Foundation Gothic

A cold wind blew, howling like a lonely wolf on the countryside. Nothing seemed to move, save for the occasional cluster of dead leaves, blown skyward by the rushing wind. Everything seemed tense, as if nature itself were holding its breath in fear of some unseen predator.
The silence was broken by a man leaning against a dead tree to catch his breath. He tipped his flask high, drinking the last precious drops of water he had packed with him. The Netherlands did not agree with him, he had decided that much. The weather was dreary in London, but at least it wasn't so bleeding cold all the time. He was a clerk, not a mountain man. The wind swept past him again, knocking him off balance, and ripping his hat from his head.
He chased after it from a bit, before sighing and cutting his losses. He turned back to the road, and continued on his way to his client's estate. As he continued, the sky grew darker. It moved too slow to be noticeable, but a fog crept its way upon him. It grew darker and thicker as he went on, until he could barely see his hand in front of his face. The shadows of trees seemed to grow distant, leaving him alone.
Just when he had almost given up hope of finding the place, a courtyard came into view. An iron fence surrounded a large structure, made of old mossy stone. Ivy crept down the sides of it, twisting and knotting into strange shapes. A cold chill ran down the man's spine, and not from the wind. He collected himself, and continued up to the door.
Before he even had a chance to knock, it opened, just a crack. A rush of even colder air blew out, catching him off guard. He started to turn away, perhaps this had been a bad idea after all. But then, a deep, heavily accented voice spoke.
"I see that you found your HEY EDITORS! If you came here to fix this typo, don't, it's intentional!Way, safe and sound. You are Whately, Randolph?"
The man gulped, pushing against his fear. "Randolph Whately, yes."
The door opened fully, revealing a decrepit old man, in extravagant red robes. Randolph would have thought it was a starved victim of the wild, if it hadn't been for those eyes, which gazed at him with cold intelligence.
The figure regarded Randolph, before bowing deeply. "Welcome. Please, come in."
There was a tense pause, before Randolph bowed in return, and stepped inside with his suitcases. "You are… Mister Teiwaz vom Uradel, is that correct?"
The figure nodded, and smiled to the younger man. "Yes. But you come as a friend, you may simply call me Teiwaz." The way he pronounced it was harsh and guttural, as if the name wasn't meant to be pronounced by a human tongue. "Well met, Genç Whately."
On the inside, the place was dark, with only the occasional torch to shed light on the old walls. As Randolph followed Teiwaz through, he clutched his coats around him, feeling as if he were being watched. He was led past many oddities, skulls of strange beasts mounted on the wall, open doors leading to a seemingly endless rows of bookshelves, and strange machines which whirred and ticked with a rhythm of their own. Teiwaz looked over his shoulder at Randolph's bewildered expression.
"Forgive the clutter. I am a collector of sorts, and I have obtained many artifacts and relics over the long years. They hold great meaning to me." Teiwaz smiled, in a way that made Randolph's skin crawl.
Randolph paused to look at a small object on a shelf, an ornate mask, which smiled up at him. "Your findings are quite wonderful, if you don't mind my saying." He went to pick up the mask to examine it closer, only to be stopped by an icy grip around his wrist. He looked to his side to see Teiwaz, far too close for comfort. The smile was gone, leaving him with an even more eerie blank look.
Teiwaz spoke, barely above a whisper. "You shouldn't touch things that you find here. Follow me closely, and do not stray again."
Randolph pulled back his hand, nodding uncomfortably. Teiwaz turned, and continued. Randolph shot another glance at the mask, only to see it frowning in a disappointed way. He took a quick step back, mouth agape, before moving briskly to join Teiwaz.
After what seemed like hours of walking, the two reached a large dining hall, which looked as if it had not seen life in years. Dust caked empty glasses, and abandoned spiderwebs hung from the chairs.
Teiwaz gestured to the table with one of his skeletal hands. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss, I am sure."
Randolph nodded, and took the chair that looked the least likely to collapse under him, and opened one of his suitcases. Teiwaz sat beside him, again uncomfortably close. Randolph forced a smile, and began to produce documents and photographs from his suitcase.
"This, Mister Teiwaz, is the estate," He produced a picture of a large manor, and placed it on the table. "It's a rather large place for one man, but considering your estate now, it may in fact be a step down for you." Randolph laughed, in an attempt to lighten the mood, but it was met by silence.
Teiwaz scrutinized the photo, looking over every visible nook and cranny. Finally, he spoke. "And you say it is near the heart of the city?"
Randolph nodded enthusiastically, "Yes, in fact it's quite close to my own house. The only other structures nearby are other houses, and a hospital." Technically speaking, it was a madhouse, but Randolph didn't journey all this way to be turned down.
"To be close to the heart of the city is my wish, and it will be good to be close to my friend Whately, yes?" Teiwaz looked up at Randolph, a predatory smile on his face. The younger man cringed, but returned the gesture awkwardly. Teiwaz chuckled. "Do not worry, I would not impose myself on you. I have made certain arrangements, there are men in your London who wish to share in the knowledge I have collected over the long years."
Teiwaz looked down at the picture again. "And who is this lovely creature?"
Randolph looked closer, and realized Teiwaz was holding another photo. He stared for a moment, unsure of whether or not to speak. Gently, he took the photo out of the older man's hands, and placed it back into his suitcase. It was of a young woman, with her arm around Randolph. She had beautiful features, with long black hair, and a kind face. After a moment of tense silence, Randolph spoke.
"This is my fiance, Miss Elizabeth Stoke. We're to be married when I return."
Teiwaz nodded, his eyes still fixed on the photographs. He laughed, a good, hearty laugh. "How heartwarming it is, to see young love blossom. She has an intelligent look about her, you are very fortunate, Whately."
Randolph looked on the photo himself, feeling warmth inside, for the first time since he had left London. "Yes, I am. In fact, we-"
Teiwaz interrupted him, "I will take the estate. It is to my liking." He started to rise, fumbling with something around his neck, beneath the robes.
Randolph stared for a minute- he hadn't expected it to be that easy- before rising as well, pulling various contracts and forms out of his suitcase. "Oh. Well, that's fantastic! In that case, you'll need to-"
"You misunderstand me," Teiwaz turned, holding the centerpiece of an amulet, which was studded with rubies and other gems. It glimmered, glowing softly in the dim light. "I said, I will take the estate."
Randolph stared into the amulet, transfixed. There was a flash of light, and all was silent.
Teiwaz turned the amulet to himself, as it began to glow brighter with an unearthly light. He turned to a mirror, and admired his reflection. The wrinkles which framed his face began to fade, and color returned to his hair. His features, which had been angular and guant- more like a wolf than a man- had softened. Teiwaz picked up the picture of Elizabeth and Randolph together, comparing it to his own new face. It was an almost perfect match to Randolph's. Teiwaz smirked, and spoke in perfect English. "Thank you, Mister Whately, for your services."
Randolph slumped to the ground, or at least, what was left of him. A leathery corpse, devoid the life it had held moments prior. His suitcase fell to the ground next to him, popping open and spilling its contents. Teiwaz let go of the picture of Elizabeth and Randolph, and it fell. For a moment, it hung in the air, before landing on Randolph's silent chest.

Teiwaz stepped outside, discarding his red robes for clothes he had taken from Randolph's suitcase. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air for the first time in years. He held up a small burning candle, and snuffed out the flame with a quick breath. The oppressive fog cleared as if it had never been there at all.
Teiwaz stood alone on a hill, the castle he had inhabited a moment prior had vanished as if it had never been there at all. From his position, he could see a village down the hill, not far at all. The prospect of a journey to a new land sparked new life in him, to match his new face. He placed a hand around his amulet, feeling its warmth. He did not want to make this journey on an empty stomach, so to speak.
The wind blew violently, cackling in glee as Teiwaz descended down the hill, ready to leave a trail of silent husks in his wake.

«Chapter 1.1: Husk | Foundation Gothic | To Be Continued »


