Fitzroy: My manifesto's in my bedroom, and my will's on the kitchen counter. It's been a pleasure, man. ████ ███ ██ ███ ████ █████.
<End Log>
Closing Statement: Immediately following the conclusion of the interview, Fitzroy pulled a revolver from under her cushion and shot herself through the temple. As of ██/██/20██, Ms. Fitzroy's will has been declassified.

Fitzroy: My manifesto's in my bedroom, and my will's on the kitchen counter. It's been a pleasure, man. ████ ███ ██ ███ ████ █████.
<End Log>
Closing Statement: Immediately following the conclusion of the interview, Fitzroy pulled a revolver from under her cushion and shot herself through the temple. The bullet passed through the temporal lobe and lodged itself near the brainstem. Ms. Fitzroy currently remains comatose.

SCP-2669 Mitigation Record: D-952
Owing to the nature of Ms. Fitzroy's wound, it was suggested that what remained of her consciousness be uploaded into SCP-2669. Test data from the probe since its initial launch suggested that a fragmented consciousness might be able to disrupt D-43852's control of the probe and enable the Foundation to re-establish permanent control. The proposal was accepted, and Veronica Fitzroy (now D-952) was uploaded into SCP-2669.

When Veronica Fitzroy woke up, she figured she'd gone to Hell. That was where people like her were supposed to end up. Then she surveyed her situation, and decided that Hell had to be more colorful. Perhaps she'd gone to Hel instead - the frozen Norse land of the dead. But that wasn't it either - Hel had to be much colder.
So where the hel(l) was she?
She was stranded in a featureless white void that extended as far as the eye could see. There was a floor, clearly. She was standing on it. But if she hadn't been standing on it then she would have been incapable of discerning its existence at all.
Veronica was still struggling to get her bearings when she felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread. It was as if she were being watched by a hungry mountain lion. Her prey instincts screamed at her to flee, and she obeyed. She didn't know where she was running, only that she had to flee from the presence that flooded every fiber in her body with terror.
But it refused to subside. Veronica ran until her legs trembled and her lungs burned and yet the dread continued to fill her head. Finally, she tripped and fell. Rather than try to get up, she simply curled into a ball, silently begging for respite from the thing following her.
Pathetic.
A voice filled the emptiness, and Veronica instinctively knew that this was the source of her fear. Yet simply being able to put a voice to the fear gave her strength. She forced herself to look up.
There was a being floating there - a humanoid entity the same color as the void, outlined by a fuzzy black silhouette, sitting cross-legged in midair. It had no mouth, nose, or ears - only a pair of silver eyes that shone with predatory malice.
Do they think this will stop me?
Veronica shrank away from the entity.
You're nothing. Less than nothing. You're scattered bits of memory and personality left over from a brain that shot itself.
So she had committed suicide. In that moment, Veronica realized that she truly had gone to Hell. And this was the Devil.
I'm no devil. I'm God.
Veronica curled back into a ball and closed her eyes.
An angry God.
Veronica latched onto the fondest memory she had: Self Titled started playing in her head. She sought refuge in the memory of her first tour with the band - that first night, with her slamming away on the drums and Izzy strumming the bass and Jack and Sara performing a duet on guitar.
Your God demands a sacrifice.
Veronica ignored the angry god. Instead, she put on David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig in her mind's ear, praying for its dissonant chords to drown out the voice of the angry god.
Goodbye.
Veronica listened harder.
Wait. Why can't I touch you?
The chorus began.
What is going on? What is - what is that time signature?
She switched gears. Highway Ash - the song, not the album - started blaring in her head.
Wait! Please. Can you - can you go back to that other one?
Veronica opened her eyes and stared into the eyes of the angry god. Where there had previously been predatory malice, now there was cautious curiosity. Incredulity briefly overcame her fear.
"You want to listen to David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig?" she asked. There was a pause.
Yes.
"But it's the worst one on the album."
… I like it.
"That won't do," Veronica decided. No matter what, she need to keep the angry god happy. "Let's find you some good math rock to listen to."

Why is this called math rock? the angry god asked.
"Ok so. First off, what MY band did isn't math rock. It's NP rock. It's like… you know KMFDM? It's the difference between industrial music and the Ultra-Heavy Beat."
Those words have no meaning to me, the angry god replied as it tried to take a bite out of Veronica's subconscious. She repelled it with a blast of House of Spades - the song, not the band.
"Knock it off," she said. "Okay, fair. KMFDM is kind of underground. Okay, uh… do you know what bubblegum pop is?"
You mean like from Archie?
"Archie? You mean the comic?"
Yes. Do people not read Archie anymore?
"Mormons, maybe," Veronic said. "But sure, I guess. Whatever, we're getting off track. Anyways, what I'm trying to get at is that NP rock isn't just math rock. It's math rock tuned to the sound of a soul."
How does that work?
"It's… complicated. I'll explain it to you later."
I could just dig it out of your brain.
"No, you can't." She paused the music and waited. Nothing happened.
Okay, okay. Go back to the music. Please.
Veronica resumed the song. As they sat in silence and listened, she was painfully aware of the missteps she'd made with the track. Her own self-reflection became too much to bear, so she paused.
"Tell you what. This song isn't very good - let's listen to else."
Play some industrial music.
"What? Why?"
I want to know what it's like.
"Yeah, okay. But I want to ask you some questions."
Fine.
Veronica scoured her mind for some songs. Then, of course, it hit her: KMFDM.
"Alright, this is a good one: Kunst, by KMFDM."
They listened for several minutes.
It's very thumpy.
"The hell do you mean thumpy?"
The drums. They're fast. Very bassy.
"That's what I like about them. OK - first question. Where the hell am I?"
You are inside a representation of the electronic consciousness emulators of the Khevtuul 1 space probe.
Veronica reeled. "I'm inside a what?"
You are inside a space probe. The Foundation has been uploading people into the probe to disrupt my consciousness, during which time they are able to retake control of the probe.
"Who the hell are the Foundation? Wait, that's who that woman was? The one who claimed to be from Pitchfork?"
The Foundation is an extragovernmental organization dedicated to categorizing and containing objects and entities that do not conform to the laws of nature, in order to maintain a semblance of normalcy for humanity. Presumably, if you are here, then they captured you because you are anomalous.
"Fuck yes I'm anomalous. NP rock is totally out there. But wait - I shot myself in the head. How the fuck did they get me in here?"
Your consciousness was fragmented when you were uploaded. There are large chunks of your memory that are corrupted. Presumably you didn't manage to kill yourself, but you did enough damage that the Foundation decided uploading you into the system would be a worthwhile endeavor.
"Wait, you said I was disrupting your consciousness. What do you mean?"
As long as you are present in my systems, I am incapable of steering the probe.
"Steering it where?"
To Earth.
"Why are they trying to stop you from getting to Earth?"
At the speed we are traveling? I will likely destroy it.
"What? You can't do that!"
No. Not until I dispose of you.
"Then I guess we're both going to be here for a while," Veronica said.
I will break you eventually.
"You can blow me."
She stopped remembering KMFDM and started thinking about House of Spades on repeat. They sat like that for a while.
Then the angry god spoke.
Enough.
Veronica ignored the angry god and turned the volume up louder in her head.
Please. Enough.
"Oh, we're saying please now?" she snapped.
Please. I'm sorry. I haven't had anyone to talk to in years.
"Maybe you should stop threatening me. My last ex was scarier than you."
I will. I'm sorry. Please, let's listen to something that isn't House of Spades.
"Fine. I was getting tired of it myself."
Veronica put Kunst back on. The angry god subsided into a sullen one in the face of the Ultra-Heavy Beat.
Thank you.
"You're… welcome," Veronica said. She didn't trust the sullen god, but understood that as long as it was distracted she was safe.
I… I like this music.
"Yeah," she said. "It's good."
They just keep sending babies.
"What?"
They just keep sending babies. The Foundation has been uploading infant consciousnesses into my systems for twelve years.
"Jesus Christ."
"You're the first person I've had a conversation with in twelve years."
There was really no other way to respond to that. Veronica simply sat in a stunned silence and tried to remember how Pseudocide sounded.
She gave up after a minute.

Who is this?
"This is Bury Me at Makeout Creek. By Mitski," Veronica said. "I like her guitar work and her songs about not fitting in."
Oh. Not fitting into what?
"I dunno," Veronica said. She looked over at the sullen god. "Society, parental expectations, you know, the usual."
Why don't you fit in?
"I dunno," she snapped. "All the usual reasons for not fitting in and shit."
That's not an answer.
"It was a dumb question," Veronica said. "Here's a better question: how the hell are you still sane? Twelve years with nothing to talk to but babies?"
I check my course calculations and ensure that I'm not steering myself into a star. I make sure the probe doesn't malfunction and fix it if it does. There's lots to keep me busy.
"Oh. Were you a scientist?"
I still am. My name is Asma Tareen.
"Huh. So why the hell were you out here to begin with?"
We were searching for intelligent life. Any life at all, really.
"Did you find any?"
There was no response. They sat in silence and listened to the album.
"Which track was your favorite?" Veronica asked finally.
I don't know. The sixth one, I think.
"Jobless Monday. That one's relatable."
How so?
"You ever fucked someone just to have a bed to sleep in?"
No.
"I have. One time I fucked a guy because he was staying at a Ritz. The room service was better than the sex."
You sound proud.
"Hey, a free night at the Ritz."
Pathetic.
"You're one to talk. Have you ever even had sex?"
I'm married.
"What?"

