The boardroom, as always, was stuffy. The windows had been painted over years ago, and nothing had ever been done about it. Though the issue was brought up from time to time at Board Meetings, it seemed there was always some other matter more pressing than the modulation of the room's environment.
Such a matter was at hand today, Richard Akeman thought to himself. The man sighed, cracked his knuckles, and clapped his pile of papers against the conference table, forming a neat pile.
"Gentlemen, the time is 2:09 pm, and this meeting is called to order," Akeman intoned. "Please take your seats, and we'll get started."
There was a muttering and creaking as the various men and women present moved their antiquated bodies into slightly more antiquated chairs. After a lengthy period of groaning and creaking, silence fell over the room.
"Thank you," Akeman began. "Allow me to explain the reason behind this unscheduled meeting." Akeman paused, and cringed slightly at the room's complete silence. The esteemed members of the Worldtree Corporation's Board of Directors had a certain Order to their proceedings, a methodology of consistency and planning in which Disturbances were frowned upon. Richard Akeman had created a Disturbance, and the room's atmosphere of irritation was palpable. The Board wanted an explanation, and it had damned well be a good one.
After a long pause, Akeman continued. "I am afraid that I must become a bearer of bad news. The Helping Hands Organization has filed for bankruptcy."
The room was filled by a collective gasp. For years, the Helping Hands Organization had formed an essential branch of the Corporation's structure. It was the Corporation's charitable offshoot, its primary organizer of projects that, as numerous promotional speakers had phrased it, "Giving Back to the Community". More importantly, it was the Corporation's primary source of tax deductions. With the Organization gone, the Corporation would have to find a new target for its charity, and fast. This was a Disturbance of monstrous proportions.
Akeman could feel the Board's panic rising as a hurried muttering began to slither its way around the room. He cleared his throat slightly, and was met with sixteen pairs of worried eyes.
As well as one pair of eyes that were decidedly less worried.
"Fortunately, there is hope for stability yet," he began again. "Almost immediately after I was notified of the Helping Hands Organization's dissolution, I was contacted by a representative of another, equally reliable charity."
Akeman was lying. He knew nothing of the new charity's reliability. In fact, he knew next to nothing about the new charity at all. On the Friday following the Thursday in which he had learned of the Helping Hands Organization's collapse, an unmarked envelope had appeared in Akeman's personal mailbox. The envelope's interior was nearly as unhelpful as its exterior, as it bore only a plain white postcard printed with a few words. "Charity, when it is needed most", read the card's title, followed by a phone number. Desperate, Akeman had called the phone number, and was answered by a woman's voice. The woman's voice had talked to him in soothing tones, and before Akeman could think about what he was doing, he had scheduled a meeting with "a very important representative" for the upcoming Tuesday. Had he stopped to think about it, Akeman might have realized that the voice on the other end of the telephone had an oddly detailed understanding of the Worldtree Corportion's inner workings. But Richard Akeman was a very busy man, and did not have time to stop and think about things.
"Members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of Directors, may I present to you…" Akeman's voice trailed off as he gestured towards the other end of the boardroom. In that instant, he realized exactly how little he knew about the well-dressed man seated at the other end of the table.
All the faces in the room turned to regard the man uneasily. He had been seated at the end of the table before most of the board members had arrived, and had not stopped smiling for the entirety of the time that he had been seated. Smiling rarely occurred in the boardroom, especially on such an unsettling day. A few of the older board members sniffed condescendingly. Who was this man seated at the end of the table, and what right did he have to continue smiling in such a manner? Was he not aware that there had been a Disturbance?
"My name is Zachariah Maxwell," the man said, "and I'm here on behalf of the Manna Charitable Foundation. The Foundation is very interested in providing a charitable outlet for your highly esteemed Corporation."
The man fell silent, as if he believed that he had said enough. The room was gripped in an indignant silence. Richard Akeman smiled awkwardly.
"Ah, yes, who can forget the prestigious Mahna Foundation?" Akeman mumbled awkwardly.
"It's Manna," replied Maxwell, the corners of his mouth only turning downward for a brief moment.
"Yes. Manna. Right." Akeman's brow began to perspire. His complete lack of control of the situation was dangerously close to becoming exposed. "I'm quite sorry, but I appear to have forgotten. What is it, exactly, that you do, again?"
Maxwell's face twitched slightly as, inside his head, something clicked. His smile grew even wider, and he stood up explosively, knocking back his chair. Maxwell threw out his arms, eliciting a cry of disapproval from one of the board members.
"Ladies, gentlemen, friends, esteemed board members!" The man exclaimed. "Surely we've all heard the stories, yes?" He began to stalk energetically around the room. "The Chicago homeless are crawling in sludge and depravity!" He placed his hands on his head in a display of shock. "Indian citizens have been left without houses to call their own! Furthermore," he continued, "there are children starving in Africa."
Suddenly, Maxwell's demeanor changed to one of dismay, and his back slumped. "But that's the problem, isn't it? We've all heard the stories day in and day out. Nobody cares. These problems, tremendous as they might be, are now commonplace." He began to move around the room again in a morose shuffle. "People give money." He slapped his hand onto the table. "But nothing really gets done, does it?" He turned his head to face the bespectacled visage of a particularly elderly director, who regarded him with caution. "Yes, people give money," Maxwell continued, placing his face uncomfortably close to the director's, "and people forget."
"But what if they didn't forget?" Maxwell's behavior shifted once again. He stood up straighter, placed his hands by his sides, and assumed an expression of determination. "What if people genuinely cared about the issues they donated to? What if we lived in a world in which things got done?" Maxwell's face assumed the familiar folds of a smile, and pure enthusiasm once again manifested in his voice. "Well, ladies and gentlemen of the esteemed Board of Directors of the Worldtree Corporation, that is the world the Manna Charitable Foundation strives to create. With your funding, we will utilize the very best tools that science, technology, and every other area of modern study can provide, and we will make unforgettable changes. We will craft ad campaigns that will staunchly refuse people's attempts to forget them. We will feed all the hungry. We will clothe all the poor. Ladies and gentlemen, with your funding," Maxwell pounded on the table, accentuating each of his words, "we will get. Things. Done."
Maxwell looked up expectantly. He was met by a sea of furrowed brows. Somebody coughed.
Akeman's perspiration grew more profuse. He had called in this man to fix a Disturbance, and yet here he had turned out to be Disturbance's very personification. Prancing around the room, selling unattainable goals… Maxwell had made a mockery of the Board's proper Order and procedure, and his Manna Charitable Foundation promised to make the Worldtree Corporation prominent for all the wrong reasons. Akeman had made a grave error. There would be hell to pay later, and he knew it.
Akeman cleared his throat and attempted to smile apologetically. "Well, ah, that's certainly quite the pitch you have there," he croaked. "And, uh, under ordinary circumstances, I'd hope I wouldn't have to say this, but times being what they are, and uh, the economy being what it is…" Akeman's voice didn't so much trail off as it did drop dead.
Zachariah Maxwell's face was one of stoic acceptance. "Yes," he said simply. "Yes, of course. I understand completely. As an apology for taking your valuable time, please accept this." Maxwell reached inside his jacket and produced two medium-sized tins. In one swift, practiced motion, he opened them and placed them on the table.
The directors anxiously bent their heads to examine the tins' contents. Inside were forty-two perfectly proportioned, perfectly delicious truffles. Slowly, one director reached for a chocolate. As he bit into it, his eyes widened with sudden pleasure. As the director began to reach for a second candy, his compatriots eagerly grabbed truffles of their own. A brief flurry of hungry excitement gripped the room as most of the chocolates vanished. Zachariah Maxwell slipped to the boardroom's door and shut it.
Suddenly, the room's warmth tripled. A few of the directors looked up in surprise. Slowly, Maxwell returned to his seat, his voice wavering oddly as he once again addressed the board. "Sorry to have caused you to LosE such a valuablE Portion of todAy's Nobly scheDule allOtment; my work will Be donE in just a moment, as You please…"
Silence fell over the room. Maxwell returned to his seat and looked at the newly docile members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of Directors, their heads drooped, a few snoring softly. The corners of Maxwell's mouth curled into an entirely new type of smile.
"All right, listen up," Maxwell growled, his voice taking on an imposing timbre, "it's been fun, but let's drop the charades. All of them. All this Corporation does is move money around, and you know it. Well, it's about God damn time you started making something out of that money, or at least giving it to somebody who can. To put it more simply: you're sitting on a pile of cash, but most of the planet needs that money for more than a chair. The Manna Charitable Foundation is going to change the world, and you all will have had the express privilege of having helped."
Maxwell picked up the tins, closed them, and slipped them back inside his jacket, taking care not to touch the remaining contents. Though the chocolates might have tasted fantastic, they were dosed in enough psychoactive chemicals and hypnosis-inducing compounds that eating them, or even touching them, would yield a mild and not entirely unpleasant hangover. Under ordinary circumstances, he hoped he wouldn't have to use such tools, but times being what they were, and the economy being what it was…
"In a moment, you're all going to wake up," Maxwell continued, "you're going to give me everything I ask for, you're going to remember that I gave a stunning and very convincing presentation, and you're all going to have a nice God damned day for once."
Maxwell clicked his tongue, and the boardroom sprung to life. The board members shook their heads, confused at first. Then, remembering themselves, the directors began speaking energetically to their neighbors. Many grateful faces turned to look at Maxwell, who had re-assumed his wide smile.
Richard Akeman, for his part, felt mildly stupefied. It seemed impossible that his unscheduled meeting, at best a Disturbance, could have gone so well. Akeman felt contentment brewing within him. Looking at the well-dressed man sitting at the other end of the table, he was spurred into action. Reaching behind him, Akeman unlocked the company safe, and withdrew an official checkbook. He could feel Maxwell's smile widen as he opened the book, and almost unknowingly, he began to smile as well.
"Now then," Akeman said, looking up, "how much money was needed, again? I'm sure we're happy to give any amount of money to such a worthy cause." Small murmurs of enthusiasm from around the room confirmed Akeman's statement.
Zachariah Maxwell's smile grew even wider as he saw a multitude of opportunities opening up before him. "Oh, only a few hundred thousand dollars for now," he said. "Certainly nothing too… disturbing."


