To: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
From: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
Time: 05/23/2017 at 5:24 AM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

To whom it may concern,
My name is Andrew Roberts and I am the head of corrections for the Explanation and Research Department.
I would like to formally request all files you hold on SCP-6192-1-EX.
Thank you,
Dr. Andrew Roberts

To: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
From: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
Time: 05/23/2017 at 8:00 AM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

Hello Dr. Roberts,
With all due respect, this is a very odd request. As the department that holds the information for all entities that are currently in protective custody by The Foundation, we are very reluctant to share these files with anyone. Could you provide us with more information on why you need our files?
Respectfully,
Dr. Tanya Fuller

To: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
From: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
Time: 05/23/219 at 2:13 PM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

There seems to be a discrepancy within our files for SCP-6192-1-EX. It would be very helpful to us if we could compare information between our 2 departments.
Thank you

To: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
From: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
Time: 05/23/2017 at 2:30 PM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

Dr. Roberts,
We have no problem helping you correct your discrepancy but I must say it is concerning that it would involve our department. Are you saying that SCP-6192-1-EX may have been mislabeled as an EX? If so we may have a major problem on our hands. Please clarify.
Thank You,
Dr. Tanya Fuller

To: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
From: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
Time: 05/23/2017 at 2:30 PM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

We have reason to belive that there may have been a mix up during SCP-6192-1's final interview. As you know, during containment SCP-6192-1-EX was held in Sector-20-C. This Sector is adjacent to some of Site-138's conference rooms. At the time this was not of concern based on our belief that she was an instance of SCP-6192. However we now fear that SCP-6192-1-EX's abilities may have made her privy to conversations held in these conference rooms. One of those conversations being between researchers in EXaRD before SCP-6192-1-EX's final evaluation.
I realize that this may signify a large breach but I assure you things are under control and this can all be quickly resolved as soon as SCP-6192-1 is found.
So again, If you could supply us with any files you have about SCP-6192-1's whereabouts we would greatly appreciate it.

To: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
From: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
Time: 05/23/2017 at 2:30 PM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

Dr. Roberts
This is clearly a large breach and I must insist you report this to your superiors. I will contact the agent in charge of SCP-6192-1's case and see what we can do about bringing her in. I will update you on the situation as soon as possible.
Thank You,
Dr. Tanya Fuller

To: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
From: Dir. Thomas Weld (of.pcs.ce|dleW.T#of.pcs.ce|dleW.T)
CC: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
Time: 05/23/2017 at 2:30 PM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

Dear Dr. Fuller,
This is Director Weld.
I want to thank you for working with us but I see no reason to escalate this further. Reporting this would only cause unnecessary panic and, might I add, look bad on both of our teams.
I will work on correcting our files and once you have the SCP back in containment, I think everything should be clear.
Thank you,
Director Thomas Weld

To: Dir. Thomas Weld (of.pcs.ce|dleW.T#of.pcs.ce|dleW.T)
From: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
CC: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
Time: 05/23/2017 at 2:30 PM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

Director Weld,
Neither I nor the Reintegration Committee will be dragged into your sad attempt to hide your mistakes. After this ordeal is over I will be filing a full report including these emails. I must say it is quite disheartening to know that our newest department to further the understanding and humane regulation of anomalous entities is already resorting to deceitful practices. Shame on you.

To: Dir. Thomas Weld (of.pcs.ce|dleW.T#of.pcs.ce|dleW.T)
From: Reintegration Committee (of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR#of.pcs.ce|noitargetnieR)
CC: A. Roberts (of.pcs.ce|DRaXE#of.pcs.ce|DRaXE)
Time: 05/24/2017 at 6:30 AM
Subject: RE: SCP-6192-1-EX
Attachments: None

Dear Dr. Roberts and Director Weld,
I know my last email may have come off rather hostile and I would like to apologize for that. I understand you are only attempting to do what is best for your department and clear up this little mishap as simply as possible. Again, you have my apologies.
As it pertains to SCP-6192-1, it would seem our agent who was in charge of her case has also lost contact with her. The last known address we have on file for her seems to not exist.
No worries. I'm sure that together our departments can clear this all up without need to escalate it further.
Best Wishes,
Dr. Tanya Fuller

Mirror In Your Mind

Explanation and Research Department

Through the Looking-Glass


Franziska Miranda Neuhaus looks at the towers of moving cardboard boxes. She takes a deep breath. She lets out a long exhale.
She has been released from the custody of the Social Clinic for Paramedicine. This was supposed to make her happy. Yet somehow she could not relax. Not yet. She waited, but it seems that the agents of the Special Containment Procedures Foundation have not changed their minds.
She listens to the silence that lies heavy in the empty flat.
Her heart pops almost out of her chest when the doorbell rings.

Six Hours Earlier

Miranda was in the office of the director of her private prison. She was no longer wearing her purple onesie with the number over the silly arrow-circle-and-corner symbol.
"We will soon let you back into society. You can resume your normal everyday life," Thomas Weld explained in a friendly voice, "Of course, we will help you to make sure that your transition goes smoothly. The Reintegration Committee will soon be handing out some details and documents to you."
"Wait, this is happening too fast for me. You're letting me go?"
Miranda was visibly confused. She fiddled with the seam of her red jacket and adjusted her bracelets.
"I understand that all this is obviously sudden for you. We have examined your circumstances and found that there is no longer a reason to maintain your placement in our institution."
"Just like that?", Miranda felt anger rising in her, "Just like that, without giving much thought to how you messed with my life? You know…"
She stopped herself. There was no point in getting upset, there probably wasn't much the SCP Foundation could do about it. It was possible that the older man in front of her had advocated for her to be released.
"It is understandable how you feel, and I want to apologize on behalf of our department. The Committee cares for your well-being by, among other things, helping you to integrate."
A knock was heard at the office door and Mr Weld let a woman in before sitting down again.
"This is Ms Sandra Flick. She will be your contact person if you have any problems."
The woman with the paintbrush-like ponytail smiled kindly and held out her right hand to Miranda.
"Very pleased to meet you. I hope we will get along well, and let us hope that you will hardly need my help."

Miranda looks through the spy hole at the passageway in front of her flat door.
The image, warped by the fisheye lens, shows a friendly smiling Ms Flick bobbing about a bit, patiently waiting to be allowed entrance.
Miranda takes a moment to prepare herself mentally for the following situation and to dampen her sensitivity a little.
"Good day, Ms Neuhaus!" the agent greets cheerfully.
"Good day, Ms Flick. I wasn't expecting to see you at all."
"That is alright," but the agent then stops herself, "I hope I am not coming at an inconvenience. Just go ahead and let me know. I don't want to impose myself on you."
"Ah. No, no. You're not intruding. I was just absorbed in my thoughts. Ah, how impolite of me. Wouldn't you like to come in?"
"If I may, I'd love to."
The agent looks around, her gaze mostly wandering over the moving boxes. "Have you settled in comfortably at your new residence yet, Mrs Neuhaus?"
Miranda shrugs her shoulders, unsure how to answer.
"Oh, I see you've put up the painting you once did in one of the sessions with Dr Richter."
Miranda became a little embarrassed. "I liked it."
"It's a fine painting indeed, I must say."
"How did you know about it anyway?"
"Ha, I picked that up in passing when I was looking at your file."
"That's in a file?"
The agent gets a little nervous. "Surprised me too. But I have to say, I'm a little envious. It's a great spot in the city and the flat is nice," Mrs. Flick laughed and Miranda had to smile.

Miranda is lying on her back in bed. Her eyes are still closed and she tries to relax, slowing her breathing to a slow pace.
It is a silent night. She hears only the faint static caused by her own veins.
The ambient murmurs of the sensations of the neighbors have almost completely ceased, a sign that they are asleep.
Miranda straightens up in bed and tries to settle in a little more comfortably but she can't fall asleep. From her time in the captivity of an occult secret organization her head is filled with questions and fears about what the next day would bring.
She thinks about the conversations with Ms. Richter. This was one of the few moments when she had felt like a human being and not a piece of research.
She wondered how the researcher was doing. For a moment, Miranda wonders if it is okay to visit the researcher.
She sighs and gets up. Sleep is out of the question, she has worked herself up.
Miranda sneaks into the kitchen. There she opens one of the many small cupboards, which are still half-empty for the moment. She sits down at the kitchen table and opens the packet of sweet zwieback. Slowly, she chews while looking up at the night sky.
I should do some serious shopping, crosses her mind, It's not good for me to live on preserves too much.

Miranda walks through the streets and alleys of her new neighbourhood, thinking about which of the items on her long shopping list she can buy where and when.
The large supermarket was still some way ahead, but she would buy the bread and some confectionery at the small bakery that Ms Flick had recommended to her.
She looks around, searching for a public transport stop, like for a bus or a tram.
After a short ride on the little tram, she got off and Miranda stops in front of St. Christopher Pâtisserie, which shares its location with a John Baker bakery, in which only two other customers are currently inside.
A small wind chime on the shop door jingles as Miranda enters. A shop assistant turns his face to her with a welcoming smile. "Good day"
Miranda smiles and rummages a little bit in her jacket pockets for the list before checking the goods at the sales counter.
After a few minutes of asking questions and getting sales advice, Miranda is proud of herself for successfully making her first purchase in a long time. She nibbles on a Fastenwähe she had been looking forward to.
Miranda pauses in front of the shop and stares somewhat perplexed at the nameplate. She hopes that her suspicion is just pure paranoia, that she now sees S-C-P everywhere. But St Christopher Pâtisserie sounds so forced and corny that she has some doubt it's that easy. Then she looks at her Fastenwähe, which is with a little imagination shaped like a circle with three arrows.
She could swear that one of the store employees is nervously wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Seriously? Can't it be more subtle?
Her consciousness begins to feel like a bale of cotton and her head like a hot stone in the midday sun. All symptoms that she was losing control of her abilities. She heard the hollow echo of thoughts in her head from far away.
Then Miranda hears a tune. It is not a sound that she perceives through her hearing, but senses. It echoes tenuously in her head, not at all uncomfortably, almost calming and intimate.
The hairs on the back of her neck rise. Something in her head tells her that this phenomenon is too soft and smooth for a natural type of sound.
Reluctantly, she gives in to the impulse to locate the origin of the melody.
After a short promenade, she comes in sight of a shop in front of a narrow building. She looks at the house number - 8⅚ - and the shop windows and, at the end, the little man in an old and very faded jester's costume who was sunbathing on a deck chair. His red bulbous nose flutters and shrinks as he snoozes. Miranda does not suffer from coulrophobia, but something in the back of her mind tells her in a gentle but clear voice that there was something very off about this clown. But the clown's aura is in no way malicious, only mischievous.
"Are you looking for something?"
Miranda startles as one of the supposed mannequins steps out of the door with a porcelain mask covering his face.
The man in the jester's robe looks up at the sky. "It feels like it's going to start raining soon."
Miranda wanted to object that it was not possible for the clouds to come up so quickly, surely, but the masked man kindly directed her inside the shop. "Isn't the dear lady coming in to us so that they don't get rained on?"
She was caught off guard and therefore did not resist the gesture.
The shop is dimly illuminated and smelled sweetly of old, yellowing books and the aromatic scent of herbs.
She tiptoes deeper into the interior of the shop, between the shelves full of books, everyday objects and junk with strange stickers. She reaches a counter, behind which a woman was lying in a hammock. This woman opens her eyes and smiles. With a raspy voice and a dialect from the Alpine region, the woman greets Miranda: "Ah, hello. I see you have found your way to the Wunderkabinett. My Name is Ms Mirabilis, what can I help you with, Frau Neuhaus?"

SCP-6192-1-EX

Explanation and Research Department

To Whom It May Concern


SITE-19:
SEVERAL WEEKS AGO
I was 11 years old when all the adults vanished.
But then again, I've been eleven for a very long time.
My name is Researcher James, and I'm one of the youngest people in the SCP Foundation. I was in the midst of drafting a very important proposal to fight "the butt ghost!!!", SCP-789-J, by weaponizing SCP-2001-J. I was hoping that one day there would be MTFs with agents who could fart lasers out of their butts!
It would be awesome, and anyone who thinks otherwise is boring.
The truth is science isn't all fun and games. You have to make a hypothesis and conduct experiments, but you also have to do paperwork which is really boring. I get lots of help on the final drafts of my paperwork.
In order to weaponize SCP-2001-J, I first had to get butts classified as one of the good kinds of anomalies. I was trying to decide between getting butts classified as Radix or Thaumiel, which are the kinds of anomalies that the Foundation uses, but my coworkers weren't answering my emails. This is weird because usually they either email me telling me to do something else or they drop cool toys by my office to get me to do something else.
(This means that they don't think my current research project is good. I'm eleven, not stupid.)
But they're usually very good at telling me to stop! So it was really weird that none of them were responding to my emails. I tried calling them, and I tried visiting their offices, but they weren't there. Clef, Gears, Light, Moose… they were all gone.
It was scary. And it was even weirder when I was able to log on to Director Moose's computer with full access. I could see the alert status of all of Site-19. Do you know what I saw?
Containment breach alerts, all across the site. Lots of red on the screen. This seemed pretty bad.
But then I looked closer. I turned on the monitor for Cain, since he's a nice man even if he probably killed his brother a long time ago, and he was just gone. Vanished. I looked in the hallways too. He wasn't there. I looked at some of the other SCPs, like Iris and Mister God, and they were gone too. The adults were all gone.
That's not very scientific of me to say. Let me put it this way:
My hypothesis: All the adults are gone.
How to disprove my hypothesis: Find an adult.
As a scientist, I had one goal. As a member of the Foundation, I had another. I had to fix this!
But I'm not very good with shooty stuff and fighting. I'm eleven. The best thing I could think of was to find out what was happening – not very easy because Site-19 doesn't have all the cool Spy Kids gear – and find out how to undo it.
That second part was easy.
All I had to do was find a reality warper, like SCP-239. She was a kid too. But the files said she was also God.
I left Director Moose's office after stealing her lab coat, her Foundation-issued phone, and her jelly bean jar. She wouldn't be needing them anymore. I tried to pull up a map of Site-19, but it turns out I still didn't have full access. I would have to navigate the hard way.
I was sure SCP-239 would be under lots and lots of security. She was dangerous and powerful. Chances are I would need friends. People who could calm her down long enough to make her turn everything normal instead of making everything worse.
The lights were all very bright, but it was so weird dealing with empty halls. Normally there would be researchers giving me waves, or looking at me weird until their friends told them to stop staring at me. But now the only sound was the fluorescent lamps. I know I shouldn't use contractions like that, but it's not like anyone's going to police my grammar now.
Do you know when you can feel like something's watching you? Like there's just a creeping feeling in the back of your neck or something, like breathing on you. That's what I was starting to feel. And like that's pretty bad because this was still Site-19. There's still the statue here and I didn't want to run into that. Like I'm not a boy who gets scared easily, I've dealt with some really bad things, but it felt like I was being watched by the butt ghost, but I wasn't anywhere near a toilet.
I thought I was being paranoid because everyone I worked with was gone, so I took a seat to rest, and there was a mural of a girl on the other wall, painted with the colors of the Foundation warning signs and ACS labels.
She was a very pretty drawing. Like real girls are weird sometimes, but drawings are pretty.
Then she waved at me.
I jumped to my feet. I knew her. SCP-085, "Cassy." She was a living drawing that could move between other drawings. Her file said she couldn't move off of paper onto walls or anything, but somehow she was. And she also wasn't supposed to be able to see me. She knew about the real world, but she was supposed to only be 2D.
She raised her hands above her head like people do right before bad policemen shoot them. I frowned.
"Can you see me?" I asked.
She nodded and mouthed something. It almost looked like a speech bubble was forming from her mouth.
I started to have more ideas of what was going on. She was a drawing who was able to walk into the real world, so possibly that meant the real world was becoming a drawing.
My hypothesis: The real world is becoming a drawing.
My experiment: …try to draw something or erase something?
I really didn't know what to do there.
I told Cassy about my mission, though. To figure out what was going on, and to bring back all the adults, because I was not ready to deal with Mr Lizard or the butt ghost all on my own.
She nodded. I still couldn't figure out what she was saying, but she had gotten more powerful. Maybe if I drew her a pencil she could recursively draw more things. We'd figure it out later.

SITE-58:
NOW
Site-58's lawn hadn't been mown in weeks, and there was a beating blaring alarm.
Rich House proceeded uncertainly, following in the footsteps of Administrator Cole Thereven and his younger sister, Rhonda House. He clenched his baseball bat anxiously. It felt cowardly, hiding behind others after trying to step up for so long, but it made sense. Administrator Thereven was an adult, and Rhonda was a witch.
Rich was just a guy.
They stopped outside the doors, which slid open as Cole put his hand on the keypad. He looked at them.
"So, guys, remember what to expect," Cole said. "SCP-6033 is a book titled 'The Friend With Many Arms'. Its powers only manifest when read by a Toby McEnderson, summoning an entity called Ud'itlah."
Rich frowned. "What kind of kid's book also summons a formless horror?"
"I read the file, okay," Rhonda snapped. "Can we just like. Get to him?"
"Let me take the lead," Cole said. "This was, quite literally, my job."
Rhonda gave Rich a significant look, and he nodded grimly. Cole Thereven doubtless intended to take the lead in recruiting whoever this Toby McEnderson, but Rich was more than happy to let him physically take the lead.
Site-58 was as deserted on the inside as it was on the outside. The occasional light flickered, but otherwise the hallways were clean saved for a thin accumulation of dust.
Rhonda grabbed Rich's arm, pointing at the floor. There was a path left in the dust by something large and burgeoning that varied in width.
Rich swallowed. "Cole."
"Ah, yes," Cole said as he noticed the path. "That, I assume, would be Ud'itlah. If we follow it, we should find Toby."
Rich had many, many misgivings about this plan, but the three of them followed the dust trail until they reached a standard containment cell that had its lights on. It was furnished like a child's bedroom, which made the presence of an observation window all the more intrusive. A little boy was curled up on the bed, napping, "The Friend With Many Arms" by his side. Discarded nutrient bar wrappers and Foundation standard meal ration packs were piled neatly in the corner of his cell.
Rich's stomach fell. The boy was tiny. He was rubbish at estimating ages, but Toby McEnderson couldn't have been any more than eight.
"What is this?" Rhonda said, looking at Cole. "He's younger than me! By a lot!"
"We need him," Cole said solemnly.
"He's a toddler!"
Cole was intently studying the door, examining the scanner and glancing at the pile of wrappers inside the cell.
Rich didn't want to hear them argue. He didn't want to be reminded that Rhonda was growing up, and that she was getting to the point where she could beat adults in arguments.
Rich put his hand on the scanner next to the door, and the lock beeped open. He entered.
Toby sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. "Mr. Sias…?"
"Hey," Rich said. "My name's Rich. Are you Toby?"
Toby pulled "A Friend With Many Arms" to his chest. "Yeah. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. How did you get in here?"
Cole placed his hand on Rich's shoulder hissing into his ear, "We said I would handle this."
Rich stood rigid, until Cole squeezed his shoulder and gave him two swift pats on the back.
"Toby, how would you like to go outside?" Cole said.
"That would be okay, I guess," Toby said.
"Well, if you come with us, you can be outside as much as you'd like!" Cole said.
Toby looked at Cole very dubiously, and Rich couldn't blame him.
"Look, Toby," Rich said. "A very bad thing happened, and we think you and… Udy-Lah can help. Will you help us?"
Cole let out a huff. "I'll keep watch."
"I'm not sure what Mister Sias would say," Toby said. "I haven't seen him in a long time."
"It's just been you and Udy-Lah, huh?"
Toby looked down and nodded. After a moment, he asked, "Do you know where Mister Sias and all the doctors went?"
Rich had a frog in his throat. He hated every bit of this, hated having to take the lead, hated having to make hard decisions. He was afraid Toby McEnderson was a lamb to a slaughter. And yet he had no choice, no better option.
"I don't know, Toby. But I was hoping you and Udy-Lah could help us find out."
"Where is Udy-Lah, anyways?" Rhonda said.
From the door, Administrator Cole Thereven screamed like a dying cat.
Toby jumped out of bed, a smile stretching across his face. "Udy-Lah!"
He rushed towards the door. Rich gave Rhonda a look, and the two of them hesitantly followed. Rhonda started muttering under her breath – Rich caught a number of rhymes for 'fight', 'safe', and 'away'.
Administrator Cole Thereven was caterwauling on the floor, pinned to the ground by an undulating purple mass, rippling like taut muscles and jiggling like jello, fractal tentacles sprouting from fractal tentacle upon fractal tentacle. Rich felt a migraine starting.
"No, Udy-Lah, he's a friend!" Toby said.
The formless mass froze, before withdrawing into itself, releasing a heaving Cole Thereven onto the ground.
"Have you made new friends while you were sleeping, Toby?" Ud'itlah asked, its voice like echoing starlight.
Toby pointed at Rich and Rhonda. "They want us to help find out where Mister Sias went!"
"And what about him?" Ud'itlah said, spouting five tentacles to gesture at Cole.
"He's with us," Rich said. It was, unfortunately, a necessity for Cole Thereven to survive.
Rich took a deep breath. It was hard to concentrate, with Ud'itlah so close to him, its very form creating intricate spirals that were just barely possible to perceive. Yet Ud'itlah seemed older and wiser than Toby, quite possibly by millennia, and it was acting as a guardian spirit.
"Toby, Mister Ud'itlah… all of the adults vanished a few days ago, and we know where, but we don't know how and why. We have food, water, and resources we can share with you. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to join the Department of Youth in the Night Terror Division."
He took another deep breath. Ud'itlah's circles within circles were making it hard for him to keep his composure, to lie. "It will be dangerous. It'll be a huge risk. But if you don't help us, we can't guarantee your safety for much longer, because whatever's out there won't leave us alone forever."
"So what do you say?"

SITE-19
SEVERAL WEEKS AGO
I knew Site-19 wasn't safe. THE SUPER DUPER BESTEST LIZARD was so awesome that it was almost definitely still around. And if it was still around, SCP-053 was probably still around too. I needed to collect other survivors and SCP-239, because teamwork would make us strong.
SCP-239 was in a high-security cell deep in Site-19 and there were others along the way. It was probably safer for a lot of them inside their cells, if 053 and 682 didn't get out. I was hoping their containment would stay.
"So, Cassy," I said nervously, "who do you think could help us?"
She wasn't listening to me. She was sliding like I do when I have socks and I jump onto a tile floor and I just slide forward like skating but less slippering, inside the wall. I don't think she was ever on metal walls before.
I sighed. I got what she was doing because she was free for the first time in a long while, but it was also very frustrating not to have help from anyone.
Then she slipped inside the seam between a door and the wall. And then the door swung open. And she was on the other side of it.
She seemed horrified. Her eyes had turned blue, the color of Thaumiel Anomaly Classification System. She was going to cry.
I looked at the sign. SCP-191.
I pulled up the file on Director Moose's Foundation-issue phone. It was kind of horrible to read. It reminded me of some bad things I've done in the past.
She was sitting in a pile of sludge and had turned slightly to watch me. The sludge was grey and very stinky. It smelled kinda like a mix between farts and motor oil.
It was hard to look at her. Half of her face was made of plastic, but not very pretty plastic. She looked like those killer robots from those movies about time travel I'm not supposed to watch, without their skin. Her whole jawline had these tiny little dots that blinked with light and that followed me.
The grown-ups had really done a number on her.
I started talking to her. It's really hard to know if there's any point of talking to someone when they don't talk back, you know. I was telling her that I needed help, that I needed to see SCP-239, so we could undo all of this. And through it all she just sat there. Not moving.
There was nothing I could do to entice her. She didn't need food or water. I wasn't even sure she had emotions anymore. That's what the file had said. I didn't know how well she understood me, even. She just sat there and watched me.
And I realized that the adults coming back meant something different for me than it did for her. Adults were the ones who had pulled her apart and turned her into something she was never meant to be. Adults had ruined her life to make their own better.
Cassy still wasn't looking at SCP-191.
"Come on. Let's go," I said to her. We left, not expecting anything.
But I heard clanking behind me.
SCP-191 was following us, moving with a steady limp, like a broken wind-up robot. I don't know why. Maybe she wanted the adults back. Maybe she wanted to make sure the adults wouldn't come back.
"Do you have a name?" I asked.
She straightened up slowly, though she twitched as she did so. Then she shook her head side to side.
"I'll call you Sy," I said nervously.
She nodded.

NEAR SITE-20
NOW
Rich and Rhonda disembarked the plane in a small town, in a park with a depressingly dilapidated jungle gym, just as the sun was setting. Cole was staying in the plane to keep an eye on Toby and Ud'itlah. Someone had to.
There were kids playing in the park, which was a tad odd. Rich thought that they'd be focused more on getting food and water and staying alive than being out playing, and it hurt to hear them being so happy and so naïve.
There was a young girl, probably around twelve, sitting on a park table and staring at a bronze bracelet. SCP-5365-0.
"At least she's not as young as Toby," Rhonda said in a hush.
Rich forced himself to unclench his teeth. "But younger than you. Maybe we should leave."
Before Rhonda could respond, the girl looked up. "You're not from around here."
"Hi," Rhonda said. "I'm Rhonda, and this is Rich."
"I'm Jenny. Jenny Flynn," the girl said. "I'm… nothing."
"You're nothing?" Rich said.
"No, I'm not nothing!" Jenny said, jumping to the ground. "I'm not going to tell you what I am. You're not… you're strangers."
Rhonda stepped forward. "Jenny, you saw a special doctor in 2017. Do you remember that?"
Jenny nodded. "Yeah. There was some weird bug going around my school. They told me if I wore this bracelet, I could stop it from happening again. An anti-cootie bracelet."
She held the bracelet up. To Rich, it looked like beryllium bronze. Foundation manufacture. Standard issue for reality-anchor technology. Sourced-focused suppression.
"So why aren't you wearing it?" he said. An unconstrained reality bender was… dangerous, in the best of worlds. He'd read the file that had warranted Jenny's containment protocols. She'd heard about cooties from her friends and manifested a debilitating virulent disease.
"You'll see," Jenny said.
The last rays of sun were just peaking over the horizon when Rich heard the beeping of car horns. Rhonda grabbed his arm and pointed at the road. There was a line of cars, and behind their steering wheels, tall figures.
Rich was bewildered. He wanted to cry.
In unison, the cars shut off. The car doors opened. The parents exited and waved to their children, who came running over. Then, one by one, the cars drove off, except for one.
Two adult figures approached the three of them at a non-threatening pace. "Jenny! It's time to go home!"
"There… there are still adults here," Rich said dumbly.
"Jenny! It's time to go home!"
"No there aren't," Jenny said flatly.
"Jenny! It's time to go home!"
Jenny slipped the bracelet on.
Reification.
"Jenny! It's time to—"
Jenny's "parents" froze, desaturating. Turning black-and-white, like an old cartoon. Almost two-dimensional in a fading light.
Their heads vanished first, leaving only their nondescript bodies, as if from a Charlie Brown cartoon. Then, like burning paper, they started to crumble away.
Jenny slipped the bracelet off, and they were restored, as cheery as before, reality unwinding around them.
"It's me. It's all me," Jenny said. "My mom and dad were gone one day, but I thought that good parents wouldn't leave their children, and later that day all of our parents came back, but then Dennis said that his Father had turned into dust when he'd crossed city limits and then taken him back home anyways, and after that I had to know and I tried the bracelet and my parents vanished and—"
She stopped herself. "I thought it was all me but I checked TikTok and like this is all across the world and I didn't ask for this. It happened before I thought my parents would be back. But I'm… I'm different."
She looked small. Terrified. Rich didn't understand girls, but he knew they could be vicious, catty bullies. Other guys were simple because you always knew where you stood, but as a sixteen year old Rich found girls more mysterious than SCPs.
"We're different, but it's not a blight," Rhonda said, holding her hands before her, "Our differences bring the world to light."
And a tiny ball of incandescent orange light, the color of the setting sun, appeared between her hands.
"You're like me," Jenny said after a moment. She seemed barely able to hope.
"Not… exactly," Rhonda said. "But we're similar."
"We're with the doctors who took care of you," Rich said. "Special agents, like from the X-Files. We were recruited just in case all the adults vanished."
It was a lie, but only half of one.
"Can we fix this?" Jenny said. "What I did… it was okay, but it's not real. It keeps them happy but…"
"It's dangerous," Rhonda said. "And we… we might have to hurt someone real bad."
But Jenny looked at Rich with resolve, and he gave her a solemn nod. They needed all the help they could get.
As they departed, the facsimiles of Jenny's parents remained in the park, staring at where their daughter had been.
"Jenny! It's time to go home!"

SITE-19
SEVERAL WEEKS AGO
We were heading into more and more complicated parts of Site-19 now, for less dangerous SCPs that needed special containment. Sy was clanking along like before, still not saying anything.
I was very glad Cassy was with me. She could slip through the space between a closed door and a wall and take a peek inside the cells. I'm still too short to look through the windows in the cell doors.
Most of the cells were empty. Then we got to SCP-166's cell.
Cassy tried to go in, but she pulled her hand back and shook it around. Brown rust fell off the wall as she shook her hand, kinda like snow. The control room for SCP-166's cell was open because the lock had rusted, and I went in.
I saw a whole bunch of computers with staticky screens. There were one or two still there, and they said stuff like 'Purifier Failure' and 'Warning Pollen Count High.'
My stomach felt shaky. I knew SCP-166 had very bad allergies to metal and machines and stuff, and she wasn't getting purified air anymore. I'd never seen a dead body before.
"Sy," I said, "go stand at the end of the hallway. Over there. Just in case."
I was wondering if I would have to repeat myself, but she clanked away.
Then the door to SCP-166's cell – the file calls it a hermetic airlock – slid open. A girl with yellow-brown hair and deer antlers stuck her head out. I could see lots of grass and bushes behind her.
Also, she wasn't dead.
"Hello," she said. "I'm Epon. Achoo!"
She sneezed.
"Hi, I'm Researcher James," I said, blinking. "Are you going to die?"
"Oh goodness, I hope not," Epon said. Then she sneezed again.
I looked at Cassy. Then I looked at Epon.
You see, in cartoons they don't really ever show someone dying from anaphylaxis or stuff. That's what a really bad allergic reaction is called. They just show them sick by having them sneeze and lie down a lot. My thought at the time was that this effect, whatever it was, was letting Epon just get sneezy and a little sick.
"The world itself feels cleaner, I think. More electric cars?" Epon said.
"All the grown ups are gone," I said.
"So no more smoking. I suppose that would explain much of it," said Epon. Then she sneezed.
Again.
She was sneezing a lot. I think it would be easier to say if she wasn't sneezing.
I knew a lot of things about Epon from reading her file, and I think she knew that I knew.
First, she's old. Old enough to be eighteen by now. Somehow, whatever had removed all the adults was skipping over her. Maybe it was because she was… maybe immortal, so still a kid relatively speaking?
Second, she destroyed man-made things and man-made things were supposed to destroy her. But I still had Director Moose's phone and lab coat, and she was just sneezing a lot.
Something had changed for sure. As a Foundation doctor, I was supposed to reverse it, but now I was wondering whether that would be the best thing to do. Epon seemed… I wondered if she was able to live a normal life, now. It wasn't as if either of us had any parents to lose.
"I was born with a song in me, James," she said. "An unholy pagan hymn, music that promised Eden. I could bring Eden any time, James. It would be so easy, to just let it out and change the world to the garden. But there's something fighting it."
She was talking about Occult Procedure Clockwork Blackchild Havilah, something that would bring the world back to the caveman days.
"Fighting it?" I said. I glanced down the hallway towards Sy, who was standing completely still.
"I can hardly tell," Epon said, frowning. "I don't know what it's like for normal folk, folk who don't have a song within their hearts. But the song is all within me now, it's not leaking out. I can… I can let it out, yes, make those horrid alarms shut up if I wish them to, but,"
(She sneezed, because she really shouldn't have destroyed those alarms and the air purifiers)
"But there's something fighting me. Flowing over me. Does that make sense?"
I frowned and tried to look over her shoulder. "What about all the plants?"
"I grew them. I like plants."
I really didn't like where this was going, but I couldn't just leave her here. Not if she could send us all back to the caveman days. Far better to bring her with us to meet with 239.

SITE-34:
NOW
"That was far too risky," Cole chided Rich as they approached one of the many entrances of Site-34. "Having the both of you out in the field to recruit a reality warper…"
"And yet here you are," Rich said. "Administrator of the SCP Foundation, out in the field, doing recovery work, for SCP-2241."
"Look, Rich," Cole said. "I do what I'm good at. I'm the best at what I do, and what I do is very—"

SCENE: SITE-34, an unspecified location in LATIN AMERICA, has been transformed. It now resembles WESTCHESTER MANSION. Cole Thereven and Rich House are walking towards its front gate.
(Possible tagline: "Not a hoax! Not a dream! Not an imaginary story" – too Silver Age?)
ONE - 1 PANEL
Mansion is brownstone, with elaborate gardens and a prominent foundation in the center. Rich House and Cole Thereven should be prominent figures in foreground, close enough to view their features.

ADMINISTRATOR COLE THEREVEN
Oh, #@!#<
RICH HOUSE
What's going on? Why do I feel… flat?
ADMINISTRATOR COLE THEREVEN
Rich, I told you this was a risk.
RICH HOUSE
Wait. Is this… a pataphysical distortion?

TWO - 1 PANEL
Introduce CAMERON THE CRUSADER. Page drawn in classic superhero pose. Young teenager. 13-14. Cameron should be wearing an orange suit with a Foundation emblem on the chest. Should be drawn in a way highly reminiscent of D-class uniforms.
CAPTION: Headmaster Consuelo Valdez and all the good teachers have vanished from Foundation Academy! Only CAMERON THE CRUSADER remains! With his mastery of the ONTOFORCE, it is his noble mission to free Headmaster Consuelo from the Red Reality! Will these strange travelers be friend or foe?
THREE – 3 PANEL
[1] Top left corner, triangular. Close up of Rich's face. He is looking to his left, at the previous page. Mess with formatting.

RICH HOUSE
Did you hear that?

[2] Top right corner, triangular. Close up of Cole Thereven's face. He is pushing his glasses up. Have them flashing slickly with light.

ADMINISTRATOR COLE THEREVEN
Interesting. We're in a comic book.

[3] Bottom half/remainder of page. Rich House and Cole Thereven are hiding behind shrubbery on opposite sides of the road to the Foundation Academy Mansion. Cameron the Crusader should be centered on the page in a hands-outstretched pose. Unsure of Ontoforce coloration – blue for color contrast or green to symbolize Type Green.

RICH HOUSE
So his reality warping powers must've collided with the initial wave. That first wave turned everything into a cartoon, and his overlapping on it turned it into 80s X-Men.
ADMINISTRATOR COLE THEREVEN
Must be the case. You read his file. He always did want to be a superhero.
RICH HOUSE
We got any reality anchors?
ADMINISTRATOR COLE THEREVEN
Back on the plane? Yes. With us? Nothing that'll overwhelm this.

FOUR – 1 PANEL
Rich House is standing in the center of the road to FOUNDATION ACADEMY/SITE-34. Cameron the Crusader is above him. Both centered. Cole Thereven remains behind bushes, viewing a tablet.

RICH HOUSE
We'll just have to face him head on.
ADMINISTRATOR COLE THEREVEN
Oh, cripes! He's dangerous.

FIVE – 2 PANEL
CAPTION: Why is Cameron the Crusader Dangerous?
CENTERED: Circular diagram of Cameron the Crusader, posed like the Vitruvian Man. Have eight arrows circling in on his body, like the Chaos Insurgency emblem (no relation – used purely for aesthetic.) This human has been dissected and abused by those who trusted him.
CAPTION – CENTERED IN BOTTOM OF PANEL 1: The ONTOFORCE grants Cameron the Crusader:

Future Sight!
Teleportation!
Matter Manipulation!
Self Duplication!

OUTSIDE PANEL 1 – IN CORNERS: Drawings of circuitry and neurons. Show computer chips implanted on brain matter. Goal is to appear highly intrusive. Caption may not be necessary – just imply there have been severely intrusive brain procedures performed on Cameron that are now malfunctioning and fully integrated into his brain.
SIX – ONE PANEL, TWO PAGE SPREAD
Side view. On the left, Rich House stands. Small figure, maybe 2 cm tall. On the right, Cameron the Crusader levitating in the center of an energy storm. Mimic structure of Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam slightly? Capture that aesthetic – of a single mortal bowing below before a powerful god but without fear.

RICH HOUSE
I come in peace.

SEVEN – ONE PANEL
Downward-angled shot of Rich House. He is staring up at the camera and smirking, pointing a finger-gun cleverly at the reader. Certain words are bolded for emphasis. These represent subconcious triggers designed to activate Cameron's loyalty.

RICH HOUSE
My name is Rich House, and I'm part of a special Foundation Department. All of the adults have vanished, and we need you to join our team as a loyal superhero! Are you a bad enough hero to save the headmaster?

EIGHT — ONE PANEL
Concentric circles around Cameron the Crusader, who is a glowing human figure at the center. Rich House, dwarfed by the circles, centered at the bottom. Think the vibe of Gustav Dore's Paradiso, Canto 34, but discretized like a bull's eye.
Three arrows, the shape of the foundation logo, framing Cameron at the center. Upside down. Bottom one comes from Rich House, who is still posed pointing. Straightforward red.
Top left arrow is stylized with the Deepwell aesthetic — purple, slick lines that end in an arrow. The smallest circle around Cameron is an extension of this color scheme. The background of this circle is brain tissue with wires and computer chips running through it.
Top right arrow is stylized like a comic book. Kirby dots e.g. the kind of stylization used to demonstrate extremely powerful cosmic beings in comic books. Color scheme black with green cloud outline. Black dots should be hammering against inner circle, and the second ring should be formed from the bubbly green highlights. Background of this circle should mimic Silver-Age comic books — four color palette. Imagine 'galaxybrained' meme drawn in four-palette style.
Text on the left side: YOU TORE ME APART IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE AND NOW YOU SEEK MY HELP
Text on the right side: GOLLY GEE MISTER HOUSE! THAT SURE DOES SOUND SWELL!
NINE — ONE PANEL
Same image structure as before. However, the purple Deepwell arrow should be shattered into pieces and Kirby dots should fill the outer rim. Second ring should completely overcome the central ring. The 'neural tissue' background of the inner circle should be replaced instead with a hi-tech aesthetic circuit-board. Evoke a 'neural hypercomputer' — the kind of schlocky nonsense that shows up in superhero comics.
The arrow coming from Rich House should remain bold and a straightforward red. It should become 4-palette towards Cameron. More stylized. Merging seamlessly into it.
Cameron's pose is triumphant. Superman pose.
Right-side text from previous panel fills background of whole page now.
TEN – ONE PANEL
Drawing of Cole Thereven, Rich House, and Cameron the Crusader in a badass superhero pose. Cameron is centered with his hands on his hips doing a power pose. Rich and Cole are flanking him with arms crossed.
CAPTION: Well met, comrades! We'll save Headmaster Consuelo from the Red Reality, and then we'll celebrate over a bowl of his signature chorizo stew!

SITE-19:
SEVERAL WEEKS AGO
And now we were deep within Site-19. The signs here were far scarier. Here, everything was labeled Keter. Amida. Critical.
(That means the signs were red.)
This was where they kept the stuff they couldn't keep in safer places. If we were unlucky, we might've taken a wrong turn and run into the EPIC LIZARD. While the lizard was mega-cool, I didn't want to run into it now.
Epon and Sy were staying rather far away from each other. Epon was walking on the side where Cassy wasn't, and Sy was clanking away behind us. Having both of them with me kind of felt like some sick joke, because I'm pretty sure if they touched each other they would both fall apart.
Luckily, they didn't. And soon we were at SCP-239's cell. I took a deep, deep breath.
It was a simple enough plan. Wake her up, tell her that a dark wizard had made all the grown ups go away, even the good wizard Gears, and tell her that she had to cast a spell to bring them back.
I placed my hand on the access panel, and the door opened.
Her cell was empty.
Her bed was wet. The medical bags and tubes were loose. They were leaking medicine onto her bed.
I approached slowly. Maybe she was invisible. Maybe she was already awake. But then why hadn't she fixed it.
There was a folded piece of paper on her pillow, and I picked it up.
I'm getting too old for this.
SITE-19
Now
Let's just say my plan was a failure, and I didn't want to be in the high-security branches for too long. The three of us made the trek outside of Site-19. Truth is, it's safer out here than it is in there, since Site-19 is supposed to keep anomalies in. And with a nature demigoddess like Epon – though don't call her that, she's very Catholic – around, we have all the fruit and crops we need, enough that we can share with anyone who wanders over here, and we don't have to worry about bad weather. I just hope she doesn't vanish too.
Since then, I've been doing recovery missions into Site-19. There are a few other kids here, and I'm happy to say I've found most of them. There have been a few close calls, but we haven't lost anyone yet.
And the truth is – life is better for us. We don't have to bother with strict containment protocols or bedtimes, and Epon can actually touch plastic now, and Sy is able to act like a cartoon cyborg instead of a half broken mess.
So tell me, Administrator Thereven, Director House, and Director House. Why should I give you any of my people to undo something that's working for them?

Rich and Rhonda shared a look, while Cole Thereven did his best to look imposing.
"You're right," Rich said after a moment. "We can't force you to do anything."
"But we've been out there," Rhonda said. "We've seen a lot of kids who want their parents back. I want my parents back."
"Therefore, as Administrator," Cole Thereven said, "I am ordering you to give us your able-bodied soldiers or else be reassigned to Keter Duty."
"Please shut up," Rich said.
"Come on, Rich," Cole said. "A good Foundation scientist would be willing to die in the darkness so the rest of the world could live in the light. This Researcher James probably doesn't even have a degree. He's probably a sussy imposter."
"For the love of Pluto, shut up," Rhonda said. "Or I'll turn your mouth into a, uh, a butt."
James started snickering. "Heh heh, butts."
"The thing is," Rich said after a moment, "James, Site-19 is probably the healthiest, safest place we've seen. And you're the boy responsible for it."
"No I'm not," James said. "That was everyone else. That was Epon and Sy and Johnny and Jake and Mary and all of the other people who've done their best to stay safe."
"But you're the leader," Rhonda said. "And under Protocol DEROH-13 – "
"Oh, alright," Cole grumbled. "Researcher James, under Protocol DEROH-13, I hereby declare you the Director of the Team-Up Division. May you continue to recruit suitable replacements for necessary positions within the Foundation."
"Do I have to… do anything?"
"Just what you've been doing," Rich said. "But James – if there's anyone who'll fight with us, anyone who wants to know what's going on and undo it – let them come with us. The Night Terror Division will fight in the darkness so you can build the new light."
After a long moment, James nodded.

Wake Up

DEPARTMENT OF YOUTH

???


Hello there new recruits. Today is the opening night for the best job you'll ever have.
You've been promoted, transferred, or otherwise found your way to the Department of Musicals. Now that name may be a little bit confusing, but we have a wonderful way to introduce you all: With a song and dance routine! Everyone, please welcome Dr. Gary Mander-Bassen!

+ Lyrics

- Lyrics

Welcome to the department of musicals
We write songs and we also catch anomalies
Welcome to the team, life here is a dream and
You will get to feel the limelight
You have joined a great department
Full of music and adventure
Creative types often find themselves more comfortable
Working with other artsy people
This is a place where we find a lot of
Chances to appear on stages
Here you'll be working
Right on Broadway
Vegas, London
And on tour!
Welcome to the department of musicals
We write songs and we also catch anomalies
Welcome to the team, life here is a dream and
You will get to feel the limelight
You will get to use your talents
To help the Foundation prosper
Acting in plays, making music and creative writing
Painting, lighting, playing your instrument
You will get to be deeply involved with the
Actors, writers, and producers
If it's a live show
You will be there
Helping uphold
The Masquerade
Welcome to the department of musicals
We write songs and we also catch anomalies
Welcome to the team, life here is a dream and
You will get to feel the limelight
Welcome to the department of musicals
We write songs and we also catch anomalies
Welcome to the team, life here is a dream and
You will get to feel the limelight
You'll have fun here
And you'll get to save the world while
Living on the stage

Thank you Gary! Thank you, thank you.
So, Department of Musicals. We went for that name for two reasons: It looks amazing on a business card and it entices the right kind of people over to us. Sure we could be more accurate if we labelled ourselves the "Department of Live Events", but where's the fun in that?
Musicals and plays make up a huge percentage of our work, but we also dabble in concerts, improv shows, magic shows… hell even some open mic nights. Why? Well, anomalies often get thrown into a spotlight. People like to show off, and one way to stand out in a crowd is to bend the rules of reality. We fight against this on two fronts.
First of all, we observe and investigate all sorts of live performances. If we get reports of something odd at a burlesque show in Minneapolis or a peculiar street magician in Madrid, one of you will be flying out to see if its smoke and mirrors or if we need to intervene. We keep offices in some of the cities where these incidents happen the most: Here in New York, Chicago, New Orleans, Paris, Tokyo, you get the idea.
Second of all, we use Foundation resources to create and promote non-anomalous entertainment, promoting more people to stay inside the boundaries of accepted reality and pushing anomalous performance art further and further into a niche market. We've not only bankrolled some of the biggest musicals, stand up shows, and festivals of the last few decade; we've often created them. Hell, Special Agent Miranda over in the back right corner there, he has more Tony Awards than he knows what to do with… and Researcher McMahon… well you might recognize him from a fairly popular wrestling company. Televised too, but that's mostly to ensure a monopoly on live events… If you have a good idea for a show, you've come to the right place.
In the next few days we're going to have everyone in for one on one interviews… or auditions, as we like to call them. You're going to go over your strengths, weaknesses, fields of expertise, all that jazz. We will pick out assignments for you that play to your strength and assign you to classes and exercises that will help cover your weaknesses. You're going to be well-rounded within just a few years. Singing, dancing, rapping, magic, comedy, marching band… you'll be ready for whatever we throw you at. Maybe you catch an anartist using a potentially dangerous skip in a subversive off-Broadway play or maybe you'll just catch a strange arthouse show that we got a false report on. One thing I can promise: You will always be entertained. There are very few slogs in this line of work. Things are gonna be unpredictable for you as long as you work here.
And of course, the benefits are amazing. You want an Equity card? We will get you one. You want to take your vacation time working on tour with a band you love? We will make it happen. You want to host a karaoke night, just for fun on the weekend? Half the department is going to show up and you bet your butt we're going to sing along when someone busts out Bohemian Rhapsody.
We're not just a department, we're the cast and crew that makes the rest of your career possible, and everyone here gets to be a star if they want to.
So welcome aboard. We're gonna take fifteen, get to know your neighbors and when we reconvene we will go over proper investigating and reporting procedures.


" Wake Up "
August 27 2022

Look Familiar?

Bright hues of orange scattered from the horizon as the sun peeked from the field line, showering everything it touched in a golden glow. The morning dew dripped from the leaves of the crops, fresh in the crack of dawn. The serenity was reminiscent of a 19th-century landscape painting, and yet no painter could capture the coos of the morning doves.
The sunbeams shone through a magnifying glass, beaming a most annoying ray of light straight at the face of mister sleeping beauty. And if that wasn't enough of a wake-up call, the alarm just next to the sleeping boy began to blare with an ever so annoying chime. It rang with such force that it shattered as it smashed into the ground.
The boy jolted up at the sound. At this point, he wouldn't have been surprised if someone came crashing in, banging pots and pans. Begrudgingly he forced himself out of bed. In the window, he was able to see his reflection — blue eyes, surrounded by dark circles. He looked just like his father.
There was no reason to change, so he just fixed up his shirt and tossed some new socks on. This clothing was strewn all across his room with no rhyme or reason. This was because his laundry basket was busy being used to contain the thing in the closet.
‘Speaking of.'
His gaze turned to the closet where visible black wisps leaked under the doors, reaching for the broken clock pieces. He stomped on them immediately, causing the mass to shrink back from whence it came. Retrieving the damaged parts so it could not build another weapon, he tossed the broken clock into the trash bin where two other alarm clocks remained.
'More like a clock cemetary than trash now.'
Judging by the peeking sun when he looked outside, it must have been about five in the morning. He had a lot to get done.
Leaving to get to the washroom, he passed the pedestal with a calender pinned above it. It had officially been seven days since his parents hadn't come home.
‘Must be having the time of their lives out there.' He didn't let his thoughts get any more profound than that, shoving a toothbrush into his mouth. He dipped down to take a sip of water from the sink. When he straightened back up, he wasn't surprised to see his reflection had changed. A horrible recreation of himself was painted in the mirror, with devil horns and signed off with ‘Thomas.' The reflection only looked that way sometimes; it looked familiar, almost. Like a crayon drawing instead of anything truly photorealistic. He vaguely remembered seeing it at school — some loser in his class had tried hiding something like it from him.
The first time he'd seen it happen, he'd hoped it had meant he was still dreaming.
Moving out of the bathroom and past his room to the stairs, he glanced once at the closed door. A glittery nameplate with a race car on it read ‘Atlas.' It had been a while since they got that. He always tried to get rid of it, but his mom always put it back up.
Atlas supposed now she wouldn't be able to do that.
Sliding down the stair's railing into the dining room, Atlas entered what used to be a lively living space. It was hard not to notice the thin layer of dust starting to accumulate on the nicely set-out dining equipment. Only one spot looked used. The young boy sat at that spot, grabbing the half-empty box of cereal that he hadn't bothered to put away since yesterday. It was the one his mom used in her meatloaf, plain and bland in every way, but it was the last box left.
Grabbing his spoon, he ate the small flakes dry. It wasn't that they didn't have milk; I mean, they had a cow barn, for heaven's sake! He just wasn't feeling like getting up to grab some. Last he checked the fridge, it checked him back- and the rope on the handle won't keep it in there forever. It already looked like it had found a way to begin chewing through it.
He never thought monsters were real! In the same way the tooth fairy and Santa were stories. After the first few days of his parents being gone, it felt like a new one showed up every afternoon. He missed living in blissful ignorance. Nostalgic for the mere days prior when he never had to worry if one would be too strong for him to contain. Normalcy was the best gift a kid could get.
Shoving another scoop of bitter cereal into his mouth, Atlas winced when his teeth clamped down onto the metal spoon from a sudden rumble below his chair. The entire house rattled as though thunder shook its very beams. An earthquake wasn't uncommon at this time of year, but this sure was lasting a while.
After a straight five seconds, it was noticeably getting worse. He could hear the earth trembling, like thousands of horses stampeding. His eyes shot to the window, and from his spot on the hill, he could see something far off in the distance creeping closer, destroying every crop in its path. It was massive! And it was headed here.
Without a second thought, Atlas rushed to the kitchen, opening up drawers and grabbing at some supplies he laid out in the event of an emergency before tossing it all into a bag. There was no time to waste; he knew very well that whatever that THING was, it could kill him. He didn't want to take the chance of defending this house that had strayed so far from a home.
He didn't even glance back at the place where he'd grown up; he left the door ajar in his utter haste towards the electric bike his father never let him use. On the back was a milk crate with a folded tarp, a gas canister and first aid kit all tied down so it wouldn't go flying everywhere– and thank God for that. The moment he got on the bike, he strapped his backpack on tighter than it needed to be and ripped the starting cord with such force that the cycle fled into motion. His feet could barely keep up with the pedals while he tore down the driveway built on a hill, racing towards the road.
Not even the sound of the tires pushing through the gravel and throwing small pebbles in all directions was able to mask the scream of what Atlas could only describe as several buildings cracking under a crushing weight, followed by them collapsing in on themselves.
The quickest road to the city was across a field. Otherwise, he would be forced to go around and risk the stampede cutting him off. The best shot he had was to get into the field and book it. The bike's velocity shot him through the ditch and into the field, breaking down all kinds of overgrown wheat and weeds. It had a much harder time on the soft soil and wouldn't be able to go any faster than his own running pace. Atlas needed a distraction.
Grabbing the gas tank and tilting it upside down, he unscrewed the cap and let the fuel drip down while he continued to push the bike forwards in rough movements. He was only halfway there, and he could hear it approaching. By this point, he was clenching his teeth down on his tongue so hard that a metallic taste lingered, heaving with all his might forwards until he had no more gas left in the tank.
For the first time, he turned around and saw the lumbering beast of flesh and horrific amalgamations entering the field with him. Atlas could only hope to the sick God doing this to him that his plan would work. He attempted to strike the first match with shaky hands, breaking it under the force. The second one struck perfectly, igniting a flickering flame that danced its way from the hands of a small boy to the ground where gasoline coated the floor.
Just like that, entire crops went up in flames. Atlas abandoned the canister and run towards the road just a few feet away from him to avoid the rising smoke. Flames grew taller than his head, just barely hiding the monster that's flesh began melting away.
When he blinked, he could've sworn he saw a glimpse of hell.
Faces of neighbours, animals from the barn, and things he could barely recognize fell into clumps that burnt off and fell into the roaring red abyss. He would feel guilty if he could feel anything other than pure adrenaline and intoxicating fear. There was nothing here for him anymore.
Dragging one foot along the ground and then the other, he picked up the bike that he hadn't even realized he had dropped. It was eerily quiet now, aside from the crackling of fire behind him. It took a couple of tries to get the engine started again, but he eventually got it running with a final tug. Shaky knees made it hard to get on the bike comfortably. Atlas was glad that the bike could run on its own; he didn't have any strength to peddle himself.
When his mom drove him out to soccer practice, she would have to drive right to the city's border, where the field was every Thursday. It took about 20 minutes to get there because they lived so far away. Eventually, he had to stop going because they moved even further. Despite the fact, he knew the way there like the back of his hand.
During his travels, he distracted himself with thoughts of school and home. The great thing about living on an island was that you knew almost everyone, but with the downside of having no way to get off. If nothing was there for him in the city, that was it. Food would run sparse in days, and he would have no way to get away from this island of monsters.
A creaking noise broke him from his thoughts. Atlas came to realize his grip on the handlebars was starting to hurt from the rubber grip digging into his skin.
The wailing creak continued, and with a turning gaze, he observed the most gorgeous house Suffolk had to offer, lined with a white picket fence. Looking at it now filled Atlas with dread. It was a family of six, four kids, all of whom were much younger than he was. They had a mill on their property that very clearly hadn't gotten the maintenance it needed in a while, as he could hear its every turn like an eerie cry.
He could have sworn he had seen the eldest child's face in that fresh horror left behind him. He knew a bunch of kids probably hadn't survived as long as he had. Pulling his head away from the lightless house, he continued his trek forwards. Every place in his small town looked like that now. By the time he realized something was wrong, it was already too late to gather every kid in the neighbourhood.
Something deep within him hoped that even the most insufferable kid he knew was picked up by someone or somewhere safe. Something deeper wished he had been saved too.
‘Thomas. Wonder whatever happened to that kid.'
Pondering past relations now was terrible timing. He had many better things and people to be worried about, such as himself and the hope that whatever came from his home stayed there before he made it to the city.
The closer he got to the city, the further his stomach sank. With time he came across the familiar display sign he saw on the corner ‘Welcome to Charlottetown! Population: 36,000'. The sign was likely very outdated on the population aspect.

You're near the end.

It was also made of cardstock paper and crayon, which didn't surprise him. The last time he had gotten this far, the city had looked like a second grader's art project. Atlas assumed at the time it was a dream, but lots of things started doing that.
It was easier to pedal now. The newly paved road faded into a drawing as he closed in on the central part of the city. Street signs, houses, offices; they all began to blend into a crayon-drawn mess. Only a few things were left untouched.
Strangely enough, the central roundabout was missing its monument. All that stood was an undrawn plateau that seemed to have avoided the ‘great redraw.'
From where he stood, it looked like the center of the universe. It looked like there were a few words written on a golden sign. Atlas set his bike against a lime green traffic pole perpetually stuck on red, walking towards the podium. He had to heave himself up onto the top plateau to read the plaque, picking it up into his arms. It was surprisingly weightless, as though made of glass. His eyes glanced over the scribbled text.
“Here lies the villain of my story. Atlas Terrell. Died…far too late.”
The grip on the plaque left as he glanced around, leaving it to shatter on the marble upon which he stood. Small fragments burst across the grass surrounding the pillar.
“Who said that?!” His voice broke as fear and panic tore through him once more. He didn't see a single soul around him, but he could hear tiny giggles.
He reached a hand up to his head, feeling a pang of a headache coming on. Only, there was no hand. His chest heaved with every breath tearing through him. His hand was slowly fading away in front of his very own eyes. Knots tied mercilessly in his stomach until his shaky legs gave out, throat heaving with breaths on the verge of vomiting.
Messy black etches formed around his knees as a voice laughed at him mercilessly.
“You are nothing, Atlas. My whole life, you took everything from me. YOU ARE NOTHING, ATLAS.” As the words boomed into his ears, the same things were written around him in swirls.
“You are a monster-” “I AM ALL THIS WORLD HAS, THOMAS THE HERO, ATLAS THE VILLAIN!”
Thomas. Tears welled in Atlas' eyes, and for the first time, he felt genuinely pathetic. Trembling in a fetal position as he watched his own body etch away, He could not find words anymore, and when his remaining hand reached to his mouth, he found nothing but eraser sheddings.
“YOU ARE LOST” His legs began to erase as well, leaving only faint lines where a pencil pressed into a paper.
“YOU ARE ALONE” In seconds, his arms and torse were gone, leaving only his head.
“YOU WON'T POISON ME ANYMORE” tear-filled eyes remained for a few moments, seeing the cruel joke he was made to be after all.
“THIS WORLD WILL BE FREE OF EVIL” the city center went quiet. Empty.
Not so much as a breeze fell through the city center, the impressions of a nobody being the only sign of life, surrounded by black inked words. The twisted end of an unfair story.
Nobody would ever hurt Thomas again.

Man On A Mission

DEPARTMENT OF YOUTH

Teamwork


Bread_Tyrant

Author Page

“Hold on a sec, I think I see something,”said John, holding out his arm to block Gabriel's movement.
Peering through needle-like raindrops, there were undead about, thumbing all around the fences' exterior. Although they were for the most part concealed by the heavy storm, John was still adept, with refined senses and was able to see them moving in the dark. Luckily none had managed to shuffle their way through the hole made earlier for the group to crawl through. John had the faintest clue to how the undead managed to get so close; perhaps it was the sound of the generator, or the lights that it turned on, or perhaps even worse is that they were followed. John did not think such creatures could be smart enough, but maybe it was not brains that bought them so close. It could have some primal instinct, slowly driving them to follow. Whatever the case they were there and John knew that he needed to be calm.
Taking a deep breath, he gestured to Gabriel to stay as low as possible, but still in a position where they could begin running with ease. crouching by the hole, they each pulled the corners further apart for a more silent exit. The old metal pulled away with ease, only creating a small whisper of noise in comparison to the battering rain. Due to the weather, the ground had become a slurry of mud and grime. It was churned up by the footsteps of the many monsters in the night. As John placed one foot through the hole, he caught the sight of a creature staggering past on a rotting leg. It paid no attention to the two, who silently watched as it went by.
With Gabriel through, the valley was to the right of them. It ran from out of the forest they had come through to get to the building. John helped Gabriel use the fence as a guide, stepping low to the ground. The pressure applied to the ground gave way to footprints in the mud, which much like the night creatures, attempted to consume them into the earth.
The valley came suddenly, as the darkness distorted the land's form, with John stumbling, grasping at the mud for grip. Along with Gabriel, both slid into a mesh of barbed wire. John found his hand wrapped in a heap of it, hissing at the pain. Gabriel was quick to free pliers from his bag, but the noise of displaced mud and the sound of rattling wire attracted the undead to begin toppling down the valley. Some slid beside them, too weak to get up or too tangled to move. Some produced short gravely sounds, as John used his free hand to swing a combat knife at the creatures around him. Gabriel cut the wires loose, freeing them both to quickly move around the mesh. The approaching onslaught, forced them both to leap over a pile of bursted, wet sandbags.
They found themselves in the ruins of a defensive perimeter, with the sandbags forming a central position for the unfortunate souls who once guarded this place. The sand wall was collapsed on the other side, with the corpse of a soldier in its place. John recognised the UK's flag on the soldiers uniform.
Military powers had concentrated their forces from all across the globe to combat where the disease was most prevalent. Prospect was the remnant of those powers, beaten to a pulp by unholy forces. The base had seen many militaries, few still remaining in this world to fight, but John had a feeling deep down. A feeling that some kind of future was possible. A feeling that one day the people would be free. Back home with their families.
John had never gotten a chance at a family, thrust into a dying waste looking for any semblance of a satisfying existence, but to seemingly no avail. Maybe it was yet to happen, he thought. Maybe the time had already passed. All he knew now was the war.
John pulled the soldier from the wall, taking few supplies before exiting the sandbag perimeter. Creatures were now crawling over the bags, falling into mounds of sprawling hunger.
Finding a narrow gap in the barbed wire, both could now ascend up the valley's other side. It was a steep climb, not aided by the soil that gave way under their hands. Their wills stayed strong however and both prevailed at the task, heaving themselves over to flat land.
The grass was much thicker, much denser, much more healthier.
It was lucky not to be touched by the hordes which now gathered at the bottom of the valley, unable to scale its slippery walls. John watched the moving masses with hate. A fire built up in his eyes, like he could spew magma fourth on top of them. He looked at their vacant, degenerate faces, thinking how he would die a happy man if given the chance to beat every single one to a pulp.
They were the ones responsible for the deaths of every soldier that fought against the disease. All the soldiers that were consumed in the turmoil and hunger of this new life. A life of man eaters and wretched ecosystems that reclaimed a world once dominated by man.
That would have to wait, as Gabriel lifted his teammate up from the ground.
Like what they saw from the building's rooftop, here stood a bunker of sorts, that was mostly situated beneath the Earth. Besides, it was the vehicle they had been looking for.
"Check for the keys" John ordered, which Gabriel did so.
The vehicle's front passenger side was open. Upon reviewing the car's interior, no keys could be found. John assumed that whoever inside it had left but did not return. In the bunker perhaps.
A metal door had been busted open revealing a short staircase down into a main room, which held the remains of another soldier. This time it was one with a Prospect symbol. What had killed him though John was unsure of, however, after checking his pocket revealed a set of car keys. John threw it up the stairs to Gabriel.
Before he left, John looked around the room. In the darkness he hadn't noticed, but now with adjusted eyes, he could make out faint markings. Words even, written in a dry red fluid.
"What did you do to my hands?" John repeated the words to himself.
Must be the markings of a madman he thought, but was this the case. Looking at the soldier's body once more, John peeled the bloody gloves off the corpse. Just as the writing said, the cadavers' fingernails appeared distorted, ingrown into sharp bloody talons.
"C'mon, they're beginning to get up here!" Shouted Gabriel.
Without a second thought he ran up the stairs into the opened passenger door. Gabriel twisted the key.
Nothing.
Gabriel twisted it again.
Still nothing.
"I'll push the car" Said John as he opened up to an incoming horde.
With all his might, he pushed and pushed. His legs dug deep into the mud. He remembered everything that had been taken from him, everyone that he never got a chance to say farewell to. The rage built and built, along with the adrenaline that pounded his chest. The car gave way, and it buzzed to life. John swatted away the approaching undead, getting back into his seat.
The crowd that once prevented them from going around the short valley had now filtered into the trough. Now unable to escape the valley, John and Gabriel could return peacefully. Although time would eventually allow the undead to find a new way around, so they would still have to rush to get everyone and everything into the car.
With this car, Poland was only a few short days away.


« Fire of Unknown Origin || HUB || Coming Soon to an Interstellar Medium Far From You »

Joyeuse
(532) Herculina
20 Minutes After Ignition
It wasn't actually 20 minutes of perfect microgravity. Occasional jerks of acceleration ran through the ship every time the thrusters fired — intermittently, at first, to fine-tune their trajectory, but with increasing frequency as they approached the black hole. As they grew closer, so did the radiation pressure that was trying to push them in the opposite direction.
The end result was that any unsecured objects were sent drifting into the air whenever a thruster fired, only to slowly fall back towards the floor — unless another burst of thrust sent them flying across the room. Said unsecured objects included the members of Dr. Song Jin-ho's engineering department. The mix of esoteric containment technicians, applied physicists, and former fusion researchers who were responsible for overseeing the drive system kept getting launched away from their workstations and knocking into each other.
A shot of thrust sent Song's microgravity-safe sippy mug up off his panel and into the air. He caught it before it drifted too far out of reach, then took a gulp of coffee. Engineering had strapped down most of the loose objects in preparation for imminent acceleration; bundles of wires, stacks of writing implements, and numerous tablets and electronic paraphernalia had all been tightly bound and neatly secured to the battery of desks that ringed the cramped chamber. Of course, some things couldn't be secured, or simply weren't worth the effort — like the calendar on the wall, which flipped from October to November every time the ship jolted. Right now, the adorable cat photo paired with the month was instructing the engineering department to hang in there. They were certainly trying.
"We're getting power off the thermocouples," Dr. Phoebe Harlan reported. As the senior-most researcher in materials science and condensed matter physics, she had been appointed as the Second Engineer, responsible for overseeing the drive hemisphere, on the basis that it was largely constructed from anomalous materials. She didn't know how Prometheus Labs had stabilized electronium, but she knew how to handle it.
"How are they handling the heat?" Song asked. The primary power system was designed to generate electricity from the temperature gradient across the drive hemisphere — but it could only do that if it didn't melt.
"Green lights across the board. Same for the blades. I'm going to start charging the capacitor banks."
Song nodded and turned back to the main engineering display. They couldn't see the black hole, or measure any of its properties directly, but they could make inferences from the radiation it was emitting. That gave them the blackbody temperature, estimated mass, and approximate position relative to the Joyeuse — but not, critically, the magnitude of the electric charge. They wouldn't know that until they tried to apply magnetic fields to it.
He spoke into the line to the bridge. "Captain, our alignment looks good. Can you hold this heading?"
"That I can, Chief," Douglas replied. "How's our velocity?"
Song reassessed the display before answering. "I believe it's fine. We should zero out when it gets to the center of the drive. I'll let you know if that changes."
A minute ticked by in silence. Song idly fiddled with the molly-guard over the button to energize the superconducting blades, flipping the cover up and down as he watched the singularity approach.
It wasn't really a kugelblitz. Yes, the final bit of energy to push it over the Bekenstein bound came from the laser array, but photon energy alone could only create a black hole devoid of charge, which they had no way of containing — the magnetic fields generated by the superconducting blades would have no effect. If the photon pressure didn't send it caroming off into deep space, then it would bore through the drive and the ship without stopping.
It had been Song who had come up with the solution, adapted from the ignition design of the MICROSTAR fusion reactor project. Hundreds of balls of iron had been repeatedly run through SCP-786 until they were just below their Schwarzschild density, then arranged into a spherical array to create a hyperdense ignition target. That target had been placed at the center of the Dandelion, providing a source of charge for the future black hole, as well as significant additional mass-energy density to supplement the energy of the kugelblitz.
That was, if they had made the right assumptions about certain unsolved questions in quantum physics.
"Capacitors charged," Harlan announced.
"Good. Watch the accelerometer for me. Call it when we zero out." Song keyed on the line to the bridge again. "Captain, we're approaching the capture point. I recommend that you standby for sudden thrust."
"Acknowledged."
As the black hole grew closer, so did the force of deceleration. One-by-one, the formerly-weightless engineers fell to their feet, and then from their feet into their seats. After months in microgravity, no one was in a hurry to try standing up under what was soon to be a full gravity of acceleration.
On the display, the black hole came to a standstill at the center of the drive.
"Now!" Harlan called.
Song pressed the button. Several hundred megajoules of power surged from the capacitor banks into the superconducting coils that lined the edges of the blades. Miles of Mekonium wire, tightly wound into solenoids, were all energized at once, creating a massive magnetic bottle around the black hole.
The question was whether it would stay in the bottle. If they had gone with the wrong theory of quantum gravity, then this would be the point where the narration of the disaster report would start.
The Joyeuse started to move again — and the black hole came with it.
Douglas' voice came through the radio. "Chief, we're holding steady at about 9.7 meters per second per second. Am I right in thinking that means we have our singularity?"
"You are, Captain. I can confirm positive acquisition of Component Marie."
A cheer rang out from the engineering department, muted somewhat by a sense of professionalism and the restored weight of formerly absent gravity.
"Good. How long before you bring the feed system online?"
"We're starting now. We'll need to bleed off a little mass first, but we should be in equilibrium at our designed thrust within a few hours."
Song wobbled unsteadily as he stood and stretched. He had done his best to keep up with his microgravity exercises, but even still, eight months in space had cost him some of his balance and bone density. At least he wouldn't have to worry about microgravity ever again.
He pointed at three of the junior engineers who didn't look busy enough. "Go grab the cakes out of safe storage. Take the first two instances down to the Machine room, and bring the third one here. I'll be down in a bit to supervise the unboxing and loading, and then we'll eat the other."
That last part was already starting to get old. If left uneaten for more than 24 hours, each Keter cake would spawn a copy of itself with the same properties. So they had to be eaten. But it also took 24 hours for an eaten cake to respawn, so to keep the flow of cakes into the black hole from being interrupted, the remass system was designed to cycle through three different sets of SCP-871 at 16 hour intervals.
The end result was that the engineering department had to eat cakes three times a day, every day, for the rest of their lives. Song and Harlan were already conspiring to foist that duty off onto the rest of the crew.
Capturing the black hole was tense. Activating the Antoinette Machine was different, though no less dangerous in the grand scheme of things. The engineers had taken every possible measure to make the Rube Goldbergian machine more resilient to variation and unexpected changes, to automate as much as they possibly could. Once the cakes had been unboxed and loaded into the machine, all Song had to do was dial in the desired feed rate and press another button.
A chute opened up beneath the first instance — really actually a collection of instances with the same timing, but that was functionally equivalent to one very large cake — dropping it through SCP-786 and recirculating it back through the funnel until it was compressed enough to fall into the event horizon. As it entered the singularity, it was atomized by the intense radiation and spatial distortions, causing a replacement cake to instantly reappear inside the machine to start the process again. A complex and redundancy-filled system of scales and timers was used to monitor and control the feed rate, ensuring that exactly 4.8 kilograms of confection were funneled into the black hole every second. This level of flexibility was necessary, because the cakes tended to vary in subtle ways upon each reappearance. If the system was ever malfunctioning, blocked, or unattended for a prolonged period of time, the consequences would be dire: while a black hole malfunction could kill the entire crew, a runaway cake replication could potentially destroy a whole star system.
Once the machine was running, the third instance, the one scheduled to be eaten, was brought up to the main engineering deck. While Song supervised the distribution of plates and utensils, Harlan took charge of cutting the cake, which she did with more stabbing than was strictly necessary.
"Well everyone," Song said, "here's to our first meal under normal gravity."
If only it had been something other than fruitcake.

Joyeuse
Outer Solar System
11 Days After Ignition
The starship screamed silently through the void, hurtling away from the Sun at over 9300 kilometers per second and still rapidly gaining speed. Every hundred seconds or so, it added another kilometer per second to its velocity. At that speed, if it hit something, the collision would have the force of a million fusion bombs going off all at once.
Ahead of it, in the rapidly closing distance, was a pale brown dot. It had been visible for almost five hours, but in the last five minutes it had stopped being a dot and had become a small but growing circle. Right now, it had an angular diameter only a tenth of the Moon as seen from Earth, but in just another five minutes, the Joyeuse would pass by within a hundred kilometers of the surface of the former planet Pluto.
For the lonely souls stationed at the GOC's forwardmost operating base, the Joyeuse would appear, just for an instant, as a shooting star crossing the entire length of the sky in a heartbeat. And then it would be gone, vanishing into the distance, tinged noticeably red.
In the moment of their closest approach, the thaumaturges of Farpoint Station would apportate a final shipment of supplies, technology, and a few frozen parathreats that the Coalition wanted to keep as far away from Earth as possible, along with the last few additions to the ship's crew.
Before that could happen, the Joyeuse needed to prepare. Down in the ship's cargo hold, the Russian and the Frenchman watched the wizards at work.
"Apportation is a fickle science at the best of times," Pierre Duval explained. "But this… you have heard the expression about trying to find a needle in a haystack?"
Anton Orlov nodded.
"Well, my taciturn comrade, what those frozen sons of dogs on Pluto are about to attempt is like hitting that needle with another needle, while the haystack is on fire. In the middle of a hurricane. While flying in a Concorde. It must all go perfectly, or else they shall die in space."
"Sooner, you mean."
Duval laughed. "True true, we are all doomed to die in space. But hopefully not today. Which is why the distinguished Professor and her colleagues are painting the target, to give them an easier shot."
The distinguished professor in question, Dr. Lilith Thornton, chalked a few final sigils onto the floor and stood.
"It is a Luciano-Grimaldi probabilistic flux concentration matrix," she said as she stepped gingerly outside the chalked lines. "Or, ah, a ‘luck beacon'. Certain events are much more likely to transpire within the circle than without. On a smaller scale you can use it to cheat at dice games."
Orlov nodded. "On this scale?"
"It compensates for the random error of apportation. Magic is much more likely to occur inside. I have a medium-size one in my laboratory to help with backlash. Keeps the showers of sparks and white doves away from sensitive equipment."
"Useful. Does Coalition use these for troop insertion, logistics?"
"Mmm. Non." Duval shook his head. "Too much trouble."
"Ah," Orlov said, "if operational on Earth, it will attract… background noise. Ambient oddities."
"Indeed. And, of course, your enemies can use it too," Thornton said. "The Allies tried it out for a bit during the War. Stopped after the Obskuracorps ‘ported a chlorine elemental into the middle of a forward operating base. Bad news." She took one more look at the ritual circle, and smiled. "Now, gentlemen, I am going to have to ask you to step back beyond the yellow line. It is time to catch that needle."
The Joyeuse sent the signal to Farpoint Station. Nothing seemed to happen. In the span of thirty seconds, Pluto grew from the size of the Moon to fill the entire sky with mottled beige and black. Duval opened his mouth, forming the start of a question; he was interrupted by a crackle of static electricity, a sustained tone around middle C, and a flash of light that momentarily blinded them all.
When the afterimage faded, the circle was no longer empty. Inside it now sat a few crates, a handful of heavily-reinforced storage containers, and one cylindrical capsule. No people had materialized. Thornton walked over to the roughly person-sized cylinder, and examined a hatch on the side.
"An apportation this complex has to be steered manually. There should be… ah. Here."
She yanked on the heavy handle set into the hatch. There was a hiss of escaping pressure as the door swung open. The air smelled like feet.
A voice from the darkness. "Ah, my saviors." The accent was vaguely European, though not clearly of any specific country. There was something aristocratic about the tone. "One moment, I must extricate myself from this infernal seat."
The man who emerged from the capsule was dressed in a shapeless jumpsuit, but carried himself like he was in full formal dress. He looked to be in late middle age, with shoulder-length grey hair pulled back into a ponytail and a neatly-trimmed mustache. He smiled toothily at Thornton.
"Ah! Lilith! Lovely to see you, my dear, it has been far too long."
"I'm glad you could join us, Doctor. I hope your trip from Pluto wasn't too unpleasant?"
"Not at all, not at all. Would you mind introducing me to these gentlemen?" The man peered out of his capsule at them, but had not yet taken a single step outside.
"Of course not. Laszlo, this is Pierre Duval, of the Church of Satan Scientist, and Anton Orlov of the Foundation. They're in charge of our tactical operations. Pierre, Anton, this is Dr. Laszlo Sarkany, Archmagus Emeritus of the Scholomance, Dean Emeritus of ICSUT Zurich, and my doctoral thesis advisor. He'll be my deputy chief of thaumatology."
"And a pleasure it is." Sarkany spoke slowly, as if he was savoring the words. "As heads of security, might I respectfully request your permission to come aboard? It is a bit belated, I know, but etiquette demands I ask."
Duval smiled. "I would be delighted."
Sarkany took a step outside, then glanced at Orlov, who looked like he'd just tasted something bitter.
Orlov squinted at him. "I recognize your name. You sit on Council of 108."
"Not anymore. Like Dr. Dahl, I am now retired."
"I was not told you were coming. Neither was Director Fordyce, or she would be greeting you herself. We were expecting minor personnel from Pluto." Orlov approached the man, dark eyes flickering between Sarkany, Thornton, and Duval. "What is this? Some power play from Coalition?"
"Ah, my incredulous acquaintance, your suspicions are well-intentioned, but ill-informed." Sarkany spoke to the larger man like he was addressing an excitable child. "I have walked the Earth for centuries. I have no care at all for petty institutional rivalries, least of all when I have my own grand, personal rivalries to address. I have accrued a number of enemies on Earth, even among the 108. I did not wish to alert my foes of my departure, for fear that they might do something drastic. Sadly, this practical requirement of secrecy stood in the way of polite pleasantries and informed entrances."
Orlov grumbled. "I see."
Sarkany nodded, then flashed another aristocratic grin at Orlov. "You do raise an excellent point, though. I should go introduce myself to the control council of this vessel. Given that I am the final passenger on the manifest, am I right to assume that our departure from the solar system will be commemorated with some manner of formal gathering?"
"The captain has an address planned, yes," Duval said, evidently pleased with the new addition to the crew.
"Perfect!" Sarkany rubbed his hands together. "I must say, while I enjoyed my stay on Farpoint Station far more than most — sunlight has never quite agreed with me — I have sorely missed dressing up and making an impression on others."
Duval smiled. "An excellent opportunity to acquaint yourself with the ship's stores of wine, as well."
"Ah, wine… it is not my refreshment of choice." Sarkany flicked his tongue along his teeth. "But I suppose in space, we all must make do."

Joyeuse
Deep Space
11 Days After Ignition
Captain Hiram Douglas stood on a modular stage overlooking the crowded canteen. It wasn't an especially elaborate setup — the stage was collapsible and largely bare, save for Douglas, Directors Dahl and Fordyce, and a projector screen. They were assembled here, rather than one of the Joyeuse's small theaters, because this was the only gathering space capable of hosting the entire crew at once.
He looked out across the crowd — several hundred people, nearly everyone onboard who wasn't maintaining an essential system, many dressed up and with drinks in hand. Young and hopeful eyes, gazing up at the old man, past him, through the ship, into the corridors of unknown space.
"Welcome," he said. "I know that many of you have important duties, so I won't keep you for long. Before we reached Farpoint Station, I sent them a personal request, which they fulfilled along with the supplies we were sent. I'd like to show you the result."
The projector whirred to life, and an image appeared on the screen. Almost entirely blank, save for a tiny, blurry disk, faint blue and hanging in the darkness. Faint murmurs echoed through the room.
"This photograph was taken only minutes before we passed Pluto. Whatever may happen to Earth after this picture was taken, from now into eternity, we will never know. This is the most current image we will ever see."
The room was silent, mournful.
"Though we hail from Earth, our allegiance is not to the planet, but to humanity. Our duty is to protect our species. To ensure that when we venture into the universe, it is an expression of our curiosity and respect for other life, not our worst superstitious and warlike tendencies."
Douglas' face hardened with resolve. "To stop Hector Canvera and his cultists is to declare that he does not represent us. Humanity is what it chooses to be. And our first contact will not be our last."
"Today, we say goodbye to our birthplace. There will be time in the coming years to miss Earth. Time to reminisce and reflect on what we've left behind."
Douglas cracked a wry smile. "But that is not why we're gathered here. Right now is a time for new beginnings, for fresh starts, for looking towards the uncharted future. So I invite you all to think about what you've gained, what you're hoping to find, and what you are glad to leave behind. What won't you miss about Earth? Come on. Let's hear it."
Murmurs throughout the crowd resolve into voices, hesitant at first, then louder and louder.
"Taxes."
"Lying about my job every Thanksgiving."

"Twitter!"

"Overused Christmas music."
"Pollen and allergens and cat hair-

"Drunk texts from my ex!"

"Seasonal affective disorder."
"Sleet and hail and-"

"Remakes!"

"Late buses!"
"Earthquakes!"

"Adverts!"

Douglas turned to Michelle and Jess.
"Freemasons," Michelle said without hesitation.
"Unexpected emails from Overseers," Jess said.
At the foot of the stage, Vice Captain Tiffany sighed. "Atlantean politics."
Across the room, some technicians from the engineering department stretched their legs alongside medical workers.
"Global warming," said Dr. Song.
"Fuckin' telemarketers," spat Dr. Harlan.
Dr. Wikström took a sip of punch. "Poor cell reception."
In another corner of the room, a few personnel were fresh from the apportation ritual in the cargo bay.
"Misaligned ley lines ruining my rituals!" shouted Dr. Thornton.
"Midnight raids," said Duval.
"Poor firearm safety," muttered Orlov.
"Realtors," said the freshly-overdressed Dr. Sarkany.
Tiffany passed a glass to Douglas, and he held it high. The crew followed suit.
"To Earth!" he said. "Goodbye and good riddance."
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Side Story — Secure Planet Dossier: Site Anvil
rating: +84+–x