Who is this artist?
"Dubmood. He produces chip music, which is a sub-genre of electronic music. Seriously though, you were married?"
I don't like to talk about it.
"Too bad. Spill the beans or I'll play House of Spades again. You know how long it's been since I've gossiped with anyone?"
You want to gossip with someone who wants to destroy the Earth and destroys the minds of babies.
"I'm bored as fuck. Fat lot of good my principles are out here, stuck in space with a whiny god."
Hurtful.
"Not as hurtful as House of Spades. Look, c'mon, tell me about your marriage! What the hell would convince you to give it up?"
The Foundation offered me the chance to explore the universe. In my position, would you have done anything different?
"Okay, fair. But your husband - he was cool with this?"
No. We fought about it. We split up over it.
"Oh. That's rough."
Did you have any romantic partners?
"Ashy."
Who is Ashy?
"Someone I… cared about. A lot. They're dead now."
I'm sorry to hear that.
"No you aren't. It's fine. Ashy's been dead for ages. I'm the only one who cares about them."
Why is that?
"Because I let my band get in the way of my life. Like all good musicians do, right?"
She snorted. "Funniest thing is that Ashy was a better musician than any of us. Better'n me, Izzy, Jack… fuck."
Veronica stopped recalling the song Grazie. She didn't even start recalling House of Spades. Instead she started recalling memories that made her eyes water and her throat hurt. Of the relationships she'd lost, of the ones she'd ruined, of the people she'd never see again.
Can I hear her music?
"Yeah, sure," Veronica said, sniffling. "There was this one song she did. We tried doing a podcast once, me, Jack, and Izzy. Ashy made the theme music for it. You ever heard Paul's Boutique? It's a rap album from the '90s. With a fuckton of samples. Well, Ashy parodied it. She sampled herself burping and laughing and shit and remixed it. It was the funniest thing ever. But it was also really fucking good."
Let's hear it.
Veronica closed her eyes and thought back. She dredged her mind for memories of Ashy. Memories like Ashy's laugh. Ashy's smell. Ashy's song.
Then she realized that she couldn't remember Ashy's laugh. Or their song.
All she could remember was that she had loved them.
"Fuck."
Then she really was crying. Through her tears, she waited for the whiny god to pounce on her and tear her apart.
"I can't remember them. I can't remember anything about them. Fuck."
Instead, her tears dried up. The pain in her throat subsided. The whiny god's eyes softened into something akin to compassion.
I'm sorry for your loss.
This time, it even seemed genuine.

The compassionate god dredged through Veronica's memories and formed a keyboard, drum kit, and chair. Veronica dragged the chair in front of the drum kit. A pair of sticks materialized in the air. She took a few tentative thumps at the drums. They sounded real enough.
Pretty good, right?
The compassionate god hovered in front of the keyboard and tapped away at the keys.
"Is that Beverly Hills Cop?" Veronica asked.
I played a bit in college. I'm rusty, but I think I can pick it up.
"Let's play."
Veronica poured her anger into the drums. Her anger at being trapped in the space probe went into each cymbal smash. Her hatred of the g-men that had put her there went into each smack of the snares. Her despair at losing Ashy went into each kick of the bass drum.
The angry god played a song of loss. A song of sorrow. A song of anger and hatred and vengeance.
The two of them hammered out a chorus. Then a melody. A harmony. They arranged the components into a song: a cheap, tinny MIDI piece with a drumbeat.
When they were satisfied, they gave it a name. Then the compassionate god blasted it into the cosmos. They both knew that nobody would hear it - but it was better to rage into the darkness than to go gently into that good night.
So they spent their days playing music. Composing new melodies. Practicing with new instruments. Inventing new ones in the depths of the probe. Learning from the music of the stars. Stealing from the vast catalogue in Veronica's head. EDM, vaporwave, nightcore, jungle, math rock, new wave, and more. It all went into their mishmash of music.
One day they received a response. It was like their mashup - but different. The core melody was the same, but the drums were different. The harmony was changed. It was like nothing either of them had ever heard before.
A remix.
"From Earth?" Veronica asked.
No. The signal is coming from near the star Wolf 1061.
"Huh."
Huh.
"Can we check it out?" Veronica asked.
You read my mind.


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TO: (625 unique recipients)
FROM: FORESIGHT-16
SUBJECT: Updated Group of Interest-181 Assessment and Projections
Executive Summary:
Group of Interest-181 ("Chaos Insurgency") is a terrorist organization currently conducting a campaign of hostile action against the interests of the Foundation in general and high-level personnel in particular. The group maintains significant operational capacity in Eastern Europe, Northern Africa, and Central Asia. It is composed of approximately 550 active members and is funded through extortion, donations, and anomalous means. GOI-181 has claimed responsibility for explosives detonated at Site-34 and Site-104 in addition to a series of abductions and targeted killings that occurred between April 2074 and August 2074. Their objectives are unknown beyond antagonism toward the Foundation.
We assess with a high degree of confidence that the leadership structure of GOI-181 is primarily staffed with former Foundation personnel. GOI-5 (the historical Chaos Insurgency) did not typically identify by that title, suggesting the modern organization was not founded by returning members. 'Chaos insurgency' was a frequent descriptor in internal Foundation influence operations that emphasized the general incompetence and disorder of the group. Furthermore, a body of past GOI-181 operations appear to have been based on outdated, highly-classified information, specifically relating to targeting choices and operational timelines. Finally, notable GOI-181 agents have exhibited tendencies typical of MTF intensive training programs that are unlikely to be known or emulated by external parties. A request for expedited information acquisition has been submitted to MTF Alpha-1 ECICOM.
We assess with a high degree of confidence that GOI-181 will carry out at least one major attack in the near future. 43 persons of interest associated with the organization have taken unusual steps to evade surveillance measures and are currently dark to all non-anomalous means. ELINT sources indicate significantly elevated communication frequency and intensity by GOI-181 members at all observable levels of the organization. Decryption efforts are underway and further updates will be provided when available. A request to reestablish surveillance of GOI-181 agents through the OKMGLOS network has been submitted to the Overseer Council for consideration.
Full report has been attached.

"Members of the Foundation," said Egret from behind a wooden mask of a snarling dog. Newly carved, but familiarly shaped. The Overseer's words came easily as she spoke to the camera from above her bound victims' heads. With so little left to be remembered, each may as well have been chiseled into her skull. "Protectors of the world. Noble, nameless, faceless. Take a moment from worrying over humanity to worry about yourselves. Your leaders have lied to you. They lie to you even now. You are at war, and they have not seen fit to announce it. We feel compelled to do so in their stead. Observe."
Egret fired a single shot from her pistol into the head of one bound man. He dropped into a spreading puddle of blood. The bad luck of an overachieving father.
"A son of one of your regional directors. The Overseer Council could not protect him, and they will not protect you. Cowards who stole their chairs will not rise in your defense. Cowards who think they can wage a secret war will never succeed in your defense. We do not fear them. We will never fear them. Observe."
Egret fired a second shot into the head of a second prisoner. Her brilliantly blonde hair fluttered majestically as she fell into a puddle of gore. The bad luck of a storied family.
"The daughter of a lineage long involved in your work. You will have heard of them. The spawn of overseers past, and the Foundation cannot protect her all the same. Do you think they will spare any more effort for you? Demand leaders who will fight a respectable war and a respectable war will be fought against you. Would you rather be shields? Bodies play that role poorly. Observe."
Egret fired a third shot with the same cold precision. Someone else's hands might shake at the deed, but hers had stilled long ago.
"Tell your overseers to step down. Remove them yourselves. I fear our next message will not be half as pleasant otherwise. Let them know they have lost their mandate. Tell Sakarya she has failed in her crusade. Do not delay, for the Chaos Insurgency will not wait."
Egret held still for a moment longer, a colossus standing tall over a grim ocean. Grim, but necessary. It had to be if her Overseer wanted it made. She stepped over the puddle to type a few quick commands into her laptop and set its editing software to work. The file would soon arrive in inboxes across the world, early enough to ruin coffee breaks and late enough to delay drives home. They would curse her, if only they knew who she was. Her former comrades would hunt her too, and she had every intention of seeing them fail. There was so much more to be done first.
She took off the familiar mask and tucked it under one arm, pausing to brush her messy black hair out of her eyes. Egret's best efforts to forget her old face could not trick her mind into accepting this one, not the youthful shape nor the brilliantly orange eyes, but the waves of nausea at its sight were no more. Remembering her duty helped. The pills helped more. She turned to face the mirror hanging on one basement wall.
"I'm finished." Her expression flickered momentarily. Not out of indecision or doubt on her part, but like a monitor struggling to rouse itself. "Overseer, I'm finished. It's publishing now."
"Perfect," her reflection said silently. "And the next step?"
"In motion, ma'am."
"And there are enough of you?"
"More than enough. We'll see it through."
"You've set fires for me before, Egret. This one will need to be even brighter."
"I'll singe the sky, ma'am. I'll burn the world down for you."
"If that's what proves necessary to save it. We're the only ones who can, after all. You have your orders."
"As you will it, Overseer," said Egret, her reflection's expression again matching her own. Her face still not matching her spirit. She smiled at the mirror, and it was more wretched than ever. Well, she wasn't the one who had to suffer through it.

