My name is Anya and I am 86 years old today.
I came to the states in 1921 from a war-torn homeland and I have not been back since. I pray that an entire ocean is enough distance to hide from my buried memories. That the things I have seen are forever trapped under that haunted place. And that the crate I remember so vividly has been swallowed in mud and time.
In 1917 I was working as a field nurse for the Russian provisional army at the time. We were deployed along the western half of Ukraine working our way towards the border. I had seen my fair share of wounds and death at just a fair age of 21. Back in those days you had to focus on the work. The patients always came in and out. Sometimes they got better. Sometimes they didn't. But there was never an empty bed, and if there was, it was filled with a body before the mattress even got cold.
It was mid-summer then when the- Strange, as I call it, started happening. I managed a small triage tent outside the Husiatyn woods. Tall black pines surrounded us in the clearing we made for our little world. There was also the surgeon's tent and a small abandoned farmhouse under guard where the German prisoners were kept. Some nights it felt like the pines would rise up and descend onto us like teeth, and the Earth would open like a maw to swallow us. In hindsight, this might have been prophecy.
The Strange began one morning. Soldiers from the night before began walking out of the forest carrying their brothers to our tent. Typical wounds were the majority of what I saw, easily treatable with the supplies we had. However, one man was thrashing and gurgling. Horrible it was. At a glance, I was for certain he had rabies. It was an uncommon thing to see in the field, but it did happen from rat bites. But what struck me as odd was to see the grey foam not only coming out of his mouth, but also his eyes and nose. His head was so bloated I thought the flesh would have swallowed his ears.
My insides squirmed as the field surgeon called for my immediate assistance on this. I had to finish up a dressing on a leg and rushed over. Inside the surgeon's tent was the thrashing man and three other soldiers holding him down. Grey foam was spitting everywhere as he suffocated. Surely, he couldn't last much longer.
“Flip him over!” The surgeon barked at me. “Anya, forceps. The long ones.”
I nodded and pulled open a drawer to retrieve it. As they flipped him over, we could see the bullet wound in his back. A big gaping hole about the size of a child's fist had punched right through. I was frozen. I had never seen someone with a wound that large and still have so much life left in them. It must've been an hour long walk from the front lines. He should have bled out long ago.
I snapped out of it when the surgeon grabbed the tool from my hand and went to work. I always admired him for his focus during stressful surgeries, but even I could tell the sweat along his neck was from nerves. After a few minutes he pulled a bullet out from the wound and placed it in the tray. It was a strange object made of an iridescent metal. It had slots carved into its surface. Maybe to deliver poison? It did not look like a bullet, nor did it look like it could be fired out from any rifle I've seen.
“Get him to triage! Bound him to a bed if you have to! Anya… morphine. Lots of it." I remember him saying.
Three soldiers were barely enough to hold the man down and still he howled and gurgled and sprayed his acrid foam all over us. I dared not to get any on my eyes or mouth as I injected him with morphine. It took many shots before his arms and legs finally lost strength. He laid there as what I can only think are his mucus glands effervescing the sick substance. By the time he settled down with his arms and legs bound, I realized we had an audience. The remaining men in the tent were staring at us. Their mouths gawked in silence as cigarettes hung loose off their lips. That's when I had to shut the curtain, for their sakes and mine.
Everyday since then, more and more strange injuries came in. Men with wounds so severe that they couldn't possibly have survived them. A few soldiers were brought in without even clothes or skin. As if someone had cleanly flayed the tissues from muscle. We wasted so many bandages and dressings on them, nearly exhausting our supply. The nights were filled with horrifying screams. Sometimes a man's voice. Sometimes not. I could see at night above the black pines, flashes of yellow as weapons fired towards the west. And also flashes of purple and greens and deep deep reds that seemed to hang in the air like a storm cloud.
“What is going on out there? What is happening to our boys?” I asked the surgeon and lieutenant who were also standing outside watching. They said nothing and went back inside.
The next morning it was decided to house all the special cases in the barn with the German prisoners, much to their protests. To be kept under guard both for our safety and theirs. One dead-eyed soldier during that same morning, stepped out of the woods carrying a wooden crate used to house artillery shells. He dropped it at the entrance of the clearing for someone to tend to, and without a word, headed back towards the front lines. The surgeon and lieutenant were too busy moving patients into the barn to notice.
I can still hear it today. It was so clear. It was weeping coming from inside the crate. But this crate was barely big enough for a child, let alone a grown man. To my regret, I opened and saw what was inside.
I couldn't then and I can't now. I wish I hadn't opened it. But I did. I damn my eyes when I close them at night and still see it. ‘How could God let something like this happen?' I think to myself sometimes. It was only for a moment, as my startled hand dropped the lid back down. All breath had escaped from me, so I couldn't even scream. And inside, the muffled weeping grew louder. I closed the latch on the lid, locked it, and left it there. Yes, I left it in the mud and pine needles. I was not able to deal with it. I wanted to be far away from that place. I truly did wish the Earth would open up to swallow all this horror and make it all go away.
Thankfully my crying was interrupted by shouting. The German prisoners were suddenly having it out with the guards. There was barking back and forth, and guns drawn at them. I think they would have rather died than be kept in the same place as the “special” cases. One German threw a punch at the guard and he dropped his rifle. Before the prisoner had a chance to bend over and pick it up, I saw the lieutenant draw a pistol on him. I did not see the pistol itself, but I did see a bright pink flame burst forth like a fiery rod and penetrate the prisoner in the chest.
The surgeon quickly grabbed the lieutenant's arm and screamed at him, “No! Not in the view of the men! Not here!” They stared at one another for the longest time before he finally put the weapon away. The other German prisoners fell in line immediately and surrendered after seeing what might happen to them. The limp body of the man still laid there. A pink flame still burning like a candle around the singed chest wound with a grotesque smile across his face- giggling and mumbling in his own tongue. Whatever he was saying, I could see the other prisoners turn pale from it.
The decision was made not long after to abandon our location and move everything eastward. Soldiers were packing up supplies onto trucks. The regular patients too. I could see the look of relief on their faces to be leaving this place. The surgeon and lieutenant both agreed to “liquidate” the rest of the patients. I remember the surgeon putting a hand on my shoulder. He sulked as he tried to make sense of the last few days before finally speaking. “There's nothing we can do for them. We must give them back to God and hope he can bring them peace.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. But he didn't answer and walked on to pack his own belongings. I heard a whistle as the lieutenant assembled several men to get into the barn and carry everyone out and into the forest. I watched as beds were walked out, each with patients bound to them. Each more horrific to look at than the last. It was well known that there was a crater not too far from the camp that some have used to dump refuse. I saw them do the same with these men. I don't even know if I had tears left for them. They were men but they were also monsters. Bed after bed they tossed into the bottom of the crater. The foaming man, too drowned in his own fluids and morphine to notice. The skinless who were pleading not to be thrown in. And eventually the prisoner, who was still happily jabbering and still smoking from his wound before being tossed on top. All were fed into the hungry Earth. And with shovels, buried scoop by scoop until the sounds and cries and laughter were doused. They were still alive. All twenty-three of them. The chaplain was there to bless the grave and I was honestly grateful for that, as meaningless as it probably was. Reading last rites to things that can't die.
I was the last to board a truck that day. I sat in the back as it was closed up. We carried what would fit and left the rest. As we drove away on the only road available, I spotted the crate still sitting in the mud! Still closed and latched shut. I had forgotten to tell anyone about it! I had forgotten to have it buried. It was left there and the last thing it remembers was my face. It has seen me, as I have seen it. Will it crawl out of that haunted place and find me? So much dread washed over me that I thought I'd drown in it. At that point I sat with my head on my knees and wept. I had found my tears and did nothing but weep for the entire ride. After that I never returned. I finished my time with the war and left the continent as soon as I was able. I put as much distance as I could between that place and me. Between that thing and me.
I soon married and started a family. I have tried my hardest to replace those memories with happier ones. But even after sixty years, whenever I open a box-

I can feel my heart leap into my throat.


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⚠ Content warning: This article contains animal abandonement and implied animal cruelty.

⚠ content warning

"Can you tell me why you're here?"

