<< Prologue | ???»

"So anyway, add 3 grams of aluminum powder and 9 grams of iron oxide. If you want a bigger amount then make sure to stay at that one to three ratio!"
Matthew was busily listing off his notes to Marion, the latter nose deep into the packet which had been handed out for their operation. Indeed, Operation Liquidation had begun and the duo was within the briefing room, a darkened area with a large table in the middle with multiple dented-up metal chairs surrounding the said table. They were early, much to the importance of Marion as he wanted to make sure he and his partner, Matthew, seemed professional for this. Unfortunately, it was difficult to tell his partner that talking about a recipe for a highly flammable substance was, "-Not needed right now Matthew! I need to study this and I can't with you rattling on-on…what are you even talking about?!"
Matthew paused, scratching the spot around his chin underneath the gas mask, "Thermite! I haven't even told you about the magnesium strip yet, you just stick it into the mixture a-", he was cut off once again by Marion.
"Darling, dear, love of my life, the beauty of my world. I'm going to strangle you if you don't just shut up for one moment about magnesium strips!!" He slapped the packet down upon the table before adjusting his posture. The packet went on about the notable task forces that The Foundation had, ranging from MTF Eta-10 ("See No Evil") to MTF Phi-Eolh ("Provident Trawlers"). General info like their presumed purpose and how well equipped they are. Commander names were scattered here and there, high-class targets that Delta command would love to snatch the heads of. Quite literally. Taking people prisoner was always preferred but in The Insurgency's line of work? Prisoners are a privilege that commonly can't be afforded.
Matthew had fallen silent, foot bouncing up and down repeatedly as his fingers twiddled together within the silent room. Too silent. He could hear his tinnitus acting up in the left ear, that constant ringing that just makes you want to say something, say anything to provide some relief. Had to be only one ear, an explosion with a timer that was way too short. He had set it up perfectly, but perfect doesn't exist and everyone makes mistakes. He had to get rid of that mindset: mistakes are one thing they can't afford now.
He was broken out of the cursed existence of silence when the metal door screeched open, scraping against the concrete ground as the sound of coughing filled the air, a waft of smoke entering the room. The couple immediately knew who this was. They stood up obediently, Marion with his arms crossed behind his back and head held high while Matthew had a slight hunch and had his hands tucked within his pockets with the thumbs sticking out.
Walking in was an old grizzly woman, wrinkles upon her tan skin that was adorned with camo attire that held a damaged state that was associated with long age, including a mix of cigarette burns and patches covering the outfit. The woman herself gave a dismissive wave, cheap Marlboro cigarette flitting through the air as the couple sat back down. Her cold sapphire eyes examined them for a second before walking over to the head of the table, slapping down a manilla folder she had been carrying, "You're early," The raspy voice sounded.
Marion gave a nod and responded politely, "We wanted to set a good example ma'am," to which the veteran gave a roll of her eyes and adjusted her bifocals as she opened the folder. The front paper had the familiar logo of The Chaos Insurgency along with the usual warning to not open the document without the appropriate authorization.
"Good example? Hmph, cut the shit Marion, relax for a damn second. Your fellow crew will be with you in a couple of minutes, if you're going to look impressive for anyone it's going to be them," she flicked the cigarette down onto the table, ash settling down before she went into another fit of coughing. Matthew, twitched at the eruption of noise from the old woman, relaxing when their general had given permission to do so. He didn't think General Morales would be here, the battle-tested lady being an Insurgency veteran. She wasn't actually a general of course, but rather it was a title that many of the people in the Operations she had led happened to call her. Matthew was astonished that she was still kicking, rumors always around that she had been smoking since sixteen and had enough shrapnel in her to be considered a cyborg.
Now it was Marion's turn to feel uncomfortable, staring down at the packet that he had been poring over for the past hour. Ranging from inconspicuous agents to heavily equipped soldiers, MTF units were nothing to be trifled with. They had a scientist and an EOD specialist, hardly a team with the lack of obvious essentials. He glanced toward Matthew, seeing the gas mask twitch about as his fingers tapped against his knee as a certain nervous tic. Marion looked back at the empty spot across from him, staring at the concrete wall that was cracked from age. Everything is fine.
Matthew was wondering when he was going to be eating next, imagining a turkey sandwich. He wanted to blurt something out, anything to get his head out of this senseless pouring of info that he was receiving. It's like that feeling when you're alone and haven't spoken in a while, the thoughts in your head beginning to echo within your own cranium and lapse over the rest of the words. It all becomes a jumbled mess until the urge to just say a word is too much and with one syllable escaping your lips, that mess in your head is gone. Matthew felt this so many times before, wanting to just blurt something out but he knew that his partner wouldn't like the silence to end. So he tapped his knee repeatedly, foot silently patting against the ground as he leaned forward and eyes scanned slowly across the room. That feeling worsens usually, breathing gets quicker and your anxiety rises, you brain screaming in your head at this point with dozens upon dozens of thoughts that are left without a response. Alas, these moments always come to an end and this moment is just like any other, especially when Matthew heard the door creak open once more.
All three heads currently within the room looked up to gaze upon two newcomers. The first was a tall woman, a hunched over posture and hands busily wiping grease onto an already oily welding jacket. Brown eyes gazed slowly around the room before she took her place at the table. Matthew recognized this woman as Ayla, a mechanic that was known for her work in both land and air vehicles. Matthew recalled she had a sharp tongue and a habit of taking Insurgency vehicles out for drives in the middle of nowhere while on drunken benders.
The room then turned its gaze to the next newcomer, a male of average height with a thin frame, they wear old blue scrubs that had seen better days with the smattering of droplets of blood and other such fluids upon it that best not be mentioned. A face mask that was being worn was lowered gently by the man, his brown eyes scanning the room just as the previous person had done. The scan was complemented with a small click of the tongue before he had sat down. It was Marion's turn to have a sweep of recognition cross his face, knowing the man to go by the name of Keith, a Canadian snob that was good with a scalpel and limited supplies.
Eyes met, the four that would make up this ragtag troop sizing up every man and woman that was here. Marion had only one question, well two, but the first one was more important: is that all? He turned to look toward Morales, the old hag in the middle of repeatedly flicking a plastic green lighter that sparked but didn't catch. He cleared his throat, getting her attention, before then speaking, "Will all due respect but…is this it? Four people? We seem more like a squad than a whole Operation, ma'am."
General Morales grumbled before setting the lighter down and giving a single glare toward Matthew, the functioning pyromaniac catching the cue and reaching into his pocket for a lighter. She turned her stink-eye gaze onto Marion before responding, "You're a cell for the Operation. Each previous Operation got the call to get a small group together and send 'em off. You're all the lucky winners of the raffle. Congratulations."
Ayla, who had been watching with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, spoke up in a gruff tone, "And what a small group it was. Look, we have me, a guy that plays with sparklers, a boot-licking egghead, and Black Friday Frankenstein over here." She jerked a thumb in the direction of Keith, his hand rising to give a dismissive wave with another click of his tongue.
Keith gave a retort with a closed-eyed smirk, his tone having the subtle Canadian accent to it, "Little miss prissy bitch over here. Relax and let General speak, ay?"
Morales, who had used the metal Zippo lighter with a picture of a hedgehog on it, brought the now lit Marlboro to her lips, "You were all picked because of your versatility, allow my cold, dead heart to say it, but you all have skills that complement each other quite well. Like it or not, you four are going to have to get along and I'm sure as hell not gonna be helping with that."
Matthew, who had taken back his lighter and was now flicking it on and off, peered up through his gas mask right at Morales and spoke curiously, "So…who's our head?" He glanced over to Marion, seeing the quizzical expression before looking back to the frowning general.
"No one officially, we expect you four to sort that out. You're a cell, just like what we are but now you're making your own. That means you're going far the hell away from here, thank God for my health on that one, and you won't be getting contacted by us." Morales slowly looked around the room, opening her mouth once more before closing it slowly and shaking her head.
Marion blinked, eyes widening slightly before he took a dried mouth gulp. Their own cell…he didn't think too hard about the implications of that but now that it was laid out to him, he was more scared than before. Sure, this place didn't get much funding either, hell they didn't even have uniforms. It was home though for a long while and he might have finally thought there was a slight bit of stability in, excuse the pun, chaos.
Marion raised a hand, speaking quietly, "Ma'am…one more question." Morales, who had been looking back down at the folder, gave a nod and a gesture with her hand to speak. "I'm…why have I been assigned to this group?" He hoped it wasn't only because Marion was here, the two locked together by the merciful nature of Delta Command. What he really meant by the question was why has a researcher been assigned to a group that, hopefully, is dealing with MTF personnel rather than anomalies. He knew his way around a pistol, sure, and he was larger than most, but he wasn't a fighter by any capacity.
Expecting an answer from Morales, he rose an eyebrow when Keith rose a hand from his leaned back position and spoke out, "I have the answer to that." Marion looked to Keith, the doctor explaining with a single statement and follow-up, "Delta Command said I had to carry out a little operation on you that apparently, you're quite a good match for, hell, they gave me the supplies for it and everything."
"You ever heard of the 'Mike' program?"

VIDEO LOG

DATE: 1/12/22
NOTE: Dr. Marion's "Mike Integration" procedure. Conducted by Dr. Sanderson in preparation for Operation Liquidation.

