Excerpt From "The Three Portlands Investigator"
May 25th, 2024

P

rometheus Plaza - May 24th, 2024 At approximately 3:00 PM EDT, multiple FBI strike teams emerged from the Asimov Street, Clark Place, and Bradbury Street Ways and converged upon the Anderson Robotics World Headquarters, launching a massive raid on the facility of a scope unseen since the days of the Chicago Spirit.
"The Asimov Street Way opened with a flash, like it always does, and immediately this FBI team decked out in all this fancy gear came pouring out and crossed the plaza," Tyler Henderson, a local vendor operating within Prometheus Plaza who witnessed the start of the raid, claimed. "They quickly dispatched the security droids that are always sitting motionless at the gates. It was like watching those giant South American army ants swarm over a downed bird or something. It became pretty clear after that, based on the noise, that there were more teams coming in from other streets. Whatever Anderson did, these guys were coming to kick his teeth in and kick them in hard."
"It was like a war zone, or something out of the Terminator movies," said Sophia Fisher, a bike courier who had been leaving the Anderson Robotics lobby when the fighting began. "I ducked behind a desk and just waited for a chance to break for it. Guns were going off. Shelled out and disintegrating robots clattered to the ground. Some of them were made to look like people…"
UIU representatives could not be reached for comment at this time as to the catalyst of the raid, though speculation as to Foundation involvement has begun to run rampant…

I grew up in Three Ports. Lived here all my life. So trust me when I say that Anderson's name was absolutely everywhere.

Parks,
Park benches,
Fountains,
Streetcars,
Even the dorm I lived in when I attended Deer.

If you needed it, "Uncle Vince" would buy it for you, so long as you didn't mind his name being slapped on it somewhere. Which, yeah, I guess there are worse ways for the ultra-wealthy to spend their cash. Still, I couldn't help but feel like it was compensating for something.
Then May 24th came around.
I was at a coffee shop across Prometheus Plaza. There was a sharp bang and the next thing you know the Anderson HQ was swarmed by what must have been hundreds of Feds. It was at that moment I took a sip from my coffee and thought 'I fucking knew it.'

I worked as a foreman in the product warehouse for close to a decade.
Just me, twenty Peregrines, and a handful of the Aplomado units they had converted to serve as haulers. See, Vince figured out pretty quickly that he could save a fortune on labor if he just swapped out all the grunt work with his own robots. Paid for itself in no time. You just needed an actual flesh-and-blood brain to manage it.
Still, those were some of the best co-workers I had.
James, Harold, Linda, Domanic, Suj, David.
Vince was pretty clear he didn't want us to give them names but fuck that noise. I'm not going to work with someone for ten years and call them 'PSHUD 102' the whole time.
Anyway, when the 24th rolled around, the Feds blew open our loading dock door. I didn't have time to realize what was happening before Warren slammed me into one of the supply lockers. Half an hour of yells and sporadic gunshots later, and one of the UIU goons found me.
David got gunned down in the office. Suj and Linda were liquified trying to escape into the main building. I never saw what happened to James, I hope he managed to get out.
I remember a few days later seeing in "The Portlander" that the UIU was bragging about how few casualties that raid had caused.
What a load of bullshit that was.

When you work the streetcar lines in Three Ports, you get used to seeing a lot of faces.
I drove the route that took folks to the Prometheus Plaza stop from all the way back when PL was still in there. Lots of folks come and gone over the years. After a while the faces just kind of blur together, I guess. Some don't, though. I got to know a lot of the folks at Anderson Robotics.
After the 24th though, well, no one really needs the stop so much anymore.
I mean, sure, you'll get a few odd heads here and there. People going to a coffee shop, or a tourist. But otherwise, it's a ghost town. Just me and the clacking of the streetcar running past another burnt-out building.
I heard a rumor recently I might be getting a new route assignment. Probably for the best. There is something about an empty car that just gets to you after a while.

Working in Anderson's R&D was easily the best job I ever had.
Dr. Contos ran that place like a big family. Those people were my friends, and the work was always on the cutting edge. I used to get excited to show up each day to see what new designs we were going to work on. More importantly, to me at least, a good chunk of the work was stuff that could make a difference.
Obviously, there was the Gyrafalcon line. But you should have seen the stuff we had coming down the pipeline. Cybernetic endocrine glands to help with diabetes and the like. Tiny robots that could hunt down cancer cells. Serotonin bots, even.
Granted, a lot of this stuff was conceptual but given the time these products would have been revolutionary.
I guess that's one of the reasons that it stings so much that the R&D lab was fried in the firefight on the 24th. All that work and all those plans, just went down the drain. They're probably lost forever.
Heh.
Hope it was worth it.

I had the day off when the raid happened. Thank god.
I was in administration. Aside from people on the actual board, I was as close to Vincent Anderson as you could get. Needless to say, that would have put me squarely in the crossfire. I am one hundred percent certain had I been in office that day a fed would have put a bullet in my head.
Am I sad by what happened that day?
Maybe a little. A lot of people lost their jobs. While plenty of people in the city don't want to admit it, Anderson going under tanked a big chunk of the economy.
Am I sad that I am no longer working at AR, though?
God no.
Vincent Anderson was one of the most unhinged men I ever met. Not in the Michael Meyers, I'm going to stalk you and stab you to death kind of way. Nah. More in the Patrick Bateman kind of way. I wasn't surprised to learn that he killed Mr. Frostman all those years ago. And I won't be surprised if I learn he killed scores more.
Wearing a comedy or drama mask around all day to hide your face was a massive red flag. I just wish it wasn't one that was so easily buried behind mounds of cash.

The thing about AR that no one really seemed to notice is that Vince and Phineas were absolute idiots when it came to running a functioning business. Hell, it wasn't until I showed up that these guys managed to stay regularly in the black.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not surprised things ended the way they did. I wish they didn't. But they did. And I ended up fleeing Three Portlands for my life on May 24th. Maybe if I had kept a better eye on Vince, he wouldn't have tripped so many switches, and pissed so many people off. Then again, maybe that's just wishful thinking.

Honestly? Good fucking riddance.
You ever actually talk to one of those bots that managed to escape service? Cause I have. They are damaged with a capital fucking D. Not just physically either, no. Mentally too. The kind of damage that would normally get you arrested if you did it to a flesh and blood human. But that doesn't count because I guess the sentience of others is not worthy of acknowledgment if it has a shiny barcode on it and looks like 4-LOM.
Seriously. Fuck Vincent Anderson. Whatever the jailors do to him will be better than he deserves.

I've got to tell you something, but you need to promise not to tell something else, kay? It's been eating me up for a while and I need to get it off my chest.
Alright. Here we go.
I saw the UIU murder Vincent Anderson.
Right, right, I know. Let me explain though. I used to work in one of the offices in Prometheus Plaza. My office window faced one of the nearby alleyways. Shitty view, but I was never really in a position to move out of there.
Anyway, on the day of the raid, I was working on something when I saw the man running down below. There was a bang, and he had a hole through his chest. A couple of the Feds stepped out and then all hell broke loose. Despite the fact they let loose what must have been a hundred rounds on him, Anderson tore through them like tissue paper. Still, he was shot to pieces. Ended up limping away a few steps before one of the agents tackled him.
From there, and you aren't going to believe me on this one, but from there they dropped some kind of canister. Sprayed him down with some kind of white gas. When it cleared, he was gone. A red and black suit was all that was left.
…
I never really thought much about AR when they were in business. Not my cup of tea. But if the Feds can do that to someone with as much clout as Vincent Anderson, what's to stop them from doing that to any of us.
I don't think we're safe in Three Ports any more.

Excerpt From "The Portlander"
May 26th, 2024

C

itizens in Federal Custody Following UIU Raid — Not since the Prohibition era has Three Portlands witnessed such a massive display of Federal force as it did during last Friday's raid on Anderson Robotics by agents of the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit. The raid, which started at approximately 3:00 PM EDT, has resulted in nearly forty Anderson Robotics employees — most of whom are Three Portlands citizens — being detained. As a result, protests have started to break out throughout the city as numerous activist groups show their opposition to what they are calling an "unwarranted display of federal brutality" and a "direct violation of Three Portlands' longstanding tradition of paranormal asylum."
Meanwhile, UIU spokesmen Harriet Brown claims that the raid was in response to evidence of the company's involvement in the assassination of Congressman Raymond Caldwell in 2018, as well as potential ties to numerous arms dealers around the globe. Detained Anderson Robotics employees are to be vetted for their potential involvement in the firm's illegal operations, and released if cleared. As of the time of writing, only a handful of those detained have been released from federal custody…


There is a term among your people: wreik'mádha, heath-honey. In early summer, when the azalea bushes bloom, they seem to blanket whole plateaux in vibrant pinks, creamy whites speckled with wine, sprays of peach-flesh and buttermilk yellows and oranges like the heart of crucibles. It is a glorious sight, to ride to the uplands and behold them all, a bright ocean rising to the flanks of one's mount. And bending closer, one may glimpse the gloss of green leaves still peeping from between the blooms, and the fine threads of the stamens - and clambering among them many industrious bees, the clamour of whose drone is as the waves washing against the shore.
But to take the honey they lay down in this time, gathered from this sudden glut of nectar, is dangerous - it bursts the heart, burns in the veins. For the first taste of it is sweet, and only grows bitter once swallowed. Some fear enough to eat no honey at all during this time, but most - most could not live with that avoidance, and so count the threat acceptable.
And so it is for people too: there are some who are poison, some who twist all relationships to serve themselves and themselves only, leach what they can and discard the remaining carcass when it is no longer satisfying.
Of course, admitting to being heath-honey would rather defeat the whole concept, and so you have never been called such aloud. But just because things are not spoken does not make them less true.

