attempts. This is attributed to a lack of precision in repeated strikes. Electrical shocks introduced to hydrochloric acid failed to stop movement.
15:47 - Shouts of anger detected by microphones within the cell. Sudden fluctuation of temperature introduced to containment environment has slowed movement.
15:52 - Thrashing resumes at an even more intense rate. SCP-682 speech is recorded by microphones within the cell. Previous containment techniques reapplied to the containment environment. Vat walls projected to hold under current loads.
16:23 - Loads on vat walls increased dramatically. Strikes have become more focussed on the north wall. SCP-682 shouts threats sporadically. Vat walls projected to hold; however personnel have been notified of a possible impending containment breach. Preparation for SCP-682 Recontainment Protocols has been initiated.
17:03 - Movement from SCP-682 slows. This change does not correlate with any additional containment measures applied to the environment.
17:04 - SCP-682 sinks into the vat.
17:05 - Movement ceases. SCP-682 Recontainment Protocols aborted. Personnel return to their stations.

They weren't coming and they didn't plan on coming. SCP-682 lashed out every day at 1500 hours for the next week. It took it that long to accept its new life. Just the lizard and the acid. The vat was cramped, but even worse — it was boring.

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-682 must be destroyed as soon as possible.

The lizard wished it was dead.


They asked for my ID at the checkpoint. Fake, of course, but the duty boy didn't look at the details, phoning his senior officer as soon as he saw the last name. The boss must have been waiting for me all day, picking up the phone at a moment's notice. The duty boy told him that I'm here and he was flooded with orders.
The chief of this admirable jail isn't too keen to talk to Foundation agents in person, but he's really fast to perform the required tasks. I've been here four times, never had to wait for anything, the guards mind their manners, the inmates are cooperative. Some pleasant working conditions.
Duty boy kept nodding and saying "yes" as the orders were neatly piled upon him. He hung up and suggested I take a seat and wait for my escort. I followed his advice, and put my briefcase on my knees. Eyeing the surroundings lazily, I started humming a song that had stuck on me since morning - some new hit they aired on the radio, though I couldn't remember the name or the artist. Duty boy took a glance at me.
The escort arrived soon after - an obese bloke with a wide smile, a real happy hippo. Really glad to see me, as if I was his grandma. I got up, feeling the infectious smile spread on my face as well.
"Alexey Yarin?", he asked with a dumb-looking nod. "We've been waiting for you since this morning. No trouble getting here?"
"Just fine, thank you. How's Millet doing?"
"Just littered down. Need any pups? Just kidding, I know you're eager to start. Follow me."
We strode down the bleak corridors. The escort kept flailing his arms while walking, and his gait had such a kick to it, I kept waiting for his shoes to come off. I've never turned down the pleasure of talking to this lad a bit. Like that phrase about his dog with a stupid name "Millet". Funny thing is, I do remember its name, but not the name of the owner.
"I wonder, are you a music fan?", I asked.
"Why'd you ask?", he said, looking over his shoulder without slowing down.
"Heard one this morning, liked it a lot, but didn't remember the name."
"Try humming the tune."
"Goes like this: de-de-de-dum-dedum-dedum-dedum-dum-de-de…"
"No, that's not up my alley, I rarely ever listen to music. Rather, tell me something, will they really be taking Borisov away?"
"If he agrees to it"
"Very well. Feel free to call me, I'll help with persuasion. OK, here we are."
The interrogation room is very simple and cramped, lit by the dim sunlight.
"We've cleaned it up before you came around."
"Thank you, you really shouldn't have."
I entered the room and warily looked at every corner. All I need is a table and a couple of chairs, nothing else. Although, they think I'm some big cheese so keeping up appearances is a must.
"Good", I said condescendingly, taking a seat. The chair's iron legs gave a demonic screech as I pulled it out. "Are the inmates ready?"
"Oh, are they. Everyone's itching."
No doubt. Some of them are entertaining a naive thought that I'll be releasing them.
"Bring them in, one by one, exactly as the list goes."

I'm not an evil ogre that plucks people from the line and swallows them whole. I'm just given a list, I forward it to the prison director and go talk to the inmates. I'm not taking them prisoner, I get them to agree… It's just that I'm allowed to be persistent.

