The smell of salt and the sound of quietly lapping waves suddenly appears. I fall, the solid floor previously supporting me now vanished, down to the surface of the water I know is below me. I should be a moderate distance from the shore, which in turn shouldn't be far from my home. I haven't been outside in several decades, let alone seen the sea during that time. Faint, cloudy memories of me and my mother at a beach emerge, both of us sitting alone. We pat down the sand in our bucket before flipping it over, creating a featureless, cylindrical sandcastle. "We did it!" she says, mere seconds before an all-resounding splash and the sensation of emersion yanks me back to reality, the abundance of suffocating water forcing me to swim to the surface.
Behind me is the beach itself; a long smear of yellow sand lightly dotted with people all across it, children running and laughing as they play tag or compete for toys, their parents lazily soaking up the light from the sun. The beach and its inhabitants begin to shrink as an unseen tide drags me away from the shore, trying to take me to some unknown fate. My attempts to fight against it are futile; fatigue has taken hold, preventing me from successfully fighting back.
“Help! Help!” The sound of my voice is drowned out by the ocean before it can reach the shore. A man on the beach sitting up on a raised chair stirs, hopefully having sighted my dark, waving hand and understood it as a cry for help. The strength in my legs drain away from the effort to stay afloat and the surface of the water rises above my head. Blue waters fade to black as the shallow breath within my chest depletes, and my oxygen-deprived mind withdraws into itself. The true, physical senses are replaced with simulations as I fall into my memories.

█/██/20██, ██:██
“You're a target," spoke the voice of O5-6, all semblances of any identifiable characteristics being masked. "Several undercover agents we have within a hostile faction have informed us that an attempt to capture or terminate you is being planned, or may already be in motion. We are unsure of the motives of these plans, but are expecting an attempt at blackmailing the Foundation as a whole. You should understand we cannot allow this to happen.”
Leaning forward in my seat, I took a moment to think about this revelation. Why would someone even consider this? Site-17 would have been filled with countless items or beings that followed their own laws or logic, all of which would have been far more useful than me. Only one of the anomalies here had ever crossed paths with me in person, admittedly; the others I only heard mumblings of from staff working on them, or from the occasional sounds they made as they rampaged freely through the building. The staff themselves were more valuable than I, having knowledge of how to access information known only to my protectors, the Foundation. It was like stealing a rotten apple at the bottom of a barrel of grenades – a lot of effort for the most worthless thing there. Not waiting for a response, the dark outline on the screen continued speaking.
“Do not tell anyone else about what I am about to tell you to do. It is probable that those posted close to you may very well be the ones we are attempting to protect you from – informing them of what we are doing could prompt them to take action. So under no circumstances whatsoever can anyone other than you, me and my fellow overseers be made aware of this conversation.” The voice made particular emphasis on the last sentence, increasing their volume rather than changing their tone. “I will only state this once. Effective immediately you are being promoted to E-Class and being assigned to an anomaly under our control that you are familiar with; SCP-2

Present Day
Fading back into consciousness, a feeling of immense nausea sweeps through me. Instincts kick in and sit me upright as my lungs are purged of seawater, vomiting it all out. Someone sighs, the noise explaining the instinctive feeling of not only being watched, but being surrounded by an unseen crowd. Finally regaining full control of my body, I open my eyes and look about to see my new surroundings.
The man who had come down from his chair earlier was sitting to my right, breathing heavily and smiling. He wears strange clothes consisting of only the colours red and yellow, topped with a funny little hat that almost makes his head look like a ripe tomato. The small crowd around us, consisting entirely of worried adults, begins to subside as some of them lose interest.
"You feeling better?" speaks the man, his Australian origins more obvious in his voice than the fact he could speak. A nod satiates his curiosity, and he moves onto his next query.
"Can you tell me your name?"
The question echoes in the emptiness of my foggy mind. It isn't because of an inability to answer the question; my identity is easy to recall without effort. The question is whether the truth should be provided or not. Just as I am to him, his identity is completely unknown to me and by extension, any trust in him could be misplaced. Too drowsy to think of a proper response, I just shake my head.
"Alright, just relax mate. The ambulance is on it's way, everything'll be alright." A slight hint of concern is now present in his voice. While it is a good idea to go to a hospital and get medical attention, the more pressing matter of getting home is of much higher importance. Besides, there would be plenty of doctors stationed at Site-17. Despite his wishes for me to stay and relax, I need to get up and leave.
"Just relax, you're alright." He speaks in response to my motion, resting his hands upon my shoulders to try and coerce me to comply. "Sir, please just relax, you're ok."
I shake my head, trying to fight off the lingering fogginess in my mind. "Where… am i…" My throat feels dry despite the water that had formerly flowed through it, my voice raspy and weak. It hardly even sounds like my own, but it surely must be mine. A drink of water - that should fix it.
"I really think you should just relax, sir. You've just been dead for a few mi-" Sternly, I repeat my question. He means well, but his insistence for me to comply is beginning to become irritating. He quietly muffles a sigh before responding, telling me the name of the beach and of the nearby city.
"Thank you." The crowd parts before me as I walk away, pausing briefly to address the man again. "I am grateful that you saved me, but I am in a rush." Satisfied that the apology should be enough to appease him, I follow a nearby path into the city.

