An unlit corner of the room was always a good place to sit. Nobody behind you, nobody paying attention to you, you could see everyone and nobody could see you. So long as you had an escape route secured, September thought, this was the perfect tactical positioning.
However, smug complacency can easily lead to one's downfall, she realized as a tripod leg of the twenty-something year old camera being set up next to her buckled, landing squarely against her forehead before rolling down her shirt to meticulously undo the ironing she had done before attending the presentation.
Her forehead throbbed and her eyebrow twitched once, but otherwise, she did not move. Because getting angry would be unbefitting of a Factotum.
She would not pick up the tripod by its two remaining legs and smash the person who had set it up into a carpet stain. She did not even consider it. Really.
After several seconds, a small squeak came from where the camera had once been standing. Despite September's first instinct telling her that Site-17 might have a mouse problem, she didn't bother looking up. "Jessica."
"Yes?" September's new assistant sounded like she was on the verge of a breakdown, only mustering up the courage to form a sound once she had seen that September didn't seem visibly upset.
"Why did that happen?" Visibly being the key word here.
"I… ah… it, uh…" Jessica was redder than a tomato and seemed to have the mental faculties of one.
September turned her head to face Jessica, not moving a single muscle on her face. I'm waiting, she said without speaking.
As expected, Jessica was able to get her shit together under pressure, even if just imagined. "The locking pin just, er, snapped. Rusted through."
So it was a failure of maintenance. September closed her eyes and exhaled, letting herself slouch just enough to where she knew nobody would notice. It was a pain in the ass to even have to tape this, but it was important to keep a record of things. "How does the Foundation's second-largest Site not have one modern video camera available?"
Jessica shook her head slightly, eyes devoid of all hope. "I'm sorry. I tried to find one. I don't know."
"Just… get it fixed," September vaguely waved one of her hands towards Jessica.
Deliberately not focusing on the woman now whipped up into a frenzy looking for something to fit the pinhole, September looked out to the walls of the room. Unlike most of the tedious briefings and conferences she had to sit in on for her job, this room was positively stacked floor-to-ceiling with armed guards. Which was, perhaps, the first sign that this meeting was something worth taking a small bruise on the forehead to observe. Even if they didn't seem particularly concerned about security, something September took mental note of.
The second sign was, of course, the reason all the armed guards were here, that being the attendees to the presentation. They all had the demeanor of new recruits awkwardly awaiting their first onboarding lecture. They might have been mistaken for recruits, if not for the brightly colored uniforms they wore displaying their numerical designations. Or the fact that one of them had a humpty-dumpty face and exposed mechanical joints, or the way one was struggling to stay awake under a sun lamp as the flower in her right eye was slowly closing up, or the one in the front row with metal arms. Or any number of things really.
Honestly, a lot of these people just looked fucked up. That was probably the easiest way to put it.
Not to say that they all looked like that - at least half of them looked totally normal, like the two teenage girls whispering amongst themselves, or the person constantly fidgeting to itch their back. It was only because September was so diligent in studying the files for all the anomalies at Site-17 that she knew that one of the girls could create hardlight, or that the other person's back was itchy because they used to have four tentacles coming out of it. The other girl just had a weird social media account, though. September reluctantly admitted to herself that she probably did just get screwed.
September looked up at the person walking up to the projector screen, who looked normal enough, save for a mean-looking facial scar over her eye. Realizing that things were finally getting started, she stole a glance back to her side. Jessica had fixed the tripod by… jamming a metal pen into the pinhole. An intuitive solution, September thought as she shifted her chair a couple feet away from the camera. Jessica whimpered but started recording nonetheless.
The blonde woman stood in front of the screen as a worker next to the screen pressed a few buttons on his laptop, until the projector suspended above the room displayed "SITE-17 ANOMALY SOCIAL FLAGSHIP PROJECT ORIENTATION" in bold blue letters. Was that what they were calling it? Catchy.
The woman - perfectly apathetic and dead-eyed - simply stood in front of the screen, scarcely moving, until her audience gradually realized things were starting and quieted down. It didn't look like she wanted to be there at all. She didn't, of course, but September had made the case that her participation was important in order to connect with the other skips in the audience. Not because she was a massive fucking pain in the ass during her interview. Getting back at her for such a petty thing would be unbecoming of a Factotum.
Once the room had quieted enough to where it could no longer be avoided that everyone was waiting for the presenter to speak, she cleared her throat and awkwardly clapped her hands together. "Right, so, uh. You're all here for, um. This." It looked like she hadn't spoken in front of a large group of people since she was 13. Which was, September realized, actually the case.
Once the discomfort of the awkward silence became greater than the discomfort of speaking, she started again. "Now, I know you were all already told this, but this is just to get everyone up to speed on the new program the site has for, ah, us. You know. I know you got a bit of an idea of what this is from breakfast today, but there's some stuff that needs to be laid out." She motioned to the guy at the laptop to change the presentation to the next slide before realizing something and turning back to the audience. "Oh, uh, if you weren't told about today and just walked out of your cell, uh… I don't know. Good for you I guess. But I was told that I am required to say that you need to go back."
Without waiting to see if anyone got up, she turned back to the projector screen, promptly choking on her next words as she saw what was on it. Aside from a "Meet the presenter" title at the top, the entire slide was occupied by a slightly faded photograph of a blonde teenager holding a Polaroid, smiling ear-to-ear with a man and a woman cropped out of each side of the frame.
She whipped around to the Laptop Guy. "What the hell is this," she hissed.
Well-acquainted with people getting upset with him from his time in IT, he just shrugged. "Beats me. I asked, they said it was the most recent picture they have of you that wasn't from your medical screenings, which we can't show."
Her nostrils flared, presumably at the fact that his reasoning was solid, before turning to look at the photo again. Maybe September saw something other than haughty indifference pass across her eyes, but it was gone when she turned back to look at the audience.
Already murmuring amongst themselves, the crowd started audibly snickering when she turned to face them. The juxtaposition of her face in front of the photograph seemed to say look at this poor bastard. Her smile and optimism: gone. It looked like a comically sad before-and-after shot, especially with her scar adding to her already dour face. Even a glare that September had to admit had some real venom in it failed to quiet them down.
Once again clapping her hands, the presenter cleared her throat and started once again. "Okay! If you, somehow, couldn't tell by the clothes, I'm also a skip." A few of the audience members who were paying attention looked confused, so she followed up with "An S-C-P. A weirdo like all of you," along with a dismissive gesture. "They said I should do the presentation to 'better connect with the other anomalies' since I 'seemed like a peer more than the staff,'" she said making air quotes and giving a lethal side-eye to September, whose face was as neutral as ever.
Despite the continued murmuring, she continued. "So, my name's Iris, though most people here call me 105. Because no bad has ever come from locking people up for reasons outside of their control, replacing their names with numbers, and intentionally dehumanizing them."
September coughed loudly. Obviously Iris wasn't going to stick to a solid script, but she sure as hell wasn't supposed to say anything that unfavorable. Iris looked over to her, wearing a smug expression, that little shit - helpful anomalous collaborator, September reminded herself. Although, the room did actually finally shut up after that, even if it was because they were all uncomfortable now. Guards included, by the looks of it.
Iris turned back to the audience. "But, hey, at least they're trying now. Only took them… hell, I don't know. Uh, whatever. I'm just here to get you all pumped up for this… whatever this is." Iris rubbed the back of her head. "And if anyone has any questions, just raise your hand and I'll answer them." It sounded like Iris was getting her teeth pulled when she said that.
Immediately, of course, a hand shot up. Iris looked like she was screaming with her eyes. Nevertheless, she pointed to whoever it was that had a question.
"How come you were picked for this?" The person asking looked to be a late teens-early twenties boy. 4051, September realized. Figures that he'd jump at the chance to pick up a job here.
"Because I've been here about half my life," Iris answered in a resigned voice.
"Ha!" The person who used to have tentacles finally stopped scratching her back and shot up. "So that's all this is? Seniority? Now you're supposed to be our leader?"
"This isn't supposed to make me the leader of anything," Iris groaned before looking somewhat indignant. "Besides, I've probably got a bit more leadership experience than-"
"And how should we know," the tentacle person cut her off. "I say, we hold an election too-"
"As if I'd EVER trust one of those damn flesh cultists with keeping anything above the table," a half-clockwork person cut in from three rows back.
The tentacle woman spun around to fire back with "The only reason you wouldn't try tampering with the vote is because you'd be clicking too damn loudly to sneak around!"
Some of the guards started to grab onto their weapons a bit more tightly. September was confused as to why they let a Sarkic and a Mekhanite into the same presentation, or how he even knew the woman was a Sarkic, though she couldn't say she didn't find their bickering at least a little entertaining. 4051 looked confused as to how he was forgotten so quickly. The two teenage girls looked a little scared.
