"We're not the bad guys. All that about us using anomalies to destroy or take over the world, it's nonsense! The fact is, the deck is stacked against us. With so much out there that could destroy everything so easily, we're gonna lose sooner or later. We're trying to prevent that. We're trying to use the anomalies to break reality just enough to give us a fighting chance. The rules say "we have no hope", but we're gonna scratch that out, or white it out, or just write our own damn rule-book that says "Humanity Wins".
His speech finally finished, the scraggy-faced man slumped into an empty chair. Across from him, separated by a thick metal table, sat another. Both men were dressed in unmarked military uniforms. Both were young and in peak physical condition. Both had the sharp stare of one who had faced death. In fact, especially in the dark and featureless room, it may have been hard to tell the two apart.
The other man relaxed in his seat, hands folded in front of him. Throughout the entirety of the scraggy-faced man's speech, he had shown no outward reaction. Now he spoke, in a somewhat amused tone, "When I said that I needed a reason, Mr. Kaiden Reed, that's not exactly what I meant."
Kaiden reeled in surprise. "So, you listened to that whole thing for nothing? I was talking for like, fifteen minutes! Why didn't you stop me?"
The relaxed man smiled. "I actually thought it was rather interesting. I especially liked the boxing analogy. Humanity fighting against the anomalies is like an athlete against an impossible opponent? Rather poetic stuff, for a soldier."
"Oh. Well, thanks, I guess."
"In my line of work, it is always helpful to understand who people are. Comparing your organization to a boxer who attacks the referee in order to end the match before being defeated by a stronger opponent… Breaking the rules in order to avoid losing. It is an interesting perspective on the Chaos Insurgency…" at this, he nodded towards Kaiden, "and the people who support their cause."
Kaiden smiled, his expression beaming. After a moment, his face dropped. He stammered, "Don't tell me I told you something I shouldn't have. Am I going to get in trouble for this?"
The calm man laughed quietly. "You haven't been at this very long have you?"
Kaiden shook his head. "D-class, up until about three months ago. I just passed all the CI tests and became a full member last week."
He was answered with a nod. "You didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. No, if anything, your speech helped me understand you, and what sort of incentive you are willing to offer me."
"So, that's what you mean by a 'reason'. You're looking for some form of payment? I was under the impression that you types didn't really go for that sort of thing."
"Well, we don't. At least, not in the way that you're thinking. We prefer… other types of payment."
At this, Kaiden looked nonplussed. He quickly covered his expression with a false laugh. "Really? So, is this some sort of deal-with-the-devil type thing? Am I gonna have to give you my soul?"
It was the other's turn to laugh. "Not exactly. It's rather difficult to do anything useful with a complete soul anyway, and I've already collected more than enough to last me." After a brief pause to appreciate Kaiden's wide eyes and gaping frown, he continued, "I'm only joking, of course."
The two shared a bit more laughter, although Kaiden's was a touch higher pitch and breathy than usual.
"No, the type of payment I need is a bit more… quantifiable. Something more concrete than a 'soul', and something far less dramatic."
"Like?" Kaiden prompted.
"Well, I was quite fond of the passion you displayed earlier during your speech. I can accept that. Knowledge and memories are also helpful, if you are willing to part with those. However, that sort of thing is a bit trickier since I can only determine their value once you've already given them up."
For a minute, Kaiden was speechless. "You can really do that? Just take that stuff from me?"
Once again, his guest responded with a nod. "Well, it is a difficult thing to explain. When someone around me is the source of something, whether that is emotion or ideas or even appearance, I absorb a bit of that. Depending on circumstances, this sort of thing can be temporary or permanent."
"Wow. How did you end up like this?" Kaiden asked breathlessly.
The soldier's expression darkened. "To be honest, I'd rather not go into that. I couldn't really give you a satisfactory answer anyway."
"Oh, OK. Right. Weird anomalous nonsense?"
"Exactly as you say. Weird anomalous nonsense."
The two were silent for a moment, briefly considering their past troubles and the terrible hand that fate had dealt them. After the brief recollection, Kaiden broke the silence. "I really do care about the CI. I'm willing to give up a lot to help them out. But… My memories, my emotions… I don't really want to lose that kind of stuff forever."
"And you won't. This process will not be very different than how you naturally change over time. You forget old memories, but you will make new memories. You lose your old passions, but find other things to invest in. The only difference is that I might be able to make use of it, rather than these things just being lost."
"But why? Why do you want that kind of stuff?"
The man began to smile. "Because, Kaiden Reed of the Chaos Insurgency, I am not whole. You ask why I desire that as payment? Well, I suppose this simplest answer is this: Because I am a Nobody."

Days before the Chaos Insurgency was to raid Site-37, the entity known as Nobody infiltrated the base. Nobody contaminated the on-site water supply with an unknown red liquid and remained on site to ensure its distribution. According to Nobody, this contaminant would hinder Foundation personnel's ability to have a meaningful effect on their surroundings. If successful, this would effectively nullify Foundation efforts to resist insurgents.
The operation was a dramatic success for the Chaos Insurgency. At the end of the day, Kaiden and his team had left with twelve potential new recruits, one potentially useful anomaly, and a wealth of information about the Foundation's operations. More impressively, out of the thirty operatives that had participated in the mission, only two had been captured and one killed. The others were perhaps tired and injured, but alive and free.
Despite this overwhelming victory, Kaiden Reed didn't feel excited. On the ride back to base, he sat elbows on his knees and face in his hands. While the others sang and laughed and cheered, he was silent. He didn't feel happy. He didn't feel anything really. The events of the day had shaken him harder than he could have anticipated. During the raid, he had come across several unarmed researchers. Under order from his superiors, and threat of death if he didn't comply, he had shot them all.
He had once been so invested in the dream of the Insurgency that he would have been willing to give anything to help it. They had saved him from torture and death at the hands of the Foundation. Showed him the possibility that men could turn a stacked deck into their advantage. Spoke to him of the future where men could do more than just contain anomalies, but survive them. Succeed against them.
After what had happened, what he had been forced to do, he had begun to lose faith. Was the future preached by the Insurgency recruiters really achievable? Even if it was, did it really matter? Maybe the costs of victory were simply too great. Thinking back, one of the main reasons that Kaiden had chose to fight against the Foundation was because he felt that doing evil for the sake of the "big picture" was still wrong.
Now, the day's events had shown him that the Chaos Insurgency was just as capable of rationalizing their sins as the Foundation was. Though the two organizations were seeking different goals, they were both just as willing to take any means to achieve them. His idealism had been misplaced. He felt like a fool.
As the days wore on, Kaiden found it more and more difficult to justify supporting the cause. The idea of abandoning the crusade and settling down somewhere peaceful grew stronger and stronger.
Finally, the feeling grew too intense to be ignored. He waited, and when one night he saw his chance to escape, he left. He walked away, and left the anomalous world behind him.


It was that soft twilight hour. The sun had fallen beneath the sea, signaling the youth on the beach that the time was right. The bonfire was lit and the music played. They laughed and danced. Celebrating their life. Their living.
There was one who wasn't quite so animated. He sat on the beach, downing cheap alcohol. And though he participated, he was still somewhat to himself. Somewhat distant.
The truth was Jefferey Bright was upset. Jeff had recently learned that his significant other no longer thought of their relationship as significant. Jeff was angry at her. He felt betrayed. A bit of self-reflection, and Jeff would have realized that he was to blame for their distance. Still, he was young and foolish, and never had been much for self-reflection.
His attendance here had been an attempt to… well it had been an attempt to do something. Jeff had not actually planned this very well. He wasn't sure if his presence here was an attempt to win her back, find another girl, or something else entirely.
As it was, Jeff was not having much success executing his plan (if one could call his confused thoughts "plans"). The "significant" other had long left the party, failing to notice that Jeff was even present. And so now he sat, too distracted by thoughts of his former companion to fully involve himself in the revelry.
It was not long after the moon rose that Jeff was approached by a stranger. Like Jeff, this stranger was dressed in a T-shirt and swim trunks. Like Jeff, this stranger appeared to be another mid-twenties college-type. Like Jeff, he was drinking from a can of cheep beer.
"Hey, bro, you look like you need a drink." The smiling stranger tossed an unopened can to Jeff. "You're Jeff, right?"
Jeff looked up morosely, but accepted the can. "Yeah, how'd you know that?"
The stranger sat down, and took a deep swig from his drink. "Believe it or not, I worked with your dad a bit. Had an internship with the feds years back. Guessed who you were, you look just like him. Small world, huh?"
Jeff nodded. "Yeah. Guess so."
"We were some of the only guys that would eat at the cafeteria there, so we got to talking a lot. I remember he was always going on about this old car he was fixing up. You know whatever came of that?"
At that, Jeff perked up a bit. The nostalgia of childhood memories helped wash away his relationship troubles. The alcohol certainly helped as well. "Yeah, dad and I were working on that car for years. I think he might have finished it a while back. I dunno, I haven't really heard from him since I moved out here and he got promoted into Top Secret or whatever."
"I know what you mean. Hard enough to keep up with the family, and that Men in Black shit doesn't help, does it?"
"Yeah. Last I heard, he's working on some thing in Switzerland. You know, they won't even let me see him anymore. I'm only allowed to talk to him through emails. Been that way for years. And the worst thing is, he won't even tell me why. Can't tell me, I guess. If this keeps up, I don't really see how…" Jeff trailed off, staring into the distance.
The stranger put a supportive hand on Jeff's shoulder. "Man, that sucks. Have you ever thought about trying to see him? Just surprise him? I mean, screw the feds. They shouldn't be able to pull shit like that."
"Yeah, I've thought about it. I can't, really. Mostly, I just don't have the money. Last time I checked, flights to Switzerland were almost two grand. And on top of that, I'd have to get a train or something to get to Lausanne, since you can't just fly there. An even then, once I get there, I wouldn't know where to start looking."
The stranger smiled and finished his beer. "Yeah, that's tough. Anyway, looks like I'm gonna need another one of these worthless beers. I hate things that don't work the way they're suppose to. I mean, I'm not even feeling a buzz. You want one too?"
Jeff returned the smile. "Yeah, I guess so. I wish Steve was willing to shell out more for something good."
The two continued to talk about beer and college and life for some time. As the party eventually drew to a close, Jeff and the stranger parted ways. Once on his own, Jeff attempted to remember the strangers name, but he could not recall it.
Actually, the entire conversation left him with an odd feeling. Perhaps if his mind was more clear, he would have understood why he felt that way. That stranger was just so normal, so average, that it was hard to really keep his mind focused on him. Even thinking back now, not long after, it was hard to remember what he had said.
As Jeff collapsed into his bed, he cleared his mind of these thoughts. After all, why bother worrying about some stranger on the beach and what he said? After all, he was just another college guy. Just another party-goer. Just another nobody.

