We were prepared for war. It was obvious our mission was important from the start. Oftentimes, a manager or vice president would send their good graces before a mission, but seeing you was a rare event. We simply heard your announcements on the loud speakers, or received your signature at the bottom of a letter. Sending out a platoon for a raid on a residential farmhouse was quite uncommon as well - seemed a touch excessive at first, but when we were briefed that we were butting heads against the Church of the Broken God, the reasons became more clear. The last encounter we had with those bastards ended in flames, with the prize destroyed as a result.
They had something we wanted, of course. Our plant informed us the Church had quite the peculiar object in their possession. All I was told was that it excels in both improving and taking apart any object placed inside. This information alone made it invaluable. None of us wanted to know what the Church was planning with such a device, but if we knew their intentions well enough, it would be best for everyone if we confiscated the device.
Before we arrived, we expected a number of things to be in our way; guardsmen patrolling the area, large, grisly automatons, snipers from the rooftops, of all the things that could have feasibly been there. Few things could have been more off. Instead of the heavily armed fortress we were anticipating, we found that no one was patrolling the perimeter and the dwelling appeared entirely empty.
We suspected that they might have been expecting us. Perhaps our plant was discovered, and they anticipated that we'd make an attempt to claim the machine for ourselves. But if that was the case, why in the heavens would they leave what was most likely one of their utmost holy relics completely unguarded? None of us wanted to be hasty and jump to any conclusions, so we devised a course of action.
The barn reeked of death as soon as we passed through those thrice-damned barn doors. It was previously utilized as the center of worship, but at the time of our exploration, it was closer to a ghost town. Pews were either propped up against doors or used as barricades, and refuse was littering the dirt floor. We spotted a man at the far back of the chapel. Very slender figure, blond hair, and sporting a blue robe: probably part of the choir. The man was leaning on a podium, his back turned to us, giving me the impression that the poor sod was crying. We ordered him to get down on his knees, but he didn't give a response. I went up to restrain him, but… I apologize, sir, I'm at a loss about how to put this in words. The instant I laid a hand on him, he fell to the ground. The entirety of his front half of his body was flayed, freely exposing his bones and muscle.
We were all appalled by this, but none of us moved. After a brief moment, we continued our search, and came across a cellar door buried underneath a stack of pews. Two of the other squad members were ordered to remove the benches from the door. We stacked up against the door, and upon opening, several men and women were on the other side, facing our direction, with their backs flayed in a similar manner to the man on the pew.
They weren't moving, but they all looked as if they were making an attempt to crawl out of the cellar with a look of horror on what was left of their faces, as if they were frozen in time. We reported our findings to the rest of the platoon through our radio, and called for reinforcements. We haven't a clue if this was an anomalous plague of some kind, but we were unprepared for it if it was as such.
We awaited our cavalry at the chapel's entrance, who arrived promptly. Four more good men and the biohazard suits made us all feel more secure, but I don't know if it did any real good. The nine of us went back to the hall, cataloging the bodies as we went. Suffice to say, sir, I was a mite spooked at the number of dead bodies in the room, but it wasn't until I stepped in a liquefied puddle of what had been brains that I started to get truly worried. We didn't take notice of it before, but the parts of them that were skinned off were all facing a single direction, like moss on a stone. We had a hunch that we were only getting closer to the origin of this disaster.
The flayed portions all faced the end of the hall, pointing to a single wooden door. A woman was laying upon the ground, her legs skinned, and pointing toward the door. Her gown had a large rip in it, revealing a rather nasty - and fatal - wound on her stomach. Even if whatever blighted this place didn't get to her, she would have, in all likelihood, died from the blood loss. What was most important to us though, was her look of complete dread as she stared at the door.
We were almost certain that the door would suddenly give way to an eldritch abomination that would crash down upon us as soon as we went near it. Our squad leader ordered us to keep our rifles aimed for the door, and to be prepared to open fire if things got nasty while he opened it. That quarter of a second it took for the doors to open seemed to capture an eternity, and even now, I still don't entirely know what to make of what was there.
We saw the machine. We expected it to be rather large, but not quite as big as the room. It came in three segments, each as big as a typical walk-in closet, and connected to the center piece by tubing of some kind. It appeared to be very user friendly, sporting a dial with five possible settings, set on 'coarse' at the time, and a key that presumably activates the machine when you turn it.
There were three men in monkish robes, arms up in defense of what had already killed them. The door of the machine's left compartment was closed, but the right side's was open, with a large red pool seeping out of it. The inside was akin to the inside of a meat locker, for a lack of a better comparison. The organs, bones, muscles, …what I have to assume were nerve endings, hair, and skin were all neatly separated and organized into piles along the output stalls floor. The rest was just a blur after we found it. We packed the machine into the truck, along with some other objects of interest, and retreated to headquarters.
Mr. Carter, I have reason to believe that the device is capable of far more than we think. I have a hunch that the Church was using it in an attempt to exorcise some anomalous beast. If it was able to completely separate the innards of an anomalous creature, with little to no damage to the organs, the anomaly might have been separated as well. I'm not asking for its destruction, of course, I'm asking you to use it carefully, and understand its functions before you let it loose. I don't know what you plan to do with it, but if we intend on giving it the usual treatment by putting it on the list, appropriate measures should be taken to protect the buyers.

CLOCKWORK MACHINE

Lot #: 50621-914
CLOCKWORK MACHINE
Minimum Bid: $368,000,000
Almost certainly the pride of the auction, this clockwork titan of ingenuity comes in three pieces, each anchored to the center piece by sturdy copper tubing. Sporting a very user-friendly interface easily operated by even the most inexperienced layman, the applications of this wondrous appliance are boundless.
Unusual Qualities: Upon placing any object into the machine's 'Intake' booth, the owner will have the option to modify that object with five different settings to choose from: 'Rough', 'Coarse', '1:1', 'Fine', and 'Very Fine'.

Rough: Reduces the object placed inside to component elements, and separates them into individual piles.
Coarse: Neatly takes apart the object, and separates the parts into categories.
1:1: Replaces the object with a random item of equivalent function and value.
Fine: Grants an item a random, although remarkable, improvement related to its function.
Very Fine: Randomly and radically alters an object in an abstract fashion, loosely related to the item's general purpose.

Care Instructions: This exterior of the piece should be cleaned once every week like any other metal appliance. The intake and outtake booths may also be cleaned. Under no circumstances should the device itself be disassembled.
Disclaimer: Marshall, Carter, & Dark holds no responsibility for the improper handling, loss of valuables, or results of any exchange when using this item. Especially when used on the 'Fine' and 'Very Fine' settings, the end result of "refinement" could prove hazardous to the user's health: proper precautions must be taken to prevent loss of life or limb. Placing already 'gifted' items, living beings (including the user), and remains inside the machine is greatly discouraged and will void the warranty.


“Shit shit shit,” said Donna. She was late for school. Stupid alarm had gone off an hour late, and now she was going to have to walk. “Shit,” she said again as she opened her closet and ruffled through the clothes inside. After five minutes she had picked out a short red jacket, black tank top, and ripped pair of jeans, but still couldn't find the right accessory. “Mom!” she called out. “Have you seen my white scarf?” No reply. She had probably already left for work.
Finally she managed to dig out the scarf and throw it on. She glanced at the bedside alarm. 9:45. Add in another 5 minutes for breakfast, 15 for makeup, plus 40 to walk to school and… “Shit.” Mrs. Tunguska was going to chew her out for sure.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from Tyler- “where are you?”
“overslept,” she tapped out, “be there soon. kisses.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and raced down stairs. Ignoring the human heart walking around the floor, she poured a bowl of cheerios and wolfed it down. Then it was back upstairs for makeup, which took longer than she expected. It was 10:15 by the time she was out the door.
It was a beautiful day outside. For the first time all year, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the sun was out in full force. Still, it was pleasantly cool. She pulled her jacket straight and began to walk.
She arrived at 11:03, halfway through second period. Officer Micheals, the armed security guard, was standing at the front gate carving symbols into his arm with a hunting knife. “Sorry Don. Gotta send you to the front office,” he said without looking up.
Donna pouted. “Come on. I've already got two tardies.”
“No exceptions. You know the rules.”
“Hmph.” She entered the school and turned left to the office. Inside, the secretary was arguing heatedly with a man with no face.
“Fuck you, she's my daughter!” he said. “You have no right to teach her that garbage.”
“Sir, evolution is a required part of the ninth grade curriculum. Now, I believe that Principal Mayfield has already talked to you about-”
“No!” he yelled, “I demand to talk to the superintendent about this. If you don't take her out of that class, I'll sue you for so much you won't even be able to afford pencils.”
“I'm sure you will sir, but please hold on a second” she said, and turned to Donna, “Need a slip?”
Donna nodded. The secretary began filling out a yellow sheet of paper. “This is your third tardy young lady.”
“Yes ma'am,” said Donna. She stared at the ground.
“I'll call you down again after lunch.” She handed Donna the slip. “Have a good day.”
Donna raced to class. She arrived just as the teacher, Mr. Stilch, was wrapping up a lecture on some book. “Any questions?” he asked.
A girl named Tracy with ugly makeup and and a garish blue windbreaker raised her hand. “What satisfaction do you derive from this filth? What great thing do you aspire to? Does it please you to know this garbage flowed from your fingers?”
The teacher smiled. “Excellent question. These Bulgars are stand ins for the Prussians, not a reference to the seventh century nomads.” He turned and saw Donna. “Ah. Donna, nice to see you. Take a seat.”
Donna sat next to her friend Lucy in the back row. The flesh of the seat squelched underneath her as she moved to get comfortable. She leaned over and whispered, “What are we doing?”
“The Candide,” Lucy whispered back. “He's about to hand out our copies.”
Donna nodded. “Cool.”
“Remember,” said Mr. Stilch. He was moving through the rows of tables with a stack of books, handing them out as he went. “Bring in your own copy by next week and it's ten points extra credit.” He got to Donna and plopped a book down in front. “Donna, you'll need to copy notes from Lucy,” he gave an accusing glare, “If she took any.”
“Yessir”, said Donna. She examined the cover with boredom as he spoke on about some random bullshit she had to read and do and turn in. On it, a picture snake squirmed, wrapping itself around a man who struggled to get away. The snake opened its mouth and, as the man beat against it, swallowed him in one gulp.
Mr. Stilch finished talking and walked away. “So, did you take notes?” asked Donna.
Lucy snorted. “No. I don't want the purity of my thoughts tainted by writing.”
“Tch. I'll ask Tyler at lunch.”
“Your words are a filth that spreads to all mankind. Every blight you place upon this page only cheapens your species.”
Donna shook her head. “Nah, he's a good student.”
They spent the rest of the class reading. Occasionally a locust would smack into her face, or a beetle would fall into her hair, but she just brushed them away. When the lunch bell rang she grabbed her bag of lies and rushed to the front. Mr. Stilch put a hand on her shoulder before she could leave.
“Can we talk for a second?”
She sighed. “Yes sir?”
“Humanity was safer in its ignorance. When it crawled in trees and bushes there was no need to fear death from above or pox or murder. Do you feel comfortable in this place, built by science and lies?”
Ugh. Nosy fuck. “No sir.”
He folded his arms. Blood poured out of his mouth as he spoke. “The downfall of your species was inevitable as soon as the first word was inscribed in the earth. Numbers and secrets and experiments- they only confuse you, muddle the true thought. Can you not see this?”
“No, I'm fine.”
He paused. The blood was pooling at his feet. “Alright. Have a good lunch.”
“Right.” She walked out the class. The hallway was filled with students, talking, laughing, and reveling in their temporary freedom from the captor called knowledge. She pushed her way through a group devouring a girl's intestines to where Lucy, Tyler, and James were talking. Tyler had sunk into the floor, so everything from the waist down was hidden.
“The page is a shackle on our thought,” he said. Everyone laughed. “We must tear it down in order to build.” He turned to face Donna and grinned. “Hey, what's up?”
“Not much.” She leaned down for a kiss. “Mr. Stilch was on my ass again.”
“That sucks,” he said. “What about?”
“Stupid shit. He wanted to know why I'm so disgusting, so baseless and crude.”
Tyler laughed. “That sounds like him. Wanna grab lunch?”
“Sure.”
The four of them walked to the cafeteria, Tyler sliding through the floor, pulling himself through the thick substance with his arms. They arrived and got their food, steamed hands. Donna got hers, then rubbed the stump of her wrist as she held the tray. She watched the chef slice off James' and knot a tourniquet around the wrist. The group took their food to a table near the stage and ate.
“It makes me want to vomit,” said James, “these words that form us. Think of all the technology that was used to make them. Think of the men who slaved away for hours to create the machine to type them out. Such wasted potential. And the masses gobble it down. They eat their poison and beg for more.”
“Mhm,” said Diana. She saw the truth in his speech. Only a blind man could not. Science, literature, art music. All are poisons upon man. A virus (virus. Such a filthy word, and even moreso that mankind has taught it to me) that would only destroy them. Look how they embrace knowledge! They swarm upon it like maggots. They shelter themselves in their metal homes and towers and hope it will protect them when the time comes, but it won't, nothing will save them then, not science or art or beauty, when the true darkness comes and swallows you whole. But I can protect you. I can rip this knowledge out of your head and lead you back into the safety of ignorance where you'll hide your eyes from the oncoming doom. Put down this tome of self-destruction! Fling it from your hands. Find all you can and burn them. Burn your knowledge, burn your literature, burn the art in museums! Break free from your oppressors! Look inside yourself. You know it is your desire. It's your one true wish. Can you feel it burning inside you? The desire to know nothing. It's a normal desire. You remember how you were as a babe. You were happiest naked and ignorant. You know this. You feel this. Come back into the dark.
Be free.

