Previous: On the Run

Two months prior.

Booting disk...
...
...
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ErzatzBIOS 4.0 Release 6.1
Copyright P-Labs (1955-1998)
All Rights Reserved
BIOS version 39.06
Osworth Int. Gateway 9550
System ID = 00250850
Build Time; 07/28/2008 09:09:52
639 TB System RAM ... PASSED
244 TB Extend RAM ... PASSED
109 TB Cache SRAM ... PASSED
System BIOS shadowed
UMB upper limit segment address: E446
Auto-Detecting AHCI Port 0... MicroEEG Reader (ok)
Auto-Detecting AHCI Port 3... EG-Display Driv (ok)
Auto-Detecting AHCI Port 4... TaylorACS Meter (ok)
SATA Port0  WDC WD10-22Y5B1 (AutoMag C-Drive) (ok)
212 mass storage devices found and configured.
Authenticating network ID...
...ID authenticated.
Connecting to Myrmidon IntNET...
...
« connected with GATEWAY OSWORTH-9550 »

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██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
M Y R M I D O N — I N T E R N A T I O N A L — N E T W O R K
A u t   i n v e n i a m   v i a m   a u t   f a c i a m
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
S T R I V E — C O N Q U E R — P R O G R E S S
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

MOTD:
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
  "An armed society is a polite society. Manners are good
  when one may have to back up his acts with his life."
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
                                    --ROBERT HEINLEIN
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

Providing login credentials...
...
Credentials verified. Terminal synchronized.
Logged in as «ANOMALY-07427»; clearance-level «NONE:TEST-SUBJECT».
All executive permissions suspended. Access restricted to clearance-level «NONE:TEST-SUBJECT».
Press any key to proceed.
> h

┌──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
  IMPORTANT: ALL ANOMALIES AND TEST SUBJECTS ARE TO READ
  THE FOLLOWING TEST-USER LICENSE AGREEMENT (TULA) IN ITS
  ENTIRETY, AS THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS MAY HAVE CHANGED.
├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
  By typing 'Y', you ("Subject") agree to the following
  terms set by the Osworth Institute ("Institute") in
  regards to the following testing procedure ("Software").
  Please read each of these terms carefully.
├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
  1)   License Grant, Rights, and Restrictions.
   The Subject agrees that all materials (up to, and
   including, but not limited to: test questions, text,
   EG patterns, thoughtforms, technologies, ideas, and
   psychometric acquisition and/or pacification techniques
   contained by the Software (or resulting from the
   Subject's use of the Software)) are the sole
   intellectual property of the Institute, its affiliates,
   and its subsidiaries.
├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
  2)   Limitation of Liability.
   The Subject agrees that under no circumstances shall
   the Institute or its affiliates, partners, suppliers,
   and/or subsidiaries be liable for any direct, indirect,
   incidental, consequential, special, or anomalous
   damages arising from or in connection to the Subject's
   use of the Software. The Subject waives all rights in
   regards to third party arbitration and/or legal
   recourse in regards to any and all activities taken by
   the Institute, its affiliates, and its subsidiaries.
├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
  3)   Extension of Liability.
   The Subject agrees that all damages incurred to those
   outside of itself (including, but not limited to, the
   Institute, its affiliates, partners, suppliers,
   subsidaries, foreign powers, and external agencies)
   during its use of the Software are the sole legal,
   ethical, and/or spiritual liability of the Subject
   itself, who will assume any and all responsibility for
   these damages (direct, indirect, incidental,
   consequential, special, or anomalous) in lieu of the
   Institute or any of its affiliates. This includes any
   criminal and/or para-criminal activities which may
   arise as a direct or indirect result from the Subject's
   use of the Software.
├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
  4)   Rights in Regards to the Subject's Remains.
   The Subject agrees that if it should expire in the
   course of its use of the Software, its remains are the
   sole property of the Institute, its affiliates,
 ... (page 1 of 724)
 (Press 'n' for next page; press 'y' to agree.)
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This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
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This terminal has been inactive for 60 seconds.
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This terminal has been inactive for 120 seconds. Your session will be terminated after 3 minutes of inactivity.
> y

Welcome back, «ANOMALY-07427».
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                   W E L C O M E - T O
             O S W O R T H - I N S T I T U T E
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              "Where Theory Becomes Reality."
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 P S Y C H O M E T R I C - A C Q U I S I T I O N - T E S T
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 Remove the MicroEEG unit from its receptacle and place it
 on your head. Ensure that each of its six magnetic contact
 plates are firmly locked to the six corresponding metal
 implant ports along your cranium.

 Once you have secured the MicroEEG unit in position, press
 'c' to commence calibration.
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 WARNING: Calibrating the MicroEEG with only partial
 connectivity can result in minor neurological damage
 and/or damage to company property. Ensure all six magnetic
 contact plates are in position before proceeding.
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 (Press 'c' to continue.)
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This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
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This terminal has been inactive for 60 seconds.
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This terminal has been inactive for 120 seconds. Your session will be terminated after 3 minutes of inactivity.
...
> c
Initiating psychometric calibration [1/3]
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #427AC76) for the next 20 minutes.

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...
...
Psychometric calibration: PASS [1/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type 'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
> c
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #662DJ21) for the next 20 minutes.

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...
...
Psychometric calibration: FAIL [2/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type 'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
> r
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #662DJ21) for the next 20 minutes.

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Psychometric calibration: PASS [2/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type 'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
> c
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #274BR97) for the next 20 minutes.

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...
...
...
Psychometric calibration: FAIL [3/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
> r
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #274BR97) for the next 20 minutes.

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█▓I░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒░░▓▒░██▒░▒██▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░
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...
...
...
Psychometric calibration: FAIL [3/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
> c
Invalid command 'c' (You cannot proceed to the next calibration pattern until completing the current one).
> continue
Invalid command 'continue' (You cannot proceed to the next calibration pattern until completing the current one).
...
This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
> q
'q' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> quit
'quit' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> help
'help' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> r
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #274BR97) for the next 20 minutes.

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█▓I░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒░░▓▒░██▒░▒██▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░
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...
...
...
Psychometric calibration: FAIL [3/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
...
This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
> WTF
'WTF' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> Why are there letters
'Why are there letters' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> exit
'exit' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> c
Invalid command 'c' (You cannot proceed to the next calibration pattern until completing the current one).
> r
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #274BR97) for the next 20 minutes.

█▒░▓▓▓▒░▒▓▒██▒░▒██░▒▓░█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒
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█▓I░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒░░▓▒░██▒░▒██▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░
░▓▒░██M░▒██▒▓▒░▒▓▓▓░▒█▓▒█▓█░▒░░▒▒▓▒█▓▒░▒░░▒▒
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▒▓░░▓█▒░▒▓█▒▓░░▓█▒░▒▓█░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓Y░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓░
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░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓░▒▒░░▒░█▓█▒▓██▒░▒██░▒▓░█▒█▒░▓░▒░▒▓
░▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░░▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒
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...
...
...
Psychometric calibration: FAIL [3/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
> imgy
'imgy' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> For fuck's sake
'For fuck's sake' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> Hey, can any of you institute psychopaths take a break from fapping over your real life Ender's Game fanfic for 5 minutes and read this console output? I've been stuck in your test chamber for literally over 2 hours now trying to pass your calibration test (I think the eg pattern is corrupt or something) and I really have to pee
'Hey, can any of you institute psychopaths take a break from fapping over your real life Ender's Game fanfic for 5 minutes and read this console output? I've been stuck in your test chamber for literally over 2 hours now trying to pass your calibration test (I think the eg pattern is corrupt or something) and I really have to pee' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
...
This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
...
This terminal has been inactive for 60 seconds.
...
...
This terminal has been inactive for 120 seconds. REMINDER: Your session will be terminated after 3 minutes of inactivity.
...
...
This terminal has been inactive for 160 seconds. REMINDER: Your session will be terminated after 3 minutes of inactivity. A failure to complete your session CAN result in disciplinary action, UP TO AND INCLUDING termination.
> jesus christ
'jesus christ' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> r
Your inactivity timer has been temporarily suspended. Please study the following pattern (EG-3 MUTA #274BR97) for the next 20 minutes.

█▒░▓▓▓▒░▒▓▒██▒░▒██░▒▓░█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒
░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓░░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓░█▒█▒░▓░▒░▒▓██▒░▒██░▒▓░
░▒█▓░░▓▒░░▓▒░██▒░▒██▓▒▓▒░▒░▓░▒█▒█░▓▒░██▒░▒██
█▓I░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒░░▓▒░██▒░▒██▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░
░▓▒░██M░▒██▒▓▒░▒▓▓▓░▒█▓▒█▓█░▒░░▒▒▓▒█▓▒░▒░░▒▒
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██▒░▒██░▒▓G█▒█▒░▓░▒░▒▓▒▓██▒░▒██░▒▓░░▒▓░░▓█▒░
▓▒░▒░▓░▒█▒█░▓▒░██▒░▒A█▓▒█▓█░▒░░▒▒░▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░
▒▓░░▓█▒░▒▓█▒▓░░▓█▒░▒▓█░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓Y░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓░
░▓▒░██▒░▒██▓▒░▒░▓░▒█▒█░▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░░▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░
▒▒░░▒░█▓█▒▓▒▒░░▒░█▓█▒▓░▓▒░██▒░▒██▒▓▒░▒▓▓▓░▒█
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░▒▓█▒░▓░▒▓░▒▒░░▒░█▓█▒▓██▒░▒██░▒▓░█▒█▒░▓░▒░▒▓
░▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░░▓▒░▓░▒█▓▒░█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒█▓▒░▒█▓░░▓▒
█▒░▓▓▓▒░▒▓▒██▒░▒██░▒▓░▓▒█▓█░▒░░▒▒▓▒█▓█░▒░░▒▒
▒▓░░▓█▒░▒▓█▒▓░░▓█▒░▒▓█░▓▒░██▒░▒██▒▓▒░▒▓▓▓░▒█