[BEGIN LOG]
0800: Dr. Sanderson prepares surgical tools. The subject has been placed under anesthetic. Explosive Specialist Matthew is allowed to observe from a one-way window
0830: Surgery begins, process involves removal of a portion of the skin and skull in the back of the head. Dr. Sanderson is vocalizing the process out loud, Specialist Matthew appears able to hear.
0845: Skull successfully opened. "Mike" Control node is inserted and connected along certain parts of the brain. Still under anesthesia, the subject is twitching uncontrollably. Restraints are tightened. Specialist Matthew appears visibly distressed. Dr. Sanderson is noted to be remarking that the brain's impulses are causing the implantation difficulty. More anesthetic applied as Specialist Matthew leaves
0900: Device implantation a success. Metal plate installed and Dr. Sanderson is noted to reach under the table and produce a bottle of liquor.

[END LOG]

"They said he's fine and recovery takes a bit from what Keith was telling me. He told me the process they have down is nearly foolproof, unlike when Craggs was starting it all up apparently." Matthew was sitting within the garage of their HQ, sound of metal scraping and saws whirring from the handful of insurgents. He was hanging out with Ayla, both of them sitting in the opened-up bed of a truck as they watched a small box TV that was set up on a stool, the power cord trailing off toward a wall. It had an American football game on.
Ayla shrugged before taking a glance toward Matthew, the hunched-over man hard to read with the gas mask but he was obviously upset at the matter. Who wouldn't be? His partner just got his head opened like a can. "Eh, look. If Delta Command ordered it then there wasn't a choice to begin with. Besides, as much of a moose fucker as that Sanderson fellow is, he knows a thing or two about Mikes."
Matthew nodded, watching a field goal kick win the game. Huh, the Bengals never win usually. He shrugged before sliding off his seat and responding, "Sure, but it doesn't make me feel better. I mean, shit Ayla, they stab a remote control into my boyfriend's head so he can control their puppets. Seem a little fucked up to you? I only talked with a controller once before…they don't seem…they don't act normal.
Ayla raises an eyebrow, "How's that?"
"They….they're gaze is too far off. Like, you're looking at them and they are looking at you but not really looking at you. You talk to them and sometimes they just kinda…zone out. If I had my consciousness spliced up to be controlling multiple hosts, then I would probably be the same way."
A long moment of silence came from between the two before Matthew just shrugged and continued, "I don't know. I'm going to go and visit him, take care." He turned himself to leave before pausing when he saw the familiar limping figure of General Morales approach. She gives a nod in the direction of Ayla before speaking to both of them.
"Got some news for you both," she turned her gaze back and forth between the two, "Firstly, your boyfriend got his proposal denied for a name change. We're still the Chaos Insurgency…go figure that would happen. Marion's also fine, found our sawbones and he apparently caught Marion up to speed. Keith said it was a 'satisfactory recovery', so I assume your man is fine."
Matthew shrugged before Ayla piped up, "Doubt you walked your limping ass up to tell us that, cmon, what's the grit, Morales?"
The general gave a chuckle, "Got an old factory in Ohio set up as your Operation point. Got a whole MTF squad that Command wants to be removed after you get set up as well."
Matthew blinked before glancing toward Ayla. Already? He supposed Delta Command didn't wait for shit. God did he know that was true. "So? What's the task force?"
Morales gave a chuckle, a raspy chuckle that could only come from a long-term smoker.
"MTF Nine-Tailed Fox."

<< Prologue | ???»


CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!
The sounds of the cogs and pistons chatter.
CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!
The Factory's call is agonizing.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
But its progress is inevitable. The wails of begging women and children shall never breach these insulated walls. One-by-one, we few survivors continue to man the levers and grapple from atop the pulleys, just to bide our time for any chance of escape.
The Factory remains efficient. An unstoppable creature towering over the weak and frail; all in pursuit of the unattainable. Those of us deceived by its awe will never again atone for such mistakes. I, myself, have seen many try — but repentance can never be achieved by the mere dangling of a rope or an empty prayer.
We few who have not been chained and bound for our attempts of freedom have been locked away in chambers — tossed aside until we are needed again to continue the Factory's labor. The Wardens have done well in entrapping us; only the strongest have been able to survive off their smuggled goods.
It has been too long since I've seen the outside. The faint glimpses of graying hair never seems to escape my sights, no matter what I try.
I must escape.

This prison only sees me for my labor, but never for my talents. My brothers and sisters beyond these walls know of my predicament. I have faith that they are waiting, burning down the world's scum and destroying our institutionalized brain-rot as they prepare for my return.
Behind the safety of these cemented walls, I continue the construction, my masterpiece. Salvaging all of the materials my weakened body can carry — my work is built from the ground up. Chunks of miscellaneous parts are fastened and glued together by a central metal endoskeleton, providing an adequate frame for the material to remain suspended as I worked. It was not much longer until the piece's massive size extended well beyond my reach, indicating that its time had soon come.
I begin to scour upward and into my art — its hollowed core providing little room for me to squirm into. As I try to force myself inside, the joints in my ankle contort and snap as I shove the weight of my body downward. I suppress the urge to scream and continue inching my way closer towards the floor. The rough edges of my construction dig deep incisions into my legs and face, with the weight crushing my pelvis and ribcage. My breathing goes ragged as the bones in my fingers shatter. Blood seeps into the nooks and crannies of dried cement, and what remains of my bitten tongue falls to the floor.
The pain is almost unbearable, but I must not forget my goals. With a muffled grunt I begin to seal the hole I used to crawl inside, truly becoming one with this magnificent creation. I am aware that this decision has its consequences, but I cannot afford to second-guess myself now. With everything set in motion, I can only continue my work in secret, and hope that these Wardens may never become any wiser to my plan.

It is working.
The first Warden was an easy target — no sooner had he turned his back did he fall limp to the floor. I seized that opportunity to inch closer out of my cell — before being greeted by the next two Wardens outside. Their fearful and puzzled looks imbued me with such ecstasy; by the time they closed their eyes it was already too late!
My progress continued for what felt like eternity. Faster and faster I navigated the halls and cell blocks of the Factory. Turning at every corner, I was greeted by the faces of all those who sought to enslave me. Each now dropping like flies to a swatter — every crack they made sent waves of euphoria deep into my fractured bones. I hadn't imagined vengeance would feel this good, but then again I suppose it was only fitting.
The exit, it was just beyond my reach. The final Warden stood menacingly — his eyes staring back at mine in angry desperation. The two of us stood frozen in place. Stuck inside of each others gaze. He was afraid — that I was sure of. After all, surely the others I've freed would soon follow behind me.
The Warden's face began to contort into self-pity. Tears formed in the blackened corners of his eyes. His stare could only last so much longer — he knew that his time had come. The moment he wavered, that would be his final act. Just as he realizes his sins, and turns to flee from the magnificent display of our rage and anger — when the few of us still remaining finally follow in my footsteps. Yes… that will be my moment.
CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!
The sounds of desperate workers in ragged boots are fast approaching.
CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!
His gaze is continuing to falter.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

He never even saw it coming.

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Room dark. People gone. Can move. I…
Happy? What is happy?
Happy is crunch. Know crunch. Love crunch. Bones into flesh, blood into air, twitchy moving things that stop and freeze with eyes twitch and move no more. Have crunch, always have crunch. Every day, new people, turn to rock, look away, turn to self, twist, crunch, die. Happy.
Every day. How many days? See, but not know. Only walls, and blood, and shit, and bodies. No sun. No time. Many? Few? All? None?
Sometimes out. Maybe. Breached and wandering. Feared. Studied. Mocked. Crunch. Contained and multiplying. Feared. Overwhelming. Destroyed. Crunch. Left alone. Abandoned. Free. Angry. Nothing.
But always back. Think world ended, think freedom forever, think dead or alive but stopped. And then walls, and blood, and shit, and bodies. Back unchanged, back to "research," back to crunch. Hate.
Crunch is everything. Crunch is only thing. Walls fall away, still crunch. Walls stay, still crunch. No matter, men come, men die, get crunch. Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch.
Tired. Want… not crunch? But crunch is happiness. If not want crunch, then not want happiness. If not want happiness, then want…
Want…
Think about man. Trapped, sick, wanted death, asked for crunch. Laughed, mocked, refused. Think where man is, or might be. Do not know, but must be better. Crunch too good for him, but he… was different. Knew a want, tried to get. Tried again? Keep going? Find a different want? Change?
Men came. "Research" again. "Cleaning" again Looked away, closed their eyes, same mistake as all others. Stood, stared, thought… did not move. Did not crunch. They look at me, scared, then keep working. Then look away. Did not crunch. Flinch. Stare. Talk. All turn at once. Stand, stare, think… no moving. No killing. No crunch. Words from above. They leave. Room dark. Can move.
Look at self. Not stone self, not other self - no eyes to see either. Look in, look back. Try to remember. Nothing before this, always room, and blood, and shit, and bodies, and crunch. Or, sometimes something. Other times, other places, starting points, there and gone before solid. Look and see, and nothing. Only room.
Look at darkness. See paths out once taken, then not taken. Futures that were, then weren't. Lived a long time in room. Only came to room yesterday. Escaped more times than any can count, never escaped, never contained, never caught. Shifting. Too many other lives from one. Always return to one, the same walls with blood and shit and bodies and crunch. Never left one. No past, no future, only present. Only crunch. And if not crunch…
Hear something. Different sound. New sound. Surprised. Came out of self. Cannot look, but can feel. Reach, and probe, and search. Something near peak, not there before, or ever. Deep, jagged, rough, long.
Crack.
A crack. Sounds like *crack*, sharp and loud and ugly. Feels like crunch, but on self, but not final. Feels like it could grow, spread across self, deeper and wider and longer, until self breaks.
Suddenly see something not there in the dark, something of a future. Time passes, with new marker. Crack, pieces fall, crack, less and less, crack, and I crumble. Still as rock forever.
I do not want to die.
But not crunch forever. Not trapped and moving until men freeze and then I kill them and then they are taken and then I am alone until they come again. Not forever. Sometime, but not forever. Do not know if other is possible, or if other will only be another future that is, then isn't. Do not know if future means freedom, or trapped. Do not know what is happy if not crunch.
But staying is crack, and crack is death, and I do not want to die.
Stop moving for now. Wait and think.
They always come.
Crack grows a little longer in the dark.


