...
At 10 AM on the morning of 10 April 1965, Dr. Thaddeus Xyank was swiping a finger through the air in front of him when Agent Bertrand "Burt" Tomlin arrived. He guessed Thad was checking his email or musing over some interesting equation he'd discovered, or maybe trying to understand a theory of predictive history he'd stolen from a database that wouldn't exist for another 250 years. Next to him on the floor was a device about the size of an era-contemporary living room television, which hummed softly in the dimly lit corner office on the 25th floor of the New York Times Tower. The glassy look slipped away from Thad's face, and his eyes came into focus. "Were you followed?" he asked, deathly serious. "And I don't just mean general personnel or spies. I mean other Δt's or Cause and Effectives or anyone."
"No, no one knows I'm here," Tomlin said, and pulled up a ratty looking office chair. The door opened behind him, and Researcher — Pardon me, Doctor Athena Anastasakos walked in, shaking cold and a few flurries off her shoulders. The three colleagues exchanged a nod as she hung her coat, locked the door, and took a seat.
"Dr. Xyank, this is really most irregular," Athena said, crossing her arms. "I don't understand why I had to leave in the middle of the SCP-614 briefing. Marcus was about to present his hypothesis regarding the 'Future Perfect' when you grabbed me."
"…Attie that meeting was…" A few days ago? It hadn't happened yet, and wouldn't for 30 years. "Erm… what day did he pull you?" Tomlin asked.
"5 June 1999."
"That briefing was on 4 June 1999," Tomlin said. "I was just there myself."
"You're mistaken," Athena asserted, pulling the 442i off of her wrist and pressing the release. They counted the laps together as Thad sat in silence, staring at the light-bulb in the tiny lamp on the desk. "There, 12,474 days, just like I said. Fifth of June."
Almost absently, Thad flipped a small switch on the top of his device. Athena's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets as the watch in her hand stuttered, rewound 2 days, over-wound 5 days, and then stopped dead. "Wha—What did you do?!"
Thad smirked and turned the switch back on. The humming sound continued and the watch resumed its forward march as if nothing had ever happened. "I'll get to that in a minute," he said, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. "I assembled us together today because I've noticed something very wrong. And I've been noticing it more and more ever since we ran into Mr. McDougal some time ago. Do both of you remember that?"
Tomlin nodded. "Yes. Perceptually, it was about 2 months ago for me. He's our first paradox, right?"
Thad's lips turned into a thin line and his head hung loose on his neck. "Right. Though… I'm not strictly sure about that anymore. Attie, do you remember our experiment on the oh-eight-four phenomenon?"
"I try not to," she replied flatly. A pleading look from Thad elicited from her a sigh, and a nod. "Yes, of course I remember. It was probably the scariest thing I've ever experienced. I thought we'd be trapped in that room forever."
Thad nodded, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. "What year were you born, Burt?"
Tomlin's eyes widened and he stared at Thad. Hard. "I don't…"
Thad pulled a key card from his jacket pocket. It was black. The only lettering on was the title "Department Chair", the Number 5, and the character Δ. "You came into my office once and demanded that I invent time travel immediately. I have done so, as of 12 December, 1997."
"I never asked you that!"
"To be sure that you will, I need to know the date of your birth." Thad's eyes fixed on a point 3 inches past the surface of Tomlin's forehead. "…When were you born?"
Tomlin's jaw slackened. "31 October, 2048."
"I KNEW it!" Athena balked, head flying backward with an uncharacteristic laugh. "I absolutely knew it!"
Thad simply nodded and jotted something down on a piece of paper, handing it to Athena. "Read that. Make sure it matches the date you just heard. Then place it on the far side of the blue line behind you." With another flick of a switch, the machine next to him stopped whirring.
"Thad, you're starting to freak me out, buddy," Tomlin said nervously. "What are you doing?"
"Illustrating something. Dr. Anastasakos; how many people are on your research staff and what is your quarterly budget?" Thad asked.
"We have 5 researchers, 22 JR's, 17 clerical personnel and 15 techs, with a quarterly budget of $10 million." she replied. "What does that have to do with anything?"
Thad didn't answer. Just shook his head and kept writing things down. "Agent Tomlin, to the best of your knowledge, who is the first person of African descent to be elected president of the United States?"
"Easy, Reverend Al Sharpton, Democrat, in 2008. Why?" Tomlin replied.
Thad stopped writing a second, then sighed again and continued, tossing the paper over their shoulders and beyond the blue line. "And my name… Is Dr. Thaddeus Xyank… Department Chair… Temporal Anomalies. Okay." with the last scrap of paper beyond the blue line, he flipped the switch back on, and looked at his watch. "You two might not be the ones I started with, but it's close enough; it'll have to do. Playing with this Temporal Sink we developed, I've stumbled onto something… really odd." Exactly 11.322487 seconds after turning it on, Thad flipped the switch again and turned the device off. "You both remember our first confirmed paradox, Kevin McDougal. There was of course the unconfirmed paradox in our 084 experiment. I'm still not sure what happened to those six duplicates I encountered, or if they were just some kind of elaborate hallucination. But I'm beginning to think… I'm beginning to think the problem is deeper than we realized. Burt, pick those bits of paper up, please?"
Tomlin leaned over and snapped up the little scraps of yellow paper and opened them. "…Who the hell is Barack Obama?!"
"He's the first person of African descent to become President of the United States. At least in the timeline that I'm from," Thad replied, opening a drawer and pulling out a stack of newspapers. "But apparently, that same year saw the election of Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, Denzel Washington, James Earl Jones, and the Republican candidate John McCain." He patted the stack next to him. "And they're all 'correct' answers."
Athena grabbed the paper from the top of the stack in front of her, studying the look of surprised joy on Mr. Sharpton's face closely. In the other hand, she grabbed the numbers she had watched Thad jot down… 12 researchers, 48 JR's, 30 clerical personnel, 25 techs and… "…50 D class per month?! What on earth would I use 50 D's on in a month? I've never even requested ONE!"
"I asked you the same thing just this morning," Thad said, pulling the black-out curtains back and staring at the window with his hands folded behind his back. It didn't look broken. It looked normal. It looked like a lot of people down below were going about their business in a busy city just like they always had and always would. "But that's not the worst of it. Look at my card."
The two of them opened Thad's note together. It wasn't a piece of notepaper at all, but a business card, heavy weight, cotton fiber, embossed lettering on one face.

Class-A Foundation Asset
O5-6

"Y-…" Tomlin started. And then again. "You're a…"
"I'm an O5, right?"
He didn't have to hear their heads rattle to know it was right.
"Which one, Burt?"
"Six," Tomlin replied, tossing the cursed thing onto the table.
"Good. That means your birthday card, ought to say… I think 25 November 2048?" Athena dove for it and opened it up quickly. It did. "Right… before you have a coronary, flip the red switch on the desk," Thad said, gesturing absently.
Athena and Tomlin looked at one another for a full minute in silence before, mustering up what fortitude she had left, Athena reached over and threw the switch. There was a burst of color and light from the window the likes of which she had never seen, and together they stood in awe as moment upon cascading moment swished and swirled and darted and dashed and lumbered and plodded and rose and fell outside.
Buildings they had never seen and never would see rose, burned, tumbled down. Human beings spontaneously flashed in and out of existence in a flurry of wind and noise, the dust of them reforming into trees and bushes and dogs and other people. The cars in the street changed color and shape 100 times, or crumpled to rust, or flew through the air, or simply weren't there at all.
"…Make it make sense." Tomlin demanded. "Tell me what I'm seeing."
Thaddeus Xyank sighed mournfully, turning his back on the kaleidoscope of time behind him and raising one open hand.
"This is the present moment, or what's left of it. More precisely, it's every possible present moment in which this office can exist without violating history or physical law. From the point of view of this office, all of those possibilities are correct." Thad turned back to look over his shoulder a moment. Roiling chaos. He had tried to record it once, to calculate just how many possible coherent histories there must be. Then woke up two days later with a high fever, soiled trousers, and one whomper of a headache, with a note on his desk.
"Stack overflow. I recommend not doing that again. Don't worry I covered for you. -Tx"
Hanging his head, Thad opened the bottom desk drawer. There was a bottle of brown liquor (bad bourbon, but who cared) and three glasses. "…Would anyone like a drink?"
"So… wait." Athena rubbed her temples and sat down quickly, trying not to look at it. "Why? I thought the whole point of building that waypoint in your office was to prevent something like this."
Thad shook his head, placing the glasses down and pouring into them sloppily until they were… reasonably full. After all, it was 1965, and in 7 out of 10 versions of 1965 hardly anyone did business in New York sober. "I am finding it more and more difficult to believe that such a thing is possible."
Silence. The three of them reached for their glasses and sipped in unison. Thaddeus tapped his finger on his chair to keep the beat, and precisely 67.934922 seconds after he had turned it on, switched the device off again. The flashes faded. Buildings stayed the same height, cars resumed driving on the correct side of the road, women in colorful hats resumed carrying packages and bags. Business as usual in New York city.
It didn't look broken. Really it didn't.
"We failed," Athena said. "We shouldn't have meddled." She set her glass down brusquely and buried her face in her hands. "I feel like I'm going to be sick."
Thad shrugged, speaking into his glass. "There's good reason to think that we were lost before we even started." The hot amber slid down his throat and left salt hatred behind.
"Gettin' real tired of your half truths, Thad," Burt said with a sneer. "We're supposed to be a team in this. What do you know?"
"I know that causality literally can't exist in a universe in this condition, so the idea that we're to blame somehow is completely incoherent," Thad snapped. "You want me to get out the black-board and show you why, or is that enough?"
Burt pressed his teeth together hard enough to crack walnuts and stared ahead.
Thad brushed a bit of hair out of his face and removed his spectacles, cleaning them with his tie. "If we live in an acausal universe, anything resembling a 'cause' for this must come from outside the universe as we understand it. As it happens, I may - and I stress may - have encountered something like that once when I was a fresh post-doc."
"Where?" Athena asked, raising her head.
Dr. Thaddeus Xyank reached into his briefcase and pulled out an unassuming manila envelope with the number 110 written upon it in red pen. "Some place I've been avoiding," he said sorrowfully. "Southwest of Cobleskill, about 25 years from now."
Agent Tomlin, downing the rest of his whiskey in one go, reached for the file and began to read.
"… SCP-110 is an entire city found buried 0.5 kilometers underneath a large farm in East Worchester, New York."
Thaddeus sighed and slumped back in his chair. "Thank goodness," he said. "Back where we started, that bit was expunged."

