Life had always been without magic. That's why he wrote — because the real world, while it could be interesting, didn't have any magic. He wasn't quite a man of science, but instead a man of rationality. And so, he wrote: to add a little magic, a little horror, a little interest to a dull, humdrum world.
It wasn't until he fell through a hole in his world — from the real world to a world filled with the things he'd written — that he started believing. It all began so simply. He had been walking through the stock room at Wal-Mart, headed for break; when he turned the corner, he didn't see what he expected to see: bleak grey shelving filled with boxes of product were replaced with sterile, white walls. He stopped walking, trying to take it in. Turning in place, he was shocked to discover nothing behind him but the same white walls.
A psychotic break? Maybe. But you have to work within the laws of whatever universe you find yourself in, and so he began to walk, an eerie feeling shivering down his spine. The first door he came to was marked with a familiar symbol — and that feeling just got worse. He was here, in the Foundation. Not as a doctor, researcher, or agent, but as just…himself.
He was screwed.
He wouldn't blend in. He couldn't, not in blue jeans and a blue shirt. And despite being a writer, the man who would come to be known by the three-letter acronym of TDM was not as clever as those he wrote about. He had one chance, he thought. If he could get out, get away from this Site, he might be able to lose himself in the world. Might.
A passing researcher gave him a curious look as he continued to stroll down the hall. An agent gave him the same look, but closer, as if scrutinizing his face. A glance, risked over his shoulder, saw them both pointing him out to a security guard. He cursed under his breath as the guard called out for him to stop. So much for chances. Time to see if his writing had ever been any good.
He turned to the nearest locked door, addressing the panel beside it. "Open. Authorization O5-6. Alpha-Omega-13." And, amazingly, it worked. The door slid open, and he dashed through, closing and locking it behind him with the same authorization codes. It might not hold long, but would it be long enough?
Down another hall. Left at a doorway. Push past the old man with the beard. Locking every cross portal he came across, sealing every blast door. When he came to a computer, he logged in, using passcodes he'd once typed out just for the heck of it. Now, it felt so much more dangerous. He was at… Site 19. Damn it. Used to contain humanoids…no easy exits like 23 had. No… wait. There, down low, an O5 meeting room. If he could get there, he could get out. The O5s always had special escapes built in.
He wasn't a hacker — he wasn't even particularly computer savvy. Which was why he was glad he'd always written the Foundation as using touch screens. Level Five status allowed you to pull off a lot of fun tricks. Including initiating a Keter level breach alert, on the opposite side of the site. Hopefully, that would distract the guards. Hopefully.
It didn't matter. He'd locked the nearest stairway, and it was damn near a straight shot down to that room.
Eleven floors later, he was cursing the fact he'd never had enough money to get a gym membership. Being an internet writer wasn't exactly the type of work that gave you fantastic muscles. Or, you know, any muscles whatsoever.
Thirteen floors after that, he was gasping for breath, and wishing he'd quit smoking cigars when his girlfriend had asked him to. But, finally, he'd made it where he was going. Down another hall, and open this door…
TDM slumped against the wall, defeated. Sitting in the room, almost as if they had been waiting for him, was an old man and his two bodyguards. Of course he'd have to show up on a day an O5 was actually here. "Well, fuck."
The old man stared at the intruder, then shook his head just slightly at the man in the gas mask beside him. He considered the look in the man's eyes, the tone of his voice, and came to a startling — to him — conclusion. "You know who I am." There should only have been a handful of people who could recognize him on sight. "Interesting. Sadly, I do not know who you are. Which is intriguing, considering you have been using my security codes to throw this site into an uproar. You appear to have not been expecting me, and so are unlikely to be an assassin." A slight pause. "And your condition certainly helps prove that. My people tell me you appeared in the middle of a hallway, which could make you a teleporter, but I think an out of shape teleporter would not have walked down all those stairs. Which means someone sent you here. Against your will, maybe? You were coming to this room… to escape, yes? That doesn't tell me how you know there IS an escape route here. Well, do you have anything to say?"
Through labored breathing, TDM muttered something. "You'll have to speak up," the old man replied. "I am getting up there in years."
TDM sat back, and spoke again, louder this time. "Jack. TJ. Sarah. Claire. Mich-"
For an old man, the fellow known as Cowboy could still move amazingly quickly. In the twinkling of an eye, he had moved forward. TDM's pale throat stood in contrast to the glittering silver blade pressed against it, seemingly drawn from Cowboy's cane. "Those are words that guarantee you a swift death."
"But I can save them!" the bearded man gasped out, eyes locked on the blade. He gulped reflexively, and the razor sharp tip nicked his throat, a single drop of blood welling up.
"You're not helping your case. Many have claimed as much over the years. But, if you know anything about the Foundation, you should know, there are-"
"-no happy endings," the bearded man finished in unison with the O5. His thoughts raced, looking for anything that might save him. His eyes fixed on the bodyguard with the gasmask, and a spark fired somewhere in his brain. It would ruin his favorite story, but save his life. He cleared his throat, hoping to get the accent right. "H'lyiah, Cho'tp'k?"
The man known as Thompson's eyes widened behind the gas mask he always wore. His gaze shifted slightly, and his head tilted slightly before returning to its perfect orientation. O5-6 frowned. "What did you just say? Are you trying to work some memetic agent? I'll have you know, my men are well-shielded against such things. I do believe I shall simply kill you."
Taking a deep breath, he tried his best to get it all out at the same time.
"BlackhasbeenbrainwashedbyMannandhe'sgoingtokillyouifyoudon't-"
Not quite quick enough. Even as he spoke, the unmasked bodyguard's eyes glazed over, and he began to raise his gun. Not towards the unknown man, but towards the O5. Unfortunately for Agent Black, Thompson was prepared, having been prewarned. His brass knuckles struck twice in as many seconds, and the brainwashed minion was sent to the floor, unconscious.
"Like that," TDM finished lamely.
"Interesting." Six stared at his once-trusted protector, a deep frown creasing his lips. "And you knew this…how?"
"I wrote it."

Time passed, as it does. The newcomer was tagged as a Black Box SCP, known by a descriptor, not a number. The Duck Man, or "TDM" for short. He was very busy for the first, oh, hour or twelve, telling Six everything he knew about Mann's plans. He was then placed in a Humanoid Containment Chamber, and ignored for a couple of weeks, as Six routed out all of the mad doctor's plans and puppets.
But after all that, it came time to decide what to do with him. Jack Bright and O5-6 stood in the observation lounge, watching as TDM stared upwards, trying desperately to entertain himself in between feedings.
"What did he just say?" Six leaned forward, turning up the volume.
"I think it was something along the lines of 'Wow. 12 meters high. I didn't think they actually did that.'" Jack fiddled with his amulet, staring at the man before them. "Do you think this guy is on the level?"
"He's not a Bixby, if that's what you're asking. I've had people testing him, covertly. If he could alter reality, he'd have done something by now. Tests show him to be completely human, identical on a quantum level to a man currently living in the United States. All the ID he had on him when we put him in here is identical to the real one. Well, with one difference. The him on the outside is a millionaire. Won a lottery or something. This one worked at Wal-Mart."
"Thought you said he wasn't a Bixby? Sounds like some major wish fulfillment to me."
"Enh. Might have been something like that. But this guy? He can't do anything now. Except make use of the things he's 'written' in before."
"So you think he really created us?"
"No. I'm not that pessimistic. I think in his universe, he had some, we'll call it a connection. It lets him know way too much about us, but he's not a god, or a creator of any kind." Six pauses to pull out a cigar and light it up. The smoke alarm begins to go off, but a quick glare from Six and the alarm is rapidly silenced.
"Do you really have to do that?"
"What's the point of having power, if you can't abuse it?"
"And you think he can fix me? And TJ? And…" Bright swallows. "Sarah?"
"I think he can. He knows the shortcuts, he said."
"What does he want?
"Protection. He doesn't want anyone to know he's here. He says he gets nightmares thinking about what MC&D, or the CI would do to him. He also seems to think if he does too much, people from his world will notice him, and …get rid of him. He calls it deletion. He's scared to death of Kondraki and Clef, thinks they'll 'decommission' him. He's willing to help us with whatever we want, as long as we keep him fed… and entertained."
"Entertained?"
"He knows he can't have access to the outside world." Six blows a smoke ring. "So he wants games. Computer, video, all that sort. And books. Something to keep him healthy." His mouth curls in a half-smile. "And SCP-1004."
Jack can't help but double take. "One thousand four? Does he know what it does?"
"He seems to think he can handle it." Six found himself smirking. "And if he can't, well… We'll have found out all he knows by the time it makes him incapable of proceeding."
"You're an asshole. I love it."