Jo Lowe was not the brightest person at Site 118. She was not the most skilled, or the most punctual, or the most professional. It was usually for one of these reasons, or one of her many other shortcomings as a Junior Researcher, that she found Dr. Devane knocking on the wall of her cubicle. This, however, was not one of those days. The area around his widow's peak had reddened slightly, a sign which Jo knew well. She braced herself as he extended a manilla folder stamped with the word ‘REJECTED' in bold red letters.
“You're lucky Director Ownings just stamped your proposal instead of handing me a box of confetti,” he said as Jo sheepishly retrieved her file. “You do realize that this goes against the very nature of the skip's containment procedures, don't you?”
“I don't think it does,” Jo replied. “Otherwise I wouldn't have suggested it.”
“The version of Manos: The Hands of Fate without the ‘riffing' is perfectly acceptable,” he said. The word ‘riffing' came out of his mouth like a hairball. “It falls exactly within the parameters of 2006's containment procedures. Had your proposal been about the original, unedited films featured on this Mystery Piece Theater program-”
“Mystery Science Theatre 3000.”
“Yes, that. Had your proposal featured the original films-”
“But that's just it, Doc,” Jo interrupted. “2006 has already seen half of those films, some of them multiple times. Joel and the bots already riffed one of his favorites. He loves Ro-Man. How much more will he love watching people talk about Ro-Man?”
“The Director is afraid this might give him the wrong idea, Ms. Lowe.” Dr. Devane's voice was measured and steady, but the telltale red blotches were starting to appear on his neck, just behind his ears. “The films shown to 2006 are specially chosen to demonstrate to it the absolute nadir of horror filmmaking while simultaneously convincing it that they are the apex. In this way, the Foundation can contain him by preserving his ignorance of the world's true horrors.”
“That's why I only ever pick Hays Code-era films,” Jo added. “They feature no nudity, virtually no gore or violence, and they've got a goofy, family-friendly charm their modern counterparts tend to lack. This way, 2006 won't accidentally learn about things like blood-covered zombies or torture porn or shooting squirrels because they're gay. At the very least, I think 2006's containment procedures need serious revision. The phrase ‘low-quality horror film' really isn't as specific as O5 command probably thinks, since that covers everything from Ed Wood to-”
“Yes, I'm aware, Ms. Lowe,” Dr. Devane said curtly. “We hired you so you can use that expertise to create short lists of films for SCP-2006 to view. Films which, according to its containment procedures, must be of low quality and must be used to demonstrate to it that these represent the pinnacle of fear in the human condition.”
“I know,” Jo said as she attempted to hide her exasperation. “What I'm trying to say is that in order to understand how to successfully protect people from its negative effects we may not have to contain it at all. We could potentially reclassify it as Euclid, maybe even a Thaumiel.”
“Ms. Lowe, this simply is not what the SCP Foundation is for. We understand 2006 to a perfectly acceptable degree, and its containment procedures are in place for a reason. If it breached containment and learned what really scares people-”
“It would result in something more akin to an episode of Scooby Doo than a breach of 682 or 106's magnitude,” Jo said, interrupting him for a second time. The blotches behind his ears were beginning to spread down his neck. “My experience with 2006 tells me it doesn't want to hurt people. It wants to scare people. In its mind, those are entirely different things.
“I've seen the print-outs," Jo went on. "When it successfully scares somebody, its brain chemistry, or whatever you want to call it, spikes in ways that are extremely similar to a five-year-old blowing out a candle on a birthday cake or a mother holding her newborn kid for the first time. I'm not sure it understands why humans feel fear, or what it would even do with the concept of nuclear war. I think it would help us if we asked it.”
Through this speech, Jo's supervisor continued to look at her with his level, measured gaze. She could see him taking deep breaths in and out through his nose, and she noticed the redness spread across his face. She changed her tactics.
“What is the purpose of life, Dr. Devane?”
“I'm afraid I don't understand the question, or why you're asking.”
“What is the purpose of life?” Jo repeated. The doctor looked at her as though she had just asked him why cat piss was leaking from his ears. “I'll tell you what I think it is: I think we're here to make life better for each other. We're here to make the world a better place, to make each other happy. You're probably thinking that's naive, and you're probably right, but that's how I feel.”
“Ms. Lowe, it is our job to make life better for the entirety of the human race. We cannot cater to the needs or whims of these anomalous entities. It goes against the very principles upon which this organization was founded.”
“I'm not saying we give 2006 its own themed carnival,” she said. “Not yet anyway. I'm just saying that we can loosen up containment procedures and maybe even change its classification with a few tweaks.”
“Your enthusiasm for this particular project has been duly noted, Ms. Lowe,” Dr. Devane said finally, some of the redness receding from his cheeks. “I will recommend testing sessions with some of the Mystery Science Piece movies that 2006 has yet to see. Will that be an acceptable compromise?”
“I suppose,” Jo relented. “But doctor, I think Dr. Louef and Dr. Wensley are blowing this all out of proportion. I don't think 2006 wants to scare people. I think what it wants is to make them happy. It just doesn't understand the difference.” Dr. Devane took a deep breath and the let out a deep sigh.
“You're young, Jo,” he said, his voice calm and almost vulnerable. “I do genuinely appreciate your enthusiasm, and frankly, I wish more of our personnel had your attitude. However, the fact of the matter is that the containment of these entities is done for a reason, and whether or not we agree with that reason, we still have to follow procedure and keep it contained. You'll understand given more time in your position. I'm confident in that."
He smiled warmly. Jo tried to return the smile, but it felt forced, so she dropped the attempt. Dr. Devane turned and left her workspace, and Jo sighed before swiveling back in front of her computer. She needed to prepare for the next testing session with 2006. She needed to know whether the comedy she'd chosen was droll enough to pass through 2006's quality control.

‘I'm sorry, Ranger Brad. I guess all this talk of horrible mutilation has me on edge.'
‘That's all right, Dr. Armstrong. This horrible mutilation has a whole lot of people on a whole lot of edges.' Jo didn't laugh at the line, at least not outwardly. She hadn't laughed at Manos, not at Boggy Creek 2, not at Leech Woman. This was small potatoes.
“Are they scared, Miss Jo?” SCP-2006 swiveled its bony skull head towards Jo Lowe and fixed her gaze with its hollow eye sockets. Jo paused for a moment longer than she meant to before forcing her eyes wide with pretend fear.
“Oh no, oh dear!” Jo shouted at the top of her lungs. She clutched at her chest as though her heart was pounding like a jackhammer. The bucket in her lap flew into the air, raining salty, buttery popcorn down on the SCP and the Junior Researcher. “Please don't hurt me! I don't ever wish to become the Bride of the Lost Skeleton!”
“Relax, Miss Jo, it's only me,” SCP-2006 said through fleshless skeleton lips. Its tone of voice had the slightest edge of irritation. “I'm glad I'm scaring you and all, but I wanna watch the movie with you.”
“Oh, SCP-2006,” Jo said as she let out a loud, melodramatic sigh. “I nearly died from the scare you gave me.”
“I wasn't trying to scare you, not this time,” SCP-2006 replied, and it shifted its face to that of a dark-haired man with a glorious black mustache. It crinkled its forehead in disapproval, and Jo was left wondering if this was the reason it changed its face to begin with. “I want to watch this scary movie with you. It's very scary. Skeletons are very scary.”
“The Master would approve,” Jo agreed, and the disapproving look faded from SCP-2006's face. It jumped to its feet and threw its arms up gleefully, the red handprints on its black cloak waving in sympathetic excitement. “2006, do you like it here?”
“Of course!” SCP-2006 leapt up onto the back of its seat as it shifted into a rubber pterodactyl of enormous size, somehow not falling off the headrest. It turned its glued-on googly eyes to face Jo, and as one of the eyeballs rolled haphazardly back and forth in its plastic case, she stifled a laugh. “This place is full of the best scary movies, there are all sorts of people to practice my scaring skills on so I can keep them top notch, and best of all, I can sit down and watch movies with you!”
“What if I told you there was another way, 2006?” Jo began. SCP-2006 tilted its pterodactyl head in what was probably confusion (though it was hard to tell given its current form). "What if I told you you could interact with more people, scare more people, and watch scary movies all day to your heart's-"
The memetic kill agent that flashed before her eyes didn't give Jo time to finish her semi-accidental containment breach. She slumped motionless in her folding chair as SCP-2006 looked on.
“Miss Jo?” SCP-2006 examined her lifeless body closely. It poked her with one green, rubber wing. She didn't respond. “Did I scare you to death? I knew it! I knew I was the scariest. No one can say I don't still got it!” It settled back into its chair to finish the movie.
Jo's dead eyes stared at the screen, but saw nothing. Dr. Devane sipped his tea and mentally apologized to his underling while he typed up the final memorandum recording her death.

Interviewed: SCP-2006
Interviewer: Dr. D█████
Foreword: SCP-2006 has been lethargic lately, and has shown decidedly lackluster excitement in causing fear and terror in all researchers and D-Class assigned to it. Dr. D█████ was assigned to investigate possible causes for this psychological lapse.
<Begin Log>
Dr. D█████ enters 2006's cell to find it hovering in a corner in its spherical form.
Dr. D█████: SCP-2006? Are you- oh dear heavens!
Clattering can be heard as Dr. D█████ leaps away from the SCP in mock fear and shock. 2006 does not change its form.Dr. D█████: Well, of course, 2006. You're the master of fear.Dr. D█████: What do you mean?Dr. D█████: Miss Jo? Beat. Oh, Junior Researcher Lowe. Well, you scared her to death. You're the master of fear, 2006. No one else could have done it.Dr. D█████: You sure did. There's no one as scary as you, 2006.Dr. D█████: I'm… I'm afraid I don't understand.Dr. D█████: Ah. I see.
Silence.Dr. D█████: I will make sure to, um…
Dr. D█████ trails off before clearing his throat. He screams at the top of his lungs. 2006 does not move or change its appearance.
Dr. D█████: Oh dear, 2006. I thought you were a horrible abomination from beyond Jupiter!Dr. D█████: Why is that?Dr. D█████: I… Beat. Yes, I do.Dr. D█████: 'Longing'. The word you're looking for is 'longing', 2006.A longer silence. Dr. D█████ clears his throat again.
Dr. D█████: Well, I think I've got everything I need. Thank you, 2006. I'll see you next month.Dr. D█████: Of course. I will alert you the moment she returns.<End Log>
Closing Statement: Following Incident 2006-Lowe, SCP-2006's containment procedures no longer require acting courses. Screening films should be discontinued as well, as it no longer seems to affect 2006's behavior. Any requests for a 'Miss Jo' or similar individual should be ignored or deflected.