More than one man has died in your bed, when your mother has requested it. The truth about her children can be hidden from no mother, and so she asks you to do nothing beyond what you would do already, with cause. She knows you are strong enough to cradle death against your chest. She knows you are charming enough that no-one will ever suspect.
The son of Matriarch Yamijuta may or may not wish to be used as a bargaining piece against your sister Pūraśana, but his mother certainly thinks so, and will not be denied. Of course, it would not benefit Pūraśana any to be wed to him, nor your own house, nor indeed the two of them, for they cannot be allowed to think they hold more sway against your mother, sit higher in her favour than they in truth do.
You do not speak of him at all - rather the horses, and the trade in jewels that has increased its output recently, a new silver mine to the west that should make its first export this year - but in the way your mother calls you by your names - “Pūlarja, Helerqatar” - and Pūraśana calls you “váser”, you understand completely.
And so the next night, you paint your mouth and you smile at him at dinner; laugh and blink and lead him back to your own rooms. You ask to show him something, and you see in his eyes that he knows what you mean. (Or at least, the meaning you had painted inside yourself for that very purpose like the ochre on your lips.)
When the cassia tree had been planted beneath your window, the gardeners had not thought that it would grow. Its branches now weave up the wall, and you may step out onto them, one hand closing around the bough so you do not fall and the other trailing behind, to guide his. And then you are running on a memorized path, ducking underneath bushes and swerving around trees, clambering over the low drystone wall that marks the edge of the estate proper, and down, where it drops off into a steep hill. Dry leaves crunch under your feet, and twigs grab at the hems of your skirts as you descend it hurriedly, taking pleasure only in the moving of your limbs until the canopy opens out and the ground slowly rises to meet your steps, and you are finally slowed and stopped by the friction of the growing light ahead.
He laughs, and you match it, quietly.
Here, the river takes a wide, slow turn around a basalt shelf that overhangs the water, surrounded by lush mosses and ferns. The branches that are black slashes against the stars almost dip their heads into the flow, ensuring that anybody looking across from the other side is unlikely to notice you - especially on a moonless night such as this one.
You guide his hands to your shoulders and hips. The ferns brush cold against your knees, thighs, back. When you are through, he curls up next to you on the still-warm ground, one hand flung over his head.
You count your heartbeats in groups of sixty until you can be sure he has drowsed off, and then slip a hand inside your boot and pull out the small blade nestled against your ankle. The starlight washes out all the colour from the bands of agate, but not the clamshell lines of the flakes fractured off. You frown down at his sleeping body, weighing the silence of his larynx against the speed of his intercostal space. But it is not a particularly quiet night - you hear someone yowling across the water within the lower city and myriads of buzzing cicadas that have resettled on every tree branch since you have disturbed them. So you move your fingers down over his ribs instead.
You count, five, angle the biface, and drive with the heel of your hand.
You shall see who attempts to pressure your mother after this.

… Cáyé.
The wax is split and the missive is read before you all, sisters and brothers gathered at your mother's table for the morning meal. The seal is that of Matriarch Tvaišaratha, and the messenger also wore her colours. The word insurrection feels strange in your ears, flutters like copperfly-wings over the lips of your brothers as they whisper to each other. Some strange intrigue brewing between the slaves in the cities and the peasants in the frontiers of her territory - taxes are going unpaid, and when soldiers ride out to collect they come back to report villages empty, swamped in peat or in the scent of rot. (When they come back at all.) Merchant ships waylaid, nomadic clans found slain to the last, the houses of ladies and lords set to flame in the night.
She begs your mother's support, as a longtime ally and your mother's friend from youth.
And you know what your mother expects, so you give the orders, you send the companies, and you curse and weave magic and make the sacrifices to Tívash and Isukuré asking them to strengthen your will, nerve the arms of the slavecatchers and soldiers riding northwards.
But the months turn into seasons into years, and the responses you get trail off, the number of those returning grows fewer, the territories sliding further into that mysterious black hole. You catch your mother's lips pursing at you as she passes in the corridor, and that stings worse than any curse.
And by the point that you walk into your own rooms at the end of another fruitless day, already pulling out your hairpins, and hear the door closed behind you by someone else's hands, you almost want to fling up your hands and say of course. Of course you would have failed at this too, that you couldn't even keep your own adversary from sneaking in to -
(What you would do, in his place, would be to take you as a weapon. Scourge your mind with sorcery and tell your mother you would only return it if she gave you the land you wanted.)
But you still have some pride. “If I call,” you say, “I could have a dozen guards in here within one heartbeat.”
“You could,” he agrees, turning away. “But I do not believe you will.”
Indignation wells up like sudden flame. “Why not?” How dare this half-blood, upstart claim to know anything about you, least of all to venture to predict any of your actions.
“Because you are curious,” he says. “How far does your mother's land extend? And how many people does she rule, with all their disputes and quarrelling? Yet I have not even stepped over your borders - surely, you could be forgiven for allowing Tvaišaratha” - and you do not miss the absence of the title - “to handle me. Break a little of me on her first, before you come to steal the glory.
“And even then, you are God-daughter. There are spells that could burn us all to ashes, and you would not even have to leave this room to cast them." Well, it is true. "Why bother, to try and take me alive?
"But you want to know how I have resisted you this long. More than that - you want to know why."
His eyes are grey as a midsummer storm, and it is on the very edge of breaking, sending the hammering rains and howling winds across the land.
“You wish to take me as hostage,” you say.
His grin is a slash in a dark, utterly mirthless. “No.”
“You wish to kill me, and are just taking your time to gloat before -“
“Even less.”
“Then what,” you hiss, and let your fingers creep towards the knife hidden beneath the folds of your skirts, “do you think to force me to do?”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “I think not to force anything,” he says. “If it is truly your desire, we may go back to the lot-throw of war; you can sacrifice all the human lives you want on my spears, and I will leave you to live your life within a walled garden, believing it to be the universe entire. Day after day in the gilt stockades of your traditions and rituals and pleasures until your own soul is gilded too, until the crown grows into your skull, the chain into your hand. Until this shell of jewels and images is too thick to ever shed, and you wither and die within it and no-one will notice, not even the gods you claim to serve.
“Or break it now. Come with me, and I will show you the world as it is in truth. How, outside of this refuge” - a gesture encompassing all the walls and furnishings in sight - “the universe really treats thinking creatures, even of your own blood. Out there, the gods answer no-one. I promise; you will be abandoned to hunger and pain and grief, torn bone-deep by thorns, forced to see death face-to-face, and you will be more alive then than in all the years you have already passed.
“You want a true adversary? You want to fight a war? Come then, and earn it yourself.”
He lifts his chin, and something flashes white across his cheek. Spaced as your fingers would be, if you held them up against his skin.
You curl your hands into fists. “I cannot -“
“Can't you? You are not your mother's heir, nor destined like your brothers for marriage. A younger daughter - you are free."
The threat is implicit: remain thus.
“Come with me," he says, "and live."
Unbidden, a memory wells up before you: the preparation for the veriveti, when your aunts had led you out at nightfall, taken you down, down, on stairways barely used, until the stone grew cold and stale - although now you know that at their base is only the warm and holy well that only your age had kept hidden from you before, when first you had felt yourself step beyond the bounds of the sun's domain, you had halted, thinking: I am walking into my tomb. The walls would have sealed themselves over you, the stone slid and fallen, and you would have been bound there eternally. Young, and sacred, and unchanging in your skyless sepulchre. Had it not been for their grip, one on each of your younger hands, you might have bolted; flung yourself back up the stairs and out, out through the palace corridors and into the garden, into the grey and storm-swept horizon -
Your heart is very good at lying. You had always told yourself that that was only what it had done - for of course, you are not dead, had emerged like a wasp from its old skin and been named woman -
Now, you wonder.
His mouth at your throat burns, like the first stroke of lightning.

He watches you, when it is over, getting up and pouring out water to clean the amber from between your legs. Like a leopard, or a wolf: something languid and fearless of the night, for it knows there are no greater dangers there than it.
You pull on your trousers, and then, as an afterthought, the padded linen tunic and corselet that had been bestowed upon you at your veriveti. Every girl of sufficient birth received one in the ceremony, though of different materials depending on her family's means, bronze or horn or leather. It was the final symbol of the authority you stepped into, the strength of will each daughter of Daevon was expected to have developed by the time she came of age, that you be garbed as a commander of armies, as one who would and could defend Daevon against all its foes. The weight of its layers of gleaming scales settles comfortingly down over your breasts, hugs the curve of your back. You feel strangely vulnerable, like a mayfly that has just shed its carapace, still soft and pale underneath; wanting some kind of protection until your new skin hardens. Something to shelter under.
Or perhaps that is just that steady gaze, pressing against your back.
You pick up your comb, begin scraping the wisps of your hair back. For something to say, you ask, “What did you do with my slavecatchers?”
A small, wry laugh. You turn in time to see him offer an equanimous shrug. “Not all of them are dead.”
For some reason, this is very funny. You are bent double with laughing. “Come on,” you say, when you can breathe again, and lead him to your window, fling open the shutters onto the blood-red sunrise. The heavy, rich smell of the oleander vines and cassia flowers drifts in, and you take his hand and pull him out into it, palms wrapping around bark, ankles pressing into clefts. Your anklets ring as you drop down onto the ground; he cocks his head at the noise, then drops to a crouch and unhooks them with deft fingers, asking no permission.
Minutes ago, you had opened your body to him, drunk serum from his lips. This feels far more precious, the gold sliding off into the dirt.

Nonetheless, you are not righteous. This is made very clear, when first he drags you through a shiver of space and out into a sprawling camp, a labyrinth of tents built from hide or sclerotia or still-living branches, woven tight in webs. In every movement, every word, every look from those who inhabit it. Home, you may have been Pūlarja, lady of the fortress, but it is a fortress constructed entirely of sand - perhaps impressive in outwards appearance, but underneath so unformed that even a gentle rain could wash it away.
The followers who rename you aright - Lowyatar, weak one - are pale and stocky, scarred, closed-down and untrusting. An army made up of people who never before deserved to be people.
The difference - they don't have to say; their entire existence cries this statement, as you walk along the trampled use-trails and receive a thousand glass-sharp stares - is that you deserve to not deserve to be a person.