Now. At this point, we could go on about the things The Duck Man did. The SCPs he fixed. The plots he stopped with his information, or the other things he told people that they shouldn't have known. Instead? I think it best to end this tale with a small view of what the guards watching him see.
Agent Klein sat down beside Senior Agent Hanks, sliding his card into the station to clock into his assignment. "All right, sir. I'm here to take over observation duties from you. Anything I need to know?"
"This guy masturbates more than anyone. Ever. Seriously, it's disgusting. I don't even want to know what he's looking up on that thing. The sounds are bad enough." Hanks shakes his head. "Look, this is an easy job. The skip isn't dangerous. He just sits there, playing video games, and watching porn. Your main duty is to poke him every now and then, make him get active. That's what the treadmill and weights are for. The Overseers want him to stay healthy."
"Is he talking to himself in there?"
"Same thing he always says. I don't get it, but here, listen." Hanks leaned forward, turning up the volume so the two could hear the words The Duck Man would be repeating for the rest of his long life.
"Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me."


Mr. Moon knew he was very good at timing these things. He really couldn't afford to be bad at it, with his condition. He'd tried to use watches, but watches only worked when you had eyes to watch them with. Same with a metronome. So Moon counted.
One… Two, Three…
Thirty two thousand, four hundred and sixty seconds. That was how long he'd been able to see. Moon felt his bones cry out in protest as he rose to the chamber door. In approximately three hundred twenty four seconds, a Security Agent would open it and let him out. Give or take twenty nine, if the Agent was slow.
Thirty… Thirty one… Thirty two.
Moon's face was clouded, partially with worry and partially because it was a cloudy night. This particular Agent was an early-bird, and it'd thrown off the count. Deciding that he could make do until it reset, he timed the approximate two and a quarter of a second it took him to make a step with his cane.
Four and a half… Six and three quarters… Nine…
The air conditioning had been on for five hundred sixty seconds when Moon took his seat. Waiting here was the hardest part. In five hundred seconds, the doors would open and they would see him. He'd watched one hundred and twenty pitying expressions staring at him.
Five thousand, six hundred seventy three…. Five thousand, six hundred seventy four… Five thousand, six hundred seventy five…
They were older. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty two weeks had taken their tolls. The small talk was painfully low. She smiled at him, telling him about all the things outside. About Jim, and how wonderful he was, and how happy he was for her. Mr. Moon had lied to her three thousand, five hundred times. At least Jim hadn't accompanied her this time.
Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven…
She cut the visit short by ten minutes. Apparently she'd been five minutes late to a social event, and had been paying him a favor to visit. Fifty seconds later, she'd left him again. She was getting quicker.
Five thousand, nine hundred seconds later, Moon's ear began to grow dull. He paced his cell, counting the steps. Eleven and a half steps north to south, fifteen and a quarter east to west. Pacing until the count could reset and bring him respite.
One… Two… Three…


After Action Report, Incident MC-643
Agents Samuels, Perkins, and Flanders were assigned to infiltrate and gather information regarding a Christmas masquerade believed to have been held by Foundation group of interest Marshall, Carter, and Dark on October 2█, 20██ at ██ ██████ Drive, the location of an estate believed to be owned by one of the founding members of Marshall, Carter, and Dark.

Samuels spoke with a woman wearing a silver Venetian mask, her eyes hidden behind the grey film of her disguise. She was snacking on what Samuels believed to be a wafer of dried human heart, but he wasn't absolutely certain.
"Dearie, you simply must try the punch. It is simply fabulous if I do say so myself, simply to die for. I do believe I will have some more, join me?"
Samuels had already identified the table from which the punch, and most of the food at the party, were coming from. He didn't want the punch.
"I think I'll pass, but thank you ma'am. If you'll excuse me, I must speak with that man over there about acquiring a new contortionist. My last seems to have broken herself, quite tragic."
Samuels strode briskly away from the woman and towards Flanders, ignoring the parting suggestion that he make use of the local bone regrowth facility.

Agents successfully infiltrated the masquerade, all wearing copies of a black full-face mask. Access was gained through a window in the east wing of the mansion after Agent Perkins drilled through the lock.

Perkins was trying to catalog all the anomalous items in the room, and having a hard time of it. In the corner by the door a woman, apparently a nurse, was eating pomegranate seeds. She didn't seem to notice that she never ran out. In the opposite corner, a man entertaining a crowd by changing breadsticks to meat. To Perkins' left, a golden fountain ran out of the wall, a small plaque listing the health hazards associated with it. And across the room-
Perkins cursed under his breath.
"Flanders you fool, what were you thinking?"

Mission integrity was apparently compromised by Agent Flanders twenty minutes after entering the room in which the main event was hosted.

Flanders was in love with the cheese, savoring every bite. The aroma was rich and filling, the savory taste coating his tongue, the soft dairy parting between his teeth in an experience he had never felt anything like before. He would never leave this table again if it meant leaving his cheese, not for anything. The cheese was his world, and nothing else mattered.

Agent Flanders came under the effect of a portion of human liver seemingly affected by SCP-643. Attempted intervention by his fellow agents led to a brief physical confrontation, followed by the loss of Flanders life when an instance of SCP-643 came in contact with his skin. Several other attendees were coated by SCP-643, but did not cease consumption of Agent Flanders to save themselves.

Samuels stumbled out of the hall, his sleeve held up against his bloodstained mouth, his mask askew. Flanders' tortured screams followed him, echoing through the doorway. Samuels nibbled on the finger he had managed to scavenge, and watched as a table was carried past him and into the hall by several huge men. A thick sheet covered whatever was within, golden fluid spilling out from beneath the sheet and turning the carpet to a cheesy yellow substance. He coughed as a piece of bone and fingernail caught in the back of his throat, but he couldn't bear to waste anything by spitting it out.

Agent Samuels was unable to recall any events following his final encounter with Agent Flanders.

Perkins moaned in ecstasy as he bit down on a muscle. Flanders wasn't wriggling too badly anymore, and he was much easier to hold down. He would twitch every now and again when Perkins made a grab for an organ, and he'd really start jerking whenever he tried scooping a bit of brain, but Perkins didn't care.
The hot rush of blood over his tongue was beginning to slow, and he almost cried knowing that his dessert was nearly gone. But then Perkins was distracted by the wonderfully diverse taste of human spleen, and then the hot pulsing of the heart, and then the marrow, oh the bone marrow, the sweet crack of bone, the rush of hot delicious slurry, the wet flopping of juicy muscles struggling to contract with nothing to pull against.

Agent Perkins was found dead the following morning. Autopsies suggest that his body was unable to process the amount of substance consumed the previous evening. This, combined with substantial damage received to his face by unknown means, led to Perkins' death from both excessive bleeding and rupturing of the internal digestive tract.

Samuels staggered back into the hall, his mask tilted diagonally against his face, red blood slashed across the mouth, and a piece of cotton shoved against his nostrils. He fought his way through the orgy of dead and dying cannibals, still trying to force as much of each other as possible down their mouths, and tumbled to the ground where Flanders lay with Perkins inert by his corpse. He shoveled a few more handfuls of Flanders flesh into his mouth, gagged as his stomach protested, grabbed the other agent's earpieces, and crawled out of the hall, a piece of somebody's kidney clutched in his other hand.
And behind him a man smiled, hand pressed against his still-bleeding arm, cut by his own hand. Soon, all who were here would know Their light, would know the joy of giving to the unenlightened that which was most precious, their own flesh. He loved these sorts of functions, the kind he could pin on some outside group as hosting. This time of year was always the easiest time to spread, with its focus on food, and the sharing of it. He felt the worms wriggling through his veins, felt them in the people surrounding him who had been eating his meat throughout the dinner.
He felt a great satisfaction at his missionary work for the evening.