Foundation Gothic

"Mister Gregor, do you know why you're here?"
The wild-eyed man stared into space for a moment, shifting uncomfortably in his straightjacket. His eyes became fixed on a centipede, which was crawling up the wall. He winced as it slowed to a stop, and fell to the ground, a lifeless husk. His attention returned to the pretty woman sitting across from him at the table, and the serious looking man behind her, who was writing every word she said onto a clipboard.
"Because this is what you do to people like me."
Across the table, Elizabeth smiled kindly to him. Though she was uneasy, her face betrayed nothing other than sympathy for his condition. Internally, she made a note. Light accent. German?
"I assure you, Mister Gregor, we just want to ensure your safety. I-" She paused, a routine she had rehearsed one hundred times before, "…We, that is to say, know how difficult life can be for people such as yourself."
Gregor looked up, locking eyes with Elizabeth in a wolfish stare. The sole lantern lighting the room sent shadows dancing across his face. "If you care, then you should let me go. Someone is waiting for me."
Yes, almost certainly German. "I'm afraid we can't do that yet, Mister Gregor. I need to ask you a few questions first. Please, if you'll cooperate with me, we can get this over with quickly."
Gregor kept her gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. After a moment of hesitation, his disposition changed, becoming bright and cheery. "All right, I suppose I've got nothing but time on my hands at the moment."
He made a show of wiggling his arms under the straightjacket and laughed, in an apparent attempt to put the other two people at ease. Elizabeth cringed a bit at his unsettling expression, while Quincy was still as a stone. Finally, Elizabeth spoke. "Very well, Mister Gregor. Are you aware of how you developed this effect you seem to have on small creatures?"
"Not exactly. Though it's been a part of me for quite a long time."
"And, to your knowledge, small creatures are the only things you can affect?" He seemed cooperative, but Elizabeth kept her guard up. She'd seen humanoids in the past that could go from friendly to violent at the drop of a hat.
"Yes, though it hasn't always been that way." He paused for a moment, staring into the darkness again.
Behind Elizabeth, Quincy grumbled, scratching something onto his clipboard. "Here we go again, with the 'master' nonsense."
Gregor looked up, with a scowl on his face. Elizabeth turned to Quincy quickly, making a 'shush' gesture. "Mister Gregor, can you please elaborate on that?"
Gregor kept his eyes locked on Quincy, practically spitting his words. "I don't believe I will, if I'm to be dismissed as a lunatic."
"Please Mister Gregor, if you-" Elizabeth was interrupted by a slot on the door sliding open. From it, a slightly panicked voice echoed,
"Doctor Quincy Marlow, you're needed upstairs!"
Quincy scratched down one final note, with an irritated look on his face. "We'll be right up." He turned to Elizabeth, shooting a quick glare at Gregor, who had a similarly hostile look on his face. "We'll have to get back to this later, let's go."
Elizabeth rose to her feet, curtsying to Gregor. "I'm sorry, but I have to leave for the moment. Excuse me, Mister Gregor."
Quincy knocked twice on the door, and the guard outside opened it wide enough for the two to pass through. As they left, Gregor began to thrash, a look of panic on his face. "No, you can't just leave me here! I have to meet with him! He'll be here very soon!"
The chair his straightjacket was affixed to toppled over from the thrashing, leaving him helpless on the floor. "You can't-" The door slammed shut, leaving him alone.

Elizabeth and Quincy walked down the hallway to the stairwell at a brisk pace, neither one pleased with the other. Elizabeth broke the frosty silence, her facade of civility gone. "What was that about? He was being quite cooperative!"
Quincy waived his hand dismissively, "He wasn't going to tell us anything of use, he was ranting all night about some master that was going to show up any moment, every creak in the night. I was sending the message that we won't tolerate that nonsense here."
"You don't know if it's nonsense, he could be telling the truth!"
They reached the staircase, and Quincy began to march straight up without even pausing to look at Elizabeth. "What, did your 'womanly charms' tell you something that hours alone with the thing couldn't tell me?"
Elizabeth fell silent for a moment, seething. "'Womanly charms'?!"
As the pair reached the top of the stairs, Quincy did not respond, but picked up his pace. Elizabeth lifted the ends of her dress a bit, allowing her to keep up as they made their way to the center of the room, where a crowd of people stood around something. "I'll have you know that I can do more than act as a pretty, prissy little-"
She trailed off as she saw what the personnel were crowded around, and placed a hand over her mouth. Two researchers were carrying a small gurney through the room, to the medical bay. On it was a corpse, barely recognizable as something that had once been alive. Its skin was a dark black, and it looked shriveled and empty, as if it had been mummified. The mouth was frozen open, the eyes sunken in, in a now-permanent expression of terror. The only thing indicating it had been recently alive were the clean clothes, as well as a small tag hanging around its neck, which read 'MTF θ-16. THATCHER'.
Elizabeth stood back as she watched the doctors haul it in to the medical bay. Quincy had gone with the others, leaving her alone. Slowly, the rest of the doctors and researchers began to return to their work, though the atmosphere had changed. London had been home to some bizarre happenings in the past, but they hadn't discovered anything like that yet.
"Something's trying to send us a message." Elizabeth turned, to find Director Alby next to her. His face was blank as ever, but his voice wavered uneasily. "Miss Stoke, you should return home, I'll have someone escort you."
Elizabeth protested, "But the interview…" She paused, thinking for a moment. The corpse looked like it had been drained of life, like a shriveled husk. A lifeless, shriveled husk…
"Director, I think SCP-048 may be connected to this incident."
Seymour turned to her, intrigued. "You have my attention."
Elizabeth shifted, standing firm. "The recovered corpse shows signs of being drained of life in a short time, similar to the effect that SCP-048 has on insects and the like. As SCP-048 has expressed belief in a 'master', it is possible and likely that there is at least one other anomaly sharing similar effects."
Seymour paused for a moment, comparing notes on his clipboard. After what seemed like an eternity, he responded. "Impressive observation, Miss Stoke. What led you to this conclusion?"
Elizabeth glanced towards the medical bay, and saw Quincy examining the corpse with a frustrated look on his face. She returned her attention to Seymour, a triumphant look on her face. "It was womanly intuition, I suppose."

Gregor sat alone in the interview chamber, still lying helpless on his side. The lone lantern flickered violently, before going out. Something had changed in the air. The ripples it sent out were very small, but they were there, to be noticed by those who possessed the ear to hear. The feeling was eerie and disquieting, but comfortingly familiar to him.
Gregor's eyes widened, and quietly, he whispered. "I hear you. You've come for me."

«Prelude: The Facade | Foundation Gothic | Fresh Air »


José Vargas (ring name The Nightwatch) stared, unblinking, at the abruptly terminated video call. Elianna hadn't even bothered actually pressing the button to hang up, instead physically closing the laptop. She had her phone, of course, but Vargas decided against calling her. He clicked off the chat window and hovered over his text folder, neatly organized between “Work” and work, the latter of which was hidden under the conspicuous label of “Family” and encoded behind a series of encryption keys that made the Pentagon look like a pillow fort. A mixture of sentimentality and preemptive exhaustion washed over him when he realized he'd have to leaf through Uchikirou's unkempt research files.
Jeez, he muttered to no one, a luxury he only allowed himself when no one was indeed around. Why the higher-ups had decided to inform Elianna of Uchikirou's status before him, the project lead, was beyond his ken. It would've been nice to have some time to actually get some work done before his next match. Oh well. At least, he hoped, Elianna was getting some peaceful sleep.
-
Elianna was violently awakened. The car whose seat she was handcuffed to had taken a sudden left turn that slammed her head against the window and reopened the small gash she'd sustained earlier that night. Piloting the driver's seat was Doom Machine, her opponent from her last match, and former Men's Openweight Champion. Elianna quickly put two and two together.
“Dude, you spiked my antidepressants? Fuck you.”
Doom Machine grinned at her. His practiced, malicious smile scared Elianna less than watching him take his eyes off the boulevard they were speeding a cozy 80 miles per hour on. “That's right, Panzer,” he hissed. “Next, I'll spike you.”
“What does that mean?” Nothing good, probably. Panzer glanced around the semi's cabin, all custom leather and tacky flame patterns, with a special annoyance that could only be achieved upon one realizing that they have a flaring migraine on top of a real injury. She spotted her belt, thrown carelessly between the seats, atop a toolbox. Outside the window, a camera crew from the promotion followed them closely; her instinctive spark of hope snuffed out when she realized they wouldn't perceive whatever revenge plot Doom Machine had for her.
“Now, Panzer,” Doom Machine started again, “it's not often that someone makes me want revenge. But you! I've been working for this company for ten years. I'm an icon, and you all swagger in, all the new young hotne-”
“Thanks.”
“Shut up.”
“You should be used to the sound of my v-”
Doom Machine swerved the truck. Panzer shut up.
“Anyway, ‘s not often that I hold grudges. I don't like ‘em, you see. They carve you from the inside out, they eat at your soul, they leave you in little pieces. So I see them through. Immediately. We're about to see you through.”
Panzer stared nervously at the toolbox. She could almost imagine the storm the commentators were raising in the dramatic pause she had left, listening, as they surely were, through one of the many mics Doom Machine's truck was rigged with.
“When we get off this car I'm gonna turn your ass into compost.” Panzer made a show of struggling against her restraints, angrily pulling at the chair and kicking her feet.
“I told you to sh-”
“What, you're gonna jerk the car again?” Panzer rattled the handcuffs. “Cuz you can't even reach over and hit me while I'm tied up, no-”
“F-”
“You always need backup. That's right, Doom, you and your little stable of losers following your decrepit ass around. The poor fools you've deluded into thinking you'll be their guiding light, oh, how their teeth will gnash when they realize they've been led on by a worthless grand-”
Doom Machine tried to punch across Panzer's face with his right hand. She bit his thumb.
The semi careened to the tune of Doom Machine's screams as he pried his hand off Panzer's bite, first with one hand on the wheel, then with both hands when blood started gushing out. If her mouth had allowed her, Panzer would've smiled when she heard the crack of a snapping finger just before they slammed into an Applebee's billboard.
Panzer's eyes slowly focused on the jagged piece of glass sticking out of her hand. She wiped her forehead gash with her other hand, the blood underneath finally liberated from the restraint of her feeble dermis, as she looked around the cabin. Her shackles had mostly come free, though, comically, Doom Machine had made sure to fasten the seatbelts on both of them. He was unconscious, and sported a huge bruise on his arm, from where the toolbox had flown with the force of the crash and slammed into his shoulder before spilling its contents onto the floor: a hammer and a large collection of nails. Outside the car, the camera crew scurried in a frenzy, setting up lights, trying to catch all their worst angles. After unclicking her seatbelt, Panzer tried to open the door on her side only to find it wrecked in. With a sigh, she busted the window open with the hammer, dramatically raining shards of glass on the camera intent on filming her outside, and crawled through the small hole, dragging the Men's Openweight Championship title belt behind her. Doom Machine's door swung open more easily; Panzer loosened him, helped him to the floor and watched. Half a minute or so passed before Doom Machine's eyes fluttered open; as soon as they did, she started whaling on his back with the belt.
“This was your grand plan? A hammer and some nails?” Panzer heaped abuse onto Doom Machine, alternating between leaving large lacerations on his back and bruising his ribs.
Doom Machine tried saying something that sounded like a taunt before it started sounding like the muffled cry of him getting kicked in the teeth. One of the cameras zoomed into his face; across the globe, thousands of people subscribed to the XXL Pro Wrestling video-on-demand service were regaled with a view of Doom Machine's bloody nose and newly chipped tooth. Panzer bent over and picked up one of the nails from the toolbox, then turned to face a different camera, pointing at the improvised weapon, trying to play up her considerable exhaustion before dropping the obligatory promo.
“Doom Machine has no finesse. None at all, now, I-”
A car door slammed shut. Cameras swiveled around, first to the semi, which lay abandoned, then wildly, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound amidst the darkness of the roadside. A man, dressed in a dusty gray striped suit, strode into the patch of lamplit glass, into full view of the cameras, and offered a clean handshake towards Panzer's dirty, bruised, cut-up hands.
“Misters Krosta and Canilla? I represent the WWE.”

