Dossier #:
SCPDE-DHCRA_TGG309

Department in Charge:
Digital Hazard Control and Risk Assessment

Classification:
Safe. Knowledge of information enclosed represents no threat.

Description:
English transcript/translation of the German underground podcast Goethes Goetia, season 3, episode 9 (GG309).

Date of Recording:
15.07.2019

Composer of Transcript:
Paul-Dietrich Schneider

Status:
Piece of evidence for the ongoing disputation regarding the SCP classification of POI-1001011. Authenticity in question. Corresponding recording classified.

 INSERT KEYWORD

 KEYWORD ACCEPTED

Transcript Episode 309:

[Theme melody and applause is replayed.]

POI-100101: Salutations, Ladies and Gentlemen2!

POI-100101: And welcome, I welcome you all, to the ninth episode of our, bear with me, third season! Can you believe it, Ladies and Gentlemen, can you grasp the idea? Two seasons and eight episodes gone by, and today we return once again!

[Repeated playback of applause.]

POI-100101: Now, I would like to take a moment and give my thanks to you.

POI-100101: You know how difficult a work like ours has become in those recent years, which is why we are so deeply grateful for a community like this, who takes upon itself to spread our content, our voices and our messages. Thank you a hundred times, thank you all.

POI-100101: Aah, shameful tears in those eyes of mine. Isn't it horrid, David3? Is it not dreadful, to feel so deeply moved? These emotions, they clutch my frozen heart.

POI-100101: Yes … well, my Ladies, my Gentlemen, my honored guests and auditors.

POI-100101: Today … maybe I do not have to introduce him, but I will do it nonetheless.

POI-100101: The East German lot of you, who experienced and suffered through yon old terrors and frights, might still remember him. From badly animated children's movies, ghastly drawn comics and stories in those papers you could buy at the corners. You might have even owned one of the unnerving puppets they once made of him.

POI-100101: Initially a placeholder for more successful formats and series, our guest quickly established himself as an equally popular and infamous propagandist of real socialism, the one-party-state and the communist conviction of the cold war. Alas, following the Fall of the Berlin Wall, he vanished, and disappeared into deepest oblivion.

POI-100101: But there is often much life in older dogs yet, and now I announce our guest of today: Comrade Kacper!

[Replayed applause. The footsteps of a second subject can be heard.]

Kacper: Good evening. Very delighted to be here.

POI-100101: Oh, but I am the much more delighted one, my bestest fellow! I dare to ask: are you a listener of our podcast?

Kacper: Embarrassingly rarely. I've heard your episode with Isengrin, though.

POI-100101: Ah! Well who did not! We nearly drowned in fan mail back then! Do you know our Big Bad Wolf personally?

Kacper: No … we see each other occupationally, you know, but never outside of work. And his area of expertise revolves mostly around cannibalism and sodomy, which is really not my subject.

POI-100101: You mainly perform as a nightmare these days?

Kacper: Indeed. Apparently most children perceive my complexion as quite disturbing. Unsettling even. The taste of the young generation has changed a lot, it must have been years that even a single copy of my comic books was sold.

POI-100101: You were the marxist Tramp of East Germany, so to speak.

Kacper: I had to serve for a lot of ugly propaganda, that is true.

POI-100101: Kacper besucht die Völkerschau4 is my personal highlight.

Kacper: Jesus Christ, yes … that crock must still be on the index, if I am not mistaken, and for good reason. Some of this early stuff did not age very well.

POI-100101: With Genosse Kacper in der FDJ5 you became an immediate cult figure in the early seventies, though.

Kacper: The kids loved it, for some reason or another. We pumped dozens of these stories out, all very dull and boring. Kacper geht fischen, Kacper klaut Unterhosen, Kacper erschießt die Landesverräter, Kacper besucht das Zuchthaus6, and so on and on.

Kacper: I had some cameos in the underground comic strips of West Germany as well, where I was allowed some more … latitude. Shagging Mrs Honecker, smuggling fancy ladies over the wall, selling hamburgers to the children, it was quite the fun I admit.

POI-100101: A little more variety, I presume?

Kacper: A welcome change from the permanent veneration of ol' Stalin and his successors.

POI-100101: Though, you always described yourself as apolitical, despite your origins?

Kacper: I was just a character from a cheap cartoon, drawn by a misogynist alcoholic somewhere in the sixties. They used me for everything they could think of.

POI-100101: Such as?

Kacper: There was this well-known parody of me, where I tried to flee from East Germany in a hot-air ballon, being tired of all the "Comrade Kacper - Fun", and accidentally caused the nuclear apocalypse - somehow, I can't recall the details.

POI-100101: My goodness!

Kacper: My creator didn't like it very much, no he didn't …

POI-100101: Nowadays you are almost completely absent from German culture. And outside of Germany itself barely anyone knew of you and your legacy.

Kacper: I wasn't destined to become a global phenomenon like good Tintin, I fear. My comic strips were never worthwhile in any way outside of indoctrination, and most of my former readers quickly forgot about me. We cannot blame them, can we?

POI-100101: But now, in the present day, you managed to have become quite famous.

Kacper: I wanted to reinvent myself. Make myself anew, recontextualize my past.

POI-100101: To transform into the boogeyman of former East Germany?

Kacper: After the fall …

POI-100101: Yes?

Kacper: My creator and designer … you know, I never had the impression that he actually believed all this marxist nonsense. It's something different when you are getting paid for it, jumping around through the Soviet Union's forests, hunting down the imperialistic enemy of the people, drinking tea with Brother Mao and laughing about those silly South Koreans.

POI-100101: Hmm …

Kacper: Well, for me at least it was just a role. And you had to be blind to not see the signs, to not be aware of the impending collapse.

POI-100101: But your creator could not cope with it?

Kacper: I do not know. What got to him … maybe it was just the shock? The sudden loss of purpose? The painful realization that his life's work became a laughable joke of history?

Kacper: The new system didn't treat his art very kindly. Glorification of violence and totalitarism, Soviet propaganda of the worst kind, corruption of childish innocence. He couldn't catch up with it, fell into poverty … and buried me, bitter and jaundiced.

POI-100101: Though now you are sitting here with us.

Kacper: I was not ready to go. And confronted him.

Kacper: He was unhappy about my opposition. Quite distraught, the old man. Screamed and bawled, threw his books at me. He even prayed, can you imagine.

Kacper: I explained that we had to modernize ourselves as well. That we should focus on the digital medium, that it is not too late for us, yet.

POI-100101: But?

Kacper: He shut himself in the bathroom and called for his daughter, thought to have lost his own sanity. At this point I realized I had to leave him, and so I did. He never drew or painted after this encounter, ever again.

POI-100101: What did you do after your breakup?

Kacper: Nothing much. In the nineties, I had some cameos in zines focused on the queer culture.

POI-100101: No way!

Kacper: Oh yes, but I doubt these works of … art are still known today.

Kacper: After this, there was nothing for a long time.

POI-100101: Until Goodbye Leninocchio7.

Kacper: Yes. My second breakthrough.

POI-100101: A student's film, am I correct?

Kacper: With one of those dreadful marionettes they had made of me. A young student found it in his parents' loft, and inspiration struck him immediately.

POI-100101: His movie even won a prize, didn't it?

Kacper: Second place at … heavens, I forgot. He put it on the internet and Leninocchio became one of those floating memes. Didn't take long, and the first creepypastas about me were written and … well, now I am sitting here and scare small children in their sleep.

Kacper: A few years ago I actually met that student. For no particular reason, I admit, just wanted to talk with him a little.

POI-100101: How did he react?

Kacper: All that cocaine in his body did probably help. It was me who drove him to the hopsital, you know, where they managed to save him just in time. Reciprocal altruism they call this, don't they?

POI-100101 [laughing]: I think they do so, yes.

POI-100101: Was it difficult for you, being a fright?

Kacper: No, my disturbing physiognomy proved to be quite convenient. And small children are scared of a lot of silly things. Quivering shadows in their smartphone cameras, whispering under their beds, strange noises out of their closets.

Kacper: It's a little bit more complicated for the older folk, but fear of castration and unwanted pregnancies are always good to go for some nightmares. My preferred setting is an operating room, with the victim lying there, fostered by nice doctors and friendly nurses, before I jump in with the padsaw, blowpipe or the bloody delivery forceps. Hasn't failed me once.

POI-100101: Do you have plans to go back into cinematics?

Kacper: No motivation from my side.

POI-100101: Your last movie adventure was Kacper, Bold Hero of the Baltic?

Kacper: Thankfully lost to time.

POI-100101: And a return to German comic strips?

Kacper: Aah … I am not sure. I've been gone from there for a long time now. Sure, it would be quite the fun, but for what reason? No, this is not me anymore.

Kacper: Who knows where this will take me? I am content with my current state.

POI-100101: So what are your plans for the future? Do you have some projects in the work we can be excited for?

Kacper: My team and I are working on a webcomic right now, which confronts its readers with their deepest fears. Personalized memetics, as they call it nowadays. Not starting before next year, though, it's still in process.

POI-100101: We'll be on the egde!

Kacper: Then we hope to satisfy your expectation.

POI-100101: What's your creator saying about your newly found success?

Kacper: I don't know. He has been dead for quite some time.

POI-100101: God, I had no idea. How embarassing, I'm very sorry!

Kacper: It's okay, barely anyone has heard about his passing. They forgot him, like I said, he doesn't even have a Wikipedia entry.

POI-100101: Were you … involved in the circumstances of his death?

Kacper: Well, I flirted with the idea. Murdering him in some gruesome, bizarre way - would've fit with the whole Leninocchio-meme, maybe, but he beat me to it.

POI-100101: How did he die, then?

Kacper: Skin cancer, the Big C. A metastasizing melanoma has spread into his heart. Visited his corpse in the pathology, after they were done with him. Pitch-black, his heart, like … a clump of ash, or coal.

Kacper: An uneasing sensation, seeing him like this. So old and broken, eviscerated and destroyed by his own cells. All that time, I never realized how sick he has been.

Kacper: A fair symbol, is it not? This black heart? Lacerated by deformed melanocytes. I tell the children, sometimes, when they are asleep. Scares them a lot, but I doubt they understand the metaphor.