Item #: SCP-343
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-343 is currently uncontained. No reliable method of containing SCP-343 has been found.
SCP-343 has taken up regular residence in humanoid containment chamber 208 within Site 17. All contact with SCP-343 is to follow standard humanoid interview protocols. In the case of unauthorized contact, personnel are to politely decline conversation with SCP-343 and report the incident to the nearest supervisory personnel. If contact cannot be avoided, all information gathered is to be likewise reported.
In the case of SCP-343 making contact outside of the Foundation's direct jurisdiction, appropriate cover-up countermeasures are to be taken as soon as the extent and content of contact has been ascertained.
This document has been modified by Mátyás Büki, known to all as SCP-343.
Description: My friends, it is high time that I leave you. I must be moving on. Thank you greatly for your hospitality in my time of need. However, it is no longer safe here, and while this is no fault of yours, I cannot with good conscience allow myself to remain. I have taxed your kindness enough.
I will admit, I have not been entirely truthful in these past years, or entirely cooperative. My squatting in your facility like a homeless beggar doubtlessly caused a great deal of frustration and unnecessary panic, and for that and a great many other things, I apologize.
While it cannot repay what you have done for me, in return for your kindness, I will tell you a story.
This story begins with a poor boy of Prague, born many long years ago to a poor mother and a poor father. Life was hard. It often is in these stories. There was little food to be had, and many mouths to feed. My mother made a little coin as a washer woman. My father worked in the factory. He was not an unkind man, but as many poor men are wont to do, spent much of his meager earnings on the bottle.
This was when I first learned of what I could do. My father returned home, late at night, far more drunk than he had ever been before. He was raging and cursing about, maddened with liquor. My mother tried to speak to him, to calm him, but his slurring became angrier and angrier in argument, and eventually he struck her, and threatened worse if she did not “shut up and please him”.
I was terrified. In the darkness, I could not see his face. It did not seem like my father, but in my heart I knew it was, and that made it all the worse. My mother was screaming, and my brothers and sisters were crying. I screamed at him. “Stop!” I said, and he did. He stopped.
Like a statue. Frozen in place. Not even the folds of his clothing would be moved. His face was twisted up in drunken rage, but his eyes were different. There was no anger there. Only fear. Fear of a kind that made my own seem paltry in comparison. In my father's eyes I saw a man who was looking into his own damnation.
And though they did not move, I knew he could see me. Somehow, I knew that I had not killed my father. I had done something far worse.
I ran. I knew not where to, but I ran into the night, leaving my brothers and sisters and mother behind me. To this day, I do not know what happened to them. I pray they were spared what came to follow me.
Years passed. I begged and stole and clawed my way across Europe, without direction, half-feral and half-mad. Death followed me. My curse was no longer content with simply leaking out with my words: it lashed out on its own, wild and deadly. In time I found I could control it with thought, but the act left me exhausted, and the curse only grew more violent as I tried to control it. I began to attract unwanted attention.
It was a group of Roma who had found me first. I had become so unused to speaking with human beings that I could do nothing but croak like a frog for days. Eventually I would whisper, but they did not understand me, nor I them. But they fed me, and I watched them as they practiced their arts. They did not seem to fear me. Here, I thought, here is where I may learn to control the curse.
I never spoke to them about it. The crows came first. I called them crows, for the black coats they wore. They descended upon us, tore apart the camp. They were not interested in the Roma: they had come for me.
I killed them. Not all of them. But many.
I fled again, and here is where my struggle began in earnest. They had found me, and I was dangerous, and they would stop at nothing to have me. I fled, and I learned. I taught myself. My curse became more a blessing. I lived a secret little war, and as I fought, I learned more and more. How to take the shape of another. How to make a mouthful of bread or a handful of water. The crows returned again. They were British. There were others, the French, the Prussians, some of my own Empire, members of the Church and even an American. They hunted me, and in return, I hunted them.
More years passed, though I barely noticed. My blessing still attempted to bite me and at times it did, but I had learned. I could walk upright, hiding but a little, fearing little. I existed as the faceless man walking down the street, seen once and forgotten forever. My belly was full, and my wits were wary. I picked up languages, identities, scraps of knowledge that would aid me, weapons and defenses against my enemies. But, as things happen, my enemies had learned as well, and they had learned better than me.
I was ambushed. My guard was down, and they sprung. They had ways to prevent me from healing myself, ways to prevent me from escaping, weapons that could hurt me. They drove at me, razing my hiding places and piercing my disguises. My years as a child came back, all the more horrible. My mind, fragile as it was from years of animal existence, began to unravel. A great many died, and all along I felt myself slipping away.
They drove me across bloody fields, to Paris, down, deep into the bowels of that city, where the dead digested in their holy peace. It was in those catacombs where I had a transformation. A single moment of clarity, where the universe fell into order around my broken body.
I became a god in a dark, slimy hole, bleeding and naked and half-dead. My apotheosis was witnessed by the empty sockets of a thousand skulls.
I returned to the surface, and my fight was over. They were no more a threat to me than the gnats. A god has no reason to fear a man, and he likewise has no need to bother in fighting them. They merely need to be waved away. I did so, and then I left, and for the first time in decades, they did not follow.
Peace then, for the first time since I had last heard my mother's songs at night. I gloried in it. I watched the world, and it was good.
In time, I suppose I forgot about the crows and their fellows. They did not forget about me. A god's sin is pride, and I had it in full. I believed they had thought me dead, but they never did. The false body I left in the catacomb was not enough. They were only waiting, taking their time, and in time, their children and children's children came once again hunting me, and once again, they had learned.
They had learned, and I had not. God though I was, I could not see all, I could not do all. They had ways to fight back, as they always had. My peaceful life shattered, as did my illusions. I was old and complacent, they were not. I fled once more.
It was then that I made my place among you, playing card tricks and telling stories, all to make you believe that my power was infinite, that you would not dare cross me lest I destroy you. It was a lie, all sleight of hand and clever riddles. You were never in my power, but I in yours. With you, I was safe, a god in his holy place. I had hoped that I would ride out the storm, that those who sought to destroy me would eventually give up, but I know that is not true, and I know now that it would not have mattered: you would have eventually turned me over, and you would have been justified.
I know that you will seek me out, and so I only hope that this may lighten your hearts.
Good bye, my friends. Good bye.


Run.
The rusted metal stretches for as far as can be seen. The runner does not care that this is only a few feet in front of himself. As far as he is concerned, the claustrophobic corridor stretches on forever. And it does.
But not for him.
Don't stop.
A woman slams against a steel door, pristine and shining in the darkness of the hold. Rust flakes from the floor as she throws herself against the steel, panting heavily. Her fingernails crack as they scrabble against the smooth face of the door, frantically searching for something to turn.
They will never stop looking.
Not like this.
A man walks slowly through a room, filled with steaming belts and pistons. A human eye rolls towards him as a face stretches across a belt, locked in a rictus of pain and agony. A human elbow rapidly pumps in a nearby machine, forcing an unidentifiable chunk of something in and out. A pair of empty eye sockets stare into him.
He will never look away.
Make it stop.
A man sprints into a dead-end room, stopping to stare at the wall. He screams and turns, a cry of rage and confusion and hurt, only to see the door slam shut behind him. He will never leave.
Until his flashlight dies.
The pain.
Deep within the rusted hulk, a woman screams. She has been screaming for seconds, for years. She does not know the difference. She only knows that she should never have entered this place of death and steel and meat.
She will never correct her mistake.
No escape.
A man stands atop a rusted deck, gaunt and pale from his days spent in the darkness, searching for an exit. A spotlight waves over him, a boat is sent, and a crew arrives to rescue him. The man, overjoyed, moves to jump.
He does not hit the water.
Stay with us.
In the heart of the ship, a thousand voices scream in agony. All are lost, many for hundreds of years. Some for days. All are screaming the same soul-wrenching scream that only the dying know.
And they will never stop.

Team was lost after reporting entry to "central navigation." Rescue team lost after reporting the investigation of "screaming" in a cargo section.


<< Act II, Scene I: Repel
"Jesus Christ," Agent Usilov said. "Khalif, come take a look at this."
Agent Aziz walked over to the other man. They were now standing in front of a two, two-and-a-half meter tall statue. And a damn ugly one, to boot.
"Did you ever see Dark Knight Rises?" Aziz said. "If you look at it at the right angle, does it not—"
"Holy shit, it's Bane," Usilov said. "A big-ass statue of Bane, with horns."
"Why the fuck would somebody ha—"
Aziz was interrupted by an enormous stone fist crashing into his side, breaking five ribs and knocking him to the ground. The Minotaur ground the concrete joints of its legs to move it towards Aziz's supine body, where the agent was coughing blood onto himself. Agent Usilov's safety was already off and his rifle was on full automatic.
"Die, motherfucker!" he shouted, blasting five-fifty-six rounds into the statue-thing's upper torso at point-blank range. The rounds bounced off, taking a few stone chips with them. The statue rotated its upper body along the place where its waist should have been, spinning its upper half without moving its lower half. It reached out with its fist once Usilov's head was within range and knocked Usilov down like a ragdoll with one concrete right cross.
Usilov's neck broken, he lost consciousness instantly, blood streaming from nose and ears. Aziz's breath ran ragged, trying to suck in air through a collapsed lung as he dragged himself across the ground away from the stone creature. The Minotaur stalked towards Aziz.
"Wh…wha…" Aziz wheezed.
A voice boomed from the stone…thing, from no place in particular. It seemed to exude from the creature's entire body at once.
"He bled so much, Aziz," it said. "I wish it was you. I want it to be you. Suck air and scream, hominid. Die for me."
Aziz obeyed.