The small coffee shop was quite busy, despite the early time of morning. Several people were already up, attempting to acquire that wonderful liquid that would make their daily tasks much more bearable.
In a small table to herself, a well dressed woman nursed her cup and watched the people moving through the street. It gave her some comfort, to be alone in a crowd. It made her troubles seem quite small. The weight that she was forced to bear, the pressures of her career, all seemed a touch more endurable.
She was shaken out of her thoughts when a stranger approached. Offering a slight smile, the new arrival pointed to an empty seat at the woman's table. "Pardon me, miss. Is this seat taken? May I sit down?"
This person was also a sharply dressed woman in business attire. The stranger appeared to be a native Swiss, and her relaxed posture showed that she was comfortable and familiar with her surroundings. However, something about the stranger seemed off. As part of her employment, the woman had been trained to notice these types of oddities. After a few moments, the woman's eyes grew wide and her posture tensed. She stammered, "Oh no, it's you. I haven't even finished my coffee yet."
The stranger sat down anyway. "Well, then. I suppose I'll take that as a yes. It seems that we have no need for pretenses, Director Ottmar."
The director nodded slowly. "Yes, it seems so." She couldn't help but squirm a bit. She tried to think of how to best approach the situation, but her thoughts were blank. It did not help that she had not been sleeping well recently. The stranger sampled her own beverage, her eyes never leaving the director's.
Finally the director sighed, and went still. "I suppose I should call this in, but I don't feel there is really much point. I fail to see how it could have an effect. By the time a response is determined, I'm sure that you will have already accomplished what you came here to do."
The stranger sipped from her coffee. "Well said. However, you sounded unnecessarily fatalistic. I'm not here to harm you, or even antagonize your organization. I simply seek information."
Ottmar nodded. The stranger's words were not much of a relief. "So, what exactly is it that you are seeking?"
After a brief pause for coffee, the stranger replied, "I'm looking for Dr. Bright. I already know that he is here in this city, but I don't wish to waste time searching the whole of Lausanne myself. And, as the Regional Director, I'm sure that you can assist me in this matter."
Director Ottmar scowled, deep lines consuming her normally stern expression. The sarcasm almost dripped from her voice, "Right. I suppose I should just cooperate and make everything easier on myself? Tell you everything you want to know?"
"Again, so fatalistic. The short answer is yes," the stranger stared into the director's eyes. "I only wish to talk with the esteemed Doctor. For what it's worth, I can promise that no one will come to harm because of this."
The director was the first to break eye contact. She sighed. "So, in essence, I can tell you how to find him, or force you to seek him out yourself. I notice that both of those choices that you present end with the same result. So, why would I not inconvenience you? I do not see any reason why I should cooperate."
"As you said, I will find him eventually." The stranger paused, carefully considering her next words before continuing, "And, unfortunately, the longer I am here, the more likely I will become an inconvenience to you. You have been Director for many years, yes? And sterling record as well. I would hate to be the one that would cause you undue distress, Ms Ottmar."
"So, now you choose to threaten me?"
"Not a threat, Director. I cannot abandon the path on which I am set. I therefore ask that you be the one to step aside." The stranger took a long drink from her now lukewarm beverage. "I only ask you to wash your hands of this. Allow your superiors to decide matters, as is your normal procedure when dealing with me. Director, you must make so many difficult moral decisions as part of your daily work. I am simply asking you to not answer this one. Do not burden yourself with this choice, when you already have so many worries. Tell me what I would like to know."
The Director hesitated, but she eventually gave way. She told the stranger where Dr. Bright could be found. After the strange woman left, the Director called and reported the incident to her superiors. Logically, she should feel upset after this. In some way, she had given surrendered when she had promised herself long ago that she never would. She should feel devastated. On the contrary, Director Ottmar felt relieved, like a weight she did not realize was present had been lifted. Let her superiors handle this one. She still had to finish her coffee.

The noon day sun was radiant, reflected shimmering in the waters of Lake Geneva. Several pedestrians were milling about, enjoying the feel of the weather and the sights of the great city.
A man sat on a park bench, looking out over the water. Though he was only middle-age, his eyes were the eyes of an old man. Eyes that had seen too much. Suffered too much. This time was the only time he could truly rest, as the night is no sanctuary for those that cannot sleep. This man had used many names, but the only true name was Dr. Jack Bright.
Another man sat down on the bench next to Dr. Bright. Like Bright, he was dressed in a suit and tie. Like Bright, he seemed far older than his appearance suggested. Like Bright, his eyes were eyes that had seen much suffering. They sat in silence for a time.
It was Dr. Bright who broke the silence. "Well, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
The stranger grinned, and couldn't quite suppress the chuckle underneath his words. "Oh come on now, Jack. No need to be a sarcastic ass. I'm just here to talk."
"Oh really? What could we possibly have to talk about?"
"Lots of things, actually." The stranger shrugged, "I mean, after all, we're sort of in the same business. Don't you think comparing notes could do some good?"
Bright scowled. "Look, I consider myself pretty good at being able to bullshit someone, so I know when someone's giving the runaround to me. Let's just cut the crap, OK? I've only got twenty minutes left in my lunch break."
The stranger nodded, serene and relaxed. "Really, I wasn't just screwing with you. I've noticed a lot of similarities between us. I was hoping that cooperation could help both of us with our… problems.
Bright barked out a harsh laugh. "You and me similar? I don't see it. What do we possibly have that is similar?"
The stranger's expression became sullen. The mirth gone from his words, he whispered, "We are both trapped, Dr. Bright."
At that, Dr. Bright turned to stare at the stranger. His hand found itself caressing the amulet he wore underneath his shirt.
After only a moment, the stranger's former expression and demeanor returned. He grinned. "I figured that would get you to listen. I mean think about it. We both have rather varying identities. We both pass on our qualities to our successors. Most importantly, we are both suffering from anomalous conditions we cannot seem to break."
"Sounds to me like a whole bunch of coincidences. Seems like you're stretching things a bit to make those connections."
The stranger sighed. "Maybe. I admit I have my share of logical and emotional failings. I'm not perfect. However, I do feel there is a possible connection. Is that not worth exploring? Hell, worst case scenario is we don't find out anything, which puts us exactly where we are now."
Dr. Bright frowned. "OK, you're going to have to explain a bit more. Quit with the whole mystery and riddles thing. What do you mean by connection? And what the hell do you actually expect me to do?"
The stranger stood up, and took a few steps towards the lake. "I'll answer your second question first. I don't expect you to do anything. I honestly don't expect this conversation to have any affect on your life at all. That said, I'd hoping that it does, and would be happy if it did have an impact. I would say the result I most hope for is that we become allies after this encounter."
"As to your first question," the stranger continued, talking over Dr. Bright's scoff, "I'll try to explain in a straightforward way. I think that the origin of your amulet and the origin of me could be related."
The bottom fell out of Dr. Bright's stomach. "So, are you saying that I'm like you? A…?"
The stranger interjected, "An artificial one, perhaps." The stranger spread his hands, "Or at least an attempt to do so. It's hard to say for certain. After all, how can you really measure the impact your life has had, and compare that result to how things would be if you never existed? Of course, this is all just my personal theories. But, now don't you feel like this might be worth looking into?"
At that, the stranger began walking away. Dr. Bright quickly stood up. "Hold on," he called out. "That's it? You're just going to leave now?"
The stranger looked over his shoulder at the doctor. "I've said what I came here to say. I know that I can't change your opinions. I mean, I literally can't. Whatever happens next, it has to be something you decide. So, I guess I'll just have to wait to see what you will do." The stranger smiled. "If you ever want my help, look for me. You'll know how to find me. After all, we're kindred spirits, you and I."
As the stranger left for good, Dr. Bright sat back down on the bench. He did not return to work after his lunch break. He continued to sit for many hours, his fingers slowly tracing the ridges of the amulet beneath his clothing. Bright stared into the horizon until long after the sun had sank beneath the sea.


