"You're joking," Alison said. She addressed a chubby, sexless doll that sat in the middle of a circle formed of salt and iron filings. Its plastic face remained stuck in a permanently coy smile.
"You're joking," she repeated. "Tell me you're joking." She spoke above her normal voice to be heard over the soft patter of rain on the metal roof.
"I don't joke, black-haired girl," the doll replied. Its voice was greasy and thick, like old motor oil. As it spoke through an unmoving mouth, a viscous black substance began to well in its eyes. "Especially not when bound in a form such as this."
The doll lifted a pudgy plastic arm and tried to sweep it around the interior of the circle. Instead, its whole body turned slightly. Two drops of the black substance collided with an invisible barrier just above the circle and sizzled fiercely. Alison started.
Alison felt a sharp stab of irritation run through her chest. She held her tongue and collected her thoughts. When she began to speak, she did it slowly, being sure to choose her words carefully. "Diligem, Spirit of the Five Wastes, I have bound you, and now command you to speak the truth: Where is the nearest Way to the One True Library that I can access?"
"It is as I have said: behind the dumpster in the rear of the Pollensbee, Ohio Denny's." The substance began to gather in a pair of thick drops at the bottom of the doll's face. Alison scribbled down the address, not taking her eyes from the doll.
"Is there anyone guarding the entry to the Way? Is there any manner in which I might be accosted? What must I do to access it?"
"No, and no. The last use of the Way was in 1987. No human currently alive and in this world knows of its existence. To access it, you must simply release a caged magpie at the spot where the worlds meet." The drops were growing fat, and looked ready to fall.
"Very well, spirit. Diligem, Spirit of the Five Wastes, I release you from your bondage." Alison wiped a finger over the line of salt and iron, breaking the circle. Without a word, the doll fell over. The substance leaking from its eyes immediately hardened and began to crack.
Alison sighed as she put her belongings back into her backpack. The baggie of kosher salt and iron. The coat that had doubled as a pillow the night before. A small gas stove and a tin pot. A semi-automatic pistol. A binder of clippings about tornadoes in Utah and Bigfoot sightings.
The worn manilla envelope, stuffed thick with papers, was the last thing Alison picked up. She held it at eye level, studying the contours and creases of the package, as she had done a thousand times before. She paused, then opened it and took out a faded photo. It showed a black-haired girl sitting in the shade of a willow tree.
The girl wore a flowery dress and her face was taken up with a gap-toothed grin. She sat on the knee of a woman with a tired but contented smile. A hint of sadness played around the woman's eyes.
Sitting next to the woman was a man with thinning hair wearing a blue-and-orange Hawaiian shirt. His right hand rested on the woman's knee, and he looked frozen in the middle of a laugh.
Alison turned the photograph over. Even though she had long ago memorized every contour of the writing on the back, it still comforted her to see her father's neat handwriting. "GEARS FAMILY VACATION, 1991" it said. "GEARS" had been crossed out. Below, in slightly sloppy handwriting, it corrected "CHAO." The second name, too, had been crossed out, replaced by the same handwriting correcting it to "GEARS."
Alison turned the photo over again. She put it to her lips and kissed the likeness of the man. She replaced the photo in the folder, and made her way to the car.

Alison had been eight the summer her father had vanished. He had gone to the lab one morning, and hadn't come back. She still remembered two days after he left, when it was becoming apparent that it wasn't just an issue of his being late or going on an unannounced trip.
During the day, her mother had alternated between pacing around the house and fussing over Alison's appearance. At night, when she thought Alison was asleep, she made phone calls by the score.
Alison would sit in bed and look out the window as she heard her mother's voice become increasingly frenetic. When she woke up, she would hug her mother, tiny arms wrapping around the woman's hips.
As the days went on, the time her mother spent shouting at the phone in English or Mandarin grew. Sometimes, she would start crying for no reason. No matter how hard Alison tried to hug her, it never seemed to help during these spells.
After four weeks, detectives finally came around to interview Alison and her mother. One of the detectives, a man with dark brown skin and a funny lisp, asked her a few questions. Most of the questions were about her dad, but one of them was about if she remembered anything strange at the house before her dad left. Alison wondered why he asked a question like that.
Afterwards, the detective complimented her on her pink shoes and told her that she was being a very brave girl. When the detective left to join his partner, Alison followed silently.
Behind an unseen corner, she heard the detectives asking her mother questions. One asked something about other women. There was a loud crash, which made her jump. Her mother started yelling words Alison didn't understand, and told the men to get out.
The two detectives said something and moved to leave. By the sound their footsteps were making, Alison could tell that they were headed towards her. She ducked into a nearby closet and waited until the men passed. As she crept out of the door, she heard the sound of her mother crying coming from the other room. Alison paused for a moment, thinking. She made her way to the side door of the house and went outside.
Around the house there was a ring of bushes. Alison crawled behind them and began making her way to the front where the detectives stood. When she came within hearing range, she heard them talking about strange things. Alison was careful not to make a single sound as she pressed her head to the ground to get a look at them under the bushes.
The black detective, who no longer had a lisp, said something about "Anne mystics." The other detective, a fat man with ruddy skin shook his head, saying something about making up another woman. The black detective shrugged, and they both got in a car and drove off.
Alison knew she had heard something she wasn't supposed to, but wasn't sure what it was. To be extra-safe, she had waited in the bushes for ten minutes after the men had left. When she came back inside, her mother was still crying.

Alison looked over the map clumsily unfolded over the dashboard, trying to find the speck of a town that was Pollensbee. A year ago (Christ, had it only been a year?), she would have punched the information into the GPS. But that was before she started researching her father's disappearance.
Before she heard the soft clicking noise whenever she answered the phone, any phone. Before she came back from classes to find that everything in her apartment had been rifled through and almost put back in the right place.
Four months ago, she had packed up her few relevant belongings and hit the road, following notes and clues scattered throughout the country.
At first, it had been about looking through police records and fringe scientific journals her father had published in. Then one of her leads had taken her to Mint Creek, Alabama, where she had met Ms. Sylvia Lowmax. The old woman gave her a delicious slice of chess pie and performed a feat of magic in front of Alison's eyes.
Ms. Lowmax transformed herself into a giant bird and stared at Alison with glassy black eyes, still speaking in her thick drawl. From there, the emphasis of her search changed significantly, as she learned of the Library and the Ways and the Jailors, who held her father's mind in a prison. And of those calling themselves the Serpent's Hand, who sought to free those imprisoned by the Jailors.
Alison had been a quick study under Ms. Lowmax and others, and the summoning of the minor filth spirit into the doll had been her first major test.
After an eternity, she found Pollensbee, to the east of the equally tiny Ponce de Leon. She drove for two days, stopping only for when necessary. In a field in Iowa, she managed to lure a magpie into a cage after several hours of trying. At the Pollensbee town limits, she felt her insides twist. This was it. She was going to the Library.

It was late afternoon when Alison finally arrived. She drove slowly around the town, trying to get a feel for the place. Most of the town seemed to be parking lots with grass growing between the cracks in the asphalt in front of boarded up shops. There were discolored spots where the signs had been. Every car seemed to be made before 1990 and to have at least three rust stains or dents.
She felt her way around the city, and felt neither the precise, soulless tickings of a Jailor's heart, nor the mindless rage of the mind of a Bookburner. The filth spirit had been true.
When she parked two blocks away from the Denny's, it was twilight. She took her backpack along with the cage. Inside, the magpie croaked indignantly. The dumpster behind the restaurant stank with a fierce, high smell. Alison put the cage on the ground and crouched, crooking an arm over her mouth and nose.
With her free hand, she opened the cage. The bird stood with its head crooked, refusing to leave. She kicked the cage, and the startled magpie awkwardly flapped its way out. The moment the bird left the cage, a hole started to open next to the dumpster. There was no color to it, only black emptiness.
Alison felt her stomach drop. This was it. It had worked. This was happening. She was going to the Library. Her legs wobbled slightly walked toward the Way. She took in one final breath and stepped into the hole.
There was a flash of light and she saw the world she had known recede from view. Her surroundings turned a brilliant white and grew in brightness until it hurt to have her eyes open.
For a moment, there was just her in the light and nothing else.
The light faded and she opened her eyes.


☦Fifthism manifests through Constellation Starfish.☦

Rosa walked up the sun-baked asphalt driveway to the front door. The little pink bungalow was not much more than peeling paint, chipped nautilus and Neptune statues reigning over the fire ants in Brook's patchwork grass-dirt lawn. Rosa couldn't remember it ever looking any different. She hit the doorbell and the faint ding-dong could be heard on the other side. After some time, no sound of footsteps, no shuffling. She itched her head and paced the threshold.
Under the rug, huh?
She blinked, took a deep breath, and looked down. The novelty doormat instructed her to COME BACK WITH A WARRANT.
She bent down, peeled back the doormat and reached for the key. Brook kept it there in case of emergencies (but usually forgetfulness). Rosa sprung up and creaked the door open only to meet Brook's scrutinizing gaze, head atilt.
“Breaking and entering isn't your style, flower girl,” Brook said, more than lightly punching wide-eyed Rosa in the arm.
“Hey quit it! Let me in, it's hot!”
Brook wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Okay, but take off your shoes.”
“I don't have any shoes.”
Brook rolled her eyes and shook her head, motioning for her to come inside. “What's up? Doesn't anyone ever use the phone?”
“Rehearsal, doofus!”
Brook glanced at the tambourine sticking out of her backpack. “Where are the guys? Who ever heard of a two girl drum and tambourine outfit?”
“Actually,” started Rosa, “there's a really cool group in Sea—”
“Okay stop. Come inside.”