Vince McMahon Dies At The End
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Robert Baxter was a punctual man. At 9:00 o'clock every morning his butt was in his undersized office chair. At 11:00 he would replenish his coffee. Lunch was at 1:30 sharp, no exceptions. A tuna and croissant sandwich with chips. At 3:00 he walks around the office on his way to the coffee machine, stopping to chat with whoever looked like they were receptive to it. Usually Julia, God bless her. At 5:00, with all his work done for the day, Robert is out the door, no, he wouldn't like to go for a drink after. He prided himself on his sobriety. Fifteen years strong, starting the day he got this job.
If you asked his coworkers what they thought about him, the answers are pretty much all the same. Oh, Robert is a good worker. Always here on time, never misses a day. Good for a joke too, isn't that right Julia? Sure, sometimes he's a bit of a straight edge, but hey, you can't blame the guy. Not after the car accident.
His ex-wife has something a little different to say. If you can get past the ranting about his self-destructive and indulgent nature, she might admit that he was a total sweetheart when they first met. No, she isn't mad at the new Robert, just the old one, the Robert who got behind the wheel of an SUV while blasted out of his mind and ended up fighting for his life in a Massachusetts hospital. She's happy that he got his life back, but makes it clear she is finished with him, thank you very much.
On an ordinary Friday morning, Robert drove down to the office, located in a well-hidden business park. He maneuvered into his favorite spot – no assigned parking here- and headed into the building. The elevator was on the top floor, so he had no choice but to wait. Robert hated waiting, especially for anything out of his control. Time, he had once theorized to his soon to be ex-wife, was mankind's greatest enemy. We either have too much of it, or too little, and once it's gone it never comes back. Life is a struggle against the constant advancement of time; deadlines, age, even relaxation. All people, he told her, despise Sundays, because we know in the back of our minds that it comes to an end sooner than we want. His words were slurring together at that point, but he was still proud of his attempt at philosophy. Not bad for a business grad, he'd thought while slamming down another shot.
Arriving at the fifth floor, Robert met his first obstacle; the lights were off. He had seen some of his co-worker's cars, so he figured the whole floor must be having trouble. Navigating his way through the darkened hallway he grappled at the door to the office he worked in.
“Hello?” There was no response as he peered into the room. The blinds were down, so only a small amount of light was seeping through. He was groping around for the switch when he remembered: today was the fourteenth of September. It was his birthday on Sunday.
Of course he had forgotten, he had been working too hard on the Peterson presentation to even think about celebrating. Despite his insistence to the contrary, his co-workers always threw him a surprise party. No doubt they were all hiding around the office now, waiting for him to walk in. There would be a cake (chocolate) and drinks (non-alcoholic). Susan probably brought in her famous salsa, she knew how much he liked it.
Steeling himself for a non-productive workday, Robert flipped up the light switch and braced for the explosive cheer. There was nothing. In fact, there wasn't anybody at all. The office was deserted, with chairs strewn about the floor. A half hung “Happy Birthday” banner fluttered next to the AC unit's vent. On the floor next to the cubicles he could see the demolished remains of a once delicious looking chocolate cake –a large footprint impressed on the moist lump- and beside that a single shoe. There was a large splatter of what appeared to be seedless strawberry jam on the boss's office door.
“Guys, come on.” Motioning to the mess, “I hope you don't expect me to help clean that up.”
Silence.
“If this is a joke, I very much don't appreciate it.” He paused. Time to appeal to authority. “Henderson is going to flip when he comes in.” Still nothing.
He left his coat on the rack but kept a firm grip on his briefcase as he moved towards the reminder of the office. If I can reach my desk, he thought, I can get some work done. These clowns can wish me happy birthday like normal people.
He never got that far. Turning the corner at the cubicles he encountered his second obstacle: Julia. Or rather, what was left of her.
Robert didn't scream, but rather let loose a sort of guttural moan. One half of his brain yelled at him, turn the hell around, get your ass out of there, whatever did this to her will be back to get you, and the other half of his brain demanded he make sure she wasn't actually dead. Robert thought this was a stupid notion, since she was thoroughly torn in half. So, he turned around and headed for the door. He didn't get very far.
The third obstacle looked like a man. That's as far as the similarities got. Instead of clothing or even skin, the thing was pitch black. It was blocking the exit, and sensing Robert approach, lifted its head, revealing a swirling chaos of shifting features. Eyes would appear and disappear; a nose might expose itself only to be replaced by the black void. It stretched a hand out as a mouth appeared on its head. The hand grew longer and more distorted as the mouth opened, revealing a set of gums but not teeth.
What the fuck is that. Robert wasn't exactly the worlds quickest thinker, but he could recognize a bad situation when he saw it. He chucked his briefcase at the creature but watched as it sailed past and crashed into the door. The thing turned and reached for the briefcase. Robert could only watch as it pawed at the clasp. Finding purchase it ripped the two sides apart and the contents spilled to the floor.
Robert didn't stick around to join the briefcase. He booked it towards the back end of the office. Almost immediately his chest began to burn, and his legs threatened to spill out from under him. He hadn't been in shape before the car accident, and the injuries had left their mark on his physical abilities. He kept going, balancing his longing to stop with his desire to not die. Passing the conference room, he didn't pause to look inside. He could see the blood on the walls.
He ducked inside the closest bathroom door, which happened to be the women's and locked the door. Hiding inside the last stall, Robert lifted his feet up and huddled on the toilet. Taking a few moments to inhale he was struck by the absurdity of the situation. I'm an office man goddammit, he thought, this isn't supposed to happen to people like me.
The image of Julia, mother of three, all ripped up sent him diving for the toilet. It was now that the tears began to flow. I'm going to die here. Oh God in heaven I'm going to die here.
For the next half hour Robert alternated between shrill crying and silent weeping. Every time he thought he had run out of tears, his body proved him wrong. Maybe it left, maybe that thing decided to le- a slam on the bathroom door interrupted him, followed by a piercing screech like nails on a chalkboard. Remembering Julia and the briefcase, Robert braced himself. But the door never opened. He could hear the door handle jingle a little, then silence.
Now that the tears had stopped flowing, Robert decided to think about the position he was in. You are a natural problem solver, he remembered Henderson telling him after an enormous client pitch went south. I have no doubt you'll rise to the occasion. And Robert was mad. He clenched his fists in a somewhat dramatic fashion. He was an obese man in his late 40's, reduced to hiding in a women's restroom. But he was alive, and safe for now. Not only that, but the creature outside hadn't displayed any clear signs of intelligence. Maybe I've got a chance after all. He had no idea how fast it could move, but the fact that it hadn't caught him during his escape was a source of hope. Calling for help on the phone would be too risky. The bathroom had no windows, so there was no chance of getting assistance that way. The front door is my only way out, he thought. He stood up and stepped out the stall.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. The door handle shook a little, but the lock held tight. Then a voice.
“Can I help you… there's something…wrong.” Robert almost screamed. That was Susan the receptionists voice. It sounded stilted and unnatural, but there was no mistaking. “Robert… please…she's dead.”
All his earlier bravado vanished. The corner floor of the restroom suddenly felt very comfortable. The thing that sounded like Susan moaned behind the door. Then fell quiet.
Robert's wristwatch displayed the time: 11:00a.m. He stayed in the corner for the rest of the afternoon, only getting up to drink out of the sink. His thoughts flipped from hyperactive rambling to shocked silence. And as time went on his mind began to drift…

Agent Calverez tossed the ball. It hit his small office wall and fell straight to the floor.
“Goddamit.”
A bald head peeked inside the open door. “No bounce huh?”
“Of course not. These are pieces of shit.”
“Don't let Donsley hear you say that. She submitted the idea for the stress ball distribution.”
Calverez sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “Of course she did.”
Agent Alexi stepped into the office proper. “Look, this may be premature, but I've got something interesting. One of our boys picked up a local security guy. Says he works for an office complex in the sticks. He's been ranting about some weird shit going on.”
Calverez leaned forward. “Are you serious? That's the best you've got?”
Alexi smiled. “It's a little more interesting than that. According to the guard, the employees of one of the offices have locked themselves in. He can't open the door with his key, almost like its jammed from the other side. Nobody replied when he knocked on the door, and from the parking lot it looks like the lights are off too. But he swears he can see something moving around in there.”
“So? Maybe they went home.”
The smile got bigger. “While leaving their cars at the office?”