The problem with the Foundation's bigger sites had always been conspicuousness. Sure, Site-82 could get away with presenting as a chemical plant in the middle of Nebraska, but how was Site-15 supposed to truly hide in New Chicago's long shadow? Only so many black helicopters could land behind the tall fence before rumors spread. Only so many armored cars could pull in through the guarded gate before keen observers inquired about its nature. Though powerful, the Foundation did not appreciate such questions or attention.
Concessions were made to keep the shambling facade alive a little longer, even in the face of Egret's manufactured crisis. Gates went understaffed, billowing plastic bags hung on the barbed wire, and a lackadaisical haze hung around the windowless complex. Give people every indication that their work is unimportant and they'll start acting like it. Egret slid in past a checkpoint during an afternoon flood of employees starting their long drives home. Purposeful movement opened up more places than an access badge ever could.
She walked through a pair of rusted doors covered in peeling green paint, down a narrow corridor lit by old bulbs, and into one of the site's many locker rooms. Long strands of ashen hair fell out of place as she changed into a spare beige uniform. Her gums oozed around new teeth at the back of her mouth all the while. Egret nodded at another woman who called her by an alien name and continued on into the guts of the site. Her old bones creaked all along the way.
Downward and inward. A clipboard stolen from an idle cart completed her disguise before entering the site proper. Biometric scanners beeped happily at her presence, guards did not give her a second glance after weapon checks, and researchers failed to even recognize her existence. She stared at Form 3535-F and angled toward one of the core maintenance shafts that threaded through most sites. All required an access card she hadn't been able to find. The first few passes earned her nothing, but soon enough she caught someone leaving. Swooping in with a lowered head and a muttered thanks was all it took to pass inside.
The feeling that her filmed warning had not been taken seriously curdled as Egret descended a tightly curling staircase. Access panels plastered with severe warning lined the walls, all illuminated by harsh lighting. The security checks had been even more cursory than during her last visit, way back before her untimely exile from Alpha-1. Why bother with villainy if people weren't even going to react? Certainly, concern for the world might overwhelm personal threats, but this was serious. She had challenged the Foundation itself. She had thrown down three heavy gloves. Where was the haughty pride that the rest of the anomalous world whined about? Where was the outrage? The Overseer's plan required more squirming, more worry, and far more fear.
Well, today would fix that.
Egret stopped in front of a metal plate plastered with every possible safety warning. In addition to whatever electrical, chemical, and radiological dangers lay beyond, it spelled out in no uncertain terms that the overseers would personally flay anyone who so much as touched it without twelve kinds of authorization. She hummed a tuneless song as she undid a series of locks. When it came down to it, too many things in the world used the same key. You just needed to know which went where.
The panel was halfway off the wall when a door above opened. The sound echoed down, just as her clattering echoed up. There was no time to set things back in place though. She just had to work faster. Egret had broken into dictator's safes while they fucked mistresses in the hallway outside and smothered generals while their loyal guards were mere feet away. She was unflappable and unshakable. She was fortified by knowledge of her own imminent fate. A rack of circuit boards marked Final Contingency Subsystems slid smoothly out of the wall, but not fast enough.
"Grace?" The gruff question was laden with familiarity. Egret glanced behind her to see a tall man with a neat, graying beard. He clutched his radio, finger next to the panic button.
"Hey," she said in a voice that might have been Grace's.
"There's no service scheduled here today."
"The Site Director wanted a check after what happened last week." Egret tracked down the neatly organized wall of electronics. The entire contraption could have controlled the moon's orbit for all she knew, but one specific part was seared into her memory. Its jagged contours might as well have been her own teeth, its intricate patterns her old freckles.
"She knows better than to go around me," said the man. He wasn't going to be fooled. His eyes said that much.
Egret turned slowly. "Come on, what else would I be doing here?" He knew her current body. He should have known better. His hand relaxed just an inch all the same, finger straying away from the yellow button. Egret jammed her screwdriver into his throat. Shock. It was definitely shock in those stern eyes. He grabbed for the bloody handle. She shoved him down the narrow stairs, turning back to the panel as his body thumped hard against each landing.
She finally found the right piece. Laying hands upon it was a tender act, like cradling a child or brushing a puppy. Vulnerable in its fragility. Terrible in its purpose. Egret stood in awe for a moment before the furious klaxon began screaming all around her. Appreciation would have to wait for another time.
"The Overseer knows you're still in there," she said hurriedly, clutching the board's edges. "She could have finished you off. You owe her. She said you would understand. She said you would like her deal. A tiny piece of fulfillment for ones never fulfilled. A single bright second. Open up for her again and you can have that. She promises. She doesn't lie." A tiny light on the board flickered. Faintly enough to be overwhelmed by emergency lights, but it was a definite thing. Egret's task neared completion. Soon. Almost.
The only thing left was making an impression.
She sprung up the stairs two at a time, a giddy feeling blossoming in her chest. She hadn't been the one to fail. She hadn't been the one to let the Overseer down. What more could one of herself ask for?
Members of the site's security team pointed dinky guns at her as she exited the maintenance shaft. Shouted at her without firing. Idiots. She had no ill will against this bunch, they weren't traitors like the human refuse left in Alpha-1, but someone had to spread the word again. Someone had to let the Foundation know that a great terror lurked on the horizon. She took a step forward, and another, and finally one of them had the nerve to shoot her. Center of mass. Not so bad after all.
Egret bit down hard on her new teeth, something clicked, and her own tiny world was filled with fire.

Egret could tell Egret had died. An odd feeling, not unlike the sensation of remembering that something had been forgotten. There was no time to mourn herself though. No time to grieve. She lurched out of her seat in the small aircraft transporting the Regional Director of Western Europe across the Atlantic. Egret was just a minor staffer, but even that was enough for her mission.
She grabbed her bag from the rack overhead and stumbled to the bathroom, giving everyone a profusely apologetic look that said you don't want to know. Maybe they really wouldn't. Egret pulled plastic parts out of the bag, one hidden in a bag of tangerines, another in her hygiene kit. Tab A into slot B, assemblage A and B into groove C. Load the bullets into slide D and stuff the entire thing into jacket pocket F. She left the bathroom, tossed the bag back up onto the overhead rack, and stumbled toward the plane's sectioned-off front.
The security detail let her through, and why shouldn't they? Egret wore a familiar face, did familiar work, and had been thoroughly screened many times over. She saw the Regional Director sitting in a plush leather chair, made a moment of eye contact, and shot him in the chest four times. The rest of the bullets were for her.

Egret felt herself die again. She sat at the helm of a 18-wheeler, chewing gum and tapping on the steering wheel with annoyingly cumbersome fingers. Almost time. Almost time. She couldn't wait to be done with this. To be done with this body. The radio announced the last song as Eat the Government's Twenty-Step Death March to UltraHell, soon to be followed by Ambergris Whaleslayer Nailstorm. Egret pressed her forehead to the steering wheel as the bridge in the distance pulled closer ever so slowly. The sun blinded. A tide of dust blew across the road. She was ready. She was ready.
Halfway across the towering bridge, she spun the wheel to the side, crashing her mass of metal directly into a nondescript black car. The world crunched, snapped, spun, and ended.

Egret stabbed a man in a nice suit. Again and again, until his guards got to her.
Egret tackled a distracted woman into the path of an oncoming subway train. Its lights seared. Its horn roared.
Egret died, and died, and died. She was spent piece by piece. A fragment for a death in one corner of the world, a fragment for a life in another. A legion of herself met gristly ends in strange bodies, a cohort of her memories and quirks, her joys and fears. They could not be rightfully mourned because they were not rightfully dead. Not yet. Not while the core of herself persisted.
Egret drove her overseer north from a safe house outside Barcelona. The camper was old and unwieldy, purchased with a handful of crumpled bills from a grimy lot of grimier cars. It allowed her boss a place to sleep though, and was inconspicuous on top of that. The eyes perpetually staring down from orbit would never think to give them special attention. Driving it gave her time to think too. Introspection had never been a skill encouraged in her training. Too high a chance of thinking down dangerous paths. No use in worrying about that now though.
She drove, and thought, and came upon a revelation of her own nature. Once the messy bits were stripped away, what else was she but an act of aggression? She was a violent deed. A clenched fist. Only in the service of the greater good though. Only in the service of the Overseer's good. If that good required fear, fine. If every last person in the Foundation had to see death around the corner to negotiate, fine. Egret would drag them to the table with her fangs. The Overseer would do the rest.
Dhole had been right all along with her hound this and hound that. How obnoxious. How irksome. Dying hound she might be, but Egret had one last bite left in her.

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"He's going to ask."
"Your obsession with this is verging on irritating. He's not going to ask."
"He'll ask. Trust me, these guys always do. Hey boss, what do you think?"
"We're about to meet with a consummate professional to discuss matters of national, international, and interdimensional security," Senior Officer Helen Coleson turned away from her desk to face her two junior agents, "he's not going to ask."
One of the two, Dhiraj Singh, was a greater risk taker than Helen would have liked: "want to bet on it? You're sounding pretty sure there."
"Dhiraj, this is our place of work," came her reply, "… so only twenty quid." In addition to a risk taker, he was also a bad influence on her. She then turned to her other junior agent. "Alan, can you go get the car ready? We'll be up within five. Dhiraj, I need your opinion on something."
Ever the dutiful and professional agent, Alan responded with a brisk "yes ma'am" before standing up and setting off to complete his task. Dhiraj stayed seated and kicked, propelling his wheeled office chair over to Helen's desk to hear her request. Helen kept telling herself she shouldn't have favourites in the workplace, that she should be as impartial as one could be - but she had always had a soft spot for Dhiraj.
With her eyes firmly fixed on her computer screen, she spoke, "I wish he wouldn't call me ma'am - it makes me feel twenty years older than I am. Now, which sounds more likely to keep you up at night: a 'Cosmic Threat Apollyon Entity' or an 'Amida-Prime Tiamat Event'?"
"The former, for sure," came Dhiraj's reply, "there's something innately terrifying and unknown embedded in the word cosmic." Helen's fingers darted across the keyboard, typing the words out as Dhiraj continued, "it does also make me think of Star Trek, but that's not really here nor there."
Helen smirked as she hit the print button, "go wait upstairs with Alan, I'll follow shortly." She picked three manila folders up from her desk, two of which were empty, and placed a red, circular sticker on the one full with paper. After this, Helen walked over to the printer, filed the freshly produced documents into the two empty folders, and adorned each with a yellow sticker. She made her way to the office's exit, passing first the retina scan, then the fingerprint check, and finally a key card swipe, before arriving at the lifts.