“I have a surprise for you,” said Brook as she rummaged through a carboard box.
“Really? What is it?” Rosa said, edging in to get a better look.
“Actually it's not for you, it's for the fans. T Shirts. Got them printed shit cheap. You like the starfish on the front?”
“I love it! Oh umm, but I think you'll have to end up giving me one eventually,” Rosa said, pressing her fingers together. “I don't think we'll sell a lot of them. Are you sure we have fans?”
Brook snorted. “Of course we have fans! Don't you check the Myspace page?” Brook walked over to her still open laptop. “Look there. 146 fans, and better yet, check them out. Most of them have songs playing on their pages, our songs.”
“Wow,” Rosa said, clicking on a random bald headed old man's avatar. “And all sorts of fans too.” She clicked on another page, a plain looking middle-aged woman. “Hmm, a lot of them seem to like ‘You and Me'. I'm surprised Old Chilly isn't more popular…” she said softly, a pursed smile aimed at Brook.
Brook rolled her eyes. “Who knows. People like cheesy-ass love songs. All I know is the shirts will sell. The CD's too. The fans we do have are crazy about us.”
Rosa clicked on another page, a teenager a few years younger than her. “Wow, this guy has a lot of pictures of me… What does that word mean?”
Brook snapped the laptop down and cleared her throat. “Nothing. Like I said, they really like us.”
“Hmm,” said Rosa. “Do you have water? I've been really thirsty lately.”
“No, I have a fuckload of Mountain Dew though,” Brook said, sitting on the floor to adjust something on her drum kit, which looked a lot more expensive than her house.
“No, I just want water.”
“Why, are you on a diet? You're already thin as a rake.”
“Nooo… I don't know. I just really drink a lot of water lately. Maybe it's hot?”
“Now that you mention it, I could use a glass myself. There's a working sink in the bathroom if you're thirsty.” Brook got up and walked toward the bathroom.
Rosa squinted at Brook as she put her head between the basin and the faucet and let it rip. “A working sink in the bathroom? Really? You don't have a functioning kitchen sink?”
“Wow,” Brook said, gasping, “Calm down, fancy pants. We can stop by the gas station if you want real water.”

Clyde showed up a little while later on his motorcycle and knocked on their door.
“I'm here!” he shouted, adjusting glasses.
Brook opened the door quickly. “Where's Morgan?”
“Him and Umiko are coming in the van. They're a bit late though. Apparently they got stopped at the mall by a few girls…” Clyde flipped open his phone and recited a text message. “Umiko, Four Fifty Eight AM; Quote, Will you take us to outer space with you. End quote. Hyphen, her name is Lola, L.O.L.”.
Brook turned her head to Rosa. “Told you they're crazy.”
“Yeah,” Clyde repeated, hoisting his guitar over the girls and through the doorway. “It seems we have a bit of a cult following.”
“4:58? They should be here by now.”
Just as she said this, a heavily rusted Volkswagen tilted into the driveway, puttering up the hill, half of Umiko's very large frame sticking out of the driver's side window.
“Miss Rosy!” he said, holding a water bottle out. “Fancy water!”
“What does he do again?” Brook muttered.
“I think he's our dealer but I forget,” answered Clyde absently.
Umiko and Morgan stepped out. Umiko had a 10 gallon water cooler — which probably wasn't full of fancy water — and Morgan was holding a notebook.
“Well, looks like everyone's all here. Let's get this started.”

“What's cooler than cool?” sang Morgan.
“Cold!” chimed Rosa.
“What deader than dead?” rang Umiko.
“Probably worse.” said Clyde, plainly.
“I just wanna stay in bed!” barked Brook.

Or you could do this instead
Make your way out to the sea
Stay a while there with me
And meet the voices in your head
I've traveled oh so far
From the hills to the ocean
And we are set in motion
By a near but distant star
Can't you see you're a part of me?
We could be happy as can be
Makes no difference how it seems
To them or they or old timestreams
I just wanted you to know
That if palm trees sway and white water rolls
We'll melt together and form a shoal
Far from this old freak show

“Me and you we've come so far, before the dark there were other stars—”
“Break,” Morgan said, coughing, interrupting Umiko.
“Hey, you know the words Umiko? This is a new song! You've never heard us do this one,” said Rosa.
“I…” Umiko said, looking at them all hesitantly. They were right, he had never heard this song before.
“Sorry…” said Umiko, looking down to the floor. “I looked.” The giant scratched the back of his head.
Morgan laughed. “It's alright! I leave it right there anyway. It's no secret,” he said, looking at his notebook. “Now where were we?”

Me and you we've come so far
Before the dark, on another star
Way out past Neptune and Mars
And things that live behind those bars
There's no need to go back to
Everything can be brand new
We'll paint the sky a different hue
Pink or purple, technicolor
And make old blue seem like squalor
Because the sun is now a big sand dollar
Or we can all go to sleep
And meet our mother in the deep
And all our brothers too

“I wouldn't mind something new. So if you want me that's where I'll be, underwater, turning slowly. Dark and sound and lowly. I'd love to meet you there too, underneath that ocean blue.”
“I've never heard that before, who's that?” Justine asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Haha, I like to make things up,” said Lola. “Want to go to that concert later? I hear John P and the Eruptions are going to be playing after that one band, I forget the name.”
“Who?”
“Constellation Starfish.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

« Track 2: The Book of Dave | Hub | Track 3: Uh... »


close

Info

X

Manna Charitable Foundation Change the World
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

Last thing Priscilla Locke remembered, she was drenched in sweat, her clothes being torn off of her and the crack of a gun close by, followed by pain and deafness. Then she was standing upright, her suit intact and freshly absorbing her sweat. The room was stuffy and warm, the door opened, revealing the hall outside coated in dust, unused and untouched.
It was there with her. She must have been standing in the same spot. It still had the wires sprouting from its fount. That it was wired meant that they hadn't found it. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. She had the benefit of knowing exactly what had happened, and where she was. If anyone else had survived, waking up in a whole new world for the first time…
Her pockets were empty; she couldn't be sure her apartment even existed here. If the Foundation found her with this, they might believe her when she said she was a Foundation agent from another time and place. Then… what? D-Class designation? They only did that to race traitors and other subversives. But there was no way of knowing what they'd do to her.
Her nostrils flared as she pushed that aside, and took off her jacket, using it to bundle up the stout little device that had saved her life.
"SCP-1856," She addressed it, as if it could speak or recognize its own designation. It hadn't been found in this 'time'; it would never receive an SCP designation again. Who knew what SCP-1856 was for these people?
"Anyone asks, your name is Anna Bassett," She hoisted the bundle up and held it over her shoulder. It was just as heavy as she'd imagined, like a big shoe box full of concrete, "I know that was always your name, but…" Her mind trailed off. Someone had mentioned that 1856 might've had mental effects; some of the researchers working long hours with it had started talking to the device. Then they started showing signs of dementia and hallucinating seeing people and tasting them. She'd been around it quite a bit the past few days, it might've already started affecting her.
"Fucking… Anabasis. Your name is Anabasis."

Rhiannon Locke, as Priss had known her, was always energetic, exciting, and always clever enough to get away with being obnoxious. She had been a troublemaker as a child, and had become a troublemaker as an adult. At least, in her old world. When the president made his infamous "We don't trade or deal with subhuman mongrels" speech, Rhiannon had started calling herself a "subhuman mongrel". A vehement defender of non-whites and a passionate activist for a more progressive society was considered treasonous in the Old World; she might've been a hero here.
Rhiannon the "Subhuman Mongrel" didn't cut her hair, had tattoos on her chest and back, had broken teeth and drank excessively. When she was in her full-on cult-leader persona, she was utterly impenetrable. Thick as a prison door, and all the more annoying for that cartoonish school-girl laugh she so delighted in.
Working with others in an environment of procedure and formality amidst a backdrop of an endless slew of anomalies had been the enticing part of working for the Foundation, and had pulled Locke in. The fear and anxiety felt while containing a breach was almost fun once the fear of death and destruction was past.
It was easy because she had been trained for it. There was no training for meeting a complete stranger you had known all your life.
Rhiannon Locke, as she was now in this new world, was energetic, exciting, and always clever enough to get away with being obnoxious. The similarities ended there; she kept her hair to her shoulders, combed it nicely, had no tattoos, and all her teeth intact. She apologized constantly, and had welcomed Priss in with tears in her eyes and so much warmth and love that even Priss broke down and cried.
"A charity?" Priss asked quizzically, "And you all just… use them?"
Rhie smiled and nodded, "Why not? What good is it to spend so much money and manpower containing things that could be helping us? There's no such thing as 'anomalies'—just things we don't understand yet. I know it's dangerous to play around with things we don't understand, but isn't it at least worth trying them out, rather than locking them away out of unfounded fear?"
Passionate activist; another similarity. Priss blinked at her, "I didn't say anything."
Rhie sighed, "I'm sorry. I was just… expecting it. Foundation drivel; 'it's not safe to be exploiting unknown resources' whatever. It's a fallacy—Slippery slope. It shouldn't be used to justify holding ourselves back while people suffer and die."
"I didn't say that."
"Sorry," She smiled again. The smiles had always made Priss bristle; seeing her broken-toothed grin, the earthy stench of her unwashed clothes, the uncertainty in every cracked smile, sardonic laugh, whether she would hug you or punch you in the face and pull a knife on you. 'Gotta cut your skin up good', she'd say, where 'good' meant 'white'. Seeing that smile now, it looked so… genuinely happy.
"If you don't mind me asking, Prissy…"
Again, she tensed. Every time Rhiannon the "Subhuman Mongrel" called her that, it meant she was looking for a fight. Priss unclenched her jaw, and forced a little smile, "Ask me what?"
"Given everything you've told me… about where you came from. Why do you want to help?"
Priss looked down at the bundle in the center of the living room. Anabasis… the very thing that had saved her life had probably destroyed her entire world in the process. "I don't know… I was never really in to the whole white pride thing… it just seemed…" She shrugged, "Logical."
She regretted that immediately, seeing Rhie's face firm up, "It's not logical, though. European supremacy in the world isn't a matter of 'race' — I should loan you a book, it's called Guns, Germs, and Steel…"
Priss scooted closer, and grabbed her hand, "I get what you're saying. It's just… I was born and grew up in that world. When you're well-read and well-educated, it's easier to come up with a complicated rationale to justify anything."
"What changed your mind?"
Priss remembered the last time she had seen Rhiannon in person. She'd given Priss a lewd kiss, trying to force her liquor-soaked tongue down her throat. Priss had shoved her off, and Rhiannon ran off laughing. When the police found liquor on Priss's breath, they let her go with a fine and a warning. They were arresting everyone on the streets that night, and few of those arrested were seen in public again.
"You did."
Rhie squirmed, "The 'subhuman mongrel'?"
Priss nodded, "Throughout all you did—she did —You were the only person in my life who actually went out of your way to protect me. And when I saw your group… even though the militias broke into peoples' houses and executed anyone associated with you, people still came to you. Civilians. And you gave them everything you had, all your money, all your clothing, all your possessions."
"All she had."
Priss quirked an eyebrow to her, "You wouldn't?"
Rhie snorted and laughed, tears welling in her eyes, "No, no… that's me exactly. Aside from the domestic terrorism."
Priss smiled, and looked down again at the foundation brochure. "Who is 'Manna' anyway?"

