A group of specialists will arrive within the week
A majestic zeppelin, multi-gondola'd, glowing red and gold in the light of a sun that will not set for days, drifts lazily through clear skies over sparsely vegetated scrubland. It is just as impressive inside as out, with walls of polished red wood, hanging tapestries with complex and beautiful patterns, and lavish suites for every passenger. If ever there was an aircraft that justified having a story written about it, it would be this one.
It is, therefore, unfortunate that these stories do not center on this impressive feat of Antarctican engineering. There are about a score of servants and attendants on this airship, as well as a flight crew and a pilot, but they are likewise not the focus, which is a shame, because what the pilot is currently doing with one of the engineers on the flight deck certainly deserves some attention.
However, these stories are in fact about the various humans that are sitting in their rooms, looking out of place and out the window at the world which they now find themselves in.
Oh, it appears the pilot is pregnant. So much for keeping her little encounter secret.

Jeremy Remus, a Junior Researcher for the Foundation, was not at all sure what he was doing on this gaudy airship. Why are the styles so flamboyant? The Empress of 1483 had insisted on at least one… well, something long and complicated that boiled down to cultural anthropologist. Of the relatively few that the Foundation employed, most of them were in Alaska waiting for new villages, or trying to negotiate the return of some D-Class from wherever that guy with the passports sent them.
A servant, a member of the… Black Court entered his room with a jug of water in his enormous furred hand. Black Court = lower caste. System based on resemblance to animals? Do the animals here have fur? He thanked him absently in English, then remembered where he was and used the Antarctic language.
There had been an embassy in the Empire for years. What more could be learned about the culture at this point? Jeremy had spoken to Dr. Bailey over the phone, and he'd been nice, well, nice enough, but even he seemed puzzled as to why Jeremy was coming along. He hadn't spoken much with the others, but he was sure at least one of them was giving him dirty looks before they had boarded.
He stared gloomily at the observation notebook that he had been scribbling in. So far there was nothing but questions. He resolved to fix that as he looked out the window.
Was that Large penguin-like creatures observed biting the heads off Antarcticans. Inquire into the effect this has on rural life.

Jeremy got his first glimpse of Rootrel several hours later. It looked a bit like the cities back in his own universe, but more colorful. There were huge black tree-like structures on most of the higher roofs, which Jeremy had to assume were for collecting solar power. And, of course, very few cities had an enormous skeleton surrounded by walls at their center.
The Empress' palace was as opulent as expected, with precious metals, statues, stained glass windows, but it was still very clearly held together by the bones of a titanic creature. Stairs of some light-colored stone, framed by tusks, led to the mouth in a skull the size of a mansion, with two teeth removed and replaced with gilded double doors. A glass tunnel was built along the hollowed out spine, and the outbuildings had very noticeable claws.
Jeremy was still staring ten minutes later when there was a knock at his door. An attendant, looking almost like a dark-skinned human but much thicker, came in and spoke.
"Excuse me, sir, but I have been assigned to help you prepare for your party's welcome." The man pulled open what Jeremy had thought to be a decorative wall panel to reveal several extremely flashy, complicated, and uncomfortable looking outfits.
It was then that he realized that the ship was not heading for the small, relatively unadorned building at the edge of town that was the Foundation embassy, but for the palace.
"Welcome?" he asked, horror starting to grip him as the Antarctican began perusing the closet's contents. "But, but, we're just another group of Foundation employees, right? There's nothing new about us."
"You are wrong, sir. You and your colleagues have been sent here by your Foundation as a part of the Exchange. This is the first time that her Imperial Majesty the Empress will be giving such free access to the many wonders under her power, and it is Her will that she meet the 'expert specialists' that will be working alongside the Institute in an official capacity," he paused. "You are truly blessed for getting such an opportunity."
A crowd was gathering outside of the palace walls, and a small group of very well-dressed women, presumably high-ranking court officials, were emerging from other doors in the skull and forming a small group by the doors. That's right. This Institute was a public arm of the government. There would be red tape, and crowds, and officialties, and all of those other things that you rarely needed to worry about when you were a low level researcher in a vast, mainly secret organization.
Expert specialists…
Jeremy dumbly allowed the attendant to help him with the complicated robes, and to gather his things to be transported to his rooms at the embassy. It was only after the Antarctican had left that he allowed himself to raise his sleeve to his mouth, and bite down hard.

The Foundation gratefully accedes to the conditions set forth by the Empress Utmai Cjen VI and the Imperial Institute of Paranatural and Esoteric Study. A group of specialists will arrive within the week for the study of anomalies currently under the IIPES's control.
O5-1, O5-2, O5-5, O5-7, O5-8, O5-10, O5-12

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He dropped out of the articles and into the tales.


Those Thin, Penultimate Hours, while not strictly plot related, will help greatly in understanding things.

Dawn hung in misty sheets, curling through tangled forest. A mourning dove cooed in the grey distance. Here and there the half-collapsed skeleton of a house could be seen through the thick trees, lit softly by the pre-morning.
A woman walked down the road, splattered with gore, a lumpy black body slung over one shoulder as if it was little more than a bundle of twigs. She was a very heavy-set woman, in both overall shape and the fact that she consisted of nine hundred pounds of white marble studded with smoothed chunks of amethyst.
The marble woman's name was Ahlama Bat Amir, and she was singing. Her voice reverberated through the trees, clear as the morning itself.
“As I went down in the river to pray / studying about that good old way / and who shall wear the starry crown / Good Lord, show me the way…”
The cyclops slung over her shoulder, with the snapped neck and caved-in skull and shattered rib-cage, had been stalking around the local farms for the last few nights, and at least three goats had been stolen. Poor thing was starving and half-mad, not stable enough to be relocated elsewhere. Had to be put down. Their meat wasn't any good to eat, but the biology classes would have a fine time dissecting it.
“Oh, sisters, let's go down, let's go down, come on down… Oh sisters, let's go down, down in the river to pray…”
The path road wound on through the forest. Occasionally, Ahlama would pass a watchtower or tree platform where a member of the Guard would be sitting, huddled in their jacket, perhaps sipping tea or soup out of a thermos, or gnawing on some squirrel jerky, gun at the ready, radio at hand. She waved at each one she passed, though she was not able to see if they waved back. The watchtower guards hid themselves well.
“As I went down in the river to pray / studying about that good old way / and who shall wear the robe and crown / Good Lord, show me the way…”
The woods gave away a bit from the road, revealing a few inhabited homesteads, and the stone walls of the town rose in the distance. The first sunlight of the day filtered through the trees.
“Oh, brothers, let's go down, let's go down, come on down… Oh brothers, let's go down, down in the river to pray…”
The walls rose higher and higher as she approached. They did not have the distinction of being unbreached, but no walls in these days had that to brag about. But they were tall and thick, with various wards against harm carved into the blocks, and they were manned by the Guard. That was good enough for most. These were walls that promised salvation to the lost.
“Good morning!” She waved at the gatehouse.
A window above the gate opened, revealing the head of a gangly, acne-faced, tired-looking student.
“Morning, Ahlama,” he yawned. “Nice job ther-what?” He turned his head back inside the window. “Sister, I am not falling asleep, I'm completely awake…yes, Sister, I know…yes, I know…Sister, I am not falling asleep.” He turned back to Ahlama, rolling his eyes. “Hold on, we'll let you in, get you some water to wash all that off.”
Ahlama nodded, and a short time later the groan of machinery could be heard from within the wall as Gate Leibowitz opened. A second student, shorter and mousy looking, was standing there with a bucket full of hot water and a rag.
“Here you go, Ahlama.”
“Thank you, Ben.” The gate shut behind her with a monolithic sound.
“We got a note from the Headmistress for you.” Ben handed Ahlama a folded piece of paper.
The note read:

Ahlama-
A woman by the name of Jun Iseul Error should have arrived with the West Road Trade Guild caravan late last night. She's here to do some study of the reliquary and will be staying at the school for several weeks. I need you to show her around. Standard tour, nothing special.
I'm afraid I won't be able to meet with her today, so please pass my apologies on to Ms. Error: the Transit Authority decided to call a meeting with the town council and we'll be at it all day. If I manage to get out early, I'll see if I can find you.
Thanks a bunch
-NIZL