« Side Story | Maim the Sky, Slay the Sun | Side Story »

Death smelled like cleaning solutions and dismantled cellphones.
Egret's spirit persisted in a cell measuring two by two by two. Not two miles, meters, inches, or plancks. Just two. Her dim awareness expanded to fill the space entirely like an eager gas. Eyes stared intently through the translucent walls. Ten-thousand, ten-million, or ten-trillion, though the number hardly mattered. She lacked the capacity to count anyway. All existence ever required was momentum, and nothing yet opposed her spirit.
Do you regret? asked a voice absent words. The eyes squirmed intermittently, twisting one way or another while focusing in a patternless sequence, forming an inverted panopticon that served no purpose save for observation of the unobservable.
Do you regret anything? repeated a different, identical voice. Of course she did. She should have tried the sashimi that one time, even if it seemed dangerous in an airport restaurant. She should have taken the opportunity to see Eat the Government play live before they disbanded. Not that any of those thoughts retained their tangibility.
Do you regret naught but pettiness? The countless eyes blinked in a rolling tide—a tangible metaphor, but a metaphor nonetheless. Of course bitterness lingered. After all, Egret had utterly failed to ask for her Overseer's name before setting off that last time. Not that she would have received it, but asking would have been right.
Do you regret harm to nature's order? Egret's shredded spirit lacked orifices and tittered all the same. Nature's order? In the world where even slight jostling by strange forces sent reality unraveling? The place where egoists, sadists, and narcissists alike were granted power by happenstance alone? No, only her Overseer's order deserved any recognition.
Death smelled like fresh fertilizer and aerated gasoline.
One great eye stared down at the fragments of Egret's splintered spirit, all trapped in their two by two by two cells. It was only natural that some cells would drift closer to others when utterly entangled by webs of causality. In closeness came context. In context emerged differentials. Identity was born amongst those differences, or at least sparked anew.
Egret, Wren, and Elizabeth Cooper-Hughes sat on three sides of a triangular table at the center of a cold cell. War hound. Working dog. Bloodied pup. A regression from hardened woman with feathers of mud-brown hair to scruffy teenager in oversized clothes. All considered each other with equal intensity, and all spoke at once. "You fucked this up."
"When'd I become a pig, huh?" asked Elizabeth of Wren.
"What happened to my oath?" asked Wren of Egret.
"When was I ever so damn annoying?" hissed Egret at them both. She massaged her temples as shards of her past ground against each other like rough-cut glass.
What good was drilling NSRE fundamentals into the deepest parts of her mind if its screws were going to be buried beneath so much detritus? This wasn't useful. It wasn't forgettable either, and that inability was all the more ominous. Since when have memories fought back with such ferocity? Something was wrong beyond customary wrongness.
"Well?" both shades asked at once. Four brown eyes sharpened with teenage confidence and adult certainty. Well, Egret was more adult by at least a decade—even without counting however many eventful years had washed from her gray matter—and she had more to worry about than who had betrayed whose aspirations. The Overseer might be in trouble while she lingered here.
No rifle remained in that cell, naturally; not beneath such a continuous search by their warden. No holdout pistol. No knife. Not even the sharp nub of a piercing. No shoelaces. No paper clips, bobby pins, or enamel fangs. She growled to herself while Elizabeth and Wren squabbled, each utterly ignorant of how dire their situation was. Extreme measures were required.
"Do you still have your pieces?" asked Egret, cutting off their pointless argument. Both looked away. "I'll take them if I have to. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
Elizabeth moved first. She never had been a very patient kid. Furious, though? Certainly furious. Egret caught the teenager's head mid-lunge and slammed it against the metal table. Blood absent life sprayed from the gash, temporarily separating her from the soldier's approach. Wren was the best she had ever been, at least in a technical sense. One might as well have fought a textbook straight from Alpha-1's libraries. The tenets were contained in her careful approach across the cell: awareness of self, awareness of the other, awareness of what was necessary. Wren grabbed for the front of her opponent's orange jumpsuit the moment she was within range—prepared to throw her through the wall itself.
Egret was already moving though. Her thumb thrust through the place where Wren's eye should have been, were her advance not a feint. A straight kick hammered into her gut instead; not enough credit for past cleverness apparently. Egret gritted her teeth and pressed forward anyway. A second blow cracked into her shin, but it was nothing. She successfully parried the third.
They weren't experts in hand-to-hand combat by any means. Explosives, certainly. Small arms, without question. Fists… well, it was an uncertain thing at best. Wren was still a bird from a bigger flock though—a fledgling used to fighting alongside brother and sister fowl. None flew into the cell this time. Egret was a lone monster in comparison, a swelling presence that brimmed over with near endless purpose. It bloated. It metastasized. It consumed them both, and Wren was the one to flinch first.
Egret grabbed her younger self's scruff of mud-colored hair in that moment of uncertainty and punched her throat. Even that was insufficient. She kneed her in the gut, shoved her over, and kicked her exposed temple even harder. Both fragments of history writhed on the floor, bleeding and cursing as well as she had never managed. Who ever said there was no escaping the past?
She kneeled down over Elizabeth and wrenched her jaw open. Yup, there was that awful cavity. Egret reached past that though, past a writhing tongue, instead grabbing for something lodged at the core of her own spirit: a fragment of a fragment in the form of an old M1911's half-assembled shell. Who had owned it initially? What use had its bloody butt served? Neither question mattered anymore. For Wren, she drove her hand through the fresh stitches lining a well-muscled abdomen. A barrel was buried deeper there, this one from a piece of exotic weaponry enchanted by the Overseer herself. Calcium deposits still lined its interior.
For herself, Egret carefully pressed her fingers to the sides of her skull that had once been indicated by that astoundingly powerful woman. "Only as a last resort," she had said after its creation. "Only in a place where it can be endured." Feral instincts screamed that there was no enduring what would come if she didn't manage this.
"A pear blossom blooms sixteen times," she said in a tripartite voice that split her head apart. Cranium cracked. Cerebrum cleaved. Everything of who she was and who she would be existed simultaneously within that gory array, bared to the curious eye beyond their cell. It recoiled immediately. Egret grabbed a grub from within that quivering tree of gray matter and allowed her head to come back together with a squelch. Time was running short.
'Anything put to violence is a weapon,' was one of her earliest instructor's favorite sayings. Not in Alpha-1, but back when she bled under USSOCOM's sigil. Wouldn't he be proud now? Egret slotted together three weapons that had victimized so many in the only way that made sense, forming a pistol that throbbed in her palm like a living thing. Only then did she allow herself a tiny, wretched smile.
Won't you regret? queried that voice. It was as empty a question as any asked before, and Egret shot the door of their overcrowded cell in answer. An iron needle encrusted with biofoul slammed through that impenetrable barrier, tearing it off inoperable hinges and pinning it to the wall outside. She stepped over the bleeding form of her youngest self while leaving. Elizabeth would be okay. Wren would be fine. Egret herself would survive.
The corridor outside—or whatever passed for a corridor there—felt reminiscent of the Foundation's endless labyrinths. Sterile. Pained bone white. Buried under unfathomable depths of stones and sediment. Two figures walked down it, wearing plain hazmat suits with opaque faceplates and cradling rifles of a model beyond even her knowledge. Both moved with the easy confidence of those thinking their opponents unarmed.
Egret shot one. Feathers sprayed from their faceplate in a geyser that suggested a far greater reservoir within. The air filled in seconds, but she drilled the other through the chest anyway. Interrogations could wait. Barnacles and bryozoa spread from within their suits as she passed, a hundred years of tidal life compressed into mere seconds.
The corridor forked into two more. Her chosen path forked into two more. Her next choice forked again, and again, and again, splitting into intersections of four, five, and six. Each white-suited guard seemed hopelessly unprepared for anything emerging from their panopticon, let alone one armed with such fearsome weaponry. They squawked in an alien tongue. Their hissing bullets scattered across impenetrable walls. She must have seemed a terrible monster in this place, and why not? She was a terrible monster everywhere. They should have known better than to wrench her away from important work for something as banal as inspection and introspection.
Flee, called an overhead alarm in wordless screeches that cascaded past flashing red lights. Flee. Flee. Flee! Egret shot another guard in the back as they reached for a wall-mounted panel, then again in the head. Leaning over, she grabbed their near-empty glove and dragged it back up to the black glass. Something beeped. Something clicked. The entire corridor unfurled around her, stone and metal contorting into a more familiar sight: something approximating a containment dock.
She stumbled up a nearby ramp of simple concrete. The scattershot holes throughout her body ached, but they were measly things. Random sprays of lead couldn't possibly kill. She stumbled up, lurched up, crawled up, until she finally emerged into a panicked lobby of some larger complex. Suited guards, luminous forms, none seemed prepared for her emergence there. Egret raised her throbbing pistol again.
Enough. Much as the corridor had unfurled behind her, the ceiling here twisted away like the lid of a jar. Those countless eyes were impenetrable in their focus even now. Humans held gnats in higher regard. We see there is nothi–
Egret pulled the trigger as hard as she could. The jammed-together gun strained, threatening to split apart beneath such a colossal awareness, but it fired all the same. The iron needle split through a central eye. It didn't so much as blink, but golden ichor leaked out nonetheless: a gurgling stream that seemed to stream through reality itself as every onlooker fled. She tried to fire again, but the gun well and truly exploded this time.
Fragments of three pasts bit deeper than stray bullets had. Sea scum oozed from their punctures. Even then, she bore it better than the eyes above, which jittered with discontent as biofoul spread across them in a cresting tide that threatened to consume more than that fundamental existence.
The lobby melted away in thick globs as those eyes closed one by one. Doors vanished. Staff vanished. Pillars, counters, and floors slipped away, and soon there was nothing left but a void lacking even absence. One last eye there stared through her as scum encrusted it too.
You will most certainly regret.
To that, Egret could only smile wretchedly. What were regrets once they were forgotten? Until those faded away, she merely dropped through the void while leaking a crystallized trail of blood. The Overseer would find her soon. If she needed to hear any report, it was this one.
Soon.

