Housework
Nobody could say that it's always cold here.
There are those rare days around mid-august when the sun puts in some extra effort and occasionally you only need one layer of clothing when going about your business.
But it wasn't mid-august and I was wearing a heavy raincoat as a result. December had been and gone and February was letting out a slow death rattle in the form of gale-force winds. I wore my hair short which meant is wasn't snatched this way and that like most of the people I had passed today but my earring had had to be removed before the wind did the job for me.
Somebody said to me once that it's only ever windy or cold; never both. This friend of mine had never been to the city however, so I let them keep believing it.
The wind would have given me a good excuse to stay inside but when I've a job to do I try my best to see it through as soon as possible.
Get it out the way, so to speak.
That in mind I had been staring at the front of the pub for quite some time.
It was more a reluctance to go inside than to do the job – I'd made all the effort to be warm outside that I'd be boiled like a lobster the moment I went inside. That was the problem with this city; you could only be too hot or too cold.
The pub itself was in a very good condition compared to the buildings that surrounded it. When you serve the locals around here you were bound to make quite a lot of money. It was painted mainly in reds, though the window sills were matte black as was the sign above the door. The Splayed Drifter it was called and in my mind it was only named that so you'd never forget it. I could hear the sounds of subdued Sunday carousal inside but the thought of other people was never a tempting one. But I knew I'd have to go in eventually or my client would leave. So I braced myself and pushed my way inside.
There was a football match on the corner set. Funny, it was one of those old-fashioned televisions you're always surprised to find still existing. Considering how well the place was doing for itself I would have expected at least a flat screen but then maybe that was the attraction, that sense of nostalgia. Most of the regulars were well past their sell-by date and sitting here pretending it was the good old days was often the only barrier between them and a quiet, miserable end to life. I didn't raise a comment when I entered and no awkward silence descended. I wasn't the only non-regular after all and I was barely noteworthy material in the first place. Apart from my eyes of course but that goes without saying really.
Not seeing my client straight away I sat down at the bar.
A woman in her forties came over to me as soon as she was finished chatting with one of the other patrons and pulled a pint glass down, before looking to me with a smile.
“What'll you be having, dear?” she asked.
“Coffee, please. Black three sugars.”
“Beer?”
“No thank you.”
“Everybody wants beer.” I sighed.
“Not me. These days absinthe is all I really touch. Or the coffee I just asked for.”
“Everybody wants beer.”
I looked her in the eyes and she froze up a little. She quite clearly wanted to look away but true to form she just couldn't. I've never been able to explain the phenomenon other than the guess that my gaze is just as fucked-up strange as I am.
“Coffee. Black. Three Sugars. Please.” I said as gently as I could.
She nodded and I looked away. Relieved, the woman walked off to the machine.
I relaxed and looked around the room, trying to pick my client out from the crowd.
It was easy enough to be honest. All I needed to look for was those green stains we can't help but leave behind us. Normal folks don't and I don't, but the ladies and gentlemen moving in my circles had no choice. You have to be out of the ordinary to see it but the stains are often everywhere. Faint and pale usually but always prevalent.
Sure enough there was a man sat with a small group of others, telling a story. They crowded around him looks of mirth on their faces and raucous laughter filled the place as he reached a punchline.
He briefly looked up and I beckoned him over. He double-took and his face went rapidly to concern but he masked that almost as soon as it showed. He made some excuses and headed up to the bar, a rough type clapping him heartily on the back as he went.
He got to the seat next to me about the time my coffee arrived. He pushed a note into the bar woman's hand and she thanked him before walking off to serve others.
“Are you…?”
I took a sip of my coffee. Burnt, damn it.
“No.” I replied. “I called you over so I could knock you out and steal your kidneys. The hell do you think, Seamus?”
He gulped and his face flushed a little. He didn't say a word for a moment or two before it hit him.
“I never told you my…”
“Not the only thing I'm not supposed to know. It's the circles you move in now.”
Actually I had just run a background check on his picture but the new kids on the block were always easy to play with. They didn't understand that having some contacts with the police and knowing a decent hacker did more than mystic tomes and summoning abominations ever could.
“So Seamus.” I said taking another sip. “What is it you're paying me for?”
“I, uh… kinda let something happen.”
“So does everyone. Be blunt.”
“…I think it's like a ghost or something. It's in my house.”
I sucked my teeth.
“Well that's certainly a downer for you I'd imagine.”
“Someone told me you… do things about it.”
“Did they tell you my price?”
“I guess so.”
Good enough.
“And you're willing to pay?”
“I can up front if you like.”
He reached into his pocket and brought his wallet back out, tugging at the zip on the side. I brushed his hand away and shook my head.
“No. Leave it until the job's done.”
He put it back in his pocket, confused.
Now for the important question.
“Seamus, how much do you know?”
“What… what do you mean? The ghost-thing acts kinda like-“
“No, no, no, no, no. Not what I meant at all. How much do you know? And how long have you known?”
He thought about it.
I waited and finished my coffee as he thought.
“Not much. I think I first found stuff out last year. The first lot I met tried talking me out of it all.”
That was all I needed.
I thanked him and bought him a drink. No need to ask directions, I already knew the place.
Anyway, I had some preparation to do first.

All the lights in Seamus' house were properly fucked.
I flicked every switch I came across and nothing. I had a maglite so it wasn't an enormous problem but it would have been a lot nicer.
The place was dusty; he hadn't been here for a week or more at a guess. Cluttered too. Seamus clearly did not concern himself with tidying up very often.
Other than that it was pretty clear that he had a good amount of money. Top of the range electronics – dead as the lights if you were wondering – rich carpets on most of the floors, an especially fancy bathroom and even a large collection of antique books.
I groaned. It was always sodding books. You never found somebody who'd pulled back The Curtain via a skiing accident say, or by dancing unknowingly an ancient summoning dance or something. No, people always had to find some tome not meant for mortal eyes blah, blah sodding blah and then next thing you know I'm breaking into some idiot's house to see why he disappeared after screaming to his family about the tentacles.
It was just so damn cliché.
But ours not to reason why and all that. I'd have checked the books out but in all honesty I couldn't care less about them and I had better things to do.
Like figure out where the dead-thing was watching me from.
I'd felt the eyes on me from the moment I opened the door but so far nothing. Some of the stains in the house were so dark green they may as well be black so it had definitely been hanging around. It had dropped the temperature a few degrees after I'd checked the bathroom but I think that was more because of how long I'd been here rather than where I'd explored.
I hate it when you know that something is watching you but you can't see it. If there was ever a better way to unnerve someone it clearly fell out of fashion some time ago. And this dead-thing was a patient one in all likelihood. In most cases they had to be.
I remember this case from a few years back, not one of mine you understand. This family felt they were being haunted and called in all manner of people to check it out. Vicars, “ghost speakers”, witch doctors and exorcists passed through the place like a tourist destination. It was quite a sensational case because whatever was haunting them was clearly malevolent. Get out scratched on the walls and scars on the children, you know the stuff. But whenever a quote-unquote professional took a look there was nothing to see. Proof of the activities was everywhere but there weren't any activities at all when people other than the family paid attention.
So eventually the media lost interest. People stopped discussing it by water coolers. And one by one the family were picked off and eaten alive in the space of a day and a half.
Because that's how dead-things operate. They let you know they're going to get you but they never do until you stop expecting it. They're not even playful, it's just part of the mentality.
If I recall correctly the police broke into the place a few weeks later and found what was left of the bodies stitched together and rotting on the family sofa, television remote clutched in one half-eaten hand.
They pinned it on a serial killer thankfully. I have no idea how hard the local Guardian worked to achieve that piece of magic but they have my eternal respect.
Finally something happened – a cup flew from the kitchen table and shattered against the wall. A fleck of crockery stung my cheek and I turned smiling. Obviously there was nothing there but it was or had just been in this room. I saw a flicker. I started to whistle and pretended that I hadn't. These things work easier if the target underestimates you.
I wandered nonchalantly through the kitchen into the large front room. The door on the cupboard the television was sat on was hanging from its hinges. It was covered in green stains that hadn't been there last time I was in the room.
I reached into my coat and pulled out an old-fashioned yo-yo. I can't remember the last time I saw anybody else with one, I think they stopped being popular not long after I was born. But they were excellent for making one look innocent. They also made good garrotte wires in a pinch given you have the right string. Don't ask me how I know.
I carried on acting uninterested and stupid as I wandered through the house playing with my yo-yo. I still looked like I was looking for a ghost but I was looking the same way a presenter from some god-awful “documentary” on the paranormal would.
I had a notion that it was now in the bathroom. I climbed the stairs and made my way there. It had decided to reveal itself, I think.
There's always the game before the catch, a compulsion we've already discussed. But this one could probably smell that I was different. And that was what made me attractive.
But I'd be ready. My plan was simple – I'd walk in and when it manifested I'd thwack it with the yo-yo.
That was the big secret about dead-things; they're completely corporeal. Sure they're the basis for ghosts but the myriad reasons for that is a subject I could probably write a book on if I ever found the time.
I walked in and there was bloody writing on the mirror, of course.
You should not be here. How original.
I felt a cold sensation behind me. A sort of hissing noise too, not so you'd notice if you weren't expecting it.
Lazily, I turned. And my mouth dropped.
Before me stood a gaunt figure. It was partially covered in chitin and it rubbed two long hands together in a beetle-like fashion. Its eyes were plentiful and should have been on its head rather than torso but we're not all perfect. It had no face. A mouth, eyes on the torso but the head was essentially a blank dome. Blood dripped from a gaping wound on its side and there were more eyes on the inside of the gash.
It wasn't supposed to look like that.
“You're not a dead-thing.” I said.
“Very astute.” It smiled.
Then I was asleep and I couldn't tell you why.

