I told them they had six months - at most a year - to bring the US to its knees, and then things would go to hell. Now, everything was going exactly as I predicted. Midway - a total disaster of blind luck. Four carriers lost. We had lost the initiative - and retaking it was a not going to be an easy task.
I rubbed what remained of my left hand on my face. That's what you're here for, I thought. I poured over battle plans for the defense of the Solomons. After ten minutes of struggle, I came to the conclusion that stress from the prior couple of weeks had clouded my mind.
I resolved to clear my head with a walk. Rabaul was not terribly pleasant this time of year - but the fresh sea air should clear my head, help me think a bit more clearly. Prepare myself for whatever was to come.
"Be aware, sir, that your flight arrives in two hours. After they refuel, you should be leaving for your scheduled inspection tour in Bougainville." An attempt to raise morale. I hoped it wasn't for naught.
I chuckled at my secretary. "Haruto, how long have we known each other? Have I ever been late for anything?"
Haruto smiled back. "Go on. I'll see you in two hours."
A salute from the door guard, and a wave of the warm, humid air of the Pacific washed over me.

The two hours had passed quicker than I had hoped - I did not feel any more hopeful than I did before.
The flight crew had just landed, and were now dismounting the aircraft. I anxiously awaited outside the hangar. I saw Haruto approaching in one of the staff cars, but it did little to relieve my anxieties.
"Never, ever late, Admiral. Oh! Before I forget. There's been a slight change of plans - you have a replacement plane, the usual had some mechanical issues. It's been modified in some way - you're the only one on that flight. The rest of us are in the other. Not sure how that happened, but your regular flight should meet us in Bougainville and the rest will continue as planned."
I frowned. Logisitics is usually better about keeping everything in order - switching the plane at the last minute for this sort of trip meant that something went seriously wrong.
Petty worries. I have bigger things to fret about. Like keeping the damned Americans out of the Solomons.
"As long as we're not late."
I boarded almost without incident; the crew, unusually, had a bit of difficulty loading my personal effects. Must be a green crew, I thought. They otherwise seemed fairly competent. A few minutes later, we were in the air. I found it puzzling that this plane did not seem very different from the usual one, but rationalized that whatever modifications it had were not immediately apparent. Poor Haruto and the others must be crammed into the other plane like a rice ration.
A crew member struggled to navigate through to the passenger compartment. "Admiral?" a rather ponderous voice spoke from around the corner. He attempted to salute, but hardly succeeded in the confinement of the aircraft. He entered the passenger compartment, frowned, and went back up the ladder into upper deck.
The din of the aircraft engines inconveniently located adjacent to the passenger compartment made keeping any sort of coherent train of thought an exercise in futility. Mercifully, the flight between Bougainville and Rabaul was comparatively short - about 90 minutes. I attempted to relax myself in what little space I had - awaiting an exit from this aerial purgatory.

I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes to landing; land, now, beneath us.
The crewman from earlier rushed down the ladder, mildly injuring himself on the way down.
"Admiral! American fighters have ambushed us!" His faced was filled with panic, before rushing past me to gun station located beneath.
Within less than a minute, I heard bursts of gunfire. The plane began to swerve wildly. The initial rapid chkchkchkchkchkchk of our defensive guns opening fire marked the beginning of our engagement.
I began to reflect on my odds of survival. Japanese planes, while significant feats of engineering, were not known for their durability.
The rapid THUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNK of bullets hitting their mark sealed our fate. A burst seemed to rip through the left wing - but on further examination, the wing appeared mostly intact. Despite this, plane pitched steeply down. I could not see from the passenger compartment, but I knew the plane would crash any minute, giving me precious few seconds to find closure in this rather poignant turn of events. I found irony in that a pioneer of naval aviation would die in an assassination performed by naval aviators.

That was the last thought I had before I came to, still strapped into the doomed plane. A crewman jostled me awake. The panic that had consumed his expression earlier had been replaced entirely with professionalism. "That worked better than expected. Come with me, we have little time." I followed him out of the plane, which had maintained its shape remarkably well.
Before me, I saw something that I never could have expected, nor imagined.
There was a plane crash, just like mine, but far more catastrophic. The wings had sheared off. The fuselage was crumpled, and smoke poured out of the wreck contributing to an ever-growing plume rising out of the jungle.
And right in the middle of all of it, was a body in the passenger compartment. I remembered a nightmare I had at one point as a child - I looked into a mirror and instead of my own face, I saw something that looked like me, but wasn't me. All the way down to the officer's sword, the missing fingers on my hand, the stoic facial expression I tried to keep. It was an exact copy of me, more exact than human hands could craft. This particular duplicate had suffered severe bullet wounds.
I stood awestruck before my own death before reality kicked in - I was still very much alive, and this was quite obviously a very meticulous, elaborate operation to fake my death.
The same crew member from before grabbed my shoulder. "Let's have a little discussion. Please, take a few minutes to recover - plane crashes would shake anyone up, not to mention seeing one's own death before them. You seem to be holding up rather well. That's good. You have a lot to digest in the next couple of hours." He produced a small bottle of sake and offered it to me.
I declined. "I'd rather remain clearheaded, thank you. What exactly is going on?" The past ten minutes of events had blindsided me entirely. I may have been panicking internally, but I felt no need to show that.
He returned the bottle to the pocket whence it came, and rewarded my restraint with half a smile. "You're taking it better than most. As far as the world knows, you died in the plane crash. We've already checked this contingency - you will be posthumously promoted to Marshal Admiral, receive some significant commendations from Japan and Germany, of all places, and given a full state funeral." The matter-of-factness in his voice clashed heavily with the ideas he was conveying.
The panic I had been holding back rushed forth like a flood. "Who are you? What is this?"
He held up a hand. "One question at a time please." I tried to calm myself a little, but did not meet much success. I didn't even think to react to this blatant insubordination with anger.
"Fine. Continue."
"I did fail to introduce myself, my apologies. My name is Kenzo Ui. I am not affiliated with the Axis nor the Allies, nor the Soviets. It's a little difficult to explain who I work for. And this here is the place that the history books will recall that you died after a successful American ambush."
I found my stoicism once more. "I do not understand. Who are you?"
"It's OK, you can have a couple minutes. After that I can explain why all of this is occurring."
I thought of my family I was leaving behind. I thought of all the comrades-in-arms, whether they be the door guard I saw every day or those I sent into the Aleuts and had never met, or of Haruto, my ever-faithful personal secretary. I thought of the troops I whose morale I intended to boost, and that I had in all likelihood shattered it instead. I thought of the country I was leaving behind, and whose hands I left it in. I took small comfort in that my death would be viewed as honorable and tragic, and found some peace with that. I could process the ramifications of my 'death' later - for now I had to piece together exactly what was happening.
"Before you ask - there is no going back. Not possible."
I sighed. That question had not even crossed my mind.
"Explain yourself."
"This may take a few moments to process. You are a practical man - I will not try to use weasel words and make it seem something that it is not."
Kenzo thought for a few seconds, and then continued.
"You know, I had a whole speech for this prepared - the occult, magic, alchemy exists, etc. You'd have a really hard time believing that."
"That would be a correct assumption." This felt like an elaborate prank, aside from the colossal amount of effort required for this endeavor.
"I decided I should bring proof." Reaching into pocket, he withdrew a sheathed knife. "Here's a knife. Does it look familiar?"
I frowned. "That's a traditional Japanese utility knife. So? I thought they were standard issue."
"You're correct. Pick a tree." We were in the jungle after all - fortunately the jungle lacked density, but it still gave me plenty of trees to pick from.
"That one over there. What is this leading up to?" I asked, pointing to a rather average looking tree perhaps five meters away.
"That'll work. You may want to stand back." He withdrew the knife. He prepared to strike the tree, as if he expected it cut straight through, rather than getting stuck in the bark and injuring his arm.
I watched with incredulity as he felled the tree with one strike. "I don't believe you. That was a set up."
"You're welcome to check the tree, or pick another. If you really want to, you can cut the tree yourself. Be careful though, it is quite sharp."
"Give me the knife."
I saw a smaller tree adjacent to the first one. I scrutinized it carefully - no trace of human tampering whatsoever.
I found it difficult to strike the tree as Kenzo had - my body struggled to understand that this knife differed from every other it had ever held, and that it would not injure itself while cutting down this tree.
After much effort, the tree was felled - exactly as Kenzo had demonstrated. A clean cut - not even the master sword-smiths of Japan could make something that sharp, or with that much cutting ability.
I returned the knife to Kenzo. "There's a lot more where that came from, and most of them are not nearly this mundane. Some are just bizarre - radio transmissions with disturbing content, items no human hand could have crafted. Others have the capacity to end the world, or even reality itself. Understandably, this is a little far-fetched, but I can demonstrate far more later."
I struggled to parse what was demonstrated with what I knew about the world. "Why haven't I, nor anyone I have ever met, encountered such things? Surely you cannot hide something of such magnitude."
Kenzo's smiled widened. "We do our best to hide them, and the reason you don't believe is primarily my job. I am - and now you are, too, whether you like it or not - part of an organization dedicated to isolating these sorts of things, whether they be people, places, things, or events, from the general population. I realize this may be difficult to believe. I can provide all the proof you need once we are evacuated to a safe location." A officer's staff car pulled it. It was not Japanese, nor American. It had no markings. "That's our ride. It's either this or dying in the jungle."
I obliged. The staff car drove into the jungle. "Why me? What will I do? I am an admiral, not a… whatever you are."
"Usually, we're just called agents. Me, in particular? I'm a disinformation specialist. Think somewhere between spy and Yakuza cleaner. And your skills are required."
"What could you possibly need a fleet admiral for?"
"A second world war rages behind the scenes of the one you fight. Our organization has former military men… but skilled tacticians, we lack. We've been 'poaching', for lack of a better term, from military commanders on both sides of this conventional war raging in tandem with ours. Why you specifically? William Gott asked for you by name. A British Lieutenant-General. He thinks rather highly of you. The Americans had already planned this assassination well in advance, and we found it to be an excellent opportunity to extract you for our own purposes."
"Why the hell should I work for you, or with him? Our countries are at war. You are not my country, nor do I have any other reason to assist you at all. Explain yourself."
"I am afraid I cannot. You will be briefed as fully as possible once we reach the ground, and then even further once we remove you from the island." The staff car stopped abruptly in front of a bunker that was, again, neither Japanese nor American in origin. "Ah, we have arrived. That's our safehouse - in a few hours we'll be evacuating you by submarine."
"To?"
"I could name a few locations, but I would be greatly surprised if you recognized them."
"Do I have any choice in this matter? You said I couldn't go back, but can I go anywhere else?"
"There's always a choice, Admiral. I've been authorized to allow you to commit suicide. I see you have your officer's sword at hand - but I have cyanide capsules here, if you prefer."
I scoffed. Hardly a choice.
"I resent being dragooned into your war, but I fear I must accept your offer, and whatever it entails."
Kenzo bowed. "I hoped as much. Your new designation is O5-10. You will be provided with background on the other leaders, including the late -10, and whatever other information you desire that we can possibly muster. Welcome to the Foundation, Isoroku Yamamoto."