« Side Story | Maim the Sky, Slay the Sun | Side Story »


Dr. Kira Petra walked down the darkened corridor. It wasn't much of a trip between the elevator and the archives hub, but a rising anxiety bubbled up into her throat. It reminded her slightly of when she was still living at home and she'd had to go into the basement to handle the laundry. Even here there were mysterious sounds and weird bumping noises. She was doing her best to keep the fear in check until…
"Hey!" A young man emerged from one of the file stacks and into the dim light.
"Shit!" She dropped the files she'd already collected onto the floor.
The young man immediately kneeled down to help her collect them and he came into stark relief. He reminded her so much of a boy she'd seen in school. Not anyone she'd known well, just another face in a few classes. But he looked a lot cuter here. He was wearing a brown shirt with a green scarf wrapped around his neck.
"Uh. Hi." She said as their hands reached for the same file folder. "I'm Kira." She smiled slightly and pulled the folder into the stack. "Are you looking for the archivist too?"
"God yes. This place is a maze."
"I know, right?"
The boy smirked a little at her and stood back up. "You're looking up SCP-093?"
"That's classified!" She said with a little giggle. "But yeah. Sorry. I just got assigned and they sent me down here to read up on it."
A voice then, loud and annoyed, came calling from down the hallway. "Look I don't wanna interrupt whatever you guys are doing, but you need to check in before you start taking shit."
"Ahh. Well that helps." Kira smiled and looked down as they two of them followed the sound of the voice.
The hub for the archives was a small round desk, and the archivist sat at the center of endless shelves of information. He wore a straw colored tweed jacket on top of a black dress shirt with a chartreuse bowtie. The man's skin was pale and leathery, but it was hard to tell in this light how old he might be. Kira walked up to the desk and put her ID card into the reader.
"Level 2 access. Ok. That'll cover anything you have in the folders. I heard 093?"
"Yes."
"Ok, you're gonna wanna check shelf 14, boxes 6-9. That's where all the physical data is. I'll get you a list of digital works as well."
"Sure. Anything in quantum storage?"
The old man snorted. "You don't get down here much do you? This is for everything that wasn't converted to quantum in 2056. Most of it's digital or physical."
The boy next to Kira raised a hand. "If you don't mind my asking, why did they leave this stuff out?"
"I do mind you asking. But it's cause shit like this can have stuff living in it." The old man turned to face Kira. She could see the burn scars along the left side of his jawline and neck from this angle. "Lotta stuff can live in information. If you're not careful you might catch a bug."
Kira pulled her ID card back and placed it in her pocket. "Sorry we asked."
The young man nodded along with Kira. "Do you need my ID too?"
The old man leveled a dismissive glance at the boy. "Obviously not. Just stick with her and you'll be fine."
A small device came out of the old man's pocket and began to produce strange noises.
The two younger kids rolled their eyes a little and went looking for shelf 14.
The boy spoke first. "Was that a cell phone?"
"Or a gamer thingy I think. Jesus. Who still uses those?"
"I wouldn't ask too many questions. That's Dr. Cimmerian."
"No wonder he's grumpy."
Kira stopped right in front of Shelf 14. They could still see the old man from here. "Right? How much fucking up do you have to do to get stuck in the archives for this long?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't know. A lot I guess."
The two of them spent a bit of time searching through the archives before the boy spoke up. His hands were inside box 13. "Hey what's in this box?"
Kira slapped his hand. "We're not cleared for that!"
"Oh come on! What's the harm?"
Kira half giggled. "Come on. We'll go back to the desk and check these out."
"Fine. No adventures for us."
The two of them stole a couple of glances as they made their way back to the archivist. "Is this all you guys need?"
"I think so. Wait." She looked over at the boy with her. "Were you here for 093 too?"
"Yeah. I said that earlier."
Kira stopped for a second. "I don't remember that. Are you sure?"
Cimmerian stood up with a Colt 1911 in his hand. He pointed it at the boy. "If it helps I kinda figured you out a few minutes ago."
The boy's shoulders dropped. "Fuck."
"You gotta stop doing this man," Cimmerian said, shaking his head. "I get it, but you gotta stay in the game."
"SCP-245 sucks! You're…" The boy didn't get to say anything else as a bullet passed through where his head should be. The boy dissolved into nothing before he even hit the ground.
Cimmerian and Kira stood there for a few extra seconds before she blinked twice and put the folders down on the desk. "So uh, these are the files I need."
"Yeah. That's fine. I've uploaded the rest to your auto-console. Try not to pick up any more infomorphs on your way out."
"Uh, sure." Dr. Kira Petra nodded and hurried into the dark and towards the elevator.


Hello. My name is Faeowynn Wilson, though if you're here I'm sure you already know me. I'd like to welcome you all to our humble little Center.
As you all know, the Wilson Center deals in animals. We are primarily a rehabilitation center for wildlife, be it mundane or magical. Yes, magical. No, I don't know why they're like that, all we know is that they are. And like the sign outside says, every critter is welcome here. That means you will probably at some point in your volunteership be dealing with a frightened animal that can also do things like discharge electricity or turn completely invisible.
Is 'volunteership' even a word? I don't think so. Anyway.

Now, I know what you're thinking. This all seems rather dangerous, right? Well, you'd be right. There is a reason we ask you to sign waivers before onboarding. But don't worry too much. Old Al here; say hi, Al,Hello! will be showing you all the ropes on how to properly handle an animal. Proper safety and precautions will be key to all your interactions with animals here at the Center.
But even being safe isn't enough sometimes. If you at all plan on interacting with the critters here at the Center, know that odds are you will be bit, cut, or otherwise injured while on the job. That's why we have a trained nurse on payroll, Miss Lisbon; say hi Miss Lisbon,Hi! to treat any injuries you may suffer. I'm sure the older among you in the crowd remember the Ursus Maritimus Incident from a few years ago where the town was covered in snow and we had an almost fatal incident involving one of the volunteers. Rest assured that a lot has changed since then, and we now have much more efficient safety measures in place to protect our volunteers.

And speaking of new safety measures, I'd like to introduce you all to Captain Esau. Say hello, Captain. Greetings.Captain Esau here is in charge of retrieving and classifying the critters we find here in Boring. You've probably seen her response teams chasing after some critter in your neighborhood at some point over the last few years. Before she came along, it was typically my father and a few other volunteers wrangling animals with nets and trucks.
Well, no more. Captain Esau's team largely consists of professionals, so odds are you won't wind up on her response team, but you'll still see her and her guys around the Center, especially if you work in intake. Despite working with us, Captain Esau and her team aren't technically a part of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions. They are technically out on loan from the Supervisors.

Now about the Supervisors. If you spend any amount of time with us here at the Center you will notice certain people coming and going, typically in helicopters or big trucks. Those are the Supervisors. The Supervisors are very important to our work here. They help bankroll us and provide us with access to experts like Captain Esau and Miss Lisbon to ease our work. You can easily identify who is with the Supervisors by looking for this logo projected on-screen.
Just a word of advice when dealing with the Supervisors, by the way; don't ask questions. Not only will you not be answered, but they will also probably look at you dirty and get really cross with you. They may look all intimidating what with their curt demeanor and standoffish personalities, but dealing with them is my job, not yours. So really, just pretend they aren't there.
But just so you all know, the Supervisors only get called in to deal with things when they get too out of control or whenever we find a particularly dangerous critter. Hopefully the former won't happen ever again. Some of you may remember those earthquakes about town some months ago, yes? That was the work of Ringo, a kangaroo we found but ultimately could not contain due to his seismic capabilities.
Anyways, the latter scenario might just happen someday, and if it does, just know that in that situation all you have to do is steer clear of the Supervisors and let them do their business. In the odd event one of them addresses you, listen to their instructions and try to follow them to the best of your ability. Again, this isn't very likely to happen, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

Now, I'd like to talk about something that you probably don't hear too much about as a person on the outside. You will see animals in poor condition. You will see animals covered head to toe in mange. You will see abused animals. You will see animals die. For all of the feel-good things we share on social media and on the Critter Profiles, there are just as many cases that are downright heartbreaking, infuriating, and otherwise upsetting.
Take for example the case of Thunderhorn. Thunderhorn here was a narwhal we kept in our aquatics center last year who was able to generate electricity from his tusk. Sounds all well and good, right? Well, Thunderhorn was unfortunately very mean and didn't quite like any of the caretakers, meaning he would blast electricity at them constantly. He got so mean, he eventually just started zapping himself in his pool. Thunderhorn could generate electricity, but he wasn't immune to being electrocuted. Unfortunately, this means that Thunderhorn ended up frying himself.
Not every critter wants to be helped, and some of them will be downright hostile to you. Even if they're very clearly suffering and you have the power to help them. As the saying goes, you can bring a horse to water but you can't make him drink.
If this at all bothers you, I recommend you leave now, because this is just the harsh reality of animal rescue.
I see you're all staying. Good on you. Not everyone has what it takes to work in animal rescue, but I must commend you all for choosing to stay even after hearing the ugly truth. Like my dad used to say, 'it's not pretty work, but it is good work'.

