December 21, 1967
GRU-P Safehouse, Siberia
The cold wind blew hard, the snow even harder. Even with their limited accomodations Red Storm was not in the most comfortable position for the holidays, or at least it might have been a holiday for others. For Red Storm, it was another day on the job. It was looking more and more like the team might have to miss any fun New Years events. It was always a possibility, they all knew that— but none of them were hoping for it.
Well, at least none of them except Anya Moloknya. It almost seemed uncanny the way she was so unfazed by the sub-zero temperatures and blizzards. Of course cold weather was nothing unusual for them, but this…
The howling winds could keep most people up, but not Moloknya. Instead she was sound asleep on an old worn couch, without even a blanket. She was the only one among them who would volunteer for a mission into the Siberian mountains on New Years Day.
At least they had some shelter in here. The walls were able to keep out the worst of the wind, and they had a fireplace that could offer some warmth. But there was only so much they could do. The place had been stocked with provisions, and they had least had some mildly comfortable furniture.
Vasili Kestrov sat in front of a waning fire. In one hand he had a journal. In his other shivering hand was a pencil. With the fire going down, he was limited to the faint light of an oil lantern as he hastily tried to write everything down.
His attention was drawn by the sound of a man cursing. Kestrov turned his attention to see Dmitri Tchaikovsky seated at the radio, desperately manipulating dials and switches in what was looking like a futile effort at transmission.
"No luck yet?" Kestrov asked.
Tchaikovsky removed his headphones and looked up at Kestrov, shaking his head.
The wooden door swung open, bolstered by the wind, as a man in a heavy coat entered with a few logs under his arm. The cold air quickly swarmed both Tchaikovsky and Kestrov. The two of them felt like they'd been hit by a freight train as the cold wind entered. Strangely, the only reaction Moloknya had was mild shuffling.
The man stepped inside, and momentarily struggled to force the door closed. He pulled down his hood and removed his goggles, revealing the familiar face of Major Sergei Veronin.
"I managed to get some more firewood," Veronin said. "It can at least keep us going a little longer."
Kestrov closed his journal and slid it into his pocket, before he approached Veronin and began to take some of the wood.
Veronin turned towards Tchaikovsky. "Any luck yet?"
Tchaikovsky shook his head. "This storm is causing too much interference. I can't get anybody."
"Well keep trying."
"Maybe I should go get some more wood," Tchaikovsky said. "I could use a break fr-"
"You're not going anywhere," Veronin said. "You've seen the weather out there. I can't have my people getting lost in the snow."
He paused for a second. "Help Kestrov with the fire. And would someone please get Moloknya a blanket?"
Tchaikovsky quickly grabbed a blanket and gently placed it over Moloknya's sleeping form, before turning to the fireplace.
Veronin took a seat in front of the fireplace as Tchaikovsky and Kestrov began adding wood.
Suddenly, their attention was drawn towards a noise. It was a loud booming sound. Like thunder.
"Did you hear that?" Tchaikovsky asked.
"Thunder?" Veronin asked. "That's strange." He stood up and made his way toward the window. His mouth dropped in awe as he stared.
"I think you might want to see this."
Kestrov dropped a block of wood as he stood and approached the window, Tchaikovsky following close behind.
The night sky was suddenly engulfed by a massive blue-green vortex that dwarfed any effect produced by the aurora borealis.
"Are you seeing this?" Kestrov asked.
Tchaikovsky's eyes widened as he looked at the strange anomaly. "What is that?"
"I don't know," Veronin said. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like it."
"Should we report this?" Kestrov asked.
"How?" Tchaikovsky replied. "There's too much interference for me to get a radio sign- Wait, what's that?"
A silhouetted shape emerged from the center of the vortex. As it started to come into view, they could make out the strange spherical shape.
"I don't recall the cult having anything like this," Tchaikovsky said.
"I have a feeling it's not the cult," Veronin replied.
As the balloon descended, the vortex began to fade, slowly giving way to the night sky. But there was something else, the balloon was not just descending- it seemed to be coming toward them.
A few meters away from the cabin, a set of five or six large columns suddenly jutted out of the snow, forming a perfect circle. As the last traces of the vortex disappeared, the object landed in the center of the new formation.
It was a hot air balloon.
"You think there's anyone inside?" Tchaikovsky asked.
"I don't know," Veronin replied. "Get your coats on, boys. And someone please wake up Moloknya."
Tchaikovsky and Kestrov looked at each other nervously. "You want to do it this time?" Kestrov asked.
Tchaikovsky walked toward the couch where Moloknya was sleeping. He very gently placed a hand on her shoulder and nudged it. All he got was a slight moan as Moloknya shifted her head. He tried pushing a bit harder…
Next thing he knew, Tchaikovsky was prone on the ground, Moloknya sitting on top of him with her blade over his neck.
"You need to work on your reactions," she said.
Tchaikovsky looked Moloknya in the eye and sighed in defeat. He remained on the ground as Moloknya placed her knife back into her boot and stood up.
"You two done messing around?" Veronin asked. Kestrov was already standing next to him, pulling on his left glove.
"Moloknya, get your coat on. We're going outside."
Kestrov walked over to Tchaikovsky, extending one hand towards him. Tchaikovsky looked up and grabbed it. He grunted as Kestrov pulled him to his feet.
"We're not leaving already, are we?" Moloknya asked as she fastened her jacket.
"Not in this weather," Veronin replied. "We've got a possible anomaly on our doorstep… literally."
"You think it's the cult?"
"I'm not sure," Veronin replied. "Bring your rifle just in case."
Moloknya smiled as she picked up her gun and followed the boys outside.
The walk might have been shorter had the terrain been more favorable. Instead, the four of them had to trudge through snow that went up to their knees. Within seconds white patches formed all over their clothes. Even with the gloves, Kestrov's fingers were starting to feel numb. And it was so dark. All their lanterns seemed to illuminate was more snow. Tchaikovsky could have sworn there was snow falling into his boots. Even Moloknya seemed to struggle to keep her footing.
Fortunately, Veronin had the foresight to mark their path, so they could find their way back to the cabin.
"What crazy fool would fly a hot air balloon out here?" Tchaikovsky yelled over the wind.
"Wait, you see that?" Kestrov asked.
"What?" Moloknya replied.
"I thought I saw movement inside- oh there it is again!"
They could just barely make out an orange figure climbing out of the basket.
"How'd he survive out here?" Tchaikovsky asked.
"I don't know," Veronin said. "But we'd better see what he knows."
As they got closer, they noticed the strange figure was dressed in something resembling an orange space suit, but nothing like they'd seen on any cosmonauts in recent years. This looked more like something out of an American science fiction movie, except the visor kept the man's features hidden.
Weirdly, on top of the helmet, he seemed to be wearing a Santa Hat. Even more strangely, he was pulling something out of the basket- a large sack that looked conspicuously too big to fit in the balloon.
As the unit approached, he enthusiastically turned toward them.
"AH HELLO FRIENDS!" The orange-suited man yelled. "MERRY CHRISTMAS!"
The unit stared at the visitor in utter confusion.
"Ah, you must be my Foundation escorts!" the visitor said. "I'm here for the party!"
"What party?"
"The Christmas party! The one you invited me to!"
Moloknya looked at Tchaikovsky, who exchanged a similar look of confusion.
"Sorry I'm a bit late," the visitor continued. "There was construction going on at the veil nebula and I had to take a detour through the pillars of creation. Oh, I needed to talk to Stanley!"
"Stanley?" Veronin asked, growing increasingly confused about what was happening.
"Yes, Stanley Kubrick! He's making some science fiction movie and wanted me to give him tips on how to make space look really accurate! Oh he must be running late. I guess you'd better take me to your Site so I can tell you all about my adventures! You're SCP Foundation, aren't you?"
Kestrov stared in confusion. "Um…" he started to mutter. "Yeah, yeah we're with the… Foundation. You'd better come with us."
"WONDERFUL!" The spaceman yelled excitedly. He then proceeded to start skipping effortlessly through the snow.
"You're all seeing this, right?" Tchaikovsky muttered.
"So what do we do?" Kestrov asked. "Should we try to restrain it?"
"Not yet," Veronin replied. "Whoever he is, he doesn't seem to be hostile and we don't know what he's capable of. Let's try not to provoke him yet."
Moloknya stepped up. "One question- what's an astronaut doing in a balloon?"
"Exactly," Veronin replied. "I say we go along with him for now, see if we can find out what we're dealing with before we take any action."
Veronin turned back toward the strange visitor and called out "Hey"
The visitor turned in surprise.
"Our base is this way," Veronin replied, motioning toward the marker he placed in the snow. The man suddenly started bouncing toward them, hopping up and down like he was on the moon.
"Oh, I suppose I should ask. What do we call you?"
"Why I'm the Astroneer!"
"Alright then, comrade… Astroneer. Let's get you to the base."
As they made their way toward the base, the strange man calling himself the "Astroneer" began rambling about his latest adventures, seemingly unphased by the cold around him. Something about a zepplin, a beautiful girl in a space suit whose face he was afraid of seeing, a "chronicler" who told his story. It was hard to keep up, especially when the team was so focused on navigating the harsh terrain.
"PERFECT!" The Astroneer yelled as he saw their base. "I'd better get ready for the party."
The Astroneer immediately ran towards the cabin. The rest of the team followed.
Kestrov took a moment to pull down his hood and take a deep breath. It was still cold but inside it felt a little bit more comfortable. Moloknya was already unzipping her coat. Kestrov walked over to the firepit to get it set up.
"Oh, this is way nicer than your other facilities," the Astroneer said.
"I'm sure you can understand if we have questions for you," Veronin said. "Why don't you take off your suit?"
"Oh no, I can't do that," the Astroneer said. "That would be inappropriate."
Moloknya sat down at the wooden table and put her feet up. "So who exactly are you?" She asked.
"Why I'm the ASTRONEER!" He said. He put particular emphasis on his name, as though it clarified everything.
"I don't think I've heard that name before," Veronin said. "Is that an American term?"
"America? Oh, no no I'm not from the Megellanic cloud."
Moloknya leaned forward. "We're not asking about the Megellanic cloud. He's talking about America, the-"
"Union of galaxies based out of the Megellanic cloud. It's a great vacation spot but no, I don't come from there personally. But enough about me. Who are you? I don't think I've met you before!"
Veronin approached the spaceman, taking a moment to think how to respond. Finally he decided to simply tell the truth, at least partially.
"My name is maj- Sergei Veronin" he finally decided to drop the military rank, being unsure if it would be safe to mention that. "That's Vasili Kestrov, Anya Moloknya, and Dmitri Tchaikovsky. We're part of a… research team investigating strange occurrences."
"Nice to meet you all! Now let's get to the party!"
"The party," Kestrov muttered. "Well, some of the… guests are delayed so we might have to wait a bit longer."
"Oh no problem," the Astroneer said, a sense of whimsical joy in his voice. "Now presents!"
In all the confusion of his presence, they had apparently failed to register the sack he was carrying over his shoulder, which he immediately slung over and slammed onto the table. "I got presents for EVERYONE!"
He reached into the sack and pulled out four different packages, each one wrapped in bright-colored wrapping paper.
One by one he handed them to each of the team.
"Go on, open them!" the Astroneer said, a hint of anticipation in his voice. "I picked these out specially for you!"
Moloknya bent forward and opened her gift first. As she started pulling apart the ribbon and the wrapping paper, the Astroneer started bouncing up and down with anticipation. At first, she seemed to be playing along. Her eyes widened when she saw what was inside.
It was a scope, made out of a shiny silver alloy. Moloknya stared at it, not entirely sure what just happened. She immediately got up and picked up her rifle, carefully detaching its old scope and replacing it with the new one.
"Try it out!" the Astroneer eagerly said. "Shoot me!"
The entire team turned toward him, confused about why he would make such a request.
"Do it! Come on!"
Moloknya picked up her gun and looked down the new sights. She paused as she saw something very unusual- it looked like some numbers in her field of view. Then she figured out- it was tracking windspeed velocity and moving the crosshair accordingly.
"FIRE!"
Moloknya pulled the trigger before anyone else could react. Next thing they knew the astroneer vanished and rematerialized behind Moloknya. "Amazing, isn't it!"
"Yes," Moloknya replied, still unsure how this seemingly random gift was a perfect fit for her.
Tchaikovsky began unwrapping his gift. As he unfurled the wrapping paper, he realized it was a mechanical component, although he did not recognize exactly what it was or how it worked.
"I thought you could put that to good use."
Now it was getting very confusing. The Astroneer seemed to be here at random and had no idea where he was, yet he was somehow able to get presents allegedly suited to each member of Red Storm.
Tchaikovsky sat down, closely examining the piece of equipment.
"Now what's taking everybody so long. If only Felix were here. He had business to take care of in the Andromeda Galaxy. He'd know exactly how to fix this."
The Astroneer reached into a fold in his suit, pulling out a piece of paper that seemed way to large to fit inside. "Here it is! My invite! It says, you are cordially invited to…"
He stopped and stared at the paper for a second. Then flipped it around. "Oh no! I had this invite upside-down! The party was supposed to be at the Crab Nebula. Oh good, this means Felix can make it! I'd better go pick him up. If I leave now I can still catch an aetheric wind!"
Before any of the team could react, the Astroneer vanished. This time he didn't materialize.
"Where'd he go?" Kestrov asked.
Moloknya's attention was drawn to the window. "Um… I think I know!"
As the others approached, they saw the vortex appear in the sky once again. The shape of a hot-air balloon was silhouetted against it, flying up towards the center. Then it was gone.
Suddenly Tchaikovsky started laughing. Kestrov and Moloknya turned toward him.
Tchaikovsky was sitting in front of the radio when he looked up at the others. "That piece. That weird… module… thing. I'm not sure what it is or what it did but it managed to boost the radio signal! I can get a message out!"
"Excellent," Veronin said. "Tell HQ we need extraction."
Tchaikovsky enthusiastically put on his headphones and began making the transmission.
Meanwhile Kestrov turned to Moloknya and Veronin.
"So what do we tell them about… that guy?" Kestrov asked.
Veronin looked at him. "What do we say? A spaceman came down and gave us a radio booster. This is GRU-P. We've dealt with less believable things."
"GOT IT!" Tchaikovsky yelled. "But I also got something else."
He placed the receiver on the table. A familiar voice came through it, speaking as though it was the greatest speaker system in the world.
"Oh hey friends!" The Astroneer's voice called out. "Sorry, I think I left my kaleidoscope in the Kuiper belt. Can you tell me which way's south from the intersection between Belgium and Jupiter's red spot?"
Tchaikovsky looked at the others in his squad, unsure how to respond.
"Um…" He muttered. Directions on Earth were one thing, directions for a strange spaceman were another. "Have you tried… left?"
"YES OF COURSE!" The voice shouted in response. "How could I forget. I just need to follow Polaris!"
"Isn't that the North Star?" Tchaikovksy asked.
"No no, the OTHER Polaris. The one in the south from Vega. Thank you!"
"You're… welcome," Tchaikovsky replied, visibly confused about the spaceman's odd words.
"I have to go now. Goodbye friends, and Merry Christmas!"
The astroneer's voice was replaced by static. Tchaikvosky turned off the radio.
"Seems like a nice guy," Kestrov muttered. "You don't see a lot like him."
Even Moloknya had a faint smile as she listened to his words.