Note: This is part twelve in a multi-part story based around the events leading up to the containment of SCP-2982. It is recommended that you read the previous entry Deliverance first, or start from the beginning At the Library. You can take a look at Golan too, for a tale based on one of the tests of the SCP object.

Official SCP-2982 documentation. Level 4 access required.

Date: 2015-02-17

From: Site Director David Runeberg

To: Subsite 23-Delta-K6 Chief Security Officer Frank Onegra

CC: Site 23 Affiliated Field Operations Controller Sandra Chaperone

Subject: Alexander Lazarus

Frank
Some bad news. Chief Global Suppression Manager Alexander Lazarus will be joining us on 2015-02-19 for two days. Be careful. He is both absolutely loyal to the Foundation and entirely dispassionate towards the humanity it protects.
He is to be given unhindered, solo access to both SCP-2982 and SCP-2982-02 (the former Agent Paris). Yes I know. I'll send you the full approval documentation tomorrow. Orders come from the O5 council. They're very very skittish about what she knows and what might get out. [REDACTED]
SD David Runeberg

.
On 2015-02-19, at the insistence of CGSM Lazarus, all testing on SCP-2982 was discontinued, and further testing, research or evaluation was prohibited.
On 2015-02-23, Site Director Runeberg committed suicide. An encrypted email sent from his personal account to the Foundation SCO work email account read,

[REDACTED]
Thank you for the breach report. It's not proven but I think we both know Lazarus has the phone now - he interviewed Carol for six hours. He had sole access to both. I am truly sorry, Frank. You're blameless, at least. Just following orders. Under the circumstances I won't bother with an official response.

[REDACTED]

.
Current Situation: Current location of SCP-2982 and Alexander Lazarus is unknown. Locating same is of paramount importance and Operation Blank Cheque is in place to facilitate this.

On 2015-03-03, O5 council member 07 received a 43-second anomalous video message which showed her sleeping in bed, with Lazarus standing naked over her. This is proof positive that Lazarus is now actively using SCP-2982, reasons unknown.

SCP-2982 was misappropriated with only 37% of Core 1/contact tests completed, and 0% of Core 2/Structure tests complete. Conclusions: The Foundation cannot confirm the full extent of the anomalous properties of SCP-2982.

[REDACTED]

+
Alexander Lazarus picked his way through the gravestones and found his way at last to the crying tramp. The last few days, though productive in their own way, had been somewhat lacking in closure. Today would help. Today, all wrongs would be righted, all previous injustices would be cleansed from the sleeping, oblivious world.
"Excuse me," he said. "I need a moment of your time."
The tramp looked up from his graveside vigil and blinked into the sunlight. He tried to look into the man's face but it was silhouetted and impenetrable. He turned his gaze downwards instead; a business suit, very new and probably expensive. Tailored, maybe. Trousers with a razor sharp crease. Unscuffed, virgin shoes. No traces of dirt or mud or water stains. The body the clothes adorned worked out; the man was lean and tall, mid-fifties with a military bearing. Precise, efficient.
Lazarus nodded towards the gravestone. "Who was it?"
"Robert Francis Catterson," the tramp replied. "A good man."
"You knew him?"
"I remember the funeral," the man said. "Died of a stroke. Did lots of work for local folks. Fought against the KKK in his time. Died of a stroke. His funeral - still hurts to remember it. Seventy nine years old. Grand children were distraught."
"You were at the funeral?"
The man nodded at last. "He was a good man."
Lazarus squatted down on his haunches and studied the gravestone. "Your good friend died 30th March, 1913. He died one hundred and two years ago."
"I know what you're thinking," replied the tramp. "And I don't care. I know everyone who's died. How and when, too."
"I know you do," said Lazarus. He massaged his chin, stroking it with forefinger and thumb. "Hope you don't mind me saying, but you look hungry." He opened up a wallet - it was uncreased and smelt new, as if it had not been opened before - and brought out two crisp ten dollar bills. He held them out; the tramp accepted them quietly. "What's your name?"
"I don't know," said the tramp.
"I know," confided Lazarus. The tramp raised his eyebrows. "I know who did this to you - this whole "I know how everyone died" thing - and why. You're part of a bigger picture." He looked down, noticed a speck of dirt on his shoe, and wiped it off with his handkerchief. "How about we help each other out? You walk away with your name, and the name of the man who did this to you."
"You can do that?"
"I have contacts," said Lazarus. "Although if you want revenge, you'll be too late. The lowlife responsible is no more."
"Dead?"
Lazarus nodded. "Yes," he said. "Died earlier this month. Help me and I'll give you his name and you can go piss on his grave or something." He shrugged and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. "Smoke?"
"I don't," the tramp said.
"Me neither," said Lazarus, putting the box away. "Handy to have though, just in case. Listen; I know the name of a dead man isn't much closure for you, but it's something."
"Okay," the tramp said. "What help do you want? You want to find someone who's dead? I need their names - and dates of birth or death if possible."
"Small price to pay," Lazarus noted. There was a pause, and then he stood up again, his shadow casting a long thin shadow against the grave. "Angela Knowledge Gwandoya. Can't be too many of them. Lived in Beacon Hill."
The tramp immediately started to sob.
"You okay?"
"She was so little," said the tramp. "She was such a beautiful little thing," he said. "Why is there such evil in the world?"
"To balance out the good, otherwise it's all grey." Lazarus handed the tramp a tissue. "Come on, don't cry. You have the chance to make everything all right. Do you know where she's buried?"
The tramp nodded through tears and wiped his nose on his hand. "Small place on the outskirts of town," he said. "Quiet place."
"Here." Lazarus offered his hand to the tramp and helped him up. "I'll drive. Show me."
+
They stood, perspiring in the sullen March sunshine, over the relatively fresh grave of Angela Knowledge Gwandoya. "Bigger than I expected," said the tramp.
"I believe there's a reason for that," said Lazarus. "Still, she's in heaven now."
The two reflected in silence. Lazarus glanced around. They had not been followed, and the cemetery was empty. The tramp turned to him suddenly. "Why are we here?" he asked.
"Long story. I'm not really here for the girl. I'm here for her mother. Final respects, so to speak."
"So why not just ask me for her mother?"
"Good question. Wouldn't work," said Lazarus. "Her final resting place is unmarked. My organisation has the location, but I can't access it - can't even Google it - without all kinds of flags and alerts getting raised. I'm pushing the envelope of good fortune just being here talking to you, truth be told. I'm currently undergoing a transitional period of strategic realignment and allegiance re-prioritisation, you might say."
"Doesn't make sense," said the tramp. "And how'd you know it wouldn't work?"
"Trust me," said Lazarus. "I've done my homework. There's a file on you. You can remember the death of everyone who ever lived. You even know where they're buried, but only if their final resting place is known to the authorities." He handed the tramp another tissue; he had started crying again. "Before you were like this, someone you loved disappeared. You obsessed about it. Pissed a certain man off with your constant depression, so he did this to you as punishment. Thought it would be amusing if you knew every single death except the one that mattered to you the most. Thought it would be funny if you couldn't remember a single thing about your own life, but knew everything about the dead. The fact that you informed on his somewhat shady business ventures certainly didn't help."
Lazarus looked at the tramp. "I apologise if that hurts," he offered. "Thought you at least deserved some insight into your condition. Guy that did this, did the same thing to a lot of innocent folk. Enjoyed hurting them. People think I'm dispassionate, but I've come to realise there's no point sugar-coating shit."
The tramp didn't answer. Lazarus continued. "The organisation I work - worked - for, face unimaginable horrors every day. Have to do horrible things in the name of humanity. So when they can, they perform tiny acts of kindness." He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. "This little girl buried here, she was raped and murdered by a freak by the name of Aidan Brown. Broke the mother's heart, she never really recovered. So when the mother died, they broke from procedure a little. Took her for tests, yes, then disposed of her, yes, even made an empty grave for her with her name so everything was squared with the authorities. But I think they secretly buried her with her daughter here, so they would be together again at last."
"Jesus," said the tramp.
Lazarus continued. "Mother died in a car accident on the third of this month." He caught the tramp's quizzical expression. "They were fleeing the police," he explained. "Driver - man by the name of Geoff Mansani - lost control and drove off a bridge straight into the San Antonio river. Drowned. Her and Mansani both. Think Aidan Brown was in the car too, but he's never been found… Listen. I promised you the name of the man who made you the way you are. But I need one more bit of information from you. I need to know exactly how Helen Gwandoya died. Was it an accident or did that paedophile bastard Aidan Brown kill her too?"
"It wasn't an accident," said the tramp. "It was murder."
"Murder?" Lazarus turned back to the other man. "Do you know what happened?"
"It's… confused. But it was murder. Premeditated, definitely… Like you say - car crash. Helen Gwandoya in the front with Mancini - Mansani? Halfway over the bridge, something in the back seat. Like a lobster but man sized - pulls a taser on the driver. He loses control. They go into the river. Helen Gwandoya drowns - she can't open the doors." Then, by way of explanation: "She had poorly hands."
"Post-natal phocomelia," Lazarus said. He saw the tramp's blank expression. "Thalidomide-impaired is the PC term - like those babies in the sixties and seventies. I've read a lot of medical dictionaries since this business started."
"Mansani died too," the tramp said. "The locks had been tampered with, even if he hadn't been zapped. Sorry, no offence."
"And the lobster man?"
The tramp shrugged. "Got out. Didn't drown."
"Goddamn bastard could breathe underwater," said Lazarus. "So Aidan Brown just swam away like the fucking freak he is and left them to die. He must have planned it like that from day one."
The tramp chewed his upper lip in thought. Lazarus turned away from him and scanned the cemetery for mourners or ground workers. There were none. He said, "Wish I could find that evil son of a bitch."
The tramp rolled his eyes, then nodded. "Guy was a fucking paedophile? Shit. Good riddance. Anyhow you're too late… Looks like neither of us get closure today."
"What do you mean?"
"He's dead. Drowned."
Lazarus wheeled around. "In the car crash? You don't think he got out?"
The tramp sucked the corner of his top lip into his mouth. "No. Aidan Brown drowned in a toilet," he said. "Jammed face down in a toilet."
"You're getting confused," said Lazarus. He looked around again.
"I ain't confused," said the tramp. "And he died before the car crash. He drowned in a toilet."
"Where?"
"In an apartment. Beacon Hill."
"Who's apartment?"
"Guy called Harold Augustus Maine."
"Harold Maine's dead. He's the one who drowned in the toilet."
The tramp shook his head. "No," he said. "He isn't dead."
Lazarus looked long into the other man's eyes. "You're very informative," he said.
"Thank you."
"No," said Lazarus. "That isn't a good thing. You can't help but tell the truth, can you?"
"A man has to eat," said the tramp.
Lazarus nodded silently in agreement. "A man has to eat," he sighed. He brought out a small black and white photograph, folded over. He unfurled it and held it up to the tramp. "You've been a great help to me today," he said. "But I think we're done here."
He tapped the photograph with his free hand. "What do you see?"
The tramp scanned the picture briefly. "It's just a coupla kittens in a basket," he said. "Why'm I looking at this?"
"Why do you think?"
"Because.. " the tramp looked confused. "The kittens are me. They're me… I… never knew. They're in the shadows. Crusting over." The tramp shook his head. "Eyes like buttons."
Lazarus grunted. "What's the photo of now?"
"A… burning wish." The tramp was struggling to come up with the words. "Given another cloud."
"Sit down," Lazarus ordered, putting the photograph away, careful not to look at it. The tramp obeyed sluggishly, as if even this was a task that was rapidly overtaking his ability to perform it. Lazarus guided the man downwards until he was almost prone. "They'll come for you. They've already done it once, but you don't remember. Don't believe me?" He brushed off the tramp's finger marks from his suit with a silk handkerchief. "Orange black black yellow titanium blue yellow yellow vilifier seventy eight Ferdinand."
The tramp's eyes widened with lucidity. "Jesus," he gasped. "Charcoal school… grown-up."
"See? You remember. The Foundation will come for you and they'll ask you the self same questions I just did and you'll fucking tell them everything. Can't have that, Carl."
"Carl… ?"
"Your name's Carl Fierri. Can't have you informing on me twice in one fucking lifetime."
"Futile shop," the tramp slurred. "Maria."
Lazarus took something else from his pocket; a small, black cellphone. He swiped the touchscreen and typed for maybe five minutes, no longer concerned about the tramp slouched against a gravestone behind him. He turned his head back and said, "Even if I didn't know where she was buried, if I knew where her kid was buried, that would be enough. Knew you'd come through like the blabber mouth you are."
"Trains," whispered the tramp. A trickle of blood emerged from his nostrils. It smelt of fish and bleach. "Trains under water, breathing with music… Customer facing."
Lazarus squatted down and touched the grass covering the grave tenderly. "I was wrong to give you a choice," he mused softly. "I know where I went wrong. Won't make that mistake this time. Willing slave. We have such a future ahead of us."
Behind him, the tramp tried to get up but failed, his arms and legs no longer submissive to his will. "Tape measure," he said. He was aware that his mouth was filling up with spit; he had forgotten he needed to swallow. "Bottle lift. Bottle entry. Timeout."
"Hush now," said Lazarus. "Show some respect."
The tramp gurgled through the phlegm but became quiet almost immediately. His hands clutched lumps of soil.
Lazarus dismissed him with a wave. "It's been a long road," he said. "Come a long way. Still, we're here now. Nearly at the end, nearly at the end… " He put the phone back in his pocket. "People always said I was dumb," he said. "Lacked ambition, lacked imagination. Well where the fuck are they?"
The tramp was twitching, his skin mottling and darkening, his limbs twisting in on themselves.
"You know, I hope this works," Lazarus said. "Otherwise I get to look real stupid." He turned to the tramp again. "You just lie there and don't try to fight it. You were going to die anyway. Now you get a chance to live on. In a way."
The tramp was losing consciousness, his exposed flesh bruising like overripe fruit. "I'm sorry for the deceit," said Lazarus. "But you need to be close to each other. Otherwise believe me, I would never risk this." He straightened the tramp's arms and legs and tipped his head back so that he could breathe more easily. "There might be better ways of doing this but I'll stick with what I know. Anyhow I don't have all day to dig."
"Please…" the tramp said. Lazarus mopped the man's brow with his handkerchief and started to loosen his clothes. "Apologies," he said. "But you stink. Not your fault. But you stink. I can't have you smelling or looking like this."
Having unbuttoned the other man's trousers and shirt, he started the long task of undressing him completely.
+
Lazarus waited nervously. The tramp had expired unceremoniously half an hour previously in a glut of vomit and formaldehyde, his skin darkened to the point of brownish purple. But even now, as he worried whether he had done the right thing, and looked around again for witnesses, he saw the love of his life take shape in the corpse's ruined features and knew that all was well.
He took his suit jacket off and wrapped it silently and tenderly around the elongating, blossoming form of Helen Gwandoya as her body subsumed that of the tramp, the purple darkening into ebony and the limbs unfurling into graceful, balletic elegance. The eyes were open but glassy, dull, unseeing; her chest still, her breathing nonexistent. She was here, at last, but she was dead.
Really, most sincerely dead, he thought.
Lazarus took the phone from his pocket and swiped the screen. "Nearly fucking forgot," he said, and, having navigated to the contacts, typed a single word into Helen Gwandoya's details.
Resurrected.
He sat back against the gravestone and waited, like a child on Christmas Eve, for The Future Mrs Lazarus' first faltering breath.
Prev Next


