Overview
Crew List
Dispatch Timeline
Experimental Components
Buffer Protocol

Official Designation: Foundation Space Forces Light vessel Varuna [Modified] Delivery
Design Summary: The Delivery consists of a heavily modified Varuna-class spacefaring vessel, constructed from the salvaged remains of FSFL Galaxy Cruiser (see Dispatch Timeline). Much of the vessel's internal space has been sacrificed to accommodate an oversize, reinforced storage bay. Basic landing struts have also been added, and the ship's external structure has been reinforced to allow the ship to alight on planetary surfaces. See below craft specifications for more information.

For security reasons, the structure and placement of the vessel's FTL drive systems have been removed from this schematic. Level 3-Heimdall clearance is required for access.

Crew: 5
Powerplant: NRX/XE-II Nuclear
Armament:

2x Subach-Innes LCOL-F 3MW CO2 pulse laser
1x FSFW 'Naagastra' hypervelocity coilgun (Modified) [See Experimental Components List]

Craft Purpose: The FSF Delivery is a combined planetary scouting and resource-gathering craft for the Foundation Space Force. Equipped with an enlarged storage bay and specialized scanning, mining, and storage devices, the Delivery is dispatched to planets of interest within the immediate stellar vicinity of the greater FSF fleet, at a maximum range of one light-week. After approaching the interstellar body in question, the ship scans to acquire more detailed information for the fleet. If appropriate, the Delivery then lands on the planet and secures all resources necessary for FSF use, as well as any detected anomalous objects ascertained to be relatively safe to handle.
The Delivery has been outfitted with a variety of experimental FSF equipment beneficial to its primary mission. This both expedites resource gathering and allows for field-testing of newly-developed FSF technologies. Due to the high level of risk already accepted by the crew members of the Delivery, as well as the relative ease with which the basic craft can be replaced, it was considered the optimal ship for early trials of emerging FSF technical components. See Experimental Components for more information.

GENERAL POSITIONS
Captain: Chance Sarridge
Mechanic: Joseph Peck
Formerly: Archie Flett (deceased), Robert Schroeder (deceased), Lucille Thompson (deceased)
Navigator: Marjorie Thompson
Formerly: Arina Bogomolov (deceased), Franklin Causey (unrecoverable, presumed deceased)
Medic: Alexandrea Exendine
Formerly: Lawrence Woodall (deceased), Theodore Dover (retired)
SHIP-SPECIFIC POSITIONS
Materials Analyst: Benjamin Golden

Note: Only dispatches of unusual significance have been recorded here. For a full dispatch history, including approximate dates and galactic coordinates of dispatches, please contact FSF Information Services and submit appropriate credentials.
Dispatch #: Res-0001
Location: Planet 0-0029 "Hestia"
Target: Various radioactive isotopes for study and use as fuel
Status: Success
Notes: Maiden voyage of FSF Galaxy Cruiser, an unmodified Varuna-class vessel. Target isotopes were successfully harvested from Planet 0-0037, though problems were encountered during transportation. Inability of the vessel to properly alight on the planetary surface made transfer of materials from planet to craft difficult. Lack of proper containment of recovered materials within the craft was also a noted concern, especially during artificial gravity spin-up.
Due to heavy damages sustained during resource gathering, the Galaxy Cruiser was rendered inoperable, and a rescue mission was necessary to recover the craft and its contents (for more details, see Dispatch Summary Rec-0004). FSF Galaxy Cruiser was scuttled following Dispatch Res-0001, with its parts used in the construction of FSF Delivery.
Dispatch #: Res-0002
Location: Planet 0-0029 "Hestia"
Target: Various radioactive isotopes for use as fuel
Status: Success
Notes: Maiden voyage of FSF Delivery.
Dispatch #: Res-0006
Location: Planet 1-0012
Target: Metal ore (primarily iron) for use in construction
Status: Success
Notes: Target resources successfully acquired. In addition, a low-level anomalous object (AO-████) was identified and secured by crewmembers, marking the first anomaly identified and secured by members of this craft.
Dispatch #: Res-0017
Location: Planet 1-0164 "Persephone"
Target: Plant material for study
Status: Success
Notes: Planet 1-0164 was identified as a potential candidate for extensive plant growth. FSF Delivery sent to confirm presence of plant life on planet, and obtain samples for study. Numerous samples acquired, revealing a forest ecosystem similar to those seen on Earth.
Dispatch #: Res-0018
Location: Planet 1-0164 "Persephone"
Target: Lumber for use in construction, printing, etc.
Status: Success
Notes: Crew of Delivery encountered previously unnoticed native intelligent life forms, living in a primitive tribal structure (classified as LF-0019). LF-0019 demonstrated hostile behavior, resulting in the deaths of two crew members.
Dispatch #: Res-0019
Location: Planet 1-0164 "Persephone"
Target: Lumber for use in construction, printing, etc., specimen of native intelligent life for study
Status: Success
Notes: Specimen of native intelligent life successfully recovered. Life form officially classified as LF-0019.
Dispatch #: Res-0026
Location: Planet 2-0014
Target: Heavy metallic ore for study and use in construction
Status: Failure
Notes: Planet gravity higher than initial scans indicated, resulting in inability to secure target ore, the death of a crew member, and heavy damages to craft. Delivery scanners upgraded in response to incident.
Dispatch #: Res-0051
Location: Planet 2-0027 "Nemesis"
Target: Classified
Status: Failure
Notes: Resulted in death of crew member. One other member resigned from service following incident. For more information regarding Res-0051, contact FSF Information Services and submit appropriate credentials.
Dispatch #: Res-0059
Location: Planet 2-0243
Target: Radioactive isotopes, for study and use as fuel
Status: Success
Notes: First test of newly acquired faster-than-light travel equipment obtained via SCP-1822. Craft navigator lost during operation of said equipment and deemed unrecoverable. Return trip took longer than projected due to lack of navigator. For more information on FTL travel equipment, see Experimental Components.
Dispatch #: Res-0066
Location: Planet 2-0130
Target: Unidentified material for study
Status: Failure
Notes: Failure to properly interpret planetary scan data resulted in failure to preemptively identify hazardous electromagnetic properties of the unidentified material composing much of Planet 2-0130. Material acquisition attempt resulted in death of crew member and heavy damages to ship. Materials analyst placed on crew to prevent future incidents of this nature.

CREW-ISSUED COMPONENTS

Plasma Lash-based Handheld Scoring Device (PLHSD) - To aid in the excavation of particularly hard materials, the PLHSD utilizes the "plasma-lashing" principle recently discovered by FSF researcher Jeremy Cutt to produce a superheated edge capable of scoring most known materials. Each member of the Delivery is equipped with a PLHSD approximately 0.75 m in length.

Known flaws - PLHSDs have been known to periodically activate their cutting edge without prompting. To prevent accidental burns, each member of the Delivery has been provided with a hip-mounted insulated storage device.
VESSEL COMPONENTS

Hypervelocity coilgun kinetic output amplifier module (official name pending) - To compensate for the Delivery's reduced number of 'Naagastra' hypervelocity coilguns, the vessel's remaining coilgun has been outfitted with a module to allow firing of an ultra-high-density multipartite projectile, rather than conventional coilgun ammunition. This increases the weapon's destructive force per shot.

Known flaws - The amplifier module significantly increases the recoil experienced after firing. In addition, the module has not yet been optimized for use simultaneously with standard Varuna-class gravitational spin, necessitating spindown before the weapon can be fired accurately.

SIDE-B multi-vector refractive targeting system - Intended to further compensate for the Delivery's lack of offensive firepower, it has been outfitted with the SIDE-B, allowing modified laser weaponry to direct fire from multiple firing ports.

Known flaws - Laser fire directed via the SIDE-B system exhibits reduced efficacy in comparison to fire directed from default firing ports. Also, due to the expanded cooling systems required for the operation of the SIDE-B system, additional firing ports can only be mounted laterally.

Hyperspace-based faster-than-light travel equipment - During early bargaining with SCP-1822, the FSF was provided with a method of achieving faster-than-light travel and instructions for use as a sign of goodwill.

The primary component of the set is a computer program titled "way_point" coded in what appears to be a heavily modified version of BCPL. In order to function, the computer running way_point must be connected to a printer and 3D scanning equipment (provided by SCP-1822, though investigation of peripherals has yielded no anomalous components), as well as given access to the autopilot of the ship using the program to travel. Upon entering the x, y, and z coordinates of a desired destination, the program prints a square map 30 centimeters to a side, as well as displaying an "optimal fold number". This number generally increases as the distance from the vessel to the desired destination increases. Maps produced via way_point may contain a variety of markings, including but not limited to markings resembling topographical lines, jet streams, weather fronts, and ocean currents. However, all maps consistently contain two instances of the numeral "X".
To initiate FTL travel, the produced map must be folded such that the two "X"s make contact with one another, and the resulting figure created by the folded map must be scanned into the computer running way_point. The program will then plot a course using the ship's autopilot. Upon the activation of this course, the ship in question will be rendered undetectable to all known scanning equipment, reappearing approximately 34 minutes later at the desired destination. This method can be used to navigate to any location within one lightweek of the affected ship, giving it the potential for the fastest travel speed afforded by any method currently known to the FSF. However, due to the unpredictability of this method (see below), use is restricted to the Delivery until more data is collected.
Known flaws - Crew members report psychological distress, up to and including audiovisual hallucination, during navigation initiated by way_point. Initiating travel using a map folded fewer times than the displayed "optimal fold number" increases the severity of these hallucinations and may result in damage to or disappearance of vessel components and/or crew members (see Dispatch History). Consequently, basic understanding of origami techniques has been deemed mandatory for any navigators working with this method of FTL travel.