Your mirror is made of burnished bronze, and turns all colours fire. Even the moonlight flooding in through your window it can warm to a faint yellow, as you shed clothing and boots, unhook your belt and drop it and all your tools whole onto the sleeping-platform.
It is startling, to catch your face in it.
Other women would kill to have hair like yours, you were always complimented. Rarely have you ever needed to dye it; only once, you think, before your veriveti, and then only to fulfill the traditional preparations. The copper-ash tone considered most desirous, that most women scrub walnut and hina into their scalps, day on day, to acquire sprouts for you effortlessly. Other women would kill to have eyes like yours - does not all poetry speak of heroines whose eyes are dark as ink, rich as oiled wood? Do not all tales spend lines upon them?
And of course, the deer and horses, leopard and corsac and wild ram still gambol and dance over your shoulders, forearms, down onto your ankles, wound about with the lily and the rose, and that no-one else could achieve at any price, killing or no, for the life in them is yours and yours alone. A history. A name. An identity.
All brought with you, out of the past you said you had relinquished but hadn't, haven't yet because there it is before you, in burnished bronze reflection.

Courtesy of niram

Your knife parts from the platform. The blade opens up the wall of stylized thorns wrapping above your elbow as easily as if they were in truth new shoots, writing weak one where you were once ramparts, then raises itself to your temple. The strands do not snap cleanly, scraping over the edge, pulling on your scalp, but it is enough. A lock slithers down to pool on the blanket; then another, and another, until a cloud of copper-ash surrounds you.
The blade has just settled in the crease of your eyelid when the door relaxes.
“Kārym?” he asks, in your own tongue. But you are silent, and do not move, until he repeats "Äcce," in his, because your tongue is sinful and cruel. “What are you doing?”
What does it look like, you want to snarl. Your bones leak, your heart beats Daevon – systole, diastole: return again to systole. Gold, drawn and spooled and melted and drawn again. They cannot be cut out like you should, like he needs you to lest you end up poisoning his entire revolution. You opened a butterfly cocoon once - only recently has the memory brought any guilt, the thing so small, so undefended - and found nothing. Only a black and sticky mess of tissue that bore no resemblance to any insect you knew. Must you not be remade entirely too, stripped down like a broken cart, digested into nothing like the caterpillar? Is it not wrong that anything remain of what you were? But you cannot do this - once you split your nerves the blade will drop too soon from your hand, and will not be able to reach entrail and bone.
You want to say you should have killed me. You could even turn it into a demand - make up for that, then, kill me now. After all, it wouldn't be like killing a real person, just that shell of greed and violence - you were too late, I already withered, am already gone.
What your truth can destroy, it should. Even - especially - if that's me.
But he won't. That's true too and you hate it, that he'll force you to keep existing like this. He runs a hand through the new-cropped frizz covering your scalp; you feel him smudge something warm and sticky, and when he lifts his palm away it is marked with honey, bright in the firelight.
(You should no longer bleed gold - you have been eating his food, drinking his water for moons now, and the gods of Daevon will surely have withdrawn their favour from you. It should be red again. Why is it not?)

In time, his domain expands like dodder across a field, and the tents grow, and remodel, and become citadels with mineralized walls and chitin-smooth faces. You are walking through the corridors of one when, suddenly, you are seized and thrown into the wall. A glimpse of pale, bone-threaded braids resolves itself into a flint knife pressing itself to your larynx. Ion's newest rescue (he collects you like a pack of hunting hounds): the half-blind guard.
A variety of instinctual things panic, at the smarting of your shoulder and your face, at the touch of that blade. (But a small, savage part of you is glad, for the pain feels like justice.)
“I ought to kill you,” he snarls.
It might, somewhat, discredit Ion to claim that this moment is more a moment of perfect clarity than that oleander-scented dawn. But calm pours through you like a stream loosed, and you think – yes. This is the test. Here finally I shall be weighed, shall be struck on the touchstone and then shall know, whether I am good or bad, no longer have to deal with this fog of uncertainty.
“Then do it.” If you live, then he accepts that you have been redeemed: and you may say truly to yourself that you are clean, hands no longer oil-slicked. If you die, you never were, and so your killing will be merciful: you shall not have to live any longer in your degradation, your own pollution. There is no possible unjust end to this.
(Besides, Ion shall forgive him. Your käsek truly, deeply enjoys forgiving people - honestly, he will probably be grateful for the opportunity.)
Orok leans harder onto you; your collarbone grinds painfully. The edge bites, and you feel the splitting of your skin, the blood trickle down into the hollow of your throat. The dragonfly flutter of your heart threatens to break out of your ribcage.
He snarls, yanks the edge away, then turns and stalks wordlessly off. Your fingers brush over your wound, and lift away a warm smear.
It is a bright, bright garnet, and entirely yours, and you laugh.

Your eldest sister is a reflection of your mother, now. Or perhaps she always was, and it is you looking at her with new eyes now, made clear in your last ecdysis. You had not ever thought to return to these pillars and corridors, but perhaps you should have - everybody is a tale, fundamentally, written by the gods into stone and flank and time. It is appropriate, that the midpoints should call back to the ends, that everything should turn in cycles at the last and draw you back to the home you abandoned for a deliverer in which you had not yet believed and a deliverance for which you had not yet known your need.
Her eyes are terrified and wide, as you have backed her up against the sandstone. There is a guard sprawled between you, the sword that did not defend him fallen by his hand. It would be nice to be able to say you regret this, tearing down your own past, but it wouldn't be accurate.
You don't look, as a wet organic sound behind you heralds your mother's death. Your käsek does what he must; it is not to be questioned.
But your sister screams, and seizes the dropped sword, and flings herself at his back.
When you blink, you are straddling her hips and the gold in her plaits cutting into the heel of your hand. Amber squeezes out between your knuckles, covers your wrist and her face and neck and runs in rivulets out onto the floor to mingle with the sludge that is no longer her brain, now that it is dashed upon the flagstones. For good measure, your palm loosens again and comes down on her temple - sutures and new-made joints crackle under the force.
He raises one eyebrow at you, when your hands are finally willing to relinquish their hold and you lift your head. “No-one touches you,” you say, in explanation. You are too precious to me, for that.

At least, not until -
The messenger has barely left before you go to your knees, howling.
You want your mouth to shape no, want to be able to indulge even one moment of denial, claim that it can't be true - were it not for that perfidious heart of yours, which is so good at lying and yet will not deign to it now. It says with adamantine certainty that yes. Yes, they have taken your lord from you, and put him to death on their machines, and you were not there you couldn't even witness it as they sawed off the heart of the empire - savages, barbarians, there is no curse to encompass this. Let their names be struck out, and the names of all their family unto sixty generations, let them never to have been -
But your curse dissolves only into wordless wailing again. What use is it? It cannot bring back your hope, your light. And when you had been offered the darkness and the suffering of the world along with the sweet you do not think this was what was meant, because this is more than darkness, this is -
(Not describable. For who would create a word for an utter nothing? Who could impose meaning on the complete absence thereof, because all the meaning there was was in him, he was everything and all your life, and therefore the existence you are agonizingly aware still continues wretched and wrong cannot be life -)
But not even you can weep forever. So eventually, your lungs expand and draw one deep shaking breath, and without much of your input a hand lifts itself and brushes clear your vision - and fully emptied, with nothing more to cling to -
You simply… accept it. The Truth he always wanted you to know.
You are not righteous, and never shall be. You have always been poison, ruthlessness to your enemies. Never redeemed, because there is no price high enough to match the monstrosity embedded in you since your creation. What is beneath your violence, your dominion?, he had asked you, and here is the answer: it is dominion all the way down.
With the Deathless, you hated Daevon. Before, you hated all lands but. There is no one in the world who has not, at one time or another, been your enemy. And now that the only leash that ever held you is no more…
Why should they not all burn?

« | and the fact it rains | Elä | »


Domino
Today at 10:41 PM

btw
I mean
cato better than doggo

Philip
Today at 10:42 PM

I'm suddenly hungry

Domino
Today at 10:43 PM

you hungry?
I'm having chicken lol

Philip
Today at 10:44 PM

yyssw
I'm going to the CVS

New Messages

Philip
Today at 11:12 PM

fuuuuck

Domino
Today at 11:12 PM

@Philip wth
House on fire or sth?

Philip
Today at 11:13 PM

n
Fucking shit

Domino
Today at 11:14 PM

why
what happened/?

Philip
Today at 11:14 PM

Fuking naked jerks
in front of my house
having a bonfire
and flipping out

Domino
Today at 11:14 PM

lolololololol
u sure? lol

director
Today at 11:14 PM

@Philip Isn't it the slender man?

Philip
Today at 11:14 PM

nw lol
there is no such shit
anyway they disappeared
after they were aware I saw them

Domino
Today at 11:14 PM

lol
spooooky
hey
how about writing one?

Philip
Today at 11:15 PM

w@

Domino
Today at 11:15 PM

lets write a
cool article
like the Foundation lol

Philip
Today at 11:16 PM

lol you jerk
how idle r u lol

Domino
Today at 11:16 PM

lololol

Joker
Today at 11:17 PM

The word SCP summoned me here

Philip
Today at 11:18 PM

@JokerHowda fuck did you know that this is SCP thingy lololol

Joker
Today at 11:20 PM

Can I make one if you guys don't?
Im very good at this lol

director
Today at 11:20 PM

@Joker wru pissed by urself
nobody picked on you yet

Philip
Today at 11:21 PM

@Joker yes you can
ignore that bastardo

Joker
Today at 11:21 PM

K

Philip
Today at 11:21 PM

@Joker btw hdu know
about the foundation?
theyr freaking classified arent they lolol

Joker
Today at 11:22 PM

How can I not know
about things you guys know?

director
Today at 11:23 PM

Anyone want co-op? @everyone
I made a portal 2 mod
makes you smell the game

Domino
Today at 11:23 PM

@Jokerwhat
U gonna write one?