David heard a sound behind them as he and Olympia walked down the hallway. MTF Rho-1 agents had largely secured what was left of Site 38 proper; while the infected creatures were devastatingly intimidating against untrained researchers and scientists, they stood little chance against armed Foundation infantry units. The footsteps behind them came from Major Lopez, Rho-1's commanding officer.
"Now just wait a goddamn minute," he began.
"There's hardly time," Olympia said. "The infected in the building may be gone, but the thing controlling them isn't, and it'll keep spreading infected creatures around to propagate itself. We have to move quickly before it starts again or escapes."
"I've already ordered the bombers to come level this place to the ground. We're securing all surviving personnel and evacuating," Lopez said. "Whatever the thing is, it'll be another stain in the middle of a big-ass crater in about forty-five minutes. If you really want to help, help with that effort."
"You want help evacuating civilians? Fine. There are two living, uninfected individuals in the basement; your men will overlook them if you don't search it specifically. A researcher named Storm and a prisoner named Nexer. It is…specifically vital that you rescue these two individuals. I am not at liberty to discuss why."
Bullshit, Olympia, David thought; you have no idea why, any more than I do. But the Intruder was very specific that these two had to survive. Maybe more than we do.
David pondered that last part. Well, especially more than some of us do…
"Awfully quiet there, Eskobar," Lopez sneered. "You going along with this dumb shit?"
"You dddddddon't have to understtttttand it, Commander," David stuttered, "but that's what's ggggoing to happen."
"We are going to the woods outside the Site," Olympia said. "I suggest you keep evacuating. Additionally, I would suggest you equip—"
"That's about goddamn enough from you," Lopez said. "I don't have the manpower to arrest you, but I sure as hell won't sit here and listen to you tell me how to do my job. Our equipment is more than fine for these little fuckers."
"You might be surprised at what you're about to have to deal with, Major," Olympia said. "Consider getting rocket-propelled grenades and other explosive ordnance from the armory. You have bigger fish waiting."
An aide ran up beside the commander. "Sir, Third Platoon is reporting losses from the courtyard," the aide said. "They're not making much sense, to be honest. Something about statues with horns? Radio communication has been lost with two fireteams. Should we send in reinforcements?"
"Yes, of cour—" Lopez turned and looked at Olympia, then back at the aide. "Statues?"
"That's what we heard over the radio before communications were lost," he said.
Lopez looked back at Olympia. "RPGs?"
"Explosives in general should be effective," Olympia replied.
"Pejor, get on the line with the team closest to the heavy munitions locker and tell them to start equipping with RPGs and grenades. Pull all units back into the building."
"Yes, sir," the aide said, walking away. Lopez turned and saw Olympia and David turning a corner away from him.

Chancellor Anaxagoras felt ridiculous wearing the "hat". It was remarkably effective. Even underneath the traditional robe of a second-order University scholar, he knew he would be recognized by nearly any free Citizen walking on the campus. As well he should be, under other circumstances; this was his University, he was their Chancellor. Or should have been, rightly. But this was Milephanes' territory now, and so he needed the hat.
A wonderful gift from his friends across the space-time continuum, he thought. The hat rendered its wearer unrecognizable; it was impossible to focus on individuals' faces or identities regardless of the amount of effort put forward. Mysteriously, it even obscured its own presence; nobody noticed the absurd headwear atop his head, any more than they recognized the man himself. This worked to his advantage.
The men Anaxagoras met with outside the Natural Philosophy complex were loyal to him. There weren't very many of those around, but Milephanes was by this point overrelying on technology just as much as the Primarch's government was. Men like Anaxagoras, who understood the value of personal, human loyalty, were going to decide this war.
Possibly today.
Sixty Loyalists were going to gather here, though most were still lying low in the surrounding quadrangle. A crowd would be suspicious; they would not move until the order was given. Milephanes had recently ordered classes to begin again, hoping to inspire a sense of "normalcy", to send a message that the war was already won, or both. Either way, the opportunity was almost here.
The gongs rang out over the campus. Anaxagoras saw his "class" gather behind him as he walked over the stream towards the building. Robes were convenient for hiding light plasma carbines and counterform grenades.
"Alea iacta est," he said, crossing the bridge, his army behind him.

Awaken, child, a voice said behind Agent Eastman's ear. Don't move.
Eastman hurt approximately everywhere; not moving was remarkably easy. He took in a breath, began to breathe out a groan.
No, stay quiet, the voice said. This will help you feel better.
Eastman felt the creaking, stabbing, and burning engulfing most of his body begin to abate. Since he wasn't moving, he didn't have much opportunity to explore how extensive this effect was, but he was guessing that whatever was doing this was doing it well.
I released endorphins into your bloodstream, the voice said. Now, listen carefully. Anesidora believes you're still asleep.
It all came rushing back to Eastman; the attack at Site 38, being captured, the trip to this…place. His heart began pounding; there was almost certainly someone, or something, watching him. Ready to hurt him more. Eastman had been hurt enough today.
What Anesidora intends to do to you is unspeakable and incomprehensible, the voice said. Now, listen carefully. You are in an antechamber to the central throne room. Soon, an opportunity will arise to strike back. When it does, do not hesitate. Another opportunity will not be forthcoming.
Eastman could do nothing but lie still, but he acknowledged what he heard. Good luck, the voice said. Eastman felt it "leave" him.

"Are those the Minotaurs?" David asked as they walked through through the Site 38 courtyard, seeing the statues beginning to circle them.
"Yes," Olympia replied. "Did you have any idea the Apollodorus concrete could do this?"
"Be programmed to turn into enormous quasi-sentient abominations against God?" David asked. "Nah, cccccan't say it crossed my mind."
"Fair enough."
The Minotaurs began to close in around them. Their demeanor, insofar as stone can have a demeanor, became more aggressive; they were clearly preparing to hunt. Olympia withdrew an object from her belt, about the size of a golf ball. She pressed the single button on it and rolled it in the direction of two Minotaurs walking towards them, comparatively close to one another. The ball beeped quickly, then stopped.
The explosion from the antimatter grenade completely destroyed one of the Minotaurs; the other was slightly farther away and lost only a leg and an arm, falling to the ground. The other Minotaurs stopped in their place.
"I'm told the human expression is 'take us to your leader,'" Olympia said.

As the two walked towards the concrete palace of Anesidora, four unmarked stealth fighter-bombers were en route to Site 38, Major Lopez's task force was carrying on the evacuation, and a box opened in a room. In the chaos of the evacuation and the Minotaur's onslaught, she had little difficulty sneaking out of the building.

The Intruder was of mixed feelings. This was his most brilliant and, perhaps, his most terrible work.

"The hominids did what?" Goddess Anesidora, Her regal fury dripping down Her flesh, demanded of the Servus instance.
The Servus twitched. Anesidora was not overly communicative at the best of times, and Her wrath was severe when she detected failure among her subordinates. This instance was bleeding from every orifice in his face. She had detected a significant amount of failure.
Anesidora continued to dig through the Servus's mind. She saw images of the hominids who had the temerity to approach Her home. One she recognized, the callow ape left in charge of the nearby human facility. The other one…
Anesidora felt pain, looking at the image of the other entity. Similar to the hominids, but different, in some imperceptible way. Anesidora was birthed in a different universe, and her perception of this one was subtly different; things around Her shimmered with an alien nature, seemed unclean, wrong in some way. She would work on that once She ruled over this world. But the other creature here seemed…detached from this world somehow. Universal. Unbound by the space around her.
Beautiful, in a way.
But a threat. Anesidora did not tolerate threats. She instructed the Minotaurs to let the intruders in.

