“Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…”
The fat man hummed and sang tunelessly, walking around the brightly lit work area. Everywhere else was deeply dark, the humps and points of old factory equipment looming in the old auto plant. Several large machines had been cleared away, and heavy, steel tables set up, along with huge shelves, all of it covered with junk. At least, it looked like junk to the untrained eye. A bomb technician would have taken one look at that tangle, and run screaming for the hills.
“Chicka boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…”
Boomer always worked with his shirt off. He'd been teased mercilessly for the huge sweat stains he'd always made on his shirts in grade school, and the pain had stayed with him his entire life, making partial, hideous nudity preferable to a damp shirt. (Never mind that he'd beaten the child who had started the teasing to death in the woods years and years ago. Some things just stuck.)
“Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…”
He was just starting to fit a shock plate to the main detonation assembly when a chiming started. He grunted, freezing and trying to isolate the sound with no small amount of concern, before finally slumping and fishing his phone from his greasy pants pocket.
“Hi, Mom. No, I'm fine, Mom, I was just working.”
“… No, Mom, I like talking to you. It's fine, really…”
“… Yes, I'm taking them, Mom… I just don't like how they make me feel, Mom, it's not…”
“No, Mom, I'm not dis-”
“… Mom…”
“…s-stop… M-m-m-mom, I-I hate i-it whe-”
“…”
“But I c-c-can't h-h-h-h-help it!”
There was a sudden, audible squawking from the phone, the massive man wincing down and away, as if from a blow imagined or remembered,
“… I-I'm sorry, Mom…”
“I'm sorry… I won't ever speak that way again…”
“I love you too, Mom…”
Boomer hung up the phone, then sat for a bit, trembling. He sniffed thickly, glaring down at the phone. He put it on the table, eyes welling with tears. He smashed his fist against it with the force of a good sized car. He smashed it again and again, a thin, ragged squealing leaking from his thick lips as he pounded the phone to bits, blood and scraps of skin smearing over the bench and the ragged wreck of the phone. He stared down at the bloody, shattered mess, heedless of his dripping hand, thick chest rising and falling in great heaves.
The fat man then pushed the whole mess to the floor, sucking on his ripped and bloody fist like a baby, starting to hum around it again as he started fittings wires back into his current project.

“Jesus, I almost feel sorry for the bastard. Then I feel that spot where I'm supposed to have a molar.”
Harken winced, looking away from the small screen, his face a ragged patchwork of tape and a few stitches. The rest of him was encased in enough plaster to count as armor, his right hand little more then a heavily braced claw. Kramer had been playing nursemaid: that is to say, she was checking to see what still hurt. Often. With her finger.
“So does that spot on your neck still hurt wh-”
“FUCK!”
“Okay, so yes.”
Harken shifted away from his poker-faced tormentor, trying to focus on the small LCD screen. They'd managed to track down Boomer's lair without a massive amount of issue. That being said, they'd kept well away, just getting a robot close enough to attach a tiny camera to the roof. Boomer was the type to leave loads of bombs, traps and other assorted goodies laying around in a nightmare combination of cunning and blind, absentminded stupidity. You could plan around a smart enemy, a dumb one was prone to blowing your intelligent, well-planned ass off at random.
They'd been watching Boomer for a couple days now, and every hour was more pathetic then the last. Yes, Boomer was a brutal, sadistic psychopath, but he was also apparently a pathetic, broken man with no real life, friends, or interests. No wonder he was so loyal to Dark: he'd probably never had a purpose or praise before Mr. Dark had stepped in.
Harken set the portable viewscreen down, gingerly rubbing his eyes. “Okay, so, we know where the fat boy is going to be, but I'm not really overeager to get blown up trying to get to him.”
“I could always drop in, or slide a shot through one of those upper windows.”
“No, no, that's a bitch of a shot, and one miss could blow the whole place. Plus, who knows how he has the place rigged? I reviewed some files Central Records had on him: apparently a GOC strike team tried sneaking into a house he was using. They managed to blow up nearly a city block, and lost the whole team. Boomer wasn't even home.”
“So what's your big plan?" Kramer asked. "I'm not overeager to wonder on every mission whether or not there's a random explosive or fat sociopath waiting in the wings. Plus, the only one who gets to slap you around is me. See, like thi-”
“FUCK!”
“Wow, that cast doesn't act as a buffer at all, does it?”
“ANYWAY. I think I have a idea…isn't there a GOC squad in the area, hunting for… uhh… oh dammit, that one germ bitch, whatshername…”
“SCP-353, Vector.”
“That's the one. Maybe they need to accidentally intercept a secured Foundation transmission discussing the difficulty of extracting the poor girl from the warehouse she's holed up in.”
“But she's not — oh. Clever. Meanwhile, what do we do about her? Someone needs to get her back to site.”
“Oh to hell with that, some MTF can go after that bitch. The last thing I need is an infection right now.”
“Yeah, I know. This looks like it's kinda red and-”
“FUCK!!”

“Bobby, Bobby, my love, get in here, it's great to see you!”
“Can't say the same.”
“Oh Bobby, that's why I love you. While all the world cries for my amusement, I can always count on you to be the same hard-nosed prick as always.”
Bobby was standing at parade rest just inside the doorway to the terrible man's office. It looked more like a overstuffed museum, with layers of carpets, relics, and assorted treasure covering every available surface in a haphazard fashion. There was probably more money in this room then some third world nation's gross national product, but it just looked like a old antique shop. Mr. Marshall sat in a wine-dark upholstered chair to one side, the fabric probably worth more then his life right now. Mr. Dark reclined behind a small, chipped desk. If Bobby recalled correctly, it was the same one the “From Hell” Jack The Ripper letter had been penned on.
“You seem in tolerable shape, lad. None the worse for wear after your little stint in the nuthatch?”
“…I'm fine, sir.”
Bobby looked sidelong at Marshall, who was pointedly observing his fingernails. Bobby's hard mouth twitched, washed-out brown eyes narrowing in all that he would allow to show of his anger. For now. He'd been forced to mop up one of Marshall's little… accidents… but the cleanup had gotten out of hand. People had died. The police had caught him. Thankfully, Carter had been able to pull some strings and get him off death row and into an asylum - one, coincidentally, owned by a member of the Club.
The rest had been nice: the days slow and easy, with nothing to do but watch the actual crazies and attend "therapy" sessions that mostly consisted of shooting the shit with other MC&D employees. He'd even gotten laid a few times: there was no shortage of attractive and heavily medicated female "patients" who, if not exactly willing, were not prone to believable protest. Still, he'd known better than to relax. Service to Marshall, Carter, and Dark ended with death alone. He hoped.
“Bobby, you're a busy boy, so I'll not shilly-shally any more," Dark said. "Persons who shall remain nameless have bobbled the ball both on our patch and others. You feel up to hitting the pavement and shoring up our collection?”
“Why are you asking me? I don't have a choice, do I?”
Dark laughed, rising from his chair, waving a hand to Marshall as he crossed to stand in front of Bobby.
“Would you look at this glorious boy?” he chortled, turning and winking at Marshall. “You'd think he was still a cop out in Whitechapel, and me some smuggler who's making him go crooked. No, Bobby, you don't have a choice. Few do, really. You should feel privileged not to have to bear up the weight of those illusions.”
“Oh yes," Bobby said, flatly. "Deeply honored.”
Dark smiled coldly, tilting his head a bit and locking eyes with Bobby. “Do this, and do it well Bobby. You know the stakes, and I always pay well. I'm a man of my word. It's up to you to choose what word it is I keep.”
They stared for a few heartbeats, one dark, one gray, an almost audible tension crackling in the air. Bobby finally straightened, snapping off a salute that might as well have been a middle finger, and turned on his heels, marching out. Dark chuckled coldly, watching the door for several seconds before turning back to his desk.
Marshall spoke up from the depths of the chair, rubbing his eye absently. “He's going to turn on you, you know that.”
“Of course he's going to turn on me. Why the hell else would I keep that grating son of a bitch around?”
Marshall stared at Dark, shaking his head in confusion. Dark lit a black cigar, blowing a thick cloud across the small office. “You know the difference between you, Carter, and me?” Dark asked.
“What's that?”
“Ambition. See, you two lunatics would be more than happy to gut me, kill off your rival, and set yourself as Emperor Of All That Is. Then again, you're both bloody hedonistic bastards. It's in your nature to take all you can get your hands on, and that's both useful and amusing. However, if you rule all that is… what then? How many families can you burn and force into auto-cannibalism before the blush wears off? How long can you bask in the admiration and fear of a planet before it just wafts into the background?”
“I… what…”
“Shut up when the adults are talking, Marshall. I want to enjoy myself, to have some bloody fun, eh? Sometimes that's sitting out in a spring breeze, being served tea warmed on a pretty girl's lap. Sometimes it's watching a child try and scramble around the rabid animals eating their parents. Sometimes it's just eating a really good steak. It's all relative, really. I don't want to crush all reality below my heel… just small, easily observable and touchable parts of it, now and then. I don't have ambition, Marshall, which means my ego will tolerate a threat. I welcome it, really.”
“So… you're just letting him plot against you?”
“Of course I am, you bloody twit! I bloody well helped him along! I was the biggest bastard I could be to him, hurt his loved ones, corrupted his oh-so-sacred morals… It was damned exhausting. Still, it's paying off… I think this is the time, this is it. Can you imagine the thrill of excitement and fear, knowing that someone could lash out, rise up, and generally throw the standard state of things in the fire, at any moment? Makes everything seem… fresher, more clear. Why do you think I insisted the team have those little cameras? When Bobby does finally go, I want to be able to relive it.”
“You're a sick man, Dark.”
“And you're a unimaginative twat, but I don't throw it in your face, now do I? Who do we bloody have on that fox girl? I want a status report within the hour, and I want to know where the hell she's gotten off to even sooner. Now get the hell out of my office.”