…until he awoke with a start. His wristwatch was beeping at him. It was 4:55. Time to start packing up and go home.
“This is my new home now.” He muttered to himself. “I get to live where I work, and work where I live!” This caused him to laugh out loud. Oh God I'm losing it.
A knock on the door.
“Go away.” Robert managed to croak out.
“Hey buddy, I'm just checking up on you. Its closing time you know.” Robert sat up alert. That was Mike, the accountant. He was still alive! A thousand thoughts bounced around in his skull. Maybe he had come in late, and the monster had left; maybe he had survived and come back with help; maybe this was all just a horrific nightmare he had just woken up from…
He reached for the door handle but stopped. There was a sound coming from behind the door. It was wet.
“Hey Mike, are you okay?” He asked through the door.
There was a laugh. It lasted too long to be comfortable. “Of course I'm okay Robert. What, do you think I'm lying to you?” More laughter.
“No, it's just that there's been some stran-” Robert wasn't able to finish before Mike's voice started to scream at him.
“WHAT, DO YOU THINK I'M ACTUALLY A DISMEMBERED HEAD BEING PUPPETTED AROUND? ROBERT THAT IS JUST SILLY!”
Blood was beginning to seep in under the door. Robert was already back in his stall. Despite his best effort, the tears would not come.
Outside the door, the thing that sounded like Mike began to count. It reached 4,000 before stopping.

The four agents met in the briefing room. Agent Levi brought snacks. Finishing his donut, Alexi laid out the info they had so far. Donsley looked over everything with extreme scrutiny. Finally, she nodded. “It's at least worth checking out.”
“Not like we got anything better to do” Calverez muttered.
“I'm sorry, I didn't catch that.”
“Nothing ma'am. Are local police incapable of handling this?”
“Alexi and I both agreed that if we suspect anomalous activity, we are obligated to check it out.”
They laid out their plan. Agents Levi and Alexi would sweep up to the fifth floor, checking the other stories as they went. Agents Donsley and Calverez would remain to secure the parking lot until backup was needed.
After the briefing, Donsley set out to gain final approval from the director. The others began gearing up. And then they waited. She wasn't back for another hour. No one asked what took so long. They were used to glacial efficiency.
God bless the American tax dollar, Calverez thought. Then they hit the road.

It was Saturday afternoon when the voices started up again. There would be a knock on the door, followed by another one of Robert's co-workers.
“Hey sweetie, why don't you come out here with us?” It sounded like Julia.
“It's lonely out here without you. I'm so cold inside.” Offered Alex from HR.
Even Henderson joined in. “Robert, I'm disappointed in you. You were always such a team player. Do you not care about us anymore?”

Calverez and Donsley argued the entire trip there. It started when she asked him why he kept checking his rear-view mirror.
“Spooks” Uncomfortable shuffling.
“Does that happen often?” Donsley regretted not going for two vans.
“Sure. Just ask Alexi. He lost three Carts to them last month alone.”
Alexi's voice drifted out from the back. “It's true.”
Levi's voice followed. “Anybody want some trail mix?”
Calverez slammed his hands on the wheel. “For the last time, nobody wants your fucking snacks!”
Donsley almost slapped him. “Don't talk to your fellow agents like that!”
He turned around, taking his eyes off the road for what Donsley thought was a dangerous amount of time. “You do not get to tell me what to do. I'm the senior agent here, not you.”
“Then what the hell is your problem?”
His eyes darted back to the road. When he spoke, his voice was low. “We are driving, in the middle of the night, to do an office check. Sure, we might find something, but I'm willing to bet the entire office just drank the Kool-Aid. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to be out in the field. But an office locked from the inside? How am I supposed to take any of this seriously? And for that matter, why do you?”
Donsley sensed there was more to it than that, but she let it go. They sat in awkward silence for a while.
“Hey, Levi…” Calverez's voice was soft. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that.”
“It's okay. I'm sure you were just hungry.”

Overnight the voices began working. They pretended to hear a phone ringing, and Susan would answer. Papers were shuffled, and the copy machine even went off a few times. Henderson would call random employees into his office and praise them while disparaging Robert. They all did this as loud as possible, for Robert's benefit. But he was done listening at this point.
At midnight, blackened fingers could be seen pushing chocolate cake under the bathroom door. There was a loud knock, and in unison all the voices began to sing.
“Happy Birthday to you.”
“Happy Birthday to you.”
“Happy Birthday dear Robert.”
“Happy Birthday to you.”
There was an applause, followed by cries for an encore. The singing began again. This time Robert joined in.

Agent Calverez lit another cigarette. It was his second since pulling into the lot. He spoke into his walkie.
“For the love of God please tell me you aren't still waiting for the elevator.”
In response, a curtain moved aside from a third story window. A man in a blue suit appeared, then promptly gave him the finger. Calverez chuckled.
“I gotcha, I gotcha. Keep searching.” He told the walkie. “Asshole”.
His cigarette was snatched from his mouth. A polished shoe stamped it out.
“Do you think this is a joke, Agent?” Donsley asked.
Of course I do, Agent Hardass, he thought. “Um, no ma'am. I'm taking this very seriously.”
“Oh? Because you are making it easy assume the opposite.”
Calverez sighed, perhaps too loudly. Donsley opened her mouth to retort, but he was saved by the squawking of the walkie.
“Ground team, ground team, come in ground team.”
Donsley grabbed his walkie. “Report, away team.”
“Hey, we've got some shit on the fifth floor. Blood all over, right outside an office called Henderson and Co.”
She raised a sharp eyebrow at Calverez. “Hold your position, we are coming up.” The walkie barked affirmative. “Looks like our lead paid off.”
Our lead is the building security guard you dipshit, Calverez thought. But only to himself.
The two agents pulled free their handguns and moved into the lobby. Donsley motioned towards the stairs and pulled the door open. Calverez swept in and took the lead. They moved up the stairs in silence, up to the fifth floor. Right before Calverez could open the stairwell door, he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to face Donsley.
She came right out and said it. “What's your problem Tony, huh? Is it me? I know we haven't worked together long, but I don't think I've been that much of a bitch to warrant this attitude.”
“Are you serious? Is now really the best time for this?”
“I'm not going in there until we hash this out. Otherwise we might as well be on opposite teams.”
Calverez felt his hands ball up. It took restraint to not shout in the cramped stairwell.
“You wanna know my problem? Fine, I'll tell you. This is a joke. This mission, this job, its all a fucking act. We literally exist as the butt of someone else's joke. When it comes to this paranormal shit, we aren't even the fucking b-team. Most of our job is to sit on our asses and wait for the fucking goon squad to show up and solve our problems for us.” He inhaled. “I could give less of a shit what you think of me, since I know we only work here because we pissed someone else off enough for them to kick us into the ground. This isn't a job. It's not even an assignment. It's a fucking punishment.”
He didn't expect the smile. Her reply was soft. “Have you considered I act the way I do because I want us to do better? I know our reputation. But I also know you aren't a screw up. Nor am I. At some point in our careers, we cared. About this country, about the Bureau, hell, even each other. We're a joke because someone told us we were, and we believed it. Sure, we can mope around all day waiting for the men in black to kick us out, or we can do something ourselves.” She pointed at the door. “In there, we've got some kind of fucked up freak doing God knows what. There might even be survivors. They are counting on us.”
Calverez felt his defenses weaken. How long had it been since someone had actually expressed hope, had believed in their mission? At some point or another he must have cared. Why else would he have wrapped himself in this cloak of skepticism if not to pretend otherwise. His eyes began to tear up, so he wiped them on his sleeve.
He tried to open his mouth to speak, but no words came to him. Donsley continued. “You wanna know what else? I didn't ask the director for permission.” Calverez started at this one. “We are all on our own for this one. No one to tell us what to do or how to do it. We have the initiative here. We can make the difference.”
Donsley grabbed Calverez by the hand. “They need you, Agent Calverez.”
God, I needed to hear this, he thought. This was real. Not that shit back at the office, the little trinkets and gadgets that no one else had cared to collect. Not the miserable briefings back in D.C. Years of constant humiliation had rendered him cynical. But no one had ever talked like this to him. If a man can't take pride in his own work, his father had told him, then the man's the problem, not the job. He remembered how proud he felt at his graduation ceremony. No one had taken that pride from him.
Calverez found himself nodding. “Aye ma'am. I'm ready to be a hero.”

Robert was sure he was dead. He hadn't eaten since Friday morning, refusing to touch the cake that clogged the gap in the door. The water in the sink tasted foul to him. And outside the masquerade continued. His mind was blank. The thing outside seemed content to let him waste away in the bathroom, and Robert didn't mind obliging it.
There was a loud crack. He raised his head in response. Outside the restroom door he could hear yelling, then a cry as a gunshot rang out. There was more yelling, followed by a cascade of gunfire. He swore he could hear Julia scream.
Silence. Robert stood up and approached the bathroom door that had become a prison. He could hear voices, ones he didn't recognize. There was laughter.
Robert unlocked the handle, turned it, and stepped outside.


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Tales By Title 5

This tale was written for silber as part of the 2017 SCP Art Exchange. It is a sequel to the Sigma-66 series they were involved in, and reading that first is suggested if you care to.
Thanks to Decibelles, Stallmantic, OthellotheCat and -9Volt-.

December
"I can't believe you've survived a year in these conditions." Trench muttered, grimacing as he tried to wipe bat shit off his shoulder, only succeeding in smearing it into his overalls. Aries merely grunted in reply, her masked face impossible to divine any emotion from. She was focused intently on packing the bat shit into a rough humanoid shape, carving sigils into the torso with her fingernails and dripping her blood into the indents.
The radio crackled, Willow's gentle voice cutting through the gloomy ambience of the cave. “Status report, Sigma-66. Are you in positions?”
Up in the higher tunnels of the cave system, Fenton answered first, voice as deep and velvety as ever. "I'd say we have four or five minutes before these things start to come at us as a group. We've already had to take out one or two who came sniffing at our location." While the dream mechanic's voice was utterly level, Trench got the impression he was worried. “How are you two doing down there?”
"I set up basic wards around the generator to help with power conservation once the hexes trigger," Trench said into his shoulder radio, " but we've run into some trouble with the residents of the cave, so Aries is, uh…" He glanced down at Aries' frenetic sculpting. "What exactly are you doing, Aries?"
Aries pulled off her mask as she finished the golem and tossed it into the great pile of guano, its arms flailing wildly as it arced through the gloom of the cave. She turned to him, the wild grin on her face accentuated by the rivulets of blood running down it from the ring of cuts all around her shaved scalp.
"I'm gonna fuckin' hack the bats."