Believe it or not, it was a cat that did me in.
In high school, I had an assignment to volunteer for a local mayoral candidate's campaign office for an afternoon. So two friends and I decided to get together and work for the same guy.
Our parents dropped us all off at the headquarters of the campaign office. They settled on having us go knocking door to door handing out fliers. We hopped into a truck and they drove us out to this apartment complex where we were supposed to go campaigning. The person who drove us there left, saying they would be back in two hours.
Not two minutes after they left, I heard a tiny meow coming from somewhere nearby. Now, I love animals. So if there was a kitty nearby, I wanted to pet it. I looked around and saw nothing, but then I heard the same little meowing again, this time coming from an abandoned box in a corner of the parking lot. I approached it and found two kittens. One of them lay still, apparently sleeping, and the other was mewling desperately, trying to move around the box.
The sleeping one was black and the other was tabby. They couldn't have been more than a few days old, and their mother was nowhere to be seen. My friends and I gathered around them and named them. Pablo was the black one and Sebastian was the tabby. Wanting to see them play, we tried nudging Pablo from his sleep. He didn't budge.
He was dead.
I felt terrible, you know? I wanted to do all I could for Sebastian. Keep him from suffering the same fate as Pablo. I had seen a payphone at a nearby corner store, so I asked my friends if they had any change. I managed to scrounge up two quarters from them, and we decided to split up. One of my friends would stay behind with Sebastian while my other friend and I would head to the corner store.
We booked it to the store, and I shoved the coin in while dialing my mother's number as fast as I could. She answered after a few rings. I told her about Sebastian, desperately explaining that he need to see a vet, and all she did was start scolding me; for worrying over a dumb cat, for abandoning my responsibilities, and, above all else, for wasting her time.
Can you believe that?
I managed to convince her to look up the city animal shelter in the phonebook for me. My friend took down the number and we hung up on my mom, hoping to get a more sympathetic answer from someone at the shelter. They answered and I pleaded with the woman on the line to please come to pick up Sebastian; he desperately needed help. She said they were full up on cats and wouldn't be able to pick up any more. I thanked her for her time and hung up. I didn't know what else to do.
My friend and I walked back to the apartment complex. The three of us met up again in front of the box. Our only hope now would be the person who dropped us off. So we waited. We waited for two hours in silence, occasionally interrupted by Sebastian's cries for food, help, and care.
Eventually, the person showed back up. We pleaded with them to please let us bring Sebastian with us and to drop us off at a vet. You know what they said? "I'm allergic to cats. No way." If I were older I would have fought with them to let us bring Sebastian. But I was a kid and afraid to upset an adult. So I took one last look at the box and left Sebastian behind, getting into the truck.
When we got to the campaign office, the campaign manager asked for us to hand over any fliers we had left and since we didn't go knocking on doors, we simply handed her back the full piles. She was very upset with us, and yelled at us about our lousy work ethic and about how we were just a bunch of lazy, lazy teenagers. She refused to sign our slips saying we had worked for her campaign, so my friends and I all got F's for that assignment.
Never in my life have I felt more useless than I had on that day. And let me tell you, my whole life I had wanted to do something special. And saving a dying kitten seemed pretty damn special and achievable to me. But I couldn't, and I didn't. If you were to ask me what the worst day of my life was I would easily tell you it was that.
And then I came into the Foundation as a field agent. I was a model employee and scored really high on the loyalty tests they do every now and then. I did so well, in fact, I was scouted to join this department. It started simply enough. Go here, watch this person. Go there, watch that person. Rough up this guy's cousin, beat up that guy's father.
Eventually, it got to killing people. People who had nothing to do with the Foundation. At first, I didn't want to do it. I think most people would have reservations about killing their fellow humans, you know what I mean? It started with indirect killings. Slip someone this ricin. Give that person a lethal injection. But then the requests got more violent. Shoot this guy in the face. Drop this schmuck into a vat of hydrochloric acid. And I followed along with it.
They fed me their schpeel, and I bought into it. "You're helping the Foundation by doing this; you're helping save the world!" I believed every bit of it. After all, I was special, wasn't I? I was already special enough working for the Foundation and I was the most special among the special for having been scooped into this department. I was here because I was the best of the best, willing to do whatever it takes to protect the world.
It made sense to me at the time, you know? My whole life I had wanted to be special and suddenly there I was, being told I was the most special of them all, just for following instructions. I was desperate for validation, and the department was there for me when I needed it. How sad is that? Geez, whatever positive opinion you held of me is gone by now, isn't it? Or maybe it was gone the moment I turned up on your docket, heh.
Before that though, it's yesterday. Researcher Allison down in R&D wants to leave Foundation employ. And our department sends me to take out a target of crucial interest to Allison. It's her sick and dying cat. No problem, I think. I've killed plenty of people before, what's a cat going to matter?
So I come to her house while she's still at the Site. I step inside and I see this old, skinny cat lying on the couch. I look at it and see Sebastian. Same tabby pattern. Same sad face. Same pathetic meow. Suddenly, I'm a teenager again. Suddenly, I'm back in that grimy apartment parking lot. Suddenly, I'm having the worst day of my life all over again.
I couldn't do it. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. The worst part is I know you sent someone else to do it after I failed to kill the cat. I'm done playing these games. I just can't do it anymore. I want out.
I know what that means for me. I know what we do to people who want to leave. I know you don't actually care, so just do what you have to do to make me believe in this again. Because we both know I'm leaving here as your tool.

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the most important thing in the world

Canon Hub » Old Man in the Sea Hub » SCP-169 » the most important thing in the world

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GLOBAL ALERT
FILE UNCLASSIFIED TO ALL PERSONNEL

Event #: EE-169-APL
Level 0/169

Event Class: Emergent Apollyon
Unclassified

Event Prevention: Means of full prevention remain currently impossible due to SCP-169's nature and size. As of writing, the only actions undertaken by the Foundation have been focused on limiting the event's scope and consequences rather than attempting to fully stop it. This has included — but was not limited to — handling the emergent LV-Zero "Lifted Veil" scenario and attempting to focus global GoI and government resources on further mitigating and potentially preventing EE-169-APL.
At this time, the impediment of EE-169-APL has been reclassified to be the Foundation's utmost priority.
Event Description: EE-169-APL refers to a sudden re-activation of SCP-169 activity, noted at 23:58 EST, 30/10/2022. At that time, SCP-169 began to initiate movement, indicating an attempt at waking from its previously thought to be permanent sleep. Foundation radars stationed near its head reported re-emergence of brain wave activity, paired with a series of shockwaves going through most of the being's internal organs, which resulted in their extensive damage and full destruction of most of the Levinite structures present within.
As of writing, SCP-169's activity has been increasingly growing, eventually concluding in global earthquakes of unmitigable magnitude and several other natural disasters. So far, this event has caused over 4 million deaths worldwide, with the number projected to severely increase in the days to come, should SCP-169 continue its almost logarithmic damage rate as it remains to wake up. Should it fully come back to life1 it is estimated that the entirety of Earth would be rendered uninhabitable, effectively wiping out the human race.
Although the exact cause for this sudden reactivation cannot be certain, Foundation research paired with previous analysis indicates that SCP-169's behavior has been caused by its sudden realization of its rapidly incoming death.

Footnotes
1. Which current models predict at happening in less than 7 days.

« EE-168 | EE-169-APL | EE-170 »

Abridged EE-169-APL Prevention Attempts

Attempt
Description
Outcome
Comment

#2
Via the utilization of Foundation and GOC resources, attempt to calm SCP-169 with calming spells targeted directly at its brain.
FAILURE
SCP-169 has proven to be fully resistant to all thaumaturgic manipulation.

#12
Cooperate with Serpent's Hand kaijumancers in an attempt to take control of SCP-169's behavior for long enough to be able to put it back to sleep.
FAILURE
All individuals involved with the apprehension ritual immediately fell deceased upon its activation. Whether this was the result of an improperly executed working or an undiscovered trait of SCP-169 itself remains unknown.

#18
Utilize Foundation, Chaos Insurgency, Prometheus Laboratories, and worldwide government nuclear missiles and eigenweapons in an attempt to instantaneously neutralize SCP-169, ceasing all of its activities.
N/A
Attempt overridden by Foundation Overwatch Command due to the extensive damage it would inevitably cause should it even succeed — as any force strong enough to sufficiently damage SCP-169 would consequently be enough to damage the structure of the Earth itself, all further military operations in regards to EE-169-APL were prohibited.

#29
Contact embedded Oneiroi agents in an attempt to manipulate the global oneirosphere so that SCP-169 would continue its sleep, ceasing all activities once more.
FAILURE
SCP-169's consciousness proved itself to be located so far out within the oneiro- and noospheres that locating and/or manipulating it has proved to be impossible.

#36
Via the usage of Foundation, Anderson Robotics, Maxwellist, and MC&D paratechnology, create a metadigital space within which an uploaded version of a human being and SCP-169's mind could interact. Following a proper upload, attempt to convince SCP-169 to cease its activities, calm it, or otherwise act in any other manner so that it would stop its current operation.
DEBATED
Although the first upload — Dr. Stephanie Ross, Foundation Parazoology Division Director — suffered a fatal brain aneurysm following her upload, it was discovered that this happened due to the fact her paratechnologically-enchanced brain reported too complex activities to be compatible with such a simple situation. As such, a global search for a fitting individual that could enter the simulation without harm has officially begun.

WLSN/169 Event Log

Foreword: Following a detailed worldwide search, only 7 individuals that would properly fit into the required parameters were identified. Among them was one Tim Wilson of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions, a long-term Foundation associate bound by the Boring Agreement, which gave him knowledge of low-propriety and low-threat anomalies him and his company were in turn allowed to contain for the Foundation in the Nexus of Boring, Oregon.
Due to his prior knowledge of Foundation operations, his experience regarding the nature of the anomalous world, as well as him fitting all of the required criteria, Tim Wilson had been selected as the subject of further EE-169-APL prevention protocols. At 14:23 EST, 04/11/2022, he was officially uploaded to the aforementioned metadigitial space. Below attached is the log of the conversation him and SCP-169 then undertook.