Canon Hub » From 120's Archives Hub / The Man Who Wasn't There Hub » GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS Hub » Human

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Co-written by Ralliston and Trotskyeet
Ralliston's Authorpage
Trotskyeet's Authorpage
The following article is a part of the GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS storyline. Whilst you can read it on its own, it's highly recommended you read the previous installments to get this article in its fullest.

2004

13th of January
Esterberg's Sewer District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

Queen Mab was dying.
Not all of her, naturally; for such an ancient and god-like being like Mab to even conceive of its own full and genuine death was unthinkable. However, the part of the Queen that was currently occupying the meat puppet strung together by magic and nested in the dead body of Ai'sling Fiadh could very much feel demise crawling on its twisted back.
The thing — as it would be inappropriate to call the mockery of a person the Queen has chosen as its vessel anything but a thing — was surrounded. From every corner of the tight room it had previously thought to be its ally, new enemies emerged one by one. As an army of furious anartists began to surround her, led by two brothers who had ajoined themself to the four who swore to hunt her down, Mab felt truly scared. For the first time since her fall so many millennia ago, the only emotion occupying her nearly endless mind was actual, genuine panic. She couldn't quite decide what she hated more — those four puny mortals for even instilling her with that alien emotion, or herself for allowing her own body to consider said emotion for even a moment.
And soon, that fear turned into anger.
Mab knew she couldn't fight the hundred or so people that stood before her, hellbent on nothing but bringing her down. Not without inadvertently killing this host, at least. A series of impossibly fast thoughts through her soul, she looked deep down into her own psyche. It took a terribly long millisecond for her to find the solution she was looking for. But when she did locate it, a twisted grin slowly entered her dried-up lips. There was only one plan, one card to put all of her money on that could give her enough time to gather the strength that was necessary to take those four hunters down.
And she was going to do anything it took to make that plan a reality.
Knowing what must be done, she made her puppet lift its hands. With a wild flash of green light, desperate power started to run through those twisted fingers, filling them with more and more of Mab's own skills. When the transfer was finished moments later, the Fae monarch simply whispered a few words in a language so ancient as to be almost nonexistent. And the spell was sealed.
As the final syllable of the invocation left the creature's mouth, a sudden sleepiness overtook everyone within the hall. Unable to resist such a divine grasp, all of the anartists alongside Adam Angevin and the Willis Brothers suddenly fell to the ground, blissful snooze in their closing eyes. But the four that dared to lead the hunt against Mab — Marie Surratt, Nobody Damien Nowak, Jessie Rivera, and Magdaleine Cornwell — weren't let off so easily. Instead, she forced a different spell upon their minds. One that would trap them for so long their resistance against Mab would be nothing but useless.
With no power that could rival the Queen at their disposal, the four fell into sleep, too.

