South Coast Paper. If you're from the American southeast, chances are you've printed on their stock, and if you're Wilmingtonian, chances are you've smelled their production plant on Hwy 74/76. This industry giant boasted over 10 million in revenue this year alone; you may have asked yourself what a paper company is doing with those profits, especially with no publicly known CEO reaping the benefits. South Coast Paper had a clean record as a company, and had seemingly been treating the east coast well; however, the truth of a corporation's motives rarely comes to light, and when it does, it tends to get a little ugly.
That's certainly what happened to our friends over at SCP; clever acronyms not considered, it came as a shock to everyone when a certain reporter (whose identity will not be disclosed in this segment for the purposes of security) employed by a certain publisher exposed South Coast Paper as a front company directing profits toward everyone's favorite anomalous regulatory agency, the SCP Foundation.
These findings were and are a significant problem; following the infamous events of Korea that fully exposed the Foundation and their operations, world governments quickly signed into existence new legislation that requires the Foundation to disclose — even if only in fine print — which organizations and businesses existing in the public eye are Foundation-affiliated. Evidence now shows that the Foundation operated upwards of 200 front companies in various industries — from paper manufacturing to aerospace engineering — and generated an estimated 23 billion dollars during their time in the shadows, and that's just since 1990. 23 billion dollars of consumer trust were funneled directly through the companies' individual facades and toward the funding of more containment sites, more international presence, more space exploration, and more of everything else the Foundation sees as integral to furthering its reach.
To the public, and to readers of that reporter's pieces, it was a preposterous discovery. A gross series of actions worth quite a bit more trouble than just bad publicity.

Thus, then came the Plaintiff.

˙ɟɟᴉʇuᴉɐlԀ ǝɥʇ ǝɯɐɔ uǝɥʇ 'snɥ┴

IN THE GENERAL COURT OF JUSTICE
SUPERIOR COURT DIVISION
FILE NO: TBD

██████ █████████
P.O. BOX ████
WILMINGTON, NC 284██
STATE OF NORTH CAROLINA
COUNTY OF NEW HANOVER
██████ █████████,
Plaintiff
vs.
SOUTH COAST PAPER, INC. SUBSIDIARY OF
SCP FOUNDATION
Defendant

COMPLAINT

NOW COMES the Plaintiff, ██████ █████████ (“Plaintiff”) pro se, complaining of the Defendant and says:

INTRODUCTION

The Plaintiff and their employer, Information Breach Publications, LLC, regularly conducted business with South Coast Paper, Inc., a paper supplier in southeastern North Carolina. The Plaintiff and their employer express public non-support of the SCP Foundation, owner of South Coast Paper, Inc. The SCP Foundation did not at any point until it was forcibly revealed by the Plaintiff allow public knowledge of their ownership of South Coast Paper, Inc.
When it was revealed by the Plaintiff that the SCP Foundation is the true owner and operator of South Coast Paper, Inc., a smear campaign against the Plaintiff's public image was launched by the SCP Foundation. This campaign, taking place both internally among Foundation personnel and externally in news and local media, was slanderous and libelous in nature and needlessly targeted the Plaintiff.
The SCP Foundation conducts illicit business practices operating under a fabricated front company, and maliciously continued illegitimate business operations with Information Breach Publications, LLC despite being fully aware that Information Breach Publications, LLC is directly against the Foundation's motives, goals, and continued operation.

IDENTIFICATION OF PARTIES

Plaintiff is a citizen and resident of New Hanover County, North Carolina. Plaintiff is an employee of Information Breach Publications, LLC, a publications company specializing in exposing illegal and unethical practices conducted by the Defendant in multiple settings and locations.
Upon information and belief, the Defendant is an extralegal organization having no affiliation or obligation to any legal entities other than itself, and is regularly exempted from both United States federal regulations and international/United Nations regulations.

JURISDICTION AND VENUE

At the material times alleged herein, the Defendant was, upon information and belief, acting as a corporate entity based out of southeastern North Carolina, with a sales office located in New Hanover County, North Carolina.
Plaintiff was, at the material times alleged herein, a resident of New Hanover County, North Carolina.
This court does, in fact, have jurisdiction over all parties and matters in controversy herein and New Hanover County is the proper venue for this action.

FACTUAL ALLEGATIONS

1. The Plaintiff and their employer, Information Breach Publications, LLC regularly conducted business with South Coast Paper, Inc., believing it to be an independent paper supply company.
2. The Defendant illegally operated and owned South Coast Paper, Inc. despite full awareness of their questionable public status and the fact that Information Breach Publications, LLC serves the sole purpose of informing the public about fraudulent, unethical, illegal, and otherwise questionable activities conducted by the Defendant in their many facilities worldwide.
3. When the Defendant's malpractice was revealed by the Plaintiff, the Defendant responded by slandering the Plaintiff, and targeted them not as a representative of their employer but as an individual, thereby causing irreversible personal damages to the Plaintiff's reputation and well-being.
4. Despite the unlawful and uncivil conduct of the Defendant, as well the questionable legal status of South Coast Paper, Inc. as a legitimate independent company, South Coast Paper, Inc. is still in operation.

FIRST CLAIM FOR RELIEF
(Unfair and Deceptive Trade Practices)

5. The Plaintiff hereby incorporates by reference the allegations contained in paragraphs 1 through 4.
6. The Plaintiff did willingly do business with South Coast Paper, Inc., fully believing it to be a functioning business with no ulterior motives or hidden corporate ownership.
7. The Defendant does regularly mislead the public about the destination of South Coast Paper, Inc.'s profits, not disclosing despite the SCP Foundation's now-public operation status that profits are benefiting that organization. The Defendant is fully aware of the legal status of this method of business practice and the fraudulence therein.
8. As a direct and proximate cause of the conduct of the Defendant, the Plaintiff has been damaged and is entitled to have and recover from the Defendant a sum in excess of FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS ($50,000.00).

SECOND CLAIM FOR RELIEF
(Libel)

9. The Plaintiff hereby incorporates by reference the allegations contained in paragraphs 1 through 8.
10. When the Plaintiff exposed the actions of the Defendant and the true destination of South Coast Paper, Inc.'s income, the Plaintiff's status as a well-known reporter in the area was used against them in the form of a publicity-targeting smear campaign published by the Foundation, evidenced by information and belief as well as publications sourced from SCP Foundation-critical information examiners including but not limited to Information Breach Publications, LLC and informants.
11. During the Plaintiff's process of revealing the illegal processes through which South Coast Paper, Inc. transfers profits in full to the SCP Foundation, the Plaintiff was regularly harassed and questioned in public when recognized by Foundation personnel. Information and belief sourced from Foundation personnel indicates the Plaintiff is the subject of an internal "example case" used by high-ranking Foundation officials to illustrate an anti-Foundation public figure who will falsify evidence and incite distrust.
12. Following the Plaintiff's efforts to expose the actions of the Defendant, the Plaintiff's reputation and personal security were noticeably and irreparably damaged by Foundation efforts in a directly intentional and slanderous manner.
13. As a direct and proximate cause of the conduct of the Defendant, the Plaintiff has been damaged and is entitled to have and recover from the Defendant a sum in excess of TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS ($200,000.00).

THIRD CLAIM FOR RELIEF
(Punitive Damages)

14. The Plaintiff incorporates herein by reference the allegations contained in paragraphs 1 through 13 as is fully set forth herein.
15. The conduct of the Defendant was fraudulent, ethically unacceptable, and malicious, and has damaged both the Plaintiff and the public in manners characteristic of the Defendant's current and past behavior as an organization.
16. As a direct and proximate result of the conduct of the Defendant, the Plaintiff is entitled to an award of punitive damages against the Defendant in an amount to be determined by a jury at the trial of this matter. It is the Plaintiff's desire for the Jury to consider an award of FOUR HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS ($400,000.00) to mitigate the impact of the Defendant's actions.

Plaintiff pleads with the court and jury to
WHEREFORE, the Defendant prays the Court as follows:
1. That the Plaintiff have and recover judgment against the Defendant for compensatory damages in excess of TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND and 00/100 Dollars ($250,000.00);
2. That the Plaintiff have and recover judgement against the Defendant for punitive damages in an amount of FOUR HUNDRED THOUSAND and 00/100 Dollars ($400.000.00) or an amount less than or greater than that amount, to be determined by a jury at the trial of this matter;
3. That the costs of this action be taxed by the Court against the Defendant;
4. For trial by jury on all issues so triable; and
5. For such other and further relief as to the Court seems just and proper.
Respectfully submitted this the ██ day of June, 20██.

██████ █████████
Pro Se Plaintiff
By: [IDENTIFYING SIGNATURE REMOVED]
██████ █████████
Pro Se Plaintiff
Mailing Address:
██████ █████████
P.O. BOX ████
WILMINGTON, NC 284██
Street Address:
██████ █████████
██ █████ Court
P.O. BOX ████
WILMINGTON, NC 284██

South Coast Paper was slammed with a lawsuit — albeit a reasonably sized one against a corporate entity their size — from a pro se plaintiff claiming that the company's true operator, the SCP Foundation, had launched a slanderous campaign against them after they publicized the fact that South Coast Paper is a front company raking in profits solely to benefit the Foundation.

With the Foundation's publicity more shameless and prevalent than ever before, some personnel are defending their employer on social media.

A social media user expresses their opinions about the Foundation's potential response to the lawsuit.

