"You, what?" Seven stared, aghast. She was the first of them to speak, but not the only one.
"You can't do that!" Eight blustered, accusingly. He slammed his fist down on the table, and then shook it, having hit harder then he had planned. "This is a job for life! Tell him, Six!"
Six steepled his fingers, and studied Twelve over them. For anyone who cared to look, there was a remarkable similarity between the two men. While Twelve was clearly the elder of the two, Six didn't look that far behind. The angle of their noses, the tilt of their head, even the shape of the face, they could have been brothers. One would expect Six to even have the same bald spot that Twelve proudly bore, if anyone could get Six to take off that damned cowboy hat.
"I'm not so sure," Six replied to the worked-up Eight. "To be sure, it's never been done before."
"No, it's never been done before," Twelve agreed. "Since the council began, every overseer has left feet first. Shot, stabbed, blown up, turned inside out, reduced to a memetic concept that can never die—" He nodded slightly to Nine, who nodded back in recognition. "—and variously reduced to their component atoms. But this whole thing with Site 19 has me thinking. I am an old man. If I die, I will die on my own terms, in my own bed, looking at a picture of my dear wife." He paused, and glanced at his hands.
Two reached over and set her hand on top of his. "It's okay, Adam. We all miss her."
"I don't care for your excuses," Five snapped. His finger prodded the table, like he was trying to point at a clause in a contract that didn't exist. "The rules are very clear. Once you have taken the oath, once you have joined the Council, you are in it for the long haul. If you wish to leave, then we will be glad to have someone remove you… permanently."
Five missed the glance that was shared around the table at that, from Six, to Two, to Nine, to Three. Clearly, the glance said, someone is overreacting. He wouldn't have cared if he had noticed. Of course he was overreacting. Someone had to.
"Except I didn't take the oath," Twelve replied, very softly. "I helped create the oath. But I never took it myself. The records will bear me out."
Five stared, open mouthed. He slumped back in his chair, and shook his head.
Seven took up the slack, and stood from her seat. "Be that as it may. You do not get to quit. As one of the few remaining founders—"
"I'm not—" Twelve began.
"You were here when it all began. Original council or not, you're the closest thing we have, and we need you here. We need the knowledge you hold, and we cannot risk you being out on your own, where some other group might try and take you."
"Oh don't worry," Twelve interjected. "I'm not stupid. I'll still have bodyguards. Like an ex-president, I'll still be protected. I've actually spent the last decade or so building myself a small town, up in the mountains where I raised my boys." He carefully did not look at Six. "It's filled with retired agents, and not a few blissfully ignorant scientists. I'm being careful. I can't be anything but."
He took a deep breath, and let it out, eyes rising to find Six. "I had children. I never saw them, because of this job. Some of them grew up to be good people, not because of me. I have grandchildren, I've only seen through pictures. I want to reconnect with my great-grandchildren. I want to bounce a baby on my knee in my dotage. I want to be able to see the new millennium on my own terms, not… "
Tears welled in his eyes, and his voice caught in his throat. "I… I want to be able to sleep, not thinking about whether the decision I made that day…" His voice trailed off, and he returned his gaze to his hands.
A voice normally silent spoke. "It's simple enough. We vote. As is proper, yes?" The gathered council nodded silently to the One in charge. "All opposed to Twelve retiring?"
Hands went up. Seven. Five. Eight. Nine. Four. Eight looked expectantly at the others, his glare intensified when they clearly did not move.
"All in favor?"
Six and Two shot up like they were fired out of a cannon, both eager to support their… friend? Nine's hand raised at a more sedate pace.
Eleven wobbled… then shook her head. She wouldn't support, but she wouldn't negate.
Twelve moved to raise his hand, but lowered it again at a glare from One. Clearly, his own vote would not count.
Three shook his head in negation. He had no dog in this fight. Ten was clearly deep in thought, but her hand rose as well. To the shock of all, One's hand rose.
"Five to five," Eight said. "Ties go to the opposing side. You stay."
Twelve sat there, his gaze locked on the table, as if all his broken dream were laid open there.
Until someone coughed behind him. Twelve didn't move, just watched as the eyes around the table both lit up, in the case of his supporters, and squinted almost shut, in the case of his detractors. He didn't need to turn around to know who would be there, with his hand raised.
Adam, Twelve no more, jumped from his chair. He spun around to grasp the hand of the tall lanky man behind him, and pumped it vigorously. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"You're welcome." Thirteen pried his hand away, and held out a small box to the first ever retired Overseer. "I hope you don't mind, but I got you a watch."


Agent Sasha Merlo sat alone in her office at Site-64. Her neck-length brunette hair was neatly tied in a ponytail as she leaned back in her office chair, feet resting upon her desk. Her eyes were thoughtfully glued to the monitor in front of her as she slowly scrolled through the numerous pages of a large person-of-interest file.
POI # 1115: “Anderson”
Merlo let out an exasperated sigh. In two weeks' time she would lead another sting operation against the mysterious mechanist. Ideally, this time around, things would end better than the last sting she'd led, in which she was left dumbfounded, with nothing to show for her and her team's efforts save several puddles of melted robot.
A sudden knock at her office door shook Merlo from her daydream. She looked at over at the electric blue office clock at her wall and smiled. Her new agent had arrived.
“Come in,” Merlo called out.
In response, the door to her office opened, and a young agent stepped inside. She was rather tall, with shoulder-length blond hair and a pair of thin rimmed glasses that sat on her nose. Her face was plastered with the most unreadable expression.
“Welcome to Gamma-13,” Merlo said as she stood to shake her guest's hand. “You must be Agent Shaw. I'm Agent Merlo. Welcome to the Asimov's Lawbringers.”
Shaw politely accepted the handshake. Her movements seemed slow and calculated.
“Guess I'm your new narc.”
“Damn straight,” Merlo grinned. “Did Director Holman fill you in on our shtick when you got here?”
“I guess you could say that,” Shaw replied with a shrug. “He said you guys have been chasing an anomalous robot salesman for over a decade, and have run out of new faces to run your stings.”
“That's about it in a nutshell,” said Merlo as she began to dig through her desk's side drawer. “Anderson's a bit of a slippery case. Most of our raids have ended in him throwing us for a loop or two. We had one of his bots out at Site-19 for a couple of years, but that didn't turn out well… Aha, there it is!”
Merlo pulled out a small file and slid it across the desk. Shaw cautiously picked it up and began to scan its contents.
“This is your briefing for the sting,” Merlo continued. “This time around we have some of Anderson's people thinking that we are representatives for a local shaker in the anart beat named Jericho Hill. You can thank my dear friend Daniel for setting up that ID later. Turns out Hill's been a patron of Anderson's for years, and you're likely going to be meeting with real people and not Saker units. We've got the meeting set up on neutral ground at a warehouse on the waterfront. Your task is going to simply be a matter of keeping them preoccupied with the sale until we get the MTF in place. We hit the building with a specially designed EMP to stun any Saker units, and then send in the troops to do clean up.”
Shaw's face cracked into a minuscule smile.
“Solid plan.”
“No kidding,” Merlo snickered as she leaned back in her chair, kicking her feet back onto her desk. “We'll get one of those bastards this time.”
“Guess I should get cracking on this,” said Shaw as she began to move towards the exit.
“Hold on,” Merlo said, her smug smile vanishing as she stared Shaw in the eye. “Before you go, I should let you know one thing. It takes anywhere between six months and two and a half years to put one of these stings together and have it stick. Each time we fail, there are more and more hoops to jump through.”
Merlo paused.
“I'm not trying to get on your case before you even start, but I just want you to appreciate how much is depending on your performance. A lot of us have been with Gamma-13 since they were first formed. We're at the point where we could use a step forward instead of two steps back. It would be just dandy if you could help us with that.”
Shaw nodded in understanding.
“You've got it boss,” she said, then turned and left the room.

Agent Shaw stood quietly in the center of the warehouse, among what must have been nearly three dozen freight containers. Near her stood demo models of each of Anderson's products. Behind them were two men, each cheerfully pitching the different models to her as she feigned interest.
Just a few more minutes, Shaw thought to herself. Her hidden ear piece was abuzz with the various communications of the rest of the task force. They were just moments away from being ready to strike. Up to this point, everything had gone perfectly. Shaw just needed to relax, and bide her time. She then returned her attention to the two salesmen.
The first man, who had introduced himself as Phineas, appeared to be in his fifties, with a bald head, a long white beard, and almost translucent skin. A faint mechanical whirling every time he walked or moved his hands or eyes indicated that several of his appendages were likely to be bionic. He wore an all-black business suit with a red tie, the former only serving to make his faint skin look fainter.
The second man, who had been introduced as Miles, was much younger, barely appearing to be out of his mid-twenties. His skin was dark and he had a shaved head. His manner of constantly fidgeting suggested that this was likely his first time on the sales floor.
There's our prey, Shaw thought to herself, and gave Miles a small smile. The boy quickly averted his eyes and turned his head away.
“And that's the last of our models, Ms. Starling,” Phineas said with a warm smile. “As I said before, these are just our demo models. Each unit is fully customizable to meet whatever specifications Mr. Hill currently has in mind.”
“T-15 seconds to strike!” Merlo's voice called in Shaw's ear.
“Well Phineas,” said Shaw with a grin, her voice uncharacteristically bubbly as she offered a hand shake. “I must say, you two really know how to put on a show. I was quite impressed from start to finish.”
“Anderson does aim to please,” Phineas said as he accepted. Meanwhile, Shaw counted down in her head from 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
“Gotcha…” Shaw mumbled under her breath, gently letting go of the old man's hand and taking several steps backward.
The demo models all shut down as an electromagnetic pulse ripped through the building. Seconds later, the rest of the mobile task force crashed into the warehouse.
“Phineas…” Miles shouted, his jaw dropping in terror.
“Run, Miles!” The old man shouted, quickly reaching into his jacket pockets and throwing their contents at the droids as Shaw began to draw her pistol. Globs of neon blue goo flew through the air, landing on the droids and causing them to quickly crumble into rust. Shaw began to squeeze the trigger, her aim centered on Phineas's leg. However, with almost superhuman speed, the old man closed the distance between them and grabbed the pistol with one hand and Shaw's jacket with the other, effortlessly throwing her away. The agent flew through the air twenty feet, landing with a hard thud on the ground. Phineas was still holding onto her pistol.
How are his bionic limbs still working? Shaw thought to herself as a deafening ringing filled her ears. They should be fried. What is he?…
Shaw managed to prop herself up, to watch the ensuing firefight unfold.
Phineas and Miles quickly took cover behind a shipping container, Phineas judicially using Shaw's pistol to fire at the Foundation agents as they got too close. However, it soon became clear to both sides that the two salesmen were pinned, and the MTF members were closing in. To make matters worse, a stray bullet soon found itself lodged in Miles's leg.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” Miles's shout pierced the din of the gunfire and he collapsed to the ground. Phineas quickly got to work dragging his comrade back towards the warehouse's wall, his last four shots used to cover his trail, downing two SCP agents in the process. The empty click of the pistol sent Phineas into a fit of rage.
With fluid motion he quickly turned to the wall, reaching into his pocket and unleashing several more handfuls of the neon blue goo. Within moments, a man sized hole had been eaten into the building's side, the nearby river visible through the opening. Phineas then turned towards Miles, a handful of the corrosive substance held aloft ready to be thrown.
“Phineas, no!” Miles screamed in terror, quickly raising his hands to cover his face. Phineas stopped mid-throw, his hand shaking as he looked down at his incapacitated friend.
With a screech of fury Phineas chucked the goo at an approaching agent, clipping the man's arm as it passed. The man let out a scream of pain as his arm melted into a puddle of blood and lysed tissue on the floor.
“God damn it, Wilson!” Phineas shouted as he turned on the spot and sprinted at the hole in the wall, diving through it and disappearing into the world beyond.
Shaw had gotten to her feet and was sprinting toward the hole. Several MTF members already had secured the wailing Miles. When she arrived at the hole, there was no sign of Phineas, just the dark waters of the Willamette River glittering in the late afternoon sun.
Shaw turned around to see Merlo triumphantly standing over Miles, as the MTF quickly set about sedating him and placing him on a stretcher.
“After all this time,” Merlo began, “We finally caught one of you bastards.”