Marie woke up to hell.
The world was burning. From every corner of reality, flames burst out, accompanied by the cacophony of clashing steel, rough human screams, and demonic screeches. But the cold, black stone of the twisted castle that encompassed the entirety of reality didn't seem much bothered by it; it has already seen this cycle of violence a million times, witnessing the countless wars between the demons that built the keep and the human souls they tormented. It was more than ready for another repetition.
Realizing where she was, Marie just sighed.
Not even half a year has passed since she climbed out of this hell, and it was already trying to get her back. She couldn't even muster enough surprise to be scared or angry. But then again, what was she supposed to be afraid of? She had already defeated the lord of her own demise, breaking the wheel of violence that ran this particular afterlife. She knew that part of her life had concluded months ago. The thousands of demons and skeletons around her only cemented her knowledge that what she was experiencing was nothing more than a puppet show.
So she sighed once more.
Surratt navigated carefully through the castle in front of her, relying on her vague recollections from her initial encounter with 5572. This time it was different. It was more twisted and uncaring than she remembered it being, as if there was some conscious intent of maliciousness behind its design. Her skeletal hands caressed the cold stones as she tried to make her way past the duels and wars and fears and deaths into the throne room that hosted the demon she needed to kill to get out. Or, at least, the demon she had needed to kill to get out the first time she had been here.
Minutes turned into hours, hours — into days. But Marie wasn't raised a quitter. She walked and she walked and she walked and she walked as she travelled the endless, mind-bending corridors of the keep at the end of reality. She didn't notice the fighting calming and eventually dying out entirely until the silence of it all hit her, and she was left entirely alone. And it was only then — when she got so away from the conflict, from the very essence of this trap — that she found her way before those gigantic doors. Though they were much, much different this time, she didn't need any signs to tell her that she had reached her destination.
With a will filled with nothing but determination, she put her hand on the handle, and entered through.
The hall wasn't like she remembered it being, but after so many changes being done to her own personal hell, she wasn't even all that surprised. The pit of previously dead Foundation personnel was now replaced by a mass grave of corpses that looked like Marie, extending down into infinity. Crossed only by a single translucent bridge, the hole lacked anything that could hide its insides, as if it tried its very best to tell Surratt what sole fate awaited her in here.
At the end of that platform, sat atop a pillar that stood tall in the middle of the pit, a single throne sat. Crafted from wood and gems she barely recognized, it hosted just one, measly figure atop it. A figure so small you could almost miss it, if it wasn't for the intense hatred its mere existence resonated into the area around it. Realizing who it was that replaced the demon that ruled 5572 before, Marie simply tightened the grip on her knife, a twisted smile manifesting her inside will to fight the being in front of her.
From above the seat, Queen Mab grinned back.

As nothing but silence rang in her ears, Magdaleine Cornwell opened her eyes. The white everpresence that immediately filled her vision didn't do even slightly enough to differentiate itself from the surrounding stillness. It took less than three seconds for the fear to settle in.
Her heartbeat doubled within an instant as her eyes feverishly scanned the area around her, desperately trying to find anything that wasn't a flat, white surface within her reach. There was no sky, no sun, no horizon, and no light where she now stood — only an ever-increasing pale plane of blinding monochrome. Cornwell took a step forward, in an attempt to see if it all wasn't just some elaborate illusion, a temporary trap put onto her mind by the Queen's spell. Deep down, she hoped that if she tried hard enough to walk forward and reach beyond this land, she would find the real trap — a place that wasn't like this. That wasn't nonexistent.
Even deeper down, she knew that hope was useless. But she continued to run all the same.
One meter after another she ran, her boots touching a ground she would not feel, a ground she could not feel. As if it wasn't even there, the shoes simply rebalanced off of the flattest surface she could imagine, propelling her forward quickly enough to give her the illusion of progress. But the rest of reality quickly re-assessed these fantasies of advancements as hour after hour passed, and the world remained the same.
Now, there was no longer just fear and confusion that lived inside Cornwell's guts; soon, pure terror joined them as their new roommate. A sudden realization struck her, making her consider only one thing, now; where were the others? Surely, she thought, they could not be here with her. Even if the new world was equally bland to them as it was to her, they could absolutely never share one — it would defeat the point of the torture, would it not? The gears inside her head started turning again, and she felt as if cold rationality knocked on the doors of the previous fear and gave them an eviction order. Now, her brain was solely reason's palace.
She stopped the tread and sat on the ground, ignoring its total lack of any discerning qualities. Putting her hands together, she dived deep into her thoughts, wondering just what else could have happened to Rivera — no thoughts about Nobody or Marie ran through her neurons. Where the hell could she be? she asked herself over and over as paths between thoughts formed inside her brain. If this — whatever the hell the white indifference around her was — was… torture, or at least some version of hell, then surely, Rivera must be in her own version of that, did she not?
She—
Oh. Oh.
As Mag realized where Rivera was and what she needed to do to get her out of it, she let out a prolonged sigh and looked up to the sky. And, among that endless white void, two dots that couldn't be anything but Mab's eyes looked back.

But in that somewhere out there, Jessie Rivera had no such comfort of knowing where the others were. Or even recognizing they were in a different place than the place she found herself in, for that matter.
As her eyes opened again, the first thing she felt was claustrophobia. In every single corner of the world that now existed once more, there were people. People of varying sizes, genders, and nationalities, all pushing together to create one shared, almost black mass of humans. If it wasn't for the fact she'd woken up already standing, Jessie was sure she would have been trampled by their unimpeded movement.
All of them — from the smallest kid to the tallest graybeard — continuously moved forward, their crowd of burying legs treading infinitely into some nonexistent point on the horizon. With a hullaballoo so constant as to be almost deafening, they chattered between each other in languages Rivera didn't understand. She wasn't even sure if the words they spoke were real, or if they were simply some sort of artificially constructed gibberish, crafted by a being that didn't understand the mind of a human being. Either way, she couldn't spare a moment to ponder it, for every time she attempted to think for even a second, someone from behind her pushed her forward as they themselves attempted to continue their march into infinity.
Truly, the only thing that stopped her from suffering a panic attack was the knowledge that none of this was real. Even if it wasn't for the spell she'd seen herself become a victim to before she fell asleep, there was — from a strictly logical point of view — quite frankly no way there were so many people, anywhere. Especially in such a bland and unrecognizable place that surrounded the crowd everywhere it went.
But even the knowledge that it was all fake didn't stop it from being absolutely terrifying.
Rivera had never feared crowds, not really. In her line of work, to be afraid of approaching and talking to people was more than unideal, even if there were quite literally thousands of them around you; it was actively harmful. What made this particular scenario the most terrifying thing she could ever think of however wasn't the most obvious scale of the ever-pushing horde; it was the fact that within this mob, she was utterly and thoroughly alone.
Among her inadvertent colleagues, there was no Asheworth to complain the coffee was too cold from under his baggy eyes. No McCarthy Jr. to fight with over the fact he shouldn't smoke so much, not with his health and family history. No Micheals to awkwardly smile at as you try to get to make conversation with that brilliant yet infinitely tricky little man. And, most importantly, there was no Cornwell anywhere to brighten her day with that warm, warm smile.
All of the others, she could tolerate. Put her in any hell you could think of, strip her of every possession and human connection; she can stand all of that, somewhere deep down. But without the last one, the last and only connection she truly cared for — without something as vital to her soul as oxygen — she could not go on.
She didn't know what surprised her more. That thought, that realization that Cornwell was the only thing she truly needed, or the fact she had never realized it before.