The sounds of countless car horns blaring, of thousands, if not millions, of commuters walking and talking throughout the streets, quickly becomes deafening within the confines of the city. Around me are endless rows of skyscrapers reaching high into the sky, like concrete obelisks from the view of an ant. Moving throughout the streets is almost as difficult as swimming against the tide that had formerly claimed my life, as endless hordes of businessmen and tourists alike travel in the opposite direction to me, the minor collisions between us slowly driving me back.
It's too much for me to stand - the silence and solitude of Site-17 is what I am accustomed to. There is a side street nearby which I head to, hoping it to be a refuge from the overabundant chaos of the city. It is certainly much darker, the shadows of the buildings to either side blocking out most of the light, and the noise of the street is slowly muffled the further I go in. Leaning against a section of wall parallel to a particularly foul-smelling dumpster, I take a moment to orient my thoughts and catch my breath.
"Oi!" shouts someone further in the alley. A group of seven people emerge from the shadows, all visibly the type ready to cause trouble. Jeans, shirts with their sleeves torn off or designed to look that way, prominent muscular arms… they all sport countless scars and stitches, and are all grinning maliciously as they approach, eyes fixed on me.
"What're you doing here?" shouts one of them, picking up speed as he approaches me. My mind is screaming to run back out into the street and disappear into the endless crowd. My heart is already prepared for this to happen, beating at a rate much higher than normal, and yet I cannot move. I can't will myself to take the first step, only stare in utter fear as the group surrounds me.
The man grabs my shoulders and turns me around, glaring with fury in his eyes and a vicious snarl in his speech. "I said, what is someone like you doing here, eh? You think you can just walk wherever you want? Is that it?" he barks. His insistence for a response coupled with his obvious will for a fight was enough to prompt me to speak.
"I-I didn't know I wasn't allowed here…" Before I can make any attempt to leave, the two men standing between me and the street step forward to show that I wasn't going to get past them. Cold sweat begins to roll down my spine.
"Well you ain't, and you ain't allowed to leave, either. You think you can just come and go as you want? Do whatever you want?" He is riling himself up now, finding reasons to make himself angry about my presence. I was in for a fight that I probably won't win. "And if you don't know that-"
"Leave him alone!" Everyone turns to see the source of the new voice, a man who had turned off the main street. He walks fearlessly past the two blocking my escape, apparently unconcerned with the violence this gang was capable of and how hopelessly outnumbered he would be. Both his arms and his legs are prosthetic, visibly made of a polished silver metal, but the silence of their operation and their accuracy at mimicking natural movement shows they are of exceptional quality. They could easily deflect damage and probably break bones, explaining his obvious feeling of safety.
The man who had been shouting at me backs away as the newcomer approaches me, ignoring the presence of the others. “Are you ok?” he speaks, his Arabian heritage supported by his prevalent accent. He has a strange symbol carved into his forehead, the meaning of which is unknown, and his blue eyes are strangely piercing.
“What the do you think you're doing, just waltzing in here uninvited?” The other man sounds significantly angrier, having been interrupted and ignored by this new arrival. “Shove off or you'll regret it!”
The good Samaritan doesn't respond to the barking voice. He doesn't respond until I nod my head, indicating I was physically fine – albeit emotionally frightened.
“Go. I will stay in your stead.” Nothing more need be said. As the two guards move in to help attack, I run past them and out into the street. My instinct of flight rather than fight fully kicks in, rushing through the crowds as quickly as I can go, fighting against the tide of people. People shout as they are shoved aside, cars beep in frustration as I sprint past them, but I don't stop. It isn't until the buildings start to shorten and the crowds thin do I finally stop, tripping over an uneven paver.
With a light clink, the sole item in my pocket falls out and lands upon the pavement. Quickly grabbing it to prevent its loss, I look over it while getting up, studying its details. I follow the small carvings across its surface, the swirls that twist and shrink beyond my observation, but feel only a smooth metal surface. The sensation of timelessness emanates from it, yet it shows no signs of ageing as I do. Walking north through the city's streets, memories of how this item came into my possession emerge.

█/██/20██, ██:██
The whitewashed halls were both familiar and unfamiliar as I was escorted through them by the two guards. Featureless and bland, they looked as though the designer had simply copied and pasted the same four base components – straight hall, corner, T-junction, four-way junction – over and over again. Considering the workings of the Foundation that was probably what had happened to minimize design costs. I was being escorted through these halls by two guards I was unfamiliar with. The revelation from several minutes earlier had made me uneasy, being unsure if they were traitors or potential friends. Silence was my default.
“Oy, we're here.” The sudden gruff voice of the guard was startling, speaking as he came to a stop with his accomplice. The two glared at me the way you would if someone needed to hurry up. The door that was our destination stood alone along its long stretch of hall, the sole sentinel holding back the unfathomable chaos held behind it. It would only respond to a keycard with high enough clearance, otherwise standing firm – fortunately, I was given such a card shortly after my conversation with the Overseer. A moment after swiping it, I repeated the action but to no response.
"Must be faulty. You able to open it Frankie?" The gruff-voiced guard spoke to the other, turning to face me.
"Nope. Everyone who can is already inside. We'll have to fetch the skeleton key." The voice of the other was much smoother and friendlier. I felt more trusting to him than the other, but not enough to prevent me from shifting away slightly. They both suddenly turn and march down the hall again, leaving me behind.
"Hurry up!" barks the first, prompting me to sprint and catch up. It doesn't take long for us to complete our brief detour, speaking to a specific researcher who was assigned to the item we sought. We were entrusted with the item, and with it in our possession, returned to the door once more. This time upon swiping it, the door slid open.
Keeping the item in hand I walked to the other end of the airlock, swiping it once more to open the second door. It was then that I remembered where I was, and with a feeling of nostalgia and a wave of memories, I look around the familiar interior of the hangar-like room and the sole device it housed: a colossal half-sphere constructed of steel and painted with forest camouflage,