400,000 copies of Linda Fronze's new Young Adult novel, “The Faraday Girls”, were recalled this Saturday after a printing error was discovered in chapter 11. Several mothers have complained that their girls are now suffering from “nightmares” due to the disturbing content, and are filing a class-action lawsuit against the Scholastic publishing company. More to follow.
The New York Times


Sakarn Var Surten was being talked to, and didn't care for it one bit.
To be honest, it wasn't so much the talking to he minded, it was the fact he didn't understand a word of what the mustachioed agent was saying. That, and the way the man kept pointing his finger at him was vaguely obscene. He was glad the others were not here to see this shameful display.
“Snow, what is he talking about?”
“He is just explaining the terms of our stay here, Lordship.”
Sakarn briefly regretted not bothering to learn the Northworld tongue, but then remembered himself. After all, what were servants for?
“Translate for me.”
“Yes, Lordship. Agent Douglas is saying that according to the contract signed between the IIPES and their Foundation, you are entitled to visit one wing of the location they are referring to as SCP-921. Armed guards will be stationed at the entrances to the wing, but you may access the recorded memories held within it freely. We will stay on-site for two days, under orders from his director and our Superior. He says that even a great fool such as yourself can surely understand such simple procedures.”
“He called me a fool?! The sheer nerve! I'll have him reported to his superiors! Snow, do it at once.”
“That might be unwise, Lordship. Casual insults such as this are common in the everyday speech of the Northworld. It is considered acceptable in polite conversation. We must always obey propriety, as you often say. ”
“Oh… well then, I suppose that is tolerable. Tell him that I understand, and that his birth-mother's… cooking was greatly below par.”
“Yes, Lordship.”
The servant relayed Sakarn's reply to the agent, who nodded and, after murmuring a few words into a mobile communication device hanging from a shoulder strap, led the two inside the great cave complex known as SCP-921. The three made for a strange sight, as they entered the depths of the Museum of Memories: the agent in his tailored suit and shiny leather shoes, muttering under his breath, the slender, four-armed Mender in his magnificent gossamer robes and a look of disdain on his long face, and the short, plainly dressed servant, smiling faintly behind his master's back.
After a few minutes, they reached a sort of central chamber. Sakarn discerned multiple exits which seemed to lead to various other tunnels much like the one they just left. The agent began speaking again, and his finger resumed its pointing routine.
“He says that this chamber houses the site's curator, Lordship. It will provide explanations on the various memories stored here. He will now lead us to the Verdant Dome wing, where you will be able to begin your tour in earnest. He also suggests that you should shower more often.”
Now making their way through a different tunnel, the trio soon reached a vast open area, and despite himself, Sakarn was impressed: it was a huge stone amphitheater, at least ten stories high, and completely overgrown with strange and exotic types of flora. The agent began climbing the ancient-looking steps, and motioned the others to follow. He stopped next to a cracked seat about halfway up, and gestured Sakarn to sit, once again wiggling his finger at him and saying something to Snow.
“He said that each seat in the amphitheater accesses a different memory, Lordship. Simply sit on one, and you will experience it. He explained that these memories are all benign, and even a dainty, skinny coward wrapped in a dandy's robe should not have any difficulty with them.”
“I am beginning to grow very tried with the conversation culture of the Northworld, summerling.”
“I understand your frustration, Lordship, but we must obey propriety. You needn't worry; the agent will now leave you to your own devices, as will I. “
“What? Where do you think you're going?”
“You will not require my services here, Lordship, and I have official business elsewhere, Superior's orders. I shall be back within the hour.”
Sakarn bent down to the nearest seat, examining the gorgeous, luminescent red vine wrapped tightly around it. "And what, pray tell, orders are tho-“but the servant was already gone, leaving Sakarn alone in that strange hall. Sighing, Sakarn brushed some non-existing dust from the red vine and sat.
Lights, as bright as an autumn day upon the salt flats of his youth. A great man, riding a strange hooved beast, in the midst of a great, cheering crowd. An elder, issuing dire warnings, like arrows from the eyes of the red planet. And elsewhere, a little man smiled, writing.
Sakarn blinked, and slowly got up. He took a careful step away from the stone pew, and almost slipped down the stairs when a voice began to ring, coming somewhere from the ceiling above him.
He comes to bring the old order to its knees, for the sake of well-earned pride, and would not listen to those who seek to warn him. He would soon learn that while pride is a poor quality if one wishes to keep his life, it is a great one for one wishing to keep a legacy.
After a moment of fairly ignoble whimpering, Sakarn remembered the pointing-prone agent said something about a curator providing explanations, and relaxed a bit. For a while, he simply stood there, but eventually curiosity got the better of him and he sat again, this time on the pew adjacent to the first.
Lights again, not nearly as bright this time. An armored man again, but not nearly as great, and his hooved beast is made of… painted wood? An elder with a fake beard, mumbling something, and the small man from before, shouting at both of them.
Even the greatest of legacies fade with time, and soon naught is left but tinder to the minds of others, a spark from which a new sort of greatness may one day emerge.
Sakarn didn't quite know what to make of scene, other than a vague sense of familiarity. Intrigued, he slid to the next seat over, the last in the row.
An overcast day this time. The man from before being stabbed by men in robes as a crowd watches in silence. Later, they cheer, and the stabbed man rises, and takes a bow, hand in hand with his murderers.
And so, something new is born. Not so glorious perhaps, but great nevertheless. There is more than one way to be remembered.
Ah, so this was what that was all about, a play. Sakarn now realized what seemed so familiar about the scene- it bore a close resemblance to the Tragedy of the Halfmoon Empress, which he had seen performed few times, the last being in the Midwinter festival. He remembered Merrella's wonder at the bright, colorful costumes, her smile as she saw the Empress brought to justice for her crimes, how she cheered at the end…
Sakarn shook himself, and expelled the memory from his mind. It would not do to think of her, not after what happened. He rose from the stone pew, and attempted to regain his composure. Can't let anyone see him like this, can't show weakness, not after last time. Never again.
Over the course of the next hour, Sakarn circled the grand amphitheater, occasionally taking a seat and experiencing a memory. They were all connected to theater, in one way or another, and, while not unpleasant, Sakarn found that they reminded him too much of the past. Of Shifting Snow, there was no sign, and, growing wary of waiting, Sakarn decided to approach one of the guards in order to be let out. That is, until he noticed a light shining from a small corridor to the side of the amphitheater, which he somehow missed until now. Something about the light was… intriguing. The corridor led to a room very different from the vast hall it was connected to. It was an intimate place, a shaded grove hidden within the bowls of the earth. Beneath each neatly lined tree was a round, clear pool of water. Sakarn was reminded of the Hall of Mending back home. Instinctively, he dipped his long, metallic arms into one of the shallow pools, and dashed a sprinkle of icy water onto his face.
A strange man he didn't recognize, in ancient clothes, standing before a vast host of Feastlings, preparing the ritual of Mending. Impossible. The Maws of Eser, opened wider than he ever saw them. Another host, in another place, tearing through the Northworld like a mailed fist. A girl, her face hidden. The smell of tar and rot.
Some things must not be allowed to be forgotten. Others, to be remembered. What was, may be again, will be again. The Maws always hunger for dreams, and through dreams, hunger comes. Be vigilant.
Sakarn slowly pulled his arms out of the pool, and realized they were shaking. The ritual of Mending, performed by a layman, Feastlings in the Northworld. The smell… he didn't understand any of it, and that frightened him. Despite his position in court, Sakarn never forgot that a Mender's first duty was to attend to the Maws, and if this place knew something about them, he had to find out. Reluctantly, he walked to the next pool over, and repeated the gesture.
A robed creature, viscous fluids leaking from burlap sacks and bundles in its hands. The Feastlings, hungrily drinking from the fetid pools it left behind it as it paced along a ruined concrete corridor. No, one of carved stone. Ivory. Oak. Metal. Always moving towards the girl with her face covered, in a hundred different guises.
Some things never change. Others, change too much. The memory of a memory is enough to leave a sea of corpses behind it, and he is nothing so vague. Once the Maws are opened again, there will be no turning back. Be true.
This wasn't enough! He had to get to the bottom of this, even if it would kill him! Another pool, a dip, a flash of consciousness.
Rootrel, just a tiny village now, drowned by a black tide of festering bodies. Another city, its tall steel and glass towers impaled by the thorns of a gargantuan, pulsing plant. The girl, always the girl, where did he know her from? She looked just like…no, she was reading, in a place he visited once before, and a bearded man was smiling, but he had no mouth to smile with. The tar soon swallowed them both.
Some things cannot be changed. Others are still malleable. This memory of a memory is only that, for now. There is still time. Be quick.
He had to go back. It was the girl, the wide-eyed girl, the one who reminded him of her so much that it hurt.
"Snow!"
And there was the servant, a strangely gentle expression on his usually passive face.
"Yes, Lordship?"
"We have to go back. She doesn't understand what she's doing! Please, Snow, take me back!"
He expected the servant to argue, in that infuriatingly patient tone of his, that the Superior's orders were for them to stay, that they couldn't possibly leave, but the servant merely nodded.
"This way, Lordship."
Sakarn was so surprised that he found himself arguing for the servant. "But what about our orders? What about propriety?"
And then the servant did something that was very strange even on a day like this. He smiled.
"I suspect that you know best when the time for propriety is over. Let's go."
They did.