Joker
Today at 11:24 PM

yr

director
Today at 11:25 PM

r u ignoring him?

Philip
Today at 11:27 PM

@directortalk later
first write down now I'll read and rate u

Joker
Today at 11:28 PM

kk

New Messages

Joker
Today at 11:37 PM

Item #: SCP-7502

Specialcontainmentprocedure: It cannot be contained.

Class: Retekk

Joker
Today at 11:45 PM

Desc: SCP-7502,aka Palple is a collection of some guys that look like humans. They are freaking awsome so can teleport themselves and the SCP foundation can never catch them. but they can't do nothing.

Joker
Today at 11:45 PM

@everyone see

Philip
Today at 11:46 PM

you want this shit rated?

Joker
Today at 11:45 PM

?
ofc

director
Today at 11:47 PM

It sucks
did you screw up on purpose?

Domino
Today at 11:48 PM

lolololplololololokololol
wtf did you do for ten minutes lololololol

Joker
Today at 11:49 PM

fuck you
I dare you to write one lol
tis fucking hard lol

Philip
Today at 11:50 PM

wtf is "palple"?

Joker
Today at 11:49 PM

pale people
palple

director
Today at 11:49 PM

names fucking asss lolol
I can do better than that lol
being said, I'll try
must be better than that shit

New Messages

director
Today at 12:01 AM

I'm done

Joker
Today at 12:01 AM

wht a long time you took lololol

director
Today at 12:02 AM

r u ready?

Joker
Today at 12:05 AM

I was playing Doom lol
this mod dev's fucking awsome
How can anybody expect that we can communicate with the demons lololol

director
Today at 12:06 AM

ok
then read my thing
@everyone

Domino
Today at 12:06 AM

w?

Philip
Today at 12:07 AM

calling f w?

director
Today at 12:07 AM

Item #: SCP-7502

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedure: SCP-7502 cannot be contained due to its anomalous nature. Mobile Task Force Rabkan-12 is to trace and contain SCP-7502.

Description: SCP-7502 refers to a religious cult of humanoid entities. SCP-7502 manifests globally every July and August. There is no known information about SCP-7502.
ta-da

Domino
Today at 12:08 AM

lololololol
wow
fucking dope lololol

Joker
Today at 12:09 AM

fuck lololol
I say approved lolol

director
Today at 12:10 AM

ok
you approved so i won
give me pizza as you promised

Joker
Today at 12:11 AM

????
I never promised anything lol

director
Today at 12:13 AM

u deleted ur message
ttbe I captured it
give me p i z a

Joker
Today at 12:13 AM

lolololololololol you fucking nut
I lost lololol
fuck I'm going to play game
send me your mod
via dm
I'm gonna try it

director
Today at 12:13 AM

kk

Domino
Today at 12:32 AM

lolololol
fucking crazy
pizza for this shit, seriously? lololololololol

New Messages

Philip
Today at 1:16 AM

guvk
fuck
fuck
@everyone
@everyone
@everyone
@everyone
@everyone
@everyone
@everyone
@everyone

Domino
Today at 1:18 AM

@Philip why all of a sudden
w's going on?

Philip
Today at 1:18 AM

fuck
broke into my house
shit lololololol

Domino
Today at 1:19 AM

??
what?
broke into what?
I'm dont follow

Philip
Today at 1:21 AM

fucking freaks
fuck
fucl

Domino
Today at 1:21 AM

?
whats going on
why are you freaking out
lolol

director
Today at 1:22 AM

wth are you tking about
calm down and type properly

Philip
Today at 1:22 AM

fucking
f
crazy

Domino
Today at 1:22 AM

??
wtf lol

Philip
Today at 1:23 AM

those fucking freaking bastards
when r the cops coming

Domino
Today at 1:24 AM

why
wt's going on>?

Philip
Today at 1:24 AM

fuck
I'm hiding now
I can hear fucking footsteps

Jekor
Today at 1:25 AM

Where are you hiding now?

Philip
Today at 1:27 AM

now
Im under my bed

Jekor
Today at 1:28 AM

Thanks :)

Domino
Today at 1:28 AM

?
Thanks for what
hey
@PhilipWhy you say nothing?

Joker
Today at 1:31 AM

Im playng game
stop harassing me by calling
wtf is going on
@Jekor@Jekor@Jekor@Jekor@Jekorv
WHO the FUCK is this

Domino
Today at 1:31 AM

fuck
what
wasn't that you>?
holy ship

director
Today at 1:32 AM

fuck
@Jekor
he left[?

Joker
Today at 1:33 AM

what
what the fuck lol
isnt this
some fucking prank?
tell truth while I'm still nice lol

director
Today at 1:35 AM

shut the fuck up
@Philip fuck
who's that

Joker
Today at 1:37 AM

??

Domino
Today at 1:43 AM

what
what the fuck is this

Philip
Today at 1:46 AM

Nothing

Joker
Today at 1:47 AM

?
what's nothing?

director
Today at 1:48 AM

@Philip

Domino
Today at 1:48 AM

fuck
wht the fuck

Joker
Today at 1:49 AM

How should I know?
fuck


B.Wylie.Reviews 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:30:15 #19949726

Cursed Game Reviews #331: GATO (Beta Version)
Hey watchers! Bill Wylie here with a real gem of a game - the early 1983 version of GATO.
BACKGROUND: GATO is a submarine simulator released in 1984 by Spectrum HoloByte and Atari, Inc. The version I have is an early beta from the year prior that was planned to be an Arcadia release. They produced this beta before handing it off to another company; why so remains to be seen. Of note, however, is that the majority of these cartridges were destroyed. What's so bad about it? Let's find out.
GAMEPLAY: The first difference can be seen pretty easily when choosing the easy and medium difficulties. Instead of playing as the USS Growler (SS-215), you play as the USS Scorpion (SS-278); which a quick Wikipedia search lists as missing in 1944 under the command of Lt. Cmdr. Henry A. Cooper. Otherwise, the game starts as usual. An interesting note is the addition of who is probably an Arcadia employee that added the requested changes to the credits page. They didn't even change the HoloByte copyright line, either! Anyhow, back to the game.
More differences start to pile up once you really get into the game. The map on the 1984 release is randomly generated, while this version is an accurate representation of the Pacific theater. Speaking of accurate representations - the Scorpion in GATO is a 1:1 armament recreation of the actual USS Scorpion! It's a bit different in the release version, where they took a couple of missiles of as a sort of built-in difficulty challenge. There's not much else there to comment on gameplay-wise besides those.

B.Wylie.Reviews 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:31:52 #19949731

Now onto the part that everyone's been waiting for: my feelings playing the game. Many of the reviews/rumors of the game are all over the place; ranging from getting brutally murdered to creepy images to disappearances to everything in between. I'm disappointed to say that all of that is pretty much bogus. However, I've only played on medium difficulty, so I'll update you guys with the hard difficulty changes in a couple of days.
The game feels great, almost like 1990's Silent Strike and other submarine simulators. Despite the primitive graphics (CMYK-lite) anyone can get hoooooked onto this game. Time flies fast, and the sounds are masterfully crafted. You can almost hear the klaxons as you're diving, the groans and grunts of the depth charges on the hull. The game play is much more realistic than the final version, which is a shame. Is it cursed? No. Is it supremely fun? Hell yes.
│ CURSED: 0/10 │ GAMEPLAY: 9/10 │ SCARES: 2/10 │ OVERALL: 9/10 │
If you want to read about more cursed games, check out some of my earlier works or stuff by my good friend canis!
- review by Bill Wylie

canis-mesomelas 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:33:27 #19949782

Sounds like a real gem. Great review as always!

B.Wylie.Reviews 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:34:05 #19949799

Thanks, canis! Wouldn't be much without your sourcing abilities!

¡boo! 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:33:50 #19949797

bill where in the hell do you keep all of these games

B.Wylie.Reviews 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:39:22 #19949864

I get this question all the time, so let my copy+paste my response from another thread:
My computer, all my games, consoles, displays, etc. are kept in a converted walk-in closet. There's no windows or external light except a single lightbulb; I also have a draft-catcher under the door to keep air + particulates out. Keeps my collection nice and pristine. My wife has taken up to calling it my room!

¡boo! 08/17/09 (Mon) 08:09:16 #45010364

sounds cool B)

A. Norak 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:40:34 #19949871

Damn! Disappointed in the game. Was hoping for something really cursed. :(

B.Wylie.Reviews 08/16/09 (Sun) 19:41:43 #19949888

Same! It's a shame. I haven't gotten anything good recently, this is like my fourth? or fifth? game in a row that has no cursed content. Still not a bad game by any means! It's really really good.

shotSHELLSbulletHELL 08/17/09 (Mon) 08:04:28 #45009975

When do you think the hard difficulty update will be

B.Wylie.Reviews 08/17/09 (Mon) 08:34:59 #45011365

Should be out tomorrow. Just grabbing some screens of hard gameplay. It's very very very fun! Considering appending my original review to 11/10!

canis-mesomelas 08/18/09 (Tue) 13:46:44 #52066253

Late reply, but the commander of the Scorpion is a William N. Wylie (possible ancestor? lol), not Henry A. Cooper. Cooper was an ex-Arcadia programmer that went missing in 1983. Think you got your names mixed up.

shotSHELLSbulletHELL 08/18/09 (Tue) 13:47:50 #52066267

I know you're friends with Bill, do you konw when the hard review gameplay goes up

canis-mesomelas 08/18/09 (Tue) 14:05:34 #52067964

No clue. I've contacted Bill about it, but he hasn't responded to any of my calls. He's probably busy.

hotwheelz 08/21/09 (Fri) 11:46:44 #92904693

????