Present Day
The feeling of grime within my shoes hauls me out of my trance. Countless trees surround me, their roots descending beneath the swamp mud. There are no meaningful details to be seen beyond dark silhouettes, the dim moonlight blocked by the thick canopy above. This swamp should be close to the sight, the foul smell of the gases being familiar, but without knowledge of landmarks or direction certainty couldn't be achieved. There is nothing to do but wander aimlessly between the trunks, hoping that fate will intervene in my favour.
A brief flash of light signals that fate may indeed be on my side, and with all the remaining energy that can be mustered I charge towards it. Cold dollops of soaked earth splatter across my back, and putrid gases rise in my wake as the ground is disturbed by my feet. A chainlink fence comes into sight ahead, separating the border between the swamp and a cleared field. At the center is a compound made of concrete, and a familiar one at that.
I've made it. I'm safe.
The front gate of Site-17 is a long walk from here, even longer from there back inwards to the site. Nearby is a large tree with a branch spanning the space between the trunk and the fence – this should be enough to get in. After several minutes of clambering up and along the branch, I have jumped down and landed on the other side of the barbed wire-topped fence.
Approaching the large bulkhead serving as the entry, someone behind me shouts something too faint to be heard. It couldn't be me they are shouting about, as I am no stranger to this site or its security. The gate doesn't open before me as it hasn't been instructed to do so yet, but I have the power to issue the command. The small item in my pocket once more does its magical work as it is swiped through the nearby card reader, and the oversized doors part before me. On the other side is the familiar face of one of my closest friends, a security guard stationed here at the site who has obviously been awaiting my return.
He twitches slightly. There is a sudden pain in my chest as something collides with it, its force enough to make me stagger back, fast enough for me to not see it hit me.
My friend holds a rifle in his hands, aimed at my chest.
I don't understand.
Numbness overcomes me as I lose control of my arms and legs, forcing me to kneel before falling to my side. My mind struggles to comprehend its rapid loss of control, instigated by my friend firing his gun at me without provocation. As he approaches the details on his face become more apparent; He is astoundingly similar to my friend, but there isn't enough age in his face, he's too young. My friend looks almost as old as myself, but this child is obviously no older than thirty at most.

Kneeling down, he plucks the shot from my chest. Unable to turn my head, all I see of it is the small plume of red feathers.

Thoughts become foggy again as they had earlier… today? Last week? Memories blur together and fade with my senses, preventing retreat into a subconscious.
…
Aries is beautiful tonight.

Present Day

On ██/██/1969, an unidentified individual attempted to gain access to the interior of Site-17. The individual was of advanced age (estimated to be between sixty to eighty years old) and utilised an anomalous item in order to open the primary gate of Site-17. The individual was terminated by security at the gate to prevent further incursion, and is believed to be a lone assailant.
The anomalous item recovered is pending SCP classification.

Individual was tranquilised and relocated as instructed by SCP-990. Recorded as KIA in all documents until further instruction.

█/██/20██

On █/██/20██, SCP-196 notified staff of its familiarity with the workings of SCP-2367, offering to assist assigned staff in correcting the inherent dangers of the anomaly. SCP-196 was granted temporary E-Class status to operate with the anomaly.
SCP-196 utilised SCP-2367 in order to escape containment and displace itself to the year 1969, fulfilling the circumstances under which it was first encountered by Site-17 security. SCP-196 is declared Neutralized.
Prior to escaping containment, SCP-196 acquired SCP-005 in order to access SCP-2367 due to a fault in its temporary access pass. SCP-005 has since been recovered from [DATA EXPUNGED] and is now stored at Site-10.
.

From: O5-6
To: O5 Command
Subject: Project Charon
Message:
Operation ALEXANDER SOLUTION has fulfilled its objectives. SCP-196 was deceived into believing an attempt to kidnap it was imminent. The anomaly believed that the temporal displacement capabilities of SCP-2367 was restricted to a two-week timeframe.
Staff assigned to SCP-2367 primed the anomaly to displace SCP-196 to ██/██/1969, enabling the completion of its causal loop. Any staff assigned to SCP-2367 that were aware of the deception of SCP-196 have been amnesticized and cannot recall their involvement. All staff unaware of Operation ALEXANDER SOLUTION believe that SCP-196 escaped containment of its own volition.
The intentional fault in the E-Class identification card provided to SCP-196 necessitated the use of SCP-005-1 to access SCP-2367, as expected. This resulted in the item being displaced to ██/██/1969 and enabled it to be recovered from SCP-196 when first encountered.
SCP-005-2 (the instance of SCP-005 recovered from the first encounter with SCP-196, and by extension the future iteration of SCP-005-1) is henceforth classified Safe, and designated as SCP-005. SCP-005-2 is classified Decommissioned/Neutralized, and is to be expunged from all records.
Integrity of the Architect has been ensured.
.