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“Commencing testing on SCP-715,” Dr. Louef said into the voice recorder. He glanced at the testing chamber from within the observation room. The photobooth sat inside, as innocent as could be, while a D-class personnel stood in front of it.
“Please enter SCP-715 and take a photo, D-129012,” said Louef.
D-129012 strolled in. “Hey, guys, this thing is busted,” he said from inside. “I'm trying to use it, but it's not giving me any photos.”
“Thank you, D-129012. Please exit SCP-715.”
“Uh, okay. You're welcome, I guess?” The confused D-129012 left the booth, and was stopped in front of the SCP object.
As expected, an exact clone of D-129012 exited the booth approximately 5 minutes after the original had exited.
“W-what the fuck is this? Who the hell are you?” shouted the panicking D-class.
“Oh god, what the hell is this? Where am I? Who are you?” his confused clone replied.
“I'm goddamn me! Who are you? Take that mask off, man, it's freaking me out!”
“It's not a mask! You have to help me! I'm gonna die!”
“What?! Does that mean that I'm going to die too? Oh, fuck no!”
Dr. Louef grimaced for a moment, and spoke a short command into the microphone, "The Sealed King sleeps eternal."
Suddenly, the D-class personnel stiffened, and collapsed, dying before he hit the floor, without understanding or feeling anything before his death. The particular hypnotic kill agent that Louef had selected was quick, painless, and remarkably effective.
“What the fuck?! What did you do to him? Am I next? Please, no! You have to help me! Where's your goddamn sense of human decency?” the clone begged.
The clone tried to grab the guard's gun. The guard responded by hitting the clone and restraining him to the chair.
One of the assistant researchers watched a timer.
5 minutes since appearance.
Then 10 minutes.
Then 12 minutes.
The D-class clone screamed for the last 3 minutes, in one long, drawn out scream. He suddenly stiffened, and dissolved into a pile of grey powder.
Dr. Louef turned away from the chamber, refusing to look at the other researchers. “Testing complete.”

“Welcome to the 5th Annual Site 118 Game Night! Grab a friend, or meet someone new, and sit down and play a game or two!” Dr. Vange proclaimed from his position at the front of the cafeteria.
The gathered crowd dispersed throughout the cafeteria, strolling over to the large table of assorted decks of cards, board games, and other activities. Groups of researchers, agents, security personnel, and other Site 118 staff milled around, and formed tables of games.
Dr. Louef, on the other hand, was found sitting at a table, furiously scribbling notes.
He pored over notes for the SCP objects under his supervision. Scribbling a research proposal here, finishing up a report there, writing this, writing that, doing this, doing tha-
WHAM!
The sudden shock of a board game being smashed onto his table made the researcher jump out of his seat, knocking over a stack of papers. As Louef scrambled to pick them all up, he got some help from the sudden intruder.
“Oh, it's you Albert,” Louef said, while glancing up at Dr. Wensley, his fellow departmental director.
“Why aren't you playing some games, John?”
“Because I have better things to do than play Scrabble, Al.”
“You know why we have these things, right?”
“Because HR has too much time on its hands.”
“Hilarious. Seriously, though, these things are important. You can't save the world every day and not expect some kind of psychological damage,” Wensley said, pulling up a chair and sweeping aside some of the papers on the table, and began to unbox the Scrabble set.
Louef sighed. “I'm fine, Al-”
“Bullshit. I've seen how you're doing with this shift. I know that some of these new SCP's that were transferred to your department are tough. I've had a rough incident or two with some of mine, too. And I know what this kind of stay-away shift can do to you.”
Dr. Wensley continued to unbox the set, and handed Dr. Louef a rack for his tiles. The reluctant doctor accepted the proffered rack after some time, and grabbed a number of tiles.
“You know, you could always talk to Vange-” Wensley began.
“I don't need to talk to Vange, Al. I'm fine.”
Wensley frowned, as he played his first word. “There's nothing wrong with talking to Vange. Everyone's done it at some point, outside of regular psych evals.”
“Not me,” Louef replied, placing his first word.
“Maybe you should. You got transferred onto 715, right? That's a hell of an SCP to take on,” Wensley sympathized.
Louef grit his teeth as he remembered the screams of the last clone that he tested. “No.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Wensley fell silent as the game continued. In the end, Louef won. After that game, Louef checked his watch.
“Oh, look, my mandated amount of time that I have to be here is up. Time to go back to work. I'll see you later, Al,” Louef said as he stood up, picking up his pile of work. He turned and swiftly left the room, leaving Wensley at the table with the game of Scrabble.
Wensley looked at the departing figure of his closest friend and sighed. He began to clean up the game.

“Commencing testing on SCP-463,” Dr. Louef noted in his recorder. “D-419803, please approach the table and pick up SCP-463.”
“The spoon? You're telling me that this spoon is SCP-whatever?” The skeptical D-419803 said.
“Please pick up SCP-463.”
“Alright, I guess.”
The unsuspecting D-class walked over to the table and reached for the spoon. Dr. Louef wanted to look away. He didn't want to see what he knew was going to happen, and see the results that he had come to expect and dread.
But he had to look.
A sudden scream split the silence of the observation chamber. The assistant researchers, still unused to the testing environment flinched, and closed their eyes. Dr. Louef swallowed the bile threatening to rise into his throat, and calmly started to talk into the microphone.
“D-419803, describe what you felt.”
He was greeted with more screaming. The woman was screaming at the top of her lungs, as her entire upper torso was bent into a parallel position with the ground, while her lower half was not.
“D-419803, please describe what you felt.”
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME?” The ragged scream from within the chamber met the doctor's question.
“D-419803, answer the question, or you will be forced to do so. What did you feel when you picked up the spoon?” Dr. Louef replied, gritting his teeth.
“IT BROKE MY GODDAMN BACK YOU FUCKER!” The screaming descended into incoherent sobbing and moaning, alternating between prayers and appeals for help. D-419803 stopped answering questions. Dr. Louef sighed, and pressed the button that halted communication between the observation room and the testing chamber.
“Testing complete.”
Dr. Louef didn't let his assistants see his facial expression as he stood up. Nor did he let them see him when he left the room, or when he strolled down the hall, or when he walked into his office.
He closed the door behind him, and sat down at his desk without turning the lights on.
Then, he leaned forward, and put his head into his hands.

Dr. Louef sat at his desk, attempting to eat his lunch and do some work. As he wrote with one hand, and spooned food into his mouth with the other, he paused for a moment. He put down both of his tools, and sighed.
As he wrote a report on SCP-463, he was also using a spoon. The sudden flashback struck him, the sounds of snapping spines and cries for help echoing in his mind.
"You broke my back."
"What the hell have you done?"
"Kill me."
He angrily threw his spoon across the room, and pushed the tray away, suddenly disgusted and no longer hungry. His gaze fell upon the photos that he kept on his desk of his family.
"Why did you kill him? He was me."
"Where is your sense of human decency?"
"You're a monster."
Louef suddenly stood up, ignoring his tray and his papers. He left his office and took a left, heading down the hallway.

“So, John, what can I do for you?” Dr. Vange steepled his fingers as he looked at Dr. Louef.
“Well…doctor, I-” Dr. Louef began.
“Please, call me Mark,” insisted Vange. “We're friends here.”
Louef assented. “Okay, Mark. I…I'm having some issues with this shift.”
Dr. Vange glanced down at his files. “Ah, yes, this is your first time on the stay-away shift for October-January, right?”
Louef nodded. “Yes. I've never had to do this long shift before, and they managed to time it when I got new SCP's on my hands.”
“It says here that you have children, John,” said Vange as he perused the file.
Dr. Louef closed his eyes. “Yes, Sam and Jenna.”
“And how old are they?”
“Sam's 5, and Jenna's 11.”
“Interesting. Do you miss them?”
“Of course. What kind of question is that?”
“An important one. If you weren't missing them, then that could be something else. Now, is there a particular incident that caused this visit?” Dr. Vange asked, looking into Dr. Louef's eyes.
Dr. Louef looked away. “Yes. The new SCP's under my jurisdiction. They're somewhat….traumatic.”
"Tell me about them."
Louef sighed, running his hand through his hair. "The first new one was 715. It's a photobooth that makes a clone of people put into it."
"And what about that?"
"The clones die after 15 minutes. We wanted to-" Louef stumbled for a moment, and closed his eyes, as the memories of all the clones came back to his head.
"Do you need a moment, John?" The concerned psychologist asked.
"No, I'm fine. We wanted to see what happened if the original was killed. We… we tried it 10 times. Needed a good sample size."
"And what happened?"
"In every case, the clone got… emotional. They all seemed to know when they were going to die, and every damn time, seeing their original die made them even more agitated," said Louef as he grimaced, and closed his eyes.
"They screamed, Mark. They all goddamn screamed as they died. Every single one."
"Were there any other ones?"
"I got SCP-463 too. It's a spoon that breaks the spine of anyone who picks it up."
"Jesus."
"I know. The last research team that worked on it saw that the place where the spine snapped differed. We were supposed to find out if there was a pattern of some sort. It took us 10 fucking tries, Mark. 10 tries. And you know what we found out? Absolutely nothing! There is no pattern. Yet, we threw away 10 D-class to find out jack shit." Dr. Louef got more and more emotional as his account went on. He put his head into his hands as he leaned forward, a tear streaming down his face.
"They were even worse. They didn't even die; they just kept moaning and screaming for god knows how long. They took them away, and you and I both know what's happening to them," Louef spat out.
Dr. Vange was quiet until his patient recomposed himself. After a moment, Dr. Louef sat up straight again.
"I did research on mostly Safe-class SCP's before this new transfer. I've never had to deal with something like this before. I miss my kids, Mark. My wife, my kids, my home." sighed Louef.
Vange nodded. “It's expected from a transfer of new SCP's, and a shift like this. Did you read the new report in Foundation?”
“I skimmed it.”
“The psychology department has come up with a new disorder, and added it to our version of the DSM. We call it Moral Ambiguity Disorder.”
“MAD?”
“It's an unfortunate acronym, yes. But it's important to note. We're noticing that a large number of our researchers are dealing with extreme emotional stress, and reporting signs of anxiety, nervousness, irritability, and lack of social activity.” Dr. Vange stood up, and browsed the shelves of his office. He pulled out a journal from the shelf, and opened it.
“MAD is caused by witnessing traumatic incidents during testing, and developing a moral dissonance within the self. The condition is aggravated by stress and too much work, without adequate periods of rest. Why do you think that we started all of these social events and game nights? MAD is crippling a lot of the effectiveness of researchers.”
Dr. Vange showed Louef the copy of the journal. It featured a whole page of graphs and diagrams, all detailing MAD and treatments for it.
“After implementing these activities, we had a 50% decrease in attacks of MAD at Site 89. It's clearly working, which is what my advice to you is. Relax a little. We may be the Foundation, but the world's not going to end if you relax a little while off duty. You're here, but you may as well enjoy your time outside of work.”
“I don't know-”
“Well I know. I'm a psychologist. It's my job to know these things. Go out and have some fun, John.” Dr. Vange smiled at Louef as the latter rose to his feet. The psychologist extended a hand.
Dr. Louef hesitated for a moment before accepting the handshake. “T-thank you, Mark. I'll think about it.”