Getting an audience with the Manna Charitable Foundation was surprisingly easy. Though it was a charity, not a pseudo-governmental paramilitary organization. From what she heard, the SCP Foundation here was similar in that regard. It still felt… unsafe to be letting in a total stranger who claimed to be the long-lost sister of a Foundation employee from another… timeline? Universe? Dimension? How would they even confirm her story?
"Don't panic, it's nothing serious," Rhiannon assured as they waited outside an office. The building looked… average. Painfully average for a group dealing in anomalies defying the laws of reality. No military, no armed police, no servants, only one security checkpoint. A smiling guard about Locke's height and looking to be three or four times her weight.
"Who's panicking?"
"They're going to ask you some questions about where you came from. Some of these people are ex-SCP as well, so just… act natural."
Priss clenched her jaw, "Maybe the Foundation here is completely different from the Foundation there."
"You're panicking. Stop panicking. No matter what happens, remember," Rhiannon patted the duffle bag, making Priss tense slightly, "You have this. This guarantees you entry. You're not gonna be forcibly amnesticized and sent off or 'terminated' for knowing too much. You're one of us now." She nodded to the door, as a secretary motioned Priss to come in.
"Wait, one thing!" Rhiannon stopped her sister, "Please don't say anything racist."
Priss glared at her, "You don't trust your own sister to behave like a civilized adult?"
Rhiannon shook her head with surprising somberness, "No. I don't. Because you're not my sister."
Priss blinked, feeling the wind escape her. That had hurt more than she'd expected it to.
Rhiannon seemed to notice, and opened her mouth to apologize.
"Miss Locke, please," the secretary interrupted.

For all the device had done for her and the sheer scale of its abilities, figuring out how to make it work was surprisingly easy.
"There are four knobs; the first indicates length, up to about 2282.35 meters. The second indicates both width and height together, so they're locked in. The third indicates time. In years. At least, I think it does," Priss felt a hot flush tinting her freckled cheeks, frustration mounting as she assumed every one of those watching and waiting for her were quickly breaking down how woefully underprepared and unqualified she truly was for this thing. There were five of them; Rhiannon, a tall black man, a white man, and two women, one dressed in baggy pants and t-shirt. At least Priss's voice carried easily enough in this small auditorium so she didn't have to repeat herself.
"The fourth knob…" She looked at it. The others had hundreds of settings, indicated by the satisfyingly crunchy snaps and clicks made when the knobs were twisted. The fourth only had three. It was labeled with settings "0", "1", "4", with the "4" partly scratched out.
"Fourth knob does something relating to time, or space, or both. First time we tested it," She caught herself and kept quiet, remembering how they had tested it on a Class-D. The fact that she caught herself was particularly stunning. Adapting quick to being a civilized diversity-loving citizen of New Earth.
"First time we tested it, it seemed to invert the other three knob settings. The next few times, there was no pattern. We don't know what it does."
"You said the third knob dealt with time. How is that different from the fourth knob dealing in time?" One of the men asked quizzically.
"The third knob's 'time' deals with measurements of time. Increments of 365 days, in this case. The fourth is more related to actual time, like actual years. It can't go into the future."
"Oh." He added flatly, clearly not understanding.
"We don't know what it does," Rhiannon stepped forward, saving her sister from further complicating her explanation, "But it doesn't matter—we're not trying to remake the entire world, so keeping it on 'four' will be enough."
"Show me what it can do," Another voice asked— Ms. Cortes, the formally dressed woman.
Priss adjusted the knobs, selecting an area just a few centimeters. She glanced up at the group around her, "It… you should—never mind."
Before they could protest, she cranked the lever. It always sounded like it was just about to snap off, yet being rough with it was the only way to get it to move. I know, baby, you love the abuse. She smirked to herself. Dim yellow light came out of the device's spout, tracing the shape of a cube less than two feet in front of it.
A hissing sound came, and the cubic space mapped out by the Anabasis suddenly filled with hovering water, before it splashed onto the floor. The upper half of a fish dropped with it, flailing as its guts began to ooze from its neatly severed body.
"Where is that from? What did you set it to?" Ms. Cortes asked.
"It's…" Priss didn't want to touch the thing. Aside from being neatly cut in half, it was leaking pale brown fluids, and smelled strongly of sulfur, "Best guess I can manage from the numbers is, four counts for lowest time-or-space setting, zero for highest. So, this thing set at zero, means it either came from some time-or-space's present. It should be safe, we've—I've used this setting before."
She set it again, moving the device aside, away from the growing pool of fish blood and that brown liquid. Again she set the area to the same size, and watched as the lights traced out a cubic shape. This time, a thick mound of clay-like soil flopped wetly to the floor. The earthy smell quickly flooded Priss's sinuses.
She looked back at them, "Sometimes the directions aren't always precise. Like… if you're trying to merge in a small section of soil a few feet above sea level, you might end up bringing up soil a few feet deeper than you wanted. It escalates with higher settings, so I wouldn't recommend warping in a whole building… it might get stuck underground, or drop from four feet up and fucking crack apart. I can make the fourth knob counteract this somehow, but I haven't figured out exactly how it works. Just that I can get it accurate to within a few feet."
Rhiannon stepped in again, quick to divert attention from the constant stream of flaws, uncertainties, and obscenities Priss kept spouting off, "Just imagine what this could do. Bring it out to a region devastated by drought. We could displace exhausted soil with rich fertile soil that's never been used for farming before. We could have entire strips of fertile farmland anywhere we want, or dump millions of fresh fish untainted by pollution straight into a tank, and from there straight to hungry people in need."
Again, that smile. It made Rhie look so beautiful and endearing. It still made Priss squirm, as if anticipating at any moment that she would start making up words and spouting nonsensical rhymes that only made sense to her. It didn't help Priss's nerves that the tall man in charge was a black man in a suit, likely very well read. She remembered a joke Old-Rhiannon used to say, 'Nothing's more dangerous to the white man than a negro with a library card.'
The man— Mr. Kone, with an accent putting him somewhere between the Caribbean and Central America —slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and moved over to the fish. He gently squeezed it, watching as the unusual brown fluid drained out, leaving the rather normal-looking viscera to slide out onto the floor. He carefully pressed it back into the fish, and turned to Locke.
"I want to see more," He held the fish out towards her, "If this checks out clean, I want to see this thing put to work as soon as possible."
Rhiannon gave a shrill giggle of delight, "What if we put it to use in Somalia alongside the Vesta donation? Imagine… newly grown settlements with fresh fertile land all around. Nothing else like it in the region in decades."
The other woman spoke up, "You might as well light the biggest fire the SCP Foundation has ever seen."
Rhiannon pouted at the woman, "Everything we do is a red flag to someone, somewhere, Dodger. That's not an excuse to keep doing—"
The woman — Dodger, she'd called herself? A codename? — interrupted with an obnoxious snort, "Alright fine! Give it a try. Meanwhile, you'll end up bringing in some microbe or bacterium we've never seen before and have it decimate us like the Native Americans."
Priss spoke up, "I've been here a while. Had a medical check-up, too. There's nothing wrong with me." Yet "We can test things brought in from each setting, and only use stuff from worlds cleared for us." Another thought struck her, and she quickly added in, "I'm also the only one who can use it. I can probably train someone else, but until that time, I have to be with this thing at all times."
The woman— rather young, and prettier even than Rhiannon — abruptly calmed, and started grinning toothily, "Relax, man. This isn't a prison. We can send you with it, if you like. We can also send some people to watch you and protect you and make sure the thing stays safe. If you like."
Given the expression of the others, the young woman seemed to be overstepping her bounds. Given how young she looked, she stuck out sorely from the group. Something was off with her. Priss held firm, "You are all the only people who know I exist. I've got no one after me, nothing to my name, and if I try to run, you've got my sister," She indicated Rhie, who stared at her incredulously.
"Such violence," Dodger moved up beside Rhiannon, "Alright; we send you to Somalia, and if you try to run, we kill your sister." She patted Rhiannon affectionately on the head.
"Let's get you properly settled in, first," Mr. Kone put in, gloves and fish gone as he extended a hand to Priscilla Locke, "It will be a pleasure having you on board, Ms. Locke."
Priss shuddered lightly, then silently cursed herself. How long was it going to take to get over her visceral reactions? Vestigial emotions from a world long gone. She forced herself to shake his hand and smile. The simple little pleasantry filled her with an almost overwhelming sense of joy at having done so, "Thank you, Mr. Kone."
Mr. Kone turned to the other man with them, "We will have to warn the Work Group. You got this, Lindsberg?"
The other man shrugged and nodded, "Sure. Something like this would warrant using one of the toy birds, wouldn't it? We got nine boxes yesterday. 'Bout time we start putting them to use."