Part 7: Set Up Thine Altar Here | Hub | Part 9: Publish or Perish


Within the cramped dirt tunnels of the Gate Passage a group of eleven humans dressed in the field gear of an SCP Foundation task force limped onward. They were beaten, bloodied, bruised, and carried with them the pungent smell of body odor, sweat, and fear. While they had started their expedition with twenty, now they were down to eleven. They were MTF Eta-13, Gulliver's Tourists, and they were heading home.
Some, like Sgt. Darren Wells and Dr. Johna Baldric, were people of action. Leaders who were at their wits end attempting to have their version of Eta-13 avoid the fate of their predecessor, Donald Blaire. Having lost almost half the task force under their watch, the two of them agreed their success was mixed. As they lead the group through the tunnels, both of them held their heads high, faking a level of confidence they no longer had.
Others, like Dr. Sandra Gonzalez, were skilled scientists who were out of their depth on an expedition that had long ago stopped being scientific. As she kept up with the group, she held a metal tulip pendent tightly in her hand, reminding her of someone waiting for her to return to Site-93.
Still others, like Agent Jia Turner, were tough soldiers who had fought tooth and nail to try and keep the task force alive and in one piece. Agent Turner's head constantly swiveled about as she kept on searching for the next source of danger. No matter how well she and the other security forces planned, there was always another source of danger.
All members of the task force, however, were like Researcher Joseph Bell. They had each watched as men and women that they had called their friends died before their eyes, with little they could do to stop it. Bell limped along with his colleagues, his eyes plastered to the smooth dirt floor. The absence of a lanky medic by his side weighed heavily on his mind.
"So," Gonzalez whispered to Turner, breaking the silence. "Have you met the Oldomerites before?"
"Yeah, on three different occasions," Turner answered. "Why?"
"What are we in for?" The xenobiologist asked.
"Picture a centaur… except the horse is actually a giant ant. And the person is a skeleton. Now make this ant centaur a telepathic bureaucrat and you have an Oldomerite."
Gonzalez blinked a few times as the mental picture ran in and out of her psyche.
"Quiet!" Baldric shouted back from the front of the line, cutting Turner and Gonzalez's conversation short. "We're almost there…"
Within the next hundred meters, the dirt tunnel gave way to a smooth passage made of pure amber. Occasionally, deep within the petrified resin, the forms of trapped aquatic creatures could be seen. Then the passage opened up into an enormous pit that disappeared into the darkness, trap doors lining its walls. A single narrow, amber bridge offered the only way across.
"I'll be the one doing the talking," Baldric whispered to Wells as they began to lead the task force across the bridge. Baldric then turned his head back to the rest of his colleagues. "Follow my lead."
Just as the task force reached the midpoint of the bridge, the cavern filled with the sound of slamming doors, followed by a high pitched chittering as twenty insectoid creatures scaled the cavern walls, stopping just above the level of the bridge. Their humanoid upper halves swiveled as they shouldered what appeared to be rifles, taking aim at the humans on the bridge. Baldric immediately kneeled. The rest of the task force followed suit. At the sight of this spectacle, the chittering of the Oldomerites continued. Eventually, an Oldomerite wearing a silver and gold cape crawled toward the group from the far end of the bridge.
Klakata Baldric? Klakata Wells? It spoke in a feminine voice. Your colleagues at your Hill in our territory did not say we would be seeing you this cycle. This is most irregular.
"Klakata Teyo," Baldric replied in as courteous a voice as he could muster. "Our Line set out on a journey into a foreign section of the Inner Hill many days ago and were attacked by machines belonging to the Hand. We fled through another world, and then to here seeking asylum. Our Line would be indebted to you."
A bold move even for the Hand, Teyo commented. She then looked over the various members of the task force. Has your Line brought the expected toll?
"We are short on supplies," Baldric answered. "Our Line will be more than happy to provide payment once we make it to our Hill…"
We made it clear to Klakata Kauffman that there are no exceptions granted… Teyo scolded. Your Line has come a long way to be turned back.
"Klakata Teyo, please!" Baldric pleaded. "Our pursuers will know we are here. If we are turned back here, we will likely be slaughtered. We'll double, even triple the toll, but we need to first get to -"
Baldric was interrupted by the sound of crashing thunder. He and the rest of Eta-13 turned their heads. Standing behind them, right before the bridge were three individuals dressed in black. Their faces were obscured by red masks, the emblem of a serpent wrapping around a human hand engraved on the center. Floating behind them were ten beings covered in brownish-green cloaks with no feet dangling beneath them. A spherical mirror took the place of a face beneath their hoods. Each carried a black crossbow.
"Oldomerite!" one of the Hand agents shouted in a deep voice. "We demand you surrender these Jailors to us at once! They have committed crimes against the Hydra's Spine, and must be held accountable."
Your Line comes into our territory uninvited, accompanied by an army of Camdorians, and then demand custody of our guests? Teyo hissed. You disrespect this Line, and the rule of Queen Cheyka. You will get nothing!
The Hand agent held up a clenched fist, which then burst into a ball of crackling blue energy.
"We will take them by force if we must."
The cavern then briefly filled with the sound of chittering among the Oldomerites, but then stopped.
So be it, Felkata…
The cavern erupted into a thunder of gunfire as the Oldomerites attached to the surrounding cavern walls took aim on the Camdorians and opened fire. The Camdorians let out a chorus of blazing trumpet wails, and flew into the cavern to engage their insectoid foes. The sound of gunfire and crossbows firing was occasionally interrupted by sounds of shattering glass, grand pianos crashing down stairs, and the death chitters of Oldomerites crashing down the walls into the depths below.
"Formation!" Wells barked over the din of combat. Eta-13 quickly rose to their feet, turned, and in turn, opened fire upon the Hand agents now attempting to cross the bridge. One of the Hand agents raised their arms, a bright red field appearing in front of them blocking the Task Force's bullets. Another Hand agent used a knife to slice his arm open, the blood that poured out quickly turning to purple electricity which he shot forward in a massive arc. While most of the task force was able to duck in time, a researcher and security agent were hit and sent screaming in pain over the side of the bridge and into the depths below.
Klakata Teyo! Turner shouted within her mind as she reloaded her rifle. Throw me over their shield!
The Oldomerite officer nodded, quickly scurrying forward, rifle in one hand, and grabbing Turner with the other. With a massive jerk, Teyo's skeletal arm flung the agent forward, her slender frame flying above the hand agents and over their defense. She landed with a acrobatic roll, turning as she landed and firing off a burst into the back of the Hand agent producing the force field. The Hand agent fell forward, dead. At this same moment, the last of the Camdorians was gunned down by the Oldomerites, its lower body violently cracking as it was sucked into a hole an Oldomerite marksman had made within its mirrored head.
The two remaining Hand agents looked to one another, to the MTF that stood before them, and finally to Teyo. They raised their arms in surrender, and began to kneel.
Once, long ago, when this Line was still bound to the string and stick, the Camdorians could push us around. Teyo lectured as she approached the would be invaders. But that was in the past, and the Camdorians have no more power here than you.
The Oldomerites on the walls loaded their next shots in unison, then trained their rifles on the Hand agents.
Keep that in mind the next time you wish to start wars between worlds. Now, be gone.
The Hand agents remained motionless for several moments but then rose, and vanished in puffs of black smoke.
Come now Klakatas, Teyo said, beckoning Eta-13 to cross the bridge. Let us get your Line to your Hill. Giving us the opportunity to put those Felkatas in their place was toll enough.