MAN DISAPPEARS INTO THIN AIR (OXNARD, CA)
Locals Shocked by Apparent "Locked Room" Disappearance
Oxnard police expected the worst after apartment resident Sarah Wylie reported that her husband had not exited his room in several days. However, they were completely baffled when they forced the door open to reveal a nearly empty room. It was initially believed that the missing person, William Wylie, had left when Mrs. Wylie was out. This was proved false when security footage revealed that neither Wylie had left the apartment, further confusing investigators. The officer in charge of the case, Detective Pedersen, has stated that, "no one disappears for no reason. We'll look into every nook-and-cranny, starting with Mrs. Wylie." Analysis of the room revealed nothing resembling foul play besides being mysteriously flooded in ankle-deep saltwater. If anyone has any information regarding this disappearance, please call (212) 627 - 9324.

🗿three/days 08/21/09 (Fri) 12:02:16 #92906042

[THREAD LOCKED]


The Covent Garden Antiquarian Society
Est. 1604 - A Gentlemen's Establishment
for Collectors of Items Both Macabre and Sublime

The Antiquarian

"And what exactly am I supposed to do with this?"
Myron Gregory peered into the birdcage. The creature stared back out at him - a singularly wretched-looking creature with bedraggled fur and wide, wild eyes. Its front paws curled around the bars, the claws still caked with mud from whatever filthy nest the novice operative had snatched it from.
Idiot!
"But - "
"Just… take it away. My desk is not some Regents Park attraction." The operative lifted the cage from Myron's desk. The creature squealed disapproval at the sudden movement - a piercing sound which made Myron's back teeth itch. "Get it out!"
Operatives and their tiresome fancies…
Invisible tigers, mammoths, sprites, and demons… What possibly possessed them that they paraded this menagerie of failure through the Society's doors? Myron had seen his fill of forest nymphs and succubi. Worst of all though was the people. Afflicted some curious blessing or curse - or else, the look of one - sometimes, they trailed in with more regularity than his beloved artefacts. Saints bones were a different matter, of course. Cursed hearts or enchanted corpses, he had time for - but these wretched, living things he'd seen too often. When would they learn - if it moved, breathed, or talked, the Society didn't want it.
A sheet of paper caught against Myron's shoe. The damned animal's cage had knocked over a pile of papers, sending reports and memos cascading across the floor. He'd barely noticed due to that unbearable noise.
"Ugh." Myron bent part way to gather them, then stopped and straightened. After all, he didn't make the mess - why should he be made to fix it? A tuft of fur had caught between the edges of Myron's shirt cuff, winding around the 'link. He brushed it loose then wiped each finger clean on the handkerchief he kept for such occasions, starting with the left-hand thumb and working outwards.
Somewhere out along in the corridor, the creature wailed again. Myron closed his office door. With any luck, he'd make it through the afternoon without another tedious interruption.
Is he the creature or the cage?
Seven hours until the shift was finished.
Jason Dillard shuddered. For days, the stench of damp and lamp oil would be all about his skin and clothes. The unhealthy moistness would seem to cling to him for even longer. He'd been lucky this time - three field missions in a row. Though, this time, the prizes all proved to be mediocre, the joy of the chase had made the failure worth it.
Almost.
Something about this place gave him the chills. The weight of old, chaotic strangeness… Here, tucked away in jars and drawers, were the artefacts of myth and legend. Greek, Roman and Akkadian wonders - the safest and the most delightful were kept upstairs in cabinets. The finest trophies of the Antiquarian Society. The rest were shut away down here in dusty little boxes - and for now, Jason thought, I'm shut in here amongst them.
Yes, being in the field was better. Even when he didn't know what to expect - or where exactly to expect it from - he never had this feeling. Here, beneath the illustrious office of The Covent Garden Antiquarian Society, the past was laid to rest. A catacomb of marvels. In these vaults, myth had been put to rest - and Operative Jason Dillard rested down there with it.
The tomb, the trinket, or the page?
Finally something worth a little of his time!
Myron turned the bread loaf over. The crust was fresh, the inside soft and barely gritted. Thirty like it had spilled out from the basket already. Inside, another five awaited his inspection. Myron replaced the lid.
The basketry itself was vaguely disappointing. Unfortunate, he thought, that whoever made it hadn't thought to add a few embellishments. No matter.
"Take it down the hall for primary classification. Oh! Make sure that you secure the lid." The last thing he needed was a thousand rolls of bread to be disposed of.
The operative nodded once and hurried back out of the office. Myron smiled. He knew he had a reputation for unpleasantness - in fact, he'd taken extra care to cultivate it. It was the things he loved. The things. As mysterious to him as any person, but far more lovely. In the company of things, he felt a sense of camaraderie which society never gave him. He was in his place here, in between the vaults and record rooms. At home.
The basket would find it's own home in the Society vaults. A well-lined box, he guessed, to keep the rats from gnawing at the willow. Perhaps some sand or salt to help absorb the damp.
Such a wondrous thing - and when he had the time to spare, he'd make sure that he knew its story.
He only wished that he could have another hundred fancies just like it - though, when you knew them the way that Myron did, you came to see that no two things were ever quite the same.
To sleep within the vaults of greed
Another wretched wicker basket.
Jason groaned. Were eighty-seven not enough? He boxed it. Put it with the others. So tempting, sometimes, just to smash them. Save himself from filling out the paperwork and cutting yet another label. So much of this was just a waste of space; the weapons and the jewellery he could understand, but this? No one would ever come down here to see it. No one would ever feel a desperate urge to see - he checked the arrival tag -
A basket which, when opened up, creates the most delightful breadstuffs.
The fountain of free lunch. Jason chuckled despite himself. He'd have to check back once the loaves were fully tested.
Three hours left til lunch - and tempted just to take the risk. At the very least, a death by poison loaf would be more interesting than this wretched boredom. He half-lifted the lid, then sighed and patted it closed. If they caught him, he'd be down here for a lifetime.
No longer satisfies his need.
"Jason Dillard? I don't think that I've heard of him…" Myron lied. Dillard's poor handwriting and lazily written up escapades frequently found their way across his desk. And then, of course, there were the stories - tall tales of the damned man's heroics. Myron found them more than tiresome. One more reason to avoid the Society's frequent social functions.
"He's the fellow who brought the magic mirror in. The grand one we hung up in the clubroom. And hunted down the - "
"Oh. I see. But - will he go?"
"Yes, I think he will. I'm almost certain of it."
"Then fetch him."
The mirror of your full potential…
When Myron looked he only ever saw himself - no victories or fantastic adventures, only Myron as he was. An ordinary man surrounded by extraordinary things, his presence far less noticeable than his absence. He lied, of course. It wouldn't do to tell the others - though sometimes he wondered whether they were lying too.
"This way please, Dillard. Mister Gregory is waiting for you."
To look at, Dillard was far more ordinary than Myron had expected. A tall man in a crumpled but well-fitted suit. He pulled out his seat without an invitation. Instinctively - and just as he had expected - Myron didn't like him.
"Mister… Dillard is it? I'll get straight to the point. Some recent news reports have come to our attention and -"
"I'm being sent to investigate." The certainty of the statement irritated Myron - as did the eagerness. The Society Hounds, he sometimes called Operatives like Dillard. Always chasing after his treasures without caring for the actual prize.
"Unless you would prefer to complete your present duties? I'm sure that I could arrange -"
"No, not at all! I - "
Myron smiled. He knew the way the hounds felt about his basements. "The file is waiting at the front desk for you."
"Thank you Sir. I'll - "
"Indeed. See yourself out when you feel quite ready." Myron turned away, increasingly annoyed by Dillard's presence. If he brought it back though…
A golden sceptre… Now that would be truly worthy of the Society's - and his - attention.

The railway carriage jerked and rattled, jolting the man across the aisle awake.
How he slept at all is a marvel in itself, Jason thought. Not that he expected the boarding house in Kidderminster to be any more restful. He would have asked for somewhere more exotic - or even just something less routine - but after two weeks in the dreaded basement…
The carriage lurched again. Outside, the weather drizzled through the fallow fields and worried at bent-branch, unsociable trees. A steady stream began to trickle through the window fittings, pooling by Jason's feet. He shuffled slightly and lifted his briefcase onto his lap. Best to keep the papers dry, although he'd read them twice already.
A golden sceptre - saintly relic? hand-scrawled in the margin. Then, newspaper clippings:

The King of Kidderminster?
A Treasure at Cutnall Green

In a quiet month, even that might have been enough for an investigation – but alongside the brawl…
The train lurched into Kidderminster station, shaking Jason free of his thoughts. He gathered up his things. Made the short dash towards the corrugated iron shelter.
The taxi-carriage ranks were empty. The streets washed bare of even the most determined walkers. As the rain began to soak in through Jason's jacket the train pulled away - taking his umbrella with it.
He cannot satisfy his lust
"And you're from the Bishop, you say?" Mrs. Fothering frowned. "You don't look like no cleric to me."
"I assure you, Madam - the Bishop sent me." Jason could feel a stream of water running from his hair onto his back. His shirt clung, thick from the rain, around his shoulders and his thick wool jacket smelled distressingly like wet dog.
"I s'pose you'd better come inside…" Mrs. Fothering tutted and stepped back from the door. "Stay in the hall, I'll fetch a towel - mind, that'll have to cost you extra."
Jason forced a smile. He'd hoped to charm his host this evening; maybe even talk himself into a little supper. Instead -
"Ruining my good carpet with your filthy shoes…" She clicked her tongue as he took the stiff, yellowed towel. "Breakfast at eight - not a second sooner. If you're wanting something hot, that's extra and I'll need some warning."
Jason squelched his way upstairs to his room. He hoped his clothes would dry by morning.
Within betrayal of their trust
Despite the gloriously sunny morning, Mrs. Fothering was every bit as sullen. Jason ate his toast as quickly as he could. His shirt felt stiff, the sleeves still a little damp; he pressed them around his coffee mug, letting the heat speed up the drying.
"Dillard - Reverend Dillard, was it? Or -"
"Ah - Mrs. Fothering! I must apologise for my less-than-ideal arrival. I'm afraid I must be out on business shortly, but -"
"And what business would that be, then?"
"The Bishop is keen to know the status of the church's holdings…" Jason knew from experience that a flood of tedious details was the best way to avoid interest - bore your way to anonymity. Already, Mrs. Fothering was shifting uncomfortably, regretting her curiosity. Her hands pulled at the corners of her apron as if searching for somewhere to hide.
"Oh but I mustn't keep you. I - I'll let you - " He let her interrupt at last, certain that she wouldn't risk another question. Mrs. Fothering gathered up his plate and bustled towards the safety of her kitchen. Jason finished the last of his coffee in silence.
And if they knew - his greatest fear
Everett Mason had been expecting him. As Jason opened the gate, he saw the downstairs curtain twitched back into position. The door swung open almost before his fist had touched the wood.
“I'm here from - “
Mason nodded. “You'd best come in.”
Everett Mason turned awkwardly in the narrow hallway, glancing back to check Jason had followed him inside.
"Just through here - " The air hung heavy with second-hand smoke and nervous energy - and as they crossed the threshold into the lounge, it seemed to thicken even further.
Three empty teacups on the floor and two more on the table. On the saucers, the remains of several cigarettes - and ash dotted on every surface.
Jason cleared his throat - it didn't help as much as he had hoped. “Mister Mason – could you tell me a little more about the sceptre? Where you found it, maybe? Or - “
“Cup of tea? Biscuits?”
Jason shook his head. The armchair was lumpy and overstuffed - the fabric oddly greasy when he touched it. He perched as far forwards as he could, resting his elbows awkwardly against his knees.
“The sceptre, Mister Mason…”
“I'm sorry but you've wasted your time.”
“But - Your letter said - “
The Masons had written to the Bishop about their miraculous find. Luckily, the Society had intercepted the letter and been able to send its own response. Easier to bribe a postmaster than a priest - though not always by much.
An authenticating officer will be sent… Not Jason's favourite role - and one he might usually have turned down - but he could play it well enough when he had to.
“My wife's letter. Not mine.” Mason clattered back through with a tea tray and half a pack of lavender shortbread. The biscuits were stale. Jason ate one anyway.
“So…you didn't find a sceptre?”
“Oh I found the damn thing alright – 'scuse my language, Vicar. Is it Vicar?” Mason poured two cups of tea. The cubes of suger clung with fierce determination to each other. He chiselled at them. Dumped two in each cup. Despite his horrified curiousity, Jason waved away the milk jug.
“I found the sceptre but there's nothing of God about it.”
“Oh?” Jason sipped his tea and immediately regretted it.
“Least, not unless the Lord's a homewrecker.” Mason sighed. “I mean – it wasn't that the things I said weren't true. But… everyone has secrets, don't they? Things they maybe wouldn't - ? You don't expect… Or maybe you do since you deal with…”
“What happened, Mister Mason?”
Jason had seen the newspaper reports – an altercation had involved most of the street and earned itself two columns in the regional broadsheet. The Society had guessed the two were linked – what he didn't know yet was how or why.
“It was her fault! Not mine!” Mason's jowls grew three shades darker. “It isn't my fault she didn't like the answer!”
Jason nodded, placed his teacup back onto the tray, and waited.
“It – it makes you say things. I swear it wasn't me! It - when you pick it up - “
Jason nodded again, encouraging Mason to fill the silence.
“It was after she wrote you. She thought… And then, in case you took it off us she - she used the truth against me! I was polishing it - she said we couldn't give it you in that condition. Then – she just… asked me out of nowhere: Everett, do you still think that I'm pretty?”
Mason slumped back down into his chair.
“I - We've been married now for going on twenty years. Now… She's been staying with her parents since. Mister Leeke from number thirty two won't look me in the eye. And Missus Sutton…”
“Oh.”
“So. I guess you'll want to see the thing.”
The sceptre was wrapped up in a threadbare curtain. Under that, a bedsheet – then another. Mason clearly wasn't taking any chances.
“I was going to dump it back up where I found it. But - ”
Jason took the bundle from him. Carefully unwrapped the sceptre, taking extra care to only touch the cloth. Inside – the metal shone despite the heavily curtained room. Jason tilted itin his lap, admiring the dark blue stones. The way the gold was shaped and twisted.
“Beautiful.”
“If only I'd said that.”
“Mister Mason, I'd like to take the sceptre away for testing. Much as I'd like to tell you here and now that there are saintly forces at work…”
Mason nodded cautiously.
“A man can hardly be blamed for what he's tempted into saying, can he? While the church prefers not to confirm certain more… ungodly influences…”
Ten minutes later, Mason had eagerly waved him - and the sceptre - goodbye from his doorstep.
I'll make sure you're kept informed.
The church would understandably deny all knowledge of his visit and the sceptre if Mason tried to ask them. If anything, that would add credence to the deception.
The train was late – but he was later. One more night in Kidderminster, then back home in the morning. Jason sighed – he'd been looking forward to spending the night in his own bed. Mrs. Fothering's 'clean white sheets' - and that'll cost you extra - came with a few too many… creature comforts for his liking.

For the third time in under an hour, Myron checked his watch. The morning reports seemed to blur together, suddenly too tedious to bear. With a sigh, he placed the papers back down on his desk. He'd read them later - stay late if he had to. If they piled up too much, people would start to notice - and the less those people noticed him the better.
Dillard had been back in London since at least mid-morning. Myron had left explicit instructions for the clerks to send him directly through - he wanted his sceptre the moment it came through those doors. They were more than trophies to him. More than relics, or prizes. Each one was dearer to him than any human sentiment or gesture. And they spoke to him. Their delightful stories, rich with ancient character. They were his friends. His children. More than that, even. If he was capable of loving, then he loved them - and, he thought, his feelings were reciprocated.
The gold ones always spoke the sweetest…
The door creaked open. Myron jumped, then scowled.
"Sir? A Mister Dillard here to see you?"
Finally!
Dillard followed the office clerk into the room, not waiting for an invitation. His shirt looked fresh - Myron wondered if he'd stopped to change. As if that couldn't have waited.
"Well? Do you have it?"
"Yes sir." Dillard placed the field report on Myron's desk. Myron barely glanced at it.
"The sceptre, man!"
Dillard hesitated, then took a long bundle of fabric from beneath his arm. He began to unwrap it - uncomfortably slowly. His hands caught in the messy swathes of torn-up sheets, stray threads coiling at his wrists…
"Here - let me - " Myron pushed Dillard's hands away, eager fingers seeking out the sceptre. Too eager - as a fold of cloth fell to the side, he felt the familiar thrill of gold against his fingers.
For Myron cannot
In Kensington Park, the spoiled ducks fussed around Jason's ankles, demanding breadcrumbs and attention in equal measure. He tore up the remainder of his sandwich as tribute, unable to find his appetite.
Why me? Why always me?
It wasn't so much what he said, but how he said it. And then afterwards -
Mister Gregory's face had paled. His already thin lips pulled back around his yellow teeth - a ghastly, defensive snarl.
"You meant for this to happen!"
"No, I - "
"Out! Get out!" Mister Gregory had leaned across his desk as if preparing for a leap. The sceptre rolled, forgotten, between the piles of papers.
Jason had hurried out of the office… and kept going. Out into the street. Further.
Mister Gregory had been outraged. No - not that. Terrified.
A duck pulled at his trouser cuff, demanding more. Jason barely felt it. Kensington Park seemed to sink into a deep Autumnal melancholy.
What did Myron Gregory have to hide?
belong here.
Blast him! Blast them all!
Myron slammed his fist into the desk. Another knuckle split on impact, spattering some report or other.
Did Dillard suspect? Myron knew he'd made it worse, but he had panicked. Did they know? Was this a trick to catch him out?
It was Dillard's fault he'd thought it. Something about him made Myron feel impossibly out of place. Uncomfortably other. It was Dillard who made him feel that pang of shame just as he reached - and, damn it all, touched - his latest prize. How dare Dillard ruin what should have been the sweetest moment of his day?
Myron curled his hands around his face, the fingers raking against his temples. All he had ever wanted was to be here. Just to have the change to walk the vaults and hold these things as if they were his own - the way they should be. To listen to them. Let them all be heard. To have one of his beloved treasures conspire against him… he could find no pleasure in the irony.
Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe Dillard wouldn't realise…
Except - damn it all! No Society Hound could resist a mystery. Even if he hadn't known before, he would suspect.
I don't belong here.
It didn't matter whether Dillard knew. Finding was in his damn-fool nature. He'd start looking for something soon enough - and Myron knew he couldn't take that chance.


« Act II - Scene V | Demasqed

Act II - Scene VI

Interior of conference room. All members of the Shuffle Puppies are present, and staring, concerned, at a laptop across the table from Michael. The conference room is lit dimly, and behind it, spotlit, is Natasha Fliers, holding a microphone, and staring straight out into the audience.

NATASHA
Chaos this morning outside SCP Site-96, after the release of "Keeping It Chill" - an advertising campaign made to convince the general population of the importance and moral righteousness of the Foundation - only left the people angrier than before. Now responsible not only for the destruction of North Korea, the enslavement of hundreds if not thousands of human lab rats, but also a nationwide propaganda video directed at children, the Foundation has yet to respond. For Channel 12 news, I'm Natasha Fliers, here to bring you more updates as the story progresses.

Michael slowly leans across the table and closes the laptop. Lights return to normal brightness on the conference room, and blackout on Natasha.

MICHAEL
So that's where we're at right now.

Everyone is dead silent, making quick, nervous glances at one another.