Yanma Mirski sat on the concrete floor staring at the small gem before him. For the past dozen months he had sat at the bottom of this gloomy hexagonal vault, as he was doing now. The wall opposite him was decorated with various folders and documents upon shelves, illuminated by the light from the single opening above. He examined the item in his hand. It was an onyx gemstone about the size of a softball, with a dazzling gold decoration. He turned it in his hand and studied the main feature of this treasure, the infernal enigma that was the focus of his work - a small lock-shaped hole in one end of the object.
Beyond the microwaves it emitted, its universal resistance to damage and the impossible detail in the gold filigree, the gemstone was mundane. It didn't turn air into seawater, it didn't make people forget about it, it didn't replace the consciousness of anyone that touched it. It just warmed surrounding surfaces and looked like a Fabergé egg.
The lock was similarly mundane with one exception. Its purpose had eluded the Foundation for several years, but probing the interior of the stone produced sounds and movements within, ensuring it wasn't a five-thousand year old Sumerian prank to trick idiots into trying to unlock an inert stone. The lock had a working mechanism that would function with a respective key.
Placing the gem back onto its pedestal upon a shelf, Dr. Mirski retrieved a file from the shelf below that detailed all the attempts to open or unlock the item. Lockpicking; failed. No matter the skill of the user, the lock picks never worked. Brute force assault with various tools and implements; failed. Hammers bounced, chisels slipped, blades shattered, and not a single scratch or scuff was made. Heating to five thousand degrees Celsius; failed. The stone came out as cool as the moment it went in. Application of industrial cutting laser; failed. The beam reflected and the machine was sliced beyond recognition.
No matter how far down the list he went, the outcome was always the same. Some of Yanma's subordinates had gone as far to throw a nuclear warhead at the lock, under the guise of testing a sample of the Foundation's armaments. All that resulted was confirmation the Lock would survive a nuclear holocaust, and that Yanma would probably be better off conducting Project Pluto alone rather than having to retroactively approve pointless attempts from the lower-ranked researchers in the project.
Yanma returned the document to its spot, losing interest in the list of ten thousand ways to fail at his job. He decided to look through one of the other folders; he needn't go anywhere else as absolutely all the information on the Lock was stored within the vault. Suffice to say, there wasn't much.
Retrieving the folder marked ‘Notes', Yanma looked through the contents written by his former colleague, Quinton Hack. They had been assigned together on Project Pluto and entrusted with the task of opening the Lock. The majority of staff aware of the Lock believed that it contained the entire universe and thus would cause an apocalypse when opened. Perhaps the universe would rapidly expand out of the Lock; perhaps the solar system would be crushed by a colossal atom as it rushed in. The only way to know what would happen was to start it.
Regardless of the madness it entailed, the task had been entrusted to Yanma and Quinton from the Overseer Council. “Open the Lock at all costs,” they had said. Utilise an infinite budget to open an indestructible object with. The Foundation had frequently come up against impossible tasks, but somehow managed to achieve them. Hopefully this would be no different.
Grabbing a second folder filled with dim photographs and transcripts of a four-hundred year old journal, Yanma read through the scribbled notes of his partner. Quinton had been onto something, but Yanma never found out what. Quinton had realized something one night and quickly rushed back to Site-10 to write down these strange notes. Before Yanma had awoken the next morning, Quinton had flown to Site-17 for reasons that were at the time above his clearance level. Nobody had even heard of him since, simply vanishing from existence or into an alternate reality.
Quinton's epiphany had vanished with him. The night after his disappearance several files had vanished from the vault, prompting the addition of the time lock that Yanma alone could open. He was left alone to satiate the meagre curiosity of the Overseer Council. Working on one of the most secretive anomalies out there, he was bound to report to the council on his progress bi-monthly, though his lack of any actual progress neither surprised nor disappointed them. Project Pluto was little more than a black hole from which funding and resources never returned, and from which no information was retrieved. It should have been abandoned years ago, but the money kept coming and the Overseers kept waiting, so Yanma kept working.
Yanma returned his focus to the notes before him. A small number of runes circled, with a line connecting them to the word 'shame'. Several sections of underlined text detailing landmarks seen as the author aimlessly wandered the Mesopotamian desert, with the word 'Magnetite' added and underlined. A blank page with 'IMMORTAL SUMER FAMINE' scrawled in rushed handwriting across its entirety. There were other notes that Quinton had written, but these were the most intriguing of them.
For the past three months since the disappearance of Dr. Quinton Hack, Dr. Yanma Mirski had entered this vault in Site-10 fortnightly. And each time, he left without learning anything new from the notes, nor their true importance. What was the relation between the expedition of Sir Edwin Young, Third Baron, and magnetite? What was - or is - the immortal Sumer famine? Yanma rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, knowing he would probably never figure it out alone. He checked his watch - seven eighteen PM. He had entered the vault seven hours ago. Deciding against waiting inside the vault any longer, he returned the folders to their places and climbed the steel ladder to the surface. Completing the three steps needed to close the vault for the next three weeks, Yanma walked to the door of the room and exited. The hallway outside was whitewashed and connected to two others by T-junctions to either side. Remembering the layout of Sub-Level 1, he turned left and walked as the echoes of a conversation reached his ears.
"Did you hear about C-Area thirty-two?" said a male voice, its owner hidden from Yanma's sight.
"No, what happened?" replied a second male voice, its speaker just as concealed.
"Completely annihilated. Worst breach seventy-six has had to date, so bad they had to nuke the place just to stop him. You'd think he'd get mellow with age or something, but nope. He's like a one-man war…" Yanma never heard the remainder of the conversation; what he had heard was sufficient to stop his legs and hearing as his mind raced, his expression being comparable to fish out of water. Pulses raced through neurons within his brain as ideas and theories within his mind connected, catalysed by the vague but sufficient information he had overheard by pure chance.

”Is that it?” said the second voice to the first. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's it. All nine-ninety told me to do was to bring you here, and tell you about the containment breach. After that, I woke up. You want to grab a meal before we get back to our usual rounds? I think they've got lasagna at the cafeteria today.”

His mind unlocking from the rush of information, Dr. Mirski turned and raced back to the room he had just come from in a mad dash, hoping that he would be able to get back into the vault before it completely closed. Pulling the door open as fast as he could, he raced to the sealed hatch in the middle of the room. The sound of working mechanics had subsided, and the steel bars hidden beneath the surface of the vault had already slid into place. Yanma slammed his fist down in frustration. He'd have to wait almost an entire month now, but he could still investigate from what he remembered. He still had his epiphany to follow – “Immortal Sumer Famine” wasn't a thing or event, it was a person. An immortal Sumerian who was followed by endless famine wherever they went.
Once again leaving the room, Yanma set about planning his flight to Site-17.

From: Heracles
To: Hermes
Subject: Obol
Message:
Subject is on his way to Tartarus. Please confirm intentions and advise on action.

From: Hermes
To: Heracles
Subject: Re: Obol
Message:
Booking with Famine. Proceed with protocol.