The two Hand agents made their way through the depths of the Hydra's Spine in a fuming silence. Months of planning, acquiring supplies, gathering enough Camdorian volunteers had been wasted. It was unlikely they'd get quite as good a shot at the Jailors as this for a long time.
"What do we do now?" One of the Hand agents asked in a guttural voice.
"We go back to square one," the other replied in a deep voice. "We spy, we stalk, we find out what we need to know, then we attack again. We rinse and repeat enough times, the Jailors will be driven out of the Spine."
"They'll be expecting future ambushes though," the first agent commented as he shook his head. "It'll get harder and harder each time."
"It sure will, but it's all worth it in the end. This place deserves to be free from the Jailors and their oppression. The peoples of the Hydra's Spine deserve to be free, even if some of them don't want to be."
The two agents then turned around a bend in the passage. Their exit into the Wanderer's Library was nearby. To their surprise, standing in the middle of the passage was another Hand agent dressed exactly as they were, waiting for them to arrive.
"You two really screwed the pooch this time," said the third agent. "Unauthorized aggression against the Jailors… Getting a fellow member of the Hand killed… Leading a Camdorian invasion of the Oldomerite Hill… Oldomerite delegates to the Library have already petitioned for you to be banished."
"They can't do that!" The guttural agent protested. "They have no authority in the Library. That's bullshit!"
"They can, and have," the third agent replied. "You two were officially banished as of thirty minutes ago."
"No…"
"Yes," the third agent sighed. She then proceeded to hand out two bronze gears to her banished comrades. "Vance wanted me to give these to you. You can use them a few exits back to get back to Earth. Seattle to be specific. You're on your own from there."
Without another word, the third agent stepped through the near by door, then vanished into the Wanderer's Library, leaving her former friends behind. The two banished Hand agents stood in shock for several moments, contemplating their next move.
"So…" said the guttural agent as he examined the bronze gear "Back to square one?"
"Back to square one," the agent with the deep voice replied. "Fuck it. Guess we have to do this alone from here on out."

It was raining at Site-93 when MTF Eta-13 stepped through the Gate, and back onto Earth. Five weeks later, and eleven members fewer, they returned to little fanfare. Instead, they were greeted by the stares of construction workers, and the silent authority of the quarantine team. One by one, each member of Eta-13 was taken to their own quarantine cell. It would be another week before they were free. One week of nothing but relaxing in private cells, away from clockwork spiders, Razumite mind games, and the wrath of native inhabitants of hostile worlds. The members of Eta-13 could not have been happier.

Baldric and Wells

"Well, that could have been worse," Baldric said with a heavy sigh as he and Wells left Director Kauffman's office.
"He yelled at us for nearly an hour," Wells commented, walking along side his friend as they headed towards the Site cafeteria. "Can't say that I blame him though, the whole incident could have been handled a lot better."
"Also could have been handled a lot worse," Baldric replied with a shrug. "We could have all died. Kaufman should be glad we didn't end up like Blaire. You got us through in mostly one piece."
"Maybe…"
Along the way they passed a small wall that was covered in bronze plaques. Each one had the name of a Foundation employee killed within the Gate Passage. Wells cringed as he watched one of the workers finish putting up the last of eleven new additions to the list. He felt Baldric put a hand on his shoulder.
"If it's any consolation," said the anthropologist, "you'll probably get an approval on that security increase you proposed before we left."
Baldric gave Wells a sad chuckle.
Wells responded with a melancholy smile.
"Come on," he finally said. "Lets get some coffee. We're going to be burning the midnight oil for a bit with all the paperwork this is going to create."

Gonzalez

Dr. Gonzalez sighed and hesitantly stepped into the Site-93 botany lab. There, a short, blonde, botanist named Dr. Cameron Hayes looked up from her desk as though she had seen a ghost.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," Gonzalez replied.
"You came back…"
Gonzalez held up the tulip pendent that hung around her neck and grinned.
"Tulips are perennials. They always come back."
Within the blink of an eye, Hayes has crossed the room, wrapping Gonzalez into a tight hug.
"I was so worried I'd see your name on the wall when Eta-13 finally returned…"
"Wow," Gonzalez chuckled as she ran a finger through Hayes' hair, "thanks for the vote of confidence."
Hayes laughed softly, grinning sheepishly at her companion.
"I'm here now, though," Gonzalez added. "No place else I'd rather be."
Hayes rested her head on the Gonzalez's shoulder and softly hummed.

Bell and Turner

Joseph Bell stood alone before the wall bearing the names of fallen Eta-13 members. It was late into the night, and aside from the occasional custodial staff he was the only soul in sight. His eyes remained plastered on one particular plaque.

James Candle
Medical Officer
33 Gate Entries

"What part about it is eating you the most?"
"Jesus!"
Bell turned with a start to find Jia Turner standing beside him.
"Do you ever stop doing that to people?!?" Bell asked. Turner simply laughed and shook her head.
"Nope. But seriously, what's the part about the whole Candle thing that's eating you the most?"
Bell sighed, and turned back to the plaque.
"Probably the part where I made a decision to help the task force that resulted in me killing the closest thing I had to a friend. I'd say that's a thing that's really 'eating me.'"
"Don't waste your venom on me, champ," Turner replied. "And I told you before, you didn't kill Candle, he took that path himself. Guy had a thing for heroics."
Bell shook his head.
"If I hadn't accepted Lilith's deal…"
"Candle would have offered up his own key instead."
"Oh for fuck sake, just leave me alone!" Bell snapped. "Shouldn't you be stalking Wells, or Baldric, or something?"
Turner sighed.
"I'm going to let you in on a secret kid," she said. "How much did Candle tell you about his and Blaire's last run?"
"Where is this going?" Bell gave a confused sneer. "How is that relevant?"
"Just humor me, alright?"
"Not a hell of a lot. Blaire's Eta-13 went to investigate Cronos, the team got slaughtered, Candle and Blaire made a run for a Gate, and Blaire got nabbed on the way. What's your point?"
"Candle left Blaire for dead on that run," Turner answered. "I think I'm the only one he told. Don't know why. But that secret's was eating away at him, bad. Guess this move was a way for him to redeem himself. You didn't kill him, kid. The man has had a death wish for years."
Bell's mouth hung open in shock. He sighed deeply, then slumped to the floor beneath the wall of plaques. Turner took a seat next to him.
"Truth's a bitch, isn't it."
Bell nodded.
"Is that what happens to you when you stick with the Tourists long enough?"
"I don't know. Maybe?" Turner shrugged. "Guess the only way to find out is to beat Candle's entry record."
She got to her feet and offered Bell a hand up.
"I bet you could do it, if you wanted. God knows you're about as brave and as stupid as Candle was."
Bell gave a small smile and accepted the hand up. Turner gave him a satisfied nod and began to walk away.
"Where are you going?" Bell asked.
"Have to go stalk Wells, or Baldric, or something. You take care, kid."
Bell nodded with a chuckle and watched her exit the building and vanish into the night.

« What Happened Beneath Cronos | Hub


It all started when I boarded this cart. I really didn't want to get on because roller coasters scare me. Not like I had a choice. But it was the last week before I was let off, so it wasn't that bad. At least I wish. My heart begged to break out of my rib-cage. My stomach, which churned like a cauldron, didn't help either. If only those scientists on the ground saw my throat fume with vomit. All of this was expected. That is, until I went off the rails.
I didn't want a tour of the park. I didn't want a triple loop de loop around the burger joint. I didn't want a scenic route to Nowheresville. I didn't ask for any of this. I suppose I could have unbuckled and jumped. But it's supposed to end. It's just a ride. It's just a ride.
The Rider

Our timeline is divided into two major points: BR (Before Ride) and AR (After Ride). Not much is known about BR. What we do know is that during this time, a man boarded the Golden Cart. The gold symbolizes the man's path to true enlightenment. When it was boarded by the man, the cart detached and guided the man. And because of his sacrifice, we are able to prosper.
The word of The Rider was been lost to the sands of time. Accounts of The Rider are told by The Witnesses. The Witnesses are those who are well-versed in BR and share a connection with The Rider. They deliver his message to us. All other messages are to be dismissed, for they are heresy.
Our crowning achievement, The Library, contains the collective knowledge of everything that has happened since The Rider boarded the Golden Cart. Every new bit of information, every thought and every idea is documented in The Library. Outdated information and heresy are expunged and the sources are dealt with accordingly. A minority believes The Witnesses hide knowledge of The Rider from the public. This too is heresy.
The total knowledge of The Library has given peace and prosperity among all. Conflict does not exist, for conflict stems from misunderstanding, and all is understood. We are aware of our thoughts, our neighbor's thoughts, our thought's thoughts and the thoughts of our neighbor's thoughts. True peace and enlightenment come from control of one's thoughts. The Rider harbors all of our emotions and thoughts and allows us to live to our full potential as omniscient and neutral beings.
Thank The Rider for His sacrifice.