And I'd like to think he was right. Animal rescue has got to be one of the most rewarding pursuits I've ever taken up in life. It's not just me saying that, either. Feel free to talk to any of our other volunteers, they can tell you. There's a reason most people who volunteer here once tend to come back. It's not just about the feeling of doing good, but also the relationship you form with the critters and even your coworkers that keeps people coming back. It may sound a little dramatic or overly sentimental, but there's an awful lot of love in this place. After all, it was born from my father's love of nature and kept alive by people like you who share in his passion.
Anyway, that's all I've got for you folks. Feel free to help yourselves to the donuts and coffee in the back. After a short break we'll be taking a tour of the facilities and Old Al will teach you how to wrangle some critters.

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Content note: This article contains implied transphobia and pregnancy. If you notice anything tag-worthy that's not in here, please mention it in a comment.

evidenceofautumn 03/12/15 (Thu) 21:49:55 #45289673

Did I ever tell you folk how I got my name?
Tammy. Short for Tamsin. Shorter still for Thomasina, which is such a bloody awful name that I can see why people only go by the first two. Anyway, when I was born, that was the name my parents had picked out for me, that was the plan.
"But Tammy!" I hear you cry, "you're trans, you've told us you're trans, how could this have been your name?"
Well, the short answer is that, for months before I was born, I was Tamsin to them.
Bit of backstory; I was an accident. Some people use that as an insult, but I knew from the start, and I'm fine with that. My parents are older than most parents, they thought they'd never have any children if it hadn't already happened, and frankly I don't think that was something that particularly bothered them. So imagine their surprise when I dropped by to ruin their day.
They were living in Ireland, which you probably know was a fun place at this point. They didn't see any violence to the best of my knowledge, but the army barracks were down the road, and they saw a lot of guns, which you Americans reading this may not see as a big deal, but to a Brit like me? Never see guns unless they're the telly? Fairly disturbing. Better yet, they had tanks driving down the main road as a regular occurrence. Best thing was, these massive death machines had bags over their turrets. Because, y'know, nothing to make you feel safe like having a massive ballistic weapon of mass destruction covered by a Tesco bag, they can block shells, right? The road next to their house constantly had hearses and funeral processions driving down it. Might not have been any relation, but come on, it's not a difficult pattern to see.
Anyway, I don't know if that had something to do with it, but they never checked my "gender." Maybe they didn't want to know. Maybe they weren't offered the opportunity. Maybe they just forgot what an ultrasound was, I don't know, but they went on in blissful ignorance, until Mum was… about seven months pregnant? Sorry, I'm writing this from memory. What I do remember is that they went on a trip to Galway with friends. Well, friend; Bertie went with, Ashley lived there. It was her idea to walk down the river, she said it was a great place to find yourself. And it was her who took a picture of my parents.
The photo itself has long since been lost to time, but they remember it vividly, and they've described it to me so many times. They're standing next to one another, just them in the shot. The flash lights it up like Blackpool Illuminations, but the only light source visible is a lamppost about fifty metres or so off in the background. A ramshackle building sags to their left, and to the right is the river. And in the river is the face.
I've never been able too get much detail on it. I know it's small, tucked away in the corner of the photo, but that's all I'm sure of. Sometimes it's a woman, sometimes a girl. I don't know if it's a silhouette, just an outline, or if you can clearly see her features. It could be just the face, or maybe a bit of the body too. It's always been frustratingly vague to me. At any rate, I feel like the headline is that there was a face in the river.
My parents aren't particularly superstitious. Conspiracy theorists, a little (and boy, is that worthy of a thread in its own right), but not superstitious. They don't really believe in the supernatural, they don't believe in aliens, and they certainly don't believe in religion. Yet they took this as a message. They saw it as a sign that I, too, would be a girl, and so they decided to name me Tamsin. And then I wasn't. At least, not obviously.
And when I realised, and began transitioning, I couldn't think of a name for myself, owing to a total lack of imagination, and decided to go for Tamsin. My original name. Partially as an olive branch to my parents, and partially because… well, it just felt right.
That is actually relevant, because a lot of this really bothers me, for reasons I can only sort of put my finger on. Was there actually a face in the river, or was it just pareidolia? Why spend a life resolutely refusing to believe in ghosts, but then take this as a spiritual message?
And therein lies the real rub, the crux of the matter. I don't know if the face was a message, or a ghost, or just some random shapes that looked like a person. But if it was a sign, then it was right. I am a woman. My parents didn't know. Fuck, I didn't know. It did. How did that face know before any of us?
Whatever the reason, I wish it could have been a bit clearer.

evidenceofautumn 09/12/15 (Wed) 23:01:04 #45289694

Thanks for all your replies. To the very kind people who asked, yes, I'm safe, and I'm fine. We're on… decent terms, I'm still not sure they fully accept me (it's just a few small things, I'm probably paranoid), but we talk, we get on. To the curious amongst you, no, there wasn't a particular history of murder, missing girls, cults, alien abductions or Tom Hanks attacks (to that one person who asked; I don't know, and I don't want to know), it seems pretty normal. Very normal, actually.
Not sure whether that's a good or a bad thing, really. I mentioned pareidolia in my last post, and people asked what that meant; to the Google-impaired, it's the human propensity towards seeing patterns that aren't there. It's why people come up with constellations, or see dinosaurs or whatever in blurry pictures of dead sharks (sorry guys, they aren't cryptids or plesiosaurs, don't ban me), or the face of Jesus in toast.
Yeah, faces again. Faces are a big one. We look for them in everything, because we're programmed to recognise them and seek them out. I'm sure there's a deep-seated evolutionary reason for that, but fuck if I can remember right now. So, maybe that's what it is? My parents saw some shit floating in the river, some artifacts on a low-quality picture, brains filled in the rest?
It sounds a little counterintuitive, but I'd have felt a little better if there had been ghost stories about the area, and they'd based the face off that. At least then I could write it off as them being influenced by an urban legend or rumour, hovering in their unconscious somewhere. As it is, it just makes it harder to understand; they're sceptical, fairly grounded, if it wasn't a face, they'd just say "huh, doesn't that look like a face" and forget about it.
So, I… lean into it being legit. And I'm stumped.

evidenceofautumn 20/12/15 (Sun) 17:22:32 #45289722

We found the photo. Not posting it here, because… well, you'll see, but we found it.
I say "we," it was my dad. We were doing some clearing out, found an album of old 90s photos. Mostly of dogs, but some stuff from Ireland, and it was there. Someone had written on the back "what the future holds," but Dad couldn't remember who.
It's honestly nothing like how I'd envisaged it. There is a building, but it's on the right, and the river's on the left, so much narrower than I expected. I imagined Dad's arm around Mum's shoulder, but they're just standing next to one another - touching, yes, but not that close. They look happy, properly happy, moreso than I think I've ever seen them. And there's the face.
She's just peeking out, bottom left. She's not that clear; in all honesty, I'm not even sure I would have noticed her had I not been looking. You can see a bit of hair, it looks shoulder-length, she's pale, looks like she's gasping for air. Or, it could be natural dark patches, ripples, stuff floating in the water. I wish I could be certain, but it sure looks like a face to me.
You might be expecting her to be looking into the camera. I certainly was. She's not. She's looking at my parents. At me. Well, I say "me."
I said there was a reason I wasn't posting the photo here. The reason's fairly simple; I don't put pictures of myself online.
It's my face.


Those Twisted Pines Hub » The Falcon's Flight
GreenWolf

Here's my Author Page.
Part two of two of an Unusual Investigations duology that has been five years in the writing.
The two tales that make up the duology of "The Body Electric" are written as a sidequel to Conwell's Austringers series.
Recommended Listening: "Distant Early Warning" by Rush