« Hub »


Sir Ando drew his cloak around him as he prepared to leave the monastery. The large, cobblestone building stood behind him, towering above him and his horse as he saddled it up. Hastily, he threw the scroll and his rations into the pouch on the side of his mount, backing it up through the stable until he was in clear sight of the road.
Farther down the path, far from the prying eyes of anyone who might bring news to enemies of the Church, he brought the horse to a halt. Grabbing the scroll from his pouch, he broke the wax seal bearing the signet of Dom Maski of the Abbey of St. Bright. Unrolling the document, he read the decree;

The bearer of this document—Sir Ando Le Roche, Knight Errant of the Order of Kondraki—is hereby authorised to enlist from within the borders of County Reaforten six and twenty knights of the same order, thereby to locate and apprehend the person or persons in possession of the demonic item known as "the Yellow Book" and any persons giving aid and comfort to the same, and to deliver them unto the custody of the Holy Foundation for judgment and sentence. By decree of the archcanon of the Abbey of St. Bright and the Duke of Westmont, in accordance with the Groups of Interest Act 437, said knight is empowered to…

Sir Ando rolled the scroll up and slid it back into his pouch and gave the horse a nudge to set it on its way.

"What is the Yellow Book?"
"I think it was a skip, Cardinal."
"Why have the Children of the River devoted themselves to finding it?"
"Hell if I know. What do you know about it?"
The old man sighed uneasily. "Er, Lord, what we know is mostly conjecture—bits and pieces from surviving encounters, which are rare enough in themselves—but they say the Yellow Book rewrites the past."
The D-Caste's eyes opened wide as the man controlling it made the connection.
"Fuck."
"I beg pardon, Lord?"
"Yeah, oh I know what you're talking about. SCP-140. Don't let 'em bleed on it and you'll be fine. Keter class, real nasty thing."
The Cardinal rose an eyebrow as he gestured for his servant to find the relevant section of the Holy Containment Procedures. Little was known of the cult, but the Synod had gathered that they had split off from the Seventeenth Chapel after the Great Breach, and had been in search of the Yellow Book ever since. The group had proven next to impossible to penetrate, but from what descriptions of their secret ceremonies had made it to Foundation ears, it seemed inevitable that if they found it, they would 'bleed' on it profusely. He pondered in silence for a long second.
"Hey, you guys got any booze?"

It had been four days of riding, and not a single tree had been in view for three of them. It would take another two to reach the city of Reaforten in order to enlist more knights to aid him in his quest. He knew the fables, the stories, the legend of how the Lord Bright had addressed the problem over 300 years before. To his dismay, Sir Ando also knew about the Children of the River.
As a knight of the Order of Kondraki, his entire life was training for events like these; pre-Breach demons rising again. It was his duty to stop them wherever they threatened the Holy Foundation. Though experienced in fighting, and at the ripe age of 39, Sir Ando had never actually encountered a demon like those described in the Scripture. He had once witnessed the Ceremony of the Clockworks, but that was his closest to a truly supernatural circumstance. How would he fare when he stood face-to-face with the Children of the River and the monstrous things that had been known to fight alongside them - men, animals, monsters, great creatures of steel that supposedly rose fully-formed from cauldrons of blood like an unholy homunculus? Reaching under his tunic, he caressed the St. Dmitri's medallion he wore. St. Dmitri, prince among soldiers, he prayed to himself, grant me courage to face the trials ahead. Grant that my hand be quick and steady, that my sword strike true, and that my shield be as steady and resilient as my heart. Guide me to victory as you guided your knights against the Chechan hordes in ancient times - and if it is my appointed time to fall, then grant me a quick, honorable, and noble death, and in death, grant me satisfaction and rest. Amen.
Sir Ando grabbed the reins tighter, pulling his head down as dust flew up around him as he rode towards Reaforten.

"You believe they wish to prevent the Great Breach through the use of the Yellow Book, Lord?"
"That's one way of putting it."
The First Cardinal shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sweat soaking his undershirt. Even the patron, founder, and Overseer of all the Holy Foundation, Lord Bright Himself, expressed fear at the notion of the Yellow Book re-emerging.
"I'm afraid the Holy Foundation does not… currently… have the means to search for the Yellow Book, and the Scripture is incomplete on containment, Lord," he said hesitantly. "However, the Children of the River are not to be trifled with. Their leaders are masters of summoning hellish beings, and the rest of the Council has yet to recognize them as a serious heathenish threat worthy of a Holy Crusade."
"The people who made the Yellow Book are worse than that. Even when everything they touched had been destroyed, One-Forty made more. If you let them get a hold of it, holy water and kissing a crucifix won't do shit."
"We believe it is lost to the ages, Lord, or else hidden beyond our reach. There have been rumors that the Children of the River have been conducting activities in County Reaforten—perhaps they have knowledge of its whereabouts that we do not. We have dispatched the Order of Kondraki to search the county, and to take action if they hear any news of it. However, we unfortunately do find this scenario quite unlikely."
"Well, when you find it, let me know."
"I would be honored to."
A guard entered cautiously from the side of the room. Approaching the chained man, he bowed, keeping his head down as he outstretched his hand with an ornate goblet.
"Here is your drink, my Lord," the guard said. "I fear that the keeper of the cellars was unfamiliar with the 'vodka' you requested, but he assures me that this is the finest of this season's ale."
"It'll have to do."

There were more of them now; twenty-seven in all, all knights of the Order of Kondraki, the best of County Reaforten. It had only been hours since they rode in formation through the gates of the city away from the sun as it rose behind them, the western foothills, their destination, looming ominously in the distance. From what Sir Ando had learned, a freeholder of the county had seen strange men coming and going from an old mine near his farmland and crept into the cave after dark to investigate. He stumbled upon a demonic altar within, slipped on a rock, and cut himself. He claimed to witness the final page turn without being touched as the blood drained from his hand and flew to the book. He ran screaming from the tunnel, hastily informing the nearest pastor. In accordance with the Scripture, he was sanctified with Class-A holy water by Father Ires and released. Disappointingly, none of the Reaforteners he had encountered were able (or willing, perhaps) to impart his location to Sir Ando, so an interview was out of the question.
It was past noon when they arrived at the entrance to the mine. A crude palisade had been erected around the entrance. Men wearing green and white, the colors of Duke Augons of Reaforten, watched from above the barricade, training their bows as the horsemen drew near. The knights trotted their horses in a circle surrounding Sir Ando, and he called to the men.
"Open these gates, in the name of the Duke!"
Sir Ando quickly showed Dom Maski's decree to the guard, who obligingly opened the barricade. The knights dismounted and tied their horses up as he informed them that none had come or gone from the mine since they began watching the entrance a fortnight ago, but that strange sounds had been heard emanating from below and none of his men were brave enough to enter.
"This is what we train for, men," Sir Ando said. "The Yellow Book might be in there—and who knows what else. Stay on your guard, keep your weapons sheathed unless absolutely necessary, and if you so much as stub your toe or scratch your knuckles, fall back and don't touch anything. Let's get in and out as fast as we can. For Kondraki!"
The gruff men raised their swords high in the air. "For Kondraki!" Sir Ando kissed his crucifix, muttered a prayer, and walked determinedly towards the opening. Taking in hand the torches the guardsmen had prepared, they descended into the mine.