First one is a pale youth. Flap-eared, lanky and aggressive. The boy was about to be transferred elsewhere, so we lucked out catching him here. They seated him over against me and left us alone. I took my time, languidly placed the agreements folder to the right of me, and the empty (for now) folder for signed papers to the left, placed the voice recorder at the corner of the table and turned it on.
A happy smile appeared on my face.
"Good day, Maxim. How do you feel?"
"Fuck you", he said through his teeth.
"Now, aren't you a menace."
"I'll fucking throttle you, dickwad. Do you think these lil' bracelets will stop me?"
To demonstrate that he's serious, the inmate placed his skinny hands on the table, refraining from the "throttling" bit for now.
"Now that we've found common grounds, I'd like to make you an appealing offer."
"Wouldn't you like to go…"
"It's not your fault you ended up here, it's all caused by your disease. Here's an agreement", I said, placing the document and a pen in front of the villain, "for taking part in testing experimental medicine. These could cure you."
Having heard the last phrase, the inmate started pondering. He leered at the paper and started moving his lips without making a sound.
"So, what do you think?"
"So my memory won't be so finicky anymore?"
"You have Korsakoff syndrome, that's not just your memory 'being finicky'. But, by and large, yes, they'll heal you completely.
"Testing new medicine?", the poor fellow can't make up his mind.
"Yes, and they will release you in a month. This medicine is very important, they'll cut your sentence down if you take part in the experiments."
"So I'll see my mom in a month?"
"Exactly."
The inmate gave an exalted sigh. A second after he picked up the pen and pulled the agreement towards himself.
"Right here, and same place on the other page. That is all, they'll come for you this evening."

They all are innocent. Every inmate with a life sentence is blameless - 'circumstances' are the ones to blame. Debts, poverty, alcohol, disease. Those are the true criminals. Which is why inmates will go to great lengths to return their freedom and get rid of the 'circumstances'. They even agree to experiments.
Truth be told, that guy will be testing meds… not the cure for amnesia though. And in a month.. he won't be going back to his mom because she's dead. And he's forgotten that.
Saves us the amnestics.

The next subject is a tall and lean athlete, tattooed head to toe like a freaking yakuza. Although his body is not adorned with dragons and sakuras, but with Celtic crosses, swastikas, barbed wire, and eagles, reminding of Nazism and showing the inmate's true colors.
He's also struggling not to spit in yours truly's face.
"Stanislav Berlogin, pleased to meet you."
"Is that so? And who're you gonna be?"
"Call me Alexey. I'm from the Vesnov Penal Colony. We offer you a transfer."
"The fuck you would?"
An everyday vulgarity, but annoying nonetheless.
"The state is rolling out an inmate re-socialization project in our colony. You were listed as a candidate for a training course to get you rid of ethnic intolerance."
"I'm not ethnically intolerant. I'm laying the murder on those bastards not for where they came from, but for what they allow themselves to do in my country!"
"Your education is impressive, not everyone knows what 'ethnic intolerance' stands for. Still, you see, you're here because of that specifically. Your attitude towards ethnic minorities has led you to a sentence."
"I'm gonna say that again", the Nazi leaned forward, "I only reined in the foreigners the police can't be arsed about!"
"Was that the reason why you and your accomplices burned down a bus carrying foreign exchange students with Molotov cocktails?"
"They came here to take our jobs."
"They're foreign exchange, they will study here and work at home."
"Could be, but they take state-funded places our boys could be having."
"Their state is paying for their tuition, not ours."
The Nazi sympathizer shut up, keeping a cocky and self-assured face. Time to weave my tangled web now that he's off-balance. I gave him a copy.
"While you are reading the agreement, I'd like to describe the conditions. Three square meals, shower, gym, computer room, daily therapy sessions, manual labor down to a minimum. If the therapy is deemed successful, your sentence may be changed to 15 years instead of a lifetime. And you'll be settled in a block with those like yourself."
That piqued our Nazi's interest. He pulled the agreement closer to him.
"So, no kikes at all?"
"Not a single Jew, except for me, of course."
"A-hah, you're a funny one. Okay, where do I sign?"

Being a Class D in the Foundation is not a part of one's punishment. We are not picking those who are guiltier than the rest, not at all. Our filters work like this: First we get death row inmates (a rare commodity in our country), then we get to those who aren't likely to get anything but life sentence. And out of these we pick inmates with no next of kin, who aren't likely to be noticed if they go missing. People from orphanages are the best candidates. Like that Nazi here.