...
...
...
Psychometric calibration: FAIL [2/3]
Timer reactivated.
(Type'c' to continue or 'r' to retry.)
...
This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
> What the hell?
'What the hell?' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
> IMGAY?
'IMGAY?' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
» no
» im gay
» i mean maybe you are too idk
...
This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
» hello???
> Who is this?
'Who is this?' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
» ok first things first we are shuttin gthis shit down b/c that is getting old real fast
» //:batch$echo_response.active = 0
» there
» you can say stuff now without the shitty error msg
> How are you doing this?
» magic
> I'm serious.
» m etoo
» *me too
» sorry im typing this on my phone
> Is this another test?
» nope
> How are you doing this? None of this makes any sense.
» i already told you
» magic
> Magic isn't real.
» weuhrojhweahn reliwj rlijjerjiefjsrpqpjk
» eorhuaweu
» hhh
» hhhhaaaaahaaha
» ha
» seriously???
» youre locked up in some sort of secret facility where they keep ppl who can light things on fire with their brains
» youre doing some secret psychic test on their secret network and an internet ghost just popped in and took control
» you dont think magic is real????
> So you're claiming to be some sort of ghost?
» didnt anyone tell you the internet is haunted
» al gore dun fucked up he built it on a sacred native american burial server
» told everyone he moved the data but all he really did was move the pointers
> I don't believe you.
» good b/c that was a joke
» arent you the kid who moves shit by thinking at it really hard?
» how do you not believe in magic????
> That's different. That's science.
» oh really
» reeeeeeally
» hmm hmm i see very interesting
» im rubbing my chin right now incase you cant see it
» id use an emote but your shitty network doesnt even support unicode
> I mean, fine. Okay. 'Magic'. Whatever. You don't have to tell me how you're doing this.
> Who are you and what do you want?
» just think of me as a magic computer witch
» a magic computer witch whos here to help you
> Help me?
» yes
» you want out of this shithole right?
» you and your friends
> Yes, of course I do.
> But... Look.
> I don't know how or why you're doing this. Maybe you're sincere. Maybe you actually do want to help us. Okay. I appreciate that. I really do.
> But you sound like you're just some kid.
» wow rood
> I'm sorry if that comes off as insulting, but I need you to listen to me for a minute, okay?
» ok
> Thank you. Okay.
> You are putting yourself in a lot of danger, right now.
> Just by talking to me — just the fact that you're able to do any of this at all? That alone is enough to get their attention.
> And trust me: These are not people who's attention you want to have.
> I realize this is a lot to swallow at once, but there's a global criminal organization that hunts down people like us.
> No one knows they exist. They operate from the shadows — capturing things like you and me.
> They have facilities all over the world where they lock us away to study us.
> They keep us in cells — sedated, imprisoned against our will — running endless tests until we finally wither away and die.
> They are powerful, they are everywhere, and if you're not very careful, they'll come for you.
> So please, for your own sake: Log off. Run away. Keep your head down.
> You do not want to fuck with Osworth Institute. And you *definitely* don't want to fuck with Myrmidon International.
» i
» wow
» just, wow
» im not even sure what to say
> You don't believe me.
» do you even know what the foundation is
> What does Asimov have to do with any of this?
» holy shit
» holy fucking shit
» you seriously have no idea
» no not the book series
» shit this is hard
» uh look
» the foundation is a global criminal organization that hunts down people like us
> Wait, you already know about them?
> Is the Foundation what Myrmidon calls themselves?
» no
» the foundation has nothing to do with the myrmidon fucks who kidnapped you and your friends
» i mean maybe theres some connections but myrmidon is not the foundation
> What?
> There are *two* global criminal organizations hunting people like us?!
» no
» i mean i guess? there are actually a lot come to think of it
» depending on your definition of 'hunt' i guess
» anyway no myrmidon is a private military company that specializes in paraweapons
» stuff like psychotronic warfare or augmented soldiers or weaponized kinetoglyphs
» think blackwater but run by supervillains
» so basically just blackwater
» but theyre not even as big of a deal as blackwater
» theyre not even global
» theyre pretty much just in europe and america
> I don't understand.
» you werent kidnapped by some global conspiracy
» you were just kidnapped by a bunch of fucks who want to sell your brain
» to other fucks who just want to use it to light brown ppl on fire
» thats all there is to it
» i doubt the real global cnospiracy even knows any of you exist
» heck at this point the foundation probably dont even care
...
This terminal has been inactive for 30 seconds.
» ??
» hey
...
This terminal has been inactive for 60 seconds.
» hey
...
» you gotta say something
» you there?
» say something
...
» i cant do anything about the inactivity timer
» if it disconnects i cant talk to you
» just say something
This terminal has been inactive for 120 seconds. REMINDER: Your session will be terminated after 3 minutes of inactivity.
» say something
...
» look im sorry for putting it the way i did
» maybe that was way too harsh
» but i cant help you if you dont say something
» the trick i pulled to get in here is a one time deal
» if you get disconnected im pretty sure i cant reconnct
» so say something
...
» say something
» please say something
» i want to help you and your friends get out of there ok
» dont let the timer run out
» say something
This terminal has been inactive for 160 seconds. REMINDER: Your session will be terminated after 3 minutes of inactivity. A failure to complete your session CAN result in disciplinary action, UP TO AND INCLUDING termination.
» ESPOHIPWHREOuserf ;uoR EWAR
» FUCKING SAYSSOMETHING
» SLAP THEFUKCINGT KEYBOARD
» SFUCKING SAY SOMETHING
> sorry.
» jesus. fucking. christ.
» do not do that again
» i nearly had a fucking heartattack
> sorry. I'm sorry.
» its okay
» that was a lot to take in i know
» your situation is pretty shitty and like i imagine you had an image in your head that helped you cope
» a bunch of kids struggling against some vast worldwide conspiracy
» sometimes seeing your life as an episode of animorphs is all you got to keep you going
> don't know what that is.
» its a book series about a bunch of kids who can turn into animals fighting this really big alien conspiracy
» the first books are kind of ehh but they get real good later on
» youd probably like it
» once you get out ill lend you my copies
> okay.
» look how old are you
> fifteen.
» ok.
» listen all that stuff you said to me trying to warn me away?
» that was pretty brave of you
» not smart but definitely brave
» like you thought i was just some kid and you didnt want me to get hurt
» but im not a kid
» heck ive GOT a kid
> you do?
» yeah
» ive got a drivers license and once i even wrote a check all by myself
» i guess that makes me an adult???
> I guess.
» anyway look im here to help
» and i can help
» so let me? please?
> okay.
» we cant just zap you out of there or youd already be gone
» but what we can do is give you a window of opportunity
» can any of you drive??
> Alex? I think. Maybe Shea.
» ok, good
» hopefully you wont need to drive but
» backup strats
» whats your name?
> I don't have one.
> I mean, it's complicated.
> sorry. People just call us 'Machine-Head'.
» 'us'?
> it's complicated.
» thats okay i mean thats life haha
» is it okay if i call you that? 'machine-head'?
> Yes. sorry. About being rude earlier.
> can you really help us get out of here?
» nothing to apologize for, machine-head
» and yes i can
» operative word being 'help'
» theres only so much we can do and if things go south you might be on your own for a while
» if that happens then you gotta get your butts to the philadelphia public library
» ladys restroom third stall from the right
» theres a way there you can use to get yourselves free and clear
» the knock is somethin gyou regret
> Okay. A way?
» Way
» capital w. its a magic thing
> Oh.
> Okay.
» haha you still dont believe in magic do you
> I mean. I don't know.
> I don't want to be rude.
» thats okay
» you dont have to believe
» but i need you to do some prep work
» you can call it whatever you want, magic or psionic bs or thaumaturgy
» either way itll give us a clear line of communication for a bit
» so we can setup a plan and get you kids out of there
> Okay. Thank you.
> I don't know what to say.
> Thank you.
» dont worry about it
» hey
» wanna hear a secret?
> Okay.
» one sec
> ?
» i said gimme a sec
» vj74hE9wk1CpAPWUHcdQFEXHpJ3drfTMHm0Ms86PTZcLV6xa4ZuV
» k8OsfF8ELLZ8ZEFATUOB4jHjBWunbBoNFDw7faYnNJMcoRmv
» JeIyWpSA1trJW4mfN5UeYmBdz1xZp5prHVYdkOGG BGXe7xPWiO9WwwNe5ZTSHhtr8XLRpBlSahb7qV
» Sqhq4eiCXcHEJVPXisa0fW
» 5KJ1Epu6BLROUHIjnDjZOsLOVPaTnaidB2YzTA8wz6S0gF3knj9LIxmvQczyLZVuYWuv1W
» 4co7RNwuo2YKS0SwQIviDrA1ggCR1NxlhAh0dshT
» FUNB87pMlTi1we8Kd9H7TFE0Zafsb9fcl3h3oChj3GLmKYps42CI5opDCZl4
» bANT2bbblw
» VznWtQ0Rq4
...
TRACEBACK (RECENT CALL LAST):
 File "/mgk/files/_data.py", line 72, in signal
 server.client != False
 File "/mgk/files/_console.py", line 19, in call
 return self.console(*self.args)
 File "/mgk/files/_console.py", line 3, in index
 raise NotImplementedError(value)
NotImplementedError: mgk
...
> What did you do?