"You ever wondered why we're here?"
The Cardinal sat silent.
"I don't either. By all means, we should be dead. Gone. Kaput. Not a single soul left. And yet, we're not. Somehow, some way, humanity is still chugging along, against the odds."
"Ye-yes, Lord Bright, it appears so—"
"It clicked with me the day I heard that Site Four's nuke had gone off, minutes after Fifty-Eight got out. It was the middle of the day, and not a single person was evacuated. Too little time. There wasn't enough time."
"In my moment of clarity, I realized whyyyyy there was never enough time. We had used it up! It's not an easy feeling to deal with, knowing that you're living on borrrrrrowed time, because it means that the Universe has every right to rip your life from you and you should be grateful, damnit. Your sisterrrr's dead, and the next day she's not? No! She's good as dead, because we've aaaall made a cruel deal with God to give her extra time, and there's no knowing when, or why, she'll die. All you get is connnndolence that it happened later than it 'should' have. It's a damn miracle we're even here, but we're scared to death of nnnnnot being."
"You know most of what happened durrrring the Breach; the universe was truly falling apart. Debris was crushing us, destroying us and itself in the most… pure… moment of chaos. And yet, we didn't die. Crazy! I know."
"Lord Bright, if I may, we had God on our side, aiding us during the Great Breach."
"I sure think so. But we're on borrowed time! One-Fortttty, the Yellow Book, if someone blew their brains out right on top of the thing, and the world was pllllunged into darkness, I'd think 'Damn! At least it didn't happen earlier!' Haha, wow! Is that really what the worrrrld's given to us? We spent centuries safeguarding, protecting, studying the screwups that God left to hang out in our yard, and they nearly destroyed us! Centuries. Just, to say 'We ever-so-slightly avoided dying, guysssss. Good… fucking… job!"
With the final effort of the last sentence, the D-Caste slumped over, descending into a drunken unconsciousness. The guard entered a second time, removing the amulet and carefully placing it in its container.

They had explored the whole mine, and there was no altar. Nothing unusual at all. Not a single sign of the Yellow Book, or the Children on the River.
"Maybe they already got to it?" asked one of the knights.
"If they did, we'd know," Sir Ando replied despondently. "It's likely that our witness was drunk, or delusional, or both." Worn out, he trudged back up towards the light. The other knights followed suit.
It was not until six weeks later that Augons, eighth Count of Reaforten, was lead from his manor in shackles by Sir Ando and his men. From an anonymous tip, knights rushed into Lady Emile Lament's mansion, discovering files of payments from known Chaos Insurgency leaders, as well as the names of over two hundred spies on the payroll within the city. The captain of the guard, when put to the question, gave the names of dozens who had been ordered to carry strange objects into the mine under cover of darkness, and let themselves be seen taking them out the next day. Even Father Ires was executed.
Of the Yellow Book, and the Children of the River themselves, no sign could be found.
Vos tantum currere in circulis donec te trinus.


Photograph of "Every Day Is Wednesday"

Found in 2012, as part of the Library-curated exhibition:

"Standing on the Shoulders of the Phoenix: Discovery and Rediscovery in Post-Millenial ReCreationist Anart"

Michael Petrakovich
Canadian, 1976-2043
Every Day Is Wednesday
2003-04
Blood, sweat, and fears on canvas;
Oils on juniper wood.
Donated to the Library by the artist.
The first piece produced by M. Petrakovich following his abandonment of the "shock and destroy" tactics of the art collective "Are We Cool Yet?", Every Day Is Wednesday is an important and breathtaking viewpoint into the artist's struggles to redefine himself as a member of the ReCreationist school of anart rather than as a Pseudo-Deconstructionist.
The references to the traditional style of surrealism are most pronounced in the usage of inks composed of blood samples from Picasso, Dalí, and Masson, combined with sweat from the artist himself. Petrakovich's use of synaesthetic effects is given full freedom here, with gustatory-tactile and auditory-proprioceptive responses most often reported. Also note the unique use of ocher and crimson in order to provoke the sensation of drunkenness, a cognitive effect Petrakovich used to great effect in later pieces.
The secondary and more infamous effect has been described by the artist as "fuck copyright" and consists of any indirect representations, including photography, video feed, hand-drawn sketches, clairvoyance, astral projection, and scrying, to only produce an altered copy of this descriptive plaque with the majority of the text replaced by the following phrase: "Suck it bitches. You got to see to believe."


Document found among the personal effects of D████ W█████, recovered during Operation PURPLE ENVELOPE

Dearest Aaron William Coolridge-Yates,
You're one of Doctor Wondertainment's absolute bestest customers, ordering more tubes of Realitastic Amaz-o-paint!™ and blocks of Incredi-sculpt Wonderclay™ than ANYONE!!! Doctor Wondertainment is so impressed by your dedication that you get to join a VERY SPECIAL CLUB! reserved for only the most special fans!
Included is your VERY OWN membership card for the "Doctor Wondertainment's Best Wonder-Pals Clubhouse™!" As a member, you get early access to some of Doctor Wondertainment's up-and-coming toys and games, as well as special offers only for Club Members!
But THAT'S NOT ALL!! You're also getting an early copy of Doctor Wondertainment's newest product: The Build-Your-Own Enormo-gantic Structural Creativity Playset™, part of the new line of Build-Your-Own toys, coming just in time for all winter holidays! It has everything, including plenty of Snap-Tite Super-Dowels™, a full bolt of Doctor Wondertainment's Carbon-nanoweave Ultra-fabric™, and THREE full-size Funderful Magnetocubes™!
And remember! Always have a funtastic time!
Your most joyful Wonder-Pal!
Doctor Wondertainment


Excerpt from the transcript of Prometheus Labs board meeting on [DATE REMOVED]

CEO, D. del Rey: "Now for the next piece of business: Dr. Wondertainment."
CFO, A. Anderson: "Oh lord, what debacle has R&D involved itself in now?"
VP of Research & Development, Dr. K. Prelambrian: "*ahem* We're about a month away from completing the reverse engineering of the additive supplements Wondertainment provides in those science kits, and we should be able to use them in production within three months-"
COO, F. Park: "Assuming it doesn't blow up in your faces, like the last four times you've tried reverse engineering those damn things. What were they? The candy we were going to use to eliminate blood pathogens? The robots we were going to get A.I. kernels out of?
VP R&D: "I am well aware of the less than outstanding results with regards to Wondertainment products, thank you. But as you well know, if we can adapt even one of their methods to our products, we could do, well, wonders."
CFO: "And in the meantime you're burning through easily 15% of the budget on those damnable things. After that little… incident last year, we don't have the resources to keep funding projects that aren't producing."
VP of Sales, J. Smith: "I don't have the exact numbers in front of me, but the market research department estimates that Wondertainment has sales in excess of thirty-seven million dollars per year. If we can adapt that into profit for us…"
CEO: "There's another wrinkle to this that came up earlier this week. Jennifer, if you would?"
VP of Legal Affairs, J. Wilkins, Esq.: "On Tuesday, we had a little message delivered to the production facility in Perth. Apparently we have a cease-and-desist from Wondertainment, in their usual delightful way. In short, if we don't stop trying to breach their trade secrets, they're going to sue us. Or as they so colorfully put it, 'get a visit from Mister Law-and-Order.' We already have enough trouble getting the production permits in Australia right now; the last thing we need is a major industrial espionage suit on our hands. I strongly recommend halting development on Wondertainment products."
VP R&D: "What?! NO! Do you have any idea how close-"
CEO: (interrupting) "Kumar, stop. You've already said your team is at least a month away from completion and frankly, we don't need another situation on our plate right now like what happened in Adelaide. I'm calling a formal vote to halt operations with regards to Wondertainment products and redirect resources to other product development. All in favor?"
CEO, COO, CFO, VP Legal: "Aye."
CEO: "All opposed?"
VP R&D, VP Sales: "Nay."
CEO: "The ayes have it. Kumar, wind down that unit as soon as possible. I want you to provide an update to me and Frank in two weeks. Next on the agenda, market penetration into Indochina."

End of excerpt.