Next one pushed inside was a rowdy stout type with a massive forehead. Wish I had a forehead like this, I'd hammer nails down with it. They almost had to force the short inmate to sit down, but, having been seated on the chair, he immediately calmed down. I especially like that sort of people.
"Good day. Alexander Borisov, my name is Alexei. First off I'd like to warn you - this interview never happened officially."
"Who are you?", he croaked.
"Can't tell you at the moment. I'd rather you answer my question. Weren't you imprisoned for an arson attack on a tenement house?"
"Yes, but I didn't-"
"How many people have died?"
"Thirty-one, but not all of them were-"
"How many of those were aliens?", I asked without batting an eye.
The short guy was looking wary now. No one has talked to him like that. Someone burning down a house as part of his fight against alien invasion and getting imprisoned into a simple jail instead of a mental asylum, - this has a simple explanation. The shrinks thought he was faking it. No one believed him, he was deemed sane by three doctors. And another one after he appealed against the judgement.
And now he's looking at someone who believes him.
"Are you kidding me?"
"You think that I came to a jail and managed to get an interview with you just to kid you? No, not at all, I'm here to give you a collaboration offer - here's the agreement."
The resistance fighter browsed through a few lines and fixed his grim eyes on me. Lord, is he ugly.
"I understand, you are not willing to take my word on it", I said, putting my hand into an inside pocket of my jacket. "But my sincerity can be proven. Here, familiarize yourself."
I fetched out a bunch of photos and tossed them on the table in front of him. He knit his brows even more, but then… he started looking and with every picture his brows went higher and higher. Soon he was seething with rage, the phrase "I told you so!" stuck in his throat.
"Like these?" - I said, leaning over the table. "See this one? All scaly, triangular head. And this one, look, wove itself a nest from its silk. It's not silk, actually, that's just what we call it."
The madman was almost mine now, but he was again overcome with doubt. He looked at me sternly, demanding further proof.
"Not a fake?" - he asked, poking the photos.
"Sure isn't. if that wasn't enough to convince you, here's one more thing."
Out of a special pocket I pulled a coin with a hole in it. A long string went through the hole. As soon as I opened my palm, the coin fell. On the ceiling. The inmate gave a jump, almost falling out of his chair. With his mouth agape, he watched me pull the coin back to myself by the string.
"So, cells for 2 people, the contract is for a month. After that you decide if you want to do more. Also-"
"Tell me the rest on the way there. Where do I sign?"

It is our responsibility to scrutinize the candidates through and through, we must be prepared for the meeting. Everything matters, from the crime committed to grades in school, from mental to dental health. Candidate interviews are meticulously directed stage plays, rehearsed for weeks on end.
We must delve deep into psychology, must be familiar with arrest reports, court transcripts, and the inmate's behavior in jail. Hell of a job… all for a wee couple of signatures.

Getting prepared for my next client took quite a while, but after we met I just started looking at his mug. For a good couple of minutes, I'm just sitting there, chin propped on fist, looking at the visage of a 6'6" brute.
Said visage is remarkable, lacking the left eye, with a scar instead of it looking like it was sutured on a sewing machine. Granted, he wasn't a glamour model before that too.
"A knife did that, am I right?"
"Yep, an upwards stab."
"How the fuck did you survive?"
"Was a kitchen knife", shrugged the beefcake.
"Doesn't matter, it went right into your eye!"
"Just a nick", he said, shrugging again.
"Wife did that to you?"
"That is right. We had a disagreement over the legitimacy of her infidelities. So, she went nuts."
"And you killed her?"
"Just wanted to sock her one, and she dropped dead after the first hit. I was smart enough to call her parents, so they were beating down my door in half an hour. I merely resorted to self-defense."
"And killed seven more?"
The brute spread his hands.
"What could I do? Even her cousins were there."
"I'll call you Travolta", said I, fetching the necessary agreement from my folder.
"Why?"
"You remind me of 'Face\Off'."
"Good flick", he nodded.
"This here's a government job offer. A month of work and you're free to go. Take a look and give your autograph."
The brute quickly browsed through the document and raised the pen. Instead of signing, he went with a question.
"Can I smoke there?"
"No, you'll be given a nicotine patch."
"A shame", he said, signing the agreement.