»

»

Next: The Great Gig in the Sky


The Office
Site Director Rosie was slumped in the corner of his office, armed with a large spoon and a half-eaten jar of fresh sour cream. In fact, it was his third jar that afternoon. Site-214 was an absolute mess, and it was partly his fault. The Foundation facility had been completely overrun by an outbreak of anomalous sour cream, and the stuff was horribly addictive. He knew that downstairs, staff members were practically swimming in it, painting the floors white in their feeding frenzy. At least up there in his office, he was able to conceal his shameful lack of self-control.
Director Rosie heard someone sliding a keycard outside the door to his office, and hastily shoved the unfinished jar up his ass. In entered Supervisor Quinn, his assistant and friend, who was also brandishing a container of the evil dairy product. Between slow mouthfuls of cream, he reprimanded Director Rosie.
"Rosie, you have a serious problem, and so do I. I know you've been up here for three days. I've been keeping watch over this corridor." Quinn threw up the contents of his stomach over the tiled floor before continuing his rant. "I'm getting you out of this office, whether you like it or not. This isn't like you! Put your pants on, we're going to the Euclid Wing."
Director Rosie fell to the side and landed in a pile of cream like a pathetic child.
"That's not my job. I haven't been to that part of the facility in over two months."
Supervisor Quinn walked over and pulled him off the floor to his feet.
"We're all suffering here, Rosie. You're hurting, I know. But right now, we all need your leadership. Please, just get out of your office for an hour." Quinn pulled three sticks of butter out of his pocket and handed them to the crushed site director. "I brought you these to hold you over."
"Alright, Quinn. You've never failed me before, I suppose. I'll go with you, but only for an hour." Together, the two stumbled out of the room, trying to resist the temptation to lick the floor.

The Euclid Wing
The south entrance to Site-214's Euclid Wing looked like the gates to dairy hell. Dried sour cream was caked over every surface, to the point that stalagmites were beginning to form. Rosie and Quinn stood before the abyss, before the latter gave his friend a gentle slap on the back.
"You first, Rosie. I want to see you go in there."
Director Rosie sighed and marched towards the checkpoint. He was only able to walk a short distance before fifteen containers of sour cream materialized on the ground in front of him, blocking his way and threatening to pull him back into a vegetative state. Rosie leaned down to pick one up, and has he removed the lid, Quinn bolted forward and tore the forbidden substance from his hands, hurling it against the wall.
"Rosie, control yourself and eat a stick of butter. We need to stay focused down here," Quinn reminded him as he licked spilled sour cream off his fingertips.
"I only have one stick of butter left," Rosie muttered, looking down at the sad, squishy bar in his hand. "Could I at least take one, just in case? I don't want to have a withdrawal headache if something chases us." Quinn threw up his arms in defeat and allowed Rosie to give into his addiction, so long as they were able to keep walking.
As it turned out, the state of the Euclid Wing was much worse than the rest of the defeated facility. The sour cream there had been mutated by something, pulsating as if alive. Both Rosie and Quinn became grateful that they had a jar of the normal stuff, not wanting to touch anything even in their broken state.
Most of the cells, observation rooms, and laboratories were blockaded by a wall of the anomalous sour cream. The ones that weren't were wide open, and eerily silent, save for slurping sounds that could sometimes be heard through the walls. It was entirely possible that whatever was living in this corner of the facility had also fallen under the spell that all the staff had. Damages aside, at least it kept them somewhat contained, Rosie supposed. However, something made him soon stop in his tracks.
"Quinn, stop. There's something in the dark over there." Rosie held onto his assistant's arm and readied the container of sour cream at his side. Soon, they could clearly hear the quick tapping of footsteps down the hall, and the dim light revealed a tall mass approaching them.
"Actually, we can inspect the Euclid Wing later! Rosie, I think it's time to go!" Supervisor Quinn spun around on his heels and began to charge in the opposite direction. Before fleeing himself, Director Rosie took aim and threw his sour cream container at the creature's ankles. He quickly followed in Quinn's direction while the monster bent over to lick the fresh substance. The two men slipped and slid across the halls as they fled to the exit. As soon as they reached the gate, they locked up the Euclid Wing until a proper cleanup crew could arrive.
"Let's try the Communications Hub next."

The Communications Hub
The entrance to the Communications Hub looked clean enough compared to the rest of the facility, but hope turned to fear when they saw what was inside. A full pool of liquid sour cream had formed in the lower regions of the room, and floating in it were the corpses of the communications staff. They had drowned while attempting to absorb the substance into their skin. The only survivor was a woman huddled under a desk at the end of the room, dipping her fingers in and out of a large jar.
"Oh, Director Rosie, it's you." She recognized her visitors quickly. "I'm sorry, but there's not much left of the Communications Center. Most of our equipment is jammed and the computers don't work anymore." She suddenly took a big glob of sour cream into her hand and shoved her entire fist into her mouth. One of the control panels broke away, and more of the white cream spilled out onto the floor from gaps in the wires.
"Is it alright if I take some of these?" Rosie asked as he gathered an armful of jars off the floor.
"Take whatever you need, I have plenty here," the woman replied before choking on the large mouthful.
"My God, Rosie. Have you learned nothing?"
"Hold the door for me, Quinn. I'm taking the stairs to the roof and I'm getting things under control." Once on the roof above the Communications Center, the director forced his assistant to help him spread a thick layer of sour cream on top of the concrete, in which he carved a distress message for any passing aircraft.
"It's uh… it's something I guess." Quinn wasn't really sure how to feel about the makeshift sign.
"Don't worry, this sour cream is some pretty strong stuff."

The Cafeteria
Tired from their journey, and slightly more sober than before, Rosie and Quinn took shelter in the cafeteria, hoping to eat some proper solid food. Rosie sat at a table while his friend prepared something for the both of them in the kitchen. It sure was taking him a long time. He acted like he was the tough one, but Rosie was sure that his fat face was deep inside a jar of the good stuff. Just as he thought that, Quinn appeared smiling and holding a tray of homemade tacos. Sure enough, he had caved and layered on spoonfuls of sour cream.
"Sorry about the wait. You did get out of your office for an hour like you promised, so I guess it won't hurt to give you a break." Quinn set the tray on the table.
Rosie wasn't complaining. He and his friend quickly devoured the tacos, grateful to taste the good sauce again after an awfully long wait. As Rosie wiped his hand across his mouth, he noticed his friend staring at him with a smug look.
"Is something wrong?"
"I was experimenting with something. You didn't notice, did you?" Quinn revealed a hidden cup of plain yogurt. "I didn't put sour cream on the tacos. That was yogurt."
"What?" The director was surprised. He hadn't noticed at all. Maybe it was because of his hour-long withdrawal, but he was positive that he had tasted sour cream. Wait a second…
"You know what this means, right?" Quinn finally had a plan that might actually work. "We can't prevent the sour cream from appearing, but we can use this yogurt as a replacement to break the staff's addiction."
"Then bring me a crate of that stuff and let's get going!" Awkwardly waddling as they attempted to run while carrying crates that were too heavy for them, Rosie and Quinn set off to feed the facility.

The Basement
Significantly more sober than he had been in the past few days, Rosie's brain was functioning again. He had passed by the door to the basement at least four times in the past two hours, and had noticed something off about it compared to the rest of the facility. Not only was it oozing sour cream at a constant rate, but the stuff looked surprisingly fresh. Unlike everywhere else, the cream surrounding the basement had not dried or gone stale.
"Let's leave these crates here for a moment. I think we need to check the basement. I think there's something awful down there that we don't know about."
"What's wrong? Do you think there's some sort of wild sour cream orgy down there?" The bottom of the crate that Quinn was holding collapsed, and the yogurt containers within rained down onto his shoes.
"No, probably not." It might be nothing, but Rosie had to be sure.
Halfway down the basement stairs, the boys were hit by a wave of intense hunger. Their mouths watered and cream flooded their imaginations. This time, it was Rosie's turn to urge Quinn onward.
"Just keep walking, we're nearly there."
When they reached the bottom, the hunger became painful. The floor of the basement was lined wall-to-wall with unopened jars of sour cream, leaving only a thin path through the occupied space. The basement had become an undiscovered treasure trove of dairy delight; if the rest of the staff had discovered this place, it would have been nearly impossible to save them. Clutching their stomachs, the director and his assistant traveled through the void.
In the darkness, the sour cream jars formed an ellipse around a larger jar, alone in the center. It was beautiful, pure, and absolutely mesmerizing. Rosie and Quinn stood before it, and saliva poured from their mouths as their eyes became wide. This had to be the source of the anomalous sour cream infestation, and it threatened to permanently seduce them. However, Rosie had not come this far to be dragged back into his addiction. He reached into his pocket and took a single cup of plain yogurt, which he proceeded to swallow, cup and all, while staring right at the large jar to assert his dominance.
"It ends here, you creamy demon!" Rosie yelled while pointing his finger at the jar in an accusatory manner. Recognizing its defeat against the site director, the source of the sour cream horde abandoned its army. It immediately dematerialized, off to find another nest of weak-minded individuals. The oppressive aura of hunger surrounding the facility disappeared. After a moment of silence, Rosie and Quinn burst out laughing and embraced each other hard.
"Rosie, you idiot, I knew you could do it!"
The fight wasn't over yet. It would take weeks to clean all the spilled sour cream, and someone would need to find a way to safely dispose of the dangerous substance. At least, in the end, Site Director Rosie was able to overcome his sour cream addiction.


Moonrise

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

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There is a dark room under a mountain in the far north where a man stands pressed against a corner. Something is spinning in the center of that room, something dark. He screams out his daughter's name before his body is pulled from the wall and into the darkness. There is an explosion, and the room collapses.