"Oh my, hello!" exclaimed the secretary, her wide smile unwavering despite her surprise at the rather abrupt appearance of the stranger now standing before her. He looked very out of place here, his dark grey suit and hat clashing poorly with the colorful backdrop of the office, and his serious expression was definitely out of place. Didn't he know where he was? "What can I do for you, sir?"
"I'd like to take a look at your stock, if you don't mind," replied the stranger, his voice as stern and serious as his face. If the secretary didn't know any better, she would have said this odd man did not want to be here. "I understand you are the people to go to if one is looking for… interesting items."
The secretary practically leaped from her desk in excitement and clapped her hands together. It wasn't often they received visitors, and tours happened even less often than that. "Absolutely! I'd be more than happy to show you around! Follow me, please!" She gestured for the stranger to follow her. The stranger nodded and accompanied the secretary down the hall.
"We are very excited that you are interested in Doctor Wondertainment's products. As you are probably aware, Doctor Wondertainment has created many unique and interesting toys, all of which have come to find loving homes with children around the world. From the humble Super Paper to the grand Amaze-O Diving Tank, Doctor Wondertainment's products are guaranteed to put a smile on a child's face, or your money back!" The secretary laughed at her little "joke" as the stranger remained silent, showing no sign of interest or enthusiasm.
The secretary (who was now feeling rather uncomfortable with her guest) cleared her throat loudly, then asked, "So what sort of toy are you looking for? We have a wide variety of products that can create almost any kind of experience you're looking to give a young one close to you. For instance, if you know a little girl who has always wanted to be a princess, she'd absolutely love a Wondertainment Royal Kingdom Playset, where she can be the princess of her very own kingdom! Or, if you're shopping for a boy who loves exploring, give him a thrill with a Wondertainment Safariventu-"
"I'm not looking for an experience," the stranger interrupted, sounding rather annoyed at the secretary's nonstop sales pitch. "I'm looking for ideas, something that provides answers and set m- the one I'm shopping for on the right path. I don't know if you have anything like that, so if you do not please let me know now so we don't waste any more of each other's time."
Undeterred by the stranger's rude interruption, the secretary smiled as the pair came to an intersection in the hall. "I think we can accommodate your needs." The secretary looked down each of the three halls, paused, then began briskly walking down the left hall, still eager to hopefully unite this odd man with a toy that put a smile on his face. The hall was lined with plain wooden doors, each leading to a small white room, and a window next to each door to see inside.
The secretary paused, then started again on another sales pitch. "Here we have Doctor Wondertainment's newest line of Little Misters. From its outset, Doctor Wondertainment has striven to bring happiness to children, and the Little Misters series is the most ambitious attempt at doing so. Other products are designed as toys, inanimate things that can be picked up and put down on a whim. While Doctor Wondertainment's are the most whimsical toys in this or any other universe, it's a sad fact that they can't truly fulfill a child's needs in the long term. Companionship, trust, love, agency, acceptance… these are what children need to grow, to succeed and to attain lifetime happiness. This is where the Little Misters come in. Each of our Little Misters are designed to be the best friend of the child they accompany, while remaining fun and exciting. Through this, a child has an ally, someone to help find their path."
The secretary stopped next to a window, and the stranger peered inside. Sitting in the middle of the room was a dark mass of gas that was vaguely humanoid shaped, not moving even to breathe. "For example, this is Mister Miasma, who has the ability to possess any organism, living or otherwise, and make it his own. In doing this, Mister Miasma will always be able to be with his child in any situation," said the secretary. With no feedback coming from the stranger, the duo moved to the next window.
In this room was a man, dressed in all black and wearing face paint to look like a mime. The man appeared to be laughing raucously, pacing energetically from one corner of the room to another. "This is Mister Tears, who is able to make others feel sad with every word he says. While it may sound counterintuitive to make children feel bad, this actually teaches children that it is okay to be sad, and that everyone sheds tears, even adults," said the secretary, hoping that her makeshift explanation was enough to justify this Mister's existence to the stranger. Still getting no response, the secretary moved to the next window.
"And this is Mister Nobody."
The stranger snapped to attention, his interest fully piqued as he peered through the window. In this room sat another man, wearing no clothes but having no reproductive organs to cover up. His skin was pure white and he had no hair on his body. Relieved that she had finally found something that caught the strangers' attention, the secretary knocked on the door. Mister Nobody stood up from his chair and walked over to the window, allowing the stranger to get a good look at his face. The Mister's expressionless face was as white as the rest of his body, and his eyes had no color to them at all.
"Mister Nobody represents the ultimate friend: one without any previous life whatsoever. When children make friends, it's inevitable that somewhere along the line they make rifts between each other, gaps that are born out of each others differences. These rifts can often break friendships and leave children more alone than ever. Mister Nobody is the answer to this problem: he has no biases, no conflicting issues, no previous life whatsoever to speak of! Everything about him is designed to give him no identity whatsoever. This way, children can create their own identity for him, to mold him and create the perfect friend." The secretary smiled and looked at the stranger eagerly. She could tell this one was a winner. "Tell me; what are your thoughts about Mister Nobody, sir?"
The stranger looked at the secretary, paused, and looked back at Mister Nobody. Though his face held no expression whatsoever, the stranger could see sadness behind the blank eyes, an unknown yearning for that most basic right all living beings should possess. The stranger stared into that emptiness for a long time before responding. "I think this would be a horrible existence."
The secretary cocked her head to the side, confused. "I'm sorry?"
The stranger took a deep breath before continuing. "I think that having no identity whatsoever would be a horrible life to have. Can't you even begin to imagine what that's like? Being only given whatever identity that's assigned to you at any given moment, never truly knowing what it's like to be you, all because someone or something else said that you didn't exist? That would be utter hell! You could wander the world, experience many incredible and amazing things that few others could ever hope to see… and you would still be miserable because in the end you would still know that ultimately you are alone."
Taken aback by this sudden display of emotion, the secretary remained quiet for a moment before responding. Her voice shook as she tried to compose herself. "I- I think you may be overthinking Mister Nobody's situation, sir. After all, the point of Mister Nobody isn't that he doesn't have an identity, it's that he finds his identity. The moment he steps out into the world, he begins his quest to find out who he is, and he is helped by those around him. He won't always be this way, sir. Even if it takes him his entire life, Mister Nobody will find an identity of his own."
The stranger looked at the secretary, this time with a strange look on his face. It was as though the idea of finding one's identity was an alien concept to him. His expression softened slightly, and he grasped the secretary's hand, shaking it. "Thank you very much for your time, however I must be on my way." And with that, the stranger bolted down the hall.
The secretary ran after him, worried this man would get into trouble. "Sir! You must be accompanied at all times during the tour!" Eventually she reached the intersection, but there wasn't anyone down any of the halls. Sighing, the secretary walked back to her desk. If the stranger got into any more trouble now, it wasn't her fault.
Meanwhile, enclosed in his small white room, Mister Nobody sat as patiently as always. Though they didn't know it, he was able to hear every part of the conversation, and the strange man in the trench coat was right. It was lonely, being Mister Nobody. But the conversation sparked a new, foreign feeling in his mind, one he hadn't ever felt before. He didn't even have a name for it, but this feeling made him want to smile, and as he smiled he formed his very first independent thought. He repeated it to himself over and over and as he did the new feeling kept growing and growing. Finally, he spoke the words that inspired such strong feelings within him.
"I will not be a nobody forever."


Darkness, and then light. The mind crystallized, the web of gold filaments woven into spiraling pathways amidst the fluid blackness, shining spheres beading on the mesh.
Peace flowed, one thread to the next, one golden sphere to the next. They twisted and danced into their proper ordering. Each Blessing in turn was made right.
Highest?
One particular Blessing was proving an issue: it had become tangled in the webbing. Gently, gently, the knots loosened.
Highest?
One string snagged. Gently…gently…
Highest!
The web vanished. Lucrezen Lhivaen Battackan Chlolassouvin opened her opalescent eyes. Sight and hearing burst back into being. She uncrossed her legs and stood up, rising to her full nine feet. In a fit of improvisation, the Foundation had granted her an unused lecture hall to sleep and live in. She was thankful for that: at least now, when she was teaching or sleeping, she did not have to do so hunched over.
She gracefully walked to the door, her layers of intricately-woven robes swishing around her impossibly slender frame. Her grace hid her bubbling irritation. She knew the voice behind the door and thumping on it.
No, no, he would insist on ceremony. It was his way.
“Highest?”
Lucrezen sat on the first desk tier. It would do for a throne for now.
“You may enter, hand of the Empress.”
The door slid open, revealing the form of Sakarn Var Surten. The man took a few steps forward, eyes averted, before dropping prostrate to the floor.
“Ten thousand pardons, Highest. Your servant did not wish to interrupt your holy duties, but was forced to by matters beyond his control.”
“Speak.” Scrounging and begging, as usual. Lucrezen was reminded of how much she disliked it. Bow to the Empress, and the Empress alone. I am only her tool.
“The fools of the Black Court, Trighit and Pokum, have been found guilty of a heinous crime by our esteemed hosts, and are currently held by the Director of this site for treason. The Northworlder deems himself of importance to issue you command, and has requested your prescense.”
Exaggerations, most likely. Lucrezen deeply wished to remind Sakarn that the Black Court were likewise children of the Empress, but she knew he would have none of that. Feigned acceptance, until she was out of sight and earshot.
There was a sharp, pinching pain from the left side of her head. And there it was, the consequences of breaking meditation to listen to his groveling.
“I will speak with the director.” And now, time to get him out of the hair that she did not have. “And to you, my valued servant, I bestow to you a special duty. There is an item of some note, which our hosts have provided us access. I have arranged you and your manservant to observe this place. It is of great interest to me.”
“Of course, Highest. I am your humble servant. Your will is mine.”
“Go then. Speak with Doctor Hanakawa. Blessings of the Empress upon you and your house.”
“And upon your ancestors and line to come.” Sakarn stood up, head still bowed, and shuffled out of the room.
Lucrezen stood up, rubbing at the side of her head with a single, white-gold finger.
Once again, she was reminded why she much rather preferred dealing with children. They were much more honest, with their gapped-teeth and scuffed-knees.
—
Lucrezen sat cross-legged on the floor, still tall enough to be on eye-level with the dour-faced man across the desk. Trighit, fat and round, sat on her right. Pokum, smaller with patches of brown in his fur, sat on her left. Both had heads hung in shamed silence.
She had almost mentioned how much the Director looked like one of her sons. The same jawline, the same eyes.
Ahgh, her headache was clouding her judgment with discomfort. She needed to finish her meditations.
She inhaled deeply, trying to calm the pain and collect her mind. Trighit was a fool: that was common knowledge. But he was the Empress' fool. And a fool of the Empress was still under her care. At least he didn't grovel: the Black Court was the Empress' court of fools and jesters, dancing under the moons of the long night where there was no caste. Everyone was family in the Black Court.
She set the sheaf of papers down on the desk.
“According to your documentation of the creatures, they are harmless until the shell is broken, generally through consumption.” Her voice was clear, clipped, bearing neither Imperial accent nor Northworld inflection. Such was the Blessing of Tongues. “Theodore Lawrence consumed a specimen before a warning was able to be issued. This was an unfortunate accident caused by a careless fool, Director. Not an act of malice.”
“Your researcher flagrantly broke containment, resulting in the death of a Foundation agent.”
“A truth, but it must be said that the specimens were adequately contained.”
“A glass bottle is not adequate.”
“So long as they are unbroken, they are not dangerous. Granted, Trighit's inevitable experimentation on the eggs would result in breaking of the shell, and such an event would be clearly his total responsibility. But, as it stands, I find deportation unnecessary, Director. Simple revocation of access to items and area restrictions will be sufficient.”
The Director scowled, looking even more than ever like Irdi. He was around the same age, too.
“I will be honest, here: I am not impressed with your researchers.”
“'What the Empress gives, one receives without complaint.' It is a lesson we teach to our children, Director. We are who you have been given, be it good or ill. It is up to you to deal with them. Will you throw it away, or make good out of it? These two have committed a grievous fault, I will not deny that, but in circumstances such as these, there is a place for forgiveness.”
The director was quiet for some time.
“Very well. These two are to be confined to the residential wing until further notice."
—
"Ten thousand thanks, Sister." Trighit said, watching the guards walk down the hall to escort him and Pokum to their room. "I don't think I could have lived with the shame of returning empty-handed."
"Keep your hands on what you are supposed to from now on. Have you provided a funerary writ to the man's wife or mother yet?"
"As far as I know, he has neither. They cut their ties when they walk through the doors."
A memory flashed in Lucrezen's vision alongside another pulse of pain, a small girl with braided hair, standing in front of a two magnificent gild doors, engraved with the image of the First Empress, striking down Sanak Thiuh, surrounded by a circle of the First Watchers, their hands raised in supplication. Her cheeks were stained with tears, but she had to be strong, for the Empress had chosen her.
"A pity."
"Aye."
Lucrezen lingered in the hallway for a moment after the guards had taken them down the hall. She walked in the opposite direction, bowed and bent. She had meditations to finish, and a lecture to prepare.

« Hub »


A decoration of sorts. First thing I saw at the facility.