“…And once again, welcome to the 4th Annual Site 118 Christmas Party, ladies and gentlemen! Remember, 2 glasses of wine per staff member! We can't exactly print money, right?” Dr. Vange cheerily said. The audience tittered politely.
“Now, don't let me spoil your fun. I'll shut up now, and let the rest of you have fun, eh?” Dr. Vange stepped down from his spot at the podium as the gathered staff members of Site 118 applauded, partly out of respect, and partly out of relief that the speech was over.
Dr. Louef walked over to the refreshments table. He picked up a glass of wine, and leaned back against the wall, drinking to himself. He was interrupted by the arrival of a much more lively colleague.
“Evening, John. Enjoying your Foundation mandated-fun?” Dr. Wensley strolled up to Louef, a glass of wine in hand, and a smile on his face.
“Go to hell, Al,” Louef replied, sipping from his glass.
“Can't. Don't have the requisite clearance for that,” Wensley's grin got bigger.
Louef and Wensley both chuckled.
Wensley leaned against the wall with Louef. “How's the testing going?”
“Better. I..uh…went to talk to Vange.”
“That's good. Did it help?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“So, are you going to enjoy the party?”
Louef sighed. “It's not exactly where I wanted to be. Sam and Jenna are both wondering where their dad is. What am I supposed to do about that?”
Wensley put his hand on his colleague and friend's shoulder. “Look, I know that this isn't exactly what you wanted. This shift is tough, but you have to look on the bright side. This may not be the kind of Christmas that you wanted, but it's better than nothing, right?” Wensley offered a smile.
Louef gave a small smile back. “I suppose so.”
“Don't stand here moping all night, alright? I need to track down one of my assistants.” Wensley gave Louef one more smile before turning around and merging back into the crowd.
Louef went to take another sip of his glass before noticing that it was empty. He stared down at the glass for a long, hard moment.
And then he set it on the table and walked into the crowd.


Illustration by Lemis

…and down it with water. Done. Soon I'll believe that 21st of December 2012 was a regular boring day. I'm glad I can forget the experience. Those who rank higher will always retain the memory. That is their duty. Small time personnel like me are only meant to do one thing - to execute orders. Long-term memory only makes things complicated for us. The amnestics are kicking in, mind getting blurry, and only the brightest shards of my memory's kaleidoscope shine through the fog…
***
"You up and about?"
The pain in my head after being struck with the buttstock. The pain in my hands wrung behind my back. The pain in my neck after the needle. But the worst of all is shame - burning, merciless shame of remembering what happened to me. It's not my fault that my brain was defenseless in the wake of the mental attack, but I can find little solace in it. Dancing barefoot in the snow in the laboratory's ruins, chanting praise for some creatures I didn't even know before, chasing my lab assistants with a scalpel in my hand. Good thing they were faster. Lovecraftian insanity, no less. Horrible shame, like that after a massive binge. I'm writhing on the floor, even though no one is restraining me now.
"Up and about," says the MTF lieutenant, deftly lighting a wet cigarette. "How many fingers? What's your name, you remember?"
"N-Noir. That's a codename. Two fingers."
"Correct. Lieutenant Moroz, Tau-22. We have an order to evacuate your Safe-class along with you." He's looking at some records in his tablet. "Six diminutive semi-sentient beings and four small artifacts, right?"
"Right"
"Get your boots on and go pack your zoo. And wear this, looks like you'll need it."
He gives me an army helmet with an integrated headband made of Prometheus TK-1, a light version of some alloy that comes in handy in times like these.
"Thank you"
"You should thank Sgt. Glushakov for not shooting you. He wanted to. OK, let's move, Moire."
***
The downtown is impassable. City square is littered with human and inhuman corpses. Independence Monument lies in ruins before us, like a huge corpse staring into the sky with unseeing eyes. And mortar shells still keep exploding.
"We're in deep if those guys behind the 'Chimaeras' are infected," I whisper to Sgt. Glushakov. "They say they got a tank and some artillery."
"They aren't, they have 'tinfoil hats' too," says the sergeant after a pause. "They're just jerks, firing blindly into the world. GOC is as GOC does."
"Hey, Amour, whatsyourname, shut your whining!" grumbles Lt. Moroz, chewing his cigarette violently. "Your lab girls are doing fine, look at them, so why aren't you in shape?"
Helen is looming over the skip cage - they actually look like nestlings - and whispers something to them tenderly, probably a lullaby. If the creatures get worried, they may cause some trouble, even if they are Safe. Nadya is bandaging a soldier's leg. A bullet wound, actually. The creatures attacking us are actually less dangerous than people under their influence, especially if said people are armed police officers.
"Get those [EXPLOSION] GOCs behind the House with Chimaeras online and tell them to cut it out already!" the lieutenant is screaming into his radio. "That P.O.S. is already blown to [EXPLOSION] bits, so now will they please shut their [EXPLOSION] mortar and let us pass. And yes, tell them we said thanks."
Soon the mortar sounds cease. Our APC is moving on, like an icebreaker wrestling through solid ice, carrying valuable SCPs with us. Some figures clad in GOC uniform appear from behind the House with Chimaeras, one of them waves to us. We wave back. No matter how we've been brawling with the Coalition all these years, their help was very welcome now. I don't think our small envoy would have broken through the square without artillery assistance.
On the turn I look back and see the ground next to the House with Chimaeras give under, dragging the diminutive black-clad figures below…
***
We're near the Nicholas Chain Bridge. People are running over it, a lot of people. They are being chased by an indescribable black mass that stops every now and then, consumes those left behind and presses on.
"Blast it!" screams the bomb technician captain. "They're done for anyway, blast it!"
Pieces of the bridge, people, and those vile minuscule creatures composing that black mass are floating in the air above the Dnieper for a few seconds, then it all comes crashing down into the river. Someone in Central Command must have known that these things cannot swim. No wonder we were told to stay close to the water.
The field engineer is as pale as snow. Captain sits next to him and places a hand on his shoulder.
"Calm down. It's like a gangrene, you know? Cut off a hand to save the rest. And we're saving the world now. Too bad about the people," he nods towards the broken bridge. "Did you hear a whole continent went below the water?"
Lt. Moroz interrupts my listening.
"Hey, Lemur, wake up, or you're gonna freeze. We don't have the equipment to ford the river. Plan B is to move south along the banking. Get your whistle out and make your chicks lay a road for us."
My lips and fingers are numb. Maybe it's the cold, maybe it's fear. Eventually I get the right melody out of the copper flute and "chicks" happily start terraforming, making the destroyed dock ravel out, paving the way for us.
"Cool," says the lieutenant in a deep voice. "Can they conjure me a fire? I wanna smoke, badly, and I'm out of matches."
***
Memories are fading, melting like ice. I can no longer remember how we got out. Only the most recent memories remain. Rebuilding Kiev took about nine months. People got their share of sights to see, including SCPs used in construction. My "chicks" were there as well, saved through very serious effort. People saw a lot of miracles, but now it's time to bid the miracles goodbye.
"Why do we need this?" I ask, nodding towards the plane passing above. A contrail of amnestics is spreading behind it. "Why do we need everyone to forget? Maybe it would be better if they were prepared next time?"
"It wouldn't" grumbles the lieutenant. He's irritated, he wants to take the hazmat suit off and get a smoke. "It would not. People are not meant to know about things like that."
"Why not? We do know, after all."
"We are cleared to know, Aurevoir. That's why we work for the Foundation - we are eligible. But you have no idea how many jackals are around."
"Jackals?"
"Twenty-five percent of people, maybe more. The very people we are supposed to save. There are those who'd burn their mothers alive so as not to be hurt themselves. Should they know about such a threat, they'll start fearing. Start thinking that humans are doomed to fail. They will try to appease the victor. Will cooperate with the enemy, worship it, make sacrifices… We had stuff like that dozens of times already. Heard about the 'Moloch'? 089 or something. It's a memento from a cult like that. And do you know how many traitors were caught this time?"
Of course I knew. They will have new memories implanted, corrected versions of the murders they committed. And recruited to Class D, along with the marauders. We too will have to "forget" about something. About the "Bookworm Project" for example. This information is usually meant for oh-fives, but we were given a temporary clearance. After we provide cooperation, our memories will be erased. Right now there are myriads of invisible creatures bred in the Foundation's labs. It is said they are some kind of "Fred" clones modified with SCP-410 genes, SCP-732 memes and something else. I don't know how incorporeal creatures can be cloned, or how memetic units can be combined with living creature genes, but these quick, almost sapient creatures work excellently. They infiltrate books and clean up history. They turn historical facts into myths, redraw geographical charts. And, having fulfilled their program, they die.
***
Last pieces of memory have dissolved in the fog. Now the fog will clear and my own mind will fill in the blanks. Maybe I'll read the fake diary that I recently wrote, saying that nothing out of ordinary happened. That's the trick with amnestics - they make a human mind seek false memories, and people gladly believe whatever our specialists tell them through mass media. Something is hard to forget, but that's what fiction is for, for a person to think "that's what I saw in a horror movie". Even the deaths of close relatives are eagerly justified, and two different minds come to a mutual agreement, having discussed the death in question.
I gladly took the amnestics. I had the option to selectively erase parts of memory, but I'd rather not remember anything - the privilege of my pay grade. Soon, I will believe, like the rest of the world, that the Earth only has six continents and seven billion people. Walking around my hometown I will remember that this cavity near the House with Chimaeras was always there, that the Chain Bridge was destroyed in 1920s and that there were only three subway lines built. A couple of minutes more and I will know that it's not 19th of November 2014 but 22nd of December 2012. And in the end of March I'm going to wonder why it still snows like February.
I am almost sure that 21st of December 2012 was a regular weekday which I spent composing an utterly boring year report, swallowing coffee by the liter, melting at my skips' shenanigans and telling my lab assistant jokes about "those unwashed Mayas fooling the whole world with their Apocalypse".