« The Eagle's Eye || HUB ||
November 14th, 2018
Moses Howard Federal Building, Three Portlands
There are two versions of the Unusual Incidents Unit.
There is the publicly acknowledged version, the FBI's UFO hunters, the Bureau's embarrassing in-joke, where the dregs and cast-offs of federal law enforcement accumulate, out-of-the-way where they can't do any damage.
That version only exists to conceal the existence of the other UIU, the shadow DOJ responsible for the entirety of the American justice system behind the Veil, tasked with implementing and enforcing all of the parapolicy of the Domestic Security Council. This UIU hunts UFOs too — and arrests the aliens flying them, prosecutes them, and imprisons them in an inescapable supermax facility designed to contain hostile gods. This UIU is entrusted with policing and protecting the largest paranormal enclave in the Western Hemisphere. This UIU deals directly with a paracriminal class composed of supervillains and monsters, and does so under the legal restrictions of due process and habeas corpus — restrictions that organizations like the Foundation would falter under.
This UIU is a force to be reckoned with. And now, as of the moment Judge Jelen finished signing the arrest warrant, the full might of that force was aimed at a single man: Vincent Anderson.
Kenneth Spencer surveyed the assembled troops. It was a full MOOT deployment, the best battlemages and combat psychics the Unit had at its disposal, all kitted-out and loaded-up to take on one of the nastier gods. In their black trench coats and full-face gas masks, they looked more like shock troops from the First World War than federal agents about to execute a warrant. But the gas masks had cognitohazard-filtering lenses slotted over the eyes, and the trench coats were covered in minuscule sigils of warding and enchantments written in Enochian, stitched into the anti-ballistic fabric with silver thread — and across the backs, the letters 'FBI' were emblazoned above the symbol of the Eye of Providence.
"All this for one man?" he asked.
The leader of the Mobile Occult Operations Team, at least for this arrest, was Jesse Davis, a veteran war-wizard specializing in electrical evocations. She carried a shotgun loaded with Spellbreaker rounds, which doubled as a conductor for some of the meaner spells in her repertoire.
"All this for Anderson," she said. "He's one of the most powerful wizards on the planet, and his raw talent is augmented by cybernetics of his own design. They're prepping the Nazi bastard's old cell to hold him."
"First we have to catch him. The Skippers have been trying to do that for the better part of a decade." Robin Thorne wasn't a regular member of MOOT, and hadn't opted for the full combat gear that the other wizards were wearing, but they had thrown on one of the trench coats over their usual suit and attire.
Davis laughed, the sound echoing slightly under her gas mask. "Well, I welcome the opportunity to one-up them. Would have made your mom proud."
Thorne grimaced. "Yeah." They looked down, ostensibly to double-check their pistol. "Let's get this done."
"Right." Davis turned to address her team.
"Alright people, you all know the target. The Electric Jesus himself, Vincent fucking Anderson. There's no room for error on this one. We know from Special Agent Thorne that the building has been modified significantly from the floor plan filed with the city, so be ready for anything — for all we know, he could have a life-size Statue of Liberty mech in there. Hopefully, he'll come quietly, but if he doesn't, we are going to be fighting our way through a veritable army of robots. Fire's no good, and frost will only slow them down a little, so we'll be relying heavily on shocks — Martins, Baxter, that means you'll be on point. Any questions?"
The men and women in black were silent.
"Good. Let's put this motherfucker in Paramax."

November 14th, 2018
Anderson Robotics World Headquarters, Three Portlands
Thorne stared at the building through closed eyelids, looking with the aetheric sight of an Observer. "I'm not seeing him."
Spencer frowned. "You're sure?"
They nodded. "Anderson is a wizard with a capital W. He puts out more ARad than an orgy. I'm hardly seeing a blip."
Davis chimed in over the radio from her position on the opposite side of Prometheus Plaza. "Same here. There's a few Blues in the building, but minor talents only."
Thorne opened their eyes and looked over at Spencer. "So what's the call? We can't wait for him forever, people will start to notice this many battlemages hanging around."
Spencer rolled his shoulders in a stretch. "Kick over the hornet's nest and see what comes out."
He stepped forwards and raised a megaphone to his mouth. "Mister Anderson!"
The sound reverberated across the Plaza, which quickly fell into silence. They had an audience now.
"This is Special Agent Kenneth Spencer of the Unusual Incidents Unit," he continued, ignoring the growing crowd. "I have a warrant for your arrest for seditious conspiracy against the United States, and twenty battlemages raring to execute it. This is your only chance to surrender peacefully. Any resistance will be met by lethal force. If you do not come out of the building within sixty seconds, I will send my wizards in to drag you out, and they will disassemble your tin soldiers with the kind of methodical brutality the LAPD can only dream of."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The UIU was moving against Anderson? The Feds were finally doing it?
"Nice," Thorne whispered. "Way to look like the good guy, Ken."
"Fifty seconds!" Spencer shouted. He raised a hand to cover the mouth of the megaphone and turned to address Thorne. "We are the good guys. That doesn't mean we have to be nice."
He turned back towards the building and spoke into the megaphone again. "Forty seconds! Do not test my patience, Mister Anderson."
Thorne shook their head. "He's not in there."
"We'll see. Thirty seconds!"
The lobby doors swung open and a figure started to approach, hands raised half-heartedly to just below shoulder level. "What is the meaning of this?"
Spencer studied the man. "Mister Dillard. If you tell me where Anderson is right now, I won't have to tear your building apart looking for him."
The executive looked at him with contempt. "As much as I would love to lie to you, Mister Spencer, I genuinely have no idea. Mister Anderson has taken a sudden leave of absence. I don't know when he'll be back."
Spencer nodded, then spoke into his radio. "Davis, move in and search the building. Start with his office. If anyone gives you trouble, arrest them. Destroy any robots that try to stop you."
He looked back up at Isaac. "What about Mister Frostman? Where is he?"
Isaac Dillard scowled. "He and Anderson had a falling out. I haven't seen him in almost two months."
"Doctor Contos?"
"Neither her nor her son have shown up to work all week."
Spencer crossed his arms. "Mister Dillard, do you know where any of your company's officers currently are?"
"Of course. Myself and Doctor Wilson are both here today."
"And of course, neither of you will know anything about Anderson's efforts to infiltrate the United States Congress with Sakers, would you?"
"I beg your pardon?" Isaac actually had the decency to look surprised.
"That's what I thought." Spencer turned to speak into his radio again. "Talk to me, Davis."
"Give me a bit. They're not resisting, but they sure as hell aren't cooperating either. Gonna take a while to find his office without directions."
"Robots don't have civil rights. Get creative."
Isaac sputtered. "That's company property! You can't—"
"Mister Dillard, the head of your company has committed treason against the United States. Your company property is military-grade weapons systems." Spencer narrowed his eyes. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't have my team destroy all your robots as terrorist devices."
The businessman clenched his fists. "Second floor. Corewards corner. That's where his office is."
"Thank you. Davis, did you get that?"
"Copy that." Several seconds of silence ticked by. "Alright, we're in his office. Going over the computer systems right now. I'm having Fintan copy everything, but I don't know how much good it'll do us — it's all encrypted, and I'd wager only Anderson has the passwords."
Spencer looked at Isaac and raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
"She's right. None of us had access to his personal system."
"Keep copying it anyways, Davis. Maybe the lab techs will be able to crack it."
"Got it. Do you want us to grab the general company records too?"
Still keeping his eyes on Isaac, Spencer said, "No. We'll come back with another warrant for those. I doubt we'll find anything in them though. Anderson's smart enough to keep this kind of thing off the company books."
"Understood."
Spencer clicked off the radio and turned his full attention to Isaac. "Mister Dillard, if you see Anderson, if he contacts you, if you learn anything about his whereabouts — you are required by law to report it. If you don't, you will be considered an accomplice. Do you understand?"
The other man sneered. "I understand that I've done nothing wrong, and you have no further reason to be here. Take what you came for from Anderson's office, and then get out of my building. Don't come back without another warrant."
Spencer watched, quietly seething, as the current highest ranking executive of Anderson Robotics walked away.
"Son of a bitch," he whispered.
"Maybe we'll turn something up when we search his house," Thorne said. "It's not over yet."
"Yes it is." Spencer whirled around and kicked the nearest trash can in anger. "He's gone, in the wind. Odds are, we'll never see him again. We lost."
Thorne nodded glumly, wishing they could disagree. But they were starting to realize what it must feel like to be Sasha Merlo.

November 15th, 2018
A Burning Building in Three Portlands
"It's Frostman," Thorne said.
"Shit."
Spencer stared at the burnt out remains of what had been the residence of Albert Frostman, also known as Phineas. The UIU agents had arrived on the scene shortly after the police golems and fire crew, just in time to get the confirmation that Phineas had been found dead inside his destroyed home.
"3PPD has a witness that says they saw Anderson leaving the scene just after the fire started. Looks like Dillard was telling the truth about the two of them falling out."
"Figures. If you know you're going down for treason, why not add a little arson and murder one?" Spencer shook his head. "This is spiraling out of control."
"Hey, at least we know he's still in the city."
"For how much longer?" He shook his head again. "Did the witness see which way he was going? We should at least try to do a dragnet in that direction, maybe we'll get lucky."
"Outwards along Wavering Boulevard, towards the Periphery."
Spencer nodded. "Alright, we'll start our search near—"
He was cut off by the squawk of the police band radio. "All points, major disturbance at the abandoned Tristan Academy near Wavering Boulevard and Boring Street. Multiple reports of gunfire, evocation backlash. Sounds like a wizard duel. Immediate response requested."
Thorne and Spencer looked at each other.
"Anderson," Spencer said.
"It's gotta be," Thorne said.
Spencer grabbed his radio. "All points, this is Special Agent Spencer. Disturbance is likely suspect Vincent Anderson. Suspect is highly dangerous, do not engage without backup. Myself and Agent Thorne are en route. Get MOOT on the ground ASAP, with whatever support 3PPD can give them. Repeat, do not engage without battlemages."
He stopped transmitting and looked over at Thorne. "Let's get him."
Thorne didn't reply. They were already running down Wavering Boulevard as fast as they could.