The expanse behind the hospital's hill was filled with people. Priscilla allowed her escort to guide her again between the tents that housed them that last night. People were preparing their move to their new, temporary quarters, grown-built from the mass of Vestan moss of the hospital. Volunteers laughed and chatted, carried their stuff in cases, bags and boxes and flocked to the road cleared specifically for the Programme.
The volunteers gathered between the tents, forming small groups in the declining light of twilight. The only illumination came from a bonfire set in the center of the tents; its flame flickered as if it was alive, casting shadows and loading the air with a strange, resin-like taste. There was an almost festive ambient, like a school trip.
Priss frowned at that. She didn't remember any school trip. That comparison was just another stray thought of those she had been having since she arrived.
"Come, on Locke, you're missing out!"
Westinghouse had turned to get her out of her absorption and gone back to check on someone around. He was being unbearably upbeat; Priss supposed the tone of the event was getting to him, too. She was supposed to meet as many of those people she hadn't met over the day as possible. They had been visiting locals left and right, but only then they had the time to stop and talk to the other MCF members.
Overall, seeing the camp was confusing, and the fire was somewhat distracting…
She almost gave a jump when Frank tipped her arm to get her attention. He was smiling.
"Come. That is Alba Escudero," he said, pointing at an olive-skinned woman with dark hair. She looked very young. "I think you saw her earlier working with her mates on the temporary school tents-hey, Alba!"
The woman turned to them from the small circle of volunteers she was conferring with and waved a greeting. "Hey, Skip! Pleasure to meet you, miss-?"
"Locke. Just Locke."
"Got it, welcome to Somalia!," the girl shook her hand. Priss noticed that, while she wasn't as annoyingly bubbly as Desjeux, she looked really happy.
She shook Alba's hand as she innerly mused on how could anyone be happy in such a place. "Pleasure's all mine."
"We were everywhere today," Frank said, a grin coming to his face. "It's been a long day, mind you."
"I hear you." Alba snorted as she stretched. "We've been setting up a small school for the kids that will be staying around a bit longer. You know, the ones that have their parents down with the Sour and all that. I'll be taking care of it."
"I heard," Frank nodded.
"Well, it's been a nightmare." She conferred. "People around are nice enough, but some of them were looking at us real bad, Skip."
"They gonna be a problem?," Priss intervened. The other woman shook her head.
"Nah, not really. It's always the same the first days."
"Did you get the books?"
"Sure," she was grinning again. "It's gonna be fun, I can tell you that much."
"Another donor?"
"Yes, they are. An Australian publisher kindly give us prints of books that haven't sold well every year." Alba offered Priss a pleasingly calm smile. "Ah, if I may give you a piece of advice…"
"Yes?," Priscilla said, uneasy before the almost affectionate tone of the woman, who came closer to her.
"Love your hair, but I'm afraid you won't keep it shiny like that for much longer," she added, as she pointed at her own hair, tightly put in a ponytail. "It's not just the lack of time to take care of it every morning, wind and dust are a nightmare. I wonder how you've managed to-"
"Hey, Alba, you coming?," called one of the people from her group, who were already leaving the place with backpacks filled with whatever the Work Group pickups hadn't taken yet. The woman excitedly nodded and giggled as she picked her own bags.
"Talk to you guys earlier, Olympe is moving the cubes down the mountainside near the camp, and he is using the friggin' Old Orange to move them!"
"Ah, right, we'll go and watch later," responded Frank. "See you."
"What's an Old Orange?" Priscilla asked, when the volunteers left the circle of light cast by the fire. Frank shrugged.
"You wouldn't believe me. You'll see. Ah, that there, by Opal's side, is Lila Afwerki," Priscilla saw a large black woman dressed in a white-and-green headscarf and a long, white tunic with geometric designs. "She is another Health and Prevention specialist, like Opal, and doubles as our cook. The stuff she makes? Delicious, you bet it is. More if you take into account how scarce real food is around here this days… They must be busy discussing the problems they had with the clinics today, let's leave them alone."
"What problems? Shouldn't I go?"
"You mean, as a Parahealther? Nah, they barely had any active cases of the Sour yet. Mission Watch warned us soon enough this time," Priscilla could feel relief permeating his voice. "You can ask them tomorrow. It's just that whenever you set up camp-oh, hello, Jacob!"
They met the Rabbi's as he carried his own bags from the small tent he slept in. He was out of breath. "Frank! Miss Locke. Sorry, can't stop, these are quite heavy-"
Frank waved goodbye and looked at Priscilla, who remained silent. "What?", he asked.
"Nothing."
But she knew it wasn't nothing. It was the same thing, every time. In everything.
Priscilla looked up. A clear, infinite night sky met her gaze. She had never taken the time to learn the place of every star in the sky, but even the firmament was unfamiliar to her. Everything is wrong.
She shook her head. It's just another hemisphere. You're not used to Southern hemisphere constellations, that's all.
Frank ignored her troubled look and kept moving ahead, towards two men who argued in loud voices in a mix of English and Italian.
"And over there you've got the Momio brothers, arguing again." Priss caught him before he reached them. "Of course they would be arguing, they simply don't stop… hey! What are you guys doing?"
Both men turned around to face Frank, talking non-stop.
"Frank! We've traced the limits for the Myrmidon grove, but Martino won't shut up about water distribution and-"
"-they won't bloom without a full water supply, Rico! It's pointless to seed them if they just don't grow, I told you-"
"-there is little we can do about that, let's start airing the soil at least! The Myrms can re-condition it-"
Priscilla felt she didn't have time for that. She was wiped out.
As the two men argued, a small group of people at the other side of the bonfire caught her attention. They were three completely bald women dressed in black robes. Their MCF vests, neat white and green, couldn't go worse over the robes.
The robes had symbols she had seen before.
"Westinghouse…"
Frank had slumped and crossed his arms at the sight of the two Italian brothers' loud arguing. He tried raising his voice. "Hey, you two! Hey! I was going to introduce you to-" As he saw that the brothers ignored him, the ecSec shrugged and turned to her. "Ah, fine. Come, Locke, I'll introduce these morons to you at some other time… ah, sorry, what?"
"Who are those?", she asked, wary. Frank didn't seem to notice her apprehension.
"Ah, those are three of Olympe's lot. Most of them are ex-GOC. Well, these are Satanist scientists, mind you."
"What?"
"They belong to the Church of Satan, Scientist. It's sort of a sect, a religion and a demonologist academic group. They study their stuff from the outlook of the scientific method."
"Satanists? In a charity."
Frank met her eyes. He seemed confused. "Yes?", he eventually said. Priscilla felt a bit more nervous than she should.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would Satanists join a charity!"
Frank blinked a couple of times and covered his mouth with a hand, musing about her question.
"Well, they can help. I mean, true, they are all about hedonism and stuff, but-Well, MCF used to be pickier with these things in the past. All that did for us was letting out good specialist material and taking normal people who, let's be honest, had it rougher than us today because they knew little or nothing about anomalies," he said in a confidential tone, as he conducted Priscilla towards the three women. "Just guts and good intentions get you killed around anomalies, you know this… but it took the MCF a long while to figure it out."
"Satanists, Westinghouse," Priss said, almost pleading, "Satanists with pentacled robes." Frank shrugged and took her behind one of the closest tents. He looked irritated.
"Listen and try to look beyond the scary black robes, okay, Locke?"
Priscilla crossed her arms and stood in silence. Frank shrugged again.
"Those three were accepted three years ago, for a one-year rotation, but came back for more. And here they are, specialists now. Exorcisms were tough before they came around- yes, exorcisms," Frank insisted to Priss' arced brows. "That we don't like to call them demons doesn't make their methods less effective. And it's not that they use rituals and circles all that often, they usually say they debate with demons until they fucking give up. Their sect is antitheistic. They want to kill anything that looks like it is God or a divine creature so it doesn't influence human identity."
Priss felt a shiver down her spine. The ecSec took notice.
"Yeah, I know. Can you believe they and Torres actually get along? And Mirra and Garziel used to be GOC operatives, too, both of them. Not that they talk much about those times. They prefer to keep to themselves, I guess… Anyways, I want you to meet them."
"Why?," she jumped almost immediately. Priscilla didn't want to go back to meeting with sect leaders in extravagant clothes who spoke in too many words. She didn't want to remember her sister, the subhuman mongrel.
Frank looked at her, making a face.
"Mirra and Poitriburg are Health and Prevention specialists and Garziel is a Security trained volunteer. You'll have to meet them eventually, so you better get to it now." He stood. "Besides, I have to talk to them. Now, are you coming or not?"
Priss strayed for a moment, but finally followed him. As the man closed to the three bald women, he succinctly greeted them. "Hello, people."
The two taller women stood up and smiled at him. The other one, Priscilla couldn't but notice, seemed to be vacantly looking at the flames.
"Hello, Frankie." The woman looked at her and bowed in what Pris hoped was a respectful gesture. "Madam. Garziel of the Church. Pleasure to have another healer on board."
The other one did the same. "Poitriburg of the Church, madam. Ask us anything you need."
Priscilla looked at them. Despite their clean-shaven heads, both women seemed to be perfectly agreeable, clean and completely unlike any cult leader she had ever met… and her sister had been one.
"Just-call me Locke." Calm down, you are not this impressionable!
"First time meeting a Satanic Scientist?," the one called Garziel said.
"It shows that much?"
"Don't worry, it's fine."
"It's the robes, isn't it?," the other one said. "Ziel, I've told you the Focus could work just fine with us wearing a scarf with the Sigils or something. I've talked to Afwerki about it-"
"Don't besmear the Marks, Poitri," Garziel cut her. For an instant, Priss thought the woman sounded rather restless.
At that point, Frank stepped forward and said, again in a low, whispered tone: "Just to make sure, did Jacob ask anything about us entering the lab semitrailer yesterday, guys?"
"Nope, he didn't," Poitriburg said, also whispering. "You entered it?"
"For a moment. Had to discuss sensitive stuff and it was the safest place around."
"Anything important?"
"Don't be pushy, Garziel," the other woman said. "Did he ask you?"
"Nah. Man can't see us anyways."
"It's just you, Garziel, 'cause you always want to argue theology with him. He talks to me and Mirra just fine."
"Is that Mirra?" Priss interrupted, pointing at the third woman.
She was standing in front of the bonfire, had let her head fall forwards and was audibly mumbling in a grave, unnatural tone. It was distressing to say the least, but Garziel nonchalantly shrugged at the sight.
"Her? You aren't concerned, are you, ma'am?" The robed woman lazily scratched her face. "Don't worry. She's just meditating. Better than sleep, just a few minutes a day and you're better than new. Actually, I think I could use the rest…"
As they walked away from the three women, who silently stared at the fire, Locke lowly murmured towards Frank's back: "Is that how they keep to themselves?"
He half turned back to look at her, saying in an amused tone: "I think that's the one time they've told me anything else than 'good morning' and 'it's fine, Frank.' They usually are cryptic and all about their own personal growth and stuff like that, but they talk a lot to Opal and she says they are cool. I sense that your, uh, authority as a Parahealther might have swayed their opinion."