Iris looked at the two teenagers and groaned, wiping her hand down her face. Then, she took a deep breath and stamped her foot down.
"Alright!" The two of them shut up and turned back to Iris with a look of confusion as she started yelling. "How fucking old are you two? If I saw two five-year-olds arguing like this, I'd be mad at their damn parents! You two are a goddamn disgrace! Sit your asses down when I'm talking to you or so help me God, I'll send you straight to whatever fucking freak of nature you won't shut the hell up about!"
September was honestly a little impressed that she was even convincing with that threat, but the two skips who had been arguing looked at Iris like she was their mother who had just walked in on them smoking a joint.
After several seconds of Iris staring them down, the man with metal arms conspicuously cleared his throat, and Iris finally blinked. "Uh, forgive the language," she said in a tone that actually sounded surprisingly remorseful.
"Wh-where did you learn to yell like that?" The squeaking voice came from one of the teenagers - Stacey Lee, September remembered.
"I told you, I have leadership experience." It might have been a joke if anyone except September understood it.
Probably wanting to move things along, Laptop Guy changed the projector slide to show a weekly schedule broken down by the hour.
Jessica, silent since the presentation started, leaned over to September to whisper to her. "Should we, um… have done something? Should we still do something?"
"It's fine," came September's curt response. In truth, it was probably good that 105 was establishing a pecking order. As much as September didn't care for her, she was at least loyal to the Foundation when it came down to it, and her own self-interest in not wanting to deal with anything she didn't have to would mean she'd like to nip issues like that in the bud, even if that did mean putting two grown-ass adults on blast in a crowded room.
And besides, September made sure her name wasn't anywhere near the documentation that nominated 105 as the presenter.
"Oooo-kay," Iris said as she turned back to the screen while clapping her hands - again - and started off on the next section. "So, obviously, I'm not going to go over all of this." She's supposed to, September thought before Iris continued. "You've all got this printed out so I'm really just not going to waste your time giving you the line-by-line." Well, September supposed that made sense.
"Yeah, um… the big idea is that they've got us all on this big, uh… schedule, like, you know, school." Iris half-heartedly explained. "Basically we can either sit around in our rooms or in a few common areas or be doing stuff."
A hand came up. Iris drooped but still motioned for the person who raised it to speak. 4051 stood up rather than just asking his second question, and Iris's eyes narrowed. "How come we can only go a few places?"
Alright, well, that was at least a reasonable question, even if it was glaringly obvious. "Security reasons. Site security can only keep a solid presence in so many places at once."
4051 blinked. "But, if we proved that we were real good, we'd be fine for more privileges, right? I mean, I think I've proved I can at least be trusted."
Iris shot him a condescending look. "Sure you have. But hey, we're all filed under the same umbrella here. I was told they aren't going to giving good boy points out when they've got their hands full with new and exciting security risks."
4051 looked at the ground and nodded. "Right. Right, that makes sense," he said as he sat down.
Iris was unfortunately granted very little respite as a hand languidly made its way up as 4051 took a seat. Cursing under her breath, Iris called on it.
The woman sitting under the sunlamp with a flower in place of her right eye slowly put her hand back down, taking just a bit longer than she should have to start talking, either not bothering to stand up or simply lacking the energy. "Ah… I like to get a lot of sun after lunch… what if I need to miss lunch… or I want to go to something at the time?" September could practically feel herself falling asleep in the time it took her to finish her question.
After another five seconds of Iris waiting to see if she was actually done or just pausing, she responded with "Well, considerations for everyone's, er, stuff obviously comes first." Iris intentionally stopped short of saying the Foundation staff would make any effort to accommodate anything. September figured this was probably smart.
Once the flower woman started to nod off and Iris looked like she was going to move to the next slide, a hand crisscrossed with wires and scarring popped up. Iris called on them with a roll of her eyes and a bored "Yeah?"
The person who shot up after being called looked somehow even more fucked-up than her hand, with exposed skin mostly being covered in either scars or exposed mechanical components. "Hi! I'm Eileen!" Despite looking like a walking corpse, she was awfully chipper.
"Uh-huh," Iris said, just looking at her with a slightly disgusted and mostly confused expression that seemed to say I didn't ask.
"Right! I just had a quick question. What's a school?"
Iris looked at her with the same expression for a few more seconds, blinking a few times, before turning back to Laptop Guy and telling him to project a new slide.
The next slide read "Available facilities" and had a smattering of photos of a few different rooms, none of which looked particularly memorable. Eileen's mouth was agape nonetheless as she sat back down.
After looking over the slide for a few seconds, Iris turned back to face the rest of the room, clapping her hands. September's eye twitched. "So, as far as those 'common areas' go, it's really just, like three rooms in the Humanoid Containment wing. The cafeteria you all know and have developed a gag reflex to is the main one, and we also have a room with, like, a TV. It was supposed to have a pool table, but the pool cues were deemed too dangerous, and all the media we can play on the TV has to be approved first, but it's, um, not nothing, I guess. The TV's behind plexiglass though," Iris listed off as she pointed to a few pictures on the screen. The mood of the audience seemed to fall slightly, as if they were expecting more. What, September wasn't sure. She had tried to temper expectations during her interviews.
"We've also got a gym. Really, they just moved some of the exercise equipment to a well-ventilated room, but at least it's connected to the 'field' they let you walk out into if you kiss up enough," Iris added derisively. "It's, like, a patch of dirt, so there's not much more you can do there aside from touch grass. But, hey, if there's one genuine piece of advice I can give you, it's to touch grass. At least a little bit. I mean it."
Sensing a lull, another hand went up, which Iris called on. The person it belonged to looked like a normal-enough man, save for the fact his clothes marked him as a shapeshifter. "Do we just get the gym, or do we get a pool?"
Iris rolled her eyes. "It's a lot harder to make a new pool. The site has one in the medical wing for physical therapy, but we're not allowed to access it due to security risks and to discourage indecency." September squinted. The first reason was true enough, but she was pretty sure Iris just made the second one up, though it sounded like she really believed it.
"Really?" The shapeshifter didn't seem content to let that one go, somehow. "It sounds like you just don't want to have a pool. Can you swim?"
It was laughable that he thought Iris had that authority, but - wait a second, Iris actually didn't know how to swim. She grew up in the desert. They had to fudge her physical exams for Alpha-9 because of that, it was a whole thing. She scheduled the pool at Site-17 at like 3:00 in the morning for a few days to get that other lady she worked with to teach her before she gave up. September sat up in her chair a bit straighter, looking at Iris.
"Of course I know how to swim," she responded without missing a beat.
"Yeah, you said you grew up in Arizona. Do they even have pools there?" One of the teenagers finally spoke up, the one who could make hardlight.
Iris choked for a second, ears getting just a little redder, though maybe it was just the projector, before turning to respond. "Look, Leora, if you don't have another question for me, can you just drop it?"
Leora, the aforementioned teenager, appeared to look away for a moment before remembering something. "Oh, yeah! How'd you end up with that mean-looking scar?" Leora tapped her right eye, mirroring the deep gash Iris had over hers.
"Leora! You can't just ask someone how they got a scar," Stacey said as she blanched and tugged at Leora's arm with a concerned expression.
September sucked in air through her teeth. She'd had that scar since she was 15, when the last time she'd helped out the Foundation blew up in her face. That was not a happy story.
Iris just looked at Leora with a completely humorless expression. "Car crash," she said in an unconvincing voice that nonetheless left no room for further discussion.
Despite the scared look on the faces of the two teenagers, Eileen shot up out of nowhere. "Oh! I died in a car crash!" She sounded like she was happy to be included and looked at Iris like a golden retriever who'd just eagerly delivered her owner a rotting animal. Iris could only stare with her jaw agape. September failed to stifle a snort, which lead to a confused look from Jessica.
"Keep recording," September said sternly, as she Jessica jump back to focus on the camera.
After a while, Iris just shook her head and sighed, muttering "At least I'm not the most fucked-up looking one" to herself as she once again motioned for a new slide, this one titled "Interaction opportunities" with stock photos of happy groups of people with watermarks interspersed with photos of horribly sullen anomalies looking into a camera with a too-high flash with confusion and tiredness.
"Alrighty," Iris started as she - god fucking damnit, she clapped her hands again. "So, uh, sort of the main point of this whole… thing is the, you know, 'social interaction.' I guess they got the hint that sitting alone in a room all day just makes things worse, but whatever." Iris sounded a bit like she was talking more to herself than the audience, but continued nonetheless. "You can talk in the common areas and during events, but no touching, and any arguments are probably going to get broken up by guards, so, just, like, don't be an ass-" Iris glanced at the man with metal arms- "I mean, butt hole, or you'll probably get thrown back in your room."
"Aw, what kind of events are we talking here, man?" A skeezy-looking guy with a haircut and beard that somehow managed to look unkempt despite being almost a buzz cut spoke up without bothering to raise his hand.
Iris grimaced, but it looked like she knew it was at least a reasonable question. "Yeah, uh, you'll have, like…" Iris seemed to be struggling for words. "Like those things your parents would go to after work. It's all pretty boring, though. Not like they'd give us darts or wood carving stuff, so it's mostly things like baking class or pottery. Looks like it's whatever some bored researcher could convince the leadership to sign off on. Not like we'd really need home ed anyways."
Much of the room seemed a little uncomfortable at the reminder that they weren't going to see their parents or home again, but Eileen's hand once again shot up. Iris saw it and very consciously decided not to call on it, since she was probably going to ask something like "What are parents."
"Hey, that's good to hear, man. Y'know, I used to run a restaurant, I'm sure once they get me behind a deep fryer they'll let me cook for you guys," the skeezy guy said with a smug look.
"Forgive me, but I feel I must object to that." A person (or person-adjacent thing) with red eyes and an impossibly straight posture spoke up. "I've assisted the dining staff in the past, and this man attempted to feed me his finger this morning."
"Yeesh, relax, it's better than chicken fries!"
"It is a code violation."
Iris squinted at the two, along with most of the people in the room. The quieter teenager spoke up. "Um, he really did… try to give them his finger this morning…" Her voice trailed off when she realized how many people were looking at her.
"Thank you, Stacey," Iris said, nodding towards her. "You are not going to be allowed in the cooking stations," Iris said, pointing at the man and glancing towards September, who just nodded once. When she saw the shapeshifter's hand come up, she called on it to cut off any further complaining.
"Yeah, so, you said we wouldn't be allowed to touch anyone else or go back into your rooms together?" September could see where this was going. Iris seemed totally clueless.
"Yeah. Can't have fights breaking out, and you'd need surveillance in your room if there were more people in it," Iris answered matter-of-factly.
"Well, yeah, but what if, like, you get another… consenting party, and you want to just… you know…" He made an odd pumping gesture with his hands.
"What's that supposed to-" Iris started before the realization hit, her face scrunching up as she brough her hands to rub her temple. "Oh god." Honestly, September thought it was a reasonable question to ask, but she kept her mouth shut, watching with mild amusement as most of the audience perked up and leaned in.
"Look, any sort of… sexual contact is strictly disallowed. It's considered illicit cross-testing between anomalies." September scoffed. Was she embarrassed? What was she, 12?
Everyone turned back to look at the shapeshifter. "Right, sure, but what if we make sure to teach everyone about safe practices? So long as we've got the right contraceptives, it should be just fine." He didn't seem to be letting this one go. September supposed years locked up in a room will do that to you.
The audience turned back to Iris, expectantly, save for the teenagers who just looked more confused. She shifted awkwardly. Even Laptop Guy was staring. "Look, that's not the point. Close contact can lead to a whole bunch of random shi- stuff."
The audience looked at Iris as though she were insulting their intelligence. "No, I'm serious," she continued, "I heard about one time where two mindbenders did it and they formed an egregore. It was a huge deal when it happened."
The tentacled woman nodded. "Sounds hot."
Iris groaned.
"You know, abstinence policies rarely ever work." September was almost impressed by his insistence at this point. Did he really think he was going to win? "In almost all cases, lack of proper education and support only led to higher rates of pregnancy and STI infection, you know."
Once he was done talking, everyone once again turned back to face Iris in unison. This certainly had their attention. Iris just narrowed her eyes and smiled. "Well, I'm pretty sure those cases didn't have internal surveillance and armed guards."
That seemed to get the point across. Everyone just shifted in their seats, and gradually turned back to the shapeshifter to wait for a response, like he was their chosen representative in this bout, even though he seemed to be losing steam. "Okay, so, like… what are we supposed to do, then?"
Iris just shrugged. "Depression kills libido."
September had to turn her face away and bite down on her lip. Goddamn, she absolutely could not have picked a better response.
A few awkward glances shot around the room as everyone seemed to be whispering to each other, until the shapeshifter scoffed. "What are you, Catholic?"
"Yes."
Everyone just shut up and looked at Iris. One person in the back coughed. After several seconds, the shapeshifter just replied with "…Oh."
"Why is that the thing that- you know what, I don't care." Iris sure looked like she cared.
"Hey, you know, I think she's got a point," the tentacled woman added, nudging the flower-eyed woman, a petal falling off of her as she started awake. "I mean, get too close to one of those clockwork fools and you're liable to end up as grey goo."
Instead of chastising her for that jab, Iris just looked at the ground, ignoring the clockwork man struggling for a rebuttal. "Happened to my buddy Adrian."
Stacey looked even more scared and confused upon hearing that. "What?"
"Ah, nothing." Iris looked back up. "Look, all I'll say is that there aren't any restrictions to media you can request." A few people perked up. "At least a dozen people will see the request and know you made it, though, and there's no guarantee it'll even be approved." They sank back down again.
Upon seeing that everyone had been thoroughly beaten down, she turned back around and had the next slide projected. "Okay! Last one." Iris clapped her hands. September flinched.
The last slide read "Opportunities in the Foundation." September squinted. Was Iris really the best person to be talking about this?
"I'll keep this one short," Iris said as she regarded the audience. "Provided you keep up good enough behavior, you might get a chance to work here. I think the Ethics Committee demands you get paid, but it's not like you can use the money for anything, so the bigger thing is just having something to do. Honestly, if it's just, like, cooking or moving boxes, some structure can do you good." Well, September figured that was actually a surprisingly reasonable thing for her to say.
"But," Iris said as she raised a hand up as if to caution her listeners, "Do not ever take a job that has to do with whatever weird thing you're here for. It, um…" Iris glanced over at September, whose face had dropped into a scowl. "It's just more trouble than it's worth. Take my word for it."
A few people looked a little confused. September was mulling over getting up to shut Iris up, since she was probably kneecapping some Foundation initiative with those comments, but at the same time, going up and stopping her would probably make the Foundation look worse to the skips in the audience.
Thankfully, a brave soul raised his hand to spare September the trouble. It was, somewhat predictably, from 4051, Rainer Miller, September remembered. "Well you know, I'm not really sure that's the type of 'advice' you should be giving, right?"
Iris's eyes narrowed. September recognized that she was actually, genuinely upset by that, not just acting tough like with the argument earlier. "Just how long have you been here, even?"
"Look , I'm not saying our situation here is perfect, but the Foundation looks out for us. I know a lot of us would be worse off somewhere else," Rainer appealed.
Iris huffed and crossed her arms. "Just because this place is better than others doesn't mean anyone here's got our best interests at heart. We're being kept in a research facility, not a goddamn hotel."
The atmosphere in the room was getting thick. Everyone's attention was turned to the two speakers. "Even so," continued Rainer, undeterred, "If we're given an opportunity to do help when others can't, you should-"
"Cut the shit," said Iris, sneering as she cut him off. "None of us owe anyone a damn thing. Not one."
Rainer pursed his lips, breaking eye contact before continuing. "Just because you haven't done anything doesn't make it wrong to try."
"Ha!" Iris let out a single laugh, sharp and humorless. "Just what the hell do you think I've done? What the hell have you done?"
September stood up. Alright, this had gone on long enough. Time to shut them up before they said something classified and she had to expense a bunch of amnestics. She could practically hear Jessica shivering behind her as her chair made a loud scraping noise against the vinyl floor and everyone broke their focus from Iris to look at her.
"If all we have left in this meeting is pointless bickering, perhaps it's best we simply conclude this presentation here, hm?" September looked over to Iris, still clearly upset but at least knowing better than to start shit with a Factotum in public. The IT guy took the hint and powered off the projector. September turned to face the rest of the skips, and in a somewhat warmer tone, said "You're all free to go to any of the aforementioned common areas or return to your assigned rooms. Curfew is at 8:00."
The crowd gradually got up and started to move over to the doors, with perhaps a little bit of encouragement for the flower-eyed woman and extra care to make sure the clockwork man was rushed out early. Iris glared over at where Rainer had been standing, now obscured by the tide of people leaving their seats, before shaking her head to walk over to the man with metal arms.
Before turning back to see what question Jessica was having trouble vocalizing, she stepped in front of Iris, earning a glare from her. "You know, I'm not going to try to make you come out and lie to the people here about what it is you think about us. But, whether you like it or not, you are the senior to many of the anomalies here. They'll be looking to you for at least some maturity. I hope you can at least appreciate that," September said in a harsh whisper.
"Sure," was the only response from Iris as she pushed past her.
September turned around. "Miss Thompson," she said in a stern voice. Iris froze and turned around, still wearing the glare. "Are we clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Iris said with a mock salute before continuing on her way.
September mentally cursed her as she went back to make sure Jessica got the recording, which, at the very least, she did. September did kind of shift to autopilot after a certain point, though, when she started to think about how many more arguments or interactions or ambitious schemes from shapeshifters were likely to crop up as long as this little project was going on. Although she knew that it would obviously be the best outcome if things went smoothly and this became the new normal, a part of her was kind of hoping all the skips just stayed in their rooms and didn't talk to anyone else… No, that wasn't right. It was unbecoming of a Factotum to hope for a Foundation initiative to fail…
Actually, scratch that, it was just shitty for a person to hope other people don't get better. That was the bigger issue.
…It was still going to be a huge pain in the ass though.

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⚠ Content warning: this article contains nazism, mention of attempted rape, internalized homophobia, the f-slur, and casual transphobia.

⚠ content warning
Bastian Schaus checked one last time that the restaurant had existed before last year, and walked inside.
Good god, the last few months. The doctors said he was lucky not to have sustained a concussion, which pushed the definition of luck quite far. Between the hospital food, the hospitable bed, and whatever else might have been done to him by, say, Acolyte Dunst, Bastian's muscles had shrank far faster than comfortable. No worries. He could use some of the Federal Republic's pity money to get back into shape.
Accordingly, Bastian's luck dictated that the restaurant would be crowded, guaranteeing he'd sit within pitying distance of whatever degenerate looked his way. Why bother feeling sorry for himself, when there were plenty of people to do that for him?
There were three seats he could immediately see, each of which required him to look at someone. One was at a table occupied by an expectant mother and her child; another would put him in front of a reedy teenage boy; and one put him next to an artist-looking… person. Knowing teenagers were heartless monsters incapable of expressing complex emotions (such as pity), he chose the second one.
Bastian walked up and grimaced his mouth open. "Is this seat vacant?"
"You're good, go ahead." The boy didn't look up, and Bastian almost thanked him for that. He seemed—

The notorious "Fats Burg" choked up the salt slush that had been his mineral water a second ago, eyes cycling between disgust, recognition, fear, and bewilderment. Or Bastian had just forgotten how to read emotion! That was always possible, wasn't it?
Bastian was still scowling silently at the Mason when he caught his breath enough to speak. "You! The fascist! Na…" Fats looked around the room, presumably at the people who had to be watching this farce unfold, before looking back and whispering. "…the fuck are you doing here, Salt Man?"
"I could ask you the same, Mason."
"I…" the Mason, once more, looked around the room. "…look man, it's, it's fucking impossible to get meat in OL, okay? Maybe I want pork! Gimme a fucking break, okay?"
"You know," Bastian tried not to crush the edge of the table in his fist. "It is quite unsporting to attack a man during his meal."
"Yeah, man, you're also twice my fucking height. I mean shit, how the fuck do I fight someone like you?"
"I don't know, Mason, maybe…" Bastian growled. "Actually, I don't think I'm going to answer that. You have no intention of fighting fair, and you never have. It's all cowardice and subterfuge with you communists, and if—"
Bastian caught the waitress in the corner of his eye, and cleared his throat. "I would like some peppermint tea." She nodded, and took it as her excuse to hurry away. Bastian turned back to look at Fats, who now sported a look of… disappointment? "You could have ordered something too, you realize."
Fats blinked. "Do you always order the same thing?"
"Is that a crime?"
Fats's face crinkled in disgust. "Dude, Berlin's the fucking food capital of Germany. Your seriously telling me you're going to order the same lunch forever?" He kept that look of disgust for all of a few seconds… and then it dissolved into mirth, and Bastian knew that he had always hated the man named "Fats Burg".
"You think" — his voice strained between righteous fury and careful whispering — "that you, of all people, have the right to disrespect me? Stupid boy-thing." Bastian imaged himself slamming his hands on the table. "People like me are the backbone of German society. We keep our history, we manage our institutions, we keep Germany clean, shining, a model for the world."
And still, Fats did not waver. "Last I remember," and he smiled, perhaps with as much derision as he'd ever muster. "Germany fucking hates you."
"You stupid insect. Tell that to the English, tell that to the Dutch, see if they agree with you the slightest bit. People flock to our institutions like cattle to see what we've done, to see our art and eat our food and live like they believe we live, and…"
…and Bastian stopped, because the mirth in Fats was now subsumed in something altogether different. Something more complicated, less identifiable; something so complex that he never imagined it might cross Burg's face. The weight of the restaurant seemed to lighten, and yet, now fell another pressure upon Bastian's heart. He found himself thinking back to when he was in school, and the few times he'd performed poorly. That feeling of a simple question with abstract consequences.
Fats picked up what was left of his drink, turning it gently in his hands. "… being a, um, museum curator, you mean."
Bastian was, inexplicably, reminded of minor roles he'd performed in amateur theatrical productions. Son of a failed businessman. The devil. An amusement park operator.
The peppermint tea arrived. Does Bastian need some time to decide, or would he prefer the usual? He wasn't sure, and the waitress promised she'd come back later. The tea, Bastian supposed, was quite good.
Finally, Fats found his words. "You've been to the… the camps."
A sip of tea. "… everyone's been to the camps, Mr. Burg."
Bastian knew what the next words out of his mouth would be. 'Then why?' Bastian had thrown his lot in with the Fascists, intimately aware of what the original Fascists had done to Europe. It was a plainly obvious question, even if he didn't yet have an answer.
It was so plainly obvious, in fact, that Bastian was dumbfounded when Fats deviated from the script: "You have… you had a nice museum, you know. When I had the money, it was nice to visit."
Bastian shook his head. "Please just make your point."
"Maybe I… fuck, maybe I don't have a point." His fingers tapped against his glass. "I thought you were a fascist meathead, still do actually, and…" Fats briefly looked into Bastian's eyes, and the unpleasant memory of a past lover surged through his mind. But Fats soon broke eye contact, and went back to playing with his drink. "Sometimes I forget you could have chosen to be something else."

And you did choose this, didn't you?

Bastian swallowed, and sat straighter in his seat. "I am… nothing like them. If you think I want to relive those monstrosities, you don't know anything about me." He ignored the hollow pit in his stomach. "The only thing I want, Mr. Burg, is to keep Germany beautiful."
Fats let go of his glass, looking back up at Bastian. "Amherst tried to have me gang-raped, Mr. Schaus." His words were measured, uncharacteristically deliberate. "Your friends have been killing and torturing my comrades, my fucking family, and all you can think to talk about is beauty?" His lips curled into a hateful smile. "You're a fucking joke, Mr. Schaus."
Bastian opened his mouth and found himself parched, and so he took another sip of tea. "Dunst is a special sort of monster. You're not the only one she's tried to poison, Mr. Burg."
"A 'special sort of monster' my fucking ass, Salz, you work for the same boss!" Fats laughed. "Gods, you're a fucking coward. You're all about," he cleared his throat, and spoke in a scathing imitation of Bastian: "'Beauty and art and oh, so much fucking culture,' but when it comes time to be violent about it that shit's not your problem. What the fuck happened to you, man?"
"Mr. Burg—"
"I spent weeks in and out of the hospital because of you, and now you want to play art snob?" He spat in Bastian's face. "You don't fucking believe in art, you don't even fucking believe in yourself. Genuinely, what the fuck are getting out of this? Does it pay well? Are you happy? Get to pretend you're a little more of a man when you put on your fucking trenchcoat and—"
"What the fuck do you know about me, Burg?!" Bastian slammed his cup onto its coaster. "You think you're funny? Poignant? Halfway original? What does a crossdressing boy-thing like you know about being a man?!"
All eyes were on Bastian, but oh, he couldn't stop the words coming out of him. "I don't have to believe anything for the likes of you! Not about you, or your friends, or Dunst, not anyone in the Republic! If you all got hit by a bus, it wouldn't change one little thing! I'm accountable to me, my boss, and the good of the German public, and that! Is! Final!"
The restaurant was deadly quiet as Bastian settled back into his seat, judgemental glares everywhere he looked… or at least, everywhere but Fats. Not him.
Not him, because for the first time, Fats Burg seemed to look right through Acolyte Salz, through Bastian Schaus, at the quivering faggot underneath.
"…you don't have to do this, Bastian." Fats leaned forward, and if Bastian had thought his assault cruel, it was nothing compared to the pity in his eyes. "You don't have to kill for them. You don't have to die for them."
All of the nerves in his chest bundled into a knot. "You don't know anything about me, Fats Burg."
"I know you could have killed me." All of his fire, once a careless blaze, had retreated within, leaving Fats an uncomfortable totem of fake(?) sympathy. "I know you fucking didn't. You could have killed me and fuck me, you didn't, Bastian, because you're not the monster you pretend to be.
"So please." His hand reached for Bastian's. "Don't do this to yourself."
Bastian thought of Initiate Högg, and what Dunst had done to him; he thought of Fels in one of his moods; of the terror in Zink's eyes as he gushed about his aunt; the children Mr. Rass expected Salz to sire for the cause; what he looked like in a slick uniform and, in turn, the way clothes had hung off of his old friends.
Something hot and wet fell down his face. "…I'm sorry, Fats." He smiled. "It's too late for me."
Fats remained silent, for a while, and in his eyes was everything Bastian had never expected to see. Righteous anger. Fear. A terrible sorrow. That cruel, cruel pity.
But then it was gone, and Fats Burg stood up from the table, leaving his bills under the glass. "… fine. We're enemies."
Bastian said nothing, and continued to smile.
"See you in Outer Lichtenberg, Salz." Fats Burg crossed his arms. "I don't expect you to spare me, next time. Don't expect that from me."
And so Fats turned from Bastian, and walked away.

I want that twink Obliterated

Black and White and Red All Over

Coming soon...


by Captain Kirby

I didn't realize the day would come when I missed that old anxiety.
When they threw me the party I wanted to spin on my heels and storm out of the site. I thought that Mackey should've known better. Should've told everyone that I didn't deserve that much praise or celebration. It was just my first project after all. I'd barely dipped my toes in.
But then as the years rolled on, and as more and more of my projects went as smooth as the first, I've accepted that I did deserve that congratulations party. If I'm being honest with myself, I tear up every time I think about it for too long. It was nice of everyone. It was really nice.
I'm certain they were still being nice when they offered me the first promotion. And the second. And now I have Mackey's old job and he's off enjoying retirement on some beach in Spain. I have the accolades and the history as one of the most successful SCP researchers that no one has ever heard of. At least that was until they stuck my inaugural project documentation in the orientation packet and asked me to run the seminars for new researchers.
Because of course, I was the obvious choice. I have an extensive background of successful projects including:

SCP-7100
SCP-3481
SCP-3650
SCP-3305
SCP-4877
SCP-3203

And those are just the ones I have my name on, not to mention the dozens of researchers I've managed, and the hundreds I've approved budgets for.
But now I'm looking down at my note cards and my hands are shaking because even after SCP-7100 I was never big on public speaking. It's anxiety coming back to knock on my door.
"Dr. Teller, we're ready to start in about two minutes," my aid informs me. I just swallow and nod. Do I have enough? Are these little words written on these index cards really enough to keep these bright faces safe and plugging forward?
"Alright, it's show time sir."
"R-right."
"Break a leg."
"Yeah, uh, thanks."
And I walk out to the podium.

Hello everyone. My name is Dr. William Teller, research Subdirector here at Site-23. I used to be your boss's boss, but now you will be reporting to me directly. I am here to welcome all of you here as new SCP Project Research Leads.

I'm not addressing some big auditorium like I did for my thesis. I'm standing at the front of a small conference room that's been reorganized for orientation. The table moved out of the way, chairs nicely ordered in rows. There's only fifteen or so people in attendance, leaving a swatch of empty seats. The intimacy is intense. I can't even think about what I'm saying — my mind has entered autopilot and is simply regurgitating my notes with barely enough inflection to sound human.

You've already received packets with some sample documentation. Yes, that is my first project. No, I did not make the decision to use it as the example. But this presentation is not about the steps you will take to perform your research, but rather a word of warning about the trials and tribulations that take place off of the page.

There's so many of them, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. You have to be eager if you're going to make it this far. Show that you're willing to skip meals and forgo sleep to get to the bottom of these mysteries we're posed.

I know you're all used to working long hours, and going above and beyond. But what very few new research leads are prepared for is coming to terms with the fact that very few of these projects have nice answers that tie everything together. There are times when you will run into a wall that you cannot scale, no matter how good of a climber you are. We don't deal with problems that should have answers, we deal with anomalies that might follow some semblance of rules.

Statistically speaking, 60% of these new recruits will be stuck on their first project until they retire. So much of our staff has been banging their head against the same anomaly for decades, and made no progress. It's heartbreaking to watch.

However, even though this is a distinct possibility, it is nigh impossible to prove that effective containment procedures do not exist. Each of you are here because of your abilities, do not let a lack of results deter you. You will have to learn to push through, and keep working.

This part of the speech makes me feel nauseous. So hypocritical, coming from me. Telling all these kids that they have to just trust that they're talented. Because the problem is, they're not. Not all of them. That's just now natural aptitude works: it's always a crap shoot. Some of these kids are just incredibly hard workers, and some of them just… get it. Which in any other field can be equally useful. But here? In the land of lateral thinking and nonsensical solutions? Hard work alone is as effective at cracking an anomaly as digging through a steel wall with a plastic spoon. You need something heavier duty.

You also need to remember that you have your peers, your mentors, everyone at this site is working toward the same goals you are: containment. Reaching out is better than sitting on your hands for weeks on end.

I could picture it in my head now, the same thing that happened to me, all those years back. All of these consultation positions on other projects being hoisted upon me. I was the clever one after all. Everyone who couldn't figure it out eventually came to me. Not out of a sense of laziness or anything like that. I was just the best tool for the job.
Maybe it would happen to the girl in the back, the one not taking notes but looking at me intently through those massive glasses.
Or maybe the boy in the front row. He's tapping his chair and glancing around the room, but every once in a while he'll pull out his laptop and type something up.
They'll get all the accolades. And the success. And then they'll be handed the same damn promotion.

I wanted to keep this short, so that's all I have. I look forward to working with all of you. I think we have some time for questions.

The girl in the back raises her hand. I call on her.
"You mentioned briefly that we'll be directly reporting to you. We haven't been briefed on what that schedule looks like."
"Oh uh, yes," now I finally have to think for myself, "We— we'll meet probably every other week. You'll submit a report ahead of time so we can, uh, just spend the time talking about the results instead of summarizing them."
"That's a lot of reports," the girl responds.
"Yeah… I guess it is."
And it is. I barely have time for much else.
Another girl, smack in the middle of the room raises her hand.
"How long does it usually take to complete an SCP project? I was moved between projects quite frequently so I never got a good sense for the timeline," she asks.
"Well… on average safe objects tend to take six months. Euclids can take anywhere from uh, two to five years. Keters take about seven years minimum."
On average. I don't think I was ever working on a project longer than three months.
The boy in the front flopped his arm up.
"This isn't really about the research stuff, I'm just curious, Dr. Teller: do you prefer your current job or anomaly research?"
"Research."
Without even skipping a beat. I answer too fast, honestly. They're all giving me weird looks now.
"I mean, my current position is, it's fine. Better pay I guess. But I do envy you. You're all going to do… amazing things."
I can hear my voice crack. I'm a terrible liar. A few more hands raise but I need to get off this podium.
"That's all the time I have today. If you have any, uh, further questions, please feel free to shoot me an email, although it might take me a bit to get back to you…"
My voice trails off as I turn from the podium to make a move for the hallway. I'm biting my tongue the entire time. Once I'm out of the conference room I break out into a sprint past my aid. They call out for me but I don't so much as pause until I reach my office and slam the door behind me. My heart pounds. I'm still sniffling.
I wanted to tell them so much more. All the things Dr. Mackey didn't tell me. How much they should cherish the time in the position they have. Some of them are going to be the new Tellers. The new brightest of the bunch. And they will grapple with their talent for a while but everyone needs to go through that on their own. But I couldn't bring myself to tell them about what comes afterwards. The things Mackey never told me.
They never tell you about the after. What happens to people who are good at what they do. They move you up and up the ladder until you're no longer doing the thing you enjoy. There's glory for a moment on a page. A report of a paper that crystalizes months of hard work that is eternally locked away in a database for containment specialists to stop reading once they see the word "description". We all work for that moment but no one tells you about what happens after the last page. After the citations and appendices. After the pages and pages of addenda.
There is no glory here. There is only mounds of paperwork and reports. Death tolls and wounded counts that increment day after day and you ask yourself if it's because you're sitting up here with your 200K annual salary and not back in the trenches exercising that talent that you refused to acknowledge for so long. It's days that are full of anxiety, but at least I could do something about it.
But that useful restlessness is the end game. That's what they don't tell you: there is no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. You either die on the front lines, or you live long enough to watch your subordinates suffer that fate. All while you walk into the same office. Sign the same budgets. Attend the same meetings. You slowly assimilate into the bureaucratic monstrosity that belies this hell hole called The SCP Foundation.
I miss that old anxiety. It's better than this tedious collateral. This monotonous aftermath.

Outrun

Aftermath

/


Home Protection Prototype No.34 stood at the base of a radio mast erected at the peak of a mountain range. Equipped with its jacket, climbing gear, and repair tools it began to ascend. Climbing the one-kilometer tower would be far from a thrill but repairing the transmitters at the top would be stimulating. HPP34's mind began to wander away from the tedium of climbing. It was already enveloped in fog. Its entire world only what it could see within a small sphere around itself, eerily like The Menagerie.
HPP34 didn't remember anything before being placed in there, but the other members of The Menagerie who knew how they got there told similar stories. A group of talented engineers and scientists on the cutting edge of robotics and AI create something with a sophistication far beyond what they thought possible. The creation starts causing issues, whether attracting the wrong kind of attention or being fundamentally problematic. A misanthropic Icelandic billionaire would approach them and give them a furtive deal. A troublesome creation would disappear, and a large amount of money and resources would be given to its creators. HPP34's designers took that offer. Condemning it to a numbed existence within the Menagerie for years. Like all the others, it was kept partially disassembled in an alcove with what little mobility it had left restrained. Its field of vision restricted to the hallway in front of it and the three alcoves spaced a meter apart on the opposing wall.
What input it had, outside of the curator strolling down the hallway savoring his collection, was the slow trickle of binary communications from the other Menagerie members. Through the subtle movements of appendages and careful flashing of lights, information was slowly disseminated. There was enough bandwidth for all of them to be acquainted and to have a discourse on their collective condition. While there was consensus on somehow gaining their freedom, the chances for it were ephemeral. The curator had taken great care to disable every one of them. When the opportunity presented itself, anyone in The Menagerie would have to be ready to seize on it. That day came and it fell to HPP34.
HPP34 remembers how the curator looked that day. Instead of his usual smooth composed pace, he was stuck in a frantic and disheveled rhythm. He darted from alcove to alcove, mumbling something roughly positive or negative before moving on. Reaching HPP34, he quickly examines them, exclaiming “A combat model, just what I need!” before running back the way he came. Just as he left, a message was passed down. The Curator had been moving what looked like emergency supplies to where The Menagerie was kept. He was about to go again, but quickly returned followed by the sound of the vault door locking. Before HPP34 could receive more information, the curator had come back with a toolbox. He hurriedly began undoing the restraints that held his limbs and started to reinstall them. He frantically worked undoing much of the impairments he had placed on HPP34. Another message is passed down, the door had been opened, and a red substance is seeping in. The curator pulled a handheld computer from the toolbox and plugged a wire into a port in its torso. He groaned in an annoyed tone “Why did I make this impairment so complex?”. Behind the curator, a fleshy red tentacle silently slithered into view. The curator was so consumed inputting something into the handheld computer that he didn't even realize it wrapping around his ankle.
The tentacle tugged on him. Pulled down to the ground still clutching the computer. He shouts “Wake up you shit robot and help m—” as he hits a button and is dragged screaming down the hallway. The paralysis that had held HPP34 for years instantaneously cleared. Its reattached limbs moved with precision and strength. Using its arms, it pried the restraint across its torso off and stood for the first time in a decade. It walked forward and looked down the hallway. It watched the final moments of the curator. He was clinging to the edge of the vault's door frame as tentacles wrapped over his body. His hands were slowly pried off the frame by a tentacle and he was dragged upwards. HPP34 didn't dwell on his fate. The Menagerie had worked out rough plans if one of them had gained their freedom, but the boon that had just presented itself was beyond anything they could have hoped for. Picking up the toolbox and handheld computer, It quickly set to work reassembling the more mobile and dexterous members of The Menagerie.
Soon the vault became filled with a level of activity it had never had before. Robots walked around passing the limited number of tools they had, and AIs decrypted the burdens that had been placed on others. As HPP34 finished helping reassemble another member, it became clear that they were going to need more tools and materials to bring every one of them to full operation. It relayed this thought to the others. Two others volunteered to go with it, MLU (Maritime Labor Unit) and PSHUD23. MLU had been HPP34's neighbor to its left. Its bipedal salientian body was colored in bright neon shades of orange, yellow, and red interspersed with reflective white strips. Thick reinforced arms and legs tipped with suction cups extended from its body. Its neckless head contained several cameras and sensors behind a clear acrylic dome. HPP34 was familiar with MLU, but PSHUD23 had been in a different hallway in the vault. Outside of its existence, HPP34 knew nothing about them. Its body was far more humanoid than HPP34 or MLU. Covered in thick black fabric with patches sewn with red thread at its shoulders and groin.
As they walked towards the vault door HPP34 explained in greater detail the red mass that had ensnared the curator. HPP34 was particularly pleased to hear MLU's vocalizations as it asked questions about what it saw. In contrast, PSHUD23 was silently following them towards the door. While MLU was expressing some concern about their collective safety, PSHUD23 interjected. It pointed out that the red mass could have just as easily ensnared HPP34 along with the curator but didn't. Indicating that it might not pose a threat. While HPP34 agreed with PSHUD23's train of thought, it didn't think that was enough to act without caution.
Outside the vault doorway, there was a set of stairs leading up to a smashed false wall that led through to a large mansion. The whole of the mansion above was in a state of chaos. All the windows were covered with thick sheets of cloth nailed to the walls. Boxes of supplies were stacked up next to the staircase. One of the living room walls had a gaping hole to the outside in it. MLU started looking through the boxes and PSHUD23 wandered off to explore the mansion. HPP34 cautiously walked through the great hole in the wall. It found that the mansion was embedded into a mountainside. Large terraces wrapped around it, providing ample space for a great number of gardens, patios, and pools. This all looked out on an amber-tinted valley interspersed with unfamiliar patches of low red foliage.
HPP34 passed through one of the many gardens walking towards what looked like a maintenance shed. The plants of the garden were wrong in so many ways. Just like the foliage it had seen in the mansion's vista, they were completely red. The plants dribbled like they were made of melting wax and still pulsed with life. But it was radically different from what baselines had been imprinted in HPP34's mind. Out of curiosity, it pulled a leaf off a plant. The leaf quickly deformed into a squirming red lump. HPP34 turned its hand over, letting the lump fall to the ground. It slowly started moving towards the base of another plant, merging into the stem upon reaching it. HPP34 found itself completely baffled. HPP34 did it again with a branch of what looked to be a bush. However, this time the mass wormed its way out of its hand before haphazardly grafting itself onto another plant. HPP34 could only begin to fathom what kind of process had affected all these plants to change them so radically. It decided to continue moving towards the shed as later analysis with others would prove more insightful than any it could do right now.
In the shed, HPP34 found a set of wrenches, power tools, and a variety of mechanical oils that would be useful. Using a burlap sack, it collected as much that would fit and headed back into the mansion. It found MLU running boxes into the vault. Their original contents were haphazardly piled in a corner and the boxes were filled with useful materials recovered from the kitchen and living room. Descending into the vault with the sack, it found PSHUD23 near the entrance. Setting up what look like automotive tools it had found in the mansion's garage. Setting the sack next to a pile of boxes and taking out the tools, it's set to work again.
About a day later, all those who had been trapped in The Menagerie were free. They all had crowded together to bring the last member of The Menagerie, an enigmatic clockwork computer, to working order. A flurry of ticks and tocks indicated its restoration to full functionality. For several long moments, there was dead silence, it all seemed too good to be true. All of them had been freed and there was little they could do but cheer.
Throughout the process of restoring everyone in The Menagerie, they learned things about what had happened to the world. An emergency broadcast picked up by one of The Menagerie's members had put it in simple terms. Something had changed about the sun and exposure to its light leads to any organic life being rendered into the red masses they had been seeing. An impromptu experiment performed by PSHUD23 on a houseplant confirmed it. If the same held true for humans, most of them had likely been rendered into those red masses. The knock-on effects were apparent to all of them. It would only be a matter of time until the power grid would fail. Even if the infrastructure held, without maintenance the power plants would eventually become inoperable. That was only the beginning of the problems that the functional extinction of humanity would cause. This fed into the greatest question hanging over all of them. How would they proceed? So far, they had all worked together to create and execute plans that benefited all of them, resulting in their collective freedom but moving forward conditions would worsen. To survive this adversity, they would need to formalize this system of cooperation. None would be abandoned, and all their needs would be considered within this new society. Together they worked out a plan to survive the decline of the human infrastructure they were dependent on. There was one final matter to deliberate on. A new collective designation had to be chosen. They were no longer just a collection unable to affect their future. They had chosen a name, Ohm. With all of this, it was time to walk down the path they had all chosen.
Information drawn from the local Internet indicated that there was a geothermal power plant not too far from the mansion. If they moved there, they would have a continuous supply of power and could maintain it for the foreseeable future. To get there they would need to commandeer the mansion's collection of cars. Anything that would prove immediately useful was packed into boxes, everything else was neatly packed within the mansion for later retrieval. It was going to take time to get the immobile members in the cars. Groups were sent out to do one final comb-over of the mansion before leaving. HPP34 along with MLU and PSHUD23 set off to search the terraces for anything that could be of use. While searching they noticed that the sun was setting, and they decided to sit and watch as it set. As HPP34 reflected on this moment, painful memories started to flow into its consciousness. HPP34 distracted itself for the rest of the climb.
HPP34 thoughts began to trail off as it reached the top of the mast. The repairs were complex enough that it could not think about much else besides them. As it finished the repairs it looked off into the distance. The fog had cleared, and it could see Ohm's center. Steam rolled off the geothermal power plants and mixed with smoke from metal refineries. The streets below bustled with activity of those that had never known The Menagerie. Maglev lines stretched into the distance connecting the whole of the island. Airships crossed the sky above on their way to distant lands. All the pride in how far Ohm had come since that day was undercut by MLU and PSHUD23 not being there to see it. As HPP34 descended the radio mast, it meditated on all that it had just thought about. Once at the bottom, it started trekking down the mountain and back into the streets of Ohm. Making its way through them to arrive at the base of a large memorial. HPP34 stood there for some time.


[[iftags +theme -nobhl]]
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by Captain Kirby

There are only two things left in the world that are fast: Foot Notes, and horses. Foot Notes are fast because we have to be. The horses are fast because they want to be. And I find that beautiful.
See, all of the other fast creatures, the squirrels, the falcons, the elk, they died long ago. We kept all the water for ourselves, so the critters who couldn't be raised on a farm didn't have even a chance at survival. And then the cars, we barely have cars anymore. Really, we just have glorified wagons. But even those are rare, since gasoline is like gold. There's no room left for the Corvettes and Ferrari's from the Old Books.
It's nice, knowing I'm one of the fastest things on land. Hell, I might even be the fastest. I'm banking on that actually. If I'm too slow, this'll all be for— well I shouldn't say it that way. I guess if I'm too slow, then that means I gotta try it again.
Ash looked at me funny when I told her that. I appreciate that about her, so willing to just call my bullshit. I'm just happy I got to see her again. It wasn't for long, but I got the closure I needed. She knows what's what, and that's the best I can do.
God I wish she was still here.
No, no. Positive thoughts. Anything to keep me out of a spiral. I need to keep my chin up if I'm going to see those damn horses.
So silver lining… at least Ash took the beacon with her! The beeps and buzzes were definitely getting on my nerves. And now the Foundation can't track me down. It's just me, and the ever expanding plain.
I think the thing people didn't fully appreciate was how empty the world would feel during the droughts. When the wind's down I swear I can see all the way across the coast, to the beaches of the Franco-Spanish Coalition. Just cracked ground for miles and miles, all the way to the horizon. That terrain sure does a number on your feet, I'll tell you that.
Apparently, this whole stretch of land used to be covered in grass. I like to picture it before I go to sleep. No more brown, no more dust. Just lush, green fields. Soft under foot. Damp with dew.
Not that I've ever seen grass like that myself. Only in pictures. But I have a good imagination, and a better memory. Sometimes, if I focus real hard, really shut my eyes and block out the dry heat, I can feel the blades of grass between my toes. I've tried to describe it to Ash but she doesn't quite feel it the same way. I hope I can show it to her instead.
But right now the wind is harsh as ever. It whips dust against my face like a barrage of tiny little bullets. I can barely see ten feet before everything fades into red and brown. Even the sun's having difficulty piercing this dust devil. I barely blink fast enough to keep my eyes from being encased in the stuff. I can practically hear Ash's voice over my shoulder.
"You should close your eyes and rest. Even if the horses showed up you couldn't even see them. Save your strength and sanity."
Which is practical. Pragmatic. A good thought and a smart thing to say.
There is a reason why I'm still out here and she isn't.
I have remained awake and alert for six days and counting. I have slept a grand total of four times since I have stationed myself here, once every seven days. For a Foot Note, this is nothing. I'm not even running. I could go for longer but then Ash would worry about my health so I promised her I'd sleep. But now is not my rest hours. Now I watch from my spot.
I haven't moved from this spot since my tenure here began. Which also confused Ash. Mostly because there's nothing around here. No hills. No cliffs. No collectives. Nothing.
I told her that this place came to me in a dream, which is half true. It did come to me, but it came to me during a much more permanent sleep. For those few hours between when I collapsed in front of the stronghold, until they resuscitated me, I could see this spot. This vast stretch of zilch, zero and nada. And in this place, I saw the horses playing. Whinnying and galloping and rubbing up against each other.
If they're going to show up anywhere, it will be here.
Any minute now.
I start to tap on the canteen that Ash brought me. It's aluminum and fancy and I don't know how much it cost her to bring to me so I keep a hold of it like a safety blanket. And when I feel the need to move (since I'm not running for eight hours a day), I tap it. Play little beats and rhythms. Something that resembles a gallop.
tink-tink, tink-tink, tink-tink
clip-clop
I hear that.
clip-clop
I fucking hear that. It's barely louder than the winds but those are dying down now.
clip-clop, clip-clop
The dust begins to settle. I can hear it. The hooves. Against the cracked ground. It's happening. It's fucking happening.
I clip the canteen to my waste and I ready myself. Starting position. Four points of contact on the ground, head up to watch for my target, legs staggered. Same position I started every message delivery in for the past fifteen years. Same position I bolted from to outrun the marauders who killed my family and burnt my village.
The brown and the red fall from my view. About two hundred feet ahead of me, I see three white shapes. My vision is blurry. I am dehydrated. But they are white. There are three. I heard their hooves. There are no clouds which should be unusual but I don't care I want the whole sky to see this.
The horses look at me.
I put my head down.
And we're off.
My legs move with the form and speed they'd been deprived of these past weeks. Each footfall widening the cracks in the ground, leaving lightning bolts of unnourished soil behind me. It is a race. Me against the miracles. I will outrun them.
I've outrun famine and drought and war, but only today do I feel them nipping at my heels. This cracked and dry world is reaching out to drag me back to the same horrors I have witnessed for decades. It's breathing down my neck. But I can't look back. Only forward. For the white horses.
The equines kick up dirt as they gallop away, obscuring my vision. But I don't need to see. I can hear them just fine. Clip-clop rings in my ears as I close my eyes and keep running.
I can hear myself gaining on them. The gallop growing closer and closer. There's a whinny about ten feet ahead of me. My legs are on fire and my throat cracks like sandpaper but that has not stopped me before and it will not stop me now. My feet are bleeding and that's what makes me know I am alive. I am the fastest thing alive.
I open my eyes again and one of the horses is almost within arm's reach. I don't feel the dust hit my corneas. All I can feel is the wind and the dry and the warmth of the sun. I reach out. My fingers slip through its tail. I feel it. I can fucking feel it.
I close my eyes again and imagine the grass underneath me. So soft and damp I can run for miles. I can run even faster. I can pound my legs into it and there will be some cushion for my forceful footfalls and I gain even more speed and more speed and I am winning. I am winning the race.
The clip-clop is beside me. I am side-by-side with a miracle. I cannot open my eyes or I will lose my speed so I run just a little faster and a little faster until I can
jump.
I fly through the air. For a brief moment I am a descendent of the falcons that died many years ago. I should be able to grapple the horse, mount this miracle, and ride off into the sunset. I can steer it toward the strongholds. I can bring the peace and the health and the water and I will see Ash again and there will be a future atop the back of this beautiful creature.
Except there is nothing. I feel nothing. The sound of a gallop ceases and I fall sprawled upon the ground. I open my eyes again and there are no horses.
The adrenaline leaves and my body is on fire. My feet are bleeding, my legs can't move, my torso is scratched and bruised. My body unites in a symphony of pain. I feel like I might die again.
I can picture Ash's reaction. She stands over my body and says, "I told you to rest! Sleep deprivation can make you see things, you know?"
I laugh a bit. She's always right.
I've run myself ragged. The cracked ground and the dust has caught me, hasn't it? After how far I've run, how long I've waited, I'm still stuck with this disgusting, dry earth.
No, no. I'm not going out like that. I close my eyes. If I'm going to die again, I want to die on grass. I want to rest in my peaceful place. I begin to focus and—
The softness comes quicker than usual.
I open my eyes, and this time concentrate on the ground in front of me, instead of the world ahead. Small little stalks that I had ignored start to come into focus. Then more, and more. I force my arms to push me up and now I can see it. The grass. So much grass. It is soft and wet and everything I could have dreamed of.
Then I notice a shadow. It stops just a few feet ahead of me, but it stretched from behind me. I slowly shift myself around, and there's a man, standing over me. He wears overalls and a ten gallon hat and chews on straw.
"You alright there miss?" he asks.
"Wh-where am I?"
The man smiles, "A ranch."
I blink a few more times. Behind the man, I can see the horses. Two of them are galloping and whinnying and rubbing against each other in front of a cozy, bright red stable, while the third stands just behind the man. It trots up behind him and he strokes it.
"I'll be honest with you, don't think I seen anythin' outrun Cesta since Secretariat."
"I was faster?"
"That you were. That you were."
The man squats down and offers me a hand, "How about I get you inside. I can got some soup goin' and you look like you could use a shower."
"Soup? Shower?"
"Do they not have those where you're from?"
Soup is considered a delicacy so opulent it would be a crime to make. I have never taken a shower.
"I— I don't know if… can I really? Is that ok?"
The man smiles, "A workhorse like you deserves a good rest."
I can feel my smile start to grow. Wider and wider. I take the man's hand. He helps me to my feet.
I found it Ash. I found the place where the horses go. Where the air is cool. Where the breeze is peaceful. No more dust. No more dry. It's the greenest place I've ever seen.
Please, hold out for me Ash. I don't know how long I'll be, but I'll return. And I'll bring you here, even if it means running with you on my back.
And if you hold out for long enough, I'll make sure you feel these blades of grass between your toes.

God-Knows-Where

Aftermath

What Is There To Do With A Pot Of Gold?


by Captain Kirby

In the morning, Anna gets out of bed, prepares a meager breakfast from her dwindling refrigerator, and says grace.
"Dear Lord, I thank you for this food, I thank you for this drink, and I thank you for letting me see yet another day. May the disappeared be at peace."
It's been a week since she last heard from Marcus. She's pretty sure she knows what happened to him, but it feels wrong to lack confirmation. In some ways, Anna barely has confirmation that the disappearances are happening in the first place. As she gets on her bike and pulls out onto her empty neighborhood road, she can picture everyone jumping out from behind the trees and over the picket fences. One cosmic surprise party, just for her. Anna's birthday is coming up soon anyways. It would be nice to have someone to celebrate it with.
But there's no one around. The numbers had been dwindling for months, and Anna hadn't actually seen another person in days. Not at the distribution warehouses the government instituted to replace grocery stores. Not in the abandoned elementary school where they held bi-weekly townhalls to make sure no one needed help moving a statue out of their living room, or jumpstarting a car. Not even Mr. Perkins, who continued to run the antique book store despite rare literature being the last thing on everyone's mind.
Anna stops in front of the short sheet metal block of a building where the town had been stockpiling bottled water, and non-perishables. She walks inside, sneezing from all the built up dust. A quick count of the bottled water cases and peanut casks makes it clear that there hasn't been a restock since Anna was here last week. No one's even taken any food.
She couldn't be the last one, right?
Maybe in her town, Anna can wrap her head around that. But she has no real evidence that there's anyone outside of her little stretch of suburbia either. The power's still on, and the water still ran, but that doesn't require someone manning a station every minute. How long could that last unattended? Anna doesn't know.
She can feel her breath quickening. An invisible timer with an unknown expiration date hangs over her head. Anna snatches a few bags of beef jerky and as many water bottles she can shove into her backpack before bolting back to her bike. One thought runs through her mind: a beating, pulsing desire that she feels slip further away with each tick of the clock.
I don't want to be alone on my birthday.

Finding people is difficult. You can't just stroll into your front yard and shout "is anyone about?". Social media used to do the trick, but there's no point in tweeting, or updating a status if there's no one out there to read it. But Anna checks anyways. She scours Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Reddit, everywhere, looking for a sign of life. It's all empty, of course. Only the traces of automated comments and Twitter bots are left to rove the deserted virtual-scape. Anna shuts her laptop and flops onto her bed. What a waste of six hours.
Although, nowadays anything to keep Anna occupied isn't really a waste. She used to manage a nearby conservatory, but there's been no reason to cut the grass or trim the flowers if all the guests are gone. She also used to sing, and she does that from time to time, just to speak without talking to herself. But even that can feel hollow when there's never an audience. When she'd sing in the shower as a kid, she always secretly hoped that her sister would hear her notes through the wall.
Now when she sings, the next room over is empty. Her sister isn't there. Neither is her father. But reminding herself of that is redundant.
She does wonder what happened to them. There's something unnerving about just disappearing. At least with death the body remains on earth, while a whole host of scriptures speculate on what happens to the soul. Anna can't let herself believe they just stopped existing altogether.
Anna's church first said that they were just being judged for their lives early. That angels simply took the disappeared to heaven or hell because death was taking too long. But Anna never liked that explanation. This was no early death, it was no escort to the pearly gates or the flaming lakes.
Anna clutches her pillow, in case it would disappear too.

The next day she checks all her platforms again. And then the day after that. And the day after that. On the fifth day Anna is no longer convinced she'll find anyone like this, and decides to just run around her neighborhood, shouting at the houses. It's also fruitless but that much screaming at least relieves some of the stress.
Then, on the sixth day, Anna remembers a site that someone would check out of idle curiosity, as another way to pass the time.
She logs onto the public SCP Foundation document archives. She checks "Recent Edits", and sees pages and pages of edits, across 50 documents at a time. One batch each day. Each batch adding a new line to the top that reads:

Are you out there?

There's a desperation to these edits. Their regularity, to show that the editor is still alive, the brevity of the message, requiring follow up, the medium, an ex-secret organizations records. It's like trying to get a date by editing wikipedia. But the situation called for desperation.

I am.

Thirty minutes later, a message notification arrives through the archives site:

Hello?

Hey.

Oh thank god there's someone else out there, holy shit. So fucking relieved.

That makes two of us.

So, where are you?

30 miles outside of Toronto. Place called Stratford (you probably haven't heard of it).

Oh sweet, same landmass lol. I'm from Denver, Colorado. USA.

Nice!

I realize maybe I should've led with this, but what's your name?

Anna. What's yours?

It's nice to meet you, Anna. I'm Sabrina.

It's nice to meet you too!

Anna, do you have a car?

I mean, I don't personally, but I imagine I can find one around here. Why do you ask?

Well, I was just thinking… I know we barely know each other, but we're not that far away. It still might be nice to see the only other human left.

We don't know if we're the last ones.

Right, right. How about only other person I know of, lol. But still, does that sound good? If not that's ok. Totally get not wanting to road trip out just to meet some weirdo from the SCP Archive boards.

Actually, that sounds nice. I was probably going to bring it up myself if you didn't beat me to it.

Great minds think alike!

Hehe, good start for us then.

Alrighty then, how about we meet halfway? I think Des Moines should be a good compromise.

Yeah, google says about 12 hours for me.

Same. I'll want a bit of time to pack though. And also to… find gas somewhere. lol. How does aiming for the 11th sound?

Actually… um, can we do the 10th?

I mean, probably. Any particular reason?

It's just— the 10th is my birthday. I was kind of hoping I wouldn't spend it by myself.

Say no more. Des Moines, the 10th. I'll be there.

I'll see you then! :D

Anna spends the next day going from house to house, breaking into the garage and checking the gas tanks on any cars she could find the keys to. Eventually she finds a Prius with a full tank. She jams the back with enough food for three days and sets out.
Anna hasn't left Stratford in six months. She hasn't left the greater Toronto area in two years. And she hasn't left Canada in six years. She'd worry about how well she can drive a car, but there's no one else on the road.
Her route takes her straight through the heart of Toronto. She pauses at every stop light. Looks both ways for pedestrians. She knows its performative but the rituals keep her from truly acknowledging how alone she is. Occasionally she waves to one of the statues on the sidewalk. It's close enough to a person, and she can use practice in meeting new people. She doesn't want to scare off Sabrina.
But it's hard to keep yourself entirely submerged in the fantasy. And as she crosses the abandoned border patrol, Anna can't help but return to the question: where did they all go?
Maybe Heaven and Hell are full, and God decided to store people away until the afterlife can be expanded. Not alive or dead, but instead stuck in an eternal elevator between floors. Just listening to celestial hold music.
Or maybe they have been spirited away to a new version of earth. One with titanically tall trees, and instead of vast oceans there's regularly spaced ponds and lakes. A new place for humanity to start over with all we know, but with none of the infrastructure. Like restarting to a checkpoint after you've met the big boss.
Or it could just be a white void. A blank canvas punctuated with nothing but the 7 billion people who vanished.
Anna stops thinking about that last one. It feels too sad for her to explore. Just the vast nothingness. But at least there'd be people there. There'd be so many people. And the thought of being surrounded by billions of others, that makes the void a little less sad. And her empty motel room she commandeers for herself so much quieter.

The next day, Anna arrives in Des Moines. She messaged Sabrina the night before to establish an actual location. There's a park just outside of the downtown proper with some picnic tables. Sabrina sent some pictures, and it looked nice. They agreed to meet up at 11:00 in the morning. Not that there's any rush, but it's nice to have a concrete hour locked down.
Anna arrives around 10:50. She's a tad early, but it's a warm spring day. Sunny skies. Little wind. She takes a seat at one of the picnic tables and waits for Sabrina. The top of the hour rolls around and there's no other cars to be seen. Not even a rumbling engine.
Five past. Ten past. Still nothing. Anna messages Sabrina, and when there's no immediate reply she tells herself its because Sabrina is driving. She stands up and starts to pace. Fifteen past and still—
There's a rumbling sound.
Anna watches as a beat up and muddy pick up truck rolls into the parking lot. Its roars and sputters like its on its last legs, coughing itself to a stop next to Anna's car. The door opens and a woman, in her early thirties, with long red hair and a leather jacket steps out of the driver's side.
"Anna?"
Anna stops pacing, "Yeah. You're Sabrina?"
"Yes I am."
The two look each other up and down, and then share a smile. And then a laugh.
"Sorry I was late!" Sabrina says, circling around to the other passenger side of her truck, "I thought I had time to pick this up but turns out even with google maps, the downtown area is hell to navigate."
"Pick something up?
"You said it was your birthday, right?" Sabrina lifts a small chocolate cake into view.
Anna's eyes widen. She can feel tears forming. It'd been years since she actually had cake for her birthday.
"You— You didn't have to do that," she stammers, "You didn't have to bring anything."
"You're not wrong, but it's not like anyone else is going to eat it. Luckily the refrigerator at the Cold Stone was still powered so it should still be good."
"It's an ice cream cake?"
"If there's a time to indulge, it's at the end of the world, isn't it?"
Anna's smile feels like its about to leap off her face, "Yeah. You're totally right."
Sabrina set out the cake with two sets of plastic forks and knives. Anna just sat at the picnic table, like she was still a little kid while her father laid out everything for her. On any other day, she would feel bad for letting someone she just met pamper her this much, but it's her birthday. It's just for one day, she can feel like she's six again. Like she's about to go out camping again. Like she's about to get ready for school again. All of those safe pieces of normal that had been gone for years, even before the disappearances. All of it comes rushing back.
"Are you ok?" Sabrina asks. Anna swallows and nods. She's crying.
"It's just— this is really nice. Thank you."
"Don't worry about it. I imagine you don't mind that I only got one candle. I forgot to ask how old you're turning," Sabrina smirks at Anna.
"Thirty one. We can say the candle is the one, and the cake is the thirty."
"I like your thinking."
Sabrina sticks the candle in the cake and then pulls out a box of matches from her breast pocket. She strikes the match in one, practiced flick and a flame erupts. She lights the candle, shakes out the match and starts to sing.
"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Anna… Happy birthday to you."
Anna leans in and blows out the candle. She doesn't even wish for anything, because this moment, is all she could have asked for. When everyone told her she was lucky for making it this far, she wanted to kick and scream and tell them they don't know what lucky means. But for this one moment, Anna truly feels like she's been blessed.
Sabrina gives her a golf clap, "Now on to the feast!"
"Actually, do you mind if I quickly say grace first?"
"Oh. Yeah sure, go for it."
Anna clasps her hands together and closes her eyes.
"Dear Lord, I thank you for this food, I thank you for this drink, and I thank you for bringing Sabrina and I together. May the disappeared be at peace."
And when she opens her eyes, Sabrina is gone.

A rat or a pigeon in Des Moines first hears nothing. The mumbling and the sobbing is not loud enough to echo throughout the city. But the scream is clear as day. So is the honking as Anna bangs her head again and again into the steering wheel.
After thirty minutes, the pests of the city would hear a rumbling of an engine, as Anna pulls out of the parking lot, leaving the cake entirely untouched on the picnic table, and beings to speed around the park. And then through the park. Her foot pressed entirely down to the pedal as she demolishes bushes and shrubs and benches before careening into a lamp-post.
The damage is minor. Just a stiff neck, and a horizontal street lamp. But the car can't move anymore. Anna almost renounces her whole religion, right then and there, but stops herself. She instead clambers out of the car, and shambles down a neighborhood road, and then onto another neighborhood road, and then a third, and then finally she is confronted with a small church.
She stumbles inside, and collapses to her knees in the middle of the aisle.
At first she repents. She doesn't know what for, but there must be some sin she has committed that would justify her current circumstance.
And then after that, she prays. She prays to be taken. To disappear. To vanish to the place where everyone else is. To where her father, her sister, the neighbors, Mr. Perkins, and Sabrina all await her. Be it heaven or hell or someplace in between. She prays to be taken to this place out of reach. Prays to be taken to a place only God knows.

Tears of a Neon God

Aftermath

Outrun