As we know, the Foundation using fronts to fund their research and operations is not unheard of. The only difference is that nowadays, they're no longer immune to the repercussions of illegitimate business conduct. With the unlawful operation and ownership of South Coast Paper being brought to light, we are left to wait and wonder as to what the results will be. Will New Hanover County decide to take the side of the Plaintiff — and of the law — and recognize not only the Foundation's fraudulent corporate activity, but also the harassment of the Plaintiff that took place? With nowhere left to turn and no way to quell the resulting public outcry, the only option remaining is to face the music; a lifetime of secrecy and lying to the populace can only get an organization so far, and this may indeed be the end of the road for the southeastern branches.

They've been through worse and erased it, which brings a slew of new issues to the table.

˙ǝlqɐʇ ǝɥʇ oʇ sǝnssᴉ ʍǝu ɟo ʍǝls ɐ sƃuᴉɹq ɥɔᴉɥʍ 'ʇᴉ pǝsɐɹǝ puɐ ǝsɹoʍ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ uǝǝq ǝʌ,ʎǝɥ┴

Site-42, Seabreeze, North Carolina
June ██, 20██

Agent Trauss is tired for his age. It's something he feels in his bones, no matter how much young muscle is surrounding them. He grunts under his breath as he seats himself at his handler's desk, hair disheveled and glossy under the single white light fixed above the stainless steel and concrete surfaces of the room.
"Good evening. I haven't seen you in a while."
"Well, get your face out of the shadows, then."
Kenton Lookingbill scoots his chair forward, allowing himself to smirk. "You know how it is. Hey, at least you hear my voice on the radio."
"What do you have me down here for? You've got a look on your face like it's bad news, I gotta say."
"No sir. Just a task we need you to carry out. It's important."
"I'm all ears."
Lookingbill opens his clipboard and removes a folded tabloid-size diagram of a small electronic device, sliding it across the desk. He watches Trauss study it in silence.
"Is this our newest tech, or something?"
"It's about to be. This is one iteration improved from the original."
"And who made the original?"
"Bruce Schulman, an MC&D entrepreneur from New York."
"And this is a… this is the opposite of amnestics, and you type in the memory you're recovering? Is this anomalous?"
"Yes-"
"You know I don't like using anomalous tech."
"Hold your fire, though, son. Like I said, that's V2.0, right there. It's not nearly as unstable as Schulman's, and his is out there on the market. Has been for years."
"Alright, so are you assigning one of these to my inventory, or what?" Trauss folds the paper back in half and sets it on the table.
"Not permanently, no." Lookingbill retrieves another document from inside his clipboard.
"Alright, then what's this about?"
"It's about two things. First, it's about a lawsuit, and second, it's about a skip. As an example, remind me, are you familiar with line fishing?"
"…Oh, Christ. Don't tell me 3848 is involved in this. ARTMET wasn't fun to learn and it's not fun to use. I've finally stopped having the headaches."
"You're going to have to double down on your cannabis consumption, then, because you've got a few headaches en route."
"Hell. Alright, tell me what Wilmington's forgotten about this time, then."
"Nothing, yet. But as you've probably seen in the monthly Level 4 information emails, things are not shaping up well in most parts of the world right now. 3848 is knocking out a hell of a lot of concepts in a hell of a lot of places, and fast. We're up to several a day at this point. A point where logging them all is becoming superfluous."
"What's the plan?"
"Your plan? Your plan is to deal with this lawsuit before it goes to trial. The Director's calling it Operation Styx, and he's rushing it. And the manner in which we need you to deal with it happens to be a very important test run of the technology on that blueprint, there. Track down the reporter that filed the suit, detain her, administer targeted Class-Cs with the assistance of two L3 security officers of your choice, use the modified Schulman device to construct a false but similar memory of doing business with South Coast Paper, and get her to drop the suit."
"So you want me to instigate 42's biggest scandal since the Jacobson case, is what I'm hearing."
"…Beg your pardon?"
"I'm not going to bullshit you, Kenton, we know each other too well. Pretend we're off the record for a second, here. Pretend we're sitting at my kitchen bar."
Lookingbill puts his head in his hands. "No, Trauss, I've told you a million times that you can't just say it's off the record to make it off the record."
"I'll say it on the record, then: There's no way in hell I'm doing that."
"Why? You're perfect for this. This is a very high-level opportunity, here."
"I don't touch these aspects of Foundation operations, Kenton. You know that about me. There's plenty of terrible shit that I'm willing to do, but it's field work."
"This is field work."
"No, this is dirty bureaucrat work. I'm not assassinating someone's memories because the paper company got caught. The Foundation broke the law. We were in the wrong. And I don't know the legitimacy of the libel aspect, but at this point, I wouldn't put it past us, and I really don't like saying that but for all I know it could be true."
"The publications about that reporter were- they were multifaceted, alright, they took a lot of angles and made for a lot of murky lines to cross or not cross. Having read all of them, I think we're on solid ground, if not entirely."
"That's the longest line of bullshit I've heard you spin in a while."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Trauss, just tell me if you understand the mission or not."
"How does using this device on the reporter aid 3848 containment efforts?"
"The lead researcher at R&D already wrote the memory script for it."
"So this is a trial run. What if it hurts her in some way we didn't predict? There are D-classes for this."
"We can't use D-classes for this because the memory pathway needs to already be present, conceptually and in terms of the person's awareness of the subject matter. If this works, Director Radford will be able to greenlight the next phase of the project, and get this technology into a format that can be administered on a larger scale and more quickly. It's our last defense against these increasing waves of Lethe Events, frankly."
He shakes his head side-to-side, slowly. "I don't know, I feel like there should be another way to go about this. Give the mission to someone else. This kind of shit, this kind of sneaky backstabbing shit — this isn't the Foundation I know, and I'm not going to represent that Foundation."
Lookingbill widens his eyes, a doubtful glare centered on the younger man. "…Wow. Well, you're certainly a high enough rank that I can't force you."
"Correct."
They sit in silence for several seconds, making unblinking eye contact.
"Well, that's that, then. I'll tell the Site Director to pick the next option." Lookingbill closes his clipboard with the two files back in it and stands from his chair. "You know the process."
Trauss stands with an exasperated expression on his face and removes a canister of Class-A aerosol amnestics from a pouch on his belt.
"Three seconds for 15 minutes."
"Yeah, yeah." He shakes the can, muscle memory reminding him of how many times he's had to do this in the past year or two particularly. Lookingbill is watching him from across the table, looking disappointed as his employee takes a deep breath of cold, metallic-tasting air and liquid particles from the inhaler.

3431 W. Telfair Circle, Seabreeze, North Carolina
June ██, 20██

Trauss jams his key into the front door lock and immediately heads upstairs to his bathroom to brush his teeth. The emptiness of the small townhouse adds an additional pang of depression to the swirling mix of feelings in his chest, but he tries to stay distracted with getting the taste of amnestics out of his mouth.
"Agent Trauss. Come in if you're available," a voice in his head says. He grimaces and twists the lower ring of the device attached to his tragus piercing after spitting his toothpaste into the sink. "I want the normal microphone back. I don't like having you in my head."
"This is Site Director Radford."
"Oh, hi." He coughs and sputters. "Thought you were Lookingbill. Sorry, uh, I'm brushing my teeth. Is something urgent?"
"Not immediately. Why are you brushing your teeth?"
Why are you barking in my comm-link at 7 PM on a Saturday? "I taste Class-As, is all. Nothing abnormal these days."
"Ah, right, about that. I'm afraid those did you no good, because Lookingbill has gotten back to me about that thing you just wiped out and I'm not going to take no for an answer. We've got something urgent, a mission that requires someone with good publicity and a friendly face. And clearance level four or higher, and amnestics administration training and ARTMET certification. And there's only one person in 42 that fits that profile."
"What do I need to do?"
"We'll give you information as-needed every step of the way. You're going to be handling an anomalous device from R&D and administering Class-Cs to someone. Some undercover work posing as a reporter may be needed, but it's unlikely. We're probably going to take the direct route."
Trauss looks himself in the mirror, his monochrome clothing bright and sterile despite its wrinkles and flecks of dirt accumulated throughout the day. He adjusts his collar and wipes a wet washcloth around the edges of his face. "Where should I go and when?"
"Come down to Room A4 of R&D at 42. Nine in the morning, sharp."
"Am I going to be leaving straight from 42? Should I bring the car?"
"Yes, and no. Drive the bike."
"Shit, really? Full PPO uniform and everything?"
"Full gear. Bring one or two L3 field ops with you. I don't care who you pick, you're just gonna need some physical backup."
"Oh yikes. Alright, will do," Trauss says, eager to disconnect. Radford's crisp speaking tone and enunciation borders on irritating most of the time, and this conversation is no exception.
"There's the agent I know. See you in the AM."
"Copy that."
His earpiece beeps once to indicate the connection was ended. He breathes a sigh of relief and starts to undress for the night, making plans to knock on Agent Rogers' door first thing in the morning.

Firstly, we saw with the Jacobson case that Site-42 — not just the Foundation as a whole, as that's old news, but the Wilmington branch specifically — is not immune to internal corruption taking place locally. That opened the door for a world of new opportunities for malpractice on the Foundation's part, be they social, legal, or (heaven forbid) ethical; when a group has, across the span of history, never been held directly accountable for its actions, that group ends up seeing itself as exempt from society's rules and exempt from any accountability that may apply. They end up thinking that they've always known best and they always will know best, because they've never given humanity a chance to tell them otherwise.

One of the Foundation's anomalies is deleting memories of various concepts from human memory, and most people are aware at this point that the manifestations are worsening and becoming more frequent.