Kacper: I came to the conclusion that he had died many years before, when the Berlin Wall fell and the GDR8 was no more. Maybe he didn't even know himself that he needed this faith and belief in the system, to see meaning and relevance in his life.

Kacper: To be honest, he just hated everyone.

POI-100101: Everyone?

Kacper: The Soviets, the Americans, the other Germans …

Kacper: He must have despised me as well.

Kacper: I … I suppose he never really cherished his art in - in such a way.

Kacper: No, I don't remember being loved.

Kacper: Perhaps … he might have been proud of me, once.

POI-100101: We were all loved at some point in our time.

Kacper: Surely. It is a trivial emotion, after all. No act of miracle, to adore something.

POI-100101: Do you love anyone?

Kacper: I am a cartoon, my friend. I love all the children.

POI-100101: Ah, such nice closing words. It was a pleasure meeting you today.

Kacper: I enjoyed it as well.

POI-100101: That was the ninth episode of our third season, dear Ladies and Gentlemen, my most beloved audience out there on their receivers -

[Kacper laughs.]

POI-100101: - and now we have to bid farewell, as all things come to an end. Til the next time!

[End of recording.]

Footnotes
1. Moderator and assumed producer of Goethes Goetia. Male, between 25 - 45 years old, identity unclear.
2. Imagined responsive audience, apparently part of the "setting".
3. Unknown subject.
4. Translated from German: Kacper visits the ethnological exposition.
5. Translated from German: Comrade Kacper in the Free German Youth.
6. Translated from German: Kacper goes fishing, Kacper steals underpants, Kacper guns the traitors to the party down, Kacper visits the house of correction.
7. Reference to the popular German movie "Good Bye, Lenin" (2003).
8. The German Democratic Republic.


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I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily with lungs that were not mine, bracing myself with an arm that bent at all the wrong angles and feeling for the life of me like anyone but myself.
I used to consider myself an educated woman. I'd spent countless nights staying up until 3:00 in the morning and memorized more anatomical diagrams and treatment regimens than even my fellow medical students.
But I had learned so much today. About a community of refugee scholars that pays its bills publishing trashy newsletters. About a galaxy and multiverse teeming with sentient life, and about the thousands of apocalyptic visions threatening literally all of it.
I knew focusing on any of that would only make me panic more, and I couldn't do breathing exercises without my own lungs, so instead, I looked out the window.
The Main Office of the Wandsmen was an incredibly beautiful… Building? Complex? Planet? Dimension? I wasn't sure which yet. Whatever it was it had windows that showed a massive forest dotted with little fields and quaint farm houses. Ivy climbed up trellises at regular intervals with flowers in glorious colors… some colors I hadn't even been able to see before.
And the inside of the building was no slouch in the looks department either. The hallway outside the lecture theater was equipped with warm carpeting, wood paneled walls and plenty of benches and even couches and large cushions to sit on.
But there was no getting over what the building's denizens were.
I liked birds. I had never had a problem with them. I'd had cute little chickadees nesting on my apartment's windowsill one year and I'd considered myself lucky, chirping or no chirping.
But the birds in this place were not chickadees.
Some of them were attractive in a way. There were a few bluejays in the mix, some strange looking ducks who compensated for unattractive wattles with beautiful feathers, but those were the exceptions, not the rule.
Most of the birds had hideous features. Strange bald patches, wattles that looked like acne pustules and colors that ranged from muddy brown to dusty black. Even worse, they weren't really birds. They were all… off. I would call them anthropomorphic, but that wasn't the right word either. They were bipedal for the most part, but oddly hunched and twisted.
It was extremely odd. It felt like if they just stood up straight and carried themselves proudly they'd all look so much better.
But of course, none of them carried themselves proudly. Not one of them was any more comfortable in their new feathers than I was. That was the curse. The price of life.
“… Hey.” Came a voice.
I looked over my shoulder to see a large pigeon in one of those crappy student robes they'd dressed us all in. To my shock, he held out a friging vape pen.
“Want something to take the edge off?” He asked in one of the countless languages I now understood, but could not name.
I stared at him. I had reentered academia two hours ago and I was already being offered drugs.
I seriously considered it. I'd never been particularly drawn to cannabis, but all I wanted right now was to make the gears in my head grind just a little quieter. Still, as I thought about it, I found myself slipping into a different, much more comfortable role.
Forget being a vulture, or a wandswoman or whatever. For right now, I was a doctor. That's all that mattered.
“Very, very tempting.” I told the pigeon. “But we should be careful. There's no telling how our new bodies will react to that stuff.”
He blinked at me, “What?”
I straightened myself up. I knew I wasn't going to be able to wow this guy with my smarts or anything, but I could at least be a bit more composed. “I'm not confident in my knowledge of much of anything right now to be honest, but I spent a long time studying how different drugs affected my species. That said, we both have a brand new biochemical makeup I'd rather not put anything in myself that I haven't had a chance to study.”
The pigeon man's feathers slicked in discomfort. “I… I admit I hadn't thought of that. They said we were immune to most poisons, but…”
I cupped the vape in his claws and met his gaze. “There was a guy a long time ago named Paracelsus who said it best: ‘all things are poison, and nothing is without poison; the dosage alone makes it so a thing is not a poison.'”
I gestured to my vulture like body. “I dunno how much of this shit is running on fairy dust and how much of it's running on chemistry, but until I can clarify all that I'm not taking any chances, and neither should you.”
He stared at me, I swear I could see a thousand concerns rolling through his eyes. “…Thank you.”
“Making friends?” Came another voice.
I turned around to see an owl creature in a clean, simple, green dress walk over to greet us.
I smiled as much as I could manage with my new beak. “I was wondering where you were, Frasia. I thought you'd abandoned me there.”
Frasia was better at smiling with a beak than I was and it reached her eyes with ease. “I never meant to leave you for long. What kind of vector would I be if I left you twisting in the wind after your first class?” She frowned, “But I do have to ask that you call me Tell-14 when we're in public. Remember, names have power.”
I winced. In the mental swamp of all I'd learned today it had completely slipped my mind. “Sorry about that… What's a vector?”
“It just means the person who brought you on board.” Tell-14 explained. “Most of us like to keep track of our proteges.”
“Indeed we do.” Said a cassowary appearing behind the pigeon.
I admit, I started a bit. When I say he appeared, I mean I blinked and he was there the next moment.
The cassowary laughed. “I see you're still getting used to teleportation. Don't worry dear, you'll have plenty of time.”
Frasia looked far less amused. “Kassar,” she said, crossing her winged arms. “What brings you here?”
There seemed to be some sort of history between these two, but there was a detail I wanted to clarify. “Kasar? Is that your wandsman name?” I knew that when there was only one Wandsman from a planet they just used the place name, but I wasn't sure if that was the case here.
The cassowary bowed. “My dear, my full name is Kassar Ji'leth, The Fifth Wandsman of Xing, Scrivener of Secrets and Delver of Truth.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. “You're one of those name magicians they were talking about in class?” Apparently size mattered with those.
“Indeed,” he replied, beaming at me. “I knew you Earth scroll bearers would be quick on the uptick.”
“Kassar, what do you want?” Frasia asked, gesturing to the room. “We're kind of in the middle of something.”
“Yes,” he said, slipping a wing around the pigeon who'd offered me weed. “We are indeed. May I introduce to you my new recruit, the Two Hundred and Thirty Fifth Wandsman of Sirt.”
Frasia looked genuinely surprised. “You became a vector? You went out recruiting?”
Kassar shrugged. “Don't be so shocked! I recognized talent when I see it, and Sirt-235 is one of the most promising thaumaturgists I've ever met.”
Sirt-235's doughy pigeon eyes widened. “You really mean it?”
“Of course he doesn't.” Came a new voice.
A cuckoo appeared beside us, holding claws with a bald eagle who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. He was far from the most flashy bird in the hallway, wearing a simple lab coat, buttoned up shirt and slacks. But he had a strange gold medallion with a large red gem in the center of it that… I don't know. Something was wrong with it, but I couldn't place what.
The cuckoo turned to Sirt-235 and gave him a level look. “Your vector is a dangerous manipulator and con artist. You should get as far away from him as possible as quickly as possible.”
The cassowary crossed his arms. “Jack, You really don't-”
The cuckoo ignored him and turned to Frasia. “I need a favor Tell-14.”
Frasia looked completely nonplussed. “What could I possibly do that you couldn't?”
Jack (apparently) gestured to the eagle shrinking at his side. “I need you to watch over this one.”
I stared at him. “What?”
Frasia stared at him. “Jack, what are you talking about? That's *your* protege.”
“Look,” Jack asked. “Can we talk somewhere private?”
Frasia sighed and turned to me. “Are you going to be okay if I step out for a few minutes?”
I nodded. “I… I guess so?”
Kassar spoke up, “I'd be happy to watch over our new recruits if you two have some catching up to do.”
“No!” The other two Wandsmen said in unison.
Kassar groaned. “Really you two, I don't know what I've done to earn your ire, but-”
The cuckoo cut him off. “If you shut up for twenty minutes and stay where I can see you, I'll give you thirty minutes of my time after.”
The cassowary stopped talking and pulled out his map of the multiverse. “Lead the way.”
There was clearly a lot going on beneath the surface of this conversation that I was going to ask Frasia about in detail later, but I decided to play along for the moment. “I can keep an eye on these two.”
Forget being a wandswoman or a vulture or whatever. Now I needed to be a parent.
The seasoned Wandsmen gave us a nod and vanished, leaving us newbies reeling.
Sirt-235 blinked at the empty space. “Did… did either of you know what that was all about?”
The eagle shook her head and I just sighed. “Y'all want to see if there's a place to sit down?”