Note: This is part eleven in a multi-part story based around the events leading up to the containment of SCP-2982. It is recommended that you read the previous entry Endings first, or start from the beginning At the Library. You can take a look at Golan too, for a tale based on one of the tests of the SCP object.

Geoff Mansani almost ran past her, such was his desire to get away. Helen called his name and he stopped abruptly. "Come on," he hissed. "We have to get out of here."
He helped her to her feet. He looked ashen.
Helen saw the cold sweat seeping through his clothes. "What's happening? Where's Aidan?"
Mansani gestured back towards the stairs. "He's coming." He saw the next question forming on Helen's lips. "Maine's dead," he said.
"How - ?"
"You don't want to know. Christ." He pulled her towards the main entrance. She was about to protest, when she saw Aidan's bulk appear at the bottom of the stairs. He shambled towards them on his walking sticks, his folded lung palpitating in its ruined housing.
"You two… fucking idiots… still here?"
"Maine's dead?" Helen asked. She needed to hear it from Aidan, otherwise it wouldn't be real. Aidan nodded as he caught his breath. "Yes," he said. "Bastard fought, I'll give him that… We need to get out of here. Jesus, I think I'm hurt."
He pulled his coat aside; a blue and red patch was spreading outwards through his shirt. "Fuck knows what that is," he said. "Heart? Brain? Balls? No idea what part of me that is. Like I said, the bastard fought." He grimaced and mopped his brow with his sleeve. Mansani walked out the main door and half ran to his car, parked just outside the entrance. He fumbled with the keys.
"Like I always said," Aidan wheezed, "the guy's a fucking idiot."
Mansani triumphantly unlocked and opened the car door and got in. " Okay - fucking go," said Aidan, and he started to herd Helen out - but she stopped suddenly and shook him off.
"I have to see for myself," she said. "I have to see him dead."
Aidan squared up to her. "We don't have time," he said. "And it would upset you. We have to go."
'You go," she countered. "I have to see. I have to know it isn't some trick." Aidan began to remonstrate, but she took no notice. She strode back up towards the stairs determined to be sure.
"Fuck," said Aidan.
Helen made her way back up to the fifth floor. The grille and door were shut but not locked. She opened them both, the metal grate swinging out resentfully, and the wooden door heaving inwards on its creaking hinges. The apartment was dark. She stepped inside and switched on the light. Eveything looked normal, more or less. No blood, no upturned furniture.
She walked through the living area. No sign of Harold Maine, living or dead. She felt fear rising up inside her. What if this was some trick? What if he had feigned death, and was even now contemplating his revenge?
Just as she turned to leave, her curiosity overwhelmed by dread, she caught sight of a shoe poking out from the bathroom. She drew nearer, morbid fascination holding its own against her terror, and pushed open the door.
The shoe was attached to a leg, which was itself attached to the motionless, slumped body of Harold Maine, his head stuck fast face downwards in the toilet. The room still stank of Aidan, who even now was huffing and puffing into the apartment. "Very dead," he offered. "Really, most sincerely dead."
"I had to see it with my own eyes," Helen said.
"Yeah well, here isn't the place to be right now," Aidan said. The woman didn't respond. "Helen. It's no good being here. We have to go. It's over."
"What about my hands?" Tears welled up in her eyes. "Am I like this forever? I thought we'd change back once he was dead."
"We might do," said Aidan. "It might take time. I don't know."
"How did he do it?"
"Oh Christ, Helen. We have to go now. Now." Aidan wheezed back to the doorway. "Let's just get the fuck out of here. Whatever happens, happens." He extended a claw out to Helen. "We'll still have each other," he said. And then, with a snort: "Christ, that's so so depressing."
Helen sighed and followed him out of the room, down the stairs, out of the lobby and into Geoff Mansani's waiting car.
+
"Is it him?"
Dimitri pushed the bathroom door open. He stepped past the prone body and tried to lift the head up to see the face. "Jammed tight," he said. "Body matches the description though. What a way to go… I'm gonna run some DNA checks. Maybe see if I can't pull his head out. Wonder where F1/M2 are?"
"Long gone, if they were ever here," said Paris. She turned away and waved Agent Fielding over. "Okay, what do we have so far?"
"Two hundred and seventy three thousand, six hundred and sixty six dollars in cash in various bags and drawers scattered around the apartment. One diary with two hundred or more entries detailing interactions with various associates and colleagues. Nothing else yet but we'll get everything catalogued."
"TEMPLAR readings?"
"Temperature within expected ranges. Uniform. Humidity is 23% higher than expected. Magnetics are normal. Pressure is 18% higher than expected range tolerances. Light levels down…"
Paris nodded silently, her eyes settling on a TV dinner table, white metal fold - up legs and stained scuffed surface. Next to the remote control sat a small, black object the size of a packet of cigarettes. It held her attention somehow; mundane yet mesmerising. She checked to see if Dimitri was watching, and then she picked it up.
There was a sucking noise from the bathroom as Dimitri finally lifted the jammed head out of the toilet."Positive ID," he said. "It's Maine."
Paris allowed herself the slightest feeling of relief. The worst was over. She would ring her father that night and give him the good news. As she imagined the conversation, she swiped the phone screen. Televono Telefex Secrecy-8. Not a make or model she'd ever heard of. Her fingers once again skipped over the smooth glossy surface; it asked her for a PIN, and she made one up.
Amazingly, it worked. She glanced up quickly to make sure Dimitri was still busy, and navigated to contacts.
She gasped as the most recently used contacts came up: Paris, Sarah. Paris, Ellen. Her daughters.
Agent Fielding looked up from his tagging. "Everything okay?"
She slipped the phone quickly into her pocket, her heart racing. Why did Harold Maine have her daughters' contact details? Fielding repeated his question. "I think so," she flustered. "I don't know. I need some fresh air."
"Could be a symptom of the TEMPLAR figures," Fielding suggested. He turned to the bathroom. "You feel okay, Delta?"
"Fine," came the response. "Apart from my hands are covered in you know what."
Paris shook her head. "I've been feeling off all day," she lied. "Can you guys handle this on your own? Text me on the usual if you find anything." More than anything else, she knew she had to be away from this mundane, malevolent place.
"Wait," said Fielding. "Just like that? You're going? You know we're not to operate just the two of us."
Paris headed for the apartment door. The phone was a solid presence against her thigh. Harold Maine had her daughters' details. She had to know why. She was starting to get a tension headache. "I'll send Kimura up," she said as she left.
Fielding looked at Dimitri and shrugged. "Pleasure's all mine," he said.
+
Exactly one week later, on Tuesday 10th February, Agent Carol Paris would hand in the cellphone from Harold Maine's apartment to her superiors. The phone would be given the designation SCP-2982. She would be suspended from her post and then be given her own SCP designation.
On Thursday 12th, her father Calvin Paris would undergo a medical examination by his own employers. He would pass with the highest possible fitness rating - A1. On Sunday 15th, he would die in his sleep, cause of death: advanced bronchioloalveolar carcinoma.
Commencing Thursday 19th February, Chief Global Suppression Manager Alexander Lazarus would spend two days at Site-23 trying to assess the implications of the phone's behaviour.
On Friday 20th, Lazarus would disappear, as would SCP-2982.
On Monday 23rd February, Agent Carol Paris would die of stress cardiomyopathy.
Neither Lazarus nor the phone would ever be recovered.
Prev
Next