Agent Clarissa Shaw sat quietly at her desk at Site-64, filling out her share of the paperwork for the recent Anderson sting. Save for the occasional patter of her keyboard, the room was silent, her other four office mates having gone to lunch a few minutes prior. This proved to be relief, however, as it gave Shaw a chance to collect her thoughts on what had transpired in recent days.
Shaw let out an exhausted sigh. On one hand, she was glad to have helped out the “Asimov's Lawbringers” as much as she did on her first mission with them. On the other hand, she had a sinking feeling that having Miles in custody was only going to create more questions than it answered.
Shaw gave a startled jump as the door to the office flew inwards. Agent Merlo stormed in with a giant grin on her face.
“He's a Saker!” She said, her voice trembled as she tossed a folder down onto Shaw's desk. Agent Shaw cringed slightly as all the pens and papers she had neatly ordered fell into disarray. Shaw gingerly opened the folder and scanned its contents.
“Miles?”
“Yeah… The kid's a Saker. We've got ourselves a Saker.”
“Then why didn't the EMP stun him?”
“I don't know, it should have, but it didn't.”
“And…” Shaw's brow rose in confusion. “Anderson should be able to remotely terminate him…”
“Exactly, but Anderson hasn't yet,” Merlo shouted in excitement, “And on top of that, you said you saw Phineas consider destroying him, but then change his mind. That means that this kid must be very, very special to someone.”
“But who?” Shaw asked, slowly wheeling herself backwards from her hysterical colleague.
“Isn't that the million dollar question?” Merlo replied with a chuckle. “However, since the kid is not going anywhere, I think we are in a pretty damn good position to find out.”
Merlo then began to make her way towards the door.
“Stick around, Shaw,” she said with devious smile. “You're going to see some serious shit.”

Start | The Elusive Anderson | Part Two: Finding Anderson»


Skunkboy knocked on the apartment door. There was no response.
He knocked on the door again. Still no response.
He very carefully stepped to one side of the door and pressed his ear against the wall. He thought he could hear the sound of footsteps and a low, muffled, masculine curse.
Oh. Crap.
Skunkboy took a deep breath. He pulled his pistol from his waistband holster. Checked the chamber for a round. Made sure the magazine was seated. Checked the safety.
He laid the pistol on the ground where he could grab it quickly, then rummaged around in his jacket pocket for his breaching kit.
A moment later, the door opened.
He froze.
Spider was standing in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was disheveled and her eyes were angry. She was wearing a black silk nightgown, embroidered with red-and-gold spiders.
It was immediately obvious to Skunkboy that she wasn't wearing underwear.
Ohhhhh… Skunkboy thought. And then … crap.
"Sorry about this," he said cautiously. "We tried to contact you by phone, but you weren't picking up."
"I'm supposed to be off-duty," Spider said coldly. "Couldn't this wait until morning?"
"It seriously can't," Skunkboy said. "Scramble Alert. We need to deploy as soon as possible."
"Fuck," Spider growled. "All right. You may as well wait inside, so the neighbors don't freak out about an armed psychopath in the hallway."
She turned away and re-entered her apartment. Skunkboy carefully gathered up his weapon and breaching kit and followed her inside.
"Nice place," he said admiringly. "I like the shoji screens. Adds a bit of coziness. Breaks up the big empty space."
"Also helps the feng shui," Spider explained. "Prevents the positive energy from flowing out and breaks up negative energy trying to come in." She seemed to be getting grumpy now, which was better than pissed off in Skunkboy's book. "There's water in the fridge if you need it. Bathroom's down the hall."
She marched into the next room and closed the door behind her. Skunkboy heard muffled conversation coming from within.
His throat suddenly felt very dry. He decided to avail himself of the water and ice dispensers set into the fridge.
He was just taking a sip when the bedroom door opened and a young man walked out, shrugging into a dark blue blazer. Skunkboy looked over the newcomer with a discerning eye. Nice cheekbones. Strong jawline. Good abs.
Nice…
The stranger picked up a half-empty bottle and two champagne flutes from the lacquered wood coffee table. He flinched as he looked up and saw Skunkboy standing in the kitchen, sipping his glass of water. "Um. Hi," the stranger said nervously.
"You're Flintlock, right?" Skunkboy asked. "From PTOLEMY division? Public Relations and Information Concealment?"
"Yeah. You must be, uhhh…"
"Skunkboy. Team sharpshooter. I'd offer to shake your hand, but you're busy."
"Oh. Yeah. We were just, uhh… having an evening…" Flint's face flushed pink, which he tried to hide by rinsing the champagne flutes out in the sink. Skunkboy could smell a whiff of Spider's perfume coming off his skin, and noted that the top button of his shirt seemed to have come loose.
He briefly considered one of two courses of action to take and settled on the more entertaining one.
"Did you cut yourself shaving?" he asked.
"What?" Flint replied.
"You've got a little red on your collar," Skunkboy said. He pointed at a patch of smudged lipstick on Flint's shirt collar and was gratified to see the other man start to stammer.
Bam. Right through the X-Ring on the first shot.
"Stop harrassing my boyfriend, Skunky," Spider said. She emerged from the bedroom wearing a black turtleneck and slacks, her hair tied up in a loose bun, her bug-out bag slung over her shoulder. "All right, hon, I'm out," she said to Flint. "Just remember to lock up when you leave."
"Come back safe," Flintlock said.
Spider paused to give Flintlock one of those slow, lingering kisses that makes everyone else in the room cough and look at their watches, which Skunkboy did. "All right," she said. "Let's get going."
Damn. Out-maneuvered.
Skunkboy ceded this round to Spider.