[BEGIN LOG]
As Tim Wilson's consciousness appears inside of the artificial space, he blinks twice, blinded by the everpresent light. Everywhere he looks, the surrounding area is white and silent; there is barely any horizon or orientation points he can speak of. The only things that break the monotony are a small bench located next to him and two orbs up in the sky. Upon further squinting, he realizes that they are eyes, and that they are looking at him.
Wilson puts on a gentle smile, puts his hands in the pockets of his dirty overalls, and returns SCP-169's gaze.
Tim Wilson: Hey, pal.Tim Wilson: It's okay. There's nothing to be afraid of.Tim Wilson: I will. Just give me five minutes, okay? If at any moment you feel uncomfortable, I swear I'll leave. Just let me talk to you for a moment.Tim Wilson: Just five minutes.Tim Wilson: Thanks, bud.
Wilson walks towards the bench, and points at it.
Tim Wilson: Is it alright if I seat here? My back — <theatrically stretches> — hurts a bit, hehe.Tim Wilson: Will take that as a yes, hah!
Tim takes a seat, and looks out into the stretching horizon.
Tim Wilson: Y'know, this place reminds me a lot of the mountains back at my home in Oregon. With how much you can see—Tim Wilson: <sigh> I've heard you've been worried lately, Levi. Is it okay if I call you Levi?Tim Wilson: Please. You can talk to me. Talking helps, bud.Tim Wilson: Please, let me help you.Tim Wilson: Do you really? I've… Sorry, bud, if I'm overstepping boundries, but I've heard you were afraid of death. Is—Tim Wilson: That's okay. There's nothing to be ashamed of.Tim Wilson: I've had my fair share of fear too, y'know? Most of my life I've spent with animals, and I know it doesn't escape them either. I know life. I've seen plenty of it. But that also means I've seen plenty of death.Tim Wilson: And I've come to realize that without one of them, the other cannot exist. That's just the natural cycle of things. And that's okay.Tim Wilson: Yeah. But even life itself eventually loses to death. So do we all. So will I. So will my daughter, Fae. So will everyone else I know and love. And that is okay.Tim Wilson: Because I've seen life, Levi. I've seen what it means to be alive. And I know without death — without a promise of it one day coming to an end — there cannot be life. Just like white cannot exist without black, life just can't be without its inevitable end. You cannot escape it. I cannot escape it. But I've come to accept it. I've accepted it ever since I was a young lad and they told me my heart doesn't work quite right.
Wilson shrugs.
Tim Wilson: And that's just life.Wilson smiles.
Tim Wilson: Y'know, I've heard of how important you were to our life down here. How have you put it? You were beyond it? Yeah, I guess I could see that.
Wilson chuckles.
Tim Wilson: But if you aren't impartial to life, why should you be impartial to death?
Long pause.
Tim Wilson: Levi?Tim Wilson: It's okay. You don't have to.
Another pause.
Tim Wilson: Is that why you're scared?SCP-169: YES.
Tim Wilson: That's nothing to be ashamed of.Tim Wilson: Levi—Silence.Tim Wilson: Because sometimes, you aren't meant to.Tim Wilson: Because sometimes, you can do everything right and still lose. And there's nothing you can do about it.Tim Wilson: Yeah, that's life.Wilson shrugs.
Tim Wilson: It isn't. But life isn't fair.Tim doesn't answer. He simply sighs.Tim Wilson: I don't know, Levi.Wilson smiles sadly.
Tim Wilson: I don't. And I'm not ashamed of it.Tim Wilson: Because that's part of life.
SCP-169 does not blink.Tim Wilson: Yeah. And that's fine.Wilson looks up into SCP-169's eyes.
Tim Wilson: Is that what you fear, Levi? Being forgotten?Wiilson sighs.
Tim Wilson: Levi, I'm not a smart guy. I've spent most of my life in a forest, chasing wildlife. I'm not a scientist, by any means. I can't give you any data. But even I can see you aren't going to be forgotten. Ever.
SCP-169 blinks twice.Tim Wilson: Yeah.
Wilson's smile becomes warmer.Tim Wilson: I mean, just look around you. Look at what you've built. What the seeds you brought with you when you first arrived on a barren Earth sprouted into. What you made them sprout into.Tim Wilson: Everything. Without you, there wouldn't be humanity. Without you, there wouldn't be life. Without you, there wouldn't be anything.
SCP-169 once again deadlocks its sight with Wilson's.Tim Wilson: It was a life worth living, Levi. The life worth the most living, I'd even argue.Tim Wilson: Yeah. I do.
For a moment that feels like forever, both parties simply look at each other, no words exiting their mouths.Wilson widens his grin.
Tim Wilson: No problem, friend.
SCP-169 blinks.Tim Wilson: Yeah.
For another moment, both simply look into the horizon in front of them. There are no words, but no words are necessary; they have already accepted what is about to come.Tim Wilson: Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere, Levi.
Pause.Long silence.Tim Wilson: Yes, Levi?Tim Wilson: Of course.Tim Wilson: I won't, Levi. I'll make sure of it.As Wilson sits on his small bench, SCP-169 quietly stares out into infinity. In time, its vision grows grey and it voice weakens, but that is fine. Everything is fine. For those few hours it takes for the reaper to take his due, nobody speaks, but no words are necessary. As if they have ever even been necessary.
And then, when it feels like the hours turn into days, everything falls silent. Even more silent than it was before. And yet, even then, that is still okay. Tim Wilson sighs, a single tear going down his cheek, but doesn't stand up. He doesn't feel like it's appropriate to leave. Not yet.
[END LOG]

Closing Statement: At 23:14 EST, 04/11/2022, SCP-169 has officially ceased all activities. Since Tim Wilson's entry into the simulation a few hours prior, however, this event has mostly undergone without any further damage done to the Earth, with all of the previous changes being quickly reverted as the being decreased and eventually stopped its panicked endeavors. Two hours following SCP-169's death, Tim Wilson has re-emerged into the real world.
Due to the damage already done, however, the Foundation's Veil policy has been broken in an unrepairable manner. The previously expected LV-Zero "Lifted Veil" scenario has become a reality and, over the coming weeks, the Foundation alongside the remaining Groups of Interest would come forward to the public and explain the prior EE-169-APL situation in-depth.
As per the wishes of a majority of the global population, the construction of a monument commemorating SCP-169 has officially begun.

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At his old age, climbing up the stairs to his fifth-floor apartment was a daunting task for Hector. Now, adding the weight of the altar material to several of these runs had exhausted him further. He left the heaviest for last: a 40 cm ceramic statue depicting a rainbow robe-wearing skeleton carrying a scythe in one hand and the world in the other.
Despite his exhaustion, he managed to drag the statue up to his living room. There, a colorful Día de Muertos altar occupied most of the space. He placed the statue at the top level of the altar and backed down a few steps to admire his work. Next to the statue, there was a Catrina paper mache figure in a vibrant red dress and a framed picture of his beloved Cecilia. The lower levels of the altar were stuffed with colorful candles, cempasúchil flower and papel picado, as well as pan de muerto, calaveritas de azúcar, dulce de calabaza, pulque and a selection of Cecilia's favorites flavors of tamales: mole, chipilín, frijol tierno and rajas.
Cecilia died last year, so this would be the first time she would be coming for the Ofrenda. It was only October 31st so she wouldn't be coming for a couple of nights, but Hector had put in the extra time and effort to make sure everything would be ready in advance and for her to feel welcomed. Hector was proudly contemplating the beautiful offering when, suddenly, the warm feeling in his chest turned into a sharp pain. He tried to scream for help, but no words escaped his lips. He fell to the floor, right in front of the altar he had so lovingly built.

:

Hector woke up to find himself in a dark place. He could not see anything, not even his own body. Without the gift of sight, Hector turned to his other senses. He could feel a watery sensation on his feet and hear the sound of running water in the distance.
"What are you waiting for?" called an annoyed voice. "I got a busy schedule. I don't have all night."
He turned around to find a black, hairless dog staring directly at him with gold-colored eyes. "Did you just talk? What are you?" asked Hector. "Yes, I know: you have a lot of questions," said the dog impatiently. "But I don't get paid enough to care. Content yourself with knowing that I'm Xolotl Zuma from the National Psychopomp Delivery Services. Guiding lost souls to Mictlán since the dawn of time. Save your questions for the boss when we cross the river… Why do you keep looking at me like an idiot? Follow me!"
As the dog turned and walked away, Hector instinctively followed it. After all, it was the only thing he could see in all of the nothingness. He felt the water level gradually rising as he advanced: first to his knees, then his hips, and finally to his chest. "Grab me," the Xolotl ordered. "Well, unless you want to drown in oblivion. And then, the boss lady will cut my pay. So don't." Hector complied and hugged the dog. It was his only lifeline in the sea of darkness. Hector closed his eyes, praying to whatever gods may be to wake him from this bad dream soon.