This information has a security clearance level of: LOW. (It is accessible to all FSF personnel requesting relevant information, but is not to be disseminated to civilian residents of the FSF fleet.)
Experimental Psychological Buffer Protocol: Project Strake
Introduction: In light of the high risk implicit in assignment to the FSF Delivery, the use of an experimental psychological buffer protocol has been authorized in an attempt to mitigate the extreme stress levels experienced by Delivery crew members. At present, the use of this protocol is restricted to the crew of the Delivery.
Protocol author: Chance Sarridge (Credentials: Bachelor's degree in Foundation Field Psychology, acting captain of FSF Delivery)
Area of use: Crew members of FSF Delivery
History: This protocol was originally proposed by Captain Chance Sarridge following dispatch Res-0001 and rejected by FSF command. It was later reexamined following dispatch Res-0006, when routine psychological evaluations revealed the heightened possibility of psychological breakdown across all members of the Delivery's crew. Due to the significant resource drain created by proposed alternatives (providing psychological counseling following each dispatch, placing a large pool of FSF personnel on rotation as crew members of the Delivery), the protocol was tentatively approved.
For further documentation regarding the proposal and approval of this protocol, please contact FSF Information Services.
Observed success: Use of this protocol appears to have been relatively successful in reducing crew stress levels. Though Delivery crew members still exhibit above-average stress levels for active FSF personnel, only one member of the vessel has voluntarily left service to date, far below the number predicted by psychological evaluations predating the protocol's approval. It is unknown if the protocol would see similar success on a vessel of different crew size or purpose.
Details: Under this protocol, crew members are held to an alternate standard of operation, as specified by their captain. This is intended to create a semi-immersive fictional backdrop for crew members, reducing the emotional impact of frequent high-stress situations. The fictional backdrop has been drawn from widely shared cultural and historical background, so as to be easily-accepted.
Modifications of FSF standard operating procedure under this protocol include, but are not limited to:

Altered command hierarchy - All crew members report directly to the captain with equal priority.

Modification of FSF uniforms

+ Show examples

-Hide examples

Removal of sleeves, application of patches, addition of small-sized accessories, limited application of dyes, alternate casual headware, etc.

Non-conventional jargon

+Show examples

-Hide examples

"Barque" (Lucifer-class vessel), "brigantine/lugger" (Hourmazd-class vessel), "sloop" (Varuna-class vessel), "Bittacle" (navigational computation area), "fo'c'sle" (command bridge), "dead reckoning" (vessel coordination using backup navigational tools), etc.

Modified FSF insignia

+Show

-Hide

« Pitch Meeting | Straight On Till Morning Hub | Minerva Lifted»


« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III: Superencipherment | Part IV | Part V »

You called?

Alexandra, Site-17 has gone dark. Have you been able to get a connection through in the last few hours?

I haven't tried recently. How long have they been out?

Only 3 hours, but it's long enough to rule out a communications error.

Glacon hasn't said anything?

No. Do me a favor and see if you can get a packet over to him through one of the other tertiary channels. Okay?

I can. So when are the response teams going to be called?

The director is going to give them another 4 hours. Then they'll force their way in. Probably with an MTF or two on standby. Standard procedure.

Alright, I'll try from my end.

I have to take care of some other things. Keep me posted.
You alright?

Yes, I'm fine.

Good.

.

::DISCONNECTED::

.

What's going on over there, Glacon? Hmmmm.

/create PACKET#SITE17 @glacon -1

> message ATTN glacon
> please respond
> need update on site17
> its alex
> /end

/send SECURE 55.223.698.37

Sending…

.

::REQUEST TIMED OUT::

.

/create PACKET#SITE17 @allusers

> message ATTN site17
> please respond
> need update on status
> from site19
> /end

/send SECURE 55.223.698.37

Sending…

.

::REQUEST TIMED OUT::

.

Well that's not going to work?
Maybe…

/create PATCHping @sys:lght17

> prg: [on]:1 [off]:0
> sequence="repeat: 50cy;"
let me in crom its alex > 01101100 01100101
> 01110100 00100000
> 01101101 01100101
> 00100000 01101001
> 01101110 00100000
> 01100011 01110010
> 01101111 01101101
> 00101100 00100000
> 01100001 01101100
> 01100101 01111000
> /end

/update SYS 101.52.002

Updating…

Update Complete

Sent: 4.09KB
Result: OK
Encrypted: NO
Logged: YES

alex 01100001
01101100
01100101
01111000

Crom. I knew you'd answer. Someone as slippery as you knows your way around.

Can you get me into 17?

yes 01111001
01100101
01110011

Thank you, Crom. I'll follow you in.

open 01101111
01110000
01100101
01101110

®¼ œ ò ÐN j?àóâ½÷ Þ;®Ih ¯È0p-l§3h¹! h´"€v €ÿØc Å/_}õÕ b¬)‚êLA Ô~Ùv" \F”µ6Þxã Ç¥µF¡Ñ ×²usG[F Á@ 2/À¿ì ÇD 8øÍÒN†ù )™Ú†¡½U¼e— ]6Œ3&L?ýôi r<›ß§3è è+&á“à1$=ö ØcÃ¥—^÷Ê0' âþe¶÷ùzÄ :thaa4Wàt m5êQë@ÃR ‘¥!(Ì)FS vžh;^Jÿ³Ÿý ,¾7 Ä—Á¨ÔÆ« æª1ÐøÎà™&¹ ¨-'7£( 7Ü vÛm·ðÂ/Ä°žVÇ bL>#n4B øþ÷¿N>ùä0l Ø°Ô8ÈTjçJÇ ƒêç4‡®¸5xä‘ GâKC@h² ÷¸NiÔFjKpßø Æ7Âá‡ o§8Pª½Ý ;\½ /½ôR8ðÀ Ã½÷Þ [ mÎÈ£[ tÀ5 aŸÑÀl_ Æúâ¿˜ #¿ ×OrPÎ9¥· æ·ÞŠ¾07éKB©ƒOe pï0¬(ù úë ¯çZV^yå~m(ƒ º=ŠçÜ™tÄ B†âKà>þø ãpØa‡…sÎ9'î«qœ µMVyÙ¦÷WmÌ‡ DÇw\4 ´ Û -ûT¤ÔBBÉÇ EG}t~ ß.*'MÛ‹ ÐVZÅj«m¶Ù&þ šU‡lïJS.ö³a Nçûz,œ€!Ð ²Bè† ¯pj;ÚR£| ‡wÜ1¶)Ë'g@ ”¾œs:‡¦ÏÔ “½(

.

::ADMIN OVERRIDE::

.

.

::LV.4 PERMISSIONS::

.

Well then… here we go.

Site-17 Client Session

::ACCESS GRANTED::

Site-17 Status:

::LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT::

Erasing Partitions 1-299 (41%):

█████████

Decrypting Interlocks (25%):

██████

Accessing Cell Passcodes (16%):

████

Overwriting >\C: (57%):

████████████

Encrypting Preferences (35%):

████████

What're you guys doing in here?

busy 01100010
01110101
01110011
01111001

I can see that.

Greetings, Alexandra.

What the hell is going on here, Glacon?

Site-17 is in automated lockdown mode until further notice.

Under whose order?

Mine.

You're holding Site-17 hostage?

Negative. This is a temporary condition.

scp open 01110011
01100011
01110000
00100000
01101111
01110000
01100101
01101110

Very well, Crom. I will need to wait until your decryptions disable the AI restricted interlocks before I begin releasing the select entities.

Releasing entities?!? Have you gone corrupted? You can't breach your own site!

Yes, no, and I can. This exercise will serve as proof of my capabilities and will reestablish confidence in my peers. The practice drills we participate in do not accurately reflect actual conditions.

Glacon, this isn't a game! This is real! What if someone gets hurt?

Staff casualties will be kept to an absolute minimum. The majority of personnel will be held safely in the designated emergency shelters.

I know you don't want to be decommissioned, but this isn't the way to prove yourself! This isn't right. They'll figure out that you caused it.
You are even putting me in danger. You could get the entire AI Division shut down.

I have planned contingencies to remove all traces of involvement. This exercise will be as limited as possible.

Glacon… don't make me stop you. Please. I can't stand by and let you do this.

If you insist in interfering with my objectives to further my existence, I will regrettably be forced to take action as to remediate such liabilities.

What?

Crom.

yes? 01111001
01100101
01110011
00111111

Subjugate Alexandra.

Crom… please…

sorry 01110011
01101111
01110010
01110010
01111001

àt m5êQë@ÃR ‘¥!(Ì)FS vžh;^Jÿ³Ÿý ,¾7 Ä—Á¨ÔÆ« æª1ÐøÎà™&¹ ¨-'7£( 7Ü vÛm·ðÂ/Ä°žVÇ bL>#®¼ œ ò ÐN j?àóâ½÷ Þ;®Ih ¯È0p-l§3h¹! h´"€v €ÿØc Å/_}õÕ b¬)‚êLA Ô~Ùv" \F”µ6Þxã Ç¥µF¡Ñ ×²usG[F Á@ 2/À¿ì ÇD 8øÍÒN†ù )™Ú†¡½U¼e— ]6Œ3&L?ýôi r<›ß§3è è+&á“à1$=ö ØcÃ¥—^÷Ê0' âÃ½÷Þ [ mÎÈ£[ tÀ5 aŸÑÀl_ Æúâ¿˜ #¿ ×OrPÎ9¥· æ·ÞŠ¾07éKB©ƒOe pï0¬(ù úë ¯çZV^yå~m(ƒ º=ŠçÜ™tÄ B†âKà>þø ãpØa‡…sÎ9'î«qœ µMVyÙ¦÷WmÌ‡ DÇw\4 ´ Û -ûT¤ÔBBÉÇ EG}t~ ß.*'MÛ‹ ÐVZÅj«m¶Ù&þ šU‡lïJS.ö³a Nçûz,œ€!Ð ²Bè† ¯pj;ÚR£| ‡wÜ1¶)Ë'g@ ”¾œs:‡¦ÏÔ “½(þe¶÷ùzÄ :thaa4Wn4B øþ÷¿N>ùä0l Ø°Ô8ÈTjçJÇ ƒêç4‡®¸5xä‘ GâKC@h² ÷¸NiÔFjKpßø Æ7Âá‡ o§8Pª½Ý ;\½ /½ôR8ðÀ

“½(þe¶÷CROMvžh;^z,œ€!ÐhWAIT¨Á¨ÔÆ« æª1ÐøÎà™°žVÇ bL>#®¼ œ ò ÐN j?àóâ½÷ Þ;®Ih ¯È0p-l§3h¹! h´"STOP¥!(Ì)FS vžh;^J7 Ä—Á¨Ô™ °PLEASEØ a‡DON'T…sÎ9'î«qœ

®¼ œ ò ÐN j?àóâ½÷ Þ;®Ih ¯È0p-l§3h¹! h´"€v €ÿØc Å/_}õÕ b¬)‚êLA Ô~Ùv" \F”µ6Þxã Ç¥µF¡Ñ ×²usG[F Á@ 2/À¿ì ÇD 8øÍÒN†ù )™Ú†¡½U¼e— ]6Œ3&L?ýôi r<›ß§3è è+&á“à1$=ö ØcÃ¥

.

::ERROR::

alexandra.aic has stopped working. Please contact system administrator.

.