This poses a challenge to anyone looking to expound or capitalize upon the parts of the Foundation that are beneficial to humanity — the STEM advancements they and their partners have achieved, namely — because involvement with the Foundation is by nature getting the full package, even in marketing. You cannot invest time, money, or resources in just one branch of the Foundation, because the core of the Foundation itself is an oligarchy of supervisors with a limitless reach and no behavioral restrictions which operates through each and every channel of the organization's activities, right down to the actions of their individual employees.

These days, I often ask myself as a reporter why Foundation personnel behave the way they do.

˙op ʎǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ ǝʌɐɥǝq lǝuuosɹǝd uoᴉʇɐpunoℲ ʎɥʍ ɹǝʇɹodǝɹ ɐ sɐ ɟlǝsʎɯ ʞsɐ uǝʇɟo I 'sʎɐp ǝsǝɥ┴

Site-42, Seabreeze, North Carolina
June ██, 20██

Date: May 24, 2022 13:20
From: ETH_COM (of.pcs.ce|YLPERTONOD#of.pcs.ce|YLPERTONOD)
To: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
Message Subject: URGENT ORDERS
Attachments: none
Message Body:

ETHICS COMMITTEE CEASE OPERATIONS ORDER
This is an automated message.

Site Director Eric Radford, your project OPERATION STYX (www.scp-wiki.scp.fo/l4access/verification/intscpfn-portal/personnel/eradford42/operation-styx) has been flagged for content and approval violation by one or more Ethics Committee boardmembers and is pending review.
Do not proceed with this project until you are contacted within 12 hours of receiving this message.

ADDITIONAL NOTES

Text attachment from supervising officer(s):
Cease operations until further contact. Do not allow C-51174 to leave Site-42 until further contact. Order C-39438 to self-amnesticize and resume his schedule. -Blanchard

END MESSAGE

Site Director Radford looks up from his phone. "Hang on, stop walking for a sec."
Trauss stops and turns around, attracting the attention of a passing researcher as he flips his helmet's face shield up. "What is it?"
Radford leans against a corner in the hallway, pressing his back against the painted cinderblock wall. "Fuck," he says under his breath. "Okay, what am I doing, I can't show you this," he says with a nervous chuckle, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Let's step into the proper research room, here." He scans his access card on the door lock to Room A4 and gestures the two agents in ahead of him. "Hello, Mallory," he says to the lead researcher, closing the door behind them.
"Oh, goodness. I haven't seen that uniform since I worked on 3069," she says to Trauss and Rogers. "I can only assume you two are gearing up for-"
Radford rushes over to the doctor and whispers in her ear, interrupting her. She nods and scoots around to the other side of the table, flipping an opaque black cloth over a metallic device displayed in the middle. "Sorry, gentlemen, but we've just found out some sensitive internal information. Agent Rogers, I'm afraid you'll need to administer Class-As- uhh, let's see, what time did Agent Trauss come to get you? I think you'll need to go back at least forty-five minutes. Sorry, but it's Ethics Committee orders. Now please forget I said that."
Rogers glares at Trauss, but there's a hint of sympathy present. "Another day at the office." He starts shaking his spray can. "Sounds like you're in some deep shit here. Good luck." He exhales fully and counts to himself before inhaling for nine seconds.
Trauss pats him on the back and reattaches the can to his belt for him. "Alright. Go walk down the hallway and go home for the day." He pushes him toward the door. Rogers wheezes into his fist and stumbles out.
"Now, back to business," Dr. Wickerford says, taking the cloth off of the device on the counter.
"What do you mean? They just sent us a cease-and-desist!"
She raises an eyebrow over her glasses. "Well, maybe for Operation Styx they did, but not for my proposal."
Radford looks bewildered. "I told you I wouldn't approve that."
"And I told you it didn't need to go through site management, only the Ethics Committee."
The two of them glare at each other in silence. Trauss takes his helmet off. "Mind if I ask what's going on here?"
"Mallory has a proposition for you," he says with a side-glance at her, "but just know that I am not going to make it mandatory, so don't-"
"Oh, don't make it sound more stressful than it is, Eric." She pulls Trauss over to the table by the arm and gestures to the device. "Have you seen this before, Agent?"
"Not that I can recall."
She nods. "Right. Well, this here is AC34D NC77Q 95DCS."
Trauss chuckles. "An MC&D object. Didn't know they were active around these parts."
"Indeed they are. Don't be disappointed, but our possession of this is actually fairly old news. This version here on the table is our first re-engineered prototype, though. It's not like the original at all."
"Is it anomalous?"
"Well, yes, I'll confess that the core element is anomalous. But we've compartmentalized that element and sufficiently improved our understanding of it over the course of our research. It's not the first anomalous technology we safely utilize, as you're well-aware from your experience in the field."
"I'll see. I don't really like using anomalous tech."
"Well, that's what I'm getting to." She shoots a glance at Radford, silencing him as he opens his mouth to say something. "Agent Trauss, I'm going to make you an offer, and I suggest you take me up on it. This device is capable of extremely accurate and detailed artificial memory inception. Not only memory in the objective sense, but in concept and intention as well. At your clearance level, I am certain you are aware of the disturbing increases in the frequency of Lethe Events, yes?"
"Yes, I am."
"Imagine a device that can reverse the effects of SCP-3848. A device that is 94 percent effective in both restoring information and creating memories of new information. Even fabricated memories."
Trauss leans over the table and squints at the small screen of the device. "What coding language is that?"
"It's a language entirely unique to and invented for this device, and others like it that will be developed in coming years. We've named it ED-K+ for now, sharing a designation with terminology from 3848. It's the second iteration of the language. ED-K, the first rendition, was written for Schulman's original device. But we're long done with that now. This version, this is ours, through and through. You see, Schulman was only on the cusp of actualizing this thing's full effects. He and his customers were just typing in words and sentences. We developed an accurate, procedural approach that uses much more of the tech's potential."
"But what's your end goal right now, if you don't mind me interrupting?"
"I know you're the type to cut to the chase. Don't mind my tech babbling. We're about to need to test this. For the first application on a willing human subject, I've written a script for an incredibly simple and useful concept to implant. Targeting the hippocampus and specific regions of the cortex, this device will alter the memory recall of the subject to include specific thought processes and ingrained memetic vectors which effectively induce the desired behaviors."
Trauss blinks. "I'm not as fluent in scientist as I used to be, but I'm not entirely comfortable arming myself with a thought control device, if that's what you're getting at."
"Sadly, to call it a thought control device would be an overstatement of its capacities. Writing a concept or memory in ED-K+ is time-consuming and nuanced."
"What happens to someone's brain if you make a typo on that thing's keypad?" He gestures with a gloved hand to the size of the device.
"We never use that keypad except for minor edits. ED-K+ is written in any text editor and then copied over via a wired connection."
"Alright. Well, look, I think it's interesting and everything, don't get me wrong, but I really don't want to be near it."
Radford steps forward. "Right, you heard the man. Shall we?"
"Not so fast, Eric," Wickerford snaps. "Trauss, let me be frank with you. Your superiors are and always have been fully aware of your personal struggles." She lowers her voice and perches on a lab stool in a failed attempt to ease the tension in the room. "You show some interesting behavioral traits, from a psychological standpoint. Notably, you are one of the only employees to allow a permanent communications implant to be installed. If you don't mind my asking, what makes you so comfortable with the Foundation's presence in your life?"
He glances at the floor, feeling the two of them watching him. "I'm not entirely certain."
"Does it make you feel safe?"
"You could say that."
"You feel willing to trade privacy for protection?"
"…Again, I guess you could say that."
"The easiest way to see efficient results from running an ED-K+ script is to have a neural pathway for the memory or concept somewhat distinguished already in the mind of the subject."
"Where are you going with this?" He sweats under his uniform, wondering why he's wearing this for a white-collar lab meeting.
"I have written a script consisting of a psychological package designed to plant a series of closely related conceptual seeds; namely, the association of the presence of the Foundation with safety and security, the notion that compliance with Foundation operations and procedures is not only preferable but rewarding, and the desire to serve the Foundation and work toward its common goals."
Trauss shudders. "Jesus Christ."
"Why so taken aback?"
He laughs. "I thought you said this wasn't thought control, somehow."
"Well, fair enough, if you'd like to call it that. But it's certainly not versatile enough yet to control thought at the press of a button or the pull of a trigger. This is by no means field-ready. There are fewer than a dozen ED-K+ scripts in existence, and this is by far the safest one, conceptually."
"What did you say about this working better if the path is already established in the person's brain?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
"If you are so willing, I would like to use you as the first recipient of this script."
He stares at her. "W-what makes you think I would want that?"
"To be honest, Agent Trauss, you seem a little uncertain even as you say that. You are a fairly self-aware individual, as I've read in your personnel history, and not just in the technical way of your ARTMET training leaving more room for correct interpretation of memetic signals. You certainly know that you fit the parameters of already having these thought patterns established. You admitted yourself earlier in this conversation that you know you are comforted by the Foundation's presence in your daily life. Do you not think you would be happier, on a personal level, if those elements were amplified?"
Trauss' pulse thumps once in his chest. He sits down on a stool across from Wickerford.
"I want to stress that I am not requiring this nor directly endorsing it," Radford says. "But we do need to test this device somehow, and to be frank, the other option was definitely your least favorite."
"I was wondering if all of this was related to what got wiped out yesterday."
Dr. Wickerford leans forward, fingers intertwined on her lap. "The Foundation gave me a chance with 3069, and I delivered. Here we are right on the coast, still alive years later, thanks to something I did that seemed wrong and dangerous at first but ended up paying off. All I've asked of my superiors, and all I'm asking of you, is the trust to make the right decisions for the greater good yet another time, and deliver results yet another time."
"I don't know. I don't want you to think I don't have faith in your skill, but if there's anomalous tech in there, I'm scared of letting it fuck with my head."
"That aspect of its functionality is stable. I've conducted plenty of testing on human subjects, but a D-class complying with a test because they have to is not as valuable as a long-time employee completely consenting to a test because they're aware of the expected results and even desire the results."
Trauss scoffs. "So you're looking for your first willing human subject."
Wickerford shrugs a little. "You've been with the Foundation for what, ten years at this point? More, less? I don't have any shame about the work I do, and you know why."
He makes direct eye contact with her for the first time since their meeting. "How do you use that thing?"
An expression halfway between excitement and focus crosses her rosy cheeks as she reaches for the device. "Well, I won't lie, it's not comfortable. You'll need to be lying face-down for between 17 and 19 minutes — that's how long I estimate the script will take to run — and you'll have to tolerate some unpleasant sensations in your spinal cord, because it requires a lumbar puncture."
"Yeugh… Do I have to be conscious?"
Radford turns to Trauss, arms crossed. "Are you actually considering this?"
"Why would you of all people be against it?"
"Well- I don't know, I guess I'm… not. But why aren't you against it?"
"I don't know. Maybe because I don't feel like I have anything to lose, and I haven't in years. Maybe because I wake up aching and depressed most days now, and I didn't used to. Don't you know that a Foundation agent's lifespan is half of a normal human's, Director? I might as well be 65 years old."
Radford permits a small laugh and nods in understanding, though Trauss senses a little disdain.
"What I want to make clear, Trauss, is that we are not engineering this device to control what anyone thinks. We're just engineering it to… guide them in the right direction. It doesn't remove personality. It doesn't remove anything. It's the opposite of amnestics, it plants a seed in your mind and from there the seed grows. It's only dangerous if you start growing the wrong seed."
Trauss nods, removing his gloves as the sweat builds on his skin. "Alright."
"We may not know each other very well, Agent, but I have read about you extensively and talked with many of your superiors. This is who you are, I can tell. Your dedication to this organization is clear and present in everything you do. If you're willing to lend us your thoughts on the matter, so to speak, it would further our research considerably."
"And the other option?"
"Take Class-As again and find out what you knew yesterday, and get this thing tested the other way."
Trauss sits back in his stool with a sigh, biting his lip in thought as he stares at the device on the table.