We are restricted to one language - the one the inmate wants. And everyone wants different things. Still, out of the multitude of languages we must unerringly pick one: proper tone, proper words, proper gestures…
We work methodically. As we enter the room, we know every step we take. Recon is crucial. External affairs, to their credit, supplies us with everything we need. In exchange for that they only require that we don't forge the signatures.

They brought in a timid mess of a wimpy lad. As soon as he sat down I tossed him a pen and a paper, saying:
"Sign this."
"What is it?"
"You a fucking idiot or what? What part of 'sign this' don't you understand, bitch?"
The wimp grabbed the pen and the agreement. He must have been shaking as much as when his sentence was proclaimed.
"The fuck are you reading there! Sign it and get the fuck back to your bunk!"
I got my signatures.
"Dismissed."

Yes, we're trained in that too. Not recommended to use, works on one person in twenty, at most. Saves a lot of time, though. Who knows, maybe I'll wrap up early today.

Next one spoke first, for a change.
"Are you from the agencies?"
"No, Victor, I'm not from any secret agency."
"It's just that it's a pretty nice suit you got there."
"Compared to what you used to wear before the jail, this is rags."
"Did you read my case?"
"Looked at your social network profile."
Victor Rogov affixes me with a piercing glare. Arms crossed on his chest, an all-knowing narcissistic smile on his face.
"Now, who are those dapper people not from secret agencies that need me?"
"Science", I said, getting out another agreement. "We offer you to participate in testing a new non-lethal weapon. Active collaboration might get your sentence commuted, best case being ten years."
Better not to mention actual terms around this shifty fellow. He's too suspicious to believe in life sentence being shortened to a month.
Victor took the paper from my hand but didn't even look at it.
"Not so non-lethal if you need convicts for that."
"How do I say it. There is a risk. It's like test pilots. They take risks too, but no one wants them to die."
"What sort of weapon?" he asked with a disinterested look.
"Foam. They incapacitate you, scratch the foam off and send you to the showers. You'll be bathing several times a day. You're a bit of a clean freak, aren't you?"
"Looks suspicious."
"See for yourself", I said, opening the folder with unsigned agreements. "There's only two more papers in here, you have the third. And those are signed - as you can see, there are five of them. And I'm sitting here since 2PM."
The alternative I'm offering looks more and more promising. Victor starts pondering it instead of turning his nose up like a princess.
"I'd like to go through the details", he said, poring over the agreement.
By all means, please do. All the more so the document doesn't contradict my words in the slightest. None of the signed ones do, either. Every agreement is custom-made, tailored around a specific cover story. And all of them (a round of applause to the legal department) are composed so that you can't raise any claims. This guy has monthly rotation mentioned there too.
I'm not afraid of any reveals and unmaskings, they may read all they want. But man, do they go for a long time.

I don't know the details but they say that every candidate is already assigned to a specific object. They even say they're even assigned to specific experiments. I don't believe that. But I do know that Doctors do make overly specific requests. It should not concern me, but a colleague told me once: there were requests for blind people, people with Alien Hand Syndrome, chemically castrated people, ambidextrous people… And consider this, the world's fate depends on whether I can fulfill their requests.
Of course, not me personally. There are many of us, I'm not even the best in this business. Actually, we don't keep tabs, so I don't know who's the best. Might even be me, one can never tell.

When they brought the next one in, I was pacing to and fro next to the window. The young fop (a bit worse for wear after encountering daily prison life) was seated down, and he stared at me blankly. Never minding the jail personnel who haven't left yet, I started talking into the phone.
"Yes, Pyotr Romanovich, they just brought him. Doesn't look like he was beaten. Looks alive. No, unfortunately you can't talk to him directly. I… Pyotr Romanovich, I understand, but now… Pyotr Romanovich, now is not the time, we're already taking too much risk. Yes, the plan is unchanged. Yes, right, we'll send him out this evening. Not sure about that, Dmitry Stepanovich hasn't called back yet. No, but he did say he'll do everything, and he never failed us before. Yes, OK, talk to you later.
I hung up (without actually calling anyone) and offered Pyotr Romanovich's offspring the agreement.
"So lookie here. You sign these papers and we'll transfer you to another jail. Conditions are better than here anyways, and you'll share the cell with your father. Yes, that was him on the phone. He's done us a big favor back then, so we'll be getting you out now. It will take some time, though, can't fix the deal in less than a month, but we're working.
"Got it", said the rich brat without asking for details. "Do I sign here?"
"Yeah, put your John Hancock right over here. The other page, too. Excellent. This evening you'll be going to your father, and after that… well, we'll press on.
"Thanks", said the young criminal and hurried to the exit.