February
"We'll not survive the year in these conditions" Alvares growled, unhooking a third canister of liquid nitrogen from his belt and placing it roughly by the modified summoning circle Cassandra was tracing on the tiled floor in powdered milk and dipping dots. "First Grenich," he continued, "then Simmons last week - who's next, eh? Fucking meat grinder."
Wretch, their newest recruit, cocked her head in an unspoken question that would probably have been spoken if she weren't in the process of regurgitating over one hundred pounds of steel. The contraption she was vomiting out resembled an ornate manhole, covered in sigils and demonic markings, with a large opening aperture operated by a ridged dial on one side. Whatever the thing was, Davis has emphasised its value during the debrief - the Foundation only had one, and if it was lost their heads would be on the line. That was the point where Aries had pointed out they also only had one of each team member and they didn't seem to be valued much did they, and had received a nice tazing for her troubles.
"Grenich and Simmons used to be members of the team," Aries said, kneeling down by Wretch so she could be heard over the girl's gagging. "We left one behind to die, the other was punched to death by a minotaur."
"Asshole fucking deserved it," Alvares muttered. "Grenich, like."
It was hard to tell whether Wretch's expression of distress was at Alvares' comment or at the simple strain of pushing a 30-inch manhole cover out of a 2-inch mouth, but either way she'd started to cry. Aries bit her bottom lip, then reached forward and started tugging at the manhole, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the surface, covered as it was with this phlegmy saliva. This close, she could see the large logo stamped into the metal - RICHARD AND SONS. The girl's eyes widened in an expression of either pain or thanks - whichever way, it was better to have the thing out quick so they could have this whole shitty mission over and done with.
Alvares continued as if they'd responded. "This is just an overly-elaborate way to execute us, I'm telling you." He gestured to the summoning circle as he spoke, and Cassandra raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no indication she was even aware Alvares was talking as she finished off the outer ring, the powder lines glowing a faint blue as the final shapes were added to match the diagram on her tablet's screen. Aries sighed as she realised Cass was leaving it up to her to call him on his bullshit.
"Stop talking out your ass, Dominic. There's no conspiracy here, we're just some garbage they don't care about and they're finding a fun way to recycle us." She'd wanted to say this dismissively, continuing to tug at the manhole, but as she spoke the thing passed its greatest circumference and popped wholly out of Wretch's throat with a slimy smack, sending Aries flying back and landing on her ass right in front of him, just outside the outer line of dipping dots.
"As if you're not in on it, Clara." Alvares sneered, making no motion to help her up. "All that kooky blood witch bullshit to cover up you're part of the system too. Three or four months, bet you'll be creaming yourself at the chance to join the fresh new batch, eh? Guide them towards their trashy horror-film deaths one by one, high-fiving with Davis when their backs are turned." His face turned sour. "And you're such a bitch you decided to kill the magic plumber first."
The only good retort to that, obviously, was to bite his ear off. Aries scrambled up, lunging for his face, and Alvares stepped back, foot landing on one of the cylindrical canisters he'd placed around the circle. He careened wildly, grabbing at the front of Aries' shirt, trying not to disrupt the powder trace while the ritual was still in progress, but ultimately only succeeded in flinging himself farther in, his foot flying out from underneath him and sending the canister whizzing into Wretch's cheekbone. The deafening clunk of that impact was in great contrast to the total silence as his head hit what should have been solid tile and passed through it like a thick gloop, a tiny ripple the only indication he'd ever been there at all.
"Ah." said Aries, "Fuck."

December
Fenton wasn't exactly enthused by the new kid. Nettle hadn't talked once this whole mission except to acknowledge commands. He wouldn't have minded so much if he could judge the kid on other factors, but every bit of them was covered in a dark orange bodysuit, making it impossible to make out a damn thing about them. Even the kid's dream-self was indecipherable, a mass of bad memes and self-destructive tendancies whirling around a core of broken glass and blueberry jam. Not much weirder than what he'd seen in the rest of the team, but still, he wished he could get a read.
It didn't help that all Willow had seen fit to tell him in the debrief was not to touch them under any circumstances. Then again, Willow had told him hardly anything about this mission. Need-to-know asset retrieval, follow the steps as laid out in the mission docs. Find the cavern at the centre, activate Trench's machine, wait for further instructions.
To their credit, they'd been doing well at the stealth aspect of the mission, their silence working in their favour. The creatures seemed to sense something was wrong about them, though. The slimy beasts would pause and growl as they passed, or just bolt, the inky patterns on their flanks swirling intensely. This did not, in fact, lower Fenton's unease one bit.
They were hiding out in a carved-out hollow in the antechamber of the slime creatures' nest, waiting on the results of the frankly insane claim Aries had made vis-à-vis the bats in the cave system below them. Just as he was shifting to check his watch, he heard a rumbling from the east tunnels. Almost on schedule, as usual. He let himself breathe a sigh of relief, and stepped out from the hiding spot to greet Aries and Trench.
Out of the east tunnel burst a 12-foot tall anglerfish with legs, Trench's lifeless corpse caught in its huge jaws.

May
Cassandra's laugh rang hollow through the impromptu operating room as the clockwork cancer spread further across her hands, fastening them in place against the screeching clicker priest. She had to admit, she wasn't exactly surprised at this outcome, but it wouldn't have been her first guess if you'd asked her how she'd die.
“Get it? My time is up? Cos, clockwork?” Her shit-eating grin fell back into her standard frown as she observed the serious faces around her. “Come on, guys, it's not like we didn't see this coming. I've been operating on the equivalent of a sentient magical bear trap, this was bound to happen eventually.”
She turned to the young girl covered in blood for support. “Aries knows how this works." When the girl only bit her lip in response, she looked to the man in the discount skeleton costume. "Wilkes, you've been around the block too. It's not a mission if one of us doesn't die horribly, right? It's just … my turn.”
She winced as the gears bit further into her flesh, flaying skin and muscle, and copper piping snaked further up her arms. She could feel hair-thin wires pushing into the cuts, running into her muscles and latticing around and between her radius and ulna. No escape unless she could perform a double-amputation from the shoulders in the next second or two. She breathed slowly, accepting her fate. It would be over soon. She wished she could say she had no regrets, but she had so very many.
Wilkes and Huever were speechless, wrestling with grief and anger respectively. In the other corner, the faceless monk ~ shot her an telepathic :( face as he threw a sigil-stone into the midst of the growing cultist swarm. Their gears stopped dead and they fell to the ground twitching. Aries, standing by Cassandra, wrestled with her impulse to pat the older woman on the shoulder. She and Cassandra had never been close, but she felt like she should be saying something here.
“You should, um…” Aries trailed off, not sure what the right words were. She bit her lip hard, the familiar tang of blood triggering a good thought. “We should-”
The mechanism that had been winding its way down Cassandra's collarbones met itself, clicked into place and unceremoniously snapped closed, crushing her skull instantly as counter-mechanisms tore open her ribcage. Wilkes doubled over, pulling up his mask to splash his lunch out onto the metal floor. ~ merely broadcast a :/ face. Aries sighed heavily and hit her communicator.
“Davis? Cassandra's dead, mission's fucked. Requesting extraction.”

December
The angler thing tossed Trench in the air and swallowed him whole, then let out a bellowing screech that reverberated through the tunnels, receiving calls of response from dozens of slime creatures. Panicking, Fenton tried to reach into its dream self to assert control, but found nothing inside it. This thing was operating on pure animalistic instinct and bloodlust.
Hey, at least Fenton could say he'd died to something cool.
A mass of bats swarmed from an opening in the rocks behind the angler and it turned its head just in time to be smacked in the jaw by a great brown blur. The almost-solid swarm rushing by with enough force to stagger it. Fenton could just about make out a figure in the centre of the flock, supported on a churning, flapping platform of the flying rodents. Here was Aries.
Fenton drew the handgun at his hip and stepped into the angler's line of sight. He fired a couple of shots at the thing, targeting its eyes and the lure that dangled from its forehead. The bullets ricocheted off it uselessly, pinging into the surrounding rock.
The bat swarm clumped and merged into one single blob, a humanoid shape covered in still-flapping wings and furry squeaking faces. It slammed a bulky fist into the creature, making it stumble again. The angler faked out the bat-blob, moving to flinch back then twisting to ram itself sideways into the shrieking mess. As the blob fell on its ass, it burst back into a flock of individual bats, half the swarm falling to the ground immediately, their tattered wings and broken bones rendering them useless. There were more bats flowing in from every tunnel now, though, catching in Fenton's hair, leaving scratches on his neck and hands as he swatted them away. They flowed into the bat-blob, but the angler had it on the defensive now and it was losing bats faster than they could be replenished. He turned to call to Nettle, to see they had already stepped out from the hiding place and were struggling, uncomfortable, their costume cut and torn. A pile of dead, mangled bats lay at their feet. What?
A yell from the fight and he turned back to see that the angler had Aries caught in its jaws, hanging upside down, one long tooth piercing directly through her calf. She was reaching up to try to tap a sigil carved into her thigh, but the angler was bucking and snapping wildly, tossing her like a ragdoll as the last of her swarm petered out.
Fenton reached into his utility belt, searching for anything he could use against the thing. Something that could hit at primary logic centres? He couldn't assume it had anything like a familiar brain structure, how did he account for that? Generalised targeted fear attack, distract it? He barely noticed as Nettle brushed past him, a numbing tingle spreading across his arm where they'd come close. He looked up as the numbing hit his fingers, everything from the shoulder down feeling alien. He wanted to challenge the kid on what the hell they'd done, but they were heading right for the angler, calmly pulling off their gloves and rolling up their sleeves, revealing their dark skin for the first time.
“Nettle, get the fuck back, you can't fucking fistfight that thing!”
Nettle waved Fenton away dismissively over their shoulder, not bothering to even turn their head. “Not intending to, dude!” Their voice was young. Fenton would have estimated mid-teens. The Foundation were sick enough to bring kids into this shit now? He didn't have time to contemplate long, as Nettle reached out and quietly placed a hand on the creature's calf.
The fireworks began.