For Nobody, the Hunt was everything.
Every single moment — every waking thought he remembers — was always, always focused on just that one goal, that one motion always running through his nonexistent nerves. The restless nights he'd spent beneath Esterberg's open sky he associated with nothing but his own everchase, always pushing him forward to the ultimate objective he was put on this earth to fulfill: to slay Mab and her horrid offspring.
So, naturally, when the roles of his search had been reverted, Nobody did not like that. Not one fucking bit.
Treading between the dense floor of the forest before him, Nobody swore, the words too quiet for his unstoppable hunters to hear. Or so he'd hoped — he could never be certain what the mounted stalkers were able to pick up with their supernatural talents. He cursed — this time without sound — for allowing himself to slip so fatally, and tightened the grasp on his own weapon. Despite this, he continued his run.
Nobody had never feared death. Not even when he had still been a person — but something deep inside him forced him to run ever since he woke up inside this neverending forest. He didn't even need the constant reminder of the whistles and mocks of his pursuers to make him try to escape. Like a scared animal, he just had to try to get away. There was simply no other option.
As Nobody stopped for just a single moment to try and catch a breath, he noticed his hunters hunting among the tree line. With an almost elven grace they rode their unicorn mounts, bows of pure irrilite aimed directly at Nobody's head. And behind them walked the Queen, her hubris and power emanating from every single fiber as she made it blindingly obvious she could see Nobody no matter where he tried to escape. Though he knew there was no way their weapons could actually hurt him — he was still a skeleton, after all — some alien feeling within his soul made him panic at just the sheer thought of his oppressors catching up to him.
Nobody swallowed hard with irreal saliva going down his equally imaginary throat, and he once again picked up his speed. After all, the rabbit inside him did not want the wolves to get him. Not before he could get to safety, at least.
With the few remaining bits of self-consciousness still inside him, Nobody swore again, realizing how perfectly ironic this whole situation was. He knew the Queen was petty, but that her gripes would go to such degrees came as a surprise, even to him. The thoughts that were still unstained by whatever spell of panic she put on him were too few to formulate a clear plan, though; so Nobody just gave in to the fear of bloodlust forced upon him, unable to resist for even a minute.
And yet, even despite all of that individuality suppressed into almost nonexistence, Nobody's mind still remained livid. Livid just enough to hate his own fate. And livid just enough to accidentally realize how to escape it, too. No matter how much he resented the plan he was about to put into motion.

Where was she? Where in the world could she possibly be?
There was an almost calming quality to the white noise of Mag's personal hell. If not for the thoughts currently running through her head, that lack of sound would be terrifying, only a reminder of the boundless loneliness all around. But it wasn't; instead, it came as a surprisingly good background to bounce her own thoughts off of. She used that universal background to her own advantage the best she could.
Using her finger as a marker, Mag touched the ground. One word, one memory after another she put her thoughts to paper, her eyes still closed. Running her hands through the black canvas, she shaped it with the collective imprint of her recollections of Rivera. As an echo of what she, no, they had once lived through together reverberated through nothingness. There wasn't anything that could stop those thoughts; no sounds, no places, no people. Making the most of that absolute monotony of nothing all around, Mag continued her chore, relentless even after hours of work.
And yet, none of those hours felt like they actually took their time.
The eyes up in the sky could do nothing but watch, terrified at the woman they thought they'd chained down disobeying her own hell. The Queen behind them tried to scream in anger at someone defying her own magic, but she simply could not; all she was able to do now was to observe. Observe as Mag — as a mortal, as a human — formed together a starmap of memories of another man among nothing but loneliness.
In time, that map came complete. Created by pure accident, an expression of love for another human being, the emotions binding it together snapped with energy as the circle closed. It was surging with energy, now; a silent humming of boundless, genuine compassion ran through its veins, burning with heat so warm it could melt the ice that surrounded their hearts.
Mag was never good with spells. Or any magic, for that matter. But as she walked back and witnessed her creation, her cheeks all burning, she now saw that that was simply not true. A small smile entered her face, and she touched the shape that stood before her. From every corner of its infinitely complex structure, memories came, flooding her brain with… not happiness, no; safety. That red hair, always smelling like autumn no matter the weather. Those purple eyes, always so happy in their freedom. And that soft skin, always so warm despite the world's everpresent cold.
Mag inhaled, taking in every single sensation, every single emotion she could gather from that collection of hers, and she took the first step forward into the circle. There was no fear within her — how could there be? She trusted what lay before her too much to even doubt that it would work.
And, as she touched the ground, her hand trembling, she fell through it to the other side of the world.

There wasn't even a second of uncertainty in Surratt's actions. The very moment she saw that stupid goddamned grin, she knew what she had to do.
Grabbing her knife and brass knuckles, she rushed at Mab. The Fae Queen smiled, the expression similar to that of a flycatcher preparing to take its prey. She stood up, superiority visible in her eyes, and took the first step forward. She too knew what was about to transpire. In fact, she had been very, very patiently awaiting it.
As Marie's first attack reached the superficially immaculate cheek of her enemy, Mab simply laughed. She snapped her fingers, and her body reflected the skeleton's arm as if it wasn't even there, a bubble of green energy reverberating around the Queen. The thaumic backlash whirled around in the hellish air for a few seconds before disappearing in a flurry of rainbow sparks, much to the Fae's approval. But even seeing that shit-eating smile, Surratt didn't give up. She just doubled down.
The punches became quicker and quicker until they were nothing but a blur, Mab's shield still withstanding. Though Surratt's resolve was great, the Queen seemed to almost be indifferent to her existence, grinning all the way through the unending barrage of attacks. She then raised a hand, the movement so uncaring as if she was swatting away a fly, and a great wind rushed through the cold, dark hall. It fought against Marie, targetting her and her only, and it made her back one, two, five, no, ten meters. Suddenly, as Mab spanned her fingers once more, it turned into an all-out hurricane, and threw Surratt against the black walls of the castle around her.
As the wind died out, Marie fell to her knees. There was no strength left inside of her, now. Just a chilling exhaustion, as if the breeze fell right through her body and mind and stole all of that heat from her. And in that moment, she felt a cold, cold stab in the middle of her soul.
Within a second, she was no longer the Bone Queen Ruling Hell With Her Iron Fist — she was a small kid, laying beneath a city park tree too large for even the tallest adults. Her knees and cheeks were burning, and there was a tingling sensation within her brain. Whether it was one of embarrassment, fear, or both, she couldn't quite tell, neither then nor all those years later. Her eyes were similarly red, sobbing at the state of her broken leg.
The attack hurt just the same. It struck the same part of her that was that small defenseless child. It—
Within a moment, the tree disappeared. Now, she was seventeen and standing before a mirror, unable to choose whether the suit or the dress would fit the prom her the best. The sheer weakness overtook every part of her mind, not capable of deciding whether she should abide by the rules of her world or be who she was. Some part of her — the part that Mab's magic would suppress, all those years later — yearned to rip apart that awful, awful tuxedo, and make her own rules.
Once upon a time, that memory was one of strength, reminding her of who she truly was; now, though, she didn't even remember what decision she really made that evening. It simply escaped her. Whether by Mab's design or her brain simply letting go of what made Marie Surrat who she was, she wasn't sure.
And, as she felt the lights fade away from her soul, there was one final scene unraveling before her: the moment she died.
Running breathlessly between the trees of the no man's woods, her mind was wandering like it had never done before. Her thoughts almost as quick as her, she traversed the roots and bogs and mists, stranded so far away from the only path forward she was sure she was already done for. The fear that was choking her consciousness almost blinded her.
And then, she heard it.
The cold embrace of her own gun, pointed directly at her.
She didn't even say a word. She already knew the being had taken what it wanted from her colleagues. She just sat there, her spirit entirely destroyed, just waiting with no will to fight for the hunt to end. The being that wore her friend's face and stood above her saw it, and smirked. Knowing the chase was already finished, it did the only thing it should in a situation like this.
It pulled the trigger.
The admittance of loss pulled over Surratt like a tidal wave, and flooded all of her being as she re-emerged back into reality.
She stood there, thinking about what she just saw. Not about the present, not about the mad Fae Queen approaching her with a death sentence, no; just about her own past. About who she had been, the puny human that dared to challenge the nameless. About who is was, now, the skeleton that turned Esterberg into her own playground just because she wanted to. And about who she would be:
…
…
…
She realized didn't really know who she would one day like to be.
But that didn't stop her from realizing something infinitely more important: she just knew she didn't want to be dead.
She turned once more towards all of those experiences Mab showed her as a sign of victory. Towards the tree, which made her feel—
No. It didn't make her feel like the least valuable person in the world. It made her feel like a fighter. It forced her to be one.
She then turned towards the Prom, rethinking it again. And she saw it didn't make her a coward that was unable to decide; it made her a woman.
And the forest — it didn't just kill her. It made her into who she was today, tonight, molding her into an undead fucking mafioso, for god's sake.
All of that mattered. All of that was her. All of that was human. And Mab wasn't. Not in the slightest fucking bit.
Slowly, she looked up. Perhaps if she was somebody else, she would have stayed there, surrendering to the inevitable execution. Perhaps if there wasn't a fire burning inside her, she would have let that goddamned bitch do her bidding. And perhaps if she still wasn't human, she wouldn't have even protested.
But she was Marie Surratt. And Marie Surratt wasn't a goddamn quitter.
She stood up from her kneeling, her weapons ready once more, and she began to walk towards the Queen. She knew she had no chance to win. She had never had any. But at that moment, it did not matter. The only thing that did was getting that monarchist scum out of her sight and escaping this hell one more time. She had already beaten it once. She was ready to do it again.
And now, she knew exactly how to do it.
Seeing what was about to happen, Mab laughed again. She met Marie's gaze with her cold, silver eyes, and skewed her head. "What a pathetic little creature you are," she said with an almost humorous tone. "Prey tell, what are you trying to achieve, exactly?" Her fingertips sparked up with green energy, and a barely visible shadow diadem formed itself above her head. Her smile deepened.
Surratt grimaced. "I'm not scared of you, you bitch." She scoffed, spitting on the ground in her mind.
Mab raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" She reached for Marie's head, the magic between her palms starting to grow more aggressive. "And why would that be?" But there was no curiosity within her voice; just an executioner's call, filling in the awkward silence before a finished job.
Her skull snapped at the Queen. "Because unlike you, I'm real, you faerie piece of shit."
As Surratt's tightened fist threw itself at the Fae's face, it came with such a surprise Mab wasn't even able to duck. She wasn't shocked at the attack, no; she was shocked at the fact her enemy even dared oppose her again. She tried to mutter out a word that would strike her down in just an instant, but that even thought was too slow. With a surgeon's precision, another punch came. Then another. And another.
It was only a matter of a few seconds before that desperate, humanoid manifestation of just a fraction of Mab's power fell down on her knees.
Mab was trembling with fury. The masquerade of composure she had put up was now gone, replaced with a calm realization that she was simply too weak in this form to confront someone as horrid as Marie. And she hated that thought with all her might. Hated it more than her inhuman brain was able to articulate.
The Fae tried to stand up, but was met with another kick and elbow falling on her previously perfect face, revealing the myriad imperfections hidden beneath a glamour she thought to be perfect. She fell on the ground, fake blood spilling down her head, and looked at Surratt, unhidden anger visible from every part of her body. The mafioso simply laughed.
"Get the fuck out of my city, you forest fuck," she shouted, delivering one final kick to the irreal body of the dying monarch. "And never," she grabbed her head, and leveled it with her own. "ever come back."
And then she walked away.