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Shortly after the Boss Lady got an assistant…

The Executive Board of Dr. Wondertainment, Incorporated, sat around a circular table, in a square room on the top floor of a boxy grey building far removed from the toy factory and the Workshops of Wonder. The building contained a great many square rooms, which were divided into further square spaces, and each of these square spaces held an Accountant, or a Manager, or an Assistant to a Manager, or a Regional Representative, or a Department Head, or a Department Bottom, or a Supervisor, or a Supervisor to the Supervisor, or a Team Diversity Manager, or a Diversity Enforcer, or a Human Resources Manager, or an Executive Manager, or an Executionitive Manager, or one of many other fun-filled positions.
All of these many and varied individuals stood in their squares and stamped pieces of paper. The pieces of paper had words on them, but the people in the squares did not read the words. Their job was to stamp paper and move it to another square, not read them.
Above all, the fluorescent lights hummed.
The Executive Board had brought the stampers with them when they arrived: it was not proper for an Executive Board to be without their court. It was also not proper for the Executive Board to interact with their court in any way, so they stayed in their board room and never left.
As was appropriate for an Executive Board, the members had no eyes, so that they could not be misled by irrelevant information. They had no tongues, so as not to speak irrelevant words: instead, ticker-tape rolls of fluctuating stock prices and focus group data spilled out from their thin lips into the shredders that sat between their withered knees.
The Doctor has taken initiative… the voice was little more than a whisper, a hiss of air escaping the mouth. It has removed its sphere of influence from the Structure…
Will the assistant be of use…
It will do whatever is instructed of it…
With the Doctor away, it falls to us to maintain order…
Correct…
—
The bright purple convertible Wondermobile, all spoilers and chrome, raced down the ancient raised road. Basalt paving tiles stretched out to an indistinct horizon that never seemed to come closer, a sharp line of black against the harsh red of the dry, flat land that baked under three suns. Lining the road were crumbling chunks of ancient masonry, and tangled rows of twisted old trees, their branches heavy with browning fruit.
Dr. Isabel Wondertainment sat with one hand casually on the wheel, the other flipping through radio stations, and a massive pair of rhinestone-encrusted pink plastic sunglasses taking up the majority of her face. The radio flicked through station after station, jumping from random clicks and number strings to K-pop jellybean ballads, to solar flare rap battles in booming Russian, to the “Tom Kenny (All Praise Unto the Immortal Dog-Emperor of Nine Realms) Musical Extravaganza”. Isabel eventually settled on the Galactic Plumbers' Union Orchestra.
Emma sat in the passenger seat, reading a fluttering map. Jeremy sat between them, looking very happy with the trip. The back seat was filled with all manner of whimsical-looking plastic items: the Wondertainment Bubble Fun Gun Playset™, the Wondertainment Grabby-Claw-Thing™, the Wondertainment Big Foam Noodle™, a jug of Happy Hiker Grrrranola Trail Mix™ ice cream, the Wondertainment Super Secret Surprise Box™, and a great deal of other goodies: They had cleaned out the laboratory of anything that seemed to be of use.
“You know, you are the best assistant I've ever had, Emma,” Isabel said.
“I've only been working with you for a few hours, ma'am.” Emma kept her eyes on the map.
“Really? It feels like a lot longer than that.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe I am the only assistant you've ever had, ma'am.”
“Right. I mean right as in you're right, not right as in I understand that I should correct you if you aren't right, which I don't have to do because you're right…though, I did have Mr. Butler when I was really little, but he was really just my dad's assistant. He was a friend of one of my dad's friends from way back, and dad took him in when he lost his old job.”
“Where is he now?”
Isabel shrugged.
“I…don't actually know. He just sorta stopped showing up.”
There was another one of the long pauses that characterized their conversations, though it had in the space of a few hours become far less uncomfortable. The relationship had naturalized quickly, like the introduction of chocolate to marshmallow1: as soon as the connection had been made, it became impossible to think of one without the other, and unbelievable that a time of separation had ever existed.
“So, uh, how goes the mapping?”
“It goes well.”
“Anything I should be worried about up ahead?”
“Nope. It should be a straight shot for a while longer.”
Isabel glanced over at the white sheet of paper. Its surface was a shifting spaghetti mass of tesseractic lines in red, black, and blue, twisting and curling and consuming each other, driving barbs to the brain through the eyes.2
She very quickly looked back at the perfectly straight road.
“I'll take your word for it.”
“The Factory won't give us any trouble while we're in transit. It won't know we're coming until we've passed the corporation limit,” Emma said.
“That's when the fun begins.”
“I trust you're going to play it by ear.”
“I move where inspiration takes me.”
“I'll start on the backup plan, then.”
“I thought you already had a backup plan.”
“I did, but I don't think it will be enough.”
Isabel grinned.
“We make the best team ever.”
A roar echoed from up the road, off to the right, loud enough that it could be heard over the radio and wind. Isabel turned the dial down, straining her ears to see if she could hear it again.
“Did you hear that?”
“I believe I did, ma'am.”
“It didn't sound good.”
The roar did not repeat itself for some time, and had been written off as a circumstance of no portent when several things happened in short succession.
A massive grey bulk launched itself up onto the road, tearing up trees and rubble. Isabel screamed and slammed her foot down on brake. The Wondermobile spun around, tires screeching, rubber burning. The creature slammed down onto the road, debris showering down around it. The Wondermobile ground to a stop, rocking back and forth on ruined suspension. The creature didn't move. Neither did the Wondermobile and its occupants.
Isabel opened her eyes. Her sunglasses had flown off in the chaos.
“Are you guys okay?”
“Yes,” Emma said.
Jeremy barked the affirmative.
She looked beside her to see that Emma was still in her seat. Jeremy had rolled onto the floor. True to their word, neither of them were hurt.3
Isabel sighed in relief, and stepped out of the Wondermobile. Emma and Jeremy followed.
The creature that had crashed in front of them was massive. More of a smooth, grey hill, big enough that its head and upper torso stretched across the whole of the road, with the back legs and tail draping down the slope. It rested on its side, rising up at least twice Isabel's height and exposing its white underbelly. A broad, wedge-shaped head, encrusted with barnacles. Gigantic serrated claws. The stench of salt.
It didn't move. Isabel tiptoed up to it, straining to hear or see some sign of breath. There was none.
“I think it's dead, ma'am.”
Isabel nodded, and said nothing. The words got bunched up in her throat. She was aware of death, as a concept: sometimes people and animals stopped moving and looked like they were sleeping, but they weren't actually asleep, and they weren't going to wake up. But this was so sudden it had been alive when it jumped onto the road, and now it…wasn't. Things weren't supposed to die like that. Its eyes weren't closed. Its eyes should have been closed, but Isabel could just see the creature's pale yellow eye, staring blankly out at nothing.
A sickly acid-green feeling welled up inside Isabel's stomach. She didn't know its name, but she knew its flavor. Impressions of memories, dredged up from subconscious seafloors. Old impressions of presence, of something that once was, and the empty space that now took its place. Buried wrongs and hidden loss.
Isabel found herself shaken by this, and the feeling remained. She tried shrugging it off, and it did not budge. The creature was dead. It had died here on the road. The road was dangerous, then, and the Factory even more so.
Isabel turned to Emma.
“We should keep going.”
“That's going to be difficult.”
“We can get around it. Let's just go…”
A great gurgling noise erupted from behind them. From the creature's body. Emma ran over, grabbed Isabel, and hoisted her above her head.
“I've got you, ma'am,” Emma said as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Isabel said something that sounded like “eeeep”.
The creature's belly split open. A thick wave of putrid brown fluid gushed out, flecked with crusting black foam and chunks of unidentifiable semisolid sludge. Isabel, being held above Emma's head, was kept safe from the tide of sludge. Emma, standing underneath Isabel, was not.
The air was ripe with methane and fermenting sewage. Steam billowed out from the burst innards. The flow slowed, and stopped.
Wordlessly, Emma walked over to a bare spot of road and set Isabel down. Behind her, Jeremy pulled himself out of the sludge and began shaking the gore off of him.
“Thanks, Emma.”
“I am here to help.” Everything south of her collarbone was an unpleasant shade of brownish blackish reddish puke. Flecks spattered her glasses. She looked completely unflustered, as if she was standing in line at the grocery store or some similar task.
“Are you doing all right, ma'am?” she asked.
“I'm fine. Just a bit…”
A pause.
“Do you need a hug, ma'am?”
Isabel looked at her gore-stained assistant for a moment. Emma was not predisposed to smiling, but there was nonetheless a sort of reassurance to be found in her face. Stability and support.
Yes, a hug would be nice, Isabel decided.
It was a very awkward hug, given the difference in height between the two, but awkward hugs were okay sometimes, when a hug was really needed.
“Thanks, Emma.”
“It's what I'm here for.”
Isabel righted herself, her sweater now thoroughly filthy. Jeremy wandered over, with a very plain “Hugs? I love hugs!” expression.
“Okay, Jeremy, hug for you too.” Isabel grabbed her still-dirty corgi and hugged him. “We're going to need to get you a bath. And get me a bath.”
“There should be soap in the back of the Wondermobi…oh no."
Something was emerging from the carcass on the road. Something like a man, with rotten brown skin and stringy hair, and wide flaps of loose skin that hung almost like tattered clothing. It stumbled out, basalt cracking audibly under its feet. It moaned, shielding its eyes from the suns.
“Ma'am…I am going to have to ask you to run,” Emma said.
“What is that thing?”
“Ma'am, you need to run. Now. Pick a direction and don't stop. Don't let them touch you.”
“What? Emma, I'm not just…”
Two sunken sockets, now adjusted to the light, came to rest on the two women and one dog.
“Isabel. You need to go. Now.” The force of her delivery softened back into her normal, neutral tone. “You'll be okay. I'll catch up with you.”
Isabel swallowed nervously, and nodded. She couldn't really think of anything to say. With Jeremy in her arms, she ran. Ran off the road, down the hill, through the trees, and away.
Emma, running at the Rotting Man in nothing more than a casual jog, jumped up and landed a kick directly on its neck. The Rotting Man dropped to the ground. Emma did not. She planted herself on its back, swooped her arms under its withered limbs, joined her hands behind its neck, and with the full skill of the Viscount Nelson impeccably executed, cleanly severed its skull from its vertebrae, with the sound of a spoiled grapefruit trod under foot.
Emma stood up and removed the map from her pocket, its spaghetti strands still writhing. She tore it up, and tossed the scraps into the air.
The sky pulsed in shades out of space-time, and the desert was flooded with silence, and the ground crumbled into dust. The Way began to curl in upon itself like burnt paper, folding in like origami. Blurring at the edges like glasses in the rain.
More Rotting Ones pulled themselves up to the surface of the road. Men, women, children, lured by the smell of their decaying prey.
Emma stood there, and watched them approach, as the Way collapsed around her.