Hub | Who We Are »


A Circus of a Wreck »

A few miles east of the remains of a fairgrounds, a gopher stuck its head out of its hole and squinted into the boiling afternoon heat. It looked around curiously, surveying the land for any threats. After a few minutes had passed, it ducked down and chattered to its fellow rodent.
"Okey doke, Pius, I think the coast is finally clear! The Party Poopers have finally left!" The little animal spoke perfect English, in a sharp, brusque manner that had an air of permanent exasperation.
"Thank goodness. I don't think I could have coped with the smell of rotting gopher much longer. Why didn't they come over here? I'm sure a pond of blood and guts would have merited some interest, even if it was just gopher." The second critter spoke in a much calmer tone, though it was clear he was feeling somewhat strained from being pent up in a dirt hidey-hole.
"Morty's been cleaning up at night. For a sadistic little beast, he's surprisingly good at covering up his messes."
"Ah, well. That explains it. Where did Mortimer run off to anyway, Eugene?"
"Wowwee! Wowwee!"
The two gophers turned their heads upwards to see a neon green rabbit peering back at them through their hiding spot. Its mouth curved upward in a malicious grin to reveal a mouth full of forked tongues. It hissed with mischievous laughter. "Wowwee! Wowwee!"
"Mortimer, dammit! Get down here now! Do you know how much Fun-Lovers are wanted by the others!" Eugene the Gopher bristled, showing no signs of alarm at the peculiar rabbit, only indignation.
"I thought you said we were climbing out?" Pius said politely.
"I— I just meant— fine. Get out of here." Eugene snapped.
"Gladly," Pius replied, and the two gophers clambered out of the hole into the hot grassy plains of the former Circus site. For a fraction of a second, the gophers seemed to shimmer and bubble in the sun's glare. An instant later, two stereotypical-looking circus clowns stood in the place of the rodents.
"Good to be a Clown again, Eugene?" Pius asked his taller companion as he flexed his shoulders; a large layer of dust sprinkled down from his costume.
"On the contrary, I'm more than a bit irked," Eugene snapped. "I would have preferred being normal right now, but I doubt I can pull off another transformation stronger than this; I'd need more Clown Milk than we've got at the moment."
"How long is the walk to the grounds?"
"Not long with a Mortimer! Get over here and give us a ride!"
The rabbit gave a final "Wowwee!" before jumping up a good eight feet into the air. A swirl of dust and a loud crack followed. A second later, the rabbit was gone, replaced by a chittering, amorphous sac of black liquid supported by a dozen or so human arms. The thing shuddered once more, then sprouted a pair of rudimentary wooden chairs on its back. It lowered its body as the clowns hoisted themselves up.
"Mortimer, any milk on you right now?" Eugene asked the pitch-colored thing.
The beast rippled unhappily in response; an empty sloshing noise could be heard within the sac.
"Damn. Not enough to pull off a Ringer. Let's hope something's left at the grounds to make Morty happy. He already blew through the gophers here."
"Try to stay calm this time, Eugene," Pius said solemnly. "You'll waste your Milk supplies if you get all fired up."
"Shut up, Pius," Eugene snapped.
Chitter, chitter, chitter. The Clowns' mount clicked and rumbled.
"Shut up, Morty."
And with that, the two exhausted Clowns and their Eldritch ride skittered to the Circus grounds.

As the unusual trio neared the burnt remains of the old Circus grounds, Eugene the Clown swore.
"We're going to be hard-pressed to find anything here," he groaned. "The place has been torched." All around, patches of burnt grass and ashen wood frames clouded the air with smoke and dying embers. Mortimer came to a halt as they came to the central Big Top. The Clowns dismounted, and the Eldritch sac took off in search of new ways to amuse itself.
The Big Top tent post, surprisingly, was still standing, though apart from that, there wasn't much left. The seven meter tall wooden stake was firmly driven into the ground at the center of the abandoned fair. Scraps of scarlet and gold fabric shuddered and flapped in messes and tangles of wire, splinters, and string. Heaps of charred wooden seats ringed the once proud setting of the main attraction. Right outside the ring of ash and dirty red and dirt, several, smaller heaps of deformed, blackened metal sunk into the dust. Concession stands. A little further off, several more booths that were once home to carnival games smoked softly. There was not another living soul in sight.
Eugene sighed. "Everyone except us got out. Of course. Morty had to go play Hack-a-Mole when the Call went out."
Eugene loved being part of the Circus of the Disquieting, though he was, to say the least, unhappy at the moment. It had been seventy years since he and so many others of his kind had first met Herman Fuller and traveled the worlds for countless performances that befuddled and awed every audience. Every show was a new, thrilling experience; the Clowns wanted the fun to go on and on and on.
And that was what Fuller promised. A lifetime of entertainment for everyone, for all the Clowns. Entertainment was hard to come by in their own home. Things could be downright dull, so the Clowns were eager to join the Circus when it became clear that Fuller could ease their boredom, which, in itself, said something about Fuller's confidence in his abilities; the first Clowns that had come in were, to say the least, monstrous; they were too unstable to be fit for regular Circus Performances. As a result, the creatures who were employed by Fuller were required to stunt their growth, abilities, and primal violence to the point where they could be, at the least, accepted without too much concern for worry.
Eugene cursed again. "I bet the Higher Clowns are sitting on their asses just clowning around right now. No one cares about two miserly Lessers! We're just the Highers' dogs!" he lamented. "Oh, the freaking humanity!"
"The term humanity doesn't apply to us," Pius corrected as he knelt down to look at a ruined cotton candy machine. "And yes, we do serve the Higher Clowns, but it's far from a slave system." Then, frowning in disappointment, he added, "No good here; all the Milk's spoiled from the heat. It burst all over the vat."
"Well there has to be something we can use to get Morty up and running!" Eugene spat. "And it'd better not involve me! I don't want to become a Fun-Lover's punching-milking-bag-thing again!" The Clown shuddered as it recalled a vivid image of it being forced to turn into a cherry-red wobbly heavy bag so it could keep Mortimer occupied and away from the audience.
"You'd prefer being abandoned by the Circus and left to whither from Milk Deprivation? It will take Mortimer at least a week to make a gallon of Milk for just one of us if we don't let him off the chain for a bit. Give a little to win a little," Pius remarked curiously, regarding Eugene as he was a mildly interesting thing found within a rotting log.
"No, I just want to stop being someone who has to do all the dirty work!" Eugene shot back. "How'd we get stuck with that Fun-Lover anyways? I thought that after Marlene was transferred I had requested one that just needed company to be milked, not one that was a sadistic little twit!"
"Mortimer was given to us under…special circumstances if I recall," Pius said as he walked towards another melted concession stand.
"Aside from the psychotic milking needs? I thought violent Fun-Lovers were shipped back home."
"Don't you remember, Eugene? Honestly, you'd be much better off paying attention instead of moping all the time when someone's talking; in fact, your attitude contributed to the Higher-Ups giving us the "sadistic little twit". Anyhow, allow me to lay it out for you…"
Behind Eugene and Pius, Mortimer returned with a box of two dozen twisty balloons, honking and hissing reproachfully as it continued to walk with an empty fluid sac. It plopped down and turned one of its arms into an air hose. Its remaining hands, which were surprisingly dexterous, began inflating and tying the balloons until it had sixteen balloon animals ranging from dogs to monkeys to cats. It loaded a handful of pebbles into one of the remaining eight balloons and inflated it to near bursting before shaping it like a shotgun. Then it popped it, sending the miniature rocks hurtling towards a pair of rubber turtles, which both deflated with hissing floops… Mortimer clapped its hands and repeated this antic seven more times until the balloon zoo was mowed down completely. The milk sac on its back filled slightly, maybe a dozen milliliters, though Pius and Eugene didn't notice.
"…Mortimer was sent off with Trisha to go scout for potential show additions," Pius lectured.
"Oh, yeah, Trisha, I remember her," Eugene interjected. "What happened to her?"
"She was… Inflated after Mortimer got out of hand during their search," Pius said, with a tone of sadness in his voice. "It was at some artist's convention; Mortimer went bonkers when he saw one of the pieces."
"Which one was that?" Eugene asked.
"A total deathtrap thing. Lots of needles and sharp stuff and explosions, the whole lot. It was supposed to represent some human element."
"You mean ignorance? Downright, complete, and utter asininity?" Eugene gave a short bark of laughter.
"Something like that," Pius responded, smiling slightly in spite of himself. "We confiscated it from Mortimer after he somehow managed to take it right out from under their noses. I don't even know why anyone in their right mind would have displayed it to begin with, though the artists Trisha had been sent to go look at were…odd. I remember hearing something about how everyone should "chill" in the report."
"Human slang, sometimes."
"I know, right?"
"Go on." Eugene implored Pius to get to the point. Meanwhile, Mortimer, now in a form resembling a monstrous, half-mechanical praying mantis, was taking helium canisters and chopping the seals off with transformed bladed forelimbs. One sped straight towards Pius' head, who casually sidestepped the projectile. The canister snapped the Big Top pole in two and continued skidding for a good hundred feet. Eugene wasn't so lucky, and caught one right in the back, sending the Clown sprawling face first into the dirt, where he stuck out like a nail.
"Wowwee! Wowwee! I 'da Champ! I 'da Champ!" Mortimer laughed again.
Eugene pushed himself out of the crater, and rubbed his nose, his eyes watering. "Son of a Flame-faced man, looks like I'm gonna have to be the punching bag after all. And why the hell does he keep repeating that?"
"Freak Show if I know," Pius replied in a singsong voice. "Shall I continue?"
"Go ahead," Eugene growled, glaring at the gloating Fun-Lover. He was beginning to see red, and his ears were ringing, though he couldn't tell if it was from the melting make-up or just his anger. Then, looking back, he saw Pius cocking an eyebrow at him in mock disapproval. "I'm staying calm, Pius."
"Ahem, I doubt it. Eugene? Dial back on the steam engine state, will you? The rest of us don't want your…spout to blow." Pius gave a little smirk as he watched his colleague try and get his temper down.
Eugene felt the top of his head. "Shit." He had let his shape-shifting get out of control again; an old-style train smokestack had sprung out from his skull and was now billowing copious amounts of black smoke while whistling shrilly. "Screw you, Pius," Eugene snapped at Pius' chiding, still staring daggers at Mortimer. However, the smokestack retreated back into his head. "Better?" Eugene asked.
"Good." Pius smiled. "You're learning a bit of patience and tolerance today, Gene. That's very good for getting a promotion."
"Don't call me that," Eugene grumbled.
"Wowwee! Wowwee!"