There was a pneumatic hiss from the wall on the right, ending at a tiny opening in the wall at head height, just the size of someone's thumb. A moment later the white-haired, black-armored, stern-faced, and incredibly tiny countenance of Sister Superior Victoria, OVH, stepped out onto her little balcony.
“Good morning, Sister.” Ahlama saluted with her free hand. Victoria nodded for ease.
“I see the Emperor has granted you victory in your hunt. And that you've received the Headmistress' missive. Excellent. I'll have these louts take care of that carcass.”
Ahlama watched Ben's face drop in disappointment and gave him a sympathetic smile. No one got off work when Sister Victoria was on duty. She then excused herself, found a secluded spot a short distance away, and washed off the splatters of dried blood and pulpy viscera from the cyclops she had killed. Wouldn't be fitting to show anyone around while looking like that.
—
Jun Iseul Error wiped the grit from her glasses on a threadbare handkerchief. Around her, the caravan market bustled. The West Road Trade Guild, being a sizable group meaning to stay for several days, had set up inside the walls, in the Inside Market, and the town within a town had planted its short-lived roots there: cooking fires sent their smoke up to the sky, dogs and children raced underfoot through the trucks and wagons, bison1 snorted, and the merchants bickered and shouted in a dozen dialects. With the day would come business: some wise shoppers among the townsfolk had decided to beat the later crowds. The Guildsmen appreciated this, and took the opportunity to break out their fake early-bird specials.
Jun stuffed the handkerchief back in her pocket. She was a thin, wiry woman, the kind that was built on stretched meals and long work hours, somewhere on the shy side of thirty years old: black hair pulled back in a short ponytail, straw hat to block out the sun, beaten old backpack and weather-worn hunting rifle, travel-mussed clericals. Someone had accidentally stepped on her collar a few days ago, leaving it rather crumpled and sad looking.
But she was finally here. It took a month and a half on the road from the west, but she was finally here. Not that she had a chance to enjoy it yet, but the relief was setting in. Travel didn't agree with her, or at least the plodding monotony of cross-country travel. Dealing with spookums in the night was easy. The byzantine labyrinth of intra-caravan drama and the omnipresent bureaucracy of the Transit Authority were well outside her areas of expertise, and she was glad to trade them for regular access to toilet paper.
The letter of introduction sat folded in her pocket. She didn't think she'd need it now: she had spoken with the Headmistress of the Hope Lake School on the phone several weeks ago when the caravan had stopped in CORN LAND, DOMAIN OF SRQNABOTF.
“Hello? Excuse me, are you Ms. Error?”
Jun turned to see a fat woman approaching her. It took a moment for the details, the word carved into forehead, the hollow eyes filled with gentle fire, the fact that she was made of stone, to fall together in Jun's head and spell out “golem”.
“Yes, that's me.”
“Oh, good. I was worried I wouldn't be able to find you: I can barely understand these people when they're giving directions.”
Jun had never met a golem before, and she had not expected them to be so conversational. This was a reassuring surprise.
“The accent is pretty thick, yeah. Are you from the school?”
“Mmm-hmm. The Headmistress wanted me to show you around today, and to let you know that she's sorry she wasn't able to do it in person.”
“No problem. I can't imagine her life is anything less than busy. Lead the way." Jun didn't voice it as a command: that would make sense, but it felt impolite.
The golem nodded and began to walk back the way she had came. Jun kept pace with her.
“I know you know who I am, but I don't know your name.”
“Oh, sorry. I'm Ahlama. It's nice to meet you, Ms. Error.”
“Likewise. Oh, and, uh, just between us, you can drop the whole Ms. Error thing. Jun is fine, or just Error. Friday's good too.”
“You have a lot of names.”
“When you throw them all together I'm Mother Jun Friday Iseul Error, and by that point it's just nonsense.”
The golem-woman chuckled, the sound rolling out in P-waves.
“I suppose it is.”
The pair made their way out of the Inside Market and into the town proper.
—
By modern standards, the town of Hope Lake was a place of almost unimaginable wealth: clean cobbled streets, electric streetlamps, solar panels and windmills and vegetable gardens and chicken coops among the houses and shops. The lake provided enough algae to make sure that no one went too hungry, and the presence of the school meant that the literacy rate was significantly higher – nearly eighty-five percent. The presence of the Guard meant that crime was low, as well as deflecting threats from the outside, and the old sponsorship of the Initiative had seen to keeping the populace's spiritual needs fulfilled, though Tribunal had become more of a cultural power rather than a political one: The settlements had their own leaders, their own governments, all tied together by a shared birth.
The cost of creating these havens in the chaotic aftermath of the Breach had been bankrupting the Initiative, clearing out its reliquaries, and begging, borrowing, stealing and scavenging every spare cent that could be drummed up. But where the Initiative fell apart, the seven city-states of Horizon rose to fill its place: Bastion, Hope Lake, St. Kateri, Watchpoint, New Pitt, Ghibli, and Levi. Mizbeach had been the eighth, but had been handed over to Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd as collateral for a loan default. Prayers went up daily for the sake of those who lived in that town.
Ahlama had not been born in Hope Lake, but it was home. She knew many of the townsfolk she saw now by name (golems have a good mind for memory), and she waved to them as she passed on towards the school. Jun remained quiet, though Ahlama noticed that the woman was watching everything with an intent eye.
“So where are you from, Jun?” she asked.
“Little trapper town around Mount Whitney, right off the trader road down to Vegas. Nothing like this. A lot more…salt of the Earth, if you get what I'm saying.”
“Lots of hair, bad teeth, and everyone's related?”
“Yep. Plain old folks.”
“The best kind.”
“And the not-so-best.”
“Yeah, that too. Lot of the time they're the same people. You've got a parish, then?”
“I was wondering when you'd bring that up.” Jun tugged at her crumpled collar. “You know how it goes: world falls apart, then gets put back together all on its head. Job's gotta get done, and I don't think God cares much about who does it, so long as they do it right.”
Ahlama nodded. Jobs needed doing, and if you were told to do the job, you did the job.
“You think like a golem.”
“Good thing I know that's a compliment now.”
The pair passed through the gate of the school. The archway above them was engraved with the following:

Hope Lake School
Founded 2036
IN SCIENTIA SUPERVIVERE

The walls were not as tall or as thick as those surrounding the town, but they were fortress enough to serve as a fallback in the case of invasion. Thankfully, that had not yet been the case. Ahlama waved to the guards as they passed.
“If you have any questions, just ask, and I'm sorry if I ramble a bit.” Ahlama imitated clearing her throat: she didn't actually have a throat to clear.
“Hope Lake School was founded in 2036, shortly after Horizon troops retook this area from…”
—
Jun juggled observing the school and listening to her guide: there was a great deal to take in.
The school was a nested fortress. If the town's walls fell, the school could hold out. If the school's walls were breached, barricades could easily be put up between the buildings to fortify the inner campus, and if those barricades were breached, the buildings themselves were easily defensible from the inside. Fortresses within fortresses. Jun was a woman of the hinterlands, fit for chasing away spookums and brewing moonshine. This was all far more impressive than anything she had seen back west, save perhaps the Angelic University and the Vegas Archives.
The campus was still, as it was still quite early. The students would be scraping out five more minutes before breakfast, though a few early risers could be seen jogging around. A few of the children who lived in town hovered around in little groups.
Ahlama went on with her description, detailing the classes and the daily regimen. Every child was expected to learn a trade by the time they graduated, augmented with the rigors of a serious scholastic life. Ignorance and superstition were the two great enemies: it was no good to make a blacksmith who did not know the workings of the body, no good to make an artist who could not handle a gun, no good to make an engineer who could not perform an exorcism. The world did not allow for that any more.
The pair meandered for a while, and eventually Jun caught sight of a man sitting on a glacial boulder by the pond, fishing rod in hand. His entire face was a knotted mass of scar tissue: a long gash on the left, burns and a lost eye on the right.
She prodded Ahlama's arm.
“Where'd he get those scars?”
“Mmm? Oh…Everywhere.”
Jun nodded. Every community had someone like that, some old protector who had been everywhere, seen everything, done everything.
“That's Hammersmith,” Ahlama continued. “He used to be one of the Tribunal, now he's the head groundskeeper. Spends most of his time fishing, now, though apparently he once caved in a demon's skull with his bare hands.”
“Only apparently?”
“He usually uses a hammer.”
“Oh. Well then. Remind me to stay off the grass.”
Other figures of local note were introduced as they cropped up. Some might not have been notable at all, but they stuck out in Jun's memory all the same.
There were several other golems on the campus, though they all looked to be more traditionally golem-like and were far less talkative than Ahlama. Though there was the chalk-white one with a simple smile who played with the toddlers being dropped off at the daycare. Jun watched a pair of parents say their goodbyes: the mother had a chemistry textbook curled under her arm. The acne-pocked father wore a guard uniform and a scraggly excuse for a beard.
Ahlama just shrugged, and said “Life happens.”
They spoke with a very large man whose beard approached the waist of his khaki cargo shorts, who was awkwardly climbing a tree, butterfly net in hand. He looked like the large, earnest kind of man who had a lot of silent Js in his patronymic and was very fond of mead, meat, and pillaging. This was, apparently, the Headmistress' husband.
There was a golden-tan woman with headphones and what looked to be a bathrobe embroidered with a constantly scrolling waterfall of musical notation conducting music class in the orchard. The choir was accompanied by a swirling cloud of humming ghosts. A half dozen teens in paint-smeared overalls hauled chunks of scavenged masonry past a troop of children with practice rifles. The workshop clanked and clunked with the noise of construction, and the alchemy shed behind the science building exploded at least twice during the tour: Ahlama wasn't sure if the third time counted, because it might have actually just ascended to a higher plane for a minute or two. Jun trusted her judgment on that.
The steady parade of faculty and buildings and courses and little details built up into some massive amorphous wad of chewed gum in Jun's head. The really good kind one got as a kid when one decided to blow what passed for allowance on treats from a caravaneer. A day or two would sort it out proper.
The tour came to stop at the guest house, and Ahlama saw herself off. Jun threw her pack on the chair in her room, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. It was first time in a month and a half that she had the opportunity to. A bed with clean sheets, a roof with no leaks, a shower with presumably hot water, real food, and toilet paper. Put them all together and you had civilization.
But you've got something to look for, remember…
Yes, yes, she had something to look for. She'd get to the reliquary later.
For now, she just felt like staring at the ceiling for a bit.
—
It was some time later, when the sun was on its winding path down, that Ahlama finally caught up with the Headmistress. It was plain to her that Naomi Zairi-Lewitt had been through a rather rough day.
“Are you alright?”
“Not at all. They're not going to cut off the caravans to Toledo, thank God, but they are going to keep the negotiations up for another day, and up the prices on Transit Chits. Again.” She shook her head. “I hope your side of things went smoothly.”
“It did, headmistress.”
“Good. Thank you.” She yawned. “Sorry. I've up since four. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Right.”
Naomi passed out of the scene, a man with an eye patch following a short distance behind her. He looked as if he had fallen face first down a flight of stairs made out of blenders and aged a full thirty or forty years beyond his age. Elihayo, the Headmistress' bodyguard. Upon meeting his gaze, Ahlama felt the furnace in her chest burn a little hotter, and with this she felt an acute self-consciousness that perhaps she was not properly polished, or was too large, and this all was accompanied by an incredibly strong desire to hold hands and go on a walk with the deformed bodyguard.
“Shalom, Elihayo,” she said as he passed, wondering if he would notice the soft heat blush in her eyes.
“Shalom.” His voice sounded like his lungs were filled with wet gravel.
Why not ask him? She'd ask him. Ask him right now, if he wanted to go on a…a walk. A walk yes, that's what they would do. A walk around the lake.
“Elihayo, I was wondering…would you like to go out, maybe, and –“
“No.”
The bodyguard shuffled away, and left Ahlama standing in the hallway, alone.
“Oh…okay…bye.”

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Footnotes
1. No explanation has yet been found for the spontaneous return of the American Bison population during the night of June 24th, 2028, though few people complain.