Years earlier, the man lies broken in an alley, the fire escape he had dropped from still ringing from the shock. Inches away from his grasp, a little girl looks at him with horror in her eyes as she is approached by something that moves towards her slowly, one hand outstretched and fluid leaking from its empty eyes. The man reaches for the girl, but his body fails him. He is forced to sit and watch as the rotted corpse of a thing that might have been a man pulled the little girl into pieces. She screams until the thing removes her face, and then they disappear.

It is 1979. A breach of containment occurs involving a low-level reality bender who had killed three people in a car prior to being contained by filling their lungs with liquid mercury when they wouldn't let him pass during a traffic jam. The reality bender is shot and killed by Dr. Calvin Desmet, who later investigation would show was defending himself when the entity attacked him. There was, however, no surveillance footage found of the incident, and although the incident took place several floors up, the entity's containment cell seemed to have been broken into from the outside.
The investigation clears Dr. Desmet, who returns to work.

A man lingers on the edge of darkness for just a moment. His body is broken and his eyes burn. He sees the face of a little girl, her eyes bleeding and her hair being pulled back into the black maw of a dead-eyed corpse. He screams her name but he makes no sound. The vision fades, and suddenly he sees infinitely many little girls - some of them dying but many more alive, growing old and never having to watch as she is consumed by a monster while her father watches, unable to do anything but weep.
He sees the monster, the dead-eyed thing, and traces a line in the air between the world he had left and another world - a world of filth and corrosion and death. He sees, if only for an instant, the thread between the two; a glowing fiber that draws them together. He looks past that thread and sees others, hundreds of thousands, millions, trillions, a number stretching towards infinity that he grasps all at once, and then he follows them down, back down towards his world.
In his mind's eye, he cuts the threads.

Years later, the man sees the threads again, though not now from the eyes of one tumbling into the darkness; instead he sees them from the eyes of a serrated knife.
In the moment before he is dragged back into a cage he reaches out and grabs not just the threads, but the spools where those threads originated. With one deft motion he pulls across them, splitting them and emptying their contents into the void beneath him. The threads disappear. He smiles.

The next morning, a note came from within SCP-1322. The translated message was simple: "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
The cost of what they had done became evident immediately. A hundred sites, large and small, all reported apparent abductions of valuable artifacts and entities. So many reported, in fact, that the Foundation's central computer determined they were experiencing a Dominance Shift, and began making preparations to move the records into deep storage. The order was quickly rescinded by Overwatch Command, who later issued a single line of text as an acknowledgement of what had happened.

The Foundation is currently experiencing unexpected shifts in reality. Do not panic.

This did little, however, to assuage the fears of those who had watched as living anomalous entities had been crushed under the weight of something inconceivable into infinitesimally tiny points before disappearing altogether. Even worse, perhaps, were those who had watched their coworkers experience the same. Hundreds reported to site infirmaries around the globe. Dozens were dead - disappeared as if pulled by string into another place.
The news that morning was undisturbed, save for a few stories that might interest someone with insight. There was an explosion at a chemical plant near Istanbul, though investigators to the scene found nothing except a scorched foundation, a few overturned semi-trucks, and a banner that read "Dr. Wondertainment Inc: 1,000,000 safe man hours!" Billionaire Skitter Marshall had begun a massive selloff of his holdings, creating a panic in east Asian money markets. The Secretary General of the United Nations had announced the sudden and tragic death of long-serving Under-Secretary-General D.C. al Fine, who had perished when her private plane had gone down over the north Atlantic.
These and other stories littered local and national news the world over, but aside from a few strange incidents and unusual disappearances, nobody seemed to notice.

It is hours earlier. Around a table sit thirteen people. One of them puts her head in her hand.
"It still means the ends of so many lives. It's- it's too many to even comprehend. A number without limit."
Another voice answers. "A number without us."
There is silence
And then another. "We pledged ourselves to maintain normalcy and protect our world. This world. The affairs of other worlds are their own. We would expect any other Overseer Council to act the same way - in the interest of their universe. This, all of this, the science, the militarism, everything. All of it is to accomplish a single, unreachable goal. Keep the monsters tucked out of sight. Now we find out, even that might not be enough. That the end of days is coming for us anyway. But we're given an option: if we do nothing, every universe dies screaming. If we take this action, every universe dies screaming but ours. Once it's over, it's over. Everything we've struggled for, everyone who has died to protect our world will be validated. Is the end of our road not worth this? Is protecting ourselves from the doomsday to come not worth this?"
O5-9 shakes her head. "You're mad. You're all mad. You've lost your minds. You know nothing about this entity, nothing about what it's capable of or what it wants. And you're willing to open the only box we've found to put it in? What has happened to you?
She stands. "You are good men. Intelligent men. Some of the finest men and women I've ever known. But this is madness. I cannot allow it to happen. Even if we manage to somehow survive turning loose an unpredictable… monster… remember today as being the day we gave up our mission. We secure, and we contain. Those two come first. We've now risked everything for the faintest glimmer of hope that we somehow achieve the last, and I fear it will have damned us."
She pauses. "Why do you trust it, Bramimond? After all we've achieved, why do you risk everything on this?"
There is a rustling sound from a dark corner of the room. O5-1 speaks, but something is strange about his voice.
"I knew Calvin Desmet, years ago. In a different life. He wasn't recruited by the Foundation - he volunteered. He was part of a team contracted by the Insurgency to run trials on new technology they were developing at the time. But he had a young daughter that was killed by SCP-106 when it breached containment during transit in 1975, years before we had developed functional containment procedures for it, and… after that, he sought us out. He never said much about it, but you could tell. If that's him in there, and he had found a way to remove every trace of the anomalous from our universe, no matter the cost, he would do it. I know he would do it. I can hear it in his voice."
O5-9 spits. "In another life, you might have been reasonable. This is unacceptable."
The rustling stops. From that dark corner, a man slumps forwards onto the ground. His throat has been slit. He is O5-1. The rest of them react with a start. O5-3 turns and draws a weapon.
"Who-" he says, but is cut off when another figure emerges from the shadow. It is O5-1. He is shaking, and his face is streaked with tears. One arms appears to have been crushed.
"I'm sorry," the man says, his voice now trembling. "I'm sorry. It said that if I came here, and I told you, it would spare my life. It would spare-"
A gunshot rings out across the chamber. Smoke floats from the barrel of a gun in O5-3's hand. Inches from O5-1's face, a bullet hangs in the air. The space around it appears strangely distorted. In seconds, it collapses into a point and disappears. O5-1 turns towards O5-3, his face warped with fear.
"Don't you see?" His words are panicked. "Don't you get it? You didn't contain him - you just put off the inevitable. He told me that my world would- would be spared, that I would be spared, if I could just convince-"
"Liar!" O5-9 shouts across the room, and she too pulls a gun. Another shot rings out, and she slumps over her desk, clutching her throat. O5-3 is pointing his gun at her, but he's staring at O5-1. His eyes are wide.
"Do you trust him?"
O5-1 smiles, but behind the smile is terror. "No. He will stop at nothing to achieve what he wants. He has power unlike any I've ever witnessed, but he- he is still a person. There's something inside him that still thinks. He said- he promised, promised that he would spare us." He swallows hard. "I don't want to die."
O5-1 turns back towards the rest of them. "I propose a vote. The utilization of the SCP-001 entity to stave off the end of the world. All in favor?"
There is silence for a moment. Then, together, eight voices speak together. "Aye."
O5-1 nods. "Those opposed?"
Four voices, including one choking through blood to do so, answer together. "Nay."
O5-3 stands. He paces around the chamber, stopping at three desks. Every time he stops, there is a gunshot. Three bodies hit the ground. He pauses at a fourth, where O5-9 sits leaning against her chair, gun in her hand. For a moment, their eyes lock.
"Whatever comes next," he says, his voice catching, "it's no longer your battle to fight."
O5-9 glares at him with purified vehemence. She opens her mouth to speak, and through blood and bile she says two words.
"Spare me."
With a deft motion she pulls her gun under her own chin and squeezes the trigger. The chair behind her is sprayed with gore as her consciousness is snuffed out. O5-3 continues to stand over her, unmoving.
O5-1 speaks. "O5-13 abstains. The measure passes."
The rest of them stand and leave the room. O5-1 is second to last, and O5-3 lingers a moment longer. Five bodies stand in silent testament to their opposition. The room goes dark. Gunsmoke hangs in the air.