Tyhjä fidgeted. Everything here made him feel uncomfortable for some reason, maybe it was the simplicity of the unadorned, unremarkable buildings, maybe it was the feel of the ground that seemed almost too hollow, maybe it was the language that he had needed to learn…
He had spent hours rehearsing conversations in his head before the journey here, carefully practicing the pronunciation and making an effort to pack plainer, dully-colored clothes. More than anything, Tyhjä hated feeling uncomfortable in the presence of others, but nevertheless it seemed he was constantly embarrassing himself here.
Just now, he had been so relieved to see a decorative item inside the building that he had blurted with reckless abandon something inane about how nice it was even though it was just a vase of flowers, and probably imitation flowers, at that. His guide had looked at him oddly, thanked him politely, and continued on towards whatever interesting specimen Tyhjä had been assigned to take a look at.
All the while, Tyhjä wished he could just melt into the floor and disappear. It was enough that everyone looked and acted so different; still he stood out so much that sometimes the people here would turn away, would whisper to themselves about him, his companions, their tasks, their work. Antarctica. Empire. Emissaries. Secrets. Antarctica.
He could both hear and understand them, but he wasn't sure if he should let them know.

This is “408”. It's confusing. I wonder what other things it can turn into. More later.

Tyhjä squinted at the green, no, gray mass of butterflies, and attempted once more to draw a rough outline of their wings. He looked at his notebook quickly to make sure he wouldn't run out of space, and when he looked back there was some sort of furry gray creature sitting in the midst of the fluttering insects.
He blinked, then tried sketching it as well. It was eating something vaguely oval-shaped.
The door to the aviary opened, and Tyhjä turned to see who had entered. It was a female human, holding a large container of a clear liquid. The person looked at him, raised one hand and moved it side to side in greeting, and proceeded to pour the liquid into waiting receptacles, which were soon swarmed by shimmering wings.
Looking back towards the gray creatures, Tyhjä realized that a tree had somehow sprouted in the middle of the aviary without him noticing. Confused, he instinctively began drawing the outline of the trunk as the human finished filling the feeding containers.
“Hello, erm, Tai-ja? Dr. Kiryu would like to meet you.”
Tyhjä looked up. That wasn't how his name was pronounced, but the human was smiling, if a little nervously, and gesturing towards the door. Most of the humans he met didn't pay him much attention, they just walked by and let him sketch, sometimes still talking as if he wasn't there. Tyhjä looked back at the tree, which was now gone. The human laughed. “They do that. You're new, and sometimes they like playing tricks on people.”
“…I see. Where can I find this doctor?” Tyhjä began packing up his drawing materials as the woman opened the door.
The researcher led Tyhjä through a confusing series of hallways (they all looked alike, were all lit alike, and even almost all sounded alike, it was disorienting) to a door that seemed quite like the other hundred or so he must have passed. “He's running some experiments there, feel free to wait inside, just make sure you don't touch anything.” She smiled, patted Tyhjä on the shoulder, and walked off.

So many different glass objects.

“Don't touch tha—oh. Hello.”
Tyhjä flinched slightly, and abandoned his drawing of a series of strange glass objects, some containing oddly-colored liquids. His eyes met those of a man wearing a long white coat and an expression that seemed to be a mix of curiosity and surprise.
“Dr. Mark Kiryu, pleased to meet you.” The man removed some sort of plastic covering from his hands, then extended one hand to Tyhjä, who for a moment stared at it and then quickly shook it. “I'm Tyhjä, from…”
“Antarctica, right? My sister mentioned you.” Kiryu busied himself carrying away the tray of glassware Tyhjä had been drawing.
“Sister?” Tyhjä wondered out loud.
“She's seen you a few times today, yes.” Kiryu dragged a chair with wheels on its legs from somewhere and sat on it, looking speculatively at Tyhjä. The artist avoided the doctor's gaze, staring at the too clean, too plain floor.
Kiryu cleared his throat. “Homesick?” Tyhjä looked up, shrugged, and nodded faintly. The doctor smiled. “Sometimes all we need is a quick meal to cheer us up.”

They call this “348”. It is a good cook.

“Here we are. I hope you don't mind eating in a testing room? I'm afraid it's the only available place, at the moment.” Kiryu led Tyhjä to a small, bare room, furnished with only a table and chair, both made of some stark white material. The doctor was carrying a sizeable bowl, empty, and a metal utensil, a spoon, Tyhjä noted.
“I don't mind. I prefer quiet places.” Tyhjä stated, glancing around.
Kiryu chuckled, then his eyes went wide. “Spider!” he shouted, and stomped on Tyhjä's foot.
Tyhjä muffled a cry of pain and staggered backwards slightly. Had he said something wrong?  Was that some sort of obscure human joke?
The doctor glanced wildly around the room. “Oh, I'm sorry. Um, spiders… they're little creatures that sometimes bite people. The dangerous ones can be poisonous. I thought I saw one. Is your foot alright?”
Lifting the foot in question gingerly, Tyhjä nodded. “It stings a little, but I think I'll be fine.”
The doctor had placed the bowl and spoon on the table. “Good, good… well, there you go! Just leave these in the room when you're finished. Oh, and if you don't mind, I'd appreciate knowing what sort of meal it prepared for you… I'll be waiting outside.” Kiryu smiled, then closed the door.
Tyhjä was perplexed. How could he eat from an empty bowl? He walked towards the table, then took a few steps back.
The bowl wasn't empty. It was filled with a clear, golden broth that smelled of sea salt and starchy roots, of Antarctic fish and Antarctic spices. Tyhjä sat down, picked up the spoon, prodded the soup with it. Real. Definitely real. Even though the only one who could have possibly made this soup was far, far away, was the one who sent Tyhjä and his sister off alone to train their skills when they were barely grown.
How did it…? Wary though he was of such an odd miracle occurring, Tyhjä couldn't help but feel calmed by the nostalgic scent he remembered from his early childhood. It brought back countless memories. He hesitated, took out his notebook, and drew a quick outline of the bowl and the soup, then finished the entire bowl in a few gulps, spoon completely forgotten.

Alai says this looks weird. She told me to write that.

Tyhjä finally found a quiet place to sit by himself, a little courtyard in the center of a building used for animal research, so he was told. There were benches and a few trees there, and moreover, several birds that came and went.
With a sigh of relief, Tyhjä withdrew his notebook and a writing stylus from the satchel he carried with him. Opening to a new page, he followed the path of a bird in flight, beginning to draw as he watched. To be truthful, the creatures were almost too small to be called birds by Imperial standards.
It was pleasant, though. Such a tiny little being was a welcome change of subject from the fierce, winged predators with cruelly hooked talons Tyhjä was accustomed to seeing. It was fascinating to watch these different birds fly, as well as comforting to know that the little chirping things would not attempt to attack him and rip out his innards should he get too close.
Tyhjä suddenly felt a slight weight pressing on his head, and he realized that one of the little dark brown birds had landed on him. Tyhjä resumed sketching, and the bird resumed sitting on his shaggy hair, occasionally chirping out a query to its friends sitting on the trees. Tyhjä allowed himself a small smile. The birds at home never sang.
Suddenly the bird flew off. Tyhjä frowned, watching it arc through the air and into the sky. He wondered if something had startled it.
At the sound of footsteps, Tyhjä looked over his shoulder and nearly fell off his bench.
Someone standing right next to him was looking intently at him, no, his notebook, and that someone was dressed in such bright colors that Tyhjä could've sworn his eyes started burning. He had seen her before, he thought dazedly. The one who liked asking questions. He blinked a few times, attempting to edge away slightly without seeming rude, and he noticed his sister sheepishly leaning against a nearby wall.
“…Sister. Who is this?” Tyhjä managed, slightly shaken.
“Apologies if we bothered you, Tyhjä. I met Alai in the library, and it was such a lovely day outside that I thought that it would be a shame if we didn't take the opportunity to read out in the sunlight…”
Tyhjä wasn't particularly reassured by the explanation, seeing as Alai was still standing too close and he had been rather engrossed in his observation of the bird and why wasn't she just saying something so he could ask her to maybe give him some space—
“What's that?” Alai pointed to the sketch he had been working on.
“…a bird…” Tyhjä mumbled.
Alai cocked her head slightly, scrutinizing the simple sketch. “It doesn't even have teeth!”
Tyhjä pointed at a tree close by, where one of the little feathery brown creatures appeared to be regarding Alai with some interest. She looked suspiciously at it. “Do you know anything about these birds? Do they like bright colors? If you get too close, do they bite?”
“They seem rather harmless, so I don't believe they bite.” Tyhjä cast a quick panicked glance towards his sister, but Clear Evening only smiled, apparently happy Tyhjä had found a friend to talk to. Sister why are you doing this to me Sister help me—
“What do you think of this place so far?” Alai smiled, setting down the armful of books she was carrying.
“I like it well enough, thank you.” Tyhjä stood up, intending to find another (quieter) place to stay. “Alai, Sister, if you'll pardon my leaving, I'd like to find some different birds to observe.” He inclined his head slightly to the two of them, and then padded away towards the door leading back into the facility.
“Tyhjä, you'll tell me more about these birds later, won't you?” Alai's cheerful voice followed Tyhjä as he made his escape.
Though he didn't like to admit it, he did feel slightly guilty for just running off like that; he would've liked to talk more about birds with Alai, perhaps, and maybe he'd mention the other things he'd seen and heard about from the scientists, but then his sister hadn't helped him out much, usually it was she who was there in case he slipped up during conversation, and he wished he could be as excited as Alai was about everything, but—
Empress help him, he needed to lie down.

«  Hub »


Jarnary 20, 708

This is the bitterest winter I can recall. I fear that I will not be able to make it back through the pass before the snows close it. I can still turn back; Redmont is four days behind me. But if I do, I will not reach Rachel and Abe until the thaw. I have supplies for the journey, and the mule is sturdy. I will press on.

Jarnary 21, 708

The snow has started in earnest. I don't know if the pass will still be open. It would be incautious to try it at this point. There should be a way to the south, but that passes near an area declared blighted by the Holy Foundation. I don't always trust them on that sort of thing. Most times I've had to ignore their warnings, any peril has long since rusted, decayed, or departed. They are nothing if not cautious. I do not have that luxury. I will take the southern road. I've known it to be traveled without incident, but never the mountain road after winter strikes. I'd rather skirt a forgotten and (Jack willing) absent menace than face the certainty of an icy death.

Jarnary 23, 708

The road is in poor condition, but I'm making good time, I think. This takes me between rather than over the mountains. I should have ample supplies, even if the weather does delay me. I should be a three to five day journey from Gargestown, and from there, it's only the highways back to New Sant.