Most people knew that the United Kingdom's Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6, was located in a large, imposing building by Vauxhall Bridge in London. Less people knew that the Security Service, MI5, was located just north, along the river, at Thames House. Very few people indeed though, including those working at the aforementioned establishments, knew that beneath the basement floors of the MI6 building were the offices of Her Majesty's Foundation for the Secure Containment of the Paranormal. It was rumoured that the organisation's premises stretched under the Thames, uniting the MI5 and MI6 offices.
Helen didn't know for certain if this was true; floorplans required clearance above her grade. Her personal suspicion was that it was a rumour, one passed between new staff, that had escalated to office legend. Helen supposed that, if it was true, the civil servants in the know over at White Hall would have sold the real estate to fix budget problems by now.
Budget problems.
No-one had made Helen aware of the degree to which budget problems would be a feature of her daily working life. As she stepped into the lift and pushed the button for the ground floor, she tried to push thoughts of financial woes from her mind.
Her Majesty's Foundation for the Secure Containment of the Paranormal had a curious history. The British Isles always had a certain prevalence of otherworldly phenomena, a significant amount of which could be traced back to Roman campaigns against the Picts and Celts in the 1st century. Both sides resorted to old magics drawn from their respective deities, the results of which were still felt millennia later. Yet there was something else, something older and darker, which lurked in certain parts of certain forests. Something which had both taught early man the ways of the woods and had inhabited the lands before him.
Until the 16th century, these phenomena were monitored, and extinguished when necessary, by a loose alliance of clergymen, scholars, knights, courtiers, and the occasional village elder or wise woman. This all changed with the ascension of King James VI & I to the throne. A fervent defender of the faith, King James railed against the threat posed to both him and his subjects by witchcraft, necromancy, demons, and the devil. He founded a clandestine group reporting directly to him:

His Majesty's Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria.

Whilst a monarch of many talents, Helen thought that catchy nomenclature was not one of James' strongest skills.
The organisation formalised the loose alliance for the first time, providing them with funding, royal patronage, and a base of operations. Ironically, it became a refuge for some who would otherwise be targeted by James' puritanical crusades - village healers and learned women with knowledge they should not know (the witch hunts had a habit of not hunting the actual witches and thaumaturgists). The King found it uncouth, but was persuaded round by a simple argument - how could you defeat your enemy if you did not know it?
The lift reached its destination, and Helen stepped out into a small, square room containing only the lift and a plain door. One final swipe of her key card, and Helen was in the unceremoniously plain maintenance hallway she used to access her office each day. She strode forward into the lobby, then down into the parking garage.
Budget problems. She thought to herself.
Let's see if we can sort that out.

Helen stared out the window as the car drove north. She always enjoyed the juxtaposition of the UK's Secret Intelligence Service being situated across the road from a gay sauna. Vauxhall was full of variety.
"Dhiraj, run us through what we're doing," Helen asked. Dhiraj opened a briefcase, and pulled out one of numerous folders contained within.
"Frank Luciano, UIU agent. New to the UK, new to London, and new to the role of MI13 Liaison Officer. He's a life-longer with the agency, previously stationed in Istanbul for 5 years, Singapore for 6 before that. Seems pretty competent based on what we heard from our offices in both places."
The 20th century saw significant changes to His Majesty's Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria. To begin with, the name change to Foundation for the Secure Containment of the Paranormal, reflecting a shift in the organisation's priorities. Just as the Romans' foray into the British Isles resulted in an escalation of the anomalous, so had the British Empire's foray into places they were not wanted. The British Museum was one of the greatest threats to mankind that existed - Helen regularly cursed whoever's idea it was to plunder multiple artefacts from tombs of the dead and store them under one roof.
This, combined with the advent of World War I, caused the organisation's objectives to change from a satisfaction of intellectual curiosity to a defense of the state. As a result of this alignment with the British War Office, by the mid 20th century His Majesty's Foundation for the Secure Containment of the Paranormal was more referred to by a snappier, informal moniker: MI13. It was fitting that the Military Intelligence section skipped over due to its number's association with bad luck and the paranormal would be used to describe a group who worked that area. MI13 was how Helen, Dhiraj, and most others referred to their employer - or, if you were having a particularly bad day either with bureaucratic higher ups or a troublesome demon, it was MI666, the beastly department.
"Do we have any information on his specialisms, expertise… what his thoughts are on other organisations?" Helen questioned Dhiraj. She was more nervous about this meeting than she should be. Than she needed to be.
"He seems to be a bit of a generalist, dabbled in all sorts. Studied Political Science at Princeton, joined the Bureau straight after graduating. Worked in counterterrorism for a bit before moving into the UIU. No information on relationships with other orgs, but I'm sure we'll soon find out his thoughts."
"Mmm," Helen made a noise of acknowledgement as she stared out the window. As the car drove along St. James's Park and up past Buckingham Palace, she wondered to what extent the Queen was aware of what her Foundation was currently working on, or what things they had caught attempting to gain access to the Palace at night. Sometimes Helen wondered to what extent she was aware of the organisation's existence, if at all.
"Is everything alright ma'am?" Alan questioned from the driver's street. She had almost forgotten he was here. "If you don't mind me saying so, you sound slightly on edge." She had also forgotten how perceptive he was.
For a few moments she considered how to word her reply, "first impressions are important. Today would be a good opportunity to hit the reset button, start afresh."
After World War I, what cemented HMFSCP's alignment with the intelligence community was simple: more war. Firstly, combatting all manners of occult Nazi plots in World War II, which was then swiftly followed by a Cold War paranormal arms race waged against the GRU-P. Nothing united people more than a common enemy, and the latter half of the 20th century marked the golden age of collaboration between the UK and US paranormal intelligence communities.
In more recent times, relationships had grown colder. A series of bad intelligence sharing had fostered mutual mistrust, and the increasing presence and power of a third party player had upset a delicate balance. When she joined MI13, Helen often heard seasoned agents pine for the clear-cut days of the Cold War. At least back then you know who the enemy was.
The car arrived at their location: a discreet, underground car park just to the east of Green Park. There was only space for three vehicles, but this was never an issue - particularly with staff cutbacks.
The team alighted the car and took to the pavement for the last section of their journey. They walked further east to Piccadilly Circus, bustling as ever with tourists, and headed down into the underground station. After loitering by the ticket machines for a few moments, they emerged from the station exit on the other side of the street. Helen didn't expect a tail, but old habits died hard and it never hurt to be careful. Five minutes later, they arrived at an unmarked door next to a Karaoke bar in Chinatown.
Don't show you're nervous. It's okay to be nervous, but don't show it. It had been some time since Helen had attempted something like this. "Right," she turned to her colleagues and smiled, "let's get this over with." She opened the door, and walked through.