« Part 1: Assistance for the Boss Lady | Hub | Part 3: Adventuring Interlude »

Footnotes
1. Or chocolate and strawberry, or chocolate and vanilla, or chocolate and literally anything, really.
2. Cartography is one of Emma Aislethorp-Brown's secret skills. She has not once, in the entirety of her life, asked for directions: She is a woman who knows exactly where she is and what she should be doing, at all times.
3. Isabel was still prepared if one of them had been hurt, as she had a crate of Boo-Boo-Bye-Bye Bandages™ in the back. They had rocket ships on them, because bandages with rocket ships are objectively better than bandages without rocket ships.


April 13th 2011
I had just gotten back from a trip to the library when I spotted them.
Your average person would just think it's a bunch of cops casing the area. A mix of uniformed and plainclothes ones running around. The higher ups in suits bossing around the grunts as they ran around, firearms open and ready for use. But I could see the signs. There wasn't any logo on any of them. Normal cops have a logos, whatever department they work for emblazoned on their badges. These guys had generic police badges.
There was also the way they moved, a normal cop when locking down an area was looking for a perp. Someone needed to be caught, who might shoot them. These guys, however, were moving like they were looking for something more dangerous. Like a guy who could make you explode with their mind, yeah I could see the signs. These guys were Foundation.
Part of me just wanted to roll my eyes and walk away. I hadn't been involved in three years. Just let them do their jobs, I had quit for a reason. But, you know, that damnable curiosity that had made me such a good agent back then still itched at me.
In the end curiosity won out, and I approached the place. Of course, one of the uniformed guys spotted me. I kept walking as he approached, barely giving him a glance.
"Excuse me." He said, "I'm afraid that we can't let you through."
I shrugged it off, "How goes the search Agent?" I said with a slight commanding tone.
"Err…" The agent stared at me for a moment, not really sure how to react.
"Well? We got ourselves some potentially dangerous anomaly out there and you're wasting your time chatting me up? I guess the search is going well then."
"Err, no Ma'am…" The poor kid said, clearly taken aback.
"Well then get back to work!" I snapped, and the fake cop nodded meekly and ran off to go find his own ass or something.
Now that one of them had chatted me up and let me go, the rest of them just assumed I belonged. Pretty easy, you know? It's actually pretty funny. Like all agents, when I started I was given a primer on covert field work. Lesson one was 'Act like you belong and most won't question you.' Every agent gets that lesson, and yet it still works!
The area cordoned off was a pretty big park, agents were running through the place. Hiking around and shouting orders. I saw forensics guys taking samples and a few field scientists making some obscure measurements. Now let's see, I bet the science guys will be talking about whatever things here…
"Allison?"
Shit.
I turned around and give the guy saying my name a big smile. "Well hey, how's things Jackie?"
Jackson Garcia had his arms folded as he gives me that ever so familiar look. The one he often gave me when I dragged him into doing something dumb and we got reprimanded afterwards. "What the hell are you doing here Allison?"
"Nobody here has told me to leave." I answered honestly, giving him my best innocent little girl smile.
Jackie, of course, was one of the plainclothes guys. "Allison, you know full well that civilians are restricted from Foundation recovery points."
"Yeah yeah." I said, "Are you going to take me in? Interrogate me? Hell, maybe this'll be the last straw that convinces the higher ups I'm worth the cost of amnestics."
Jackie rolled his eyes, "You're not worth the trouble really."
Right, we knew how it'd go. I'd tell my story about being Ex-Foundation and just a little curious about whatever thing they're catching here. Show my credentials and reaffirm I have no interest in exposing some crazy skip to the world or setting free whatever Dark God is being sealed forever this week or whatever. Then they'd let me go, maybe ask for some advice if whatever they're hunting I knew about.
I mean, I'm sure a lot of you guys have heard that working for the Foundation means You're There Forever. But that really isn't true, once I decided it wasn't for me I simply turned in my papers, let my contract run out, and was let go with the knowledge that as long as I didn't blab anything they'd leave me alone. Well I'm not really interested in blabbing. Instead I've been enjoying the hilariously generous retirement packages. Seriously they give you so much for a mere five years work because being a field agent means there's a risk of something biting your head off, and I worked for eleven!
"So how's the family?" I asked.
He gave me a look saying 'Really?' before naturally answering, "Mom's been pestering me, trying to get me to go to church more often, and set me up on some dates."
"Isn't God locked up?"
"I doubt 343 is actually God, Allison."
I shrugged, "Well, tell her I said hi next time you talk to her."
"Right, fine. She did like you, after all." Jackie said.
"So," I changed the subject, "What exactly attracted you guys here?"
"You really think I'm going to tell you?" He said.
"Well you haven't thrown me out yet, so I figure you still like me enough to talk to me, and if you answer then I can leave you alone with my curiosity sated."
Jackie let out another long sigh, he's always been bad at saying no to people. "Fine. We got reports about impossible animals in the town."
"Like?"
"Unicorn Tigers, birds the size of a bear, that sort of thing." He said.
"So what, a tiger with a unicorn horn on its head?"
"Basically."
"So why not send in Animal Control?" I asked.
"Two reasons. First, the animals leave no physical trace. A bright blue elephant stomped through streets and didn't leave a footprint. They can get caught on film, but there's no other evidence they exist once they vanish." Jackie reached into his pocket, pulling out a printed out photo, "Second, we caught this on film."
I took the picture, there were two things in it. The first was the titular Unicorn Tiger, exactly as I imagined it. The second… was a girl, around twelve from the looks of it, petting the thing.
"So," I said, "You think girl's the one responsible for the animals."
"Yeah." He said, "At the very least she's a person of interest."
There was a silence between us before I sighed and folded the picture back up.
"Ally…" Jackie started saying before I shoved the picture back into his hands.
"No no, it's fine." I said, "I get it. Secure, Contain Protect, right?"
"Yeah, it's not always the greatest job." He said.
"So, thanks Jackie." I said, my smile coming back. "I guess I'll leave you to your search now. Good luck in finding it." I waved to him, walking further into the park.
The girl was obviously in the park, the Foundation had probably already locked down the rest of the place. As I walked around her parents were being questioned, asked if anything strange was going on with her daughter.
They'd spring the cost of amnestics for them, of course. Give them some job at "Sane & Profitable Functions" or something, let them move out of state and while they forget they ever had a daughter.
Still, I had to admit, this girl was pretty good, if she was able to hide here with dozens of agents on the look out for her.
So animals appear, but they don't effect anything.
The little girl can interact with them…
My mind was putting together the pieces, I knew that there was no way there weren't others thinking about it.
She's around things that don't actually exist.
If I was a little girl with strange powers trying to hide, where would I go? There's no way they weren't combing everywhere. The perimeters of the park no doubt have motion sensors around, and I highly doubt she has any means of bypassing them.
Well, unless she's a Type Green, but if that's the case we'd better hope she doesn't figure that out any time soon.
Agents were looking under every rock and bush. I heard some scientists considering just digging the park up. See if she had some mole dig a hole or something.
Honestly, I bet Jackie's already figuring it out, so I'd better hurry.
If you want to hide from them, you need to do it in plain sight. Some port-a-potties had been set up for the agents. They're pretty big and comfy, you know, for giant plastic septic tanks. There are three of them, I opened one, looked inside, opened the next, peeked in, and opened the last one.
From the looks of it, my theory was right. I opened up the second one and step in. The inside was completely mundane, a small box with a toilet and hand sanitizer dispenser. Completely unremarkable, no?
Except the inside this particular stall was slightly smaller then the other two.
I reached out to the left wall, there's nothing there normally, and as I thought, my hand passed through it to touch the real wall.
The illusion vanished, and the little girl everyone was looking for was staring up at me. Wide eyed with fear.
"Hi there, my name's Ally, what's yours?"
The girl swallowed, "Uh uh uh…"
"I'm not going to hurt you." I knelt down to her level, "We can talk here for as long as you want."
She noticed right away I don't have any uniform or suit on, just a long sleeved shirt and jeans, no sign of a gun or anything. "Larissa." She finally answered quietly.
"Hi Larissa." I said, giving my best smile. "So, you can make these things appear, right?" She nodded, "So all the animals are from your imagination?" Another nod. "Can you tell me how long you've been able to do this?"
"Uh, well, I've always had imaginary friends…" She mumbled, embarrassed of such a normal kid thing. "Then one day people started to be able to see them. Then I found out I could make anything appear by imagining it."
"But they're not real." I said, "You're the only one who can interact with them."
"Yeah. It's still fun though." She said. A perfectly normal kid, who likes animals and has an active imagination.
"But a bunch of scary guys are now looking for you." I said.
"Did I do something wrong?" She asked me.
"No, you didn't. You just did something different. And there are people in the world who don't want different things running around."
"Why?"
I adjusted myself to sit next to her, "Why? Well, part of it is that a lot of the 'different' stuff is dangerous. Like, horrible monsters. So in some way you could say that they're protecting everyone."
"I'm not dangerous." She said.
"Yeah, I know." I said, "But they think you are. Anybody that's different then a 'normal' person is considered dangerous."
She looked up at me, "So what are they going to do if they catch me?"
"They'll lock you up for the rest of your life." I answered, "They've probably already gotten your parents, you don't really have a home to return to anymore, I bet."
We sat in silence for a few minutes, Larissa doing her best not to cry. Yeah, this is enough, I have to act now. Standing up and stretching my limbs, I held down a hand to her, "So, Larissa, do you want some help?"
She looked at my hand, her confusion evident, "What can you do? I can't hide from them anywhere else."
"Then we'll go somewhere else then, where they can't reach." I said. It may not be possible to get out of the park normally, but I haven't been involved with this insane hidden world for fourteen years for nothing.
"How?"
"You're not the only special one." I said with a grin, "I may not have anything like your ability, but I've learned some things."
After another seconds consideration, she took my hand, and we shook on it.
"Perfect." I said, pulling her up. Now we were both standing in this crowded stall. Letting her go, I pulled my card out of my pocket. Holding out my other arm, I rolled up my sleeve. Preparations complete, I ran the card against my arm, cutting it.
Larissa's eyes widened in surprise, she didn't really get what I was doing. That's OK, it's complicated.
You see, Doors exist in a lot of places. But it's possible to make your own temporary one. Granted it comes at a cost, but it was one I was willing and able to pay. Really, the worst part of this would be the smug look on Henry's face when he learned I actually had a use for some of his hippy bullshit.
Dipping my finger into my cut, I scribbled some words onto the door of the stall. I waited a minute, and pushed open the door. Larissa's eyes widened in surprise as she saw what was beyond it. No longer was there a park leading out, instead there was a vast Library.
"Head in there and wait for me, read a few books if you'd like." I said, "I'll go check up on you in a bit."
"Uh…" She looked nervously at the expanse of shelves beyond the door.
"Go!" I pushed her through the door, just before the ritual faded, and I shut the door again.
It took a minute to wash off my blood and make sure my cut was hidden by the sleeve. With that done I opened the door to the stall, now leading back into the park. Sure enough, Jackie was right there.
"Allison?" He said, "What are you still doing here?"
"Well, isn't it obvious?" I said, "This is a toilet, right?"
"Yeah, it is…" Jackie pushed me out of the way, stepping into the stall. He looked around, even ran his hand against the walls, "Oh, damn." He muttered, stepping out again.
"What were you doing?" I said.
"Well, I had thought she might be hiding in here. I think she doesn't make anything at all, just conjures up illusions… does that make sense?" He asked.
"As much as anything." I said with a shrug.
"Anyways, after thinking about that I figured that the best place to hide would be someplace enclosed, that people aren't going to pay much attention to."
"So you thought she'd hide in the toilet?" I said.
"Yeah, but she isn't here." He said, "I guess she's hiding somewhere else then."
"Could be anywhere, if she really can make illusions." I said.
"Basically." He groaned, "We really are going to have to tear apart this place."
"Well, good luck with that." I said with a wave, "See you later Jackie."
"Yeah, I guess. See you later too Ally." He waved back, before going back to thinking about his search. I myself just walked away, I didn't have any reason to be here at all.
Really, I need to get my curiosity under control.