He might even get to meet his father, who's been working for the Foundation for two weeks now.
As a matter of fact, I resorted to outright lying. That is, I was obscure earlier, but not a word of truth was spoken now. Very few cases justify that. Like this one, for instance.
The criminal family might have gotten out free. They have veritable contacts with a police major, people from the regional administration, a couple of mob bosses… and the Serpent's Hand.

Last one today is a real treat. The one brought to me was not a brutish murderer, not a maniac, not a bomber, not even an illegal downloader. This is a mediocre-looking man, a bit on the heavy side, who looks like he was beaten. Lumps and bruises sporting every color of the rainbow. We had a long fight with the government over this one.
The bastard sold State secret information to terrorists. Investigation confirmed that fifty-three documents were sold, but there may have been more.
He should have gotten the firing squad, but the case went public. Human right activists crept up from every corner of Russia and beyond. These are OK with protecting any sort of bastards. The pressure was so high, the scum came off with a life sentence. Damn these fucking pushovers.
Three years of work were put into him. Once they beat every piece of information out of him, he was thrown here. Now he's beaten by his cellmates. A lot of patriots among this bunch, too.
After we were left alone, I got up, walked to him and put the agreement in front of him. Slowly, languidly, haughtily. Placed a pen next to it. And finally, started talking.
"Five officers were stabbed to death with their families. One of the officers was a good friend of mine. The group you sold the info too committed three terrorist attacks. Assaulted a military base, stole weapons. And these are only the episodes obviously connected to the info you leaked. That's… a lot of blood on your hands, First Lieutenant."
I jabbed my finger at the dotted line.
"Now you take the pen and put your signature", I said in a quiet, but intimidating tone.
"I won't sign your papers."
"Listen, do you think you've gotten through the grit of Russian torture? Think you already had the worst? Look here."
I rolled up my trouser leg with a pistol underneath it. That impressed him.
"I walked into a jail with a weapon and no one bothered to search me. Can you even imagine what kind of person I am? I'll do things to you and no one will come here as you scream. Take the fucking pen, or I'll put an X there and walk away with a reprimand, worst case."
"You may want to turn off the recorder".
I shattered the device against the wall. The smart guy lost every bit of self-confidence and put his hands over his head.
"Just sign it, cunt, don't make me angry!"
The bastard started having second thoughts and took the pen. As soon as I made sure the signatures are where they should be, I calmed down and started packing my things.
"Most excellent", I said while putting the folder into the briefcase. "I hope you get Keter duty."
"What Keter?" he said, passing me the signed agreement.
"That will be explained to you on site."
"No, you got me wrong. What Keter will I be sent to? The one that desiccates water with a look? Or will you throw me to the living geyser?"
It was like an electric shock, my eyes widening, jaw slowly dropping. I turned to face the smug-looking bastard. It felt like we changed places.
"What were those documents you sold them, fucker?! Who were those terrorists?!"