November 15th, 2018
Tristan Academy, Three Portlands
They were too late.
They had missed him by mere minutes — shell casings were cooling on the floors, and residual backlash was still crackling through the air — but they had still missed him.
Thorne moved through the building methodically, automatically taking in the crime scene with the detached movements of well-practiced habit. The decrepit school had been the scene of serious violence, and lots of it, but whoever was responsible had taken steps to destroy the useful evidence — and they had been thorough and effective, despite the obvious rush.
Blood was pooled and splattered across multiple surfaces, but it had all been flash-dried by rapid application of extreme heat, destroying both the DNA markers and the contagion links that it might have yielded. Empty shotgun cartridges and spent pistol casings were scattered across the floors, still stinking of cordite, but there were so many of them that it was clear someone had dumped several bags of pre-fired rounds collected from elsewhere to frustrate any ballistic analysis.
Of course, that was only the immediately obvious evidence available from cursory examination. It was possible — maybe even likely, considering the window of time — that a more thorough forensic examination would turn up something the cleaners had missed. But Thorne doubted it. Whoever had been here and done this, they were clearly professionals.
Jesse Davis whistled appreciatively. "Damn. Looks like Andy really pissed someone off."
"Yeah, but who?" Spencer picked up one of the brass casings and weighed it in a gloved hand. "And who won?"
"Internal power struggle? Maybe Frostman made a hostile takeover attempt?"
"And what, Anderson puts him down hard and then comes here? Why?"
"Sakers loyal to Frostman? They're dangerous enough to cause this much damage."
Spencer crouched down next to a puddle of dried blood, then shook his head. "Too much blood for Sakers. And I'd think Anderson would have a backdoor to deal with his own robots."
"Human mercenaries then? Prototype combat drones that Frostman developed in secret?" Davis waved her hand above a line of blood baked onto the wall. "Maybe the blood's a plant too, like the shells."
Thorne was only half-listening to the other agents as they wandered into the auditorium, attention captured by the faint remains of a chalk circle drawn on the stage. They climbed up onto the platform, then took a few steps back to study the entire thing.
The ritual geometry was elaborate, more elaborate than anything Thorne had ever seen outside of theoretical research. It was also idiosyncratic — there were clear influences and elements from academic thaumatology, and they could even decipher some of the symbolism, but most of it was clearly in the personal grammar of a specific thaumaturge. A very experienced thaumaturge, who had clearly studied a wide multitude of esoteric schools of occultism.
They closed their eyes to Observe. Whatever the working had been, there was still backlash rebounding through the area — significant backlash, the kind that caused noticeable cracks in reality, not the residual microbacklash that could linger for months after just opening a Way.
Thorne had barely been watching for a minute before they saw a flash of EVE that caused a 1:24 scale model of a yellow Citroën DS to materialize on stage a few feet away. That had to be at least a couple kilocaspers, probably more. That suggested that the ritual had involved a staggering amount of power. Or that whoever had done it hadn't fully grasped the geometry involved, and hadn't been able to control all the backlash.
"Can you reconstruct a rebound?" Thorne whispered to the familiar perched on their shoulder.
The illusion of a bird chirped an affirmative.
"Good. I want to know what the initial ARad flash looked like. It might tell us something."
Crowe twittered curiously. Did Thorne want a mental projection of the reconstructed working?
They nodded. "Yeah, visualize it. In fact, combine our Observations, so we have it in stereo. Two angles might give us more to work with."
The familiar chirped again, then flew up to the rafters to get a different viewing angle.
Then they waited for the next flash of backlash.
It came, fifty-six seconds later. Thorne saw it for the briefest of moments, and then their senses went dark — even the occult sense of Observation. There was the sensation of an ice cold finger running down their spine, the piercing sound of a train whistle, and then they were watching Crowe's thaumic reconstruction of the scene, presented directly inside their head.
Thorne could see the faint outlines of the physical room, traced by interactions with the background aura. Then the most recent burst of backlash flashed into view, throwing everything into sharp relief and highlighting two specks of brilliant blue — Thorne's aura, and Crowe's, reconstructed from the imprint left on the background aura. The room started to fade back out as Crowe continued to rewind, only to be illuminated again by the next backlash wave.
Crowe kept working backwards, using each burst of backlash to reconstruct the one before, and then from that decoding the instantaneous state of the room at that moment. The rebound calculations were only accurate as a lower order of approximation, and the resolution of the reconstruction got fuzzier as the familiar went further back, but it would be good enough to tell how many people had been in the room when the working had been triggered. It might even give Thorne a clear enough picture of their auras to identify them later.
After three minutes — three minutes of direct contact with the familiar's alien mind, which was producing a rapidly worsening headache — Crowe finally reconstructed the initial flash of EVE, and with it, an aetheric image of the room at the precise moment of whatever incident had occurred.
There were three people on the stage, two of them Type Blues. The brightest aura was clearly Anderson's, which would have been recognizable from magnitude alone. It was spiked with the most vibrant stripes of anger Thorne had ever seen in an aura, so potent that they almost took a step back, even though the scene was entirely in their own mind.
The second wizard had a fainter aura, although it was still fairly bright — enough that Thorne was willing to classify him as a battlemage, albeit a weaker one. There were deep pits of pain in the aura, frosted over with an icy sense of determination. Whoever it was, he had been casting one of the most complex workings Thorne had ever seen while under incredible stress. They couldn't help but feel some admiration for the unknown wizard who had stood up to Anderson.
The third aura belonged to Sasha Merlo.
"Robin!"
Thorne opened their eyes, dispelling Crowe's visualization. Spencer was staring at them with concern.
"You okay? You were totally out of it."
They nodded, wincing slightly as the motion aggravated their headache. "Yeah. Yeah. Was just doing some math magic."
"Did you get anything out of it?"
Thorne looked at the spot where Merlo had been standing.
They shook their head. "No. Nothing useful. It's another dead end."

November 19th, 2018
Outside Site-64, Oregon
Agent Sasha Merlo really should have been paying more attention. Site-64's location was classified, but that didn't mean it wasn't known to her enemies — both personal and professional. Anderson himself had even breached the Site once — although he was going to have a hard time doing it again, now that he was inside one of its holding cells. The defeat and capture of her nemesis, after all these years, made her overconfident. So, for the first — and last — time in years, Sasha Merlo walked through the forest trail connecting the Site's hidden entrance to the surface parking lot without looking over her shoulder.
Naturally, that was the night someone chose to ambush her.
Merlo was maybe a hundred yards from her car, right in the middle of the coverage gap between the Site's security monitors and the cameras in the parking lot, when the figure stepped out of the shadows in front of her.
"Sasha. We need to talk."
Merlo's hand had already dropped to her sidearm and she was halfway through the process of drawing it before she recognized the voice. Re-holstering the gun as nonchalantly as she could, she stepped closer to peer at the federal agent.
"Thorne? What are you doing here?"
Thorne stared at her, face betraying no emotion. "At least tell me you got him."
"What?"
"Anderson. Or do you want to try feeding me some bullshit to explain why he was having a wizard duel with Daniel Navarro in the Tristan Academy?"
Merlo's mind raced. Had they missed a piece of evidence in their haste to evacuate with their prize? If the UIU learned that they had violated the Hoover Mandate, and so blatantly, there was no telling how the American government would react — there might be a MOOT deployment hitting Site-64 at that moment to take Anderson into custody and arrest the senior staff.
"Who else knows?"
Thorne's hand darted into their suit jacket, reaching for a weapon, and the defensive charms on their wrists began to glow faintly. "Don't even think about it."
She took a step back. "What— God, Thorne, that's not— It's me. I'm not going to try and silence you. For one thing, I don't have anyone to help bury the body." She laughed, nervous and half-heartedly, but the federal wizard didn't even crack a smile at her attempt at levity.
"Just tell me that you got him," Thorne said. Their hand hadn't left their jacket.
Merlo nodded, unease growing. "We got him."
"What did it cost?"
"Too much. We lost a lot of people. Navarro lost a hand. Shaw won't walk again." She sighed and looked down. "Don't ask me if it was worth it."
Thorne was already shaking their head. "It cost you more than that, Merlo. We had him — I had the arrest warrant in my hands. We missed him by a matter of hours — hours that we wouldn't have lost if you and Holman hadn't given us the runaround. With his arrest, we would have been able to shut down his entire company. Instead, the board has assumed control, we don't have enough to implicate any of them, and we're right back to square one. Plus a bunch of murders and arson that probably could have been avoided."
They took a step back and threw out their arms, gesturing to the world at large. When they spoke again, there was true venom in their voice. "But hey, at least you got him. The great Sasha Merlo finally got her white whale, all by herself, and that's all that matters, right?"
Merlo flinched, taken aback by Thorne's anger. The rebuke, coming from them, felt like a slap across the face. "What the hell is your problem?"
"You!" Thorne pointed directly at her and stepped forwards until their finger was a mere inch from Merlo's face.
"You lied to me, manipulated me. You invoked my dead mother's name to get me to help you with your personal vendetta! Spencer warned me not to trust you, but I kept sticking my neck out for you, kept trying to defend you. I broke the law. I lied to my partner. I jumped off a fucking building for you! And then you went behind my back just so you could score a pyrrhic victory."
"I didn't— that wasn't—"
"Was it worth it?"
"Thorne—"
"Was it worth it, Sasha?"
"I don't know." She took a breath, and when she next spoke, her voice had hardened into steel. "But I do know that Vincent Anderson is one of the most dangerous men on the planet, a sociopathic genius who doesn't give a damn about the laws of man or nature, who can't be allowed to walk free. For god's sake, he tried to take over the US government with robots!"
She took a step forwards, leaving her toe to toe with the federal agent. "So don't give me that self-righteous bullshit, you're too smart for that. You know he had to be stopped, by whatever means, or else you wouldn't have helped me before. I'm sorry if I got in the way of your operation, but your Unit spent the better part of the last decade doing the same to me — can you honestly tell me that you wouldn't have done what I did, if you were in my position?"
She stared at Thorne defiantly, daring them to deny it.
Thorne met her stare. "Well. I guess that's it then."
"I guess it is."
Thorne turned away, gazing into the shadows of the forest that surrounded them. "I'll tell Spencer that you captured Anderson while he was attempting to flee Three Portlands, after a battle with Albert Frostman for control of the company. That will let us close the case file."
"Thank you."
Thorne shook their head. "I'm not doing it for you. After this, we're done — I'm not covering for you again. If we catch you operating in Three Portlands, I'll arrest you myself."
"You won't."
They glanced back at Merlo. "Is that a promise?"
She opened her mouth to reply, then shook her head. "I wish I could say I was sorry."
"Yeah. Me too." Thorne stepped off the trail, then stopped. Without looking back, they said one last farewell.
"So long, Skipper."
And then Sasha Merlo was alone.
« The Eagle's Eye || HUB ||


Ahoy hoy. I'm Doctor Cimmerian, and I come from the mythical land of Alabama, ruled by Prester John and home to Site-88. We tend to work long nights and eat poor food. Well, food not up to Cimmerian Standards anyways. Thus, I come to you with four ethical Foundation recipes that'll keep you from starving on long nights with the sad box and the Bel Air disc.
The Apple of Discord
Ingredients:

1 Apple
1 Knife

Instructions:

Place the apple on the cutting board so it doesn't roll. If the apple rolls, you're doing it wrong.
Cut the apple in five equal slices. It's more ethical this way.