Jessie Rivera's world was full. Full of everything she could imagine — from people through emotion to, eventually, fear. And among that — among that infinite, ever-stretching mass of nothing but the full sum of human experience and life — she herself stood tall. And she stood alone.
There was nothing that could break that prison of loneliness, not ever. Every corner of reality might've been filled with people, but they were not truly human; they were merely puppets, bad imitations of a person that tried so desperately to lie to her with their faces as they continued their never-ending march forward. Rivera followed them bravely — after all, she did not wish to be buried underneath all of that squirming — but deep down, she was scared. Scared like she had never been before.
But the worst thing in the world wasn't that awful, awful feeling — the worst thing in the world was that Rivera knew that there was nothing she could do to ever win against it. Not ever. No matter how hard she tried to beat the pouring waterfall of those semi-humans around her, no matter how hard she tried to blend in with them, and no matter how hard she tried to think about Mag, she would always remain an odd one out, forever doomed to wander this liminal hell. And she would be doing it alone.
And then, just as she was about to give up, just as she was about to accept her fate, she heard a sound.
With a plop so quiet it almost mixed in with the crowd's commotion, a small hole in reality — not in any ceiling or wall, but in the fabric of the world itself — opened up above her. The circle burned with a light so powerful and so compassionate it almost blinded her. Unable to withstand the full might of the emotion that became manifested before her, Rivera squinted, covering her eyes with her arm.
But before she allowed herself to do that, something inside her made her stop halfway through the motion. And how glad she became when she realized why.
Two smiling eyes popped up from the unreality before her, and were soon followed by two equally happy arms and legs. A storm of blonde locks fell through, and as the gate between worlds closed, Magdalaine Cornwell stood up from the cold ground, her warmth radiating against the contrasting world. She looked into Rivera's eyes and smiled. And — even though no words came from either — both of them knew they needed nothing more but themselves.
They didn't speak. They simply embraced each other, happy like they'd never been. For what little it was worth, right now, nothing but the two existed. Neither the crowd on one side nor the white loneliness on the other. For a single infinitely long second, the only thing that was worth even considering as real was Jessie Rivera and Magdalaine Cornwell, brought together by a kiss so needed it felt nothing but natural.
And with that, hell simply became undone.

Nobody didn't want to do it. But right now, negotiation time was over. It was time for action.
He took a silent breath, and immediately stopped in his tracks. It took all of the will he could ever muster to resist the urge to run. It hurt like a motherfucker, but there was nothing else he could ever do; Nobody had simply no other choice. So, clenching his fingers, he forced his feet to cease all movements, looking directly at the three Fae that stood before him.
The imitation of Mab scoffed mockingly. "Worm," it laughed richly, throwing its silver hair to the side. "what are you hoping to achieve? You have already lost," it added, poison dripping down its full lips.
For a split second that lasted infinity, Nobody wanted to continue their chase. The animal inside of him, the void of personality the transformation to Nobody left as a scar in his soul; it wanted to give in to its most basic urge, trying its very best to run away from that overwhelming fear. But, with a heart so heavy it was almost unbearable, Nobody had to admit he wasn't just a nobody. So he reached into that part of himself that was still Damien Nowak.
It hurt almost just as badly. If not worse. Nobody was too lucid now to even be sure.
As a spark of change rushed down the baseline of his essence, Nobody fell to his knees. All three hunters observed as the skeleton before them screamed in indescribable agony, grabbing his head with his two, bony hands. A split, a wound like he'd never felt or seen took its knife and jammed it into his soul, finally breaking apart the wall that kept the beast within caged for so long. His breath was unsteady, now; if hyperventilation was an issue he could still have, he was sure that by now, his lungs would be turning.
The wolf that was buried beneath the six feet of nothingness awoke, its red eyes glowing in the dark of the being that had called itself Nobody for so long. It smiled with its long, white teeth, and shook its shaggy, black fur. There was nothing stopping it from finally breaking free now, it thought as the weapon of surrender smashed at the walls of its prison over and over again, bridging the ravine between the two souls that battled inside of Nobody like some twisted imitation of a bridge.
How terribly human.
As the wolf howled and Nobody called out to the heavens once more, it look a leap of faith forward, and landed directly within the Nobody-shaped hole that sat where his soul should have been.
The Queen gasped silently, and within a moment, Nobody changed. He stood up, but this time, he was no longer a skeleton with a hat and a trench coat. This time, he was a man. A man bearing long, dark hair and a scar burn, his previous crossbow replaced with two eyes burning with so much hatred and determination Mab was almost scared. The transformed Nobody-Nowak looked at her, and she felt his animalistic urge was entirely gone, overridden by the human he had once been. The only thing that stood within his mind now was the consciousness of man, hellbent on doing the only job it was summoned to do; get rid of Mab.
The Queen took a step back. But it was already too late.
Her Hunter put his hand up and pointed a finger at her. Around it, sparks of Nowak's magic and jolts of Nobody's weaponry started to dance, ready to let go at their horrid target at any moment their bearer wished to. He looked at Mab, pure disgust in his face; but instead of getting it out of his system, he simply gathered every single quark of repulsiveness, every bit of anger, and every atom of fear he still had within him. He gathered it up and pointed it to its finger, which furiously challenged Mab and her integrity.
And then, he fired.
For a moment, he let the part of him that was still him mix with the part of Mab that was still Mab, and, with a gaze so furious it was almost blinding, it whispered one quiet word into the pointy ears of the part of the Queen that dared leave her full soul and entered Esterberg.
"Die."
And so, it did.

15th of January
Site-120: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

It had been two days, yet the festivities back home at Site-120 were still in full swing. It wasn't every day that you stop the apocalypse, and even rarer that you do so twice within a few decades. A few personnel drunkenly staggered through the near-empty halls, while some senior researcher crooned ABBA off-key over the intercom. For a moment, all was good.
Mag sat in her office, tapping a foot to the muffled rendition of Dancing Queen that barely strained through her closed door. She had partaken in the festivities, of course; lukewarm soda and a half-eaten cookie lay scattered on her desk, but there was work to be done, and she couldn't get distracted by so much fun in one lifetime. Besides, she really needed some quiet, and—
The door suddenly opened, and a certain redhead poked her face inside. "Hey."
Mag finished a signature with a flourish, setting aside a ream of manila folders. "Hey," she smiled.
Jessie invited herself in, sprawling on a couch at the far corner of the room. "So, uh, you doing anything right now?"
"Not really, no. I just got off the phone with King Ragna. Apparently a legion of Droganians just appeared in Wrocław, ready to fight Mab," she gently chuckled. "Only problem is they emerged from some old lady's rose bushes. I mean, the amnestics alone," she rubbed her temples. "God, I forgot that saving the world needed this much paperwork."
Jessie crossed over to the desk, idly tapping her fingers. "You know, you don't have to be on all the time, we defeated the physical manifestation of evil! Or, well, the closest to it we've got. You deserve a night off."
The intercom vocalist hit a particularly high note, and Mag rolled her eyes. "So I can duet with Jeremy on Mamma Mia?"
"Definitely not that." Jessie laughed. Underneath the table, her leg bounced nervously. "We could… get some fresh air? There's this Thai-Yeren fusion in Esterberg that I've been dying to try. What do you think?”
A flicker of something went across Mag's face. "It's a date."