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"So, what's on the itinerary for today?" Dr. Albert Wensley squinted at a neatly printed schedule made by his secretary.
"You have a meeting with the assistant researchers today at 10, a quarterly review of the status of all objects under your supervision, a meeting with Dr. Louef at 3, and an appointment with Director Owings at 5, Dr. Wensley," his secretary read off her itinerary. "Here's your coffee."
"Thanks, Liz. I'm going to go and do some reviews then." Dr. Wensley sipped at his steaming mug as he strolled out of his office and down to the cell containing the most infamous occupant of Site 118: Its resident Keter, SCP-2006.
"Well, might as well check on 2006 first. Shouldn't take too long, I think. The newbies can probably accompany me for the rest of the reviews," Dr. Wensley mused to himself.
After flashing his security card at the camera, standing for a retina scan, validating a fingerprint scanner, and staring at a memetic kill agent, Dr. Wensley patiently waited while the steel doors of SCP-2006's containment area whooshed open.
Strolling into the room, he was greeted with salutations and acknowledgements from the various assistant researchers and other staff in the control room for SCP-2006. Waving a hand at the assorted rabble, he walked over to the surveillance array, where a young man sat, idly tapping his pencil while staring at the monitors.
"Morning, Cam," Dr. Wensley said, while placing a hand on the man's shoulder.
The man jumped for a moment. He swiveled around, and saw Dr. Wensley's friendly smile.
"O-oh, morning, Dr. Wensley. You startled me for a minute. How are you?" Assistant Researcher Cameron Hayworth asked.
"Good, good. How's 2006 doing this morning? What form is he in?" Wensley sipped at his mug while looking at the monitor.
"Umm…it's one of those slug monster things. Oh, I remember. 1964, 'The Creeping Terror,'" the young researcher replied.
"Good work. I think I'll take a look at it today." Wensley set down his mug, and walked over to the door of the hallway leading to SCP-2006's containment cell.
"Watch the screens, Cam. Keter's a Keter."
Dr. Wensley stood in front of the containment door, and went through another round of safeguards, even stricter than the last. The doors whooshed open again, and he began to walk down the hallway.
"2006 is always interesting to deal with. And at the very least, it's good for a smile when you're out of the chamber," Wensley thought to himself.
As he came before the last door that separated the containment chamber with the rest of the facility, he faced a small black box mounted on the wall of the last doors. Dr. Wensley, in a firm and even tone, spoke into the box, "Dr. Albert Wensley. Level 3 Departmental Director and Senior Researcher. The rats were in the souffle again."
"Full body scan and voice credentials accepted. Prepare for Keter entity chamber breach," a mechanical voice responded.
The doors slid open silently. The chamber seemed empty, but Wensley knew better. As he strolled in, and culled to his mind notes from his acting class, a slimy, hideous, dripping wet, and utterly ridiculous-looking slug monster rapidly slid into view.
"Your time has come, pathetic ape-child. The Creeping Terror has arrived, and the horror of a race beyond your comprehension is ready to lay waste to your people. Doom is here, and it is the face of I," the slug monster roared, face-tentacles flopping around.
"Oh no! Please, spare me! I'm just a puny mortal who wished to talk to SCP-2006! Please, no!" Wensley cried out in mock fear, as he fell to the ground, quivering.
The slug monster roared in laughter, and flopped its tentacles around. "Oh, doc, it's me! I'm not really The Creeping Terror. Did you like that one, doc? I thought it was pretty good."
"Oh, SCP-2006….boy, you really had me going for a bit. That was terrifying. I agree, it was quite good. Really scary."
"Thanks, doc! I've been really working on it…You know, doc, I was thinking about something."
"Oh? What's that?"
"BOO!"
Wensley jumped, and made a show of stumbling. As he came back to his feet, SCP-2006 was laughing again.
"Ha ha….but seriously. I was thinking about something for real."
"O-okay. What were you thinking about?"
"How to scare people the best. I'm always looking for more material, ya know."
"Oh, you're already the best at scaring people, SCP-2006. I don't think that I've ever seen scarier."
"Really?" The slug monster looked like an expectant young child, yearning for approval from an older sibling.
"Really."
"Thanks, doc! You know, though, I think that really makes a statement about fear and its repercussions on the status of humanity though, and what it truly means to be afraid."
"Of cour-" Wensley did a double take. He had never heard sophisticated language from SCP-2006 before.
"W-what?" He asked, slightly shocked.
"Fear. What does it mean? If an individual is afraid of something, what does that mean? Do they think that it can harm it? What of a phobia? Is there something inherently harmful there? No. Then what is fear?"
The previously friendly slug monster's voice had suddenly become slow and measured, with a deliberate pace. The bubbly, genial SCP-2006's previously excited tone now dripped with a slight mocking sound, and rolled over Dr. Wensley's ears in an uncomfortable manner.
"H-ha…good one, SCP-2006. That's a really scary thought!" Wensley replied, still somewhat taken aback.
"Yes…is it not? Human mortals and their fear. But do you know what is truly terrifying, doctor?"
"What?"
"The knowledge and realization of concepts that violate a sense of safety. Humans build their little thoughts and bubbles where they believe that they are safe. Even you in your Foundation believe that you are safe because of your knowledge and your Special Containment Procedures. Everything is based on safety and peace of mind." The slug monster was still as it stared off into the containment chamber. Its words were spoken with a gravity and tone that contradicted everything Wensley knew about the anomaly.
"What are you saying?"
"What I am stating is that your mindset is predicated on the belief that you have successfully contained these 'SCP Objects.' Now, consider this: You have many objects that are contained on the strength of your deception. What if this deception that your organization so prides itself on were not being upheld? What if the Foundation itself is the one being deceived?"
A cold pit of fear formed in Wensley's stomach. He gulped slightly, as he contemplated the implications. He suddenly felt very, very alone, locked in the chamber with SCP-2006.
The slug monster, originally seeming so harmless, slowly swiveled its head around to look at Wensley, and smiled.
"Are you scared, doctor?"
Wensley began to back away.
"I see that you're going. Have a good day, doctor."
As Wensley opened the doors behind him, he never took his gaze off of SCP-2006 and its smile.
"Oh, and doctor? Boo."
Wensley fell backwards in genuine fear, as the doors opened. He quickly crawled out of the room, and the doors slammed behind him.
As he rose to his feet, he heard SCP-2006 begin to laugh.