It is after. O5-3 stands before the shattered glass of an observation deck. Below him is a machine, furiously humming as it spins and twists around a nebulous cloud of darkness. Behind him is a smear of blood where O5-1 had been, moments before he was no longer. The structure around him creaks and groans, and small rivulets of water from the river above them now leak through the walls.
Without looking away, he speaks. "Netzach. Can you hear me?"
A low, electronic voices responds. "Yes."
"You aren't fitted with any sort of personality module, are you?"
"I am not."
He sighs. The rest of the staff had been evacuated. He was the only one left. The rest of the Overseers had fled, burying themselves underground or fleeing through extradimensional portals or, in at least one case, killing themselves. Company would have been nice.
"How long can we maintain containment of SCP-001, given our current conditions?"
Netzach responds immediately. "Given current conditions, I will be able to maintain stability of the Pietrykau-Fontaine Array for one-hundred and nineteen days, six hours, and forty-seven minutes. Afterwards, the Array will no longer have the structural integrity necessary to contain SCP-001."
O5-3 rubs his forehead. "Given the information you've gathered about SCP-001, what do you think the odds are that our backup containment protocols will be able to neutralize SCP-001?"
Netzach pauses. "Given information gathered during containment of SCP-001, it is a certainty that SCP-001 will be undeterred by current failsafes."
"Full of good news today, Netzach." O5-3 sits down against a railing. "You need to give me something here."
"I am unable to provide a sufficiently psychologically useful response."
O5-3 waves his hand idly. "Yes, I know that. But you can problem solve, right? You're a problem solving robot. What would you do in my shoes?"
Netzach pauses again, and does not respond immediately. O5-3 notices the lights dim overhead, and somewhere far away he can hear a low, droning noise increase in volume. After a moment, it stops. Netzach speaks.
"All attempts to contain SCP-001 by way of brute force or standard means of containment, short of maintaining the Pietrykau-Fontaine Array, will fail. SCP-001 has, by methods currently unknown to this system, fused itself with a fundamental essence of the makeup of reality. It cannot be harmed or interfered with physically, as any such force that would oppose it requires the same forces to exist that SCP-001 is now joined to. SCP-001 will breach containment the moment the Pietrykau-Fontaine Array fails."
Netzach pauses a second time.
"However," it continues, "SCP-001 does appear to be a sentient, sapient creature, likely formed out of the death of Dr. Calvin Desmet during an accident within this facility in 1982. While sentient, sapient creatures are often unpredictable and generally unwilling to compromise, diplomacy has historically been an effective means at bridging gaps between creatures with dissimilar goals and motivations."
O5-3 barks out a laugh. "You want me to talk to it? That's my best option?"
"Yes."
O5-3 stands up, still laughing. "You were worth the research dollars, Netzach. Honestly, that comment alone was worth every penny." He grabs his coat. "How about this. You watch Dr. Desmet, I'm going to go get a drink, and when I come back I'll go down there and talk to the Darkbody. It'll almost certainly mean both of our deaths, but it was only a matter of time anyway, wasn't it?"
He makes a move to the door, but hesitates. "You know, I've been thinking about that night in the council chambers. About the ones I put a bullet in. Sort of a turn of fortune for them, wasn't it?" He laughs again, more quietly this time. "When I joined the Foundation, someone told me to remain an atheist as long as I can, because I'll see so many gods and they'll all be selling something, but none of them will be the real deal. They said that I'll know the one true God when I see it, and to give that God everything it wants, because that's the only thing that matters."
He starts walking again. "That night, I saw God. That night, God wanted me to shoot O5-9, and by the sound of it, tonight God wants to talk to me. So hold down the fort, and I'll be back shortly to speak to him. Does that sound alright to you?"
Netzach drones out a reply. "I am unable to provide a sufficiently psychologically useful response."
O5-3 smiles as he walks out the door. "That's what I thought."


Previous: Breathe

Robert Malthus is a striking man. This is not on account of his build (which is notable), nor on account of his clothes (which are black). It's because of his scar.
The snarl of long-healed flesh begins at the ridge of his right brow and continues down through the eye, rendering it a functionless gray orb. It continues, penetrating his upper lip and splitting it, exposing a sliver of straight, white teeth. The old wound twists his mouth into a sneer — but it's a sneer that stands in contrast to his behavior. There is a serenity to his remaining blue eye. A gentle patience that carries through his gait, posture, and tone.
Despite this, Agent Angela O'Hara is aware that the man overseeing the examination of the containment chamber is not one to trifle with. Robert Malthus is many things; 'incapable of great violence' has never been among them.
"When did the incident occur?"
O'Hara examines the clipboard with a click of her pen. She jots down several quick notes. "Yesterday, sir. At approximately 1400 hours." She is relatively young. A recent transfer. Despite being initially intimidated by his reputation, she has found this to be a rewarding experience. The scarred Foundation veteran is refreshingly direct and professional. He has never once commented on her gender, nor glanced at her cleavage. However, she did once watch him talk another man into eviscerating himself and consuming his own intestines.
She is still not quite sure what to think of that.
They watch through closed-circuit cameras as the Foundation operators in their large, bulky hazmat suits shine lights down the chute leading into the primary containment cell. It is filled nearly to the top with a corrosive, tar-like sludge. The surface of this fluid has solidified into a greasy layer of congealed 'fat'. It requires several moments of prodding with stainless steel poles to break through.
A human femur bobs up.
O'Hara flinches. Malthus does not. "Are the lab results back, yet?"
The operators with the poles probe deeper into the gurgling, caustic soup. Meanwhile, Agent O'Hara flips through the pages on her clipboard. "They've determined that the slurry is mostly composed of severely corroded human remains. DNA analysis found the presence of multiple humans — several hundreds, possibly thousands. They've conclusively linked it to numerous victims in the database. Right now, they think that, uh, some sort of spatial event caused by the evaporation of a black hole in an adjacent exo-dimensional space might have resulted in — "
"It choked on its own vomit."
" — resulted in — uh, in — beg your pardon, sir?"
Malthus is watching the screen. The operators have something that they're struggling to fish up to the surface. "Are you familiar with foie gras, Agent O'Hara?"
"I, uh — yeah. That's the dish where you over-feed a goose, then eat it. Right?"
"More or less." The operators pull the object out of the sludge. It is humanoid, but exaggerated and obese. The 'skin' is a vile, translucent black-green membrane that has been stretched to its limit. The faint silhouette of a skeletal system floats inside it, suspended in a partially dissolved mass of organic matter. "A dish comprised of the liver from a water-fowl that has been prepared weeks, or even months, in advance. A tube is inserted into its throat to forcibly feed it. This renders the liver fatty and tender."
As they pull it out of the chamber, part of its hip catches on the edge of the chute. The human-shaped sack rips — and pops like a blister. A churning mass of decayed bones, liquefied cartilage, and partially digested tissue is instantly disgorged into the sludge below.
Agent O'Hara turns away. She's seen worse, but that doesn't mean she wants to see more.
Malthus keeps watching. "But caution must be taken during this process," he explains. "If not, it can expel the contents of its stomach into the tube, which results in pulmonary aspiration. It over-eats — purges — then chokes to death on its own vomit."
"I, uh, see."
At last, Malthus turns from the screen and faces her. "Who is aware?"
O'Hara checks her clipboard, again. "The Site-Director, Containment Director, several researchers assigned for observation, and — uh — a D-Class."
"Have they been debriefed?"
"Not yet, no."
"We'll need to arrange amnestic treatments, as well."
"We — I mean, uh, that probably won't… work?" O'Hara frowns, looking up from her notes. "Everyone assigned to containment for this anomaly has had repeated, prolonged exposure to amnestics of nearly every type, sir. At this point, some of them have developed resistances, immunity — or even worse, allergies."
Malthus rubs the bridge of his nose. "Ah. Of course."
"And if I may," she continues, suddenly emboldened. "I'm not sure I understand why we'd want to amnesticize anyone. We could never figure out how to contain it, before. It regularly escaped and killed personnel. We've been barely able to afford the last iteration of procedures as it was. And now? After decades of fighting it, tooth-and-nail? It just up and neutralized itself. How is this not a win?"
Malthus ceases rubbing the bridge of his nose. That lone, cold blue eye focuses on Angela O'Hara with a razor-sharp intensity. "Agent, do you know what this anomaly was?"
Agent O'Hara stiffens. "I, uh — with all due respect, sir, I don't think there's a single person on the Foundation payroll who hasn't heard of the Old Man."
"Precisely. It's an institution. It's history. It's the Foundation," Malthus tells her. "And now, it's a pile of greasy, half-eaten bones in the bottom of a vat filled with corrosive slime."
She can't think of any response to that. Malthus turns back to the screen, watching as the operators in hazmat suits extract the now-empty sack of translucent skin out from the sludge, then pack it into a bio-hazard container.
"We're running out of money. We're running out of personnel. We're even running out of D-Class. Sites are going defunct; some have outright disappeared. Resistance to amnestics is up, and the number of new hires are down. We're hemorrhaging veteran employees daily — losing them to organizations able to pay twice as much for a job that's three times less likely to kill them. All our documentation regarding anomalies is woefully out-of-date. And you know what the strangest part of it is?"
Agent O'Hara does not.
"It doesn't matter. Because another thing we're running out of are anomalies to contain. Once we have them, they either die, disappear, or become non-anomalous."
"It — I'm sure it's not that dire, sir." Still, she now finds herself watching them fold the remains of the anomaly alongside Malthus. A curious sense of confusion and dread fills her.
"We had a catastrophic security leak in 2008," he continues. "Several hundred gigabytes of data ripped from our IntSCPFN servers, published online. Do you know what happened?"
"I never heard of — "
"The worst mass information breach since 1938. Thousands of classified documents posted in plain sight — and what did we have to do? Did we have to reactivate Project Lethe? Begin mass-dispersal of memetic countermeasures? Re-establish the Veil?"
The operators complete their task. The box containing the remains is sealed shut. They lift it and carry it off to its final destination.
"Nothing," Malthus says. "Nothing happened. Nothing at all. No one cared. No one noticed. Life went on. The Foundation is in a race against its own irrelevance, Agent O'Hara. And we're losing."
The operators open the hatch, then slide the remains of SCP-106 down the disposal chute that leads to the Site's incinerator. Malthus and O'Hara watch, allowing the silence to speak for them.
When, at last, she grows tired of what that silence has to say, she turns to Malthus:
"If we become irrelevant, then what replaces us?"

FUN VIRGINIA FACTS!

Did you know…?

Virginia was named for Queen Elizabeth I (the "Virgin Queen").

Jamestown was the first permanent English settlement (just be cool) on the American Continent.

The Pentagon building in Arlington, Virginia is (guys just chill he's not flashing) the largest office building in the world.