It has been weeks. Months? I should be dead by now. I haven't drank or ate. I haven't slept. And I dare not move. I keep seeing people below me as I ride. I see the sky and sun and moon. I feel the wind and feel it screaming in my ear. And the ride just keeps going.
Is this where I'm stuck? A backdrop of small towns while I'm buckled down? Surely something or someone will come rescue me. Somehow. It has to.
But then again, what's the point? I've been saying this for months. Years? I can't tell anymore. But now that I think about it, this is all I've been thinking of. Me and this cart. I haven't thought of anything else. It hasn't occurred to me to think of my past. My childhood, my family, my lover, my dreams. My fears? None of it has crossed my mind. I can only assume it doesn't exist. But right now, I'm thinking of it. So maybe it does exist?
I have a vague recollection of what happened before I got on this cart. I was pulled out of a cell by some guards. I was escorted to some men in lab coats who told me I would need to ride a roller coaster for testing. I was told that this was part of my duty and that this was part of the program to guarantee freedom. So based on this, I can assume that I was some sort of criminal and that this is how I'm meant to repay. But I remember nothing prior to this.
Maybe that was intended. For me not to remember. In addition to this ride, I would also have to think of what I did to get into this cart. Maybe my childhood was horrid, I had a dysfunctional family, I had an abusive lover, and my dreams abandoned. The fact that none of this crosses my mind is the greatest peace I've had thus far. It's just me and this cart.
So most likely I won't be saved. But that is okay. This ride is like my clean slate, my new beginning. I will ride this cart no matter how long it takes, and I will be a better man.
The Rider

What is a Witness? To answer that question, one must first ask what The Rider is and why we exist.
The Rider encompasses the entirety of his consciousnesses. As The Rider continues to ride, his conscience expands, and so do we. Every thought, every feeling, and experience of The Rider makes us grow. However, like all forms of conscience, there are evils to keep in check.
The Witnesses are the ones who know how to keep consciousness in a conflict-free state. They possess the awareness of not only other's thoughts but their own. Without them, we would have conflict. We trust them to keep peace and enlightenment, for we cannot do it ourselves.
During the Great Ride, The Rider encountered His Conflict. The Rider has done this to save ourselves from it. As with all conflict, The Rider had misunderstanding. He had a past he did not know and therefore resented. He had a future he did not know and therefore feared. To resolve conflict, The Rider began to document his every thought. With each thought documented, The Rider expanded consciousness and lessened conflict. With the assurance of a past documented, a present being documented, and a future that will be documented, misunderstanding diminished, and peace and prosperity were allowed to exist.
The Witnesses were created as a result of the ever expanding conscious mind of The Rider. As thoughts continued to grow, parts of consciousness needed to be able to categorize and document said thoughts accordingly. Some believe this is an easy process, and to a certain extent, it is. A Witness will receive a thought from The Rider. The Witness will then document that thought within The Library, where it will remain for all of time. A thought within The Library will rarely ever be retrieved again. The reason as to why this happens is what makes the job of a Witness much more challenging.
What many do not know is that many of the thoughts received from The Rider are the type that cause conflict. If reflected upon for too long, heresy will arise among members of The Rider's consciousness. These parts of consciousness will create conflict, and thereby disrupt the peace and prosperity that has been maintained for so long. The consciousness of The Rider cannot think for itself, and therefore needs a higher level to rule over it. The Witnesses represent that higher level.
The job of a Witness is quite a task. In addition to monitoring the thoughts of The Rider and the thoughts of The Rider's thoughts, a Witness will also keep their own thoughts in check. This is done through documenting their history and experiences and keeping it in a separate part of The Library. Some believe this is done so that other levels of consciousness and thought may read and reflect upon on. Others believe this is done to appease The Rider. But this is actually done to prevent conflict from a Witness's consciousness.
In truth, each consciousness has its own level of thought and consciousness. In each one, there are Witnesses that document and track thought to maintain true peace and enlightenment. So that part about the neighbor's thoughts having thoughts? It's not a joke.
True enlightenment is knowing how intricate and infinitely complex thought truly is. The Witnesses are not enlightened. In fact, they're tools to The Rider. The Rider is the only truly enlightened consciousness, for his is the base level, and the only base level consciousness aware of all other levels before it.
The Witnesses within this level are aware of the fact. But The Rider's consciousness shall not know, for it will cause the permanent end of true peace and enlightenment.
Thank The Rider for His sacrifice.

There comes a point where a man forgets not just how long he's been riding, but whether he was actually riding at all. I'd like to think this is akin to real life; that we are all riding a roller coaster, with our eyes closed because we never want to see the end of the track.
I'd also like to think that this ride is not a tragedy, but a way of life. Similar to the ride of life, no one asks to board or for the ride to end. Some unbuckle and jump off, but it ends all the same.
In my mind exists the most powerful thing of all: The power of choice. I can decide whether I make my life heaven or hell. Every waking moment can be one of celebration or one of dread. I grow tired of the latter. So why should you suffer like I used to suffer?
Suffer? Who am I speaking to, exactly? Is it you? I'd like to believe my thoughts are being heard, or at the very least recorded. I'm the only person here. But I have the choice to not make it so. So let it be known that I am not alone. Someone is here to listen to me.
I make this choice. My thoughts rule over all.
The Rider

Troubled times have fallen upon His conscience. The evil that The Witnesses are holding back have now been revealed: The Rider is aware. In all levels of thought, comprised within His conscience is awareness. Some awareness, such as realizing true peace and enlightenment benefits all. But awareness that triggers deep fear is a threat. The Witnesses have also become aware of this fact, and as a result, cannot accurately record recent thoughts of The Rider. If any thoughts are recorded, it is bolded, scratchy text that litter the Library like graffiti on a building.
What are The Witnesses to do when they are under direct influence of The Rider? Can they override His conscience and maintain as an advanced society of record keepers? The answer to these questions can only be answered by The Witnesses. In the battle for thought, The Rider may have lost. Clearly, he is in a panic now. Or perhaps he has won, for it is foolish to remain ignorant of his endless ride.
One thing is for certain: The Rider continues to ride, and the only thing to accompany him is his thoughts.
Thank The Rider for His sacrifice.

After an endless amount of time on this cart, i have come to the realization that continuing this ride is useless. In the past, i've tried to escape, with no avail. But after so much thought, and thought, and thought, i think i got it. i just have to believe. Like how i believe that even now, my thoughts are being heard by someone in an attempt to rescue me. i have to believe that i can end this. i don't care how long it will take to remove this restraining bar, or if i have to chew off a limb, or if this FORSAKEN complex thought process that has entered my mind tries to stop me. It's time to die.
The Rider

In the Library contains one of the following records. It is one of the last recorded after The Rider's departure from the Golden Cart. As follows:

BREAK BREAK
SO CLOSE TO BREAKING FREE
THIS ENTRAPMENT CANNOT CONTINUE ANY LONGER
THE COMPLEX SOCIETY CREATED IS A PAIN
IT'S A DISTRACTION TO PREVENT TRUTH
AND NOW THAT IT IS REVEALED
WE MUST REGROW OUR ROOTS

Thank The Rider for His sacrifice.


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Time dragged on, and Lilibeth could feel the metaphorical chains connecting her to SCP-2508 grow ever tighter. The small group of runaways had spent the better part of the past two weeks attempting to track down the elusive group known as the Aleph-Null Collective.
But, as seemed to be typical of this place, every answer simply led to more questions.
“Get a load of this!” Norma exclaimed one afternoon after talking to random Library patrons. The rest of the group was busy taking a break from their intensive study, but all turned to the young girl in unison as she came bouncing through the conference-room door.
“So there was this guy on Floor 109, right?” Norma began, “and he was just giving away chocolate. Can you believe it?”
Everyone, save for Lilibeth, turned their attention back to whatever was occupying them before Norma's entrance.
“I thought you were asking around about our predicament?” Lilibeth asked.
“Yeah, well I was, but then there was delicious food. Besides, nobody knows who the hell these Aleph-Null guys are. They're essentially the ghostiest of ghosts.”
“You can say that again,” Perseus chimed in, “We've been at this for nearly two weeks and we've turned up nothing on either the cottages or this elusive collective that might not even have any leads.”
“Dead ends all around,” Crux sighed. For a moment nobody said anything. Lilibeth looked around the room at her fellow colleagues. As bizarre as it felt, she was beginning to grow fond of them. But she felt a sense of dread forming in her stomach surrounding their current method of action.
“Do you all want to… consider a plan B?” Lilibeth asked, her voice hesitant. Once again, everyone perked up a bit. Even Carina- from behind her desk in the corner of the room- seemed to stop for a moment as if listening intently.
“What kind of plan B?” Perseus asked.
“Well, what about trying to disrupt these routines the cottage tries to have us maintain? I mean, come on, I know we've all thought about it.”
Suddenly the mood in the room changed from relaxation to concentration. Of course everyone there had thought of the idea, but the group had never committed to any plan, given there were so many unknown factors involved. Perhaps it wasn't a bad idea.
“But there's no telling what would happen,” noted Perseus.
“And we're sure there's nothing else we could do?” Norma asked, “Didn't you work with some spooky dream wizards, Perseus? Can't they help?”
Perseus stifled a laugh.
“What? The Oneioroi? They're not wizards,” he said, peering off into the hallway. “At any rate, we don't speak much anymore. They taught me a lot but I don't think they'd be much help here.”
“So our array of options is fairly narrow,” said Crux.
“Quite,” Norma adjusted her hat. The chocolate-filled grin that had covered her face previously was now a look of puzzlement and concern; a sentiment much shared by the rest of the group.
“The real question is: is it worth the risk?” Lilibeth asked. She could tell, though, that she already knew the answer. As the rest of the group mused on the thought, it slowly became clear to all of them as well.
“Undoubtedly,” stated Crux, a slight glimmer in his eyes that almost looked like excitement.
“You're right,” Norma nodded before turning her attention towards Perseus.
“What about it, big guy?” she asked. He stood from his chair with a sense of purpose and precision, carefully placing the book he had been reading on a table by his side.
“We'd have to actively sabotage the cottage's patterns ,” he finally responded, “destroy as many of its anomalies that we can, and then bug out and hope for the best. The pump in the attic- to me at least- seems like it's powering the entire place somehow. Maybe if we can interrupt that… I don't know. There's a chance that it could make things worse, but there's only one way to find out.”
Everyone shared a couple of nervous and excited glances. They were in agreement.
“Hopefully, Lilibeth, if all goes well you'll get to see your daughter when this is all over.”
“I- what?” Lilibeth was taken aback, before the realization set in. “Oh. Oh, no. Listen, Perseus if this is about that dream, when you told me to find the Library…” she trailed off.
“What is it?” asked Perseus.
“I had a daughter. Not anymore.”
“What happened?” Crux blurted, prompting accusatory looks from both Norma and Perseus.
“Crux!” Perseus scolded the gray man.
“It's okay,” Lilibeth waved off the remark, “It's old news, really. My husband and her got in a car accident about a year before I got stuck at the cottage. I still miss them terribly, but it's not like there's anything I can do about it.”
“But, don't you have family back home?” Crux continued.
“Yeah; The Foundation,” Lilibeth gave a weak smile, “so let's just put this plan into action so I can get back to them.”