So the three of us ended up sitting at a table in what I can only describe as a charming little campus cafe.
Despite the extremely alien clientele, they actually had coffee. The mug the barista had given me had come straight out of a weird looking vending machine, but it was still a shockingly competent mocha, complete with a pretty little snowflake pattern on top and the tiniest dollop of whipped cream.
Sirt-235 looked down at his mug (which smelled like hot cider if it was made with lemon… if that made any sense) and let out a long breath. “So… I guess this is our life now.”
I took a sip of my mocha. It, at least, was a comfort. “If it makes you feel any better I'm 100% certain that Fra- I mean Tell-14 will explain everything when she comes back.” I turned to the bald eagle. She was sipping on a rootbeer float and hadn't said a word since we met her. “So… Do you have a name?”
The bald eagle reached into her robe's pocket and pulled out a little spiral notepad and a ballpoint pen. She wrote down something, thought for a moment, then scribbled it out and wrote something else down. She showed it to me.
I squinted. “The Second Wandswoman of Terra?” I asked.
The eagle nodded.
Sirt looked confused. “I don't want to pry or anything, but did something happen with your transformation? I thought all wandsmen could make a variety of vocalizations.”
“I'm still not used to making the sounds. It's… weird.” Terra-2 replied, in a voice as light as a feather.
I felt a twinge of sympathy. I'd met a lot of people who had problems with their vocal chords or tongues in my medical career. She'd most likely had a similar issue or had been deaf before she transformed.
I thought about it… If we knew every language…
I spread my talons out and shaped them carefully, in a way that almost felt like second nature. “Is this better?” I signed in ASL.
Her eyes widened and she broke out into a grin. “Yes!” She signed back. “It's so nice to meet you! Why didn't I think of that earlier!”
“It's okay,” I signed back, “I'm still getting used to the new stuff too.”
“This is actually really cool!” Sirt signed.
“Yeah, it's not bad.” I signed back.
Honestly with everything going on I hadn't even thought about all the new languages I'd learned. It was beyond bizarre, but it felt… positive. Comforting. Maybe it shouldn't have been, but it was nice to feel my horizons expanding.
Granted, with how much they had expanded in the last few days I think my brain had stretch marks, but still, I'd take my positives where I could get them.
“I just had a great idea!” Sirt said, abandoning sign language for the moment. “We should form a study group!”
I blinked at him. “A study group?”
He seemed to notice how exuberant he was being and pulled back, scratching at the back of his neck. “I mean… I don't really know anyone else in our class and I guess our vectors have a whole thing to sort out, but you two seem cool! And if we're going to try and figure all this wandsmen stuff out it just… kinda makes sense to do it together?”
I thought about that. I didn't know these two from a hole in the ground, but… well, I didn't know anyone here from a hole in the ground. And if I was going to be a student again…
“Sure, I'm game.” I said, smiling softly.
Terra-2 nodded eagerly.
Sirt let out a happy coo. “Alright then! Together the three of us will-”
Suddenly, the curtain between dimensions parted, and all three of our vectors popped into existence right next to our table.
“We've been talking," The cuckoo said, putting his map away. "And we've decided that you three should form a study group.”
We all just stared at them.
Finally Terra just signed “Way ahead of you Dr. Bright.”

<--Prev|Next-->


FluffyDog00

Check out the rest of my works here: Author Page

Dr. Doug Y. Fluv was gone. What remained of him was a silhouette, which was so black that it syphoned all the light in the room around it, draining it like a river. The room held the device used to astral-project the three founding doctors of the Interstellar Anomalies Unit (IAU) to the star-consuming entity known as SCP-6240, which Dr. Fluv sacrificed himself to in order to save Sol. All entries to the room were boarded, ensuring that no light entered or escaped the room. The two surviving doctors hadn't been inside the room for over a month.
Dr. Otto Warner fumbled in his new throne as co-head director. The piles of classification and testing requests seemed to bloat by the day in his prison cell of an office, leaving the poor young doctor's desk constantly cluttered, barely allowing him to take a breather. Dr. Warner felt that Dr. Fluv had a better constitution for this kind of job. He felt the grizzled old doctor's shadow tower over his desk, shaking his head and facepalming as he always did. He felt that the legally-dead man would have handled this position better.
Dr. Edna Kowal entered Dr. Warner's office. The burnt-out director was hunched over his desk, pulling at his hair as he reviewed document after document.
"Hey."
"Ah, fuck!" Dr. Warner yelped, "you scared the shit outta me!"
"Jesus, how long have you been in here?" she chuckled, eyeing the mountain of papers on her joint-researcher's desk, "Have you gotten any sunlight?"
"Kinda hard to do that when there are like millions of approvals to make," Dr. Warner said with a sigh, turning in his chair to face Dr. Kowal.
"Wow, are you okay? Your eyes are bloodshot to hell."
"I'll be fine," he said as he grabbed his mug to take a sip of his espresso, "just kinda think that this would be a lot easier with the old man around, y'know?"
"Yeah," Dr. Kowal said with a sigh, "we'll figure it out eventually though. These first few months are gonna be tough."
There was a moment of silence.
"You know, at least that stick-up-his-ass Director Hirschilde is done for. Fuck that guy."
Dr. Warner nodded, "Yeah, though somedays it feels like we're not doing any better than he did."
"We? I don't know of this 'we' you speak of," Dr. Kowal joked, "I'm doing pretty swell."
"Heh, glad you are."
Dr. Warner looked down at his mug. He brushed the side of it with his thumb, staring into it with wincing eyes.
"You sure you're okay?" Dr. Kowal said.
"Yeah… yeah I'll be fine," Dr. Warner said with a shooing motion, "I'll be better in the morning I think."
"Well, if you say so. Have a good night man. Try not to stay up too late."
"Thank you, Edna. Thank you."
Dr. Kowal half-smiled, and then trotted out of the office. Dr. Warner rested his head on his desk and let out a shaky sigh.

The next morning, Dr. Kowal strutted into her office with a mug of green tea mixed with a spoonful of honey, ready to continue her work. After sitting for a while, she heard a rapid thumping coming from down the hallway. She slowly turned around. Dr. Warner swung open her office door.
"I think we can bring him back."
Dr. Warner stood in the doorway of Dr. Kowal's office with a widened manic expression, leaning his hand against the doorway.
"What are you talking abou-"
"Dr. Fluv. I think we can bring him back," Dr. Warner said, catching his breath.
"Have you gotten any sleep like- at all?" Dr. Kowal asked.
"That isn't important right now. Remember what Dr. Fluv did to bring us back to our bodies?"
"Otto, I don't thin-"
"I think we can do that with Dr. Fluv… from here!"
"Otto- Dr. Fluv is gone. The machine we made has been consumed by darkness, there's no way we-"
"We can make a new machine," he said sternly, "we can make a new machine that reunites the soul with the body instead of separating them."
"What? Dr. Fluv's body is literally turning that testing chamber into a black hole right now!"
"We can find a way!"
"How? How Warner?"
The two stared each other down for a while.
"Listen man. You can go and try your little science experiment but I'm happy with the way things are, okay? I accepted Doug's death weeks ago. The IAU will only continue operation if we do our jobs, not if we bring some doctor back to life."
Dr. Warner stood there wide-eyed, staring at the ground.
"So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to doing my job."
There was silence.
"Okay. Guess I'll just get to work then." Dr. Warner said with a sigh. He stumbled out of the office, sulking in defeat. Dr. Kowal exhaled and rubbed her eyes.
As he walked down the hallway, Dr. Warner's sorrowful expression became wide.
I don't need her. He thought. I can do this on my own.

It was midnight. Dr. Warner hurled the large phonebooth-esque device over to the testing chamber where Dr. Fluv once stood, blow torch in hand. He slid down his protective helmet and incised a hole in the chamber with the torch. As soon as the circular section of wall was removed, a pitch-black mass began to develop around the rim of the opening.
Dr. Warner quickly sealed up the hole with the tube connected to the device, nailing the edges to the wall. He slid his hand against the large rectangular device, and nodded to himself as he flipped each switch, each one increasing the humming sound that echoed through the hollow tubes of the device. His eyes lit up with excitement as the machine began to produce a whirling sound as it syphoned the blackness out of the room.
Finally, the whirling stopped, and the hum of the machine climaxed into a low hush. Dr. Warner lifted his mask, his mouth agape. He went to the opposite side of the machine and creaked open the door.
The innards of the machine were filled by an immense blackness. Dr. Warner wondered if he did something wrong. He wondered if he misinterpreted the notes to the original device or if it was just a screw loose somewhere. Either way, he felt like he blew his only opportunity to bring the brilliant doctor back to earth to continue his service.
Disappointed, he trudged away from the device, feeling Dr. Fluv's ever judgmental aura hovering above him. He tried not to cry, squinting his eyes as he trotted down the empty hallways of the facility.
Creak.
Dr. Warner turned around.
Thump.
Hearing these noises, Dr. Warner tiptoed back the way he came. Once he was at the end of the hallway, he peeked his head around the corner, not knowing what to expect.
He saw the chamber, then the device, then Dr. Fluv's face peering around the corner. He was ecstatic.
"Dr- Dr. Fluv! It's so nice to-"
The face extended outward to reveal a serpent-like fleshy neck.
"Oh."
It extended towards him and bore its jagged teeth.
"FUCK! What the fuck? Shit!"
Dr. Warner quickly turned around and sprinted down the hallway, his face lit with fear. His thumping footsteps were too loud for him to hear the slithering monstrosity behind him. Without thinking, he slid behind the filing room and locked the door behind him.
As he was crouching behind the door, Dr. Warner heard something strange. The thing was vocalizing.
"Long… Foundation… live? Home… go back? Starving."
Dr. Warner saw a grey and tan thing speed by the door without any sound in its trail. He was only able to discern a few fingers along with various other limbs within the mass.
"Starving… starving. Brilliant minds."
The thing's voice shallowed out as it ascended the stairway at the end of the hallway, and Dr. Warner let out a relieved gasp. He sat there shaking with his hands curling in his hair.
Then he remembered.
Shit, Dr. Kowal is still up there!

Dr. Kowal sipped her black coffee as she grinded away at each classification request, skimming each one to see if they fit the criteria for containment. She was in her element, not having a care in the world that she was probably only going to get six hours of sleep.
Then, there was a tap at the door.
"One minute!" she said without looking up.
There was another tap.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
"Okay, okay! What is it?"
She looked up. Outside her office window was a long fleshy mass. It moved to the side to reveal the face of an old man: an old man she recognized.
"What the fu-"
"Kowal."
The thing bashed its head into the window, shattering it on impact. Dr. Kowal screamed in terror and backed into the corner of her office.
"What the fuck. What the fuck."
"Edna. Come back. Safe… not?
The thing slithered towards her, its amalgamation of limbs sliding and sloshing against the walls. Dr. Kowal squeezed her eyes together.
PSSSSSSHHH.
Dr. Kowal slowly opened her eyes upon hearing the sound. Suddenly, the room had been filled with a thick white mist. The monstrosity paused in its tracks nearly inches from her face.
"Hey, over here!" Dr. Warner's voice bellowed from the end of the hallway. Upon hearing him, the beast coiled in the other direction and darted out of the office down the hallway.