Dr. Mirski was tired from the plane flight, and looked the part. He couldn't be bothered combing his hair nor smoothing the wrinkles in his clothes. He was here to get answers, and if he needed he would flaunt his Level 5 clearance to get them. He walked the short distance from his vehicle to the main entry of Site-17. He walked up to the front desk and spoke to the well-dressed receptionist sitting behind it.
"Yanma Mirski for his appointment." Knowing he would be asked for some form of verification, he removed the Foundation ID card he had from his pocket and placed it upon the reception desk. The receptionist looked at the card, then at Yanma before returning his gaze to the computer screen in front of him. The receptionist then waved over a nearby guard and informed them of where Dr. Mirski wanted to go. The trip to the room was short, ending with the guard adopting a position to one side of the doorway. Reminding himself of what he needed to ask, Yanma composed himself and entered.
The cell was a standard two-room concrete chamber for humanoid anomalies, decorated sparsely with furnishings. It took a lot of cooperation for an anomaly to earn furnishings, with such rooms normally being barren. Sitting on a plastic chair was the being he had come to speak to, reading something on a handheld tablet. Yanma cleared his throat, notifying the humanoid of his presence.
"Sorry." The man's word was rich with an arabic or middle eastern accent, his skin tanned appropriately. His arms and legs were mechanical, mimicking normal movement as he moved to a desk and put down the tablet while Yanma watched. The man turned to face his guest, the friendly smile he had showing yellowed teeth. He offered a mechanical hand for a handshake. "Dr. Mirski, I presume? I hear you have come quite a long way to see me, and on such short notice too. Do you want something to drink?" Accepting the handshake, Yanma couldn't help but grin at the friendliness of the immortal man. He looked no older than thirty-five, but was known to have been born at the dawn of the human race.
"No thanks Cain, I'd much rather just get this done quickly.” Yanma had slept poorly that night, not just from the turbulent flight but also from his thoughts. Had Quinton found what he sought? Had he vanished for looking? Most importantly, was Yanma going to meet the same fate? Yanma had always been dangerously curious; soon, he thought, he will find out if he can take it too far.
"I understand." Cain retrieved a second chair, offering it to Yanma before turning his own to face it. "What do you need of me?"
"I have some questions about my work that I believe you can help me with. But first, I must ask; has a man named Dr. Hack come and spoken to you before?" Yanma spoke while he shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable way to sit.
"Ah, Quinton Hack, yes. He came here some months ago - suddenly flew over from Site-10 to ask me to help him with his work. He mentioned you." Cain shifted to rest his head upon his hand, grinning at Yanma as though he was thinking of a joke. Yanma was relieved to know that his friend had at least gotten the answers he had sought.
"Nobody has seen or heard of him since your meeting. Do you know what happened to him?" Cain simply continued grinning, rather than respond. Yanma felt uneasy at the strange humour the immortal was finding in his plight. It was only then that he noticed the sound of breathing behind him.
"I've been busy," said the third person in the room as Dr. Mirski turned to see the familiar face of Dr. Hack.
The resulting uneasy silence remained undisturbed for several moments until Cain stood up. "I will fetch drinks." Cain left the room, leaving the two researchers alone. Quinton walked around Yanma and sat down in Cain's chair.
"I take it you've been keeping busy too?" He said, shifting to get more comfortable in his seat.
The first thing out of Yanma's mouth was "Where the fuck have you been!" He was astonished that Quinton was still alive, but just as enraged that he had feigned his death for so long. He almost had a fit, right then and there.
"Jeez, calm down would you? I've been busy, like I said. I'm sure you've got questions, but before we continue there's some paperwork to do. Bump you up to the right clearance to know I'm alive and what-not." Quinton spoke, grinning childishly as he saw the annoyance on his friend's face.
"Is this a fucking joke to you, Hack? A prank for some shits and giggles?" Clenching his fists in sheer anger, veins began emerging along his arms. "Well the fucking joke's on you. I'm level five now thanks to you, so your fucking 'info-sec' bullshit won't work. I have unlimited access."
"Calm down, you're going to pop an artery. Level five doesn't get you everything, not anymore - the Overseers have all kinds of extra stuff hidden all over the place, need-to-know and such. I've been given permission to… lets just keep it simple and say you're being 'promoted to Level 6'." Retrieving a handheld tape recorder from his pocket, Quinton began recording their conversation.
"This is Dr. Quinton Hack, speaking to Dr. Yanma Mirski. I am serving as a spokesperson to grant Dr. Mirski access to information for Project Charon. Dr. Mirski, there are two outcomes to this encounter and it is your choice which occurs."
Quinton extended his index finger, signifying the first option. "First: You can accept the induction and will be brought up-to-date on Project Charon, by extension learning of both its relation to Project Pluto and of my whereabouts for the past several months. However, as a consequence of this you will need to be declared missing or killed in action under similar circumstances to myself, in order to ensure informational security of Project Charon. This will be a permanent designation; your life outside the Foundation will end."
Keeping his index finger out, Quinton then extended his middle finger as well. "Second: You reject this induction, be administered with sufficient amnestics to prevent you from recalling both this conversation and the circumstances behind it. You will resume your work on Project Pluto as though this never occurred and as far as you will be aware, it never did." Quinton put his hand down. "Any questions?"
Looking at the stern expression of his superficially resurrected friend, Yanma's anger faltered and began to subside. Quinton had been a prankster at times, but he always took his work seriously and never before had he been so persistent in maintaining a joke's facade. Coupled with the curious inability for anyone within the Foundation to find anything about him during his disappearance, the question of whether this was a trick at all was rapidly becoming 'no.' Yanma instinctively rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache.
"This must be what it's like for those nosey few who ask me if the Lock exists." he groaned.
"Yeah, probably. Pain in the ass, isn't it."
An idea appears in Yanma's mind. "What if I just… walk out?"
A look of sinister disappointment covers Quinton's face. "In order to ensure informational security, should you attempt to leave this room without choosing, you will be forcibly amnestised and reprimanded. Should you resist being apprehended, immediate termination has been authorised. I would strongly advise making a choice over that outcome."
Applying more pressure to the bridge of his nose to help ease the pain, Yanma strained his mind to choose between the two choices he had been presented with. He had next to no family to consider, having lost contact with his few living relatives. His friends all worked back at Site-10, and would be dearly missed - but Yanma had to know. His curiosity at what this Project Charon was, and what it had to do with the Lock, was overwhelming. With a feeling he would inevitably regret his decision regardless of his choice, he came to a conclusion. "I'll accept then."
Quinton's grin grew at Yanma's choice. "You are hereby inducted into Project Charon." Satisfied that the recording would appease the Overseers, Quinton stopped the handheld and returned it to its pocket.
"About damn time. Let's start with a crash course, shall we?" He briefly rubbed his hands together before continuing. "Project Charon originates from the final few years of General Bowe's command over the Foundation, when he collected up a group of researchers to open the Lock shortly after he got his hands on it. They set-"
"You're fucking terrible at lying. You know that right?" Interrupted Yanma. "The Bowe Commission was done and dusted before the end of the seventies, everyone knows that. The Lock was found almost thirty years after them, in a museum."
Quinton sighed in return. "Yes, it was found in a museum by an off-duty researcher, who noticed it had the Cosmic Microwave Background on it. Which was discovered in nineteen sixty-four, meaning the little gem had been sitting on display for thirty-nine years, magically unnoticed not only by the Foundation, but also by anyone who was aware of the CMB." He produced a manilla folder from his satchel, removed a single document from it, and passed it to Yanma. Yanma quickly recognised the document as an altered copy of the Lock's documentation, with details about it's discovery and certain dates changed to be far earlier than before.
"Don't act stupid, Yanma. This is the Foundation we're talking about - we're ahead of everything, and the CMB was no different. The Lock was found and recovered in nineteen sixty-eight, and was recently changed to twenty-oh-three. I'll come back to why in a moment."
Quinton took a breath as he recalled the information he was about to survey. "Anomaly production wasn't considered as taboo as the Foundation treats it today. Even if it was, I doubt Bowe would have cared - he probably would've just told the early Charon researchers to make whatever was needed anyway. They made quite a few little trinkets and what-not, but only got two things close to what they needed; one was a key that unlocked the concept of what we assume is ascension, which got shuffled off elsewhere to be weaponised and subsequently lost for a couple of years until it showed up again. The other was a key that could unlock any door within a certain area, which was closer but since the Lock isn't a door, not close enough."
"Then, out of the blue, the perfect key popped up here at Site-17 during an incident. A key which could unlock anything - the missing key to the Lock."
Yanma wasn't surprised by the revelation. “SCP-005, I presume? It's pretty obviously the most likely item to open the Lock. I'd asked for it a few times, but the Overseers didn't want it leaving here for some inane reason."
Quinton's grin re-emerged. "No, Yanma. It isn't the most likely." He produced a small ornate key from a pocket, matching the photographed appearance of SCP-005, and held it in the air between them. "It is."
The connection hadn't quite clicked yet in Yanma's mind. "… I don't follow."
“This is the ‘why'. This is why the recovery date for the Lock was pushed forward forty years. This is why you're allowed to do anything you want to the Lock, as long as you aim to open it.” Quinton produced a second, nearly identical key from his other pocket, showing the vivid orange bow it had. “This is why they won't let you use the skeleton key to unlock the Lock.”
“Because you, and everyone else keeping track of Project Pluto, would realize the Lock is already unlocked.”
Yanma leaned back in his chair. The Lock was unlocked, and had been for at least forty years. “Apakht…?” Yanma mumbled, intrigued yet frightened to find out what had been sealed away within the Lock for so long.
Quinton returned the two keys to their pockets, then gestured to the manilla folder he had given to Yanma earlier. “Page two. You've got some reading to do.”
Flipping to the page in question, Dr. Yanma Mirski began reading and learning the secrets now being revealed to him by Dr. Quinton Hack.