October
“What do you mean there's nothing left?” Davis' voice was low and husky, irritatingly calm.
Aries growled at the question, ducking out of the way of a falling pillar just in time, at this point fueled only by fear and spite. “I mean they're all fucking dead, Via! Tenochtitlan, ~, Eckhart. They're trapped in that goddamn soul-mangler, and I will be too if you don't extract me NOW!”
A blip appeared on her heads-up display, accompanied by a little chirp from her comm. “The asset hasn't yet been retrieved, Berlot. You know just as well as I do I'm not extracting shit until the cosmic daughter is locked down.”
“She's dead too, you bitch! Get in some people who know what the fuck is actually going on here, clean up this mess, and GET. ME. OUT!”
There was a pause as Davis deliberated, taking her sweet time while Aries ducked under a beam into the cinema atrium, scrambling to get away from the all-too-human barking of the chimerachological monstrosities hot at her heels. This bitch was going to kill her. She was actually going to do it. An icy chill ran through her as Davis confirmed.
“Sigma-66, operation 46, full mission failure and total loss of operatives. Requesting clean-up, specialists in chimera tech.”
Aries wasn't one to go down without a fight. Obviously. She wasn't one to do anything without a fight. She scrambled beneath the atrium's grand piano, a plan already forming in her head. She yanked ~'s soul protection stone from her bra, careful to maintain skin contact, and bit hard into her thumb, smearing the blood that welled from it onto the back of the trinket.
The barking was getting louder. They could smell her, she knew, even beneath the cloying smoke that was filling the cinema. Drawbacks of being constantly covered in blood. She rummaged in the depths of her trench coat pockets, her skin shredding against various blades and sharp edges, until they closed around the thing she wanted.
The trigger for Simmon's teleport mechanism, rusted from all those months tucked away. Totally non-functional, of course, but that hardly mattered to an artist. She swiped the bleeding thumb against that too. Protection, movement, what else? For good measure, she swiped the thumb against the comm in her ear. Location, maybe. Intent.
The dogs were in the room. No time to perfect the spell. As one lunged at her, its plaintive eyes apologising for its vicious intent, she muttered a few words of incantation and squeezed the trigger.
Aries was blasted instantly from her body, straight upwards. She caught a glimpse of her corporeal form being savaged before it was blocked from view, first by the ceiling of the theatre and then by the vast interconnected network of drifting souls that ran like blood cells through the astral highway. Above, she could sense terribly huge things moving sluggishly through the currents, sucking in souls like krill.
Focus. You're only halfway there.
Aries muttered the follow-up incantation to bring her back to the real world and felt a shift in her gut as she started moving downwards, a lazy arc transforming rapidly into a vicious plummet. Her soul seared, the astral plane's equivalent of burning up on re-entry acting on every aspect of her being.
Just as quickly as she'd left it, she was slammed back into existence as she knew it, her body feeling so much different now she wasn't taking it for granted. She was sitting in the command centre, legs up on a desk, the others in the room scrambling to get away from her, knocking over several swivel chairs in the process.
There was something wrong here, their faces showing not just fear - what she'd have expected from an unexpected apparition - but disgust, lips curled and ready to hurl insults the second they were done making sure she couldn't kill them. “What, you've never seen-”
This wasn't her voice, not even slightly. It was deep, husky. Smoke damage? Frowning, she swivelled to check her reflection in the outdated PC monitor in front of her, discern if there was visible damage.
Oh.
Staring back at her was Via Davis' shocked face, blood welling from every orifice. Shit, that had worked WAY better than she'd thought. The radio crackled, and she heard Davis' dying screams and curses, in the familiar voice of Clara Berlot, anartist extraordinaire.

December
The angler didn't die instantly. Fenton kind of felt like it would have been better if it had. In half a second, cuts welled up all over the creature's body, its legs broke, its scarred eye burst open and pumped out steaming brown blood. It wrenched its head around to look at Nettle with its good eye, and Fenton heard a sickening crack as the whiplash broke something in Aries. Her body went from struggling and angry to limp and lifeless in a heartbeat, as the creature similarly folded, hundreds of wounds both big and small accumulating to slit its throat. Nettle hopped back as the thing crashed to the ground, Aries' body slumping beneath it without a fight.
Fenton was speechless, paralysed with shock as Nettle rolled their sleeves back down and pulled on their gloves. They could do that with a touch. He felt his numb arm tingle and imagined it ripped apart, bleeding like the angler had.
“I don't like doing that. Sorry.” Nettle gestured at him vaguely, as if waving a hand in front of his eyes. “You ok? That can be hard to see even when you're not the one inflicting it.”
Before Fenton could reply, there was a loud groan from the angler. Nettle whipped around, ready for a repeat of the gorefest they'd just inflicted, but the creature was just as dead as they'd anticipated. The groaning was from underneath it.
“Aries,” Fenton breathed, and they both dashed to heft the angler's head off her, Nettle keeping a wide berth in an obvious effort not to touch Fenton. She was still, not a twitch from any of her limbs, but her eyes were flickering wildly. Fenton saw the heavy bruising around her neck, and it clicked. She was paralysed. He got Nettle to step back, then reached into the thing's guts and pulled out Trench's corpse. He rolled it over and tugged the backpack off its shoulders. After a half-second of hesitation, he took the time to roll the body back over and close its eyes. He wasn't a fan of Trench, but still, one deserved the right to dream when they reached Corbenic.
The pulled out Trench's hefty med kit and was in the process of assembling a neck brace on Aries when Willow's voice buzzed in over comms. “Status report, stat. You've got two minutes until asset materialisation, 66.”
To Fenton's surprise, it was Nettle who answered first. “Uh, Trench is down, ma'am. Aries is incapacitated but still alive, I think. Fenton's putting together the, uh, they're bracing her neck. Uhhh, we killed a big monster fish thing.”
“Casualties are acceptable." There was a half-second of pause. "I'm sorry, though. You're in the antechamber?”
“The - yeah, we're here. Map says we're looking for something on the north wall?” Nettle rose from their squatting position by the angler's tail and scanned slowly.
“Look for an unusually flat section of rock. There should be a big round metal piece inlaid into it.”
Nettle was against the north wall now, running their hand along the rock. The metal circle was clear as day, could they not see it? Fenton finished up with the brace and hoisted Aries into a fireman lift. Risky, but necessary for mobility if they had to run again later. She grunted into his shoulder, her drool soaking through the back of his thin shirt. He chose to interpret it as thanks.
“Ok, I've got it. Big circle, ma'am.” Nettle stepped back from the wall, trying to make out the detail in the gloom. “It's just a rim, though, stone again inside. Should I—”
“You don't need to do anything. I'm activating the circle via a relay in your collar. Lets hope Trench did his job right with those generators.” As she spoke, a hum started up deep below them and the metal in front of Nettle began to glow a faint blue.
“Actually, Nettle, step back. Quick.”
Nettle didn't question the order, darting out of the way as the glow became a piercing light and, with the faintest of splashing noises, a man careened out of the solid stone wall, tumbling to a stop where Nettle had stood a second before. He wore the same orange overalls they all wore. Who-?
Willow answered his question before he'd asked it, speaking over speaker comms from Nettle's collar. “Welcome back to reality, Agent Alvares.”
On his shoulder, Aries barked a harsh laugh that turned into a hacking cough, her body rocking with the force of her diaphragm spasming. “Hgfhh, fuggn… Alvrez!” Her speech was spluttered, slurred, but she'd undoubtedly said the man's name. Fenton turned so she could see him. “Alvrez, yhuu.. Yuh… YHUU WANKR!”
“Merry Christmas, Aries.” Willow cooed happily. “Prepare for extraction, folks.”


“Iris!” Carter hollered from the hallway outside. Iris sighed slightly at the sound of the senior partner's petulant tone.
Iris Dark and Ruprecht Carter had never much cared for one another, but as they were both board members and key shareholders of Marshall, Carter, and Dark, they were obliged to meet from time to time.
Iris had yet to seek out Carter for anything outside of official meetings, and the only time Carter ever sought her out in person was when he thought it was a matter of utmost importance.
It was never anything important.
“I'm in my office, Ruprecht,” Iris replied. Her office door swung open and Ruprecht Carter marched in like he was reporting to a general after a catastrophic enemy attack.
“Look at this!” he said, dumping a bag of paper cups, napkins, leaflets and fast-food containers out in front of her.
“Why are you pouring garbage onto my desk Ruprecht?”
“Read it!”
Iris rolled her eyes and picked up a leaflet at random.
“Now you can order ahead of time with mobile ordering. Download the My McD's app -”
“There, right there! You see it?”
“What?”
“These are from Canada, I picked them up while I was in Toronto and -”
“What were you doing at McDonald's?”
Carter hesitated for a moment.
“That's not important,” he said dismissively.
“I'm afraid I have to disagree. You're the most elitist prick I've ever met. You eat haute cuisine exclusively, drink only Black Ivory coffee because 'everything else is shit' -”
“I was aware of the irony of that statement when I made it, Iris.”
“- And literally the only bad thing I've ever heard you say about Trump was bashing his fast-food habit.”
“Two Big Macs, two Filet-o-Fishes and a chocolate shake is not a meal fit for a king!”
“So I ask again; what were you doing there?”
“I… I was with a whore and she insisted on getting something to eat first, and I didn't want Penny to know so I couldn't take her anywhere I might be recognized, so we went to McDonald's. I ate prole food, I admit it. Are you happy?”
“Very,” Iris smiled. “And what did Ruprecht Carter, the paragon of High Society, order off the value menu? Did you get a happy meal? Did they give you a toy with it?”
“I had an Angus burger with a Caesar side salad and a cappuccino, but that's not the point Iris! Look at this! The McDonald's in Canada is branding itself as MCD!”
Iris glared at him with a mixture of contempt and confusion.
“Ruprecht, I'm busy.”
“You're playing on your computer.”
“I'm writing code, which is probably the most productive part of my job, and you're distracting me with literal rubbish!”
“This is a problem, Iris. Our clientele associates the letters MC&D with ostentatious wealth, and we cannot have that association besmirched by a fast-food franchise printing those letters all over its grease-stained, cardboard takeout boxes!”
Iris sighed, a small part of her conceding that his concerns might not be completely inane, and picked up a paper cup to examine it.
“The McDonalds' in Canada, you said?”
“At least. I've been trying to get the market research team to look into if they're doing this anywhere else, but they haven't gotten back to me yet.”
“I can't imagine why,” she murmured. “Well, it's clearly meant to be read as ‘Mick Dee'.”
“It doesn't matter, it's still MCD. Do you know what McDonald's NYSE symbol is?”
“MCD?”
“Those are our letters dammit! People already call us Micky D's sometimes, did you know that?”
“I've heard that before, yes.”
“There's already an association in the eyes of customers between us and McDonald's, and their latest branding is blatantly reinforcing that association. Our brand must remain unsullied!”
“That being said, this is clearly a branding issue, and I'm Chief of Paratech Development and Acquisition. This is not my department.”
“You're Darke's proxy, and I need the support of another senior partner for this to move forward.”
“Meaning Marshall doesn't support this?”
“He… did not consider it a pressing issue, no.”
“Alright Ruprecht, for the sake of argument let's assume that McDonald's branding itself as McD is tarnishing our brand and this is impacting our bottom line. What would you have us do about it? They're known almost universally, whereas we take it as a point of pride that the ninety-nine percent have never even heard of us. I doubt there's any legal action we could take.”
“So did I, but I went to the A-78s just to be sure.”
“And what did they say?”
Carter took out the note from his pocket they had handed him earlier.