15th of January
The Starless Street: Esterberg, Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

A cold worry strangling ver thoughts, Ailbié Tier'ney nervously paced the warehouse rooftop. No signal. Fiadh promised a signal. Ve knew he had a penchant for the dramatic, but in the name of the Queen, if he didn—
Ve felt the barrel of a gun press against ver back. A gloved hand clasped ver mouth.
"Your bodyguards are dead." A rough voice exclaimed. "Scream, move, try anything stupid, I empty this into you." For just a moment, the press got harder.
Then, the hand moved away. Ailbié gasped, struggling to force air back into ver lungs. "Wh-Who are you?" ve sputtered inbetween coughs.
For a moment, nobody said anything. So ve used that time to try to get an answer verself. From ver periphery ve saw it. Humanoid, crisp black suit, skeletal. Ve sighed. "Marie Surratt."
"Guilty as charged," an almost unnoticeable smirk went through her voice. "Fiadh is dead."
Ve didn't move a muscle. "Shame."
"You don't sound too broken up about it."
"Fiadh was misguided," ve said, just a bit of disgust in the words. "Weak. He lost himself in his insane ramblings more often than not. He was not worthy of Mab's embrace. I assume the ritual failed?"
Ailbié felt the barrel lift from ver back. Surratt crossed over to sit on the ledge, keeping a steady gaze (which was, frankly put, rather impressive given her lack of eyes) and weapon trained on ver the whole time.
"Mab is dead. Foundation killed her."
Ve scoffed with something Marie recognized as almost pitty. "She isn't gone. It'll take more than that to get rid of a god. Especially of a god of that magnitude."
Ver jaw clenched as Surratt reached into her pocket. She pulled out a cigar and a lighter. "Be that as it may, looks like the chain of command of your little Triumviraté cell is gone. That is, except for you."
"…So you've come here to kill me?"
"Similar enough." Marie shrugged. "Job offer. Triumviraté's a headless chicken, now that they cut off Mab. It may run around for a few months, but the Foundation's coming for you, and they're coming down hard." She let herself pause for dramatic effect. "What you helped do back in '85 don't mean jackshit to them, so don't even try it. Heard they've even got a few liaisons out in Geneva to strongarm the Free Ports into taking out every cell you have. Pretty soon you won't be able as much as breathe in a Port without a frisking by the Blue Helmets."
Ver hand dropped ever so slightly down into ver pocket. "Or?"
"Or we consolidate. Join forces, and I smuggle you and yours out of here to one of my safehouses, and you lay low for a few months until the heat dies down. Do a couple odd jobs for me every so often, and I keep the Skippers off your back. Win-win, everybody's happy."
Then, there was a knife. Irrilite. Flashbang with an ISCUT-style illumination spell, and she could pierce the cranium in less than a second.
"What if I say no?"
Surratt lit the cigar, the smoke trailing up into the night sky.
"There's a Gockie Strike Team a hundred meters above us. Three separate Taskforces circling the building. And I hear City Patrol's got an honest-to-god dragon that they're scrambling as we speak. I say the word, and it's go time."
"You're bluffing."
"Could be, but are you willing to take that chance?"
Ve scoffed again. "So what is this, extortion? Bring a damned army, kill my guys, and expect me to submit?"
"This operation was going to go through with or without me. They've had a sniper trained on you — don't bother, antimemetic cloaking — since you stepped into the building. I told them to give me ten minutes, and I could convince you to dissolve your Triumviraté band. You've got brains, and — more importantly — a conscious, which is in ever short supply these days."
She leaned against the wall, cocking her head at the Fae. Then, she continued: "I'm heading south towards the docks. There's a boat captain waiting for me, Eurtec-bound. If you accept the offer, feel free to come along. If not, best of luck."
Without another word, the skeleton somersaulted over the edge and into the night, cigar smoke trailing behind.
Alone in the cold of the Polish winter, Ailbié Tier'ney stood for a moment, and made ver decision.

15th of January
Esterberg's Market District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

Despite the brisk winter air, the atmosphere of Ambrosia's garden was comfortably warm. Whether it was due to the surges of fire magic running through the heaters around it or the woman that sat across the table, Jessie Rivera could not quite tell.
The two days that had passed since Mab's failed insurgence have passed quickly. A little too quickly, perhaps; during all that rush to get everyone in the best shape and report to Overwatch Command and O4 and god-knows-who-else, Jessie had barely any time to actually plan today. But with everything finally put into motion, knowing there was no cosmic god or equally hellish bureaucrat that could now stop her from doing what she had wanted to do for so long, she smiled.
"The place's pretty," Magdaleine Cornwell commented, the kindness in her voice almost so uncharacteristic to people that didn't know her. Finally off duty, she was wearing her best dress tonight. Its reds contrasted wonderfully with her beautiful hair, which fell down her face. She was so pretty Jessie could barely see the bandages wrapped around her arm. Noticing Jessie's glance, she chuckled, "Hope the food is just as good."
"Yeah," she replied, a slight tone of nervousness entering her voice. She herself was wearing her fanciest — it would feel wrong to pick up anything but that tonight. Yet even then, she was unable to rid herself of all of her anxiety. But then again, would she even be human if she was able to?
Suddenly, Mag's eyes locked with Jessie's. She swallowed, and put her hands together. "Jess, I… We've been… dancing around something for a while, now. What, five years? And… I've been meaning to talk to you about that something."
Jessie could practically feel the sweat start to go down her face. "Yeah, me too."
For a moment, they didn't speak; they just looked at each other, trying their very best to ascertain whether they were both thinking the same thing. Eventually, though, Jessie cleared her throat, and put forward a hand, its fingers almost trembling.
Unsure of what to say, Mag looked at her palm, which now moved slowly as violet sparks ran through it. Jessie snapped her fingers, and a single silver ring appeared between them. A beautiful irrilite crystal sat atop it, a few jolts of magic still trapped inside it, still burning with their rainbow colors. She inhaled, a slow shiver going down her spine.
"Magdaleine Cornwell," Jessie started, her purple eyes looking directly at Mag. "Will you marry me?"
For a horribly long moment, Mag didn't reply. But then, she smiled, and picked up the gift gently. "Yes, Jessie," she replied, tears of joy starting to form in her eyes. "I will."
And, as the two embraced each other once more, everything else stopped being important. No Mab, Triumviraté, and no Foundation; the only thing that mattered now and forever was just Jessie and Mag, brought together by their shared compassion.
In that very moment, both of them were more than sure they were the only thing they could have ever wanted or needed. For all of eternity.

15th of January
Esterberg's Sewer District: Częstochowa, Silesian Voivodeship, Poland

Nobody, however, could not say that for himself. The hunger that burned his soul from the inside out was still far from being satisfied.
Somewhere deep inside Esterberg's Sewer District, the bony crossbow-bearer stood, frantically searching through his hideout. He scribbled something down one notebook after another, desperately trying to make sure the knowledge of what happened to Mab wasn't lost. He had banished her from the city, of that he was sure, but everything on heaven and earth pointed to the fact that that was only a part of the dreaded queen. Her rest, he thought, was still somewhere out there, quietly bidding its time until its inevitable return.
And he could not allow it.
Even as the frenzy of the hunt overtook him once more, Nobody could not forget what had transpired inside of Mab's hell. His name hadn't changed — he still felt he was no one else but Nobody — but deep down inside him, something broke. And he was afraid of it. He could feel that a part of him — a part of his soul — was now split, unable to choose between the hunter he was and the Damien Nowak he had once been. And, he feared, it was there forever now. Always waiting for Nobody to make the inevitable choice.
It was tearing him apart from the inside. With every move, every step he took, he felt that split inside him only deepen, but he ignored it all the same. He had a job to do. So he was about to do it well.
Suddenly, Nobody snapped his notebook closed, and picked up his crossbow. With a heavy heart that wasn't a heart, he looked down at his previous lair, and rummaged all the remaining items within it that he could still find useful. After a while, he knew he was ready. He corrected his wide hat, opened the map of Mab's possible locations, and deadlocked on the next position he marked down upon it.
The hunt was far from over.

People Without Meaning

GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS

Jäger, Part 1


Winterheart

More by this author.