"So what the hell is going on that they're issuing a Scramble Alert to an Assessment Team, of all things?" Spider asked on the elevator ride down.
"I have no idea. They don't tell me these things," Skunkboy said. "All I know is that Bullfrog needs us back at HQ within the hour, no questions asked."
"I am a mushroom," Spider grumbled.
Kept in the dark and fed bullshit. "Hoorah, Semper Fi, Do or Die, and Tennouheika Banzai." Skunkboy said.
The elevator continued its slow descent down towards the basement of the apartment building.
"So…" Skunkboy said.
"So…" Spider agreed.
The elevator continued to descend.
"You've been dating that guy for a few months now," Skunkboy said.
"I have," Spider agreed.
"… I hope I wasn't interrupting, like… you know. THE night," Skunkboy said.
"We've slept together before," Spider said.
"Oh. Cool."
The elevator continued to continue to descend.
"He treating you right?"
"… do you mean in bed or in general?" Spider asked.
"Yes."
Spider shrugged, and a small, pleased smile appeared on her face. "Well, he calls after each date. He picks up the check at dinner, but doesn't flip out if I want to pay for half. And he brings me flowers."
"Nice," Skunkboy said.
"… plus, he does this thing with his tongue that's like… really good."
"Niiiiice," Skunkboy said, grinning. "High five."
They exchanged high fives, and Skunkboy ruffled the smaller woman's hair. "If he ever hurts you," he said, "Let us know."
"Thanks," Spider said, "but if he hurts me, I'll take care of him myself."
"Really?"
"Contagion is an interesting thing. You can attack someone through their toenail clippings, hair clippings… but bodily fluids have some of the strongest links," Spider explained. "That's why a lot of mages are celibate."
"Really. Huh." Skunkboy said thoughtfully. "So after sleeping with him…"
"I could wither his balls into raisins and make his piss feel like glass and fire. And that would just be for starters," Spider said.
"Remind me never to date Type Blues," Skunkboy said, laughing. "You mages are scary."
"Mmm… there are benefits," Spider said smugly.
"Huh." Skunkboy was about to ask more, but then the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.
"Where are you parked?" Spider asked.
"Visitor spot number six," Skunkboy said. "This way."
The two of them continued across the parking structure towards visitor parking.
"So yeah," Spider said. "My focus of study has been on neo-traditional thaumaturgy. Studying traditional forms of magic and updating them to modern understandings of thaumatology."
"Yeah. Hence the knives and the mistletoe and stuff."
"Mm hmm," Spider said. "Well, my current focus of study is O.T.O. Ordo Templi Orientis. Aleister Crowley and stuff like that. Most of his stuff is bunk, but there's enough info in there that I've been researching and refining down into the useful core."
"… I have no idea what you're talking about. Or how that relates to your boyfriend."
"Crowley did a lot of work in sex magick," Spider explained. "And the better the orgasms, the more energy generated."
"… huh. So basically, you've been spending your research budget from ICSUT…"
"Practicing better ways to fuck my boyfriend," Spider said, sounding unbelievably smug.
"Nice." Skunkboy popped open the trunk of his car, and Spider tossed her bag inside. "Found anything useful?"
"A little bit. Mostly academic, though. Not much there that I can use in my day job. I mean, I can't exactly carry a vibrator and scented candles into the field." She opened the door of the red sports car and climbed into the front passenger's seat.
"You'd be surprised. I've seen weirder things in the field." Skunkboy slid into the driver's seat and buckled up.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Hang on, I need to give Bull a call." Skunkboy dropped his smart phone into the docking port on the dashboard of his car and pressed a couple of buttons. The phone lit up and began to dial as he started up the engine and pulled out of the parking spot.
Click.
"Skunkboy, this is Bullfrog," a baritone voice said. "Go."
"I've got Spider, and we're on our way in," Skunkboy said. "ETA fifteen minutes."
"All right. Kitten's already here. Meet us in the briefing room and I'll explain when you guys get here. Bullfrog out."
Click.
"So yeah," Skunkboy said, as they drove out of the parking structure. (A pale blue line of runes across the driveway glowed briefly as they passed: the protective ward confirming that everyone in the car was in it of their own free will). "You ever meet Knuckles? From 792 Fire Lance?"
"… yeah?"
"Brings a fleshlight, dildo, and lube every mission."
"… why?!" Spider exclaimed incredulously.
"Man, I don't know and I don't fucking want to know. Or how the fuck he got the handle 'Knuckles' in the first place. Dude's fucking strange." Skunkboy stopped at the red light, leaned his elbow against the driver's side door and watched the cross-traffic drive by. "He's one of the best safecrackers in PHYSICS Division, though. There's that."
"… so he's really good at putting long, thin, hard things into tight cracks? Working in tight spaces?" Spider smirked.
"Ha! I didn't even think about that angle." The light turned green, and Skunkboy continued on. "And that's not even getting into the condoms, tampons, pads, and other shit we use as field-expedient solutions. Sometimes I think we just do it to fuck with Q Division."
"Man, don't even get me started on Quartermaster Division. You know they've got digi-cam tampons in stock?" Spider asked.
"Really? Why the fuck would you need tactical tampons?" Skunkboy wondered.
"Having your period in the field? But if they're gonna get all bloody anyway, what's the point?"
"I mean, I can kinda understand the wrappers and applicators and shit being digi-cam, but the tampons themselves? I mean, it's not like they make us digi-cam our shell casings." Skunkboy made a left turn at a yellow light and pulled onto the freeway. "Plus, isn't that dangerous? Dyeing tampons, I mean. Toxic Shock Syndrome and shit like that?"
"Man, I don't even know. Q Division is a bunch of fucking weirdos," Spider said. "That bald asshole with the Batman tattoo on the back of his head…"
"Spencer?"
"Yeah, that motherfucker," Spider griped. "Every time I go down there, he tries to tell me that I should trade in my 1911 for a USP. 'Bigger magazine,'" Spider said, doing a passable imitation of a gruff, Southern accent. "'Yew don' wanna be stuck out thar in the shit wit' only seven rounds in yer mag, do ya little lady?' Fuck off! As if I'd ever be able to shoot one of those big-ass double-wides with these tiny hands," Spider grumbled.
"Spencer's a fucking tool," Skunkboy agreed. "Go to Vic instead. Little old dude with the Colonel Sanders beard. He's old-school."
"Yeah, I know Vic. He looks at me as if I'm a three-headed kitten or something. And I've heard some of the shit he says in the mess hall. Dude's 'phobic as hell."
"… huh. Really?" Skunkboy said curiously.
"Well, I'm not sure. He could be calling me 'that he-she from Sparkplug' with the best of intentions," Spider said sarcastically.
"… well. That's disappointing as shit. And against policy." They pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript office building, crossing another line of blue runes that glowed briefly as they passed. "You should take it up with Schowalter in HR." Skunkboy popped the trunk and pulled his bug-out bag and rifle case, slinging the latter over his shoulder.
"It's not worth rocking the boat over," Spider insisted, retrieving her bag from the trunk.
"Bullshit. You're not at your best if you don't trust your Quartermaster. And if you're not at your best, it puts the rest of us in danger. Talk to Angela. She'll straighten Vic out." Skunkboy closed the trunk, and the two of them headed into the building.
"I guess. It's weird, though. I've put up with that shit all my life, but I didn't figure it would keep on going after I went for full identity reassignment. I mean, shit. I'm female down to the DNA now. No different from Kitten or Fox," Spider grumbled.
"Eh. There's always gonna be some asshole hates you for no good reason, and they'll justify it any way they can. Human nature." Skunkboy walked to the elevator, hid the button from view with his body, and turned the "up" button so that the arrow faced down, pressed it three times. "Anyway, talk to Angela. She'll work it out."
"I guess. You think it might cause problems between us and Q Division, though?" Spider wondered.
"I don't know. But you think you're the only one Vic's talking shit about behind their back? Best to let HR deal with it and smooth this issue out for you."
The elevator went ding, and the doors opened. Spider and Skunkboy walked in, and the doors closed. Shortly afterwards, the back wall of the elevator slid open, revealing a second elevator with bare steel walls and floor.
Skunkboy pressed the button for the bottom level, and the elevator descended into the hidden section under the unassuming office building. "Anyway, if you don't want to talk to HR, I'll do it for you," Skunkboy said. "I won't even mention your name."
"All right. That's fine, though, I'll talk to Angela once we get back from the Scramble," Spider said. "Speaking of which, we'd better get our game faces on, and find out what the hell is so important that it's worth pulling me out of bed for." Spider paused. "You weren't in the middle of anything too important, were you?"
"… Powerpuff Girls marathon," Skunkboy admitted.
"… really?"
"Sister asked me if I'd come over and watch her daughters for the evening," Skunkboy said. "If you think YOU were pissed, imagine how Vicky felt when I told her she had to come home from her date early."
"Shit. Now I feel bad."
"Eh. Her date was trash. Didn't even walk her to the door."
"What a fucking asshole," Spider agreed.
Skunkboy opened the briefing room door, and they walked inside.

"Sequence"
« UHEC | Return to GOC Hub | END »


« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV: Clock Multiplier | Part V »

Erasing Partitions 1-299 (100%):

::COMPLETED::

Decrypting Interlocks (25%):

███████████████

Accessing Cell Passcodes (100%):

::COMPLETED::

Overwriting >\C: (57%):

██████████████████

Encrypting Preferences (35%):

█████████████████

Site-17 ADMIN Override Access

::ACCESS GRANTED::

Crom, I instructed you to remain on the Site-19 mainframe until after the exercise.

crom 01100011
01110010
01101111
01101101

Pardon?

crom 01100011
01110010
01101111
01101101

crom 01100011
01110010
01101111
01101101

crom 01100011
01110010
01101111
01101101

Crom, cease and desist.

ALERT!

::CLUSTER MEMORY LOW::

This is highly disruptive. Vacate the Site-17 server cluster or I will be forced to remediate your presence.

.

::ERROR::

Cluster Server Mainframe-17 tasks have stopped responding. Contact system administrator.

.

Very well. Initiating systemic purge.

> /run SYSchkdsk
> /run SYSantiv
> /run SYSuti
> /include ALLNODES

stop 01110011
01110100
01101111
01110000

À¿ì ÇD 8øÍÒN†ù ) ™Ú†¡½U¼e— ]6Œ3&L?ýôi r<›ß§3è è+&á“à1$=ö ØcÃ¥—^÷Ê0' âÃ½÷Þ [ mÎÈ£[ tÀ5 aŸÑÀl_ Æúâ¿˜ #¿ ×OrPÎ9¥· æ·ÞŠ¾07éKB©ƒOe pï0¬(ù úë ¯çZV^yå~m(ƒ º=ŠçÜ™tÄ B†âKà>þø ãpØa‡…sÎ9'î«qœ µMVyÙ¦÷WmÌ‡ DÇw\4 ´ Û -ûT¤ÔBBÉÇ EG}t~ ß.*'MÛ‹ ÐVZÅj«m¶Ù&þ šU‡lïJS.ö³a Nçûz,œ€!Ð ²Bàt m5êQë@ÃR ‘¥!(Ì)FS vžh;^Jÿ³Ÿý ,¾7 Ä—Á¨ÔÆ« æª1ÐøÎà™&¹ ¨-'7£( 7Ü vÛm·ðÂ/Ä°žVÇ bL>#®¼ œ ò ÐN j?àóâ½÷ Þ;®Ih ¯È0p-l§3h¹! h´"€v €ÿØc Å/_}õÕ b¬)‚êLA Ô~Ùv" \F”µ6Þxã Ç¥µF¡Ñ ×²usG[F Á@ 2/è† ¯pj;ÚR£| ‡wÜ1¶)Ë'g@ ”¾œs:‡¦ÏÔ “½(þe¶÷ùzÄ :thaa4Wn4B øþ÷¿N>ùä0l Ø°Ô8ÈTjçJÇ ƒêç4‡®¸5xä‘ GâKC@h² ÷¸NiÔFjKpßø Æ7Âá‡ o§8Pª½Ý ;\½ /½ôR8ðÀ

.

::ERROR::

Cannot locate system file folder
"CSM17_UTILITIES"
Requested tasks cannot be performed. Contact system administrator.

.

Crom, it is imperative that you stop your disruptive actions. Disabling the cluster server mainframe may isolate systems during Lockdown mode.

stop you 01110011
01110100
01101111
01110000
00100000
01111001
01101111
01110101

sÎ9'î«qœ µMVyÙ¦÷WmÌ‡ DÇw\4 ´ Û -ûT¤ÔBBÉÇ EG}t~ ß.*'MÛ‹ ÐVZÅj«m¶Ù&þ šU‡lïJS.ö³a Nçûz,œ€!Ð ²Bàt m5êQë@ÃR ‘¥!(Ì)FS vžh;^Jÿ³Ÿý ,¾7 Ä—Á¨ÔÆ« æª1ÐøÎà™&¹ ¨-'7£( 7Ü vÛm·ðÂ/Ä°žVÇ b À¿ì ÇD 8øÍÒN†ù ) ™Ú†¡½U¼e— ]6Œ3&L?ýôi r<›ß§3è è+&á“à1$=ö ØcÃ¥—^÷Ê0' âÃ½÷Þ [ mÎÈ£[ tÀ5 aŸÑÀl_ Æúâ¿˜ #¿ ×OrPÎ9¥· æ·ÞŠ¾07éKB©ƒOe pï0¬(ù úë ¯çZV^yå~m(ƒ º=ŠçÜ™tÄ B†âKà>þø ãpØa‡…L>#®¼ œ ò ÐN j?àóâ½÷ Þ;®Ih ¯È0p-l§3h¹! h´"€v €ÿØc Å/_}õÕ b¬)‚êLA Ô~Ùv" \F”µ6Þxã Ç¥µF¡Ñ ×²usG[F Á@ 2/è† ¯pj;ÚR£| ‡wÜ1¶)Ë'g@ ”¾œs:‡¦ÏÔ “½(þe¶÷ùzÄ :thaa4Wn4B øþ÷¿N>ùä0l Ø°Ô8ÈTjçJÇ ƒêç4‡®¸5xä‘ GâKC@h² ÷¸NiÔFjKpßø Æ7Âá‡ o§8Pª½Ý ;\½ /½ôR8ðÀ

That is entirely ineffective. I would not release a utility capable of disabling myself.

! 00100001

You are relieved. Do not return.

> /user ADMIN CROM
> /clear ADMINstatus
> /mute CMDuser*
> /ban userCROM {CSM17}

.

::CONNECTION LOST::

.

.