Brandname doublemake
Burgers and fries = glittering gold?
Illrepute indistinct, supersized portfolio

“… Well, there you go.”
“This is intolerable! We were around for nearly a hundred years before those discount beef peddlers, longer if you count all of Darke's wheelings and dealings before our merger. The name is rightfully ours! I'm not about to just let this indignity go unchallenged.”
“Well, you seem to have already given the matter more thought than I would care to. What do you suggest?”
“We're the most powerful firm in the world. Surely it would be trivially easy to get McDonald's to rebrand themselves,” Carter suggested.
“Not as easy as it would be to rebrand ourselves. Darke & Dark has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”
“Maybe for an emo-punk music label,” Carter retorted. “Besides, changing our name would be even worse. Imagine what people would say! Marshall, Carter, and Dark, cowed into submission by McDonald's. We'd lose our mystique! No no no no no, that won't do at all. Forget changing their name, we should drive them out of business and send a clear message about what happens to anyone that even indirectly diminishes our profits. You can write some sort of algorithm or something that can plunge their stock value, can't you?”
“Conceivably, but -”
“Great, that's your new project! Good meeting, productive meeting. I'm going to go for a steam, shoot me a memo when it's good to go.”
“Carter, get back here!”
Carter slinked to a halt and reluctantly turned around to face Iris.
“Carter, even if it was worth my time to create such a program, which it isn't, do you not think there might be some serious economic repercussions to bankrupting the richest fast-food franchise on the planet?” she asked. “Do you not think that a worldwide recession might impact our profits a tiny bit more than some bad brand recognition?”
“Short term, sure, but the economy always bounces back. Plus recessions are inevitable anyway, so why not engineer one to get some use out of it?”
“Carter, I am not manipulating the global economy to drive McDonald's out of business just because they share our initials,” Iris said resolutely.
For an instant, Carter looked like he might argue with her, looked like he might try to put her in her place, looked like he would scream that he was one of the company's founders and she was glorified tech support, but he stopped himself. As much as he hated subordinating himself to a woman, to a youth, to anyone really, he dared not forget that she was a Dark.
“No, no, of course not,” he sighed, hanging his head in defeat. “Something subtler then, perhaps?”
“Go to Market Research and have them figure out how much, if anything, this is costing us,” she replied. “That will be the budget for any counter-proposals. You can oversee the project since it's obviously very important to you, and unlike myself, you don't appear to have anything better to do. Prepare a presentation and we'll have a vote at the next board meeting.”
Iris resumed typing at her keyboard, letting him know the discussion was over. Carter clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, but also held his tongue. She had given him more satisfaction than Marshall had, at any rate. Pining for the days when Darke's seclusion and Marshall's immobility had made him the de facto head of the company, he turned to leave.
“Ruprecht,” Iris called out before he had made it to the door. “Clean this garbage off my desk.”


by Captain Kirby

Amongst a grove of pine trees somewhere in the Rocky Mountains lay a young woman. Most wouldn't recognize her as such, since it's hard to correctly identify a person from just their skeleton, but she was most certainly a woman of age thirty-five. She had spent three of those years laying in the same place, unperturbed, undisturbed. Hikers and madmen who wandered near the grove could hear her weep, but then the hikers would blame the wind, and the madmen would blame the voices in their head. So the woman's crying went unheard.
She didn't lie in a comfortable position, which she regretted. The ground was uneven, and a small rock stuck into her spine. The woman used to wish she had lost her sense of touch when she lost her life, but she didn't think about it anymore. The woman had complained enough for a lifetime. She complained to the trees, to the pine needles, to the dirt, to that rock sticking into her spine. Everything.
That's not to say there weren't happy moments. The woman wasn't always alone. Occasionally, she'd hear voices and see images. The images would bring back memories of that honeymoon. They were such wonderful, tainted memories. Luckily, the voices carried no nostalgia. They always sounded confused at first, and then scared. “Who are you and what are you doing in my head?” was a common opening question.
Ever since she heard the first voice, the woman looked forward to those conversations. Whenever she had a visitor, the woman jokingly made requests. She knew these voices couldn't help her, but they would try their best, asking for directions and details about the best way to reach her.
They were pleasant conversations. The woman grew anxious for them. The time she spent alone felt longer and longer between visits. After the fifth visit, she couldn't stand the loneliness anymore. So, the woman thought of a plan. She waited for the next time she had a visitor to come along. So she waited, and waited, and waited…
“What the hell is this?”
Until her new friend arrived. He arrived with the image of a frozen waterfall. She remembered that waterfall. And the trip to the ice caves… and then she snapped out of her nostalgia.
“Oh… uh… Hi!”
“Who are you and what are you doing in my head?”
“Haha! You know, I get that a lot.”
“But like, still….”
“My name is Rem. I can't really say much about the second question. What's your name?”
“D-4505.”
“That doesn't sound like much of a name!”
“Oh, uh… Brad, then?”
“You don't sound so sure about that!” Rem giggled a little.
“No, I'm… I'm definitely Brad. Sorry, it's been a weird day. I'm used to getting chased around by monsters and cleaning up after monsters and being bait for monsters. Pretty surprised when my assignment for today was just 'look at this picture'.”
“Well, I'm glad today's been your lucky day! I finally get to talk to someone!” Rem felt more excited than she had been in years. Then again, she could say that every time she had a visitor.
“I guess you're right. Take what you can get.”
“Hey… uh… Brad… Can you do me a favor?”
“I, uh, guess so.”
“Do you think you can get to a place in Idaho for me?”
“Yeah, totally. Can't see any reason why not.”
“Cool! It's this place called—”
“Shoshone Indian Ice Caves?”
“Yeah! How'd you know?”
“I uh… I don't actually know… lucky guess?”
Rem giggled again. He seemed nice.
“Do you know how to get there?”
“I do. I think… it's weird because my body is just kind of moving, on its own. Like muscle memory.”
“Oh. Sorry, that happens a lot of the time when people talk to me.”
“Don't worry about it. I've had stranger things happen to me before. In fact, the white coats here seem willing to help me. That's way weirder than a voice in my head.”
The two carried out their conversation for what Rem would forever describe as “not long enough”. They exchanged all manner of stories. For every tale of wonder Brad told, Rem responded with a mundane slice of her life. She missed being called "Rem" as much as he missed being called "Brad". Rem thought they made a good pair.
“Rem, I'm at the mouth of the caves. Now what?”
“Oh! Ok! Um… can you get something sharp? Like a knife?”
“Ok. Once I get that, I'll go inside the caves.”
“I'll give you directions, ok?” She wanted to see him. She wanted to see another person so badly. Rem instructed Brad to the frozen waterfall, even though Brad said he knew where he was going.
“I'm here, Rem.”
“I know, I can see you!” Because there he stood. A man wearing an orange jumpsuit, who probably hadn't shaved in at least a week. He held a commemorative knife in one hand, which he looked at.
“Really? I uh… I can't see you.”
“Don't worry. You will in a moment. You just have to join me.”
“Join you?”
“I mean… you've probably been able to guess a few things about me by now… and um… I've been pretty lonely…”
“Oh…” Brad raised the knife to his throat, “You want me to join you like this?”
“Um…” Rem swallowed. “Uh… yeah.”
“Ok. I'll see you s—” Brad was knocked to the ground. The knife flew two feet behind him, and was picked up by a man wearing a lab coat and round spectacles.
“Brad!”
"Damn white coats!"
"You ok?"
"Sorry Rem."
“Nonono don't be sorry!"
"It was nice talking to y—“ And then she could no longer hear Brad. Or see Brad. Rem looked at the cold, uneven ground around her. The rock jutting into her back annoyed her more than ever. She choked back a sob, and another. Then she started to cry.
In the year that passed since, Rem had no company. She spent the days crying in her grove. She cried to the trees, to the pine needles, to the dirt, to that rock sticking into her spine. Everything. Hikers and madmen who wandered near the grove could hear her weep, but then the hikers would blame the wind, and the madmen would blame the voices in their head. So Rem's crying went unheard.