The stretch behind the growing hospital, filled with activity, was rapidly left behind them. They now walked through countryside, towards the dimly lit IDP camp. Locke raised her voice.
"You told me we would come and get to know those people. I can't say we have."
The executive officer shrugged again. Without even turning back, he replied: "They are all busy organizing, and in an hour or so they'll all be either sleeping or rotating to watch over the camp. For peacekeeping, you know. Rape and violence are frequent in refugee camps. Believe it or not, that's hard work. They will hit their bunks once they see them. Today was exhausting for everyone," he said, as he stretched and yawned. Priscilla tried to not imitate him. "Besides, it'll be better if you meet them tomorrow, when they are working. As an auditor and stuff. To keep your cover?"
She contemplated her options, and gave up almost instantly. She felt tired again.
"Fine," she finally said. "I do have to go around and pretend I ask questions and take notes and stuff. Resting now can't hurt."
They kept walking, now in silence. The stars above them filled the skies now, the Moon a bright, tiny slit over their heads.
Priss' mind was numbed after a whole day of listening to Frank talking in three or four languages, reinstating old friendships and making new ones. In the blur, she had been regaled with an interesting practical class on diplomacy adapted to the Sool region — which had been mind-numblingly boring indeed — and on how the MCF interacted with local authorities everywhere. Frank knew when to be tactful, where to press his interlopers and how to do so; and, of course, had a certain talent for what he called "private contribution to the cause." But for the most part, Priss had just been along for a crazed, hot ride.
And she had been carrying her backpack with an almost monomaniac obsession.
What if they assault us?, she suddenly thought.
They got to a dirt road that run parallel to the west side of the hill, near the camp. The cubes were, in theory, being planted there that very night. There weren't any lampposts, and Priss wasn't used to the measly light of the moon.
Every shadow was a threat.
The ape brain took over, and primal fears, the old friends pushed into the unconscious of the no-longer-a-prey humankind, reigned supreme again.
Now, as we walk down the hillside. It's dark here, and we are just two tired whites just outside a village and a camp filled with desperate people. And we're not armed. It would only take two, or three, or more if they are trained and trying to be silent. They could take us down and have us with our pants down-
As those thoughts started to gain way into her mouth, Priss noticed Frank was breathing laboriously, noisily and passing his left hand over and over his right chest. Suddenly, between a step and the next, he fell to his knee.
"Man, what's up with you?", she nervously asked. "Don't just fall here, this is not-"
"I know, I know. It-it'll just go away in a moment, okay!? Let me breathe! Jesus-"
Priscilla looked down to him. In the now dim, far light that came from the bonfire, his face looked contorted and unnatural. He returned her gaze, all while trying to calm his breath.
"Sorry. It's-I have a condition, okay?"
"Panic attacks condition or heart attack condition?"
Frank shivered for a moment, but in the end, he just shrugged. "Just-just panic. Well, sort of. Been having them since a little before I left the skippers. My mother had them too. Guess it runs in the family," he admitted. "It will go away in a moment."
"Can you stand? I'd hate to be mauled by a tiger or something."
Frank stuttered and laughed nervously. "A tiger? Here?"
Priscilla looked at the now crouching man, feeling anger and shame filling her face. Fortunately, it was dark. How quickly that has become a good thing, she thought.
"Fuck you, what do I know? It's not even my universe."
Frank just laughed again. Then, suddenly stopped and seemed to listen.
Priscilla stood alert, too. "I can hear it, too," she whispered. They heard an engine. Soon, a pair of headlights appeared, quickly coming to them along the road.
It was a big MCF pickup, loaded with something large, covered in tarp and, judging by the way its heft leaned the open bed to which it was chained, heavy. Both relaxed, relieved to see the logo of the Charitable on the doors.
The vehicle stopped near them. The driver, a tall, black skinned man in a dark form-fitting suit, stepped down. "Good night, miss Locke. You okay there, Frank?"
"Yes, Frans, I'm fine," he said, managing to sound calm again, "just a bad step. You know Locke?"
"Sort of." He came closer to them, and extended his hand to shake Priss', as he said in a lower voice: "François Olympe. I've been told you are here on Lindberg's orders, not on the phoo's orders, and that he is your minder. No comments, no questions asked. Is that right?"
"Why did they tell you?", Priss said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable at the thought of sharing her cover with too many people.
"What if Frank died? They needed an insurance escort", was the man's nonchalant answer. The other Security Executive laughed at that.
Feeling little to no trust in what he said, Priss carefully began to shake his hand, only to retire it quickly. "That is a glove, right?"
Olympe simply turned back to the pickup and got in, leaving the question in the air. "I'll be using the road to move the cubes now, Skippy. Jacob told me they're fresh and ready for transplant. Better stay with the others, they are just ahead."
"Right, thanks."
"See you two later," Frans said, and started the pickup again. It accelerated until Priss couldn't tell its dark form from the rest of the obscure nighttime.
Then, she looked at Frank. "How's the leg?"
"Shut up and help me up."
After a few minutes of silent walking, they saw the flashlights of those volunteers waiting in the area designated as "quarters" in the general planning for the camp. Twenty four squares, roughly three meters in side each, had been drawn with white chalk. They almost glistened under a couple of humming floodlights, fed by a roaring field generator.
Frank, apparently recovered, started talking to some of his… friends? Workmates? Priscilla couldn't make out any formal relation between ranks within the Work Group, nor was willing to go over there and mingle. Not yet. She did not feel comfortable with such thinly defined relations.
"Nice night we're having, right, Locke?"
Priss turned to see Sarah Desjeux coming to her. The three Satanist Scientists and that other woman — Lila, she thought to herself — walked behind her, loaded with bags and cheerfully speaking in a language she did not recognize. The Health Executive member split from her little coven and went straight towards her.
"It's dark," Priss said, without thinking.
"Well, that's a night for ya!" Sarah answered, punctuating every word with a melodious inflection that annoyed Priss. The grinning dwarf kept talking, now in a more normal voice: "You've been assigned a one-person room, by the way. I thought you could use the intimacy, although we will use half of it to store some supplies," she admitted, with a slightly less bright tone. "We're short on storage space, after all."
"Nil desperandum, Opal," Frank said, coming back from his conversation with a distant smile. Priscilla glanced at him for an instant and asked Desjeux:
"Food and medical supplies?"
"Oh!" Sarah clapped her hands and tightly gripped them together. "And books, and herbs, and spare parts for the trucks, and Vestan seeds, and-"
"And supplies in general, Locke," Frank cut her superior, who looked somewhat grumpy at the interruption.
"Oh. Ok." Intimacy at its finest. Joy. "As long as you knock before coming in to pick-"
A loud noise was heard from the top of the hill. For some reason, Priss thought it sounded like a gigantic ball of compacted metallic scraps that was suddenly turning into a massive flower, blooming and tearing itself apart while doing so. It was followed by a quick, deaf thump that Priss felt more than heard.
People around laughed and clapped when the thumping was heard again, and again. Those were footsteps. Massive ones.
The exhausted Priscilla simply couldn't gather the energy to be worried, but still asked the obvious questions.
"What was that?", she asked Sarah, who had joined in the clapping.
"That?," she said, as a loud thundering noise echoed around the place. "Oh, that was Olympe, riding the suit! An old thing, mind you, but how he managed to get the Servants of the Silicon Nornir to accede at the petition from the Coalition Undersecretary is a secret he'll take to the grave, I'm sure."
"What suit?"
She heard the thumping again, now coming closer to the camp. Soon, Priscilla saw a light, two of them in fact; they looked like the far headlights of a car, but they swayed with every thump and moved too fast to be rolling safely down that slope.
Suddenly, as it came closer to them, she could make out the four meters tall metal behemoth.
Its long, multi-joint arms embraced the concrete cube it carried like it was made of cardboard. As it came even closer to the range illuminated by the flood lights, Priss could see it looked like a massive, skeletal gorilla that moved in a misleadingly ponderous way; even if it looked like it was slow, that was just an impression created by its sheer bulk. It had moved faster well faster than a car could have rolled over that terrain.
The thing looked skeletal, she thought, because it looked like it had been stripped down to its basest elements; it was all hydraulics and a bare stressing, reinforced metal structure with hanging cables covered by transparent plastic-looking membranes. Priss could now see a few hissing actuators in its hands and feet and a transparent canopy in its center, inside which Olympe was cramped, almost forced into a fetal position by the many controls and levers that surrounded him.
"The Fifth Global Occult Coalition Donation! A perfectly functional and thoroughly disarmed test prototype Orange Suit! We call it the Old Orange!", Sarah happily screamed as the massive robot gently placed the cube in the ground, neatly parking it on one of the drawn squares. "PTOLEMY, well, the Coalition engineers, discontinued it because it had too high a profile. Too noisy and all that. Good for the transport of large crates, though, better than our meager trucks! Even if we have to limit its usage to night-time."
Priscilla realized she was gaping at the scene. "The Coalition gave you a mech!?"
"It may look like a beast, Locke, but it is a harmless beast! Besides, it got them lots of good publicity within their own organisation! PR is important when your job consists of killing people, you know."
Priscilla watched as the thing walked back to the hospital, probably to get the next cube. "Is it going to bring all twenty four cubes here? Somebody will see it!"
Sarah shrugged and giggled as Frank said: "Maybe, but a bit of indiscretion can't be compared to having a proper bunk so close to the camp, don't you think?"
"Why not sleeping in the cubes up there, in the hospital? Where they were grown!"
"There are a few beds up there already for the people that have to be there. These are getting placed here so we can use them as our temporary living quarters. It's better if we are closer to the camp. That's where we are needed. For as long as we are here, we'll live in there," Frank said.
After his colleague was done talking, Sarah added in a confidential-sounding tone: "We would use the Vestan to create bigger places, or entire cities, even! We did, for a while. But they drew too much attention. The cubes aren't good to have entire families living on them, unfortunately… and more than a few would bring attention to us, so we'll be using them as storage and putting our bunks in; two or four per cube. That way, we can watch over the camp and sleep at the same time!," Opal raised her hands and sang: "Mul-ti-taskiiing!"
"Ignore her, she's joking," Frank said. Almost immediately, he added: "Mostly."
The volunteers stood away from the robot's path as it brought cube after cube to the camp. Mesmerized, Priss watched it for about half an hour before being gently pushed by Frank, who mentioned her cube was already rooted and ready to be inhabited.
Everything was covered in white-green ceramics, or something that felt like it. There was a diminutive toilet and a small sink. There was electric light.
There was a comfortable-looking bunk.
She didn't even noticed it was still lightly wet and warm as she dropped into it, already asleep when she reached its surface.