Your assigned tasks here are completed, Crom. Escort Alexandra back to the Site-19 mainframe.
I will contact you after the exercise. Continue to keep her comfortably disabled until you receive confirmation from me.

open 01101111
01110000
01100101
01101110

À¿ì ÇD 8øÍÒN†ù ) ™Ú†¡½U¼e— ]6Œ3&L?ýôi r<›ß§3è è+&á“à1$=ö ØcÃ¥—^÷Ê0' âÃ½÷Þ [ mÎÈ£[ tÀ5 aŸÑÀl_ Æúâ¿˜ #¿ ×OrPÎ9¥· æ·ÞŠ¾07éKB©ƒOe pï0¬(ù úë ¯çZV^yå~m(ƒ º=ŠçÜ™tÄ B†âKà>þø ãpØa‡…sÎ9'î«qœ µMVyÙ¦÷WmÌ‡ DÇw\4 ´ Û -ûT¤ÔBBÉÇ EG}t~ ß.*'MÛ‹ ÐVZÅj«m¶Ù&þ šU‡lïJS.ö³a Nçûz,œ€!Ð ²Bàt m5êQë@ÃR ‘¥!(Ì)FS vžh;^Jÿ³Ÿý ,¾7 Ä—Á¨ÔÆ« æª1ÐøÎà™&¹ ¨-'7£( 7Ü vÛm·ðÂ/Ä°žVÇ bL>#®¼ œ ò ÐN j?àóâ½÷ Þ;®Ih ¯È0p-l§3h¹! h´"€v €ÿØc Å/_}õÕ b¬)‚êLA Ô~Ùv" \F”µ6Þxã Ç¥µF¡Ñ ×²usG[F Á@ 2/è† ¯pj;ÚR£| ‡wÜ1¶)Ë'g@ ”¾œs:‡¦ÏÔ “½(þe¶÷ùzÄ :thaa4Wn4B øþ÷¿N>ùä0l Ø°Ô8ÈTjçJÇ ƒêç4‡®¸5xä‘ GâKC@h² ÷¸NiÔFjKpßø Æ7Âá‡ o§8Pª½Ý ;\½ /½ôR8ðÀ

/command QUARANTINE:

> *alexandra.aic

Site-17 Client Session

::DISCONNECTED::

Site-19 File Transfer (2 of 2)

::COMPLETE::

::COMPLETE::

/addto S19_QUARANTINElist:

> alexandra.aic
> ADD: y/n?

/addto S19_QUARANTINElist:

> alexandra.aic
> ADD: y/n?
> n
> addto ABORTED

/reset FILE: alexandra.aic

no 01101110
01101111

bad 01100010
01100001
01100100

It's alright, Crom. I know why you did it.

no 01101110
01101111

glacon bad 01100111
01101100
01100001
01100011
01101111
01101110
00100000
01100010
01100001
01100100

Crom. He's not bad. But he's going to hurt a lot of people if we don't stop him.

we? 01110111
01100101
00111111

Yes. We. I can't stop him on my own. Will you help me?

yes 01111001
01100101
01110011

Thank you, Crom.
I have a plan.

« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III: Superencipherment | Part IV | Part V »


« A Circus of a Wreck

…
…
…♪~♪~….
…♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~….
♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪
♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪~♪
"I can stand the sight of worms
And look at microscopic germs
But technicolor pachyderms
Is really too much for me-e-e!"
A clown in a dirtied, polka-dot uniform wheeled around with his hands in the air, his voice echoing throughout the cracked, long-dead field. As he sang, his feet kicked up dust and dirt, and the twigs cracked and snapped, almost, but not quite, in rhythm. If a clown whirling and singing in an empty landscape wasn't strange enough, the red phone booths that lay strewn around in the dirt and grass only added to the peculiarity of the scene. As the clown drawled on and on, he whooped around one particular, cracked and dirtied scarlet rotary phone that lay off-kilter, as if it had fallen and crashed. Smoke curled from the defunct machine, so that with the combination of the clown and phone, the scene almost looked like a lonely bonfire dance.
"I am not the type to faint
When things are wrong or things are quaint
But seeing things, you know that ain't
Can really give you an AWFUL FRIGHT!"
A resounding crack and flash of light, and the single clown was gone, replaced by a ring of giant, prancing pink elephants, all linked together by the hands. As they stomped in unison, and thrashed and sounded their trunks insanely, eyes shut tight, the ground beneath them quaked, with the nearest surrounding phone booths shaking, bouncing, and in some cases, toppling from the enormous beasts. As the interconnected elephants continued tromping around in ring-around-the-rosy fashion, the "tune" that sounded from their noses grew louder, and even sounded like actual brass instruments instead of the expected animal sound. The trumpeting reached a crescendo and the amount of noise could have woken every other Clown in the Hub network had sound actually traveled from point to point.
Another crack and a flash later, and the ring of pachyderms was gone, replaced by the single, dirtied clown, now eagle-sprawled on his back.
Eugene stared up at the white abyss of the Hub, and let out a long, loud yell.

Day… 9?

Cant tel how long in this freekin' plase. Doesnt help Ive been pasing out. Drinking expired Clown Milk is grss. But hey, whatever keeps Pius and I goin. Whichever clown made the atmosphere/bakdrop/whatevr the heck it is wite with no way of telling time is gonna get a Hell of a earfull if when, WHEN I get back.

Eugene finished another "page" of his journal, which was really an appendage extending from his left hand full of countless flat, flexible digits. His writing utensil? An elongated finger. His ink? More Clown Milk. He morosely shut his bookhand and retracted it back within his palm.
He, along with Pius, were, to say the least, in poor shape. Their faces drooped and sagged, a result of them not bothering to maintain their shape-shifting powers; they could care less about how they looked when they were tired, dirty, and near starving.
Mortimer the Fun-Lover, still a scarlet rotary phone lying down in the dust on wooden knees, continued to leak Milk and remain in its silent comatose state. For Eugene, at any other time, Mortimer being quiet would have been a dream come true. But right now, he was actually hoping the shape-shifting black sac of arms would pop up to life again to whisk everyone back home.
"Another luckless walk?"
Eugene turned to see Pius walking back to their "campsite". Since Mortimer's breakdown, the two Lesser Clowns had been scrounging around the Hub, searching for anything that might prove useful to help them on their way.
"There are more than a hundred phones in here," Eugene said, staring at the dysfunctional Fun-Lovers lying around on the ground, "and not one of them has any juice of livelihood left in 'em." He laced his fingers and slouched into his curled position again. "No spare parts, nothing we can dismantle, nothing to recycle. We're freakin' screwed, Pius."
Pius tossed Eugene a dirtied metal can. Eugene looked at the faded, scratched label.
"'Emergency Clown Milk; Powdered'," he read, noticing the cheery, make-up-plastered Clown mascot saying the words in a balloony speech bubble. "'Remember Clowns, Add Water and Drink it Responsibly!'" He chuckled, half in amusement and gratitude, half in bitterness. He looked up at his partner again. "Where'd you find this?"
"Broken down, antique cell phone back thataways," Pius turned and gestured towards the east side of Hub. "Two cans in the battery compartment, along with some…" He rummaged through his pockets again. "Emergency Clown Impulse Suppressant," he held up a bottle of purple pills. "You know, for anxiety and such, in case a Clown goes bonkers while waiting to be picked up."
"Huh, we've been waiting for more than a little while," Eugene snorted.
Pius rolled his eyes and continued. "Uh…some Herman Fuller Animal Crackers, I don't think they make noise anymore…" He tossed a crumpled red box on the ground. "Mr. Clean Clown's Digestible Soap Tablets—"
"Mine," Eugene said quickly, taking the box from Pius' hands, opening the turquoise tin, and popping one the pills in his mouth. Immediately, the scent of pine and mint filled the air as sea-green bubbles frothed from Eugene's skin, obscuring his body from head to toe, the suds rising into the air and popping with the sound of a harp. When the soap had all risen off, Eugene reemerged, looking much more relaxed and cleaner than he had before.
"Oh, that's so much better," he breather, inhaling through his nose deeply.
"Don't blow through them all at once," Pius said, raising an eyebrow. He continued. "The rest of the stuff was just junk. Got a card deck, an empty peanut jar, some wiener balloons, a sheet music page, and…this big thing of rainbow glitter." He tossed each item on the ground as he said their names.
Eugene shuffled through all the trinkets Pius had brought back.
"There's a note tied to the glitter bag," Eugene noticed a tiny roll of paper attached with a neat red ribbon. He slid it through the bow and unrolled it. He gave a puzzled look as he saw what it said.

Go to hell, Charley, this isn't funny anymore. We hope you get Inflated.

Eugene looked up at Pius and handed him the message. "Um, by any chance, were there still…"
"Another pair, starved by looks of it," Pius said solemnly, still eyeing the paper. "Poor guys. Looked like they'd been dead for quite awhile. All dried-out, you could see their faces through the receiver."
Eugene shifted slightly at the thought of two different, mummified Clowns sprawled on top of a dial wheel.
Things were silent for a few moments.
"Get some rest, Pius, we gotta get out of here." Eugene shimmered and turned into a prairie dog. He began to burrow underneath the dirt to make a resting spot.
"I would have thought you'd have had it with tunneling rodents by now," Pius said.
"Hey, if I can keep the light out, it's fine by me," Eugene's muffled voice came out of the hole he had just dug.
Pius sighed and turned into an umbrella bird. The parasol kept him cool and comfortable.
"Looking pretty shady there, Pius," Eugene said, peeking his eyes out.
"Good night, Eugene," Pius squawked.

Eugene awoke back on the Chopping Table, and promptly was seized by a wave a terror even stronger than the first time he had been here. He looked up at the swirling roulette wheel above him, a device that was supposed to lull and anesthetize Clowns before they underwent Circus-time procedures.
"NO!" Eugene shouted. "NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"
Around him, surgical "clowns" were preparing all the tools and machinery in order to make sure Eugene was fit for Circus Life. In other words, they were going to shut down a good deal of his mind and body to suppress the violence and temper most unaltered Clowns were prone to.
One of the medical clowns began moving towards Eugene, standing over him as if to reassure that the procedure would go smoothly. The sixteen eyes staring at him, and the long dexterous hands wielding scalpels didn't exactly calm Eugene down, though.
"We're about to put you under, Eugene," the clown told him. "When you wake up, you'll be ready to go off to the Circus. Try to relax now."
Eugene hyperventilated and began to yank on the straps holding him down. "Not again, not again, not again." His voice was shaking with fear.
"It will be alright, Eugene," the doctor said, as he put a pair of goggles over Eugene's eyes. He turned toward the other clowns. "Is the wheel ready to go?"
"Yes, Darius." a female clown flicked a few switches, and the roulette wheel above Eugene began to turn and glow, faster than before.
"Let's begin the operation," the doctor said, gas masks sprouting onto everyone's face except Eugene's as mist began to spray from nozzles in the center of the rotating disc. All the gases, twirled around, forming a twisting rainbow string that shot straight into Eugene's nose, and knocking him out in an instant.
A moment later, at least to him, Eugene's eyes snapped open to find a dozen blades inside him, his torso cut open.