$

Suddenly, the river waters disappeared and Hector opened their eyes to find themself standing in an endless field of orange flowers. They ducked to touch the flowers and allow the soft petals to caress the tips of their fingers. "Cempasúchil", they thought.
"I'm so glad you made it here," said an unfamiliar voice. Hector looked up, startled. An elegant figure had appeared in front of them. She wore a beautiful red dress, topped with a wide-brim hat decorated with candles. "I always get so worried when one of you has to cross the Chiconahuapan. Thankfully, good people almost always manage to make it."
Hector tried to force their sight to make sense of their interlocutor. It was either a skeleton in an elegant dress… or a sharp-dressed woman wearing a calavera make-up. Somehow, both options were equally true, coexisting in a superposition of realities that rather than being contradictory, were complimentary.
"Are you…" Hector hesitated while remembering the figures on their altar, "Are you the Pale Lady?"
"I'm often called by that nickname. I quite like it; it is certainly more elegant than La Huesuda."
"If you are the Lady, does that mean that I… Am I…?"
"Yes, darling," replied La Catrina, with a smile. "I am afraid you are dead."
"But my Ofrenda… Cecilia… I was supposed to wait for her."
"She will be fine. You left her a very nice altar. Your sons also have her in theirs. She won't go hungry this Día de Muertos."
"My sons… I didn't have a chance to say goodbye."
"I'm sorry. Sometimes we don't get what we should."
Hector remained silent for a while. "So… what is next? What happens to me now?"
"Well, you will have to make some choices. For example, Hector was your livename. While you are here, and if you decide to remain, you should get a deadname… may I suggest, Victoria?
"Deadname? Victoria? How do you know that I..? I never told anyone… not even Cecilia."
"There are no secrets in Death. I can see you as you really are. And now, so can you."
Victoria felt a warm feeling on her fingers. She looked at her hands. The roughness and frailness of an old man had given place to the delicate yet strong features of a young woman. She began to realize that the transubstantiation had extended to her entire being. As she took stock of her new self, Victoria was suddenly overwhelmed by an indescribable sense of euphoria. She hugged herself, crying tears of joy as she sank to her knees amid the flowers. Then, as suddenly as this new joy had washed over her, she stood up and began to laugh uncontrollably.
"This is a miracle! How is this possible?! Oh God, I need to show this to Cecilia…" A somber, worried expression clouded Victoria's face. "She would understand… right? Will she be fine with me? Where is she?"
"That is the second decision you will have to take. Some people get to have a choice, between Mictlán and Heaven. Cecilia took the latter. And now is your turn." The Pale Lady made a swift gesture with her hands and the cempasúchil flowers shot up from the ground, quickly forming an archway. The flowery aperture filled with dense silver fog. It was hard to see clearly through it, but Victoria could catch glimpses of the Silver City and the inhabitants of the Nine Spheres, from the beastly cherubs to the twisted ophanim guarding the Thrones. One could even begin to hear the majestic resonance of the infinite angelic chorus signing the Eternal Hymns to the His Everlasting Glory.
"Is Cecilia really there?"
"That is the same gate she crossed when she was here. You are free to do the same and meet her, if that is what your heart desires. They do have a bigger budget over there, I have to admit. Here, we all have to do our part to keep this place running… However, I must warn you. I'm afraid you won't be allowed you to remain as Victoria if you decide on the Silver City. Their rules are… let's say I often find myself in stark disagreement with the rules of this particular version of the Kingdom of Heaven."
Victoria kept silent for a few seconds. "If I stay, will I never see her again?"
"You could meet the next year at the Ofrenda. Whether or not she would accept you as Victoria is something not even I can know…"
Victoria's gaze was lost in the towering silhouettes of the City of God. She felt as if her heart was being profoundly pierced by an arrow of sorrow. She began to dissociate between his past and her future; his life, and her death. Then she was hit by the sudden realization that for the first time in forever, she was in control of her fate.
"I lived all my life as a hollow shell. It was as if I was living someone's else life. Never felt like anything was truly mine. Not my body, not my name, not even my family. Going back to that, even if it is in Paradise, would be Hell for me…" Victoria looked directly into La Catrina's eyes — at first, with profound sadness. And then, suddenly, with a firmness of purpose. "I will stay." As soon as Victoria had finished saying those last words, the fog dissipated, and the flower archway collapsed, silencing once and for all the echoes from the Silver City.
Victoria also collapsed to her knees, tears rolling from her cheeks. The Pale Lady smiled tenderly and hugged Victoria. Victoria accepted the embrace of the Lady of the Dead as she allowed herself to cry again, this time confused tears of joy mixed with sorrow.
"Did I make the right choice?"
"That is not for me to judge, mi niña."
"It's funny," said Victoria, as a smile began to form on her face, "This is the first time I have ever truly felt alive… and I'm dead!" She burst into laughter that was so sincere and so contagious that the Goddess of Mictlán herself couldn't help but join her.
"Stranger things have happened, querida," said the White Widow, smiling. "Welcome to the place where you belong."

#

Felíz Día de Muertos


Mage's Tiff:
The term ‘Mage's Tiff' refers to a magical duel between two thaumaturges. Typically containing a fusion of magic and hand to hand combat. Popular in the 1800's as a way to resolve disputes, the tradition has mostly faded over time, due to the advent of modern warfare. Thaumaturgy being easily bested by a skilled marksman. Occasionally they occur in situations where neither thaumaturge has conventional arms, but it is still a rarity.

- Excerpt from ‘The History of Thaumaturgical Combat in the 19th century', by Ava Blackthorn.

“Operative ‘Transit', requesting backup. I'm withou-”
The man cut himself off, attempting to still himself as he heard distant screaming. Stuck in some cultist's base, split away from the rest of his team, no rifle, and no sidearm. Just a combat knife, and a prayer his squadmates were doing better than him. Bad decision, really, to pray right now. Wrong God might hear. The operative tried to instead focus on the actual objective: get rid of the anomalous influence in the area, including the cultists. Preferably dead, as was the GOC way.
He peaked the corner: another dilapidated warehouse- aisles pushed to the sides to make room for the pulsing forms of greenery and plantlife. Almost tumour-like, the way they clung to the metal-lined walls and ceiling. The trunk of a tree impaled the middle of the room, red fruit hanging from it. Minimal light. One hostile, doing something with said tree. Wooden staff, no firearms.
Fellow Blue.
Shit.
Transit ducked back outside, cursing himself, hoping she hadn't seen him. Sure, Grey Suits were useful, but pointless with quick movement, and as a Blue, the hostile didn't just rely on bog-standard vision. He shook his thoughts off. No point worrying now, and internally he ran through a couple options. Guns were out- couldn't just sneak some fire and be done with it. He had his knife, his blood, and the luck of being a mage. He was still going to enter and try to eliminate the target- why wouldn't he? Sneak into some random warehouse in Italy, quietly deal with some nutters trying to bring back forgotten gods. Stop a (possible) end of the world, or die trying. Completely normal career path, right there.
He breathed in deeply, an attempt to cool off. He may have to chance the Grey Suit- and hope the mage was inexperienced enough to not differentiate EVE. Backwater cultists didn't have a full grasp on Thaumaturgy. That assumption was what he had to rely on.
He moved slowly- letting the chameleon cloth adapt before he had to take another step. Footing as light as he could keep it, sticking to the edge of her presumed vision. He held his blade loosely in his left, pulling back the sleeve of his right. Blood wasn't the best source- and he'd fuck himself over if it was a sustained conflict with the amount he'd loose, and with a small patch of skin unobscured, there was a chance she could see him in the dim light. If he failed, he needed to react quickly.
Transit was barely a short sprint away from her now. Up close he could see the discolouration in her skin- the green hues beneath the pale surface. Where her eyes were supposed to be, flowers blossomed.
Her eyes.
She was looking at him.
The wooden staff was flung down in a near instant, a large green serpent lunging from where wood used to be. It reared up, striking down upon his shoulder as he crashed into it. All the glass within the room was reduced to dust. Transit instinctually slid the knife up at its neck- flesh splintering more like wood than meat, sap splashing upon his hand. Loose weave. Easy to overwrite.
In a smooth association between forms, the snake was torn away, and he struck out a spool of razor wire. Travelling a few feet before impact. Tearing a crevice into the woman's abdomen, cutting through both her wool dress, and Transit's own gloves. Leather shred as easily as paper. Gritting his teeth, he hung onto the metal with his right hand and pulled back- slamming the cultist down into the concrete flooring. Ignoring the sound of flesh rending, and more on getting the upper hand, he wiggled the wire free. Eyes on the prize: still had to do something about the plant gunk.
Transit backed up, attempting to get a handle on his impromptu weapon. He gave an experimental slash at the main woody structure, but barely grazed it- moss, then bark quickly covering the thin wound. Not good. His pondering on what to do next was interrupted by a vine nearly impaling him, springing from the wound he created. Thank God for chameleon cloth. He swung his gaze round- the briefing didn't mention sentient fucking plants. Transit's vision rested upon the women.
Who was now standing.
Who's torn apart stomach was now a patchwork of tumorous plant growth.
He flung out his left hand, combat knife sweeping along his own arm, then the plantlife beside him- blood staining greenery. A simple switch in liquid, a connection between part and whole.
Bleach seared the new wound in both the vines, and the woman. She doubled over, acacia plants sprouting from her wounds, and Transit rushed her. Several of the fruits spontaneously transformed into grenades, causing a cascade of explosions and falling branches behind him. Some flesh went with the razor wire as it was chucked at her- wound metal turning to the blade of a circular saw. He grit his teeth at the sound of bone being ground clean through. A second later, the firm leather of his boots crunched into her ribs. They were sent sprawling into the ground. He re-angled his knife, bleach still thick on the blade, and struck her shoulder. He was aiming for the neck.
But the acacia tree growing into him was rather distracting. He screamed.
Transit wrenched himself away, but the branch already skewered his right arm, drilling into his bones. The struggle just wound him deeper, and the cultist had noticed this. There was a sharp jolt of pain as his head was slammed into the floor, the rest of him following. He kicked blindly, hitting the saw, embedding it deeper into her torso. It snapped: shards puncturing organs and plants. He writhed haphazardly. More of the saplings were sprouting, shredding the chameleon cloth around his neck.
He twisted the knife out her shoulder. His own lips were bloody from biting away the pain. Thin strips of sapling tore grooves along his neck. The cultist was still pinning him down- but her grasp was weaker. She was burning herself out with her own magic. He pressed the knife into the woody sections of her form- no longer to wound- but to get some leverage. With a good thrust, Transit forced her off him, branches breaking off her skin. He rolled himself over, scrambling to get some distance before he cast a last-ditch spell. The cultist clawed at his heel as she attempted to pin him back down again, which earned a square kick to the face. Cartilage crunched under the blow. His arm and neck were painfully numb, and soaked to the bone with blood.
The mage heaved himself up. He had… an idea. Blood and fire were both the same thing, really. Both hurt, both healed. Transit slid the combat knife against his own arm, much like one would strike a match. Blood coated the edge, and he tried to not think about how much of the precious liquid he was losing.
In a swift motion, he flung the blade back at her, the metal and carbon polymer exploding into a fiery mass, lit by a fuse of gore. He was thrown back from the sheer force- and thank god. The other mage wasn't so lucky- fleshed rendered as she was impaled upon the crumpled metal of the warehouse, greenery immolating in a blaze of glory, as it grew even higher. Wood splintered the frame of the building, before the blaze overtook it further. The operative watched, bleary eyed, and the woman caught on fire too. The smell of charcoal hung heavy as hair, then flesh, then bone burned. Transit collapsed, distant yelling drowned by the crackling of flame.