I was bound to a chair in the kitchen when I opened my eyes.
Seamus was there and so was the monster, they were stood side by side. Seamus looked almost reluctant but there was a hunger in his features too.
He had a melon-baller dangling loosely from one hand. He looked to the creature and it nodded. He walked over to me and its eyes span and followed him.
“I lied at the pub.” He said, almost apologetically.
“You certainly did.”
“I… we needed you.”
That was confusing.
“Why me? Anyone you've ever met will tell you I'm nothing special.”
He motioned to his face, and tried to think of the right words.
“You… perceive. Things we can't. We tried for months and nothing let us. You see things that most others don't, too. No, other people like us.” He said before I could speak.
“Well that's news to me, Seamus. I think your friend over there's been talking shit.”
“Nobody tells you that you make no sense.” It said.
“On the times you converse with others, you discuss the things you've seen and people raise not a question. Have their faces never given it away? You are a rare thing, Seeker. One that sees all that there is.”
“That sounds totally idiotic. Believe me, if that was true I would notice." I said, but I started thinking about it. The first time I'd encountered a corpse-thing I told a gentleman who I'd known for a long while about the whole thing. He had raised his eyebrows at my description of it in a way that should have implied to me that he didn't know that they looked like that. That wasn't proof of course but I hadn't got where I was today by not believing things.
That in mind I had got where I was today by fucking up a simple investigation.
Seamus looked at the monster then back to me. He dropped to my level, his face an inch from mine.
“We have to take your eyes. I'm sorry but we have to.”
He kissed my forehead and my lips. I only hated him slightly more.
“I am really sorry.”
My eyes flickered to the kitchen table. My yo-yo lay on it.
“You do seem to be sorry.” I said “But in a moment you'll be even sorrier.”
“You're right.” He said and started digging the melon baller into my socket.
I screamed. Pain shot through my skull as the jagged teeth around the cup bit through flesh. I don't know how he was planning to sever the optic nerve but he'd persist until it was done. Everything went red on my right side. I screamed until I was hoarse.
The yo-yo was still there.
I put up a little struggle as he worked my eye free and waited for the monster to make its move. It was smiling so eagerly. It sniffed at the air and savoured the scent of my blood. And eventually it moved closer to get a better look.
With a wet pop my eye came loose from the socket. Seamus stood back a little and looked at his work. The creature closed in, it's clawed hands raised.
I spat a word that I shouldn't have been able to pronounce, and couldn't without the pain to guide my lips.
The yo-yo on the table burst in a flash of blinding dark.
There was a rending sound and maybe some screams.
My face was very wet.
Once I could see again there wasn't much left of the creature. Seamus lay on the floor, panting heavily and looking with shock at his arm. Well, where his arm should have been.
I shrugged off the ropes which had been frayed to pieces.
I crouched by Seamus, ignoring the pain from my eye.
“Checkmate my friend.” I said.

I held Seamus by the scruff of the neck and he stared at the door.
It was an unimpressive one. A flat dull piece of wood with an off-grey handle. But he knew that it held importance.
So did I, for that matter.
My eye was gone. I'd had to cut it off myself, pieces of the monster (which I still didn't recognise) had clung to it and bubbles that shouldn't have appeared did. If I didn't lose the eye then I may have lost my brain, or become a slave or another one of the monsters. You never know.
The patch was good enough for now but if I wanted to keep appearances up I would have to get some mirrored glasses.
“Here we go.” I told Seamus after a moment.
Silence, silence for a good few minutes before he replied.
“I didn't want this.”
“Nobody wants this. I don't want this.”
“Then let me leave!” He cried, trying to turn to look at me.
“What would you have done to me after it took my eyes, Seamus?”
His shoulders sagged.
“I think I should correct myself in that case. I usually don't want this.”
He stopped speaking again. I pulled him aside and put my hand on the door.
“May I ask something?” he said.
“You just did.”
He looked at me. I rolled my eye.
“One thing.”
“If…” he licked his lips nervously. “If it had just been a ghost. Would you still be doing… this?”
I looked at the door.
“Yes.” I said.
His face fell.
“Hey. You asked.” I pulled the door open.
“I'd say it's been a pleasure, but…”
I threw him in and closed the door. I held my hands to my ears but the screams were so loud.
After they stopped I opened the door and went in myself.
The Unknowable Thing loomed over me, a half-digested and catatonic Seamus lay below It.
“Here we are. One scumbag supreme. And the monster fucker is gone too.”
It questioned me.
“Blown to bits. Not coming back. As specified.”
It was satisfied.
I looked around, almost looked up at It but remembered what happened the last time I looked at It directly.
“You didn't tell me why they wanted me.”
The Unknowable Thing asked a question.
“Hell yes it was important! The only reason I survived is because of that bloody toy! What if I hadn't brought it along, huh? Then where'd you be?”
It commented.
I raised a finger.
“Bullshit. If I was that dispensable I wouldn't be standing here. You'd have found someone else.”
The Unknowable Thing conceded.
I'd already had enough. Talking to the Unknowable Thing always drains you.
I turned to leave and It let me. I was at the door before I turned and asked a question.
“Is it true? What the monster said about me?”
It answered.
I nodded and stepped out the door and up the cellar steps.
God but I needed a drink. As always.
But that's just how it is in my line of work.


Communication Intercept:

Document recovered leaving the central mailing service at Site 4. Letter appears to have somehow bypassed basic screening services, and was picked up only by the hand-sorting staff shortly before delivery, as they noticed the lack of proper post-screening stamps.
It is unlikely that the letter was intentionally set to bypass security measures; however, Site Security is reviewing security footage, and re-evaluating the communication screening procedure.
Letter content has been attached to this report for later security review as/if needed. Original letter destroyed due to security clearance restriction conflict.

Dear Alison,
Please forgive the lateness of my letter. You may remember that my work has often kept me from standard daily activities, and with my current employment it has been doubly so. Months and years have a disturbing tendency to blur as one grows older.
I do not think any apology will be adequate for my sudden departure, however. I am sure it was a confusing time for you and your mother, more so for her as you were very young at the time, if I remember correctly. I was called away right after the… troubles reached something of a peak, and I imagine she was very distressed at my sudden absence.
I write now due to an article I recently encountered, dealing with theoretical space-time anomalies. While insightful and well explained, the most glaring portion of the article was the section identifying the author as yourself.
I can see that you are following the lines of research I myself was exploring before my… departure. I must advise you against this. Whether it comes from your genuine curiosity, or an attempt to find me via backtracking my work, it would be advisable to abandon this plan of action. I have followed it to the end, and am now… not where I would wish you to be.
Seek other fields of study. Stay away from the corners and dim edges of reality. Turn your focus to more practical and basic ends.
Forgive my bluntness, both now and… then. Know that it was, and is, necessary for me. Despite what it has caused.
Love,
Your father.

“Throw me daddy!”
“Oh, I don't know, mommy gets nervous when I throw you high…”
“Throw me, throw me, throwmethrowmethrowme-”
“Ok, ok, slavedriver…”
She shrieked, suddenly launched in to the air, sailing up several feet, coming down in a blur of hair and laughter, squealing anew as she made the journey again, begging “Higher, higher” in breathless gasps. She smiled, so trusting and small, sailing
Doctor?
Sailing down, wanting to spin now, arms exhausted, but unable to resist, spinning the tiny girl.
“Faster daddy, faster!”
Doctor?
“Watch me daddy!”
…Yes?
Doctor, you've been requested in conference room eight. Containment review meeting.
…I will proceed there immediately.

Does a mind bend…
Work Journal 2
Or does it break?
Opening Moves


Is everyone silenced?
Good.
Good evening to all the University community. I trust I find you well in thought and in deed. I am here to speak to you on a matter of grave importance. I am sure by now all of you have heard the heresies of Milephanes. Much as we the Administration have tried to shield you from him, he has proven sadly resourceful in spreading his lies. I have heard his polluted philosophy openly discussed by those I had thought to be honorable citizens and students. This will not go on.
And so I have brought you all here today to put an end to this pernicious strain of neo-Antiphonian ideology. Milephanes is a traitor and a revolutionary. He has turned away from his fathers. He would destroy the social order and natural philosophy that are the groundwork of our way of life.
Milephanes has slanderously alleged that we exert inappropriate control over the sacred institution of Democracy. This is patent nonsense. It has been eternally acknowledged that a democratic system is only as wise as its free men. We strengthen the people and so through them Democracy itself. The University, I would argue, presents the greatest ally Democracy has ever had. We teach all of you the finest wisdom of our forefathers, and protect you from the false beliefs that have been the ever-present enemy of a just and free society. And what proof more of an enlightened society could anyone ask than unanimity?
This wellspring of filth does not end there, however. Milephanes hews to that old, discredited, and counter-Aristotelian idea that there is or could be some equivalency in nature between slave and free man. He treats a notion more commonly found in comedies as though it had some serious philosophical merit. Imagine, however hard it may be, a world where he were right. Just imagine a world without slaves! How would Milephanes propose fields be sowed? How would he propose houses be maintained? How would he propose wars be fought?
And he is most evidently not correct. Have you ever tried to speak to a slave? Most of them are unable to understand anything outside their duties, and those few that are capable of conversation know nothing of the Classical philosophers. They could not comprehend the nature of poetry, comedy, or tragedy. Only the keener mind of a free man, especially one educated at the University by the finest philosophers of this era, can contain the subtleties. Did not the great Hippocrates aptly observe that some, such as the Anatolians, were particularly suited as slaves? The slave is adept at the physical, like the beast; the free man is adept at the rational, like the Gods. The natures do not intersect.
The University has perfected this distinction. Thanks to our advancements in natural philosophy, no one need ever fear a slave or wife who has transgressed the bounds of orthoskepsi. The life of a citizen is freer and safer than ever before.
Not a word comes out of Milephanes's mouth that does not deceive, corrupt, and lead astray. I, and my fellow Chancellors at our other campuses, are committed to seeing an end to these dangerous views. We will not tolerate any more mention or acceptance of them on pain of expulsion or revocation of degree. These are harsh measures, I know, but experience has taught the Administration that it is better to extirpate this kind of heresy immediately than to allow it to survive long enough to collapse under the weight of its own falseness.
I bear the name of my father and his father before him, back to the earliest days of the Classical era. Love of the truth runs in my veins like ichor. And it is with the full weight of my legacy when I ask you, as an equal: Do not give credence to this madness. Let it begin and end in Milephanes, and let freedom and harmony return untarnished. Alexylva University is and remains a beacon of knowledge and wisdom. Never forget that.
May the Gods smile upon us all. Now, back to class!