The issue has never been that the Foundation's employees are emotionless embodiments of robots. On the contrary: Most of them that I've met are exceptionally normal (I suppose they're making an effort to be as opposite to 'anomalous' as they can be?) and have a decent personality on top of it. Very few of them exude the Men in Black aura that one would expect from their job description, and are quite open to conversation and communication.

Agent C. Trauss (whose username has been censored) is well-known in the Wilmington area due to his position as an Offsite Response Driver and Public Protection Officer.

Many civilians are vocal and adamant about their takes on the Foundation's operations and how personnel represent the organization.

What I've found from cross-referencing my experiences with the Foundation as a whole versus my experiences with individual personnel leads me to one conclusion: The Foundation does not punish its operatives for existing as unique individuals with personal ethics and convictions, but rather renders those personal beliefs and behaviors obsolete. Personnel are trained to prioritize the goals of the Foundation first, safety second, and themselves — under the specific parameters of the fact that they are a valued asset to their organization, and nothing more — last.
The most frightening aspect that's been made clear to me is that they're all aware of it. Not even just aware of it, but okay with it; they think it's a logical way of living, at least within the confines of what they call life, and they don't have any personal issues with presenting themselves as nothing more than representatives of the Foundation. All of that can only mean one thing: Individual Foundation personnel are, by allowing themselves to be used as tools by their higher-ups, knowingly accountable for the Foundation's actions. And that's a lot of accountability. It's the weight of the world, really. I'm not unsympathetic to a human being who genuinely believes that containing the anomalous is a necessary evil, or even an honorable career choice akin to government or law enforcement service, but I am unsympathetic toward an organization that consistently walks all over humanity and gets away with it scot-free.

Throughout history, that's been the norm. But can it change?

¿ǝƃuɐɥɔ ʇᴉ uɐɔ ʇnq ˙ɯɹou ǝɥʇ uǝǝq s,ʇɐɥʇ 'ʎɹoʇsᴉɥ ʇnoɥƃnoɹɥ┴

Date: June ██ 20██ 10:03
From: Mallory Wickerford (of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm#of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm)
To: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
Message Subject: Mnestic devices
Attachments: none
Message Body:
Eric,
I know it's only been a few weeks since the last test, but I'm under pressure to develop a version of this that doesn't require the lumbar puncture as soon as possible. The Ethics Committee didn't like the notion that this can't be applied to a large group of people at once, and Dr. Blanchard, upon visiting the lab, encouraged me to focus on the memetic vector aspect moreso than the involvement of biochemical aspects. As you will likely understand, I'm hesitant to do any of that, because my research had been aiming to decrease the use of anomalous means to plant a concept in someone's mind. This will be the opposite of that, but I'll do as I'm instructed and hope for the best.
We will not have a means of delivery that is usable on the public for at least another year or two, at the rate R&D is going. In the meantime, please keep in mind any potential subjects for the next stages of development. Just like with V2.0, these are not the types of tests that go smoothly when conducted on unwilling D-class subjects. I would much prefer informed, higher-ranking personnel, especially those who have either worked for the Cognitohazards & Memetics Department or have field experience with similar subject matter. The risks are minimal, especially if I successfully remove the biological limitations.
Once the compliance script is proven effective in our own personnel, we can use the results to engineer a version of the script that's strong enough to be effective even on subjects who don't already have the thought pathway established. Once we've done that, cleaning up Lethe Events should be straightforward each and every time; we'll have the technology to repair and alter collective memory, and the populace won't resist us when we do it.
In light of the above goals, I am respectfully requesting on behalf of this department a grant of $250,000.00 to proceed with development. I think you'll find the payoff will be higher, and more noticeable in its effects on the populace, than other large-scale projects of a similar or higher funding cost.
Please advise,
Mallory

Date: June ██ 20██ 10:14
From: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
To: Mallory Wickerford (of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm#of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm)
Message Subject: Re: Mnestic devices
Attachments: none
Message Body:
Good morning,
As you know from our personal conversations, Site-42's finances are going to be tight until the South Coast Paper suit is dealt with. Had the Ethics Committee allowed me to proceed with Operation Styx, this would not be an issue, but for the time being, I do not know of a way to accomplish this. I understand how frustrating this must be, and I understand how necessary it is for you to get to work, so give me 24 hours to get back to you with the best options I can find.
Thank you,
Eric

Date: June ██ 20██ 10:20
From: Mallory Wickerford (of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm#of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm)
To: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
Message Subject: Re: Re: Mnestic devices
Attachments: none
Message Body:
Ask them again. Keep in mind that the factor which had previously been holding back their approval has been nullified.

Date: June ██ 20██ 10:25
From: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
To: Mallory Wickerford (of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm#of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm)
Message Subject: Re: Re: Re: Mnestic devices
Attachments: none
Message Body:
That's a reasonable point to make. I'll reach out to Blanchard and then Lookingbill if Blanchard permits another try. I appreciate your persistence.

3431 W. Telfair Circle, Seabreeze, North Carolina
June ██, 20██

Agent Trauss is sitting in his car in his driveway, feeling sticky in his long-sleeved uniform and not wanting to get out of the air conditioning to walk inside.
"Trauss, it's Director Radford. What are you doing right now?"
He twists the bracket on his earpiece and responds. "I just pulled up at home. What's going on?"
"Switch to your PPO gear and ride over to 42 to meet with your handler and I. We've got something that needs to be taken care of before Wickerford can get the ball rolling on her research."
"…You're not gonna have me kill someone, are you?"
"Goodness, no. We've just got a person of interest who's stirring things up. We'll brief you more at 42."
"Alright. I'll change clothes and be there ASAP."
"Thank you. You won't be in any danger, rest assured."
Trauss shrugs and opens his car door. "Anything for the Foundation." He steps out and hurries inside, head held high.

Personally, I think it can. As my readers know, I have been reporting on the Foundation's activities for over ten years at this point, and I've seen a wide range of behaviors from them. They seem to become the most honest and direct version of themselves when humanity's overall safety is being actively threatened — a type of situation that appears to be ongoing, as we've learned from the many developing stories on these collective memory loss events — and resume their shadowy bureaucracy in full once things are safe again. Without knowing their plan for addressing current issues, I can only hope that it's an intelligent one, because whether we like it or not, they are oftentimes the only group of people equipped to protect us.
Until further developments on the South Coast Paper suit surface, I encourage our readers to do their own research on the matter and not hesitate to question Foundation employees when desired. With publicity comes responsibility — be it in the realm of business and law or otherwise — and as we move into the next decade of a post-breach world, new threats appearing every day, responsibility is more vital than ever before.