"I've got somethin' to say…" the girl hummed, as she picked through the racks of vials on the refrigerator shelf. "I killed your baby today. It doesn't matter much to me as long as it's dead…"
She read the label on one particular vial and smiled. Popping the top off the small glass tube, she threw her head back and drank it down in one gulp, savoring the taste as it went down. She felt the lovely little microbes begin to attack her body, but it was a simple enough matter to calm them down, to get them dancing in harmony with the rest of her little darlings.
"I've got something to say…" she continued, pouring the can of gasoline all over the refrigerator room. "I raped your momma today. It doesn't matter much as long as she spread…"
The body of a white-coated researcher was slumped in his chair bleeding from every orifice: Ebola was not a good way to go. "Sweet lovely death, I'm waiting for your breath," she sang, as she lit a match. "Sweet lovely death one last car-hnnnnngh!"
The last note of her song dissolved into a grunt of pain as ten thousand volts of electricity coursed through her body. She collapsed in a heap, dropping the box of matches and scattering them all over the clean room. She tried to get back to her feet, but a second jolt of lightning sent her crashing back down to the ground.
She tried to reach out with her viruses, to lash out with everything she had, but yet another jolt from the taser broke her concentration. "None of that, my dear," a sonorous voice commanded. Vector was turned roughly onto her back, and looked up into the faces of three people wearing full biocontainment gear. "Sandra, the syringe," the voice continued.
One of the three - a woman - walked forward carrying a small black leather pouch. Vector kicked out at her. The three figures just stepped back, and the one with the taser pressed a button. Another shock of lightning arced through her, and she let out a scream. The man with the taser moved the weapon to his other hand and drew a pistol from a hip holster. "That was one and two," he said, gesturing with the taser. "This is three." He kneeled next to her and placed the muzzle of the gun to her forehead.
Vector lay still, trembling, as the woman pinned her arm under one knee and cut the sleeve of her jacket away with a knife. She tied a rubber hose around her upper arm then expertly drew two large vials of blood. Finally, she inserted a large syringe of… something… into the girl's neck and waited, thumb resting on the plunger.
The third man, who had been watching the operation from the doorway, finally walked forward. He leaned in very close to Vector, and through his hood, she could see that he was an older man, his hair shot with grey, and his face lined with age. "Kevin Spencer," the old man said. "His name was Kevin Spencer."
"W-w-w-who?"
"The man you killed. He risked his life to set you free, and you murdered him. He had a wife and a child. He was a firm believer in the cause. He made the best barbecue ribs I have ever tasted, and you took all of that away from us. And why? To intimidate the others into following you? They would have done so if you had asked. Such a waste."
"F-f-f-fuck you… I d-d-d-d-don't work for y-y-y-y…"
"I know you don't. And I wouldn't dream of forcing you to do so. You are free to do as you wish. But freedom means living with the consequences of your actions. Sandra?"
The old man stepped back. The woman with the syringe leaned forward and showed Vector the two vials of blood. "This one we keep," the woman said, holding up one of the vials. "And this one you'll get back." She tucked the two vials into her suit pocket, then held up an empty glass bottle with a double-circle and arrows logo on it. "We took this from the Foundation when we raided them. Do you know what it is?"
Vector read the label through pain-blurred eyes. "No!" she screamed. "You can't!"
"Easy! Easy!" Sandra said. "Don't do something stupid! Listen… LISTEN TO ME!" she shouted, as Vector began to struggle. "I don't want to kill you, so shut up and LISTEN!"
Vector lay still, trembling. "Listen," Sandra repeated. "You took Kevin from us, so we're taking what you love away too. This is going to flush your body of all those viruses and germs you've been collecting…"
"Please, don't…"
"… but you're going to get back whatever is in that blood. But you only get that back if we feel you've learned your lesson. So if you were thinking about trying to screw us over? You're going to lose everything. Do you understand?"
Vector closed her eyes and nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sandra grimly pressed down on the plunger of the syringe.
Fire ripped through the girl's body, and billions of lives were snuffed out in a cascade of chemical death.
She didn't know when it stopped, or when the dying ended. She was only even vaguely aware when the three monsters in their plastic suits left the room, or when someone lit a fire and burned down the laboratory. She did remember being carried out. She remembered curling up in his arms and weeping into his shoulder, feeling the distant, comforting sensation of the microorganisms in his body, wanting to pull them into her, but knowing that if she did, the flames rippling through her would simply kill them off.
It was just as she was being placed into the back seat of a car that her mind decided it had had enough and decided to cut out. Oblivion overcame her and she embraced it gladly.

"Pull over," Michel ordered.
James pulled the van over to the side of the road, and Michel got out and walked over to a tree. He leaned against it, then vomited noisily into the grass.
"Fuck," Sandra grimaced. She reached for a box with a biohazard label on it taped to the side of the plastic-lined compartment, but was interrupted by the Professor putting a hand over hers.
"Wait here," the old man said. "I'll let you know if you need to worry."
He exited the makeshift quarantine compartment in the back of the van and walked to the side of the road, where Michel was now sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and tears streaming down his face. The Professor sat down next to the big Frenchman and put an arm around his wide shoulders, pulling him close. "I'm sorry," he said, simply. "It needed to be done."
"Did we have to do it like THAT!?" Michel asked. "That was… UGLY… it was…"
"I know," the Professor said. "I know. It was an unpleasant, hideous act to do to another human being. But so was what she did to Kevin. Justice needed to be done. A lesson needed to be taught."
"I'm done," Michel said. "I can't do this any more. Not after that."
The Professor nodded, and hugged the big man again. "You're a good soldier, Michel," he said. "You have fought well for the cause. Go home and be with your loved ones and enjoy the new world you are creating. Thank you for your service."
He helped the big man get to his feet and led him to the van. The rest of the trip passed in silence. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone understood.

She didn't remember much except that it was incredibly unpleasant and incredibly humiliating. On top of the pain of the serum racing through her body, there was the devastating effect it had on a body that had developed an equilibrium with billions of different kinds of lethal microorganisms, as well as many which were nonlethal. The effect on her digestive system alone didn't even bear thinking about.
The worst part where the nightmares. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw demons in white coats and surgical masks wielding syringes full of death. White rooms lit with fluorescent tubes that cast no shadows. A man with no head cut her apart with a scalpel, held the pieces up to the light, then dunked them in a greenish liquid and put them back where they had come from. Grinning midgets with wide mouths full of too many sharklike teeth sat in the rafters and cackled. "You'll never get out. You'll never get out."
The only comfort was when the Angel came. That was how she thought of him, for in her pain-induced delirium, his handsome face seemed suffused in a holy light. The Angel was the one who would wipe away her sweat from her feverish forehead. The Angel was the one who cleaned her up and changed her IVs. He held her hand throughout the worst of the pain, and whispered soft lullabies to her when she whimpered.
In her hour of loneliness, he was her friend, and she loved him for it.

When she finally emerged from her drug-induced delirium, she found herself lying on clean sheets in a soft bed. The sun was shining through a window in the attic room, casting a square of light onto the cheerful flower-print wallpaper. There was a framed cross-stitch on the wall across from her depicting two children playing on the front lawn of a red brick house. "HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS," it read.
She felt empty… drained… alone. For the first time since she could remember, she was a single person, without the familiar warmth of her old friends nestled inside her. She closed her eyes and reached out, calling to her beloved microscopic companions: a virus here, a bacterium there. She called them to her, and they answered, and as they did so, she felt her strength return to her, felt her broken spirit rejuvenating.
The door opened, and a young man wearing an apron over his jeans and t-shirt walked in, carrying a large hot bowl of chicken soup. "Feeling better?" he asked, setting it down by her side. "It's good to see you awake again."
Vector looked up into his face, and she blushed. It was the Angel.
"Don't get up just yet," he said. "Let me check your vital signs first." He sat down next to her and checked her pulse and blood pressure, nodded at the numbers. "Much better," he said.
"How long was I out?" she asked.
"About a week. How are you feeling?" the young man asked.
"Better," Vector said. She twisted the sheets under her fingers tightly, nervously.
"You look better," the young man said kindly. "Is there something I can do for you?"
She felt a familiar taste in the air, and she smiled. "Yes," she whispered. "You can die."
Staphylococcus aureus is a contradictory bacteria. It is constantly present in the environment: on the skin, in the mucus membranes of the nose and throat, in acne. Approximately one in five humans is a carrier and, for the most part, coexist with it in relative peace. However, that same bacteria, which is harmless enough in most places, turns into one of the most virulent and deadly organisms known to man if allowed to infect the wrong tissues. In the skin, it causes necrotizing fasciitis, which literally eats skin and muscle tissue at an alarming rate. In the blood, it causes toxic shock syndrome, which can kill in hours. In spinal fluid, it causes meningitis, which can lead to brain damage and gangrene. In the lungs, pneumonia.
Vector hit him with all of them at once, then boosted the virulence as hard as she could. He was dead within seconds.
She stepped around over his twitching, decaying body and went to the wardrobe in the corner. As expected, all the clothes were some sort of hideous floral print frocks that looked like something a mother from a Norman Rockwell painting would wear. She picked the least disgusting looking one and changed into it, then threw an overcoat on over it. No shoes, but if she could just…
There was a loud crash, and then shouting. Gunfire cracked in bright, staccato beats: the high, bright crack of an assault rifle, underlaid by the lower booming of a shotgun. Then silence.
She ran to the window. There were men outside, wearing black tactical gear, and they were dragging two dead bodies into the back of an unmarked white van. Several more were moving towards the house with the smooth, practiced movements of professional soldiers. A couple more were pushing a nondescript white Toyota Camry off the dock and into a nearby lake: it splashed into the water and quickly sank from view.
The door opened, and a man wearing full hazmat gear, carrying a submachine gun, walked in. He held up a photo and nodded. "It's her."
Another man slung his rifle and drew a pistol, shooting her twice in the chest. She looked down and saw the yellow tassel of a dart sticking from her body, then the drugs took hold, and she passed out.

"This is Bobby. Tell Dark we have her."

Harken woke up around midnight with the distinct feeling there was someone in the room. Then he saw the silhouette standing at his window: the silhouette of a tall man wearing a fedora and long overcoat.
"You must think you're very clever, Mister Harken," the stranger said.
“I… ahh… like to think so, yes.”
"I will admit, your ruse was almost successful."
Harken thought for several seconds about denying it, but didn't see the point. “Only almost?”
"Just so. Let me tell you about the full consequences of your actions, Mister Harken," the stranger continued. "Because of your… tip… the GOC pulled elements from their strike team shadowing the girl known as 'Vector' to investigate the warehouse in question. The strike team was seconds away from breach when the overwatch element recognized the person known as "Boomer." They were barely able to abort the mission before what would certainly have been a costly and fatal mistake."
"Damn. Well, good on them. No harm no foul, I suppose?"
"But there was harm, Mister Harken. Because the GOC diverted elements to the warehouse, they dispatched only two agents to investigate the next likely lead: a farmhouse in Colorado. When they arrived, the agents were ambushed and killed. Shortly afterward, a UAV doing surveillance of the region showed several known employees of Marshall, Carter, and Dark carrying an unconscious female in her mid-twenties to an unmarked vehicle. The female was later confirmed to be the target in question."
Harken felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed hard. "The richies got the germ girl."
"All thanks to your little 'tip,' Mister Harken. All thanks to your little tip." The stranger walked to the bathroom door and waited with one hand on the handle. "Mister Harken. This is a war. You and yours need to seriously consider whose side you are on."
"Yeah? And whose side are you on?" Harken growled.
"You already know the answer to that, Mister Harken," the man said. "I'm on Nobody's side."
He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Harken already knew that by the time anyone else opened that door, it would be empty. He still rose and threw the door open on the cool, tile lined darkness. Not surprising, really.
After all, Nobody could get out of a locked room with only one door.
He sighed heavily, thinking of the report he'd have to file, leaning on the door frame.
“Kramer's never gonna let me hear the end of this.”