Transcript of tape recovered from █████ Police Department
“Ok, let's start again. I know you were directly involved, and for the record, let's just assume I'm not an idiot and know you're guilty. So, with that, how about we try and make this much easier. What I want to know is this: who is it you work for?”
“…”
“…Alright. Let me put it this way, then. What is this Foundation that you work for?”
“…”
“We managed to recover a lot of documentation from that case. You're no idealist, gun-for-hire hack, you've got dispatches, mission parameters… this looks really, really bad, friend. Like, terrorist bad. Do you know what happens to terrorists these days? We can say there was an… accident in transport, and drop you down the darkest hole you've ever seen. You'll never s—”
“You have no idea what a dark hole is.”
“Really? Why don't you enlighten me then, tough guy?”
“Have you ever seen someone turn in to vapor? Not pulped by an explosion or anything, but real vapor. Just atomize over the space of a few seconds, screaming all the while? I've had to shoot people who I've shared lunch with, bummed smokes from, because they had a kind of eel inside them that was eating their nervous system from the inside out and turning them in to a plague-spreading serial rapist. I've sat for weeks in a sealed cell with no outside human contact, wondering if I'd start showing bumps on my skin, which would mean a long, slow degeneration into something lower than an animal. If you're going to scare me, you're going to need to step up your game from a little recreational waterboarding.”
“What the fuck are you tal-”
“None of you get it. I told you, right at the start, you need to turn me loose. I'm not a toy that anyone is going to leave just laying around. You've taken something that doesn't belong to you, Special Agent Danbury, and you've taken it from someone who does not share well.”
“Ahh, I see, friends in high places and everything? You're not the first one to try that… cry to me about such and such connection, this and that thing you can make happen with one phone call. Wanna know the thing about that? I don't care. You're not dealing with some pig-fucking local beat cop. I'm not bound by anything as silly as a code of conduct. My job is to keep my country safe. Period. Everything else is secondary to that, including your well-being and humane treatment.”
“As I said, you'll need to step it up a bit. It's been too long, which means they've decided not to play it overly nice… you might want to pick that up.”
“What the fuck are you… thought I turned this off. Hold on you little shit, i'm not nearly done with you. This is Agent Danbury, you shouAAGGG”
“That's the… oh shit, what's the word… mem-something. It's a sound or an image that can make your brain shit itself, then die. Can never remember the name. Can you hear me still? Damn it…”
(several loud noises, followed by a door slamming)
“Took y'all long enough.”'
“Sorry, we had bigger stuff on the burner than a fuckup like you, Grims.”
“Can you at least get my cuffs off?”
“No time. We popped the holding cells, turning into a real madhouse. Did you give anything up?”
“Please. Who cares what a dead man hears?”
“You'd be surprised… oh dammit, is that still on?”
“Wait, let me j-”
End Transcript

Intercepted GOC Communication collected from mobile command post near ████████ city, via remote audio probe
“What the hell am I looking at, Captain?”
“We… uh… actually aren't entirely sure yet. It's definitely a target of interest, but it's not really fitting any of the preset profiles as yet. We're expanding our search parameters.”
“Why is it wearing a bag on its head?”
“Ah, we're also not sure about that… we can't compel it to remove it, and attempting to do so by force has… not gone well. It's otherwise rather compliant, so we've left it alone for now.”
“I see. Now, the most obvious question is why am I looking at a big, bag-headed freak who's sitting at a table and not lying on a slab?”
“Yes, indeed… well, that's the thing. You see, we were following a lead on the fox-girl thing, and ran in to a couple of targets trying to flee the city. Happy accident, really… anyway, as we went to intercept, this big guy shows up, and starts attacking them. It was weird, though… this thing, whatever it is, is obviously extremely strong, but all he did was bash them up… then just stood there, waiting for us to intercept. I ordered Rodriguez to put a couple rounds through the big guy's bag head, but he missed.”
“Rodriguez doesn't miss.”
“I know sir. He was pretty upset about it. He double-tapped first, then mag-dumped. Every one of them missed just by a hair. I'm not really sure how, the big guy didn't seems to really move or anything. Anyway, we moved in and secured the scene, tried to restrain the remaining target. He kept holding up his hands, nodding his head. He… it was trying to surrender, I think. Hopkins tried to put restraints on him. He got his wrist broken. After that, we decided to just go with it for the time being.”
“Is this one of the Foundation strays?”
“No sir, at least not one that we have any record of. We're combing the database now, but other then a vague surveillance hit from about four years ago, there's been nothing.”
“All right…so it's big, strong, and somewhat docile, ignoring the personal space issues. Again, why hasn't it been shot or gassed yet, and why did I need to come down here in person?”
“Ok, here's the thing… it can't, or won't, talk. It has to touch someone to communicate with anything other than hand gestures and body language. It's…not fun for the one being touched…but they apparently can see…something, some sort of image or language or something that is some kind of communication. It's not a direct translation, but the gist of it gets across. We thought he was attacking someone for a second, and they looked half-dead, b—”
“Out with it, man!”
“He…ah…knows where the Library is, sir.”
“…The Library. As in THE Library? As in KTE-7909-Alexandria?”
“Yes sir. He's an exile, or a escapee, or some such, we're not entirely sure yet, but whatever it is, he's kicked out and not allowed back. However, there's something important there that he wants, and he's willing to show us how to get there, if we help him get it back.”
“You don't actually intend…”
“Oh no sir, not at all… but this is a unique opportunity, to say the very least. Once he shows the initial strike team the way, we can dispose of him, then roll the main force right in to the nest. No more nibbling the edges, scraping off little corners… right to the heart, a direct punch to the very core.”
“This is some fine work, captain. How soon can you get a team ready?”
“It's already on standby, sir… we're… ahh… just waiting for the native guide, so to speak.”
“Why is he just sitting there, looking at the sky like that?”
“He said something about the sun. We're not sure what, but he was insistent that we wait.”
“I want progress reports every hour, on the hour, understood? Keep the team on Ready Two. The moment you're ready to jump, begin the operation on your own discretion.”
“Yes, sir.”
"Oh, and one last thing, Captain. This is real wilderness country you're walking into. Aside from rumors, we have no knowledge of the Library whatsoever. Expect anything, prepare for everything. You're authorized to escalate up to Response Five if necessary to complete the mission or extract your team. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The boys will be happy to hear that."
"Don't be. Just because we're letting you use ray guns doesn't mean this is going to be easy. You're heading straight into the Wild West here. You'll need all the gear you can get just to survive.

Mr. Dark had settled into his office at the New York Club with a minimum of pain and suffering on all sides. It lacked the character of The Museum, but with a few homey touches, the odd bunyip-hide rug and Olmec knives, it felt almost right.
Cheryl brought him a short stack of newspaper entries, gleaned from a pile of papers nationwide. Mr. Dark browsed it with and chuckled, drinking thick, oily coffee. Authorities were debating whether Boomer's work was a terrorist bomb gone off by accident, or a clandestine meth lab run by someone who had failed Chemistry 101. Even if Harken had escaped, he'd surely gotten the point. Several of them, most likely…
He read further, about a “person of interest” followed by a surprisingly accurate sketch and description of Boomer. That was going to be a problem. Boomer was too sweet a lad to lose to the wolves of the law, and not the sort to stand up to any kind of serious interrogation. He scribbled a note to have him replanted a good distance away… assuming anyone could uproot him with a minimum of explosions. Bah, other people's problems.
At least he had gotten started on acquisitions. The disease-controlling girl was safely tucked away in Facility B, and Willard was already starting to teach her the benefits of cooperation. When breaking in any bitch, canine or sapien, it was always best to start with positive reinforcement. Fine food, lodgings, shiny things, and an admirable parade of strapping lads had her in amicable spirits. For now. He knew her type very well, she'd soon want more, and more… and she'd get it. The anal electrical probe had the amazing ability to enact dramatic and rapid attitude change. He could have started that way, yes, but he adored watching the loving care people took when constructing their own gallows.
The kumiho was going to be more of a problem. She'd been spotted with her associates, and he knew them well enough: that lot of mystical (and mythical) riff-raff from The Library. She had to be there… he picked absently at the chip in his canine. Perhaps a visit would be in order? No reason not to, really… it'd been ages, and he could check on a few matters as well. He chuckled deep in his throat, tapping his foot on the slick bunyip hide. No matter how furious they might be over The Museum, they had to let him visit The Library. Rules were rules. The very idea of that impotent, boiling rage was reason enough, really.