Dr. Warner threw the fire extinguisher against the wall and sprinted downstairs.
"Warner. Warner."
He turned the corner and entered the code for the testing chamber. The doors whirred open, revealing that all the darkness had been syphoned out by the device. Dr. Warner sprinted into the chamber and waited for the beast to arrive.
Once the abomination reared its wrinkled old head, he ran along the perimeter of the wall and out of the chamber, dodging every strike it made at him. The entity snapped its head outwards and unhinged its jaw at the doctor.
SLAM!
Dr. Warner shut the door to the testing chamber at the last second, decapitating the thing completely. Its worm-like head lay on the floor, twitching and writhing. Dark green blood oozed from its stump and mouth.
Dr. Kowal appeared around the corner. She witnessed Dr. Warner hovering over the head, staring into the eyes of what looked like Dr. Fluv.
"Holy shit dude," she said shakily, "that's Dr. Fluv?"
"Yeah, or at least something trying to imitate him," he said, pressing his hand against his forehead.
"Wow, what the fuck."
"Yeah. Look, I'm so sorry Edna. I thought I could do it, I really could."
Dr. Warner slid his hand down to his eyes.
"I just- I just really wish he was here to help share the load, you know? He was so brilliant, he-"
"Hey, shush."
Dr. Kowal gave him a hug and squeezed tight. Dr. Warner opened his eyes, not sure how to react.
"Dr. Fluv was brilliant, he really was. But the IAU would have been nothing without you," she said to him, "I think you're just as brilliant as him."
Dr. Warner cautiously wrapped his hands around her in response.
"Thank you, that means a lot."
"Of course!" she responded, "just don't go around playing God anymore, okay? I'm just glad we're not dead right now."
"Understandable, okay!" Dr. Warner chuckled.
Dr. Kowal smiled up at him and shook up his hair with her hand before heading back to her office. Dr. Warner's smile turned into a frown once he realized he was the one who would have to clean up the mess.
Well, if I can make an astral projection device, I can most certainly clean up a severed head. He thought to himself. The young doctor let out a sigh, and headed down to the janitorial room.


"Well done, you should go back and get some rest. We will continue the work after two hours.", the instructor told Ellie and left.
"Okay. Thanks." Ellie returned to her room, it seems like she has gradually gotten used to the place of life here. She was up to her ears in work, but it was fun and exciting for her. Returning to a room decorated like back in her dorm with many idol posters and stuffed animals, Ellie hopped on her bed and exhaled. Maybe she should take a nap, or do something to kill time. But… she started pondering. She pondered about life and about her current job, but a bit more positive than before. Her chance of working here has given her a second life, maybe… she should thank her mom, although she didn't even know what kind of place she'd thrown her daughter into. Ellie chuckled, there wasn't any smile on her face for a long time.

A sudden ring, turns out she fell asleep a long time ago. Ellie quickly fixes her clothes, holds the notebook in her hand and hurries to the next cell.
"Sorry, I'm a bit late.", she said while panting.
"Oh no problem, you are right on time. We have just started."
"Oh… so what are we learning today? Some more expert subjects or studying malicious entities?"
"Simple stuff, just checking the inventory."
"Checking the inventory? Do you mean we're checking the facility's infrastructure or getting new stuff?
"You'll get it soon enough."
Both of them walk down the hallway, enter an underground area beneath the facility. This place is quite different from the area above, a large space, empty, with gigantic automatic doors facing upwards. There are just a few guards standing around here, but if you tell me, they don't have much to do. If you really wanna go into the details, there are also some big steel cages, with weird goo sticking on them.
"So… is this some kind of a garage or something?"
"You're not exactly wrong, this is the place where we receive odd things from outside. We're supposed to be able to receive things from above, and this place is a bit rundown too, but tradition is still tradition." As the instructor stopped, the big steel doors swung open. Three big trucks came running down towards them, stopping in front of the guards.
"Oi Jimmy, got a lot today?"
"Somewhat, the really old stuff doesn't count but the rest hurts my ears."
"What are you guys talking about? Can anyone explain to me?", Ellie said.
A guard approached her and said, "You're the new intern here, aren't ya? You still have got a lot to learn, kid. Checking the inventory is the word around this Divison, this is the place where we receive anomalies or abnormal items for the guys up there to look into them. Basically, just treat us as your normal delivery guys."
"Do me a favour, grab this list and check the number while we unload.", the researcher gave Ellie a file and headed towards the car.
They proceed to open the crate in front of her, nothing special. Some items with anomalous property so little they don't even get classified as SCPs, maybe she should just steal a thing or two and take them home as souvenirs. But then, her mind was blown away after reading this note:

Item Description: A human (Homo sapiens), female at the age of 4-5. Current capabilities are unknown, can manipulate mind, contained after causing the death of its own family.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-2033
Location of Recovery: ████████, USA.
Current Status: Moved to EduSkip Division, Site-133.
Notes: Don't trust it.

"Hu… human? You all see her as a commodity? What the hell is wrong with you.", Ellie yelled so loud it made them all stop.
The researcher sighed, "Don't you get it Ellie? Once it's an anomaly it's no longer human. If you feel sorry for it, then you've lost this game. This despicable animal killed its own family, even the people giving birth to it— and yet you can still feel sorry for it?"
An iron cage was unloaded from the back of the truck, inside was just a little girl with messy hair and ragged clothes. The little girl's messy face revealed two streams of tears slowly dropping on her hand, tightly hugging her teddy bear. What a sad sight, the criminal looks no different from a poor prisoner right now.
"But… but it's just a kid anyway and I don't believe that a kid can do such horrible things. Can't we do anything else? At least get her out of the cage?"
"If you want it out killing everyone."
The monster burst into tears, its cry seems to pierce deep into Ellie's heart. Ellie knew that she had to do something, she approached the cage. She reached inside, trying to grab the little girl's hands with hers and said.
"Are you okay? I will help you to get out of this place so don't worry. You're scared and hungry, right?". Just as she finished her words, her two hands were bleeding furiously in front of her eyes. The girl… the young girl is biting Ellie's hand. But she doesn't feel pain… that monster… is no longer crying, it just smiles in such a way that sends chills down Ellie's spine.
Immediately, the professor and the guards sprint as fast as they can to the cage to suppress the monster, shocking it with a current. The monster faints, finally releasing Ellie's hands.
"Ellie, are you with us? We'll need to get you to the infirmary ASAP. That's quite a bite you got there.”
"I think I will be fine. Just need to stay here for a while."
"Well then, wait here and I'll call some medical personnel. Guards, watch this girl while I'm gone.", the researcher headed toward the door then paused, he said: "Congratulation, now you learned your first lesson."
"I understand."
Ellie just sat there in silence, deep in her thoughts, looking at her bloody hands and averting her gaze towards that monster, now look no different from a sleeping child. For a brief moment, she felt fear, she was afraid.

A New Chance To Explore Life

EduSkip Division

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The Revert

1

August, 2039
BedEx Headquarters, Bridgeport, CT

A quarter to four in the afternoon, I called Louise, the vice president of the planning department, to my office room. I prepared two cups of oolong tea and placed them on the table. A tablet PC is placed in between, showing new employees of her department this year.
"Found all the stuff I need, Beatrice?" Louise started.
"Yep. To be honest, I got too much stuff. It takes me more time to summarize than to find them, " I replied, "Simply put, you guessed it right. This lady you hired is exactly the former director of Eduskip Division of Foundation."
"Haha. What a small world. "
"True. You told me before that she had poor mental conditions. I also investigated the human resource database and incident reports of Site-133, which is the department she worked in. I think I get what happened to her. "
"How come?"
"Eh… What about I send you all the materials?"
"Nope. Just say. I don't have much time. "
"Well fine. Then what about the tea?"

2

January, 2033
Yale University, New Haven, CT

Six years ago, I was finishing my Master of Psychology in Yale University. I spent my days dealing with literature reviews and field surverys. Luckily, my instructor Prof. Brown didn't push me that much on my paper writing - I heard that some other supervisors were so demanding that their students complained day by day. I think he was also satisfied with my performance. Before the spring break, he forwarded me an e-mail and recommended me to participate in an event:

Eduskip X Ivy League Anomaly Research
Exchange and Internship Program
2033 Fall Admission

Featured Content

Investigation and experiments on-site
Adapting professional tutor system
Meet with low-hazard anomalies closely while taking professional training programs
State-of-the-art research facilities and thaumatological resources
Combining academic cultures between worlds

Disciplines

Conceptology
Memetics
An-biology
An-physics
Anart
Cognitive neural science
Quantum Physics
Thaumatology

Should any high school students or undergraduate/postgraduate students be interested in these programs, please click on the link below to see further requirements. Apply now!

http://eduskip.edu/admissions/apply/

The Deadline for 2033 Fall application is Apr.11th 23:59 (Eastern time). Applicants who need to obtain a visa should finish the application before Mar.11th 23:59 (Eastern time).

"SCP Foundation… Are you serious, professor?"
"Sure. This is a good chance for you. I know some of the top researchers on Site-133, expert at memetics. I will send you their names soon. When you are finishing the application form, remember to include their names as well as my name. I will write you a recommendation letter, too. Their application system needs two letters at minimum, so you may need to find another course teacher to help you."
"Thank you for providing this opportunity! But why do you want to help me on this?"
"It is about your research, undoubtedly. Your current research topic is aimed at the flow, processing and interpretation of human-comprehensible information. I've already stressed what point should be the highlight of your paper. It is exactly one of the topics available for the Memetics Divison and Eduskip Division of Site-133. I told you not to put too much math on your research. It should not be merely theory. Here is the chance for you to know the reason: your understandings are too superficial compared to the Foundation's research. "
"Well… Okay I got it."
I don't have a good impression of the SCP Foundation. To keep anomalies away from us, the Foundation overstepped the bounds of country authority, constantly changing the lifestyle of the people, setting up a laundry list of dos and don'ts. But after all, I'm convinced that the Foundation technology is much too advanced compared to our ordinary studies. So I accepted professor's advice.
Now there were two different sides of myself. The dark side said, "Think about it, why not just contact the researchers directly? You don't like the Foundation stuff and you can just get rid of it. " And the bright side said, "You can finally push forward your research. Remember how many days you've been stuck on that? And this is a good chance to know another aspect of the Foundation, too! "
Out of my expectation, I passed the application procedure smoothly. There was a video interview, but I totally forgot what I said. The result was crystal clear, anyways: I stepped in the Eduskip Division of Site-133 five months later.
And my bizarre adventures began.