It wasn't until her thirteenth birthday that Juniper Castel learned that you don't have to follow the rules. Until that fateful day she was a veritable beacon of virtue. She only very broke very small rules, and always stood up for her little brother Liam (even when he was making a nuisance of himself). She never pretended to be sick, she never picked on the other kids, she always did her best to pay attention in school. She didn't always turn in her homework on time, but that wasn't her fault because Grade 8 math was just too hard for her sometimes.
Juniper's parents were a little on the neglectful side. They weren't bad people by any means, they just weren't up quite up to the daunting task of raising children. Her mother was a dutiful office worker who had troubles saying no and came home late most days. Her father was an easygoing man who played bass guitar and sometimes did puppetry for children's TV. He was often out of work, and drank a little more than a man ought to.
Little Juniper grew up with a strong sense of responsibility. She woke up early to make school lunches for Liam and for herself every day. She made sure the dishes were done after meals. She knew, in her heart, that you had to follow the rules, or things would start to fall apart.
She was about twelve and a half years old when things started to fall apart anyway. Her parents started fighting all the time, about stupid little things. Her father spent more time away from home. Her mother didn't like how much time he was spending with that man he worked with on the puppet show. It wasn't fair. Juniper hadn't done anything wrong.
Only three other people came to Juniper's thirteenth birthday party. Liam was one, her father was another. The third was her best friend Sammy. She used to have more friends in school, but most people thought she was too stuck-up to hang out with these days.
Her mother was not present, as an urgent meeting at the company had demanded her attention. Juniper thought this wasn't very fair, but she understood that her mother had to follow the rules as well.
The cake was okay. The party was okay. Juniper got a new bicycle, because her growth spurt had started and her old one was getting a little too small. Juniper was okay.
The first big rule that Juniper broke was after the party, when she punched Sammy really hard in the stomach. She knew that was extra bad because, even though they were the same age, Sammy was still a lot smaller than her. She did that because Sammy had said something mean about Juniper's mother for not coming to the party. Sammy puked up the birthday cake she'd just eaten, and she cried a lot, and Juniper felt really bad. But she cleaned up the puke and Sammy stopped crying, and when they talked about it afterwards Sammy forgave her and apologized for what she had said.
The second big rule that Juniper broke was when her father asked about what happened, and she lied. She knew that was bad because lying about breaking a big rule is almost as bad as breaking it in the first place. She did that because Sammy lied first. Sammy said she'd just thrown up because she ate too much cake. Juniper didn't want Sammy to get in trouble for lying, so she lied too.
The third big rule that Juniper broke was when she turned her little brother into a doll. She knew this was a bad thing to do, because she'd seen a bad guy do it in a cartoon one time. She did that because she knew he was about to snitch on her for lying. She felt bad, because she'd always told him it was important to tell on people if you know they're lying about something big, but she really didn't want Sammy to get in trouble. She turned him back after Sammy left and apologized for being mean. He promised he wouldn't tell on her. He seemed really scared, for some reason.
Even though she'd broken the big rules, things didn't fall apart. Actually, Sammy and Juniper became even closer friends, and Juniper started spending more time at her house because Sammy's parents didn't argue all the time. Juniper started breaking more rules, mostly little ones but occasionally big ones. She lied to her teachers about why her homework wasn't done to get more time. She took Sammy and Liam flying sometimes, even though people aren't supposed to be able to fly on their own. One time, when she forgot where the Statue of Liberty was made on a history test, she changed it so her answer (France) would be right. It turned out she could break all kinds of rules, and if there were problems she could just fix them by cheating a little.
When she found out her parents were going to break up, she decided they shouldn't be her parents anymore. She talked about it with Liam and Sammy, and they thought it would be better if they were all siblings and Sammy's parents were their parents. Sammy never liked being an only child.
Sammy and Juniper were born less than a month apart, so their birthdays would have to be changed a little so they could be twins. There were some other things that wouldn't really make sense, but Juniper was sure she could smooth over anything strange that happened.
It turned out this was a really big rule, and breaking it was kind of hard. She had to change the birthdays first, then make herself and Sammy twins, then bring Liam over a week or so later. Juniper's old parents found it much easier to break up once they'd forgotten about her. Her father moved in with his boyfriend who worked at the puppet show, and her mother got promoted at her company. Juniper and Liam missed them a little, but Sammy's parents were very nice to them so it wasn't too bad. Everyone seemed happier. Juniper was very pleased with herself.
Sammy's (and now Juniper's) father's job was teaching about robots or something at the local college, and her mother stayed at home to take care of Sammy. They didn't really have enough money to take care of two extra children. Juniper wasn't really sure how to fix this. She tried giving her new dad a better job, but he didn't seem like quite the same person after that and she didn't like that. She tried just making it so he earned more money at the same job, but that kept changing back for some reason whenever she stopped concentrating on it. Eventually she thought of inventing a rich, elderly relative to have him die and leave all his money to their family. That seemed to work, and afterward they moved to a bigger house and didn't have to worry about money as much. It was really weird having to go to the funeral of a man she'd made up a week ago.
Six months after her thirteenth birthday (her original birthday, that is) Juniper realized something was wrong. She'd made lots of new friends at school and her family was well-off and her parents loved one another, but it all felt terribly thin. People were too nice to her. Their eyes were empty. Only Liam and Sammy knew the truth about what she'd done, and even they seemed to have changed somehow. Liam hardly ever annoyed her anymore, and Sammy never argued or said anything insensitive.
On that day, just after dinner, six months after she started breaking the rules, Juniper decided she'd done enough. Things were okay now. The problems that made her start cheating were all resolved. She'd miss the little stuff like flying around and moving things without touching them, but not too much really. It was time to stop cheating.
Her family collapsed on the spot like puppets with their strings cut. She stared, stunned, shaking, unable to move. They lay still for minutes, twitching a little, before Sammy managed to struggle to a sitting position and open her eyes. She looked at Juniper, let out a horrified, inarticulate scream, and scrambled out of the kitchen clumsily on her hands and knees. Liam started to cry quietly.
Something deep inside Juniper pulled taunt and frayed dangerously. This wasn't fair. How could she have known? How could anyone have known? What was she supposed to do? Liam cried for her to stop, please, no more. Her new parents were still twitching. She wanted to fix them, but she understood, now, that she couldn't. She wasn't a miracle worker, only a puppeteer. Like her father.
She felt cracks forming in herself, in reality all around her. She whispered, I'm sorry, but she knew she won't be forgiven. She'd gone too far, broken too many rules. She couldn't tell the difference between things that happen and things she made happen anymore. The last clear thought she had was that she was about to break, and if she broke there, her family won't make it. On the ground, Sammy's mother called her real daughter's name in a slurred and uncertain voice.
Juniper Castel stopped being where she was and started being somewhere else, out in the woods, far away from other people. There, finally, she let herself snap, and the world around her twisted beyond recognition.