Forty Minutes Later
"…and so, after you gave Head Arby lip, he gave you Mortimer because it was so fond of you. The End." Pius finished his monologue, grinning to himself. He doubted his audience of two was even listening anymore, though he was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him.
"Well, it seems they brought the Circus back to town single-handedly. Fuller would be delighted."
Mortimer and Eugene were engaged in a violent but very one-sided fight that began after Eugene called Mortimer "Mort" around the thirteenth minute of Pius' tale. The ensuing tussle had leveled what was left of the Circus, yet strangely had brought some life back into it as well. The merry-go-round horses had been thrown off their ride and were now frantically galloping and whinnying in place as they tried to run away in terror. Boxes of Herman Fuller Animal Crackers lay strewn over like a miniature zoo and were screeching their respective animal cries as they were trampled underfoot. Leftover masks and costumes had split from their wardrobes and were waltzing and performing acrobatics with each other without wearers, while legged fun-house mirrors stretched and squashed whatever came into their sight, both reflected and physical. A few tumbleweeds rolled by, followed by an ominous rumbling sound of gravel on metal.
Pius sighed. "That'll be the Ferris Wheel." It rolled past him then came to a stop at a melted hot dog stand before falling over on it. Pius smirked. "To go, please." He turned back to take in the wrestling match, which had now moved into the Big Top.
Mortimer, who was now steadily refilling its Milk supply due to the scuffle, was relentlessly swinging a meat cleaver at Eugene's head while in the form of a giant pig wearing a chef's hat. Eugene, who was already low on Milk, was running out of steam.
"I don't care about your story anymore!" Eugene screeched as he avoided yet another vicious knife swing. "Help me already!"
"You were listening to me!" Pius called happily. "Keep up the good work! At this rate we should be able to make a Ring within the next half hour!"
"Eat— my —ack!" Eugene was cut short as Mortimer the flaming, unicycle-riding grizzly bear ran him over. Eugene's clown form shook violently as he lay in the dirt covered in a tire track. He looked like a wax figure struggling to stay solid in a firestorm.
Dear, dear, he's straining to keep his Clown form up, Pius thought. At this rate he'll revert within the next few minutes. Should I intervene? Ah, well, the Highers or Manny can restore him when we get back.
The Fun-Lover pedaled back over to Eugene, who was still lying in the dirt unmoving. Mortimer turned back into its default form, and began prodding the Clown with its hands. It rolled him over. Eugene gave a withering glare at the walking udder. That was enough for Mortimer to decide there was still some life in his plaything. The Fun-Lover turned into a literal Hammer-head shark. It swung its iron mallet face downwards towards the unfortunate Lesser Clown, who, by now, was simply too upset and too low on Milk to resist. When the hammer struck, the Clown crumpled and dissolved into a black puddle with a sploosh and a gurgle. The liveliness around the main attraction continued as if nothing had happened.
Pius stared, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. Perhaps less than a few minutes. "Oh, dear me," he sighed, looking down at the shallow pool and shaking his head. "That was a little rough, Mortimer."
The Fun-Lover peeled its head away from the Clown and reverted back to its many-armed sac form. It had finally stopped laughing. The vesicle was now bloated with black liquid.
Pius grinned at the full Milk supply. "Though, I guess you had your reasons. Well done."
"You piece of—squick, pbbttth, plbbrrrtthh…" An angry high-pitched bubbling emanated from Eugene the Puddle.
"Hello, Gene. You've finally come to. Look! Mortimer has enough Milk to take us back, I believe!"
A dozen pair of short eye-stalks and tentacles sprouted from Eugene's "body." He had reverted into his weaker, "Normal" form, and was now violently cursing his attacker with a barrage of gurgling and hissing.
"Hush now, Eugene. Thank you, really, for taking one for the team," Pius said to the puddle. "We'll get you fixed up soon enough." The still whole Clown knelt down and scooped Eugene in his hands. "Mortimer! Time to go home!"
"Wowwee!"
The now full Fun-Lover made one last transformation in the abandoned fairgrounds: an enormous, scarlet rotary phone, with a large, transparent vat of Clown Milk replacing the power cord. The dial wheel turned, and the receiver sprung into the air, then slammed down on Pius and Eugene; a hissing noise could be heard from within, along with the inward sucking of a vacuum and the clicking of safety belts. Two spherical bulges snaked their way through the receiver cord and squeezed into the main phone body; Pius and Eugene had just been sucked into the main cabin right behind the dial wheel. The vat gurgled as the viscous black liquid flowed from it to be pumped. A firework shot out from each of the ten numbers on the dial wheel; a glowing clown face exploded into existence, illuminating the ruined Circus grounds with renewed light for a final time as the abandoned props now all engaged in a frenzied jig.
"Thank you for watching! We hoped you enjoyed the show!" The firework called, bursting into a rainbow of stars and confetti. The sparks encompassed the ground like a dome.
The phone hovered off the ground, crackling as Clown Milk boiled, beginning the Ring sequence that would take the Clowns and their Fun-Lover back to the Circus. There was a resounding crack. All the re-invigorated Circus items collapsed.
And then Eugene, Pius, and Mortimer were gone, leaving silence behind.

…
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep
Ring…
Ring…
BnnNZzZzZzzzzz
BnnNZzZzZzzzzz
Click!
YOU HAVE REACHED THE MAIN LINE FOR HERMAN FULLER'S CLOWN TRANSPORTATION SERVICES. PLEASE HOLD WHILE AN OPERATOR LOCATES YOU. THANK YOU FOR CALLING, AND HAVE A PLEASANT REST OF YOUR DAY.
♪ Entry of the Gladiators♪
…
"…prbtthhhllthlth-king hold music."
"Eugene, you're back!"
WOWWEE!

A Circus of a Wreck »