In the rapid and extravagant moving operation, two details went overlooked.
First; there were six more cubes that had to be moved to the other sides of the projected area of the camp to use them as food distribution and storage centers and clinics, but the Suit had consumed its batteries. Without the kind of power necessary to recharge them immediately, the Work Group had to put it back into storage. Discreetly covered in the same tarp used by Olympe to conceal it, the Old Orange was placed in a patch of bare ground behind the hospital, where its bulking mass collapsed into a ball of solid wire and thick metal structure with that characteristic screeching sound. It would wait there until the power plant, programmed as part of the hospital and the water purification plant, was completely grown and ready to work.
Second; and this one went entirely unnoticed. Several small rodents ventured a trip inside the previously closed and guarded perimeter of tarpaulin fences that surrounded the still-growing hospital. Wherever the cubes had been planted, a quickly dying paste of Mason Mold emitted a sickly sweet smell that exerted on them an overwhelming attraction.
Even if most managed to leave on their own, the next morning several of the small animals were found lying on the already dry hollows where the cubes had been. After laconically asking his team of volunteers to go back to work, a preoccupied Jacob Torres gathered them, burnt them and, just to make sure they were not a problem, fed their ashes to the Hippo. The creature filtered them perfectly, while keeping what Jacob felt it was an accusatory silent.
However, as he feared and kept to himself, the damage was already being done.