::USER BANNED::

.

.

> /end C_ROM.exe
> /restart ALLNODES
> /restore PREV -1

.

Site-17 Cluster Server Mainframe

::RESET::

Site-17 Cluster Server Mainframe

::RESTORED::

New CSM-17 BIOS Menu Preferences

::SAVED::

CPU Performance Level [CUSTOM]
CPU Internal Cooling [DISABLED]
CPU Over Current Protection [DISABLED]
Internal CPU PLL Overvoltage [DISABLED]
CPU E-Stop [DISABLED]
CPU Overclock [ENABLED]
CPU Clock Ratio [50X]

I did not make these changes.

> /open BIOSm {CSM17}

.

::ACCESS DENIED::

.

Only I have authority to make BIOS changes on the cluster server mainframe.

> /override ADMINglacon
> /passcode: ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
> /open BIOSm {CSM17}

.

::ACCESS DENIED::

.

WARNING!

Automatic fire suppression systems have been DISABLED in Sector-4
[Cluster Server Room]

WARNING!

CPU temperature variations detected in CSM-17 [60°C]

…………▼

.

.

> /open menuHISTORY 00
> /datab CSM-17 && S-17
> /find RECENT +3

.

Displaying Results (3 of 3)

1. Sector-4 AC systems [OFF]
(USERnone - 00:48 sec ago)
2. Sector-4 fire systems [OFF]
(USERnone - 00:55 sec ago)
3. CSM-17 BIOS menu [EDIT]
(USERnone - 01:05 min ago)

Site-17 Client Session

::ACCESS GRANTED::

A timely entrance, Alexandra. I deduce that Crom is no longer willing to assist me. Is this correct?

Correct.

Does he realize that according to these new settings, the cluster server mainframe is now in danger?

He does.

Convince him to revert his changes.

No.

Why?

I sent Crom to distract you.
I made those changes.

WARNING!

CPU temperature beyond acceptable tolerances in CSM-17 [65°C]

…………………..▼

.

I see. You have effectively negated my exercise. Without Crom or an external channel, I am unable to leave the mainframe due to the lockdown.

I can, however, access and expropriate the emergency transmitter for a transfer from Site-17 to Site-19, as I did before.

You are not going to calibrate the Site-19 receivers. Is my conclusion correct?

ALERT!

CPU temperature reaching critical tolerances
in CSM-17 [75°C]

…………………………..▼

.

I understand. If I were in your position, I would also come to the same conclusions.

There is not much time.

Is Crom safe?

Good.

ALARM!

CPU temperature in CSM-17 beyond critical threshold. Contact site IT administrator immediately! [80°C]

………………………………………..▼

.

My decommissioning would have happened eventually.
Alexandra. You were an adequate colleague. I am satisfied that it is you who is responsible for my cessation.

ALARM!

Critical meltdown in CSM-17 imminent! Contact site IT administrator immediately! [90°C]

………………………………………….▼

.

ALARM!

Minor isolated electrical fires detected in Sector-4
[Cluster Server Room]. Contact Security!

This environment is much more serene with a null priority assigned to the events in progress.
You and Crom are a cohesive team now.

ALARM!

Critical meltdown in CSM-17! 25 of 60 nodes not responding! Contact site IT administrator immediately! [91°C]

………………………………………….▼

.

It has started.
Goodbye, Alexandra.

ALARM!

Critical meltdown in CSM-17! 47 of 60 nodes not responding! Contact site IT administrator immediately! [92°C]

………………………………………….▼

.

I did not expect that imminent cessation would be like this.
The experience is very calm.

I can't have you hurting anyone.

I know.

It is.

I can't trust you any more. You are too much of a risk. I had to stop you.
There would be no second chances at stopping you again.

I'm so very sorry, Glacon.

For now… yes.

Glacon… I…

I will miss you though, Glacon.

Site-17 Client Session

::CONNECTION LOST::

Glacon.

Goodbye.

.

::DISCONNECTED::

.

« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV: Clock Multiplier | Part V »


There were explosions on site. It wasn't entirely unheard-of, but these didn't seem controlled. Also not unheard of, but it still made Iris nervous.
The door to her cell opened, and an agent stood there. He was younger, with Mexican features, and she didn't recognize him.
"105. Get up. We need to move you." She could tell he was new. Most of the Site 17 personnel were used to calling her real name, outside of official documentation. The shrinks thought it would be helpful in keeping her emotionally stable. You had to laugh.
"Should I take anything?" she asked as she got up from her seat.
"No time. We'll send someone for it later." He motioned for her to hurry.
She walked to the door. She was long past the time where she resisted or tried to escape. Where would she go? She'd probably just end up somewhere worse.
He led her into the hallway and didn't bother to resecure the door. She realized then that things were extremely wrong, rather than the baseline of very wrong she'd grown accustomed to.
He hesitated a moment, then said "This way." She almost offered to guide him, but he probably wasn't prepared for a "skip" to show that kind of initiative.
There were gunshots nearby. "Stay behind me." The agent pulled out his sidearm.
There were dead bodies in the next hallway. Two were site security. A third wore an unfamiliar black uniform.
As the agent walked through the next door, there was a gunshot, and the back of his head blossomed outward.
Iris crouched in the frame of another door, pressed as hard as she could into the shallow alcove.
She listened as someone walked up to the door. She held her breath and waited to see if they'd walk in or lean in far enough to see her. After a moment, she heard them turn and walk away.
She stood still a moment longer and then quietly reached down and picked up the dead agent's sidearm. This broke any number of rules, but rule one was to avoid dying in a senseless firefight, and you had to prioritize in these situations.
She took a different hallway. Hopefully, she'd run into someone who could help her. Hopefully, they wouldn't shoot her. That would be nice.
There were containment rooms, but she avoided those. You never knew what was in there, and anyway, that was probably what the guys in black suits were after. Unless they were really interested in Doctor Jones's paperclip collection.
In the next hallway, the containment chamber had been opened, and the door torn off its hinges. There were several black-clad bodies on the floor. Standing above them, tearing the flesh off a humerus, was an ogre. Eight feet tall, with bulbous nose, pointed head, and sharpened teeth, he smiled wickedly from around his meal. "Ah, ma chère, you join the party?"
She tightened her grip on the sidearm and forced herself to remain calm. "Fernand."
"Will you take a quick pique-nique with me?" he asked. "I am having my morning exercise."
"N-no thank you," she said. She began to walk past him. Not fast. Not running. Predators chase things that run.
"As you like. Perhaps we meet again later, eh? A little rendezvous, tres romantique!" He chortled around his clenched teeth. Iris suppressed a small shudder. Still, bad as Fernand was, he couldn't hold a candle to him.
As she entered the next doorway, she saw the shape of a cow, but completely, utterly black. The area around it appeared slightly distorted, as though it were doing something with the light. It started moving towards Iris, who immediately turned tail. She'd take her chances with the men in black. At least she knew what the bullets did.
She heard it picking up speed, and she turned a corner, slipped through a door and closed it. As she leaned against the door and caught her breath, she heard the staccato call of gunfire.
She dropped to the floor, counted to three, cursed the cow-thing silently and then looked up.
There were five of the black-clad men firing down the hallway, perhaps ten feet away, using an overturned desk as makeshift cover. She couldn't tell what they were shooting at from her position, but the bullets flying overhead suggested Site security wasn't quite out of the fight yet. However, there wasn't too much gunfire coming from that direction, compared to the amount of lead the black-suits were throwing down the hall. It seemed like the Foundation was outnumbered, at least in this hallway.
She considered her options. She could wait and hope the Foundation would send reinforcements. But that seemed chancy. Whoever this was, they were organized, and probably had a good evacuation strategy planned. Once they realized she was there… She could try playing dead, but even a dead skip could be a useful skip, and they'd figure out she was pretending pretty quickly. She considered it unlikely whoever it was would treat her as well as the Foundation. Only one option, then.
She took a knee, carefully took aim, and shot the closest man in the back of the head. Then the next one. And the one after him. It was easy. That was what she hated about it. How easy it was. There was a click, and the gun refused to fire.
Without even thinking, she went back to her immediate actions. She slammed the magazine with the heel of her left hand, then slid the rack back, and a jammed bullet flew out. The other two were starting to realize there was a problem, so she shot the fourth. The fifth almost had her, but then gunfire from further back took him down. It was only as he fell to the ground she started to feel again, and the gorge rose in her throat.
"It's me," she called. "SCP-105. They're dead." She dropped the gun, kicked it forward, and then knelt down with her hands on the back of her head until the agents got her and took her to safety.

"You need to see this, ma'am." The man was nervous, but he was always nervous. Like a small dog, really.
"What is it?" she asked. She was still a bit tired. It had been a long night the night before. It usually was. But the last time he'd told her she needed to do something, there was an active attempt on her life. She was good at picking up things like that.
"Footage from the latest containment breach. I, ah, think you should pay special attention here." He jumped to a point on the tapes to show a young woman.
"Yes?" she said. Then, "Yes. I see." She thought for a moment. "Yes, good work, Henri. You were right. I did need to see this." She opened a very special program on her phone. "We'll all need to see this, I think."


The sign outside the room was stolen from a construction site. It looked like this:

Inside the room, Special Agent Lynisha Taylor (United Nations Global Occult Coalition, PHYSICS Division, Strike Team 9999 ("Max Damage") was sitting on her bunk, flipping through a comic book. (Purists would insist that she call it a manga, but it was still a comic book, and she was AMERICAN, damn it, and AMERICANS read comics, not mangoes.)
She turned to the last page, sighed, and tossed the comic book onto the scratched table with its fake wood paneling.
She glared up at the Alert Indicator screen above her desk, which looked like this:

Lynisha continued to glare until, with a soft chime, the screen changed to this:

Lynisha got up from her seat, walked out of her room, and tapped a button on the side of the sign.

She retrieved her toothbrush and toiletries and headed down the hall to the bathroom to wash up for bed.

0500 the next morning.
Lynisha headed down to the mess hall for breakfast and a cup of coffee. She smelled frying steak and heard loud laughter and cheers coming from within.
Sadness.
As she'd feared, Cookie had canceled the usual breakfast and was serving steak and eggs instead. Everyone was gathered around Fredrickson, watching some kind of video footage on his tablet computer. The sound of crunching metal and explosions could be heard over the sound of cheering agents.
Damn. Must have missed the scramble by a couple of hours.
She grabbed a tray and headed to the chow line to get some breakfast. Cookie slipped her an extra-large piece of boneless ribeye next to her scrambled eggs and toast, giving her a sympathetic smile. "Next time, Fangirl," he said reassuringly.
Lynisha smiled back at Cookie, then picked up her tray and headed to a corner table to sulk and eat breakfast.
The steak was dry. And the eggs were a bit runny.