MICHAEL
Okay, fine, I'll say it. Chandler, what the hell happened?
CHANDLER
I… I… look, I don't know! Okay, I'm sorry! I really tried with this, you know?
MICHAEL
You left the video until the last minute and didn't consult me about anything! Like, for example, the actual method by which you were planning to spread the message about D-Class personnel, which was the entire point of the video!
CHANDLER
Hey, it was also to remove guilt for the North Korea incident!
MICHAEL
How? How was it supposed to do that Chandler?
CHANDLER
I don't know, okay? I was really trying but I don't know!
MICHAEL
(head in his hands, groaning)
Ohhhh god what the fuck are we supposed to do about this now?
EVELYN
(raising her hand, timidly)
Am I in trouble, too?
MICHAEL
(facedown on table)
We're all in trouble, Evelyn.
EVELYN
Right…

Suddenly, Jazz and Dana run in from offstage and burst into the conference room. They both stand at the entrance, gasping for air, as the Shuffle Puppies look on, extremely confused.

EVELYN
Holy shit, Dana? Jazz? What the hell are you guys doing here?
MICHAEL
Yeah, uh, but actually what are you doing here, because you're not currently allowed to be here.
DANA
(still out of breath)
Sorry… just, had to… outrun…
JAZZ
(catching breath)
We had to outrun the guards.
MICHAEL
Yeah, I'll bet you did! What the fuck?
DANA
Michael, this is really important. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't.
JAZZ
But also… Chandler, sorry about this, the guards got a little caught up in… chasing… us… and we need somebody watching the doors in case any of the rioters get through, think you could… do that?
CHANDLER
I… guess so… Michael?
MICHAEL
Oh shit, shit yeah please, Chandler. Meanwhile you two have a lot of explaining to do.
DANA
Of course.

Dana looks like he's about to speak, but waits until Chandler is fully out of the room and offstage before starting.

DANA
Okay, sorry, now let's begin.
JAZZ
As you maaaaayyy be aware, someone broke into the building on Friday and stole nothing.
MICHAEL
Oh jesus, come on that was you guys?
JAZZ
Yeah, sorry about that, but it was really important. We had to talk to Crystal-INE.
MICHAEL
(very annoyed)
Wh- Crystal-INE? Did they talk to you on Friday during the break-in?
CRYSTAL-INE
…okay in my defense, I had like thirty algorithms picking through my mainframe, I could barely tell left from right.
DANA
Luckily, they were still able to provide us with some very valuable information.
MICHAEL
Wait-
DANA
Which we had the appropriate clearance level for!
MICHAEL
…
JAZZ
Now, what we're about to say is going to be really hard to believe, but it's all in the database. You just need to trust us, and follow along with what we say, because we already have a pretty intricate plan.
EVELYN
Plan? Plan for what?
MICHAEL
You're making no sense, what is any of this actually about?
JAZZ
(smugly)
We know who caused the North Korea incident.

Blackout.
Lights go up on the podium just outside Site-96, where a large angry crowd has gathered. On the raised platform, alone, is Chandler, who appears to be having trouble calming the crowd.

CHANDLER
(nervous)
Alright everybody… come on, please be gentle, you guys are totally right to be mad but don't go crazy, okay?

A member of the crowd throws an egg at Chandler, which misses him.

CHANDLER
Hey! Who threw that egg? Come on, everybody point to whoever threw the egg! I want to see fingers!

The crowd continues to be uproarious. As Chandler unsuccessfully attempts to locate the egg's owner, the Shuffle Puppies, led by Michael, along with Dana and Jazz, walk in from offstage and onto the platform. The crowd boos them as they enter.

CHANDLER
Oh thank god you guys are here, this is turning into a nightmare. Someone threw an egg at me! An egg!
MICHAEL
Of course, Chandler. Thank you, so much, you're a huge help.
CHANDLER
Aww well, you're welcome, I'm happy to help.
DANA
(projecting into the crowd)
Hello everyone! Everyone, please quiet down, we'd like to address some of your concerns!

The crowd barely reacts to Dana, continuing to be extremely loud.

JAZZ
(yelling)
Hey, listen to us! We want to tell you-
(to Dana)
They're not even paying attention.

Crystal-INE steps to the front of the platform and opens their mouth. A loud high-pitched note begins playing, causing everyone in the crowd to stop talking and clutch their ears in pain. Crystal-INE closes their mouth, and retreats back behind Chandler.

DANA
(pained)
Thank you, Crystal-INE.
JAZZ
Listen up everyone, we know you're all very mad right now, but we want to tell you something extremely important.
SOMEONE IN CROWD
Hey, aren't you that bitch that destroyed Korea?
DANA
Hey listen pal-
JAZZ
(pushing Dana back)
Yes, yes I did say that, but it turns out all of us, including me, were being misled. After much research, we've finally figured out who is responsible for destroying North Korea.
DANA
Crystal-INE, now!

Crystal-INE, currently standing behind Chandler, wraps their arms around him, holding him in place. Chandler begins struggling.

CHANDLER
What the hell, Crystal-INE, stop, you're hurting me!
JAZZ
Everyone say hello to Chandler Wentworth, former Site-96 staff, now covert double-agent for an ancient cult.
CHANDLER
(struggling)
What? Jazz what the hell are you talking about?
DANA
Don't play stupid, Chandler, Crystal-INE showed us your "research" on ancient deities. Don't try to tell me it's a coincidence that on the same day you were looking into the Razhilkan god of storms, you also requested a file on air temperatures and cloud fluctuations around four very specific containment sites.
CHANDLER
That doesn't mean anything!
JAZZ
There's also a video of you tampering with the thaumic engines a day before the project was approved. You know, the things you said I made a mistake with.
CHANDLER
Oh… well yeah, that's admittedly a little harder to… lie about…

Chandler looks back and forth, terrified, for a number of seconds. Suddenly, his face goes from a look of terror to a sinister grin.

CHANDLER
I guess there's no use in denying it. At least now I have an excuse to do this.

Chandler quickly pulls his arms out from under Crystal-INE's grasp and shoves them back, freeing himself. He raises his arms as a red light begins to encircle him, and wind begins to blow across the stage. In an instant, he thrusts his hands downwards, palms facing the floor, and with a loud rumble, everyone on the platform and in the crowd crumples to their feet, forced down by a gust of intense wind.

CHANDLER
(deep, villainous voice)
Oh man, that felt really good.
MICHAEL
(strained)
What the hell… this wasn't part of the plan!
JAZZ
(strained)
I didn't think he'd have super powers!
CHANDLER
Yeah well tough shit, because I've been doing a little extra studying in my free time!
MICHAEL
(strained)
Chandler… stop this… this isn't you…
CHANDLER
Oh my god, seriously? Michael, you're literally the most timid person ever pretending to be an authority figure because Laura keeps tossing you around like a puppet! You are so one to talk!
EVELYN
(strained)
Chandler, why are you doing this?
CHANDLER
Honestly Evelyn, you're the only one I have any respect for, so I'll tell you.
HENRY
(strained)
Hey, what about me?
CHANDLER
Shut it you horned bosom of a man!
HENRY
(strained)
Ouch…
CHANDLER
Look Evelyn, you know I'm not a particularly strong person, mentally or physically, but when I started reading up on Razhilkan customs… their whole thing is about becoming a stronger individual! And lord knows I'm not gaining any individuality at this dump.
EVELYN
(strained)
Yeah but why this, specifically? I mean, no offense, but I thought you at least had the willpower not to go "final form" on us just for a little bit of power.
CHANDLER
Hey, come on, this wasn't easy, you know? Plus, I finally feel like I'm doing something important! I'm the hero! For once, I get to be the guy who busts open the cage and walks away with his head held high!
EVELYN
(strained)
What cage, what the hell are you talking about?
CHANDLER
Have I not been making it blindingly obvious? My new master, Korothyl Li'imangar!
HENRY
(strained)
Did you just say your "master"?
CHANDLER
(smug)
That's right! But I'm no simple servant, no no, I literally own his power. I am the… I guess vessel, and he is the… possessor… and I'm going to free his physical form which is being… imprisoned by you… you… you… ignorant jailers! Yeah… ignorant jailers! All of you!

As Chandler talks, Crystal-INE very slowly attempts to move, and begins crawling towards him from the back of the platform. Evelyn makes eye contact with them very quickly before looking back up at Chandler.

EVELYN
(strained)
Ig… ignorant jailers? Chandler, what the fuck are you talking about? You've worked here for years!
CHANDLER
And look where that's gotten me!
HENRY
(strained)
A six figure salary and an apartment directly next to the train station you take to go to work?
CHANDLER
Shut… I'm not talking about money, I mean like… mentally, you know? I feel good right now! Like, I'm at my peak!
EVELYN
(nervously glancing at Crystal-INE)
Your peak? What do you mean, your peak?
HENRY
(strained)
I… I feel like peaking is supposed to be like… finding love or achieving your dreams, not… glowing red and tornadoing your co-workers.
CHANDLER
Goddamnit Henry, I am not above murder, okay?
HENRY
(strained)
Okay, okay, I'll back off…
CRYSTAL-INE
(strained)
Gotcha!

Crystal-INE, still pressed to the ground by Chandler's wind, grabs hold of his ankle. A bright blue light emanates from their hand, and the sound of a loud electric shock is heard. Chandler, mid sentence, begins seizing up, before dropping to the floor, unconscious. Instantly, the red light goes away, and the wind dissipates. Everyone in the crowd and on the platform look around, terrified, as they slowly bring themselves to their feet. The crowd looks down at Chandler in shock.

MICHAEL
(groaning)
Ughh…

Michael slowly and painfully picks himself up off the ground and leans against the podium. He looks awkwardly out at the crowd, and the crowd, stone-faced, stares back.

MICHAEL
(very frazzled)
Well then… any more questions?

Blackout.
Spotlight goes up on the bar section of the pub, stage right. Lighting is slightly dimmer than normal, and the sound of rain can be heard throughout the scene in the background. Evelyn is seated at one of the bar stools, with a nearly empty glass of Pineapple Cognitohazard in front of her. Dana is standing behind the bar, cleaning a shaker. Evelyn drinks the last bit before standing up and exiting the pub. Dana reaches under the bar counter and retrieves a phone. He enters a number, and holds it up to his ear. On the opposite side of the stage, stage left, a spotlight goes up on the couch in Jazz's apartment, on which her phone is resting. Jazz walks in from stage left, picks up the phone, and sits on the couch, answering it.