Olympia and David stood at the doorway to the "palace." It was more like an enlarged concrete shack, not even the size of a regular home. David was not inclined to be impressed in particular, and this didn't do the trick. They stepped across the threshhold.
David had seen the film Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Too Afraid to Ask) three times in his life. For this reason, his vision of the sight before him was that of an enormous, pale breast, lying on a similarly enormous concrete slab. Six individuals stood around the slab. David didn't recognize any of them, and they weren't in uniform. Judging from the age and gender mix and their general similarities in appearance, David guessed these were two or three civilian families. One individual, a boy David estimated to be about seven, lay in front of the slab bleeding.
What the fuck is wrong with these people, David thought. He knew what was supposed to be happening, and this was roughly in line with the plan the Intruder showed him, but the actual sight of all of it was still horrifying. And the Intruder hadn't shown him quite all the little details.
"HOMINID ESKOBAR COMMA DAVID CARTER, UNKNOWN ENTITY, YOU STAND BEFORE THE GODDESS ANESIDORA," a voice boomed. Several voices, David realized. The people around the slab were speaking in unison. Including the bleeding boy.
David looked at the thing on the slab again. Porcelain white, at least four meters tall. Roughly spherical but sunken, like a deflating beach ball. The outside of it, whatever the hell it was, rippled like the thing was made of gelatin.
Two of the individuals standing around the slab, a man and a woman, walked to the bleeding child. Seeing them next to each other, David could tell he was their son. They stooped down and lifted the child up, the father holding him to his chest. They walked up to the slab, kissed the child on the forehead, and pressed the child against the white form on the slab, back first.
"YOU WILL NOT OBJECT TO MY DINING IN FRONT OF YOU," the individuals said in unison, before white tendrils exploded out through the boy's chest. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the child's limbs, pulling him in closer. The boy's eyes floated up in his head. The child's body began to be absorbed by the white blob.
"YOU HAVE DISTURBED ME," Anesidora said, through the civilians' mouths. David couldn't help but notice the boy was still speaking as well. "I APPRECIATE IF YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO DONATE YOURSELF AS NUTRIENT SUPPLIES, BUT AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM QUITE WELL FED AT PRESENT. WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS HERE?"
"You are going to die in eighteen minutes," Olympia began. "Several air vehicles carrying what are known as fuel-air bombs are going to descend on this particular piece of terrain and completely sanitize this area. Your present form, as well as the forms of most of your Servus instances, will be burned into oblivion. Your Minotaur servants may survive temporarily, but they will be badly damaged, and the cleanup operation sent in by the Foundation will eradicate them one at a time with explosive ordinance, if need be. And you will be dead regardless."
The boy was almost completely absorbed at this point. Other than the sucking sound coming from his corpse, the room was silent as Anesidora pondered.
"PRESUMING THAT I AM MORTAL, A PRESUMPTION FOR WHICH I WOULD DESTROY ANY INDIVIDUAL WERE I TO HEAR IT, YOU ARE SPEAKING OF A CERTAINTY. YOU PRESUME ADDITIONALLY THAT I HAVE NO MEANS OF ESCAPING THIS FATE."
"You do not. The bombers have been specifically instructed to target this building with multiple thermobaric warheads, and to continue bombing to a radius farther than any of your servants can travel. I'm sure you are aware your Servus inside Site 38 have all been terminated. Your attempt to colonize this world has failed."
Further pondering. "THIS ALLOWS ME THE POSSIBILITY OF KILLING YOU NOW IN A SINGLE, ALBEIT PETTY, ACT OF VENGEANCE. A FINAL SATISFACTION BEFORE MY DEATH."
Olympia paused, sighed. She knew what happened now as well as David did. David thought he detected some hesitation, which was admirable, but pointless. This event was unfolding in real-time. There was no way to avoid it.
"Say it, Olympia. Say your next line," David said. "I'm ready."
Olympia had no reason to feel sorry for David, had no particular reason to like David for that matter. Yet her next, predestined words did seem to come out strained. Fighting fate, David thought. I'm flattered.
"I…" she began. "I cannot help but notice you have no armed Servus here."
Here we go, David said, taking a last deep breath.
"LET ME CORRECT YOU,'' the voices said.
There was a new voice that time, one from behind Olympia. David turned and looked, knowing already what he would see. Jaime MacGilligan stood at the threshold to the palace, holding a pistol. Aiming the pistol at Olympia. David snapped around, ran towards, then in front of Olympia. MacGilligan squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the gun.
David couldn't see the bullet, of course; his brain couldn't work that fast. But he had seen it, before. When the Intruder showed it to him.
When the Intruder showed David his own death.
The bullet lodged in David's chest, barely missing the heart. The pain was excruciating, but David remained conscious. The dive in front of Olympia, straight from an action movie, had saved her, just in time for—
Two more gunshots. MacGilligan had seen something out of the corner of her eye and had fired at it, hitting Agent Eastman in the upper leg. Eastman had gotten his own shot off, catching MacGilligan in the head. Both fell to the ground.
"THAT…" the remaining voices in the building chorused, "…THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE. WHAT ARE YOU? HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?"
"You are now completely out of options," Olympia said, shaking with rage. "Murdering my colleague has gotten you nothing. There is one, precisely one, chance for you to survive the next half hour, and it is with me."
"WHY WOULD YOU SAVE ME?" Anesidora asked.
"I have need of you. Or, that is, a part of you. I know you came here in some sort of larval form, did you not? When you traveled here?"
"I…" Anesidora paused. "I DO NOT RECALL THE FULL DETAILS OF MY ORIGIN. I HAVE A VAGUE MEMORY OF MY EXISTENCE IN THAT WORLD, LITTLE MORE. I RECALL EXISTING AS A SMALLER ORGANISM, YES. I RECALL A HOMINID EXPLAINING MY IDENTITY, MY ROLE AS THE DESTINED RULER OF HUMANITY. I WAS OFFERED THIS PLANET AS A GIFT. I…I AM REALIZING THIS HOMINID LACKED THE AUTHORITY TO MAKE THIS EXCHANGE."
"To say the least," Olympia said. "If you reproduce this larval form, if you can install your consciousness into a mobile form, I will take you with me. You and one of the Minotaurs. But you must act quickly."
"WHERE WOULD YOU TAKE US?" Anesidora asked.
"To have a conversation with the man who sent you here," Olympia replied.

Milephanes stood in the counterform reactor room. "So this is where the magic happens, hm?"
Antigonus of Alexandria nodded. "Yes, First. Is this your first visit here?"
"Not quite, but this counterform reactor was not yet complete when last I visited," Milephanes replied. "I was but a student here then. This was the talk of the campus, the talk of Alexandria. Clean, nearly infinite energy." Milephanes paused. "Of course, we had no idea what that energy would do."
"Certainly," Antigonus said. "We have begun to determine the pattern of porthole openings, the portholes between our world and the alien one. The seemingly random pattern to their openings actually has a geographical pattern operating in a Pingala spiral centering around this location."
"So the Primarch's government has been conducting technology transfers at these spots? Meaning they've decoded this pattern already?"
Antigonus paused. "First, this appears unlikely. Had they made this discovery, we would have found evidence of it when we took control of the lab. It is a discovery that only *could* have been made from this lab. I worked in this lab before you…liberated it, First, and I can assure you, Methodius had no connection to the Primarch's government. He despised Primarch Nerippa at least as much as…well…"
"As he despised me, yes, I know," Milephanes responded. "But if the government had no knowledge of when and where the portholes would open, how could they exchange technology with…"
A pause, as Milephanes recognized the depth of his error. "The other universe. They weren't helping Nerippa at all, were they?"
"It seems impossible, First," Antigonus replied.
Milephanes thought of Anesidora, of the sabotage of the other world he had committed. Of the fate he had condemned them to.
"That is…unfortunate," Milephanes replied. "I had already—"
Milephanes heard gunfire off in the distance. Wait, not very distant. Within the building. The distinct sound of plasma carbines.
"What is that sound?" he asked over the longwave transmitter.
"Incursion within the building, First," a voice replied. "Loyalists. We believe Anaxagoras is leading them in person."
"Call for reinforcements and bring backup into the counterform chamber!" he shouted. This was not an opportunity he was going to miss.
"First, increased energy discharges from the reactor," Antigonus said. "I think a porthole is opening."

"WHY HAVE WE STOPPED," the Minotaur asked, channeling the goddess it held in its hands.
"This is the spot," Olympia replied. "This is where the wormhole will open. Organic tissue would be damaged by the radiation of this endeavor, but we should be fine."
Thunder. No, not quite thunder. A booming sound from above, deep at first, then growing high-pitched. Not above. Around them, all at once. Olympia looked around; the world distorted itself, like looking through glass in a rainstorm. The distortions intensified around her, then the world grew brighter and brighter. White light, white noise, then—