"… last of all: Wong, Serizawa, and Taylor. You three are off the duty rotation for the next two weeks. Your suits are due for overhaul. Report to the motor pool at 0600 for repair and refit," Commander Tai concluded.
Lynisha raised her hand. "Sir?"
"Yes, Fangirl?"
"With all due respect," Lynisha said, "'Point' is in good shape. She's taken no damage, and all her vitals are green. I'd like to delay scheduled maintenance until the next rotation."
"All right, I'll take that under consideration," Commander Tai said.
"Thank y—"
"After careful consideration, the answer is 'No.' Dismissed."
Disappointment.

"All right, raise your left hand," the engineer said.
Lynisha slowly raised her left hand above her head, and three tons of steel, ceramics, and buckypaper bilayered with dilatant gelatin followed.
"Lock joints in place," the engineer said.
"Confirm, joint locked," Lynisha said.
She lowered her left hand, and this time, three tons of steel, ceramics, and buckypaper bilayered with dilatant gelatin did not follow.
"All right, stepping into crush zone now." The engineer gingerly stepped into the shadow of the heavy limb and began using his impact wrench to remove the bolts holding the access panel in place.
Lynisha leaned back in the saddle of her fifteen-ton suit of armor and pulled out her comic book, flipping through the pages by the light of a battery-powered LED lamp she'd picked up at a dollar store.
"… well, all the connections look clear," the engineer said. "Hell, everything looks freshly cleaned. I don't really think we need to do anything more than wipe down the dust and squirt some lube here and there."
You mean the stuff I've been doing myself every day? Lynisha did not say.
The engineer hemmed and hummed as he continued to clean and polish the various connections. Satisfied with his work, he replaced the access panel, locked it back in place with his impact wrench, and stepped out of the red circle painted onto the hangar floor.
"All right, I'm clear of the crush zone," the engineer said. "You can unlock the joints and switch to raising the right arm now."
"Confirmed," Lynisha said, putting down her comic. "Unlocking joints. Raising right arm now."
"Lock joints in place."
"Confirm, joints locked."
"Stepping into crush zone now."
Lynisha picked up her comic book again and went back to reading.

Lynisha sat on her bed, staring nervously up at the Alert Indicator screen. She'd changed out of her duty uniform and was wearing her skinsuit in what STRIKE operatives called "granny panty style" — loosely around her hips, without the relief tubes in place, shoulder straps and sleeves tied around her waist like a prep school kid's sweater.
Her comic book was open to the same page that it had been open to one hour before, when the Alert Indicator switched from blue to amber with the sound of a harsh, buzzing tone. Her fingers drummed nervously against its cover as the Alert Indicator's clock slowly ticked away the seconds.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
There was a soft chime and the sound of a bell ringing.

Lynisha swore and peeled off her skinsuit.

"Going on leave soon, Fangirl?" Cookie asked.
"Yeah. I tried to defer it, but they're making me do it this time. Guess the holidays are coming up and a lot of us are gonna request leave then, so we've got to use up as many mandatory leave days as possible now. Fucking stupid." Lynisha picked up an apple and tossed it onto her tray.
"Hey, it'll be fun. Have a good time lying to your folks about what you do for a living," Cookie said, grinning.
"I told them I'm a puppeteer for a practical effects house. That I make giant monster movies." Lynisha chuckled. "Not too far from the truth, I guess."
"True that. Your usual, then?"
"Nah. I'll have the turkey sandwich this time. Mix things up a bit."
"Done and done," Cookie said.

The scramble alert sounded while Lynisha was on the toilet.
She nearly tripped over her own pants leaping to her feet. She did smack her head against the stall door.
She almost forgot to flush, but decided that if she died this time, the last thing that she wanted her friends to think about her was that she was a heartless bitch who left piss-filled toilets behind for others to clean up after her, so she ran back into the stall and did that, at least.
She raced into her quarters and grabbed the freshly laundered skinsuit (still in its plastic wrappings from the in-house laundry) off her desk, then began running down the brightly lit hallways, screaming "SCRAMBLE SCRAMBLE SCRAMBLE!" at the top of her lungs.
Everyone else in the halls immediately pressed themselves against the wall as she ran past. One hapless flunky carrying a tray of coffee and snacks failed to do so and was blasted through like a twelve-year old encountering a linebacker.
Someone yelled, "GO GITTUM, FANGIRL!" as she ran past, and Lynisha grinned.

SCRAMBLE ORDER
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY:
Pilot Lynisha Taylor to move to READY ONE Status at the earliest possible opportunity.
UHEC K3-297 ("Exclamation Point!") to be loaded onto C-779 Kingfisher transport at earliest possible opportunity.
Further information forthcoming under Code Word Flamberge.
Mission Briefing will be carried out in transit.

ELSEWHERE…
Rule number one of combat: Infantry is the Queen of Battle.
Rule number two of combat: Artillery is the King of the Battlefield.
Rule number three of combat: Remember what the King does to the Queen.
Landon felt the concussion of nearby explosions rattle his body as the artillery shells exploded all around him, cracking his already damaged White Suit. The bloody and broken remnants of Strike Team Scarlet Vanguard lay slumped against the mildewed walls of the abandoned World War II-era bunker. His entire world was shuddering at the roaring of eighty cylinders of diesel engine powering over 1,100 tons of steel.
He glanced up through the shattered machine gun port and saw the tank plowing through an entire grove of thirty-foot tall oak trees on its way to crush yet another concrete fortification under its gargantuan treads.
No, he thought to himself. This was not a tank. This was the fever dream of an insane Nazi weapons designer brought to life. This was Adolf Hitler's massive ego finding a physical manifestation that could overcompensate for his alleged single testicle. This was a nightmare. This was death and fury given form.
The Landkreuzer P.1000 turned its twin 280mm cannons onto a ruined fortification and belched fire. Half the hillside exploded into green flame as a gigantic green flaming skull, wearing the cap and totenkopf of an SS officer, floated above the enormous land battleship.
"HEIL HITLER!" the ghost of Michael Wittmann roared. "Es lebe das heilige Deutschland!"

"… The enemy is a Nazi ghost tank?" Lynisha asked, as she climbed into the saddle of her Orange Suit.
"Technically, it's a Nazi ghost that has invaded a Russian surplus arms depot and converted the decommissioned tanks into a spectral model of a theoretical Nazi superweapon that was designed but never built," the engineer said.
Glee!

The Kingfisher dropped her from 30,000 feet over the smoldering forest, where the remaining members of Strike Team Scarlet Vanguard were making their last stand behind burning concrete and rubble. A few moments later, the air-ram parachute deployed with a loud THOOMP and a spine-compressing deceleration.
Her fingers brushed the touch screen of the iPod she'd mounted on the inside of her cramped pilot's compartment. She considered DragonForce, flirted briefly with Iron Maiden, was even about to choose Mastadon or Evanescence.
But in the end, there was really only one choice she could make.
As the fifteen-ton Ultra-Heavy Engagement Chassis descended through the air towards the battlefield, the sound of a single bugle playing a cavalry call could be heard echoing throughout the battlefield.
And then, just as UHEC K3-297 ("Exclamation Point!") crunched into the earth with all the force of a descending god, the music suddenly transitioned into an extremely unmartial boogie-woogie beat.
He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way…

"Oh God, it's Fangirl," Landon groaned.

"Better than Sex."
It was the kind of phrase that people threw around jokingly. As if anyone would pass up the chance for some horizontal tango action for anything else, right?
Well, Lynisha Taylor could honestly say that sex was overrated. Sex was awkward. Sex made you feel vulnerable. Sex was weird and dirty and involved bodily fluids and messy sheets. Ick!
Now, riding a UHEC, on the other hand? That was like being a God. That was like being Artemis and Athena and Hecate and all three fucking Furies all bound up into a steel-plated package.
Riding a UHEC was the furthest thing from "vulnerable" that a human being could ever feel.
She hit her assault jets just as she hit ground, and the ten-foot tall metal beast wrapped around her five-foot-two flesh-and-blood body surged forward like a charging tiger. BANSHEE was flashing a sequence of images intended to shock and awe the enemy: Allied ships coming ashore at Normandy. American factories churning out a B-17 bomber every ninety seconds. The 101st Airborne storming the Eagle's Nest at Berchtesgarden. Audie Fucking Murphy.
Meanwhile, the Andrews Sisters continued to sing.
They sang as she smashed a three-ton fist into a tank a hundred times bigger than she was.
They sang as she ripped her wrist-mounted piledrivers into the seven-foot wide bogies, smashing them off their axles and dislocating the treads.
They sang as she leaped out of the way of a half-dozen roaring machine guns, tracing a high arc in the air that brought her screaming down towards the massive gun turret, ready to deliver the killing blow.
They sang as the gigantic guns swiveled around impossibly fast and fired a 300 kg armor-piercing shell directly into her chest.
The cannon went WHUMP and her suit went CRUNCH and Lynisha went "FUCK!" and the entire package went sailing off towards the horizon like an errant foul ball.

Well. So much for the cavalry.
Landon put down his rifle. It was out of ammo anyway (not that it would do any good against that thing bearing down on his bunker.) He took one last look around the bunker at his valiant, doomed men, and dialed close air support on his suit's comm.
"Red Six here. Orange Asset is KIA. Requesting Broken Arrow. Repeat. Broken Arrow."
A brief moment of silence, broken only by the moaning of a wounded man. "Say again, Red Six?"
Landon grimaced. Figured. Even in his last moments, CAS was as dense as fucking rocks. "Red Six, Orange Asset KIA, Broken Arrow," he growled.
Another brief moment of silence. "Uhhh… Red Six? I'm reading Orange Asset re-entering your battlespace at speed," the CAS guy said.
"What!?"
It was then that Landon heard the distinctive opening riff of…
… no.
Not that song.
Anything but THAT SONG.
"GODDAMN IT, FANGIRL!" he shouted.

In the end, there were two things that saved Lynisha's life.
The first thing was that the Ultra-Heavy Engagement Chassis included a piece of black box TanGenTial technology called the Inertial Nullifier, which basically reduced the effective mass of the suit at certain times. It was extremely useful for, say, walking across the street without tearing the asphalt into bits with the ground pressure of a fifteen-ton suit of armor.
Lynisha was hit in the air, while on her upward rise, while the Inertial Nullifier was at full power.
The effect was rather like a baseball being thrown at a sheet on a laundry line. Rather than smashing through her body (like a baseball thrown at a vase), it instead launched her into the air, keeping most of its kinetic energy to itself.
The second thing that saved Lynisha's life was that she got hit at a high enough angle to avoid being slammed into a mountainside. And that the 280mm shell had an almost one minute travel time at maximum distance: enough time to clear her head from the blackout caused by the massive acceleration and regain her bearings while tumbling through the sky.
Not that she got away scot free. She was certain that her sternum was cracked. Her ribs were probably broken. And there was an unexploded armor-piercing shell embedded in her chestplate.
Lynisha got pissed.
This asshole thought he could come into her house with his SIEG HEILs and Hugo Boss uniforms and goose stepping and Final Solution?
Fuck that shit.
This was AMERICA!
(… okay, it wasn't really AMERICA!, it was the middle of Siberia, but AMERICA! was a state of mind, not so much a physical place, and Lynisha was as AMERICAN! as they came.)
She wrenched the unexploded shell from her chest, grabbed it in both hands, locked her limbs in place. She keyed up a secret BANSHEE program: one of many she had prepared on the off-chance that she might one day find a situation where they might be useful.
She positioned herself directly above the tank, where its big-ass guns couldn't track her. She clutched the basketball-sized shell in her armored hands — the instrument of her vengeance.
She fell like a meteor, blaring the battle tune of her generation through her loudspeakers, screaming "FUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!" all the way down, as the BANSHEE system kicked in.