Percival looked up from his book and over to the cat sitting on the chair. She licked her paw languidly, pointedly ignoring the sound of approaching boots. She looked up at Percival with a slow, sleepy wink. “Visitors. Unfriendly ones, I believe.” Before he could ask, she promptly curled up, stuffed her head under her ribs, and started snoring.
The three men entered in a clump of boots and the soft tap of wingtip shoes. A short, grinning man flanked by two human bulldogs, armed to the teeth. The short one had some kind of long coat, with thick, frayed cuffs and collars… or some kind of very thick fur. The thick sleeves and slight tilt of his head gave the impression of some old, threadbare bird of prey. The other two were all business, looking somewhere between cops and soldiers…but with an oozing aura of pure menace.
Weapons were drawn before anyone could say a word. Swords, sickle, crystal rod, machine guns and massive pistols were quickly pointing across the short gap between the three men and the small collection of Library residents, all aimed at areas of the body both tender and vital. The short man smiled with the slimy, cloying self-satisfaction of a ice cream man passing out treats dipped in arsenic.
She stayed in the back of the room, not sure whether to duck, or laugh. It was the most ludicrous standoff She had ever seen, but could turn ugly in an instant; She wasn't sure what She wanted to see happen more. Fear and tension radiated off the group like the heat from sun-baked mass graves. Except for the short man. He smelled of spice, and oil, and moss… and something that made her nose twitch and tendons tighten like piano wire.
He waved away the thick blade hanging inches from his nose like it was a butterfly intruding on a morning walk. “Now is there really call for all this, sweethearts? I'm just here to renew my library card…and tarry a bit with that sweet little thing perched up on the pillows there.”
He gestured to the bespectacled girl with a wink and a waggle of his fingers. She could barely decide whether to growl or blush. She ended up doing both.
The standoff was broken by a low cough.
"If I were you, I would put those weapons away," Percival said. He was standing between both groups with his empty hands held out to the sides, looking back and forth between them with an expression of utter calm.
"You can't take us all," one of the big bodyguards snarled.
"I don't intend to," Percival said firmly. "The Library will do it for me. I'm just trying to prevent a tragedy."
He looked up at the second floor balcony, where a large number of black-shrouded figures were looking down at the tableau below. More of them were coming out from the shadows, gathering around the scene in a broad circle… just waiting. Watching.
One by one, the weapons were put away, and one by one, the faceless guardians of the Library disappeared back into the shadows from whence they had come. Percival turned to the three men in black suits and nodded. "Carry on," he said, "but remember where you are."
"Of course," Dark said, "My apologies for the rudeness and short-sightedness of my companions, sir knight."
"I'm not a knight," Percival said, dismissively. He turned away and picked up the longsword he had left leaning against the wall, then walked back into the stacks.
The small man brushed a small piece of lint off his shoulder then walked to the back of the room, where a rather nondescript, mousy-looking girl was looking up at him from behind several large stacks of very old, rather dusty books. "May I sit down, dearie?"
"If you wish," She replied, in a sundew-sweet voice.
One of the big thugs pulled out the chair for the short man, who sat down with all the grace of a stalking heron. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Dark, of Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Limited."
"Never heard of you," She lied.
"Good," Dark said. "I spend a lot of bloody time, energy and money making sure that's the case. I, on the other hand, have heard of you. The last kumiho. Your work at that… convention… was exquisite. From an artistic standpoint."
"You are a fan of the arts, then?"
"I am a patron of the arts," Dark corrected. "And I wish to be yours."
"Interesting. Tell me more," She said, leaning back in Her chair and steepling Her fingers.
"Then I'll get to the point sweetheart. Simply put, I am a provider. I provide wondrous things to those who have the money, resources and sensibilities to truly appreciate them. I can sate any desire, quench any thirst, and one of the things my associates desire is you. In exchange, I can do the same for you. You can live like a queen in perfect decadence. You will hunt prey beyond any imagining. You can kill to your heart's content, and instead of being vilified, you will be applauded. Congratulated, even."
"And a whore as well, I suppose," She said.
He grinned devlishly. "On occasion, yes. But then again, I don't think prudishness is a vice you possess in great measure, is it, sweetheart?"
"Hmm. A generous offer. But if I refuse?"
"In that case, we call in the hounds and run you to the ground. The end result is the same. The process, however, is not nearly as pleasant for you. For me, however… well… it's been years since my last fox hunt," Dark said with an almost apologetic smile.
"How very honest," She said dryly. "Allow me to repay you in kind. I have had a better offer."
"What, from those idiots who broke you out? Small fry. Useless. They can't help or protect you."
"Not from them," She said. "From their Teacher."
"A raving lunatic who's read too much Karl Marx," Dark said dismissively. "You'll get no help from him."
"Hm," She gave an enigmatic smile, then stood up and turned to walk away.
Something about her expression immediately raised Dark's hackles. That girl was far too smug not to be hiding something… "Wait," he snarled, the playful carelessness dropping from his voice like a discarded coat. "What do you know? What are you not telling me?"
"Do the amaryllis flowers still bloom in Elysium?" She asked.
The chair clattered to the floor as Dark leaped to his feet. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at the shock in his wide, pale eyes. "He's alive?" the short man hissed.
"Despite your best efforts, yes," She said.
"And he's still planning to go through with it?"
"Of course."
"I see," Mister Dark said. "Simon?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Kill her."
Simon acted reflexively: the gun was in his hand before he knew he had drawn it, and he'd fired before he was aware he'd been given the order, even as his eyes widened in horror at what he was doing. The bullets passed harmlessly through the smiling girl and blasted some holes through the bookshelf behind her. A moment later, the illusion flickered and vanished, a small, tattered leaf falling to the floor.
A moment after that, three black-hooded figures appeared from the darkness and lunged towards the big man. Simon screamed and turned to shoot, but one of the Guardians casually broke his arm and then grabbed him by his shattered wrist. By the time his brother Johan had gotten to his feet, Simon had vanished, dragged into the shadows by the sinister cloaked figures.
"Clever girl," Dark sighed, rubbing his temple. He hadn't expected it would work, but it was worth a shot.
He turned and started walking out of the library quickly but easily, ignoring the stares and frightened looks the other library denizens were giving him. "Boss," Johan said. "We gotta go get Simon! We can't let them…"
"Didn't you hear a goddamn word of what I told you on the trip here? If your brother's not dead already, he's one of THEM now. The Library always collects… and they're always in need of librarians. We're leaving."
"But boss…"
"You're fired," Dark snapped. "Fuck off and die."
He turned away from the big bodyguard, ignoring the stunned look on his face as the man reactively drew the pistol from his coat pocket and put it in his mouth. He threw open the double doors as the gunshot rang out behind him. A twist of time and space later, Dark re-emerged in a back alley in Chicago, with a large black luxury car parked among the refuse and graffiti. The chauffeur gave him a surprised look, then shrugged. "Where are Simon and Johan?" he asked.
"Their services are no longer needed," Dark growled. "Now drive."
He picked up the gold-plated car phone and started dialing. "Willard? This is Dark. Fast-track the bitch. I want her ready by sunset tomorrow… what? Then LET her break! We'll put her back together eventually, I need her ready as soon as possible! What? No, I will NOT explain myself, just get to work!"
He slammed the phone down vengefully, then quickly dialed a second number. "Marshall, Carter? This is Dark. Yes, I know what time it is over there, I don't give a shit— no, I don't care what you were in the middle of, tell them to wait. The Fourth Partner is alive."
"That's right," Dark continued. "The fucking altruist… and he's still trying to carry out his fucking revolution. I need all available assets under my control immediately… no, I don't need your help, I need your fucking resources! You two nitwits work on keeping the clientèle safe. What? I don't fucking care. Make something up."
Dark slammed the handset down and fumed silently, glaring at the phone. Blind, stupid, helpless louts…and now even more time drained to deal with everything on a direct, personal level, it was all so…uncomfortable.
He picked his chipped canine, glaring out the window, as the car slid though the streets like a V-8 powered serpent. Worthless, all of it, and all to no purpose, by all rights he should throw the whole mess in the fire, and cultivate more, instead of trying to control all of this by…
Mr. Dark froze for eight seconds, then slowly smiled a grin as slow and keen as a stiletto in the night.
Of course. Of course…The little vixen would reach out, insecure despite her posturing, but to more… intrinsic aid. Lunatics too blind or single-minded to see the danger… and in so doing, they'd force the next round, wouldn't they? When the children keep acting up, Daddy will eventually start cracking heads… and oh my, weren't they acting up now?
He chuckled softly, comfortable again, leaning into the plush seats. Unexpected, unplanned for, and perhaps dangerous, yes… but if he was anything, he was a man who loved a good, bloody streetfight.
If it just happened to take place between massive groups of well trained men and women, so much the better.

Global Memo
From: 05-9
To: All 05 and Level 4 command staff
Re: CONTROL
CC: Central Records, F.O.B. command datahubs

My dear ladies and gentlemen,
I understand that this has been a trying time, to say the least. Our position has been heavily rocked by both change and attack. Former situations, long held to be understood and secure, and no longer under control. That's really the heart of the matter, control. We've lost it, for the first time in countless years, we're not in the position of majority and power.