It all comes down to names, I think. I mean, if I had had a cool name, maybe I wouldn't be such a bad person. I blame Mom. She could have named us all something interesting. I mean, hell, she even took the name Echidna after she created the four of us. Mother of Monsters, but we always just called her Mom. Enough of a classic Greek education to choose Echidna, but name all four of your kids Jack? That's just re-cock-ulous.
Huh? Oh, you know, re-cock-ulous, even worse than ridiculous? Come on, you knows it's funny. Where was- Oh yeah, the names. Like Joh. That would be Jack of Hearts to you. We all do that, shorten our names, makes it easier. But, yeah, Joh. How much easier would it have been to name him Pan? And Jos, he coulda been, uhm, well Cthulhu, right? I mean, okay, not Greek, but still squidy. And Jackie, you have no idea how much I hate her for the idea of using and i e on to the end of her name, she coulda been Anansi! No, he's not female, but still, it's better than Jack of Diamonds. And me? Hell! I coulda been so many things!Skoll, Hati, Lon Chaney, Larry Talbot, hell I coulda been Fenrir! That's a name to strike fear into people's hearts. Fenrir, the great wolf! I mean, she coulda even just named me Wolf, or Lobo, and it woulda been awesome.
And of course, the Kings and Queens all get named after famous ones. And the others… Okay, maybe the Deuces have it worse. No real identity to speak of. Even then, Deuce sounds cool, right? 'Who are you?' 'They call me Deuce.' That's a guy you wanna watch yer back around. Well, and the Joker doesn't have a name, but the old man is creepy. Where was I? Oh right! Coulda been anything, hells I'd have taken Loup-Garou!
But no. I'm the mother fucking Jack of Clubs. Or, Joc, as my siblings call me. Makes me feel like I should be french or something. I blame Mom. And the good Doctor. Hmm? The Good Doctor? It's what we always called him, cause he used so many different names, all the god damn time. I think you guys know him as Dr. Prometheus. Fire bringer my ass. Guy just likes to fiddle, with fucking EVERYTHING. Which was why he put up with Mom, I suppose. What he could do with inanimate objects, she could do with DNA. Mix this, match that, put it in her womb, BAM, self continuing lineage. With some really fucked up specific needs for procreation.
Ah, yeh, now we're getting to the stuff you want, aren't we? Yeah, we each have to meet specific challenges in order to pass on our seed. Joh needs them to trust him. Jos needs to know them intimately, without them ever knowing him. Jackie only goes for rapists who love her. Me? I need consent. They need to tell me it's okay, before I can work my magic. Gotta think I'm one of them.
It's harder than you think. I don't exactly look normal, y'know? I'm big, and burly, and I exude this whole 'predator' scent or something. Most of the girls have a sorta prey instinct to them, so a big hungry predator walking up and saying 'Hey, wanna bone?' just doesn't work. I gotta be subtle. Disguise my scent. That's what the skin is for. I wrap myself in the skin of someone they knew, and it's like, bam, he doesn't look so bad. Ok, so I like 'em dumb. Works better, yeah? Maybe a little of it is my own special magic, so they don't notice I'm wearing a butchered carcass.
Not that they matter to me much after I do the dirty deed. My little babies get born hungry. No, I'm not much a loving parent. None of us are. But my little cubs can survive on their own. Instinct, yeah?
Oh, yeah, that last girl. God, she was sexy. Beautiful eyes like limpid pools of moonlight. Soft, black hair, all curly and nice. Such beautiful full lips. Oh, I knew from the moment I saw her, I had to have her. I knew she'd be perfect for one of my little babies. It took a while. I'm not used to finding such perfect girls, usually I have to hunt over hill and under dale to find such a sweet thing.
So, I lured one of her little friends away, the friend wasn't as cute as my babe. Lure her off with the promise of a good time, maybe a nice meal. Not a bad sort, very trusting. But, I broke her neck anyways, before she could utter a single peep. I skinned her. I've always been good at such things. Natural claws, y'know? Anyways, simple enough to wrap this girls skin around me, like a cloak. Totally worked. I got close to my babe, my beautiful girl. Took about a week, of just, hanging around, and she got comfortable with me.
Then I worked my magic. A nudge here, a comment there, and, before you know it, she was ready. all I needed was the word. She looked up at me, with those big brown eyes, and said what I'd been waiting to hear.
She said 'Baaaaa.'


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Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
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I suppose you're wondering why I do it? Why I did it? Why we all… I'm sorry. It just hurts, you see. But it'll be better soon, I'm sure.
She was special. Oh, they're all special. But this last one… she was different. Her eyes, they gleamed. Her smile, it made me think of angels. I knew, knew she would take my special gift, and maybe more. The others had been alright, but this one…
I met her in Bangkok. We were playing… I don't remember what we were playing. I barely knew the rules. We had been randomly matched as team mates, versus these two ugly cross dressers. Despite my disadvantage, we kept winning, hand after hand. Eventually, we introduced ourselves to each other. Turned out her name was Jacqueline. I couldn't help but laugh. "Bet this is the first time two Jacks beat a pair of Queens!" She laughed. Even the old man dealing the cards laughed. It was love!
Well, from my end, it was love. From her end… I had to fight, to get her attention. She was so beautiful. I've never been much of a fan of Asians, y'know, despite being stuck over here. But everyone knew how beautiful she was. She could walk down a street in a burlap sack, and heads would turn. Gorgeous, long black tresses, beautiful emerald eyes. She had dozens of male suitors.
I just kept coming back. Made sure I was there when she needed me. Some of my friends, those who do what I do, they just rush things. Y'know? Jump a girl, do what they want, and leave. That's not for me. There's gotta be some emotion there, there's gotta be some kind of love. She felt the same way.
Nine months, it took. Nine months of… dating? Yes, dating. After a while, she got used to me being there. Invited me to dinner. We talked, about so many things. Never once did she ask me back up to her place. She was a good girl, a clean girl. So very, very clean.
Nine months, and that's when she did me the honor. She told me she thought we were finally close enough, that she knew me well enough to trust me. They always trust me, in the end. I've done it so many times…
So there we were, naked before each other, touching, kissing, caressing, and the things she did to me… She barely had to touch me, y'know? She could just look at me, and sigh, and it was, orgasmic. But we fucked too. Fucked EVERYWHERE! I came, and came again, and she… enjoyed herself. In the end, there we were, laying on the bed, and I was ready to do my thing, when she starts moaning on top of me. I'm used to girls moaning, but she just… it wasn't sexual. It was like what we were doing hurt, but she couldn't stop it. I reached out, and she caught my hands. So strong, I think I still have bruises. Then her entire body tensed, locking me down hard inside her.
That's when I felt it crawling inside me. However she does what she does, it crawled right down my shaft. Hurt like a bugger, like I was being torn apart from the inside, like what I had wanted to do to her. I screamed. Heaven help me, I screamed like a little girl, and passed out.
When I woke up, she'd left me a message. Told me I was going to be a father. I can feel them, now, you know. All three of my sweet little babies, crawling around inside a sac in my belly. They're getting so big. Doc says they're healthy, eight limbs and all. Gonna rip their way out of their daddy soon, yes they are. I'm proud to be my little babies' first meal.
Hey. I won't be around to raise them. Take care of my girls, would you?
██/██/2011 SCP-952-Gamma 1, 2, and 3 taken into Foundation custody. Agents in Asia are to be on the lookout for SCP-952-Gamma, using the alias 'Jackie of Diamonds.'


The box had arrived in Site 17, and been accepted as an object worthy of containment. Its sender had been correct that it could not be opened from the outside, at least, not by them. Nor could they see what was actually inside it. Like any hunt, the best way to appeal to prey was via their hunger or curiosity. The box was an appeal to both.
The trap, however, had sprung too soon. The thing inside, bought and trained at disgusting expense, had proven impatient. Even more, it had also proven unable to see its quarry with as much clarity as they had been led to believe. At least it'd had the sense to slither back in and wait, but their hand had been tipped. Still, he was not a man to throw out a tool, no matter how inappropriate. The time would come again, even if it was not the one they had hoped for.