Item #: SCP-005
Object Class: Safe/Keter
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-005-1 poses no immediate risk in any direct sense. Even so, the circumstances under which it was obtained and the subsequent discovery of SCP-005-2 necessitates special measures be taken to restrict access and manipulation of the objects. Under no circumstances is SCP-005-1 to be removed from Site-17…

« N/A || Charon (Part 1: Nekyia) || Charon (Part 2: Katabasis) »


Operation LLEWYN DARK
Geas Overview
After-Action Report: Operation LAPLACIAN MIDNIGHT

OVERVIEW OF OPERATION LLEWYN DARK

Overview
On July 19th, 1981, Prometheus Astrotechnologies' first in-house Geas Switchboard Communicator satellite, the PSAT Setanta, went rogue due to an unforeseen malfunction in its demonic circuitry. The satellite had been functional for over 9 years at the time the incident occured, and it was estimated that it would continue to operate for at least another 10 years without further interference.
Following a collision with a meteoroid, the demonic circuitry the satellite used was heavily damaged, resulting in the discharge of several demons and the subsequent malfunction of the Setanta.
While an initial repair team was promptly dispatched, several members of the team were possessed by the free demons, who then proceeded to further complicate the situation by introducing a large amount of free thaumic energy, rendering the satellite effectively irreparable.
Operation LLEWYN DARK is the designation for the attempts to contain the fallout that resulted from the meltdown of the Setanta, and the ongoing attempts to maintain geas safety when used in paratechnology.