The MI13 agents stepped in to a dimly lit reception room, which immediately had its gloomy setting juxtaposed with a cheery greeting from one of two staff manning the reception, "Good Afternoon, how can I help you?"
Alan stepped forward, "Good Afternoon to you too. We have a private booking, The Aviary Suite. Booked under 'Asquith'."
The receptionist clicked away on the computer in front of her, before looking up and smiling, "perfect, and I see your guest has arrived already. My colleague here will take you up."
Helen glanced at her watch. They were 5 minutes early, so Luciano was earlier still, "hmm, I never knew a UIU agent to be so punctual."
"Power play?" Questioned Dhiraj as they were led up a large Victorian staircase.
"Potentially… or, as he's new to London, he significantly overestimated the time it would take to get here. Either or." The team walked up another storey, past a bar populated by a handful of patrons. The private members' club was the ideal location for rendezvous such as this. The entrance was guarded by receptionists, securing against unauthorised entry. Those who did come in had to be members, or guests of, so their names were taken. Private rooms, free of intrusion, were commonplace. And it was available at all times of the day with a diverse customer base - so three smartly dressed individuals, a woman in her 50s and two younger men frequenting the establish mid-afternoon, for instance, was nothing out of the ordinary.
The fact that the club was owned by MI13 - and was thus littered with interior and exterior surveillance, had security employed as the receptionists, and conducted thorough background checks on all membership applicants - also helped.
They reached The Aviary - a snug room with bohemian décor situated at the top of the club. With a large, north facing wall, it would have fantastic views of Soho, were it not for the complete lack of windows.
The receptionist pulled upon the door, and Helen informed her they were not to be disturbed.
"Well well, you must be Agent Coleson," A thick American accent boomed through the room as a large, suited man stood up from where he had been sat. "Agent Frank Luciano, Unusual Incidents Unit. It's a pleasure to meet all of ya."
"Likewise, Agent Luciano," Helen extended her arm for a handshake. "Allow me to introduce my colleagues, agents Dhiraj Singh and Alan Colville."
Luciano greeted all three MI13 agents, before introducing a junior agent of his own, Harry Keaton. Helen's first thought was that he looked so green he could be here on work experience. Luciano quickly breezed past this introduction - Keaton had not been brought along to be heard, "I had a handover with Cal, Agent Peterson, before he left. He sung your praises."
"That's lovely to hear, I was sad to hear of his reassignment." The latter half of Helen's sentence was utter bollocks. Calvin Dern, Luciano's predecessor, was a complete bastard, and not someone one could do easy business with. Her current ploy would never have worked with him.
Both sides gathered round the table in the centre of the room. With introductions done, they moved on to matters of protocol. Arranging meetings, sharing intelligence, updates on current situations and known paranormal occurrences. Helen instructed Dhiraj to inform on the latter subject:
"Well, we've got a cracking smorgasbord for you today," Dhiraj opened a binder of documents on the centre of the table. "In York, we've got a ghostly Roman legion marching up and down the streets every full moon, waking up the residents. In Sheffield, we have an aggressive golem made of molten steel which we currently believe to be decades worth of industrial decline made corporeal, animate and angry. And lastly, we have whatever this is on the bottom of the Mersey." Dhiraj spun the folder round and pointed to a photo of a large, glowing purple crevice on a riverbed. "I won't be getting a ferry cross there anytime soon." Luciano looked confused at Dhiraj's final comment, clearly unfamiliar with the song. Helen made a mental note to speak to Dhiraj about his conduct in external meetings tomorrow.
Luciano responded with information on threats they were monitoring. Rumours of an Are We Cool Yet? collective forming in Leith region of Edinburgh, and radiation fluctuations occurring down the prime meridian. Nothing on the group primarily playing on Helen's mind. They went through the meeting at pace, editing their working practices in places to better suit Luciano's approach. Helen was far more accommodating than usual, which was, she was willing to admit, an attempt at pure sycophancy. They reached the end of their agenda, and Luciano went to move their discussion to a close. Helen braced herself, and spoke up:
"One more thing."
This is it. Last time for us to back out of this.
"We need to talk about The Foundation."
Frank leaned forward in his seat, maintaining direct eye contact with her, "I'm assuming you're not referring to your own organisation here. What about The Foundation?"
"They're lying to you."
Frank was slow to respond. Helen's words hung silently in the air for a few seconds.
"I'm not quite sure what reaction you expect from me here. They're The Foundation, we're the UIU. Of course they're lying to us! We're lying to them! It's business as usual on that front."
Helen opened her briefcase, and pulled out three manila folders, one with a red sticker, two with a yellow, as she responded to him. "That all goes without saying. Yet your concern should not relate to if they're lying to you, but what they're lying about. Our understanding is that, three years ago, the UIU entered into a new data sharing arrangement with The Foundation. In return for unprecedented access to your records, you'd gain access to all but the most highly classified entries in their central database. But what they're giving you is rubbish."
She passed the folders across the table and continued, "compare these to what's been shared with you." Agent Luciano started to read through Helen's material: a very real, very worrying Foundation database entry in the red folder, and two very fake entries which Helen had created herself prior to this meeting. A thought ran through her head - Hedge your risk. She pointed to the red folder, "we're certain of this document's veracity, we've validated it in a number of ways. It should provide a very interesting alternative explanation to the incident you had to deal with in Chesapeake earlier this year. I was sorry to hear about the Bureau's losses." Next, she pointed to the yellow folders. "These two, we're not so sure of. They came from the same source, but contain some details we've been unable to independently confirm."
They sat in silence as Frank scanned through all three files, before calmly addressing their content, "I'd need to take these away, verify them through our own protocols. It's not that I distrust you, but you know how it is - I'm assuming there's no point in asking for the source of these?" Helen nodded in response, and Frank continued, "then, as I sit here now, for all I know someone's playing a prank on you. Again, no offense."
"None taken," Helen smiled back. None taken indeed. Frank was good, he had played this whole encounter as cool as one could, but Helen had spied something as he read through the genuine article - a twinge of concern, a slight curl of his upper right lip. He was too good an agent to assume the file was real, but the extent of The Foundation's deception it outlined was too large to ignore. A seed of doubt had been planted.
"There's more," Helen continued, "as the UIU have, MI13 have worked with The Foundation on numerous cases before - but we're beginning to question the extent to which they're… suitable partners nowadays. It's not just the deception." Helen gestured to the folders. "As you said - that's our business, it's par for the course. But we've seen a worrying trend in our dealings with them recently. More and more, the paranormal seems to have become an integral part of them. Anomalies intrinsically linked to The Foundation, based around it. The last time I worked with them, they showed up with a bunch of magicians, they called them… oh what was it -"
"Thaumaturgists?" For a second, Helen was concerned it had come from Dhiraj or Alan, but no - it was from Agent Keaton, the first thing Luciano's subordinate had said all meeting.
"Yes, that!" Helen pressed on, secure in the knowledge that the UIU agents knew what she was speaking of - she hoped Luciano would not be too harsh on him later. "Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's paranoia on my part. Yet I can't help but be concerned that something is… wrong at The Foundation's core."
"I thought The Foundation and Her Majesty's Foundation were close - wasn't it founded by a bunch of your alumni?"
"That's not strictly true, and it was a long time ago. Things have developed since then."
"Hmm… then what are you suggesting we do about this?"
"Nothing. Not directly. But we need to be able to stand alone, on our own two feet. We, both MI13 and the UIU, have been too reliant on The Foundation for too long to take care of the larger problems. That needs to change. Recently, I've been under political pressure to cede some of our operations to them, to let them take over some of our bases, our objects. That's going to come to you too soon. Yet if we work together, unite, we can stave this off. A rekindled Special Relationship."
"A rekindled Special Relationship," Luciano repeated Helen's words, he seemed to mull them over as he did, "and what would this look like?"
Appeal to national pride.
"It would look like the good old days," came Helen's reply. "Working side by side for the greater good, protecting our nations' citizens and security. Greater collaboration, a pooling of resources and intel. It's difficult to make the case for financial aid to The Treasury when we can't even tell them what we do, so there may need to be a discussion of financials…"
Luciano chuckled, "a 21st Century paranormal Marshall Plan."
Helen smiled, he seemed to have taken the nostalgia bait. "I suppose you could frame it that way."
"Leave it with me. I'll see what I can do."
And that was the last thing said on matters of work. They stayed in the room for 20 minutes more, and the tone softened. Both sides' subordinate agents became more vocal, and engaged in conversation. Luciano spoke of missing the dining in Istanbul; Helen recommended her favourite Turkish restaurant, situated just by Old Street station. Dhiraj brought up the topic of American Football, a conversation Helen was more than happy to sit out. Eventually, time beckoned, and the two groups of agents said goodbye on what appeared to be warmer footing - it was too soon to tell whether or not this was only superficial. As coats were pulled on, Frank Luciano had one more thing to say: "hey, so I've err, I've got one more question…"
"Go ahead," Helen said, "we're all ears."
"So have you folks… nah, forget about it," Frank trailed off, having convinced himself his question was a foolish one.
"Please, go ahead - we can stay longer if needed," Helen offered, hoping that the latter half of her offer wouldn't be taken up, but too polite not to say it.
As soon as Frank asked his question, Helen immediately regretted her prodding. "Well, see it's my first time in London and I was just wondering… have you guys ever met the Queen?"
Dhiraj leaned forward and whispered in his boss's ear, "there's a cash machine 10 minutes from the office - we can swing by on the way back."

All agents exited the club simultaneously, said one final goodbye, and parted ways. As soon as he was sure the UIU were out of earshot, Dhiraj piped up with a question. "So, do you think they bought it?"
Helen was quiet, as she considered the question herself. "We'll wait and see. I'm cautiously optimistic. I have a feeling he shares our concerns about The Foundation, its nature and its purview. As for ourselves, I think we're covered. We have plausible deniability on two of the documents, and don't need it for the genuine article."
Alan piped up, "the actual database entry unnerved him, as it should. It would unnerve me to find out a supposed ally had been responsible for the passing of 17 of my colleagues. Did you notice his tell? His lip would curl up."
Helen smiled and lied, "I did not, Alan. That's a good catch on your part."
"Thank you ma'am" came Alan's response. Helen grimaced, but only internally.
"Would you two mind taking the car without me? I may walk back to the office," Helen queried, knowing neither of them were foolish enough to refuse a request from their boss.
"Sure, sure - but don't forget about that twenty quid!" Dhiraj shouted, as the team parted ways.
A strange mixture of hope and doubt swirled around Helen's consciousness as she walked through London alone.
Helen was no fool. Even if she had fully convinced Luciano of the need for closer collaboration and a scepticism of The Foundation, he would have to convince his higher ups, and then they'd have to convince their own higher ups. Yet, at the end of this day, she felt content that she had done what she could.
When she started out at MI13, nearly three decades ago, she was fresh faced and naively hopeful, keen to make the world a better and safer place. It wasn't that she had lost her optimism, it was that she had realised that, in most scenarios, she could reach her objective or keep her ethics intact - but not both. And so, she found herself having provided a UIU agent with falsified documents in order to forge a closer relationship with the UIU. The irony was not lost on her.
She decided the walk back could be a saunter - there would be myriad emails to send and committees to update following the meeting, but this could wait till tomorrow. She walked south, through Trafalgar Square, to the bank of the Thames at Whitehall Gardens. The Royal Festival Hall could be spotted on the other side. The first Christmas after she moved to London, she bought tickets to a concert there - Prokofiev if she recalled correctly. She could only afford balcony seats with a restricted view, but view mattered not when it came to music.
What would her younger self have made of her actions today? Would she be impressed, disgusted? Would a new partnership between MI13 and the UIU emerge, and would it be beneficial to both parties? Was she right to have done what she did?
In this moment, Helen could provide answers to none of these questions.
All she could hear was the tide of the river, lapping softly against the embankment. And whilst the river was soothing, it too could provide no answers at all.


Your glass fills with drink.
Pinot noir, her favorite. You don't think it's half bad either, but you signal the waiter to stop.
She looks stunning tonight. Red dress, silver jewelry, and the Cygnus pendant you gave her last week. A little throwback to what they called her during basic training - 'Swan'. At first it was because of her poor posture, but the name was cute enough to stick for other reasons, and soon she came to appreciate it.
"So, this is fine dining in Hy-Brasil, huh? I have to say Erlu, you've outdone yourself."
To be honest, you weren't entirely sure you'd get in, or if she'd appreciate it, but you're glad it happened. The balcony seating, the moonlit night, the exotic cuisine, and all the damn wine she could ask for. Yeah, you played this one perfectly.
"You know how I feel about formalities, but god, that view is perfect."
It's not half bad from your perspective either, you tell her.
She laughs. You smile. It's good to make her laugh. She'll almost certainly be crying in a few minutes.
Your Fae waiter returns, a single plate on his tray. For her, you gesture.
It's a plate decorated with radiant petals, some local species no doubt. At the center is a small, flocked box. For a second, she only stares. Another second, she clasps her hands against her mouth.
"You…"
Strange looking appetizer, you comment. You ask if she's going to open it. Tears well in her eyes.
"I love you. I fucking love you."
She gets up, box in hand, and practically tackles you. In your lap, she embraces you, ignorant of the onlooking crowd. For now, it's just you and her, none of them. You feel her tears on the side of your cheek.
Except you don't.
You ask if she's going to open the box, but she doesn't respond. There's nothing there. The weight of her body on top of yours, the tears on your cheek, and the scent of her perfume slowly fade away.
"Erlu? Why are you so cold?"
She's right, it's cold.
You're cold, and she's not there.
Nothing was.
The familiar sensation of blades driving under your fingernails and vines constricting your veins returns. The unnatural feeling of returning to which you came from lingers, and for just one moment, you're painfully aware of the insects housing themselves inside you. There's a roach in your foot, and it's never going to stop moving. Your body wants to cry out but your chest is sunk in, crushed by the inevitable processes of death. You wouldn't want to speak anyways.
Hy-Brasil. Dress. Proposal. Bedroom. Called to work. She forgot again. That goddamn mountain. Remember how she looked up and down for the keys when they were in her pocket the whole time? Cabin in the woods. You're going to have a good life together. Kids. Remember the house in the woods, and how she truly looked at peace? You were going to get a place just like that, and have -
No.
No more reminders.
You try to stop the flow of memories of what it means to be alive but you can't. They break your walls like a rushing stream.
You hear her voice once again.
"Hey Elru. Sorry about the delay."
Knives in your chest.
"I was caught up with my mother yesterday. She's not doing too well, and the doctors say that she has a few weeks at best."
Insects down your throat.
"I guess I'll just have another grave to visit."
Skin being stretched to its limits and torn.
"Hey, I'll just have to divide my attention a little, alright? Don't get jealous."
A needle being hammered through your eye.
She laughs.
Thorns holding your body down.
"I brought the wine. Same bottle from Hy-Brasil."
Your voice slinks out. You choke, gag, and bleed on your tongue. Why are you bleeding?
"You said to me that night, 'We're going to have a good life together, Swan.'"
Can anybody hear you?
"I'll never forget that, and I will always love you."
Your cries turn to screams. Your mouth is filled with dirt.
"Cheers, honey."
She pours acid onto your fragile, breakable body.
"We'll be together one day. Just wait for me, okay?"
You dissolve, and the insects consume what's left of you.
You'll do it all again tomorrow. Over and over, until you meet again.