When he was first partnered with Dr. Mann, Lament was handed a remote. As he was partnered to the doctor, so it was partnered to a small explosive implanted in the doctor's chest without his knowledge.
Administrator Bunbridge had couched it in gentle terms. "Only as a last resort, you understand," and "Kindest thing, really, if it becomes necessary."
Some days, Lament was depressed by the whole idea of an organization that would prepare to kill its own people just in case they went rogue. Other days, after being barraged with the Bee Gees, Abba, and KC and the Sunshine Band, he thought of the button longingly. But he'd never been seriously tempted to press it. In fact, some days, he forgot to take it with him, and it was left neglected on his coffee table.
This was one of two mistakes Agent Lament realized he had made when he heard a low thud somewhere outside his bathroom. The other (obvious in hindsight) was to leave Mann unsupervised in his home.
He rushed to the living room, barely taking time to button his trousers, mentally rehearsing the excuses he was going to have to feed to the Administrator, when he caught sight of Mann, holding the remote and pressing the button repeatedly. "I think your remote's got a dead battery," he said. "The telly won't turn on."
"Um," Lament said, trying to piece together why Mann was intact. "That's… that's not for the television, Mann. That's for…" he searched around, "…for the dog door. But it, uh, doesn't work…"
"Because you don't have a dog!" Mann said. "Of course. I should have realized." He smiled from under the mustache, as the world fell into place for him.
"So, why did you have me bring you over?" Lament asked, trying to sound casual.
"Oh, yes!" Mann said. "I think someone's trying to kill me."
"Ah..?" Lament said, glancing at the remote. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, they put an explosive in my chest. That's definitely suspicious," Mann said.
Lament forced his eyebrows to raise up in surprise. "So you found… you have a bomb in your chest?"
"Oh, not anymore. I took the thing out. I decided to play it safe." And this was indeed an unusual amount of self-preservation for Mann.
"Then… where is it now?" Lament asked, thinking back to the thud he'd heard earlier.
"Oh, where did I put it? Oh, I know. I left it in your car," Mann said cheerfully.
I just finished paying it off, Lament thought. Well, of course it would be blown up. I should have expected it, really.
"But not to worry," Mann said. "I'm sure I know precisely who's responsible."
"Do you?" Lament asked weakly.
"Oh yes. Means, motive, and opportunity, Lament. That is the formula. Find those, and you have the culprit."
"Then who is it?" Lament thought desperately to his sidearm, currently by his bed, upstairs.
"At first I suspected the Church of the Broken God. What is a bomb, Lament, but a mechanism for murder? And we all know how they love to tinker with human bodies." Mann's voice held no trace of irony.
"But…" Lament listened in somewhat horrified fascination. Listening to Mann expound was like watching a Rube Goldberg machine, except that the machine could be expected to accomplish something at the end.
"But the bomb uses an electronic trigger. Not their style. So next I looked to the Chaos Insurgency. They do like to sneak around. But they're not sly enough to get into my chest. My stomach, maybe, but they could never penetrate my rib cage and its secrets."
"Granted," Lament said, as he tried to decide if he should come up with a cover story, or just rush Mann off to the site to let someone else deal with it.
"But what of Wondertainment? So little we still know of the toymaker. Does he employ elves? Are they union? Surely if he can make a custom people as playthings, his knowledge of biology should make a simple chest bomb… well, child's play!"
"And yet?"
"What would he gain? I've almost saved up enough box tops for his Mikey Medula's Brain Surgery Kit. No, he'll not give up a potential sale so easily." Mann rubbed his chin. "I next suspected the Global Occult Coalition."
"Because…"
"Because they're opposed to our containment. I am, of course, a linchpin of the Foundation's operations, so I'm a natural target. But I've met their top surgeons. A bunch of amateurs, the lot of them. By no means capable of concealing such an invasive surgery, unless they tried some manner of… of sorcery, and I think we can discount that possibility. Are we not… Begging your pardon, Lament. Am I not a man of science?"
"…For the sake of argument, sure," Lament said.
"So clearly not them. The Serpents Hand could certainly have inveigled themselves onto the premises. But that bunch of long-haired ne'er-do-wells lacks the mechanical expertise for an explosive. Next, I turned my mind to Prometheus Labs. A bomb would be mere child's play for the least of their technicians."
"And…"
"But they've been defunct for years. No, they haven't the means to discover me, let alone to isolate me for surgery. So I turned my mind to Nobody. But obviously he couldn't have done it."
"Because he doesn't exist?"
"No," Mann said, shaking his head, "because he's in Toledo this time of year. So there's only one possible group that could have possibly pulled it off. Are We Cool Yet!"
"…Seriously?"
"Yes, Are We Cool Yet. I see your disbelief, but when I lay out my evidence, you will see-"
Lament had had enough. "No."
"No?" Mann frowned. "But wait, you see-"
"No. Just… just no. I'll take your word for it."
Mann's face fell. "But… But it's awfully clever. I… I made diagrams."
"No. Mann, look, I'll go along and look into this with you. Just… don't explain it. Please." Let me continue to live in a world where I haven't heard yet another of his explanations, he pleaded with the universe.
"Oh, all right," Mann said. "Terribly clever, though. You're missing out."
"So, what do you plan to do about this?" Lament asked.
"Why, seek revenge, of course!" Mann scowled. "I haven't been this vexed since Doctor Vang put hair remover in my mustache wax. The part that makes me angry is that they mucked about where I've already performed surgery. It's almost like… like a critique. Imagine how you would feel if someone criticized your shooting, and shouting, and so forth."
"I don't have to imagine," Lament said. "Because you do that. All the time."
"Yes, well, I'm an expert surgeon, so it's a bit different."
"Are you saying I'm not good at… shooting?" Lament asked, eyebrow raised.
"Well, you did miss that fellow at the factory," Mann pointed out.
"It was a warning shot!"
"Oh. Well. Was it really?" Mann said. "I suppose that explains why you were so cross afterwards."
"I wanted him to talk," Lament said.
"And so he did, after a fashion," Mann said defensively.
"Gurgling does not count as talking, Mann."
"Anyway, I do feel your shouting could use more work," Mann said. "Not to criticize, but you have to feel it. Make it come from the diaphragm."
Inside his coat pocket, Lament ran his thumb along the button. What might have been. "And my… so forth?" he growled.
"Actually, no complaints there. I've always thought you were exemplary in the field," Mann said.
"…The field of so forth."
"Yes, not many are so gifted," Mann said. "Anyway, let's be off. I know exactly where to find them."
The car, happily, was still in running condition, though all of the windows were blown out. It hadn't been a terribly large bomb, all things considered. It hadn't needed to be.
Mann directed Lament to drive downtown, until they reached a fairly nondescript office building, housing businesses dealing with corkboard, investment banking, and posters with cats on them.
"What makes you think Are We Cool Yet is here?" asked Lament.
"I realized that if they hadn't been found, they naturally must have taken the most devious, clever hiding place possible. So I asked myself where would I never think to look, even if given a thousand years. And here we are."
A pained expression crossed Lament's face. On the one hand, he was glad Mann didn't actually know where to find the GoI, which should keep this from being too horrible an evening. On the other hand, he wondered where his life had gone so wrong that he regularly let Mann talk him into things like this.
After wrestling with this profound betrayal of logic for a moment, he sighed and said, "All right. We'll go in, look around, and then head out. Just a little light reconnaissance. Then we report what we've found, and we let an MTF take care of them."
"I'd like to show them the old vinegar, but I suppose you're right. Best leave it to the professionals." Mann twirled his mustache. "They'll regret messing with my thoracic cavity!"
They snuck into the building, quietly moving from floor to floor. With each empty office, Mann grew more and more anxious, and Lament more relieved.
"Okay, this is the last floor," Lament said. "If they're not here, we'll just have to go home, and report everything to the administrator." And hopefully he'll put an end to all this nonsense.
"Right," Mann said, grimly.
Lament slowly opened the door, and was blinded a moment by the bright light on the other side. A surprised looking man in an artist's smock was staring at him, surprised. Not so surprised, however, that he didn't punch an alarm and duck behind a wall.
"Run!" Lament said, and started pushing back. Unfortunately, Mann misinterpreted the direction, and ran forward, colliding into Lament's back. The two fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and while they attempted to regain their feet, they were quickly surrounded by a bunch of college-age men and women who were surprisingly well armed.
Lament wasn't sure which part was worse: the fact that they had been caught, or the fact that Mann had been right. His eyes rose upwards, as if to say to the universe, "This demeans us both, you know."
"Who are you supposed to be, Salvador Dali and company?" asked their leader. He was a middle-aged man, with graying hair and noticeable paunch. "What the hell are you even doing here?"
"We came to put a stop to your vile machinations!" Mann said. "You shan't take a single Foundation life this day!"
"What machinations? It's finals week, you hopeless philistine. Do you have any idea, any idea at all, how many papers I have to grade? How many idiots who can't tell the difference between Van Gogh and Vin Diesel? I have far more important things to do than mess about with your idiot bourgeois Foundation." He lowered his half-moon glasses and gave the pair a serious look. "This really is a bad time, gentlemen."
"Then who put the bomb in my chest?" Mann said.
The artist's eyebrows raised. "Not I. Any of you gentlemen or ladies?" he asked those gathered, only to get a chorus of shaking heads.
"Oh," said Mann. "Um. It appears there's been a mistake."
"Yes, that seems to be the case," said the artist.
"Well, we'll just be going…" Mann said.
"Oh, no." The artist chuckled. "We can't simply let you go. No, I'm afraid that you'll be seeing… our gallery." He paused, then frowned. "Our… gallery." He paused again, expectantly, then glared at one of younger men. "Jason."
"Oh! Sorry." He struck a picture of a lightning storm with a fist, and a peal of thunder rolled out.
The artist sighed. "We try, really. Anyway, the gallery." Thunder rolled out again. "There we go." He gestured, and Mann and Lament were dragged to another darkened room.
"You fiends!" Mann said. "Um. What happens next? I'm sorry, I've never been subjected to your gallery."
Thunder rang out through the building.
"Yes, thank you Jason, that's enough please. Here, you will be subjected to our darkest works. Our most terrifying pieces of art. Prepare yourselves, as your very souls are laid bare."
"Can't you just shoot us?" Lament asked. "You have guns. With bullets. We saw them on the way in."
"No! Instead, you must face… the Crushing Banality That Is Existence!" The man threw back a curtain covering a canvas, his face lit with maniacal glee. "DO YOU SEE IT? MY RAGE? LOOK AT MY RAGE!"
"This… this is picture of a pony," Lament said.
"That's Pinkie Pie, Lament," said Mann.
Lament's eyebrows rose. "I… how do you know that?"
"The Foundation is well versed in counter cultures," said Mann. "And, of course, SCP-6345."
"Is… No, stop." Lament held up a hand.
"Yes," said Mann. "A pony."
"Stop. Stop now. I'll…" He turned back to the artist. "Do you have anything more horrifying?"
"We've got this one that will make your eyes eat themselves," he answered.
"That. I'll take that one."
"As you wish!" The man moved to another canvas, and prepared to pull the curtain. As he did, Lament hooked out a foot. The man slipped, caught himself, and looked up into the painting, as Mann and Lament looked away.
"Oh god! My eyes have the idea of teeth! It's sharp!" He flailed about as he screamed, crashing into other canvases.
Lament grabbed the nearest armed student and swung him over a shoulder into another. Meanwhile, others accidentally caught glimpses of the paintings and screamed, cursed, and in one case turned into lime gelatin.
"Like I said, Lament," Mann said, as he cut a man's brachial artery, "no one does so forth like you."
The two fought their way to the exit. There wasn't a lot of resistance. With their leader incapacitated and half their fellows succumbing to horrible art of one type or another, no one was terribly interested in stopping them. As they reached the stairwell, Lament broke the elevator controls and barred the doors, even as he called in reinforcements.
"Well, this has been rather a disappointment," Mann said.
"Oh yeah?" Lament said.
"All this, and they weren't even the ones who—I say! I just realized who must have implanted the bomb."
"Who?" Lament asked.
"I did."
"I… Wait. Why would you have put an explosive in your own chest?" Lament asked.
"So I wouldn't lose it!" Mann said. "It was such a neat surgical job, I should have known at once."
Lament wanted it to stop there. He needed it to stop there. But some tortured part of him, some part that still remembered a world of common sense and logic, had to ask. "But why don't you remember?"
"Oh, probably the amnestics they had me take after my last physical. They always think I won't notice, but I've learned to recognize the signs."
Wretchedly, Lament realized it could even be true. Mann was entirely capable of implanting things in his own chest, if asked politely. He wouldn't even blink.
"Well," Mann said as the unmarked cars converged on their location, "all's well that ends well."


In her airy tower, sits Madame Lucia
There were rats in the soufflé again. Iago was at his wits' end. The little vermin found the cheese in the pantry and once they got a taste they wouldn't stop for death. He had tried everything to keep them down: Traps, catchers, jewelry…
He realized that he couldn't delay his next thought any longer. He would have to report this to Madame. He set down the enormous, rodent-laden ramekin, gulped the last of his cooking brandy, and began the long walk from the kitchens to the sitting room.
Rats! he mused as he tramped through gold and gem encrusted hallways. Castles always had rats! It didn't matter where it was. On an island, atop a mountain, halfway between dimensions, they always found their ways in. And a more modern house would not do at all for Madame. She was so old fashioned. The pearls that hung from the ceiling had hung there for centuries.
The soufflé was, of course, another problem. It was huge. Madame could only stomach the best of the best. Only one percent of anything was good enough and the rest was disposed of. Despite this, she required large portions. The only sensible thing to do was to enlarge the one percent until there was enough to satisfy her. A gigantic soufflé was the only obvious solution, far easier than one hundred smaller ones. Unfortunately, it was also much easier for the little pests to escape Iago's keen eye as he lowered the batter into the oven.
He could not escape forever. He found it harder and harder to concentrate on anything else but the door at the end of the corridor that he had entered. His thoughts were quite unconsciously brushed aside by the fear and shame ballooning up in his mind.
Mostly fear.

In her airy tower, high above the shifting plain between here and there, sits Madame Lucia. The room is lavishly decorated, as the rest of the castle is, but here there is true opulence. Here are the paintings where each stroke is worth a country. Here are the rugs of quagga fur and the diamond-paned windows and the fireplace of marble polished to shine like the moon. Yet it all appears shabby when one views the figure sitting in the high-backed chair facing away from the door. Madame's cascade of white hair falls over the chair back, each strand a thread of diamonds. She wears long, black silk gloves. One million silkworms were boiled alive to find the few threads that were flawless enough for her.
That is all one usually sees of Madame Lucia, and it is all that is needed. Just one percent.