OVERVIEW OF GEAS

What is Geas?
Geas (pronounced "g-iːæs" or "ge-ass") is a general term for a set of procedures that, when completed successfully, make the parties subject to the geas unable or significantly less able to wilfully disobey the restrictions placed on them. While Irish lore describes geas as no more than a taboo, modern forms of geas render the subject completely obedient of these restrictions thanks to advances in memetic engineering and quantum physics.
Geas typically consist of three parts – a contract, a memetic carrier, and a probability field. The contract itself specifies the conditions of the geas, while the memetic agent is used to carry the probability field and bind the subject to the geas once the contract is signed or otherwise agreed to by the subject. The probability field effectively warps the state of the subject's consciousness such that it becomes more and more difficult to perform actions which would contravene the restrictions of the geas.
These bindings may be removed by eliminating the memetic carrier from the subject's mind, which may be done by the contract itself (usually after a set restriction has been fulfilled), or by collapsing the probability field through the unwilful breach of these terms and conditions (see the section on Cuchulainn syndrome below.)
History of Geastechnology
Memetics and Geas
During the burgeoning years of paratechnology research, the investigation of folklore and legends for their basis in reality was a common practice, resulting in the discovery of demonics, petrification, and skinwalking technology. As such, the Ireland-based Langford memetics team began investigating the phenomenon of geas and how such a binding agreement was created – if not discovering the basis behind the myth, then finding how to replicate it.
Several investigations of the geas phenomenon were conducted throughout Ireland, with the most notable and productive being the Gyffe expedition of 1929. From the binding materials recovered from the expedition, Robert Langford successfully managed to reverse-engineer the memetic agents used in these materials and published his seminal paper, "Geas as Eigentechnology – Memetic Composition of Geas Binders" a year later.
Binder Generation
In 1932, Ava Berryman successfully generalised Langford's findings to encompass a larger set of memetic agents and used her previously developed Berryman memetic composition method to develop a method to create custom geas binding agents. Realising the potential use and commercial opportunities for the creation of these memetic agents, Berryman took out a patent on a set of curve sketching tools which could be used to compose an overall binding agent. These Bezier-Berryman curve sketching sets are still sold and owned by old hands in the memetics business and collectors worldwide.
However, with the Occult Warfare Act of 1939 and the start of the Seventh Occult War, both Langford and Berryman were instructed to develop geas bindings which could bind a human mind to an abstract concept. With their successful development of the first mind-abstract binding agent in 1940, British conscription documents from that year onwards featured this agent, effectively binding conscripted occult agents to the British government and killing any potentially traitorous members of the department.
The use of these Berryman-Langford agents in hiring documents became a widespread practice following the end of the Seventh Occult War and the declassification of their research. Normalcy preservation agencies such as the Global Occult Coalition, MI666 and the Unusual Incidents Unit continue to use these agents to this day – the Foundation, however, has partially relaxed their stance on this topic, due to the interaction between memetic agents and complex geas. Geases are also widely employed to hide the use of other geas in order to maintain the integrity of the veil protocol.
Cuchulainn Syndrome

The probability field associated with these memetic agents restricts the typical phase space associated with thought processes. It is believed that when the geas is broken in a way which does not involve the removal of the memetic agent and thus the probability field, the uncontrolled "release" of the cognitive phase space results in uncontrollable neural activity. This rapid and erratic neural activity often causes a grand mal seizure in the subject, followed by the possible total collapse of the lungs and cardiac arrythmia as the memory purges the memetic agent, which interferes with unconscious nervous activity…
– Excerpt from "Cuchulainn syndrome: The collapse of the probability field and its effect on human health", Iyer, R., Vidyasagar, R.

Prometheus Laboratories' early adoption of contractual geas and memetic technologies in general allowed them to observe the first recorded case of Cuchulainn syndrome in 1965. To this day, Cuchulainn syndrome remains one of the most hazardous obstacles to the safe implementation of contractual geas.
The condition which would come to be known as Cuchulainn syndrome was initially observed in a Prometheus maintenance worker named Kieran Carson. Colleagues reported he was unable to do his job without suffering seizures and muscle spasms. Investigation showed that he was, in fact, infected with a memetic agent he had unintentionally been exposed to during his time working for Prometheus. This memetic infection forced him to unintentionally break his geas by contravening a clause in his employment contract.
Using anti-memetic treatments pioneered by Iyer and Vidyasagar, the memetic infection was removed, followed shortly thereafter by the geas carrier. In order to treat the after-effects of the syndrome, another geas was placed on Carson which prevented these spasms from occuring by making these random neural misfirings impossible for him to perform.
The Kaliningrad Geas Standard
Following the discovery of Cuchulainn syndrome, in order to ease treatment of these cases, representatives of various occult organisations including the Foundation, the Global Occult Coalition and Prometheus Labs gathered in Kaliningrad to discuss this matter. It was decided that an international standard for geas should be created, encompassing the memetic carriers and probability fields used in the creation of geas.
The agreement resulted in the Kaliningrad Geas Standard, an international specification for geastechnology used in various applications. This specification details the types of memetic carriers and probability fields acceptable for use, with an especial focus on contractual geas. The majority of normalcy preservation organisations have adopted this standard for the purposes of easing Cuchulainn syndrome treatment – however, it is not uncommon to see non-standard geas being employed in regions without access to the technology required to fabricate the memetic agents specified.
The Fall of the Setanta
The most crushing blow to geastechnology and the reason for its infrequent usage today was the Setanta incident. In 1968, the proposal for a geas-based medical alert system was initially submitted, involving a central hub satellite managing the creation and updating of these geases. It was hoped that this system would increase the survivability of medical conditions such as strokes by ensuring rapid response and also increasing the life expectancy for patients with debilitating illnesses.
The Setanta was launched on May 5th, 1972 and successfully managed this system for 9 years. On July 19th, a meteoroid collided with the Setanta; the meteoroid's high velocity resulted in it disabling the radio communications array of the satellite and the disruption of the demonics technology used in the Setanta.
The damage and defacement of these demonic components resulted in at least thirty demons being discharged into the rest of the electric components, further damaging the satellite and making repair operations difficult due to the inadvertent demonic possession of the majority of the repair crew dispatched. In a last-resort effort to recover the Setanta, Prometheus handed over custody of the satellite to the Foundation, who in cooperation with the Horizon Initiative and specialists from Prometheus managed to dispatch the majority of the demons, although they did not successfully repair the satellite's facilities. The satellite is still under containment by the Foundation as SCP-████.
As a result of the malfunction of the Setanta, over 790 patients signed up to the services provided by the Setanta acquired Cuchulainn syndrome due to the malformed nature of the geas being handled by the satellite. This catastrophic loss of reputation Prometheus Astrotechnologies incurred meant that several other projects were abandoned due to similar fears.