In the distant future, buried under the dirt and filth and plants and trees and pain of a land closer to normal than your soul would have wanted, you awaken at freezing temperatures. Your body gasps for air, but finds very little. Your brain tries to tell your arms to move, but you're only met with searing muscular agony and a slow realization that you're restrained. In the semi-reflective glare of the plate glass in front of you, you catch a glimpse of eyes staring blankly. You're just beginning to to wonder if they're your own or something else when they shift downward, and before you know it, your arms and legs are unbuckled and you're tumbling out into open arms.

December 13, 2068

8902 '31 ɹǝqɯǝɔǝp

"Stable?"
"We'll see. Get it to the labs with me."
The conversation blurs indiscriminately as you make all conscious attempts to access your memories - if there are any - but you're quickly distracted by the pain in your legs. The two lab-coated people are trying to hold you up, but you must weigh too much for them, and you drag your stiff, lifeless feet next to their energetic and living ones as the three of you head down a blindingly white hallway.
What is 'white?' your mind echoes as you try to stand and walk. What is 'weight?'
"Important?"
"Wouldn't be in there if it wasn't. All of 'em are someone important." The one with warmer hands lets go of you to use a keycard. You immediately find yourself aching for them to touch you again. It was the only spot of warmth you'd ever felt.
"Don't panic. Shh. It's okay," the other one says.
Why did they say that? Are you upset? Are you crying? Is that the fluid coming from your eyes? If that fluid is crying, then what is the fluid coming from your ears, or your fingernails, or between your legs, or- bleeding. Yes, you're bleeding. You recall the context and definition of bleeding as they haul you into the white-walled room, but as they walk you over and set you down on the crisp paper of the exam table, you start to remember several other subsets of bleeding. Are they subsets? Is that the word? No, they're… associations. You have memories associated with bleeding.
The doctors talk to each other in jargon your mind hasn't yet learned to process as you lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. This shade of white - it's one of millions, is it not? There are other colors, you recall. Yes. The last color you saw was blue, in the warmer doctor's eyes. Blue is a cold color, but the doctor's hands were warm. Does that mean the person is warm or cold? Is that how differentiation is supposed to work?
"What have you got?" an unfamiliar voice asks. This voice is softer, and the person has longer hair. You can't look at them for too long, because your neck can't handle the strain and your head soon crashes back onto the padding of the table.
"Minor damage. Probably one of the healthier ones." Fingers probe you, and you realize you're restrained again. You want to ask them why, but you don't think that your vocal chords work yet. You swallow a gulp of extra saliva and air bubbles, but you can't feel it go down your throat. In fact, you can feel it pile back up out of your throat. You try to ask for help, but the thought surfaces as a panicked, jolting motion against your cuffs. The warm-handed doctor looks down at you with worry in their cold blue eyes. "What's wrong? Can you breathe? Can you speak?"
You shake your head side-to-side and choke again. Something is in your throat, and it's wet. You open your mouth, now realizing that your arm would be fully capable of moving to your face if they'd only let you do it. The doctor leans over and holds your mouth open. "Stay calm. I'll get it out. It's going to be okay." You gag as fingers pull something slimy from deep within your throat. It drips on your chin and neck as they drop it into a pan beside the table.
One of the other doctors turns around, lowering their clipboard. "What the-"
"Preserval fluid. Never seen that happen before. Log it in the book."
"P-p- what?" you stammer. You immediately start coughing again. Speaking feels like a hundred ice-cold needles jabbing the inside of your throat and mouth. You swallow. "D-do you have water? Can I have water?"
"Yes." They all seem busy with their notes and readings. You strain your head, trying to look around the room. There's text by the door, and a symbol you recognize. Pointed and harsh, with three spears. Looking at it hurts your mind, but it also brings color and clarity to the room. "W-what is that? Where am I?" Your words shake just as your limbs do, and you distract yourself trying to figure out why you're so cold. The air temperature? "I'm not wearing clothes," you reason aloud. "W-where are my clothes-"
"Coming. Just calm down. You've only been out of stasis for six minutes. Full accustomization can take up to forty-eight hours. You don't need to panic."
"W-why am I tied up-"
"Muscle spasms. Give it thirty minutes. Else you might kick one of us in the face."
"Oh, oh, I'm- sorry-" You're interrupted by another bout of coughing, and decide you'll probably feel less panicked if you just close your eyes and let them attend to you.
"Alright. Who is this? Late one?" someone by the door says after a light knock.
"Oh, hello, Director. Yes, two days late. Wouldn't wake from preservation."
"Even after draining the fluid?"
"That's correct. It actually had a bit of congealed fluid working its way into its esophagus. Safe now, but glad we caught it in time."
"Hmm. Must have been an effect of extended stasis. Who is it?"
You hear the shuffling of papers. "Let me see," the warm doctor says. "Uh… Teresa Ann Lockwood, Level 3 Field Researcher, Site-81. Biologist."
Your eyes shoot open. "Please tell me why I'm bleeding," you interject in your trembling voice, and two of the doctors rush over.
"Where do you feel bleeding?" one says.
"M-my gums, my f-fingernails, my- between my legs- am I on my period? Please help-"
"West, you gotta help us with this," the one in teal scrubs with bouncy dark ringlets of hair says over their shoulder. "Vaginal and rectal bleeding, that's not normal-"
"It shouldn't be menstruating, no. Must be internal bleeding. Teresa, do you have abdominal pain?"
You nod. Being called that makes your eyes and ears ache. You have memories of other people calling you by that name, but they feel dreamlike and fragmented, as if you're looking at them through stained glass. They feel false.
You feel West push a speculum into you. You wince. You still don't have much of your sense of touch yet, but you feel something large wedged deep in you, painfully pressing, almost as if it's in your stomach. You shake and grip the edges of the table.
"Shit, is that more of that stuff?" one of them mutters.
"It sure is," West says, pulling a long, heavy string of something out of you. "Yeah, this is bad." He dumps the slimy, blue, congealed lump in one of the stainless steel pans. "Check its eyes and nostrils."
For the next several minutes, you retreat as far into your mind as is possible while more hands than you can count pull chunk after chunk of preserval fluid out of every conceivable orifice your body has to offer. When they're done, they take you out of your restraints and carry you into a side room, where at least three of them ask you at least five individual times whether or not you're safe standing in the shower on your own. You insist that you are, if only to make them leave you alone. You stand on shaking legs and scrub your skin until it turns bright red, replacing the artificial blue of the preserval fluid that had drenched your pores for so long and watching it run in rivulets down the center drain. When you're done, you rinse off and lie curled up under the water until the doctors come in and drag you out.

April 03, 2069

6902 '30 ןıɹdɐ

"You really think so?"
"It only makes sense! What else could have done it?"
"Come on, the lizard? Did this? You've gotta be kidding me, Ketson. I think you're overestimating it."
"Overestimating? About the end of the world? Ha! I've… I've… seen better jokes!"
Your coworkers laugh, albeit with an unsettling two-second delay. You swallow and stare at your pale mashed potatoes. There are a lot of things about this place and these people that bother you, but your coworkers' restructured speech patterns will never stop sending chills up your spine. The unnatural humor, the backwards syntax, the lack of context for statements that come out of nowhere, all of it. It feels so forced. Not just forced, you remind yourself; artificial. You shudder and shift your eyes to the other side of the cafeteria.
Several hours later, in your quarters, you're staring at your next briefing. A societally unstructured town on the outskirts of the park, built on logged wood, deer hunting, and the determination of a family of reality benders. Their genetically - or potentially anomalously, noted the paperwork - engineered trees are leaking some sort of unidentified combustible substance into both the aquifers and potentially the geyser systems and Site water supply if you don't put a stop to it in time. And somehow they want a biologist to do this. Go figure.
You push your thoughts out of your mind and start packing your field bag.