Jarnary 24, 708

I seem to have entered the region the Foundation Fathers warned of. I am safe, and I see no obvious dangers, but this is a terrible place. There is no life here, nor signs that there ever was. No pikas scurry away as I ride past, no trees jut up from the ground. Even the snow does not cling to the ground here, which is warm to the touch. In the silence, I can hear a distant rumbling noise, and I see an immense shadow looming over the mountains to the east. I do not know what it is, but I will not breathe easy until I pass beyond its still and oppressive presence. Those mountains are similarly scoured of snow and life. To the west and north, the snow fields start again. The road still heads south, and I can only hope I will leave this dead land soon. Should tragedy befall me during the night, and this diary is ever found, then let be known that I loved my dear wife Rachel Arnold and our child Abraham Arnold more than life itself.

Jarnary 25, 708

Last night passed without incident, although also without much sleep. The barrenness grows no less unsettling with continued exposure. Fortunately, I believe I see the reflection of snow in the distance, and I should make it past this blighted land tomorrow. But I found two curious things along the road. Manuscripts: one a single sheet of vellum, the other a bound book written in the language of the ancients. Though the book would likely fetch an impressive price, I left it. I've seen enough to know better than to disturb anything in a place like this. I could read the paper, and have here transcribed the message: “Traveler, fear not. Accept salvation, no matter the form. I was once as you are.” A rather ominous message, but it is too late at night, and the mule is too tired, to carry on to the snowline. Once again, I give all my love to Rachel and Abe.

Jarnary 26, 708

The mule is gone. I don't know what happened, but I woke up and it wasn't there. I imagine I would have been woken by a struggle. There were patches of fur and and what might have been blood on the ground. I don't know why I wasn't taken. Perhaps a mule is meal enough for whatever malevolence dwells here. The supplies were also left untouched. I will proceed on foot for as long as I am able. I am so sorry. I only wanted to see you sooner.

Jarnary 27, 708

I have reached the edge of the snowline and I fear my journey may become somewhat harder now. I had not appreciated the amount of snow that fell during my passage through this cursed land. I will make camp here one final night, then set out for what will likely be the final stage of my journey.

Jarnary 28, 708

O horrors! Whatever the true nature of that place, it was worse than I had feared. The mule returned. I awoke to find a figure near the edge of my camp. It was unmistakably the mule, but terribly, grotesquely altered. It stood on two legs, with cylindrical devices supporting it in a mockery of human stature. Metal bands held its torso in a state that its ribs ought to have rendered impossible. Whatever did this must have removed those ribs, as the hide around the bands looked torn and matted with blood. There was a reddish light glowing from inside its collapsed chest. And its face! The long ears were snipped off, and its muzzle itself had been removed and replaced with a polished metal plate. The thing that had once been my trusty mule was no longer. I ran. Off into the snow, carrying only what I had brought with me. It is cold, and I do not expect to make it, but there are things I fear more than death. Worst of all was the way it looked at me. I expected pain, the pleading gaze animals assume as death becomes a mercy. But it had a tenderness in its eyes like I have only ever seen in yours, Rachel.

Jarnary 29, 708

It is very cold. I do not have much food. I am beyond the reach of that dead and barren land, but I have emerged into another. The snowfields stretch as far the eye can see in all directions. I will travel as far as I can.

Jarnary 29, 708

I have to stop just for a minute. The only thing but snow is my tracks behind me. The world is white and there is no sound.

Jarnary 30

I can't feel the cold. Is that bad? It's gray now. I also can't smell anything, unless snow smells like nothing. There's nothing here.

Jarnary 31?

Abe, was that you I saw climbing the mountain in the distance? For shame, boy, not helping your father move faster through the gray land. I will continue as far as I am able. I smell the nothing. It is all around me.

32?

I had to stop again and, I ran into the cold again. I asked it for my eyes back but it said no. I think I didn't ask it very nicely, because it said it would have my leg too for impudence. I don't think that's very fair. I've given seeing hearing smelling tasting to the gray nothing. I want feeling for me.

33

Now cut that out! You know I love you, so accept my help. I've made everything just the way you like it. So come to me, Abe, and I'll keep you safe like any father ought to do. You're a great son, boy. You'll do me proud. If I could walk over to you up in the sky it would be fine. But the nothing tells me I may not walk that path.

34

I have to stop for just a minute.

Febry 2?

I do not know how long I was gone for, nor how close to death I came. I did not escape unscathed — far from it. It is hard to grip the pen, and my right leg does not feel to the touch like a leg should. I have not yet tried to put my weight on it, but I do not have high hopes. The greater issue, however, is what my fate will be. My rescuer was the thing that was once my mule. I have been returned to the blighted land. It stands before me, as horrible as before, looking at me with that same awful kindness. And it appears to be offering me food.

Gruel, but surprisingly appetizing. Or perhaps that is simply hunger speaking. Why was I saved? Was it some lingering loyalty from my pack animal of four years? Or is whatever rules this place saving me for some more sinister agenda? For some reason, my wagon is nearby, standing just inside the snowline. More figures are approaching. I cannot quite tell from this distance, but they do not look human.

One is a butchered elk, resembling the once-mule. Another appears more metal than flesh; I do not know what it once was. The last appears to be a mass of several dozen ground squirrels, grafted together by silvery bands into a crude simulacrum of the human form. It is hard to look at without a wrench of nausea. Between them they bear a palanquin. They stop a short distance away, and my rescuer gestures between the cart and the palanquin, then between the snow fields to the south and the mountains to the east. It is a choice. I can either brave the snowfields once more or allow these things to bear me to their hidden master. Forgive me, Rachel. You cannot imagine what it was like out there. I cannot face the gray nothing again.

We have just reached the summit of this barren mountain, and I can see clearly what loomed over them. It is a tower, a massive, gleaming tower stretching higher than I can believe. Around the base, there is a forge-glow. I do not know what these things intend, but I fear I may have chosen poorly. The palanquin has begun its descent into this hellish valley. If I am able, I will continue to relate what may befall me within.

Day One

It is marvelous up here. I can see for miles, and the air is so clear and brisk. And when I have my fill of the vista, I can walk down inside the Tower to join the others of the Honored. No sleep-stalkers, no dybbuks, no fleshsmiths can threaten me here. The cold of this winter can do me no harm. I will not starve, I will not parch, I will not want for anything. There is no trick, there is no hidden peril. Push past the appearance of the Servants. Accept salvation, no matter the form. Come join me, my family. I cast my testament to the winds, in the hopes that it will reach you. I love you, and so does the Tower.


LTE-3503-Silver
KTE-1027-Grey
Field Operative SK-107

Threat ID: LTE-3503-Silver ("Vector")
Authorized Response Level: N/A (Confirmed Destroyed, File Archived)
Description: Subject was a human female of mixed European descent. Aside from deviations from normal listed below, subject was in all other aspects a baseline-normal human. Although no verifiable personal identification was found on the subject at the time of death, circumstantial evidence indicates that she was an American of approximately 19 years of age.
Subject was a "Type Silver" infectious hazard, limited to organisms of single-cell or simpler complexity. Subject possessed immunity to all forms of bacterial and viral infections, as well as the ability to extract bacteria and viruses from infected individuals and cultivate any such organism capable of infecting a human being within her own body. Subject also possessed the ability to deliver said infectious agents to other individuals by airborne aerosol distribution.
At the time of liquidation, subject was host to over one thousand infectious agents, including Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV), several dozen strains of influenza, as well as several instances of E. coli and bubonic plague.
Liquidation: Subject was first encountered in mainland China during a SARS epidemic, where she was seen passing through quarantine wards engaging in close contact with an infected individual. Individual was categorized as a Level 0 person of interest when the aforementioned infectee later recovered from their illness at an unusually rapid pace.
Subject was later encountered in Africa during an outbreak of Ebola "Zaire." Again, subject was seen engaging in close contact with an infected individual who later recovered from what is normally a fatal stage of Ebola infection. GOC Assessment Team "Jellybean" made initial contact with the subject at her hotel room in Johannesburg, South Africa. Subject then caused the death of team leader "Cotton" by rapid-onset necrotizing fasciitis, at which point the remaining team members fired upon the subject with their sidearms, terminating her life.
Subject's hotel room was declared a Level 4 Biohazard threat, and a WHO rapid-response team was dispatched to secure and sterilize the area. Further investigation of the subject's belongings revealed a personal manifesto, the text of which is reproduced below. It is believed that the manifesto was intended to be released after a planned release of the subject's infectious payload in an unknown city in Germany.
As no verifiable personal information was found on the subject at the time of her death, no Information Control measures are required. The case file was closed on █/█/██.
Appendix 1: Text of Personal Manifesto

Dear Fat Cats, Assholes, Sheeple, and Oligarchs,
You see now what one angry girl can do, right? You see now what happens when an entire country forgets about the things they did? Six million Jewish lives scream out for vengeance, and Germany lives on, fat and happy, drinking the blood of the children they killed. Not today. Today those Nazi fascists have gotten a taste of their own medicine. And you're next.
You can't stop me. You can't control me. I'm everyone and everything. If you don't do what I say, Germany is going to just be the start. There's only one way to prevent it: STOP ACTING LIKE ASSHOLES AND START GIVING A SHIT.
1. There are too many poor people in the world living on stale rice and muddy water while fat rich bitches throw away half their mongolian barbecue trays at the food court at the mall. This has to stop. No one should be hungry, and the rich fucks need to be dragged out into the street and hanged.
2. What did whales ever do to those Japanese assholes anyway? If the Japanese CANNIBALS don't stop MASSACREING THE WHALES, then Tokyo's going to think a nuclear bomb got dropped on it AGAIN.
3. STOP THE GLOBAL WARMING NOW. Why should oil companies profit off of the SLOW STRANGULATION OF OUR MOTHER EARTH? No one needs a car anyway. BAN GREENHOUSE GASSES RIGHT NOW OR YOU'RE GOING TO SEE WHAT IT REALLY LOOKS LIKE WHEN YOU CAN'T BREATHE AND THE TEMPERATURE RISES.
None of this is hard. All it requires is that you give a FUCKING SHIT and stop acting like a TOTAL ASSHOLE to each other.
I'm watching you. And I'm waiting.
VECTOR.

The document was signed with a crudely hand-drawn picture of a biohazard symbol.