« Programmed to Receive | Faraway Voices Hub (TBA) | In the Master's Chambers (TBA) »

"Missing."
Both men fell silent as Janice leveled her unbelieving gaze at each of them in turn.
"You lost an AI."
"Well, uh, see … " Leroy started but trailed off when Director Wilson cleared his throat.
"Let us be clear here, Dr. Bell," the older man said, looking not at Janice but at the image of Isanna Yamaguchi on the screen. "We are not yet at a juncture to assign or assume blame, if indeed there is any to be handed out. We are in an emergency situation. There is some small amount of time available to us before said situation goes critical, yes, but it is only after that time that, for good or for ill, fingers need to be pointed. Do you understand?"
Janice had to bite down on the sharp retort that had risen to her tongue. Taking a measured breath, she stared hard at the side of the assistant director's head and said, "No, I don't. But … fine, that may be because I still don't have all the facts. So give them to me."
With a grateful nod, Wilson pointed up at the screen. The image of Director Yamaguchi - or rather, Janice reminded herself, the image that the Yamaguchi AI was using as an avatar - expanded and began to move. The background had become the trappings of an office, and the AI had been joined by four other people. They were presumably actual humans given they were all wearing augmented reality glasses so they could see and interact with the avatar standing among them.
Wilson was one of the humans in the silent video clip. Janice didn't recognize the others, but given their style of dress and the way they were gesturing to each other, she easily figured they were other members of the site's administration. They were certainly pleased with themselves in a way that visibly pegged them as people in power. The AI, for its part, smiled pleasantly and participated in the conversation only sparingly.
"She is the culmination of five years worth of work," Wilson said. "Specifically created and bred for this facility. For all intents and purposes, she is Site-3408. Of course, since she and so much else here is experimental, I do have final say on all decisions should I choose to exercise it, and I am, for now, the 'public' face of the site when it comes to dealing with other parts of the Foundation. But I've mostly just been rubber-stamping her work. Since the opening of this facility, she truly has been the site director, and I merely her assistant. Everything was going fine.
"Then, two weeks ago, she stopped talking to us. Eventually we went into the system to look for her, draw her out, and check her coding, but it was simply gone."
"So who's running the show now?" Janice asked.
"We, uh, we think that she still is," Leroy told her with a mystified shrug. "The computers act like her files never even existed, but somehow all of the things she used to do are still getting done. Er, sort of. Anyway, I've tried tracing the commands back to their source, but after a certain point I start getting nothing but error messages. Weird ones, like, ones that aren't in any of the documentation."
"For example?"
"Um, just word salad, mostly. Though some of it does sound like it could be for real, like the one I got that said there was a complex personality default in the upper buffers."
"Hmm. And what did you mean things are 'sort of' getting done?"
Wilson leaned forward. "Orders still come down for the janitors to clean, the security systems to scan, and the administrative AI to file paperwork, but there have been several instances where they'll be told to dump trash in the middle of an office, or turn the security plating off when it's not supposed to be, or put in requisitions for a metric ton of jellybeans. And then there are things like this."
With a flick of his wrist, Wilson caused the icon for a text file to appear in his hand. He pulled at its edges to make it unfold into a piece of paper, which he then handed to Janice. She took the weightless document from him and began to read.
"What the hell is this?" she asked after she had finished. "Some kind of brochure?"
"It is the official documentation for SCP-3408. Thankfully there wasn't an anomaly officially given that designation yet, so it was easy enough to isolate from the rest of the system, but … " The assistant director shifted uncomfortably and gestured to Leroy.
"We've been trying to get rid of it," the technician said, "but nothing's worked so far. If we delete it, it just goes back up again. If we change it, the changes get reverted. If we lock the document out from outside changes, they happen anyway. I've tried everything I could think of, honest, but … well, yeah. And things like this have been popping up all over the place around here."
Janice frowned at the document. "Huh. It kinda reminds me of those TV ads that got out a little while back."
"Yes, and that's one of the things we're most afraid of," said Wilson. "That this may be some kind of outside attack by a particularly clever anomalous hacker, perhaps even the same one responsible for the advertisements."
"Okay," Janice said with a huff as she stood up from her seat. The strange document dematerialized as she tossed it to one side and turned to face the men. "Alright, so that is pretty strange. I'm convinced that y'all have a real mystery on your hands. But what I really need to know before I help you out is … why me?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Why me?" she repeated, throwing her hands up. "I've done a little bit of work with AI, yeah, but what you've got here sounds way out of my area. Why don't you call up the AIAD, get Kappa-10 over here to check it out? This is all their stuff anyway, right?"
Leroy squirmed in his seat. Wilson stood up, walked over to the stage, and leaned against it while pursing his lips.
"And if I were to tell you that it wasn't?"
Janice crossed her arms. "Then I wouldn't exactly be too surprised," she said. "So, not only did you code up your own little family of AI, you don't want the official Foundation department that deals with artificial intelligence to know about it. I'm also guessing that, aside from a select few members of certain councils and committees, you don't want anyone else to find out about it either. How am I doing so far?"
Director Wilson's smile was strained.
"Right, so you called me in instead," she continued. "Made sure I didn't know what I was getting into, probably told my site director that you had something way more mundane going on with your computers, and hoped I'd be on board with whatever shady dealing you've got going on here. Hoped I would know enough or would be able to learn enough in time to put a big ol' Band-Aid on the problem before you found yourself ass-deep in alligators. Does that sound about right?"
"Fifty thousand."
"Please."
"Seventy-five thousand."
Janice paused, stared up at the back wall for a moment, then let out a sharp breath.
"Okay," she said. "Let's do this. Where is Yamaguchi's original mainframe? We might as well begin at the beginning."
"It's in her office. The director was a bit sentimental in that regard, believe it or not. Mr. McAllister will lead you there."
The doctor raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Not going to join us on our little excursion, assistant director?"
"I'm afraid not," Wilson said with an offhand shrug. "While you are working on the problem directly, I still have to maintain damage control. I'll give you as much time to work as I can while Mr. McAllister provides you with whatever resources we have at our disposal to help you in achieving your goal. Good luck to both of you."
Janice stared after the retreating man's back for a few moments, then turned to find Leroy had stood up and was hovering next to her, adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat.
"So, ah, if you'll unlock your phone for me, I can get the AR apps on there," he said, holding out his hand. "I can do it while we're on our way. It's no problem, really."
After fulfilling his request, she followed Leroy out of the room and into the wide hallway as he tapped away at the phone screens, holding one in each hand. He seemed to ignore everything else around him as he worked, not even bothering to look up as he made one turn after the other. She was somewhat impressed at how thoroughly he had memorized the site's floor plan until arrows suddenly popped up on the floor and started sliding ahead of them.
Of course, she thought with a mental sigh. Why bother memorizing things when you've got a computer to do it for you?
Dr. Janice Bell liked computers. It wasn't too far from the point to say that she loved computers, both working with them and using them for recreational pursuits. They could absolutely enhance one's quality of life, be used as teaching aids and make things both safer and easier for humans. It was why she had worked so long and hard at getting her PhD in Computer Science, to help expand the capability of computers to aid humanity in its ever-expanding evolution.
But as usual, the problem was people. So often they either tried to shut computers out of their lives completely or let computers do all their thinking for them. Neither side seemed to realize that computers were a tool, not a demon out to get them or a substitute for their own brain. Seeing that Leroy fell into one of the two camps lowered her estimation of the man even further than before.
Her thoughts were interrupted as they stepped into an elevator and Leroy handed her phone back before pressing the button for the top floor. "Sorry about taking so long," he said, lopsided grin on his face. "You should be all set up now. You're on the default settings still, but you can change them up however you like."
She muttered a quick thanks and looked at her screen to find three new icons had been added, labeled AR Settings, SCiPNet AR, and AuG Portal. The contents of the first two were obvious, but she couldn't quite conceive what the third could be. She considered asking her guide but decided it would be something she would explore herself at a later date.
In the meantime, she opened up the settings and started familiarizing herself with the layout. Her time doing so ended up being limited, however, as the elevator ride was over in just a few moments, and the two of them were back to following the ghostly arrows directing them through the halls.
To Janice's surprise, one of the site's two janitors happened to be in one of those hallways. A mostly nondescript man wearing the usual blue jumpsuit and pushing a floor buffer ahead of him, but definitely human and not a Roomba.
"What are the odds?" she mumbled to herself.
Leroy must have heard her, because his head snapped up and around until he focused in on the approaching janitor. "Huh? Oh. Oh!" He chuckled a bit, then motioned at Janice to lift her glasses.
Confused but game to see what he was playing at, she reached up and slid the AR lenses onto her forehead. Along with all of the other AR displays in the hall, the janitor himself disappeared. In his place was a humanoid robotic framework, pushing the buffer along like everything was perfectly normal. It even lifted a finger in greeting and said, "McAllister, Doctor," as it passed by.
Janice moved her glasses back down, and the illusion of a human janitor slid back into place. The AI it represented ignored them as it continued on its way.
"I don't even know why I'm bothering to be surprised at this point," she said, shaking her head.
"Well, it is pretty neat," said Leroy. "It's one of the designs we kinda, uh, borrowed from the AIAD crew. I think we improved on it, though. Anyway, here we are!"
The hallway ended, opening up into a wide reception area. Behind the centrally-located desk sat a young woman who was busy typing away at the air until she noticed their approach. With a concise gesture, she swept her personal display to the side and sat up straight in her chair.
"Hello, Mr. McAllister. How can I help you today?"
"Hey, Nance. We're here to see Director Yamaguchi," he responded. "If that's okay."
The administrative assistant tilted her head slightly to one side, causing her blonde hair to bob a bit. "I'm afraid she's not in at the moment."
"Ah, yes, we know, but we need to see her anyway."
"Certainly, Mr. McAllister!" Pulling her display back over, she pressed a short sequence of invisible keys. "Go on in whenever you're ready."
Leroy nodded gratefully and started walking around the desk, then stopped short when he noticed Janice wasn't following him. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that the doctor was leaning over the desk, staring intently at the assistant's face. Nance, for her part, had returned to her work, completely ignoring the scrutiny.
"Dr. Bell?"
Janice tapped a finger on the desk thoughtfully. "Sorry, can you give me just a second? I'm just trying to see if I can tell the difference between the real people and the AI just by looking."
The assistant's eyes refocused on the real world for a moment as she smiled and pointed at an orange stripe running along the bottom of her ID badge. "Orange for AI, green for human," she said with a wink.
"Oh. You're … very well detailed."
The blonde AI's professional smile widened into a genuine grin. "Thank you, Dr. Bell," she said, "but I'm afraid I don't date co-workers."
Janice looked up at Leroy with an expression of exasperated resignation.
"It's true, she doesn't," the technician told her. "I've tried."
"Amusing," said Janice, her voice dripping with non-amusement. She breezed past Nance and Leroy, pushing through the door into the director's office. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