Veronica stared in wide-eyed terror at the gremlin mere inches in front of her, its reeking yellow fangs bared in a menacing display, ready to bite her face off in an instant if it was displeased.
“I, I don't know where Fuller is,” she lied. “He sent us here alone, he could be anywhere in the Multiverse right now.”
Before the gremlin could accuse her of lying, the Funtime Facility's PA system crackled to life.
“Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?” asked a voiced that both Veronica and Manny were disquietingly familiar with. “Greetings, patrons of The Factory Funtime Facility. I'm here on behalf of the United State's Federal Bureau of Investigation's Unusual Incidents Unit - health and safety division. In what should come as a surprise to no one, this theme park has failed its health and safety inspection. Most alarming is the high concentrations of alchemical rust in the air, a known risk factor in the development of Iron Lung. I recommend you all consult an alchemist about treatment options as soon as possible.
“I'm afraid this park is too much of a public safety hazard to remain open, so I'm going to have to insist you all evacuate in a calm and orderly manner whilst I blow this haphazardous heap of scrap iron to Kingdom Come.”
A cacophony of screeching gears, exploding boilers and terrified screams rang through the air, shaking the ground and buildings of the Funtime Facility like a small earthquake. The mechatronic arms of the Assembly Line ceased their odd dance and instead turned on each other, thrashing and bashing one another with unchecked ferocity, sending sparks and chunks of metal flying in all directions.
The gremlins abandoned their two victims and fled off into the shadows, their arms raised over their heads in a desperate attempt to shield themselves from the flying debris. Veronica and Manny leapt off the cart, and with Manny placing himself between her and the malfunctioning mechatronics as protection, they ran out as quickly as they could.
The scene that greeted them outside was not one of safety, however. The roller coaster had been pushed beyond its limits so that its track gave way and the train of cars sent crashing to the ground. The Sisyphean Wheel had come off its axel and now rolled through the fairgrounds, sending patrons fleeing in panic and crushing everything in its path. Most troubling of all was the Smokestack, which now belched out fire instead of smog, and produced a deep rumbling that signalled imminent catastrophe.
“Everyone, please, remain calm!” Hasselflax shouted as it frantically tried to undo the pandemonium that had erupted. “It's just all part of the fun!”
“Manny, the gates,” Veronica said, pointing towards the entrance. The gates had been closed, and numerous Eidolonic security guards were now at work beating back the mob. “They're not letting anyone out.”
“Afraid of bad press, I imagine. There aren't that many guards, you and I can force our way past them. Come on.”
They weren't able to make it more than a few steps before Hasselfax ran ahead of them to hold them back.
“Whoa whoa whoa, where are you two going? You only just got here. Don't you want to go on some more rides? Eat some gruel? Ah, did I give you a lead balloon yet?”
“Out of our way,” Manny ordered.
“No, you have to stay. This is just a minor technical hiccup,” Hasselflax insisted. Behind him a monstrously fat pig broke through the wall of The Factory Farm exhibit, its massive bulk supported on a pair of stubby legs that would have been cute if they didn't look so agonizingly painful. Struggling to stand on cracked and bleeding hooves, the pig charged forward and scooped up a fleeing gremlin into its jaws, chomping down on it with enough force to squash it in one bite. “See, now the livestock is free range. We listen to your concerns, we're very socially conscious.”
Hasselflax whipped out its walkie-talkie and raised it to its mouth.
“What the hell is Aloysius doing?” it asked. “Hello, anyone?”
Manny tried to push past Hasselflax again, but the Funtime Facilitator pushed back with surprising force and pulled out a cattle prod.
“I said you're not going anywhere!” it screamed. “You don't know what the Foremen'll do to us if this fails! You have to stay! You have to have fun!”
Manny punched the Facilitator in the face, knocking off its mask.
What they saw beneath chilled them both to the bone.
Instead of a face, there was a hole cut into the front of the Facilitator's saggy grey head. The word hole didn't do it justice though, since the inside of the skull was nowhere to be seen. It was instead a void, of unknown but certainly impossible dimensions. Air could be seen flowing to the void's edges and sinking inwards, as if cooled and condensed by the being's frigid skin and then drawn down into the vacuous cavern by its sheer density.
Without the mask to dampen it, the sound of faint, echoing wind could be heard within the cavity, and the hollow darkness of the void was deep enough that it stood out even in the dark and smog filled environs of the fairground. Though the void seemed empty, Manny and Veronica's gazes remained transfixed upon it, as if they were staring at something abominable.
And then, somewhere deep within that abyss, something stared back at them.
Thinking them paralyzed, Hasselflax moved in for the kill. Before it could touch them Manny sprung back to life and in an instant seized both of Hasseflax's wrists in a vice-like grip.