Robert Carter was cool, calm, and collected. He straightened his deep blue tie, then parted his hair with a metal comb. The lights of the Las Vegas strip lit up the night as bright as day. Robert continued to stride down the pavement, taking out one stick of nicotine gum, another of strawberry flavoured, and placed them into his mouth. He chewed, merging them both into a single amorphous blob. He rolled the wad around his mouth, then parked it between his left cheek and his teeth. It was a slower hit than chewing tobacco, but the taste and texture were better.
Robert continued walking, the beam of light from the top of the Luxor's pyramid guiding him to his destination. He cracked his neck from side to side, then stretched his arms into the air. He moved through the entrance, walking through the atrium to the high limit area. A staff member waved at him, and he in return; Robert was one of their most regular patrons.
Robert wasn't the best at poker, but he didn't need to be fantastic to turn a profit here. While other, more specialist casinos were filled with savvy players at their tables, the Luxor was a hotel and entertainment venue as well. Rich businessmen would stay here on trips and play at the tables on a whim, with no real concept of how to play, and Robert was glad to empty their pockets.
He walked over to the cage, exchanging ten thousand dollars - cash, of course - for chips, and getting his name placed on the wait list. He moved to the cocktail station, smiling at the bartender, who returned the smile.
"Good evening, Mister Carter. Your drink, as always."
"Thanks, Jim. Keep the change."
Robert handed the bartender a crisp fifty-dollar bill, taking the Pineapple Screwdriver from the bench and sipping it pensively. He seated himself in a nearby lounge, watching a table of men throwing their money away at a Baccarat table. Robert was filled with a sense of schadenfreude as he saw two men dejectedly leave the table, their money wasted to the house. Games of chance, while interesting, were never worth the financial risk. There were no betting systems that offered meaningful returns, with the exception of counting cards; even then, you'd likely be removed from the table before gaining a decent win margin.
A staff member walked over to Robert, bowing curtly.
"A seat has become available, Mister Carter. Please follow me."
Robert stood, following the man over to the table with his highball glass in hand and his bag of chips in the other. The house dealer moved the white button in front of the empty seat as Carter approached, the other three people at the table looking towards their newcomer.
Carter cased them. His thought patterns were something like this.
Number One: male, heavy build, balding brown hair, a slight roundness to the belly, a beer placed in front of him and a small pile of poker chips. A black suit jacket, opened to accommodate for the rotundity of his gut. Light tan, slight lazy eye, probably on holiday looking to burn through some savings. Not a problem.
Number Two: female, curvy, deep red lipstick, green dress, with shoulder length brown hair. Probably the wife of someone rich, having some fun with the husband's money. She seemed to have the largest pile of chips in front of her, though whether by chance or ability, Carter couldn't say.
Number Three: male, tall, lanky, glasses, long hair, wearing a suit he's clearly a bit uncomfortable in; likely here for the IBM Impact conference being held at the Venetian. A potential threat, but based on the assumption of his employment, probably more analytic of the table than the people sitting at it. In that case, easily bluffed if the table could have some decent hands in play.
Yes, he thought, sitting down to the left of One. This was a good table.
Carter pulled his chips from the bag, sorting them into ordered piles. The dealer spoke to Carter while shuffling the cards.
"Texas hold 'em, current blinds of 40 and 80, betting cap limit of 4000 per player per round. Mister Carter to deal."
The dealer riffled the deck a final time as Carter got his chips in order. One placed 40 out, Two placed 80, then all watched as two cards were dealt to each player. Carter lifted the side of his cards, looking at his hand: the King and 10 of Diamonds.

K♦ 10♦

"Bidding on Mister Ferris."
Three picked up the cards from the table, looked at his hand, placed the cards back down, then dropped 80 worth of chips besides them. Carter matched the blind, nodding to the dealer.
"Bidding on Mister Colridge."
One nervously tapped his chin, then pushed another 40 onto his small blind. Two tapped the table, smiling at the dealer. The dealer pulled the bids to the pot, then dealt the three cards of the flop: the 9 of Spades, the Queen of Hearts, and the 3 of Diamonds.

9♠ Q♥ 3♦

The other players had their eyes on the cards; Carter had his eyes on them. One was smiling dumbly at the deal, then picked up his hand; placing it back on the table, he checked. Not a good hand for him, then, Carter thought. Three still stared at the table, clearly running some calculation in his head.
"Bidding on Miss Friar."
Two ran her index finger between her lips, then placed it solidly on her cards. She moved 200 worth of chips from her pile next to the cards, then nodded to the dealer.
"Raise of 200 from Miss Friar."
Three, without hesitation, pushed a matching bid in front of him. Likely had a good hand, probably at least one Queen; then again, Two had still been confident enough to raise. The table didn't favour a certain suit, so a flush wasn't bankable; the best, at present, was three of a kind. Still, Carter was a single Jack away from a straight; not to mention the small, but notable potential for a diamond flush.
"Bidding on Mister Carter."
The question, then, was to call or re-raise. One was likely to fold or check, if the estimation of a bad hand was correct; thus, calling the hand would stop Two from being able to raise again this round. Carter moved in 200 next to his cards, nodding to the dealer. The dealer turned to One, who sighed, pushing his cards forward. The dealer nodded, then collected the bids from around the table. He burned a card from the deck, then dealt the turn card: the 9 of Diamonds.

9♠ Q♥ 3♦ 9♦

Carter considered his position; a diamond or a Jack on the river would give him either a flush or a straight, but anything else would leave him with a the shared 9 pair hand from the table. Carter took a mouthful from his drink.
"Bidding on Miss Friar."
Two pushed in 1000 worth of chips.
"Raise of 1000 from Miss Friar."
Three looked at the table, massaging his temples. That he was thinking about this meant that he likely only had the one Queen; if he had two in his hand, the pair of nines now on the table would give him a full house, at which point he'd know he had won. The question, then, was what Two had. It was possible that she had the two Queens, but assuming that Three had one of them, the chances were rather low. She probably started, then, with one Queen and another of the cards on the table. If she had a Queen and a three, then she had now simply improved from a Queen/3 two pair to a Queen/9. If she had the Queen and a 9, however, then she had a full house of two Queens and three nines. Carter looked over at Two, suddenly staring directly into her eyes as she stared straight back at him.
"Call from Mister Ferris, bidding on Mister Carter."
The best solution was to act as though he had the two Queens in his hand.
Carter moved 2000 worth of chips onto the table.
"Additional raise of 1000 from Mister Carter."
Two smiled, moving another pile in to match the raised bet, as did Three, ending the bidding round. Carter smiled at Two, taking another drink from his glass; she rested her chin in her hands, smiling back. Three, meanwhile, remained oblivious, staring directly at the cards. One looked on at the match with a degree of joviality, his lost bid of 80 now seeming tiny in comparison. The dealer gathered the bets into the now imposing pot. All eyes were on the deck as the dealer burned another card, then revealed the river: the Jack of Hearts. Carter reviewed the table and his hand.

9♠ Q♥ 3♦ 9♦ J♥

K♦ 10♦

He had the king-high straight, then; Carter prevented himself from exhaling a sigh of relief. Flushes were impossible with the current state of the table, so the only real danger to his hand was from a full house. Carter was certain that Three had no such hand; from his subdued demeanor, it was unlikely his non-Queen card had been a Jack.
"Bidding on Miss Friar."
Two pushed 1000 worth of chips beside her hand.
"Raise of 1000 from Miss Friar."
Three was concerned by this, picking up his hand from the table, then placing it back down. He rubbed the back of his neck. He was clearly hesitant about the hand: yet, he had sunk the money into the pot, and seemed resolved to see it through. He started to move a pile of 1000 beside his cards, then shook his head, pushing in two such piles.
"Additional raise of 1000 from Mister Ferris. 2000 to call, bidding on Mister Carter."
Carter wasn't concerned about Three any more. The futile show of confidence had been the clincher; Three did not have a winning hand. The question, then, was Two. She continued to stare at Carter, smiling at him with almost condescending confidence. Carter moved his bet beside his cards.
"Additional raise of 1000 from Mister Carter, total bid 3000. Miss Friar, an additional 2000 to call."
Two pushed three piles besides her hand.
"Additional raise, capping the table maximum at total bid of 4000. Mister Ferris, 2000 to call."
Three massaged his forehead, sighed, then pushed an additional 2000 into his bet. Carter smirked at the move, pushing in a final 1000 of his own and ending the final round of bidding. The dealer collected the bids into the pot.
"All show."

9♠ Q♥ 3♦ 9♦ J♥

Three flipped his hand first.

Q♦ 3♠

"Two pair from Mister Ferris."
Carter flipped his own hand next.

K♦ 10♦

"A king-high straight from Mister Carter."
Three closed his eyes, letting his head flop limply backwards in defeat. Two laughed at the gesture, then flipped the two cards in front of her, still untouched since the beginning of the game.

K♥ 10♥

9♠ Q♥ 3♦ 9♦ J♥

For a second, Carter's heart skipped a beat at the sea of red, thinking she had a royal flush; remembering that a flush was impossible, he examined the hand more closely.
"And a king-high straight from Miss Friar. Split pot between Mister Carter and Miss Friar, dividing 18920 into a total of 9460 apiece."
The dealer deftly started to sort the pile; Three gathered his remaining chips, turned on his stool, and gestured to a passing member of floor staff. Carter looked over to Miss Friar inquisitively, curious about the unexpected hand. She smiled at him with the same smile she had during the match, initiating conversation.
"Nicely done. Was half expecting you to have the two Queens."
"Same here."
The dealer passed both of them their winnings; each gave the dealer a 50 chip as a tip, causing him to dip his head in gratitude. Carter waved down a passing server.
"Say, Miss Friar, let me buy you a drink to celebrate."
"Expecting me to play worse when I'm liquored up?"
"Well, clearly I'll need all the edge I can get, Miss Friar."
She laughed, shaking her head.
"You'll find that drink only makes me stronger. A rum and coke then, Mister Carter."
"Please, call me Robert."
"Ruby."
"A pleasure to meet you, Ruby Friar."
She grinned.
"Likewise, Robert Carter."
And so the night went on.

Something slid under the door.
Robert carefully sat up in the bed, massaging his temples. The Luxor's Pyramid suite was furnished with tinges of royal purple on the lounges and curtains; he looked towards the hieroglyphics plastered on the wardrobe at the foot of the bed before returning his gaze to the door. He heard a shuffling from outside. He stood upright, careful not to disturb Ruby from her rest. Robert walked across the room, bending down and picking up a slip of paper from the carpeted floor. He turned to a nearby lamp, flicking the switch as quietly as he could. He looked at the envelope, reading in large cursive Mister Robert Carter across the front. He slowly tore the top of it open, pulling out and reading the message inside:

to the recipient of Robert Carter the;
you have been stated Claimwise presently at the hence to forthwith of many am to. via the forthwith, Hence into plain and direct of the subject topic. some rational Inheritance of the company
MARSHALL, CARTER AND DARKE LTD.
is am wish to many. Consumption from the. collection at
JUNE 26
from the place of Residents.
if Ever am to the not; Hotel And Casino of Luksoras room will yes.
forthcoming For incomprehensible, henceways, no message from Incipient.
from RUPRECHT CARTER of unDeath state
graceless Corpuscule;
The A-78xD United Eidolonic Collective
(deepness for incomprehensible)

Robert realised he mustn't have been awake enough to understand the note. He put it on the counter, meaning to read it upon waking; yet it slipped his mind in the morning, later dismissing the letter as an odd dream and leaving the missive to be disposed of by the cleaning ladies. Ruby and Robert parted ways. Days passed, as days do.
On the night of the 25th of June, Robert Carter went to sleep in the Pyramid suite of the Luxor hotel.
On the morning of the 26th, he awoke in an unfamiliar bed.