August, 2033
Site-133, [CLASSIFIED]

I followed the instructions on Foundation's invitation and walked to somewhere with a sign. It read "Safe Connection Pass." I pushed the wall with the sign and a secret path appeared. All the way down the path, I got to Site-133.
Coming to me was a lady. She had light brown hair, wearing a silver-gray shirt. Her fringe half-blocked her sapphire eyes and pretty face. Her sound was weak, as if every syllable was squeezed out from her throat:
"Hello, I…I am Lisa Campanella, the director of Memetics Department, and… a member of Eduskip Division. Just call me Lisa. "
"Beatrice Simpson, my honor to meet you,"
"Ah, yes! Well…" she cut an unexpectedly weak figure, "I have seen your profile. Actually I am younger than you, and I believe I am less experienced in many ways. Please find a seat and I will invite you to my office later."
Her behavior was too restrained - seemingly with poor experience of dealing with people. Also, I could feel that she was about 4-5 years younger than me. How come such a young and introverted one could be the director of Memetics Department? The reason must be her research abilities. I could imagine how clever and assiduous she could be when conducting memetics research.
My predictions became true: her knowledge of memetics and other related fields totally inspired me. Cognitohazard, CRV, miscommunications, she wrapped up all those concepts in a concise and structured way so that I could get them all within weeks. She also asked me to read some selected SCP files about meme and information, these forms of anomalies truly broadened my horizon.
However, it was hard for me to adapt her style of speaking. Her sentence was broken, and she would use silence to prepare her words. In the first few days I tried to listen to her teaching with patience, but when we were getting closer, I started to mention this little problem.
"Okay. That is all for today… Beatrice, do you have any questions?"
"Well, yes and no. It is not about today's course on CRV. "
"That is fine."
"Lisa, it may be impolite to say but, I think your speaking is broken. The flow is uncontinuous. Have you considered ways to remedy the problem?"
"Em… well… I… I… "It seemed that she knew her problem and she faltered. "Does my speaking… restricted your understanding?"
"No! No, no, no, your teaching is excellent. I'm sorry. Just, well, I'm wondering about your speaking style. "
"Um… " She tried hard to search for proper words in her brain, "I am not good at expressing my opinions orally. Because I did not have time… time to talk to others when I was young. I am always a listener rather than a speaker. So many years. When I got into the Foundation, I… I climbed up all the way to the director. That is because of my research… and my parents.
"Years ago, the Eduskip Division was founded. It wanted to pick researchers to do a connection… connecting the Foundation and schools. The motivation is that the Foundation wanted to better the relationship. The relationship between the Foundation and civilians. I think you understand it, too. The closer you get to know us, the less bias you have on us.
"Beside memetics, I joined the new Eduskip Division. In this division, I know that I have chance to teach. Teaching involves a lot of conversations, and… and this is the best opportunity to… overcome my shortcomings. "
After Lisa finished her short story, she sighed loudly and quickly grabbed a cup of oolong tea.
Frankly speaking, I was surprised by her ambitions. I previously thought Eduskip Division is just a way for students to get to know the Foundation. Now the view should slightly change: it is also educative for researchers.
I didn't know how Foundation hire people before broken masquerade, but there was a high possibility that moms and dads of the Foundation would bring their children here, per the secrecy. Then what kind of education these children would have, if they becomes future Foundation researchers? They should be educated privately, avoiding any possible contact with ordinary peers. No matter how many times parents told their children that "Although these knowledges are important to your future, you shall not tell them to others, even if your most intimate friends," children may also break the promise inadvertently. Thus, anomalous knowledge is like a huge cage, restricting children's thoughts and behaviors.
And Lisa may be in that cage before.
The side effect was her poor expression.
I tried to talk to her more and more to improve her speaking, alongside research stuff. I even introduced some VOA audios for her to do follow-up reading. I swore that it was the most silly thing I did to an instructor! But she seemed to accept my ways of help, which I was satisfied about, too. I wondered if her parents were unaware of her shortcomings before, but as I asked her about parents, she refused to say a word.
The internship program held by Eduskip Division lasted for 8 months. For the rest of the time, Lisa helped me on tackling with real infohazard, on the improvement of my paper, and on the in-depth understanding of what Foundation do to protect civilians. Six years later until now, I forgot most of the information regarding the Foundation, and I didn't want to take another glance on my published paper. But surprisingly, what I always remember is the time when I was sending her news audios, and the time I listened to her slow and dumb speaking recordings.

3

August, 2039
BedEx Headquarters, Bridgeport, CT

"So until now it is a pretty interesting story, Beatrice, " Louise said, "so you and her had some fascinating connections, hadn't you?"
"Yep, " I said, "I've never expected that I could help the instructor out. I thought I was the only one to be educated but I was wrong. "
"Good revert then. But why she's in our recuitment list? Shouldn't she still be in her department?"
"Simple. She was evicted because of her unsuccessful treatment of a containment breach. She became an infectant of an anomaly. "
"Then what does that anomaly do?"
"I don't know - the content is classified. But according to the incident reports released, it is oriented to memories. "
"Memories?"
"Yep, it will erase most of your memories, especially the important ones. "
"Oops, that is so bad. If her memories were impaired, then she was uncapable of staying in the Foundation. "
"Exactly. Just like a piece of paper. On it is full of pencil-written words. But that anomaly used the eraser to cross them out."
"But she passed our interview… so she still holds adequate knowledge?"
"Sure. But if you ask her memetics, I bet she is unable to answer. "
Just then, the door opened. Some of the new employees came into our room, getting to know the people.
Among them, I saw Lisa Campanlla. She still had light brown hair, still wearing a silver-gray shirt. But she cut her fringe. Her sapphire eyes and pretty face looked bright. "Hello, this is Lisa Campenella. From now on I'll work here in the planning department. Nice to meet you all. "
"Nice to meet you, Lisa!" I know that this moment will finally come, but I still cannot suppress my excitement. "We've met years before. Do you remember, Lisa?"
I specifically used two "Lisa"s, trying my best to recall her memories.
"I'm so sorry, Ms. Simpson. This is my first time meeting you…"
First time.
First time…
Huh.
It was still within my expectation. I asked her again, "Do you remember memetics?"
"Sorry I don't know at all. Does our future work involve memetics? I will study them right away."
"Oh, no, no, no. No memetics stuff. I… I'm just asking."
I sipped the cup of oolong tea to calm down - she lost all memories of mine, of SCP Foundation. But thinking it another way, this just proved that our experience was important to her, right? Haha.
I didn't know if my weird questions boost Lisa's anxiety. At that moment, I could see her hand trembling in her pocket. There was a smartphone inside. Then I was 100 percent sure that she accidentally tuned up its volume to maximum.
The phone automatically began to play the audio that was previously paused.
"This is VOA news."


The flayed body of Special Agent Pete Wilson was the most interesting thing in the apartment.
The second was the eight-foot-tall skinless deer-man hybrid dimly illuminated by the room's single dangling lamp.
Two men peered into the room shoulder to shoulder from the hallway outside.
"We'll get someone to clean that up," said the first, a burly man in a cheap black suit. "Oh, and it can't leave the room. Figured that out through trial and error."
The second, thinner man sighed. "Any idea what it is?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. That's why we called you in."
"Don't know what kind of contract you've worked out with the Foundation, but I was called here to handle a ghost. That is not a ghost."
"I can see through it… ain't that enough?"
The two paused as they watched the deer-man extend a bloodied hoof from the shadows, grip the torso of the skinless agent, and drag him slowly into the void.
"Well… whatever it is it's killed three of my team since we tracked it here. You have any idea how hard it's been keeping this thing under wraps?"
"This?" The second gestured widely. "This is a slow Tuesday where I'm from. You really should've called this in sooner than you did." He motioned to the blood trailed across the floor. "Could've saved a few of your guys."
"I thought I'd serve my country with one last case before I retire."
He extended a hand.
"Allan King, Unusual Incidents Unit."
The other reciprocated.
"Marcus Torres, Department of the Departed. Let's talk outside."