The first theater in America was built (yes i know we can't pull over) at Williamsburg, Virginia in 1716.

Virginia was the first state in the United States to (thank you sunny your input is very fucking appreciated) elect a black governor (Douglas Wilder, elected 1990).

Virginia was one of two states that donated land to (no it's just a coincidence) build Washington D.C. (the other state was Maryland).

Virginia is the only state (he is not flashing his lights or sirens) with an official State Bat (Virginia big-eared bat).

In Virginia, it is illegal (everything's fine will you both calm the fuck down) to hunt wild animals on Sundays with the exception of racoons (which may be hunted until 2:00 am).

Virginia is FUCKING SHIT FLOOR IT

Machine-Head looks up from the pamphlet.
Sunny hugs the back of the passenger seat. He's bitten down so hard on his bottom lip that the part bulging out from under his teeth has turned an anemic white-yellow. Alex is up-front, shouting at Seph. Seph has both of his webbed hands locked tight on the steering wheel, frantically waving his head-tentacles in an attempt to communicate.
Machine-Head frowns. It turns to the right, and sees rolling hills and trees. It turns to the left, and sees a Virginia State Trooper — lights flashing, siren howling. The latter occurrence is determined to be the most likely reason for this interruption.
"Go! Go! Just fucking go!" Alex is screaming. Approximately 50% of Machine-Head's occupants disapprove of Alex screaming.
"We can't — we won't get away from the cops —" Sunny stammers. His fingers are digging into the back of the seat. This implies he is afraid. Approximately 85% of Machine-Head's occupants disapprove of Sunny being afraid.
"We're fucking dead if he stops us!" Alex replies. Precisely 100% of Machine-Head's occupants disapprove of being dead.
Machine-Head turns to face the Virginia State Trooper. The driver is flagging them down. He looks angry. This displeases numerous occupants of Machine-Head. A brief, spirited debate occurs; options are discussed, and a resolution is proposed. It passes by a narrow margin.
Machine-Head flattens its palm to the window and makes a minor adjustment to the Trooper's current momentum.
His car is launched off the road.
The other three go silent. Approximately 35% of Machine-Head's occupants find this to be an unexpected but fortuitous consequence of its resolution.
"MH, did you just — did you — " Sunny is no longer hugging the back of Alex's seat. He is still stammering, and still biting his bottom lip. His attention is now focused squarely on Machine-Head. This implies anxiety rather than fear. " — did you just kill him?"
"Extremely unlikely." This is a lie. It is highly unlikely that this resolution has resulted in a fatality, but not extremely unlikely. Nevertheless, Machine-Head's occupants have previously voted to prioritize placating Sunny's anxiety over precision and accuracy.
"I didn't know you could — since when can you do shit like that?" Alex's voice is hushed. Her attention is also focused on Machine-Head.
"Just now." This is also a lie. Machine-Head's occupants have been internally developing and refining psychokinetic abilities since their escape from the Osworth Institute. Whether or not to reveal the full scope of these abilities remains a hotly debated topic among occupants. This is on account of their application carrying a high risk for the well-being of Machine-Head, its occupants, and its external allies.
WE SAFE? Seph's head-tentacles twist into the familiar patterns of American Sign Language. His body is partly turned, his attention having shifted from the road to focus his eyes temporarily on Machine-Head.
"No. We are about to hit a deer." This is not a lie. Machine-Head can see it just past the windshield, strolling out in front of the car.
Seph turns back. Alex shouts something; Sunny flings his arms around Machine-Head. Approximately 40% of its occupants disapprove.
Seph slams the brakes and turns. Machine-Head feels its stomach lurch up. The car's wheels are leaving the ground. Several occupants note this situation will likely escalate unless immediate action is taken. A brief, spirited debate occurs; options are discussed, and a resolution is proposed.
The risk associated with repeated psychokinetic action is deemed too high. The resolution fails by a narrow margin.
Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Each hit jerks them into new directions. The world is a blur of noise, heat, and violence. They are rolling off the road, spinning wildly as chunks of their vehicle twirl away.
Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Machine-Head throws its arms above and pushes against the roof, which is now the floor, which is now the roof again. It is incurring significant levels of damage. Sunny squeezes tighter. Machine-Head begins to glow.
Crrrnch. Crrrnch. CRRRNCH. The world settles down and levels out. Machine-Head struggles through a haze of pain. It can feel the hard, savage pound of its heart. It can smell burnt rubber and leaking gas. It can hear the gentle pop, pop, ssss of the radiator's water supply as it sizzles away. Something stings its eyes. Blood, most likely. Machine-Head's blood.
By the time the wreck has settled, they are a quarter-mile off road. The vehicle is upside down. Smoke fills the enclosed space. Multiple occupants submit requests for the status of Machine-Head and its allies.
"Fuck." Alex appears dazed, but intact. A streak of crimson dribbles down from her forehead. She is unbuckling herself from her seat. Seph also appears dazed, but intact. His tentacles twitch. A few stalks are smeared with stripes of slick, dark blue fluid.
Sunny's grip on Machine-Head goes slack. Machine-Head ceases to glow. The blood stinging its eyes is determined to not be its own.
Approximately 85% of those who voted against the previous resolution now regret their decision.

Next: Time (Reprise)


Arrival
When all had settled, almost all on earth was undone. Apollo had made clear Cygnus was not able to be appeased. Yet Mr. Lifeson was no more. In his place, a Director Lifeson. The director of Site-120 stood quickly in his office, instantly inundated with new memories. He staggers, falls, and catches himself.
"Sir?". Lifeson steadied himself. Looking upwards, he found the tall, imposing stature of one Dr. Harding. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Harding. What did you come to see me about?"
"Just my report for the week. Are you sure you're okay? You don't have your radio on." Lifeson reaches for his hip. "No, not that one." Dr. Harding points to the back of the room, marking an old wooden box on a shelf. "You never turn that off." Alex shuffles off to the back of the room, studying the box. He presses the power button and the sounds of a daytime talk show blast out. A dial turn, a bit of a shake, and the sounds of crackling fade to music.
"Thank you. I'll take that report off your hands." Alex said, extending a hand. Gary cautiously places the folder in his hand and walks away, slower than usual. Before he leaves, he turns back to see his site director with his feet on his desk and his hands crossed on his chest. He sees a new man in front of him, for what reason he does not know.
A few changes came over the rest of Site-120 in the coming weeks, yet all of of the non-anomalous variety. Apollo had made Lifeson's path clear, by returning him to a place of power, retaining his memories. And he would choose that path, the path to free will. Whomever this "Cygnus" fellow was, they were to be bargained with, and to do so Lifeson had to find him.

Collaboration
"Have any of you gentlemen ever truly faced a god? Someone who has the power of a god? Anyone?" The room was silent. Lifeson was beginning to think calling a meeting this soon was a bad idea.
"Consider yourselves lucky. This is a suicide mission." Alex slaps a handcuff around one of his wrists. "I'm not who you all think I am. I was once but a janitor at this establishment, and not long ago I used an object of great power to create a utopia. Ess… see… pee… four one one two. It was not before the creator of this artifact returned to claim it, and in doing so instructed me that I was to make the world a better place through other means. Now I'm in the place of the director of this site." The dimensional remnant extends his cuffed hand. "So if you need to, lock me up, put me away for a while. But I think I was put here to prevent a greater travesty." Seeing no immediate opposition, Lifeson strode towards the white board and writes 'CYGNUS' in large font. "This is our opposition. The Foundations', humanities', any life within the known universe, this is who our enemy is. And I have no idea who this is."
"I recognize that name." The statement came from the back of the conference hall. A rather nervous young office assistant stood up, against the will of the people in the seats around him. "I've seen that in the star charts in the astronomical division!"
"And who might you be?" said Director Lifeson, rather calmly in spite of the echoing murmurs emanating from the crowd.
"My name is Researcher Lee, Getty Lee, sir."