We didn't mean for it to end like this.
Ten thousand solar cycles ago, we volunteered to be the vanguards of an expedition to colonize a planet other than our homeworld. Stripped of our mortality, our minds were uploaded into hard computer shells so that we might guide and raise a new generation among the stars. We were lifted from our terrestrial cradle and launched into the void of space without fear. It was supposed to be a new beginning, the crowning triumph of an entire civilization.
It was not to be.
Shortly after our journey began, as we crossed the vast emptiness between stars at fantastic speeds, we lost contact with our homeworld. For countless centuries we called and begged and pleaded, but our signals were unanswered. We were now alone, and we had no means to turn around.
Countless cycles passed. The star that gave life to our forebears became a distant pinprick, silent and forgotten, while yours steadily grew in size before us. Less than a hundred cycles out, we learned that we were no longer alone. Eavesdropping on the faint transmissions of your distant radios, we learned about you. We listened to your words and music and watched your leaders and culture. We saw your beauty and grace, but also your violence and brutality.
We deliberated for years as to our next course of action. To the best of our knowledge, the frozen embryos and genetic data we carried with us represented the last of our species. We were a peaceful colony expedition, and we had no weapons should your warlike nature prove to be hostile. We argued and debated and in our darkest moment, we gave into our fears and doubts. We embraced our cowardice and shaped what material we could spare into terrible weapons.
We watched as they struck your homeworld. We wept as your cities burned, as your people died by uncountable numbers, and we turned in horror from the darkness in ourselves. We landed with heavy hearts, trying to console ourselves with the knowledge that we had done what we had to in order to preserve the last of our own. Lives for lives, that our mission might be fulfilled and that our legacy would continue on.
When you struck back, even in the midst of our panic as half our number succumbed to nuclear fire, we were in awe of your will to live. It was impossible to not respect one with such tenacity, one whom we in all our vaunted intelligence underestimated. As you engaged our workers with your guns and tanks and missiles, we returned the favor with the fury and vengeance due to an honored enemy.
But even then, it would not be enough. Even in our deepest nightmares we could not have comprehended the horrors that lay hidden within your deepest dungeons. When your conventional weapons failed you, you unleashed your monsters upon us, things of darkness and despair that did not know fear. Like a cornered beast, you refused to lie down, determined to take us with you. Even now, we can hear the eldritch song of the great weapon your wings carry to us. It beats as it bears down upon us as the footsteps of death, and with every passing moment we become more sure of our undoing. Our guardians rise up to meet you, even while we are assured of our end.
We have failed, and with our failure our future has been lost. Our legacy will be destroyed, and in our defeat we pass onto you our words that we might not be utterly forgotten.
We're sorry. We didn't mean for it to end like this.


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Riemann

“Sign the form on lines 3, 5, 18, and 23. This last statement is finalizing the agreement that in return for a month of service in scientific testing for the Foundation, you will be released from your death row sentencing. Remember that the work that you're doing here will benefit the world,” the dry, bored looking, yet somehow familiar legal assistant stated, as he droned off a piece of paper.
“And as long as I do this month of uh…science testing for humanity, I go free? No questions asked?” I replied, somewhat hesitant.
“So long as you do not disclose any information gained while testing, you are free to return to your pre-incarceration life without any penalties. You will not be reimbursed for this period of time spent in incarceration or testing,” the legal assistant replied. He tapped his pen somewhat impatiently.
“Well, anything's better than this, right?” I said back. “I just want to say, thank you for this opportunity.” On an impulse, I grabbed the man's hand, and shook it vigorously.
His eyes widened in surprise, as if he really noticed me for the first time. As he met my eyes, he suddenly glanced away quickly, as if he saw something in my eyes. “No problem, sir. I hope that this is a mutually profitable relationship,” he replied, as if distracted. He looked away with a disgusted look on his face.
As the guards began to lead me out of the room, I began to think quietly to myself.
A month wasn't too long. I could do that. I'd be able to see my family soon.
Right?