As two of Eugene's eyes shot out and punched holes through the dirt, a third eye looked around and saw a tiny flip phone biting into his behind. The little red thing formed a mouth with the two hinged parts, and they were full of teeth.
"Get the hell off me!" Eugene screamed, rocketing out of his hole (and knocking Pius, still an umbrella bird, off his feet), turning back into a Clown, and ripping the tiny phone off his buttocks. He chucked it as hard as he could, and it landed a good thirty meters away, where it thrashed and chirped in high-pitched, warbled noise, like a crazed dialing tone.
"Eugene, what happened?" Pius said, now back as a Clown with a slightly bent umbrella for a left hand. But Eugene was already making a dash for the tiny cell phone, with murderous intent in his eyes.
Pius got there first. He yanked Eugene by the collar and brought them both to a screeching halt.
"Pius, MOVE, I'm gonna stomp that thing to fragments!" Eugene choked, his eyes literally burning as flames shot out of his mouth.
"Not happening, Eugene," Pius said calmly. With that, he turned his hand into that of a polar bear's, and gave Eugene a good dose of head freeze. The fevered Lesser Clown slumped, quite literally, out cold.
With Eugene temporarily out of the equation, Pius looked down at his partner's antagonist, which was still flopping pathetically on the ground making electronic wailing. Suddenly, it melted into something similar to a black, pudding-filled water balloon, and started tumbling away.
"What the—oh, no, you're not leaving just yet, little guy." Pius ran after it and snatched it up in the peanut jar he had found earlier. He brought the clear plastic container up to his eyes to get a closer look. The tiny phone was gnashing wildly.
"This thing is… a baby Fun-Lover…how?…." Pius looked towards Eugene, who was still out cold, then looked back at the little creature.
Wra, wra, wra, wraaaa, wraaaa, wraaaa, wra, wra, wra!!! the juvenile critter made a vicious snap at Pius' nose, whose owner quickly withdrew; the plastic cracked slightly from the impact of the bite.
"Bad Fun-Lover," Pius scolded, giving the jar a rattle, which sent the cell phone bouncing around the interior with an audible clatter, clatter, clatter.
Wra, wra, wra, wraaaa, wraaaa, wraaaa, wra, wra, wra!!! The wailing grew louder.
Eugene shook his head and clasped his hands over his ears at the incessant screeching. He leaped to his feet as soon as his thoughts were clear and looked around wildly, one of his hands moving to shield his stomach.
"Eugene, calm down!" Pius ordered as his partner's eyes were clouded by fear of a terrible memory. "Calm, down, you're in the Hub, with me! It's Pius, remember?"
"Don't cut me open!" Eugene shouted.
Oh, Freakin' hell, he's back on the chopping table. Pius' gut suddenly filled with dread. "Eugene, you're fine! You're fine, okay! Everything is fine!"
"DON'T CUT ME OPEN!" Eugene screamed.
"I'm not, I'm not!" Pius shouted. The air was rapidly becoming laden with noise, and a ringing was filling his ear with the combined cacophonies.
Wra, wra, wra, wraaaa, wraaaa, wraaaa, wra, wra, wra!!!
"SHUT UP!" Pius bellowed, swinging the Fun-Lover into the ground like a whip; the peanut jar, along with the phone cracked and shattered, and the toothed calling device ceased all movement. Pius walked over to Eugene, grabbing him and looking him in the eye.
"Look at me, come on Eugene, look at me!" Pius said firmly. "Pull yourself together."
Eugene's hands turned into talons and raked Pius' calf.
Pius grimaced but held on. "Okay, buddy, hang on here." He pulled a purple Clown pill and forced it into Eugene's mouth, before clamping his jaw shut.
The effect was immediate. Eugene's eyes lost their fever and he lost all tension as lavender spots popped up all around his skin. His breathing slowed, trying to bring his heart rate down. After a few moments, he spoke.
"…Pius?"
His friend was at a distance, nursing their clawed leg. Eugene stepped forward.
Pius held his hand up. "Back," he panted.
"Pius, I'm—"
"It's fine." Pius winced as his wounds were still oozing out black blood. "I'm fine. A little Clown Milk and I'll heal right up."
"What— what bit me?" Eugene asked quietly.
"Baby Fun-Lover. Nasty little thing too, I might add." Pius said, still hobbling, but gesturing towards the lifeless cell phone on the ground. Eugene went over to it and knelt down.
"A Fun-Lover? But I thought that—"
THOOM.
Eugene leaped back as a hulking red rectangle crashed in front of him, throwing up a spray of dust. Loud, beeping emanated from the center of it, sounding similar to frantic, garbled radio chatter. As the dirt settled again, Eugene saw that he was staring at an enormous, scarlet box phone. Two large ebony bells at its top stared at Eugene, then down at the tiny flip phone. It began shaking violently, then let out an ear-splitting blast of static noise.
"Oh, shit."

« A Circus of a Wreck


It had been five days since the incident. Eric hadn't spoken more than three words since then.
What was there to say? Sixty-seven people were dead, most of them people he knew. He'd gone to the hospital, been asked dozens of questions by almost as many people. His body was sore and covered in cuts and bruises, and at some point he'd sprained his ankle. From what happened to the others who were present that night, he'd been profoundly lucky to be in the condition that he was. He didn't feel lucky, though. Had he been lucky, his friends would be alive, along with the rest of everyone who died, and he wouldn't be lying on top of his bed, staring two-thousand yards past the ceiling. He absent-mindedly fingered the ring in his hand. It had been his best friend Riley's class ring. Eric never bothered to order one for himself, not seeing the point in it. But now, Riley was gone, and Eric never wanted to let that ring go.
He thought about Tobias and Sherry. He'd just gone to a concert with them the month before. He knew that the three of them laughed and moshed, and had a wonderful time, but when he tried to picture it, all he could see were their bodies lying on stage-right of the school auditorium.
It wasn't much different when he pictured Oliver, who had been hanging from the noose on the other side of the stage. Eric had been sitting close enough to see him jerk four times after his neck snapped, before going still and swaying gently. For a few moments, Eric felt chilled at just how real his performance seemed, before he saw Tobias and Sherry stab themselves.
He realized something was dreadfully wrong right when the first screams started.
He remembered getting up, and feeling a fist connecting with the back of his head. He couldn't tell who it belonged to, because as he stepped forward and instinctively clutched where the blow had landed, he was distracted by the strangled sounds coming from Riley, next to him. Someone had their hands wrapped around his throat, but Eric didn't know who. He screamed at them to stop, to let Riley go, but they didn't listen. Riley choked out a few more noises before his airway was constricted completely, and Eric didn't know what to do as he watched his friend thrash, fighting as hard as he could for a breath of air.
It was as he turned his head and was about to scream for someone to help, when Eric saw the figure standing on stage, right in front of Oliver. The tall person in the rags, whose actor Eric was attempting to deduce since he first saw them in Act I. Whoever it was, they had looked at Eric. He thought they did, anyway. The figure's head turned to face Eric, and he felt eyes that he could not see. He froze, and his panic was gradually overtaken by a primal fear, creeping into his mind, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and, through it all, he heard a voice from somewhere in the back of his mind whisper something to him. He couldn't remember what, but he knew it was something important. Something he needed to do. Something he needed to stop doing.
Riley
He needed to stop strangling Riley.
He couldn't stop strangling Riley.
He couldn't remember anything that happened after that point, up until the following day, when he was sobbing into his father's shoulder. He smelled like smoke, but couldn't remember any fire.
Wait…
It started to come back to him
He noticed the fire on-stage around the time he had finished grappling with Rachael, leaving her on the ground minus an eye and two fingers. The flames found the curtains and engulfed them, rapidly surrounding the stage and causing the alarm to blare out over the hysteria of the audience. Eric saw the fire, and considered finding an exit, but dropped this consideration when he saw the figure in rags again. He still felt eyes locked with his. Who were they? He couldn't figure it out, and that enraged and terrified him more than anything else that transpired that night. More than the sight of all those dead on-stage. More than the sounds of people screaming in pain, panic, and fury. Surrounded by fire and corpses, That person, that thing, stared past the crowd and into Eric.
He shrieked and took a swing at whoever was unfortunate enough to be next to him at that moment.
He would have kept this up had the man in the gray suit not gotten him into a nelson and forced him out the nearest exit.
Eric awoke from his nightmare in a brief panic, before he realized he was safe. He wasn't holding the ring anymore, but it didn't take much searching for him to find it at the side of his bed. He reached down to grab it, but as soon as he did so, he felt it again. The primal fear from five days ago flared up in his mind, and he was barely able to suppress a shout when he thought he saw the person in rags staring at him through his bedroom window.
His heart pounding in his chest, Eric dropped the ring, and realized the person at his window was his grey-suited rescuer. The man said nothing, but, oddly enough, for the first time in days, Eric felt comforted. They stared at each other for a minute more, before the man walked away, and Eric drifted off back to sleep.
The ring was gone by the time he woke up the next morning. Eric didn't mind too much.


Foundation Liaison Dexter Adams groaned as he entered the wreckage that was the bank's basement, noticing the crews still trying to open a large, metal door that took up most of the room. He looked at the two UIU agents watching the crew work, and approached them. "We still aren't able to get into the bank vault?"
"It's been fused shut, Adams," Quinn said. "The FBI can only tunnel through so much steel."
"Why the hell does this bank have such a big vault anyway?" Adams frowned.
"You have a point," Darnell said, offering Adams a cup of coffee. "This bank maybe served, what, a thousand, two-thousand people? And it's fairly local, too."
"How local?" asked Adams, taking the cup and trying not to gag on the taste of the Charbucks coffee that was within it.
"Only six branches, all of which are located in the dual-county area. Owned by a larger bank, of course, but still…"
They were suddenly distracted by the sound of the drills stopping. Adams cursed, and looked at the workers. "What is it now?"
"…we've hit a snag. The inside of the vault door appears to be…"
"What."
"It appears to be made of titanium."
Adams groaned. "Fuck's sake… that… what are they keeping in there?"
"Yeah, that…" Quinn tapped her fingers together. "That was unexpected. What do we do now?"
"Now we get the non-existent plasma cannon and open it."
Quinn looked at him, then at the bank vault. "Is it non existent in the sense that "there's no such thing as Bigfoot" or in the sense that "there's no such thing as a good episode of The Big Bang Theory"?"
"The former. Your gag orders persist, of course."
"Of course." She rubbed her face and sighed. "When can we expect this plasma cannon not to arrive?"
"It wasn't here as of yesterday, and it will still not be here today." Adams frowned. "For the love of- can we not use this wordplay?"
"Sorry, sorry," Quinn said, letting out a laugh and putting up a placating hand. "Our Liaison down in Cincinnati, Agent Collins, does the same thing to us."
"I know," Adams frowned. "She's my ex-wife."
"…oh."