There's a laser sight on your chest, or at least it seems like that. You sigh and look up into the trees. "Please don't shoot," you call out, holding up your ID card and paperwork above your head as you scan the trees for the sniper. "I'm not here to cause problems. I'm here on behalf of the-"
"I know where you from, stranger! I'd recognize that shit-eatin' Foundation accent anywhere! You turn around and walk your cold ass off this property and maybe we won't land a three-oh-eight in that God-fearin' head of yours, mmm? Scat!"
You bite your lip, finally locating the shooter. It's a camouflage-clothed older person with unkempt facial hair and a tan rifle, sitting in a hunting perch to your left. About what you expected. "Please, we need to talk. We're not taking anyone, or anything, we just need to talk about your trees."
"Yer trees? I mean- I mean- my trees? What are you after my trees for, skipper? There ain't nothin' wrong with 'em-"
"They're leaking a toxic substance-" You stop and gently shake your paperwork, trying to indicate that you need to read from it without getting shot for moving your arm. You gently bring it down in front of your face and clear your throat. "The trees- these ones, with the… er… tendrils? They're a problem, first of all, in that they display sentient behavior and seem to be fond of grabbing people. We've lost eight agents in the past month due to strangulation-"
"Ain't my fault y'all chokin' each other!"
"…N-not us, sir, the trees-"
"Oh, oh! Well guess what! That ain't my problem either! Now shoo, skip!"
"Will you please let me finish? They're going to poison the aquifers! This will be detrimental to your town as well!"
"Fuck off!"
"Please, if you just cooperate, we won't have to send anyone else-"
"AHA! There's the fuckin' threat! I knew it was comin'! All y'all ever do is lie, lie, lie, and then there go the threats! Always!"
You jump as a round slams into the dirt beside your feet. "Look, can I at least take a sample?"
"If you can do it in thirty seconds!"
You sigh and hurry over to one of the trees, choosing to just yank off one of the tendrils and extract the substance later. It writhes in your hand and wraps around your wrist. You wince and give one last look at the man, who aims his rifle at you again.
"Yeah! That's right! Skip on outta here, skipper! Whoooo-hoooo-"
His voice fades out as you walk hurriedly in the direction from which you came.

"How did it go?"
"Unsuccessful. Town guard knew what I was up to and shot at me."
"I'm sorry to hear that. We'll make sure to send more agents next time."
You nod solemnly and wait for your supervisor to slide you the next assignment, but no paper appears. You look up expectantly.
Your supervisor chuckles. "The Foundation appreciates how eager you are to serve it, but there is no other assignment at this time. Return to your quarters until you are called."
"…Oh. Okay." You stand with a halfhearted "thank you" and walk slowly out the door, trying not to dwell on how much you miss the outside already. You pause. "Uh… Director?"
"Yes?"
You take a deep breath. "Um… pardon me if this is… too personal, but…"
You expect an objection, but are met with only an expectant stare. You continue. "But, uh… you were there the day I was… um…" You trail off. "I'm just saying, am I supped to remember that? Day?"
"All personnel are on an opt-in list for amnesticization of the first week following removal from stasis for emotional stability."
"I… uh… where is, um, Doctor West?"
The Director raises an eyebrow. "He's doing the same work he's always done, if that's your question. I won't stop you from speaking with him, but there would be no purpose. Why do you seek him?"
You stare at the floor until your vision blurs, and continue staring long after that point. "I suppose I don't have a valid reason."
"Very well. If you have no further questions, I request that you leave."
You nod, mutter another "thank you," and walk out. You don't look up as you walk the hundreds and hundreds of meters of white-walled hallways and gray-walled elevators back to your quarters. It's only when you're about to slide your keycard through your door lock that you realize it's not where you want to be. You set off down hallway after hallway for hours - days, as it feels - until you find what you're looking for.

"Doctor West."
He jumps, hand knocking a cup of coffee on the lab table. "Apologies, I'm apparently a little on-edge today," he sighs. "Um, yes, what can I help you with?"
You linger by the door, not sure if he wants you to come in or not. "I'm, um… not sure if you remember me." You think you're going to finish your sentence, but you stand there with your mouth open. "I was, uh, the late bloomer. Y'know."
He stares blankly.
"The one with the chunks of dried blue stuff in my va-"
"Oh, oh! Of course, yes. My apologies. I see so many subjects that they all blur together after a while. Anyway, er, do you need amnesticization? Usually that's done earlier, come to think of it, you really shouldn't- remember-"
"It was never offered to me at the beginning, if that's what you mean."
"Well, it can still be done. Please, please, come in, sit down-"
"I'm, uh, I have a meeting in 30 minutes," you lie, gripping the door frame until your knuckles turn white. "Look, do you know why I was two days late?"
His face goes blank, hands clasped in front of him. "I don't, I'm afraid."
"You sound like you're lying." The words spill out of your mouth before you have time to think, and you curse yourself. "I mean-" You put your head in your hand. "Actually, never mind. I'm so sorry for bothering you. Have a good evening, doctor." You turn on your heel more slowly than you intended and catch him looking at you with a worried expression. As you turn the corner, you think you hear him call out again, but you don't look back.

April 07, 2069

6902 '70 ןıɹdɐ

"Alright. Thanks."
"Of course."
You take the vial from the researcher and motion for the two guards to come in. Between their arms is a surprisingly compliant D-class; of course, you have to remind yourself that the Foundation fixed the "surprisingly" aspect quite a few decades back by training all of them to be submissive from the get-go, but it's not the type of thing you like to think about. After all, you're nothing but the falsely implanted memories of-
"Lockwood? You need assistance?"
You're staring at the cabinet door, you realize. You snap out of it and turn to the guard speaking. "Oh. No. You can leave it here with me, it's fine."
"Alright. We're in the adjacent room if you need us."
"Thanks. It won't take too long."
"Get on the table, please," you tell the D-class. "This won't take too long. It's just an injection." You snap your gloves on and start filling the syringe.
You turn around and start walking over to the table. "Alright, lay your arm out for me-"
You freeze, and the syringe immediately clatters to the ground. Staring up at you from the table is a spitting image of yourself.
You blink several times and back up a few steps. You're torn between asking the D-class to stand up and trying to cover up your reaction as much as is possible so that you can safely call the guards, but you've already locked eye contact.
"Is something wrong?" it asks.
"You're- uh-"
"Are you okay?"
For fuck's sake, why does it care, you think, but panic quickly replaces your frustration.
"…Am I doing something wrong?" it says in your voice.
You stammer. "N-no, just- god, stop talking," you gasp as you run back to the door. You already forgot the two guards' names. They all look and act the same anyway. "Uh- help," you say in a tone you interpret as pitiful. They immediately come running. You put your hands up and stop them outside the door, talking in a panicked whisper. "Did you not look at her face? Did you not look at its- they-"
"The D-class?" the bulkier of them says. "What about it? Did it do something?"
"It's me!"
"What?"
"Wait, what is she talking about-"
"It's not you. You must be under the influence of something. Let's call the right team-"
"Shut up!" you snap. He widens his eyes and scowls. "Fucking- look at her!" You drag him by the arm to the doorway. "Look at us," you tell the D-class. It looks up. "Look at her!" you tell the guard, hissing. You gesture to yourself. "Look at me! She's skinnier than I am and she's bald, but look at our fucking faces!" Your voice cracks. "They're the same!" You put your head in your hands and lean on the doorway, but the image of her matching sharp nose and sad gray eyes lingers in your mind like it was branded there. You sink to your knees against the wall and stare at the floor through your shaking tears as the two guards drag your clone down the hallway and out of sight.

April 14, 2069

6902 '41 ןıɹdɐ

"It's a fluke. Nothing more."
"You're telling me it's a fucking glitch that one of- me- of- this body ended up in the D-class ranks? Are you fucking serious?"
"Remain calm. It's an error. You can be amnesticized."
"That doesn't make it right!" you screech, standing and pushing your chair out from underneath you. You see the Director motion for the two guards to come into the room. You don't care. "Don't you see how fucking fucked up this is? Don't you? Do you seriously look at that and think it's not disturbing?"
"Director."
You turn around as much as the guards' grip on your arms allows. It's Dr. West. You say his name mindlessly, hoping that it's enough to trigger him to speak to you. He ignores you and walks forward to the desk. "Director," he repeats, dropping a manila folder down with a soft thud, "I'm to blame for this."
The Director stares through him. "Well? Speak, then."
West shifts nervously and clears his throat. "The subject - Teresa Lockwood. It was removed from stasis two days later than the rest of its batch."
"And why is that relevant?"
West takes a deep breath and looks at his feet before looking back up at the Director. "Because its file wasn't cleared in the second round of personnel research. The original Teresa Lockwood was demoted from her position as a Level 3 Field Researcher to the rank of Class D on September 30th, 2021."
Your mouth hangs open as your pulse quickens in your chest and your throat.
"As such, Teresa Lockwood was not intended to be in the personnel file listings for field operatives. She was meant to be in the D-class file ranks. The fact that her file appeared in both locations and was thus loaded onto subjects from both pools of personnel was-"
"A fluke," the Director finishes in a disturbingly nonchalant tone as he begins reading through the manila folder. "Hmm. And tell me, West, why was the field operative instance of Teresa Lockwood not immediately terminated when this information was discovered?"
West swallows. "That was my doing, sir, and I will accept demotion or other forms of punishment as my duty to the Foundation," he recites monotonously. "I acted on compassion and emotion instead of logic and established policy."
"And this situation?" The Director gestures to you with the end of his pen, looking over his glasses at you.
"The two of them meeting was entirely a coincidence. A fluke."
You feel tears welling in your eyes again.
"I see. Well, errors happen in this organization," he sighs. He stares at his desk for several seconds as the passage of time presses down on your head and shoulders and heart with the same weight as the miles of earth above you. "Either terminate or fully amnesticize Lockwood and remove her file from the database so that this does not occur again by accident in future production cycles. As for you, West, you can sit at my desk with me. We're going to have a talk."
The guards start guiding you toward the door. You strain against them and look at West. "West," you say with a surprisingly stable voice despite your panicked sobs.
"What?" he snaps, upper lip quivering as he turns around in his chair.
You open your mouth, but close it.
"Come on," one of the guards grumbles.
"West," you repeat. "Your eyes looking into mine were the first thing I saw in this world."
His eyes widen, slowly. As the guards pull the black bag over your head and start marching you away, his face is the last image lingering in your mind.
And as they turn you down hallway after hallway, walking in silence, you realize that you could be anyone. You are nothing other than a file in a computer loaded into an empty human; a false form taking the name of someone long, long dead.
And as you're laid down on a cold table not unlike that which you laid upon seconds from birth, only mere months ago, your last conscious thought as the needle pierces your vein is of the clear blue sky miles above you and the prospect of a world without the Foundation.
And when you close your eyes and the life and memories drain from your body, it is the warmest embrace your soul has ever felt.