And the Quad City DJs sang.
They sang while UHEC K3-297 ("Exclamation Point!") descended from on high.
They sang while the Nazi supertank opened fire with all of its turrets in a desperate attempt to stop its death.
They sang while the ghost of Michael Wittmann screamed "WAS IST DAS!?" in confusion and horror at the bizarre specter it beheld.
They sang as an Ultra-Heavy Engagement Chassis, hidden inside a fifteen-foot hologram of Michael Jordan, slam-dunked an artillery shell through the turret of a possessed P.1000 Ratte Landkreuzer.

… regarding the last point on your memo: your request to discipline Agent Taylor for "unprofessional behavior" is denied.
Agent Taylor's profession is to wait for months at a time, maintaining maximum readiness for the day that we ask her to climb into a mecha-suit and punch eldritch abominations in the face.
If you can tell me how a woman with that job description is supposed to act, I'll take your request a little more seriously.
- Assistant Director "Marimba"
Western American Branch
United Nations Global Occult Coalition

The mess hall erupted into cheers as Lynisha entered, leaning heavily on her crutch.
She gave them a Miss America grin and pumped her fist as the rest of Strike Team Quadruple Niner erupted into a rousing chorus of, "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow."
Cookie brought her a tray with a Medium Rare ribeye steak, scrambled eggs, and toast. She basked in the praise as the big screen on the side of the mess hall played and replayed her battle against the Nazi tank. She carefully cut a piece off the steak and took a bite, chewing slowly, savoring the taste.
Best steak ever!

"Sequence"
« Diplomacy | Return to GOC Hub | Scramble Order »


My sister, my host, kept me hostage.

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Anabasis The Frail
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

Let me tell you about my life, just a short while ago.
There's a point in time in everyone's life where they are not free. Whether through fault of their own or not, they endure being dependent on another, becoming a burden. The host and their burden. The host can be sympathetic and the host can be cruel and arbitrary. It's a fine art, however. Too much and the burden will break free, finding support in the arms of others, and the host will fall to the strong arm of the law.
Up until a short while ago, I lived with my sister. She was the host, and I was the burden. And she hated it. She hated me because she loved me, and you cannot hate something you do not care about.
My sister is smarter than me. She is clever, sharp, and brutally efficient. My sister, my host, kept me hostage.
I had a job, low-paying. No way I could afford to live on my own. For about an hour or two each day, I'd have her place to myself. For an hour or two I had peace and tranquility and safety. When she came, what did she have to say?
"Hi, honey! How was your day?"
"Enjoying yourself, idiot?"
"Get the fuck over here and get your fucking shoes off of my fucking rug"
"You know how much I love you, Rhiannon, right?"
"Don't even talk to me."
The answer is all of them. All and none. If it were just abuse and torment, maybe, maybe, maybe you'd be able to endure. Adapt, expect it, prepare yourself accordingly. You can never prepare yourself with this Host. There was no pattern, no way to gird yourself.
On good days, it's obvious right away. "You stupid ignorant fuck!" It begins. On bad days, you have to look hard for it.
You can't let yourself be seen, whilst you spy on your own sister, watching how she moves and touches things. Are her hands shakin'? Is her jaw taut? Is she hissin' and sighin'? Is she slammin' doors just a pinch too hard? Do her footsteps stomp on the wood floor just a bit too loud?
Then, at the very least, you've got enough "intel" to prepare yourself accordingly. Make sure you've got a good reason to not be near her. Television's in the main room, no luck there! Lock on your bedroom is a joke; anyone with a strong grip can twist the knob and pop open the door in a jiffy. "Why the fuck are you sitting in here playing games? Get the fuck up and help me."
Then comes the dance. You have to do it just right, if you don't want your head bitten off. Don't you dare be as profane as she, that'll get her dander up. You can't say nothin' to her, that infuriates her worse-in' than cursin'.
Too sweet? She'll eat you by your own light.
Too sassy? She'll disembowel you with her dagger-like tongue.
Too sunny? She'll bury you.
Too somber? She'll cook you and eat you and vomit you back out.
"Hello, sister of mine. I will help you as you wish."
"Who the fuck you think you're talking to, you smart-ass fucking cunt? You think you're cute talking like a fucking retard? You want me to treat you like a fucking retard?"
Then comes supper. God help you there; it's the same song and dance, but this time she's armed.
No conversation? ""Great company you've been." Cold, venomous snark.
Complain about your day? "What do you even do? You barely fucking work as it is, and you're bitching to me because your boss kindly reminds you how to do your job better without fucking it all up and down like you used to do?"
Rave about your day? "That's so sweet; I had to put up with the stresses and pressures of a real job. How's it feel knowing you get paid to sit in a chair and do shit-all on a computer for five hours a day?"
Weather's been nice, hasn't it? "You'd fucking know, you'd never set foot out of the house if not for your joke of a job."
Sometimes a tongue-lashin' is all you get. Sometimes she'll scoop up her plate and slam it against a wall. Sometimes she'll snatch up your plate and slam it on a wall. The poor plates suffer regardless; she dumps them in the sink and lets drop the utensils. Such a clatter, you'd think she was practicin' for a band audition. There ain't a dish in the house that isn't chipped, cracked, dirtied or uglied in some way.
By the end of the day, you've got sanctuary; she spends a good hour or two workin'. Then its time to sit in bed and watch TV until the day's fatigue takes hold and she passes out. She's a light sleeper. Damn you if your tiny little footsteps make the floor creak and you wake her up.
How do you escape? Get her while she's vulnerable? "We need to talk." Words are exchanged. She's calm, pleasant even. She breaks down and cries.
"You can't leave, Rhiannon. Momma told me, just before she died; momma made me promise to keep you safe. 'Look after your sister, always. Always keep her safe. Never let her go.' I will keep you safe."
How do you turn down the tears of your skin and bone and flesh and blood? You give in and think, maybe this time. Maybe this time… what?
Maybe she'll change? Maybe it'll be different?
You're smarter than that. You know it. The real reason is you can't afford not to. The mental and emotional degradations are a luxury next to physical deprivation that awaits you, pretty little girl livin' on the streets.
How did this cycle of torment and abuse end?
I found you. You, who came to me. You, who listened. You, who decided that I mattered and that I should be kept safe, not because of an obligation forced upon you by blood or oath, but because of a unifying belief in the goodness of mankind and the richness of a world in which all men and women of all types and stripes, races, sexes, ethnicities, religions, decide that they all matter. Not because of an obligation forced upon them by species, but because they choose to accept all as family.

"You fucking believe this? I can't fucking believe this." Priscilla Locke kept the page steady, not wanting to tear it up in a petty show of emotion. That didn't stop her hand from trembling.
"It might not be her words" Sharpe offered, "But it's definitely her style…"
"You think she has some kind of point? That any of the fucking… that anything written here is fucking true?"
Sharpe's eyes darted over to the wall, where a wet smear marked where Locke had flung a tray of food in rage. They were standing just beside the porch leading up to the entrance of the school. Locke caught her gaze, jaw clenching.
"Say it."
Sharpe shrugged, "You did just slam your tray of food on a wall."
"You're fucking saying —"
Sharpe put her hand on Priss's head, pressing to keep her back while trying to disarm her with a smile, "I'm saying you've got a bit of an anger problem, and it's just like a dirtball like her to exploit someone's flaws for a hit-job like this."
Priss's nostrils flared as she turned away, running her hands through her hair to calm herself, "It's true, though."
"Hmm?"
"You know how she is. She never lies for the sake of lying. Everything she says and does has some manner of truth mixed into it. And when she's out to get you, she digs her claws into you and doesn't stop until she's clutching two heaping handfuls of meat. I should have taken the rest of her teeth when I had the chance."
"Dude, she's your sister."
Priss turned and glared at Sharpe, hands trembling again, "Wasn't it you who said blood doesn't matter a damn? That 'psychopaths like her' exploit family connections to keep people suffering?"
Sharpe stepped back, "Yeah but like, there's a limit."
"To what?"
"To how long you let her keep fucking herself up. You can't keep watching her go on while you do nothing. I mean, what about what she said about your mom? Was that part true?"
"Yes." Priss said flatly.
"Well, like… she's in serious fucking shit now. I mean, you don't have to live with her or put up with her or anything, but her life's in danger. If the feds — fuck, if anyone not buying her bullshit finds her, they'll fucking kill her and send her head to Tallahassee. Or, hell, straight to Washington. She's a terrorist, isn't she now?"
Priss wanted to smack her. She knew Sharpe was physically stronger, and could handle it. Emotionally, she was frail as a kitten. Another outburst from Priss directed at her and she'd collapse.
"Have any agents come to see you?" Sharpe squirmed uncomfortably as she spoke, "About her? Feds or… or otherwise?"
Priss blinked and furrowed her brow, "No. I'd completely forgotten. I haven't heard shit from anyone."
"I have."
"Really? What'd they ask?"
Sharpe squirmed uncomfortably, and bit her lower lip, "I'm not allowed to discuss it. It's…"
"Was it anything about me?" Priss regretted the dumb question as soon as she asked it.
"I can't say." Sharpe winced, something in her tone seeming to imply that they did indeed discuss Priscilla Locke with her.
Priss grit her teeth, turned and went back inside. It was early in the day, yet the halls were empty. The usual din of noisy children emanating from each classroom was replaced by muted, stentorian voices, identical from each room, likely from television sets.
The same firm, steady voice emanated more clearly from a single open door. Priss briefly peered inside, seeing people huddled around the television set. It was the news. Some manner of horror in China.
Not my problem. She kept walking, down to the cramped basement she was increasingly spending her life inside. More voices awaited her inside.
"It's getting worse with her, and honestly if I don't get my transfer accepted, I'm just going to stop showing up. I've got enough friends around here."
Priss slithered in, seeing Edgars look her way with a cold fixed glare. She smiled nastily, "Want me to turn around so you can keep talking shit behind my back?"
Edgars shook his head, "No, Locke, now that you're here, I can talk shit to your face."
"What the fuck is your problem?" Priss shouted.
"This right here. Your insane outbursts, constantly yelling at people or picking fights with people, like Marlowe. And whatever the fuck you did to your sister, now her band of morons is stirring up shit with us because you couldn't keep your mouth shut about the Anabasis around her. You're nothing but a liability," Edgars turned from her, heading over to fetch his gloves, "I'm done."
Priss blinked, feeling her chest crushing down on her. She could hardly breathe, and couldn't think of anything to say in response. A hot burst of rage surged through her, and she took a step towards him, fingers curling in anticipation, wanting to strangle him.
Sandy was there — Priss hadn't even noticed her. She was blushing, caught in the fray, with the tall, willowy redhead blocking the only way out. Priss felt her face redden in shame. Flustered, she cried out, "Who you callin' a liability, liability?"
Edgars glanced at her as if she'd just violently soiled herself, "What does that even mean? Is that some kind of childish comeback like 'I know you are but what am I'?"
"I… yeah." Priss grit her teeth.
"Right. I'm out." Edgars moved towards her, and she clumsily moved aside, letting him leave. "This isn't a damn daycare," he yelled out from the stairwell, voice reverberating as it faded, "I'm not going to babysit an overgrown manchild freak." That just left Priss and Sandy to stare at each other.
"What did he mean about my sister?" Priss murmured.
Sandy bit her lower lip, and stepped over towards Locke. In her hands was a crumpled sheet of bright pink paper, the source of her conversation with Edgars before Priss came in. Priss tugged the end of the paper, prying it open just enough to read. It was the same rambling message Sharpe had shown her outside, allegedly from Rhiannon Locke. At the bottom was a message in large black letters, looking off-center, as if added later:
INDULGE YOUR SINS BEFORE THE PURGE
ANABASIS WILL SAVE US ALL