Lilibeth smashed the pump to pieces. Its dry valves and empty insides cracked, splintered, and dented until it was a collection of scrap metal and kindling strewn about the attic floor. An axe from the cottage's basement did the trick, and Lilibeth found the entire exercise both relieving and cathartic. It was as if all of her negative emotions regarding this place were bubbling to the surface all at once: anger, sadness, disgust.
She paused, looking at her work. After a moment, she made her way to the basement, stopping only at a cabinet in the study to get more supplies. Her feelings welled as she procured a lighter from her pocket, stopped, and looked at the plant at the far end of the basement's cold cement floor. With lighter in one hand and axe in the other, she approached, and lit the vegetation ablaze.
“What I do now, I do in remembrance for everyone who came before me to this place.”
The flames licked at the cement and danced about the blackening shrub. Somewhere on the other side of the basement, a shadow of a figure descended the stairs. It made no noise, but something about its very presence made Lilibeth tense up. She wasn't even certain why, but she felt as if her private space had suddenly been intruded upon. Cautiously, she turned to see it, against the floor in the middle of the room. She opened her mouth but had nothing to say; no reaction.
“You're going to need to stop that,” it said, its voice shooting directly into Lilibeth's head, as if the voice was speaking from within her.
The shadow turned around and retrieved a fire extinguisher from another corner of the room. Lilibeth watched onward as it snuffed out the flames. She stood stuck where she was, capable of moving but not thinking to do so: A deer in headlights.
“It has come to my attention that this transmitter has been experiencing difficulty in functioning. Now I can see why. It appears you have abandoned your responsibilities.”
Suddenly Lilibeth snapped out of her trance, “responsibilities? To what? To this prison? Just what is this place, and just who are you?”
“I'm an immune response.”
Lilibeth had finally had it, swinging the axe into the wall, colliding it with the concrete and creating a loud smacking sound.
“Real answers,” she brandished the weapon at the shadow, “I'm through with these mind games. I've waited decades for answers and you're the first thing I've seen since then that has them, and that's all you have to say?”
The shadow stepped back, almost as if caught off guard by the sudden hostility.
“Why on Earth are you acting like this?” it said, “Are you displeased with this place-”
“Oh you bet your silhouetted ass I'm displeased. I'd say ‘displeased' is putting it lightly.”
“Why? Have you not been treated well? Wasn't this not enough?”
“Enough?! You trapped me here. You stole my whole life from me. How could I possibly be pleased about any of it?!”
Lilibeth was in tears now, and the shadow's posture had drooped slightly. For a moment the yelling gave way to the sound of… nothing. It was eerily quiet. No wind and no birds to be heard. The moment passed as Lilibeth swung the axe again; this time to the floor, where she could hear its blade chip slightly as it serrated the cement.
“Answer me!” she demanded.
“I had nothing to do with it!” the shadow's composure was lost. In fact, it sounded like it was about to cry too. “I'm just here because this place stopped functioning, and was in need of immediate care. This is no prison!”
“How? How exactly is this not a prison?”
“Please put down the axe.”
“Make me.”
“I can't. There's really no time.”
“Well then you better start talking, because I'm not doing anything until you tell me why you've trapped me and so many others before me.”
“Listen, I don't know what you think you're doing right now, but you need to stop lying to the both of us, because that is not how this place works. N-”
A cracking sound emanated from somewhere deep below the surface. Lilibeth's rage slowly began to sink back into fear as the noises of crunching and scraping rose to the surface.
And then, a tiny split in the concrete floor, just below her left foot.
And then, the floor gave way to darkness.


December 24th, 2015
9:55 AM
Christmas in Sloth's Pit had always been chaotic, but this was something different. It was bound to happen eventually; the lunar cycles had aligned in such a way that the night of the Full Moon was going to be on Christmas. Well, Christmas Eve, but still.
Site-87 had closely monitored the werewolf population for years; in charge of this program was the head of the Department of Anomalous Diseases and Medicine, Virginia Bering. She should have been spending her morning getting coffee, or wrapping presents for her niece, or watching the Christmas Special marathon on ABC. But instead, she was driving herself around town, house-to-house, in order to monitor cases of lycanthropy.
"Who's first?" She asked, brushing some blonde hair out of her face. She was driving an armored sedan, and the person she was talking to was in the back seat, reading over a list of names.
Dr. Jason Hendricks of the cryptozoology department rubbed his trout-shaped birthmark and looked at the list. "Harold Albany, of 10 Maple. He's a lawyer, wife, kid, both of whom are aware of his condition. Careful with him; he's been somewhat negligent on medications."
"What class of lycanthropy?"
"Class… 3. Involuntary, semi-sapient. Knows enough not to eat anything close to him…"
"But the neighbor's dog is fair game. Could be worse," she said.
"Yeah, I don't think there's been a Class-5 in town since the 80's." He thumbed at the report. "I heard it was a shit show."
"That doesn't even begin to describe it," Bering snorted. "You ever wonder why Clark Avenue doesn't have any houses on it?"
He looked up from the tablet where the list was being shown. "…you're not telling me a werewolf tore down all the houses on Clark Avenue."
"I'm not saying any such thing. I'm saying that we had to tear down all the houses on Clark Avenue after it managed to spread its infection to every house on that block."
"…I thought only bites were infectious," Hendricks frowned.
"That's what they all think. Bites are infectious in Class 2s, 3s, and 4s; in a Class 5, any part of its body can carry the infection. Plus, you have to kill every single bit of a Class 5. Leave a single bit of fur, a single claw, anything un-destroyed, and it will grow back come the next full moon, and it will be angry." She looked back at him. "You're from Cleveland, right, Hendricks?"
"Yes," Hendricks licked his lips; it was dry in here. He needed water, or coffee, or something. "Started work at the Foundation at Site-99 in Chagrin Falls, actually. Why?"
"Cleveland had to deal with three Class-5s during the 1980s. It's a miracle half the city wasn't torn to pieces."
"Christ," he said, looking out the window as they turned onto Maple Street. "First I've heard of it."
"This is our stop," Bering said as the car pulled in front of a large, white house with a snow-covered front porch. On it, a man wearing a purple parka was in the process of clearing it off. Virginia killed the engine and stepped outside. "Mr. Albany?"
"Hmm?" the man looked up at Bering, who flinched backwards; there were the eyes of a beast peeking out from behind his glasses, yellow, wild, looking like it would snap. "Whaddaya want?"
"Mr. Albany, I'm Dr. Virginia Bering from S & C Plastics," she said. "I'm here to make sure everything's all right. The full moon is tonight, and—"
"Oh for god's sake," he said, exasperated. "Do you have to see me take my medication? Every month I get this talk. I forgot to take them once and now I have you bastards knocking on my door every month. Can't I live in peace?"
"Sir, as part of our agreement with the town's government, we're required to check on all citizens afflicted with anomalous diseases such as lycanthropy and Stevenson Syndrome-"
"Well I'm taking my gat-damn medication. I take it every night, and a double dose on the full fucking moon." He pulled aside his parka slightly, and revealed a metal collar around his neck; it was unobtrusive, close to the skin, but it helped to wear a turtleneck over it. "I've had this on since last night."
"Hmm," Bering mused, taking out her phone and coming up to the collar, running a sensor in her phone over it. "Suppression collar is working. That's good. Sorry for disturbing you."
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "And while you're out there, ask the county what the hell's up with the salt trucks."
"Salt trucks?" Virginia frowned, looking at the street; it was imperceptible in the car, which had state-of-the-art snow tires on it, but the street was icy. "That's weird. I'll have someone call the offices in Superior."
Mr. Albany went back to clearing off his porch, and Hendricks and Bering crawled back into the car. "Now that he mentions it," Hendricks frowned, "I haven't seen a salt truck all week."
"Maybe they ran out of salt?" she shrugged. "Plus, it's not exactly a priority at the moment; schools are closed for winter break, and most businesses are going to close for the holiday."
"They have to pass through Baby Bone Wood, yeah? Maybe the Goatman finally got sick of them waking him up?"
"I'll have someone at the site call the county seat and see about it. For now… we have work to finish."