“Veronica, get to the gate now! I'll catch up!” Manny shouted. Veronica, too terrified to argue, did as he said. With her safely out of the way, Manny smirked as he leaned in towards Hasselflax. “Now it's your turn to see what's behind my face.”
Veronica didn't turn back, not even at the sound of Hasselflax's blood-curdling screams. Ahead of her the Eidolonic security guards had successfully barricaded the main gate and were holding the crowd at bay. There was no way for her to get to the guards through the crowd, so she'd have to go over it.
Taking out her deck of trick cards, she cast all the numbered cards to the ground in a six by six grid. The grid became enveloped in a shared blue aura that allowed her to levitate them as one, even with her standing upon it. She rose to about twelve feet off the ground, immediately attracting the attention of the guards. As they fumbled to switch their cattle prods for their guns, she sent a pair of Wild Jokers careening their way. The cards tumbled through the air at a rapid velocity, decapitating the guards and showering the crowd in their pressurized yellow innards.
A Facilitator threw a tin can of gruel at Veronica's head, striking her with enough force to knock her off of her levitating platform. Laying on the soot-covered ground, clutching her head in pain, she looked up to see several rusted smiley faces all staring down at her.
“Bloody hell, do you think those things grow on trees?” one of them demanded, gesturing to the fallen Eidolonic guards. “Box her up so she can't cause any more trouble, and we'll deal with her once things have settled down.”
Two of the Facilitators grabbed her by the arms before she could summon her cards. She kicked and struggled as they lifted her up, only to drop her as they were struck down with blasts of white light, their coats and masks falling to the ground in smouldering heaps. She looked up in bewilderment, only to see Fuller standing there with his Wondertainment Hyper Fun Sun GunTM.
“Fuller. You, you saved – you're covered in yellow shit,” she said.
“Looks like there's a lot of that going around,” he said with a smirk, nodding to the remains of the guards Veronica had killed. “Nice work.”
A pair of strong hands grabbed Fuller from behind and spun him around so that he was face to upside-down face with Manny.
“What did you do?” The Man With The Upside-Down Face demanded.
“Well, from a purely technical perspective I'm not quite sure. I mostly just fiddled with buttons until all the warning dials moved into the red,” he replied.
Manny snarled at him, but kept his temper in check when he saw the mob still trying to push through the locked gates.
“Veronica, use your cards to cut through the lock chains,” he said. She nodded and engulfed one of her cards in a sharp red aura, pulling it backwards in anticipation of the throw.
“Be still,” ordered a silky yet guttural voice that reverberated through the fairgrounds. Veronica froze, her card still in her hand, as did Fuller and Manny and all the other patrons. “Behold.”
At the voice's behest, they all turned to see the being it belonged to. There, shrouded in the thick smog, was a Factory Foreman.
It was hard to say how big it was, as its unfamiliar form and shrouded surroundings made it difficult to judge distance. Its torso was humanoid, albeit with a hunched back and a curved spine. Instead of legs, it had a long, serpentine tail it slithered along the ground on, and instead of arms, it had two long tentacles. Its head was mounted on a long, twisted neck and its small eyes were set back in two, deep, black sockets. Most unsettling of all, its form was covered in numerous small, dark, semi-humanoid creatures like parasites, their rust-red eyes glowing furiously in the darkness.
Herman raised his gun to fire at the creature, or host of creatures, but found himself unable to fire when it held up its tentacle in a clear gesture to stop.
“We apologize for the disruption,” the Foreman hissed, all its mouths moving in perfect unison while the singular voice seemed to come from none of them. “You shall be compensated with employment opportunities. Report to the administrative center for interviews, assessments, reorientation, and complementary septic buckets.”
They all stood still, simultaneously terrified of the consequences of both obedience and disobedience. The Foreman roared at them to urge them to action, but its cry was drowned out by the eruption of the smokestack behind it. Molten slag began raining down on the fairground like lava from a volcano, with a glob of it striking the Foreman, the incandescently hot metal knocking it to the ground.
This was enough to break The Foreman's hold over the crowd. Veronica spun around and threw her card, slicing through the chains that held the gates shut. The mob immediately pushed the gates open and stampeded out of the Funtime Facility as quickly as their feet could carry them.
“Don't forget to get your hand stamped for re-entry,” the booth attendant said, weeping despite her indelible smile.
The injured Foreman slithered after the escaping horde, pulling itself out past the gate with the aid of its remaining tentacle. It was not the third of its body that it had lost to the burning metal rain that stopped it though, but the fresh air that lay beyond the bounds of its domain. It couldn't risk it in its weakened state, so with a bitter snarl it reluctantly retreated back to the suffocating heat, darkness and smog that was The Factory Funtime Facility.