This is the opening to the letter I wished to write, but I can't. We got our heads kicked in, yes. We're still picking up the pieces, we're damaged, we're not at a solid point yet, and so forth.
BULLSHIT.
A group of nothing upstarts kicked in our front door, other groups are taking escaped SCP items AT WILL, we're STILL not at capacity, and nobody seems to care. Even more, these idiotic kids have damaged the Veil Protocol, and rather than trying to maintain it, the others seem to be taking the cue from them and moving openly.
We end this NOW, goddammit. I want a semblance of control, and I want it right the FUCKING HELL NOW. I want SCP items tracked and being corralled by direct assault teams. I want intel on enemy agencies and teams moving to quash their operations. We are not a whiny, hand-wringing group of frightened children in lab coats and riot gear, we are The motherfucking Foundation.
They've decided they want to fight this fight in the open? We need to remind them why they want us to stay in the shadows.
All MTF teams are being mobilized as of 0800 this morning. Special investigation and terrorist cells are being activated worldwide. A full media clamp in the form of a “Snowblind” protocol has been enacted for North America and Europe. Worldwide coverage will be enacted within 24 hours. All currently uncontained SCPs will have hand-picked recovery teams assigned and moving within 48 hours. All current Level 4 command staff will undergo a full competency hearing immediately after the current crisis is resolved.
Direct, wide-level SCP item dispatch and authorization is currently being considered under the Pandora's Box Protocol.
Control will be restored.
We secure. We contain. We protect. And nothing is going to stop us.
O5-9

When the nurse walked into the hospital room that morning, she found the bed empty. At first, she thought that her troublesome patient had just escaped his medical confinement to head down to the cafeteria and get a cup of Jell-O or a contra-indicated shot of bourbon. Again.
When she saw the note, however, she realized that things were worse than she'd thought.

Dear O5 cunts,
Consider this my letter of motherfucking resignation.
"Alto Clef"


The Association of Supernatural Shifters
The Association of Supernatural Shifters, or A.S.S. as they are better known, gathered around the conference table. They all looked at each other and nodded. They knew they were in trouble.
"Aurafeel, our organization has barely recruited any members. In spite of our almost unlimited power and glowing hands, we are unable to contract even the most mundane of recruits," said Lifesmasher, thrusting his hammer that burned with the power of 20 suns into the air.
"I do not understand why, Aurafeel. We offer the greatest of all supernatural weaponry and skills for free," added Awesometouch, the greatest thief in all of history.
"I am not sure myself, oh warriors of spirited metal." Aurafeel, his hands glowing as embers leaped off them, then stood up and gazed out the window of his multi-billion dollar training facility.
"Um, sir, if I may…" said Bingo, one of Aurafeel's many genetically-enhanced servant dogs.
"What is it, Bingo?" asked Aurafeel.
"Well, perhaps it is the organization's name, sir. I believe 'ass' may be a synonym for 'buttocks'." Bingo nodded sagely.
"My god! Bingo is correct!" Aurafeel smashed his fists down on the titanium table. "I propose we change our organization's name, gentlemen."
"Hear, hear!" shouted Lifesmasher and Awesometouch.
"But, what shall we name it?" Aurafeel moved his hand up to stroke his manly and well carved chin. They all sat there for a while, pondering upon names.
Suddenly, Awesometouch jumped up. "I have it, Aurafeel!"
"What, Awesometouch?"
"Our organization shall be called the Cooperation of Undying Nationalist Theorists for Homogenous Overall Liberty and Equality."
"Yes! Then it is agreed upon." The group then stood. "Gentlemen, we are now C.U.N.T.H.O.L.E.!"
The Elementary Academy of Anomalists
The teacher stands over the group, gazing down her glasses at each of the young children assembled. "Alright, class is starting, young ones. Quiet down!"
Little Jimmy throws his paper airplane then quiets down. Bobby continues to eat paste. Lucinda passes a note to Bobby informing him of her crush on him, only to have him unable to read it due to his sticky fingers.
"Children, we have a new child in class today. Everybody, say hello to Janice." A girl with short pigtails and a nice pink dress on enters the classroom and curtseys to the class. "Now who can tell Janice what we do here?"
Bobby takes the paste out of his mouth and stands up. "We… um… we train elite warriors from a young age to deal with an- anom- abomalous entities from a young age."
"Yes, excellent. And we all have special little powers ourselves. Would anyone care to demonstrate?" Little Jimmy stands up and makes a snorting noise, then shoots a loogie straight across the room and into a small target opposite. Bobby then proceeds to blow a bubble with the paste he had just eaten. Lucinda then blinks really really fast.
Janice is transfixed. She gasps. Then she herself burps, and it shakes the classroom. The teacher pats Janice on the back. "With these abilities we're sure you'll be able to capture any anomalous entity you set your mind on!"
Meanwhile, in the principal's office, the principal briefly considers pulling the trigger on the gun next to his head.
The Serpent's Upraised Middle Finger
Greg was sooo drunk right then. He slammed down the bottle of Jack Daniels and looked at his bros. "Guys, we have been mistreated by those Foundation scum for waaaaay too long."
"Fuckin' rights, man!" shouted some guy with a mohawk from across the room. Greg squinted and looked at the guy. Was the guy even a part of S.U.M.F.? He shrugged and went back to speaking.
"Look, we gotta unite. Tomorrow morning we're gonna ride in on our choppers or whatevs and fuck shit up!" He raised his fist in the air and everybody around him clinked their shots or bottles and took another hit. "You wanna die oppressed, poor, and hiding in some fucking library, or do you wanna die a motherfuckin' legend!?"
Everyone cheered and parted. Somebody turned on Slayer and they proceeded to knock over the table and have a mosh pit. At some point a bunch of hookers showed up. Greg couldn't remember the rest, though.
The next morning everyone agreed they were too hungover to raid the Foundation.
The Canines of Sapient Ability and Universal Suffrage Group
Fido the dog sat in his doghouse. Yes, soon all sapient canines for universal suffrage would come flocking to his door. Any minute now…
The Cooperation of Undying Nationalist Theorists for Homogenous Overall Liberty and Equality
"Well, Awesometouch, I believe that name change was for the better!" said Aurafeel, "We already have one new recruit set up to join us!"
"Um, hi," said Vlad. He was wearing a trenchcoat and had a greying beard. He still had a bit of white powder underneath his nose and his hair was so matted a mouse appeared to be sleeping in it, "I heard there were cuntholes?"
"No, friend, that is the name of our glorious organization!" proudly proclaimed Aurafeel, lifting his hands in the air.
"Oh. I'm out, then." Vlad nodded to the group and left out the door.
Lifesmasher turned and looked over at Aurafeel. "Well shit."
Honeyhut's Item Exchange
O5-12 turned to O5-13. "So what is this 'Honeyhut's'?"
O5-13 gestured to the image of a log cabin behind him. "It's a small, ma-and-pa anomalous items distribution chain."
O5-12 smiled and blew his nose. "Why, that's lovely. It's great to see a good, non-corporate organization just working for the day's pay."
O5-13 frowned. "It is lovely, but unfortunately large organizations like Marshall, Carter, and Dark limited have been driving small organizations like these out of business."
"Why that's terrible!"
"It is, friend. All these foreign companies are coming in and stealing our good, American anomalous items trade organizations!"
"What will we do?"
"Well, I've organized my own movement I like to call the COFFEE Party."
The Corporate Outsourcing of Foundation and Federal Exchange Extradition Party
"Hell, no, we won't go!" shouted a march led by Dr. Pinkus outside MC&D headquarters.
Carter looked down at the assembled group and frowned. "We have a problem, Marshall."
"Indeed we do, Carter. Thankfully, our opposition is filled with idiots. They've found our headquarters, but their only course of action appears to be holding up signs and occasionally shouting nonsensical phrases."
"Thank god." Carter tilted his head and looked down at the groups again. "Y'know, Marshall…"
"What, Carter?"
"Well, it seems to me at this point that the number of splinter groups and associations is just entirely too silly."
"Such is a fact of life, Carter. Groups of Interest flare up every so often, then die down again. It's like herpes."
"Well, at least we're not fucking Wondertainment."
"Thank god."


"How long have we got?" Matthew said, his stomach growling.
Zeke had been looking at his watch almost constantly for the last twenty minutes. “Three minutes, ten seconds. Nine seconds.” A pause. “Five seconds.”
“Which way did you say it is?” Matthew asked.
“Do you have to keep asking?”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Have you checked your gun?”
Matthew gripped the MP7 tight. “I did that an hour ago. And half an hour ago. And ten minutes ago. I have ten bullets, and I'd like to stop thinking about that. I haven't eaten in two days, and I don't know what day it was then. Don't wanna think about those either. Which way is the building you saw?”
Zeke's face scrunched up. “Um…”
“Well?”
“It was Friday. This is Sunday, so that was Friday.”
“Zeke…”
“Just follow me when the time comes. I know where it is.”
Matthew sighed. “How long we got?”
Zeke lifted his head up. “Can't you hear? It's started.”
Matthew listened. From this close to Braunschweig, he could always hear the screaming. Usually the victims, the hunted. Sometimes the Embracers. It didn't matter. Twenty-three hours a day, always screaming. Screaming until there wasn't anyone left to scream. Twenty-three hours a day. One hour a day…
The Embracers were quiet because of their ritual. Matthew figured the rest were just tired of all the noise.
The Hour had come. Matthew and Zeke rose from their hole. As usual, Zeke led, and Matthew followed.
**
“Can you at least say how far away it was?” Matthew asked. “It's been twenty minutes. If we need to turn around…”
“That's not going to happen,” Zeke said. “Look, I know you don't have training, and it wouldn't matter if you did, not now, but that's not the point. It's…” Zeke thought. Matthew always thought of Sarah Palin, a lifetime and a hemisphere ago, whenever Zeke thought really hard about something, because he always looked like it took a lot more effort than it should have.
“It's principle,” Zeke finally said. “You don't turn around. Not after this. Either we find more food, maybe a way west, a way back to the States, or we die. No option three.” Zeke huffed with finality.
“Fine,” Matthew said. “How far?”
“Ten minutes, fifteen tops. No more.”
They kept walking in silence. Matthew was often silent around Zeke during their “missions.” Anything he said would just make Zeke mad. Zeke never wanted to hear that Matthew had “given up hope,” as he put it; had given up hope of rescue, had given up hope well before they had even met. Zeke didn't want to hear that the Embracers were almost certainly back home, and in Brazil, and Africa, and China, and probably fucking Antarctica, if there was someone left there who wasn't one of them. Everywhere.
Zeke went on because he dreamt of being at home, maybe on the cover of Time, famous. “The Man who Survived Europe,” front cover. Maybe next to the story about how the war was over, and we had won. Matthew kept going because he was too stupid to die already.
**
Zeke's sense of timing was spot on, for once. They reached the little concrete bunker thirty-five minutes after they left. Zeke's NATO training (“brainwashing,” Matthew had called it, back when it had only saved his life once or twice) kicked in, and Matthew went to open the door for him. Zeke went in point, AR-15 and six rounds leading the way. They cleared the first couple of rooms the same way. All bedrooms, bare-bones, beds and desks, double occupancy. All empty. The mess was like the others they had seen, refrigerator full of spoiled food, pantry full of half-edible canned food. Maybe a week's-worth, maybe ten days. They could carry six. A good day's work.
Matthew wanted to get some sleep, but Zeke was sure he heard something. Not Embracers; their ritual wasn't quite over yet. Something else, and something in the bunker. There was one room left.
Matthew was glad Zeke's boot was in such good shape, a credit to the young sergeant major this pair had come from. The wooden door splintered around the lock and swung forward.
Details come very clearly during times of crisis. One man, gun in mouth, red face covered in tears. Tag on white lab coat reads “SCP Foundation,” then his picture, then “MORGAN, LEVEL 2.” Papers all over the floor, the desk, taped to the walls. A copy of the New York Times, dated five months earlier (Matthew thought); headline read