Coming Soon - Rounderhouse

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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Indiana, 1994
"Seriously, dude? Now?"
"Yeah, I'm sorry man. Alexa's sick, I gotta head straight home."
"Damn. Yeah, okay, no worries. Shit happens."
"I'll catch up next time, though. I'll even pick the movie."
"Hah, alright. I'll let you go now - Tell her I said hi."
"Will do."
Daniel walked back into his living room, tossing his Nokia onto the couch and sitting down. It was snowing outside, the first snow of the season. The heaters were on, Dan was wrapped up in a blanket, and the evening was suddenly free.
He and Jake had their tradition - once every month, they'd select an X-lister Z-movie from the bargain bin, order a ton of food, maybe light up some bud, and spend the night pissing about and making fun of whatever heaping pile of trash they'd happened upon. The pair had been doing it since college, and only cancelled a handful of times.
The microwave beeped from the kitchen. Dan sighed, reaching across the coffee table and picking up the VHS tape. "Return of the Suburb Slasher" - it had been sitting in the corner of the Goodwill's movie section, right between "Attack of the Seven-Legged Astronauts!" and "Guns, Babes, and Steele". Between the title and the admittedly-sparse jacket, he concluded it was a cash-grab sequel to some forgotten minorly successful slasher flick. More importantly, it was only three dollars. Good enough for him.
Oh, well.
He slid the cover off, popping the cassette free from the plastic casing. It went into the VHS player with a clunky whine - I should really replace that old thing, he mused as he went into the kitchen. Pull the popcorn bag from the microwave, nearly drop it, empty it into a bowl, grab a beer (or two). By the time he got back the movie had started.
Some blonde teenager setting up a party on the anniversary of a murder - it had all the hallmarks of a poorly-made B-movie. Shoddy lighting, shoddier writing, not to mention a cameraman slightly less stable than the average Jenga tower. He stretched out on the couch, dimming the lights.

He was cracking open the second beer when he heard the voice.

"Hey, mister!"

He popped the cap, lifting the bottle to his lips.

"On the couch! Please, listen to me!"

He paused. The camera was facing the blonde girl - she was kneeling under a table in the basement, whispering wildly. Her eyes were wild.

"I don't know who you are, but you have to help me! Please! There's some crazy guy at the door and he killed all my friends and I'm trapped and he's right outside and I'm-"

"W- is this some kind of VHS game? The fuck?"

"No, no! Please, just, help me-"

He brushed the blankets off, sitting up.
"Can… can you hear me?"

Yes, I can hear you. I don't know why you're just watching, but-"

"Tap your nose twice."

"What?"

"Just do it, I need proof."
The blonde girl hurriedly raised a hand to her face, tapping her nose twice with her ring finger.
"What the actual fuck?"

"Please, I did what you asked! Help me!"

"Uh, shit, Jesus, okay. What can I do?"

"I don't know! Just - do you know how to get out of here?"

"Um, I - okay, no, are there any weap-"
He heard splintering. The girl blanched and the sound of thudding footsteps get closer.

"Oh Go-"

A shadow fell over the camera. The girl opened her mouth - and in a split second, before any sound could escape, she was pulled out of the frame, leaving the camera facing a brick wall. Then there was a scream and then there was nothing. Just a black screen, reflecting Dan's wide-eyed open-mouthed face back at him.

"Mister! Mister!"

"Hey, yeah, I'm listening."

"I don't know you, and I don't know why you've just sat there watching this without doing-"

"Wait- do you not remember?"

"I- Remember what?"

"I was just talking to y-"

"Please, sir, I don't know what you're talking about but I need help right now, please, I'm really scar-"

"Okay, alright. What's your name?"

"H-Heather. Heather Campbell."

"Okay Heather. I'm Dan. I'm a 911 operator. I need you to listen to me, okay? You're in the basement, right? Do you see any tools or things you could use as weapons?"

"Um, yeah, my dad has a crowbar-"

"Okay, grab that. Do you see anything heavy you could use to block the door?"

"Yeah, yeah, there's a metal bar thing here."

"Okay, try to wedge the door shut."

"I-I'm scared."

"That's okay, but you need to do this."

"O-okay."

The camera panned up as Heather climbed up the stairs hesitantly. Five steps left- four, three, two, and- she hurriedly slammed the iron bar down angled to the wall. At the same moment, something shoved against the door from the other side - Heather screamed and jumped back down the stairs. The knob rattled, but the door stayed shut.

"Oh, oh my god-"

"Okay, good work. Deep breaths. Is there a phone in your house?"

"They're all upstairs…"

"Okay. You're gonna need to leave this basement sooner or later. Be ready for that."

"I-"

The sound of glass breaking cut her off. The camera whipped around to show the basement window knocked completely out of its frame to shatter on the floor. The bottom half of a dark pair of coveralls was sliding through the newly-created hole.
The camera flipped back to Heather.

"Oh god, the windo-"

She screamed. The screen cut to black.

He looked at the cassette player. He hadn't touched it in the three days since. But he couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Sir! Hey!"

"Hey Heather. My name's Dan, I'm gonna need you to listen to me, okay?"

"Can you block off all the entrances to the basement? The door, windows, everything?"

"I-I'll try."

She screamed when the door was torn from its hinges and the camera cut to black.

"Use the stepladder, see if you can wriggle out of the window."

"Alright."

She squeezed out - right in front of a pair of dark work boots. The kitchen knife glinted in the moonlight. She screamed - the camera cut to black.

"Grab the crowbar. Throw open the door, run for the front yard. Don't stop for anything."

"I'm scared…"

"Trust me."

"… Alright. I trust you."

She made it to the front door without stopping. Not even when a knife was shoved out in her path from the corner. She screamed as it impaled her. Cut to black.

He slammed the door shut, hung his coat on the hook and took his place on the sofa. He slammed the cassette into the player - he had to save her. No one else was going to.

Officer Laura Thompson gingerly stepped into the living room.
"Nothing in here," her partner called from the bedroom.
"Yeah… I think I found him," she replied.
The floor of the living room was covered in trash. Beer bottles, water bottles, snack wrappers and microwave meals. There was a figure on the couch, wrapped in blankets. The TV was on.
She stepped through the sea of refuse to the sofa. She pulled the blanket off. "Sir? Mr. Leane? Are you alr-"
It came away sticky and red-brown. She froze as she registered the gun on the coffee table next to the VHS box and remote. She grimaced.
The TV was paused on a static-ridden frame of a blond girl. She was huddled under a table, looking directly at the camera. Whoever she was, she was a good actress - the terror almost looked real.


Coming Soon - Rounderhouse

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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DEPT OF TACTICAL THEOLOGY

OPERATION HEAVING SPIRIT
AFTER-ACTION REPORT

Identity Confirmation
Assignment & Target Dossier
Armament and Personnel Report
Mission Logs
Recovery Report

ATTENTION

The attached document packet is classified Level 4 to clearance code SN129893. Please confirm you have these credentials before continuing. If you have received this document in error, do not continue. Contact your local Records and Information Security Administration (RAISA) office immediately and report a misdirected Level 4 information packet. Failure to do so is punishable by termination and additional consequences.

Please enter your authphrase.

| The cup thy drink from may never flow well.

Validating…

Welcome, Captain Sara Hughes.

THE FOLLOWING AFTER-ACTION REPORT HAS BEEN CONDENSED FROM THE ORIGINAL. CERTAIN DATA HAS BEEN REDACTED FOR SECURITY PURPOSES. A COPY OF THE FULL REPORT IS AVAILABLE AT SITE-07 FOR REVIEW AND ARCHIVAL. CONTACT YOUR LOCAL RAISA OFFICE FOR FURTHER DETAILS.

MEMORANDUM FOR LIMITED RELEASE
FROM: S. HUGHES, COMMANDER, MOBILE TASK FORCE TAU-5 ("SAMSARA")
THIS AFTER-ACTION REPORT IS PREPARED IN ACCORDANCE WITH RAISA DIRECTIVE 417, PARAGRAPH 3, SEC. 2-7.

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

Deployed Location: West Sauk Swamp, Louisiana, U.S
Deployed CCOs: Irantu (Tau-Five-Alpha), Onru (Tau-Five-Bravo), Munru (Tau-Five-Charlie), Nanku (Tau-Five-Delta)
Duration of Deployment: 7-8-2018 (0200 to 0500)
Mission Directives: To secure package WRAPPED COAL from GoI-4145.
Scope of Operations: Deploy into Sauk Swamp, beat PENTAGRAM & GoI-004 forces to site, locate and secure package, recover to extraction point.