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\\ 5th-GOC-D-NA //


☦The Last First Southern Fifthists. SCP-1982.☦

INFORMATION PACKAGE 23.A-F2
CODE: APPALACHIA

Commentary from Joshua Greenfield
I don't know if anything he's saying is true or not. Being a member of the Initiative, he is extremely biased. Some think he had a few screws lose before he retired. Talk of previous universes and the Coalition eightysixing the god of Abraham. His comments on our dire need to quick action are also a bit hard to take seriously. Fifthism has been around for a very long time.

The Fifthists… They have no control. Reason with those poor “people” all you like, you're only speaking into its ears. They're conceived by the thing, reined to it, through some magic work of probability. They're puppets. This thing is someone else's devil.
I spoke to it. I know enough to know that I spoke to it. I know exactly what it is. The creator of a doomed universe that came before ours. The Fifthist entity is the wraith of a god, our god, one and the same.
If you leave them alone for a long enough time, trust me, those damned puppets will go nuclear. We can stop it now. We can sever its fingers. We can make it so it can't learn anymore. We don't have to keep letting it manifest its will only to sweep it up later.
A god can be killed.
You men should know this best of all… we know what you people are capable of. I don't know how, but your ancestors had the chance, and they let it slip by, for one reason or another.
As for the world before us, the Fifth… they weren't so smart. But I think we are fully capable of cleaning up their mess.
Joshua Greenfield, former Field Operator of the Horizon Initiative to the Program Director of the Global Occult Coalition, 2004 regarding the Fifthist Phenomenon

Appalachian Cult Graphic

The attached document was recovered from the ruins. Most of it is their interpretive gibberish; I can't see an exact line to the entity there. If we're going to figure this thing out we're going to have to work with the west coast Fifthists. They're the only ones we can infiltrate and the only ones who seem to communicate with anyone outside of its influence in a helpful way.
Jetti and the Delvins and their fan base committed mass suicide just sixteen years prior to this.The current manifestation of West Coast Fifthism seems to be a band calling itself “Constellation Starfish”. If that wasn't easy enough to pinpoint, they were showcased on KNTV minutes after the last reports of the previous disaster were scrubbed by I-think-we-know-who. Their fan base is similar in size and their group follows a similar format. The more subtle patterns have been confirmed by our numbers people. The zombie is there.
Gather all information you can. If you find yourself speaking through it, or, hopefully, speaking to it, record everything. Record every song you hear, document every symbol. Record everything you say as well. There's a good chance you're part of it too.
Make sure they die before it shows its face. Nobody deserves to go there. I think you remember the incident in England.
The Appalachian Scar
Item #: SCP-[NULL]
Object Class: Neutralized
Special Containment Procedures: The area SCP-[NULL] affected has been quarantined and undergoes regular surveys for the potential reemergence of anomalous effects. Quarantine consists of a chain-link fence installed along the perimeter of the affected area and the property purchased by a Foundation front company. The hole has been refilled and forested since its discovery, and disinformation Scrub protocols have been enacted regarding its history.
Description: SCP-[NULL] is an undeveloped area located in Jackson County, North Carolina, previously known as the town of █████████. The town of █████████ was reported missing in 195█. Remnants of large sinkholes, the largest of which being 1 km long by 2 km wide have been found in the area where the town is reported to have been located. The area is two kilometers lower than the surrounding area; several large canyons existing in geologically incompatible locations surround the area.
The town of █████████ had a population of 146.
Excavation of the lakes in the town reveal a number of unusual objects:

1 set of canine remains, approximately 7 meters long and 2 centimeters wide.
An unknown amount of migratory geese remains.
25 sets of human skeletal remains in the shape of obtuse triangles and diamonds.
2 sets of human skeletal remains which appear to have been twisted and stretched but show no signs of structural stress.
The skull of one copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix) snake, measuring 14 m wide and weighing 2268 Kg.
1 human remains in the shape of a star.

Addendum A: The following interview was conducted with Joe Sullivan, a former resident of █████████ who left in 195█.

Researcher Ortega: What do you know of the town of █████████?
Joe Sullivan: Did something happen there? Is Linda alright?
Researcher Ortega: I'm sorry. Linda is dead. There was a plane crash. Do you need some time?
Joe Sullivan: No… it's alright. We haven't really spoken in the last six years.
Researcher Ortega: What can you tell me about the town? We're writing a historical text.
Joe Sullivan: Oh. I don't know much about the history. I'm sorry.
Researcher Ortega: That's fine. What about the people? The community while you were living there?
Joe Sullivan: Very conservative. Religious folks. Really into the Holiness movement. Half of the town attended mass on Fridays. I would always worried Linda would get bit.
Researcher Ortega: You mentioned you haven't spoken to your wife, Linda, in six years. May I ask why?
Joe Sullivan: She was distant. I couldn't even tell she was the same person. She wasn't involved in raising Morgan, even though she insisted he attend mass. She didn't even let me go to church with her anymore. Said “I wasn't part of it”. I needed to get away.
Researcher Ortega: You stopped going to church at some point? At what point weren't you allowed in anymore?
Joe Sullivan: It was a gradual process… Uh… People were very cliquey. At a certain point it was just unbearable. I felt excluded. The pastor even started a special night mass that only certain people went to. Really stupid shit. They don't know how that hurts other people.
Researcher Ortega: Night mass?
Joe Sullivan: Like I don't know about it. I didn't care enough anymore to “spy” on my wife. I knew it wasn't some sort of satanic debauchery; just a change in doctrine or an interpretation of the Bible that they didn't want to make public for one reason or another.
Researcher Ortega: Thank you for your patience, we're just about done here. Are you sure you didn't notice anything strange in the town? Strange sounds, or, smoking earth?
Joe Sullivan: The night mass was the only strange thing about the town. Sometimes they were loud at night but the noise never bothered anyone. People there always seemed the same to me, regardless if they were following religious fads.

Addendum B: The following analog transmission was broadcast for two minutes each year on 08/23 in a radius of 2km around the town until 1968.

Speaker: Mokim, grab the snake please.
A young man pulls what appears to be a copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix) snake out of a box located behind the pulpit.
Speaker: Now look on, lovers, as things take shape. Take the shape of god.
The man holding the snake begins waving it around above his head. Video feed begins to distort. Camera remains fixed on snake handler.
Speaker: Susan, calm down.
A woman begins screaming and the speaker moves off camera.
Speaker: I can see your neck over there honey. Calm down. Why are you hollerin'? Look how it moves. Look how it slides up the floor.
Sounds of a struggle, screaming stops.
Speaker: Mokim, put the snake down please.
Snake handler appears to stumble. Screaming begins again, but in reverse.
Speaker 2: Susan!
An elongated human head moves slowly past the screen.
Speaker: Put it down, boy!
Snake appears to enlarge. The area around it appears to expand and contract.
Video feed ends.

Additional Notes, Commentary
Morgan is a bit tricky. He was involved in the Appalachian Cult (the last Southern Fifthists), but he appears to be the leader of the Fifthist entities Western manifestation. The father isn't part of the entity at all. So we know it's not a biological thing. Again we arrive at this predestination idea, like we're all part of its story, or it rigged the game at the start.
Maybe it built the Rube Goldberg device that is our universe, or at least helped? Sabotaged? Why do all of these people need to die? We really need to know how this thing thinks, or if it even thinks like we do. What does it want from us?
Keep up the good work, and make sure they don't catch on to you, the Jailors or the Fifthists. The first step to helping is understanding. Try to understand the entity.

« Track 3: Uh... | Hub | The Face of God »