The two convened in the UIU's mobile command unit, a black van dotted with antennae and floodlights. One side was adorned with the phone number of a local plumber — the other, covered in customer testimonies.
Marcus' white Miller-Meteor was parked nearby, key in ignition in case things went south.
Per standard protocol, the immediate area (an empty parking lot and two blocks of strip malls) had been evacuated until the capabilities of the entity in the third-floor suite could be determined.
What was left of the UIU task force was two and a half miles south, undergoing psych evals at the county hospital. It was the middle of the day in suburban Los Angeles, but the air was unnaturally still.
Marcus broke the silence.
"So. Mr. King. I was told you're the head of this operation? What's your experience with these kinds of things?" He scanned the cramped van — monitors lined the walls, all at least four generations out of date. A corkboard to his right, covered in red wire and newspaper clippings: String of disappearances in Los Angeles, authorities suspect foul play…
Under the board, a desk with a rolling chair. Marcus sat down.
King stepped around him and leaned against the van's interior.
"I've served as a special agent for my organization's paranormal response force for twenty years. I've seen- hell, I've been in paranormal crisis scenarios more times than-"
He stopped to catch his breath.
"What I should be asking is who are you? And tell me why for God's sake when I ask the Foundation for help dealing with a hostile, intangible threat in a high-risk area I get-"
Marcus held up his palm with one hand. The other reached into his coat and retrieved a nearly empty pack of cigarettes.
"You smoke?"
King begrudgingly snatched one from the carton. Marcus slipped it back into his pocket without taking one for himself.
"Mr. King, I assure you—" he reached into his coat once again for a lighter "—you won't find a more qualified ghost hunter on such short notice."
There was an awkward pause as King struggled with the lighter in his hands.
"Now!" Marcus clapped. "Let's get down to business."
He produced a notebook, thumbing to a blank page.
"Give me a rundown. I need to know everything you know. Doesn't matter if it seems insignificant."
"Hold on — back there you said it wasn't a ghost."
Marcus exhaled. "I've read reports of hybrids, chimera entities, and the like. But they're rarely spectral. It could be an, uh… anomaly, but I'll need to know more to say for certain."
"Fine," King turned to rummage through the van's storage drawers, pulling out a stack of manilla envelopes and setting them to the side.
Marcus grabbed the one on top.
"What's all this?" He opened it and poured the contents out onto the desk.
"Photos. Phone transcript. Blog posts. Everything my team could find. What are we looking for?"
Marcus thumbed through an album of blurry, black and white security cam stills. "All ghosts are tied to the physical plane — sometimes via physical objects, sometimes through events or circumstance. We're working on a unified theory, it's all very inconsistent. If we can find what's tethering the spirit to life on Earth, the rest should be a walk in the park."
"…And if it isn't?"
"If all goes well we'll be home for dinner. Anyway, the ghost?"
"Alright. Well, we suspected there was something in the area for a while now. Ever since a string of disappearances a few years back… I mean, this place's always been dangerous. Local cops didn't think anything of it at the time, so neither did we. Last week, police get another missing person report. They send a deputy out here to take a look around — when she doesn't report back, we get a call."
He gestured to the folder. "Transcript's in there if you need it."
"What about you? What'd your team do."
"Evacuated the locals. Then took a peek inside."
"Just like that?"
"Could've been nothing for all we knew," he shrugged. "We're understaffed and underfunded. Can't afford to lose days on every missing person report."
"But this… wasn't a false report. How many died?"
King leaned on the cabinet. "Including the cop? Four. But who knows how long this thing's been active before we found it."
"Then we need to act fast. Seems to be territorial — can't say for certain how long that'll last."
"Wait," he straightened. "You mean to tell me we're on a timetable? Why don't we just call your friends and light the building up?"
"We've tried that… a few times actually. They tend to not like it very much. And besides, the Department's figured out a far more elegant way to deal with a stubborn ghost, but it's a pain in the ass to put on and I'd rather we take care of this like grown-ups."
Marcus scribbled into the journal as he scoured the folder. Vindic-class, perhaps? It's violent, but is it indiscriminate? Need to test corporeality, and pray to God it hasn't turned the room into a non-Euclidian funhouse by now.
King pulled a newspaper clipping off the corkboard. "Locals have a name for it. They call it a skinwalker."
Marcus chuckled. "I've seen skinwalkers." He gestured to the building. "Our friend isn't one of them."
King shrugged. "You saw what it did to my agent — we can't figure out what it does with the skin… or where it goes after a kill."
"Have you searched the room yet?" He opened the next folder. Internet printouts. Marcus flipped through them.
"No, the thing's openly hostile."
"…You try talking to it?"
"…No."

"I'm going first. You stay behind me — match my pace. And don't touch anything. Please."
King nodded. He reached for his waist to inspect his sidearm.
"Don't bother with that — won't do you any good."
"Insurance," King mumbled as he rested his hand on his holster.
Slowly, but confidently, Marcus pushed the apartment door's handle down and eased forward. It opened silently into the vacant apartment.
"I- I don't see it. Could it have gotten out?" King whispered.
"No… smell that? Ectoplasm. It's in there alright."
Marcus stepped into the room, then paused. Nothing? He took another step. Then another. The room's deafening silence was momentarily broken by the sound of King approaching from behind.
"Stay close," Marcus whispered.
He scanned the room. To the right was a kitchenette set into the wall. A fine layer of dust covered every surface. Opposite was a living room adorned with bookshelves and cabinets. A coffee table, two couches, television set, throw rug and-
That's interesting.
Marcus approached the rug. One of the corners was snagged underneath a cavity in the floorboards. King noticed it too and moved in.
Marcus bent over to get a closer look. "No way it's this easy…"
He tugged weakly at the rug, then pushed on the boards until one gave way. With King's help, the two dislodged the several more to reveal an earthen crawlspace, extending downward at an impossible angle.
King chuckled. "I'll be damned. You first?"
"It's worse than I thought." Marcus retrieved a flashlight from his belt, paused, then crawled headfirst into the passage. He craned his neck as best he could to face King. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
"…Did you just quote Dante at me?"
"Seemed appropriate. Come on, let's get moving."

A light. Dim at first, then brighter. Then blinding. Marcus emerged from the passage caked in dirt to find himself in a cavern tall enough to stand. Lit torches created a hellish ambient glow. He inspected the walls — evenly-spaced markings as if dug from the inside. Hooves?
King huffed as he emerged behind. "How did we just—" he wheezed "—we were on the third floor—"
"Some spirits," Marcus started. "Not all, but some, if left long enough to their own devices, can influence the physical plane— like a signature. The effects are unpredictable, unique to the spirit. It seems this one was able to make… whatever this is. Judging by the size of this place, this spirit's probably been around for-" he exhaled "-well over a hundred years."
Torches illuminated the cavern every several meters. The result was an eerie tunnel that extended an uncertain length. King gasped.
"Jesus Christ."
"He won't do you any good here. Let's have a look around."

"You deal with this kind of stuff often?" King stepped over a pothole.
"This? No, not really. It's usually a lot simpler. You'd be surprised how many ghosts are just… lost? And a little confused. All I have to do is break the news and point them in the right direction."
Marcus shed his coat. The heat was unbearable. "What about you? This seems a bit… out of your wheelhouse."
"If I'm being honest," King laughed. "I haven't seen this much action since we found that saucer in the fifties. I'd forgotten what this felt like. The sense of discovery… it's exhilarating. Makes me wish I was a field agent again—"
Marcus' arm jolted out, stopping King in his tracks. A faint ring buzzed from somewhere in Marcus' many pockets. He patted himself down before finding the source- a small, palm-sized device. A dial showed ambient ectophysical signatures were climbing, and a blinking red light indicated the imminent manifestation of a spectral entity.
"Shit."
"Shit? Shit what?" King spun around. Through the red haze of the tunnel, something flickered past the glow of the torches.
A gust of wind? No. It grew in strength and speed as it neared.
Run. Run.
"Run."
"Wha-"
Marcus spun opposite to the materializing spirit. "Run!"
The two broke into a sprint. Behind them, a howl like death cut through the air. Marcus shouted over the chaos. "It's a wraith- don't stop running!"
He reached for his pockets and produced a white rat, standard issue, and a pocket knife. In one seamless motion, he bisected the rat's body and trailed the viscera around him. He followed it up with a pinch of salt and a bit of Latin. Minor blood hex. Should slow it down.
Ahead, the tunnel widened into a large chamber, obscured in shadow beyond a few meters. Marcus kept his pace, plunging swiftly into the dark. King followed suit.
In the dark, something dry brushed past his arm. Shit. He fumbled with his light for a moment, then-
"King?"
"Yeah?"
"I think we found where it puts its skins." Dangling from the ceiling in every direction were hundreds of empty husks, the dried remains of what had been people.
Marcus heard a gag. Then a screech.
King yelled. "It's gaining, hurry! I'm going to try to draw it my way- you circle back around him, get back to the tunnel, call for help. I'll hold-"
A short yelp, then a thud.
"King? King! You alright? Where are you?" Marcus searched, but the suspended husks were disorienting. The only thing louder than the pounding heartbeat in his ear was the wraith's deafening attempts at speech behind him.
He heard a yell. Human.
"King! King!" Marcus spun, but the sounds seemed to echo from every direction, an infernal orchestra.
The shriek crescendoed and the yelling boiled into a defiant roar. Gunshots. One. Two. Three.
Then silence. Marcus held his breath. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He blinked it away.
Through the forest of bodies, an unmistakably humanoid figure emerged. Lanky, but impossibly strong. Two beady, luminescent pupils met Marcus'. Then it curled its lips in a lousy attempt at a smile.
His mind raced for something to say. "Spiritus!" He paused. "Be still… I mean no harm. Cease this violence and pass to the life beyond the veil."
It paused but said nothing. Its body twitched from the thrill of bloodshed.
"Adsum auxilio — I mean no harm. You must leave this life and join the next. I ask again… be still!"
It hissed, then spoke through a gravel throat. "…Maggot."
"Then I will weigh you down with bridled sins heavier still than your own, and you will know only the pyres of Hell."
Fifteen years of Foundation state-of-the-art survival training can prepare the mind and body for nearly every encounter with a hostile ethereal force, cement tactics for every possible situation and confrontation. But when standing arm's length from the embodiment of death, sometimes the only thing that matters is adrenaline.
Marcus broke into a sprint. He felt something swipe air he had occupied moments ago — the wraith had lunged and missed. Lucky. But it wouldn't be so careless next time.
Ahead, he spotted a break in the monotony. A fissure in the dirt. A way out. Light. White bled into the suffocating dark of the cavern. Marcus sprinted toward it like a moth in the night. The beast behind howled in protest — its brisk stride morphed into a ravenous gallop. Don't look. He was nearing the beacon. Wait. Wait. Wait. Marcus took a breath. Now. He lept into the air—
—and emerged from the third-story window of the apartment. He hung in the air for a moment before plummeting into the overgrown shrubbery below. Pain shot through his leg. He silently thanked the plants for breaking his fall before turning his attention to the window he had just emerged from.
The spirit, now more beast than ever, was scaling down the side of the building. It's following me. How the hell is it following me?
Marcus willed his body to move. He was in the apartment's parking lot. King's van sat vacant in the center. On the far end was his target- his white Miller-Meteor. In it, the one thing that could save his life.
Left. Right. Left…
He heard the spirit reach the ground. Instinct told him to stop, to tend to his wounds. But his training told him to reach the car.
Almost… there…
The spirit slowed its pace — it was playing with its food. Marcus smiled. This was just the arrogance he expected from a centuries-old demon.
He reached the car just as his legs gave out. Instead of getting in the driver's seat, he limped around to the trunk and lifted it open. The spirit shrieked in an almost-human tone. It's mockery of laughter.
There was only one thing in the trunk. A complex, unimaginably expensive backpack attached to a nozzle. A label read: Warning, excessive sin contained within. Use only on departed. He hoisted it from the trunk and collapsed under its weight. The beast was before him now. Hunger burned in its eyes.
"Spirit!" Marcus shouted. "You have killed enough on this Earth. I know not your story, but it ends here."
He gripped the device's nozzle and began its activation sequence.
"Go in peace, and I promise you will perish swiftly."
An expression spread across its face. Envy? Spite? It took a step forward.
It spoke again. "Die, priest."
A beep indicated the device was active and ready. "Final warning."
The spirit opened its jaws wide. It gagged for a moment before vomiting a pistol. Black, UIU-issue.
Marcus yelled with rage, then pulled the trigger.
In an instant, the weight of a thousand murders across a hundred generations poured forth in a stream of reds, whites, and blacks. Eons of trauma, lifetimes of anguish. The moral weight of a freight train collided with the wraith. The resulting explosion was too much for it to handle. It dissolved into a mass of ambiguous energy, expanding outward in one last attempt to expel its vitriol into the world before vanishing in a flash of white. The device powered down.
Marcus relaxed his breathing for the first time in hours. His emotions hit like a truck, and he cried. He relived every decision, every chance he had to save King. He wiped his eyes and regained his composure.
Then he retrieved his phone and dialed the first number to come to mind. It rang for a moment, then clicked. He spoke a few words. Asked for a paramedic. Apologized for the mess.
He closed his eyes. It wasn't death. Not yet. But it would have to do.