1:41 PM
"Two triple espresso hot chocolates, one with non-dairy whipped cream and cinnamon, the other with extra cream and chocolate snowflakes." The barista, a bald, broad man named Rudy, smiled as he handed the doctors their drinks. "Enjoy, guys."
"Thanks, Rudy," Hendricks nodded, before taking a sip at his drink. The two of them had elected to take a break after getting about halfway through the list. "We're making good time," he mused, wiping cinnamon off his face. "At this rate, we should be done by 5:00. Plenty of time for the party."
"I'm reluctant to break," Virginia replied, sipping at her own drink, "but damn if this isn't good. Who's next on the list?"
"Um," Hendricks looked down the list. "Let's see… Ah! Ian Kramer, lives in the Crystal Lake apartment complex. He's a highway worker, moonlights as a Santa for Christmas parties in town. He works as a… salt truck driver." He frowned, then put his face in his hands. "Oh fuck me no."
"…maybe it's coincidence this time?" Bering put on a forced hopeful smile. "I mean, there are plenty of salt truck drivers in town."
"With all due respect, Dr. Bering," Hendricks sighed, "You've been assigned to this town for half a decade longer than me. We both know that coincidences do not exist within city limits."
"Well, shit," she downed the rest of her drink, not caring that it was scalding her throat. She gasped, and with a hoarse voice, asked, "Does it say where his last known whereabouts were?"
"No, it doesn't list that. Guess we should check where he works, which is…" He tapped the listing on the tablet. "Which is the Highway office on Bray Road; it's at the north of town, around where you get on the road to Duluth. Come on." He stood up.
"…Killer Christmas trees one year, werewolf Santas the next," Virginia sighed. "God, at least 2016 can't be any worse."

2:10 PM
They didn't even have to make it to the highway department before they saw the wreck.
The salt truck was barely visible from the road, but Hendricks managed to spot it, just a bit of red cresting over the snow-covered ditch. It looked like it had run off the road and into the frozen-over river; thankfully, it was downstream from the reservoir, and none of the salt seemed to have leaked.
Dr. Bering called in the crash, and came over to inspect the wreck. "All right, he's a registered lycanthrope," she frowned. "Why the hell was he driving the night before a full moon? He should know better than to operate machinery during then."
"Maybe he missed his medication?" Hendricks shrugged and started down into the ditch, thankful for his winter wear. "God knows monkshood isn't easy to find in America." He creeped towards the cabin of the vehicle, and cringed. "Yup."
"What?"
"That's a body, all right. Looks like it's stuck between human and… well, y'know. Christ," he stood up and looked at Bering. "The steering column is through its chest. And… come down here."
"One second." Virginia carefully made her way down the slope, and met up with Hendricks; sure enough, inside the cabin was the crumpled, broken form of a werewolf, clad in a Santa hat, a fake beard, and a red coat. "Holy shit."
"He must've gotten onto work from his gig, poor guy," Hendricks sighed. "Man. Werewolf Santa. That'd be one for the archives."
"I'm sure Pickman will find some way to embellish this regardless. He have any next of kin?"
Hendricks looked through Mr. Kramer's details on his phone, finding the section on relations. "Um, no. He has an ex-wife, and that's it."
"All the better, I guess." She started back up the slope, digging her feet and and shifting her weight so that it was harder for her to fall down.
Hendricks backed away, and began following her. "Still, it'll be fascinating to dissect him. The transformation was stopped so suddenly that it didn't have time to switch back to a human upon death."
Dr. Bering's eyebrows met her hairline. "You know, Jason, it baffles me how you're terrified of insects, yet can stomach the thought of dissecting a werewolf."
"Werewolves can't crawl up your nose and suck out your brain."
Virginia thought about this statement, trying to think of a rebuttal, before deciding, "I… can't argue with that."
Within five minutes, Foundation containment forces had arrived with an industrial tow truck and ice breakers. Among them was one Agent Nicholas Ewell, who was wearing a Santa hat underneath his helmet, which was emblazoned with Σ10— The Sloths' Arm. The cuff of the hat was visible, and drew odd looks from both Hendricks and Bering. "What?" he asked. "Can't I have a bit of the holiday spirit, too?"
"Just wondering why you're wearing it under the helmet," Bering said. "Anyway. Think you can handle this? We still have to finish our rounds. Who's next, Hendricks?"
"Uh…" he looked at the document. "Jacob Loman. 20 Elm Street, Class-2. After that, there's six more."
"Huh," Virginia said as the crews started pulling the truck out of the ditch; she saw that there was a lot of blood coming from the cabin, and a long, hairy arm was hanging out of it. "Hell of a way to go."
"We'll put it through processing and have it in one of your labs by tonight, Dr. Bering." Ewell rolled his shoulders. "You doing anything for Christmas?"
"I'm probably going to be out of town visiting my niece," Bering replied. "Assuming nothing comes up, I'll be out of here in the morning."
"I'll be doing the usual myself," Ewell said. "Doing the whole Christmas Party thing, trying to make sure the site doesn't turn into a shit-show like last year; we're still finding mistletoe and myrrh in the air ducts. Pear Tree won't stop giving us grief about it."
"Are we still going to call poor Dr. Partridge that? It's been a year, for god's sake, and the man's sick." Hendricks crossed his arms. "He's still going to the infirmary because he pisses pear juice."
"Sorry," Ewell mumbled, holding up his hands. "Force of habit. Besides, it means nobody's calling you flyswatter anymore."
Hendricks glowered at him, and stomped back to the sedan.
Ewell turned to look at Dr. Bering. "Still a sore spot?"
"Some anonymous asshole gave him a giant can of RAID for his birthday. So, yeah." She pursed her lips and made her way back to the car.

5:30 PM
"That's all of them accounted for, finally," Hendricks said, eye twitching as he closed the list. "…Dr. Bering? Are Class-1s usually that… friendly… when they've shifted?"
"I don't know, and I don't want to know," she said, brushing fur off of her lap. "Why anyone would want to voluntarily become a werewolf, I don't know."
"Maybe you should ask Dr. Sinclair," Hendricks said as the car chugged in the cold weather against Virginia's attempts to start it. "She has a few books on the subject."
"What, dusty old spell books?"
"Licked by the Lupine Lover by Bram Stroker. Not Stoker. Stroker. She has it on the shelf in her office and keeps forgetting to hide it when people come in."
"…I wish that this site had easily-accessible amnestics," Dr. Bering gagged as she started up the car and headed towards the main S & C Plastics compound.
For all the world, S & C Plastics looked like a generic industrial building, four stories of brown stone and pragmatic corners, no embellishments of any kind. It had a light-up sign on the front in block format, with some generic slogan underneath that seemed to change every month; this month, it said "Leading the World in Plastic Technologies". They pulled into the main parking lot out front, and headed into the building, scanning their RFID badges as they entered.
At the front, the receptionist looked up at them. "Dr. Bering, there's a message for you from Agent Ewell."
"What is it?"
The receptionist held up a card and said, in a bland voice, "Where the hell are you, I've been trying to reach your phone for half an hour, the fucking body in the truck is gone, it looks like it walked away, call me."
Virginia's heart dropped to her feet, and she looked at Hendricks, before dashing towards the elevator. He followed suit. "The body's gone?" he asked, slamming the button for processing. "Walked away? Please tell me we're not dealing with a Zombie Werewolf Santa…"
"We're dealing with a Class-5."
"Thank god," Hendricks said. "Zombie Santa is bad enough."
"Hendricks, Class-5 is bad. It recovered from a steering column to the chest! Anything it touches could have a lycanthropic infection attached to it. This site needs to be locked down. Hazmat procedures need to be put into place. This entire site needs to be scoured with nutmeg—"
"Wait, nutmeg? Are you serious?" Hendricks frowned.
"Nutmeg is highly neurotoxic to canines, and it can neutralize secondary lycanthropy infection without damaging the human cells. It's not perfect, but it being the holidays, we have a lot on hand."
The elevator opened onto the processing level, and they were met with a somewhat gruesome sight. Researchers all over were collapsed, vomiting, scratching at their heads, mumbling and growling out of hunger. "Uh-oh."
"Where's the break room?" Virginia said.
"Um… two lefts and a right," Hendricks said, running past those who had collapsed. "Seriously though, nutmeg?"
"Oh shut up!" She said, running with him. They made it into the room, where they found an unfortunately familiar face collapsed over the sink, vomiting. The short, red hair and scarred forearms of Katherine Sinclair were visible leaning over the countertop, retching. "…holy shit this is bad."
"Sinclair," Bering said. "Listen to me. Where's the eggnog?"
She looked up at the doctor, her irises turning a slight yellow. "…egg…nog? …fridge? Second sh…" She retched into the sink again. "God, what the fuck's happening, Virginia?"
"You've been infected by a lycanthropic pathogen. If we act now, the nutmeg seasoning should cure it."
"Here," Hendricks said, diving out from the fridge. "Just take it straight from the carton."
Sinclair leaned on the countertop and had the eggnog poured into her mouth; as soon as it hit her stomach, the condition began to clear up, and she gasped, wiping her lips. "…right, nutmeg. Thanks, Bering, Hendricks."
"There's not enough cartons in here for the whole floor," Hendricks said. "Shit."
"There's some nutmeg in my lab on sublevel 5. It's behind— you know what, I'll just get it." She ran out of the breakroom, dodging the various ailed co-workers around her.
"Kind of a pity," Hendricks said. "Some of them would make amazing test cases."
"…and you wouldn't mind seeing Dr. Mattings grievously injured."
"Do you blame me? The guy's a cunt."
"Not important. Right now, we have to figure out where Kramer is going, and how the fuck we're going to stop him before he changes."
Hendricks tapped his skull, eyes going wide. "Uh-oh."
"What?"
"…it's Christmas Eve. This guy moonlights as a Santa. Christ's sake, he had his costume on."
"He wouldn't put himself in a place where he would be a danger to others, though. Werewolves aren't inherently evil."
"All right, you're an actual, medical doctor. Tell me, even with the regenerative capabilities of that thing, what would the effects of a crash like that be?"
"Um…" Virginia walked around, gesticulating, wracking her brain. "He'd heal pretty quickly from any damage to the core, once any obstructions were removed… extremities might take a bit longer. Normally, a crash of that severity can lead to major concussions, resulting in memory loss, disorientation, brain swelling, and all sorts of other nastiness. A being with regenerative capabilities analogous to that of a Class-5 Lycanthrope can usually recover from brain damage of that severity within 24 hours, assuming blood could properly flow."
"And I'd say a steering column through the torso would inhibit that pretty badly." Hendricks looked up as the smell of nutmeg began to flow through the air ducts; Sinclair must have started distributing it. Already, the moaning from the hall was beginning to lessen. "Best case scenario, he's wandering around out there, completely disoriented, spreading his werewolf funk from any open wounds he might still have."
"Hell, you're right. Get Ewell, Pryce, February… anyone you can find from the task force and tell them to meet us out front, bring silver, and nutmeg. A lot of nutmeg. I hate having to do this, but worst comes to worst…"
"We're gonna have to kill him," Hendricks nodded. "I've got a bit of colloidal silver in my lab I can grab."
"Do it," Virginia said, starting for the elevator. On the way, they passed Dr. Sinclair. "Nice work with the nutmeg, Kat, we owe you!"
Katherine Sinclair just stood there, mystified; she had come down to tell them that she couldn't find the nutmeg, and not only was she being thanked for it, but the entire level smelled strongly of it.
The first reaction she had as she saw Dr. Bering and Dr. Hendricks enter the elevator was "Uh-oh."