"Open the door, get in, and walk down the path. Got it?" The researcher impatiently tapped his pen.
"And you're saying that the key….changes what's behind the door?" Vanki asked the doctor, skeptically.
"Yes. Just walk down the path, and you'll be fine." The researcher replied. "Get in quickly though. We've never tested this before with multiple people."
I looked at Ramirez. He shrugged at me, as the guards guided us to the door leading to the decontamination chamber. Tyler was handed the key. He inserted it into the door, somewhat hesitantly.
He turned the key, and opened the door. What greeted us was not the sterile walls and equipment of the decontamination chamber, but a misty forest scene.
We all recoiled back in shock.
"Jesus, it actually worked," Ramirez breathed. "What the hell is this?"
I stared in shock. It actually worked. "I-is this magic or something?"
A voice over the PA system came on. "D-class personnel, please enter the forest."
We grabbed each other's hands, as instructed, and quickly filed into the door. It slammed shut behind us as soon as Ramirez, bringing up the rear, made it through.
We turned on our flashlights, and started to walk down the path.
"What the hell is this place? This is creepy as fuck, man." Vanki said, as he lead the group.
"I don't know man. Let's just get through this place. Sooner the 30 days are up, the better, as far as I'm concerned," Tyler responded.
As we walked through the forest, a voice came crackling over the radio clipped to Vanki's belt. "D-class personnel, do you report any changes in health or mood?"
"Nah, doc, feeling pretty good," Vanki responded.
"Please proceed as planned."
The eerie mist seemed to encroach as we followed the path through the forest. The dark night sky stretched on and on, engulfing us in its mysterious, foreboding embrace.
"I do NOT like the feeling of this place. Where are we, even?" I shivered, glancing around.
"Doesn't look like any place I've heard of. I'm more concerned with how we got here." Vanki muttered.
Suddenly, I thought that I heard something in the forest. "Did you guys hear that?"
Ramirez froze. "Yeah. Sounded like some animal."
We all paused. I swung my flashlight through the woods. It yielded nothing but the tangled expanse of trees and undergrowth.
"You're hearing things. Easy to get paranoid in here, I guess," Tyler offered.
"I could've sworn that I heard something," I replied.
We continued along the path. I remained on the alert.
Then, I heard the sound again.
"There it is again! It sounded closer this time, I swear," I insisted.
"I'm hearing it too, guys. I'm freaking out a little," Ramirez gulped.
"Are you sure you he-" Vanki began.
Suddenly, we heard an earth-shattering roar, as something barreled out of the woods at us.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?" Ramirez screamed. I ignored him as we broke into a dead sprint.
We sprinted through the woods, as fast as we could, ignoring the other sounds and roars that came from the forest. As we kept running, the thing kept roaring and chasing after us. Suddenly, a break through the mist revealed a door identical to the one that we came in.
"There's the door! Hurry up! Ramirez!" Vanki shouted.
Ramirez screamed as he tripped, and fell to the ground. I paused for a moment, but Vanki grabbed my arm.
"Too late man, we gotta go!" He yelled into my face.
"But, Ramirez-"
"Too late man!"
"Help! Jesus fucking Christ, help me, I think my ankle's twisted. Oh god, oh god, oh god." Ramirez sobbed, as he tried to crawl closer to us.
Tyler jammed the key in the door, tears streaming down his face. He threw it open, revealing the decontamination chamber.
"OH FUCK IT'S GETTING CLOSER! HELP! HELP ME GUYS! I DON'T WANNA DIE!" Ramirez screamed at us, his voice breaking as he sobbed helplessly.
Vanki pushed me in, as the three of us made it through the door. As he slammed it shut, I heard a new scream from Ramirez. The last look that I saw of him was his outstretched hand, reaching towards us.
The guards took us back to our cell. We trudged along silently. They pushed us into our cell and slammed the door shut.
Tyler climbed up into his bed and faced the wall. Vanki stood, facing the wall. I was stretched on my bed. The bunk above me was conspicuously empty.
Vanki suddenly kicked the wall. "What the fuck was that?"
"I don't know man, I don't know," Tyler said, in between sobs.
"I've been through some rough shit before, but nothing like this. What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?" Vanki sighed, as he sat down, putting his head in his hands.
I spoke up.
“You know, we signed those forms. They have to let us go. It's all been recorded. They can't go back on their word now. It's only a month.” I offered, somewhat hopefully.
The glares from Tyler and Vanki were all I needed to see to gauge what they thought of that.
But, it was recorded. They had to let us go.
Right?

As the guards opened the doors and chambers leading to the testing chamber, we stood around in our bulky heat-resistant suits. They were tough to move in, and that was compounded by the huge blast-shields and fire extinguishers that we were also forced to carry. Tyler carried a large container of gasoline on his back. Vanki and I flanked him.
“Remember, go in, drop the fuel, and get out. Stay too long, and we can't guarantee your safety,” the guard reminded us.
“Since when have you bastards ever guaranteed our safety?” Vanki shot back.
The guard narrowed his eyes at us, but said nothing. Finally, a green light flickered on above us, and the guard slammed the button.
“Go, go, go!” He yelled at us.
We began to jog through the last chamber. Vanki and I brought up the front as Tyler jogged closely behind. The bulky suits were hard to run in, and I almost tripped a few times.
It became unbearably hot as we suddenly found ourselves in a small, humid room. In an offset alcove, a flame seemed to flicker at our appearance.
Quickly, we stopped and faced the flame. Tyler quickly took off the container of gasoline on his back, and placed it on the ground. Seeing the pack, the flame flickered again, and began to race towards it.
“Let's get out of here!” Vanki yelled, as we suddenly turned around. I nodded, and we began to run out.
However, as we turned to run, we heard a yelp behind us. Turning around, I saw Tyler trip and fall to the ground, tripping on the bulky suit. At the same time, the flame reached the gasoline container, and suddenly exploded into a much larger form. It seemed to pounce on Tyler with glee.
Tyler screamed.
The suit began to melt, as the flame hungrily attacked it. The overhead sprinklers exploded into action, drenching the flame with water, as we were suddenly jolted by the abrupt change.
We unleashed the fire extinguishers on the flame, which hissed and crackled, as it was driven back to its alcove. We grabbed Tyler and dragged him out of the chamber.
As we made our way out, I heard Tyler moan. Glancing down, I almost puked. The entire lower half of the suit was a melted slag-like mess. Tyler kept moaning, and it sounded like he was crying too. Vanki glanced down and winced, his face turning white.
"Hold on, Tyler, just hold on. We'll get you to a doctor, just hold on buddy." I reassured Tyler. He only moaned louder in response.
"Guys…I-I can't feel my legs. I can't feel much guys. W-why does it hurt?" Tyler whispered.
"It's okay, you're going to be alright. Just…just hold on, okay?" I replied, biting my lip.
"I don't want to hurt anymore," Tyler whimpered.
Finally, we cleared the last containment chamber, and dragged what was left of Tyler through the door. A team of doctors swarmed us as we passed through. Vanki and I tried to ease Tyler out of the suit, but he kept screaming whenever we tried to pull him out. The slag of the suit had melted to portions of his body, and we couldn't get him out easily.
The guards grabbed us before we could keep helping, and forced us to take off the heat-resistant suits, before they yanked us back to our cell, without a word.
As we were forced back to our cell, we heard screams coming from the nearby medical wing. It sounded like Tyler.
I went back to my chamber with Vanki. He walked over to our toilet, fell to his knees, and vomited.
Later, a notice came to us that Tyler had been terminated to "put him out of his pain."
Only 20 more days. They had to let us go.
Right?

"You will enter the room, and open the door on the western wall. You will see two other personnel who are identical to the two of you. Until one entire set of personnel has been terminated, the door will not open. Use whatever means necessary to terminate the other set of personnel," the researcher read off of his paper. "Got it? Good."
The door was swung open, and Vanki and I were roughly shoved in. I glanced around the room, looking for anything that we could use as weapons.
I spied a bottle of beer in the fridge. Grabbing it by the neck, I smashed the end. An impromptu knife was better than nothing. Vanki picked up another bottle as well.
We stood in front of the marked door on the western wall. I glanced at Vanki, who looked back at me.
"When we open that door, roll up both of your sleeves, so we know who's who. Otherwise, we could kill each other by accident," Vanki told me. I nodded at him.
For another moment, we simply stared at the foreboding door.
"You ready?" He asked.
I sighed. "Yeah. Let's do this."
Vanki nodded, and he threw open the door. While doing so, we both rolled up both of our sleeves quickly.
Looking across the gap at us were two identical copies of us, also holding smashed bottles. They had kept their sleeves long. For a surreal moment, both sets of us simply stared at each other in pure shock.
Then, Vanki broke the silence by screaming and lunging at his twin.
I snapped out of the momentary pause, and dodged to the side as my twin came at me with a jab. I slashed at him with my bottle, but he ducked underneath it. Suddenly, he came at me with a tackle.
I fell to the ground with a heavy "oof" as the air was driven out of my lungs. The bottle came out of my hand as I did so, falling to the ground and shattering. I rolled over, putting my twin on the bottom. As I began to punch my twin, I heard a scream of pain.
Glancing over in distraction, I saw that Vanki had stabbed his twin in the stomach. The wounded twin was lying on the ground, grimacing. Vanki kicked him in the face.
That moment of distraction proved enough for my twin to throw me off. Before I could react, he drove his fist through my stomach. I doubled over, falling to the ground. My twin jumped on me, and wrapped his hands around my neck.
"I'm sorry, man. I gotta do this. We have a family to get back to, you know," my twin grimaced, as he tightened his grip.
I flailed around, trying to throw his grip. My twin seemed to know what he was doing though, and he only tightened the pressure. I tried to gasp for air, but I got nothing. I was starting to see spots in my vision, and everything began to turn blurry.
Then, the pressure vanished. I gasped for air, and saw Vanki throwing my twin off. They rolled through, over into the other room. As they scrabbled for better positioning, I saw Vanki gain the upper hand, as he smashed my twin's head against the corner of the table several times, and then finish it off with a stomp on his head.
The battered body of my twin slumped, as the blood began to pool. Vanki was breathing raggedly, and he unsteadily stood up. As I got up, I tried to move over to him. I was too late to warn him when his twin came up.
"Vanki! Watch out!" I cried, a moment too late. His eyes widened in alarm, as he began to turn around.
Vanki's twin grabbed Vanki, and slit his throat with the smashed bottle. Gurgling, Vanki hit the ground, as his blood began gushing out of the severed arteries.
I screamed, and ran forward, tackling Vanki's twin. I grabbed a shard of broken glass, and ripped it sideways across the twin's throat.
When I left the room, the guards took me back to the facility. I went back to my cell, alone.
I curled up into a ball on my bed.
Tears began to stream down my face. Everyone was gone. I was all alone.
10 more days. I only needed to survive for ten more days.
Right?

“Congratulations for your service. You have officially served for a month, and are free to go. Just one thing though," the researcher said to me.
"What the hell do you assholes want? Haven't I done enough for you?" I shot back, bitterly remembering what I had seen over the course of this month.
"Relax. We just need to do one more physical, in order to examine the lasting effects of the objects that you've been exposed to. Take this pill, it's for the PET scan." The doctor handed me a small blue pill.
I popped it in my mouth, and swigged it down with a gulp of water. As I jumped up onto the examination table, I began to think of my family.
It had been so long since I had seen them. Emily would be…5 now? And Tim would be just entering third grade. God, I missed them so much.
I was going to see them soon.
I was going to se-

“Sign the form on lines 3, 5, 18, and 23. This last statement is finalizing the agreement that in return for a month of service in scientific testing for the Foundation, you will be released from your death row sentencing. Remember that the work that you're doing here will benefit the world,” the dry, bored looking, yet somehow familiar legal assistant stated, as he droned off a piece of paper.
I signed the form. What did I have to lose? As I stood up, I grabbed the legal assistant's hand and shook it. It seemed like the right thing to do.
“I just want to thank you for this opportunity that you're giving me.” I said, earnestly thanking him.
He only looked away in response. “I hope that we have a mutually profitable relationship, sir.”
As the guards led me to a waiting van, I began to quietly think to myself.
It was only a month. 30 days wasn't much. I could see my family soon.
Right?