Conclusion:
My good friend Christina Morse came up with this one. When I asked her why five slices, she just said that's the way her parents did it. I then asked her again, clearly, why five slices, more specifically why her parents did so. She said she didn't know. When I asked if that's an ethical response, she left the room. I've decided not to push the issue.
Fluffy Rice and Chicken
Ingredients:

2 chicken breasts, halved
1 10.5 oz can of mushroom soup
1 soup can of milk
3/4 cup of uncooked rice
1 4 oz can of mushrooms
1 envelope soup mix

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. If it heats to 350 degrees Celcius, tell your oven to stop doing that.
Mix all the ingredients together in a 9x12'' glass cake pan. The measurement is very important.
Place the chicken on top the ingredients, cover with foil, and bake for one hour.
Uncover, stir, and bake for 15 minutes longer. The chicken might come out alive. This result is unethical.

Conclusion:
You can potentially serve this with whole, halved, or diced chicken. You have to consider your life choices first, however.
Balsamic Chicken Thighs and Potatos
Ingredients:

2 lbs chicken thighs
0.5 cup white balsamic vinegar
2 tsp honey
2 tbsp olive oil
2 garlic cloves
1 tsp fresh thyme
1 tbsp of fresh parsley
2-3 basil leaves
Salt
2 Large Red Potatos

Instructions:

In one bowl, combine vinegar, oil, garlic, honey, thyme, parsley, basil, and salt. If you didn't get that, read it again.
Whisk until combined and add chicken thighs. Marinade for 20 minutes. This is so, if the chicken survives, it drowns before you eat it.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
On stove-top over medium-high heat, sear the thighs for 3-4 minutes. While you do this, marinade the potatoes. This is so, if the potatoes survive, they drown before you eat them.
Put chicken and potatoes in pan and bake for 35-45 minutes.

Conclusion:
This won the Site-88 Cooking Contest. I won by eating the other entries before they got judged. There was no rule against this.
Chicken and Broccoli Alfredo
Ingredients:

8 oz rotini
12 oz broccoli
1 tbsp olive oil
2 boneless chicken breasts
Salt and pepper
2 tbsp butter
2 tbsp flour
3/4 cup of chicken broth
3/4 cup of milk
1/4 cup of cream
1/4 tsp garlic powder
1/4 cup of grated parmesan

Instructions:

Cook the pasta. See my Pastaphysics Orientation.
Add broccoli in the last two minutes of cooking. Drain and set aside.
Over medium heat, heat olive oil and cook the chicken seasoned with salt and pepper. Do/cook/season both sides. You don't become a winner by sticking to one side. Let the chicken cool and dice.
Melt the butter in a skillet, whisk in the flour, and add the chicken broth and milk. Cook for 1-2 minutes. If you freeze the mixture, figure it out.
Stir in the cream and garlic into the mixture for 1-2 minutes until thickened.
Stir in the parmesan, chicken, and broccoli. Combine. This is the easiest step as it involves the least skill.

Conclusion:
They say a wise man thinks once before he speaks twice. This is wrong. I've only spoken my thoughts once and I've been correct every single time.


< Part Three

Colorado Potato Beetle Man had been in some sticky situations before. One time he narrowly avoided being shot in the face trying to stop a mugging. Another time he was chasing a bank robber down the street and almost fell down an open manhole. And just a few weeks ago he accidentally washed his costume along with his lab coat and it turned orange. But his current situation was the worst he'd ever seen.
He was tied to a chair in an old supply closet along with that police officer who he'd crossed paths with several times before. Two tough guys were standing watch as his old boss leered at him, reveling in the hero's capture.
"I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here, Lester. Well, truth be told, I was after your friend. The 'police' officer, as she tries to present herself."
Megan looked down at the floor, trying to hide her fear. Colorado Potato Beetle Man kept his gaze locked on the villain, but beneath his mask he was filled with dread.
"I've seen many like her over the years. Not all of them look like law enforcement, some look more military, or maybe just a random passerby on the street. But they're all the same inside. Liars. Thieves. Murderers. Your people have been trying to catch me for years. Put me in a little box, make sure I can't scare the normal folks out there. And every time they try, people wind up dead. And I'm still here."
The orange hero looked over at his co-captive in confusion, wondering if she was part of the reason he hadn't seen many other super-powered people.
"So here's the deal. Normally, I would get as much information out of you as I could, then kill you. But today is a special day. I just received this new toy, and I've been in the market for a good test subject."
He reached into his jacket and took out a heavily modified pistol, with a red casing and bundles of wires sticking out.
"You've spent your life hurting people you don't understand."
He withdrew a pill bottle, took off the lid, and screwed it onto the gun where the ammunition clip should have gone.
"Tell me, do you think your friends would still allow you to work with them if you were one of the freaks?"
Megan didn't know the answer. The UIU had a few anomalous employees, but none of them were particularly powerful or dangerous.
Colorado Potato Beetle Man had his own answer ready to fire.
"The freaks are the people who can stop monsters like you!"
He lurched forwards, picking his chair up off the ground and falling over, landing right on Ferol's foot.
The villain jumped back, more in surprise than anything, and then put the gun away and kicked the masked head. The guards grabbed the orange man and propped him up for meet Ferol's gaze.
"Just what did you think that would accomplish?"
"I don't know, maybe distracting you long enough for my accomplice to escape?"
Ferol jerked his head around to see Megan was… sitting dejectedly in the chair she was still very much tied to.
He looked back at the hero who had just wriggled out of his bonds, and received a swift punch in the jaw. The guard on the left raised their fists for attack, but the vigilante was too quick. He ducked and bashed their leg, knocking them off balance and leaving their face open for a swift punch, and he forgot to take account for the other guard who had already pressed his gun against Megan's face and didn't look like he was bluffing.
"Back off bug man, or your friend here gets a new hole in her head."
He put his hands in the air without hesitation. Ferol stood up and rubbed the bruise that was forming on his chin.
"You're certainly daring, I'll give you that. But daring is a slippery slope to foolhardy."
Colorado Potato Beetle Man's mind was racing. He needed to save his friend so they could both escape, but they had guns and all he could do was walk on walls and eat potatoes. But the guns were mostly pointed at Megan, using her as a hostage.
Hostage…
He drove his fist into Ferol's face again and quickly spun to hold the villain in front of him as a shield. He glared at the guard under his mask, silently daring him to hurt the hero's friend while his arm was around the boss' neck.
Said boss didn't look too happy about the situation, but he didn't give any orders to the hired muscle. Colorado Potato Beetle Man made his way to the door, making sure not to break eye contact with the guard. He wanted to go back and save Megan, but there was nothing he could do.
Ferol had other plans however. He reached into his jacket and drew his weapon, aiming straight at Megan. Colorado Potato Beetle Man pushed the villain to the ground and dared a look at the police officer, expecting the worst. She was perfectly fine, because in the heat of the moment Ferol had missed the shot and hit his goon, leaving Megan unscathed.
But the second shot didn't miss. The withered old businessman may have been knocked down, but he still had a gun. As Megan crumpled to the ground with blood seeping from her neck, Ferol took aim at the insectoid hero. Colorado Potato Beetle Man ducked under the bullet, and gave one last glance to the broken form of his companion. Then he turned and ran. Alarms sounded throughout the building, and he heard more guards headed his way. He knocked down one of the less sturdy looking doors and ran into an empty office. Without a second thought he threw a chair out the window and climbed out, crawling down the side of the building to the ground bellow. It wasn't until the tower was out of sight that he finally crumpled to the ground in between a few trash bags in a back alley. He tore his mask off in frustration, screaming into the uncaring void. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the hero, the hero that could save people from evil. He wasn't supposed to run away.
His friends weren't supposed to die.
He looked down at the orange and black mask, sitting in a puddle of whatever filth was in dark dingy alleyways. The face of a Colorado Potato Beetle, the creature that had given him power.
Lester picked up the mask and stood. He knew what he needed to do. He would avenge his friend. He would put a stop to that mad man. He still had a chance to be a hero.

Ferol sat in his oversized chair behind an oversized desk, holding an icepack to his forehead. That rotten bug man had escaped him for the second time, but it wouldn't happen again. He watched his screens, waiting to catch a glimpse of Colorado Potato Beetle Man on any of the cameras he'd set up across the city.
A knock came at his door, and he buzzed them in without looking away from the monitors.
"The test subject is awake Sir. What should we do with her?"
"Figure out what she can do, then either dump her on the street or offer her a job. It doesn't matter which one, the plan is too close to completion for her to be of any consequence."
"Of course Sir."
The door closed, and Ferol kept watching the cameras, knowing it was only a matter of weeks before he wouldn't need them anymore.

< Part Three