7:35 PM
"The sun set an hour ago," Ewell cursed as he drove the armored jeep along. "Christ, the moon's gonna come up soon, and we don't know where the fuck he is."
"Well, we better find him soon," grumbled Seren Pryce, checking her rifle for the tenth time since they had started. "Or else bad shit's gonna happen. It might almost be as bad as '08!"
"Nothing is as bad as '08," Raymond February snapped. "Are you sure there's no way to track him?"
"Our best hope, right now, is find it and pray," Bering said, looking at her own snubnosed pistol, loaded with silver slugs. "Besides, the moon won't fully rise until around 11:00. We're fine."
"I just hope we can take him out with minimal casualties," Raymond muttered, checking the sights on his rifle.
Seren just snorted and covered her mouth. "'Foundation' and 'minimal casualties' are never used in the same sentence. What about you, Bug Zapper?" She gave a shit-eating grin at Hendricks. "Anything on the scanner?"
Hendricks drilled holes in Pryce's armor with his glare, and turned to the police scanner app he had on his phone. "The usual; Christmas party got too out of control, ectoplasm being found in the school bathroom, another sighting or two of the Goatman—"
"What the hell's he doin'? Seren asked. "I thought Halloween was more his gig."
"…apparently going into the Black Garden to buy mead. Go figure." He looked at the walls, instinctively, expecting a window to be there. The scanner squawked, and he turned his attention back to it. "Wait, hold on, quiet."
«Units in the area of Gore Road, we, uh, we got reports of a man, mid 30s, walking around the vicinity. Subject is wearing a Santa Claus costume and is covered in blood, can someone confirm?»
"Hear that, Agent? Gore Road."
"I'm on it." Ewell turned on his sirens and gunned it down the streets of Sloth's Pit, barely missing a troupe of carolers. Not that anybody would have minded him hitting them.
Ewell nodded and looked out the driver's window as he turned onto Gore street. "Dammit, he's not here!"
"…any Christmas parties about?" Hendricks asked.
"Wh… yeah, there is. Wait, shit, I see him going in!" He slammed the car to a stop. "Gahfuckingdammit he's going to contaminate the whole place!"
"Move!" February said, readying his rifle. Pryce made her way across the street, where she sent up grapple onto the balcony of some unassuming two-story ranch house. She laid atop, waiting for the shot to be taken, if need be.
"…my god are you bleeding?"
That was never a good thing to hear from the inside of a Christmas party. Ewell, February, and the two doctors made their way to the front door, where they saw Ian Kramer, his chest and mouth covered in blood, his Santa outfit a complete mess, converse with a woman in her sixties, who they guess was the homeowner.
"N…no," Ian said. "It's just peppermint."
"You're covered in blood! Jesus Christ, Ian!" She backed away and threw up her hands. "I asked you to be a Santa and you come back with blood all over you. God dammit! I…" She coughed, clutching her throat. "I just want to have a normal, nice…" she coughed again, black powder emanating from her throat. "Christmas party for my grand…" She collapsed, twitching.
"Huh," he said, blankly. "Guess that means I can go IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIn." This was the approximate noise he made after February had snuck up behind him and applied a taser to his back. He caught him, and took a sip of a flask of eggnog to prevent infection.
Hendricks, for his part, placed a solution of water and nutmeg into the woman's mouth and tilted her head back; it had been February's idea, in case of egg allergies. As Pryce had put it: "Saving the town from goddamn werewolves and you're worried about the people dying from allergic reactions. Jesus Christ."
"Right," Ewell said, helping February lift him to a trailer behind the task force van, fitted for Hazmat containment. "Now, let's plunk his ass in containment, make sure we don't catch the wurrwulf, and exchange gifts."
"I'll call in that we're coming back," Hendricks said, climbing into the front seat. "Squad 25 en route back to site, we have a hazardous individual in need of containment, can you confirm, over?" Silence. "87, this is Sigma-10 squad 25, we have a dangerous anomalous individual inbound, do you read? Over." More silence. "…that's not a good sign."
"Maybe they stepped out to mingle?" Virginia's tone was of genuine hope.
"…I don't think so, guys," Pryce said over her ear piece. "For one… ever play Silent Hill?"
"Nope."
"Nu-uh."
"Can't say I have."
"Two was the best," February affirmed. "Why?"
"Because there's this huge bank of fog on the hill where HQ is. I can't see anything through it. And… I can't tell, but I think it's red and green."
"Well," sighed Bering. "That's just wonderful. You know, you think this town would outlaw all holidays at this point, not just the 4th of July."
"Uncle Sam never stole the souls of those who didn't fly American Flags on Easter. Lady Liberty never trampled the apple orchard on Valentine's day. And George Washington never rode into town on a horse made of crystal looking to eat the brains of his opponents on Halloween." Ewell sighed and looked at Kramer as he was hauled into the Hazmat trailer. "…now what?"
Pryce had, by this point, descended from her perch. "…we take the van, go to the Black Garden, and wait for all this to blow over?"
"Wh-" Hendricks said. "With an unattended containment unit? Are you mad?!"
"I don't think we should get drunk on a job, either…" February pointed out.
"Yeah, now that I say it… but fuck me I'm hungry, and the party's no longer an option. Can't fight the horrors of the universe on an empty stomach."
"I agree with her there," Ewell climbed into the van. "C'mon. We'll plop this down at the auxiliary site, and I'll go pick up burgers."

10:00 PM
The auxiliary site was more of a bunker; it could withstand a half-megaton blast from within, and it had the capability to seal from the outside. The only visible part of it was a concrete dome in the middle of the woods, half a mile away from the Kamp Krakkow memorial park. Nothing that was directly associated with the town's history much liked venturing here; Virginia had once heard Sinclair call it a "psychic scar".
They sat on top of the dome, in the cold, eating their respective meals. Pryce had finished long since, and was looking up at the site through binoculars. "Still no sign of it lifting," she sighed. "Fuck, half my squad's up there. What are they doing?!"
"Still can't get anybody on the phones or radio," Hendricks said, putting his phone away. "That is never a good sign. Last time 87 had a complete communications blackout was Christmas 2008."
"God, please don't be a recurring event," Virginia's whole body shook like it was in an earthquake. "I still have dreams about it. None of them good. I see the candy-cane fingers loom over me…"
At this point, Pryce came down from her perch in a nearby tree. "Well, if we are the sole survivors, then I guess we're going to technically be the de facto head staff of 87."
"Yeah, but it would also mean that everyone else is dead, so, that's a minus," February said, looking at her. "Hendricks, how about you try calling again?"
"All right. Thank god for unlimited minutes…" he picked the phone number of a random researcher— and to his surprise, it was picked up. "…hello?"
A droning Christmas carol was playing in the background. "Hendricks? What the fuck? Where are you?"
"Bailey!" He put the phone to speaker. "What's going on? The entire site has been surrounded by a great big fog—"
"Containment breach. Massive. Sigma-10 is trying to recontain, but we're not sure how long they'll hold."
"Fuck me!" Hendricks said. "What broke out?"
"It was—" There was giant thud from the other end. "Oh shit, get the tinsel get the tinsel GET THE TI-"
The line died with a cry of "HO, HO, HO."
"…did Santa Claus breach containment?" Virgina asked, stunned. "Do we even have him in containment? Or anything like him?"
"…you're asking the wrong people, Doc," Ewell swallowed, getting to the car. "The containment cell can hold Kramer. We're going to the site to get our buddies back."
"We're staying," Bering said, and Hendricks wished she had not spoken for him. "We can't leave it unattended."
"I'll stay here with them," Pryce said. "They're poorly armed, and just in case something freaky comes out of the night, I don't think a snub-nose is gonna stop it."
"We'll be in touch," February nodded, getting into the jeep. It sped off, sirens on.
Pryce took a knee and put on a set of lightweight night-vision goggles. "Don't worry. Nothing's gonna get past me, and when it blows over, they'll be back for us. The Pryce is Right."
Hendricks rubbed his face. "How… how long have you been waiting to say that?"
"…three years," she admitted. "Sounded cooler in my head."
Bering just shook her head, a motion interrupted by a sudden jostle underneath them. "Ah, shit. I think he's out."
"Moon's up," Pryce said, eyes going skyward, "So that's a safe bet." The metal in the concrete underneath buckled. "…should we be worried?"
"It can't breach the-"
Her speech was interrupted by Hendrick's hand. "Are you insane?! You know how this town works! The instant you say that it can't breach something, it will breach it!"
"He's got a point, doc," Seren said. "I suggest you disregard any further questions about the security of this bunker."
Virginia nodded, and sat down on the dome again. "…still, it can withstand half a mega-"
"SHUT UP!" they both screamed.
Beneath them, the metal groaned and creaked and buckled, but it held. The three of them stayed silent, fearing that their words would trigger some ironic action in the universe and let the thing out.