« Programmed to Receive | Faraway Voices Hub (TBA) | In the Master's Chambers (TBA) »


Only the tips of Denver's skyscrapers still protruded above the sea: glass tombstones for citizens that were washed away years ago. Within one of those lonesome monoliths, a young man in a red and black life jacket watched the surf. Despite the knowledge of what lurked within that water, he felt a sense of calm as the sunrise illuminated its surface. He brushed a greasy lock of his hair out of his eyes and sighed.
"Devon."
Behind him stood a middle-aged woman dressed in faded tactical gear labeled with an emblem of a fist superimposed on a sunburst. Her hands were folded behind her back. She approached and joined him to look out over the water.
"Beautiful day out, Captain Quine," Devon said softly.
"Red sky at morning, sailors take warning," she replied.
They both shared a chuckle. Quine gestured to the stairs with her gloved hand.
"Come on, champ," she said. "Everyone's packing up. We're heading out."

Devon and Captain Quine joined the rest of the crew in what was once a lobby, now flooded and filled by a small, patchwork barge. The term 'Disaster' has been scrawled messily on the side in red paint.
Devon and his captain made their way to the pilot house. There, a one-armed teenage boy named Max loaded fist-shaped slugs into two shotguns. Between each slug loaded, he would twirl the ammunition between his fingers effortlessly.
"Show-off."
Devon snatched a slug out of Max's grip and replaced it with a power bar.
"Bon Appétit."
Max rolled his eyes and flipped Devon off. He then smiled as he tore into the ration.
As Devon helped Max finish preparing the weapons, Captain Quine approached an older woman named June who sat by a small SONAR station. She kept opening a toolbox on her lap, examining its contents.
"Any of them escape yet, June?"
An old man in a grease-soaked mechanic's jumpsuit emerged from the hatch that led to the engine below. He chuckled at his own joke, thoughtlessly tracing his fingertips along the wedding band that dangled from his throat.
June smiled and shook her head.
"No, not yet, Roger. No lack of trying, though. Gary used to swear these things would sprout legs."
"If I had a nickel for every time that happened," Roger chuckled again.
"What would you do with a whole quarter?" Quine grinned. "Think she'll hold for one more day?"
Roger shrugged.
"I'm surprised she didn't give up the ghost back in Sandpoint. But yeah. So long as you don't have me ram her into an iceberg, sure, why not?"
"Excellent. June? Did you get the SONAR fixed?"
The old tinkerer patted the device in response.
"Last night, yeah. If they come after us we'll be able to tell. At least until it shorts again."
"It will have to do. Thank you."
The captain then looked around and raised an eyebrow.
"Where's Layla?"
"I had her working on some last second hull reinforcements," Roger explained. "Hang on."
He quickly vanished below deck once more. A few moments later the mechanic returned, a young woman equipped with welder's goggles and a blowtorch in tow. By her side was a worn harpoon gun; a quiver of makeshift ammunition dangled from her hip.
"Glad you could join us." Quine grabbed a nearby grease pencil and began to draw on a nearby window.
"Alright, here we are at Republic Plaza," she explained. "According to the last radio message Salvation Fifteen sent out, they should be anchored about thirty miles south of us, near the mountains. That makes this is the final leg of the trip. We'll navigate out of the city, and should be able to catch them before too long. Once there, we'll be safe. Unfortunately, this will put us in open water for a good chunk of the trip. That means I'll need everyone on guard."
"Hey, Captain?" Max chimed in. "If this is the last leg, why are we using the barge? Why not just load up in the jet skis and make this a final sprint?"
"We barely got her through Wyoming, captain," Devon agreed. "Maybe a faster approach would be better?"
Quine shook her head and chuckled.
"What happens if we arrive and find Salvation Fifteen has moved on? Besides, we'll need whatever supplies we have left when we get there."
The captain's expression became solemn.
"It's been a long road, friends. No shortage of sacrifice from all of us to get here. I know we each lost a lot along the way."
Roger tightened his grip on the wedding band around his neck.
June briefly hugged the toolbox.
Max stared at the stump where his left arm used to be.
Layla and Devon both closed their eyes.
"You have all been more than I could have ever asked for in a family. Thank you."
Quine placed the cap back on her marker and smiled at them.
"Let's get the 'Disaster' on the road then, shall we?"

The morning was quiet. Their small barge made its way out of the waterlogged skyline of Denver and headed due south. The sun grew high and hot in the sky; eventually, a cruise liner appeared on the horizon. Most of the crew smiled at the spectacle. Those smiles soon vanished, however, when the "JAWS" theme came from the pilot house.
"June?" Captain Quine headed over to the SONAR station where the old tinkerer stood.
"I… thought it might be funny?" she mumbled, stepping aside. "Looks like we have company."
"Fucking hell." Quine and June grabbed the nearby shotguns. "Max?"
"Fins surfacing ahead, Captain. Five so far. Make that six. Seven!" Max shouted back from his perch atop the barge's storage containers.
"Layla, Devon, get to the bow! I got the stern!"
Quine didn't need to repeat herself. Devon and Layla took up position, each armed with a rifle.
"Think you'll actually hit something?" Layla flipped off the safety.
"Who knows? Maybe they'll be nice enough to hold still for me." Devon took aim.
Bullets and the smell of gunpowder filled the air.
"Three!" Layla counted, her most recent shot piercing an oncoming hammerhead down the middle of its snout. She swiveled, smiling as she picked up a new target and pulled the trigger. A lifeless corpse bobbed to the surface, a massive hole in the right side of its head. "Four! You got to keep up Devon!"
As she reloaded, a bull shark lunged out from the water. The bolt of her rifle wouldn't pull back. Layla fumbled, her eyes lost in the void of its oncoming maw.
BANG
The bull shark flew back, slamming into the water. A jagged second mouth had appeared under its throat.
"You can crank up as high a kill count as you want, it will mean little if you're fucking dead!" Devon said, reloading. "Three by the way."
"Shit!" Max shouted from his vantage point. "More coming in from the rear, and sides. We're being surrounded!"
A ring of fins had nearly encircled the tiny barge. Something rammed it from below. The craft shook, knocking Devon and Layla around like bowling pins.
"We're running out of ammunition!" Devon warned the rest of the crew.
"Can't this junk go any faster?" June's shotgun kicked as a slug tore off an entire dorsal fin.
"It's a god damn barge!" Roger shouted back. "What the hell do you want me to do? Jump into hyperspace? We're at max speed!"
There was a series of splashes, followed by dull thuds. Several sharks had jumped aboard and flailed their way toward the pilot house.
"Cover me!" Captain Quine closed the distance quickly, removing her gloves. Her polished metal fists gleamed like fire under the sun.
The punch crumpled the first shark's snout like a wrecked car, its eyes flying out of its sockets from the sheer force. The second shark tried to move in; it was met by a chop that cleaved its head in twain.
The third shark lunged and bit Quine's left arm. She smashed the top of its head down and pried it off. The fourth fled to the railing, only to be seized by its tail and ripped apart.
She threw the bodies overboard. The ocean turned a deep red. Inches of pulped, bloody shark paste seeped over the barge's sides.
"Yeah! Eat it!" Max shouted from his perch. "Fucking eat it, you selachian motherfuck-"
The towering shadow of a megalodon briefly eclipsed the stern before the pilot house, along with June and Roger, vanished into its jaws.
Max's taunting was drowned out by terrified screams and the sounds of twisting metal and shattering glass.
Captain Quine threw herself from the stern, falling from the shark's mouth into a heap of debris on the ship.
The barge stalled. More fins surfaced and closed in.
Devon and Layla emptied their rifles into the megalodon. Layla pulled the harpoon gun off her shoulder and loaded it from her quiver, a small boxing glove affixed to the end of the harpoon.
"Devon, get the big gun!"
"That'll blow the entire back off the —"
"The pilothouse is gone! We're going to have to outrun them on the jet skis!"
"For fuck's sake, just do what she says!" Captain Quine dug herself out of the debris. Her mechanical arms hurled scraps at the flailing megalodon as it pulled itself along the deck after her.
Devon vanished, then returned with a Javelin missile and launcher. He handed it off to Layla, then went to help his Captain. Max abandoned his perch for the safety of the bow.
The crew was clear. Layla fired. The missile vanished into the megalodon's throat; it then lurched forward.
"Well that's fucking great," Max shouted. "What the hell do we do now!"
"Take cover!" Quine pushed her crew away.
The explosion tore across the surface of the vessel. A surge of shark meat and blood crashed across the deck. Devon blinked, caught in the wave of viscera. His clothes and life jacket were now caked in sticky fluid.
"Oh, man…" He looked at himself, then turned to the remaining half of the megalodon sticking to the craft. The bleeding hulk slowly slid off and back into the sea. The barge was now taking on water.
"You'll live, champ," Quine said, patting Devon on the shoulder, then moving across the deck and throwing off a tarp. Beneath were two Jet Skis, strapped down for transport.
"Come on let's go!" Quine shouted as she released the tethers. "Max with me, Devon and Layla on the other! Help me!"
With no further ado, the jet skis hit the water.
As they rode away Devon looked back over his shoulder. Their home vanished beneath the waves.