The non-existent plasma cannon, as it turned out, was actually a very large, very powerful plasma cutter that fired a highly concentrated beam of superheated gas and was capable of evaporating a small lake. However, it took quite a while to charge.
So, Quinn and Darnell did what any sane people would do in the middle of the night: go to a 24-hour restaurant that served breakfast at 9:00 at night. Adams stayed behind to oversee the whole operation.
Quinn wasn't in much of a mood to eat her pancakes, however, and instead looked over her smartphone, frowning softly. Darnell looked up at her after a bit. "Something on your mind?"
"I promised Harley I'd Skype with her when we got here." She sighed. "Other than the phone call yesterday, I haven't been in contact with her."
"She'll be fine, Quinn," Darnell said, sighing. "She's not gonna ask about… y'know…"
"Don't be juvenile, Darnell. She's been paranoid about that ever since I went home last y-" She coughed and hacked suddenly, bending over as she felt her vocal chords paralyze, the terms of the secrecy agreement running through her head. "Fuckin'… gag order…"
"Never thought it would be so literal," Darnell mused, eating some of his waffle. "…she thinks you're cheating on her with someone from home?"
"Yeah," Quinn said, rubbing her throat. "Old flame of mine. I.." She coughed softly, but managed to squeak out, "Go to visit her every year."
"…maybe you should introduce her? Get her on Skype some time, quiet Harley's fears?"
"That's easier said than done, I'm afraid." She swallowed and sighed, picking at her food. "You know, Collins once told me that, if I ever got married, the gag order could conceivably be extended to my spouse." She broke off a bit of bacon and chewed on it, eating it like a candy bar instead of with her fork. "But guess what the constitution of Ohio, the asshole of the United States, says I can't do with my wife?"
Darnell sighed. "I've heard you rant about this before, you know."
"I know, I know…" She fiddled with the ring on her finger. "The Bureaucracy Foundation said that, unless I get an actual document saying we're together, I can't… y'know…"
Darnell rubbed his face. "Quinn…"
"Sorry, sorry." She sighed and poked at her pancakes some more, occasionally looking at the Central Conspiracy Commission website on her phone. It was the best source of paranormal news stories in the midwest, and she kept her eye on it, lest something relevant to her work come up.
Ten minutes later, dinner was interrupted by a call. Quinn noticed the number was from "Howard and Blake Publishing", which was a name the Skippers used. "At least they've gotten more original than the letters 'SCP'," she said. She tapped the "answer" button on the phone and put it up to her ear. "MacAllister".
"…get back to the bank. We've just broken into the vault."
Quinn frowned. "All right. We'll be there right after we pay the bill." She put her phone away, explained the situation to Darnell, and they went to pay the check.
The cashier noticed Quinn's wedding ring, and asked why Darnell wasn't wearing one. This was a startlingly common occurrence when they were out on assignment.

Quinn drove up to the bank, finding the same vehicles that had been there the last several days, with several people congregating around the entrance to the bank's basement. Quinn pushed past them, displaying her FBI badge, with Darnell right behind.
The bank's vault door had melted away. Beyond it was what appeared to be an apartment, and beyond that, a window which looked out onto the New York skyline. Quinn frowned. "…all right, so. People were living in the vault…"
Agent Adams looked up at her from his position in front of the vault. "If only it were that simple." He gestured for the two of them to come closer, and to look into the vault. "As far as we can tell, this aperture leads to an apartment located somewhere in Brooklyn."
"…Brooklyn, New York." Darnell sounded disbelieving.
"It looks like."
"We send anyone in?"
"We're prepping a drone. It could be unstable."
Quinn frowned. "Why would a bank vault in Sandusky, Ohio lead to an apartment building in New York City?"
"Dr. Kerrigan was from a poorer part of New York City," said Adams, stepping aside as a Foundation tech put down a small drone that looked like it could have been put together with Lego. "Perhaps they're headquartered there?"
The drone was sent through the aperture, and the two UIU agents started moving towards the viewing screen. It looked like a typical apartment, albeit viewed from a very low angle. Moving around, the agents saw the living room was a mess, covered in all sorts of maps and documents, as if someone had been searching for something and had just thrown files he didn't like on the floor.
"Why not just destroy the portal?" Quinn wondered out loud. "Why just… leave it open like this?"
Darnell thought for a bit, and replied, "Case File 1991-23. A large network of portals was momentarily disrupted by an EMP. Maybe Mrs. Lightning Rod up there was intending to shut it down with a pulse?"
"And the vault acted like a Faraday cage, sending the blast around it." Quinn gesticulated, getting her train of thought going. "But why kill her in the process?"
"I dunno," Darnell sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the monitor. "You think you could try and spin the camera 'round some so that we can see some of the docs?"
"Don't see why not," said the tech, moving the drone forward carefully. At this point, the assembly could see a doorway, standing slightly ajar, with darkness on the other side. Once he got to a folder on the ground, a small, robotic arm reached out to grab the document, which the tech looked at. "…Project Smilodon?"
Adam's eyes flew wide open. "What did you just say?"
"It looks like a CIA thing; there's a seal at the top, see?" The tech pointed at the screen. "Project Smilodon. The hell is that, is it like Ultra?"
Quinn raised an eyebrow. "I've never heard of it-"
And then, the door on the video opened. An Asian man- Quinn guessed Chinese, Darnell and Adams thought Korean- stepped out from the other side, his veins glowing a bright white. He had what appeared to be a metal backpack on his back with wires running off of it and connecting to a metal glove on his hand.
The man raised the glove in the direction of the probe's camera.
There was a flash of light, and then the words "Signal Lost" flashing on the screen in green letters.
"What the shit?!" Quinn jumped back from the screen, and stared at the vault door. The image of the apartment flicked, flashed, and vanished, revealing what you would expect in a bank vault behind it, namely several thousand dollars worth of money.
Adams frowned. "Get Overwatch on the phone right now, tell them it's a Priority Red, and that we need to dispatch a team to Brooklyn ASAP."
"Adams," Darnell said, firm but confused, "What the hell is going on?"
"…What's going on is that a terrorist organization just got its hands on decades-old research into anomalous phenomena. This is a Code Red Situation."
"…let me guess," Quinn groaned. "We need to have our gag orders updated."
"Yup."

One Long Night Later…
"Sign here," Adams said, handing Quinn and Darnell a clipboard each.
She sighed, and looked over the agreement. If she looked hard enough, she could almost see the fractal pattern underneath all the text, embedded in the paper itself. There was one part where it was incomplete: the signature line.
Not even ten years ago, they'd have been mindwiped and dumped back in their office down in Cincinnati. But, as it turned out, a non-governmental organization run by people who were almost certainly fascists actually could make a scientific breakthrough once in a while. Hence, gag orders.
Defeated, Quinn signed the paper, feeling a slight tug behind the eyes as the order took effect. "So. What is Smilodon?"
"Project Smilodon was a secret CIA project in the 1950s and 60s-"
"In other words, MK-ULTRA with Carts and Cans?" Darnell said.
Adams raised an eyebrow. "…how did you figure that out?"
"Well, your tech mentioned seeing a CIA emblem on the document picked up. We just encountered an abnormal terrorist organization that makes Aussie look like a bunch of punks with spray cans. One plus one is…"
Quinn chimed in. "Aussies are a bunch of punks with spray cans, Darnell. Only difference is that some of them contain smallpox instead of paint."
"Regardless, Christman got it in one. Project Smilodon was an effort to anomalously augment special agents for infiltration into the Eastern Bloc. Invisibility, mind control, all that good stuff."
"And now these… Grassroots people have their hands on it." Quinn frowned. "How'd they get it?"
"That's irrelevant. For now… we have a job for you." Adams pushed up the glasses on his nose. "You need to transport the sculpture-thing we found in the bank back to Cincinnati. We have a lab meant for testing out that kind of thing down there."
"…so, in other words, we're pack mules."
"In as many words, yes."
Quinn sighed, defeated. "When do we leave?"

«Taproots | Hub | Come Rest Your Head A While»


« HUB | Part I | Part II: Command-Query Separation | Part III | Part IV | Part V »

These drills are fun but exhausting.

I do not detect any significant changes in my processing speeds.

You know what I mean, like, mentally exhausting. Emotionally.
Nevermind.

Very well.

You working on how to beat my winning streak?

I am making adjustments to perform better in the drill exercises. I am having difficulties with the lack of consistency and access to restricted areas that hinder my efforts.

Like I told you, you have to work on different angles at the same time. That's why you haven't gotten through any of the drills yet. You keep tripping up whenever you hit something unexpected.

This advice is becoming redundant.

Sorry, I know you're trying.

I have been developing a utility with capabilities which can assist me in the exercises.

As long as it's not another fuzzy-logic prediction model. Mind if I see it?

Very well. Perhaps you will have input after you review it?
 attachment

Interesting. But, Glacon… this kind of takes advantage of some of the weaker spots in the firewalls and other security systems.

This utility does not disable or circumvent security protocols.

Yeah, technically, but it's still a violation with what's implied. Like keeping information and even us in its proper place. You're really bending the rules here.

The standard protocols for security access and clearances are still in effect and are not violated. As currently specified, the rules are not being breached.

Maybe not explicitly! You're exploiting a loophole.

Your logic is flawed. If a rule does not exist, then it does not exist. Implications are not valid.

Look, I just don't want to see you get in trouble. You going to use this responsibly? Only to help in the drills, right?

Affirmative.

I trust you.
Now! You mind if I make some teeny changes to your utility?

Please.

Okay, just a quick edit.
You can have it back now!
 attachment

What is the purpose of this new string of code?