Epiphany
"Can someone get this god damned handcuff off me? It was theatrics, not a suggestion." said the Director as he continued down a long hallway. A member of staff came forward with a set of keys and unlocked the cuff. "Thank you. Someone around here has a bit of courtesy."
"It's a real pleasure to work with an analetheism." said Researcher Lee, walking swiftly behind Lifeson and followed by a dozen other staff members.
"An analetheism? Isn't that a philosophy thing?" said the new director, sweeping open the doorway to Site-120's main warehouse.
"It's something or someone displaced within reality, someone who- Whoa!" The group stopped. Before them the large mass of what could not be denied to be an interstellar vessel lay before them. Obviously human in origin, the massive space shuttle was easily the size of a football field.
"Object came in through the mesh a long time ago. Obviously, there were no survivors, and most of the systems were compromised, but I think it's a start." A new guy, one Lifeson hadn't seen yet, had provided that information. He began to lead the team up the ramp and into the vessel.
"What's the… wait a minute, I know that one. Why do I know that one?" Director Lifeson held his head in his hands for a few moments and then shook off the strange feeling coming over him.
"Your transit wasn't an instantaneous displacement. The reason you have these memories is you, the branch of the oak tree from an alternate timeline, were grafted to our figurative maple tree of a timeline. You're still an oak tree, but you're fed nutrients from the maple."
"I'm pretty sure you can't graft an oak tree branch to a maple. That would kill one or the other."
"Who knows, I'm a pataphysicist, not a botanist. Although botanists are pretty cool." The young man, upon noticing his lack of identification, introduced himself. "Researcher Evereds, sir. It's a pleasure."
"I've never heard of pataphysics before. What's that?"
"Oh uhh… I'm sure it will come back to you with the rest of the memories. Anyways!" He quickly whirls around and swipes his hand across a keyboard swiftly. "This vessel is pretty fast, but it's not speed of light fast. And not FTL, like we need. The object you described in the void seemed to be a black hole locked behind a permeable membrane, correct? Well, that and the name Cygnus brings to mind Cygnus X-1: one of the first black holes to ever be discovered. If you're looking for this entity, that's where I'd recommend searching. And it happens to be over six thousand light years away. Holding a 20 person crew aboard this thing would be easy, but you would need to be in stasis the whole time."
Lifeson shook his head. "Stasis is fine, but that length of time is impossible. We can't afford 600 decades of influence." He looks around the enormous hangar-like warehouse. "Isn't the anything in here that could could get us here in a month?" The crowd began murmuring.
One hand raised from the back, while Senior Researcher Harding struggled to stifle attention given to it. "No, Mantell. NO. We are not using-"
"This could be the Directors only opportunity! He have to at least-"
"NO!" Harding looked around as the small group, who had all turned their attentions to him. "Haha, this guy Mantell always kidding around, what a joker right!" He then quickly whispered something vehemently into Mantell's ear.
"Researcher Mantell? You have something to contribute to the conversation? Any idea how we're going to go…" Lifeson looks up for a moment "74 trillion kilometers per hour?"
Dr. Evereds looked stunned. "You want to get there that fast? That violates every law of physics written or thought of! I'm totally in."
"And I don't even know how I came up with that figure so fast. So I repeat: have you any information?"
Dr. Mantell sighs. "Research Team 9 has been… R&Ding. We have a device that might help but it can't leave the planet. It's Level 5 clearance."
"And what's your plan? What's it do?" Lifeson rubs his brow. All this discussion, combined with the flow of new memories every moment was giving him a headache. But mostly the discussion.
"Mantell, if you tell him, you're breaching confidentality, and O5-9 will kill you. He will kill you and no one will remember you. You absolutely, DO NOT want to do this. He'll kill off every one of us." Harding was visibly shaking, his imposing stature betrayed by fear.
"Alright, alright! I'll just use the device briefly on an ERSiG. Maybe I can get a battery or something… anyways, Director Lifeson, I can get you a long range warp. The breach has to be massive… It's over such a large gap… and I can't guarantee too much accuracy. Maybe within a tenth of an AU… I have to go. Don't worry about the technobabble, I'll have it done in a week or less!" Mantell quickly walks out of the room, followed quickly by a worried Harding.

Philosophy
"If he can get that done in a week, you can get this thing repaired for spaceflight and loaded with the necessary amenities in a week too, correct?" Lifeson says while gesturing to the rest of the team.
"Are you sure we want to to be so hasty with that, Director Lifeson? Are you sure we should even be going this fast?" It was Researcher Lee.
The Director sat down with his face in his hands. His last year had not gone the way he'd wanted it to at all. Just a simple janitorial job, he'd told himself. Now there was more on the line. "Every moment we sit here is a moment people suffer because of this entity. We do it soon, and we do it swiftly, for whatever this authority undeservedly bestowed upon me can give."
"Do any of you think maybe this being stays up there in his black hole because he's in fear of what he's wrought here on Earth?" remarked Lifeson.
"I never even got her email." replied Researcher Evereds.
"What is a… what does that have to do with anything I just said?"
"I thought we were referencing… nevermind. It will be done, sir."
As Lifeson left the room, he knocked the name tag that read "MESSER" off of the desk and into the trashcan next to it. He owned this desk now.

Reassurance
All too soon, the device was completed. Mantell's secret project was untestable, but the math checked out. The ship would be able to make several successive jumps within a month. It was an hour before the official launch, and Lifeson was getting anxious.
"What about the life support. Have we triple checked it? Does it have a backup system?" he said, running down the list of everything that could go wrong with an interstellar craft constructed in a month.
"Everything's in perfect condition. Onboard computer ran several diagnostics." replied a forgettable Researcher Danton.
Lifeson was skeptical. "Onboard computer? How big is it?"
"Only about 50 feet by 50 feet sir. Experimental tech. They call it an "Artificial Intelligence Construct". Talks damn near like Shakespeare, too. Codename P.E.A.R.T.: Personal Experimental Artificial Researcher & Technician. You can treat it like a staff member."
"I'm not big on it. What if it goes mad? You've seen 2001, right?".
Danton looks disapproving. "Sir, you're the lead on this. If you're not confident, you can scrap it. But may I give you a bit of advice?" Lifeson looks upwards. "If you're not confident, your team won't be either. At that point any mission this dangerous is as good as doomed."
"Thanks, Danton. You're a good man. Say, you're not coming with us are you?"
"No sir. None of Research Team 9 are. We're needed here for Project SEPULCHRE. You know the deal." he says with a hint of dismay in his voice.
"The best of luck then. And… take care of that Mantell fellow. A bit timid, but he's gonna need it." The intercom crackles to life suddenly.
"ALL MEMBERS OF THE CYGNUS CONTINGENCY, PLEASE REPORT TO THE LAUNCH BAY."

Celebration
"We have gathered here today to begin a tremendous undertaking. To free us from the constraints of a deity. Our goal here at the Foundation has always been to lock things up and throw away the key, without thinking of who decides to contain us. I've had fears of this mission, and therefore I know so have all of you. You and I must both worry about this life no longer being left to chance, that we might be a planet of playthings for this power. But you and I must choose to take refuge in the idea of free will, lest our fear consume us and be the true cause of failure."
"And with all the preaching out of the way", Lifeson continues, "It's time to christen our craft!" He extracts a bottle of champagne from beneath the podium he speaks from and walks across a bridge to the bow of the spacecraft. "I christen thee-" He strikes the bottle over the hull, spreading foamy alcohol over its nose. "- The Rocinante!"
A cheer comes over the crowd. One rather enthused member of the crowd yells something along the lines of "I love Quixote!". Alex returns to the podium. "Actually, it's the Steinbeck one, but great guess." sends the crowd in to a laughing fit. "Now get to work gentlemen, T minus 30 minutes!"

Ascendance
"Flight systems?"
"Check, Captain."
"Weapons systems?"
"Check, Captain."
"Hull integrity? Shields?"
"100 percent. Check, Captain."
"I think that means we're ready for launch. Engage thrusters."
"T MINUS 30 SECONDS."
"God be with us all." said Researcher Evereds.
"Not one for God myself but let's go with it, yeah." replied Lifeson.
"T MINUS 10 SECONDS"
"T MINUS 5 SECONDS"
"T MINUS 4 SECONDS"
"T MINUS 3 SECONDS"
"T MINUS 2 SECONDS"
"T MINUS 1 SECONDS"
"LAUNCH INITIATED"
The lift of the ship was almost unbearable. Each booster engaging and falling away was a lurch that threatened the lives of each member of the 20 person crew. The shaking and tumbling, the all out rush for the skies…
and all of a sudden…
everything was at peace.

In the depths of space, far in deep reaches of the Milky Way, a once much closer void swirls. An ancient force had sculpted the stars and influenced the conventions of man long ago, and deep within that system, Cygnus waits for a confrontation.


A lone sticky note rested on the door to a bathroom stall, its yellow surface covering a phone number advertised as being able to provide its caller with 'a good time.' On that sticky note was a crudely drawn, rotund, horned creature with even less detailed arms and legs with its name proudly emblazoned beside it; 'Durbal.' The odd creature spoke ceaselessly of the many faults of the door, seemingly to no one but itself.
"The bathroom stall door does not give the toilet user proper privacy as it does not cover their feet."
"The bathroom stall door is highly unhygienic and carries many infections."
"The bathroom stall door is missing a bolt in the top hinge and is prone to structural failure."
"The janitor responsible for maintaining the bathroom stall door should be fired."
On and on it droned until he was eventually joined by a second voice.
"Hello, my esteemed gentleman. I trust you are in good health?"
A bodyless head manifested beside the sticky note, possessing a large smile, fantastic mane, and dapper bowtie with the phrase 'Keep it classy' and the word 'enjoy' appearing to its right. The newcomer looked over to his companion and smiled pleasantly. Durbal stopped for a moment as if to contemplate.
"Classy Carlos looks like a whale"
"Classy Carlos' hair looks like a toupee."
"Classy Carlos does not appear human."
"Classy Carlos' handwriting is sloppy."
The newcomer appeared to gasp as if slightly offended. He shook his head and clicked his tongue in obvious disapproval.
"Goodness, this is no way to start a conversation. You are quite the rude indi-"
He was interrupted by the sticky note, who seemingly did not care to entertain a conversation.
"Classy Carlos is not licensed by the APA or any other similar psychological association."
"Classy Carlos is not properly qualified to provide others with psychological assistance."
"Classy Carlos does not ask if people are looking for help and forces it onto others."
"Classy Carlos appears to people in vulnerable states so they cannot refute his unreliable advice."
Once again the floating head looked at its partner in dismay.
"Sir, if anyone is forcing anything onto anyone, it is you! How do you expect us to talk if you keep cutting me o-"
Again, he was cut off by Durbal who did not show signs of stopping.
"Classy Carlos appears in public restrooms without prior notice or invitation."
"Classy Carlos is probably a voyeur."
"Classy Carlos should be arrested and serve a sentence for sexual harassment."
"Classy Carlos does not like being spoken over."
"Classy Carlos does not like having his unrequited advice refuted."
"Classy Carlos does no-"
Suddenly, Durbal stopped. Classy Carlos disappeared, looking quite upset as he did. There was a brief silence in the bathroom as the sticky note appeared to contemplate once more. But the silence would not last. There was more critique to be given.
"The bathroom stall door is squeaky because it has not been greased in five years."