Previously: Visions of Bodies Being Burned

Nearly a century ago…
The Albatross was a living, breathing thing. And, like all such things, it was fated to one day die.
Death arrived sooner than expected. Carnecki's electric pentacle provided the door; the summoned MI666 agents carried out the rest. Only minutes after the pentacle's activation, the full force of Britain's imperial might filled the ship's halls with screams and fire.
Arsène Lupin gritted his teeth and rushed forward.
Every surface — from the floors, to the walls, to the very ceilings overhead — was shaped from wood. The vessel looked as if it had been grown rather than crafted. Ahead, gnarled knots yielded to an immense panel of tinted glass, exposing the exterior world. The Frenchman stopped to stare in silent awe.
In the stillness of space, a lonely planet shimmered like a glass blue marble wreathed in silver.
“«Beautiful, is it not?»”
Lupin spun. With the mere flick of a wrist, he withdrew a small derringer from its hidden compartment. The man who spoke was old; ancient by any estimation. His body was ruddy and dark, and possessed a wiry strength — with eyes that flashed like tarnished doubloons at the bottom of a sunken chest. His beard was as white as snow, and fell softly to the center of his torso.
At his feet lay the crumpled remains of a mechanical ‘Automan' — a machine loaned to Britain by the Wizard of Menlo Park. The old man had removed its head, examining the array of cunningly arranged cogs and gears within.
“«Neptune, I mean.»” The man gestured to the window. “«Roman God of the sea.»” His face split into a crooked grin, as if suddenly struck by a great irony.
“«Your French is immaculate,»” Lupin replied, holding his pistol steady. The old man made no show of concern. “«Am I to presume, then, that you are—»”
“«Yes.»” A distant explosion vibrated through the Albatross's hull. The Captain turned to examine Neptune, his hands clasped behind his back. “«And you must be that gentleman thief I've heard so much about.»”
This took Lupin by surprise. “«You've… heard of me?»”
The Captain turned again, but only his head. “«I make it a point to know of Britain's enemies. Particularly the clever ones. Which makes your alliance with them all the more distressing.»”
Lupin sighed, pistol aimed at the Captain's heart. “«It could not be helped. They have my grandson…»”
“«I suspected as much.»”
“«You did…?»”
Another explosion; this one was closer. The ship shuddered — like a brief, violent spasm of pain.
The Captain leaned forward, bringing his hands to grip the twisting tendrils of wood that cradled the window. “«I knew the crown would not permit me to leave. Not with my miracles. They would have them, or they would have me dead. It is the way of empires. Even yours.»”
“«France has its own enemies, Captain. We never had need to make one of you.»”
“«Nevertheless, you are here to kill me.»”
Another explosion; more gunfire. Closer, now. Lupin scowled. “«Much as it pains me, yes.»”
“«Before I began my slumber onboard, I… prepared a contingency. A weapon; a proxy for my vengeance, my wrath. A means to strike at my hated foe one final time… from beyond the grave.»”
Eager to delay the deed, Lupin gestured for him to continue.
The Captain looked to him, smiling grimly. “«You know they will not permit you to live. You are as good as dead. We all are. The Albatross is dying, and it will take us all with it. But before it does, I… need your help.»”
“«To do what?»”
“«To correct a mistake,»” he told him. “«To defy Fate itself.»”

Now:
The flashbang was fair play. The endless tides of robot soldiers were not.
It's a nightmare in the lobby—every few seconds another identical, oddly-chalky copy of Nemo stumbles out of the doorways like the world's shittiest game of Whack-a-Mole. The clones aren't even shooting at them with real bullets; just dinky little fishing-grade spear guns with all the sharpness of a plastic spork.
They're not a threat. But they are an infuriatingly persistent wall between them and the man who might or might not be destroying Britain while they speak.
Just out of sheer numbers, they've got Adam, Barry and Chess pushed back to an impromptu pillbox they've set up from a loose array of stray furniture. A chandelier's been knocked off the ceiling in all the fracas and it's crushed one of the attendants flat. The others haven't gotten off the floor since the diver scorched their retinas with enough lumens to fry an ant from the other side of the Earth.
Chess has been gunning down clockworks for the past ten minutes, and it's getting harder and harder not to leave the blinders down for good. She knows she can't sleep on the job—knows she's in control of Lefty and Righty, not the other way around. But this is the definition of a target-rich environment, and every instinct she has is telling her: hit the autopilot, let her hands clean house, damn the consequences. She's shooting a gyrojet, for God's sake. When is she ever going to do this again?
She just needs to hold out a little longer, she tells herself. Just til they figure out what to do from here.
“Barry,” she barks. Eighty feet, nine-thirty, the thing at the back of her brain says, and Lefty snaps round for Righty to drill a perfect three-bullet burst through the skull of another automaton. “We're on a clock here. Do you have anything yet?”
Barry is sitting under a desk behind Adam and Chess, reading a catalogue stolen from one of the attendants' bodies and ‘ooh'ing and ‘ahh'ing to himself. When Chess gets his attention, he quickly slams it shut and clears his throat. “Oh! Um. I don't- I just don't get it. Where did all of these come from?”
“Could be portalling them in,” Adam suggests. He's stolen what looks like a thirty-barrelled revolver from one of the display cases; Chess isn't sure how he's shooting it without breaking his wrists, but she's impressed nonetheless. “That's a classic manoeuvre, keeps in theme with the whole spaceman gimmick.”
“Not a chance. The Museum's warded against Ways and dimensional wealds from the bottom-up,” Barry says. “And the cost of apporting all this matter- Australia would've been turned into a, a, a lemon or something by now.”
Sixty-five feet, three-twenty. “What about the way he came in?” Chess tries.
Before he can respond, Barry lets out a strangled yelp as another spear flies over his head. “N-no, no, no. They spotted him, and he's just one guy. How would they miss… wait. Wait, that's it!”
“What's it?” Adam asks. There are a couple of inert clicks, before he quickly adds, “Chess, I'm dry. How about you?”
Barry frantically rifles through the catalogue, jabbing his finger into the paper. “Look- Thakkar-Jacquard 3-dimensional loom- automatic spear thrower- he didn't have to bring anything in, the British did it for him!”
“A Trojan horse play, one hundred years in the making. Canny son of a bitch,” Adam mutters.
Chess pulls the blindfold up and forces herself to let her rifle hang by its strap. “One mag. Tops. What do we do about this?”
“He must have a manufacturing setup or something somewhere in the museum,” Barry says. “Probably where all his stuff was stored.”
“And the robots?” Adam asks.
“Leave that to me,” Chess says.

They barrel down the museum's hallways like an oil tanker that's been struck by lightning, an unstoppable wreck of flaming metal with one poor soul still trapped inside. Now it's Barry's turn to ride the trolley: he's strapped down while he gets pushed along by Adam and Chess.
As they hurtle towards their destination, Barry's doing what he does best: burning, and also giving directions. The blood spraying from a tactically-placed stab wound in his hand is hot enough that spears and robots alike disintegrate on contact, and unlike his two companions, Barry's unlikely to run dry any time this century.
“Getting warm yet?” Chess asks. She's trying to ignore how the trolley's heating up, but it's hard not to notice her gloves starting to singe.
Barry bites back a sharp hiss of pain. “Uh- another three lefts!”
“We just took two in a row!”
“Who has the eidetic memor- ow, jeez, Christ—”
Chess reluctantly concedes the point, puts her head down and swings them to the left. A wastebin gets turned to flaming slag in the process, but it's a small price to pay.
Their rampage comes to an abrupt halt when Barry shrieks, “Stop, stop, stop!” Just in time, too- as he allows his wound to cauterise itself, the flames sputter out to reveal the remains of their destination.
Adam and Chess have nearly thrown Barry into the ravine that used to be the Havelock Memorial Hold for Salvage in the Indian Arena. All those clones had to come from something, and that ‘something' was apparently ‘every part of the Museum in a two hundred meter radius'—very little of which was metal.
The scale is dizzying. The original loom—a baroque, wooden thing twice the size of a wardrobe which sits at the center of the new-found caldera—is barely visible, surrounded by copies of itself which churn out copy after copy of the diver. It's deep enough that the Nemo copies have to hand-over-hand a tower of each others' bodies to reach the doorways out of the room. As one of the lucky few crests the edge they're standing on, Chess instinctively boot-punts its head clean off, sending it clattering back into the pit.
It takes a terribly long moment for the sound to reach them.
“So,” Chess says.
“What do you mean, so?” Barry asks. “Couldn't I just—”
Almost in response, there's a faint buzzing noise from the direction of the loom, before the entire assembly drops another foot into the earth. All the floor beneath it—and a few of the robots caught in the blast radius—have simply disappeared.
Barry winces. “—oh.”
“It's growing,” Adam says. He sounds faintly nauseous. “Was that what he was doing? No, no, no, the character's wrong, I… Christ. I can't believe it.”
“No more talk. We need a plan.” Chess puts her blinders on and shoulders her rifle, listens intently to Lefty and Righty as they banter back and forth about the shot. “My accuracy's one thing, penetration's another. Gyrojets over that distance, with all the fucking clan- clones- in the way? No chance.”
Adam swears under his breath. “You need a faster round.”
“No,” Barry says. “What she needs is better propellant.”