Mr. Dark tapped a hard nail against his thin teeth, thinking. The greatest opportunity for acquisitions in years, and it was all going tits-up. Their old doll, Kramer, was finally out of the toybox. In the wrong hands, yes, but her random lethality and crippled psyche could still tip against those same hands. That twit Scud had been mopped up, finally. He'd stopped being useful months ago, and the expenditures could now be routed to better purpose, but it still rankled. More troubling, Cutridge had somehow fallen prey to that fat lush Harken at the worst possible time.
Incompetence everywhere. Lack of vision. Even worse, pure profit being flushed down the sewer by the hour. The kumiho had escaped, and none of his people were even looking for it? A gorgeous, deadly creature, able to change form and slaughter at will… what could be done with that lean and hungry spirit once it was properly brought to heel? Recording options alone could cover a good portion of this budget hemorrhage.
Dark's lips curled in a wintery, predatory smile. He played with a pen, doodling blasphemy as he looked over a small spray of photos on his desk. He lifted one, depicting a hulking brute with a bag head, blurry and unaware of the observation… or uncaring. The Bagman had been content to do its own business for some time now, rising from time to time to devil those witless enough to still hold to magic and faith. Rogue, yes, dangerous, yes, but sometimes a mad dog was better then no dog at all. Perhaps others should be made aware of its "usefulness." No need to mention the absolute disdain for authority and control.
Dark hated to travel. He had not enjoyed any of his visits to the States since helping that Anderson fellow set up his factory. Too bad Anderson was gone; HE wouldn't have let things get out of control like this, or at the bloody least, gleaned a profit from it. He prepared a note to Marshall and Carter. They would not be pleased – they liked Dark out of day-to-day operations as much as he wished to stay out of them, warmly ensconced in The Museum. Still his best "purchase" to date, regardless of the undying animosity of The Library and its parasites. Still, sometimes it was required to stir the ashes, remind everyone of what their damn jobs were. They were here to provide wonders beyond limit for their discerning club members.
It was about bloody time to cause some wonder.
He snatched up a glossy black phone headset, punching numbers and causing a distant phone to ring. Dark sighed, tapping fingers on the smooth dome of a yeti skull. Finally the other end picked up, and he shifted forward, starting to scribble.
"Were you off for a bloody coffee break, Cheryl? So sorry to upset your routine, but I need the New York club notified to have my rooms ready within the hour. I'll be flying out shortly, have Mr. McCreedy ready up a ten-man team for quick action, have Bobby head it up."
"… What? Why the bloody, bloody hell was he committed? … Really? That's tragic, Cheryl, but that's no reason to take him off active roll. Get him loose and cleaned up and over to the club immediately. I'm going to get this goddamn rubbish back on track manually, and I want him right on the point."
"… That's a good girl, Cheryl. Oh, and one more thing, dearie. Call Boomer, and have him blow a little kiss to Agent Harken. He's thumbed his sodding nose at us a bit too much, it's time he knows that we have taken notice."
He hung up, leaning back and looking up to the bust of Caligula over the door. Mr. Dark smiled with true warmth, tapping his lips. That dear boy Boomer… not the sharpest razor in the apple, but a sweet lad all the same. He had the rather useful opinion that anything worth doing was worth doing with massive property damage. Inelegant, yes, but the idea of Harken burning or splattering in his bed was enough to warm even Mr. Dark's pinched heart.

Carter was waiting on the tarmac when Dark's jet landed. Various attendants, along with the New York club director were ranked behind him, every one of them with the same strained, nervous smile. Nothing good ever came from Mr. Dark visiting the States. It immediately put him in poor humor at the best of times, and with things as they were right now…
Carter repressed a shiver as the door slowly opened. Two tiny Asian attendants (identical female twins) scrambled out, carrying a cigar case and a opened umbrella. Next was Dark's longest-running secretary Cheryl, looking harried but still hard as a iron wrecking ball.
And then the puppeteer himself, Mr. Dark, elegantly shabby, like a bitter old owl, snapping at everyone in reach, hitting his attendants with the tip of his cane when they fell so much as a step behind. Staff swarmed to the jet to get his voluminous luggage as Dark snatched up a cigar, the attendant ready with the match almost before he had it in his mouth. He turned, and caught sight of Carter standing at attention. He turned and faced him, a thick cloud of smoke pouring slowly from his nostrils. Carter stiffened, swallowing thickly.
Oh shit, here we go.
Dark crossed in a haze of smoke. Behind him, an unlucky porter dropped a heavy steamer trunk of luggage with a loud crash. "Fire him," Dark said, without breaking stride. Carter felt some of the tension leave him. Dark was in a good mood: the last man to damage one of his possessions had been shot in the head.
All too soon he was there, glaring up at Carter, the thick and oddly spicy smell of his cigars curling around him like strangling hands. "Well, so good to see you, old boy," he said. "The way things have been I'd assumed you were dead."
"It's nice to see you too, Dark. No need to be snide."
"Oh, but I feel there is, my good man. You see, I give you and Marshall all the rope you need, and it seems you've made a noose, put it around your own necks, and are ready to jump off the bloody chair with it. You're letting these bastards run circles around you, and you're ignoring it because everything is all right at the club. Just because the fire hasn't reached the back yard yet doesn't mean it's not still on the way.” He hissed, pulling deeply on his cigar and glaring.
"I understand that Dark, we've just been forced to move a little slower because of the publicity. I have a team-"
"Oh, bugger your team. Who do you have, Finnegan and that twat Logan on it? It is, isn't it? Those two wastes of tissue aren't worth the air they breathe. I've got a ten-man staging now, and I'm putting Bobby on this."
"Bobby?" Carter almost gasped, eyes wide. "Isn't that a little… much? I mean, think of the Thanksgiving incident, I'm not sure if he's comp-"
"Oh sod off, you twit, Bobby's on this now, and I want your fat fingers out of it. A fox girl who can shape-shift into any desire or dalliance is running around free, and you've sat. A woman who can cause or end any sickness is strutting about like a goddamn starlet, and you've twiddled your thumbs. You begged me to be here, Carter, your silence screamed to me again, and I'm going to handle things for you."
"Dark, goddammit, enough wi-"
Dark smiled then, and Carter didn't feel nervous or angry anymore. He was afraid. That was a smile of a man who knew too much about you, who was fumbling your dirty secrets about in his dirty head. Dark slid closer, his cold hand pulling Carter down to look him in the eye, close enough to kiss.
"You called me before, Carter, and I fixed things then too. I've always done right by you, dearie, even if I am a bit… gruff. So tell me, sweetheart, do you have something to say?"
"…"
"I asked if you had any opinion to express, Carter."
"… none at all, Mister Dark."
"That's a good lad." Dark released him then, patting his chest. "Have the girls draw a bath for me, I need a cup of coffee and I have to piss." He steamed away in a haze of smoke, throwing the lit cigar at a staff member who he felt was moving too slowly. Carter watched, breathing slowly with effort. Now, win, lose or draw, he'd been benched. Dark was calling the shots now, he'd been pushed aside, like a child who'd been playing in the kitchen. There was no telling what Dark would do now… there was so much to collect.

"This is Kramer."
"Hey, sweetie. Are you still at the store?"
"I am going to punch you in the throat. No, I'm on the way back."
"Can you get me a burger and a cup of coffee? The machine at the hotel doesn't have shit in it."
"Harken, are you drunk?"
"No, no, no… well, maybe, why, do I sound drunk? I was drunk last night I think, does that count?"
"Damn it Harken, you need to be lucid."
"Oh come on, I'm as lucid as I ever am. You were gone for two days, what am I supposed to do to keep amused? A man can only masturbate so much."
"Sweet lord, Harken, sober the hell up fast. If you're like this when I get there, I'm getting a transfer. After I beat you senseless."
"Oh stop… get me food, please? Please? No booze for the rest of the week, I swear."
"It's Saturday, Harken."
"Oh… well, for a while then, OK? I'm really… Kramer, I need to go."
"What? What the hell is going on?"
"There's a fat man with no shirt yelling in the parking lot, and he said my name."
"Harken, wh-"
He hung up without looking at the phone, eyes glued to the fat man on the ground floor. The hotel was a big, cheap horseshoe-shaped building on four levels. He'd gone to the third floor on the opposite side to hunt for snacks (and, ideally, medication for his throbbing head), and had an excellent view of his hotel room on the ground floor. The big man with no shirt was standing in front of the door to Harken and Kramer's hotel room. Harken leaned on the railing, squinting in the sun and watching with more amusement then fear.
The big man hammered at the door, then stepped back. He was rather fat, long hair, scraggly beard… he looked like he'd had a rough go at life… missing three fingers on his left hand, too. Something about him rang a bell, somewhere. The fat man laughed, then yelled in a strained voice.
"Wakey Wakey, Harken! Mr. Dark sends his love!"
Mr. Dark? As in MC & D? As in the people-
Why would this slob know about th-
Missing three fingers.
Seemed unstable.
Boomer.
FUCK.
Harken tried to take cover, but the exposed walkways offered nothing for protection. The fat man pressed a small device in his hand, and the entire left side of the hotel vanished in a oily black explosion. The walkway, held up by little more then rusty bolts and hope, dropped with a shrieking crash, taking Harken with it. He screamed, trying to find something soft to hit in the kaleidoscope of concrete and metal. He failed, crashing to the ground flat, most likely cracking several ribs, plus a few other things he would have preferred uncracked.
He lay there, the wind knocked out of him, groaning and slowly trying to turn over. He didn't have to, as a meaty hand grabbed and hauled him up like a side of beef. He was suddenly looking into Boomer's sweaty, giggling face as he gripped Harken's now-bloody shirt. Boomer smiled and giggled more, then smashed his thick, stupid skull into Harken's face. It was like being hit by a car.
"Huh. I knew you'd be here, Harken, I knew it. Mister Dark never tells me wrong, Harken. Do you feel bad, Harken? You look bad, Harken. Huh."
Harken was working on something witty when Boomer's fleshy fist smashed into his cheekbone. He moaned, feeling his eye already starting to swell, ears still ringing from the blast. Boomer slapped him twice. Each hit was like getting hit with a cutting board wrapped in a thin layer of padding.
"Mister Dark wants me to tell you to stop it, Harken. He says that you're being too mean and need to stop it, Harken. You got lucky, but if you keep it up he's gonna kill you dirty and slow, Harken. Huh. Heh. He's so mad at you, Harken. I think I'll kill you, Harken, and make Mister Dark happy with me. OK?"
Boomer followed up this with another fist to his face, then his throat, making Harken gasp and croak, trying to wheeze down breath. Over the ringing in his ears was an even more annoying and lovely sound… sirens. Boomer heard them too, swearing breathlessly as he pounded out a few more meaty hits, finally spitting in his face and knocking his head on the blacktop.
"You have a good day, Harken. Huh. Be seeing you later."
He rose and ran off, leaving Harken pounded and bloody on the ground. It seemed like hours later, but finally someone came and started fussing over him. He could feel the heat from the burning hotel, the throbbing of his own bruised and smashed flesh. Not just beaten, no, but beaten by that giggling retard Boomer. He was almost unsure what hurt more, his ego or his body.
Someone he couldn't see washed his face, swabbing away blood and grime.
"What the hell happened?"
Harken smiled painfully, trying to laugh through pulped ribs.
"Man, I just got here myself."