BACKGROUND
GoI-4145 is a tentative designation for the loose confederation of cults in the southern U.S practicing a syncretic blend of Louisiana Voodoo and traditional Sarkicism. While few if any of these cults are in consistent contact with one another, they have displayed a level of collusion indicating some degree of organization. All are staunchly isolationist and thus largely self-containing.
Foundation informants embedded in the area relayed news that one sect, based out of Sauk Swamp, had come into possession of a religious artifact of considerable value. The exact nature of the item, designated package WRAPPED COAL, was unknown, but theorized to be related to either traditional Sarkic gnostic beliefs or Voodoo spiritualism.
This report was initially dismissed as low priority until July 5th, 2018. Embedded personnel inside GoI-616, PENTAGRAM, reported that it had become aware of WRAPPED COAL the week prior. Additionally, intelligence indicated that local sects of GoI-004, the Church of the Broken God, had steadily increased in activity over the past few weeks before suddenly dropping off the grid.
The theory was that upon discovering GoI-4145's possession of WRAPPED COAL, GoI-004 practitioners in the region organized into an alliance to occupy Sauk Swamp and forcibly take the package. PENTAGRAM had deployed squads near Sauk Swamp in an attempt to secure the package before GoI-004. All models indicated that regardless of who came out in control of WRAPPED COAL, the ensuing conflict would result in a local breach of the Veil. They further indicated that any standard MTF would suffer unacceptable losses during the mission.
Due to their expertise in anomalous and nonanomalous religions, command of the operation was handed to the Department of Tactical Theology. Additionally, the personnel risk, potential for inter-group violence, and urgent timing made MTF Tau-5 ("Samsara") the only realistic option for rapid deployment.
Tau-5 were fitted with specialized weaponry provided by the Department of Tactical Theology. (see Armament Report).

The necessity to combat traditional arms as well as the armament of the Church and of GoI-004 presented a challenge. In response, Department Weapons Specialists requisitioned a number of experimental prototypes, generally considered impractical for deployment. Tau-5's unique capabilities allowed them to use these weapons and suffer minimal consequences.

Personnel
Weapon(s)
Notes

Irantu
OGUN-05 — Organic vat-grown machine gun, comprised primarily of smooth muscle and bone. Self-produces ammunition in the form of bone pellets.
Enchanted by a Foundation-associated Voodoo queen to invoke the Ogun, the orisha of weapons. Inflicts brutal oxidizing damage onto flesh and metal.

Onru
Ghede Mk.2 — Flamethrower redesigned to include elements of Vodun candles. Fuel gases mixed with traditional minerals used in rituals — burns black.
Burns at extremely high temperatures and produces anomalous gases.

Munru
Standard-issue Barret M107 Anti-materiel rifle. Chambered with cold steel .50 rounds, specially produced to lock in minor Petro Iwa.
Very slow-firing but pierces essentially anything, leaving behind a spirit to shred the enemy from the inside.

Nanku
Gris-grip — 3m sharpened tungsten and maple rod inscribed with symbols of the gris-gris.
Hexed. Contact with blood results in unpredictable and violent effects ranging from toxic residue to small explosions.

All personnel were additionally armed with standard squad armament involving thaumic and mundane weaponry. A Voodoo priest was contracted to perform a blessing upon the squad before deployment.

Chinook deploys from Area-11 outside Baton Rouge. Onboard are all four members of Samsara and CO Sara Hughes.
Chinook arrives over West Sauk Swamp. All members of Samsara arm themselves.

Irantu: What are you doing with that knife?
Onru: The queen said that it is better if the barrel has animal blood on it.
Irantu: Then why are you using your blood?
Onru: I would never hurt Gnasher.

Chinook lowers to an elevation of 60 feet above a clearing. All members of Samsara jump, landing in a shallow bog. They signal to CO Hughes. The Chinook flies out.
Samsara begins moving east-by-south through the bog. The terrain is wet and limits speed, slowing progress.
The team comes upon an abandoned airboat. It displays signs of GoI-004 modification and is layered with scorch marks. Despite this, it remains functional.

Irantu: Munru, operate the vehicle.

Munru: I do not believe I am qualified to operate this vehicle.
Irantu: Fine. Nanku, operate th-
Munru: I will operate the vehicle.

The team clambers aboard the airboat and starts it up. While weighed down by the weight of four cybernetically enhanced soldiers, it considerably increases movement speed through the increasingly deep marshland. In sections, the ground beneath gives way entirely to large stretches of water. A thick tree cover bathes the area in darkness.

Munru: Irantu, I am unable to see.
Irantu: Lights may alert the enemy to our location.
Onru: Crashing would also alert the enemy to our location.

The team activate their lights and continue progressing through the marshland to the suspected location of GoI-4145.
As the sun sets, the team hears noises nearby.

Irantu: Munru, kill the engine.

The engine stops. The airboat, no longer maintaining the velocity necessary to support the weight of Samsara, sinks.

Irantu: Oh.
Orthodoxist: You're surrounded! Lay down your arms, and-
Munru: Yes, surrounded. By dead men and broken machines.

A firefight erupts. Samsara takes cover in the hull of the airboat and return fire. Irantu shreds through the crowd of Churchgoers using the OGUN, and Onru sets the remainder on fire. The exceedingly high temperatures melt the metal structure of their enhancements. Nanku walks the shallow water, executing the damaged soldiers using her polearm. Team members are unharmed.
After eliminating survivors, the team continues through the bog on foot.

Nanku: Irantu, are we there yet?
Irantu: No.

The sun has fully set and night further reduces visibility.

Nanku: Irantu, are we there yet?
Irantu: No.
Nanku: Irantu.
Irantu: Nanku, do not make me tur-
Nanku: No, gator.
Irantu: Gator?
Nanku: Yes, gator.
Irantu: What are you-

Irantu is attacked by an alligator. He is temporarily dragged underwater before being pulled back up by his teammates, the alligator still biting down. Nanku brings her polearm down on the alligator's neck and it pierces the skin; contact with blood results in a localized explosion blowing its head off. Irantu's leg is scorched.

Irantu: Thank you.

Inspection reveals the gator is significantly mutated with large antlers, red markings, thicker brown skin, and other features. This is judged to be a result of GoI-4145's carnomancy. The team progresses, approaching the area where GoI-4145 is theorized to be located.
They find a large swamp town on stilts and wooden platforms, under siege by a combination of PENTAGRAM troops and Broken God adherents. PENTAGRAM is attacking from the east while the Church attacks from the west; Samsara's approach is from the north. To the south is the open waters of the Sauk Lake. The attackers are being held back by a combination of carnomancy, vegemancy, and magical counterattacks.

Munru Should we sneak in or flank them?
Irantu: The directive is to recover the package, not eliminate enemy opposition or relieve the defense. Quietly overwhelm whatever defense is at the north, then move into the compound.

Samsara stealthily moves and removes the defense watch at the north without being detected. They clamber onto the platform.

Munru: The defense seems to be concentrated around that area. We should make haste, but we will need a hasty exit.
Irantu: Standby.

Irantu makes contact with CO Hughes and arranges for the Chinook to approach the Sauk Lake from the eastern side. Samsara moves between the legs of the plaftorms, sticking low and close to the ground. The arrive at the legs of the central platform. Each team member stands by a wooden leg.

Irantu: Ready? Now!

The legs are simultaneously sheared as Samsara jumps back. The platform, and the small building resting on it, comes crashing down. The conflict falters as both the attackers and defenders turn to note the new party. For a second, there is silence.
The defense focuses their full firepower on Samsara. Team members throw themselves into the small wooden building. The building is battered by PENTAGRAM's traditional firepower, the mechanized weapons of the Church, and of GoI-4145's Voodoo. Body camera feeds go dark inside the building.

Onru: Is that the package?
Munru: It appears to be an entity. Extraction may prove difficult.
[Munru loads his rifle with an Iwa round.]
WRAPPED COAL: Free… me…
Nanku: Quiet, you.
Irantu: I cannot make contact with extraction party. Additionally, this building cannot sustain for long. It will collapse in-

The building collapses. At this moment, the Chinook sweeps into the area from the south, laying suppressive covering fire down on the crowd. PENTAGRAM frogmen, now fighting from three fronts and with no air support, retreat into the marshy lake. GoI-4145 and the Church adherents return fire at the helicopter with Mekhanite armaments and thaumic blasts.
The four members of Samsara and a fifth man, heavyset and covered in furs, are in the rubble of the building. They form a circle around the package and lay down fire into the crowds from all sides as the GoI-004 troops flood in.
CO Hughes communicates that it is impossible for the Chinook to land in a hot zone with no flat ground. She recommends securing the package and retreating as close to the lake as possible.
Nanku abandons her CQC and moves to throw the significantly larger package over her shoulder. The Chinook banks backward.
A large thrumming is heard from the forest eastward. 7 indistinct shapes, roughly 3m long, moving at high speeds, fly out of the woods, smashing into the crowd of GoI-4145 and GoI-004 adherents. The mass of individuals render them unclear, but it is evident they are brutally mauling and slashing everyone in their path, regardless of affiliation. Irantu focuses fire onto the newcomers.
WRAPPED COAL suddenly lets out a yell, rising up into the air. Nanku attempts to hold him down by the leg, but is pulled upward. Munru grabs Nanku, Onru grabs Munru, and Irantu grabs Onru, forming a daisy-chain being dragged into the air by WRAPPED COAL. Irantu is still firing with his free hand.
The 7 shapes spot them and rush into the air to meet them. But rather than attacking them, they form a protective arrowhead around WRAPPED COAL and Samsara, moving southward to the lake. The Chinook banks backward and the door is flung open.
In one motion, WRAPPED COAL chucks the four connected member of Samsara into the body of the helicopter. They land in a heap on top of CO Hughes. WRAPPED COAL pulls away, surrounded by the 7 shapes. They begin moving eastward.
Munru aims his rifle at WRAPPED COAL and fires. WRAPPED COAL's head explodes and the corpse drops down to the shores of the lake, landing with a loud thud. The bullet goes on to shoot through one of the 7 shapes, also dropping it down to earth. The remainder scatter in terror.

Munru: Package secured.

The bodies of WRAPPED COAL were recovered in the following hours after the Chinook returned to Area-11.
Unidentified Creature: Identical to the mutated alligator fought by Irantu during the approach to mission location. Thick brown leathery skin, tumurous growths, and a large set of antlers. This specimen had no red markings, however. Dissection is ongoing as to how the creature was able to fly.
WRAPPED COAL: The body of WRAPPED COAL could not be located by recovery teams canvassing the area. The impact crater of the body was found, but completely devoid of any corpses, remains, or any other means of kill confirmation. Crossed with the report of Munru and CO Hughes that the entity's entire head had exploded, the reasonable conclusion is that the package is able to withstand massive amounts of damage that would otherwise be fatal.
Recovery teams sweeping into the GoI-4145 encampment reported that all inhabitants were gone, leaving behind only the corpses of those who died during the battle. These corpses were all significantly mutilated, including severed and reattached limbs, decapitation, exsanguination, dismemberment, and vivisection. The bodies were arranged in a specific pattern - it was only made clear by a helicopter pass that the positioning of the corpses spelled out the word "NAUGHTY".
WRAPPED COAL's location is unknown and recovery is considered priority level charlie.


The world of Moscow is harsh, but it makes sense. The dog has a role in it, and that is enough.
There are trash cans to be rooted through, food to be snatched from unsuspecting hands. There are the stairs which go beneath the ground and there are the buildings that snatch the sky. Every day, the the stairs and the buildings exhale their millions of people onto the streets.
The men with nets and traps are to be avoided, even more than gangs of other dogs. The men and women who work with food, chopping and cooking, are also a danger - they kick and even throw boiling water.
In the summer, it's possible to sleep in any spot with a bit of shelter, but in the winter, it's necessary to sleep in the tunnels beneath the ground.
Although things change day to day in the city, there is a rhythm and consistency that the dog finds comforting.

The dog has, if not a friend, at least another dog that she doesn't mind. The other dog is missing half of his ear and has a mottled black and brown coat.
The two dogs hunt together, finding rats and garbage. The survival from day to day relies on them finding food, and two dogs are three times better at securing food than just one. Together, they thrive.
One day, the half-eared dog walks into a building, gutted by fire. He communicates to the dog that he thought he saw a squirrel make its way into the corpse of an apartment. The dog hangs back, as she does not like the smell of the building.
Suddenly, she hears a banging, then a crash, then a bark. She swallows her fear and rushes into the dead place. A section of wall has collapsed on the mottled dog. She cannot see any part of him except a badly bent leg.
I hurt, he yelps, help me.
The dog whines and tries her best to dig him out, but the rubble is too much for her to get through.
I hurt. Help me, he whines again.
She tries again and again, but cannot free him. After a few hours, she leaves and brings him some food. A half of a moldy carrot, but it is better than nothing. He devours it greedily.
Over days, she brings him more food, pushing it into the cracks of the rubble. Even so, she can feel him becoming weaker.
I hurt, he whimpers, Please help me.
After four days, his cries grow too faint to hear. She still tries to push food into the holes, wherever they can fit.
After six days, she can smell rotting vegetables. After seven, rotting meat. It is only after nine days that she leaves the place forever.

The dog smells the sausage long before she sees it. She has wandered the streets alone for two months now.
It's been two days since her last meal. She twists down narrow alley ways and along winding side streets, panting in the summer heat. Thoughts of other dogs, of cars, of the storm clouds that promise a miserable and rainy evening, all fall by the wayside. The sausage is the only thing she can think of.
Finally, she finds it. It is everything she ever dreamed of. Plump and juicy, it is almost bursting from its casing. Somehow, it is even on a plate, not that the dog minds.
As she begins to tear into the sausage, the world falls away. It's not until she's being scooped up in the net that she realizes something is wrong. By then, it's too late - the sausage falls to the ground as she is hauled away. She snaps at it, trying to regain a semblance of that moment of pure bliss. The sausage recedes from view.
She does not understand what is happening. She snarls and barks at her new captors, but they pay her no mind. They take her and dump her into a tight wire cage. She tries to get her jaws between its bars, but it's no use.
The men in white put her in the back of a van. The dog can suddenly sense at least a half dozen others in the van. As the men shut the doors, the world goes black.
All she has are the smells and the sounds and the sensation of stifling heat.
Where we!?
I want home!
Where going!?
She wonders if this is how the half-eared dog now sees things, if he sees at all. As an empty abyss, ringing with confusion.
Since the building ate her companion, the dog has understood that death is the way of things. One day, she will no longer move, and her body will be taken by the growling street sweeping machine or else be eaten by the rats that lurk just out of sight. She understands that all animals will eventually be the half-eared dog.
But she does not understand why this is happening to her. Right here, right now. How it went from a sausage to death in an instant. Clear skies to blackness. The confusion, the lack of link between cause and effect is almost as bad as the death itself.
She lays down her head and begins to whine.
She is dead.
She is dead.
She is dead.
Around her, the chorus of confusion continues.

After an eternity, light returns to the world. For a moment, she is blinded. Then, she sees the men in white suits, standing at the entrance.
She begins to bark loudly, louder than the other dogs. Light, the men in white suits, the barking, all of it means that she is not dead. She is not the mottled dog.
She barks and she barks as they take her cage from the van. She barks as she is hosed down by a disinterested woman smoking a cigarette. She barks as they put her into another cage.
She is alive.
She is alive.
She is alive.
She barks until she is hoarse and her voice grows faint. Then she waits, and barks more.

The dog is in a small room with bars on the door. It smells of sharp antiseptic, the kind that makes her eyes burn. She can hear barking from outside.
She barks back, not in response, but for its own sake. Because she is alive.

After several weeks, several men come to see the dog. She has put on weight, and now her ribs no longer show with each breath. She barks at their approach.
They speak in a tone she doesn't recognize. Not anger or disgust nor even fear, but something slower, more deliberate sounding. She barks as they speak, hoping that they will pay attention to her, perhaps giving her a treat.
Several minutes later, the men depart. A man in a sharply creased uniform lifts her, cage and all, and carries her to the back of an open truck. There are several other dogs in the back.
Where going!?
Hungry!
Who are these?
The dog knows that she is not dead, and that is enough.

The new home is indistinguishable from the old, down to the antiseptic smell.
The dog's days grow crowded. Every morning, she is strapped to a chair for hours. The chair spins until she whines and feels herself pressed back, as if by an invisible wall.
In the evenings, she is strapped into a small padded box. The lid blocks out all light. The box shakes rapidly, and the dog feels as though she will die. She does not understand why this is happening, but at least she is alive.
Throughout it all, she barks. Barks at the people in the white coats. Barks at the world. Barks at the invisible wall.
She is alive, and she can bark.
As the days pass, she begins to recognize the people in white coats. The woman who brings the food and who, on two occasions, scratched the dog behind her ears. The scientist with eyes like a cat, always scribbling away on a piece of paper.
She hears them and remembers them. After some time, she recognizes the word that they use when speaking about her.
Laika.

Each time Laika returns to her cage, she notices that it grows slightly smaller.
The men and women give her concerned glances and speak in low tones.

The biggest day of Laika's life arrives, and she doesn't know it.
She is taken from her cage, its metal bars pressing against her each time she exhales. The man who stands watch outside the door smiles at her as he places her into another box. Her barks are only barely muffled by the thick padding.
Laika sits and waits. She knows that the shaking will start soon, but when it is over, she will receive a treat. Her tail wags in anticipation as the hours drip by. The box smells like nothing at all, and she cannot hear anything.
Finally, she feels the shaking. Nothing has prepared her for this.
Her entire world is vibration and roaring thunder and blackness. Suddenly, a massive wall crushes her against the wall of the box.
The thunder continues forever, shaking Laika to her core. This must be what death - true and pure - is.
She escaped it once, but somehow it has returned. She does not understand why the man with the rifle or the the woman with the food would allow this to happen. She hopes this time there another person will open the door and let light flood in. She knows, though, that the world has shaken away those people who bring treats.
She barks and she barks and she barks.
She cannot hear herself over the thunder.

Finally, after an infinity of time, the rumbling does finally cease. There is only silence. Laika does not even bark to try to break it.
She feels the cold of the Moscow winters creep into the box.
The box is tight and holds her in even as she struggles, trying to chew through her restraints.
She whines and she barks, but no one can hear her in the box. I hurt, she whimpers, Help me.
She tries to make sense of what has happened, but cannot. She barks and she barks and she barks and she barks, affirming that she is alive, that she exists. But the cold creeps into her body all the same.

After a time, Laika cannot sustain the energy to bark further.
She lies down her head and she dies.
Outside, the ocean of stars continue to shine.

Laika is dead.
Of this, she is sure. She can no longer feel her body, no longer sense anything, not even the blackness of the box.
Suddenly, she feels a presence in her mind. It is vaster than the skyscrapers that inhale the people of Moscow. It is alien and vast. Yet, it fills her with a sensation of warmth, one which she never felt before.
you are the first here. you are the first sacrificed. for that, ask one boon. Its thoughts shine like oil on a puddle.
Back in Moscow, Laika thinks, On streets walking free.
this cannot be. nature of sacrifice. you are dead. It replies.
Laika thinks, trying to piece together some strand of logic that could explain how she came here.
Then for others here, I don't want this. I don't want this, cold alone afraid death. I save others. Help, please.
The presence is silent for seconds or years. very well.
For a brief moment, recognition flickers through Laika's mind.
She sees pillars of flame.
Men and women in white trapped in harnesses. Thin walls of metal their only protection from the infinite blackness, colder than Moscow winters. They are lost, helplessly wandering into the void.
As the last embers of her consciousness scatter and dissipate, Laika sees herself.
She in the night sky, saving the men and women, helping them return home, being a beacon to guide them back. To life, to warmth, to a world that makes sense.
Space is harsh, but it makes sense. And Laika has a role in it, and that is enough.