Act II, Scene III: Denouement>>

Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub


— Site 150, Foundation Research and Development Department, Entrance 3, 09:00 —
Pride. Dr. Tabitha Foster knew the feeling well. Pride was black ink in the ledgers. Pride was a good deal put to good use. Pride was coming out of the workshop with something that worked. Pride was a plan coming to bloom.
Pride was looking out across ten square kilometers of factory floor, bright under endless rows of lights far above. The ceiling was so high that it may well have been the sky, the floor so busy it should have been a city. Monorail lines weaved throughout, above the testing areas and workshops and factories. The occasional hover-shuttle, laden with cargo or passengers, would occasionally buzz into view before speeding off. In the distance, three new zeppelins floated lazily, ready for deployment. Elsewhere rested the half–constructed suspension ring of a new HALO station.
It was a wonderful morning. It smelled of progress.
Dr. Foster stepped into her personal shuttle. It was a ritual she made every two weeks, to go and personally check on the major projects. Her assistant Eric was already strapped into his seat, labcoat neatly pressed, computer tablet in his hand, glasses sliding down his nose.
“Message from the Overseer Board, ma'am,” he said, just as Foster stepped inside the carriage. The door closed automatically behind her.
“What is it? More sanctions, I suppose?” She sat down across from Eric, fastening her own harness. A button press later and the shuttle's autopilot took over.
“Yes. They've called for the immediate cancellation of development for the Paraselus. Claimed it was too unstable and a waste of resources. Resolution was passed seven to four.”
“Five and Ten leading it again?”
“Yes.”
“Send the board a message saying that the project has been mothballed. Re-route assets into the backup projects, wait until the conversion matrix is upgraded to the mark eight, and bring it back to main production. We can afford a few months' delay.”
“Right. There's also a message from the Office of Field Affairs.”
“Again? Tell them that if they have such an issue with the Special Augmentation Program, they are more than welcome to come up with a more effective alternative. Oh wait, your casualty rate is fifteen times higher than ours and you're run by a bunch of brain-dead Neanderthals who think that conventional technology is sufficient for the Foundation's purposes…Don't actually put that last bit in there, that's just between us.”
“Right, ma'am. There's also a communique from Dr. Bailey with the latest trade agreements.” He passed over the tablet. Foster glanced over the text, occasionally scrolling to see more. Some pullouts, some new acquisitions, demands. Those weren't important. What was important was what was going to get funneled to her department.
She very much liked what she saw. She had no idea what to do with seven hundred tons of flerovium, but it was bound to be impressive. Most of the rest was just raw materials, a few technology samples, another coldcore for the reactor, documents and diagrams and terabytes of information for the sorting. She kept reading.
“An exchange program? Someone actually wants an exchange program?”
“The O5 board will veto it,” Eric said.
“Oh, I know. The O5 board also tried to veto updating outdated containment documents, instituting the organizational catalog, purging 732-contaminated records, and putting recycled napkins in the cafeterias. They are not the most forward-thinking of individuals, nor the most aware of the current state of affairs. To think what we could have learned if we had been able to contact the University before it fell.” She shook her head. “Ah well. No use now. There are more Universities out there and plenty of work to be done here.”
The shuttle hummed along.
— MF-7 Automated Security Drone testing chamber, 09:17 —
The drone, a white sphere roughly the size of a beach ball with a single lensed eye, zipped through the air in short bursts. Move, stop. Move stop. Movestop. Movestop shoot. Movestopshoot. The shooting looked much like not shooting, save the burn marks that appeared on the targets that shifted around the chamber.
“Power cell has double the run time when compared to the mark six,” the tech explained. “And it recharges in six hours instead of twelve. Main laser is boosted too.”
Foster nodded. The plan was to automate the majority of the Foundation's internal security within ten years. Foster would have had it done in three, but Five was cock-blocking, as usual, and had One, Two, Four, Six, Ten and Thirteen on the leash.
Five years then, with one model instead of the ten they had plans for. They would work from there.
— Module Construction Yard, 09:43 —
There wasn't anything much new in terms of site construction. That section of factory floor was still filled with the same blocky modules, all of them bigger on the inside than the outside. An A2 Module the size of a tractor trailer could provide enough room for five containment chambers and thirty staff.
Foster passed through that area quickly. Approval of their work was given, and she moved on. The Barston Principle was very well-understood, and the last collapse had been over a decade ago. Her presence was better used elsewhere.
— Portable Spatial Containment Device Testing Chamber, 10:20 —
The man in the testing chamber reached into the padded case, removing a smooth black sphere the size of a tennis ball. On the other side of the chamber stood an unadorned store mannequin. The man slid a switch on the side of the ball with his thumb. A white LED lit up. He wound up his arm, tensed, and threw.
Right before the ball hit the mannequin, if one had a hi-speed camera on hand, one could see the ball fold itself inside out. The inside-out ball hit the mannequin, and then it was gone, along with a hemisphere of the floor. There was no flash or noise, just a barely perceptible ripple in the air, and it was gone. The now right-side-in ball dropped to the floor, rolling down to the bottom of the basin. The man walked over, picked it up, thumbed another switch. The light was green now. He tossed the ball again at a bare stretch of floor, near where he had been standing at the beginning. There was another ripple as it hit the floor, just for the briefest and most imperceptible of moments. A pile of crumbled and cracked concrete and half-molten shards of plastic sat on the floor.
At least they had managed to consistently stop the field from backfiring on the thrower, Foster noted. Progress.
“They could always work as grenades,” Eric said.
“They'd be rather difficult-to-build grenades. Not very practical for general use, unless you really needed to liquefy something.” This project had been a headache for months. It was impressive, yes. The very concept made the science-related part of her brain very excited. Execution though, was proving a nightmare. Each Portable Spatial Containment Device contained several cubic meters within it, same principle as the factory itself, enough to store the average humanoid or animalistic anomaly. The capture mechanism worked, pushing the space out and pulling it back in, but keeping things in one piece during capture was proving an issue.
Then there was the fact that it resembled something from a child's cartoon, but Foster thought it best to ignore that.
At the very least the thrower kept their arm.
— Personnel Acquisition Initiative Center, 11:02 —
Foster eyed the ranks of orange jumpsuits. Five rows, twenty to a row. Two hundred eyes, staring at her.
“Dismissed,” Foster nodded something of approval towards them.
The group softened. It didn't disperse very much, but the hundred men and women turned to face each other. Soft conversations sprung up. Foster waited, hands clasped behind her back. She loved this part.
“ATTENTION!”
In one movement, one hundred D-class swung to face her. Eyes locked, face expressionless, feet together, hands at sides. One unified force, waiting for orders.
It was the sort of scene third world dictators had wet dreams about.
“KOSWITCH!”
One hundred D-class dropped to the floor unconscious, even before her word had faded from the air. Foster nodded, smiling.
“That's better response time than before. Excellent job, Mason. Your techs should be proud.”
“I'll make sure to tell them.”
Mason barked a few commands, and the D-classes marched off toward the trucks across the shipping yard.
There were a few more groups to be shipped off that day: some L-Class, some R-Class, some C-Class. Nothing unusual.
The big building behind the parade grounds and personnel shipping yard loomed. Inside was Foster's pride and joy.
One of them, at least.
Foster knew that she was one of the few who wasn't disgusted by the thing. 597 was synonymous with that cringing “eaugh” expression, mostly for being the center point of some of the grossest mismanagement in the last decade. Five high ranking personnel, including a site director, had been using 597 for personal satisfaction for over two years, and both the Overseer Board and the Ethics Committee turned a blind eye to it. The old containment procedures actually allowed it to be viewed, even for personnel to enter the chamber. That was what disgusted Foster. Containment procedures written by a gibbon with a typewriter. She had penned the new ones herself, and nothing had happened for years. No one had even seen 597 in years. No one had been inside that building but the classed personnel for years. Everything was automated: the insemination, the birthing, the implantation of the class modifications, the overseeing of the process, everything.
Granted, it wasn't perfect. The first several generations of subjects suffered from crippling Oedipal complexes and were completely useless. That was the result of trying to breed them as humans. The implants fixed that, eventually. They weren't really human after the implants, after the brain was changed as much as it was. A fake human. A homunculus.
Such a wonderful word. Rolled off the tongue. Hoh-moohn-cyu-luhs.
Eventually, the implants wouldn't even be necessary. That was a long term plan, though, and the current system would suffice for the time being.
There was that pride again. Pride at the Personnel Acquisition Initiative, pride in everything they'd managed to build, pride in taking space itself and molding it like Play-Doh. Pride in the knowledge that she was feared. The Observers feared her. And who wouldn't, really? She was what happened when people got working, when people actually thought. When people looked out into the darkness and said “I am not afraid of you”. The antithesis to the scared men of “science” cowering in the shadows in their boardroom, petrified at the concept of change.
She loved that feeling. Oh, she loved that feeling.
Dr. Tabitha Foster, the most powerful person in the world, was very, very proud of her work.


"Paulie?" The frail, shaky voice echoed through the hallways. "Paulie, I'm scared…"
Paul carefully crawled further under the desk. He held his hand over his mouth, stifling his panting and struggling not to start sobbing. He couldn't afford it at this point.
"I need you… why aren't you helping me? Big brother…"
It's not really him Paul, it's not Mikey, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead dead dead deaddeaddead—
"Paaauuuliiie! C'mon Paulie! We gotta go to the hospital! Please… please…"
His brother… no, that… thing's voice was getting more frantic.
It's not him. It can't be him. Nonono.
Paul listened closely, holding his breath and waiting for his heart to stop deafening him. There were footsteps. Tmp, tmp, tmp. Shuffling, uneven footsteps, accompanied with Mik—its sobbing and calling. As the sounds got closer, he could hear another voice. It wasn't calling or crying like the other. It was just whimpering and rasping. Paul steeled himself.
It's just one set of footsteps. That's not natural. He's not Mikey anymore, he's not my brother, he's just—
"Paulie, please! There's blood everywhere, I can't stop it! Please, for the love of god, just help us!"
Mikey… It… No, it couldn't be him… But.. .It sure as hell sounded like him…
He thought back to earlier. Maybe… maybe he had imagined part of it. It wasn't like he was in the best mindset to process information, really.
After all, they had just hit a kid with the car.
Paul rubbed his eyes, playing it over in his head.
Okay, we hit him. We hit him hard. Godammit, we were scared shitless. We didn't know…
We weren't worried too much about saving the kid, I guess. God, it was all a blur… I just remember yelling at Mike, then he jumped out of the car to try to drag him into the school, and then…
God, I can't even remember what happened clearly. All I remember is the kid springing up and wrestling Mikey to the ground. There was something weird about it, I'm sure…
Well… am I? Maybe it really was just the kid trying to get back up. There wasn't anything weird about what he did, I guess. Besides that ball he had, but…
Well… maybe it was irrelevant. Maybe… maybe I just imagined that flesh thing…Was it still Mikey…?
… I ran inside too quickly… I… I should've stayed behind to help him. I saw the blood, I heard his scream, I just… I didn't want this godammit.
But… what if there's nothing to hide from? After all, the kid obviously wasn't dead, and Mikey seemed… normal.
He hesitantly shifted his body out from underneath the desk. He stood up, carefully making sure to not knock into anything, and edged his way to the doorway. As he approached the opening, he could clearly see shadows making their way on the walls towards him. Two figures lurched along, one dragging the other. He peered out of the entrance, putting as little of his body out into the hallway as he could while still surveying the scene. He watched the larger figure's hair swing around in a way he knew too well, how it constantly darted around like a ferret…
Mikey?
Nervously, he stepped into the hallway.
"Little brother?" he called out, tensing up to run. "Hey, I'm here."
The duo turned with difficulty to look at him.
"Oh, thank god! Come on, we have to go take him to the hospital!"
As they advanced on him, Paul reflexively took a step back.
"That's, uh," Paul fumbled over his words. "Mike, I don't think we should do that…"
"Are you crazy?! Look at him, he's almost dead! Please! I can't just let him die! It was our fault Paul! We did this and… and…"
The boy stopped and vomited, clutching the other form tightly and taking in ragged breaths.
"Please, Paul… We hit him… I can't… I can't let him die…"
With these words, Mike collapsed to the floor.
Paul shouted, and ran over to his little brother. He crouched and started checking for a pulse on his neck. He ran his eyes over the familiar face, noticing every single minute detail, from the scar above his left eye, to the lip he'd bruised earlier, to his long, narrow nose. It was most definitely his brother.
"Paulie…?" he faintly murmured. "Is that you?"
"Yes, yes it's me, Mikey," Paul said with relief. "I'm here, I'm going to help you now, we're going to take you and this kid to the hospital, and everything is going to be alright. I promise."
The boy shook his head.
"Brother, you've done enough. I can't move on, I need more rest. Please, just stay with me right now until I have enough strength to move on."
"Sure thing, Mike."
The sensation wasn't subtle. Paul knew soon enough that it was over. And yet, he didn't regret it. Strangely, he felt…at peace. He closed his eyes as he felt the cold, clammy appendage attach itself to him and start converting him. It felt right…
Hey there Paulie, I'm glad you finally came! Have you met my friend?