The sharks faded into the distance, outpaced by the jet skis. As the miles melted by, their destination crept larger and larger on the horizon. Devon heard Layla give a sigh of relief behind him as he steered. He gave Quine and Max a thumbs up. Quine replied with a small smile and nod.
"Devon!"
A harpoon whistled past Devon's head. He snapped his attention back to their path. Layla was reloading; a shark's carcass bobbed to the surface. Her harpoon was embedded in its head. Dozens more fins emerged ahead of them, forming a loose blockade.
"Run it!" Captain Quine shouted over the whine of the jet ski's motor as she zig-zagged through the water. Max took pot shots with his pistol at any sharks that got too close.
Devon followed Quine's lead. Layla's harpoon gun hissed again and again as she left a trail of carnage behind them.
"Almost there…" Devon mumbled under his breath. "Come on, come on."
There was a splash. Two sharks shot out of the water in tandem, knocking Captain Quine's jet ski upward. Quine and Max briefly hung in the air before they hit the water with an inelegant crash. The jet ski skittered off; dozens of fins lunged around it before it vanished beneath the tides.
Devon turned. He held his breath and waited. When Max's head sprang up, they gasped in unison; the one-armed boy swam in desperation for Devon's craft. Blood trailed from his left shoulder. A cluster of three fins surfaced behind him. Devon opened the throttle and closed the distance.
Two harpoons found their marks, leaving a single pursuer.
"Devon, I'm out!" Layla shouted.
The shark swimming after Max lurched out of the water. It had a fist-sized hole in its head. Captain Quine surfaced soon after and swam to Max, grabbing him by the collar. She hurled him into the waves by Devon and Layla's jet ski. As they pulled him aboard, the blockade closed in.
Captain Quine headbutted an incoming shark. "Get out of here!"
"Captain, n-"
"That's an order! Go!"
Devon turned the craft around and took off at full speed. Layla and Max watched as an army of fins descended upon their commander. The waters churned with crimson foam as shark carcass after carcass surfaced.
Some had holes punched through them. Others were missing fins. Still others were torn completely in half.
As her head shrank out of sight, they could just make out her slipping beneath the churning sea of chum one final time, a blanket of over forty dead sharks serving to mark the grave.
Max gave a sad chuckle as he looked back.
"Shark fin soup…"

The jet ski ran out of fuel a quarter of a mile away from Salvation Fifteen. The three survivors drifted towards the cruise liner quietly, its tall form anchored near where the mountains still managed to peak above the surface.
No one spoke. They paddled their craft in silence as they limped along. On occasion, one of them would look back out to the open water. Their eyes would linger, then return to the task at hand.
"I'm not seeing anyone up there, guys." Max eyed the towering ship with his telescope. "Didn't they say they had, like, a hundred or so people aboard on the broadcasts?"
"It's a big ship," Layla answered. "They could all just be inside."
Max nodded.
"Right. I guess we made it then."
"Home sweet home," Devon agreed and pulled out a radio. "Salvation Fifteen, this is the survivors of the barge 'Disaster.' We are approaching from your starboard side, please respond."
There was a long stretch of quiet.
"We see you, 'Disaster' survivors. Glad you made it. Please make your way towards the stern, we'll be sending a rope down to you shortly. You're safe now."
They each let out a sigh of relief.
CRACK
The sigh was short lived. Before their eyes, a massive claw emerged from the water. It plucked up Salvation Fifteen like it was a bath toy. The vessel split in half; it was then slammed into the mountainside, left to tumble back down to the water below — where it proceeded to explode.
The claw then retracted back into the sea, vanishing as swiftly as it had arrived.
"No way," Max whispered.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Layla said. "That's not even a goddamn shark!"
Devon just sighed.
The three survivors looked on in defeat. For a while, they let the silence speak for them.
When Devon got tired of what it had to say, he broke it: "Hey, Layla? Do you remember what Captain Quine said started all of this?"
"Yeah. Something about some big fish in the middle of the ocean finally waking up. End-of-World K/O Failure Scenario, or something like that."
"Right."
Devon went quiet again.
"That's a stupid fucking name."


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Joey Fucknuts Believes In Himself
Image Credit: https://www.pexels.com/photo/nature-forest-trees-fog-4827/

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Joey Fucknuts, known to his friends and loved ones as Joey Steelwings, stared out the cockpit window of the airplane he had built with his own two fists. Since reaching cruising altitude (or what he assumed was something that at least approximated cruising altitude as his altimeter read only “ON THE GROUND” and “REALLY HIGH UP”), both Joey's aircraft and his mind had been on autopilot.
He had a hard time accepting that he had managed to get into the sky. His brain, already on the frayed and overheating side simply because of who and what he was, was going haywire.
It was so beautiful.
Once he had released his somewhat terrified grip on the controls and was confident the autopilot was not going to immediately reunite him with the ground in a spectacular and impactful way, he had simply stared, struck numb. Then, he cried for about an hour, not sure if he was supposed to be allowed to feel such powerful happiness and awe. Then he got distracted trying to figure out whether he had actually died in the attempt and this was just what happened after someone died. Then he decided that he was probably still alive and cried some more, unable to entirely accept that of all the people, he was the one that got to have this life.
But then there were the clouds.
This was very important. This was why he had come here. Some observations had to be made. It was time to learn.
Joey got out his spiral notebook and pen and narrowed his eyes at the white things in the middle distance. He still didn't trust them completely, but was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. He let the autopilot keep its collision course, curious to see if the cloud would either attack (in which case Joey would have some emergency repairs to do in very short order, he was sure) or move out of the way, which he assumed would only be natural and polite of a thing to do.
He flew dead on. The cloud did not move an inch. But it was getting bigger.
This confused Joey enormously. It wasn't changing its shape, and it wasn't moving. But it was rapidly becoming huge. Extremely, ridiculously huge. And it had brought friends. And none of them were moving. It was just a wall of white.
They were ganging up on him. They wanted to stop him. He knew they would try something like this. He knew they were going to be trouble, right from the start.
Joey set down his notebook.
He snorted, and frowned in determination. No cloud magic was going to scare him off. No way. He'd sacrificed too much, he'd worked too hard. The clouds were going to have to be nice and learn to share the sky with him. If they pulled some trick, and this was how his journey ended, then Joey would just fix himself and fly once more. He'd done it once and he could just keep doing it, again and again. He'd show the clouds that he wasn't going to be scared, and he wasn't going to turn back. Not anymore.
The clouds were very, very large now. He could see no blue. It was all white.
Joey lowered his goggles, bared his teeth, and growled his defiance. He stayed his course.
I'm not gonna stop.
He braced for impact.
And then the cloud was all around him.
Joey opened his eyes. All the windows, front, left, and right, were completely whited out. He blinked a few times to make sure his eyes were still working. Apparently, they were.
Either the cloud had eaten him, or clouds were not what he thought they were at all.
After waiting a few moments to make absolutely sure he wasn't going to be smashed out of the sky by an angry white fist, he pushed his goggles back up and grabbed his notebook, looking back up at the windows and down at the paper in rapid succession as he furiously scribbled.
There were a lot of things to learn right now.