Iago opened the door to the sitting room as decorously as he could manage. Madame sat in her usual spot, sipping tea. The cup she held in one hand was of a porcelain so finely wrought that, were it displayed in a museum, simply breathing in its general direction would result in a one hundred dollar fine.
After each sip, she emptied the cup into a crystal pail at her feet, and refilled it with fresh water from a golden tumbler. She then picked up a small silver spoon with a daisy pattern in the handle, hopelessly cheap-looking compared to everything else, and stirred the liquid just once.
"Iago," she said in a voice like the gentle tearing of a rose petal from its stalk. She would always speak first. To deprive her of this right was an affront to all that was good and pure. "Where is my soufflé?"
Iago was not required to bow. He could not have at this moment. He was too terrified. "Please, Madame, I am so terribly sorry, Madame, please. There are rats in the soufflé again."
The teacup hesitated for a moment before resuming its passage to Madame's lips. "They still trouble you? After all you have done? I cannot believe that you would be so incompetent." her voice took on a slightly petulant tone. "I suppose you ignored my suggestion? That you offer them last month's finest jewelry to stop."
"I did, Madame. They did not appear to want it."
"Hah. That is impossible. You probably chose the wrong jewelry. It was that hideous ring, I imagine."
"I offered each piece to every rat that I could find, Madame."
"Hmph. I doubt that."
Iago was relieved that Madame was in a good humor today. He decided that now would be the best time to propose his own plan. "Madame, please, if I may be so impertinent as to offer my own thoughts on the matter-"
"Yes… you are quite impertinent… Go on."
He plunged on, emboldened by the brandy. "Madame, perhaps if the cheese for the soufflé were stored in a less opulent cellar, it will take care of them itself. There is certainly enough wealth between the cellars and the towers that the effect would not extend-"
"But, what would the rats think!" Madame sounded absolutely horrified. The hand that held the spoon fanned her face for a moment.
"Madame?"
"What you are suggesting, Iago, will be nothing short of ruinous. I-imagine for a moment that the rats enter the pantry to, to-to-to find garnets in the walls instead of rubies! I would be a laughingstock! They would never believe that this is a respectable house!"
"Madame, please, I am sorry, but I can think of no other way to prevent the rats from getting in your soufflé."
"Then you will make rat soufflé!"
Iago ducked as the teacup shattered on the wall next to his head, soaking him with jasmine drops. He was trembling all over, certain that his deserved punishment would come at last. Madame was sitting bolt upright, about to turn…
When she didn't. She spoke softly, "Yes… haha… rat soufflé, what a novel idea…" she laughed. "Rat soufflé, oh how do I amuse myself. Hahahaha…"
"Ha… haha…" Iago laughed breathlessly over the simple fact that he was still alive. Madame was not angry. And the rush of adrenaline to his brain had allowed him to come up with another idea.
"Madame…"
Hm? Yes, Iago? Haha…"
"Please, Madame, what if I were to offer some of your cheese to the philistines?"
"Iago, you do go on."
"Ah, but, Madame," he said, warming to his idea. "The rats are obviously ashamed of what they do to you. That's why they kill themsleves."
"Oh? Yes, I never thought of it that way…"
"Suppose I were to send a bit of cheese to the philistines. A generous gift from Madame! They will be overjoyed, and the rats will surely follow. They will no longer feel guilty, and your soufflé will be safe."
Madame's hands clapped for a moment at the utter bullshit that Iago had spun. "Oh, yes, Iago! Such an idea! You may have my leftovers tonight."
"Madame, you are too gracious to me."
"But… what about my rat soufflé?"
Iago smiled. "I will save the choicest rats that I am able to find."
Madame Lucia's hair moved a bit as she nodded, catching the firelight and making it dance.
"Yes, Iago. Now, fetch me another cup of tea. Mine appears to have gone."
Iago nodded, and left to make the preparations to move the cheese to the plainest room in the castle. His.
Now the world was going to start affecting him, he thought as he averted his gaze from the lady in the chair.


There were rats in the soufflé again. Expert chef Jean-Pierre grimaced at the wretched sight. Dozens of the miserable vermin were crawling around the innards of what was supposed to be a delicious meat and cheese soufflé, baked exquisitely for a very specific palate. Shaking his head at the disgusting dish, Jean-Pierre emptied the rats nest into the nearest trash bin and set to work on a new puffed cake.
He grabbed his already-warm saucepan, threw some butter in, and turned his recently-used burner back on medium. As he absentmindedly melted the butter, he began to think of how he got in this position in the first place. He remembered being a lowly sous chef at a respectable French restaurant in Boston, working for a disgraceful bastard of a head chef at his last position, a man who despite supposedly being a world-renowned culinary genius couldn't tell the difference between a roux and a stock. Even the memory of such a man made Jean-Pierre so furious he almost didn't realize his butter had become liquid.
Turning his attention back to his cooking, he scooped up a handful of flour and tossed it into the pan, stirring the mixture constantly. After a couple of minutes, he began to whisk some of the leftover milk into the pan, taking care not to add it too quickly. He set his saucepan down to simmer and began dreaming of the last time he cooked in a proper restaurant kitchen. It had been his final day with the ignorant American who called himself head chef, and he had been tasked with preparing duck confit for a very respected politician. He toiled over every tiny detail, ensuring every tiny morsel was oozing with flavor. As he finished plating the dish, the head chef approached and callously declared the meat overdone, and without warning tossed the dish into the trash. With a punch of the face and a slamming of the door, Jean-Pierre had found himself without a job.
He lifted his spoon from the milk and butter mixture. Pleased with the thickness of the sauce, he took the saucepan off the burner and began adding the rest of the ingredients. Spinach, egg yolks, cheese, salt, pepper, nutmeg, all finely measured to ensure maximum flavor, all thrown into the sauce with care. One ingredient left, Jean-Pierre grabbed the bowl of excess meat from last time and added it into the pan, taking a small morsel for himself to sample. He shivered in delight as he chewed the deliciously perfectly cooked meat, remembering fondly how fresh the meat was when he cooked it.
He set the saucepan down and began to work on the egg whites. He turned his hand mixer on high and began beating the whites, the loud whir of the motor drowning out any thoughts he may have had about what he was doing. Eventually, the whites began to hold peaks as they should, and Jean-Pierre stirred about a fourth of the egg whites into the batter. He gradually folded the rest of the whites into the mixture, added it all into the soufflé dish, and popped it into the still hot oven.
Jean-Pierre sighed and sat down, kicking aside a loose bone on the floor. He leaned back and began to picture his acquisition of this kitchen. It was a dark, old, disgusting place when he first arrived at it, and true not much has changed since then, but he still believed then that he had what it took to run his own kitchen, moreso than the idiot who he used to work for. He hadn't believed the stories of the "haunted kitchen", though he was more than happy to take the property for dirt cheap due to said rumors.
It wasn't long for him to become a believer, though. He remembered some of the odder occurrences, such as the walls expanding as if they were breathing and the refrigerator randomly throwing itself across the room. And true, he remembered being somewhat frightened at the time. However, after discovering what was causing the phenomena, he was more than willing to ignore the occasional bleeding ceiling. During his short stay, he began to experiment heavily, to the point he knew he had almost reinvented the craft of cooking. And through it all, he knew he was going to change everything. After all, wasn't he promised the best restaurant in all the world?
The loud beep of the kitchen timer snapped Jean-Pierre out from his fantasy, and he hurriedly ran over to the oven to remove his fresh soufflé. For a moment, it seemed that this time the soufflé came out flawlessly. However, within seconds the puffed top of the pastry gave way to reveal yet another colony of flea infested rodents. The king was not going to like this. Sighing, Jean-Pierre grabbed the soufflé and walked over to the cellar door, taking care to step over the mostly meatless body of his former head chef. If nothing else, Jean-Pierre could take pride in knowing that such a waste of flesh could still be cooked into something worthwhile. Jean-Pierre opened the door and stepped inside.
The air was deadly still as Jean-Pierre stepped onto the white salt pan of the other world. He cautiously approached the circle of pillars directly ahead, his hands only slightly trembling as he approached the center. He set the soufflé on the ground, backed away, and began to speak. "Ahem, sir, there seems to be some issue with the oven. It's not holding up its end of the bargain, and unfortunately it keeps ruining my soufflés."
Jean-Pierre shifted to hold himself steady as the ground beneath him rumbled angrily. Jean-Pierre cleared his throat and said, "Yes, I know, I understood what you told me the first time. A beautiful meal made from the flesh of a man I despise, baked in an oven haunted by a sinner, and I did all of that. That's not the problem, the problem is in the ov-" Jean-Pierre fell over as the ground shook violently. Suddenly, a small black knife appeared in front of Jean-Pierre, and the rumbling of the ground eased.
Jean-Pierre looked at the knife, then said, "I…surely you'll give me another chance. There are plenty of other men out there deserving of my hate, and I can replace the oven to a more reasonable model. Please, give me one more chance!" The ground shook angrily again, and for the first time since he arrived Jean-Pierre swore he heard a roar behind the rumble. He sighed in frustration. Clearly there wasn't anything he could do to persuade His Majesty not to force him to pay tribute, and it would be foolish of him to press his luck any more than he already had. He knew what the king could do to his soul should he disobey further.
Jean-Pierre grabbed the knife, turned his gaze to the sky, and slowly dragged the blade across his throat, slicing through his thin, delicate skin. Jean-Pierre instinctively clutched his now bleeding throat and fell to the ground, the blood seeping into the ground beneath him. As his vision blurred from lack of oxygen and his body convulsed from the life seeping out, Jean-Pierre reflected upon the events that lead him to where he was now. Culinary school, moving to America, working for the bastard, becoming a chef for the Scarlet King…all moments that wove an intricate web that he could call his life. With his final convulsion, Jean-Pierre felt at peace with his decisions, and his final thought was that of the last, almost perfect soufflé.