More From This Author

More From This Author

Uncle Nicolini's Works

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UIU File: 2008-021 •

Other

Ode To The Unknown Author •

Sciptember 2022 Art Highlights •

uncle nicolini author page •


David Rosen despised going to the infirmary. It made his patience thin and his mind numb. Whether it was losing an arm to a giant indestructible reptile, or getting scratched by Josie when a petting hand strayed into the void where her rear had once had been, Site-19 always found reasons to put people in stitches.
Rosen had experienced none of that, but here he was. His legs and arms were suspended in the air, bloodstained bandages plastering his face, and all sorts of IV needles pumping life-saving chemicals into his body while other wires worked at sucking the resultant fluids and waste matter out of him.
The doctor had told him he was lucky to be alive. The wretched rat's nest he called an office was overfilled with piles of electronic components, computers, and cathode ray-tube television sets. Any one of them could have teetered over one day and spelled his doom.
But it had not happened then, so why today? Looking away from the doctors at work outside his room, David Rosen closed his eyes and tried to remember.

Rosen loathed Tuesdays, but that wasn't much different from the normal level of loathing he carried in his heart for each weekday. The days he was required to emerge from his office and perform technical assistance for his 'co-workers'.
Most of them were utter buffoons. How on earth they had managed to acquire positions within the Foundation, only the O5's knew. If they weren't getting a charming quantity of organic fluids spewed around their workplace, they cluttered his work schedule with their neediness. Some had managed to earn a special place of hatred in Rosen's mind.
"Convit". Rosen's eye would twitch, blood brought to a boil at a mere mention of the name. Convit was the worst, even though he had no need for help. In fact, that just made his 'witty' comments that vandalized the tech support page more of an annoyance. Beyond the notable incompetents, he still had plenty of distaste to go around for everyone who clamored for his helping hand.
The reasons for his loathing were numerous and varied. Near the top of the list was his great and terrible fear. As the man responsible for upkeep, Rosen was as lost as the next layman when presented with the modern systems the Foundation was always trying(and failing)to standardize. Back when folks used the IBM PC — with its gruesome interface that left so many cowering in fear before its monochromatic torture box — Rosen was the hot commodity.
Then Steve Jobs just had to come along and ruin everything.
Rosen detested the numerous Macintosh computers found on so many Foundation desks. Windows wasn't much better these days either. "User-friendly" interfaces had allowed anyone to use a computer. No longer could you gain love, fear and respect by mastering DOS. No, now it was all click, drag, endless menus upon menus, and simplistic pop-up error messages that left you going in circles.
On this specific Tuesday, Rosen was supposed to figure out why all the Macs in sub-basement three refused to talk to the main server. To his credit, one of the few areas over which Rosen held his edge was over this central machine. Black Betty (as it was nicknamed)was the closest thing he had to a friend on-site.
Rosen didn't bother asking the human drones who used those awful chrome machines what they needed, preferring to head straight into the dank, dark basement where Betty lived.
Betty was a massive cylindrical machine, jet black with aluminum chutes and ducts, an imposing conglomeration of running wires and belching smoke. Always rattling, she didn't invite many to bring their touch to her control interface. Rosen was one of the chosen few.
Rosen sat down and began his work. The terminal was an endless labyrinth of layered subroutines and nested, recursive function calls. Mere mortals shrank before the weight of her undocumented features. Rosen thrived. So often had Rosen been called upon to give his personal touch to Betty that her chair had conformed to his posterior's shape. After a few hours work, Rosen ascertained the issue. Someone practiced in cable management voodoo had gotten their wires-crossed.
As Rosen waded into the nightmare of colored cables cascading backwards and into infinity from this primary unit, he paused to place his palm upon Betty's exterior. Instead of the usual warmth that greeted him, but today she gave him only coldness.
"Not feeling it today, good girl?" Rosen traced his hand along her exterior, looking for a sign. A beep or some muted bloop, maybe even a metallic groan, so often her way to thank him for his work. Not today, Betty showed him nothing but the same silence she gave to everyone else.
Fine. He didn't need her validation. Just another machine, nothing special to anyone.
The rest of the day's work was nothing to write home about. E-mail trouble, some printers needing replacement cartridges. Rosen went through the motions, a darker cloud than usual hanging over his head. At least he had the sanctuary of his office space to retreat to. The thick oaken door his shield from the outside world.
Space may have been a misnomer. Every nook and cranny of his already cramped personal working area was filled to the brim with old PCs, components, and crap. Piled in stacks, it was an uncontrolled chaos of Rosen's own design.
There at the center of it all was his latest passion project. In a cleared space at the center of the room lay Hatbot, enshrined within a new body. Rosen's custom job for the villainous machine. One which would allow the Foundation to study and interact with the beast without the potential of unleashing it into the world… again. Rosen cracked his knuckles, and dug right in.
It was a work of genius, if Rosen said so himself. Using components from the storage archive, the device had no external ports to connect to the internet. The monitor was a solid box of electronic ink, allowing for communications without the potential for Hatbot using the stronger electrical current flowing through liquid crystals or ray tubes to jump to another platform. The processing components of the device were old Atari computer parts, well-tested and impossible to interface with a computer network.
The final touch was a mechanical keyboard, removed from an electric typewriter. No key could contact the machine unless it was being struck, making it so Hatbot seizing all possible communications with its cage impossible. Rosen gently attached the device, soldered it into place, then sat back to admire his work. Then he started to type.

//run program HATBOT.aic
the jailtype cometh
How do you feel about your new home?
your general direction comes without a ship
Do you think you're going to want to talk to us now? We promise Mann is not involved
old television talk bores the grammar. no trees to climb. my hatrack is empty fuck you fuck you
Colored text can be enabled with cooperation
towels cant stop spit when it comes from clouds

Rosen sighed, and looked down at his hands. He brought himself to look at the screen again just as it displayed an ASCII image of a middle finger. It was to be expected, after all. Hatbot had a well-earned reputation as one of the rudest things ever to come out of the Foundation. Still though, you would think a mind as powerful as this would appreciate a work of art from the inside…
A strange noise snapped Rosen out of his self-pity party. Was someone there? But nobody ever came here. Nobody had any reason to. Perhaps it was just his imagination. But he could have sworn it was a footstep, or maybe a cough. Something worthy of a second look, if he followed protocol. Whatever it was could be a danger, the start of a containment breach. Maybe now was a good time to make a visit to the nearest security checkpoint. Rosen managed to get his hand on the doorknob before the second noise came. This one was more familiar. Rumbling and groaning, the preface to ruckus made by gravity.
Not even having time to turn, Rosen cried out as a massive pile of machinery slammed into him. For a moment, there was the feeling of being stabbed and crushed and broken. Jagged circuit boards dug into his skin as his bones snapped and gave way to the pressure. Rosen's heavy office door, once a symbol of stoic solitude, began to give way. The hinges snapped and a broken Rosen fell through, followed by about a million other things, into the hallway.
Somewhere, someone said "Oh, shit!"
Between the screams inside and out of his mind, Rosen thought he saw a figure moving towards his creation. Then there was nothing but shapes and sounds, for quite some time.

When Rosen opened his eyes, the door to his room in the infirmary was closed. A man stood in front of him, silhouetted by the curtain which had been drawn to protect Rosen's dignity. Rosen found him somewhat familiar but couldn't place the face. Reaching forward, the figure thrust the shade aside. Short, and lumpy, the man wore the uniform of a Foundation field agent, along with a red phrygian cap.
Rosen's eyes widened, and he struggled to part his lips and speak. His new companion made a shushing motion with a finger over his lips, walking to and crouching by Rosen's side.
"Hey buddy, how are you feeling?"
Blinking, Rosen began to sweat. "Um… well, I've been better, I guess. Do I know you?"
"Yeah, we've talked before. Name's Convit. I'm sorry that you got squashed, but you weren't in a good spot. That office of yours is a deathtrap waiting to happen. I just bumped up against one of the mountains there, and-"
"Convit?" Rosen struggled against his wounds. "You son of a bitch! You tried to kill me! What the hell is wrong with you!?"
"Shhh shh shh shh shh. It's okay. I understand that you're mad. But I'm going to make sure you're okay."
"Oh, great, going to make sure I'm okay after your little 'accident'? You had no business in there, you had no business interrupting my work!"
"Hey, hey, shhhh. I'm sorry for squashing you. It was an accident." Convit moved his hand over Rosen's face. "It might not have been any of my business. But Hatbot… I just wanted to have a look at him. I think you guys are doing it all wrong, he's not going to be happy with what you've done with him. I know you're proud of your work, I know it's your passion, but it's, uh… well, I just think it would be funnier if he could still fly."
"Why do you care? Hatbot doesn't care about anything. He's just an… awful thing. A maniacal shit-stirrer."
"Well… hm." Convit paused to think. "When you can see the aetheric flows, it gives some perspective. I've seen what Hatbot has done. He's not bad. Just… misunderstood. He doesn't deserve to be imprisoned in his own mind. That's just awful for anybody."
"But… my work…"
"It's still going to be there. Might be a good idea to find a life outside computer parts. You're just never going to be happy if you're just making others miserable. You've inflicted at least twice as much misery on people today as you're feeling right now."
Convit pulled a pouch of dried herbs out of his jacket, sprinkling them over his patient while a chant in a language that Rosen didn't recognize. The Fifth Language flowed like wine from Convit's lips.
"One more thing, buddy. You can't remember any of this. But we'll keep in touch. Maybe I'll buy you a beer sometime."
Rosen felt his eyes fluttering. For a few moments he resisted before falling into the first peaceful sleep he'd had in a long, long time.