JAZZ
Hey
DANA
Hey. It's been a couple of days, I just wanted to check in. How did it go?
JAZZ
Well Michael wasn't too happy about it, but I suppose that's to be expected. Laura seemed just fine letting me go, though, which I can't say I blame her for.
DANA
So now what?
JAZZ
I'm not sure. I've got some small things I'd like to do, but I don't really have any actual plans.
DANA
That's certainly better than nothing.
JAZZ
Yeah…

Both look awkwardly down at their phones for a few seconds.

JAZZ
Hey, how's it going with you and-
DANA
(excited)
Good! Really good, it's going… yeah, really good. We had one of those "peppermint tea at 4 in the morning" talks and ended up sharing some pretty intense feelings, but we put it all out in the open and… it's really good now.
JAZZ
(smiling)
That's amazing, Dana. I'm so happy for you.
DANA
(smiling)
Yeah… me too… well hey, I have to close up for the night, but it's great to hear from you. Let's talk again soon.
JAZZ
Yeah, definitely, See ya.
DANA
Bye.

They hang up the phones, and Dana's spotlight goes dark. Jazz smiles again, and then yawns. She places the phone on the ground and lies down on the couch, clutching the couch pillow to her chest, and falling asleep. After a short while, Brimley is heard walking offstage, followed by the sound of keys jingling and being shoved into a keyhole that doesn't fit.

BRIMLEY
(offstage)
What the… hey, babe, you in there? My key isn't working and like, there's a bunch of boxes of my stuff out here, did we miss the rent again?

Brimley is heard pounding on the door. Jazz continues to sleep, undisturbed.

BRIMLEY
(offstage)
Babe? Hellooooo, can you hear me? The fuck is going on?

Brimley continues to pound on the door for quite a while, before finally stopping.

BRIMLEY
Babe, yo I'm going to crash at Tim's place, when you wake up text me, I think my key is janky… ah fuck wait she can't hear me… shit. Whatever man…

Brimley is heard walking away from the stage, and the gentle sound of rain grows slightly more prominent. Jazz continues to sleep soundly, and as the footsteps fade away, she smiles.
Blackout.

The End

« Act II - Scene V | Demasqed


INTERNAL TRIBUNAL DEPARTMENT

Statute on SCP Foundation Internal Tribunal Department

SCP Foundation Internal Tribunal Department is the institutional judicial authority of the Foundation, created in 1944 after the merging of some of the Ethics Committee and the Internal Security Department services. Currently the Tribunal includes structural subdivisions such as:

High Tribunal (meeting place – Paris, France);

2nd Tribunal (meeting place – Washington, D.C., USA);

3rd Tribunal (meeting place – Stockholm, Sweden);

the Sentence enforcement team;

the Secretariate.

The directors and heads of security of all Sites, as well as MTF commanders, may on certain occasions act as sole arbitrators of the Tribunal, but they are not included in the ITD's structure. The Tribunal does not handle non-essential disciplinary violations or acts of negligence.
The Foundation Internal Security Department is tasked with crime exposition, criminal and investigative proceedings, and arrest. Upon conclusion of said investigative proceedings the ISD directs the case materials and its representative (the investigator-prosecutor) to the Tribunal. As such, the Foundation's judicial processes do not incorporate the principle of subdivision between investigative and procuratorial institutions.
Depending on the severity of the charge the court proceedings may be held by a sole juror (for instance, during cases of significant disciplinary violations), a tribunal of three or, rarely, five jurors. The most experienced and highly reputed members of the Tribunal are assigned the position of presiding justice. They handle the case and have the privilege of deciding vote should disagreement arise among the judges.
Crimes that fall under section V, "State and corporate crime" (see current edition of ITD Legal Codex) are not within the Tribunal's jurisdiction. All alleged criminals as well as materials pertaining to the case belonging to section V are directed to the GOC for legal proceedings in accordance with the UN Secret Convention №76.
The Internal Tribunal Department has the right to provide various punishments, including death penalty, particular method of death penalty, dismission with personality restructurization, personality restructurization without dismission, reduction in rank, correctional labor, persecution of third persons (relatives, significant others), etc. Revision of a judgement may be initiated only by the ISD or O5 Command in light of newly discovered facts. Any Tribunal judgement may be repealed by O5 Command.
Known Tribunal hearings:

24-А-II/2019 | Dr. McCreedy's case
19-А-I/1974 | SCP-6260 group case

Internal Tribunal Department Legal Codex

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Internal Tribunal Department

INTERNAL TRIBUNAL DEPARTMENT LEGAL CODEX
(in force as of 11.01.1997)

Approved by O5 Command
11.01.1997

ARTICLE I
CRIMES AGAINST THE FOUNDATION

Subarticle 1.
External hostile activity
§ 1.1.1 Espionage
§ 1.1.2 Diversion
§ 1.1.3 Armed assault
§ 1.1.4 Abduction of documentation or personnel
§ 1.1.5 Abduction of anomalous objects
§ 1.1.6 Hostile information campaigning
§ 1.1.7 Unauthorized transfer of Foundation or common interest property to third parties
§ 1.1.8 Other resistance to Foundation conduct
Subarticle 2.
Treason
§ 1.2.1 Malicious desertion
§ 1.2.2 Transmission of information containing operating secrets
§ 1.2.3 Passive resistance
§ 1.2.4 Armed rebellion
§ 1.2.5 Adhering to GoI
§ 1.2.6 Unauthorized collaboration with GoI
§ 1.2.7 Sabotage
§ 1.2.8 Deliberate violation of secrecy
§ 1.2.9 Theft of Foundation objects, personnel or documentation
§ 1.2.10 Organization of escape for class D personnel or other subjects under Foundation custody
§ 1.2.11 Other treason

ARTICLE II
CRIMES AGAINST NORMALCY AND HUMANITY

§ 2.1 Use of anomalous objects against humanity, including:
para. 2.1.1 with the purpose of coercive or non-coercive change of power or established societal norms
para. 2.1.2 with the purpose of armed conflict or genocide
§ 2.2 Gross special containment procedure misconduct leading to significant damage and/or human casualties outside the Foundation
§ 2.3 Gross special containment procedure misconduct leading to irreversible alterations to reality

ARTICLE III
SIGNIFICANT DISCIPLINARY VIOLATIONS

Subarticle 1.
Criminal negligence
§ 3.1.1. Significant violation of secrecy
§ 3.1.2. Gross special containment procedure misconduct, including:
para. 3.1.2.1 leading to acceptable human and/or material losses within the Foundation
para. 3.1.2.2 leading to destruction or partial destruction of anomalous object
para. 3.1.2.3 leading to loss (escape) of anomalous object
para. 3.1.2.4 leading to violation of secrecy
para. 3.1.2.5 leading to acceptable human and/or material losses outside the Foundation
§ 3.1.3 Negligence leading to loss or distortion of data
§ 3.1.4 Other cases of negligence
Subarticle 2.
Internal departmental disturbances
§ 3.2.1 Insubordination
§ 3.2.2 Non-compliance to eligible superior order
§ 3.2.3 Personal use of anomalous object
§ 3.2.4 Unauthorized cognizance without respective security clearance
§ 3.2.5 Access to anomalous object outside line of duty
§ 3.2.6 Gross non-compliance with research agenda
§ 3.2.7 General civil offense pertaining to a member of SCP Foundation personnel
§ 3.2.8 Abuse of office
§ 3.2.9 Designedly unethical conduct
§ 3.2.10 Misapplication of material and immaterial resources of SCP Foundation
§ 3.2.11 Other internal departmental disturbances

ARTICLE IV
PREPARATIONS FOR K-CLASS EVENT REALIZATION

§ 4.1 Global genocide
§ 4.2 Large-scale dissemination of information containing cognitive or memetic hazards
§ 4.3 Ecocide
§ 4.4 Reality restructurization, including:
para. 4.4.1 Intrusion into chronology of current timeline
para. 4.4.2 Restructurization of fundamental basics of reality
para. 4.4.3 Damage to the space-time continuum
§ 4.5 Reduction of terrestrial environment to uninhabitable by humankind
§ 4.6 Establishment of conditions for invasion scenario
§ 4.7 Massive destructive influence on the planet
§ 4.8 Paranormal threat realization
§ 4.9 Other attempts at K-Class event realization

ARTICLE V
STATE AND CORPORATE CRIME
(The ITD does not conduct cases pertaining to this article. All alleged criminals and case materials are directed to the GOC for legal proceedings in accordance with UN Secret Convention №76)

§ 5.1 Development of weaponry based on anomalous functions
§ 5.2 Armed conduct using anomalous objects and technology
§ 5.3 Use of anomalous objects with the purpose of affecting internal and external political affairs
§ 5.4 Use of anomalous objects with the purpose of limiting societal rights and freedoms
§ 5.5 Public disclosure of existence of SCP Foundation or the anomalous world (including select objects)
§ 5.6 Use of anomalous technology leading to technological or financial superiority
§ 5.7 Use of anomalous objects with the purpose of attaining geopolitical superiority
§ 5.8 Withholding or falsely reporting information regarding existence of anomalous object against the GOC or SCP Foundation
§ 5.9 Withholding or falsely reporting information regarding properties of anomalous object against the GOC or SCP Foundation
§ 5.10 Collaboration with GoI from the list of outlawed organizations (see UN Secret Convention №76 Addendum №2)
§ 5.11 Other state and corporate crime

ARTICLE VI
OTHER VIOLATIONS

§ 6.1 Knowing creation of hazardous anomalous object
§ 6.2 Circulation of anomalous objects
§ 6.3 Use of anomalous object with the purpose of violating general civil law
§ 6.4 Unauthorized knowing destruction of anomalous object by member of SCP Foundation personnel
§ 6.5 Noncompliance with self-elimination, legally regulated or forced by special conditions

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