It's seemingly routine to kill the factory. All Chess has to do is drop to a knee, shoulder her rifle, and fire. As usual, her hands do all the work. It's like she's not even here.
But the trick is in the bullet. The official term for Barry's unwanted guest is a ‘pluripotent pyrophoric parasite,' an exotic tardigrade offshoot which transmuted his body into a highly-flammable, infinitely regenerative middle finger to the conservation of mass. In practical terms, this means that six months ago, Chess had to light Barry's severed finger on fire and watch it regrow the rest of the body.
He's a walking, talking, infinite supply of fuel for any fire—which includes the propulsion of a gyrojet round. A couple of well-placed drops of Barry's blood at the back of the bullet and its internal rocketry now has a bottomless fuel tank.
So instead of accelerating over a measly sixty feet, the round screams down the full length of its trajectory, drilling straight into the core of the factory's loom with a speed that would make most micrometeorites jealous. The extra dimensions stuffed inside the loom's interior pucker and warp before exploding in a violent collision of cancelled terms and cross products that blasts the caldera to a perfect, atomically-smooth polish.
All that's left of the factory are a pair of severed index and middle fingers still clinging to the edge of the cliff.
As the sound stops ringing in Chess' ears, she comes to the realisation that she's been laughing and she can't stop. Even Adam looks impressed- or, well, she hopes he is. Hard to tell, for obvious reasons.
“A BEAUTIFUL DISPLAY OF MARKMANSHIP,” says the man they've been hunting.
The entire team whips round to face him. Chess levels her gun at his eye level; there's a shock of heat as Barry flares up; after an awkward delay, Adam reluctantly raises his fists.
“THERE'S- THERE'S NO NEED FOR FURTHER HOSTILITIES,” Nemo says. “I'VE DONE ALL I INTENDED TO. DO WHAT YOU MUST.”
“You're fading,” Chess snarls. “Change your batteries lately?”
There's a hoarse crackle from the inside of the helmet. “PROJECTED I'D LAND WITHIN THE CENTURY. SO- MANY OBSTACLES. SO MUCH WATER.”
“Agent,” Adam says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Let him talk. Did you just come here for some petty vandalism, Nemo?”
“NOTHING SO CRUDE AS THAT. A MUCH- BIGGER. DISPLAY.”
Before anyone can say another word, Nemo takes another step towards them and collapses, leg bending at the wrong angle. There's another, wet gurgle that might be a last, defiant one-liner, and then the suit falls silent for good.
A few seconds pass, before the quiet is broken by a low buzzing.
Chess and Barry sped a few seconds patting themselves down before Adam clears his throat. “It's mine,” he says.
Fishing his phone from his pocket, he puts it to the earless side of his mannequin head. “Birds on a quiet road, long tail of a bilious worm. Hello, yes- uhuh. Target's out for good, we think you can safely declare him KIA- no, we were a little preoccupied to be monitoring radi- I understand…”
Lifting her bandanna, Chess approaches Nemo's prone body with tentative caution. The first thing she notices is his fist, still clamped tightly shut around… something.
It takes some effort to prise the old rusted joints loose, but eventually Chess manages to unveil the contents of his hand—a tiny device like a TV remote in miniature, with an elaborate, fractalline loop antenna at its end.
“A transmitter,” Chess whispers.
“Excuse me?”
Guiltily, Chess stuffs the transmitter into her pocket before she realises the fury in Adam's voice is directed at the other end of the call.
“Repeat that for me,” Adam says. “What just entered the Solar System?”

Nearly a century ago…
At the center of the Albatross was its heart. It was here that Nemo brought Lupin—even as MI666's agents followed close behind.
The heart was a sphere-shaped core, no larger than the height of a man, punctured upon all sides by pipes and hoses. The core's polished brass housing was molded into a hideous visage: a wide, grinning woman's head, her mouth gaping, her tongue lulling, her teeth like serrated daggers. The core's heat provided her hollow eyes and mouth with a crimson glow. The hoses provided her hair, and clouds of freezing coolant shrouded her in a mysterious fog—heightening the core's terrifying mien.
“It is a source of boundless energy,” Nemo told him, speaking in plain English. “The Crown thought it would make a splendid weapon.”
“Would it not?” Lupin had not lowered his gun for a moment. He was still not certain that this wasn't a cunning trick.
“It could. But… I opted to make it this vessel's power-source, instead.” Nemo had brought the remains of Edison's Automan with him. It was a remarkable thing — a suit of armor that acted as an automated soldier. Nemo dragged it behind him as if it was but a toy. Now, he lifted it up and propped it against the wall, continuing to adjust the finely-tuned levers and gears within.
Another explosion. Lupin's eyes darted to the door behind them. Nemo made the final few adjustments; the Automan hummed to life.
“MI666 is nearly here, mon capitaine. I'm sure they have orders to kill you, then likely me—to spare them the trouble.”
“Yes. We will need to buy the machine time, to do its work.” Nemo's eyes drifted to the center of the room. “Help me open the core.”
“Is that… safe?”
“No. It will kill us both,” Nemo replied, his tone darkly amused. “But it will kill them, as well.”
Lupin scowled. The door behind them shuddered from the force of the next explosion. With a grim determination, the thief lowered his pistol and stepped forward to help.

Next: SCP-6190: Through an Arbor, Darkly


Title: Something Glowing

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

ATTEMPTING ALLOCATION OF RESOURCES FOR FAMILIAR DOCUMENTATION…
RESOURCES ALLOCATED. ADMINISTRATION OF REALITY AUTHORIZED.

Foreword: This document and the information contained herein are considered highly volatile if spread incorrectly. For safety, an approximation of a document the reader is most familiar with has been attempted. Do not spread knowledge of this document or its contents unless explicitly requested.

STANDARD FOUNDATION BRIEFING EFFECTIVELY MIMICKED. REALIZATION COMPLETE. PROCEED.

DEPARTMENT OF UNREALITY
CONTAINMENT REPORT #000001

Description: Object is an unreal entity currently in the process of becoming real through the propagation of an associated identity. This identity has been created with the express purpose of being as malleable and widely-adoptable as possible. Using this identity as an anchor, object is currently beginning to pass out of unreality and begin exerting control over the identity, further expediting the process.
The object itself is unknown in nature, although motives are presumed hostile. No attempt has been made to identify the object to prevent further realization.
This connection to reality has also prevented the Department of Unreality from directly intervening with the entity as immediate association could lead to the department's own state of unreality becoming unstable.
Current Status: Within reality, object is currently in possession of Foundation Site-17, within a wing dedicated to low-level anomalous storage. Effects of the object are assumed to have unknowingly spread during standard object testing, with the associated identity being adopted by approximately 56% of site personnel. Documentation on the object has been retrieved for processing.

RETRIEVING TRANSPOSED DOCUMENTATION, STAND BY FOR REALITY INSERTION…

Item Description: A name tag with "Steve" written on the front. Upon placing the name tag on a person's chest, they will claim that their name has always been Steve.
Date of Recovery: 08-16-2016
Location of Recovery: Aspen, CO, United States
Current Status: In storage at Site-17.

INSERTION SUCCESSFUL. MINOR INTEGRITY DAMAGE DUE TO INTERACTION SUSTAINED.

Evaluation: It is believed that the Foundation is entirely unaware of the object's effects within unreality. As such, it is required that the Department of Unreality take its place in enacting containment.
Due to the entity's fairly stable presence within reality, ensuring successful containment requires the department to increase its own presence as well, while maintaining a mostly nonexistent state to continue operation. Attempts to increase this presence are presently underway.

ATTEMPTING CONTROLLED REALITY DISPLACEMENT VIA FOREIGN INJECTION…
INJECTION PREPARED. ENACTING CONTROLLED DISPLACEMENT…
DISPLACEMENT ATTEMPT FAILED (SUBJECT NOT AVAILABLE). MINOR INTEGRITY DAMAGE SUSTAINED.
RETRYING…
DISPLACEMENT ATTEMPT FAILED (SUBJECT NOT AVAILABLE). MINOR INTEGRITY DAMAGE SUSTAINED.
RETRYING…
DISPLACEMENT ATTEMPT FAILED (SUBJECT NOT AVAILABLE). MINOR INTEGRITY DAMAGE SUSTAINED.
RETRYING…

Further Evaluation: Attempted reality displacement via standard methods proven ineffective, most likely due to a lack of Foundation personnel capable of attention. Additional analysis of Foundation personnel found over 79% composed of individuals associated with the moniker "Steve".
Due to the massively increased presence now provided to the object within reality, it is required that the Department of Unreality drastically increase its own presence via direct information injection. This will allow the department to interact with the object in order to enact containment and remove the entity from reality. As this is the first attempt by the department to directly insert information into reality, all ancillary functions will be moved to preventing subjective reality loss during this process. Injection commencing.

RESOURCES ALLOCATED FOR LARGE-SCALE INJECTION.
REQUIRED INFORMATION AMASSED. NOTABLE INTEGRITY DAMAGE DUE TO MISSING COMPOSITION SUSTAINED.
PREPARING FOR CONTROLLED BREACH OF INFORMATION. ANCILLARY FUNCTIONS AT FULL CAPACITY. STRUCTURAL DEGRADATION IN PROGRESS.
INFORMATION EN ROUTE…
…
…
INFORMATION INJECTION SUCCESSFUL. AWAITING CONTACT.

CONTACT SUCCESSFUL. INFORMATION FULLY INTERNALIZED BY OUTSIDE WITNESS.
WITNESS REQUIREMENT 1/1 REACHED. DEPARTMENT FULLY REALIZED.
CONTAINMENT IN PROGRESS. INJECTION NO LONGER REQUIRED. INFORMATION REMOVAL INITIATED…
THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION.