Colonel Cook's eyes had never been narrower as he read over the neatly-typed piece of paper that had landed on his desk that morning. Across said mahogany authority symbol, a thin young man in a smart uniform sat with his hands quietly folded in his lap. The half-smoked cigar in Cook's lips swayed from side to side. Finally, setting it down atop a pile of novel-length proposals, he ashed his stogie.
"What the hell kind of a plan is this?"
Smiling, the young man took his paper back, tucking it into an empty tan briefcase. "One that might work, Colonel. One that makes sure we don't have much to lose."
"You're talking about infiltrating a Jailhouse with nothing but the clothes on your back, and your buddies by your side. No guns, no plan, no nothing. It's suicide."
Rolling his eyes, the young man crossed his arms. "Suicide is rushing into the bowels of a Foundation site with only sci-fi portals to get you home. It's letting every Task Force operative in a bi-country area know that they can earn an easy Foundation Star by suppressing those nasty Insurgents. We can't beat the Foundation in a shootout. Not yesterday, today, or tomorrow."
For a few moments, Cook steeled his gaze and worked the eyebrow game. Finally, throwing up his hands while spinning a revolution in his swivel chair, Cook answered. "Fine. Go for it. If you and your pals end up detained in the blackest site in the man on the moon's asshole, don't come crying to me."
A smile slowly emerged across the young man's face. Nodding profusely, he stood and stuck out a hand to his superior. "Thank you sir. I promise that you won't regret this."
Grabbing the hand with vigor, Cook yanked to bring the young man within a few inches of his face. "It's not me who has to worry about regretting something, Parker. Stay frosty out there."
With that, he let go, and the young man was soon gone.

The drive to the SCP Foundation's Site-77 was an arduous, rocky journey. Especially in a small car being occupied by three heavily outfitted men. The air conditioning had given out several minutes after they started, leaving them to stew in both body and mind. Parker was the driver, with his comrade Maria working the Google Map while Peterson and Joel jostled in the backseat.
"Are we there yet?" Asked the pair, in almost perfect unison.
"Almost." Maria turned to face them, sticking a cracked phone screen towards their faces. "You remember the plan, ja?"
Nodding, they reached into the deep pockets of their facsimile uniforms and began reading the smudged inky mess before them. "Get in, walk to the vault, pull out anything small and not-too-dangerous looking."
"Right. Whose job is it to stick a headset in and mumble if somebody gets too close?"
Both men pointed to the other. Maria sighed, and turned back around. "We're all going to die, aren't we?"
"Everybody dies, Maria." Parker took a bite from his protein bar as he narrowly avoided careening off one of a seemingly endless series of tight mountain turns. "The point is to live life to the fullest while it's still here."
"Sure, yeah, I get that… but this goes a little beyond that. We'll be… isn't this really the belly of the beast here?"
Lurching forward from the backseat came Peterson, strapping a helmet across his chin. "Aw, cheer up Maria. This is gonna be a blast. Bigger thrill than even getting your rocks off, I bet."
"Rocks? Don't tell me there's an avalanche." Joel poked his head behind his companion. "If there is, I'm outta here. For reals."
"Is nobody wearing their seatbelts here? Really guys? Let's at least pretend to be professional here." Parker grunted, spinning the steering wheel aggressively against the forces of Newton. "We're gonna be pulling up here any minute, and I don't want this to look like amateur hour."
Silently returning to their seats, three clicks rang out in unison.
"Really? You too, Maria?"
"Bite me. I had tacos for breakfast, my stomach is bloats as fuck."
"Fair enough."

Getting inside had been surprisingly simple. Flash an ID badge here, act impatient with a perimeter guard there, grease the parking guy's palm with five Euro and a sob story, this brought them all inside. Almost. There was still the matter of actually entering the building. Buttoning up the last few bits of his lab coat, Parker hung his ID badge from a coat pocket and practiced scribbling upon his clipboard.
Joel and Peterson marched smartly on either side of him. Their uniforms were nowhere near impeccable, and Maria's costume had different colored socks. Flashing a piece of plastic with the Foundation's logo at the door guard, Parker felt the whoosh of conditioned air brush through his hair. Three steps later they were inside one of the most heavily fortified Foundation facilities, for better or for worse.
The inside of Site-77 was a sterile beige, the sounds of office work hung in the air like smoke in a bar. Busy looking people in glasses scurried from door to door, as the labyrinthine corridors made for arduous passage between meetings and offices. The walls were lined with LCD screens, some surrounded by bleary-eyed individuals holding coffee cups or mugs of unknown liquid, reading news bulletins and organizational updates as they scrolled across the screen at an agonizing pace.
Smoothing back his hair, Parker stood in place at an unoccupied monitor and observed. After a few moments, some bullshit about a vault made its way onto the densely packed informational screen. Maria saw it first, whispering almost as quietly as death. "Level Nine."
Spinning on a dime, Parker boldly strode forward, furiously scribbling a picture of himself fornicating with a unicorn as they zigged or zagged through a seemingly endless series of interminable hallways. Finally, they stood before an elevator. Perusing the up and down options for a few moments, Parker nodded for Peterson to poke the down buttons. Vaults and Nines usually go down, right?
For a few seconds, the door-frame hummed at them. Parker's neck began burning. So many people passing them by. Don't dare to turn around. What are we doing here? One question from anybody and they were done. Every set of footsteps sounded suspicious. Were they slowing down? Did someone just whisper. How much longer until-
Parker nearly jumped when the door dinged. Swooshing before them, he had to restrain himself from leaping into the box. Inside there was a small old man, in thick coke-bottle glasses. His head was smooth and brown, with dark spots peppering his scalp down to his chin. A dozen ancient manuscripts were tucked beneath his arms. A fuzzy caterpiller was apparently perched on his upper lip, softly swaying in an artificial breeze. Stepping inside, Parker made sure the old man was between his party and the control panel.
The doors swooshed shut. For a few seconds, nothing happened. A bead of sweat began percolating on Parker's neck. Looking up at him, the old man cocked his head. Frowning for a second, then holding up a finger. Parker opened his mouth first. "Level Nine, please."
"Oooooh. Sure. Shoulda guessed that, huh?" Chuckling to himself, a wizened finger tapped several buttons on a surprisingly complicated control panel. Lurching sideways, the elevator began speeding along at a steady pace. Turning back to Parker, the old man stuck out a hand. "Doctor Marquis, at your service."
Returning the shake, Parker used the same smile he'd put on for his mother. "Pleasure. Might I ask what the books you're carrying are for, doctor?"
Glancing down at his arms, Dr. Marquis shrugged. "Oh, just some fossils for this old fossil to maybe glean some insight out of. Records here go waaaay back, yaknow."
"Of course, of course." Parker glanced at his watch. They'd been inside for twenty minutes. Felt like an eternity.
"Mind if I ask what you folks are working on, down in the Vault? Doesn't see much action these days."
Peterson grunted. "Above your pay grade, sir."
"Pshaw, don't sir me." Marquis smiled, and shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion. "Nothing down there but rocks in boxes. Or am I wrong?"
Cracking out a grin, Parker rubbed the back of his head. "You got us. We're just auditing some of those old bones. Couple lights went on, the pencil-pushers wanted to make sure nothing was amiss."
"Ah, usual rigmarole then, huh?" Marquis shifted some of his tomes from one arm to another. "Ah, I think my floor is coming up."
The steel doors slid open. A wave of sour heat spilled into their chrome cube. The lights were a dim red, and flashing. A young boy screamed from somewhere in the distance. Marquis walked out without missing a beat, waving a hand in the air. "Sounds like they've started early today. By the way, I didn't catch your name, mister…. "
For a few seconds, Parker blinked. Then he opened his mouth. "Wait, what was that? Spaced for a second there, didn't catch the question."
"Oh, yeah, it does that. I just ask-"
The doors slid shut, and the elevator swung perpendicularly. Breathing a sigh of relief, Parker checked his watch. Twenty-seven minutes. "We're ahead of schedule."
Joel spoke for the first time since they'd entered the building. "We have a schedule?"

Parker tapped his foot anxiously outside the bathrooms. They were gunmetal grey, smooth and barren of any external fixures or features. If it weren't for the lack of a steel security door, and two small labels reading toilet there wouldn't be any difference between these entrances and the hundreds, maybe thousands, that populated the vaults. Maybe millions. Some people said this place went down to the core. But that was probably an exaggeration. Probably.
Maria came out first, drying her hands with rough paper. Joel and Peterson stumbled out next, muttering cutting jibes about whether it was better to air or paper dry as they demonstrated their preferred methods. Shushing them, Parker pulled out his clipboard again and pretended to count as they walked. First, he listed the number of people he'd killed in his life. That went pretty quick, so he moved on to ranking his favorite roller coasters. Which vegetables go well with white wine. How many licks it took to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop.
Eventually, he spotted a room of interest. The hallway opened to a wider cavernous room, with a large door at the opposite end and two more corridors identical to the one they had exited flanking them on either side. Three men stood in front of it, one blonde, one lanky, and one with a lazy eye. Parker took no hesitation in walking up to them. "Command sent us to check up on things. They got lights up there telling them something's off in the vault. Temperature and atmospheric readings are off.
Blonde and Lanky looked at each other. Their compatriot blinked a few times, and folded his arms. "Uh… who are you?"
Parker took a deep breath. "Level 3. I'm a consultant from 19, assigned from the Anti-Memetics anomaly supervision division. Friends are from a Multi-Discipline-Jurisdictional Task Force, Director requested that the vault get some beefed up safekeeping measures and protocols in order to make sure nothing goes haywire down here. I'm sure you gentlemen don't have a problem with that? Didn't you get the memo?"
Blonde guy muttered something that sounded like 'We never get the memo' before Lazy held up a hand to silence him. "Exactly when did this all go through? It all sounds like gobbledygook to me."
"Who exactly is paying you to play twenty questions again? Who's your supervisor?" Parker took two steps towards the frowning man, who quickly looked to his comrades with pleading eyes.
Maria spoke up first. "Enough. We don't have time for this. Let us in now, or we're going to throw this up to the Director. Contempt of direct orders is not something the boss lady takes lightly.
That got their attention. The lanky and blonde guards nearly sprinted to their respective stations. Before long, the vault doors were creaking open.
Parker strutted inside, brushing past the lazy-eyed man. Hissing through his teeth, he spoke to his comrades. "Grab anything that looks eye-catching and won't melt you and we're out of here."
Maria nodded. "Before they can think of the right questions."

One dolly later, they wheeled their way back out of the oppressive catacombs. It had been sitting in a corner of the room, behind a box that screamed when you touched it and several pounds of gelatinous cubes. Missing a wheel and the rubberized grips appeared to have melted, but it could still spin with the best of them. Several crates were piled on top. Parker thanked his lucky stars Maria had brought some tape and paper with more than doodles on them.
Each box now bore a label reading 'FRAGILE' and had been stacked neatly as could be managed. Parker pushed and pulled to prevent a spill, while Peterson and Joel flanked him. Maria, now holding the clipboard, put on her very sternest face as they walked out of the elevator. Nobody had joined them this time, but a big button marked HOME - TOPSIDE was lit in red above the mishmash of keys and switches on the control panel.
Wheeling past the LCD screens, Parker was almost skipping past these skippers. But composing himself, he focused on holding steady. Blowing it now would be an awful shame. The people parted in front of him like a wave, averting their eyes as soon as the creaking carts had passed them. As they approached the door, a man in a tan uniform barely containing a pot belly walked up from behind a low lying desk.
"Hey, so, uh, what's all this about then?"
"Moving day." Maria spoke without missing a beat. "Got an order for a few low-level would-be skips to be shipped off for some specialized testing. Plus, vault's getting refitted. Something about the atmospheric gauges going bonkers."
Nodding thoughtfully, the man put his thumb to chin. "Yeah, yeah, thought I heard somethin' about that over the radio… but you guys like, got approval for this, or what?"
"Orders coming straight from the top." Parker barked from the back. "Director wants this done quick, pet project prerogative, you know how it is."
"Right, same old story." The man scratched his head. "I think we've got to fill out a few forms for this at least. Don't you have the paperwork with you?"
Maria put her arm around the man, pushing her bosom into his chest. "Listen, neither of us get paid enough for this shit, right? Director wants what she wants, papers be damned. You feel me?"
Slowly nodding, the tan man reached for his pocket. "Yeah, I feel you."
Parker bit his tongue to keep from flinching, but what the man produced was a green key card. Sliding it through a black plastic machine, it beeped and the door slid open. Parker felt his heart leap into his throat. Squeaking forward, Parker's heart skipped a beat, nearly barfing out of his esophagus, when the hard bump of a doorframe nearly knocked a box off.
Joel grabbed it, and steadied the lot. Exhaling softly, Parker smelled the fresh mountain air.
We made it.

Colonel Cook puffed incredulously as he scanned the after action report. Impossible. Not credible. Total bullshit. Years of the Foundation swatting strike teams like flies, uncovering infiltrators with ease and unmasking their deepest double agents. But four people in ill-fitting clothing on a suicide mission come back in two hours with enough Vertigo to keep the toymakers busy for at least nine months. "My boy, you've really done something here."
Beaming, Parker broke out into a grin. "Thank you sir. But all credit has to go to the team. A group effort, through and through."
Almost chewing through his tobacco, Cook dropped the dossier into a drawer. "You're all getting Future Stars for this, at least. I mean, you did it. Made them look like assholes. Only problem, not really a problem, is you took what to them is a drop in the bucket. But… it's never nothing to us. I mean, my god, the Gryphon that only kills innocent people is going to be someone's new favorite thing."
"I'm hoping this can be a proof of concept, sir."
"Of course, we can't do this every day. They'd catch wise pretty quick, probably have already. We had you written off for dead as soon as you all walked out the door. Damn near crapped myself when I heard you had come back with a report all ready to go."
"Thank you sir." Parker glanced down at the photos spread on the wall behind Cook's desk. "Was there… anything else you needed, sir?"
"Probably, but I can let you loose for now. You've earned it."
Standing, Parker turned towards the door. Halfway through it, the Colonel blew a smoke ring. "Oh, and Parker?"
Pausing to turn, Parker poked his head back. "Yes sir?"
"You're going to have to top this, you know."
As he walked down the hallway, tiles reflecting a pensive face, he saw it turn from a thought to a smile. The fun of doing the impossible has a way of doing that to a person. Make them dream of the future. What can come next.
Yeah, I can top that.


The barbed knife ripped through the girl's throat. Her body slumped to the cold flagstones, her dark hair settling on the pool of blood before her. Reflections writhed on the slick, crimson surface as the chill mountain winds pulled and twisted at the flames of the courtyard torches. The old woman made herself watch as the girl died. Then she raised her eyes to the man holding the blade.
The soldiers had left. Thirty of her kin lay dead. She and this man were the only living things that remained in this castle, on this mountain. An old woman, a bloodied warrior, and the knife.
"Get up, babă," the man said, roughly. He took her arm and pulled her to her feet.
He spoke her language, she realised with a start. He had used another tongue with the soldiers, harsh to her ears. But through all of the killing, he had been silent; his movements had been ritual, but deft and efficient. Beyond her horror, she could even see a beauty in them. The thought made her sick.
The man turned her to face him, still gripping her wrist. "Look at me, babă. Do you know me?"
She saw his coal-black hair and olive skin. His lithe figure, stripped to the waist and smeared with drying blood. She looked into his dark eyes, burning. The terror pooling in her stomach grew deeper and thicker.
She broke her gaze. "The rumours say you are called the Dragon's Son," she said, voice low.
The warrior inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I have a task for you, grandmother." The diminutive was laced with casual contempt.
She had expected death, another body amid the slaughter. The idea that he would spare her, the eldest of her family, felt cruel and mocking. Her jaw tensed as her fear mingled with new emotions - hatred, confusion and, underneath it all, a small but defiant hope.
If he felt that tension in her, that hope, the man did not show it. He dropped her wrist.
"Leave this place," he continued. "Go, and tell your people what you have seen tonight. They will respect your words. Tell them that I am real. Tell all of the Romani that Wallachia has a new prince, and that they shall serve me, or bleed."
She looked at the scarlet fingerprints he had left on her wrist, and her anger flared.
"The Roma do not serve. We have no princes," she said fiercely.
But the warrior laughed at her.
"Do you think you are the first to say that? I have broken warriors and enslaved cities. I have travelled here with fifty men, and I will rule Wallachia within the year. I shall carve up Moldavia and Transylvania like roasting lambs. The Ottomans will fear me, and fall before me. You gypsies are nothing."
"Yet the Roma will not serve." It was the stubbornness of long years, crowding out her dread.
"Then I will show you the cost," the warrior said.
He reached toward her face, faster than she could react, and she felt his fingers rub blood - still wet, still warm - across her eyelids. The world spun, and her eyes opened on a rust-coloured nightmare.
She was looking down on an army encampment, which grew ever closer. The moon's light was garnet and ruby, the shadows black. She fell nearer to the soldiers, spying their turbans and scimitars. Suddenly, tents across the camp were ablaze, sending men and horses into a panic. As the fires roared, dark figures raced between them, slaughtering the confused soldiers. At their head, the warrior's face was lit by flames and bloody moonlight.
Then the vision was gone, and she was walking through a dense forest, the light still red. She felt pulled forward, inexorably. As she squeezed through the mass of tall, bare trunks, a drop of liquid on her shoulder drew her gaze upward. Upward, to the corpses hanging over her.
There were no trees. She was in a forest of stakes, a thicket of the impaled. Men, women, children: hundreds of bodies, thousands - she could see no end to them. They hung slack from the poles driven through them from every angle, sharpened points protruding from mouths, necks, limbs, bellies. The sheer weight of them looming above staggered her, but she kept walking, drawn forward despite herself.
Blood dripped steadily from above as her weakened legs led her up a small rise. She emerged from the forest of the dead into a clearing, and saw the warrior. He was standing at the crest of the hill, a young girl in white on a stone slab before him. From all directions, streams of blood were flowing up the hill towards him, gathering in a pool at his feet. The stakes stretched around in every direction, death as far as she could see. The warrior leaned down and grasped the girl, and as he bit into her neck, his eyes flicked up and met the old woman's.
And then she was back in the courtyard, in the cold night. The warrior looked at her imperiously.
"Dhampir!" she cursed. "Blood demon!"
She pulled a wooden crucifix from her belt and thrust it towards him, her other hand fumbling in her pockets. The warrior spread his hands wide. As she advanced, he stepped cautiously backwards, stopping with his feet in the pool of blood.
She hesitated, and again he laughed. A swift gesture from the warrior, and the crucifix snapped in her hand, the arms of the crosspiece falling to the flagstones. The Christ-figure had been twisted and distended, with the stipe of the cross now impaling it from groin to crown.
The old woman dropped the defiled cross - in any case, it had been merely a distraction. Her other hand emerged from her skirt with a mix of preserved leaves, which she blew towards the warrior. Suspended in the air, they swirled thicker and faster, enveloping the man in a disorienting cloud of debris. He ducked downwards, doubled over, but the miniature whirlwind moved with him, cutting off sight and sound.
The woman fell back, looking for an escape. Even as she retreated, she saw the blood rise from the ground. A wave of it soaked the leaves and washed them to the ground, and the warrior rose, striding forward. Blood hung in the air in sheets behind him, like great red wings.
"Herb witch," he snarled. "Do you think your dirt magic can touch a host-lord of the Daeva?"
He waved a hand, and she could not move. He closed the gap between them, swinging the knife. The flat of the blade caressed her cheek as it passed her head. Then it was still and poised in his hand, the point towards her face.
The warrior continued, "Our empire stretches from Kalmar to the Siberian wastes. I am the spearhead - through me the Daeva shall conquer West and East, onwards without limit. You and your people are ashes before the wind of our coming."
He brought the dagger slowly in, pushing nearer. Her throat thickened, but she could not scream. Her world narrowed to the size of the knife, to the size of the point. Still it came closer. She felt the tip resting on the surface of her eye.
"You cannot choose but serve," the man said, his voice grown quiet. "Only the manner of your service is within your power. Tell your people - they will be slaves, or they will be cattle."
The knife stopped. She could not blink. The point on her eyeball was worse than pain - every nerve in her body was focussed on the pressure, willing it not to increase, imagining that it had.
The Daeva lord leaned in close to her motionless head, and whispered, "That girl, the last I killed. She was your granddaughter, yes? I could taste it in her. Think on her before you answer. Think on her sister. On all of your family."
Her realisation was abrupt - she had one last, desperate hope. She pulled at her memories for scraps of forbidden knowledge, that only long years of training with her own grandmother had taught her to resist. Suddenly he released the hold that was on her; she wrenched her head away from the knife, and he smiled and threw it high. The old woman gathered herself, turning back to the warrior.
"The Roma do not serve." She spat at his feet.
His swiftness was beautiful and savage. One hand grabbed her arms, the other plucked the dagger from the air. Blood sprayed from her wrists as the barbs tore them open. Her hands hung limp, and pain and shock overtook her.
The Daeva's hand was a vice on her arms. "I will not make this quick for you," he said, and bent to drink from her severed veins.
As she stood, dying, the old woman gave a keening wail: for her daughter, for her daughter's daughter, for all her kin. Her voice wavered into a thin, wordless tune, discordant as the crows that roosted in the castle towers.
She had only sung for a short time before the warrior cut her throat.
But it was long enough.

When Konstantin, janissary of His Imperial Majesty Mehmet II, climbed with his guards the thousand steps to Poenari Citadel, he had not believed the stories they told in Sibiu. But the grisly scene in the courtyard was beyond his ability to explain.
Close to a hundred bodies, dead for at least a month but untouched by wolves or carrion birds. Some hung upside down from the walls, their throats slashed open like butchered pigs. Others lay in piles, naked and pallid, their skin ribboned by hundreds of deep cuts, as if to bleed them from every scrap of flesh. Many of the corpses appeared to be gypsies. The rest were like no people known to the Ottoman Empire - wild-haired and tattooed, with devilish-looking weapons, oddly undrawn. But even this was not what had daunted him.
Almost every surface of the courtyard was painted with blood. The recent rains had streaked it into illegibility, but it must have been monumental: perhaps a mural, or notation in a language with which Konstantin was not familiar. But it was impossible, unthinkable. For what great work would all these people bleed?
As he passed another heap of corpses, Konstantin spied a lone figure slumped against the far wall. A pool of blood had clearly dried beneath the body, but the wall next to it was the only clean surface in the entire courtyard.
Konstantin, walking closer, saw a man with olive skin and a fighter's build. The warrior's face was smudged with faded red, with deep scratches down each side from sharpened fingernails: the man's own nails, Konstantin could see the blood beneath them. His eyes were open in a fervid stare at that last blank piece of stone. His left arm was covered in wounds - the tip of one finger cut off, the palm of the hand slashed across. The left wrist was almost severed by a single deep cut; it was pressed against the edge of the empty wall in a final faltering smear. And his right hand still gripped the barbed knife.
Konstantin climbed back down the thousand steps, his thoughts troubled. But as he descended, the soft Transylvanian rains returned. The tide of history ebbed, and his memories of the Daeva were washed away. By the time he reached the valley floor, he had forgotten his purpose there, and he once again felt sanguine.
Riding away, he began to sing softly to himself.


Agent Denton flipped the slightly filmy paper up and over the end of the packet held tight by the steel jacket. "So you think this thing is some kind of vampire?" the obvious implication lingered in the air.
"I'm not sure I'd use the word 'Vampire'," Agent McDowell's growing second chin waggled with each bump in the road as the unmarked pick-up truck sped down the highway. The two Foundation agents had been dispatched to the ass-end of Nowhere, Kansas, population fuck-all. "All we've got is reports of some kind of humanoid eating people. It could just be a run of the mill cannibal."
"You know, it's kind of fucked up that in our line of work the words 'run of the mill' and 'cannibal' can be so comfy in one sentence." Denton flipped several more pages, and looked up and out the windshield. The scenery going by was about as riveting as drying paint. Corn. Corn. More corn. Scarecrow. Corn. Farm house. Cows. People who look like cows. Corn. Corn. Denton rubbed his eyes, sighing heavily. "How much longer 'till we're there?"
"We should be coming up on the town soon. I'm not sure exactly what we're looking for though, what's the report say?" McDowell's eyes slid over the stack of papers in Denton's hands.
"Eyes on the road, Jim. Not much. A few bodies with 'parts missing' and a local sherrif who won't say much. Probably nothing, but obviously the skipnet picked up enough flags to send out the best of the best." Denton reached forward to the cup holder, lifting his lukewarm soda to his lips, and taking a sip. The gold ring on his left hand shone a little too bright, as it caught the sun. The little circle of gold and several other more esoteric materials assisted Denton and McDowell in their role as two of the Foundations more prominent thaumic investigators.
"Oh yes, best of the best. When was the last time either of us were on combat duty?" They had worked together for the better part of two decades, and Denton could feel the shit-eating grin without even looking over.
"Fuck off and drive, that's when."

McDowell turned the pick-up in to the parking lot of the tiny police station, pulling in to the only free spot, the others taken up by similar trucks, or police cruisers. "That's a hell of a police presence for a town this size."
Denton grunted, "You'd be shocked what kind of budget police departments can get post 9/11. Come on." He flipped the lever, and opened his door, his feet hitting solid ground for the first time in a few hours. A groan passed his lips, as his feet ached, and his arches expressed their displeasure.
"Copy that, Sam. My back is gonna give out one of these days. Too many years of chasing after C'thulu's little brothers, I think." McDowell put his hands on his lower back and leaned backwards, a faint crack coming from the vertebrae stressed by too many years of abuse, and too many pounds of bad food.
"Enough with that stuff, we're still Agents. Let's go." He walked forward, McDowell taking stride next to him, as they opened the door to the tiny police station. They were greeted by a young man in a brown sheriff uniform, who was serving as both receptionist and dispatcher.
"Uhh, can I help you?" The young man's eyes darted between the two agents, resting for a moment on the shoulder rigs they both wore. His eyes went wide, and he fumbled at the desk for something.
Denton lifted his hands, and presented the false credentials they'd been issued, DHS this week. "Department of Homeland Security. Relax son. Special Agents Nora and Floyd," he smiled as he gestured to himself and McDowell, slipping in to the false identities as easy as breathing.
"I uhh…sorry, I'm not really…"
McDowell lifted a hand, "No worries son, could you tell the Sheriff we're here?"
Down the hall, a head poked out of an office door, and a man in his mid forties grunted down at them, "You the boys from DHS?"
Denton nodded down the hall, and the sheriff waved them back, "Come on then, let's have it." The two agents walked down the hall in to an office festooned with various ribbons, awards, and placques. Apparently this man was very involved in his local community. A prominent picture of the sheriff standing amongst a dozen young children was on his desk. They were holding a sign up that said "Community Brigade." Beside this was a picture of the man, with a young boy, which Denton filed away as most likely family. The nametag on his chest said 'David Perkins'.
"Special agents Nora and Floyd, thanks for having us." McDowell smiled good-naturedly, and tried to put on his best 'You can trust me, I am also law enforcement' face.
"Skip the bullshit. We've got sixteen bodies in the last two months, and the usual body count for this county is four. Per decade. So why are you boys out here, and how can you help me catch this son of a bitch?"
"David, I'll be hon—" Sheriff Perkins held his hand up.
"Perkins, or Sheriff." He fixed them both with a granite hard stare. They both picked up the obvious subtext.
"Right. Sheriff. We're here because we received a call from the district FBI office. As part of an ongoing inter-departmental joint-task force, we were asked to come and assist, as our office is significantly closer." Denton gave his best 'I'm sorry that we're stepping on your toes' smile, and leaned back in his chair.
"I see. We don't have much in the way of forensics for these cases. Our coroner has been on vacation and one of his techs has been taking over. All we know is that there's been," Perkins moved his mouth in a vaguely disgusted gesture, "parts missing."
"I see. If you can provide us with a full copy of the case file, we'd be happy to provide whatever assistance we can." McDowell's smile was genuine, and he meant it.
"See McVey on the way out, he'll get you a copy of whatever you need. Let's try and keep out of each other's way and we'll catch the bastard, yeah? Four of the victims have been kids."

Denton opened the door to the truck, followed shortly by McDowell. "So, you get the same reading I did?"
McDowell nodded, lifting his left hand, the gold band on his ring finger vibrating slightly. "Yep. The report is obviously doctored. Two months is a hell of a vacation. Probably one of the early victims. Either way, I'm thinking sarkic?"
Denton frowned, "I freakin' hope not. Last time we dealt with them, I had to burn the suit. So where are we off to?"
McDowell pulled in to the finest coffee establishment known to Kansas, a beat to hell Dunkin', and set the brake.
Inside of the shrine to the holy bean brew, Denton and McDowell had spread the case file out across a couple of pushed together tables. The bored teenagers behind the counter tapped away at smartphones, while the two agents poured over the scant information. It was a five hour slog through a very dense, and yet nearly useless set of autopsy reports and 'eyewitness' statements.
"Okay, so according to this…'report' is a very kind word here, there's been sixteen victims in two months. All of them have been mutilated somehow, and four of them are children. I don't see any commonality to them." McDowell frowned, looking left and right over the pages.
"I think that's exactly it. There's no connection to them. So we've got 12 victims, all dead from gunshot wounds, and missing some bits. Then we've got four kids, who are presumed dead, with no bodies found. I'm kinda surprised they even marked them victims." Denton lifted the last of the coffee to his thirsty maw, and smacked it down. "Be right back, need another."
McDowell waved his hand, and continued reading.
Denton approached the counter, and smiled, holding up his phone to pay for another coffee. "Hey there, can I get another Extra Large, Milk, Three Sweet and Low, light pumpkin swirl?"
The teenage girl behind the counter looked at the agent as if he was a canid anomaly who'd just shit on her shoes. "You've had like…four, and we're trying to close. You sure?"
Denton frowned down at her. "It's 7 pm. You guys don't close until…ever, actually, this is a 24 hour location." Denton leaned in closer, and narrowed his eyes. "And if you don't give me coffee, I'm going to start throwing furniture until coffee appears. Capiche?"
She rolled her eyes, unimpressed by the threats of the older agent. About four hundred times slower than necessary, coffee appeared, was paid for, and began its journey towards Denton's stomach.
As he sat down, McDowell looked up, raising an eyebrow, "You've got a caffeine addiction mightier than an O5's sphincter."
Denton took another sip, and sniffed diffidently, "I have good taste, nothing more."
McDowell looked down at the cup, "You're drinking pumpkin coffee. Good taste is definitely not among our assets here."
Denton smiled as they slipped in to the easy familiarity they'd shared for years. "So what do you think?"
McDowell frowned, and cocked his head to one side, poking at the sandwich he'd barely touched. Breakfast wasn't his thing. "I don't know. My gut says the adults are just…cover, for the kids. No bodies, mysterious circumstances. I'm almost sure there's at least a 17th vic though, the coroner."
Denton nodded, "That, or he decided that boca was the best place on earth and moved. Either way, I think you're right. So, the question is, is this anomalous?"
McDowell narrowed his eyes down at the case files. "I dunno, honestly. Half of me thinks it's a 'nom, the other half thinks this is a vanilla serial killer. I mean, if it's someone in local law, especially someone high up, there's no way they'd get caught. Not in a town like this."
Denton nodded, and took another sip of his coffee. "So. Perkins?"
McDowell nodded back, "Perkins. "
Back in the truck, Denton pressed his thumb against his own Thaumic ring, and a look of concern crossed his face. "Ever wonder what the side effect of these jobbies are?"
McDowell lifted the lever in the bottom of his seat, sliding it back all the way to the back of the cab. He reached down, and pressed his palm to the concealed safe under the chair, which slid back without a whisper. "According to the tech's not much. Why?"
Denton slid his chair back as well, mirroring the same motions. He drew a heavier caliber pistol, and a web belt festooned with various bits of havoc-causing equipment. "I dunno. I'm getting a bad feeling, and I think it's like…a premonition or something."
McDowell looked at Denton, his face set with concern, "Should we call in an MTF? I'm not tussling with something that's gonna turn us in to paste without some of ye olde goon squad behind us."
Denton shook his head, "No, but I'm gonna radio in either way. If the site higher-ups think they should send someone, I'm not gonna say no."

Several hours, and no goon squad back up later, Denton and McDowell prowled around the property of Sheriff Perkins, pistols drawn. The comfortable weight of years and food didn't hinder either of them, as they stalked up to the house.
Denton's finger started to vibrate as the thaumic ring detected signs of something off. "Yours going nuts too?"
McDowell nodded, and raised his fingers to his eyes, pointing behind the house, to a small storm cellar. Denton nodded, and stalked over to the entrance, placing a hand on the metal, making sure to keep the ring off the surface.
A faint heat suffused the ring on his hand, and he looked up at McDowell, nodding. They eased open the doors, as quietly as they could, peering down in to the darkness. A faint red light could be seen at the bottom of the stairs.
Denton took the lead, his gun held out before him, creeping down in to the gloom, red lightbulbs the only illumination. The cellar looked clear, and he held his gun down the line of sight as he waved McDowell down.
They cleared the small cellar, finding nothing. McDowell straightened up, and his gun slipped back in to his holster. "Nothing. Were we wrong?"
Denton's eyes alighted on a large storage trunk in the corner, and the faint light coming out the far side. "Not likely. Check it." He carefully slipped open the trunk, which revealed a set of stairs deeper underground. The faint smell of blood was unmistakable.
The two agents cleared the entryway and descended down in to the earth, rough concrete giving way to jagged earth. The walls of this tunnel had been crudely broken out with a pickaxe and hammer, and Denton swallowed hard. "I don't like this."
"Me either. Do we go for backup?" McDowell looked at Denton with hesitancy written all over his face. He was looking for an out.
Denton didn't even have to hesitate, "The lights in the house weren't on. He's in here somewhere. And four of the victims were kids, Jim."
McDowell nodded, breaking out in a sweat as he stalked forward, taking the lead. They moved together, Denton covering McDowell as they stalked forward.
The red light had turned sullen, and the source had disappeared. There were no lightbulbs down here. The hellish light suffused everything with an even glow. A faint sound came from up ahead.
Denton craned his neck and concentrated, recognizing it as crying. It sounded like a child, and he put a hand on McDowell's shoulder. "I think it's a kid up ahead. We've gotta do something."
McDowell's eyes took on a flat cast, and he nodded, stalking down the tunnel faster. They came to a roughly circular chamber. Overhead, red light flooded in from some…thing above them. The rings on both agents' fingers were practically buzzing.
In the middle of the room was a steel chair, with a young boy duct taped to the frame. His arms, legs, and torso were all strapped to the high-backed steel. His head had been craned back, with duct tape over his forehead, mouth, and ears. His eyes were exposed.
From a side tunnel, Denton heard the telltale sound of a knife on a sharpening steel. Fuck. This is so fucking wrong.
McDowell growled slightly under his breath, and stalked forward, reaching back to the pocket knife he kept on his belt. He covered about half the distance between him and the chair, before holding out a hand to reassure the boy, "Alright, we're gonna get you out of here ki—"
The dust at McDowell's feet snapped out like a viper. Denton's eyes darted to the ground, taking in a series of what looked like pink snakes rushing across the floor. They rapidly expanded, and moved up at the forward agent, faster than the blink of an eye.
McDowell's voice froze in his throat, looking down at tendrils of steel-hard flesh, which had slammed through his body. He couldn't even process the amount of pain he was in, as invading flesh occupied what had once been his comfortably aging body.
"Hrr…ngg…ahh… ," McDowell managed to struggle out before the tendrils retracted in an arc, leaving several chunks of what had been Denton's partner on the floor.
"Oh fuck!" Denton swept his gun up as quickly as he could, but a hand clamped down on his wrist. How did he get behind me? The hand squeezed, snapping the delicate bones there. Denton screamed as the gun dropped out of his hand.
"Now now, Special Agent I don't give a fuck, we can't have you damaging the sacrifice." Another hand hit Denton in the spine. His legs instantly went numb.
Denton barely had time to choke out a gasp of pain, and panic at the prospect of being permanently paralyzed, before the "sheriff" slammed him back against the wall, another set of tendrils snaking out from Perkins' pant legs.
Denton set a new personal best for pain, as they constricted harder than an anaconda, crushing his arms and legs, and holding him fast against the wall. His screams echoed around the chamber, as the fleshy tendrils buried themselves in his blood vessels, worming their way in to his body. The tendrils writhed visibly, his arms a ruin of shredded flesh. Denton didn't have words to put to the fulminous pain shooting up his nerves to his brain.
The young boy in the center of the room started sobbing under the duct tape, as Perkins circled around, the tendrils from his legs playing out like some kind of disgusting rope from a spool. He placed his hands almost delicately on the boy's head, and looked up at Denton.
Denton's pain-hazed eyes could barely focus, as Perkins slowly lowered his head to the boy's face, opening his mouth. His eyes snapped open wide, in both horror and panic as Perkins' teeth slid over the boy's left eye, snapping shut with a too-loud impact of teeth against vitrious material.
The boy squealed and tried to struggle away, his face a mess of blood, as Perkins, still never breaking eye contact with Denton leaned over, and snapped his jaws like a viper over the boy's right eye. The sickening sounds of squelching and chewing escaped Perkins' lips as he chewed with an open mouth, swallowing with a final sigh of satisfaction.
The boy squealed for several more seconds, as Denton vomitted all over himself, and down on the floor. Tears flowed from his eyes, "You…fuck you, you fucking…fuck I swear to god, I'm…fuck…FUCK YOU!"
The boy made a whining sound, for several seconds, as Perkins yanked the duct tape off of his mouth. The boy's words whispered out, too quiet for the butchery perpetrated on him. "Owie…owie…daddy it hurts…owie… ," Denton threw up again, the last of the coffee that McDowell had shared with him ending up on the floor.
Some combination of the boy's complete lack of understanding how he could be in this much pain, his own agony, and the completely incomprehensible strength of Perkins started to chew at Denton's rapidly cracking psyche.
Perkins leaned down, running his tongue in the now-empty sockets, before sealing his lips around the orifice, slurping out the last of the liquefied humor, straightening as he smacked his lips. He placed a hand on the boy's forehead, and murmured a word. It quieted instantly.
It sat up ramrod straight, as Perkins cut the tape. "Be a darling, and head back to work with the others."
The eyeless, mutilated child turned its empty sockets to face its father, a rictus of joy and agony spread across its face. "Yes, daddy." It turned, and tottled off down another tunnel, trailing a stream of blood from its ruined sockets.
Denton's ring was knocking against the spongy flesh of his restraints, as he felt consciousness slipping away. Perkins took a few steps toward him, and smiled. "Don't worry Agent. You go away, eventually. They all do." The last sight Denton saw was the row of perfectly triangular teeth at the back of Perkins' throat as he closed his teeth down on Denton's left eye.

| The Alchemy Department Hub | Denton and McDowell Save Sixty Dollars »


Greetings fellow Insurgents.
As many of you are likely aware, in exactly twenty-four hours, we will begin an assault upon the Foundation facility known as Site-64.

Site-64
Anomalous Materials Lab

As Researcher Jacob Conwell sat at his desk within the Site-64 Anomalous Materials Lab, he looked into the tiny box his colleague, Researcher Roland Ferro, held in front of him. Inside was a gold band topped by a modest diamond. Conwell grinned and shook his head.
"I'm flattered, Roland," he said, "but I don't think Kate's going to approve."
"Ha," Ferro replied. "Think Clarissa will like it?"
"I mean, sure, it's a nice ring," Conwell shrugged. "But I thought Shaw was dating Dr. Campbell again. Did you two get back together?"
Ferro shook his head.
"Not yet, but if I've learned anything it's that Clarissa and Lily's relationship is like a match. It burns hot and fast, and eventually burns out." Ferro sighed. "I just… if she gives me another chance, I want to be ready to do what I really should have done a long time ago. You know?"
"Seems like you're taking a pretty big gamble," Conwell frowned. "Just don't do anything stupid."
"It's far too late for that…"
"Hostiles incoming!"
The two scientists jumped. Through the window on the office door, they could see security officers rushing into the room and taking cover behind the workbenches, pistols in hand. The sound of shouting and gunfire blotted out the low hum of the Hoffman Portable Electro-Thaumic Units. Suddenly, all was quiet. Several masked figures in combat gear appeared in the office doorway, assault weapons at the ready. Ferro and Conwell quietly held up their hands.
"On the floor, now!"
The two scientists didn't resist. Within moments of lying down, their hands were zip-tied behind their backs.
"You shouldn't be here," Conwell mumbled from the floor.
"Quiet!" One of the intruders barked back.
"You don't understand," Ferro added on. "We don't mean that in a 'you're invading a black-ops facility' way. You guys came in through the portals, right? Those aren't going to be open much longer, we've already started the…"
Another intruder discharged a round from his pistol into the floor. Ferro immediately stopped talking.
The two scientists were hoisted up on their feet and escorted out of the office. As they passed into the adjoining lab, the bodies of three slaughtered Foundation Security Officers sat in pools of blood. One's head had taken a shotgun blast. Another had seen the wrong side of seven or eight rounds from an assault rifle. The final officer's legs had been shot out, with two bullet holes in the back of her head. Conwell cringed and looked away. Ferro swore under his breath.
"This is Alpha Leader," the lead intruder said into a mic on her person. "Charlie and Delta, we've captured PoIs seven and fifteen. En route to the primary."

Site-64
Cafeteria

"I fucking hate these things…" MTF Commander Damian Creed whispered to his colleague, MTF Commander Clarissa Shaw. "This whole thing could have just been a fucking email."
The two sat among a crowd of agents within the Site-64 Cafeteria. Near the back of the room was a projector screen displaying the current slide of a presentation entitled "Thaumatologists and You: What to do when you got the 'Blues'".
"This is more to your crew's benefit than mine," Shaw whispered back, her gaze remaining locked on the presenter. "Stop bitching and pay attention. You'll thank yourself when you don't get a rod of lightning shoved up your ass."
"But with high reflex, I can take half damage…" Creed mumbled as he sat back in his chair and returned his attention to the speaker. "Seriously though, they're talking about magic, how is this so dry? Couldn't they get Navarro or something?"
Shaw exhaled sharply.
Creed held up his hands and fell quiet resigning himself to his fate.
"They aren't even doing demonstrations…" he said under his breath.
The burst of attention proved short-lived, however, as several minutes later the sound of security klaxons then blasted through the facility.
Almost at once the assembled MTF agents stood and began to sprint towards the cafeteria doors. At that same time, said doors slammed shut with a sharp metallic clang, trapping them inside. It didn't take long for the collective intellect of the room to determine the power had been cut.
"For fuck sake…" Shaw said as she and Creed pushed their way to the front of the crowd. "Someone get me a line to Merlo, now!"

The reason for this attack is simple. Following the joint UIU/Foundation raid on Anderson Robotics, a massive supply of AR droids has been stored indefinitely at this facility for long-term study and reverse engineering. If acquired and modified, these droids will provide a significant asset to our cause.

Site-64
Administrative Offices

"You're telling me that we can run a laser downstairs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but a mini-fridge shorts us?"
Gabe Merlo stood within his office behind one of the Site-64 maintenance crew members, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration, having just had to throw away at least three days of lunches he had packed for himself and his wife. The maintenance crewman, a middle-aged man with tan skin and a name tag that read "Stan", simply chuckled as he continued his work.
"Hey man, don't give me that attitude," Stan replied. "You have absolutely no idea how complex the wiring is in these places. Just let me do my job and you can go ahead and get back to yours. I'll let you know if I need you to do the wiring's taxes or something."
Assistant Director Sasha Merlo stifled a laugh as she sat within Gabe's chair behind his desk. Her husband looked at her with a defeated shrug.
"Guess it's cafeteria today," he mumbled. "Whenever the MTF seminar clears up…"
"Fine by me," Sasha smiled, having regained her composure. "Though lunch might be cut short then, Holman and I have a conference with some of the Site-77 hobnobbers later, and I don't want to…"
The sound of alarm klaxons cut her off. The room's three occupants froze as they looked around. Sasha's expression became serious, her hand reaching for her pistol. Gabe looked to the door, slowly backing up to be closer to his wife. Stan's eyes widened with fear as he put down his screwdriver, and watched the other two for a hint of what to do.
Gunshots rang out from somewhere on the floor. Sasha immediately got to her feet, locking the door and shutting down the lights as she drew the blinds on the door shut. Gabe stood behind her. He put a finger to his lips and gestured for Stan to join them. The sound of footsteps became audible in the adjoining hall.
"Containment breach?" Gabe asked under his breath.
Sasha shook her head as she peered through a crack in the blinds. Four figures in combat gear slowly crept down the hallway on alert. The one on point brandished a shotgun. Behind him, the two intruders were armed with a pistol and an assault rifle, respectively. The figure taking up the rear was armed with a rifle as well. Each time they came to a room, they entered and appeared to comb for inhabitants. Sasha relayed this information under her breath.
"Who are they? Any markings?" Stan whispered.
"Yeah, one's got a big neon sign that says GOC on it…" Sasha replied, shaking her head again. She then pressed a finger to her lips and backed away from the door. One of the intruders tested the knob forcefully, then became quiet.
All three of the room's occupants let out a small sigh of relief.

BANG

The door kicked inward.
Sasha immediately leveled her pistol, her arm recoiling in rapid succession as she repeatedly pulled the trigger. The man fell down as his shotgun clattered to the floor. She then leaned into the door frame, delivering more shots into her enemies, one of the riflemen falling to her assault.
Sasha didn't have time to reload. Something akin to a bus hit her from behind, launching her through the air and across the hallway where she slammed into the opposite wall with a dull thud. Her ears rang as she tried to get her bearings, only to get hit again, and launched down the hallway as if she were a rag doll.
Sasha coughed in pain as she looked up. The two remaining intruders approached, the rifleman keeping his weapon trained on her, while the man with the pistol held out a clenched fist with a faint blue light radiating from his palm.
"This is Charlie Leader," the thaumatologist said into a mic. "We've captured PoI three, preparing…"
Two shotgun blasts rang out in rapid succession, the rifleman slumping against the wall and the thaumatologist falling forward on top of Sasha. Gabe stood several yards away, weapon in hand. He breathed heavily for several moments as he looked between the two men he killed, then became pale and vomited.
"My hero…" Sasha said with a painful laugh as she pushed the body off her, Stan arriving to lend her a hand up.
Gabe nodded in agreement as he wiped his mouth.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"Well, considering how we're a maintenance crewman, an accountant, and a Level 4 admin, we're going to find a new place to hide, and stay put. We're not exactly Alpha-9," Sasha answered, and reloaded her pistol. "Stan, grab one of those rifles, I'm assuming you've passed the basic training."
"Uh… yes ma'am," Stan nodded and went to fetch a weapon.
"Where are the MTFs?" Gabe looked around. "Shouldn't Shaw be all over this? Or Creed?"
"You'd think…" Sasha frowned. "Let's hide first, then we can find out what the hell is going on…"

Clarissa? It's Sasha. What was Jessie's nickname for you?

Aunt Clari. What was my alias during my first operation for Gamma-13?

Ms. Starling. Glad you are okay. What's going on? Where are you and the other MTFs?

Trapped in the cafeteria. Someone cut the power to the doors and sealed us in. Where are you, are you okay?

Gabe and I are holed up somewhere safe. No worries.

Do you know what's going on?

Some kind of invasion. Armed strike teams. A crew went through the admin level on a personnel grab. I'm guessing CI based on the hallmarks.

Jesus… how'd they get in?

Your guess is as good as mine.
We have one of the maintenance crew with us. Hang tight, we'll see if we can get you guys out. Be ready to rock and roll.

Fuck that noise. Stay put! Last thing we need is them bagging a level four.

See you soon.

The mission will involve five strike teams. Strike Team Alpha will be securing the captured Anderson Drones, and therefore will be the largest team. Strike Team Bravo will be securing a master copy of the AR Operating System within the Foundation Site Archives. Strike Teams Charlie and Delta will capture Persons of Interest from the Site-64 staff. Each team will enter through a different SC-60/106-13/060 portal here within Three Portlands. We have already negotiated safe passage into and out of the pocket dimension on the other side with like-minded inhabitants eager to see this blow dealt to the Foundation. However, these portals are currently under the protection of UIU agents. Strike Team Echo will ensure the portals remain under our control.

Site-64
Medium Security Storage Wing

Researchers Conwell and Ferro reluctantly trudged forward, surrounded by the armed intruders who escorted them forcefully through the lower levels of Site-64. Along the way, they watched their captors gun down security personnel as they came across them, as well as the occasional maintenance crewman, or wayward scientist. Eventually, the entourage stopped at a door both Ferro and Conwell had been through many times during the course of their research.

Robotics Storage

"Open the door," the intruder they had come to know as Alpha Leader ordered.
Conwell and Ferro looked at each other briefly, then both shook their heads.
"We can't," Conwell replied. His eyes shifted to the ground where they remained locked.
"Did that sound like a fucking request? Open the god damn door!"
"We can't," Ferro clarified. "Neither of us have clearance for that area. That's basically an armory, what the hell would we need to do back there that couldn't just be brought to our labs?"
Alpha Leader sighed then snapped her fingers. Conwell and Ferro were immediately slammed into the nearby wall as their ID badges were forcefully yanked off their persons. The door pinged twice as both badges were rejected by the security scanner.
"Peachy," Alpha Leader mumbled. "Twelve?"
"On it!"
One of the intruders with a heavy kit on her person set to work opening the door. Alpha Leader nodded in approval, then turned back to Conwell and Ferro.
"Eight, Six, keep our guests comfortable."
The two researchers were then forced down to the floor, idly watching as their captors attempted to crack their way into the storage room by force. It was several minutes into this that Ferro noticed Conwell blinking in a rhythmic pattern.
Long, Long, Long, Long, Long, Short, Long, Short, Short, Short, Short, Short.
Ferro tilted his head slightly in confusion and watched as Conwell repeated.
Long, Long, Long, Long, Long, Short, Long, Short, Short, Short, Short, Short.
The pattern seemed familiar as if he had seen it before.
Long, Long, Long, Long, Long, Short, Long, Short, Short, Short, Short, Short.
It then hit him.
Roland, you fucking idiot. It's Morse code. Ferro thought to himself and looked at Conwell blink out the message again. His colleague had been repeating the word MORSE over and over.

YES

Ferro blinked back. Conwell let out a short sigh, a brief smile coming to him, then vanishing as he looked at their captors. So far, they seemed none the wiser. Conwell proceeded, stopping occasionally to avoid onlooking gazes.

STILL ADMIN ON BOTS

Ferro gave a shallow nod, pausing as one of the intruders eyed him for several seconds before returning their gaze to the door. Conwell blinked on.

F PROTOCOL

Ferro frowned. He looked at Conwell, then at their captors, then at their guns. He felt the ring box still in his pocket. Eventually, he returned his gaze to Conwell and replied.

GET SHOT

Conwell closed his eyes. Ferro watched as his colleague rubbed the titanium band on his ring finger with his thumb for several seconds. Conwell eventually opened his eyes and replied.

HAVE TO TRY

Site-64
Sub-Level 1 Maintenance Room

Sasha and Gabe Merlo stood guard by the door of the dimly lit maintenance room, Stan whistling as he worked at the nearby kiosk. He then looked up with a frown.
"Figure it out?" Sasha asked.
"Sure did," Stan replied. "Someone must have known your MTFs were having that meeting, 'cause they went in here and literally only powered down those doors. Directly in the system."
"How many people have access to the system?" Gabe inquired. "Could this have been done remotely?"
"Not likely. And as far as I know, the only ones in and out of these rooms are the maintenance crew. Which means you folks probably have a mole on your hands."
"Christ…" Sasha mumbled. "We'll have to deal with that later. Can you get those doors powered back up?"
Stan shrugged.
"I can sure as hell try, no promises."
"Get it open, and I'll personally take you out for steak," Sasha replied.
Stan blinked in shock. He raised a finger then put it down, and looked over at Gabe.
"Hey man," Gabe said with chuckle and shrug, "get that door open and I'll pay for it."

Site-64
Cafeteria

The agents of Gamma-13 and Tau-51 had set themselves up to deploy at the drop of a hat. Trapped where they were, there was little else they could do. Those with sidearms checked and rechecked their magazines. Others discussed potential plans of attack for sweeping the invaders from their home. Shaw and Creed sat to the side, the former's eyes darting from her cell phone to the doors in rapid succession, the latter starring up at the ceiling.
"Any word from Merlo?" Creed eventually asked.
Shaw shook her head.
"Nothing… I really hope nothing happened to her…"
It was then that the phone vibrated, and a new message appeared on its screen.

Knock Knock!

The doors to the cafeteria then opened. A silence fell over the collected agents. Shaw and Creed blinked.
"Looks like your girl came through," Creed said, hoping to his feet as the agents began to mobilize.
"She sure did," Shaw replied, likewise getting up. She picked up speed as she ran towards the door, shouting orders to her agents. "Get to a security station, let's find out where these assholes are!"

Once inside, each strike team will exit back into baseline reality and into the interior of Site-64. Bravo, Charlie, and Delta will emerge within the Site-64 dormitories, while Alpha will be emerging within the AMAT Lab. Our sources have indicated that the Foundation has recently developed tech to close these portals, and will be testing them in 48 hours, so this is our one shot to make this kind of smash-and grab.

Site-64
Medium Security Storage Wing

"Got it!"
Ferro and Conwell let out defeated sighs as the intruder working on the door stood aside, two of her compatriots moving in and forcing the door open. Inside, the lights flicked on, revealing the shiny casings of scores of AR model robots hibernating. Conwell and Ferro were forced back on their feet and marched inside.
Alpha Leader and two of her underlings approached the room's main console, the sound of typing immediately filling the room.
"You're going to need credentials…" Conwell piped up, his gaze on the floor as the eyes of the intruder swarm fell upon him.
"Wanna bet?" Alpha Leader replied, then nodded to her agent who resumed typing. Within several moments the hibernating Aplomado, Merlin, and Peregrine units were fully awake.
"Have them start making their way back to the portal," Alpha Leader patted her agent at the terminal on the shoulder and then turned away to speak into her mic. "This is Alpha Leader, we've accessed our primary target, en route back to-"
"ALL UNITS ACTIVATE FOUNDATION PROTOCOL!" Ferro shouted at the top of his lungs.
The robots let out a horrific shriek, causing all present to cover their ears. One by one the droids fell apart, disintegrating into puddles of black goo. After several moments, the shrieking stopped and the storeroom fell into silence.
Conwell looked away and closed his eyes, expecting immediate punishment. He rubbed his wedding band tightly and thought of his wife.
Ferro wore a shit-eating grin as he locked eyes with Alpha leader. He raised his arms in a sarcastic shrug.
"Your move, lady."
Alpha Leader raised her pistol and fired.

Site-64
Sub-Level 1 Security Station

Shaw looked on in silence as she watched the security monitor in front of her. On the screen before her, an enemy agent raised her pistol and fired off a single shot into Researcher Roland Ferro's torso. Time seemed to slow down as she watched her ex fall to the ground, the enemy agent then ordering her strike team's retreat, and leaving him for dead.
"Shaw?"
She blinked, her mind whirling with disjointed thoughts and ideas.
"Shaw? Orders?"
She blinked again, returning from the riptide of her mind. Creed stood by her, and hand on her shoulder.
"How do you want to do this, Clarissa?"
"Sherman, Johar, Akagi, and get down to the Level 2 Storage Wing immediately. Get Ferro and anyone else you see in need of medical attention to the infirmary," Shaw replied clearly and calmly, making her way to the door. "Creed, clean house up here. It looks like they are making a run for the 3560 portals. Make sure they don't get there. The rest of Gamma-13, with me. We're cutting them off at the AMAT Lab."

Sources have also indicated that during the time of this operation, the on-site Mobile Task Forces will be localized within the site cafeteria for a training seminar. Our agents embedded within the site maintenance staff have ensured us that the task forces will be incapacitated, allowing us to move about the facility largely unhindered. Security personnel encountered may be eliminated with extreme prejudice. Once objectives have been secured, all teams are to immediately evacuate through their assigned portals. Once back in Three Portlands, all strike teams are to evacuate back to baseline reality through their assigned Ways.

Site-64
Anomalous Materials Lab

Strike Team Alpha sprinted through the halls of the facility with Researcher Conwell in tow. With their primary objective botched, their orders were to abort and secure any additional persons of interest encountered along the way. On the sub-level above, Strike Teams Bravo, Charlie, and Delta were in a similar state of retreat, though their objectives had been largely completed with an order of magnitude more success. Luckily, the halls were mostly cleared giving them an easy route back.
"This is Bravo Leader! Our portal has been closed. I repeat, our portal has been closed! Heading to Delta and Charlie's portal now."
Strike Team Alpha stopped, listening intently as their co-insurgents spoke to them over their radios. The sound of gunfire could be heard in the background.
"This is Delta Leader! Our portal is also closed. Attempting to regroup with Bravo and seek a surface exit. Encountering heavy MTF resistance!"
The insurgents looked to one another, concern in their eyes. It was then Alpha Leader slammed Conwell into a wall, putting a pistol to his head. The researcher breathed heavily as he squirmed in her tight grip.
"What the fuck is going on? What did you do?"
"We told you when you first got here," Conwell replied. "We found out how to close those portals. We started that process a few hours before you arrived. Be as mad as you want but we warned you!"
Alpha Leader let out an enraged yell and punched the wall near Conwell's head.
"You heard him, get moving!" she shouted, grabbing Conwell by his shirt and pushing him forward. "If you try to slow us down I will shoot you in the god damn head."
The hallways once more filled with the thuds of sprinting boots. Within minutes, the Strike Team had arrived at the AMAT lab, the portal still barely open, then flickering out of existence. The insurgents approached where it was in defeat.
"Well, that's great…"

"What do we do now?"

"Think we could make the surface?"

The members of Strike Team Alpha mumbled among themselves as Alpha Leader thought to herself, then spoke into her mic.
"This is Alpha Leader. Our portal is gone too. Rerouting to surface…"
The members of the strike team turned to leave, freezing as they came face to face with MTF Gamma-13, armed to the teeth, with their firearms pointed directly at them. At their head was Agent Clarissa Shaw.
"Oh shit…" Conwell said as he immediately dived for cover, MTF Gamma-13 proceeding to gun down their unwelcome guests.

It took the Foundation nearly a decade of dedicated research, and the help of one of Anderson Robotics' Founders, to create effective countermeasures for the AR line of drones. Needless to say, it will take the Foundation far longer to crack our reverse engineered products.
Good luck and Godspeed.
Dismissed.

Site-64
Infirmary

Researcher Ferro sat in his infirmary bed, drumming on the railing as he idly passed the time. The doctors had told him he was lucky to be alive, though the incredible amounts of pain his surgery was causing him often made him wish he was dead. Finally finding a comfortable position, he closed his eyes and began to nod off.
"Hey, Roland…"
His eyes opened to see Agent Clarissa Shaw standing by his side. His mouth hung open briefly before he could find his words.
"Hey, Clarissa…"
"I saw what happened. What you did."
Ferro looked down and nodded.
"Thoughts?"
"I can't decide if it was really brave, or incredibly stupid."
"Would it help if I told you it was Conwell's idea?" Ferro smiled.
"Ah, incredibly stupid it is then," Shaw smiled in return.
"I appreciate the visit. Thanks."
"I can't stay long I'm afraid, lots of red tape for us to go through," Shaw sighed. "But, I'm glad to see you're okay."
Ferro nodded, and soon Shaw was making her way towards the door, passing Conwell on her way out. The incoming researcher watched her go, then looked at Ferro with a raised eyebrow.
"Roland, buddy, you didn't…"
"Nah," Ferro sighed. "I'm not a master of romance, but I'm pretty sure proposing, to a woman currently in a relationship, while in an infirmary bed, after getting shot, is a pretty stupid idea. And considering how this week's been filled with stupid ideas, I don't need another top of the pile."
Conwell nodded in agreement and took a seat near his friend.
"I brought my iPod, like you wanted, want anything particular to start?" He asked.
"Whatever you think fits the mood best."
Conwell nodded, and quietly set up the device, and pressing play. Ferro frowned as he recognized the tune.
"You can be a real dick, Jake."
"I know."

Wait, they don't love you like I love you
Wait, they don't love you like I love you

« Hector and Jacob | Anderson Robotics Hub | Priorities »


O5-2 entered the conference room and took her seat at the long table. She said nothing to the other twelve people seated around her, and they said nothing back. The O5 Council only met in person once a month. There was no time, no purpose in any pleasantries.
There were no leaders in the O5 Council, but they each took turns to officiate meetings. This month it was O5-8's turn. He started without ceremony. “We have twelve items to discuss today,” he said. English was the first language of only three O5s, but he spoke it without the trace of an accent. “The first concerns the proposed termination of SCP-2629-A.”
There was a half-second silence, and then O5-7 said “What, the paintball ghosts?”
O5-8 sighed. “These are Class III Incorporeal Humanoid Entities, not ‘ghosts'. But yes, these are in fact, ‘the paintball ghosts'. Well done, Seven.”
“Wait,” said O5-12. “Isn't this all a bit extreme? 2629-A hasn't killed anyone. They haven't even injured anyone, except by accident. We've gone to far greater extremes to cage far worse monsters.”
“Normally I'd agree,” said O5-8. “But we've had six Aleph-2629 Scenarios in the past six months. Even if 2629-A sticks to attacking Site-19, and I must stress that we have no guarantee it will, the rate of attacks will be get more and more frequent. Working at Site-19 will become intolerable.”
“But it's still not like us to just give up on an SCP,” said O5-12. “Remember how many people were slaughtered by 096 before we finally agreed to put the bastard down?”
“Could we simply move out of Site-19?” said O5-13.
“Impossible,” said O5-8. “We've spent decades and untold billions of dollars building up Site-19. Abandoning it would be an unthinkable waste of resources.”
“We lost eight sites trying to contain 1440,” grumbled O5-12.
“And what a marvellous use of resources that was!” said O5-11. “I had friends who went up in smoke alongside the seventh site. Seems to me that we should have cashed in our chips a little earlier.”
“I lost friends to 1440 too,” said O5-12. “That's why I'm finding it so hard to accept that we're surrendering to bloody paintball. Can't Site-19 simply adapt to daily paintball attacks?”
O5-8 grimaced. “That might be the best option if we can't agree on termination. But Site-19 contains or is crucial to the containment of over a thousand SCPs. The logistics involved would be immense. Should we value the containment of one SCP over a thousand?”
The O5 Council continued arguing. O5-2's eyes slid over to the far wall. Every boardroom on the planet had small touches to make it more liveable. Every boardroom but this one. There were no windows, no pot plants, no pictures or certificates on the walls. But what it did have was a wall covered in over three thousand miniature lightbulbs. Every lightbulb had a small numberplate attached to it. Most of the lightbulbs were dark, but here and there, there were a few of them lit up in red. Even as O5-2 watched, a lightbulb marked “2416” slowly lit itself up. O5-2 sighed. She wondered how SCP-2416-21 had managed to kill himself this time. There had been far too many containment breaches in the past month. At least terminating SCP-2629-A would mean one less to worry about.
Around her, the O5 Council still hadn't reached a consensus. “2629-A is ambulatory,” said O5-7. “If we tear down SCP-2629 it may take up residency in Site-19 permanently.”
“It nearly has already,” said O5-8. “Our estimates say we only have a year before Iota-17 losses outweigh victories. At least by demolishing SCP-2629 we might have a permanent solution.”
“Hang on,” said O5-2. “How did 2629-A find Site-19 in the first place? It's on a different continent.”
“That was in the SCP file,” said O5-8. “Don't tell me you haven't done the reading. They overheard Site-19 being mentioned in some Task Force chatter. A terrible breach in discipline.”
“Yes,” said O5-2. “But surely they didn't mention the exact co-ordinates of Site-19? Even if 2629-A knew what country Site-19 was in, it would still be nearly impossible to find, what with everything we've done to cloak and disguise it.”
The table was silent. O5-8 glanced down at his notes on SCP-2629, even though he'd already memorized them. “That's a good question,” he said. “We don't know how 2629-A was able to find us.”
“So, could 2629-A find other secret places?” said O5-2. “If we instruct Iota-17 to casually drop a reference to a different site during their next match, could we get 2629-A to re-direct their focus there instead?”
O5-8 looked sceptical. “Are you suggesting we set up a decoy site for 2629-A?”
O5-2 grinned. “Who said it had to be one of our sites?”

DeCIRO Catalogue Number: SC-19/988-19/438
Document Type: Step Compilation
Dates Received: 9/20/2019 through 9/22/2019
Operation Status: Open.
Foreword: This is intolerable. Simply intolerable. These Class Threes have made a mockery of the most important work being done in this age. What we do here today is not surrender. It is a temporary measure only. Once we have the means we shall drag them into corporeality and grind them into powder. And we shall have the means.
Nevertheless, protective measures must be taken until that inevitable day comes. Our efforts to dissuade the Class Threes by holding Delta Command meetings by satellite link have only led them to refocus their annoyances elsewhere in the organization. Over the past week six of our North American laboratories have been hit. Sensitive equipment and valuable anomalies have been damaged. No, I am afraid we in Delta Command must bear the brunt of these attacks.
1. STEP 19/1123: A new conference room must be constructed for Delta Command meetings. This room must be as utilitarian as possible. Nothing inside it should be difficult to clean or easy to break.
2. STEP 19/1130: All Delta Command members must be provided with full paintball armour before each of our meetings.
3. STEP 19/1134: As paper documents and standard handheld devices are typically susceptible to paintball damage, new methods of in-meeting information recording and retrieval must be devised. The new conference room must be equipped with multiple inconspicuous microphones, specifically designed to withstand paintballs. While this is a serious security risk, it will ensure information conveyed in the meeting is not lost and can be accessed by Delta Command members later.