Kramer drove too fast, looking in the rear-view mirror every few minutes. Harken looked like a man who'd rode inside a cement mixer full of gravel. He moaned occasionally, turning over in his deep, drugged sleep.
She'd seen the explosion just as she pulled off the freeway and realized something had gone wrong. Getting to the hotel wasn't hard: she'd fought the urge to speed there and proceeded to the site at a normal pace. Upon seeing the flashing lights, she'd driven on past. Kramer had parked in an alleyway a mile up the road, waited for more people to respond, readied her FBI credentials and twisted her face to match. After a reasonable delay, she'd threaded her way in, drifting to the ambulances with random flash of ID here and there.
Getting Harken out had been more difficult. She'd been forced to create a distraction. Just a little disconnected heart monitor in another ambulance, enough to make the focus shift. She'd piggy-backed him out through the still-smoking rubble, tossing him into the back seat of her car with as much grace as she could muster.
No way Harken could go to a civvie hospital. Grims was already in the wind, the last thing they needed was another Agent in public hands. Site 46 was close, and had full medical facilities: a bit far, but Harken was tough as a cockroach (despite his near-constant whining). He turned over with a groan, waving a hand feebly. “Jesus, I feel like ass.”
"You don't look much better."
"I'm hurt… aren't you obligated… to be nice… to me?"
"No."
Harken hissed in pain and pressed a hand to his forehead "…it was that… tubby bitch… Boomer… Dark's private… dog. Oooh, shit…" Harken rolled over and vomited. There were flecks of blood in it. "He blew the room… moron… thought I… was in it."
"Shut up. We'll be on-site soon."
"…hey, Kramer?"
"…yeah?"
"How about… we leave the… rich boys… alone… for a bit? Go… fuck around… with the Hand… or the Insurgency… or some shit?"
"Before or after we carve up Boomer like a flabby ham?"
"Oh." Harken's blood-flecked lips curved up into a feral grin. "After… obviously."


The One Who Devours Souls arrives in the bleak, gray hours of the morning, when all good men lie afearing their beds. He (for it is a he, though the strange raiments it wears, and the viscous fluids in its hair make its sex vague) steps from his carriage, a cursed device made for kings in distant lands and bought by the persecution of righteous men, and walks, measured and even as old age, to the threshold, where he strikes the door but thrice. He calls my name, and chills run down my spine, as though death itself were upon me. Death would, in fact, be a blessing, compared to the torment this creature intends for me.
I shake my head, but he strikes three times again, and says my name. I quail in my chair, staring bleakly at the place she once sat beside me, before the doom befell me. Three times again, and paid for all. Thrice three, and I am compelled to rise, to unbolt the door, and let the creature in.
He takes my hand in his, his grip like a leech's. My hand falls back to my side, my strength gone. I fall back to my seat, and he takes the other. The place where she once sat. Does he know? He must. He knows all that is in my house, from attic to basement, room to room. There is little that could have escaped his notice. His lists.
He speaks and his voice is like unto the droning of insects, and I can feel a burning madness in my mind. How could his voice have beguiled others so? And yet it had, for what other explanation could there be? How else could my situation, once so full of fortune, have turned to Jobian loss and regret? The words, it was his words! Nothing left his mouth that was not carefully selected, the words placed one after the other like the stones of a wall, seeming so innocuous until you noticed the traps he had lain, and then it was too late.
He lifts the container at his side, and places it reverently on the table, like an idol placed just so before a sacrifice is laid screaming on the altar. The latches are opened with an ominous click, and from the darkness thus revealed, he pulls out several documents, their words arcane and their meanings as treacherous as a pit of vipers.
"Read," he commands. I try, knowing how much is at stake, knowing that one missed word will ruin me, even beyond the state I find myself in, but my mind can make no sense of the twisted sentences. I read, and re-read, and can no more tell you what I see than I can recall the vows I once made to her. Finally, I give up. My eyes hollow, I stare up at him, searching for some trace of humanity in that dead visage, some remnant of charity or pity. He returns my gaze, and I look away, unable to meet those cold, reptilian eyes.
"Sign here," he says, gesturing to a line. I find a pen in my hand, though I cannot recall having picked it up. Numbly, as though I were only watching it happen, as though I were not an active participant, I sign my name in an unsteady script. More lines are singled out for my name, my one true name, and so I give him power over me.
"Thank you, Mister Johnson," he says, picking up the briefcase. "Your ex-wife will be expecting the first alimony check no later than thirty days. Good day."


Right, Kyle, here's those notes you asked for. Keep in mind, hush protocol seven means the investigation is still ongoing, so some of the stuff isn't released yet. Best I could do. Good luck.
~Nate

The following is a transcript of the voice over from a pirate television broadcast intercepted by the Foundation in September of 2011.

Male voice: One zero zero five. Two one two. Six four six. Nine one seven.
Short pause, soft beep, brief static which continues through the remainder of the interruption
Second male voice: People of the new media world, listen! There was a mouth that was where all that was on the media was and it spoke and we heard it was speaking and we heard its voice on the radio, the television, the internet, the sky. "Tell us truth," we cried, "oh voice, and we will break the world like sweet, sweet eggs before the mother, the hen, the television! Television voice, speak!" It spoke to us and we listened as it told us- told you- but us, because we listened- that the world was dead like leaves in fall that fall like all of us fall, and that it was dead because it slept through the message of the voice, and that message was "stop!". Wake, oh earth, as your cores crack, hatching volcanoes like chicks, sweet burning chicks to play in the fields left behind when the sleepers have gone. Good morning, living earth. Good night, dead society.
<Extended pause, rattling inhalation or sigh>

Female voice: Are we cool yet?

The broadcast consisted of man hanged by the neck in a doorway softly twisting as the camera moved closer, at which point it became clear that he was mouthing along with the voice over. At approximately one minute and forty seconds, synchronized with the line "good night, dead society", the man began thrashing, apparently due to asphyxiation, and appeared to die. Throughout the video, at each instance of the word 'voice', an image of a bank of televisions, each showing a different image of violence, appeared on screen for exactly one second. Following the apparent death of the hanged man, a female voice interjected the whispered question "Are we cool yet?" in what is theorized to be an imitation of sexual ecstasy, and the broadcast terminated. Regular channel broadcasting resumed after a momentary delay, cutting approximately three minutes from the opening scenes of Ses[FURTHER INFORMATION REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]

Overwatch Report of agent Scott Manheilm:

After one of our intelligence persons operating in [DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]zed the numbers as postal codes for Wall Street addresses, it got a lot easier to hone in on a point of origin for the transmission jam last week.

We raided the building at approximately six in the morning. It was a bit before that, I'm not sure. It should be in the full report compiled after the incident. It was a small operation, not like the big SWAT style MTF things you hear about in the cafeteria or anything, just me, Steve [Mader], and Mike [Chillnoski] posing as local detectives. We were expecting maybe a token resistance from the squatters, nothing fancy.

First thing we did was break the door down, flashing badges and yelling. We figured they'd come quietly. Didn't happen. Almost immediately a hand grenade comes down the stairs at us; we spent a couple days under observation afterward just in case it was one of… well, I'll get to that. Mike took down the guy who threw it, damn good shooting. After that, things went more or less as we'd expected. Wound up bringing in four subjects, three guys and a girl, all mid twenties. They're profiled in the mission docs, I'm sure. Just squatter artist types, locals. Probably recruited thro[DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]ging in a door frame upstairs pretty much confirmed it as the transmission location. Nasty.

Anyway, I'll cut to the chase. The reason this operation became such a big deal is what we found upstairs. Not the body, but the crate in the next room… We figured they were just normal grenades at first, what with the one they tried to hit us with when we came in, but Steve had a bad feeling about the writing on the crate and those signs, so we boxed them up and called in an analysis team. Wound up being a good move; I think Steve got a commendation.
[FURTHER MATERIAL REDACTED FOR BREVITY.]

Transcript from the notes of Dr. Tsung regarding incident 1[REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]
Crate appears unmarked on sides, bottom. Large banner style logo on lid reading "Are We Cool Yet?" may prove significant, particularly in light of recent events. Crate contains thirty cardboard signs, each apparently produced by hand with varying degrees of artistic merit and style, all of which read "OSSIFY WALL STREET" in all caps. Ominous.
Below the signs is a layer of packing material. I've submitted a sample for forensic analysis and incinerated the rest in order to avoid possible contamination. The packing material is wrapped around several modified fragmentation grenades which look to have been originally of russian manufacture. Weld seams visible where grenades [unintelligible] modified payload. I'll crack one open and see.
Addendum 1[REDACTED PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN] of Dr. Tsung has been retained for study in the Hazardous Lifeforms wing of Armed Research Site-45. Further information can be found in Report-439-A.

Thanks Nate. These Foundation types catch on slow, don't they? They don't seem to appreciate our work much, either. Art tends to fly right over the head of tough guy types. Good thing they have a few like you in their ranks who can appreciate true creativity.
A few of the others say hi. Remember Miley from the thing in Alaska? She's made a full recovery and will be helping out at our next… exhibition. Are We Cool Yet?
~Kyle