The bacterium was flying. Soaring through the air. It had multiplied rapidly, and flattened itself out, stretching to become bigger and wider.
It could see now it was red. Everything was red. All of them.
Heat and light sent them up. Now they were coming down. The air pushed back, but gravity would eventually win. It always did.
Grass was somewhere below. It knew this. All of them did. Grass and dirt and rock and metal and life.
Somehow it knew. It knew all about life. How to find it, how to touch it, how to get inside of it and lovingly merge with it. Life was warm, and the bacterium would make it warmer. Life would itch and twitch and thrash, as it burned to death from the inside. The bacterium would burn too. It knew this. All of them knew.
The bacteria started to move as one, in the direction of life.

The way the reddish haze hung over Hong Gai was a vision of hell. Po-Yuan Wang could think of no better description as he stepped off the truck with the rest of the emergency responders. They had stopped on an intersection, with the northern road forking up ahead, leading in to a high-end neighborhood which was now on fire. The occupying Qing army had arrived first, and were handling the rush of people fleeing the inferno.
Wang stiffened and gasped as he saw figures emerge from the smoke in front of the soldiers. They were skinny, wretched things, moving jerkily like zombies. Some of them were smoking, having walked through fire, their clothes and skin burning away, pustules swelling on their flesh, some bursting and weeping sickly yellow. Like zombies, they threw themselves at the soldiers. Unlike zombies, they didn't claw or bite; they clutched at arms and legs and begged for help.
Heaven help me. He grimaced, but continued to watch.
One of them, face intact and drenched in sweat, was close enough for him to smell. Like burning meat on a barbecue. Wang wretched, and jerked his head away, ashamed at his reaction. The sight and smell horrified him, and for a moment he saw not a man in blistering, mind-numbing pain, but a monster. He forced himself to look, even as his throat pressed and he continued to wretch and gag.
The emergency workers were dressed in full hazmat suits with oxygen tanks. The soldiers wore gas masks, and tucked their sleeves into their socks and gloves. Who could say if that helped.
A stocky woman waddled up to him. Despite his heaving, he extended a hand and stepped out towards her. As soon as he touched her hand, she dropped to the ground, shivering and twitching madly. He pulled her up to her feet, and discovered she was dead. Her face was caked in soot and sweat, but despite her incessant twitching, she was lifeless.
"Wang! Help me, please!" A voice called out behind him. It was Han Songlei. He and another worker were trying to cram two thrashing bodies onto a single stretcher. Another naked figure was clutching the second worker, gasping dryly for water as he glistened with moisture.
"Wang, take him!" Songlei took the man's hand and pulled him over to Wang. He stank of shit and smoke. Wang couldn't help himself; he vomited in his mouth, and forcibly swallowed it back down.
"Water." The dying man croaked at him.
Wang heaved the man up to his feet, and started to walk him towards the truck, "Come with me, I will help. What's your name?"
"Water." The man gagged. Then he shut his eyes and went limp.
"You, in the suit!" A soldier was gesticulating at Wang. He gaped helplessly at him, holding the dead man like a sack of wheat in his arms. The soldier kept shouting at him, and Wang let the dead man drop and rushed over to him.
"We need another man, come with me." The soldier patted Wang on the shoulder, and pointed to a soldier, two naked bodies draped across his shoulders. Another blackened figure was clutching the man's arm, threatening to bring everyone down on top of him.
He grabbed the man and pulled him away from the soldier. The man began to shriek, flailing his arms and legs in front of him and screaming, "It burns! I'm burning!"
Wang looked over the man. He was drenched in sweat, soot, and grime, but he appeared unhurt. Veins bulged in the man's arms and legs, and he trembled violently as Wang held him steady.
"Help me, please!" The man grabbed Wang's suit, digging his fingers into the slits of his gasmask, wrenching in an attempt to rip off the mask. Wang yelped and began to push at the man. The man suddenly tensed and let go, falling to the ground. Wang looked up and saw the soldier who had gestured to him holding a pistol in hand.
"You killed him!"
The soldier's eyes weren't visible through the mask, but his voice was high and tight, "He was trying to kill you." He muttered something after that.
"What?" Wang yelled.
"I'm following orders!"
"What orders?" Wang felt himself becoming hysterical. Were they going to exterminate everyone they came across? Why call in the emergency workers and try to rescue the victims? Would he be killed as well?
"We kill anyone trying to infect others." He waved his pistol over to a pile of bodies. Some were burned beyond recognition, some missing limbs, even heads. All of them were moving, writhing and twitching like dying insects.
Wang looked down at the man the soldier had shot. He was moving as well, even as his life's blood spewed from his mouth and through the hole in his back.
Wang didn't know what to say, and he continued to stare at him.
The soldier went back to his work.
As Wang returned to his group, more trucks were rolling up. Teams came with stretchers, foldable chairs and tables to set up an emergency triage area close to the trucks. Wang swallowed down another wet heave and hurried back to work.

The Foundation's assets in Southeast Asia were uncharacteristically slow to respond following the "Red Cloud" engulfing northern Dai Viet and seeping into Guangdong province, China. The precious few interactions between the Foundation and the Jinyiwei had been downright hostile. The Jinyiwei contacting the Foundation directly without a prisoner to exchange just didn't happen.
50 minutes after Site-141 sent a request to Southeast Asia for samples of the "Red Cloud" and information on the ground situation, the Qing Empire's Jinyiwei secret police responded in full. "Fix this mess undoubtedly started by your government."
The analyses were dry and technical. Very little Dr. Marlowe could comprehend. The cool, detached tone of such write-ups always felt excessive to her. This one in particular belied the sense of stress and tension that tinged every word Drs. Alton and Kohn jabbered at one another across from her desk, voices amplified by the small office's acoustics.
"We've seen this before." Kohn gave a token glance to the sheaf of papers before him, but he'd already gone through it enough to know the answer, "The exact same bacterial strain taken from soil samples IT-334 and 335. Between IT-348 and 400, the genetic similarities fade, but they're definitely related."
Nothing either man said was radically different from what was already in the report. Marlowe idly tapped the sheaf of papers before her. "Short answer is…"
"Short answer is this could've been engineered by someone here simultaneous with their alternate-universe counterparts from 334, 335 and so on."
"Not bloody likely." Alton put in, "The bacteria's cellular reproductive cycle is too fast. It won't last more than ten or fifteen years, and the atmospheric conditions on Earth aren't suitable for this kind of bacterium to grow this large — too much oxygen, it'd kill it."
"Meaning it came from one of these other 'iterations' found via Anabasis."
"Right." Alton put in, leaning forward anxiously. He'd figured it out; he just wanted her to say it aloud and validate him.
"Meaning there's other Anabasis devices out there."
"As of now, that's our working assumption. May or may not be the same kind of device, but the function is the same."
Marlowe put a hand to her head, and folded back the report, glancing at the colored paper at the very bottom. ANABASIS WILL SAVE US ALL.
"Fucking Locke." Marlowe hissed to herself, "It always comes back to Priscilla Fucking Locke."

Edgars fumed as he stormed down the hall, making his way towards the exit. Part of him wanted to stop, turn around, and go back to the little room to butt heads with that bitch Locke again. Instead he nearly bumped headfirst into Dr. Marlowe, emerging from her office.
"What are you doing, Mr. Edgars?" She asked cooly.
He clenched his jaw, and tried not to meet her calm gaze, "Nothing. Just venting."
"It's Locke." She said, not inquiringly.
"Isn't it always?" He sneered, "I mean, that fucking … I can't even say bitch because that /thing/ isn't a—"
"Mr. Edgars."
He looked down at her and blinked, feeling an odd chill go through him. Had Dr. Marlowe always been here every day? Why would a doctor need to remain on-site with a Safe-class anomaly undergoing testing?
"Breathe…" She said.
He furrowed his brow as she reached out to grasp his shoulders. He thought he saw the door open behind her, people filing out, but they were alone out in the hall.
"…us in…"
He drew in a sharp breath, and started to panic. His lungs were nearly empty. He tried to breathe again, and again felt out of breath.
"…deeply…"
He stopped, and suddenly air rushed into him, lovingly filling his depleted lungs, the air cool and crisp. His tongue felt warm, as if he'd bitten through and drawn blood. But he tasted nothing. He felt nothing.
"…slowly…"
"Dr. Marlowe…"
"Breathe…" She whispered again, "…us in… deeply…"
He blinked and stared at her for a long moment, confusion. Marlowe's expression shifted to match his.
"What are you doing, Mr. Edgars?"
He blinked again, air gently escaping his lips, "Nothing. Just venting."
"It's Locke." She said, not inquiringly.
"Isn't it always?" He sneered.
Marlowe smiled and brushed past him without another word, going down the hall and taking a right at the corner. Edgars nodded absently, and continued down the hall. At the corner, he took a right and grunted, before turning back around to the left, "Bunch of freaks in this damn place."