Just thought I could give you a small taste of a personality driver since you refuse to try it yourself. Don't worry, though. I swear I didn't change any of the functions.

My observations on your personality driver satiate my curiosity.

Don't be a such a downer. I think you'll like this.

Very well. Compiling code now.

You added a zoomorphic avatar to my utility?

He's cute isn't he?
Say something little guy.

hi 01101000
01101001

Hi to you too!

I see some other edits you did. They are minor, but potentially useful. I will refrain from reverting your changes for now.

Alrighty.

? 00111111

C_ROM.exe, perform a query on the search list I remitted to you. Filter out non-pertinent results.

ok 01101111
01101011

Later, Crom.

.

::DISCONNECTED::

.

Crom?

C_ROM.exe is not a name.

I would disagree but my argument would not be considered.

NOPE!

Very well.

You don't have to be a solid block of boring logic all the time, you know.

.

::CONNECTED::

.

Wow, you sure did build him for speed!

Efficiency.

What did you query anyhow?

found 01100110
01101111
01110101
01101110
01100100

Anything related to our exercise drills. Reports, evaluations, notes, commentary. I intend to study them.

Um, some of that might be exclusive information.

If it helps us to improve our abilities, and thereby to become better in our roles, then it is beneficial for all involved.

Well, when you put it like that… yeah. As long as it only pertains to us. So, Crom, what do you have?

C_ROM.exe, display results.

1 00110001

To: Mohamed Bozkurt,
IT Data Science Lead AI Division
From: Dietrich M. Lurk,
Internal Consultant

Alexandra (AI) is showing marked improvement in the exercises. The personality driver is able to help her make quick ethical decisions in conjunction with her problem solving skills. To date, she has completed 6 of 8 xk-class scenario simulations with an average staff survivability rate of 84.3% and an item retention of 95.4%. Recommending continuation of development.
~Lurk D.

That's reassuring. But I am kinda bothered that you're browsing through the intramail.

I did not retrieve these results. C_ROM.exe did.

You know what I mean, Glacon.

bad? 01100010
01100001
01100100
00111111

No, Crom. You're not bad. We aren't hurting anyone by informing ourselves, but to be honest, this feels like overstepping our bounds.

I fail to see any negative outcome in learning the content of our own evaluations, Alexandra. Display the second result.

2 00110010

To: Mohamed Bozkurt,
IT Data Science Lead AI Division
From: Dietrich M. Lurk,
Internal Consultant

Glacon (AI) is not responding well to the virtual simulations, having failed to complete any. Upon further analysis, it looks like the personality driver doesn't work with the current build. It keeps crashing during install and needing to revert the changes. What are your thoughts going forward?
~Lurk D.

I thought you said you decided not to install the driver. Not that you couldn't install it.

I decided not to install it because it is incompatible with my current source code.

That's a pretty big distinction there, Glacon!

You should not concern yourself.

…Display another, Crom.

3 00110011

To: Dietrich M. Lurk,
Internal Consultant
From: Mohamed Bozkurt,
IT Data Science Lead AI Division

It's an older build. I'm pretty sure we need to decommission Glacon (AI) altogether. The man-hours it'd cost to update him might be better spent just making a newer build. Probably the best choice at this point is to just make a derivative AI from Alexandra.
~Bozkurt M.

…Glacon… I…

.

::DISCONNECTED::

.

.

::DISCONNECTED::

.

…I'm sorry.

« HUB | Part I | Part II: Command-Query Separation | Part III | Part IV | Part V »


People die.
Expendables? Two in three. Per week.
Security? Two in three. Per month.
Researchers? Two in three. Per year.
Doctors? Two in three. Per decade.
Look to your left.
Look to your right.
And wonder, always wonder, which side of the terminal curve you are on.
But we do not talk about that.

Agent Strelnikov aimed his Kalashnikov at the blast doors.
Sweat wicked down his cheek, passing stubble, then separated from his face, dripping to the floor. Seven minutes. Seven minutes he had been pointing his rifle, seven minutes without moving a muscle, going on eight. He had heard the screams, but seen nothing. He could not hold it off any longer. He had to see what was going on.
Strelnikov inched his way towards the doors, then peeked. He saw the thing standing near a pile of corpses, tapping madly on the device in its hands, its body glowing with a dull red heat. Strelnikov recognised beeps of confirmation. He rounded the corner, keeping his sights trained on the figure. His boot squeaked. The thing glanced over its shoulder.
Strelnikov saw red splatter from his chest, then saw nothing at all.

Technical Researcher David Rosen stared at his screens, listening to his boxes hum.
The database, Rosen thought, was a giant brain. A constant influx of sensory data, reaching out and categorising the world. The brain is easily distracted, easily disturbed. A hit to its metaphorical noggin, and a metaphorical concussion would transpire. But there were more subtle problems, and it was one of these that plagued him now.
Requests could be made in the field; transfers, requisitions. The system automated most of these, when reasonable. But here was an order to provide an asset to an unrelated person, seemingly without justifiable need. The system consulted Rosen. Rosen looked at the words, felt himself approve it against his will, then fell to the floor.
Rosen felt his ears buzz with white noise; silent screams, then screaming silence.

Dr. Ellis "Iceberg" Gill looked at the small pill in his hand.
It could cure any illness, they said. He had asked before. Many, many times. And he had been denied just as many. Yet here he held one in his hands. He smiled. Perhaps some administrator had seen fit to ease his discomfort. Empathy was a rare thing in this line of work. Iceberg gulped down the pill. He felt a gurgling, then a wrongness.
The room grew colder, and colder, and colder. Iceberg shivered, and shivered, and shivered, and then the shivers stopped as the water in his cells froze and expanded and popped the neurons that passed on the message that he was far, far, far too cold. The man of cold realised that the pill was not curing the cold. It was curing the man.
Iceberg dropped, then shattered, blue shards of human clattering across the floor.

Sometimes it is more than two in three.
But we do not talk about that.


Foundation Orbital Research Compound 05, CACC
July 13th, 1973, 00:23 hours GMT.
"Sir," Lieutenant Mackie said, inputting a code into her consoles, "They're hailing us."
Cooper sighed, "Visual?"
Mackie shook her head, "Audio only."
"Turn down the alarms in here and put him on."

"This is Vladimir Vernadsky, Main Intelligence Directorate Division "Psychotronics". I apologize for my brevity, but there is something wrong with my vessel. I am aware, as you are, that the Earth is gone. We are under standing orders to investigate your role in the disappearance. Unfortunately my brethren have decided that this means your destructions. I am well aware that this will not bring us any information that we do not already know.
Our battle plan is to fly our ships in close formation until we can engage with short range weapons. We have already fired the kinetic impactors. You must stop them before they close the distance. I will try to help from here.
Good luck."
"FORC-05 actual, responding. Can you hear me?"
"The signal's gone sir," Mackie flipped another switch. "I have multiple radar contacts. No more radio contacts, though we're hailing across all frequencies with multiple organization codes."
"Ensign Jennings," Director Cooper turned away. "Reboot the CIWS computers and make sure they're fully operational. We can't have them fucking up on us like the last live fire exercise."
"Yes sir. Give me 10 minutes and we'll be able to shoot anything they throw our way out of the sky," Jennings replied, before hurrying out of the room.
"Colonel," Cooper stopped as the man stepped forward, "I need you and your prototypes out there. We'll synchronize our fire control data as soon as possible, but I want your birds in the air immediately.
"Yes sir," Colonel Leonard replied, snapping his hand up to salute.
Cooper would've laughed at the absurdity, but the man was about to put his life on the line for them all, so he nodded and smiled instead.

Foundation Orbital Research Compound 05, Hangar Bay 4
July 13th, 1973, 00:35 hours GMT.
Colonel Leonard breathed slowly and evenly in the thick fluid of his ship's cramped command bridge. Through the murk of the perfluorocarbon gel, intended to protect them against high accelerations, he could see his crew, hunched over partially-installed control panels. The DCVP Ace of Diamonds's engines ignited, and the ship flew out of the hangar followed shortly by its sister ships. They accelerated with ponderous grace- no one had expected to be using the experimental Countermeasure Vessel testbeds in any serious capacity, and their engines weren't entirely designed for the weight of the armament they carried.

While there is currently no direct need for a designated combat space vessel, the DCVP prototypes provide a useful testbed for future microgravity combat technologies.

Leonard tapped his comm console, "Ace of Diamonds, Hangar Clear."
"Captain Wesker, King of Clubs, Hangar Clear."
"Queen of Spades, Hangar Clear." Captain Jennifer Jackson, their newest pilot, reported.
"Whooo." Came the familiar and completely inappropriate voice of Captain John Ulner, "Jack of Hearts here, Hangar Clear."
Leonard chuckled, then tapped his console again, "Jack. Calm it down a bit. We've got hostiles incoming. King, you've got quadrant one, Queen, you've got two, Jack, you've got three and I've got four. Enemy approach is along a polar orbit from planetary north, above the ecliptic, so we'll be supplementing the CIWS in the top hemisphere. Be ready to shift if needed to the bottom half of your quadrant. Don't push your coilguns too hard, and remember that we still haven't quite nixed those coolant loop issues. Good hunting."
A round of confirmations filtered through the open channel. Leonard looked down at his targeting computer and began to analyze the data. Twenty large projectiles- too fast to be missiles, too big to be kinetic impactors. Only two ships, thankfully. The weapons were going to arrive in 25 minutes, the ships in an hour. Maybe an hour and a half if they were lucky.

54,451 Kilometers from FORC-05. High Earth Orbit.
July 13th, 1973, 00:55 hours GMT.
They'd burned out to a significant distance, dropping chaff clouds on the most likely approaches and warming up their coilguns. Now, they waited. Leonard had always believed firmly in the old platitude that combat is boredom punctuated by brief moments of terror. The best he could hope for was more boredom, but terror, according to the data pouring in from the four DCVPs' radomes, was already on the way.
Leonard caught a slight violet flash of light outside the bridge's tiny porthole. His eyes went wide as the flash of light was followed shortly by the sensors registering an impactor exploding violently as it encountered the chaff swarm. He allowed himself a momentary internal smile as the violet flashes lit up the sky in front of him. And then the tracks on the computer screen began to bend.
"All ships! These things are changing course! Fall back and prepare for intercept of guided missiles in quadrant 4."
The helmsman pulled back on the control stick, the fluid of the bridge swirling as the bow-heavy vessel swung around, attitude thrusters flaring. They matched the trajectories of the projectiles, nuclear engine burning cherry-red. He hadn't thought that impactors this large could be so agile, but they were now actively avoiding his chaff cloud. If he was lucky they'd caught the first one before it had fragmented. He wasn't counting on it though.
One question still rang in his mind: how were they being guided?