Hours later, Joey is staring not at clouds, but at a tree.
He had only ever seen trees in pictures before. That was how he knew they were called “trees”.
Joey was surrounded by them. There were so many that he literally could not count them. He had tried for about 45 minutes but had run out of numbers. So he gave up, and simply stared at one, trying to figure out what it was made of.
Strangely, they appeared to be made out of wood, of all things. This astonished Joey. He did not know who had come out here and carved all these trees out of wood, or even where they had gotten all that wood, but he greatly admired their work ethic. It must have taken a very, very long time.
Landing had been a strange experience.
Joey had never landed an airplane, but he had seen all the trees from up in the air and wagered that it would have been a terrible idea to try to land on top of them. So he flew around for a little while until he had found a wide clearing, then touched down in the grass, while gritting his teeth and hoping that the fat tires he'd put on the landing gear would hold up against all the tangly grass. He'd bumped up against the wall of trees a little bit, but hammered out the dents and judged that he'd done a pretty good job, all things considered.
The sun was going down. He had flown all day. And he had no idea where he was.
The trees were nice, though. It was very kind of someone, whoever they were, to put all these carvings out here. He inspected them happily, appreciating the craftsmanship that had gone into them. He couldn't even see the seams where they had glued the branches on.
After a while, he went into the plane and got out something to smoke. He decided on cigars, because this was a special occasion. It was time to celebrate. He lit two with a blowtorch, and sat down on the bomb bay door, looking out at the wide grassy clearing that now had some stripes on it where he had made contact with the ground.
It was very pretty. The sun was touching the tops of the trees, and it leaked out purples and pinks and oranges where it made contact. Joey thought it was very silly of the sun to try to touch something that was obviously pretty sharp.
He smoked, and looked, and tried not to think about how he was going to take off again.
Joey thought about where he was. He didn't know if it had a name. It was possible, he guessed, that he was the first person to ever come here. He didn't see anyone else around. No people, no buildings. There were a couple birds. He had seen a little horse with spikes growing out of its head, which was really metal. He tried to talk to it, but it ran away, probably because an animal with spikes growing out of its head was too awesome to hang around and talk to a guy like Joey. Joey understood that. If Joey had spikes growing out of his head, he'd probably have a really different perspective on things.
He decided to name this place Treeland. He figured that made the most sense. Trees seemed to be the main thing around here, and it felt good to honor whoever had worked so hard to make them all. He wondered where they were now. He'd like to shake their hand and thank them for their beautiful work.
Before long, it got dark. Treeland started to get noisy. There was a loud sound all around, almost like an alarm. But it didn't sound afraid or panicked – it was a rhythmic, happy sound. He wondered if the tree guy had built speakers into the trees, and they were playing music. It wasn't very metal, but he liked it anyway.
Joey decided that he liked this place very much, and when it got light again, he would get on his motorcycle and ride around some, and see how far the trees really went.
There was a huge
boom.
The music stopped. Birds flew out of the trees in droves. Treeland fell quiet.
Boom.
Boom.
It was a rhythm. Loud and hard enough to shake the ground.
Joey took his cigars out of his mouth and waved the smoke away. He glared out at the clearing, toward the other wall of trees. The sound was coming from over there.
He didn't like it. He didn't like that whatever it was was scaring Treeland into silence. It felt wrong.
Joey put his smokes out and went into the hangar. He picked up one of his flamethrower axes from the rack, as long as he was tall, and checked its fuel canister. Checked its edge. He hefted its great weight over his shoulder and stepped out onto the grass, looking. Scanning.
Boom.
Boom.
BOOM.
Then there was the sound of cracking, splintering. He saw, on the far end of the wide open space, trees being knocked down. Pushed aside like matchsticks. Whatever it was wasn't moving quickly, but it was moving heavily. And powerfully.
The tree wall bowed, and something huge entered the grassy space under the dark starry sky.
There was enough light to see by. Joey's eyes worked well in the dark, he was sure that he would be able to see anything that was there, especially anything that big. And it was there, and it was big.
But he still couldn't see it.
It resisted his glare like water sliding off a waxed windshield. A shifting, twisting shape, only barely there. Hulking. Massive. A hint of a long head, a snout. The suggestion of four legs, the insinuation of a tail. But no details. Nothing that his eyes could firmly grasp. It was a beast made out of wind and whispers, that faded and danced just out of sight like the shadow of a candleflame.
And it was ruining the trees.
Joey took exception to this. Someone had worked very very hard on all these trees, and this thing was walking through them, shoving them over like they were garbage. It was disrespectful.
The Mayor of Vulture Gulch opened some valves and lit the pilot light on his enormous flamethrower, then marched toward the colossal thing, frowning and determined to give it a piece of his mind.
“Hey. Hey! I think you should be more careful! The trees are really delicate and you're breaking them! That's not very nice! I know you're really big, but can you maybe walk a little softer? This place is really pretty and I think if you-”
There was a growl.
Joey stopped walking. The earth beneath his boots rumbled with the force of the thing's voice. There were no words. Just intent. Its head, the size of a car, was aimed directly toward him. It split. There was a long glint. Something, or a lot of sharp somethings, shone in the starlight.
It walked forward, only barely there, almost impossible to truly see. But its footfalls were real. Its growl was real.
And Joey had a feeling that its teeth were real too.
“I don't… You don't have to get angry. I'm not angry. Everything's okay.”
The thing didn't stop. With its great size, it was closing the distance fast, even though its pace was gradual, calculating. Hungry.
“Now hey. Don't… don't come any closer! We don't have to fight! Fighting is dumb! We could just talk it over!”
It was very close now. It loomed over him. It was as high as a building. Joey could see the sky and the stars right through its gigantic body, and could see where its huge paws and long claws made craters and slashes where it stepped.
The growl was as loud as a jet engine.
Joey aimed the barrels of his weapon at it. It was so close.
“We can be friends! I would really like to be friends! I don't want to have to use this! C'mon, just stop! I'm w-warning you! Don't come any closer!”
It came closer. Joey could feel heat. See lights where its great eyes should have been. The colossal jaws opened wide, and inside Joey could see only darkness. There was a great roar.
Joey pulled the trigger.
The three barrels of the weapon exploded with righteous flame, casting a stream of eager and glorious liquid fire directly into the creature's mouth. Molten light bloomed in a furious corona all around, lighting up the dark forest.
But it didn't stop.
Joey leapt to one side as the great jaws came crashing down, taking a massive bite out of the earth where Joey had been standing an instant before. He rolled away, then found his balance and stood, frantically spraying the beast's flank with vicious flames before it could turn.
The fire burned in great swathes upon the thing's unseen skin, but there was no reaction. It swiped a long shadowy leg with the speed of thunder, and it crashed into Joey like a hurricane made solid.
He catapulted through the air for yards and yards, then slammed into the ground and slid through mud and wet grass, tumbling uselessly. He could feel enormous footfalls. It was coming after him.
Joey plunged a hand into the mud to stop his slide, scrambled to his feet and flipped his grip on his weapon, holding it by the long barrels.
The Mayor was not going down without a fight.
He swung the brutally heavy axe like a baseball bat, and sunk it directly into the thing's nose as it crashed into him. Savage jaws clamped down on his entire torso, sending lines of white-hot pain driving from his collarbone to his hip.
it hurt it hurt it hurts IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS
The creature shook him in his jaws with the speed and cruelty that a cat shows a captured mouse, then flung him away into the air. Joey tumbled once more, and smashed into the soft earth, a small heap of skin and bones far away.
Time slowed.
Joey had not felt pain in a very long time. His vision blurred. He tried to move, but couldn't. He could feel his axe in his hand, but couldn't use it. He couldn't use anything.
The wolf made of death pounded over to him. Joey felt a horrible, crushing agony as it stepped on his back and legs.
Its jaws clamped over his head and shoulders, and with its leg pinning him to the ground, it
pulled
Joey could hear his spine creaking, being torn out of him. But it didn't give. He spiraled through the torture. He prayed that it would be over soon, that it would stop, that he would be torn and half and die so he wouldn't have to feel himself anymore.
But he did not die, and he did not tear.
The titanic animal lifted its paw, and threw him again.
Joey was aware of a sensation of falling, but not much more than that. His life was darkness now, and his only memory was one of a distant pain.
The falling stopped. He could feel cool dew on his cheek, and some blades of grass tickled him, asking him what was wrong.
Joey knew what was wrong.
He had decided to go out into the world. He made the choice. He flew away from where he belonged, and this was what he got. For his foolishness, for his presumption, for his willingness to abandon the people that cared for him most, he would be devoured. Consumed by a creature outside of perception, that felt no flame and no blade. This is how his quest would end. Trampled in the mud, as pointless as it, and his entire life, had ever been.
And he would not see his friends ever again. He would not be able to make any more friends. He wouldn't get to bring the stories back, to make the people he loved happy. He wouldn't be able to help them anymore.
Joey was what was wrong. And because of that, his family would be left in the dark, forever.
They would live on, unaware of anything. They would work, for years, until eventually they realized he would not be returning. They would wonder whatever happened to their Mayor, the nice guy that helped them read the words. Maybe they would cry, maybe they would mourn for a time. But they would forget him. They would never live up to their potential.
They would never live in the sunlight, and become who they were truly meant to be.
No.
Heavy footsteps, coming closer. Hungry death came on legs of shadow.
No.
Joey stirred. He writhed as a fresh wave of hateful pain coursed through his body.
NO.
A hot wind blew over him, from the lungs of a cruel force.
NO!
Something happened deep inside the small, stupid Mayor. Something became real. A realization. A wave of something undeniable. The pain became meaningless. His breaking body became a triviality. His spilled blood unfurled upon the ground as a banner, something declarative. His mind snapped back into place. He felt the love he had for his friends as a rushing river of molten steel, coursing through his dead flesh. He remembered himself. And he remembered what he was supposed to do, his sacred purpose, the reason he had been placed upon this strange and beautiful world.
I WILL BRING THEM THE LIGHT!
He smashed the ground and rose to his feet, liquid fire flowing from each and every puncture the beast had dealt him, the blood within his body burning with inner fury. His fists became wreathed in whirling, vengeful incandescence, the flames rising higher and higher until his arms were pillars of heat. His eyes, sunken and dumb, sparked and ignited into twin embers that looked with blind hate at the thing that bore down upon him. His body became a seething pyre, throwing wild shadows throughout the glade and casting everything around in a warm glow. The light from inside flowed outward as an inferno.
Joey believed in himself.
And Joey was mad.
As the shadowed behemoth fell upon him, he wound back and threw a punch into its nose, bellowing his unshackled rage.
The detonation shattered the air, incinerating everything in a terrible nova of heat and light. A small sun that lived only for an instant and consumed and destroyed everything it touched. The ground buckled. The sky shrieked. And Joey Steelwings made himself real.
And then it was gone.
All was still and quiet, save for the flames that burned for yards in all directions. Where the creature had been, there was only a crater, full of blackened earth.
Joey's flames went out, leaving behind the husk of a dead man. He swayed, and bled. He looked for just a moment, to make sure that he had made his point, and saw that he had.
He tottered unsteadily toward his airplane, but didn't make it. He fell to the ground just before the bomb bay door, smoke curling from his burnt clothes and skin.
And Joey was still.

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