'CHICAGO NOT YET LOST TO ENEMY,' GENERAL SANDUSKY SAYS
WITHDRAWAL ORDERED, ELECTIONS POSTPONED TWO MORE MONTHS

Matthew hated being right.
An electric typewriter sat next to a broken computer monitor. The draft of some page of a report sat in the cradle, with some revisions.

The manifestation of Script 82 on ██/██12 was reported at 02:01:13
The procedure for containment was followed, though all chanters were not contained. Neurotoxin deployment approved by control at
Neurotoxin initially believed to be effective, but confirmation not received from site. Protocol required for loss of communication includes
Failure to activate on-site warhead
Failure to react quickly to cultist activity, beyond suppression in media
Failure to coordinate when global contamination
Failure failure failure
Failure
Cowardice Failure comes from cowardice
Researcher Morgan showed cowardice and is a failure failure failure failure fAILure FAIlure FAIluRE FAILED FAILED YOU FAILED FAILED FAILED TRUSTED YOU FAILED YOU FAILED—

“I couldn't…I couldn't…” The man had taken the gun out of his mouth. “I couldn't make the… the…” He kept sobbing. “…couldn't…”
Zeke heard it first, of course. The chanting. It was close, very close. Too close. They were almost inside.
“I couldn't make the tough calls,” the red-faced man said. The gunshot blew the top of his head all over the wall behind him.
The Embracers knew what room to go to now. Matthew and Zeke exchanged a quick look, then ran for hiding spots. Matthew got a closet, jumped inside, and made his breathing as quiet as possible. Zeke dove under the bed.
Heavy, perfectly coordinated Latin tones rolled down the hallway. No opera, no chorus, had ever matched the perfection in those chants. You couldn't let yourself think of it as beautiful, or the next step would be seeking them out, getting out of hiding, running towards them. Some nights, as Matthew lay awake, the only thing that drowned out the hunger or terror or pain was the thought that just maybe, if he would go towards the sound, if he would embrace—
Matthew clenched on his empty stomach. You can't think that. There could be a way out. There could be—
Two of them walked into the room, looking around. The rest gathered around the doorway, still chanting. The danger was in how normal they looked; no drooling, no hobbling, no blood-covered shirts. They could have been insurance salesmen, or kindergarten teachers. They glanced around, then looked at the bed.
Matthew didn't know how Zeke had given himself away. Surely the soldier was better at hiding than the embassy desk clerk, he had saved Matthew so many times since Kyiv, there was no way…
They dragged him out and pinned him against the wall. Matthew couldn't hear what they said to him (not that he didn't know the words by heart by now), but even over the loud Latin coming from the hallway, Zeke's yelling was audible.
The Embracers grabbed him by the head and spoke. Zeke struggled. “Fuck you, no, it's, no, no, don't—“
The Embracers spoke again.
“I'm not gonna do it! You can't make me! I'm not—“
The Embracers spoke again.
“I won't I won't I won't do it no no no—“
The Embracers spoke again.
Zeke screamed the word “I” for two full minutes as Matthew counted off the seconds, plugging his ears as well as he could. I should do something, he thought, I should do anything, he's all I've got—
Zeke stopped screaming and looked straight ahead. That was when Matthew realized that the difference was in the eyes. It wasn't anything so garish as fangs or wolf ears. The eyes are the windows to the soul, and the Embracers didn't register. No humans present in this building. None but Matthew.
One Embracer spoke again, the same statement as before. Zeke answered, quietly but firmly. The Embracer repeated them. Matthew half-heard the words.
“The time…has come…”
Zeke replied, faintly, “We…many…”
The Embracer spoke again. “The time of plurality has come.”
Now the rest joined the chorus. “We embrace the many.”
Have to do something, he thought…
“THE TIME OF PLURALITY HAS COME.”
Have to…
“WE EMBRACE THE MANY,” they said.
The Latin chanting resumed. Matthew couldn't make the tough call either, and was almost relieved when the three Embracers turned toward the closet, looking at him.


Memories
Jason surveyed the scene. The place was a mess, broken glass scattered across the floor, small puddles of blood and chemicals here and there, and three dead bodies lying in the middle of the room. Jason shook his head. Things had gotten out of hand real quick. Two of the scientists had pulled guns on the Foundation team, and in the ensuing firefight all three scientists were killed. Walking through the room, Jason spotted a piece of paper jutting out beneath a shelf, just the corner visible. He picked it up, and let out a sigh as he looked at it. A photograph of a family, smiling happily in the nice weather. A woman in her late forties, with a kind and caring look. A little girl, no more than ten years old, beaming like she'd just won the grand prize in the lottery. And a man, probably in his early fifties, one arm around his woman's shoulder and the other holding the girl's hand. On the back, in very neat handwriting, was written “We'll miss you every day you're away. Love, Carla and Lily”.
Jason shook his head. The two who had drawn guns were probably members of some shady organization, looking to weaponize or profit off of the SCPs they had acquired, but this man… He hadn't fought, and had seemed completely surprised and terrified when his colleagues started shooting. He had cowered beneath a table, and been hit by a stray bullet. He probably had no idea what they were really doing, perhaps too excited about working with such unusual samples to notice anything suspicious. Jason looked around the room, making sure nobody could see him, and pocketed the photo. He took another round through the room, making sure he hadn't missed anything important, and headed outside.
Back in his quarters, Jason sat down on his bed and took out the photo. He looked at it for a little while, and then pulled out the small box he kept in his desk. He unlocked and opened it, slowly looking over the contents. He'd have to get another box soon, this one was getting full. Inside were a number of items; a locket, a scratched and cracked CD plate, several photos, a broken watch, two drawings in crayon, and many other small objects. To anyone else, just a random assortment of trinkets and junk.
But Jason knew that each of these items had a history. Each had been taken from a site where the Foundation had run into a conflict that had claimed the life of someone whose only wrongdoing was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They hadn't known why they were killed. And their loved ones would never know the truth. Jason knew though. He had held onto these things to make sure he would remember. The truth might be hidden, but it wouldn't be forgotten. Not so long as he lived. He understood all too well how necessary the work of the Foundation was, and why secrecy was so important. He knew that sacrifices had to be made. But the least he could do was remember those who had been sacrificed for the sake of all of humanity.