« Skitter Marshall | Hub | Iris Dark »


"Mister Hoover, your two o' clock is ready for you."
It was the usual thing. J. Edgar Hoover's people took him down to one of the lower levels, in a rickety old elevator. They had a few re-purposed basements like these. Places where Hoover, or an aide, or some random agent who happened to look tough, could take anyone new to the power and show them how to behave. Today, though, there was somebody waiting for him. A smallish man, with an ill-fitting suit and sunglasses. His hair was a short flat-top, with perky ears poking from either side. He held a briefcase, and stood behind a small card table.
"Hello, Mister Director, sir. My name is… Agent Fredericks, and I'm with the Unusual Incidents Unit."
Hoover smiled genially at the man, and nodded for him to continue.
"Uhm…" he clicked a briefcase, and reached inside. "I have… a few things to show you, sir. We've recently had an incident, out in Utah. A crash site. I can show you some photos…"
"Please." Hoover took a seat at the table.
Fredericks reached inside, and spread three large photos on the table. Hoover smiled at him, then peered at the thin sheets of information.
One, the first one, the biggest one, was a crater. A hot, fresh crater, out from Utah, if the boy was being honest. Inside of it was some sort of capsule. With antennae and a small, probably Red, hammer and sickle embossed in the metal. There was a heck of a lot of smoke coming out of it.
Second photo was men in radiation suits pulling a small animal out of it. It was a dog, or maybe something like a wolf. Hoover sighed. It was a shame, really, that such a wonderful creature would have such messy origins. It almost looked like a dog, like one of the ones he'd loved throughout his life. But it wasn't. It was a hair spreading, flea carrying, vomit on the carpet disease of an animal that Hoover paid a nice woman to deal with for him.
The third one was all the men melting out of their masks.
He tapped it with his cane. “What is this?”
"I… well… we're not, uh, sure, sir, but…”
Hoover touched Frederick's arm in an almost motherly way. "Just relax, and tell me what I need to know."
Fredericks took a breath, closed his eyes, and nodded. "That was the last photo we recovered. At the site. The dog was gone."
“Beg your pardon?”
“I'm sorry… but, what happened is, the crater became extremely radioactive… once we removed the dog. When another team could be sent out, it was gone.”
“Who did we lose?” Hoover tensed, squaring his face at the young man before him.
“Contractors. We couldn't get any of our men out there in time, so we had to hire some, uh locals.” Fredericks winced as he said it.
Hoover leaned back. "Well, thank the lord for small favors."
Fredericks shrugged with one shoulder. "There's another thing…"
Hoover stopped reclining. "Yes?"
"Well… well, if you'll look at these papers, you can see for yourself. Some, well, everyone who's see it thinks it's a pretty significant… event."
Hoover looked up from the sheaf of papers, to Fredericks, then back to the papers, and frowned loudly.
On the paper, there was a photo, burnt but not destroyed. It had been taken automatically, from proximity, after the men in the crater had melted. It showed three men in long, black coats. They were lifting the dog up and holding it aloft.
"This is a hell of a thing, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"Are they GRU-P men?"
"We don't know, sir, but it's a possibility."
Hoover nodded, and stood up. "I'll get you booked for a flight home today. You've got a lot of work to do."

Above them, a camera slowly slithered out of a freshly drilled hole, and back up to two dirty Americans sitting in a damp, dripping and very humid storage room. The scrawnier of the two, the man, pulled the wire up out of the hole before wrapping it in a bandana and stuffing it in his jacket.
The woman got up from the wet ground and patted her knees with a dry rag. She hissed at her companion. "Well? How did it go?"
Jules patted his jacket down and wiped his brow. "I got him, images and audio, but we might have a… difficulty. Either someone is onto us, or we're not the first ones here."
His wife looked at him, frowning quietly.
"Someone else, uh, they drilled through this first. When I tried the hand crank, it went through like butter. Somebody filled this in with… something. Looks like concrete, but a lot softer."
Ethel's eyes took an an intense glare, as she dropped back to the ground and pored over the recently re-covered hole. "Are you serious?"
Julius, glancing anxiously at the door, spat his words at her. "You're looking at it, aren't you?!"
Ethel rose, and shot him an angry glance. "What do we do now?"
Julius glanced out the door. "We're going to walk out and pretend nothing happened. I don't think we've been compromised. Just… we're not as original as we thought."
As she walked towards him, Ethel crossed her arms. "So… do we tell Semenov?"
"I think we're going to keep this to ourselves, for now. We're going to walk out, and we can discuss this over tea later. Okay?"
She nodded. "There weren't any problems taping it, though?"
Jules chuckled. "Don't forget that I'm a professional."
He pushed open the door, and with that, they scurried out, quietly as they'd arrived. They had a lot of work to do.

The flight was uneventful, save for the fact that the Director of the FBI rode with a junior agent to a top secret facility. If that was eventful, then this flight was definitely unusual. But they arrived without incident, and an unremarkable secret black car drove them to an unremarkable warehouse that held a secret government facility.
As they got out of the car, Hoover's entourage crowded around the man, walking in step with him as he followed Agent Fredericks into the warehouse. The inside was a pure, sterile white, with a ceiling stretching high enough for clouds to form, if they allowed the weather to get in. Around them, men in suits sat at oak desks, scratching down notes with number two pencils. It was like any other office, save for the huge steel cages scattered on wheels around the facility.
"So, are you going to be showing me what you've all been working on?"
Fredericks, his eyes pointed straight ahead, nodded.
"Good. I've not been this way in a while, so it'll be nice to catch up with the boys. Have you been working on much, besides this dog case?"
Fredericks shrugged.
Hoover reached up and tapped his shoulder. "Are you alright, son?"
"Oh, what? Yeah, yeah… it's just, I didn't think you'd want to come see things personally. People are going to be surprised."
Hoover chuckled. "Hopefully a pleasant surprise, yes?"
Fredericks nodded, and led them all to the closest steel cage. "This is… something we've recovered from Florida… it's a snail-person, and if, uh, you talk to it, it makes you into a snail."
Inside the cage, there was indeed a man, dripping with snot with a hard carapace nailed to his back with great granite nails. His eyes, stuck on stalks, swiveled and peered at the assembled audience. Fortunately, it couldn't speak. They'd taken off the mouth.
Hoover wrinkled his nose. "It's disgusting."
Fredericks nodded. "It's a damnable thing. Everyone who we talked to, who'd been affected, they could still talk. They were all really happy about it."
"Deviants."
"Well, we did a background check on some of them. Nothing suspicious, but we thought we ought to anyways. I'm sure you, uh, agree, sir."
“You can never be too careful in this day and age. There's reds, and fairies, and they're everywhere. You know, just the other day, they implicated some men I used to work with? I'd called them 'colleagues', and they turned out to be… deviant."
"I hear that, sir."
"Have you seen the hearings? It's much, much worse than we thought. That's why your mission is so, so important, both to me on a personal level, and to this nation.”
Fredericks blinked. "Thank you, sir. Shall we go on?"
"Please. We've got to get started. They've already got started, and we've got to get the jump on Them before they get the jump on us. Again."

Ian Walsh sat next to Fredericks as the latter drove the same old black Ford back up to Zion. They had a Geiger counter between them, and nothing else of note. It was at least a hundred degrees outside the car, so he hoped that they could find this mutt quick.
They pulled to a crunching stop, right at the precipice. Walsh got out first and peered into the hole. It still looked like a pile of dirt at the bottom of a dirt hole, with some metal chunks tossed in for show. The boys had carted out most everything else.
Fredericks came up behind him holding a sack of their equipment. "Nice to be back, huh? Especially since it's real now. Not a wild goose chase."
"Yeah, sure. Nice." Walsh could already feel himself sweating like a pig. "So, you want to do the Geiger counter, or the cage?"
Fredericks hefted the sack, and placed it onto the ashy ground. "Geiger counter, I guess…"
"Alright. So when we see the thing, wave the treat around, and try to get it in the cage. Hopefully it doesn't melt us. Don't touch it, though. We're just here to bag it. No need for anyone to get touchy."
"Whatever you say." Fredericks said disinterestedly, as he held the counter aloft, and squinted at it. "Uh…"
"Do you know how to use a Geiger counter?"
"Just give me a minute."
Walsh tapped his foot on the ground as the junior agent angled the counter around. He was animated, shimmying and swaying his arms. Through the haze, Ian thought he might be seeing double.
It's too damned hot out here.
Fredericks pointed towards some brush. "Okay… counter says it's maybe this way?"
Without a word, Walsh began trudging towards it. He peered through the heat haze, looking for movement. If the dog was in there, it didn't have too many places to hide.
As soon as he'd taken his next step, it ambled out of the bushes. Panting like crazy, dirty as hell, but looking happy to see them.
Walsh froze.
The dog froze.
Fredericks waved his geiger counter.
"Don't make any sudden moves," hissed Walsh. "It's right here."
Slowly, he set the trap down, treat and water inside. He backed up, crouching and ready to sprint if the dog so much as sneezed.
It went into the kennel, and began lapping up water. The door snapped shut, but it didn't seem to notice. Water was more important than snappy noises, anyways.
Fredericks grinned. "Nice work!"
Walsh wiped his brow, his face turning up in a worried grimace. "Didn't think it'd be that easy… you have the radio, right?"
"It's in the car."
"Call the baggers up. We're done here."