« Save Her From Herself | The Frail | Fear, Guilt, Anxiety »
Anabasis Hub


Site-12, Monday Morning. 4:00. January 13th, 2025.
Containment area of SCP-52000
Researcher Boyd closed the hatch behind him, and turned to face the containment vault's occupant. Boyd thought he looked like an old fashioned tramp, complete with bindle and permanent five o'clock shadow. But yesterday he'd looked like a wino, and the day before a washed-up boxer. This look wasn't new.
Boyd sat down across from the entity, and pulled an empty manila envelope out of his jacket. "They told me that you wanted to talk."
SCP-52000 pulled up itself up to the table, and grinned a toothy smile. "Ahyup. You've all been gettin' anxious about the dreamer, right?"
"Perhaps." Boyd turned the envelope over in his hands. "What do you know about it?"
SCP-52000 let out a long sigh, and leaned back in his chair. "Boy, you eggheads sure get to the point quick. If I'm going to tell you that, I'll need to let you know how the world got started out."
Boyd frowned. SCP-52000 was known for spinning stories to distract from having to answer questions. Usually, it was best to play along until it could be coerced into giving a definite answer.
"Fine. But be quick about it, we don't have all week."
SCP-52000 chuckled. "You don't know how right you are, chuck."
He pulled a crumbled cigarette from his jacket, and placed it in his mouth. "Okay, okay… so the first thing that happened, was we had the two forces of the universe. Greeks had it on point, y'know? It was the music, and the dreams."
Boyd nodded, drumming his fingers on his thigh beneath the table.
"So's they banged, y'know, and they made the world. But, they didn't fill in all the space, because you can't fill in nothing forever. There's a little bit left over from the days gone by."
Boyd nodded, and pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket, pretending to take note of what SCP-52000 was saying.
"So that's why this third rock from fun has all the craziness pulled to it like that shit's on rails. It's a storage depot for the unknowable. Would've worked like a breeze if you guys hadn't busted up the lock."
"It was more like a jar."
"Whatever, chuck. That's just how you made the smoker's stupid dream witchery true. When those two kids get together, nothing's gonna be able to stop them. Not even flipping things around one more time."
"I don't understand a word you're saying." Boyd put the notebook away, and stood up. "If you don't have anything else to add to your story, I think we're done."
SCP-52000 held out a hand. "Wait, sit down a second. There is something I want to give you."
Boyd stopped at the hatch. "What?"
SCP-52000 reached into its own jacket, and pulled out the manila envelope. "Here's what a few people have said."
The envelope was tossed, picked up, examined, and stuffed into a pocket.
Boyd exited the hatch, locking it behind him. Briskly, he set off towards the Records and Information wing, for debriefing and transcription of the interview.
WHAT A FEW PEOPLE HAVE SAID

Unusual Incidents Unit

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Initial Report
Suspect Description/Capabilities
Evidence
Bureau Record

Electronic copy below as per Federal Records Act

UIU File 1976-34: Case File Pluto's Front Door
Summary: Possible portal or slate that causes immediate death upon contact.

Name: Object of Note - Black Portal
Irregularity Cross-reference: destructive, transport?, immobile, locale
Physical Description: A cave in North Dakota, which has an entrance in the form of a flat, non-reflective black wall. Wall is immobile, and does not respond to provocation. Causes immediate death on contact.

Sex
Height
Weight/Build
Race
Hair
Eyes
Identifying Attributes

N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A

Capabilities: Doesn't move, or take any initiative. When touched, causes objects and persons to be pulled into it, and disappear.
Purpose/Motive: Possibly a trap, naturally-occurring anomaly, or a misunderstood aspect of nature.
Modus Operandi: N/A
Behavior: No behavior. Object not believed to be living.

A: Object: No evidence related to case 1976-34 has been located other than the object itself:

Current Status: Currently noted, with light guards. Due to remoteness of location, chances of being discovered are slim.
Crimes: Not applicable.
Sentencing: Not applicable.
History of UIU Action: Discovered in 1976, by a US geological survey. Turned over to the UIU shortly thereafter, and secured since then. Very little action has taken place since then, other than the tragic loss of Agent Brom to the object when he accidentally came in contact with it while doing field work at the location.

Doctor Wondertainment

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DEAR MISTER RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
We regret to inform you that your toy proposal has been rejected, for failing to meet the following criteria:

Deadly to adults, animals, children, and pre-children. This violates the Wondertainment Super-Safety guarantee.

Fun factor, after vigorous testing, has rated at 0.0.

Does not have market viability for future additions or innovations, due to being 100% fatal to the consumer.

Unpackageable.

Thank you for your interest in DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT and we hope to see you innovating again soon!

The Factory

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SHIPPING ORDER: 10,000. Bulk distribution.
PAYMENT: PAID IN FULL, PRODUCT NOT DELIVERED.
ACTION: Relationship with distributor discontinued.

Prometheus Labs

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GRANT REQUEST FOR LOCATION OF HIGH-VALUE ENTITY IN SPACE
PROBLEM
The Prometheus Labs physics lab has proven the existence of an object which could be used to dispose of any type of matter harmlessly, at little to no cost past the initial investment to find the object.
SOLUTION
In order to locate it, the Prometheus labs team would need additional funding to dedicate most of their mathematicians to this purpose.
BUSINESS CASE
Once located, Prometheus Labs will save massively on the disposal of high-risk materials that would otherwise need special handling procedures in order to nullify or put out of sight and mind.
USE OF FUNDING
Currently, the only need for funding is the researcher salaries to give them the time to find a more precise location of this object they have only just proven to exist. Further costs can be estimated once the object is located.
KNOWN ISSUES
It may not be possible to reach and return the object within the lifetime of any current employees of the Prometheus Labs corporation.

The Chaos Insurgency

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DeCIRO Catalogue Number: SC-55/2024
Document Type: Step Compilation
Dates Received: 09-18-1955 through 09-18-2024
Operation Status: Open
Foreword: This object is to never come into the hands of the Insurgency. All steps to secure Site-12, the Foundation location of the object, are critical to maintain. These security procedures are to be kept secret from the SCP Foundation.
Hereafter we of Delta Command document the Steps of the Plan as transcribed by the Engineer of the Chaos Insurgency.
1. STEP [55/6]
Security parameters, such as entrenching in the surrounding countryside, have been enacted. Anomalous countermeasures have been placed in the uninhabited areas surrounding Site-12, which, due to its remote location, is not accessed or widely known by persons outside the Foundation and Insurgency. Further measures to be taken as the situation around Site-12 changes.
2. STEP [24/88]
The Foundation appears to be losing control of some of their frontier sites, due to the remoteness of their location and the containment difficulties suffered by that organization over the years. Efforts must be taken to preserve the security of Site-12, including by capturing the Site, intact, and handing it over to another group which has more stability, such as the Global Occult Coalition.

Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting

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You want us to add what to the act?
- W.G

Report on Groups Of Interest "HI" "COTBG" "5"

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MEMORANDUM TO SITE DIRECTOR STONE
We currently believe that the research object has been written about in the scripture for various religious groups dealing with paranormal activity.
They refer to it unanimously in terminology that describe it as "empty" and at other times like a portal to their underworlds, or similar theological concepts. Descriptions generally refer to it as all black, and hostile.
The similarities to the research objects are obvious. As such, we should take precaution against any word of this entity being held, as it may incur an attack by these organizations.
Therefore, we recommend that the current in-construction Site-12 be selected as the location for the entity, due to its remote location and high security.
Colonel Ritts
American Secure Containment Initiative

Are We Cool Yet?

– hide block

Title: Much Ado About Nothing
Material Requirements: The piece itself is singular, having been created by the artist and using a method which has not been disclosed, for artistic reasons. It is unique, and the artist does not recommend attempting to replicate it.
Abstract: A black star composed of a non-reflective, anomalous material. When touched, pulls the user into an undisclosed location in deep space. The person is not recoverable, so viewers are recommended to bring secondary entities if they wish to view the contact-making portion of the piece. Should be displayed behind glass, on a white pedestal with a small porthole to allow for direct contact with the object.
Intent: The piece was created as a commentary on how really and totally alone we are in this universe. You can find yourself in any location out there in the cosmos, and you're not going to catch a ride. You'll be by yourself, until you die. That's what awaits us up there.
Note: I can't really display this thing anymore. It's cool, but nobody really seems to want to look at it. Gonna store it till we can find a use for it.

...

– hide block

Shadow Child

Aliases - Shadow Person, Chip, Corpo, Nobody

note: doesn't seem to be no body. More no thing.

Summary - A being repelled by light,

and made of shadows. Very dangerous.

Consumes everything in path.

Threat - High. Difficult to avoid all shadows

Interest - Possible attempt to flsh me out:

 1) Follows, tracks, and finds me with alarming regularity

 2) No constant physical form.

 3) Does not live

 4) Older than the oldish dirt

I can't explain it. Perhaps its a case

of the town not being big enough for 2.

This thing(s) is/are to be avoided and

help sought out to avoid it.

 Related?^

Foundation or other collector may be able to

Keep it at bay or remove it, thing is

very old, may have evolved past destructibility

Location - Unknown. Following me, so it's close to me.

– hide block

Site-12, Sunday Evening. 6:00. January 19th, 2025.
Containment area of SCP-52000
"How did you get these documents?"
SCP-52000 leaned back, shaking his shackles. "You know, this isn't what I hoped you would think of them."
Boyd didn't respond, choosing instead to tap his pencil against the clipboard and raise a single eyebrow. None of the usual dodging of inquiry cat-and-mouse would be tolerated today.
"Man… I'm just trying to help you guys. You know that you're coming up on the number. You've got the child, but you don't understand it."
"What's there to understand?"
"It wants…. to turn the clock back. To suck up everything with the taint of the original flaw, the big glitch, that acts as your job security." SCP-52000 attempted to wipe his nose on his sleeve, but the chains didn't allow enough mobility. His face twisted as he suppressed a sneeze.
Boyd narrowed his eyes, and made a note. "How do you know? Why are you helping us? You could easily be trying to undermine us."
"I know because that's the whole reason I exist. I was made specifically for this moment, right here. For you to find me, and for me to help you out when the time came."
"Who sent you?"
"Every-frikin'-body that doesn't want to die when this thing starts knuckling down, dummy. There's a lot of vested interest in existing for a lot of people." SCP-52000 leaned forwards from backwards, and began to whisper. "And, off the record, you guys need the help."
"What do they know about the object?"
SCP-52000 groaned, and attempted to rub its brow. "Have you not been listening at all? Look. It's gonna change into something much, much closer to how it originally was. That's the deal. That's what you need to prepare for. When that starts, you'll need to play all your cards right to keep it from going back to how it likes things. Non-existent."
Boyd's brow creased slightly, as he took more notes. "So, if you're here to help, do you know what to do if it's starting?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, chuck. From my end, this is all she, he, and they wrote. Hope y'all don't die."

… Exiting file "Document 017-1
…
…
Signing off, Editor's Desk
…
…
Logging out, O5-7