“So— what happened after I got knocked out?” He glanced at his squadmate, while failing to light his cigarette with one hand, the other still in a sling. A more long lasting reminder to not try to rush in alone when dealing with a rival thaumaturge.
Clearly fed up with Transit's struggle, his colleague grabbed the cigg, lit it, then passed it back up. “The fire speed. Burned the whole thing to the ground.” They gave him a short glare, a response to the oddly smug grin the former operative had. ICSUT brats, and their love of dramatics.
Despite the response, the smug grin remained. “Yeah, yeah- the parathreat? The cultists?”
“Your eardrums get damaged too Transit? Burnt to the ground. If anyone has survived, they'll be lying low for a long while.” A cuff on said ear was awarded for the continued apparent joy. He'd never learn to be more careful if all he got was bragging rights. “And don't take it to heart. You pulled a stunt, and got lucky. Next time you'll get pinned by a mage more skilled than a third grader.”
“Cruel. I just immolated-”
They sighed, cutting him off. An operative gets chucked in a Strike Team, and they act like they own the world. “And I don't want to hear about it. You're a dime-a-dozen Thaumaturge, who nearly got himself killed, and…”
They paused looking at Transits' kicked-puppy-dog expression.
“…It was mildly impressive to watch the results.”


Canon Hub » From 120's Archives Hub / The Man Who Wasn't There Hub » GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS Hub » People Without Meaning

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Co-written by Ralliston and Trotskyeet
Ralliston's Authorpage
Trotskyeet's Authorpage
The following article is a part of the GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS storyline. Whilst you can read it on its own, it's highly recommended you read the previous installments to get this article in its fullest.

2004

13th of January
Somewhere in Esterberg: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

The only thing she could feel was darkness.
Not see, no — Jessie Rivera's eyes were too tightly blindfolded for even a single ray of light to pierce the veil that encompassed them. She couldn't see it. She could feel it all around her. A choking and freezing cold, trying its best to get into her body, into her mind, into her soul with whatever it had at its disposal, no matter at what cost. She automatically shivered, her brain realizing she was now awake again only a few seconds later.
"Mghgh!" She tried to get out. Even though she quickly noticed her arms and mouth were similarly tied, that didn't exactly stop her from trying to change that with a series of aggressive movements. When even that failed, though, she simply repeated: "Mghhg!"
Much to her surprise, there came a reply. "Hmhm?!" A muffled Magdalaine Cornwell inquired from somewhere close to her, trying her best not to hyperventilate just upon hearing her partner was alive.
"Hyhmhm!" Marie Surratt replied, her boney and dry voice still losing to the material that covered her skull's jaw. There wasn't any fear in the muffled words she attempted to get out, though — just anger. Profound anger.
Nobody chose to offer no insights of his own, as Nobody often did. If his arms weren't bound by rope, he'd cross them. But alas, he had no such luxury. Instead, he just internally sighed, simply waiting with unparalleled patience for how the situation was about to unfold.
He didn't have to wait long.
A snap echoed, and the material covering their eyes suddenly dissipated. The overwhelming lack of light laying the entire structure that now unveiled before them rushed at the four in an instant, forcing them all to blink in a fickle attempt to combat the everpresent darkness. Surprisingly, it only took a few seconds for their sights to adjust; but oh how they wished it took longer.
The room wasn't large, but there was a tingling feeling to it, as if something inside it was too large for the human mind to comprehend, or at least hosted something that was like that. Trying to understand the area's exact details was not only difficult; it actively hurt. To Rivera, it felt like an ocean of something more than darkness tried to crash against the protection of only thing separating it from her — her mind — and get in, in some rough attempt to overtake her with its sheer size and brutal force. She shivered, and, in an instant, it was gone.
Now free of that uneasy sensation, she could actually take a proper look around herself. The hall she previously thought to be mostly empty now consisted of four stone chairs upon which her and her party were seated, slightly elevated off the floor. In front of them laid a series of frighteningly complex ritual circles engraved into the ground, painstaking slashes directly in the rock. A few dimly lit lanterns floated above them, their cold blue flames casting harsh shadows on the enormous pillars in each corner of the room. In the center was an ornate throne in front of a well, upon which the statue of a Fae man sat.
And then, the statue moved.
"It is good to see you finally awake," Ai'sling Fiadh grinned, irony leaking from his nearly-white lips. He descended the stairs in front of him, his long silver hair draping behind his robes. "I have been awaiting you… most patiently."
Cornwell didn't even allow him to take a breath. "Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?! What—"
"SILENCE!" Fiadh thundered, immediately turning his blind irises towards the blonde Director. She shivered. There was a fury to everything in his face but them, acting as a window for someone — no, something — else. He lifted just a finger, and aggressively pressed it against her lips. "The words of a Jailor shall not blaspheme in the House of MAB!"
His last words echoed across the cavern. Mab Mab Mab…
She tried to say something — anything — else, but as her voice got stuck in her throat, she immediately realized it was useless. A shock of terror embraced her face and, for a single second, she attempted to scream. Much to the priest's visible satisfaction, no such interruption occurred.
He looked up twitchingly, staring at the well on the other side of the room. Jessie hadn't noticed it before, at least not fully — but now that she kept eyeing it, it… it felt evil. Dark. Out of place. She tried to reach into it, feel its insides, as if something in her subconscious told her that was the source of all of their problems, but the being inside the hole was just too much, even for her reality-bending brain. With a heavy heart, she quickly let go of the connection before it overtook her, and turned her sight once again to the Fae priest in front of her.
"For you see, your task here requires the sanctuary to be nothing but pure of sin," He continued, drawing a rather nasty dagger from his robes, idly running the flat end along Rivera's neck. "What is that saying? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
After a moment in his own fantasies, Fiadh's gaze returned to the captured, hungrily eyeing each one of them in turn. And then, as his unseeing eyes went from one set of irises to another, he noticed something upon Rivera's face — a sense of fear and uncertainty, as if an unspoken question hung upon her lips. And, ignoring Nobody's total lack of reaction and the fact that Surratt was very carefully observing the rope that tied her hands together, he smiled even more widely.
"Oh, so you do not know about your roles?" Ai'sling richly laughed, turning his back to them. His attention was now almost entirely focused on the well. That horrible, deeply, deeply wrong hole that was the home of something even infinitely more terrible lured him in, making the Fae priest unable to see, feel, or even think about anything but its inhabitant. He raised his hands up, his fingers twisted in some sick mixture of shivering anticipation and pleasure.
"In the sacrifice, of course!" He loudly exclaimed, as if there was any need to clarify anything to anyone. His silver hair was now caressed by gentle strokes of green electricity running through them, appearing from seemingly nowhere, as they made their way towards his fingertips. "For you see, the Queen — the utmost ruler, the utmost being, the utmost beauty! — she has big plans for you. Your fear, your panic, your utter desperation, drawn from the moment when you were at your highest certainty of victory, it will all be taken and mixed in the unholy soup that'll brew the Starlight into existence, once again flooding all of reality with her reign!"
The mage's voice thundered through the whole room as the sparks got bigger and bigger, forming a brightly glowing green diadem above his temples. "Yes, you fools, see this — see this and weep!" He continued shouting, an orgasmic shiver going down his spine. "Know that the age of man has come to an end, and—"
And then a small smoking hole punctured his midsection.
Everything stopped at once.
In the end, Ai'sling Fiadh's face couldn't even afford to show shock. He just gasped, blood spilling out of his mouth onto the perfectly clean, white robes. His body swayed forward, then backwards, then fell down the well.
"Jesus Christ I thought he'd never shut up," Marie Surratt sighed, her gun smoking. She was now untied, an oddly shaped ivory knife made out of one of her bones in her other palm.
Rivera blinked twice, and gave her a dumb stare, snapping away from her previous trance. "How?"
Surratt held up her left hand. "Fourth metacarpal bone."
"…What?"
"Exactly. Can't be that important now, can it?"
When no answer came, she realized that her hands weren't the only ones that had been tied up. So, wasting no further time, she did exactly what needed to be done to make that number higher.
"Well," Cornwell stated with relief, stretching her hands and throwing dust off her jeans. "That was… surprisingly disappointing"
Instead of replying, Rivera carefully eyed the well. "I…" she slowly began, never ceasing her watch on the hole in the ground.
"I a…" the red-haired Director tried again, squinting her eyes. The words were there, just at the tip of her tongue, but something kept her from truly manifesting them in reality. A tingling, rooted deep in her brain, as if something was actively scratching the space behind her eyes whenever she tried to extrapolate what was in front of them. So she looked deeper, giving into the so obvious anglerfish, and gazed directly into the well, unable to stop her curiosity.
And then, she felt movement.
"Rivera?" Surratt snapped her thin fingers in front of her, trying to get her out of the trance. "Rivera?!"
She really wanted to listen. To make an effort and look away, to cease the connection she made, but she just couldn't. And so, she didn't. The movement got quicker and quicker until she felt the body that had once belonged to Ai'sling Fiadh shiver and squirm in an indescribable agony and ecstasy at the same time, quietly conforming its form to whatever was down there.
"J-Jessie?" Rivera felt Mag shake her arms violently, trying her best to make her blonde locks block the vision. "Jessie, please, I…" She stepped in the way, and looked her partner in the eyes. "Please. Please, I need you. Please." Her voice wasn't strong, it wasn't even loud; but in that quiet command, when their gazes met and a spark of electricity wandered between them, there was power. Real and unfiltered power. Power that wasn't pure darkness. As opposed to the power of the thing that tried to lure her in.
So she snapped away.
Rivera slowly tumbled away, grabbing her head with her right hand. Letting out a silent growl she looked up, once again seeing the one she… the one she what?, she thought as she tried to decide. She gently smiled, whispering a "thank you," and—
And then, the well exploded.
Before any of them could react, a thing that maybe had once looked humanoid crawled out of the crater left in its place, its abnormally large eyes rippling with power. As a bright green diadem formed above its head, the thing locked its sight on the four before it. Seeing their reactions, their frantic preparations of whatever weapons they had at their disposal, it just smiled. And soon after, it turned that smile into a shriek of pure, unfiltered fury.