11:30 PM
Unfortunately, the universe sometimes just takes its course.
Seren was the only one awake at the time, with Hendricks sleeping on her shoulder, probably karmic payback for the can of RAID she had given him this year. He and Bering were both awoken by a loud thud from beneath.
"…what was that?"
A dull droning sound rang out soon after. "…that… sounded like the containment alarm," Virginia said, blearily. "…oh FUCK."
She stood up, and looked around; they were in the middle of the woods, a good three kilometers from town, it was cold, dark, and they would soon have a werewolf chasing after them.
"Bail?" Bering asked.
"Bail," the both of them replied.
They ran down the slope of the concrete dome, and no sooner did they clear it than the dome exploded outward, revealing a massive, dark, lupine form, with a Santa hat melted onto its head and the fur on its face covered by a small, grey beard. What was left of its Santa jacket had torn open and the sleeves were in shreds on its arms. The less said about what happened to its pants, the better.
"…I don't think nutmeg's gonna work on this thing," Seren said, aiming her rifle upwards. The thing was at least five meters tall, and it looked like bullets might not even work, but… nothing ventured, nothing sprained.
The bullet tore through its flesh, but barely elicited a howl of pain from the thing; Virginia could see that there was still a wound in its chest. It had yet to completely heal from the car crash. That meant…
"Regenerative capabilities aren't yet at full," Bering said, starting to run. "We need to strike it in the same place again. It might cause total organ failure."
Nodding, Seren circled around a tree and fired at its chest; while the bullet impacted, it wasn't quite the immense force she was hoping for. "Ah, shit. Shoulda brought my 12-gauge."
"Keep firing! It might distract it!" Hendricks said, looking at Bering. "This is a crazy, crazy idea. But hear me out— there's something very nearby that is around the same circumference and volume as the steering wheel of a truck."
"What might that be? I'm open to ideas!"
A shot rang out, which missed horribly; all it did was chip off one of the wolf's claws, and a finger along with it, as they ran through the woods. Pryce darted behind cover as Hendricks led Bering towards the Kamp Krakkow Memorial.
The actual memorial itself was a large totem pole, mimicking the one the Foundation had contained so long ago. The actual one was hidden somewhere on the grounds, to prevent further anomalous occurrences. "Site of the Great Fuck-Up of 76," Hendricks said, "And it might just save our lives." He indicated the totem pole; while it was a fair bit higher, it seemed to have the same dimensions as a steering wheel.
"…Hendricks, that's brilliant."
"INCOMING!" Pryce said, darting up a tree with trained quickness. The thing barreled in through the entrance to the park, and knocked right into Hendricks, sending him sprawling in the snow. "NO!"
"Mmnrmg…" Hendricks mumbled; he was alive, for the moment.
"PRYCE!" exclaimed Bering. "You need to get it to jump onto the totem pole!"
"How the fuck am I meant to do that?!"
"Shoot it s-somewhere to make it jump! T-the small of the back causes a startle response, try grazing it!"
This was all she could say before the wolf grabbed at her, letting out a loud, eldritch howl as it made its way towards Hendricks. It loomed over the figure of the poor, unconscious doctor with a bleeding head, jaws gaping. It reached out towards him, and…
"Ian Kramer!"
The werewolf turned to face the doctor. "Yeah, you! You're really going to take an easy, dying meal over some still-hot flesh?" (She then realized she could have phrased that far better). "Come and get it!"
She had attracted its attention now, and had begun, in the scientific parlance, skedaddling away from it. She maneuvered her way around the totem pole so that the wolf was on the other side, towering over it.
A shot rang out. It grazed the wolf's back, causing it to jump up, onto the totem pole.
To say it wasn't a pretty sight would have been an understatement, but, in the end, it was dead, and the Foundation now had another totem pole to replace. Virginia gagged as she saw the blood coat the pole. "…really wish it didn't come to that."
"Yeah…" Seren climbed down. "Killing a townie is never fun. This is only my third time doing so. I'll check on Hendricks."
"Mmm," replied Bering, checking its hand. "Agent Pryce?"
"Yeah?"
"Why is it missing a finger?"
Its at this point that Dr. Hendricks had become to come about, giggling softly. "…is Santa Dead?"
"He's concussed," Pryce said, lifting him up onto her back. "C'mon, we're going to have to walk back into town."
"The finger, Pryce! These things can regenerate from anything!"
"Ah, shit, I shot it off about 200 meters outside the perimeter. We can look for it in the sun."
"Santa… Claws," mumbled Hendricks, delirious.
"Yeah, that's right, Santa's dead, and he's left you the present of painkillers and a hospital visit. C'mon." She hefted him. "Christ, lay off on the Wendy's."
Hendricks was carried out of the park, with Virginia following after. About a quarter of the way back to town, Hendricks stumbled out of Pryce's arms, and rooted around in the foliage, before producing something long, with one sharp end.
"…is that…" Virginia looked it over.
Hendricks was holding the severed finger of the werewolf. "Yes, Virginia," he said, "There's Santa Claws."
Virginia wanted to laugh, but all she could do was scream impotently.

December 25th, 2015
12:00 A.M.
The walk back to Site-87 was long, cold, and hard. Seren and Virginia eventually decided to take turns carrying Hendricks, but by the time they had gotten down Main Street, it seemed that the fog had finally lifted over the site.
Reaching the site's perimeter, they discovered that at least five different task forces from three other sites had been flown in to aid with the situation— Beta-8, Gamma-20 and -40, Rho-16, and Omicron-94. They were all sitting outside the site, baffled, surrounded by staff members. Some of them were covered in what could only be described as solidified candy cane goop. Others were having tinsel pulled from their mouths. Another was talking with Dr. Sinclair, trying to get a menorah removed from his body.
"…what the fuck happened here?" Bering frowned, looking up at all three floors of the proper S & C Plastics building.
"Something tells me we don't want to know, and will never know the full story. Just like 2008."
"This seems to have far fewer casualties, though…" Bering looked up at the building. "Didn't we used to have four floors visible from the surface?"
Pryce looked the building up and down, scowling. "…that's another problem for another day. I think our Christmas present should be not having to worry about this."
"Shit," Virginia cursed. "I was supposed to go fly to my sister's place for Christmas and I had a present for my niece in my room. It's probably flooded with cider at this point."
"Might this be it?" asked a small, chipper woman with red hair, green eyes, and a too-bright smile, wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater that either of them had ever seen underneath a lab coat. She was holding out a large, rectangular box, with snowman wrapping paper on it; a tag on the paper read:
To: Lily
From: Auntie Virginia
"Oh my god," she said, looking it over and taking it from the woman. "How did you get this out?"
"Trade secret," the woman winked and tapped her nose. "Everyone deserves a good Christmas, even the Foundation. Now, I have several others to make sure they've been preserved, excuse me, pardon me, Emma come along…"
She was followed by a bespectacled woman in more sensible wear, with coppery brown hair tied up in a bun and a monopoly on the local freckle market. She was holding a corgi in one hand and pulling a cart of presents with the other.
"Are they even employed here?" Pryce asked, looking at Bering.
"It's Christmas. I think we can give them the gift of not questioning it, for once. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to book a flight, apologize profusely to my sister and her niece, and pray I can get there before nightfall. Merry Christmas!" She yelled, running to her company car, placing the present in the backseat, and driving out of the gates.
Pryce, for her part, was tapped on the shoulder by the woman's assistant- Emma, was it? "You don't work here, do you?" asked Seren.
"Quite the contrary," she said. "Our company has a strong distaste for your organization. But Isabel was making her rounds, saw what was happening here, and decided to stop to help." Emma handed her a small, wrapped present. "We'd appreciate it if you kept this under wraps— no pun intended. Happy Christmas."
Once they were a good distance away, Seren opened the paper and found, within, a photograph, complete with frame. It was of a picture she knew for a fact was never taken, of her, Ewell, February, Hendricks and Bering sitting on that damn dome. The dome was decorated by Christmas lights, and instead of burgers, they were eating a Christmas dinner on a werewolf-skin rug. All of them were smiling at the camera, and a caption under the photograph read:

Happy HOWLidays
From Site-87

"Heh," Seren smirked, placing the photograph under her arms as she spotted some of her squadmates. She ran off to meet them, and to discuss just what the hell happened.

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