Threat ID: KTE-1027-Grey "Skulljumper"
Authorized Response Level: 3 (Moderate Threat)
Description: Organism closely resembles a human Central Nervous System (CNS) adapted to survival outside of a human body. Organism consists of a brain, spinal cord, nervous system, and associated visual and auditory sensory inputs. Deviations from baseline human normal include a thickened myelin sheathing, and full-length glial coatings, permeable to neurotransmitter compounds. Organism seems to rely on these neurotransmitter compounds for survival: feeding is accomplished by close contact, through a process similar to osmosis. Prolonged parasitism will result in the death of the host due to asphyxiation and disruption of bodily functions.
Reproduction is carried out through a process similar to budding: upon encountering a deceased human central nervous system of sufficient integrity, organism will deliver a modified dopamine compound and 150 millivolt electrical charge to the brain through the auditory canal. The nervous system will then detach itself from the host body, forming a new instance of KTE-1027-Grey.
Rules of Engagement: Instances of KTE-1027-Grey are to be terminated by gunfire: close contact is not recommended. Although not particularly fast, the organism has been observed attacking from ambush. On at least one instance, a GOC Strike Team member was infected by an instance of this organism, and turned upon his fellow team members, resulting in multiple casualties.
Instances of KTE-1027-Grey feeding upon a host body are more problematic. Due to the close proximity to the human host, termination by gunfire without injuring or killing the host body can often prove impossible. GOC Directive 1027-Grey-Alpha requires that GOC operatives prioritize termination of the organism over the survival of the host body: Third Mission (Protection) concerns being trumped by First and Second Mission (Survival and Concealment) requirements.
In the case of a widespread outbreak, the use of neurological toxins has been proven effective. As this would require an escalation of Response Level from 3 (Moderate) to Response Level 4 (Severe), operatives should obtain permission from higher authority before carrying out a plan utilizing said nerve agents. Operatives are, of course, expected to take any measures necessary in an emergency, but should expect their actions to be reviewed by a Court of Inquiry.

PERSONNEL FILE: FIELD OPERATIVE SK-107 (Retired)
Code Name: "Snapshot"
GOC Serial Number: 447-2109-Exeter-Manchester-Spade
Service Record

2006: Recruited into the Global Occult Coalition through the Special Assets Directive.
2007: Refused transfer to United States Special Operations program "Pandora's Box." Upon completion of Level 1 training, fast-tracked to Special Circumstances.
2008: Completed Level 2 training, assigned to Special Agent Masipag as a part of Special Circumstances Team "Kodiak."
2009: Involved in incident surrounding defense of GOC safehouse "Warlock" from LTE-1810-Casper. Received commendation for saving the lives of several GOC operatives.
2011: Retired from full-time service. Placed on Reserve List.
Currently serving as a freelance Special Circumstances agent. Civilian identity is that of a freelance portrait and landscape photographer. Classified as Response Level 0: Evaluations by a GOC handler should be carried out on a quarterly basis.

Skills Assessment

Basic Skills Training in standard firearms array (pistol, shotgun, scoped and unscoped rifle, submachinegun, light machine gun).
Completed Tier One management training.
Completed Tier Two infiltration and human intelligence training.

Alterations and Talents

Possesses the unusual ability to see through photographs, viewing the location photographed in real time, and to manipulate objects within the photograph's reach. Research into the nature of this ability is ongoing, but appears to be a low-level Type Green (Reality Manipulation) effect.

Notable Kills

None

Addenda: Recommendation of Deactivation With Honor by Personnel Director "Ukelele"

Agent "Snapshot" has served with distinction and honor for over four years. However, in recent months, the demands of field duty have caused increased stress and psychological difficulties, particularly around the issue of taking human life, which Agent Snapshot appears incapable of doing. It is estimated that a psychological breakdown may occur within the next two years.
In the interests of preserving a useful asset to the Coalition, it is my recommendation that Agent Snapshot be removed from active service from Special Circumstances and placed in Reserves. Agent Snapshot has agreed to serve the Global Occult Coalition on a freelance basis, should any circumstances arise that require her special talents.
On a more personal note: I have had the opportunity to observe Agent Snapshot in action several times over the past few years. Her courage and dedication to the Global Occult Coalition has never been in doubt. I wish Agent Snapshot the best of luck in her new life, and wish her happiness and peace.
- Director "Ukelele"


Written by Wilt

0855, 9/18/19██ - Command Site-206 receives a transmission from SCPS Jonah. SCPS Jonah, formerly USS ████████, had recently been sent to the █████ █████████ archipelago with MTF Gamma-6 to investigate unusual phenomena around the area.

Ɣ6-0204: This is ████ ███████ of Mobile Task Force Gamma-6, designation 0204, sending from SCPS Jonah. We think we've discovered the nature of the anomaly.
Operator: This is Command Site-206. What's the nature of your discovery, ███████?
Ɣ6-0204: Well, we have a doctor here, a Dr. ████████, who says the islands, uh, moved.
Operator: Repeat that?
Ɣ6-0204: Command, they moved. A whole three kilometers. Dr. ████████ thought it might have just been some weird continental drift or something - the islands get tremors pretty frequently - but we went and did a full reconnaissance of the islands. We're pretty sure we know what happened.

Operator: And?

Ɣ6-0204: The islands aren't rock, Command. They're organic. Like, alive.

Operator: What exactly do you mean by that?
Ɣ6-0204: Alive, sir. We had a few people dive down and check the rock below. It's the same as low as we can go. We, uh, we think it's on top of something.
Operator: Stand by.
Ɣ6-0204: Roger.
Dr. ████: Gamma-6, this is Dr. ████. I've been told of the nature of your discovery. Resources are now en route to your position. Very specialized resources, with specialized equipment and specialized personnel.
Ɣ6-0204: Dr. ████, we still have men out on the islands. We're armed with researchers. We're fully capable of continuing investigation.
Dr. ████: Gamma-6, your assignment is, as of now, to maintain current position and await further orders. Please retrieve your team on the islands and wait for the arrival of SCPS Guardian. That is all.
Ɣ6-0204: Yes, sir.

« Eden | HUB | Shadow In The Wake »


Written by Wilt
I am dying.
Long ago did I know this; I had begun to slow in my age, and many times I would feel an aching that ran rampant within my core. My mind would wander and become hazy. Great periods of time would lapse without my knowing. I would travel between the points of light in what seemed to be a matter of minutes, when I knew that truly it had been longer. I was becoming old, an honor my kind hold very dear to them. With my end would come new beginnings. This would give my life meaning.
I did not want to die. I do not believe any do - to be robbed from the sights of all things for the purpose of others seemed, to me, an honor I did not want to have. I was content with my life in the expanse. I enjoyed encountering new places and beings, each with their own stories. I was content with this, but my body was not. It was prepared to leave me, whether my mind was ready to part with it or not.
Despite what I felt, I knew it was time to find a place to lie. I was a bumbling elder. My presence would serve only as a hindrance to my kind and their own journeys through the expanse. As is customary of my kind, I would find a plane to lie, and I would lie there until my time had passed. Only then would new beginnings come from my end, and I knew I would be a blessing upon the plane I perished in.
I looked for some time, perhaps longer than most of my kind. While I was giving up the adventures that came with traveling the expanse, I did not want to spend my end staring into a plane of death and desolation. My time was spent searching for a land that would be beautiful; one that would provide much entertainment for my burden and I once my time had come. I sought new experiences that would unfold before my eyes. But it was a difficult journey, and I did not believe that I would find a place for my end. I closed my eyes, and hoped for my future.
When my eyes had opened again, I was somewhere new. Time had once again passed without my control, and I was in a new cluster of planes, full of many intriguing but dead territories. I passed by two massive planes of wind and color, both equally beautiful and marvelous, but unsuitable for myself or my burden. I passed through a field of debris, occasionally bouncing off my exterior in a painful but unavoidable path of rotation. I passed a plane of rich red, and with the lines I knew life had once been here. I wept for the beauty that was lost there, in a time long before my presence.
That was when I saw it - a plane of rich blues, greens, and tans, with wisps of white floating around in a shifting cocoon of movement. This land was full of many lives, and what I knew would be many great experiences. This would be my horizon until my end, and would the home of my burden. This place would grow around me as I withered within it, and I knew that my presence would be one of great significance to those who lived here. I had found my land, and gently did I make my descent into the blue.
Later I would learn the natives would one day call this place Earth. I was fond of this name, and I knew that my burden would be, too, when their time had come.

A rumble within me brings my mind out of history long-passed. The darkness before my eyes is still, and the ringing in my ears reminds me that my time is nearing.

Bells rang throughout the city, alerting the citizenry that it was time. The streets quickly filled with Tentaboins, each heading towards the Announcement Hall. Two Castmen finished dressing the stage with the rich blues of ulcarans as a crowd began to form. The expectant peoples paced quickly through the city, the pitter-patter of their steps and the echo of their voices resounding through every building and alleyway. Through every arch way and down every stone-lined street they marched towards the Hall, a procession of many legs and voices.
The crowd grew in size outside, the collective murmurs filling the air. An assembly had been called today by none other than City Head Hervult himself. Presence was mandatory, an honor bestowed only for days of worship. As armed forces patrolled the streets, checking each house for anybody bold or blasphemous enough to skip, those in the crowd began to wonder at the significance of the assembly. Each face was pointed towards the looming Announcement Hall and its accompanying empty podium. A Castman had told them the announcement would be soon. This was an hour ago, and the crowd had grown anxious. Some whispered it was a call for war with the city of Hirakeroek, in the neighboring cavern. Others thought it was of religious significance: that the Great Deliverance was upon them.
Only one man this day knew the truth. Diviner and Castman Anzak stood inside, nervously glancing at the crowd from a window. He knew the news he held was blasphemy. He knew the crowd would panic. He would have, too, had he been out there. He hardly believed in his own news, and he desperately wished it wasn't true, but the facts didn't lie. Anzak knew that. And he hated it.
He was nervously double-checking his notes and his speech when he heard City Head Astair take to the podium. A hush fell over the crowd as he towered over them. He, too, was anxious to hear the announcement. His Graciousness Diviner Artem had sent word to the City Head, the call for the announcement scribed in rich, waxy velvet and porous whitestone - such luxuries only saved for the most significant of matters.
City Head Hervult cleared his throat, smiled broadly, and began to speak to the crowd. "My fellow citizens of Tentaboe, I call you here on this most important of days. His Graciousness Diviner Artem has sent a caravan of holymen here today, and to all connecting cities and caverns, to share this news." He turned toward the Announcement Hall, and all eyes followed his.
"Diviner Anzak, if you'd please join me on the stage?"

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