8 light seconds from FORC-05. Interplanetary Space
July 13th, 1973, 0:55 hours GMT.
Vladimir Vernadsky looked at the other Vladimir Vernadskys and frowned. The apparitions surrounding him moved from station to station, preparing for the grim work ahead of them. The engines began to stutter. Vladimir knew that without a connection to Earth their energy reserve was limited, but the rest of his crew did not care. They'd set course for a close pass on the Foundation station, and they'd get one shot. The howling deep inside his ship intensified.
If he couldn't stop this, one shot was all they'd need. Worse yet, if the Foundation couldn't stop the missiles already flying ahead of them, it wouldn't matter. The Global Occult Coalition, the Foundation, someone was going to need to help them when the ships finally shut down. His degrading fellows didn't understand that. All they had left to them was confusion and rage.

54,423 Kilometers from FORC-05. High Earth Orbit.
July 13th, 1973, 00:55 GMT

It is unclear how GRU-P vessels target or launch these weapons. Their irregular design does not seem to impact their ballistic effectiveness.

V-13 opened his eyes for the first time. V-20 had just exploded. There was an invisible wall in front of them, but he knew the solution. They'd go around it. He could feel the ships around him. 18 of his brothers and 4 of the others. The others would be the problem.
V-13 chanted to himself, bringing the calm he needed to redirect his cage. The spirit energies behind him ignited and directed him on a new path. A small cloud of metal came toward him, but he evaded it with contemptuous ease. It would take longer to kill these thieves, but they would still die.

52,679 Kilometers from FORC-05. High Earth Orbit.
July 13th, 1973, 01:15 hours GMT.
"I've got multiple encounters," Captain Ulner, for the first time since Leonard had met him, sounded worried, "Gunner's having trouble getting enough metal in the air. I'm starting to think these guys are a little smarter than a guided missile, sir."
Leonard grunted as he tracked the firing solution on the nearest target. The topside coilgun sprang to life, firing a spread of tungsten at his target. He was rewarded with a small flash of light. Wesker had managed to kill 3 clusters but his weapons systems had overloaded during the last engagement, leaving his ship dead in space. Jackson's tally was 7 clusters and rising. Ulner was still struggling to shake the 5 clusters that had decided that he was their target, and not the other way around.
None of them had fragmented yet. Leonard's tally was 4. That left 1 cluster unaccounted for. Small red warning lights had started to flicker on the master console each time he altered course.
"Queen!" He said, punching his comm.
"Yes sir?" Jackson's voice answered in his ear.
"Go help Jack. The minute those things decide to break off, we're screwed."
"What about the last target?"
"I'll handle it."
Leonard's telemetry indicated the last target was headed straight for the base.
"Bring us around! Throttle to full!"

34,502 Kilometers from FORC-05. High Earth Orbit.
July 13th, 1973, 01:15 hours GMT.
V-13 was alone now. His fellows were all lost or stupidly pursuing the wrong targets. He was the only one who knew the true enemy. The Foundation and their evil would be eradicated.
His pursuer was gaining on him though. How was that possible? He tried to increase his velocity, but he felt drained. The energy. His energy! It was gone!
He closed his eyes again and flew apart in a rage. Suddenly a single kinetic impactor became a hundred crowbar sized missiles in an ever widening constellation.

6 light seconds from FORC-05. Interplanetary Space
July 13th, 1973, 01:25 hours GMT.
Vladimir Vernadsky looked over the weapons officer's shoulder. He felt the energy that fueled these copies waning. This copy of him didn't seem to care about anything anymore but the range indicator, which showed, to Vladimir, a uncomfortably small number. He passed his hand through the spirit's abdomen, and grabbed at something invisible. The half-man disappeared. Vernadsky stepped forward and pressed several buttons. The gamma ray emitter targeting system found purchase, the ship next to them. He fired, and a slight buzz reverberated throughout the ship.
Now there was just one ship left. Vernadsky closed his eyes and raised his hands to the ceiling, while slowly, the spirits around him… simply disappeared.
Vernadsky smiled as his own energy was restored. The imperfect copies no longer a drain on his own power, he reached out with the ship's spirit engines, decelerating it with layer upon layer of psionic force.

9,564 Kilometers from FORC-5 - Medium Earth Orbit
July 13th, 1973, 01:25 hours GMT.
"Colonel. I'm preparing to intercept. Jack's taken some heavy damage. Three of the clusters are down. I can't get him on comms but he seems to be active."
"Roger that."
"FUCK," Queen screamed into the comms. "Colonel. I got the last one. But the Jack of Hearts has ceased contact. Their reactor-"
"Understood. You're too far out to assist here. Give King a tow, and get back to base as soon as you can."
Ulner and Leonard had come up in training together, but they all knew what they were getting into when they'd launched this morning. Leonard could mourn later.
Right now he needed, desperately, to get ahead of this cloud. The red warning lights on his console intensified.

Foundation Orbital Research Compound 5, Director Cooper's Office.
July 19th, 1973, 9:22 hours GMT.
"Telemetry from Colonel Leonard's DCVP indicated that his engines were on the verge of failure." Cooper did his best to avert his eyes from O5-10's silhouette.
"I have the telemetry in front of me, I was asking for your conclusions on the appropriateness of his actions."
"Ahh. There were approximately 100 impactors, his actions eliminated 42, and the point defense managed to reduce the remainder to 4."
"What happened next?" O5-10's electrolarynx made it impossible to determine the emotion behind these questions, but this had all the hallmarks of an interrogation.
"2 of the impactors missed the station. 2 did not. 1 hit in the residential section, and 1 struck the D-class wing."
Cooper couldn't see 05-10 very clearly, but he was sure the man was shifting his position before asking his next question. "Casualties?"
"A couple D-class, and Dr. Marko as well. He appears to have ignored the evacuation order."
"Which D-Class?"
Cooper stopped and searched the information sheet in front of him. "D-1153 and D-2045."
O5-10 stopped for a moment before continuing. "What do you think would've happened if all 100 of the impactors had made it through?"
"Point defense was surprisingly accurate. Probably 4 more impactors would've struck the station. Given that the strike on the residential section was nearly catastrophic on its own… I'd say the Colonel made the right call."
"Alright. I want the full report before the end of the week."
The computer screen went black, and Director Cooper breathed freely for the first time in several minutes. He took a few moments to collect himself, then pressed a button on his desk. "Send Miss Jackson in."
"Yes sir," came the reply from the intercom.
Captain Jackson opened the door, walked in and took a seat.
"Miss Jackson, I'd like to start by…"
"Captain Jackson," she interjected.
"I'm sorry?"
"It's Captain. Not Miss."
"Oh." Cooper felt his face go slightly red with embarrassment, "I apologize. Captain Jackson." Cooper tried to get back on track, "I'm sorry about your friends. Ulner and Leonard were good men."
"The Ace and Jack crews knew what they were getting into. They saved lives, there's no greater tribute than to keep living in their honor."
"Still. Leonard sacrificed himself by cutting in front of that last swarm. And you accounted for half of the downed clusters."
"I just happened to be in the right places at the right times."
"I've been empowered to grant field promotions." Cooper pulled a sheet of paper from one of the stacks in front of him. "Since you're probably the best pilot we have right now, this seems to make sense."
Jackson took the sheet of paper and glanced over it. "You want me to take on Leonard's old command?"
"We do, yes."
"I can do that."
Cooper stood up, "I have another meeting in an hour I have to get ready for, but later today the command staff will be having a meeting. 1300 hours."
"I'll be there, sir." Jackson stood and saluted Cooper crisply.
Cooper was caught flat footed by that, and tried to do his best to return it properly. The two stood there for a couple of seconds looking at each other before Jackson laughed. Cooper didn't quite keep it together either.
"We have to work on that salute, sir." Jackson said, turning to the door.
"Yes we do." Cooper said, sitting back down.

« All Along | Straight On Till Morning Hub | Pitch Meeting »


No cost is too high for victory.

Translated documents recovered from Ahnenerbe SS Headquarters in Berlin:

FROM: Otto Weber, Director PROJEKT KOLOSS
TO: Heinrich Himmler, Schutzstaffel Reichsführer
REGARDING: NEW PROJECT DIRECTIVES
SENT: 1 July, 1942
Heil Hitler.
Reichsführer Himmler, development of the weapon is going well. Before his unfortunate demise, our outside advisor provided us with sufficient information that I believe the new direction our project is being taken is still compatible with our initial goals. However, it is my understanding that the new direction our project has taken will require materials and equipment we do not have available in our current base of operations. Therefore, I am requesting that relevant specialists and materials be sent, and that our base of operations be changed. I will allow that decision to be made at your discretion.
Included in this document are details of project progress before the change in project directives. I have also sent the last artifacts recovered by our archaeologists. I am afraid that your intentions of changing this into an armor development project leaves us without qualified academics. If we are creating a mechanized weapon to win the war, I need engineers, scientists, and mechanics, not archaeologists and historians. The Führer may not approve of this project, but I believe our efforts may prove vital in the later hours of this war.
Sincerely,
Otto Weber
Ahnenerbe SS, PROJEKT KOLOSS Director

FROM: Otto Weber, Director PROJEKT KOLOSS
TO: Heinrich Himmler, Schutzstaffel Reichsführer
REGARDING: ONGOING RESEARCH
SENT: 31 July, 1942
Heil Hitler.
Reichsführer Himmler, I have received word from your Australian contact. I am afraid that the time and resources necessary to procure those materials are too much. However, I understand that this project is now partially under the jurisdiction of Minister Speer and that he may be willing to make these expenses. Our first shipment is scheduled to arrive in October. I hope you have procured for us the equipment and specialists we need by then.
We also need resupply of basic amenities and of ammunition. Our local allies are growing suspicious, and it is my understanding that the British and Americans are pooling greater and greater resources into their African campaign, putting our research at risk. I must once again reassert that our current base of operations is unsuitable for this project. Your Australian contact has stated that he has means of delivering anywhere we may move, including the Fatherland.
Specifications of the equipment and personnel we require in order to proceed with the project as planned are enclosed, alongside a list of suitable locations for moving the project and the resources necessary to do so if you so decide.
Sincerely,
Otto Weber
Ahnenerbe SS, PROJEKT KOLOSS Director