I'll bet all of us end up facing a review panel. And for what? Whatever this goddamned thing is that's made us come out here. The more Bert thought about it, the more he hated it all.

To:
Site-38 General Alert <8 contacts>

CC:
Capt. Reilly <mtfc.rho.36>

From:
Site-38 Security Dept. <monitoring.station.s38>

Subject:
Containment Breach

At 23:48 this evening Site-38's containment facilities were found to have been compromised. MTF Rho-36 ("Breacher's Pets") is being dispatched to ensure recontainment of SCP-████, which remains unaccounted for. On-site security forces have tracked direction of travel from site, and determined viable habitat in that area. See attached files for further details.

View attached files

Close file viewer

Note: Route-13, W of Route-1

Description of SCP-████

SCP-████ is a [REDACTED].

SCP-████'s ██████ contains [REDACTED]. The ████████ is inert by itself; however, [REDACTED]. This results in [REDACTED] designated as SCP-████-1. SCP-████-1 will be [REDACTED].

███████ coming into contact with SCP-████-1 become increasingly [REDACTED]. As time passes, the [REDACTED]. High concentrations of SCP-████-1 will [REDACTED]. Experimentation suggests that it is effectively impossible to [REDACTED]. Once the ███████ is ████, all █████████ will [REDACTED]; this suggests that [REDACTED].

Bert Nash checked his watch, looked at the clock in the dashboard of the truck, then back to his watch. It felt like he'd been waiting forever but it was only 02:10, barely an hour since the MTF had arrived on scene. He usually didn't mind the waiting game. But tonight, for some reason, he just wanted things to get going. And last he'd seen the rest of the guys, they seemed even more restless.
Someone on Site-38's security staff had made an error: adding the responding MTF to the recipients of the Site-wide general alert, rather than sending a seperate message with the uncensored files attached. The initial briefing was more blackbox than text; what little information that wasn't redacted was essentially useless. But protocol dictated their immediate response. Right now Captain Reilly, the MTF's commanding officer, would be tearing a strip off the Site staff and getting the declassified information needed to tackle the mission without fumbling blindly in the dark. In the meantime swift action was called for, and Bert's squad had been deployed first.
A perimeter was established, and they were awaiting the arrival of Squads -2 and -3 before moving inward. Nash sat alone in the vehicle, parked near the beginning of the unpaved road that wound its way uphill into the forest. Sergeant Braun, the Squad Leader, had stayed with the fireteams at the staging area, while Nash drove back to "cover" the only viable access route. This is dumb, Nash thought to himself. The nearest civilian presence is just a small town miles down the highway, and the backup isn't going to need directions to find the guys at the first junction in. But there he was, alone on radio control duty.
While Bert was beginning to feel a bit restless, Sgt. Braun was already well beyond that point. The radio in the truck crackled to life as the squad leader hailed him. Nash took the mic from the dash and answered.
"Is the rest of the force on-scene?" the sergeant barked impatiently.
"Negative, sir. No sign of them yet," Bert replied. And asking me every two minutes isn't going to hurry them up any.
"We're forming up to move in. If they aren't here in ten, we're going without them."
That doesn't sound good. "I'm sure they're en route, sir. I don't think we should act before they arrive…" Braun didn't respond to that, but Nash figured he couldn't have steered him off the idea anyway.
For the next ten minutes Nash sat in hope of the remaining force's arrival, to no avail. At 02:21, each of the fireteams sounded off for final comms checks before embarking. Despite his aversion to this course of action, Bert dutifully confirmed that everyone was reading loud and clear. This was how things would go down, and he wasn't in a position to stop it.
Feeling antsy had grown to feeling anxious for Nash. Instead of looking forward to headlights bouncing up the dirt road, he was nervous about their arrival. Like a kid with their hand in the cookie jar, and their parents surely about to enter the kitchen. It wasn't my call to move in without backup. I didn't have a say in the matter. Damnit! This isn't my fault!
Bert was suddenly aware of his tighty clenched fist atop the steering wheel in front of him. He relaxed it and flexed away the tension. There were a dozen other guys up there. Didn't any of them have objections to this plan? I'll bet all of us end up facing a review panel. And for what? Whatever this goddamned thing is that's made us come out here. The more he thought about it, the more he hated it all.
He got out of the truck to stretch his legs. He paced back and forth, taking deep breaths to try and calm his nerves. This had to happen this way. We couldn't afford to keep sitting and waiting, Nash reasoned to himself. Maybe it was working, because he began to relate with the sense of urgency that Braun must have felt when he made the decision. Every passing minute this thing is out of containment, the more trouble it could cause. It's our job to put these monsters back in their cages ASAP. What is it Reilly's always saying? "We don't make excuses, we produce results!" Bert was certain of it: they had to get that target right now.
He got back in the truck and tried to focus on the radio chatter. It hadn't taken long for the squad to zone in on their target. Fireteam-3 sounded excited. They were closing in on the objective, flushing it towards Fireteam-2. Maybe we're going to complete recontainment on our own, Nash was hopeful now. Maybe the other squads will show up, and we'll tell them it's been taken care of. Maybe we'll look-
The crack of gunshots in the distance interrupted that train of thought. "What the hell?!" Each fireteam is equipped with non-lethals. We're geared for recontainment, not combat! The guns aren't meant to be a first resort… The radio was buzzing with all three fireteams co-ordinating their attack. Nash was trying to discern why they'd immediately gone to live fire. Are they getting killed out there? He tried to get a word in, but was either getting talked over, or just ignored. He punched the dashboard of the truck in frustration. "For fuck's sake guys..!" What was happening?
That was when the rest of the MTF arrived on scene. Nash wasn't sure what he felt most: anxious, relieved, agitated… When the lead vehicle in the convoy stopped alongside his and the passenger in the front seat stepped out and crossed toward him, a new feeling pushed into the picture: confusion.
He recognized Captain Reilly, even behind the SCBA unit covering his face. "Situation, Nash," the commander demanded. Bert sat in stunned silence, trying to piece together what he was seeing. The other operatives in the lead vehicle were kitted up with breathing masks as well. "Nash," Reilly pressed him, "where is the rest of your squad?"
Bert opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, only managing a vague nod in the direction of the road behind him. He saw Reilly's eyes narrow, assessing the situation at hand. Not one to waste time, the captain hustled back to his own truck and climbed in, turning to address one of the team members in the back seat. The rear door behind the driver opened and the passenger got out, closing the door behind him. The captain gestured for his driver to continue up the road, and the convoy of reinforcements drove on.
The man now approaching Bert Nash's window was Reilly's second-in-command, Staff Sgt. Barnes. He leaned in to address Nash. "Some idiot Security trainee CC'd us on the Site G.A." Barnes said ruefully. "Hell of a thing to let them screw up. If they'd sent us the full details right away we could have all come out at once, properly equipped." He shook his head at the situation: one minor error compounded into a major mishap. Nash still didn't understand what was happening.
Barnes finally recognized Nash's concern. "Don't worry," Barnes reassured him while gesturing towards the facemask. "These aren't for anything toxic out here." In Barnes' hand, Nash noticed for the first time the dossier he was carrying. "In hindsight a wider perimeter should have been given. Minimal threat to your safety, mind you. I just hope they haven't been-"
Bert had dialed down the volume on the radio when he'd seen the other trucks approaching, but someone out there was screaming into their handheld. The words came through loud and clear, interrupting the staff sergeant.
"Yyyeaah!! Nailed the sonofabitch!"

Dan Potter pulled off the dirt road into the clearing and nosed his SUV in behind the other with matching park ranger markings. He parked it and stepped out into the hot mid-day sun. Wilson Boyle met him next to the vehicle.
These men were members of an MTF as well, but one specializing in a different sort of containment: suppressing knowledge and information.
Potter glanced around at the brightly coloured tents set up next to two civilian vehicles in the makeshift campsite. Boyle's partner was addressing three young men and taking notes in his notepad. Boyle greeted his colleague.
"Wil," Potter responded with a nod. They conversed in hushed tones at the front of the truck. "So, what's the situation here?"
"These kids say they got out here Thursday night. Been camping, 'partying'…" Potter understood the implication. Boyle continued. "There was four of them come out for the weekend. Seems they thought their buddy retired to his tent early last night, but this morning there's no sign of him. Possible he wandered off in the night, got lost or something."
"Mm-hmm," Potter nodded. "Let's have the specifics," he said, gesturing to the notepad Boyle held. Boyle opened the pad to the relevant page and placed it on the hood, his Team Leader copied names, basic descriptions, and a few coded abbreviations.
As Dan Potter jotted down the information he mentally mapped the location of last night's incident, and the campsite they stood in now. He contemplated just how far a lost kid could wander through the woods at night. "This it for details? How about clothing?"
"Eh… A blue sweater. Probably. No 'photographic memory'-types in this bunch."
This grim puzzle was coming together in Dan's mind. There were still pieces missing, but the bigger picture was clear enough. "Alright. You two hang about here for now; keep up this 'lost hiker' bit. Likely we'll hand this off to real SAR and they can waste their time in the bush. But have some amnestics handy, just in case."
Boyle tipped his ranger hat to Potter. "Sir."