"… and I'll be seeing you all next week. Please read chapters three and four before you come back on Tuesday. Class is dismissed. Miss Fang, could I see you for a moment before you go?"
Ara Fang paused in the middle of picking up her books and looked up at the front of the classroom at her Professor. The tall, saturnine man was busying himself in packing up his books and materials, as the black cat that was constantly at his side watched bemusedly from the top of a nearby bookshelf. What possible reason could the Professor have to want to see me? she wondered, as she picked up her satchel and walked to the mahogany desk at the front of the classroom.
"Please walk with me," the Professor said. "I'd like to speak to you in the privacy of my office, if you don't mind."
"… all right," Ara said. She looked at the greying old man curiously. Alarm bells were ringing in her head: older gentleman wanting to see her alone? Away from others. She was getting that itching feeling on the back of her neck from this one.
The black cat leaped down from the bookshelf and walked daintily alongside the two of them as they emerged into the hallway, stepping aside to let the next class of students enter. She followed the older man up the flight of stairs, past the paintings of Crowley and Aristotle, and into an office that looked slightly larger on the inside than the outside. Then again, every room at ICSUT's Massachusetts campus looked like that.
The Professor's office was neatly organized: a far cry from the stereotypical clutter of the academic. The shelves were filled with books new and old, with titles ranging from "A Brief History of the Universe," to "The Golden Bough," to "The Annotated Translator's Al-Azif." There was a basket with a pillow in one corner, to which the cat retired, bathing her face with her paws, as the Professor gestured Ara to a seat and closed the door behind him.
"I have a sensitive question to ask," he said, taking a seat in a chair across from her and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Please feel free to leave at any time if I am making you feel uncomfortable, Miss Fang."
"… what is this about?" Ara asked.
"It's a delicate question, I will understand if you do not wish to answer. I was looking over your student records, and discovered that you are registered as male-to-female transsexual…"
… oh shit, Ara winced inwardly.
"… and was curious whether you are pre- or post-operative," the Professor continued.
Ara took a deep breath, trying to settle her pounding heart and unclench her tightened fists. "I think this is an intrusion of my privacy," she said, "And unless you can give me an answer right away as to why I should answer this question, I am going to be reporting you to Administration for harassment."
The professor inclined his head slowly and leaned back in his padded chair, raising his hands in supplication. "My apologies, Miss Fang," he said. "It was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. My interest is… mostly academic." He steepled his fingers in front of his face, pausing for a moment to marshal his words. "Allow me to take this from a different angle, Miss Fang. What do you know of my work?"
"You're the Institute's foremost researcher into Observatology," Ara said. "You've been doing research into the nature of consciousness and sapience. The soul, in other words."
"Correct," the Professor said, "but academia is my second profession. My other job is as a consultant for the Global Occult Coalition: specifically, their CAULATICA Division, maintaining the secrecy of the occult world from the mundane. Part of what I have been doing recently is refining their Identity Reassignment technology. Field agents in PHYSICS Division often request to have their identities reassigned in order to protect friends and loved ones left behind. This is a complicated and difficult process intrinsically linked to the study of consciousness and sapience itself."
"What does this have to do with me being trans?" Ara wondered.
The Professor smiled. It was a friendly, fatherly smile, and his excitement was obvious. "How would you like to be my test subject into cross-gender Identity Reassignment?" he asked.

"The simplest Identity Reassignment algorithms are cosmetic surgery," the Professor explained, "but sometimes, things become more complicated. A person might be a public figure, or may have been involved in a memorable event. And because many of us operate in the realm of the paranormal, we run into issues of sympathy and contagion: it doesn't matter how much you change your appearance, a strand of hair picked up from before you were recruited still holds sympathy to you. DNA testing makes it even more difficult these days. So the current research is tending towards reality alteration: changing the very nature of the person down to the level of their genes and EVE signature.
"One way to do this would be to consult a reality alterer… but the Coalition is, understandably, reluctant to do so. I've been researching alternative methods using Tangential Technology for the past couple of decades. We have made some advances, but the procedure is… shall we say… rudimentary. We can change a person's face, hair color, sometimes build and height, but things like race and especially sex are far more difficult.
"I've been searching for a good test subject for the past few years," the Professor explained, "and I'd like to suggest you as a candidate. You would be compensated for your time and the risks involved, of course, and your identity will remain secret, unless you wish it to be publicized. The reason I wish to know whether you are pre- or post-operative is due to… complications… that may arise based on your current state of being."
"Complications?" Ara asked.
"Whether or not you feel you have completed your transition to the new gender," the Professor said. "The state of mind you are in when entering the procedure is influential. My research indicates that the best chance of success may occur with an individual who is pre-operative. The desire to change yourself may help the procedure to be carried out smoothly."
"Wait a minute," Ara said, raising her hand. Her head was spinning, her vision blurring… she wasn't sure whether she wanted to vomit or laugh. "… let me get this straight. You want to magically change me from… what I am now… into a woman?"
"Exactly," the Professor said.
"… and explain to me why I should choose to go your way? I've already assembled the funds to complete my transition. I was going to take some time off at the end of the semester to go under the knife. And you're asking me to give that all up and go for an untested magical procedure instead at the last moment?"
"Ah," the Professor said. "Let's talk about the surgical method. You would have your external genitalia removed, and an artificial vagina formed using the nerve endings and structure of your current male organs. And… depending on whether or not you are currently undergoing hormonal therapy…"
"I've been on an antiandrogen and estrogen/progesterone cocktail for the past three years," Ara said.
"… ah, good." The Professor nodded excitedly. "In any case, you may have begun growth of breast tissue and shutdown of testicular function. But there are things that these procedures cannot change. Your bone structure remains male. Your facial structure as well. Voice and facial hair… genetics. All of these things remain male. At the end of your procedures, you may become close enough to physically female to avoid a sense of gender dysphoria, but none of this can make you as female as one that was born into that gender. And it cannot give you the one trait that is uniquely female among humans: the ability to bear children."
"And you're saying?" Ara's voice cracked as she felt her world fall away.
"I'm saying," the Professor said, "that if my theory is correct, the procedure I have developed works, you will become a flesh-and-blood woman, down to your very genes. Does that interest you?"

Ara Fang lay on her cot in her dorm room and stared up through the skylight at the night sky.
"There are risks," the professor had told her. "Very great ones."
"More so than possibly dying on an operating table?"
"Yes," the professor said, very frankly. "Quite simply, from a safety consideration, the traditional route of lifelong hormone therapy and gender reassignment surgery would be preferable. For instance, the working required would have a high energy requirement. We would, after all, be performing a working heavily Hued towards Ebony, with an extremely Tight Weave, bordering on Locked. That amount of EVE, allowed to get loose, could be catastrophic. Not to mention that the backlash would be severe. And there is the possibility that the working would be incomplete. Your body could end up… severely altered."
"How badly?"
"… extra arms. Double legs. Body parts in the wrong places. Partial sexual alteration in some body parts… others not so. Other, more severe teratogenic effects… many of them would be unsurvivable. In other cases, you may wish that you had not survived. And then there are the more esoteric risks. We are attempting to convince the universe that you are and always have been female. The universe may reject the paradox by ejecting you from its reality. Or, instead of turning you into a female, we may end up creating a new 'you' that was always female, and in so doing, destroy the person you are now. Quite frankly, my dear, considering what could happen if you undergo the working, the dangers of a slipped knife or a bad reaction under anesthesia are preferable."
"So greater risk equals greater reward?"
"That depends on how highly you value the 'reward,' as you so put it. Whether you feel it is worth the significantly greater risk."
Ara rolled off of her bed and turned on the lights. She slowly removed her clothing, pulled on her favorite pink-and-white bathrobe, and walked out the door and into the hallway.
The bathrooms were down the hall from her room, and she stepped through the one with the circular symbol of a stick figure that had broad shoulders and didn't wear a stylized skirt. At this hour, as she had hoped, there was no one else in the bathroom. She walked in front of the sinks, removed her robe, and looked at herself in the mirror.
She didn't like mirrors… didn't have any in her room. And looking at herself, she was reminded why. The person she saw in the mirror looked… wrong. Despite the small, budding breasts, in the process of forming after three long years on medicines that made her constantly sick and tired. Despite the long hair and the smooth, hairless face with the fuzz lasered off. Because there was still the narrow hips and the broader shoulders and the Adam's apple she hid under turtlenecks and tight scarves, and most of all, that thing between her legs.
She reached up and touched her own face and the stranger in the mirror touched his.
She reached out and touched the mirror, and the stranger extended his hand to touch his fingertips to hers.
She picked up the bathrobe and put it back on and walked back to her dorm.
She lay on the bed and stared up at the night sky until it turned into twilight, and then, at last, into the morning blue.

"Your first step will be halting the hormonal therapy," the Professor explained. "We need to have your body as close to its original male form as possible."
"That seems backwards," Ara said. "Shouldn't it be as close to female as possible?"
"Boiled water freezes fastest," the Professor replied.
"That isn't an answer."
"No, but it's a decent analogy. What we need to do is hold your male and female possibilities together at once, then transfer the possibility from one to the other. And the more distinct your original male possibility is, the easier it will be to differentiate you from the new possibility being formed. This is important to maintain your sense of self during the transfer. To prevent loss of self-distinction."
"How long?"
"Until the procedure is ready to be performed," the Professor said. "One year and a day from now."
And so Ara stopped taking the pills, and her breasts stopped growing, and her body hair got thicker, and she felt herself slipping backwards down the hill she'd spent so long climbing.
Meanwhile, she and the Professor began going over the various components they would need for the working. "The most important thing," he said, "is a solid image of your desired form. Photos would work. Three-dimensional figures would be best."
They went to the imaging laboratory and had photographs of her male body taken from every possible angle, and then they found someone who could Photoshop it into the body she'd always wanted to be.
Ara immediately rejected the first set of images the artist sent back. "It's too perfect," she complained.
"It looks fine to me," the Professor said.
"Of course it does. This girl is gorgeous. She could be a model… a supermodel… an actress," Ara said. She held up the image of the thin-waisted, slender beauty with flawless, smooth skin, and shook her head. "This doesn't look like me at all. It doesn't feel… right."
They sent the suggestions back to the artist, and they sat together for an entire afternoon going through permutation after permutation, adding an imperfection here, correcting one there, going through face after face after body after body after possibility after possibility until, one day, a month after they'd first sent the request out, Ara looked at the person in the images and saw herself.
Meanwhile, she underwent medical procedures of every kind. Every single millimeter of her current body was studied and recorded. After the photographs came the endoscope, then came the CAT scan, then came the MRIs, then the COLLICULUS imaging, then the genetic scans. Hundreds of thousands of images of herself from every possible angle, mapping every possible facet of a human body.
And then came the day that the sculptor delivered the statue of what her new self would look like, and she sat down across from it for an entire night, just studying her new self. She reached out and touched the face of the closed-eyed thing of silicone and steel. One day, this is what I will be, she thought to herself.
And then the day came that the Professor told her that it was time to go see a dwarf about a sword.