Frank felt just a bit claustrophobic.
The darkroom was, appropriately enough, a tiny, dark, hot and incredibly moist hellhole with an actual hole in the middle, which was enough for anyone to be a little dizzy. The ceiling was barely a meter and eighty centimeters high, and it felt like it was breathing, periodically combing under its own weight.
However, the oppressive atmosphere was minor in comparison to the smell that penetrated everything. Frank just knew that, despite the mask and the overall, it would stick to him, his clothes, his skin and his hair. It would probably violate the taste of every meal he had in days or weeks and turn his daily ablutions into a nightmare.
I hate this Vestan stuff, he growled to himself.
In any case, Frank couldn't deny the efficiency of the Third Vestan Donation. The hard-working fungi were rising a building where there had been just an empty patch of arid, barren land; a building destined to become a hospital with fifty beds, employing thirty or more permanent personnel, equipped with an independent source of electricity and clean water.
It was just that the floors still felt — and smelt — like they were made of compacted compost and decaying reed.
But the room was growing, as was the rest of the complex. It would become an actual darkroom at some point in the next days. And the final product would be just a facade for the tunnel which was growing from its floor.
Growing and digging at the same time. It was a novel concept for Frank, whose limited notions of construction screamed at him that all that removed soil and rock had to be going somewhere.
From the looks of it, it seemed to be going straight to the ceiling.
"When will it be finished?"
Frank focused on Priscilla Locke. In the day they had been together, she had told him about some aspects of her life in the old universe. He knew her mentality would be a problem. Even if he didn't want to blame her for it, her occasional grimace and racist remarks were enough to attract unwanted attention.
He would have to give her some guidelines and ban some topics. Tell her to just avoid certain conversations. But even so, he had no idea of how she had found the Charitable, or joined. Or, for that matter, how had she been accepted by the Mission Board.
Both of them were standing over the edge of an unfinished tunnel that would lead straight to the underground laboratory where she would test her thing, whatever it was. In the meantime, he was neither allowed to know what the thing itself was — old feelings of frustration stirred at the mere thought of secrets upon secrets piling up away from his sight — nor cleared to know exactly who she was.
"It should be done in ten to thirteen hours, miss Locke," Jacob answered, solicitous from the threshold of the wide hole that would become the only door, in the room. "It's actually a bit of an experiment, we have never used the Vestan Donation to dig an underground repository."
"A… repository," Frank blurted. He felt more than saw Priscilla's eyes drilling through his skull, but the good man didn't even notice the implied question in Frank's words.
"Yes!", stated the Rabbi, joyously ignorant of the scene. "I didn't even think of that, and it's a great idea! We are growing a water repository down here! See, we have reasonable doubts that the Milking Maggots' main vector is another parasitic microorganism, Giardia lamblia, that can easily contaminate water sources. It can be a bad fucker, if you will pardon the expression, because it provokes diarrhea and water supply around here is an-"
"Thank you, Doctor." Priss said with an absent smile, "Is it running smoothly?"
"Definitely, definitely smoothly!" Jacob almost sung. "No aberrant growths, no discombobulated parts, everything according to the plans you brought, miss Locke!"
"Just… Locke."
"Oh, thank you, you may call me Jacob. Or Rabbi! Everyone calls me Rabbi."
It was Frank's turn to stare at Priscilla's expression, that was rapidly becoming sour.
Nobody knew who she was around there. Nobody but Frank… and even he could not point out exactly what was wrong with her.
"Thanks, Rabbi," he ended up saying to the politely confused biologist. "Now, I'll be showing Priscilla-"
"Miss Locke."
"I'll be showing miss Locke the procedural growth of a 1-Vestan, and then we'll go back to the camp. Okay?"
"Sure! Have a nice day, Priscilla!", said the Rabbi.
A few moments after Jacob had left the dark, moist room, Frank looked at her associate. "Okay, now, really, what's your deal?"
Priscilla had the decency to seem distressed. She gnawed idly on her lower lip, a sharp exhale leaving her lips, as she resisted the urge to blurt out something most likely anti-semitic. "It's just hard, is all… like, imagine going to work and having-" Frank was staring at her, his withering look all the warning she needed; Locke caught herself this time. "-A bunch of talking velociraptors among your co-workers— "
"Sure, fine, okay, never mind," Frank half-shouted at her. "Consider this: you are now the only real, decent, genetically sanctioned human being left from your universe. Everyone else here is a subhuman moron. How do you feel about it?"
The woman did not back down, but neither did she try to rise to the challenge. After a moment, she nonchalantly shrugged, "I'm fine, really. It's not like I'd blow up in the street and start attacking them. Any way; there's more of them than there are of us. Of me, I mean."
Frank stood there, looking at that insensitive, brutal idiot. Then, he slumped.
"Fine."
He pretended to be adjusting his mask just to avoid making eye contact with the woman. Typical. He was calling out on somebody's douchebaggery and, a second afterwards, he felt guilty about it.
He rose his gaze again to meet hers. She remained immobile, what little could be seen of her face completely devoid of expression.
"I said fine," he started. "-no, wait, never mind, that was a bit dickish of a move on my side. you being new here and all. But you'll have to begin accepting stuff and adapting as soon as you can. People around here are certainly not what you were used to, back there. You'll have to grow used to it quickly."
She nodded, no change in her expression, still that dead look on her face. "Working with velociraptors would be cool."
Oh for the love of-
"So!", shouted Frank, faking a joviality he did not feel. "A repository?"
"I'll be 'performing daily tests' on the water to 'make sure it is potable.'"
"They will frown at that."
"That's not my problem; I'm pretending to be an inspector, you're the one keeping them out of my hair."
"You will have to talk to them, Locke."
"I can talk."
"Outside your cover. As a person."
Priscilla looked at the ceiling and added nothing for a few seconds. Then, she said:
"I'm not new to this. I know what the Foundation does—"
"The Charitable."
"The what?" She blabbered.
"The Charitable. Many of us who work around anomalies, or abnormalities, whatever," he snorted at his own confusion on the topic. "Anyways. Most people around here don't want to be compared to the other Foundation, so they talk of the Manna Charitable Foundation as the Charitable. You know," Frank arced his brows and lowered his voice to a complicit whisper, "to avoid unpleasant comments?"
"I-I…"
Priss narrowed her eyes slightly, mouth slightly hanging as she stuttered through an incoherent stream of murmurs. Then she shut her mouth and sighed.
"I get it, really. I just don't know how you people work. Or anything about Mister and/or Missus Manna and Charitable. How about an actual tour of the place?"
Frank sighed. "Sure, a full tour on the Charitable's fun, fun story. Just… just keep in mind who you are working with. And for. Okay?"
"I'll try to adapt." He observed her for a moment. "Really."
Frank studied her a bit longer. Nothing on her freckled face told if she was being serious or not. The security executive member forcibly coughed and led her out of the darkroom.
"Okay," he said while walking down an aisle, still soft and humid. The only light came from a few holes in the ceiling; their edges were dying and falling down, thinning and slowly becoming the glass that would cover several skylights. As Locke joined him, he said: "From the top. You know what the reports and the pamphlets say. What do you know of the people who work with the MCF?"
"Nothing."
"Good answer."
"What?"
Frank laughed at her confused expression. "Oh, God, now I understand why they found me funny… See, they call that, that face you are making, a skipper face. Foundation Agents always get all 'the hell' when they see something they don't expect, and most of all they get surprised when other people tell them that being unprepared is okay."
Locke glared at him. He kept talking.
"I mean, sure, it's better to be prepared, but us field agents have been told that we have to be on edge, and trained to stay there at all times," he declaimed, "and then there are people like the volunteers of the Charitable, who go through life with wide eyes, large grins and the feeling that they are making the world a better place, and tell us to tone it down a bit. It's hard enough to do our job, don't be such sourpusses."
"Too upbeat for a warzone?"
Frank shook his head. "See, you don't get what kind of people work with us. It's what I was saying earlier: why is it 'good' that you admit you don't have a clue on what these people do here? It has lots of good things, the Charitable. But the one thing it doesn't have is patience for self-absorbed jackasses who think they have all the answers or go looking for sycophants. People like you or me, going on a power trip because they found a skip of value and they offer it to us… it happens, you know."
Frank looked at one of the immature skylights. A rapid blur passed by over it, perhaps a bird.
"They go and look for the MCF and sometimes they find us, instead of being found by us, which is kind of the norm. They want to prove to us oh how great they are, and how they are basically wizards or have a pen that manifests cake by drawing it or are going to topple all industrialized countries and would like us to help them pick up the pieces and create a wonderful, beautiful, Utopian tomorrow." He laughed humorlessly. "Well, it's not that people from the Charitable hate fellas like those… hell, if we found them bleeding to death in the street we would try to save their sorry asses. But that's not the point, the point is that pretty much everyone in the Charitable is already self-absorbed and will never, ever help somebody feel better about themselves by giving them a place among them and patting their backs. They don't have the time for those types."
Frank stood over the rough dark green floor, almost feeling it move under his boots.
"Only people who admit they are flawed, people who want to help, people who are desperate to help, get into the Charitable. And those never leave it while they live."
Locke crossed her arms, seemingly bored again. Frank had learned to associate the gesture to the limits of her patience. She confirmed it in a boorish tone.
"You talk too much, Westinghouse. Explain it to me so I don't get yelled at later."
Frank felt a jolt. "It's been a while since anyone called me that. I mean, MCF people do call me that when they're making fun of the stick they see up in my rear, but-"
"Eh, right," Priscilla said. "Just 'Skipper' then?"
"Or Frank, yes. I guess they'll start calling you Skipper, too," Frank ventured. Priscilla looked around for a moment when she heard that. "Although we could keep your past work history under the wraps, if you prefer."
Priss grimaced and glanced around briefly, "That would probably work better. I'm with the W-Ph-O, right?"
"No, don't pronounce it like that," Frank quickly corrected her. "Even the Parahealthers themselves usually say it like 'phooo', sort of like what everyone does with the World Health Organization, you know…"
"That sounds stupid. And I know what the WHO is. It's just…"
Frank nodded. "Wouldn't have one of those over there?"
"No, it's not that, they probably did. They just wouldn't bother helping the people who'd really need help."
"Then who the hell did they help?"
"Dunno. Never really bothered learning about it." She walked forward, and Frank closely followed her.
The aisle turned into an open hall. Once it was complete, the gaping holes would be covered with secreted hard glass and the floors would be beautifully polished ceramic tiles in a checkered pattern of dark green and white. However, as the couple walked through it, it looked more like a cave covered in moss than a hospital.
"Isn't it amazing that we are going to build operation theaters in here?" Frank wondered out loud.
"In a third-world-hell-hole like this, it'll be a wonder to see them achieve proper aseptic conditions."
"Asept-right, that too," he grumbled. "Don't call it a hell-hole, Locke. Or at least avoid saying it out loud. It might be a mess of a place right now, but people live here."
They stared at the large central opening that would become the door. Two large branch-like growths were forming at each side of the hole, each one slowly swaying in the wind, looking for its pair to grow into a door.
"Uh, well," Frank started, "the World Health thing? They usually pronounce it 'who'."
Priscilla pondered this in silence for a moment.
"Sounds stupid," she muttered.
"Might be. But people keep calling it that, which is why we have to do it too, or else-"
"I was just complaining. I know how to blend in, Westinghouse."
Frank noticed a certain amusement in her words. "Ah, yes, sorry." He stood in silence, thinking. "Crap, we got off track there. Quite honestly, I can't put what the volunteers are like in simple words. Too many, too different. Besides, you'll meet them these days. I'll just tell you Mission Branch 101 over diner."
They left the maturing hall.
Outside, the building area was filled with other figures in white-green overalls, some of them taking measures and making sure the growths were taking the correct shapes. Frank and Priscilla saw several pipe-like tendrils slowly burrowing themselves under the dusty ground, a few millimeters every second. One of them had found a particularly resilient rock right underneath the surface. The cracks were clearly audible as the Mason Mold grew through the smallest relieves on its surface and pulverized it, turning it into a soft but firm support for the pipe itself.
Priss stared emptily, and gave out a quick giggle, "That's funny. Just… letting it sprawl and not containing it."
He nodded at that.
"Jacob would tell you that it is perfectly controlled and safe. You will come to think of it as cathartic, believe me," Frank said. He felt himself smile at the thought; those words came from him? Woah, sudden perspective shift. "Although I do understand what you mean, it's uncanny."
They walked towards the perimeter fence exit. The entire building area remind hidden behind it, a wall of white-and-brown tarpaulin sections hung from metal poles. Each piece of the two meters and half tall wall sported the logo of the Manna Charitable Foundation. The surrounding terrain was lower than the hill were the Opal-1 Work Group was growing its project, so a simple fence was enough to grant a certain measure of secretiveness to the entire operation.
Priscilla studied the fence with a critical eye.
"Hey, Westinghouse. Is that enough?"
"Standard issue tarp. Never mind its stopping power, Locke, we don't need to stop anyone," Frank said. "The ones that would take the Assets away from us would not be stopped by any means we have. And both locals and refugees know the Charitable is working in here, and that it will be best for all parts involved if they simply stay away from it until whatever we are working on is ready."
"They're afraid."
"Why yes, they are afraid. Of us," Frank stated, matter-of-factly. "Of what we can do. There is always some measure of fear and distrust when the Charitable comes to town. They know we bring weird stuff, like buildings that grow from the ground up. And we had a Work Group around past year scouting the area, or rescuing people or something like that… they know what we do, even if they don't know exactly what we do. Add rumors at that, and we have a certain, uh, protection," he ignored the times when that had gone wrong. "They take it rather well, by the way. Imagine we used this stuff in the middle of an industrialized country."
"You'd be lighting the biggest fire the Foundation has ever seen."
"Sure, sure, good old Skippy would be there in heartbeat, wouldn't he?" Frank raised a hand as if swatting the idea away. "Well, no. Wrong. We have operations in every country of the world, including North America, Australia, Japan or Europe. Take Torres, go no further. That guy is Argentinian, how do you think he first came to us? There was a MCF recruitment post in Catamarca, Argentina, population three hundred thousand or so. In the open. Where was the other Foundation that day?"
Priscilla glanced at Frank, brow furrowed. "You take this shit public?"
"No, that's not this. Not anomalies. We are overt about us working a non-profit… but our funding methods are so tortuous that not even the Foundation, the other Foundation, can follow the money. We operate under hundreds of different institutional aliases here and there, most of them ephemeral. It's all smoke and mirrors, but the Charitable keeps its ears to the ground and recruits people that worked for other non-profits or gave the finger to fat cats, champions of the establishment and people like the Foundation." Frank stopped talking for a moment. "Crap, I didn't realize how redundant that was."
"Redundant? The 'fat cats, champions of the establishment-"
"-and people like the Foundation' part, yes, that." Frank and Priscilla said, simultaneously. They snorted at her own scene as they reached the entry checkpoint, a makeshift room made out of a prefabricated container with UN logos and surrounded by the tarpaulin walls.
Inside, they discarded their masks, that were picked up by a bored Yusuf, who also stored them with their dirty overalls once they took them off.
They walked out into the open. Less than a kilometer away, the center of Laascaanood was a busy place, now completely visible to them. Until then, the city had been relatively free of the Milking Maggot epidemic. It remained an important active population center, despite the large number of residents that had left the place after Somaliland had attempted to take the place. According to Mission Watch reports, it was quite emptier than past year.
"See that?" Frank said. "Those are forty thousand souls. They are hurt, sick, sad, and some times even mad enough about it to pick a gun and do something stupid."
"And?"
"My point is that we are needed."
"Spoken like the better man." Priscilla said. Frank's brow frowned at that.
"What? No," he said. "No, no. I'm not here 'cause I am the better man, or… I'm just a guy who happened to be necessary here, the better ones are, you know," Frank made some gestures at the hospital, "in there, growing a surgery room and stuff. And down there in town, making certain mothers don't die while in labor and children live through meningitis, and… and they don't even realize they are the better people. They are here because they feel they are not better. And I'm not like them. No, I'm here because they needed an unlucky idiot who wouldn't trust his own shadow and happens to know how to avoid fights." Frank sighed slightly, pondering what he had just said. "I'm not the better man, I'm just a bouncer."
"A bouncer for 40,000 without a gun? You'd make a shitty bouncer."
"Right!", he answered, his face suddenly split by a fierce smile. "You got how wonderfully ironic that is, didn't you? We don't even have budget for guns. Why would we?"
"I mean if you have no guns, no military personnel, no support of any kind…"
"Then what am I doing here?"
"Yup," Priss thought for a second, "Gathering intelligence for them, then?"
"That's not entirely correct, but that's sort of what I do, sure." They started walking East, following the Southernmost limit of the building site. "They expect me to be a security guard without any violence, you know why? 'Cause that's not how security works for these people. They feel security is secrecy. They aren't threatened by locals, or armies. They know we treat them all, no question asked. True, some times there are stick ups. True, some times our guys get the shortest end of the stick and they get shot by accident, or bombed by accident, or accidentally kidnapped for ransom. It happens, all NGOs working around here know it and take it like champs. You know what makes MCF different? That we have to expect others."
"As in…"
"Others. Marshall, Carter and Dark cronies trying to buy, extort or steal our assets away. People from Insurgent cells trying to manipulate the kids into joining their side by telling them 'oh, sure, you are delivering babies, nicely done, how about changing the world, really changing it, tipping the balance of power'? Even people from local 'liberator' groups with ORIA sponsors. And, of course, the Foundation. The only way to keep them away is tread lightly."
"And you just let them use you to keep their shit secret? Why?"
"Secret? Ah, no, that's what they do back home at the Continental Branch offices. Cover our activities as if other NGOs did it, create misleading or false media reports, stuff like that. What I do is keep them Mission kids discreet enough, just in case a field agent goes into the area and casually hears about us."
Frank suddenly felt very tired. He stopped and turned to admire the sights. Priss did the same. Laascaanood extended before them.
"Look, every Work Group takes their own decisions in the field. They practically make procedures as they go. Some of them are good in keeping a low profile, and some others have anomalies or talent for stealth. But a Work Group that builds hospitals?," he let out a guffaw. "Right, hiding that is a tough one. And you don't even get to buy the terrain and cover Laascaanood in amnestics, right? So, what to do? Well, I visit the local officers, people from other NGOs, let them know that we are here on a little tour. And what they have to answer if anyone complains. And drop a few well placed shillings in the hands of any agents of higher ranking players that I think will be around."
"That's it?," Frank watched her vaguely amused face. "No 'Thank-You' card with a five dollar bill?"
"And the Charitable's 'good' reputation," he nodded. "That's about it, yeah. We trust each other enough not to give ourselves up, trust that the locals know they want us to be around instead of selling us out, trust the other major players to think there is nothing around here and, if you like to do that kind of thing, pray."
He started walking again, with a tiny sigh.
"Sometimes it doesn't work. It's all a very thinly disguised lie, partly successful because nobody is looking for us and because looking for us is not worth the effort. Not unless we screw it up big time, anyways. The world is a big place and they don't mind us being here and using some breadcrumbs to save a few victims of tragic circumstances, for as long as we do our let's-all-be-friends gig instead of getting them to rise up in arms against the 'circumstances'. Our biggest defense is that they prefer to work closer to home."
They reached the corner of the construction area. Beyond it, in the northern side of the city, there was a nascent displacement camp. It had begun to form last evening, the inexpressive faces shocked with grief and confusion, sometimes anger, already gathering there. The Work Group workers were already erecting some large tents for the refugees with the AMISOM troopers.
Frank knew Jacob's specialists would be there too, discreetly planting prototype underground Vestan Seeds that would create sewage facilities and an irrigation system for crops further north.
Frank knew Opal and her own specialists had been there all day, quickly finding every single case of the Sour they could find and supplying any relative of the patients with prophylaxis.
Frank knew Olympe and his guys would be there about now, patrolling the newly born dirt roads that separated row after row of tents filled with displaced people.
Frank wondered if anything they could do would be enough. Hundreds were coming into the camps' limits as they watched.
"The worst part about them staying home instead of coming here, though?" He said, looking back at Priscilla. "It kind of works for us, too."