Warning: If you enjoyed the way Ecce Perago ended, then read no further. If you enjoy the thought of a grimdark Foundation, or have a low tolerance for quirkiness, this may not be the story you want to be reading. If, on the other hand, you'd like to see the New Administrator get what he has coming to him, then, read on.
Fifteen minutes was all it had taken. In fifteen minutes, the world had changed, even if no one had noticed. The Administrator looked upon his work, and was proud. His seniors had always disliked his ideas. They all believed that free will was some grand idea. Only the Administrator knew that people were stupid. They needed to be led, to be guided. He was the one to do it now, with all this power at his fingertips.
All this power. They say absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Enh. Close enough, for Foundation work. The Administrator grinned beneath his mustache as he set to work, implementing changes that would bring the world into a more ordered state. Little did he know, that his plans were not the only plans out there. The Foundation planned for everything. Even a rogue O5.
13
All of his plans had been built off one assumption, one purposeful lie. The O5 who had recruited him told him there was no O5-13. That the 13th vote was transferred from one O5 to another, which was true. The 13th O5 held no temporal power. While he was often invited to listen in on Overseer council meetings, and many of the council members treasured his advice, he had never been the most… stable of people.
You see, the 13th O5 made his home at a site that was not quite a site. While those who had been to it saw nothing unusual about it, Site 67 was on none of the Foundation's official books. It was an SCP, a quite powerful one, and one known as a 'little black box.' No number, just a name. The House. The easiest way to hide something is in plain sight. So, a natural landmark was built around it, and those who had to visit it were given to believe it was just another SCP.
The 13th was a special man. To survive in the House, one had to be. After all, time inside this SCP was a little unusual. If one were to use popular culture references, one might employ the phrase 'Timey Wimey Ball.' Inside the House, Cause did not often follow effect, and could quite easily loop into each other. So, the 13th had to be different, had to be able to think in more dimensions than the average man. This, of course, resulted in him being, by our standards, not altogether there.
"I think you might be starting to bore people. This is a lot of background to get through."
… Of course, when one spends a lot of time using one's mind to explore all manner of eldritch horror and power, one sometimes gets confused as to whether the room one is in has three walls, or four. So, instead of trying to explain, let's just see what happens.
"Thank you," the 13th says, to no one specific. Few are those who would enter his office. Site 67 doesn't get many visitors. He is a tall man, red haired, pale skinned, but no freckles. His office walls are lined with book shelves, and even more books somehow stay in place in their shelves on the ceiling. A simple old computer sits on his desk, an Apple IIe, still looking pristine and new. He is currently engrossed in the reports of the latest (from his point of view) exploration into his house, when a red light blinks on his screen.
"What's all this then? Ah, yes, the Mann takeover," he mutters to himself. He happens to mutter to himself a lot. Sometimes, he is even still in the room when he mutters to himself. Sometimes, he mutters back. It helps. "I thought I still had another week before that happened." His fingers fly across the keyboard, reading the reports as they file in. "Ah, yes, interesting. Full TPK. Well, almost full. Ha. Should have taken some time to find out more, Mann. Always were too eager. Well, let's see what we can do about this." This comment appears directed to the old man standing by his door, who seems to still be holding his gardening shears.
There were always fail safes in the Foundation. Each and every O5 always had a dozen or so on hand, ready just in case. Mann had found out the ones that protected the O5s, but he hadn't learned about the replacement protocols.
Which was what the 13th initiated, with a few clicks of his mouse.
12
"Is he… is he dead?" The nameless assistant, whom we'll now call Tim, for the ease of narration, peered through the doorway, watching. He had grabbed the first agent he saw, once his mind had cleared.
"A'yup." Agent Lament made a show of checking the corpse's pulse, then leaned back on his heels. "Y'can sorta tell by the big gaping hole where his jaw and chest should be." Lament pulled off the former Overseer's glasses, curious to see who might be behind them. No one he recognized. But, then, he wouldn't.
"Well, agent, I-" Tim paused, his eyes glazing over. After all, O5-4 wasn't the only one who could plant commands in people's minds. "By the authority vested in me, whomsoever takes the glasses from his body shall be named O5-12 in his place. Agent Lament, you were never the first choice, but you are still capable of what we need. I hope." Tim slumps, his jaw sore. "I… what… did I just make you…?"
Lament can't help but smile. Overseer was never actually a goal of his, but, since it was offered…
"Well. Maybe I can't do a better job than this poor soul. But at least I-"
He slips on the sunglasses.
"Can hold my alcohol."
11
Clef sat back, staring at the dead body. O5-11 had been a good friend, once upon a time. Eleven, or, as he had been known back then, Jings, had been the agent who had trained Clef, when he first joined up. When Jings got promoted, Clef had hoped the old man would change things. They had made plans, had talked things over. They would do great things, with Jings in the place to make things better!
But nothing had changed. Oh sure, at first, Eleven made things better, eased some restrictions on the Safe humanoids. But he didn't let any of them go, as they'd talked about. He didn't ease up on the D-class deaths. Eventually, he became just another Overseer, grinding down anyone who tried to make things better.
Mann might not be the best choice to take over, but at least he'd follow his plan.
Ha! Like Clef would let anyone else take over. The only person in this world you could trust, was yourself. Clef reached over to the body of his dead friend, and slipped off the man's bracelet.
"If there were a move past Checkmate, I'd say that. But for now, let's just say I win." He slips the bracelet onto his own wrist. "I always win."
10
Some transfers of power were epic. Some were quite interesting. In Ten's case, it was a simple matter of an email marked 'Urgent' showing up in the inbox of one Dr. Moose. She took a moment to read the contents, then sighed as she rolled her eyes. "Really? Me, an O5? Fuck a doodle."
9
O5-9 was the unluckiest O5.
Dr. Bright glanced down at his cell phone, and made a face. "Fuck. Nine got himself offed again?" He tapped his fingers together, and frowned over them. There was no one on site currently who fit the specifi— No, wait. There was one. Yes. Two birds, one stone. "Joshua!" He called to his secretary. "Tell Agent Elroy to meet me at the elevators."
A few minutes later, the doctor and the Agent were riding down the main shaft together. Bright stared determinedly at the numbers as they ticked down, towards the bottom of the site. Yoric, on the other hand, fidgeted, hummed, and otherwise made himself annoying. It was his gift. Finally, he could contain himself no longer. "Look, Jack, if this is about the cafeteria incident-"
"It's not about that."
"Ah, then feeding Kane peanut butter, look, it was really funn-"
"Not that either."
"That girl told me she was 18!"
"… That excuse never worked for me either. Yoric. You are being let in on a secret several steps above your current security level. So, shut up, and do what I tell you."
The rest of the ride continues in silence. If he had been any other doctor, he might have worried about what he was planning on doing. But Jack had stopped making emotional connections to his fellow workers. He knew it always ended badly.
The elevator drew to a halt at the bottom of the site… and then proceeded to move sideways for some time. Yoric shot a questioning look at the Senior Staffer, but chose not to ask. It wasn't until the elevator doors slid back to reveal a sign on another door that he actually spoke. "Nine Six Three Two? Wait, there's more of you?"
Jack opened the door, and stepped inside. The room was small, a large window showing the room beyond, in which a box rested on a pedestal. "Yoric. This is very important. I need you to go into that room, and open that box, and bring me back the object within." He sighed. "I've been authorized to give you the 006 you've requested if you do so."
Cautious, but optimistic, Agent Yoric Elroy passed into the next room. Dr. Bright locked the door behind him, then turned to the window to watch. 963-2 had always been his dirty little secret. It was his fault it had been created. Yoric carefully opened the box, and, when nothing jumped out at him, carefully reached out a gloved hand to pick up the odd metal symbol inside. "This the ARGH!" The agent screamed in horrible pain as his body was grabbed by an invisible force. His bones, his flesh, his entire body was wrenched, this way and that. Bright stood watching, hands clasped behind his back. This was what you got when working with inferior materials. Well. It didn't matter. In a few minutes, Yoric would be completely gone, never to be seen again. And his body would rise as O5-9, the Overseer who thought he could be immortal. Bright would have to bring him up to speed. One of the problems of 963-2: it had only copied the memories up to the point of Nine's first death. It didn't matter.
After all, O5-9 was the unluckiest O5.
8
Desiree Talleh walked into the O5's apartment as if she owned the place. She had always had a habit of being in the right place, at the right time. And now? She was going to be in the right place, at the right time, to end up an O5.
Desiree was a young looking girl, of African descent, her hair done up in cornrows, looking at the world through coke bottle glasses. She opened the door to the bathroom, and reached in to turn off the water with an oven mitt. She stared at the remains of Eight with some distaste. Ick. Overseer soup. Still. Miss Talleh reached her hand into the muck, fishing around for the little ring. It was her choice to become Eight, and if anyone wanted to stop her, well, she'd been planning this for a lot longer than they had. She wasn't afraid to call on help from friends in scaly places.
"Me and Clef as O5s? What is the Foundation coming to? Next they'll be asking 343 to join." And she giggles, at some private joke.
7
Dr. Gerald looked down at the burning wreckage of his vehicle. The flames could easily be seen for miles around, pieces of the car spread across the upper third of the road he'd been driving on. He turned his hand this way and that, studying the ivory chopstick driven through the middle of his hand. "Huh. Guess this means I'm an Overseer now, huh?"
He glanced down, studying the ground far below. "Now if only I could get out of this tree."
6
Black looked at what he had wrought, and the corner of his eye twitched, just a little bit. His mentor, and his partner, both dead by his hand. It shouldn't have been this way. He was supposed to have given his life for Six. Thompson was too good to die like a chump. But this was how it had happened. All he could do was move on.
The first step was to remove Six's hat and pistols. They weren't special, but they meant something to Black. The pearl handled pistols were tucked into his belt, the hat placed jauntily upon his head. Then, carefully, reverently, Black picked up the cane. "This will not stand. You shall be avenged."
5
"I feel like goddamn Dorothy," Sorts muttered as he pulled the shoes off the body of O5-5. "Really? Shoes? Who makes an object of authority out of damned shoes?" He frowned, studying them closer. "Okay, these really feel kind of wei- HOLY SHIT it's human skin."
He pauses, thinking over his statement. "That shouldn't actually surprise me. The midgets… they surprise me. Fuck, I hate these cameos."
As he stalked away to get the shoes re-sized for him, a dozen instances of SCP-5555-J danced about the body of the former Overseer. They sang, in some kind of unison. I'm sure you can guess the song. It starts 'Ding dong.'
3
"Hey. Josh."
"Wassup Gnosis?"
"That program crashed."
"Which one?"
"The one that takes up all that memory on the Cray."
"Ah, fuck. Oh well, just use the backups and reboot the damn thing."
"No problem."
2
'Ding! You have a new video message.'
Dr. Sophia Light glanced up from her work with a sigh. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. Sometimes, she missed being a member of the Junior Staff under Bright. No, strike that, that was something she never missed. But she wouldn't mind less paperwork. A break from the work was welcome at this point.
The video opened on an older, familiar looking woman. "Sophia. If you're getting this message, not only am I dead, but I never found a way to tell you. I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not your mother, grandmother or such. I'm you. It's a long story, but let's just say, if you ever need to reboot the universe, make sure you're inside of it first. Your computer is currently getting an update with all of my files. See, you're going to take over for me. You're O5-2. Good luck." The video feed cuts off, then turns back on. "Side note: Why the hell do the time travelers always go after Hitler? He's got to be the luckiest man alive. Look into the possibility of his SCPness."
Light sighed, rubbing her temples. Less work? Never.
1
"… and that is why I have decided to pass on my mantle to you," the video continued, as Dr. Gears studied the pale trenchcoat in his hands. His face, as always, betrayed no trace of emotion. "I have done all I can to lead you to this point, where you can control the Foundation. No matter what anyone may try to tell you, your role is first among equals." The man speaking betrays no emotion himself, a deadpan delivery that wouldn't change even if he were dying while he recorded the message. Which he likely was. "And in the end, I just want to say, I'm proud of you."
At that Gears looks up at the screen, freezing the image before it ends. He stared at the man on the screen for several long minutes, letting everything process. He was now the man in charge, the Overseer at the top of the pyramid. He should feel something. Some small bit of… something. But he'd never admit it.
He simply nodded at the image on the screen. "Thank you, Father. Rest in Peace."
4
"Yes, yes… ha! That would be perfect!" Mann couldn't help but laugh to himself. So much information, so many things for him to do. "010! We can expand it! Humanity will do what needs to be done, not what they want to do!" His fingers flickered across the keyboard, and then stopped as his screen froze. "Access denied? What kind of crap is-"
"Hey, four, how's it going, man?" The young teen on the screen smiled. "Hey, sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the O5 council has held a vote of no confidence, and, welp, you're out!"
"O5 council? THERE IS NO O5 COUNCIL!" Mann paused, taking a deep breath and standing up. "Apparently, I didn't erase you as thoroughly as I had planned. That can be easily rect—" Again, Mann was interrupted, as 11 more video feeds popped up on his screen, each of them filled with the shadowy outline of a human head and shoulders. Each of them displayed the words 'No confidence' in green at the bottom.
"No! No! I did this! I planned it all! You cannot do this! I am the Administrator! The power is mine! The power is—" BANG! Mann, the top half of his head gone, takes two steps, still trying to mouth words. A second gun shot echoes throughout the room, and Mann falls to the floor, his body twitching. His assailant fires twice more, and, finally, the Mann who would be Administrator lies dead. The man who killed him slips into the just vacated seat. Still warm.
"Dr. Mann is dead. Took a bit to kill him, looks like the files were right about him doing some self augmentation. I'll have the boys down in research look at him. Is there any pressing business for the council, at this time?" Negatives from each of the Council members. "In that case, I, Frederick Heiden… shit, I mean O5-4, declare this Council Meeting closed."
O5-4 stared down at the corpse of his predecessor. It had been a long day. It was only going to get longer. He took a moment to kick the corpse in the side. "God dammit, you asshole. This wasn't what I wanted."
And then he turned back to the computer, and to his duties.


« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »

From: mamamia78@█████.com
To: shampaingurl@██████.net
Subject: can i get your advice?
Howdy, sis. I hear that you have a new bf. What is this? 3 in the last 2 months? Better slow down, girl, or there won't be any left for anyone else! :P So what's his name? Do you think that this one'll last long enough for any of us to meet him? :P
How are the kids doing? Mike looked good in that play last semester, but Mom tells me that he's not in the drama club this year? Is he spending more time with the football team? And how did Mary do on her cheerleader tryouts?
I did want to get some advice from you, though. Beth's going through some kind of phase and I was hoping that you might have soem experience from when your kids were younger. Beth's spending a lot of time by herself and just acts like she's starving all the time. I swear that she's put on 15 pounds in the last month. Do you think she might have an eating disorder or something? I mean, she's only 10, that kind of stuff doesn't happen until they're older, right? Please don't let Mom know about this, you know how she freaks out, and I don't want her deciding to come "fix" Beth if nothing's wrong with her.
Thanks, sis!
Jody

From: mamamia78@█████.com
To: shampaingurl@██████.net
Subject: Re: Beth
I guess you're right, she could just be going through a growth spurt. Maybe I *am* just being a little overprotective.
I do think that I need to look at what TV shows she's watching, though. Lately she's mentioned this weird imaginary friend thing that she never did before. She's not really clear, but it's big and has wings and talks without talking. Really weird stuff. If this keeps up, maybe I should take her to a psychologist.
I'm sorry that Mary didn't make the squad. Is it too late to try out for any other sports?

From: mamamia78@█████.com
To: shampaingurl@██████.net
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Beth
Oh, that secret friend thing? I'm not worried about that any more. She introduced me to the adult and he seems nice. Not scary at all. You hardly notice the wings after a few minutes. :P
So what are your plans for the holiday? Do y'all want to come visit? You can even bring your boytoy if he's still around then. :P

From: mamamia78@█████.com
To: shampaingurl@██████.net
Subject: Visiting
Come on, it'll do you all good to get out of town for a couple of days, especially Mary. Beth always likes being around her and I think she's a good example. Plus, it'll be nice for Beth to introduce Mary to the adult. I think he gets lonely sometimes and could stand to meet some new people. Everyone around here likes him, but you can never have too many friends, right?
Beth's looking better, too. She was so skinny before, but the new weight makes her look a lot healthier.

From: mamamia78@█████.com
To: shampaingurl@██████.net
Subject: Re: worried about you
Why are you worried? There's nothing wrong over here. I bet you'd feel better if you came and met the adult. I'm sure he's like to meet you all.
Looking forward to seeing you soon!

Shakti Shivaji had been a doctor in the backwoods town of Spring for over a dozen years, originally coming on a program that assigned doctors to underserved communities for college loan assistance and liking the area enough that she decided to stay. It was mostly a quiet life, leaning more towards cold and flu than major trauma. Even the local methamphetamine manufacturers tended to avoid going to the doctor for as long as they could, generally paranoid that they would get reported to the police. Shakti took her patients' privacy seriously, though, and reassured the manufacturer and addict in front of her of that.
"Mr. Jameson, you don't have to worry. I keep your records strictly sealed and private. I obviously think that your health would stop deteriorating if you would stop using meth, but I won't report you to Sheriff Michaels. Now please, tell me what's wrong."
"Well… if you say so. I'm still not saying that I use meth, just so you know, but if I did, how could I quit it? Um… I wanted to know if you could do anything about my chest hurting all the time. And maybe how to put on some more weight. He thinks that I'm too skinny and sick and need to put on some weight."
"If you were using meth, I would suggest going down to Forrester and checking into the rehab program at the hospital there. It's in-patient and lasts at least 30 days, and they would help you with the withdrawal symptoms. If you were taking meth, of course."
Dr. Shivaji continued speaking as she listened to Bill's chest and heart.
"As for the chest pain, your heart sounds a little weak. I'd like to get an EKG and chest X-ray on you and possibly send you down to the hospital for a CT scan later this week, so I can get a better picture of your heart. You should know, however, that if there are any problems with your heart that he probably won't pick you. He really only chooses people in tip-top shape. Still, any effort to improve your health will be a good thing, even if you might not be his."
Dr. Shivaji slung her stethoscope around her neck as she finished the exam.
"The nurse will be in in a few minutes to take you to get your X-ray. And remember: if you did do meth, continuing will only make things worse, and he wouldn't like that."
Bill hung his head like a little boy getting reprimanded and replied, "I know, I know. And, um, could you get me that information about the rehab? I really don't want to disappoint him."
Shakti left the room and gave the instruction to her nurse, then went to write up her notes. As she typed them into the computer, she idly thought, "I really ought to go visit him myself this weekend. I wish he would choose me too, but I know he thinks we still need a doctor for now. And he says that the first of the children will be almost ready for their next stage soon. I should see about ordering some more beds for them."

Dear Diary,
Mr. All-Growd-Up is thinking at me a lot today. He thinks I'm going to be ready soon. He says I won't be scared. But I think I will be.
I'm going to miss Mommy and Daddy and Beth. But not Uncle Dan. He looks at me funny sometimes. I don't like it.
And i forgot that Beth is going to be ready soon too. Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks at us that her and Tommy and Dani will be first.
They're lucky they can go first. I bet they will be real pretty like Mr. All-Growd-Up. I hope I'm pretty too.
I want to take Scooter with me when i go. He's a good cat. But Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks I can't. He thinks I can have Scooter when I grow up if I want. So that's good. I hope I get Uncle Dan like that too.
Bye!

Sheriff Brett Michaels ("Yes, like the rocker.") was worried. He'd been feeling strange lately and wasn't sure what it was. Lately he'd go on patrol in some of the farther parts of the county for a few hours and would start feeling really angry and afraid of something, although when he was feeling better he couldn't remember what, exactly. He'd come racing back to Spring, all fired up to do something, charge straight into the clearing that the adult usually appeared in and then he'd feel a lot better. The air always smelled… better around the adult. Everything just felt right around him, like he could take care of everything. Even Sheriff Michaels, the nominal authority in the county, deferred to the judgment of the adult. He knew best, after all.
Brett spotted Dr. Shivaji across the clearing while the rest of the crowd was getting set up for the choosing and decided that he'd talk with her afterwards and see if she could give him some medicine or something to calm him down.
In the meantime, he kept his hands firmly on the shoulders of his brother Jake and his sister-in-law Debra. Their boy Jacob stood in front of the three of them, looking a little nervous. But that was only to be expected for meeting the adult for the first time; it was a big moment in anyone's life, and Jacob was about the age that the adult was interested in helping.
He told his brother and sister-in-law, "You ought to be proud. If Jacob gets picked, you'll get to be the parents of a very special boy."
Debra twisted slightly in his grip and glared at him. "For the last goddamned time, Brett, what the hell is going on here?! I finally get a weekend off so we can come visit, and you practically kidnap us up here! For fuck's sake, you didn't even let us unpack!"
"Aw, calm down, Deb. He's on his way up and you'll understand in a sec. He's a real great guy and I know you'll like him like everyone else does. So stop trying to squirm away. Besides, you're not gonna get anywhere so long as I have the keys to the truck."
Debra kept glaring at Brett, her fists clenching and unclenching as she tried to figure out the best way to incapacitate him non-lethally. Brett had always dismissed her as just a background extra in the movies that Sunny Coast Productions made, but she knew three different martial art styles and was their best action stunt double (among other things). She liked Brett, even if he put on the "good-ol'-boy" act a bit thick at times, but she'd be damned if she let him put her son in some kind of mysterious danger.
The tension was starting to give her a headache and she glanced away from Brett to see why her husband wasn't arguing too. She was surprised to see Jake looking glassy-eyed and somewhat vacant as he took deep, even breaths. She'd swear that he was hypnotized, but no one had even approached them since Brett had brought them into the clearing. Jacob's body posture was more relaxed too, which worried her even more, considering how tense he'd been just a few moments ago.
Her headache rapidly intensified as a light breeze blew towards them, carrying the scent of pine needles and fresh air. Everyone else, her husband and son included, turned their faces towards the breeze as one and took a deep breath, then smiled.
The upper branches of the trees across the clearing shook as something heavy landed on them, and Debra watched a… thing come jumping down the tree's branches. She'd never seen anything as intrinsically wrong as the creature that stood across the clearing, and almost retched as her headache reached new heights of pain. As her vision grayed out, she thought, "Fuck! They never told us in anti-psi training that it would be this goddamn painful!", and watched as the creature slithered across the clearing to lay a rubbery, segmented limb across her son's face.

« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »


“What are they doing?”
“Nothing… just… talking. Are we sure we're in the right place? How do we know these aren't just random people waiting for a ride or something?”
Agent Four grinned, his lean face masked by a massive set of binoculars. “Oh no, it's them. See the one with the stack of books wrapped in a belt? We've seen him before.”
"What do you suppose is in those books anyway?"
"Not sure. But one of them we recovered was the complete works of Samuel Coleridge, including the full version of 'Kubla Khan.' All three hundred lines."
"Is that a big deal?"
Four sighed. "Just keep your eye on the targets."
Agent Grims squinted, shifting. He'd been staring down a scope roughly the size of a two-liter, attached to a high-powered, accurate, and very heavy rifle for nearly a hour now. He exhaled loudly, wiping his dark brow and re-fitting it to the eye cup. “Why are we on lookout? Why isn't the rest of the team moving in?”
“Because we need to see what happens first, Grims. Otherwise I'd have you smoke the lot of them and go get a damn beer. They're not supposed to be here, and we just got the info from Scud yesterday. If this pans out, we can figure out what the hell the Serpent's Hand is suddenly on the move for the first time in a year. Now shut up and watch.”
Grims grumbled under his breath, finger twitching a bit on the trigger. He was sick and tired of being attached to this damn squad. Since the attack, everyone had been shuffled, teams expanded and re-manned, to allow for instant autonomy in case of another communication blackout. Or some such bullshit. All he knew is that he hated working with these damn spooks. At least on the MTF squads, he could joke around, these people-
“Movement… movement on the librarian…”
Grims snapped to instantly, sighting in on the target. The man with the books had risen, moving from the sidewalk and down to a small side-alley. The other three people followed close behind, looking very nervous, checking up and down the street.
“Four, the guy in the blue shirt looks like he's on a phone… what sho-”
“Forget it, Smith already has an intercept…” Agent Four paused, touching his finger to the tiny earbud in his right ear. “…sounds like… someone's late. They had to change the meeting spot, because they'd been exposed too long… bah, he hung up." Four frowned. "This is odd."
"How so?"
"Well, the Hand normally uses their mumbo jumbo to arrange stuff. Cell phones and back alleys seem… cheesy.”
Grims ignored Four as he mused, eyes locked on the tiny group. The rooflines were at least out of the way, he could keep plain-sight contact with them. They were nervous, fidgeting, and it was traveling up the scope to him. Groups like this bolted, he'd seen it a hundred times, and taking pot-shots at a fleeing group on a city sidewalk was not his idea of a good time. Not that he minded, but it was the principle of the thing. He had a certain reputation to ke-
“What the fuck is that?”
Grims silently shifted his hand a fraction, scanning the alleyway. He scoped the back wall of the alley, and froze, blinking quickly to make sure his vision was clear. A huge man stood in the shadows at the end of the alley. Had to be 7 feet tall, at least. Old suit, gloves… and a burlap bag pulled tight over his head. There was blood on his tie.
“Four, what in the hell am I looking at?”
Four ignored him, touching his earbud again. He nodded once, eyes going wide, and nudged Grims with his foot. “Shit, keep eyes on him. He was there when Site Seventeen got attacked. They think he might have stolen some stuff, or even been part of the attack…” he trailed off, looking through the binoculars again.
Grims watched as the big man walked up to the group. They calmed down instantly, nervousness replaced by what looked like fear. The "librarian" pulled one of the other group members forward, practically shoving him at the stranger. The kid couldn't have been more then fourteen… he could almost hear him stuttering from here. Whatever was going on, this kid sure as hell wanted no part of it.
Four chattered in to his earbud, one hand still on his binoculars. “Smith, do we have ears on them? …what? Say again… well, fix it!” he hissed, gritting his teeth. “Goddammit, what the hell is going on?”
Grims ignored him, eyes wide and staring. The big guy had grabbed the kid around the back of the neck, and the kid looked… wrong, now. His arms were slack, his eyes glassy… he was talking, but his body looked asleep… or dead.
“Grims, do you have a shot?”
He paused, blinking and focusing on the big man. “Yes, sir.”
“Smith is blind, the equipment is fogged out.”
“…sir?”
“Take it.”
Grims breathed deep, eye wide, pinning the razor-thin black cross on the brown bag. The kid was still talking in that drugged daze. He squeezed slow, exhaling in a controlled stream-
The bag turned, it was tilted, it-
It could see him.
The finger squeezed on its own, even as Grims croaked a strangled yelp of surprise and horror. The big man pulled the kid up like he was a doll, shifting to the side as the high-velocity round turned the kid's brain to jelly, splattering it on to the alley. It'd taken less then a tenth of a second. Grims panicked, throwing training down a well and started firing wild. Somewhere, someone was screaming at him, hitting him, but it didn't matter. The running shapes didn't matter.
He had to make that thing die.
He'd seen some shit, SCP monsters and massacres, torture and moral black areas, but he'd never felt so… observed. It had looked down that scope, and… handled him. Like a nasty little boy with sticky, grimy fingers handling a mildly amusing trinket. Whatever the hell that was, it needed to die right the hell now. He kept firing, even as the sirens started and Four abandoned the roof to recover his team, even as his bolt locked back on an empty chamber, he just kept pulling the trigger.

“Grims cracked, the Hand is in the wind, we have a possible skip on the way, bag it NOW!”
Smith didn't even unplug anything, just pressed a switch that fired a electromagnet the size of a mini fridge, frying every single computer in a fifty yard radius. He grabbed up the baseball bat labeled "The Last Resort," and started smashing everything they didn't want the civilians seeing. Howard and Sickle threw down their cards and unslung rifles, moving quickly to the doors. Eighteen started closing up cases and getting the essentials packed. Four was barking orders at any back he saw. The Hand agents were tipped and hauling, and some big bastard had just crossed a busy street and barreled through the boarded up doorway like a bomb.
Four guessed they had maybe two minutes until whatever the hell the big guy was got up to them on the third floor. Most of the stairs were under construction, so it should slow him down a bit. Howard and Sickle were covering the only two ways in to the room. Smith was getting his gear broken down, and Eighteen was ready to book with the remaining gear the second shit started going down. He thought about trying to recover Grims again. Fuck him, he was fried anyway.
He was smiling with self-righteous warmth when the wall behind him exploded out around a huge, dark-suited form.
The big man fell on Four like a thrown couch. As they fell in a heap, two of the Hand agents scrambled through the hole, crying and screaming as they launched at Howard and Sickle. Sickle caught the worst of it, still shocked by the monster who'd blown through the wall, and caught a sharp point of rebar in the neck. Howard had time to fire, but in the hazy plaster dust his shot went wild and buried itself in the other Hand agent's leg.
The big man held Four by the throat, rising to a crouch and throwing him over to the rebar-armed agent. Four tried to scream, or move, but his neck felt like a numb, dead thing, and he couldn't make his arms work. He was still trying to make a fist when the rebar suddenly intruded in to his brain. Smith and Eighteen were huddled behind Howard, trying to edge out a doorway as the big man stood, plaster and dust turning him into a towering ghost.
Howard started firing and screaming with equal intensity, shoving Smith and Eighteen out the doorway. The big man dropped like a shot, only to rise with the still-moaning body of the wounded Hand agent held one-handed like a shield. Howard paused a moment, mental gears clicking as he considered, then fired, peppering the agent with slugs as the big man charged. The other Hand agent, still crying pitifully, rose from his bloody work and followed close behind.
Smith and Eighteen were already nearly halfway down the partial stairs, heading for the presumed safety of the open streets when the gunfire stopped. They looked at each other for a second, exchanging a mutual look of “fuck.” before thundering down the stairs double-time. Smith kept running even when Eighteen screamed, but was forced to turn around when he heard the wet, fleshy thud. Howard's body had hit Eighteen like a nightmare snowball, smashing him in to the wall in a bloody heap, leaving him moaning and broken.
Smith grabbed Eighteen's cases and ran, ran like a squirrel, ran like the bitch the kids in school had called him, and did so with no qualms at all.
He hit the ruined doorway to find a clutch of police and gawkers assembled outside. He froze, trying to think of… something, anything, some story to use, even as the police aimed guns, screaming for him to freeze, drop what he had. But he had to keep the cases safe, that was his job, his whole reason for being here.
He only realized that he had his pistol in hand still when they shot him, and by then it didn't really matter.

Grims sat on the roof, watching Smith get turned to burger. He'd heard the team get chewed up…now the cops were swarming on Smith's body and his cases. Hopefully he'd armed the detonator inside. Probably not.
Grims rubbed his face, sighing. For some reason, he'd stayed, just put down the gun after firing it empty, and put his face in his hands. Something was stuck in him, like a glassy little fishbone in his brain. It'd been when that… thing… had looked at him. It'd done something. That goddamn “M” word thing they always hammered home in training, he was sure of it.
The rooftop door slammed open, the big bag-headed horror stomping out in a haze of white dust. Behind him trailed one of the Hand kids, dragging a length of rebar and wheezing “letmestopletmestop” like a broken recording. Blood was dripping from his eyes.
Grims leaned back, looking up as the big thing loomed up over him. “So now what. Tear out my heart, dance around?” he snickered, jerking his chin at the bloody kid. “What they hell did they do? Eh? Tell me that, where do they figure?”
The big man stayed still, looking down at Grims. He couldn't feel that… touching. Just a kind of slow curiosity in that blank face, like a spider watching you from across the room. He leaned over slowly as Grims stiffened, expecting… well, something bad. But it never came. The big man reached out, and patted his cheek, the way you would a child when they made some small accomplishment. The gloved hand smelled like blood, machine oil and spices, the leather dry and hard.
Grims looked up at him, confused, trying to think of a question, but the big man turned and grabbed the Hand kid like a toy and started running, hitting the edge of the roof and launching himself to the next one, landing in a roll and discarding the kid, who started to slowly follow behind. He heard the big man bash in to the other roof's access door the same time the police came thundering up the stairs to his, pointing guns, screaming at him to get down, get away from the weapon.
When they told him he had a right to remain silent, he laughed, saying it was more of a obligation.

TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT OF “ACTON 7 SPECIAL REPORT” EVENING BROADCAST
Thanks Tom. As you can see behind me, police are still sifting through what has become one of the worst and most senseless acts of violence in recent memory. Several men, as yet unidentified, broke in to this apartment building, and used it as a “sniper's roost” for picking off innocent people. In addition, it appears they killed a work crew who was in one of the remodeled apartments. In total, eight people are dead, with three more injured. One of the shooters, in a bid to escape, attempted to shoot his way through the police blockade and was shot and killed by officers. A second is in custody, found on the roof next to what is presumed to be the murder weapon.
It's unclear at this point what the goal of the shooters was, or whether it relates to the recent terrorist attacks, however the FBI and Department of Homeland Security have been working closely with police. We'll have more on this story as it develops. Back to you, Tom.