Excerpts from the personal diary of Nikola Tesla, March 18th, 1901, regarding SCP-627, obtained from his apartment on January 7th, 1943 by SCP Agent [EXPUNGED]
Warden bought me the land. The deal is in its final stages and construction will begin sometime in the winter. The proposed laboratory has ample room, and a direct access to the rail line.
The man thinks I'm going to boom the local economy and that a city will spring up because of my work. He doesn't know why I'm really here and what I'm set to accomplish.
Free energy. Producing enough electricity that we will no longer need wires. Isolated nations could be brought to the modern age through the work of one simple machine.
The orb is the key. I don't know where Jack got it. I just know that there's a perpetual motion to it, and that I've been unable to destroy it and find out what is inside. Striking it with a hammer was useless.
Using a cutting torch only made it warm to the touch. Having someone drive a railroad spike into it bent the spike. Throughout all the tests I've done and ran on this creation, it still continues to roll by itself, in the rough span of a meter.
Nothing is seeming to animate this. To the ear, there's nothing. It's normally cool as any stone or glass is to the touch, save the rough edges of the flecks of blue material on the surface.
I've done everything I can short of smashing it with an industrial pr
-
Smashing it with an industrial press caused severe damage to the press. I am now short fifty dollars to pay for the damages.
June 18th, 1901
"Wardenclyffe."
The man thinks that my ambition is going to put his name on the map. He has no idea what I have in store for the world. The ball still rolls on the smooth stone floor of the laboratory space, and the sound can get agitating in the dead of the night. I've begun to design a machine that will use the perpetual motion of this orb in order to produce energy, refining it, and focusing it into a coil of iron and copper, using one of my coil designs from earlier modified appropriately. I'm going to need workers if I'm going to power the seaboard. Work shall begin post-haste.
Edison arrived at the lab the other day. The man, while brilliant, is backwards and not as much of a dreamer as I. He may have won over the masses, but I do not need popularity in order to fulfill my goal.
Popularity is the need of lesser men. DC current and AC current will be meaningless when my project succeeds. We shared a glass of tea and my assistant rushed him away to leave when workers arrived with a spool of copper wire.
Insufferable. Why would you electrocute an elephant just to prove a man wrong? Elephants don't deserve to be electrocuted. The man is an ass, and this emotion is most certainly resentment.
I'm allowed emotions! I can resent the man all I please, because our rivalry is chicken seed in comparison to what is to come!
That poor elephant.
Ball rolls up obstacles. Placed hand in way, rolled up and over hand. Placed brick in way, rolled over brick.
Placed in front of assistant. Rolled up assistant's leg, up torso and across face, dropped to the opposite side. Not doing that again.
Attempts to slow it down and render its direction askew with wooden blocks also futile. Weighing it down with my hand stops it, but
August 19th, 1901
Rudimentary test with coil success. Static discharge safe if grounded and when outside 20 feet.
More tests on orb this morning after breakfast. Idea hit me when I woke if I could constrict the size of the meter circumference of the orb's path.
Constructed circle of iron using scrap metal, and ..ironically, a path painted by the orb when covered in grease paint. Iron circle to constrict path of orb to that of a foot, as opposed to the usual 1m.
Test was a resounding success. Marked speed increase and increase in acceleration. Difficult getting grease paint off.
Orb continued at speed until iron ring was removed, then resumed at one meter.
To call myself puzzled is an understatement. I'd give anything to be able to see what's inside of this small orb of stone. Going to test this via the extremes come Sunday.
I need to get okay from local police, assistant can do that. Continuing to design coil apparatus and "tower" for orb project. Workers are beginning to construct the base and all things are looking well.
I find myself not eating, too busy working. I need to remedy this and slow down for my health, but I'm so close, I can feel it in my very soul. I can help the world, perhaps bring in a new day for civilization.
And the orb is the key.
Sunday, August 24th, 1901
FRUSTRATED
HITTING ORB WITH STEAM LOCOMOTIVE DERAILED LOCOMOTIVE
GOING TO SLEEP, TOO FRUSTRATED TO KEEP TRAIN OF THOUGHT
WHY - GOD DAMNED TRAIN WAS SUPPOSED TO SPLIT IT
NEVER AGAIN
IF A BLOODY TRAIN CAN'T CRACK THIS THING OPEN THEN NOTHING ON EARTH CAN
DOES NOT MATTER, PLAN CONTINUES
September 11th, 1901
Found myself sleeping at workbench. Assistant roused me from my sleep, I asked him what time it was.
I'd been working into the early dawn hours and still I'm not making appropriate progress. I need to keep the edge in the race for free energy.
I have the orb, but Edison may resort to espionage and sabotage. It's not beneath the man if he'll willingly slander my works like he has in the past.
He has the fluke of creating the lightbulb? What if someone else made the light bulb and he took it?
Paranoia must be due to lack of sleep.
I hate the damn sound that orb makes when it rolls on sheet metal. Copper containment must be in tube form in final design.
Copper and iron.
December 31st, 1901
A new year is dawning. A new year, and soon my preliminary designs will be finalized, and construction will begin.
The tower will be tall, over a hundred feet, using wood stabilizers. The idea is the project has to be large, in order to reach the effect necessary for global empowerment.
George and I spoke about the money issues. I told him I needed to leave the lab to get to the city and entrusted him with the orb.
Before I left, I meditated in the laboratory, looking over one of my electrical coils arc electricity through the room.
How can I be wrong when I can -see- the fruits of my designs? I can -see- my designs working?
I know I'm right. I have to be right, or all of this work is for nothing.
January 7th, 1902
My enemies have been very successful in painting me as a poet and visionary.
I've at Wardenclyffe for the past few days, thinking of moving laboratory from Houston Street here.
Tower is still under construction but construction is going very well.
I need to be able to think. I need the air around here to clear my head and I'm frustrated and scared out of my mind of the possible outcomes of the device.
I could power the entire world with this, or I could ignite the atmosphere in flames and kill all life on earth, or absolutely nothing could happen. I need to try.
Mankind has lived in the darkness for too long.
A tubing system has been tested with the orb, and the orb's conductivity, or rather the motion it has, has given the system a strong electrical charge. I need to constrict and focus.
I am not a madman. I am a man with vision and the will to see that vision come to fruition.
Why must I remind myself as such?
I worry the project has taken a toll on my mental faculties.
I can't worry now. I have to see this through.
May 4th, 1902
Tower needs about a year before the first test of the design.
One year. Worried about money issues. A lot is riding on my success.
George had his workers carry in the last of the laboratory equipment to the facility today.
The man's a good friend, but I worry that he may seek employment elsewhere if the money dries out.
This is why I must succeed. If I don't, I'm going to be in destitution, in debt to men with more pull than I.
Word came from the Colorado Springs of the sale of the grounds. It doesn't matter. That laboratory has nothing to give me anymore.
All work is now to be done in Wardenclyffe. Nothing ties me to Houston Street anymore. I can work here in solitude and without interruption.
The orb is the key.
An iron tube, seven inches in diameter, will wrap around a wooden beam in the center of the tower, wrapped in copper wire. Once the electrical charge is built up, it will shoot up the wire and be amplified by the sphere at the top of the tower. The electricity and static charge will then be capable of powering anywhere in the world by 'wobbling' the planet's magnetosphere. I've spent over fifteen years working on this design. It has to work.
July 10th, 1902
Today is my birthday.
The test firing begins one year from now.
The plan is finalized. All I need to do is complete the tower.
Money is running dangerously low.
JP Morgan and my backers have voiced their doubt.
They will be shown the way. Everyone will.
I've read of a scientist in Germany, an up-and-comer in the world of physics, who might be able to assist me.
The project won't survive without something commercial. I have to leave this project financially sound.
Nearly a million has been spent. The great undertaking is nearly complete.
The orb is the key.
August 30th, 1902
I haven't slept for over eighty hours. I have to finish the project. Everything is in place.
The [incomprehensible scribbles and a coffee stain] mustn't malfunction.
November 5th, 1902
Saw a film today, Le Voyage dans la lune. The movie is about a group of travelers who shoot to the moon in a giant bullet-shaped craft. They encounter space aliens, and manage to get their way back home. I'm not sure where I found the copy, but I allowed myself time to view it in the means of my work. I'd heard rumors that Edison's technicians have been spreading the film about and not giving the director his due cuts. This strikes me JUST as what Thomas would do.
My hatred and rivalry for this man knows no bounds. I will out shadow him with my design. The Tower shall bring in a new age of humanity and Thomas Alva Edison will be left in the dust!
Marconi and I have discussed obtaining the last bit of funds I need for my tower. He seems hesitant and I can see it in his eyes when I talk to him the doubt others share.
I have no room for doubt. No room.
His assistance is vital, however. The tower is constructed. We will begin preparations for test firing over the spring. For now, I need to take a moment to rest.
Pigeon flew into arc of one of the coils earlier today and reminded me of dangers of electricity. Going to miss her. She was one of my favorites of the flock I keep.
Buried pigeon in shoebox beside oak tree near laboratory.
January 1st, 1903
došli peniaze na financovanie projektu
treba mimoriadnych finančných prostriedkov z podporovateľov
oni mi dal ešte poslednú šancu
Potrebujem šesť mesiacov
pitnej problémy preč
Orb je kľúčom
Febuary 10th, 1903
Testing the conductivity today.
—
Test went well. An odd resonance and sound from the tower. Hum?
Need to investigate. Resonance is either a good thing or a bad thing.
Workers and pigeons find sound incredibly unnerving.
Workers are frightened by the scale of the project. Some of them have voiced their conerns.
I tell them they're safe, and that the majority of the current is going into the earth, as per the project's ultimate design.
The majority of them are calmed by this, but some still show hesitance when I flip the switch for conductivity tests.
The government agents arrived again this morning. They're asking me what's powering the tower, and why I need the carbon tube ring.
I ask them what agency they belong to. They tell me they're part of a new unusual incident investigation organization of the Secret Service.
They don't seem very bright. I tell them the 'truth' and back my claims up with old diagrams that they couldn't understand and that were of no use to me.
They thanked me for the tea I served them and left. That was a close one. I need to prepare for more scrutiny from outside forces.
March 18th, 1903
Rolled the orb in chalk and drew a circle on the ground. Washed it off and threw it at a wall as hard as I could. The wall dented, the orb is fine.
I doubt this small stone is from our planet. It's so very, very durable, and I'll never be able to find out why it works the way it does. The 'why' no longer matters.
The 'what' does. What does it do. It runs in a circle on its own. It speeds up the tighter its path is constricted. The ring will be small and the energy it will produce will be enough.
I washed the orb of the chalky dust and drew a map of the globe in the circle I'd drawn earlier.
The great marble we live on has some parallels with this little orb. Flecked with blue, spinning forever and ever without a care, in a perpetual circle.
It's almost ready.
Two months.
July 9th
Running out of money. First test could be my last. I've asked the workers today to prepare for the undertaking of their lives, and that all the work we've done will pay off within twenty four hours.
The faint of heart left after that speech. Only a dozen, two dozen perhaps remain.
God see me through this.
I'm scared out of my mind, and I'm worried I may not survive the next twenty four hours. The orb's capabilities are largely untouched. George has warned the local police, and they're blocking off a five mile radius around the already isolated laboratory. Tomorrow, I make history.
July 10th
The forest has been destroyed. The lab is on fire. The tower was too focused. The electricity shot up the tower and was focused in such a way that it punched through the atmosphere in an arc-like beam of light. It vaporized seventeen men that were too close. I miscalculated everything. The shock wave knocked everything not bolted down off of its feet and set fire to the forest that wasn't knocked down. Some of the men are deafened and blinded. Word is from my associates overseas that they've detected the precise distance the beam traveled.
It burned a crack into the face of the planet Mars.
God forgive me for what I've done.
I never meant for this. I wanted to help humanity.
Men have arrived to douse the flames. They've taken the orb.
God forgive me.
I never wanted this.
[The remainder of the page has been smeared with tears.]