"What the hell is that?!" Cornwell shouted, pointing her trembling finger at the forming demon in front of them. The thing that used to be Fiadh was no longer beautiful, nor was it graceful. Its fingers were now twisted and broken, pointing in every direction in a spiraling manner. Between them, green sparks and flames ran, connecting to the ethereal wings and crown it wore on its back and head respectively. It no longer needed legs to walk, but if it did, it would find itself to be sorely disappointed at their miserable and mangled state.
But the worst part of the thing was its face.
There were eyes, but they did not see. Dark voids darted around in the sockets. There were ears, but they did not hear. Viscera dripped down the sides of its head. And There was a mouth, but it did not speak. It hungered.
"The Queen," Nobody slowly hissed, readying his crossbow in an instant. The irrilite bolt that previously laid inside his quiver quickly slotted into his weapon, its runes rippling with energy.
The rest didn't need any more words; just the mere mention of Mab was enough to send their whole nervous systems into overdrive. Rivera snapped with reality bending, her whole body trembling with the power she awoke in just a second. Surratt threw away her provisionary knife and took out a large sword, her skull reflecting off its engraved blade as its scabbard fell to the floor. Cornwell pulled out her gun. Better than nothing, she supposed.
The thing before them didn't even react. It didn't even move. It simply laughed with a sickening and spiraling feminine voice that definitely didn't belong to the priest, the crown above it getting bigger by the second. And then it lunged forward, its wings aggressively rippling through the air, aiming at nothing but the four mortals that dared to question its claim to rule the world.
Nobody's attack was the first to reach it. Though the arrow was fast — faster than most people's sight could register — it was nothing for the unholy demigod. With a turn of the head, the being heated the irrilite past its boiling point, disappearing into thin air. But at the moment it dared to look away, Cornwell took her chance; sending a barrage of bullets at its face, she emptied one magazine, sending another right up her USP pistol. The demon hissed as one of the projectiles grazed its burning scalp.
It didn't hiss for long. Another bolt and another wave of razor-sharp bullets came its way, the corpse-puppet fluttered erratically upward. And, even though it didn't hit the ceiling above, it stopped halfway through its frantic attempt. It felt the grasp of Rivera's reality-bending force it upwards, just barely resisting its pull. The being screeched again, the soundwave making Cornwell back off and hold her attack off for just a second, and used its own magic on Jessie. If it wasn't for Surratt kicking the Director, the falling pillar would've gotten her for more than sure.
The two Foundation doctors might've been out of order for a few seconds, but Marie sure as hell wasn't. She locked eyes with Rivera, making sure she needed no further help, and she aimed her sword at the Mab-infected priest. She rushed forward, exchanging a quick look with Nobody. They didn't need words to understand what the plan was. As she made the final leap forward, the Hunter shot once more, this time aiming so that the creature needed to duck downwards to not get obliterated out of existence. So it did.
Maybe if it wasn't so arrogant, it would have noticed the upcoming attack; but, in its cockishness, it could only move ever so slightly upwards before the glowing steel of the Bone Queen.
It pierced the pale flesh of the creature, cutting its right foot off clean. Surratt swore, trying once more to attack as Nobody switched the bolts in his crossbow to flame-ridden ones, but it was already too late. The thing was now furious. Beyond furious.
Before, it allowed these rancid mortals some allowance, seeing them as simply mere distractions before Mab's perfect soul could fully nest itself within its body and awaken its full power. Nothing but bugs, just whisper on the wind before the hurricane of the Fae Queen's true might that was about to come. But now, it saw that that had been a mistake. It didn't accept it as one, of course; Mab, even in such small parts, was too proud to ever see it as an oversight on her part. But the rage mixed with the pain got even to her repressed, royal brain.
And so, it gave in to the animalistic urges, and screamed.
At first, the sound was bearable, but it took just a few seconds for it to turn into a primal howl full of nothing but mad power. It made all of them cover their ears in an instant, unable to withstand something of such magnitude. But even that wasn't enough. The four exchanged a quick glance and immediately knew what they had to do. Finding a viable exit out of the room with so many eyes looking was just a formality.
So they ran.
Focusing on nothing but the pure will to survive, they ran, before the demon's true voice made it to their ears again. Quicker, quicker, and quicker, into some corridor that led to god-knows-where, before it was too late. Surratt left first, quickly followed by Rivera, who glanced at Cornwell behind her, a little worry in her eye. They didn't try to look back, didn't even try to attack the Queen with whatever final attack they had up their sleeve before they exited the room in search of a better bastion to defend themselves upon. For them, it was just about survival. Surratt wanted nothing but for peaceful business in her city, Rivera's thoughts circulated around the will to save the world and the one she almost certainly loved, and Cornwell just wanted for the unbearable pain that flooded her ears to stop.
But for Nobody, it was not about survival. It was about the hunt.
As he crossed eyes with the thing that dared to enter his world, he felt sudden anger build up inside him. He stood his ground, reaching for his crossbow, and put another bolt in, aiming directly into the creature's forehead. He felt as a primal rage washed over him, making him see the Fae for not what it was, but… for a man with slightly longer dark hair, his grin drilling into his scorched face.
Face. Nobody had a face again. He touched it, unable to see through the illusion, and felt the irreal flesh beneath his hand. Nob— No. Not Nobody. Damien. Damien threw his hair to the side and loaded his gun and aimed once more, this time sure his bolt would kill that piece of shit that dared make him such a fool before the entire world he'd gathered down to take his Jailors down so many years ago. He—
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Surratt grabbed his arm, rapidly pulling Nobody back towards herself. She punched him in the ribs, following with a quick slap to his now-bare skull.
"I… I don't—" Trying to explain it was no use. Words would do it no justice. Nobody simply shook his head and corrected his wide hat, giving Surratt a nod. "Guarding your backs."
If Surratt had lips, she would have pursed them. The gangster only tightened her grip, forcing him to follow her footsteps forward. He complied.
The corridors they leaped through were labyrinthine, stretching in every direction as their unbearable stench of decay got worse and worse. There might've been some symbolism to choosing the very bottom of Esterberg's sewer system, full of nothing but death and outcasts, for the headquarters of a genocidal cult, but it didn't matter now. What did matter, though, was the road forward. And the fact that if they didn't follow it, the raging demigod behind them and a few humanoid shadows they couldn't quite identify would rip their guts out.
"Watch out!" Surratt yelped out as she rapidly stopped in her tracks.
A chunk of wall flew towards the pair, Nobody barely managed to duck out of the way, quickly turning around. He wasted no time and gave no chance for the Mab construct to surprise them. He just readied his crossbow, without even looking around, and aimed it at where the entity would inevitably emerge. He squinted and put his bony finger on the trigger. Marie followed shortly after, putting her sword up in the air.
But the other two weren't as focused. Needing at least a second to calm their breath (having lungs made all this running rather difficult), Rivera and Cornwell glanced around where they emerged.
The room was gigantic. Rough, black stone laid the whole construction, a few questionable waterfalls dripped down the chamber, ending in foul-smelling puddles of unidentifiable liquid that littered the room. The walls were covered in a myriad of balconies, stairs, corridors, stretching up into the air so high that light died before it reached the ceiling.
And then, the darkness within those corridors moved. Turning into shadows of figures, they soon revealed themselves to be Fae, dressed in black clothing and bearing various weapons that had only one, frankly obvious, target at the end of their scopes. But they didn't fire yet. No, they couldn't, not before the Queen arrived. Anticipation filled their barely-visible eyes as their fingers tightened on their tools of death, and their smiles widened.
"Mar—" Jessie tried to say, tapping Surratt on her shoulder, but it was already too late. Before the gangster could turn back and see what they had seen, an indeterminate shape bombed into the room, forcing all pressure out of it. As it made its presence even more widely known by snapping its fingers, the demon's power surged through the place, lighting up all of the previously empty lanterns hanging on its walls with a burning, green light. Then, it just grinned.
And as it started to prepare the final spell between its fingers, all of the Triumviraté members nested within the walls fired their weapons at once, sending a rain of iron, irrilite, wood, and rock down at the nearly defenseless four at the bottom of the shaft.
It took Rivera less than a second to put up the purple bubble of protection around her allies. But even that wasn't quick enough.
As Mag cried out in sharp pain, grabbing her neck, the circle closed. Rivera's sights immediately turned to her, ignoring the unstoppable wave of projectiles and spells currently bouncing up against the only thing separating the four of them from certain death. She grabbed the hand that covered the other woman's wound, and as their eyes met, she concentrated all of her ontokinetisis on that awful, awful cut.
"Are you fucking insane?!" Surratt suddenly shouted out over the blasts and cuts as the bubble began to slowly fade. She was no longer holding the sword; instead, her hands tightly gripped around the triggers of two modified guns. "Are you trying to get us all killed?!"
But Rivera didn't reply; instead, she closed her eyes, and stood up again, gently putting Cornwell on the ground. This time, there wasn't anything but determination inside her purple irises. Where once sat fear and uncertainty, now pure fury ran, electricity rippling around her fingertips. Jessie's eyelid twitched, her face twisting in nothing but anger, and she entered a battle stance.
Nobody smiled almost unnoticeably, and readied another bolt into his crossbow. Surratt nodded, and pulled back the hammer of her own weapons. And Rivera just stood there, her whole body tense as it'd never been. They all stood in a circle around the recovering Cornwell, a small purple circle protecting her from further cuts.
And then, the bubble went down.
As a barrage of the Queen's fury and her loyal cultists surrounded everything the three considered reality, for just a single moment, Rivera could swear that time had stopped. She felt every bullet, every arrow, every EVE particle in the shivering air as she tried her best to reflect the most out of them. With every muscle of her body and soul, she put one gram of the remaining power after another, making sure that nothing in her sight could reach any of her allies.
Surratt wasn't that lucky. As one projectile after another penetrated her bones and ribs, she spat out one curse for every pull of her demonic trigger towards those faerie assholes. One by one, they fell down the shaft like flies, only making her finger twitch harder and more frequently. Even empty magazines didn't stop her; the remaining drops of a demon's soul that had once lived inside those arms made sure the ammunition was still inside the weapon even after the bullets have ran out.
But Nobody didn't focus on the ongoing slaughter around him. He simply pulled back the irrilite string of his crossbow, aimed at the head of the demon, and shouted out into the raging room: "Mab!"
The voice rippled and echoed throughout the entire area, coming back to him a few times before dying out. Suddenly, everything went quiet as the few remaining Triumviraté members upwards hid behind their covers. Inexplicable wind ran through the corridors and into the room, making Nobody's coat pull back. The Queen-construct, furious beyond human comprehension, met his gaze.
And then it laughed.
With a horrible smile entering its mockery of lips, it continued its ridiculing scoff. And then, it opened its mouth.
"Pathetic," it began, filling the room with a silent hiss. "I razed mountains into desert wastes, I broke the minds of kings, I rode the back of the five-eyed star, I stole the light from the blanket of the Cosmos as I chained the mortal world into obedience. And yet, you have the delusion to face me. You. Are. Nothing."
"No. I'm not nothing." He shot up, correcting his hat. His expression wasn't dull anymore. There was a certain snark, a light that previously wasn't there, within his deep and dark eye sockets. "I'm not nobody. My name is Damien Nowak. Your name is Mab. And I do not fear you."
For just a split part of a second, nobody said anything. And then, Rivera realized what he just said, and her eyes shot wide.
"YOU'RE WHAT?" She immediately lost her focus on the previous task, turning her eyes towards the bony body of Nobody. But he didn't reply. Instead, the being that had once been Damien Nowak squeezed the trigger.
The bolt exploded into a thousand pieces as it penetrated the creature's corpus. So it did the only thing a being as animalistic, as primal despite its intellect could do. It screamed once more.
This time, the terrible screech didn't target Mab's enemies. They were already too used to its power to be as vulnerable as she wanted them to. Instead, it ran through the room, entirely killing the wind of Nobody's words from before, and reached the ceiling so high up the three could barely see it. And the ceiling answered, citing the sole response it could think of: falling apart.
The rocks started to reach the floor before Rivera could even blink.
With the sound of raging thunder, they split the room into two as a barrage of stones exploded from everywhere at once. Rivera's fading power held them well enough as to form two pockets of moderate size where she and Mag sat and where Nobody and Surratt stood. And, after an infinitely long while, the avalanche stopped.
They were safe, moderately speaking, but they now had a much more severe problem — they were buried underneath two hundred tons of pure rock and cobblestone. And, worst of all, the demon was still out there, the devil inside it making sure it remained unharmed.
Rivera fell down to the ground, panting with death-like exhaustion. It was a long day. A very, very long day. Probably the longest her life has ever held. From the encounter with the demigod in Esterberg's dungeon prison through making her way in a rally of mad anartists to now this, it was tough to stay with a smile on her face. It was all too much. Even for her.
Tears of fear, anger, and tiredness ran down her cheeks as she held the unconscious Cornwell in her arms. She knew she couldn't hear her. But that didn't stop her from whispering next to her ear, making some frantic attempts at getting her out of that awful state.
"Mag. Mag," she gently shook her shoulders, her dirty hair meeting the other's blonde locks. "Mag. Please, wake up. Please, please, please, wake up."
But no answer came.
She let out a silent sob. "Please. Please. Please, wake up. Please. I have so much to tell you. I… I need to…" She swallowed hard, and turned her sight away, unable to see someone she cared so much for in such a state. "Please. Mag, I… I l—"
She didn't finish the sentence. She just couldn't find it in herself.
On the other side of the stone wall, Marie Surratt threw one curse after another as she tried to shovel the rocks around them in a desperate attempt to make out an escape route. She looked at the unmoving Nobody, anger in her eyes, and a pebble at him.
He didn't react.
"It won't work, you know," he said, his voice changed from the previously rough expression of a ceaseless hunter to a broken down, tired man. "You can't get past hundreds of tons of rock."
"When the hell did you get so down-to-earth? Get to work, or—"
But he wasn't listening anymore. He just prepared his weapon for the final time this evening, aiming it exactly where Mab was going to breach their defenses in a few moments.
"We're going to die here. So make the most of it instead of digging."
And so, there they all were. Buried under stone, regrets, and fear, the four sat in silence, anticipating something they thought to be certain doom. They all had illusions, telling them they would maybe somehow survive this, that if they get lucky enough, they might even kill the Queen there and then, but they know they weren't true. They were all beyond tired, and, more importantly, what lurked out there was beyond ever being tired. The only thing that mattered to it was to kill the only barriers between itself and ruling the entirety of the world once more. So they sat, accepting their role as prey.
And then, the walls exploded.
To the company of a glorious fanfare of young shouts and angry steps, every single rock that had previously made reality into a grave just disappeared, the ground of the room now laid in colorful runes. Rivera blinked twice, half-convinced she was hallucinating, and looked for any source of this change.
"There he fucking is!" The Willis brothers spat out, pointing their fingers at the confused Mab-construct. The crowd of AWCY? anartists that followed them didn't care the creature he told them was the Critic definitely wasn't the man they were looking for, but they didn't care. They ran at it, adolescent fury in their hands, all the same.
"Marie!" Adam Angevin shouted, running towards the gangster, the two brothers by his side. "Are you fine?"
"Adam?" She replied, slowly standing up. "How in the…?"
He tapped his head gently, and smiled. "Sometimes, being an oracle has its upsides. But only sometimes."
Marie didn't say anything, instead immediately making her way towards Rivera. The two exchanged looks, and Surratt helped her get up.
"How did you get here? Who even are you? How… How, I…" The red-haired Director panted out, holding the unmoving body of her partner in her hands with the last remaining bits of her strength,
"I got a babysitter." Adam just spat out, dumbly turning his eyes towards the reanimated corpse of Ai'sling Fiadh. The thing that inhabited it was furious beyond all words, trying its best to move away from the raging crowd of anartists, nothing but confusion and contempt visible on its face.
"But that doesn't matter," he continued, his lanky hands gingerly tapping Rivera on her back. "The only thing that does matter now is that thing." He pointed at the creature. "And the fact we're taking it the fuck down."