"A sword, huh?" the short, stocky man with the giant beard said. "Not much call for one of those in this day and age."
"Not much call for a blacksmith, either," the Professor pointed out. "I guess we were both born a few thousand years too late."
"Speak for yourself. I pity those poor medieval swordsmiths who didn't know the difference between chromium steel and high carbon." The blacksmith laughed out loud and gestured to Ara, who stood in the entrance of the smithy, nervously looking around. "Who's the twink? Your new catamite?"
"My test subject," the Professor said. "For the identity reassignment."
"So that's the tranny, huh? Come over here, let me get a look at you."
Ara felt the rage rise in her blood, but she walked over nonetheless and stared directly into the dwarf's eyes, cold and hard. The short man laughed out loud at that. "Yeah, I can see I've pissed you off a bit, huh? Good. I like a bit of spirit in my women."
"The proper term," Ara said curtly, "is trans, or trans-woman, if you wish. If you wish to continue this business transaction, you will refer to me as such and apologize for the slur."
"My apologies," the short man said, bowing his head politely. "I'll remember that for the future. I've been… apart from civilization."
"Heinrich's been living in these woods for the past… fifty years, now?"
"Fifty-five," the short man said. "People freak me out. I don't understand how the hell you guys can stand living in a fucking city surrounded by millions of the things." The short, bearded man spit into the hot coals.
"In any case, can you do it? Make the sword for us?"
"I can. But I'm not going to. She's going to do it."
"Me?" Ara squeaked, surprised.
"Yeah, you. And you're also going to make the chalice, too." He gestured to the swords hanging from pegs on the walls of his stone smithy. "Sword. Symbolically male. Oriented towards fire. Chalice. Symbolically female. Oriented towards water. Do you get what's going on here?"
"I think so. The sword and chalice are meant as symbols of my feminine and masculine aspects," Ara said, brows furrowing. "And I have to make them in order to create a strong sense of Sympathy between them for symbolic purposes."
"Got it in one," the short man said.
"Can she do it? Learn to make a sword in time for the ritual?"
"It doesn't need to be a great sword," the short man pointed out. "It only needs to be enough of a sword to serve as a symbol. And I'll help her with it. But she has to be here and help with the creation process."
"If you can afford to take the time off of classes…" the Professor said dubiously.
"One week. No longer. She comes back during Spring Break and pounds steel with me rather than partying down in Cancun or whatever."
"All right," Ara said. "I'll see you in April, then."
"Sounds good. There is, however, the matter of payment."
"How much do you want?" the Professor asked.
"Money's not an issue. I don't spend much out here, except for raw materials, and I've got a deal with the Coalition for ritual gear and such. What I want…" He turned to Ara and grinned lewdly. "Well, when Freya bargained with the dwarves for Brisingamen, she offered…"
"HEINRICH!" the Professor shouted.
"Fine! It was just a joke!" the short man said defensively.
"It wasn't a very funny one!"
"Fine, I'm sorry… but if you really want to make a deal…" The man stroked his beard and sighed. "Look, I'm generally happy living away from people. They kinda piss me off for the most part. But there are some things that I miss from the days when I lived in civilization…"

And so, when Ara returned to the cabin in the woods that following Spring, she brought with her two bottles of Laphroaig Islay Single-Malt, and one of Balvenie 40.
"Yeah, that's the stuff," Heinrich Guggenheim said, as he held the bottles up to the light, smiling. "Human beings are fucking assholes but sometimes they make something worth keeping."
He put the bottles into his cabinet reverently, like a priest handling the consecrated Hosts, and then rolled out a sheet of butcher paper on his table made of roughly hewn logs, and began sketching out a design using a charcoal pencil.
"Isn't this supposed to be my sword?" Ara asked.
"Sure," Guggenheim said.
"Then let me design it."
She thought she saw him smile as he passed her the pencil and stepped back from the table.
She sketched out a short sword, double-edged, slender and elegant, the lines evoking that of a Chinese jian, and then sketched in the ornate hilt and long tassel as well. "That part you'll have to find someone else to do," Guggenheim said. "I only do blades and sometimes hilts."
"That's fine," Ara said. "I'll find a jeweler to do the rest."
"Then let's get started."
He began by showing her how to work the bellows to heat the coals on the forge, then had her working the big hammer to pound the ingot out into a long, narrow sword blank. Her first swing missed the anvil entirely and nearly smashed into her foot. "Careful there," Heinrich warned. "You break your foot and you're going to waste the entire weekend."
"This thing is too heavy. I can't swing it."
"Then don't," Guggenheim said. "Just lift it up and let the weight do the rest."
She lifted up the heavy steel tool and let it fall onto the anvil, hard. Guggenheim grinned as he struck the steel with his own hammer. Between the two of them, and a long, backbreaking day of hard labor, they eventually managed to form the steel into a long, bladelike shape.
The week passed in much the same manner, with Guggenheim showing her how to heat the metal to the proper temperature. How to let the hammer do all the work of striking the steel. When to return the steel to the heat. He did most of the work, but made sure that she was involved in every step of the process.
The week passed, and on the second-to-last day, Ara pricked her finger and let the blood droplets fall into the two casks of oil and water laid next to the forge, as Guggenheim heated the final sword to a red heat and plunged it first into the oil, then, as the flames rose around the blade, into the water, to quench the blade.
The last day was spent polishing and sharpening the sword, and by the time the sun set at the end of the week, Ara had the blade of her sword wrapped in a silk blanket to carry back to the world.
She lay on her cot, looking up at the thatched roof that last night, as Guggenheim turned over in his bed, and asked, with a bit of trepidation, "Heinrich?"
"Yeah?"
"That first time we met. You mentioned Brisingamen."
"Yeah," Guggenheim said.
"Freyja offered gold and silver to the dwarves who made that necklace. But in the end, she paid them by spending one night with each of them."
There was silence.
Guggenheim turned over in his bed and snorted derisively. "Go to sleep, girl," he growled.
"Yes, sir," Ara said.
She pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and stared at the wall for a good, long time.
"The point of that story," Guggenheim said, after a few minutes, "isn't that Freyja slept with the dwarves. The point is that there are some things in life you'd give anything to have… and sometimes, you pay too much to get them."
"It was still an unfair thing to ask for in payment," Ara said.
"Sorry about that. In case you haven't figured it out already, I'm not a very nice man." Guggenheim yawned. "Anyway, a shitty sword like this… you'd be overpaying me."
Ara chuckled a bit and, after a few more minutes, finally drifted off to sleep.

"Glass," the woman in the leather apron said.
"Are you sure? Maybe pewter would work better," the Professor said dubiously.
"Glass," the woman repeated firmly. "It has to be glass, and it has to have a silver stand. You want it to have as many feminine attributes as possible. Silver evokes the moon, glass evokes water. Glass and silver is the best choice."
"I'm not sure that we have time for her to learn both glassblowing and silversmithing," the Professor pointed out. "We're coming up on the end of that year and a day."
"She doesn't have to," the woman said. "She had to make the sword, because it represents a part of herself that's being taken away. But the chalice needs to be made by another, because it represents a new aspect of herself being added on."
"I guess that makes some sense," the Professor said dubiously. "But on the other hand, there's also a strong resonance in having her make the chalice herself."
"Why don't we ask her what she thinks?" the woman in the leather apron said, and they both turned to face Ara, who was sitting on a ratty old chair listening to the entire conversation.
"Me?"
"The chalice will be an integral part of your own transformation. It needs to have resonance to you," the Professor pointed out.
Ara scratched her head and looked across the workshop at the apprentices and workers hammering out silver and tin over small anvils and stakes. "… actually," she said, "I think I might have a different idea."

"So what exactly is this," Lydia asked, when Ara had returned from her dorm room. She held the cheap-looking glass tumbler up to the light. "Romancing the Future? What the hell does that mean?"
"… it's a prom glass," Ara said softly.
Lydia and the Professor fell silent.
"… my father didn't approve of my nature," Ara said. "He… was angry all the time. Emotionally abusive, even. Only the fact that he didn't want it getting out that his son was a 'freak' kept him from sending me off to some kind of camp or something. Maybe my mother would have understood better, but she died when I was young… and he was always afraid that he'd screwed up on raising me. Their only son. Because I wasn't happy with being a son. Because I wanted to be a daughter, like my older sisters. He used to scream at them so much. Blamed them for me being what I was. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."
She had to sit down to steady herself… the memories were flowing faster and harsher than she'd thought they would. "I had a couple of high school friends who… were sympathetic to me. They helped me to plan it out. One of them, a girl… she was my date. She came over and I wore my tux and we left the house together. Then we went to her house, where she had the dress we'd picked out ready. She helped me put it on. Did my hair. Did my makeup. Put in the shapers and the bra and did my jewelry. And then we went to prom together."
Ara smiled bitterly as the memories came back. "A few of my old friends clapped when they saw me in my dress. Some others turned away. There were a few angry mutters, some weirded out looks. But there were a lot of happy smiles, too. I danced all night, and Shelly and I, we went out onto the beach with a bunch of our friends, and we sat on the sand and watched the sun rise, and one of my friends, a boy whom I'd had a crush on, told me he liked me no matter what I was, and he held my hand and kissed me."
"It was the best night of my life, but when I got home, after changing back into my tux and leaving my dress at Shelly's house, my father was up. Someone at the prom, I never found out who, called him and told him what I'd done. He screamed at me for hours, and hit me a lot with a rolled up newspaper. As if I were a dog. And he threw my prom glass at the wall and smashed it to bits."
"This is Shelly's," Ara said, running a finger along the rim of the cheap drinking glass that Lydia held. "She gave it to me after she heard what my father had done. So I'd have something to remember that night by." She gave the Professor and Lydia a sick smile. "She's one of the few people I regret leaving behind when I came to ICSUT."
There was a long moment of silence, and Ara realized the entire workshop had halted their work. Everyone was watching her, their hammers and snips stopped by her story.
"… yeah," Lydia said thoughtfully, holding the bowl-shaped glass up to the light. "I think if we put a silver base on this, it should do just fine."