To: Sir Edward Wilfred Travis, Deputy Director
From: Col. Lionel Pierce (Bletchley Park)
Date: 6 November 1944
Re: German project in Upper Silesia
Sir Edward:
In obedience to your order of 26 October, I have directed the staff of my section to identify and analyze intelligence relevant to an understanding of special German military assets and projects that are located in areas that we expect the Soviets to take in the next 60 days. This memorandum discusses such a German asset. The Jerries have it in East Upper Silesia near Kattowitz, an area that we expect Marshal Konev to overrun in the next few weeks. In view of the implications of the Soviets acquiring and possessing this asset, I wanted to get this report to you immediately.
I attach three exhibits:
Exhibit 1: Plaintext decrypt of an intercepted pre-war ENIGMA communication. As this was an older message, we didn't prioritize breaking the code on this one, and it remained in the queue until a few weeks ago when one of the lads took it up as a training exercise.
Exhibit 2: Intercepted orders dated 7 August 1941 from R. Heydrich to Dr. Eduard Wirths regarding the construction of a facility to house the asset.
Exhibit 3: Description of asset and protocol for its handling.
I respectfully suggest that Command convey this information (in particular, Exhibit 3) to the Soviets through appropriate channels. They need to know what to do when they get there- and more pointedly, what not to do.
Respectfully,
/s/
L. Pierce
Attachments
—-
Exhibit 1:

24 January 1939
To: Dr. Schmidt, Neuschwabenland, [coordinates]
From: SS-Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, Reichssicherheitshauptamt
Heil Hitler! Allow me to be among the first to congratulate you and your team on your discovery at Austvorren Ridge [Col. Pierce's note: German name for geographic feature at 73°6′S by 1°35′W)]. Berlin has been following the reports of your expedition to Antarctica with the closest attention. Although the erbsenzähler [translated as “bean-counters”] will probably be less than pleased that the establishment of a German whaling station on the Antarctic continent has proved to be impracticable, that setback cannot diminish the results of your valuable scientific work.
The ship Neuschwabenland is to remain in the Antarctic for a few more weeks. You and your team, however, are directed to return to Germany immediately, and bring her with you. [Col. Pierce's note: Here and elsewhere, the Jerries refer to the asset as “she”, or “her”. See Exhibit 3 for our best effort at a physical description.] In eleven days, the Kriegsmarine will dispatch U-38 from Wilhelmshaven to pick you up and convey you to Hamburg. U-38's three forward compartments have been modified into a Aufbewahrungskammer [translated as “containment chamber”]. Feed her, if you must, then freeze her just as you had found her, then crate her and get her aboard the U-boat with as much discretion as possible-Captain Mootz of U-38 has been instructed not to ask questions. You must get her back to the Reich as quickly as possible, as political events in the near future may inconvenience sea access to Antarctica in the short term.
You were very brave to dig her up and thaw her out. Do not second-guess your own decision based upon what happened: it is upon courageous men like you that the Reich's vitality and glory depend. Upon your arrival in Hamburg, you will be presented with the Reich's highest honours. The remains of expedition members Hess, Gruber, Schneider and Joachim will also be given an honourable burial— in truth, not a burial, given the circumstances, but I am sure that their widows will appreciate the gesture.
Yours,
Reinhard Heydrich, Director- Sicherheitspolizei
[Col. Pierce's note: We know from subsequent intercepted communications that U-38 returned to Hamburg in late February 1939 and delivered Ernst Schmidt, a few researchers, a large metal tank and several tons of other equipment. This journey was not without incident—based on some intercepted communications between U-38 and Admiral Dönitz's headquarters in early February 1939, it appears that the crew of U-38 attempted to mutiny and scuttle the boat at sea about 120 miles southwest of the Faroe Islands. However, Captain Mootz was able to re-assert control on 18 February and notified Admiral Dönitz regarding the same. U-38 was retired from service following arrival and disassembled. The tank was loaded onto a rail car and sent eastward- our man on the ground tracked it as far as Dresden.]

Exhibit 2

7 August 1941
To: Dr. Wirths
From: SS-Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, Reichssicherheitshauptamt
Heil Hitler! In four days, you will take delivery of the asset that we discussed after the conference back in June. Gruppe G: Technische Arbeitsmittel of the Abteilung Nachrichtenbeschaffung [Col. Pierce's note: We believe that this organization directs the Wehrmacht's research division] has attempted, for the last two years, to make a reliable weapon out of her, without success. She is voracious and deadly, to be sure, but she has consistently been as great a danger to our personnel as to the enemy. Since we have not yet found an effective way of permanently neutralizing her, we are shipping her to you so that she may serve the Reich in a different way.
In your letter of 22 July, you noted that the research that Hauptsturmführer Dr. Mengele will be undertaking under your direction could be carried out with greater efficiency if there were a reliable means of rapidly disposing of the detritus of failed tests. We believe that she will serve admirably in this capacity at the Vernichtungslager that you are constructing. However, in order that she may serve this function safely, we have learned from experience that she must be contained in accordance with the attached protocol, which must be observed diligently and without fail.
Yours,
Reinhard
[Col. Pierce's Note: The protocol document to which Exhibit 2 refers is attached as Exhibit 3.]

Exhibit 3
[DATA EXPUNGED]

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Rating: 24


Valley lay in his bed, wheezing as he spoke with his head of security over the radio.
"Are my preparations in place?" he gasped, still managing to bring menace into every syllable.
A few seconds passed. A tick-tock came from over the radio. Then, Mr. Tick spoke.
"Yes. It is ready. Sir." He said in that monotone voice of his.
"How long?"
Another few seconds passed. "Now."

"Beta-23, move in."
The six members of Mobile Task Force Beta-23 rushed forward, taking cover positions and looking for viable targets in the small cottage they had been tasked with clearing. They were not yet in there, however, and were still cautious of the enemy firing out of its windows.
Which of course, was the least of their worries. The commander, unnoticed by the rest of his team, gasped in agony as what he thought was the grass of the field injected its paralytic venom into him. He would die last, as Marshall, Carter, and Dark's intruder prevention item was not yet hungry.
The man at the back of the group flicked his eyes back and forth, checking for targets. He stepped on something as he moved slowly forwards. His gaze flicked down to the photograph for only a second, but that was all it needed. He quietly and politely knelt down and cut his own throat.
The others turned around swiftly, having heard their fallen comrades' last gurgles. Two of them aimed their rifles at the absurd image of a stitch moving through the grass like a snake. Two stitches, three stitches. Their bullets did nothing as the stitches moved over them, joining them together, merging lungs and hearts and brains.
One stayed, one ran.
The one who had stayed stepped back, then winced and looked down. A small dart was stuck right in his knee. Shaking, he pulled it out. It was barbed. Was it poisonous? Would he die slowly, in agony?
As he looked down and saw two maggots repairing his wound, he knew he would not die at all.
The one who had ran carried on running, panic carrying him when his own strength failed. Soon, his frantic running was joined by the purposeful slam of four paws on the ground. Paws that were running towards him very quickly. A voice came from behind him, a horrible growl of a voice. He dared not look.
"Sunny in Harare," it said.
He panted. Would he make it to the extraction zone?
"Mild in Miami," it growled.
He was almost at the fence. Come on, almost!
"Rainy in London!" screamed the voice, and the hound pounced.

"All went well," tocked Mr. Tick. Of course, Valley knew this from the multiple television screens in front of his bed, but Mr. Tick was always a redundant sort of fellow.
Valley smiled. He was dying, of course, but that was no reason not to have fun. He had to do it again soon.
"Make another batch," he rasped into the radio. "Make them think they're gocks this time."
"Yes. Sir."
The door opened and a man stepped in. If you were asked to describe him afterwards, that was all you could say, he was just a man. The illogical colours of his jacket, the jagged curves of his pupils and the impossible pattern on his badge made sure of that.
"You called me," smiled the man that had walked in. Its eyes flicked from radio to sky, sky to table, table to Valley in a few seconds. "You're dying?" the man asked curiously, his voice a dull monotone.
"Of course I am," Valley said bitterly. "Mr. Carter's parting gift."
"You called me," said the man again. "What is it you wanted?"
Valley shifted uncomfortably in his bed and stared into what he hoped were the man's eyes. "I am a sick old man, friend."
"I am not your friend. Yes, you are. Why do you want to see me?" said the man patiently, its voice quick, as if he was eager to be somewhere else.
Valley leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement. "I need to expand, but what I have is too limited. The few products I managed to steal before leaving Carter's lovely club are not enough. I need the Station, please. You must help me have it."
One of the man's eyes drifted to the ceiling. The other one circled in its socket. It was in deep concentration.
"I will need four men. Your best four men."
"And money?"
A look of confusion crossed the man's face. "I will not need money. I will need four men. Goodbye, Mr. Valley." It walked out of the door and it shut the door behind him.
A few seconds passed. Valley leaned back, looked at the thin stump that had yesterday been his arm, and cried.