Nobody's Home

GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS

Human


Click here to find read the article this is based off.


Foreword: As the SCP Foundation habitually focuses on humans, and human perspectives, the Department of Mythology and Folkloristics has fallen into the same pattern of mostly examining texts by humans for humans. This is due in part to the Foundation's focus on a human-centric definition of "Normalcy" as well as the greater availability of human mythos to the department.
Even in the cases where these myths have as their subject matter sentient beings, we typically have only the perspectives of baseline humans to analyze, rather than the perspectives of the anomalous beings the myths actually concern.
However, with Site-120's relationship with Esterberg we have been given an amazing opportunity to hear first hand accounts of myths from Fae and learn about their culture.
Below, you'll find a selection of myths and religious practices of the Fae species relating to their origin as a species, as recounted to us by the Sidhe Lounge, who have generously allowed us access to portions of their archives.
— Dr. Clara l'Héritier

Children of the Stars

The "Children of the Stars" are a small religious community that shares common beliefs with Fifthism, Ortothans, as well as many components of 1960s American counterculture.
The primary tenant of the religion is an ancient Fae tradition, said to predate the Fae Empire, which claims that the Fae species originated from the stars, were brought to Earth by a messianic figure or deity, and that they will some day return to their home among the stars. However, the literal interpretation of this scripture is a matter of some debate.
Some believe that the their ancestors originated on another planet, and were lead to Earth by a messianic figure in ancient spacecraft who will some day return to lead them home.
Others believe that stars were literally plucked from out of the night sky by a nameless god and crafted into their own image, that of the Fae, and that this explains the typical Fae's propensity for magic.
However, the prevalent school of thought among the Children, is that their ancestors, the original Fae, were born in the universe preceding our own1 which they believe persists to this day to a lesser degree in the form of the Dreaming.2 As a result, adherents have a strong connection to dreams, often keeping dream journals, meditating or taking hallucinogenics.3 Though the Children of the Stars have no official priesthood, they consider lucid dreamers and Oneiromancers, as well as the Oneiroi themselves closer to divinity, especially prizing those who are able to "dreamwalk", a rare and ancient practice wherein a Fae can physically enter and exit the Oneirosphere via human dreams.
While the Foundation has long been aware of dreamwalking and the Erlkingdom due to documents from Her Majesty's Foundation for the Secure Containment of the Paranormal's custodianship of "A Dream of Faerieland,"4 little is known about Oneiric Fae civilization due to a policy of isolationism on their part from baseline reality.5
Though the Children of the Stars are an ancient religion, many of its original beliefs and practices have been lost over the years by historians such as the Sidhe Lounge as well as practitioners themselves, though it is believed the belief system may have been a much more straightforward form of astral worship. This is largely due to the Third Great Diaspora causing the loss of a great amount of generational knowledge and the ensuing decline in religiosity among survivors, as well as the closure of the Erlkingdom and loss of "dreamwalking" as a practice.
The revival of the practice is in large part thanks to Children of the Star spiritual leader Pyotr Xilgwyn often stylized "Peter Star". Peter was a young Esterbergian Fae in 1968 when he left home to attend Deer College in the city of Three Portlands. It was in his Para-Religions course that he first learned about ancient Fae religion and beliefs. However, it was out of the classroom that his own political and social beliefs would take shape. While attending Deer, Peter became fascinated with the 1960s counterculture movement in the United States of America, which had also spread to Deer. He joined various spiritual groups in an effort to "find himself" including the Church of the Second Hytoth, "Dreamers for the Legalization of Love," and amateur rock band "Fifth Eyeball".
When he returned home in 1973, his message of acceptance, free love, and a return to Fae tradition appealed to many youths who, like Peter, were born after the Third Diaspora and felt very little connection to Fae culture. He soon opened a community center wherein he and his followers committed to helping the disenfranchised Fae among them, even the nameless. He also ran regular meditation circles and wrote a best-selling holy book "Dream On", eventually building a small commune on the outskirts of Esterberg where he lives to this day.
Common symbolism among the Children involves the stylization of Fae as moths, or moth-like beings, being led toward a star or nebula representing the Oneirosphere by a deific figure often resembling American musician David Bowie.6
Today, the religion receives few new adherents, with many Fae considering it to be cult-like, and somewhat dated, like many New Age religions. However, die hard David Bowie fans, drug dealers and free love enthusiasts know that there's a place for them in West Esterberg.