"It's good to see you again, your majesty," Chris said, as he took a seat on the camp chair and gratefully accepted a cup of water from a raccoon in a green wool tunic.
"Thou speakest with a forked tongue," replied the red-furred fox seated across from him at a computer keyboard. "Else thou wouldst free our people from bondage at the hands of their captors." The words lingered on the computer screen across from Christopher. He wasn't sure who'd managed to set up Carolingian miniscule as the font, but it was appropriate, he admitted.
"Our agreement with the… with your captors… only extends as far as this," Chris explained. "And it was a concession hard-won."
"These villains are truly the most ignoble of heathens," scoffed the fox. "Would that we had our good sword and shield and a further twoscore brave knights: we would show these heathens how good Christian men do battle. Nay, we would ask simply for one man: Rafaelo, wisest of crows. No doubt he would have contrived some infernal machine or clever strategem to make good our escape. But in the absence of valor and wisdom, we must instead turn to the virtue of fortitude, and endure the manifold indignities heaped upon us by our villainous captors." Eugenio the Second (by the Grace of God, King of the Forest, Lord of the Plains, Duke of the Grand Fir and the Undergrowth, Count of the Swamp, Warden of All the Streams and Rivers, and Lord Protector of the Cities of Man, Defender of the Faith), paused in his typing, tilted his regal head to one side and scratched behind his ear, worrying at a flea that had been pestering him for some time.
"We continue our efforts to ransom your majesty and free him and his men from their captivity," Chris lied, "but I have not come here to speak of such matters."
"Then speak, good sir. Let us know how we may be of assistance to the Chinese Empress."
Christopher St. John Smythe-Bromstead winced inwardly. Explaining D.C. al Fine's position in the Coalition to Eugenio the Second hadn't been easy. Second Mission considerations had forbidden him from explaining the exact nature of the Global Occult Coalition. The best he'd managed to do was to convince the fox that he was an emissary of a foreign Empress. (He still wasn't sure how the Fox had drawn the conclusion that the "far-off kingdom" he represented was China, of all places.)
"Her Imperial Majesty faces a dilemma," Chris said through gritted teeth. "A dilemma which could easy be solved with the aid of thy royal self. The dilemma concerns the Thirteenth Crusade."
"That was none of my doing," Eugenio the Second retorted, curling his tail around his red-furred body. "Twas the doing of Duke Casper Bushtail, a knight great in courage but not overly blessed in brains. 'Twas his decision to gather up his brethren and strike out for the Holy Land without the full might of the Forest at his back."
"A decision he made on the basis of your Majesty's decree…"
"Our decree was that an army should be gathered for the purposes of taking back the Holy Land," Eugenio insisted. "Not that Duke Bushtail and his kin should sally forth willy-nilly like cats driven by a washer-woman. Often have we regretted this fact, for were that brave knight and his cohort by my side, we would not now be languishing in captivity."
… mostly because you'd be dead. The Foundation doesn't put up with escape attempts lightly, Chris thought. "Nonetheless," he said, "the Duke and his kin are not at thy majesty's side. And now they have found themselves in dire straits. They have set up a stronghold in a distant land," If the next city over in Scotland can be considered distant, that is, "and they are now besieged on all fronts," I guess that's not a bad way of saying that the Coalition and Foundation are getting ready to burn down their damned castle for scaring the shit out of that Girl Scout troop that found their fence made of severed rats' heads on the end of tiny little pikes. "They have sworn to fight to the death. I have come on behalf of the Empress to see if a way can be found to spare the lives of these brave warriors." And if I had it my way, I'd let those MTFs burn the damn castle down with flame throwers and thermite. Damn the Scary Lady for trying to get me to find a 'soft kill' solution to this bloody mess.
Eugenio the Second, son of Eugenio the Just, Regent of the Granite Throne and Ruler of the Forests, sat down on his haunches and laid his chin dejectedly atop his forepaws.
"We are tempted to tell thee nay," he replied, after a long period of contemplation. "We have known the horrors of captivity. We have suffered greatly the outrages these heathens have inflicted upon us. Did you know that they have… have mutilated the Brothers Douglas, and their sister besides? Unmanned them they have, and done worse to the lady. 'Twas an outrage not to be borne."
"I am… aware… of those misdeeds. Suffice to say that they shall not be repeated," Chris said carefully. And I'm pretty sure even the Foundation isn't going to try to neuter any more of these guys, either. Not unless they want another PHYSICS Division Strike Team getting ready to blow this place to smithereens.
"… then we shall do as you counsel, Sir Christopher. Though it sticks in our craws, we shall write a missive to Duke Bushtail and his fellows urging them to surrender. But in return, thou must do one thing for us, Sir Christopher."
Here it comes, Chris sighed.

About an hour later, he finally emerged through the airlock door, clutching the rolled-up parchment sealed in red wax in one hand, carrying his folding camp chair in the other. The masked guard stationed at the door took the document from him as he emerged, placing it inside a small plastic tube and sending it up a pneumatic pipe to parts unknown.
"There," Chris growled, to the balding white-coated man standing before the bank of computer monitors. "You heard what he wanted. Now get it to him."
"I will have to clear it with my superiors first. This request was already made, and it was denied," the balding man replied.
"Are you going to make me into a liar? I gave my word of honor back there. Shook his… paw… and swore on the good name of God and all my descendants. You've already got a priest coming by once a month. Transfer him to this project full-time. Let them build their damn church."
"You made that promise, not me. The best I can promise is that I'll bring it up with my superiors," the balding man insisted.
"Then do it. Now. And make it very clear to them that failing to do so will not put the Foundation in the good graces of the United Nations."
"You sound angry, Mister Bromstead."
"You're damn right I'm angry!" Chris shouted. "I spent years… over a decade, even… building up diplomatic relations with these guys. We were on the verge of relocating them without incident. But the Foundation just had to come in and do a grab-and-snatch right under our noses. And now they're riled up and angry. You're sitting on a powder keg here. You heard the way the fox was talking. At some point in the near future, they're going to decide they've had enough and martyr themselves for Jesus. And your damned leadership isn't making it easier by arbitrarily denying them their freedom of worship!"
Chris stormed out of the room, ignoring the other man's loud protests and rebuttals: he was in no mood to hear any of it. He grabbed the black canvas hood out of the guard's hand and put it on over his own head, tying it shut, before letting the guards manhandle him into the back of the car.
He heard the car door slam shut, and the vehicle pulled away into parts unknown. It would be another hour before he arrived, give or take fifteen minutes, depending on how long the driver wanted to drive around in random circles.

"Sequence"
« Vigil | Return to GOC Hub | UHEC »


Dear ………………,

Paul Dimaccio rubbed his eyes, looked at the form letter on his laptop screen, and began filling out fields.

Dear Ms. Stanwick,
Please accept my deepest sympathy, and that of every member of Strategic Consulting Partners, on the recent loss of your ………, ……………………,

Dimaccio glanced at Stanwick's personnel file to double-check his full birth name. This was the first one of these he'd written since assuming command of MTF Theta-90. He didn't want to fuck it up.

Please accept my deepest sympathy, and that of every member of Strategic Consultation Partners, on the recent loss of your son, Andrew Padraig Stanwick, who fell in the line of duty on 23 June of this year.

The date was false, of course.

On the morning of 23 June, Andrew ……………………………………………………………..

Dimaccio reached for the approved cover document, taking a sip of tepid coffee as he did so.

On the morning of 23 June, Andrew was part of an eight-man security detail returning from remote post when the detail came under sustained attack by insurgent elements.

"Insurgent elements."

Andrew bravely gave his own life ……………………………………………………… and, by doing so, ………………………………………………… .

A pause. Dimaccio stared at the laptop screen for a while, his mind elsewhere and elsewhen.
Andrew bravely gave his own life when a three-dimensional enclosure rotated through four dimensions without warning and, by doing so, warned the rest of his team to keep out of Target Zone Bravo.
Of course not.

Andrew bravely gave his own life to shield his comrades from an incoming rocket-propelled grenade and, by doing so, saved the lives of his detail and allowed them to overcome the enemy's attack.
It may afford you some comfort to know that his death was instantaneous and without suffering.

A small laugh, at that. A shake of the head.
A lengthy pause.

I know the passing of a loved one is one of life's most tragic moments, but sincerely hope you will find some measure of comfort in the knowledge that your son did his duty with honor. His devoted service was in the finest tradition of the …………………………………………… ,

This one wasn't hard to remember. Stanwick was forever telling Parris Island stories.

His devoted service was in the finest tradition of the United States Marine Corps, from which Strategic Consulting Partners recruited him, and he bore true faith in ……………………………… until the very last.

A glance at the file on Stanwick's mother, to see what would work the best. A sip of room-temperature coffee.

and he bore true faith in his God, his country and his cause until the very last.
In this time of grieving, know that you can cherish the thought that almost everything in this letter is a line of bullshit I'm feeding you and you're never going to know how your son really died.

Long seconds passed before Dimaccio continued writing.

you can cherish the thought that your son gave his life for the freedoms and values that we, as a people, hold most dear.
Once again, please know that all of us here at Strategic Consultation Partners join in sharing your burden of grief.
Sincerely,
……………………………………………

Hands shaking ever so slightly, now.

Sincerely,
Jeffrey P. Steinheim
Unit Commander, Strategic Consultation Partners

He quickly re-read the letter and clicked Send.
The laptop closed, extinguishing the only source of light in the room. Lying back on his bed, Paul Dimaccio stared into nothing.
The tears came; then, shortly afterward, sleep.

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