"How do you feel?" the Professor asked.
"Tired. Hungry. Excited. Exhausted." Ara laughed nervously as she swung her feet back and forth. "Scared."
"Understandable," the Professor said. "Let's go over the particulars of the Working."
He went over the various particulars of the systems and spells and elements that would be used in the Working. Ara barely heard him. They'd gone over this many times before. But this would be the last time that they would talk each other through the procedure.
"… are you certain that you wish to continue with the procedure?" the Professor asked.
"Yes," Ara said firmly.
"Then please sign here."
He passed her what seemed like dozens of clipboards, each one with a neat "X" written near the bottom in blue ink, and Ara signed, in dozens of places, various documents relating to the fact that she knew what she was getting into and would not sue anyone ever if anything went wrong.
She signed her name with a flourish on the final sheet, and the Professor stood up to go into the next room. A very nice young lady with short hair came by next and led Ara into the next room. It looked like bride's room at a church, with a couple of couches, a table, a mirror, and a closet.
"You can change into the gown here," she said. "We'll let you know when it's time to begin."
The lady then walked over to the other door in the room, opened it, and stood in the open doorway for a moment. Ara could see that it led outside, to a cool spring day in Massachusetts.
The door closed behind her, and Ara was left alone in the room.
This was insane. She was about to undergo an extremely dangerous magical working that could backlash and kill a bunch of people. She was about to alter the very fabric of the universe itself.
And why? Because she couldn't bear to live another day without a vag? What kind of logic was that?
She should leave. She should go. She should pick up her bag and walk right out that other door and just run across the campus as fast as she could and leave this whole thing behind.
Her head spun, her vision blurred, her heart pounded. She was clenching her fists so hard she could feel her fingernails dig into her palm.
She took another deep breath.
She took off her clothes, put them in the duffel bag she'd brought along with her, and stood in front of the mirror, looking into the eyes of the stranger she saw there.
His sad eyes looked back.
She reached a hand out to him, and touched his fingertips with hers.
She walked back to the closet, flung open the doors. It felt right to don the thin white garment by swirling it through the air, like the skirt of some magical fairy princess.
She cinched the belt of the robe around her waist. Precisely ten seconds later, the doors opened, and the Professor walked in.
"Were you watching me?" she asked.
"Through COLLICULUS," the Professor admitted.
"What would you have done if I walked out that door?"
"Watched you leave. And looked for another test subject."
He closed the door behind him and looked seriously into Ara's eyes. "I have one last request for you," he said. "I need your truename."
She'd known this was coming for a while. She nodded to him and cleared her throat nervously. It felt a bit closed and dry, so she swallowed before going on. "Arachne."
"Arachne. The Spider… if memory serves, she was a weaver. One of the greatest. So great, in fact, that the goddess Artemis challenged her to a contest. Artemis wove images of the Gods ruling humanity and defeating them time and time again… and Arachne responded by weaving images of the many abuses the Gods had heaped upon mankind. And when Artemis tore her weaving to pieces, she hanged herself."
"It was Athena, not Artemis," Ara said. "And she was angry because Arachne wouldn't admit that some of her talent might have come from the Goddess of Weaving."
"My mistake," the Professor said. "And how do you feel, Spider? Are you a plaything of the Gods, abused and mistreated? Or are you the rebellious, prideful child who refuses to acknowledge their gifts?"
"… I think," Ara said, smiling nervously, "that I'm a young woman about to undergo a huge change in my life, who's feeling freaking terrified right now and just want it to be over with."
"A good answer," the Professor said. "Come."
He opened the other door and led her into the next room: a massive cave, cool and damp, with a broad, flat floor of polished stone. A small army of masons had spent many days carving a precise shape into the granite floor: it hurt her eyes to look at, consisting as it did of circles within circles within loops and angles. It had to be nearly twenty meters in diameter.
Guggenheim stood at the edge of the circle, holding a small anvil under one arm as if it were a basketball. He wore his belt of tools around his waist, including the heavy hammer she remembered so well. Lydia stood next to him, holding the silver-and-glass chalice in her hands: it looked beautiful, the expertly crafted ivy and vines in pure silver wrapping around and embracing the cheap glass. There was a small parade of other assistants here too, carrying a ewer of water, a small basin, and a tray of small knives and other tools.
All of them were dressed in black robes with red cords around their waist. And as she watched, two assistants stepped forward with a set of robes for the Professor as well. He held out his arms as they helped him into the heavy black garments and tied the red cincture around his waist. One of them passed him a staff: it looked odd, carved in a strange shape, and she realized that it had been crafted from the stock of an old rifle, reshaped to form the upper half of an ornately decorated staff.
The Professor turned to the other end of the room, where a number of persons stood around a set of complicated equipment. Another small group sat on folding chairs in the shadows. "The Working," he said, "will take place in three phases. The first is medical. The subject will be examined medically, and some final preparations will be made. The second is symbolic. A series of rituals will be carried out symbolic of the change, in order to set the lines of the working in the minds of the participants. The final stage of the Working is the precise application of several bursts of carefully targeted Aspect Radiation. For the safety of all observers and participants, we request that you remain behind the yellow line marked on the floor. Any attempt to cross the yellow line will result in immediate physical restraint."
He turned to a couple of white-coated doctors and nodded to them. Ara was led behind a curtain, where a couple of doctors performed one last physical check, took one last blood sample, patted her on the shoulder and wished her luck.
Then someone handed her the sword, wrapped in silk cloth, and stood her in line just in front of the Professor, and the entire procession walked in very slowly, at a measured pace.

She would never again be able to remember exactly how it happened. It was taped, of course, and she would later be able to watch from an outsider's perspective exactly how it all took place. But personally… she didn't remember much of anything.
There was a slow procession around the entire circle, seven times clockwise. Water was poured into a basin and poured over her head. The sword was waved over her body in a series of precise movements. She was given the sword back and told to press it to her forehead and chest while the Professor said a lot of things in Latin. The staff was pressed against her back and someone said something very loudly in Greek before striking her once, sharply, across the shoulders.
There was a black cat, the Professor's familiar, who walked between her feet seven times, halting at the left foot. The sword was taken from her, and Guggenheim broke it over his anvil with one powerful swing of his hammer. The silicone model of her future self was brought out, and she was made to embrace it seven times. A small cut was made on her upper thigh. A drop of the blood was mixed with water in the chalice and she was made to drink it. Two more drops were smeared across her face and that of the doll.
Then the Professor took a small pot of silver paint and a stylus and drew a series of symbols all over her skin and that of the doll. Everyone else was led out of the circle as a small pump filled the channels with a liquid that made her eyes water.
And then she lay in the center of the circle, her right hand holding the cold, clammy hand of the silicone doll that they had made, while a black cat sat between the two of them, unblinkingly staring at the Professor's eyes.
There was a low whumph, and the gasoline that had filled the channels of the circle was ignited. Flames rose up all around her in a precise pattern, illuminating the chamber in a lurid red light.
Purple electricity leaped between the points of the stalactites overhead and she felt herself plummet into the heart of the world.

She opened her eyes again and looked up into the face of the Professor. He was smiling down at her.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"… I hurt," Ara whimpered. And she did. Her entire body felt like it was aching horribly. Her eyes were dry, her throat was dry, she was desperately hungry. She prised her left hand free of the grip of the silicone doll and rubbed her eyes.
She missed and touched her nose instead. It felt… odd. Strange.
She turned to her left… and she saw something there crumbling into ash and dust. Something that looked very much like the body of the man she used to see in the mirror.
Then the doctors came and swarmed over her, and one of them put a rubber breath mask over her face and she closed her eyes and passed out.

She awoke to find herself lying on soft sheets, wearing a thin hospital gown, in a darkened room that beeped.
She very much had to pee.
She crawled out of the bed, but was brought up short by something hooked up to her arm. She dragged the IV along with her into the bathroom, pulled up her gown, sat down on the seat.
It felt strange… like it was coming from the wrong places, and that this muscle felt wrong, and this place was off, and this entire thing…
The realization of what was going on hit her, and she felt the tears rise up in her eyes. She gingerly reached down with the toilet paper to wipe herself off, and felt her fingertips press against her body.
It was a good hour before she could finish sobbing, and when she did, she rose up on unsteady feet, flushed the toilet, and turned on the lights. She turned to the bathroom mirror, and saw herself looking back.
She reached out a hand and felt her fingertips press against the silvered glass, and smiled.

"Well, Spider," the Professor said, snapping the clipboard closed. "According to this, you're a completely healthy young woman."
"I knew that already. I could have told you that the first night."
"Yes," the Professor said. "But this was a medical report from an outside doctor. So I guess this means that our experiment was a success." He leaned back in his chair and gave her a wry smile. "How did you like your first period?"
"It fucking sucked," Ara laughed ruefully. "I admit there was a moment, in the middle of the cramps and bloating and having what felt like half my uterus flowing out of me, that I felt like a fucking idiot for agreeing to all this."
"And the other?"
"… well, it seems functional, if that's what you're asking," Ara said, blushing. "But I haven't tried it with anyone else yet. I didn't exactly have a great time the first time I lost my virginity. I think I'm going to use the weight of experience for my second time around."
"Good on you, then." The Professor snapped his clipboard shut and got to his feet. "Well, then, Spider. I'll be seeing you around."
He got up and helped her into her coat, and locked his office door behind him. "Oh, before I forget," he said, handing her a gift bag. "This is a memento. From two new friends."
Spider waited until she was back in her dorm room to open up the gift bag and take out the contents. One of them was a glass chalice with a silver stand. The other was a broken sword mounted on a wooden plaque.
She leaned the plaque up against the wall, behind her desk, and put the chalice on her nightstand. She'd have to find a case for them, she decided, when she had a moment.
Then she changed into her pajamas and lay down on her bed, looking up through the skylight into the stars. She stayed there for a long, long time, until the blackness turned into the grey of twilight, and finally into the morning blue.