/

The Puppet Show

Juniper Castel Has Guests Over For Tea


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Ironically enough, he wore a monocle. Tyler had wondered what he looked like, still did, and yet noticed the golden rimmed eyeglass wedged in front of his eye. He supposed it was intentional; after all, if he didn't want it to be noticed; it wouldn't be. But Tyler had never seen anyone wear a monocle in his life before, as they seemed impractical for their worth and certainly weren't fashionable.
To be fair, he'd never met an O5 member either.
The councilman sat across from him in the interrogation room, a pale space illuminated by droning fluorescent lighting and giving off a faint smell of industrial bleach, which made Tyler feel vaguely light headed, though he kept his posture straight and his gaze focused on the man, attempting to discern any detail in his face. He knew it was impossible; the antimemetic distortion field infuriated Tyler because of the intangibility of his appearance. Tyler could see him; he wasn't invisible. Despite that, nothing about him, not age, skin or hair color, would remain in his mind as soon as he looked away, and when he was staring it was like describing a scent or an object he had never experienced before in his life, never quite encapsulating the sensation. Except that damn monocle.
"Would you mind taking it off?" Tyler asked. He sensed a shift in the councilman's expression, though whether it was surprise or disapproval evaded him. He reached for the glass and plucked it off his face, tucking it away into an invisible corner. "Thank you," Tyler added, then shifted in his seat hesitantly.
"Tyler Yamaguchi. Current head of ATF-Chi-43, designation "Four Eyes." We are here to discuss a potential relocation of your current designation." That took Tyler by surprise. He had known he'd been meeting with an O5 for nearly months now, and had taken more than enough time to prepare. But he hadn't expected this to be the topic of discussion.
"…Sir?" Tyler ventured. "I'm being relocated?"
"That is correct," the councilman affirmed.
Tyler hesitated for a moment, carefully considering his words. "Have I made some sort of mistake, sir?" He questioned, curious as to whether this was a demotion or not. This sort of treatment wasn't call for a downgrade in rank, and Tyler was fairly certain he hadn't done anything wrong; he had practically been married to his position since he obtained it, sometimes even enjoying it. But Tyler was already of the highest reasonable designation possible, and couldn't imagine what sort of promotion this could possibly be.
"There is no mistake, not from you," the O5 member explained. "I am here to transfer you." He made another undefinable shift in movement. "No recording devices," he murmured. His face moved some more before finally settling again. "This conversation is not to have taken place," he addressed Tyler, who nodded slowly. He looked around the room and had a realization; there weren't any cameras, or recording devices like the O5 had said. That wasn't a request, it was a statement. It was an odd feeling, considering how prevalent surveillance normally was at the site, and Tyler couldn't help but feel unnerved. He looked back to the councilman, who continued talking.
"You possess a reasonable resume, as you're aware. Former work with the CIA in surveillance, onboarded nine years ago as a Task Force operator at twenty nine. Fairly young for this line of work. Promoted multiple times until eventually assigned to current position." He mused thoughtfully. "You will work well for this, I believe."
Tyler hesitated to inquire, preferring to play on the safe side until he figured out the O5 member's manner of conversation. He spoke flatly and confidently, almost as if he was silently assured in every word he spoke, every fact or even opinion he uttered. It was a deliberate confidence that intimidated him and creating an involuntary sense of respect for the man sitting across from him. He paused for another moment, waiting to see if the member would speak further. Tyler opened his mouth to speak, but the O5 interrupted him right before he began.
"Your current Task Force is compiled of around thirty people, all dedicated to the sole purpose of containing and preventing spread of SCP-7797. Correct?"
Tyler grimaced at the mention of 7797. That number had rang throughout his mind for the past three months, whispering in his ears, burning itself in his eyelids as he slept. He could never go a day without hearing the number mentioned by a coworker or written on a document. He had never imagined something as simple as a number, a non-anomalous number no less, could cause him this much stress and anxiety, yet after Incident 7797-B, he had been working overtime just to play catch up with the anomaly he had been assigned to.
"Correct." Tyler muttered in a hushed whisper.
"And how successfully has your team handled this?"
Tyler paused again for nearly a minute, recollecting his thoughts and memories from the past few months, the data he had seen, the operations he had been on. There was no point in sugarcoating it to this man. He cleared his throat and readjusted his posture again.
"Not well enough to effectively halt the replication. While my team has managed to greatly reduce civilian exposure to the anomaly, the nature of its creation means that during the time we take to locate it, civilians are still vulnerable to potential exposure, no matter how quickly we reach it. I've read the data and we're seeing trends of a potentially exponential increase in appearances. By next year, it would be virtually impossible to contain 7797 with our current size and budget, which," Tyler noted, "is abnormally high, compared to the other forces I've worked on."
"We're good at our job, and up until recently we've kept civilian exposures to a minimum, approximately 12.8 a month on average. But the fact is, the amount of instances are increasing, so much to a point we just can't blame it on coincidence. This could end up being a serious problem for the Foundation, and it could mean a Broken Masquerade scenario."
Tyler hesitated for a moment, then continued in a lower tone. "The instances are more aggressive now, more public. That's helped us locate them more quickly, sure, but it's also meant drastically more exposures. It's like they're trying to maximize public manifestation. If I didn't know better, I'd say this anomaly was intelligent." Tyler stared up at the O5 councilman. "But I don't know better, do I? The instances have only started increasing in prevalence after the Incident in October, and I think that only happened because of Incident 7797-1, which I don't even have the damn clearance to know!"
Tyler quickly realized he was raising his voice, and deflated back into his chair, forcing himself to take deep breaths. "I'm sorry, sir," he began to formulate an excuse, but the councilman cut him off.
"I am aware of all of this. I've been keeping up to date on all the data myself." Tyler looked up slowly in confusion. He knew the data was accessible to the O5s, but he didn't expect any of them to actually read it, considering the amount of work they were swamped with.
"You… have?" Tyler asked cautiously, considering the implications of the statement.
"Which is precisely the reason why I'm here. Your theory is correct. While the anomaly itself isn't intelligent, per say, it's being spearheaded by an entity which is. In fact, we suspect this entity may possess knowledge beyond human comprehension, outside of the Noosphere." The O5 member paused. "You are aware of the Noosphere, yes?"
Tyler nodded, deeply concerned. Tyler had only heard the phrase tossed around by various paraphysical scientists, but it essentially meant the collective of human consciousness, the equivalent of all human knowledge. Something that existed outside of that was… lovecraftian, something closer to a monster than a human. Tyler had been trying to stop something like that? No wonder containment seemed so difficult.
"We're inclined to agree with your position," the councilman continued. "That this could pose a serious threat to the Veil. That's why we're initiating a new approach, to contain the entity, rather than its…" he paused. "Creation. And you're going to be head of this new division."
Tyler opened his mouth to speak, though he was unsure whether it was to protest or not. However, the councilman cut him off. "We're creating a ghost Task Force consisting of researchers dedicated to containing, and possibly neutralizing this entity. It would be underground, non-existent in the records. We want this initiative to be as underground as possible in order to prevent a potential security breach amongst the Foundation. You'd have an unexplained gap in your resume, nothing more."
Tyler sat patiently as the councilman continued to speak. "You'd be heading the research and containment of this Force. You'll be provided with the resources you need, and you'll have a temporary replacement for ATF-Chi-43. The initiative will happen immediately, with a bit of time to orient yourself and your new crew, and will last approximately six months, which should be more than enough time to achieve your goal. Is that clear?"
Tyler's eyes widened for a moment, though he quickly regained his posture and nodded. The councilman stood up. "Good. You'll be sent the appropriate details shortly, as well as receive security clearance to access the near entirety of SCP-7797, albeit some redactions. Security purposes, as you know," he informed Tyler. "Access to Incident 7797-A will be crucial to your objective, so I figured it was necessary for you to be able to read it." The councilman reached for his files and laptop, tucking them away into a shoulder bag.
"Wait," Tyler interjected as the man was ready to leave. "What would the team be called?"
The O5 member turned and paused before answering, almost taken aback. "Naming is still a work in progress as with the rest of the force. It's a low priority compared to the other technical aspects." O5 shifted his head until Tyler felt his gaze directly on him. "How about this; I'll let you pick."
Tyler tried to suppress a smile, mildly pleased by the small amount of privilege provided to him. He was prepared to let the councilman leave, but a disturbed thought crossed his mind, causing his already apprehensive mood to further sour. "One more thing," he said towards the councilman, who turned back slowly, radiating annoyance. "What… what happens if we fail?"
Although he couldn't be sure, Tyler could almost detect a grimace on the O5's face. "I cannot provide details, however I will tell you this." He inhaled. "I want you to treat this operation as a manner of life and death." With that, the councilman silently reapplied his monocle and left, leaving Tyler standing alone within the chamber, the words echoing in his mind.

Type your command.
provide access
State level of access.
level_4-005B_security_clearance
State recipient of access.
tyler_yamaguchi_taskforcemember0044913
Verify Tyler Yamaguchi's personnel code.
gamma_bravo_gamma_alpha_zulu_charlie_obligate
Confirming…
Please review. You wish to provide Tyler Yamaguchi with Level 4-005B access to document SCP-7797?
y
Are you sure?
y
Please type your personal passphrase to confirm.
what_a_grotesque_thing_a_rOse_is.
Providing access.
Are there any other inquiries?
log out
Logging out O5-11 now.

ERROR:file:scp_7797_not_founERROR:file:scp_7797_not_ERROR:file:scp_779ERROR:scERROR:scp_7797 contains corrupted data. Restarting terminal...

Do not interfere.

The space was cramped, constantly closing in on itself, swelling and inflating on itself until it ever so suddenly retreated back into its hidden expanse, leaving behind an endless red void. The void was pulsing, throbbing with energy that would flow throughout the infinite space, only populated by the endless waves of indiscernible flesh, which lapped and coursed over itself.
In the center of the unbounded space without limits was Malfeasance. Its body glowed brilliantly against the bloody darkness and its shadows lapped around it like appendages, rifts within itself like millions of gazing eyes, a sphere of twisting form always watching, always existing. It felt comfort here, unlike its former prison. A domain barren of all matter or concept, a blank void ranging forever, echoing its own screaming cries of agony.
Its tendrils expanded out into the void, pressing into the open space and cutting itself into reality and diving into the reddish waves. Thousands of these tendrils all slithered back into itself, constantly pulsing and communicating with the host, who absorbed it all without interruption. It continued its thinking, a strange swirling of ideas and scenarios with concentrated itself within its false mind, comparing and recreating, smashing together the brick and mortar of philosophy until it created an iridescent palace lacking of flaws, a brilliance a lesser consciousness could not even comprehend.
A single tendril shuddered, collecting a tiny fragment of knowledge. A glimpse, or perhaps a discoloration of a scent. It collapsed onto itself as it transferred the fragment towards the glowing entity. As it received the knowledge and stored it into its vast collective, it began to scream, a disruption that caused its world to recoil and strain under its magnitude.
The screech echoed throughout the void, then it stopped. A calm focused throughout its form, and the entity began to focus. As it did, the tendrils began twisting and latching onto each other, the threads turning around themselves at impossible speeds, creating knots and ropes and shared thoughts, wrapping and reforming in billions of ways in fractions of moments, considering, pondering, thinking.
And Malfeasance began to form a new plan.