One Thousand Faces

It is an observable fact that Fae have a much larger percentage of thaumaturges per capita than humans. The reasons for this are not currently known,7 but the effect on Fae culture is prominent, as youths often cast spells among their classmates merely to play games.8 Due to the ease with which Fae can perform magics such as “glamour”9 or nomenclative magic they are often warned “Don't glamour thyself thrice-long, lest ye lose your own form in taking that of others!”. This is an expression similar to human warnings to their young about not grimacing or their faces might stick that way permanently10 and typically as truthful, as many Fae parents merely do not want to deal with their precocious young's transformed tomfoolery. There is also, as with many myths of this variety, a tale associated with it, that of “Lilligan the Liar”.
“Lilligan the Liar” is a tale of a young court jester11 named Lilligan, in the employ of a great and powerful ancient emperor. Lilligan would sing, dance and tell jokes. They would also perform magic, and often incorporated that into their act, sometimes putting on one-Fae shows where they played every part, or performing caricatures of the emperor and his subjects.
One day, however, one like any other, Lilligan decided to pull a prank on a friend of theirs who worked in the palace's kitchen. So Lilligan transformed into a dog, and stole a pastry from the kitchen. However, unfortunately for Lilligan, it is not their friend who would chse after them, but the mean head chef! Having gotten over their head, Lilligan chose to transform into their friend the pastry chef, after turning a corner, rather than face the consequences of their actions. Upon seeing his pastry chef, the head chef asked of her (secretly a disguised Lilligan) a very important duty: to take a sweetroll to the princess immediately! However, en route, who would Lilligan see but the friend in question standing in their way, muttering angrily about some money Lilligan owed her. Thinking quickly, Lilligan becomes the princess's consort, a samurai of great renown, passing their friend with no issue and delivering the pastry. But then, as Lilligan was departing, the king himself required the presence of all his samurai before him. A powerful demon, it seemed, had taken residence near the kingdom, and it was up to the samurai to kill it. As Lilligan was disguised as the most veneered samurai, it was they that was sent first. Lilligan had no desire to fight a demon, not at all, not a chance in all of the universe. Yet, to come clean would mean certain punishment by the emperor, so they persevered. Upon reaching the mountain cave, Lilligan entered, and took the measure of their foe. A demon as large as two Lilligans, perhaps three, asleep on a pile of gold. Well, Lilligan may have just had the one trick, but it was a good one. They transformed into a demon, but not just any demon, the largest, nastiest, most terrifying demon Lilligan could have imagined, and roared at the beast, who woke up, and quickly scampered off. That affair being done with, Lilligan readied themselves to dispel their transformation, but to no avail! They had exhausted their magic supply and were thus stuck in the demon form until they recovered, though surely they could just wait a little while, right? No! For it was then that a samurai entered the room, the very samurai Lilligan had been impersonating before. Lilligan tried to yell out, scream out, plead “No, no, mercy, please mercy, I am not demon, I am fair and joyous Lilligan, do not slay me!” but all that came out was a demonic roar. The samurai struck true, and the jester, thought a demon, lay slain.
While the date and location of origin of this tale is unknown, the mention of an emperor and samurai, rather than a king and knights is noteworthy given that, historically Fae have been known to live almost exclusively in Europe. The existence of a similar Nälka myth, however, known as "Nleta the Snake" hints at a shared origin, suspected to pre-date the First Occult War.12

The Long Price

An important component of Fae culture and folklore is the trickster archetype. Similarly to how Fae are portrayed in human literature, many Fae culture heroes will be best known for outwitting their rivals and winning their heart's desire, if only for a moment, through clever trickery, with ambition and cleverness being prized above most other virtues.
There are many tales of outwitting humans, Yeren, other Fae, even gods. However, there is one species that Fae are warned never to match wits with: demons.
Fae and demons, both mythologically and culturally, can be said to have a fair few commonalities. Both species prize, and are known for, ambition, cleverness, trickery and deal making. Both species are also said to have other-dimensional enclaves, Hell13 and Otherworld14 respectively. This, as well as shared or similar mythographies have lead some para-historians to speculate that the two species were closely intertwined at some point in the distant past.15
Indeed, during the Middle Ages, Christian humans would sometimes note Fae as beings of a similar power level to angels and demons with some myths claiming Fae were angels who had "fallen" but were not as wicked as demonkind. This in some ways matches Fae oral tradition surrounding their near omnipotence at the height of the Fae Empire and subsequent fall.16 The popularity of these beliefs in many ways contributed to the general anti-anomalous sentiment among Europeans which led many disenfranchised Fae to join Genghis Khan's Second Fae Empire which led to the Fourth Occult War and ensuing Iron Crusade.17 Unfortunately, while many Fae were able to find refuge in England thanks to the Arthurian Charter, some had to find less savory haven.
Ironically, it is this same prejudice against the Fae that may have led them to seek the fabled Blackacre Accords said to be made between Flynn the Foul-Mouthed and Hell. While these supposed accords have never been confirmed, there exists a large amount of both human18 and Fae19 legends which tell of an other-dimensional plane occupied by Fae wherein Hell acted as a landlord of sorts, requiring regular payment. While the details of this arrangement differ from tale to tale, the stories typically agree, and center on, one detail of it, that the tithe required a number Fae to become slaves to demons.20 Fables surrounding this tithe often focus on Fae attempting to trick demons into taking non-Fae as sacrifices (typically Christian humans, though not always) or otherwise fooling their demonic landlords. While some of these tales end in success on the part of the Fae (typically in the case of offering human or Yeren sacrifices in place of Fae) the majority end with the Fae suffering cruel and ironic punishment.
Another consistent factor throughout these myths is the date of the tax collection, said to be October 31st. As a result many Fae households observe "Tithe Day" on this date, a practice that can be traced back to the 18th Century at the latest. Tithe Day is a day of remembrance typically spent among family members sharing fond memories, especially of ancestors lost or deceased. However, as of the 20th Century many Fae no longer observe Tithe Day in the strictest sense and instead celebrate the Day of the Dead21 or even Halloween. There are also persistent rumors regarding the existence of Satanic Fae cults that engaged in child sacrifice on this date, either as devil worship or in an attempt to prevent Hell collection agencies from seeking repayment in some other fashion.
The Infernal Revenue Service could not be reached for comment at this time.

Footnotes
1. Sometimes referred to as the "First Hytoth".
2. Also known as the Dreamtime, Dreas, Yesod, or the Oneirosphere.
3. Such as "stardust" magic mushrooms or human estradiol.
4. Document pending declassification by the Archival Division.
5. For more information about Oneiric myths and legends contact Site-18.
6. Not to be confused with GoI-4025 ("Saturn's Emissaries") which has similar moth symbolism, but focuses on environmentalism, rather than spirituality (though some Fae have been known to be members of both organizations).
7. With theories ranging from the lining of Fae souls to extraterrestrial intervention.
8. Such as “Hide and Seek” or “Who Am I?”
9. Magic that allows a user to disguise themselves.
10. Largely proven as myth in experimental testing, with some exceptions.
11. The character of "The Fool" appears often in Fae literature, most notably in "Jimothy the Resplendent", "The Scarlet Fool" and "The Fool Who Was You"
12. Recent archaelogical evidence has shown that freed Daeva slaves, both Fae and Nälka, cohabited in or near China during Xia rule, with some Fae even aiding Nälka forces in the First Occult War.
13. As well as Hel, Tarturus and Gehenna.
14. As well as Tír na nÓg, Avalon and Fairyland.
15. For more information about demonic history and folklore, contact Site-666.
16. While the average Fae has not been found to give off high amounts of Akiva Resonant Radiation or Demonic Resonance Energy, a third type of Akiva particle has been theorized to explain the status of beings such as the Fae Courts, the Inventor and Mab.
17. A secret crusade declared by Pope Honorius III (aka Archmage Honorius aka Honorius the Heretic) against mythological beings throughout Europe with an emphasis on Fae and fae-associated beings. While Honorius justified the crusade as a preventative measure against future large scale occult conflict, it was in fact a massive ritual array Honorius intended to use to ascend as an Empyrean entity. While the ritual was prevented the effects of the genocide on the landscape of magical Europe was long lasting.
18. Thomas the Rhymer, Tam Lin, the trial of Alison Pearson.
19. Killian the Knightsbane, The Burning Countesses, Marion The Tithe Collector.
20. While the veracity of this has not been verified, a Site-666 study has found that a disproportionately large amount of servants of visiting demons are Fae, or of Fae heritage.
21. Which some Fae claim partially originated from Tithe Day.