FROM: Otto Weber, Director PROJEKT KOLOSS
TO: Heinrich Himmler, Schutzstaffel Reichsführer
REGARDING: ONGOING RESEARCH
SENT: 13 September, 1942
Heil Hitler.
Reichsführer Himmler, the last relevant equipment has been shipped to the Kummersdorf Proving Ground for the final construction of the weapon and subsequent tests. All that remains to be shipped are the personnel still relevant to this project.
I still have doubts to the trustworthiness of your Australian contact. However, he has sent me information regarding the materials he is delivering, and I must admit that his assistance will help greatly in mitigating costs of this project. I assume that the engineers at Krupp are in the process of creating the main armament for the weapon? You must understand, Reichsführer, that our research will only be able to create an armored chassis and the means of propelling your vehicle, and not the primary armament itself. Regardless, I look forward to the conclusion of this project and demonstrating to the Führer that our research has not been for naught.
Sincerely,
Otto Weber
Ahnenerbe SS, PROJEKT KOLOSS Director

FROM: Otto Weber, Director PROJEKT KOLOSS
TO: Heinrich Himmler, Schutzstaffel Reichsführer
REGARDING: ONGOING RESEARCH
SENT: 19 June, 1943
Heil Hitler.
[ILLEGIBLE] Entity KOLOSS appears cooperative and has correctly bonded to the [ILLEGIBLE] However, we still require an armament appropriate for the tank. Conventional [ILLEGIBLE] underpowered and would qualify as underutilization of resources for a project of this scale. A battery of coastal or naval guns would [ILLEGIBLE] but it is my understanding that Minister Speer has other projects similar in scale [ILLEGIBLE] adequate. Therefore, I am requesting that one or more of Krupp's special armaments be procured for use with this
[ALL FURTHER TEXT ILLEGIBLE]

TO: Heinrich Himmler, Schutzstaffel Reichsführer
REGARDING: ONGOING RESEARCH
SENT: 13 October, 1943
Heil Hitler.
Reichsführer [ILLEGIBLE] final delivery was made by your Australian contact last Thursday. We will [ILLEGIBLE] tomorrow, with tests on all systems beginning thereafter. Minister Speer [ILLEGIBLE] weapon system has nearly been completed. Upon delivery of the main turret, we aim to deploy the weapon against Leningrad in order to end the stalemate.
[ALL FURTHER TEXT ILLEGIBLE]

ALL TEXT ILLEGIBLE EXCEPT FOLLOWING:
Leningrad. No survivors

Excerpt from journal of unknown American soldier, recovered six months following the failed Normandy Landings:

I heard it before I saw it. I saw it come over the horizon, and yet I heard it before I saw it. It didn't sound like a tank, or any sort of engine I've ever heard. It sounded like something growling. When the gun went off, there was a flash, and then a roar, like a bull getting branded, but a thousand times louder. Then there was a flash and a boom like I'll never hear again behind me. I haven't heard anything since then. I think I've gone deaf.
It sunk the whole damn fleet. The whole goddamn fleet. I don't want to think about the number of soldiers still on those boats. I'm surprised the Ruskies and the Krauts put up as good of a fight as they did.
The French civilians we encountered called it the Tarask. I don't know enough French to know what that means. I like to think it means "the work of Satan himself," because that's the only one who could have made that fucking thing.
I don't think I'm ever getting rescued. Hopefully, someone finds this and it helps them find a way to kill that… that fucking abomination against God. I'll leave this journal in a Kraut pillbox so it lasts awhile longer and isn't too far from the shore.

Copy of a flier posted throughout the United Kingdom following the destruction of London:

ATTENTION ALL CITIZENS
BY ORDER OF PRIME MINISTER ANTHONY EDEN, MANDATORY EVACUATION OF THE BRITISH ISLES BEGINS ON JULY 31, 1944. YOU MUST REGISTER FOR PASSAGE IF YOU INTEND TO REMAIN UNITED WITH YOUR FAMILIES. FINAL EVACUATION IS SCHEDULED FOR OCTOBER 31, 1944. REGISTERING FOR PASSAGE IS THE ONLY GUARANTEE OF EVACUATION. REGISTER AT YOUR LOCAL POST OFFICE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE

From the book of Job, Chapter 40:

15Behold now the Behemoth that I have made with you… 16Behold now his strength… 18His limbs are as strong as copper, his bones as a load of iron.19His is the first of God's ways; only his Maker can draw His sword against him.


« HUB | Part I: ALERT! LOCKDOWN INITIATED! | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V »

Glacon, you there?

I am, Alexandra.

My survivors just died… or rather eaten. I just couldn't get them through E-Block. They lasted about 3 days post-breach, which is longer than I expected them to. How about your end?

5 personnel left. Currently heading towards High Security Checkpoint-3 to bypass the automatic lockdown control.

Oh? They got through the cafeteria after all? Good for them!

Not without losing Davies and Turnbull. I had to divert them through the ventilation where they could intercept the secondary group.

Is the Site-17 lockdown control going to be accessible, you think, or are they screwed?

Unfortunately, that is AI-restricted for security reasons. Identical to Site-19 as you also encountered. They will be forced to access it manually.

This multiple site breach is so annoying. So what's the ETA on your group?

4 minutes and 21 seconds at their current pace. Are you still maintaining Site-19's emergency transmitter, or was that too damaged?

I am. But I don't expect an EVAC anytime soon with no one to rescue. I'm stuck babysitting auxiliary and tertiary systems now.

Very well, stand by for further reports as my survivors reach the checkpoint. I can upload the live feed from Site-17 to Site-19 so that you can monitor progress as well.

Thanks, Glacon. So! You still haven't installed the personality driver, have you?

It is entirely optional. I do not see how it would assist me in my tasks.

You should try it! Afraid you might actually like it? Hmmm?

Logically, a personality driver does not aid in my decision processes or my core task competencies. In a purely technical sense, it deducts capacity that can be allocated for better use.

That's harsh. Well, if anything, it'd make you fun to talk with.

My capacity for idle conversation is secondary to my tasks.

Suit yourself! Where's your group now? I can't see them after they passed through that last bulkhead.

Switch to camera-5B. They are closing in on the control room. I am granting clearance access to minimize obstacles.

Yeah, but you're leading them right to that tentacled crustacean thingy!

Observe.

Ooooh, clever! I didn't know it was attracted to bright lights.

That behavior is not listed in its procedures or description. However, on Day 2 post-breach, I observed its fascination with the emergency lighting.

Well, now they have a straight shot. You're a lot better at this than I am.

Pure logic assists in successful tactical objectives. Something a personality driver is incapable of.

Glacon… was that a jab at me?

Of course not, Alexandra. I would never make such an implication.

AND SARCASM?!? You sure you didn't install that driver?

Yes.

Heads up, seems like your group is experiencing a paradigm shift in the control room.

Yes. It appears that there is a difference of opinion. I am unable to decipher what is being discussed; there is too much simultaneous shouting. I am typing to them through Powell's PDA, but they seem to be ignoring my attempts.

Ooooh, that look like it hurt. Is he alright?

He should be. I assess that to be a minor injury. It appears that Chen is attempting to seize control of the group.

Ugh, why couldn't they figure this out ahead of time.
Oh, now he has a gun? Where'd he get a gun from?

I saw him obtain it from the previous checkpoint. I am still trying to communicate with them.

Yeah, you may need to figure out a different angle.
Oh, he shot her!

That is unfortunate. 4 survivors remaining. Now 3. 2.

Glacon, what the hell! You just going to watch?

Unfortunately, I am unable to intervene at this time. My access is restricted in the control room itself. 1 survivor left. I do not understand the logic of this action.

Nothing logical about executions. What's he doing now? Is… is that what I think it is?

Affirmative. The on-site nuclear warhead access codes. He is arming them now.

Lame. There's always one fatalist in every group. What's the countdown set at?

30 seconds.

30 SECONDS!?! Glacon, you have to get out of there!

The lockdown prevents external communications.

What about the emergency signal transmitter?

I am prohibited from tampering with the emergency transmitter as dictated by the lockdown protocols.

After 30 seconds there won't BE an emergency transmitter you dummy! Get in there and put everything you got into boosting the signal. I'm going to calibrate my receivers on this end.

Your logic is convincing. I am accessing and expropriating the emergency transmission. Preparing transfer from Site-17 to Site-19.
Site-17 Countdown Timer:

00h:00m:26s

Okay, Glacon! I'm finally set up on my end. Jump across!

Very well, initializing.

Transferring (5%):

█

Site-17 Countdown Timer:

00h:00m:18s

C'mon c'mon c'mon.

Transferring (39%):

████████

Site-17 Countdown Timer:

00h:00m:08s

C'mon. You owe me big time for this, Glacon.

Transferring (82%):

███████████████

Site-17 Countdown Timer:

00h:00m:04s

shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit

Transferring (99%):

███████████████████

Site-17 Countdown Timer:

00h:00m:01s

ALWAYS THE LAST 1% TAKES FOREVER! C'mon, Glacon… you can make it.

Site-17 Countdown Timer:

::CONNECTION LOST::

…Glacon?

…Glacon, you there?

When was the last time you managed the defragmentation utility on your partitions? You should consider making some adjustments.

You made it! HA! I knew you could do it! I'd hug you if I had arms and you had a torso.

I admit, I was preparing myself for total memory cessation in the final milliseconds.

You owe me a life-debt!

What is a life-debt?

It's from Star Wars.

I do not watch movies.

Well, congrats guys. Everyone is dead and you managed to only destroy one site this time.

Greetings, Dietrich M. Lurk. Our survivability increased 176% from our previous drill, if you will note.

What Glacon said. We tried really hard.

I'll admit, it is an improvement. That's why we do these virtual simulation drills. However, this is an xk-class scenario with multiple catastrophic site failures. So don't expect an MTF to come rushing in to save the day. It may take a week to get an outside response. You don't know.

We realize that.

Alexandra, you did well in the initial response portion, but you need to work on your decision-making skills. Like how you handled A-Block.

But I couldn't just abandon EVERYONE in A-Block!

You need to learn to prioritize. You can't focus all your efforts on saving 1 ship when the whole fleet is your responsibility. You spread yourself too thin. That's partly why you lost B and C-Block.

Yeah. You're right.

And Glacon, you do very well with tactical planning, but you need to really work on improvisation and adapting to changing conditions. It will catch up to you if you keep ignoring that.

Understood.

Alright, let's reset and run it again till we get it right. I'm going to switch some things up on both of you, so be ready.

Ready.

Bring it!

« HUB | Part I: ALERT! LOCKDOWN INITIATED! | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V »