David, Age 0
“He's such a brilliant child,” his mother said to the nurse. The nurse smiled, indulging the new mother. Every first time mother thought her child was special. “No really!” The mother stroked the child's head full of hair as she tried to explain. “His hearing is amazing. He knows when his father is coming down the hall… Look!”
The nurse nodded again, noticing that even as the child's father strolled in the door, the tiny head turned to look before the man even rounded the doorframe. She put it off to coincidence, and the mother's fatigued state.
David, Age 4
“David, what are you doing in your Sunday best?” His mother laughed at the sight of him, all gussied up, hair well oiled, tiny shoes shined, and tie inexpertly tied around his young neck. “You'll ruin it if you play in it.”
“I wanna look my best for Father,” he said, his young eyes on the door. He smoothed his jacket again, those wide eyes hopeful.
“Oh, dear… my darling boy…” She reached out to touch his shoulder, well used to his antics. “Your father is still on deployment. He won't be back for another month, at the least.” It was rough being the wife of a government agent. He was always on deployment, off to some exotic locale, to make deals, or, maybe, and here her mind rebelled even as it offered the alternative, maybe something worse—
Her husband had some amazing stories, but there was always something he held back. It didn't matter. He came home to her, eventually. And he kept her and her loving boy supported. Let the neighborhood biddies gossip about her being a single mother. The ring on her finger said otherwise.
“He'll be here,” the boy said. “There was an accident, with an old friend. He needs us now.” He stood proud, as the man of the house his father always told him he was.
His mother shook her head, and opened her mouth to go tell him to change. It was at that moment the door opened, and her husband stepped through, looking ragged and haggard in his dress blues. She went to him, and held him, and, in the joy of their meeting, any oddness in her child was forgotten.
David, Age 12
“I don't understand. He's a brilliant child. You yourself said he's passed all your tests with flying colors. Why do you want to hold him back?” David listened to his mother in the principal's office. His seat in the hall wasn't close enough to hear what was being said, but he listened anyways.
“Your son has several, ah, developmental problems. He's always off daydreaming, watching clouds, or doodling in his notebook. He never plays with the other children. He rarely turns in homework.” The principal exchanged a glance with David's teacher, and placed his hands on the table. “And, of course, we believe that he is cheating on his tests.”
“I see,” his mother said, her back ram rod straight, her eyes focused on her hands. People assumed she was submissive, weak willed. That, being a woman, and a minority, she would just roll over and let things be. In a lot of ways, that was true. But never when it came to her son. Her gaze rose, and both men took an involuntary step backwards. “I assume you have proof of this?”
Out in the hallway, David grinned to himself. While this had been the most likely course of events, that didn't mean it was what was actually going to happen. It was nice to be proven right. Of course, he'd have to change his behavior, somewhat, to help his mother, and mollify the teachers. It was worth it, to see how things went.
David, Age 15
“I'm sorry David. I can't keep doing this to you. I've been cheating on you," his girlfriend confessed, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. She'd wanted to tell him for weeks, so, of course, he'd been aware of it the entire time.
"Mhmm," he replied, distracted.
"With your best friend!" She hadn't meant to say it, but when he didn't respond like she thought he would, she had to say something.
“I know,” he said, as he continued his drawing, a photorealistic image of some grey humanoid, strapped to a bed.
“You're just always drawing, and you never seem to actually listen to- You know?” Her head snapped back to stare at him. “What do you mean you know? How could you know? No one else knows! I haven't told anyone, and Brad said… oooh, did he tell you? I told him to wait, I'd do it myself!” He hadn't told anyone, although he'd been sorely tempted. David had watched to make sure.
“Yes.” He said. “He told me.” A lie, but lies came so easy to him.
He watched that path for a moment, watched her storm from the room to confront his former best friend, watched as they had a huge fight, watched as the boy spread rumors that she was easy, watched her reputation ruined, her teen pregnancy, the joy of having a baby quickly turning into the depression of having to care for it, and her slow decline into drugs and prostitution later in life because of it. It was amazing the way little things built up. The good ones or the bad. Everything piled up, weighed you down. At the last moment, just before it wouldn't have mattered, he took pity on her.
“No, I'm sorry. I'm angry.” He wasn't. “I loved you.” He hadn't. “If he makes you happier than me, go to him. But if he hurts you…” He let it drift off, allowed her to fill in the blanks herself.
And, again, he watched, as the two of them became the best known couple of the school, prom king and queen, married at just after college, and then he stopped watching, because it hurt. They had a beautiful life ahead of them. His life hit a brick wall in just a year.
“I'm sorry David, you're just so…” She searched for words, and then shook her head. She kissed him on the forehead, then walked out of his life.
David, Age 16
“David, we need to talk.” His father pushed the door open without waiting for a response, and then stopped, staring appalled at the multitude of art David had stapled to his walls.
Here, a white and gray creature stood atop a mound of headless bodies. There, a beast dissolved in a green pool. The father could even pick out himself, and some of his exploits. He ignored his son, instead letting his hands drift from a picture of himself killing a man like wolf, one of him standing victorious atop a pile of clockwork, and -here he blushed- a rather explicit one of him in bed with three green tinged females.
“It's true then, isn't it.” It wasn't a question. He continued to study the art on the wall, unwilling to take his eyes from the pictures to look at his only, acknowledged, son.
David said nothing.
“I'm sorry,” his father said, eyes focused on a picture of a dead man, a ruby and silver medallion laid on his chest. “I'm sorry I wasn't here. I could have seen this earlier. Stopped it all before it started."
David said nothing.
“I can't… I can't hide it. Not in my own family. Not with everything that's gone before. I have enough pressure because of the others, and now, with your uncle…” He turned his head, his eyes moving to a picture above David's bed. A boy strapped in a chair, blood dripping from empty sockets. “But maybe there's still something I can do.”
David watched all the things his father didn't say. He watched as he ran off, only to be hunted down and dragged into a little box for the rest of his life. Or shot, by a nervous agent. Or turned into a vegetable, like the uncle he'd never met. He sees so many alleyways, but, in the end, they all lead to three choices. Death, box, or this.
David said nothing.
“I have… well… he's not a friend. A working acquaintance? He knew your grandfather. They call him a power eater. He's a resource of last resort. It will…” His father's eyes drifted downwards, catching sight of a picture below the bed. An image of an innocent faced red haired boy. “It will hurt. But it will make you safe.”
Still, David said nothing.
“Well?” His father demanded, sharper than he had intended, as he turned to his son for the first time. He was shocked to see tears stained his sons usually stoic face. “Well?” He said again, his voice raised. “Don't you have any thing to say?”
“It doesn't matter,” David said, his eyes locked with his father. “I've watched all the ways. I've looked at everything we do. It doesn't matter what I say. It still happens. Sometimes it happens sooner. Sometimes it happens later. That's when it's the worst." His father looked away, unable to keep eye contact. "So, no, I have nothing to say."
The older man turned back to the pictures, focusing on one that looked like his own father, standing over an opened grave. It steeled his resolve, which was what it was there to do.“I'm sorry, son.” His father said. "I know you think you're smart but sometimes, there are no good answers. I'll… I'll go set this up.” His father, a man who had faced down elder gods without blinking, fled from the simple raw emotion of his own child.
David said nothing.
David, Age 16 ½
David screamed. He screamed for a long, long time.
David, Age 18
“So, your mother was right. It didn't work.” His father gazed down upon his blind son and the artwork on his desk. It lacked the picture perfect quality that it had before the eater, but it was still recognizable. Six girls dead. A seventh one pregnant. The older man looked away, wishing he could scrub his memories clean of some things. But someone had to remember.
“No. I told you it wouldn't.” David didn't look up. It wouldn't have mattered. He saw the present just as easily as he saw the future. Where his gaze landed was entirely up to him, no matter where his body pointed.
“We can try again,” his father said, as placing one hand on his sons shoulder. It was immediately shrugged off. “We can find the spot it's coming from, dig it out…”
“And have him eat more of who and what I am? No. No. I won't be turned into some brain dead idiot, coloring my life away, like what you did with my uncle.” David said. His hand gripped the brush awkwardly as he scrawled across the painting, dark colors streaming from his brush as he formed obscure symbols around the girl.
“You don't have a choice!” His father snapped, his usual iron control slipping, his voice booming loud in the small room. He reached for the brush, wrenching it from his sons grasp, unknowing of what the runes might represent, only interested in preventing them. “We either fix you, or I have to lock you up! I will not see another of my kin in those cells.”
“I don't need to be fixed." David said, his voice hushed. "I'm not broken.” Now David's head rose. His eyeless face gazed at the window, or perhaps through it. “But you're right. You won't see another of your kin in those cells, not if I have anything to do with it."
"I do have a choice.” He cocked his head to the side, as if listening to someone. “I always had a choice. I just didn't look far enough. You see, I've had a talk with my aunt.”
The old man immediately went on point. His head up, eyes open, body tense for fight or flight. He backed against the nearest wall looking around him, taking in every detail, prepared for an ambush. When one was lax in showing, he let his hand drift to his sidearm, and addressed his son. “You'll be an outcast. Always on the run. I'll have to tell them, have to have them look for you. I have my duty, my job.”
“I know. You'll always have your job. You always did. But I can always be one step ahead. Just like her. Goodbye. Tell mother I love her.” Even as he spoke, his body faded, the color leeching from it in an instant, followed by the solidity, until there was only an outline that slowly faded into the dust in the air.
His father watched, and raising one hand. “Goodbye David.”
David, Age 21
And so he went to live with his Aunt. It was not an easy life she offered him, but it was a free one. He could smile, and, though forced, it was the beginning of happiness.
In the first year he was with her, he learned how to guide his visions. To set them in their place, so they came when he called, not when they wanted. It was grueling work, the mental equivalent of learning to stroll up the side of Mt. Everest. With practice, came ease, and skill.
In the second year he was with her, he learned what was needed to aide her in her work. He used his visions to watch over the shoulders of scientists as they punched in their passcodes to keep people imprisoned. He used his art to draw detailed maps of locations that needed infiltrating. Most importantly, he listened to those agents already out in the world, reporting back on how best to free their brethren.
In the third year he went to her with a simple request.
“I want to do more,” he told her.
“More?” His aunt carefully closed the book in front of her, a slight frown on her face. “You do so much already. What more would you like to do?”
“I've had… visions.” He made a face as she smiled in commiseration. “More so than usual, I mean. Ones that I think… I think they're a call for help.”
“Show me,” his aunt declared, reaching out to take his hand.
In a cell in a hospital in Singapore, a girl shook, uncontrollably. Her every movement caused her to vibrate, her body bounced around the room as she tried to fight it. Sometimes, she could hold it in, long enough to eat, to drink, and then back again to her vibrations, sometimes so hard she destroyed what she touched.
In Seattle, a large eyed man slumbered under a bridge, safe in the arms of a concrete troll. When he begs, he does so mutely, because he had long ago seen the damage his voice could do. Just because you can make people do as you wish, it doesn't mean you should.
In the jungles of Peru, a person of indeterminate gender, slithered through the undergrowth. It raised its head and flicked out its tongue, as it sought its prey. It had been kicked out of its home, for being tainted by the other.
On the streets of London, someone plied their trade, looked for any John who might need a quick fix. The body changed, against its will, becoming what their client wanted them to be, no matter how much the mind rebelled.
A sentient idea lodged itself in the dirty thoughts of the worst scum it could find, as it tried desperately to feed on those that would not be missed, not understanding that it was making things worse just by doing this.
A red headed woman from the opposite team jumped with a start as she realized someone was looking for her. She was reaching for her rifle, even as the scene shifted, aware that someone was looking at her.
Again and again, scenarios played out in their heads, showed them children, adults, humans, and otherwise, in need, unaware of their shared history. If he still had working tear ducts, he might have cried. Because, in each of them, in their faces, he saw traces of his own. Black, white, Asian, scaled, amorphous, he still felt the kinship, that feeling that they were like him.
“Ah. You've found your kin,” his aunt said, nodding. “I wondered if you would.”
“Are they all…” He said, letting it trail off as he looked further down each pass, seeking places he could intervene.
“Family? Yes, although they go by many names. D'argent, Navon, Azayaka, Mushriq and so many more besides. Many of them, the result of my parents, or brothers. Some of them, further flung than that. But family, nonetheless.” She smiled, thinking of the multitude of kin she had saved. The smiles vanished quickly, thinking of the two she had not.
“How, how can all those things be family?” His mind raced, looking for the connections, the places he could be useful.
“You'd be surprised what our family will stick its dick in. I have a half-brother who's green,” she said.
“Well, that's not so odd-“
“Not, like, green skin. He's actually the color green,” she interrupted.
“Oh.” He thought about it, then shrugged. “But still, they're family, right?”
“They are. They think they are alone. They need someone to show them they are not.” She said. Her eyes watched his face, a gentle smile showing that she could trace his thoughts.
“And I can be that someone.” He said. All the trails knotted, he saw, came together, because of him. Became something so much more than they were.
“Do you think you have what it takes?” She said, eyes upon his face.
“Of course I do.” He smiled at her, his first real smile since he'd lost his eyes. “I'm a Bright. No, more than that." He wouldn't be defined just by his name. "I'm not just Bright, I'm brilliant.”