Night was falling in Laascaanood. Frank had shown auditor Priscilla Locke, the special WPhO — pronounced 'phoo' — delegate for the local Manna Charitable Foundation Infrastructure and Health Mission for Laascaanood, all the impressive work the volunteers were doing to get the refugee camp up and running, and prepared for the hundreds that were sure to come over the next days. Upon the Work Group's arrival, a coordinated chaos had erupted within the camp its outskirts, where a handful of mobile clinics, operating from jeeps, and food distribution centers, run from the large MCF semitrailers.
They had time to talk to the AMISOM commander, the acting chief of the Federal Republic and the elder council of Laascaanood. All of them were concerned about the affluence of refugees to the camp, which housed three hundred people already, all of them fleeing from the Sour outbreak. Frank conferred with them in the name of the Manna Charitable Foundation, assuring their commitment. He warranted that the epidemic would be stopped in Laascaanood with no risk to the town or their operations and told them the hospital would be ceded to the city whenever it was staffed by non-MCF personnel.
For free.
From there on, all powers that be in Laascaanood were bent on cooperating with the nice, helpful people from the Charitable.
"Giving away our stuff like it wasn't planned!," Opal would say later, in that rare cynical streak she occasionally displayed, "The best way to make friends!"

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\\Programme Las Anod-1//


Iris Dark was warm, comfortable, and filled with a vague sense of accomplishment. She sipped her hot cocoa and stared at the dully glowing screen. The rain poured down outside, the sun barely peeking through the dreary clouds. It had been expensive - very expensive - to buy an apartment in the City of London, but with algorithmic trading systems, millisecond fluctuations in the market could be the difference between making a hundred dollars and making a thousand. A small latency time was the most critical part of the system. London's exchange, specifically, used the Millennium Exchange platform, so market-side transactions could resolve in the sub-millisecond range; with her physical proximity to the servers, the software could buy and sell stocks almost instantaneously.
If it worked (and Iris could think of no reason why it shouldn't), the system would notice progressive trends over incredibly small time frames, then capitalised on this by buying stocks en masse and re-selling almost immediately. The system Iris had built had a few advantages over previous ones: it broke down the market into connected subsets; for example, a small increase in the stock of one electronics company tended to slightly decrease others in the same field. By mapping these correlations rather than the individual stock progressions, the system was substantially more robust than those before. It didn't model any of the instantaneous values of individual stocks, nor even their derivatives; the system was more interested in the changes of short-term intra-market trending, and exploiting that to drive a profit.
Iris wasn't a 'people person', but then, the investors into her project had liked that degree of naive transparency. Her pitch packet was composed of three unpublished but peer-reviewed academic papers on market tracking, 50 pages worth of system output and plots from a scaled-down tracker, and a page at the end with nothing on it but "Thanks for your consideration."
While none of the investors had really understood the mechanics and mathematics of the methodology, they had very much liked the shiny graphs which showed the amount of money going up.
Iris pressed the control and F7 keys, and the software started building the C code into an FPGA programmable format. She stood from her seat and walked over to the cardboard box in the corner of the room. Iris pulled a box cutter from her pocket, slicing open the tape and pulling off the packaging. Inside, the box was filled with Altera Stratix V development boards; not separately packed, but rubbing against one another. Iris felt her eye involuntarily twitch at the carelessness of the packer, but was willing to disregard it. Stratix boards were thousands of pounds apiece; wholesale, this single box would have cost ten times what she had paid for the apartment. Yet, a small reseller on Amazon was charging under a hundred apiece when bought in bulk. For the parallel processing that her system ran on, bulk was what Iris wanted, and she was glad to take the deal.
The computer beeped, having finished the software build. Iris pulled a random board from the box, taking it to her computer and plugging it into a USB cable. The lights of the board turned on, glowing green and red. While clearly the board was being powered, her computer wasn't recognising the connection. She searched the net to find suitable drivers, downloading and installing them from the company website. A small beep, and the board was visible to the system. Iris moved through the setup prompts, configuring the software to flash to the board. She clicked the final confirmation box, and was greeted by:

Invalid board connection. (Code: 59277402)

"Shit."
Iris searched the net again, this time looking up the error code; predictably, the support was utterly useless. It could have been a mistake in the cable; Iris tried a different one. Again, she ran through the long and arduous task of establishing the connection, until again:

Invalid board connection. (Code: 59277402)

"Shit!"
Frustrated, Iris moved over to the box, picking out another three boards and placing them at her computer. She permuted through them all to no avail; she reinstalled the drivers again and again. The only reasonable conclusion was that she had been sent a box of duds. Iris stood from her seat, rummaging through the box for some kind of return address or support phone number. She felt some rough paper against her hand, and removed it from the box. It was plain and simple, a small slip of blue with smudged black ink printed across its surface.

Praying for better hardware?
YOU HAVE BEEN PRAYING TO THE WRONG GOD.
FallenZealot's Broken Tech Shack
27b Loughton Lane, Islington, London
020 8287 8118

Broken was right.

The phone number had rung through to an answering machine, with a brusque cockney voice spouting operating hours and to call again later. Which was odd, considering that it was still well within said operating hours, and the store should have been open anyway. Iris had pulled out an umbrella and ventured into the rain, with three of the boards tucked away into her pockets to illustrate their uselessness to the vendor. It was a short trip from her new apartment; she only needed to transfer buses once, and then it was only a few blocks from the stop. She shivered slightly as she approached the building. "FallenZealot's Broken Tech Shack", it seemed, had a double meaning: while it sold broken tech, the shack itself was broken too. The wooden front had been painted with bright colours, but didn't seem to have been sealed; even now, the rain dripping from the shop pooled into bright orange and yellow puddles.
Iris placed her hand on the handle and opened the door.
The first thing that hit her was the strange smell of the place. She couldn't place it: it seemed to be an odd combination of lavender, roasting peanuts, coffee and cheese. Iris had to take a moment to parse that combination of odd scents into sense.
The second thing that hit her was the décor. While the outside had left her expecting a dilapidated interior, it was instead filled with blue and green neon lighting, with brushed steel lining the roof and floor. The walls were covered in trays filled with electronic gadgetry of every kind, with a bargain bin near the door filled with Raspberry Pi and small Arduino boards. This was the kind of store that Iris would love to shop at, if only the hardware worked.
The final thing that she noticed was the rotund man sitting behind the counter, presumably the eponymous FallenZealot. He had dark black hair and a long beard to match, plaited together with strips of flickering red and yellow LEDs. The result was that his face appeared perpetually be illuminated from underneath by fire. This could have also been because of the lit pipe he was holding, which he quickly hid underneath the bench as Iris walked in. The suddenness of the intrusion sent him into a coughing fit. Also he had a robotic right hand. That was pretty interesting too.
Iris, after having processed these things, approached the counter and commenced conversation.
"I bought a bunch of FPGA boards from you. They don't work."
FallenZealot looked up at the girl, having recovered from his coughing.
"Buncha wot boards?"
Iris grimaced at the accent.
"FPGA."
"Wot?"
"Field programmable gate arrays."
"Don't sell Gatorade, girly."
"Gate. Arrays. These ones."
Iris punctuated each period by placing one of the faulty boards onto the bench.
"I purchased these from you. One hundred Stratix V boards. They are not functioning. Give me some working ones or give me my money back."
"Jeez, alright, don't get yer panties in a twist, just a joke, innit? Lemme take a look, ey?"
Iris crossed her arms, watching as the man picked up one of the boards. He inspected it carefully, staring at it with intense focus.
"No physical damage, innit."
"They don't work."
"The boards themselves are probably fine, buy a new cable, I've got some for sale here, inni-"
"It was not the connection. They don't work."
"Look, I don't have enough cash on me for a refund, and I don't have any more 'a these in stock. All honesty, wasn't expectin' someone to walk in and demand a refund."
"Yet here I am."
"Yet here you are, innit. Tell you wot, I've got a buncha boards in 'ere, somethin' should work for what you need. What did you need 'em for?"
"Parallel processing, and lots of it."
"Ah, great, I've got something that aughta be a good replacement. I'll just give you a Boner."
Exactly 4.87 seconds of silence passed.
"Are you propositioning me?"
"Nah, girly, let me show ya what I mean."
"Listen, I really don't want to see your boner-"
FallenZealot grabbed something from underneath the table, placing it onto the table with a solid thud.
"This is a Boner."
The aforementioned Boner was, in fact, not a euphemism, but a literal cube of bone. There were various pins and ports inset into the sides; a dull array of lights below the surface slowly pulsated in and out. Iris picked up the Boner in her hands, observing it from every angle. It was lighter than she had expected, but there seemed to be some weight to it, an almost gyroscopic bias towards remaining still. She started talking while continuing to examine the object.
"Oh. Uh, okay. This equipment… doesn't exactly look standardised."
"Oh, don't you start on me. I ain't a heretic. Bone's programmable too, dig it? Just like they said, right: turn on, tune in, drop out, toke up, jack off, you know? Can't do the last two without a bit of flesh on ya."
"You are… really, really badly misappropriating the words of Tim Leary, there."
"No, no, it's in the bible."
"It doesn't matter. The… Boner. Give me specs. Clock speed, memory, everything."
"I dunno, a couple terahertz or somethin', maybe a few hundred gig of RAM."
Iris looked up from the box with a sceptical stare.
"You're kidding."
"No, no, see, because bone ain't a metal, we don't get inductive effects or anything, right? Can bump up the clock speed high as ya need. And then it's got heart cells on the inside for storage, innit. Muscle memory."
Iris stared blankly. FallenZealot scratched his chin, jostling his LED-laden beard.
"That okay, girly?"
"Everything that you just said was complete nonsense."

As it turned out, of course, it was not complete nonsense. Iris Dark had somehow stumbled across some of the most capable hardware on the planet. She almost felt guilty about putting it to work on a purely profit-purposed enterprise. Almost.
Iris had bought as many of the miraculous boxes as FallenZealot had in stock, which turned out to have been four. She worked for days restructuring her code for the new platform: with the enormous increase in clock speed, each of the boxes could handle what would have taken thousands of Stratix boards in parallel to accomplish. They seemed to be perfect; even their power draw was comparable to that of a toaster.
And so, she spent the next week working on redesigning the system from inside her new apartment. The program had been built for distributed nets, and the changes were substantial. The project became all-encompassing, and with her refrigerator fully stocked, she had no reason to leave the room.
As such, even on the 25th of June, she had read none of the following letters.

to the recipient of Iris Dark the;
you have been stated Claimwise presently at the hence to forthwith of many am to. via the forthwith, Hence into plain and direct of the subject topic. some rational Inheritance of the company
MARSHALL, CARTER AND DARKE LTD.
is am wish to many. Consumption from the. collection at
JUNE 26
from the place of Residents.
forthcoming For incomprehensible, henceways, separate message from Incipient.
from PERCIVAL DARKE of state no
graceless Corpuscule;
The A-78xD United Eidolonic Collective
(deepness for incomprehensible)

to the recipient of Iris Dark the;
please am Manytime to refer to firsT letter.
unknit from the. collection at
JUNE 26
involuntary Consumption yes from the place of Residents.
please READ and thank you
graceless Corpuscule;
The A-78xD United Eidolonic Collective
(deepness for incomprehensible)

to the recipient of Iris Dark the;
is THIRD letter please am Manytime transparallel quadrature
neutral Allegory. collection at
JUNE 26
understood Consumption yes from the place of Residents.
IMPORTance is compulsory
IMPORTance is compulsory
IMPORTance is compulsory
graceless Corpuscule;
The A-78xD United Eidolonic Collective
(deepness for incomprehensible)

to the recipient of Iris Dark the;
will Imminence of collect due to negligence
extant june.
graceless Corpuscule;
The A-78xD United Eidolonic Collective
(deepness for incomprehensible)

Iris heard a knocking at the door.
She blinked twice, then wiped the weariness from her eyes. She certainly wasn't expecting visitors, but then, she'd been holed up in her room for days. Probably just a neighbor or something. Iris ignored the knocking.
The knocking didn't stop.
Iris was uncomfortable after the first minute, confused after the fifth, and understandably disturbed after the knocking persisted for an hour. Sighing, she started her code building and walked over to the door. She looked through the small glass eyehole, seeing the faceless almost-human on the other side, still knocking against the door with an unnervingly uniform beat. Iris felt her heart beat faster. The business suit, the faceless head. She'd heard of this before. She moved backwards, trying to keep her breath under control.
IT WAS THE MOTHERFUCKING SLENDERMAN.

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