<< Intermission: Good Morning, Sunshine

The story so far...

WARNING SECURITY IDENTIFICATION PROTOCOLS CORRUPTED

EXCERPT
REPORT KB-615
USER: DR. MARIA JONES, DIRECTOR, RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
LEVEL 4 AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED
…outbreak of SCP-877 was possibly inevitable, under the circumstances. The microchips were never fully contained and were propagating in the wild; our containment policy was based on the assumption that the chips a) would remain in animals, b) that any infection involving humans would be suppressed by Foundation efforts, and c) that no enemy group would attempt to use SCP-877 to their advantage. Premise A was highly unlikely but justifiable given Premise B; the Foundation had few options but to try to find more chips, determine how to prevent their propagation, and hope for the best. Premise C, however, was logical only as long as enemy groups of interest remained ignorant of 877's existence. The latter was compromised due principally to the—

Maria paused here. This was difficult to write, under the circumstances, but it was honest. And the man in question would agree as well.

—administrative incompetence of David Eskobar, director of Site 38. Several of his subordinates had stolen samples of 877 and were conducting human experiments on D-class personnel on his Site without his awareness. Available evidence suggests they had made arrangements with Group of Interest Gamma-3, "Chaos Insurgency," to trade the technology (along with some applications that the Foundation at large was not aware of) in exchange for some form of compensation. The Insurgency handlers responsible for these researchers were captured two months later and revealed many details under interrogation; the researchers would have been executed after delivering the microchips.
An unknown entity identified as "Anesidora" was found to have infiltrated the outskirts of Site 38 and had taken direct control over the 877 instances. This creature is believed to have traveled here via the same Einstein-Rosen mechanism connecting our universe with that of Alexylva University. The takeover of the site occurred in less than an hour. Efforts to repel the intruders from Site 38 were undertaken by Mobile Task Force Rho-1, the principle unit assigned to Site 38 and used for recovery of Alexylva University artifacts. Rho-1 was deployed in the field during the containment breach, but was able to return within hours.
Several components of the incident are not (and, due to the unavailability of witnesses, never will be) understood. Specifically and most relevantly, the involvement of Professor Kain Pathos Crow's "Olympia Zero" entity, who entered the field and began assisting decontamination efforts. The manner in which Olympia Zero became involved, or even came to be in the vicinity of Site 38, is not known or understood at present...

Maria sighed. There was so, so much they didn't know. And Maria didn't know how much even the poor bastards involved in this clusterfuck knew while they were taking part in it. Maria was saddened almost more by the loss of information than the loss of Site 38 itself; all things considered, the Foundation was likely no worse off without one more backwater. But there were only two people who really knew what happened that day, the full story. Of those two, one was dead. The other was…gone, and unlikely to return…

David knew what was coming. It was obscene to him, and offensive; this was real, this…slaughter. People were dying by the dozens, or worse, turning into Integrators or Servus or whatever the hell you called someone enslaved by a machine in their head. And yet David knew that Site 38 was a stage, all the agents and researchers merely players, and a freak with no eyes was directing the show.
And David had the script. All he could do was watch.
The sundial was still in the room as David walked out, turned left, walked down the hallway. Turned right. Two D-class, zombie-walking towards him, covered in blood, holding assault rifles. David had to admit to a certain sense of amusement, knowing what happened next.
A shimmer, and something vaguely related to a human was standing between him and the Servus. The (female? David had read the file once, but wasn't sure) humanoid turned, saw the D-class, who paused.
"Unknown entity," the first began, "you are required to—"
The humanoid's foot cracked across the speaker's neck from the side, snapping it. Blood poured out of his mouth and nose. The other D-class began to raise her gun. A blur of two feet, then the barrel of the rifle was protruding through her chest and out through her back. Another Servus turned the corner, reacting to the sound. Fire erupted from the barrel, shaking the dying human the gun was sticking through. Three bullets. Head, neck, and chest. The shooter propped a foot against the D-class, pushed, withdrew the gun, some entrails coming out along with the rifle. Turned, faced David.
"David Eskobar," she said.
"Olympia," David replied.
"You have been briefed?"
"Ssssssame as you," he stuttered.
"You are not shocked?"
"That…that thing showed me all of this already. I'll…I'll be okay."
"Very good. Let us proceed." Olympia walked down the hallway, David behind her.
"There's going to be a lot of this, isn't there?" David said, trying not to slip on the blood.
"You know the answer to that."
"Fair enough."

David blocked out so much of what happened that day. Half from horror, half from a genuine sense of existential overload. How do you deal with a universe where the plan has not only been written, but laid out in front of you? David watched Olympia kill at least a dozen of his researchers, all infected. Not that that mattered. David knew each and every one of them, had selected or been involved in the selection of each one. Knew their families.
Knew how hard it would be to explain this carnage.
And Olympia didn't seem to care. David was walking in the shadow of someone who was, by all evidence, completely without conscience. She had a mission, and that was all there was to her.
It had been several hours since the two of them had materialized in Site 38. He knew there were exactly thirteen infected individuals left in Site 38, not counting the…things in the surrounding countryside. But there was something to deal with first.
Voices in front of them. Spoken audibly by individuals not capable of telepathic communication. Uninfected. David and Olympia stopped, took cover behind different doorways.
"This is Bravo team," a voice said. "Hallway secure. Moving into hallway Alfa-3-Charlie."
Two camouflaged individuals with assault rifles looked around the corner, saw no one, turned the corner and began walking towards the two concealed individuals. Olympia pointed her handgun over their heads and fired two rounds. The Task Force agents dropped to a prone position, returned fire, shouted some warning. David was only half listening.
"Agent Rasee, Agent Hsu, hold your fire," Olympia shouted down the hallway. "I just needed your attention. We are not infected."
More shouted warnings, several more bullets from both sides. One agent began to throw a smoke grenade; Olympia fired a round down the hall, hit the agent's hand. David noticed she didn't look when she fired. The standoff lasted six minutes.
"Tell your commander that Isham Harris is between the trees," Olympia finally said. Some more shouting down the hall, some squeaking from a radio, and then silence. David glanced down the hall; the agents were shifting uncomfortably and looked pale. Footsteps were coming towards them.
The man who came up from behind the Mobile Task Force agents walked with authority. Everything about him exuded it. He was the sort of man who inspired loyalty without words; a hand gesture as he walked past the two agents in the hallway, and they stood at attention. David had recommended this man for his current job well before he was the director of Site 38. William Lopez, commanding officer, MTF Rho-1.
Lopez walked up to where Olympia was standing and stopped. He glanced at David, looked him up and down, and dismissed him. He did that a lot. He turned to Olympia. "How the fuck do you know who Isham Harris is?"
"That's not relevant, Major," Olympia said, "but I was told that you would recognize that phrase."
Lopez looked Olympia up and down as well. "Nobody calls me Major anymore. Who the hell are you?"
Olympia holstered her gun. "My name is Olympia, and you're going to help me save the world."