In the Ringmaster's tent, Herman Fuller leaned back in his chair with his feet upon his desk, puffing on a cigar in smug satisfaction. Across from him, The Man With The Upside-Down Face sat with his arms folded across his chest, decidedly less pleased with how the course of events had played out.
“I'm back,” Veronica announced as she entered the tent, holding a copy of the Weekly Wanderer in one hand and a six pack of Doctor Wondertainment's Causta ColaTM in the other. “Are you sure this stuff is all we need to get that damn rust out of systems?”
“Positive,” Fuller said as he opened a bottle and, in an uncharacteristic display of gentlemanly behaviour, handed it to Veronica. “Reggie uses it himself to keep his own Iron Lung in check. This stuff would strip even ordinary rust from nails, and if you look closely you can see a little bit of the Wonderlight in each bubble. More than enough to get rid of a little Factory Rust.”
Veronica took a deep swig of the cola, then unfolded the newspaper to read the headline.
“ ‘Factory Funtime Facility Fails Fantastically',” she read. “ ‘After only a few hours of operation, The Funtime Facility's attractions suffered a series of disastrous malfunctions, necessitating the park's immediate evacuation. The Facility is now completely abandoned and mostly buried under an enormous amount of iron slag which appears to have come from a foundry explosion. The Factory itself has since issued a statement claiming that the amusement park was an unlicensed knockoff out to profit off their good reputation and that they would never stoop to something as unproductive as entertainment. Witness reports suggest a UIU agent may have been involved in the Funtime Facility's destruction, but this remains unconfirmed at this time'.
“Yadda yadda yadda, there's no mention of us in here.”
“Marvellous,” Fuller smiled.
“Marvellous? Do you seriously believe The Factory doesn't know it was you who blew up their theme park?” Manny demanded. “How many people knew who you were?”
“Let's see; there was the receptionist at the administration building, a few Facilitators in the control room, Aloysius, and the Overmind of the Eidolonics I killed,” Herman replied. “Aloysius is dead, the receptionist and facilitators are most likely either dead or took their chance to flee The Factory so aren't talking either way, and Eidolonic collectives are notoriously bad communicators. I don't think The Factory knows it was me, not for sure anyway, and even if they do they won't care,”
“They won't care?”
“You heard Veronica, they're denying the Facility was theirs in the first place. They are no longer in the business of anomalous entertainment, which means we are no longer competitors, so they have no reason to come after us. Revenge is not in their M.O. There's no profit in it.”
“What about sending a message to anyone else who might try to destroy their holdings. Is that profitable?”
“To do that they'd have to publically acknowledge I destroyed the Facility in the first place, and they clearly decided that's a bad move. They've disowned themselves from the whole enterprise and are eager to move on. I applaud their media savviness.”
“You don't even want to add them to your list of enemies?” Veronica asked.
“Not even tempted. All's well with The Factory,” he nodded.
Manny shook his head in disdain, but clearly didn't have any retort that he thought Herman would listen too.
“Well, I'll give you this old man; you've got more nerve left than I had thought,” he said.
“And don't you forget it,” Fuller said with a waggle of his finger. “Whilst we're on the subject of forgetting, remind me to thank Wondertainment for the Hyper Fun Sun Gun tee em next time we see him. That thing really saved my caboose back there.”
“Ah-oh,” Veronica muttered as she read further along in the newspaper article.
“What?” Fuller asked.
“ ‘In an official statement by little Larry Little from Wondertainment's Wonder World's Wonder Tower, the news of The Factory Funtime Facility prompted Dr. Wondertainment to consider opening their own theme park',” she read aloud. “ ‘The project, temporarily entitled as Wondertainment Land®, will most likely be located in the continental United States and hopes to carve a niche for itself as a premier destination in the anomalous tourism and entertainment industry,'.”
Fuller snatched the paper away from her and began reading it himself, his face growing redder and left eye twitching more fervently with each passing word.
…
“Ah, Fuller?”
“THAT SICK, SORRY, SON-OF-A-FUNLOVER IS MUSCLING IN ON MY MARKET!” he screeched, throwing the bottle of Wondertainment Causta ColaTM towards the floor lamp, only for his luminary nemesis to swivel around with enough force to bat it back at him, striking him in the head and knocking him out cold.
Manny and Veronica stared nonchalantly at his limp body, leisurely sipping their own Colas as he lay unconscious on the ground.
“Why does he even keep that lamp here?” Veronica asked.
“Says he goes through regular lamps too quick, so made one that can put up a fight,” Manny replied.
“I'd think it'd be humiliating losing to a lamp so much, but that's me.”

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