There was only one thing Hoover was interested in today.
He'd been waiting around the UIU offices to get a look at this beast for the better part of four days, and he'd been up all night for three of them. He wasn't in any mood for a sightseeing tour.
He marched through the offices, going straight past the Lamprey-skinned man, whose slippery flesh might've otherwise occupied his attention all day.
Hoover went stomping past the endless waterfall, which occasionally disgorged whole catfish, fish, and cats. They even came with their shots.
He even ignored the mirror of a thousand bodies, which showed every dead body you'd come within one mile of in your lifetime. They'd all ask about your day and made very genial conversation.
It posed no interest to him today.
Hoover walked up besides Agent Fredericks and peered into the cage. "This here is the Red dog?"
Fredericks nodded. "Yes sir! Special Agent Walsh and I captured it this morning."
"Good… Very good work. Have you got it all processed?"
"We couldn't really touch it. At least… not till we studied it. So we had to corral it into a weighing room to get its measurements, among other things, like checking for mites, and such. But, it's all done now."
"Was it a tough catch?"
"… Yes, sir, but we got it in the end." Fredericks smiled.
"You'll be hearing from my office soon, Agent. I'm very interested in this case."
"We know, Director."
"Good night to you, son."
With that, Hoover donned his hat. His entourage worked quickly, packing up their things and getting the contact information from their agents. But before too long, they were through, and Hoover boarded a plane heading for headquarters. Work had been done.

J. Edgar had restless dreams that night.
As he floated in the violet void, the elementary school teachers casually circled through the childhood pets, all mashed together into a single mass of paws, ears, and one compiled face embodying cute friendliness. It was panting at him, and the pants were asking for his math homework.
A floating tongue manifested itself, slobbering all over the loose leaf. "Did you catch them, Daddy? Did you catch the bad guys?"
Hoover groaned. "I'm working on it, honey. I'm working on it."
Then, he woke up.

« Touchdown | HUB | Chasing Tails »


It was a cold evening in the Utah desert. Sand and stone don't hold heat long without the sun shining on them, and a few hours past sunset was enough to radiate everything back out into the air. In the high desert, there can even be nighttime snow in places that, during the day, could kill a man with heat stroke.
Tonight, though, something warmed up a small patch of desert. Specifically, a red-hot bundle of metal and antennas, screaming through the atmosphere with enough force to punch a rather impressive crater in the desert floor. Which, of course, it did.
Had this happened a few dozen miles north, the noise of its impact would've woken families, set dogs to barking, and resulted in a police cordon within an hour. As it was, the only one to hear it land was a middle-aged Ute man, a veteran who'd seen too many things that only cheap, harsh tequila could drown out. And the desert subsided quickly back to the normal sounds of predators and prey and the wind whistling across rock.
And the barking of a dog.
It didn't sound happy.

Special Agent Ian Walsh drove in a half-daze, the empty stretch of road lulling him into a kind of stupor. He knew that some people were energized by driving, especially through the kind of fantastic terrain found in southern Utah, but it always threatened to knock him unconscious. The only reason he was driving was because if he was in the passenger seat, he'd have been asleep after fifteen minutes on the road. As it was, the wind past the windows and the heat of the sun on his lined, tanned face were trying to turn drowsiness into sleep.
"Hey, Ian."
Walsh suddenly snapped out of his reverie back into full consciousness as he glanced over at his partner. Special Agent Roger Fredericks was new to the FBI, having graduated from Quantico only the year before. His thin, wiry frame always seemed to almost vibrate from nervous energy, even when he'd been sitting in a car for hours. Just watching his fidgeting was enough to exhaust Walsh some days.
"Yeah?"
"I've gone through these reports forwards and backwards over a dozen times and I don't get why we're having to investigate this. It sounds like a tourist saw a meteorite land, thought it was a UFO, and blew it up into some big thing like back in '47. Heck, there's even a note from one of the Park Rangers saying that the guy who reported it was drunk enough to smell it from a yard away. So why is the Bureau so interested?"
From the corner of his eye, Walsh could see Fredericks fiddling with a paperclip from the file in his lap, twisting it over and through his fingers like a little metal toy. Walsh shrugged slightly and stifled a yawn, then replied.
"I don't know for sure, but I think somebody high up is worried about the Russkis. You hear all the time about how they're trying to shoot a missile over at us. I don't think any could reach this far, though. Even if it's nothing, you can get a rock sample for your kid brother or something."
"I guess. It just seems weird that we'd be sent all the way to Zion on a wild goose chase."
Walsh shrugged again. "You never know. Now just sit back and relax. It's about another hour to the ranger station, I think." He knew that Fredericks wouldn't take the advice, but he nevertheless felt a little better for at least trying to get the high-strung young man to calm down.

Dry dirt crunched under the wheels of the low-slung black Ford as Walsh pulled the car to a stop outside the lonely building. A tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in the characteristic tan-and-olive uniform of a park ranger stood outside. Fredericks popped out of the car like a jackrabbit, but Walsh took his time to get out, adjust his hat, and walk over to the station, taking in the stranger carefully. It wasn't very often that you saw a Negro in Utah, much less in a government job.
"Afternoon, folks. Sam Ecks. I'm going to be your guide while you're out here. Not sure why some drunk's ramblings were enough to bring out the FBI, though."
Walsh shook his hand, noting that it was good and strong. A good sign of an honest man, that.
"I'm Special Agent Walsh and this is Special Agent Fredericks. We're just here to check and make sure there's nothing unusual or a national security concern before some whacko starts blabbing that little green men are coming to invade and civilians start getting panicky. We're not expecting anything, but can't be too careful now-a-days, what with the Reds."
Fredericks quickly shook Ecks' hand and stepped back, his eyes darting around beneath the brim of his hat, never settling too long on any one thing. Ecks nodded at the two of them and led them into the building. A ceiling fan turned lazily, futilely trying to stir a breeze to cool the overly-warm room. Ecks walked them over to a desk with a large map laid out across it. He leaned over it and circled an unfortunately large area with one thick finger.
"We can't be exactly sure, but there were another couple of eyewitnesses who came in after the report was sent to you. Between them, I'd say that the most likely landing spot is somewhere in this area. We can head out now and take a look if you want, but we probably wouldn't get to see more than a quarter of the area."
Walsh inspected the map and the indicated area. It looked like a couple of square miles and he was already feeling the sweat soak through his shirt. It would be best to get as much over with now as they could, though, so he could send at least a partial report back to headquarters in the morning.
He looked over at Fredericks, who was also poring over the map intently, then nodded at Ecks.
"Yeah, we should take a look now. Who knows? We may luck out and find it in the first fifteen minutes."
Ecks nodded back. "I'll go get the truck."

It turned out that Walsh was wrong; even though he was next to the passenger's window on the bench seat of the truck, the random jolts as Ecks drove it across the rocky terrain was enough to keep him awake. Fredericks sat between them, the map folded open on his lap. They'd been slowly driving a winding loop through the national park for more than two hours and were on the last stretch before heading back to the ranger station, when Ecks braked hard to avoid hitting a coyote that darted in front of them.
Walsh swore involuntarily as he banged his head against the edge of the door-frame and his hat was knocked off his head out the window.
"Dang it. Put it in park, Ecks. I need to get my hat."
With that, he opened the door and slid out. Shading his eyes with his hand, he saw where the light wind was blowing his hat across the vegetation on the side of the road. It was already about a dozen yards away and still going. It was weird, too. The hat should've caught on one of the low bushes by now.
He started picking his way through the scrubby plants, alternating between watching his footsteps and keeping an eye on the hat. After a few yards, Walsh heard the truck door open again. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Fredericks heading in his direction, apparently to help him.
Together, they followed the hat another hundred feet until it tumbled around a thick pillar of rock. When they turned the corner, they both stopped, forgetting the hat. About a quarter mile away, down a low rise, was a fresh crater with smoke rolling out of it. Something in the bottom shone red in the setting sun.
"Go get the camera from the truck, Fredericks. Looks like we found our target."
Fredericks scrambled back towards the truck as Walsh started walking towards the crater. As he went, he saw his hat continue tumbling on, well to the left of the crater. Frowning, he grumbled under his breath. "If it really is little green men, they owe me a new hat."

Twelve hours later, Walsh was rubbing his eyes in frustration as he tried to keep from sighing into the telephone.
"No, Mayor Broadbent, I'm not saying that there's a nuclear threat. But we did find an odd-looking meteorite out here and we'd like to check it for radioactivity before we move it. So, again, does the civil defense shelter have any Geiger counters or radiation suits that we could borrow?"
He listened for another minute and gave a tense smile. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor. I'll be by in about an hour."
He hung up the phone and stood up from the table. Fredericks hovered nearby, twiddling a pen between his fingers as he waited for orders. Walsh motioned for him to follow as he headed out the door.
"Ecks should be back in a few hours with those locals he's rounding up, so we have time to head up to Cedar City and pick up the gear that the mayor is so graciously lending us. While I'm getting that, you go find a store and buy more film for the camera."
He slammed the door of the Ford a little harder than necessary and started the engine. "Let's go find out what those Commies hid in their little ball."

« HUB | Where's The Shadow Government When You Need Them? »