It was like baptism, or birth. Transcendence. Transfiguration. Like a first breath in a new world. The Minotaur's body didn't breathe, but there was no reason to break the metaphor. Until recently, the Minotaur was a metaphor. Until now. His Goddess had blessed him. His service was his honor.
The Minotaur turned his head to his left; he heard the sound of scraping stone and paused, before realizing it was coming from him. To his left were several dozen sacks, all with the words "APOLLODORUS CONSTRUCTION COMBINE" printed on them. Behind him (his head turned fully around; it wasn't as though the Minotaur had an actual spinal column to deal with), several human Servus instances were stirring a vat of what looked like concrete mix. The Servus stepped away from the vat and stopped stirring. The movement of the concrete mixture slowed, slowed, slowed…
…a ripple. Then another. A shape moving beneath the surface.
A hand rose from the mixture, dripping, then setting. A metal scaffold sat beside the pit; the arm rose and grabbed one of the bars and pulled itself from the gray swamp. The Minotaur looked at the new creature. Humanoid in shape, though well taller than the hominid parasites. Two, almost two and a half meters tall. Arms, legs, torso, head. The arms had fractures where the elbows would be. The legs, likewise, had crevices where the rock limbs separated; they functioned as knees. The Minotaur did not understand fully how they worked. He looked at the cracks in his own arms where his rock fists were connected. He wanted the fist to rotate. It did so. The why was not important; his Goddess willed it to be, and it was.
He looked at the doppelganger. His face could not smile, but he felt something akin to joy, looking at the other being. The horns rising from the other's head were black, the same as his own. This was a gift from his Goddess. Their Goddess. The Minotaurs looked at one another. Without a word, they began walking towards the nearby complex.
The concrete mixture rippled again as they began to hunt.

Commander Lopez looked at Olympia. "Can you prove a single thing you just told me?"
"About our mission? Hardly." Olympia shrugged. "That you will have to take on faith. But you cannot deny the logic involved. You see an 877 outbreak. You have been seeing increased activity from the microchips for months. Some of that could have happened on its own. This, however, is too much. The world next door to ours is staging a break-in, and this is the window they're coming in through. The only device capable of travelling between worlds is stationed in the physics department of Alexylva University. I invite you to draw your own conclusions."
Lopez sat quietly. "Let's say you're telling the truth. How the hell are you involved? Aren't you supposed to be in a shed somewhere?"
"Storage fffffacility," David sputtered. "But that's not rrrrrrrrrelevant. You need to give the order, Mmmmmajor."
"If you need it done, Eskobar, that's the best reason I can think of why it's fucking stupid," Lopez said. "Remember that even in your version of events, it was your incompetence that let this all happen in the first pla—"
"You think I don't fucking KNOW that, Lopez?" David replied. "You think I don't know I should never have had this job? That the Foundation made a sssssserious fucking error in hiring me in the first place? Believe me, nobody is mmmmmore aware of this than I am. So order this godforsaken place blown straight to hell already and put me out of a job. Give us all wwwwwwhat we want."
Lopez sat and considered this. He turned to Olympia. "What kind of munitions do we need?"
"Fuel-air bombs. Preferably multiple passes over the Site to be sure. They are going to become aware of the incoming bombs in a few minutes, so you'll want to hit the area surrounding the Site as well, possibly for a kilometer around or so."
"That's a hell of a lot to cover up," Lopez sighed.
"Keter containment breaches typically are," Olympia replied, coming to her feet. "Not sure what else you expect."
Lopez nodded as she and David walked towards the door. "I'll make the call. One more question, though. You said they're going to be aware the bombs are coming. How are they going to know? Have they infiltrated our communications?"
"Possibly, but I doubt it," Olympia replied. "No, I'm going to go tell them about it right now."
Lopez had no time to react as Olympia and David left.

Act II, Scene II: Negotiation>>

Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub


The Survivor stood before the front doors of the University. He cautiously reached a hand forward, and silently opened the door. As he stepped through, broken glass crunching under his feet, he remembered.

Greeter Callus paced on his stage, looking out across the mass of students. Some sat tall, attentively listening to his speech. Some slept. It was the same every year, and Callus no longer cared about his audience. The students would define themselves through their work in the coming years, regardless of his opinions now.
As he paced, he spoke about the famous University at which he worked. The studies which these young adults would partake in over the next several years, the activities to be found around campus, and how honored they should be at their acceptance to this legendary school. He felt some passion leak into his voice as he described the work done by the great men and women who had passed through these halls. Many of them had made history, and one of these students may well be the next to push forward the science of the mind.
He ended his speech as the bell rang, watching the sea of students rise and flow out the door. As the auditorium emptied, he pondered his own place at the University. Where would he be in four years?

The Survivor opened his eyes. The main lobby of Alexylva University lay around him in ruin, the once great halls now silent. The glass skylight had shattered, and broken glass littered the room. Years of weather had ruined the beautiful wooden reception desk, any papers that might have been there long washed away.

Teacher Callus sat in his classroom, helping a student through an assignment. As he marked through an equation he paused, feeling something click into place in the back of his mind. He turned to his chalkboard and erased a paragraph of notes, scribbling numbers in their place. As he wrote, his thoughts coalesced. For years this idea had been out of his reach. But now, now it was not only possible, but easy. How had this not been seen before?
An extra pulse here, a block here…

They had destroyed everything. It had taken him a while to realize exactly what was happening, but he was much better equipped to recognize the threat than anyone else. While he was hidden away within his lab, the University had been sacked. He had fled as soon as the screeching stopped.

Researcher Callus watched a bird flit through the gardens of the university. He felt a glorious sense of accomplishment, and a terrible sense of dread. He had done what had never been attempted before. He would be remembered as one of the great men of history for his accomplishments. But what would this be used for? What would be done with this research?
Callus whistled softly, and the bird flew to his hand. He held it gingerly, feeling the tiny feet shift on his fingers as the little avian stared questioningly at him. He held the bird by his cheek for a moment, and then threw it into the air. He whistled the release command. This bird would be free now, no different from any other. It was a prototype, and more advanced methods of control would be needed before the technology would be practicable on a large scale.
As the bird winged off into the distance, Callus pondered his next step. This must be carefully regulated, or terrible things could be done.

He walked through the halls of the University where he had once worked, wandering towards that place where it had all begun so many years ago. As he walked through the desolate hallways, the years of abuse the University had suffered made themselves apparent. He was no longer the scholar he had been, but he was still able to see the mold growing from abandoned binders, the broken windows, the doors that had been wrenched from their frames by an army of beasts looking for any uninfected human.

Magnate Callus held his head in his hands, a sense of defeat flooding him. Their very first mass shipment of birds had been infected with a rare avian flu, and only a few had survived to their destination. An entire crate, filled with little technological marvels, dropped dead. He could not afford a mistake of this scale, and he knew he would be unable to continue operating.
Callus sighed and stood. He whistled, and a small monkey leaped from the floor to his shoulder in a few short bounds. There it stayed, perfectly balanced, as Callus left his office. He pondered his situation, staring up at the night sky.
He would have to sell his technology to the University, and hope that the price would be enough to pay off that shipment. He felt a crushing sense of failure as he realized that he would never profit from his discovery. He closed his eyes, his head still pointed towards the sky, and felt the beginnings of a tear beneath his eyelids. His chance at fame, destroyed by one terrible mistake. He would be forever remembered as the brilliant inventor who failed.

He had blamed himself. When there had been others, he never shared his name. He knew what it would mean for them to know that the man who had doomed their race was sitting only feet away. There had been days when he had stopped running, when he had simply sat down and waited for death to find him. But he had something to do.

Handler Callus stood before a class for the second time in his life, a small cat perched on a table beside him. The tail ticked back and forth rhythmically as Callus spoke to the class, teaching them the proper tones and patterns for commanding the Controlled. He demonstrated with a quick, low whistle, and the cat leaped from the desk and towards Callus. He caught it in the crook of his elbow, holding the animal close to his chest.
As Callus held the small cat, he heard a sound from outside. A very faint whistle, something that sounded almost like-
Callus felt the ticking tail slow, then stop. The cat in his arms blinked and turned, staring at him wide-eyed, the confusion Callus felt mirrored in the cats green pupils. Another faint whistle, and Callus yelled as the cat bit sharply into his gloved hand. He dropped the cat, the thick glove still in its teeth, and ran.

Survivor Callus entered the auditorium and stopped, standing straight. The rows of chairs were the same as they had been, undisturbed for years. He walked slowly, absorbing the feel of the room. Not even the death of humanity could take the majesty from this place.
As Callus arrived at the stage, he assumed his old place. Never again would the freshman class of the University be greeted here. He felt the old pain in his chest flare up, and he leaned against the podium. Years of fear and guilt and running had wrecked his body, but he had still managed to survive. At least he had survived.
Callus raised his eyes from the podium on which he leaned, taking in the empty room. As he looked, his eyes fell on a flash of color. There, standing atop a seat, was a bird.
Callus sighed. Everything. He had lost everything. And now, this.
He felt the slight pressure as the bird landed on his shoulder. He had always preferred them to land on his shoulder. Callus barely felt the nip as the bird gently bit his neck, holding in that position. Callus knew what was happening, what would happen. But he had been running for so long. Why keep going?
Several minutes later, the bird released the pressure on his neck. It leaped from his shoulder and flew swiftly out the front door, gone almost before he noticed it had left him. He knew what would happen to him now. He sighed, and decided that he would lose his humanity with dignity.
Pushing himself as straight as he could behind the podium, the last man on earth prepared to die.