Any time she heard the word normie, she had to wince. And in her circles, she ended up doing a lot of wincing. It wasn't their fault for the most part. It was a useful word, a good coded word. Said a lot without spending too much time saying nothing at all. But there was something about the way it sounded. The way the r fell into the m slid into the ie. And that's not even touching the displeasure of no.
Dahlia hated walking to the post office. Her campus was small. Quaint small. The post office was a five to ten minute walk from where she lived if she felt like moseying. And Dahlia tended toward moseying. It was in a small town, and to be honest, most of the town was the campus. If not the entire town itself. Being in a small environment like the one she was in made her lazy. It made her resent having to walk up a hill to go to the dining hall. It made her resent her weird roommate who looked at her like she was an alien, and it made her think it was more of a pain in the ass than it was worth it to go to the post office and get her birthday presents.
Her hands jammed in her pockets, black coat kept tight against her skinniness, she wondered and wandered. Her boots were getting covered in salt and slush, but that was what boots were for. Still, they were black and nice and new and just from Christmas.
When she came into the post office, she tried to shake off the slush, stomping on a sad, wet mat that got caught in the door every time it was opened.
“This is someone's fetish,” she said, and a townie looked at her with even more growing horror than usual.
Really, she wanted to like them. Just because someone was rural didn't make them bad. Her grandparents had been farmers, and they still lived in Bumfuck Nowhere, Ohio, just in a different part of the state than her own personal slice of Bumfuck Nowhere.
The PO Boxes were small. Way too small. Most of them were for the students, rented out by year. Most of them were filled with junk mail. Most of them clearly hadn't been checked in a while. Her box was one of countless in rows and columns, with just a hint of glass and some nice old timey brass. It looked quaint. She turned the knob set in the wall, and it made her think of her high school locker. Gym class. Towels around waists and that weird move dudes did when they tucked their balls between their legs and tricked people to look at their weird thigh gap.
“That was the first time I saw tucking.” She said to no one. For no one. Art is over. One billion million dead.
When she unlocked the box, she pulled out a hefty amount of junk mail, some actual addressed letters, and three slips to get something too big to fit into the little cubby. She sighed, shoved the rest of the mail that actually mattered into her canvas bag and marched through the doors into the extremely small town post office.
Really, it was a guy behind a desk with some mail behind him. That didn't strike her as a post office. Sure, she could mail stuff and get stuff, but what sense did it make to call something so small a post office? A mini office, maybe, if anything.
The old man behind the counter gave her the same awkward, unsure smile when he saw her that the people around the town always did. Guy clearly wasn't sure what he was supposed to call her. That was the way it was with old people. But at least the post office general or whatever his position entailed was nice enough not to drop some slurs or anything. Of course, that didn't mean he was going to use any pronouns, either.
“Well, hi there.” A perfectly polite man. She wondered if he would think of her as a faggot or something as soon as she left. She tried not to let it bother her. If she wondered if everyone she saw thought she was a degenerate, she wouldn't have time for other, more serious forms of self-loathing.
“Yeah, I got a package here. Uh, three packages. Three. Here.” And she put the slips on the counter, holding her arms at her side. She wondered if that was all she had to do, all she had to say. She stuffed her hand into her bag and said, “Do you wanna see my ID?”
The old man waved her away without looking, eyes on the tickets. He picked them up and walked deep into the post office's mail room. Which was actually only a few feet away. In fact, she even watched him bend over and pick up three packages. One was thick, in a big white United States Post Office envelope type thing, probably fit to burst. The other was a cardboard box covered in enough duct tape to probably fix a bridge or something. But, like, a big bridge. The other was a small box. Kind of shaped like a ring box. She hoped it wasn't a ring. She loved Andy, but Dahlia wasn't exactly the type of girl to get married. Anytime soon, at least.
Did people mail proposals? People probably didn't mail proposals. But she didn't think that Andy would be aware of or care about such convention.
The envelope, though gigantic, fit in her canvas bag, along with the small box. She had to hold the gigantic duct-taped monstrosity in her arms. Who the fuck would give her something like that? Dahlia thanked the post master office sergeant or whatever his title was and toted the box through the doorway into the cold.
It'd suck to have to drop off her shit before her next class, but whatever. At times like this, going to a small, small college were great. Still, she wished she was magic. Like a character from Hunter X Hunter. Wasn't that what they were like? She wondered if Jude could fuck up enough and accidentally spec all of his magic wrong. Could Armand do nen?
Could they ever use up all their magic? Was it like a a JRPG with an MP gauge? Did they have to give something up to be able to get stronger? Not like Fullmetal Alchemist shit, because she was pretty sure equivalent exchange was out the window, but could limiting the magic make it more potent?
It didn't matter, though. Not like she could do anything special. All she could do was carry the giant ass gift some idiot best friend of hers got her and the heavy fucking shitty canvas bag and climb up to her dorm, and in that moment, as one of so many, she wished that she was like her friends. She wished that she wasn't such a fucking normie.
And into the cold, the skinny girl, in her heavy black coat and ever fashionable black tights, trudged back to her dorm.

Women in Early European History. It was a two-hundred level class. Maybe a three-hundred level? It didn't matter. It was easy, and it counted toward her Gender Studies minor. And besides, it probably would fill some weird anthropology requirement.
It went off without a hitch, as usual. Sure, there were only about twelve other people in the course, but it was lecture-based. The professor was a nice woman, but she was old. And Dahlia knew, deep down, that she wasn't sure what to do with her. She didn't exactly have a Janice Raymond tattoo on her neck or follow Cathy Brennan on Twitter or anything.
But she stared at her sometimes, when they spoke about womanhood. When they spoke about manhood. Was that the paranoia? Sometimes, she thought she read too much into nothing. Looks didn't necessarily always have to be pointed. Maybe she was just engaging with one of the few students who seemed actively interested in the material.
She was lucky that her roomie was gone by the time she reached her dorm. The girl was nice, but she, too, didn't seem like she knew what to do with Dahlia. She wasn't, like, scared to get undressed around her, like normal roommate things, but Dahlia always assumed the worst. And besides, she wasn't exactly into her whole crowd. A volleyball player. She didn't know college had jocks, but sometimes, small liberal arts colleges started to feel like high school with more drug use.
The cardboard box resplendent in duct-tape had called out to her since she took it from the post office. It was the biggest, so it had to be the best. She could barely read anything on it, so it had be from Armand. Truthfully, she was amazed it had gotten there considering how illegible it was. But fucking with the US Mail System probably didn't take much magic.
It was hard to tear through, given all the tape. But when she managed to get the thing open, it was filled with packing peanuts. Digging through, she pulled out a letter, covered in a scrawl so illegible as to be endearing, and the ugliest thing she had ever seen in her entire life.
It was a statuette of the banana thing from peanut butter jelly baseball bat song or whatever. It was pure grey and smooth. She couldn't tell what stone it was made from, and she didn't really care. She put it on her desk and stared at it, eye-to-eye. Was this a troll? What the fuck was he trying to say?
The note was nearly impossible to read, but she was able to glean meaning after a few reread. If she kept it at her desk, it would make people react to the, well, anomalous things that her other gifts might cause to be ignored by the regular people. Theoretically, he said it could also let her get away with doing weird things, same magic used in Mr. Normie.
It was nice. But why did it have to be so ugly? He probably thought it was funny. It kind of was.
After that, letters seemed safer. A lot of cards from relatives. The grandparents, the parents. Some of them even called her Dahlia, which was nice. Both grandparents still called her Jason, which was kind of a kick in the teeth, but she tried to focus on the positive. Like the fact that she got around two hundred dollars all in all from them. Money was the best gift, really. Especially from people who still called her Jason and probably wondered why she wasn't living as a man anymore.
Two letters were from internet friends. Based on the completely blank nature of the first, she assumed it was JJ. Only he could get an unlabeled letter to her PO box through weird luck bullshit. The other was from PIC, which was nice. She assumed he would have forgotten.
JJ's was a scratch-off lottery ticket. Unscratched, but she knew it was a winner. The message was simple and sweet. A happy birthday wish and telling her to spend it all in one place, as an order. She scratched it, and it was three thousand dollars. A winner. Not too big to get her on any luck radar, she assumed, but big enough to be a wild present.
JJ was the fucking best. She held it to her chest. That was good. She needed the savings. School wasn't cheap, even after the scholarships.
PIC's included a decal. A large, hideous transgender symbol done in the transgender flag colors. Her eyebrows shot up. It was certainly, well, nice of him? Maybe? But it was a bit ostentatious. Normally, Dahlia liked to just pass and maybe when she didn't just skirt under everyone's noses. But this was, well, this was a thing.
The note said to put it on her laptop. He wouldn't tell her what it was, but it was connected to Andy's gift. He wouldn't say what. She sighed, wondered if Andressa knew that he put his magic on such a gaudy weird sticker, and affixed it to the back of her computer. It was the size of her fist.
“Jesus Christ.” It had better be worth it.
She moved back to the boxes after that. The envelope was from Eli. And of course, it was filled with every textbook she needed for her next semester. All new. Quite a bit of money. She wondered how it afforded that kind of thing.
The note was simple:

Your desire to learn reminds me of my best friend. It is the quality I have always admired the most in you, too. I will buy you any textbooks on the subjects you desire if you ask me. Books are much too expensive. Knowledge is important.
I am glad you were born.

Cute. It always said things so clearly, didn't it? She loved Eli, really. And it was that kind of thing that made her appreciate the big weirdo. Didn't it say it was a satellite? Who said shit like that? Maybe it was an auto-responder thing, like Li'l HAL. Only sometimes, though. But when would it be which? Whatever.
The other box, surprisingly, was from L_G. She tore it open, and inside, there was a keffiyeh. Or, like, a scarf, really. Thin. The material was thin, and it was colorful. A lot of shapes. It was hard to look at. A lot of clashing colors. But more than that, she had to wonder, who put a scarf in a box?
At the bottom, L_G left directions, more than anything. She wasn't big on ceremony. No birthday wishes from her, but still, the gift said it all.

Wear this when you have a big test or something you'll get graded on. If the tester is there, and they see this, you are guaranteed a good grade. Theoretically, this may work in job interviews. I don't know.
Do not wear it more than twice for one person. I am dead serious here. They will probably get brain cancer, or worst case scenario, they will go all Scanners and explode in the head.

Dahlia kept the scarf in her hands for a moment, trying to understand the swirls that didn't make any sense. Did she sew this? Why would you give someone a gift that could give people cancer?
She shoved it into her desk. Maybe she'd wear it one day. But right now, she didn't want to think about it. It was, well, a bit too much.
Mail gone, she popped open her laptop to get the other kinds of gifts people sent her. Loads of wishes on the GAW channel, of course. She smirked. They renamed the channel topic Hetcopogg's Birthday Palace. She wasn't in the mood yet, of course.
She opened her email. Two. One from an address that looked gobbledygook with an attachment. It didn't hit the filters, so it was probably from Jude or something. The second, of course, was from Andressa.
She opened the one presumably from Jude first. Inside was an image attachment called hbd.jpg, which she immediately opened. The image was a cake with nineteen candles, taken with a bad cellphone in bad lighting.
Immediately, on her lap, there was a letter and an extremely fragrant blunt. It was wrapped green. Was that weed, too? There was a wrapper on the end, like on a cigar. It was the letters B and F done in ridiculous filigree. It looked like Jude had made it with a label maker or something. Did Jude have a labelmaker? Did magic people need those? What a fucking dork.
The weed smell filled up the room quickly enough that she grabbed her roommate's air freshner and sprayed the room down. It still didn't work, so she put it in a baggie and then into her mini-refrigerator. That only sort of worked.
Only then did she remember the letter. She unfolded the white stock and marveled at the handwriting. All in pencil, but it looked like it had been printed on a computer. Jesus, Jude really must be tidier than he came across. And then, she read.

Happy Birthday, Dahlia. At least, I hope this is you. I got kkrule to help me attach this shit to an image. You could theoretically be, like, anyone who looked at it, I guess, but you should probably delete it hardstyle when you're done so, like, some janitor doesn't get to read the birthday wishes I'm about to give you.
I hope the guys gave you some good shit. Don't get offended if bones didn't get you anything. Sometimes it just forgets human things. Even though, I think I'm kinda sure it's a human? Maybe sometimes a robot. But who isn't? L_G told me about her gift, actually. Kinda wild. I don't know if you need it, though. You've always been the most level-headed out of all of us. You're smart is what I mean. To be honest, I don't know what level-headed is supposed to mean. That and even-keeled. Like who fucking is level. No one's level.
Sorry. Started rambling. Kind of got a speech to pencil thing going here. I didn't want my gift to you to be all magic and shit, but I also wasn't exactly feeling writing a whole bunch. My handwriting's horrible. Like you saw harmpit's, right? Fucking wildstyle bad. Imagine that but worse and also it's in cursive. That's me. Yeah, welcome to hell is right.
And then I started rambling again. Sorry.
Listen, Dahlia. I think, out of all of them, you're the most like me. And I'm so happy you've decided to stay with us. I'm so happy you've managed to find what seems to be pretty serious shit loveways with a person who's really cool. We're all insufferable show-offs who make bad jokes, but yours have always been the best. Because they're honest. They're homemade and, well, rooted in a place that isn't a magic dickwaving contest. I've always appreciated that about you. You've kept us grounded more than you could ever realize.
I thought real hard about what to give you for your birthday. I thought about maybe giving you The Surgery magic ways. I mean, I've done it before in reverse. It was on myself, but like, it's gotta be pretty much the same thing, right? But that's, like, wild invasive. And kind of weird, right? I'd've asked of course, but like, fuck. I wanted this to be about you. I wanted you to give you something made by me that took actual effort. Not just some handwaves and an idea about how you want to live your life.
Besides this letter. But like I said, I've always been really bad at the whole handwriting thing.
The weed is really good. I bought it. I don't make weed, because it never tastes right. Or maybe I don't think it tastes right. Sometimes, my magic doesn't make sense. I got the wrap from the store. It's weed wrapped in weed. I could tell you what the strain is called and everything, but that's just about as dickwavey as if I had magicked it.
I rolled it for you. They used to call me The Roller, you know, in my life before. I don't smoke a lot of blunts anymore. Which is funny, because you know, the name. I've always been told mine were the best though.
There's no magic on it. Be careful where you smoke it. Keep your head down. I don't want my gift to get you in trouble. But I also want you to be able to relax. You do a lot of work keeping us all grounded. And I think having the moodiest significant other in the world (no offense of course to the beloved GCM) entitles you to get real high on a night of your choosing.
You're special to all of us, Dahlia. I'm happy you stayed, and I want you to know that I would bend the earth and the sky if you ever asked it of me.
JK (BF)

For the longest time after she read it, Dahlia stared at the computer in front of her without seeing. She didn't cry, but she wanted to. Jude thought highly of her. She knew, deep down, they all cared about her, but to see it always made her feel so good.
And they were the same, weren't they? In so many ways. Magic or not, gender assignments at birth were bullshit, and that was something they could always agree on. She made a note to thank him, to thank all of them, but first, she had to see what Andressa had gotten her.
The email was blank. A single attachment. An executable file. It was a string of letters and numbers. She clicked it, opened it, and ran it.
Her screen went wavy. She bit her lip, hoping Andy didn't fuck up the hard drive on something stupid again. The screen dissolved into darkness, as though turned off, but the surface rippled before giving way to an extremely untidy bedroom. The window was open. Breeze blew in, and there, sitting at the desk and staring at the computer, was Andressa.
“Happy birthday, Dahlia! I love you.”
“You got me full-screen skype for my birthday?”
Andy only smiled. And that was when they reached forward through the screen and took hold of Dahlia's hand. Dahlia, of course, screamed, and then she fell hard on her ass, and then she laughed.
“This is like a stand,” Dahlia said. “We have a stand.”
“PIC helped me out. I did the tech shit. He did the magic.”
“He put the magic on a giant trans flag sticker, my dude.”
Andressa laughed and managed to stick their face through screen. Their lips touched briefly, before Dahlia pulled back. A portal. She had a portal to her significant other. Anytime she wanted. Sure, she couldn't fit through it. But it was so nice and thoughtful. And so magic.
“I'm so happy to see you,” Andy said. “I mean, we've seen each other. But fuck, girl, your hands are so cold. Get some fucking gloves. Damn. Your hair looks better in person.”
Dahlia blushed and punched the skinny hacker through the computer screen. Gentle, but Andressa wasn't exactly tough. “Not everyone is lucky enough to live in a place that isn't a winter shithole.”
“In no world is it lucky to live in New Mexico.” But they were smiling. “I'm glad you're happy. I wanted to give you something not, you know, weird, like this. But I knew you'd like it.”
“I love it.” A pause. “I love you.” And another pause, “Can you hold some weed for me?”
“What?”
“Yeah, Jude gave me this huge blunt, and I'm afraid to keep it in my dorm. Your mom's cool with that, right?” Dahlia took it out of the freezer and tossed the gigantic thing through the screen into Andy's hands. They smelled it, made a noise of appreciation, and tossed it onto the nightstand next to them.
“He doesn't fucking skimp, does he?”
“No, he doesn't.” And Dahlia leaned forward to kiss Andy as her roommate walked in.
Andressa looked out in fear at the doorway. Dahlia only shook her head and mouthed the word “harmpit.”
Her roommate, however, only blushed. “Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to butt in on anything, honest.”
“It's okay. I was just going. Talk to you later, Andy. I got my anthro class in twenty, and I gotta get some food. Oh, by the way, this is Andy. Andy, this is Daisy, my roommate.”
“Hi!” called Andressa from the computer, sticking their hand out to offer Daisy a handshake. She took it, as though it was a natural thing. “See you, girls. Have a good one!”
Daisy smiled, and Dahlia gathered her books for her next class, slid on her coat, and made her way outside her dorm into the cold.