AAR: OPERATION LAPLACIAN MIDNIGHT

05/07/82

From: Intelligence Advisor, MTF Mu-0 "Maxwell's Demons"
To: Operations Director, O5 Command
Subject: Prometheus Documentation on Operation LAPLACIAN MIDNIGHT

MAINTENANCE REPORT 1198.301.092

Date: 05/07/82
Maintenance Staff Involved:

William Dunbar
Hayley Greene
Draško Kumiega
Foundation Specialist Richard Kowalski
Foundation Specialist Arjun Jagannath

Maintenance Location: PSAT Setanta
Maintenance Performed: Replacement of malfunctioning demonic circuitry and lambda wave array, expulsion of demonic entities
Equipment Allocation: In addition to the tools required for the repair of the demonic circuitry and lambda wave array, the maintenance team were issued with the following products for the purposes of self-defense against possible free demons.
 1. EIDolon (Electrodemonic Interference Device) – The EIDolon is designed to disrupt the manifestation of a demon by interfering with the interaction of the demon particle with photons, preventing demons in the area of effect from manipulating electromagnetic forces.
 2. Gell-Mann Delta-metal Embroidered Suit (one per person) – Initially produced for the EXORCIST task force, the Gell-Mann suit contains several warding seals derived from Vedist occult symbology embroidered into the suit using delta-metal thread. This creates a full-body warding pattern without the need for subcutaneous implantation.
 3. Ortiz-Hannigan Geas Operation Device – To be used a last resort should any of the team members succumb to demonic possession. The application of the geas through proprietary micro-memetic agents projected by the device's lens should be sufficient to at least immobilise a possessed member, if not prevent the demon from acting.
Results of Maintenance: Maintenance failed to restore the satellite's functionality, but prevented the continual malfunction of the satellite. The residual demonic manifestations were eliminated, making it possible for a second maintenance operation to be performed with the aim of restoring the satellite.
Maintenance Report: See attached file below.

Upon closer inspection of the problem, it became clear that the most advisable course of action was to eliminate the possible threat of demonic interference prior to beginning the actual maintenance work. Following the successful docking of the Connacht with the Setanta, Greene deployed the EIDolon so as to ensure the demons would not attempt to interfere with the Connacht's circuitry.
Due to the large quantity of demons discharged, the EIDolon's power source began to run down within minutes. Jagannath, the Foundation demonics specialist, suggested that a more permanent warding mechanism could be created at the docking port, so that the EIDolon's charge could be conserved for the bulk of the maintenance work. After retrieving his field supply kit, he successfully erected a Type IV ward, preventing the Connacht from being demonically influenced.
Dunbar and Kumiega then left the Connacht and the EIDolon's field of influence in order to test the function of the Gell-Mann suits – the wards held despite the continued attack. Greene then followed them with the EIDolon, now de-activated to conserve power. Jagannath similarly followed Dunbar and Kumiega, while Kowalski stayed behind to monitor the status of the ward.
Kumiega was the first to encounter the corpse of Nielsen (a member of the previously dispatched maintenance crew) and initially thought he had been reanimated – however, due to the demon's relative inability to control the motor functions of the corpse, its movements were unnatural enough for Kumiega to recognise its possession. After restraining the corpse using an improvised set of handcuffs, Kumiega navigated to the lambda array and began work.
It was later found that a fault in the anti-demonic casing of the replacement parts had led to the successful demonic infiltration of the parts. As soon as the lambda wave array was outside of the EIDolon's area of effect, the array promptly malfunctioned and overloaded, releasing a final high-power burst of lambda waves prior to the destruction of the array. After Kumiega realised that the rest of the parts would be similarly compromised, he abandoned work and instructed the crew to begin repairing the satellite's demonic circuitry.
Continued work was halted following the breakdown of Dunbar's Gell-Mann suit due to the abnormally high demonic presence in the area. Greene instructed Kumiega to run the EIDolon not off battery power, but rather the on-board thermoelectric generators. The modification was successfully performed and Jagannath attempted to perform a field exorcism on Dunbar while Greene began several banishment workings to dispel the remaining demons.
Greene's banishment ritual succeeded, although Jagannath's exorcism was interrupted by the opening of a microscopic tartarean pinhole. This resulted in the spontaneous combustion of several panels and the replacement of approximately 20% of the oxygen on-board with sulphur dioxide. In an attempt to prevent further phenomena from occuring, Kumiega and Greene cooperated to destroy the demonic circuit sustaining the pinhole.
Finally, Kumiega and Greene returned to the Connacht with Dunbar immobilised, before they undocked and began the process of re-entry.

Cost of Maintenance: Estimated at roughly $20 million, including the cost of the exorcism after landing.
Payment Details: The Foundation has paid $3 million of this cost, with the majority of their share being waived due to their supply of personnel for the maintenance effort. The Horizon Initiative's share of the payment is yet to be acquired.
Signed By: Scott Lanning, CEO of Prometheus Astrotechnologies


A poetic meditation

I.
The President of the United States stood and
waited to be shot dead
the crowd shifting like the desert sand
not a woman or a man
said
The President of the United States spoke for
the people and their friends
and they stood at the podium for
they had to get to the core
and
The President of the United States stares
still alive their eyes dead
of the media men there were scares
and the wind ruffles their hairs
when
II.
the day after i watched it on TV,
the attempt and subsequent failure
i went to bed with uneasy thoughts
in my first dream i was standing on a hill with the sky blue as it ever was and the grass a brilliant hue
there are mountains in the far distance
and theres two men on the hill
one strikes with a rock
one dies
one flees
in my next dream theres another man similar to the two but he's by a stream in a misty forest
he is dressed very simply, in loose white robes
he bleeds out slowly
as the armies of god approach, of all faiths
but he is true
III.
I went into work to begin the project.
Things sure aren't what they used to be around here.
I attend my post
I pour my coffee
I press the button
She screams
I attend my post
I pour my coffee
I press the button
She howls for the pain to cease
I attend my post
I pour my coffee
I press the button
She begs for death
I believe, he says, the experimentation is complete.
Please apply amnestic now.
Not long after that I take a break.
I gently walk through the grounds
We're by these mountains, rising tall and far into the sky
And they are speckled with these autumn trees bright as salamanders
And it's evening so the moon's just starting to rise over the horizon.
The soft violin concerto of the crickets soars like an eagle over the grass
Rising to that rising moon in symphonies from the heavens.
I could build a cabin here, I think
I could build a cabin.
IV.
And I was but there too when I saw the Lonely Wanderer stumble in.
And the people did rejoice, for he brought wondrous new gifts down upon them.
But old Shem.
He did not rejoice
"I reject the Lonely Wanderer and his heretic teachings
They are not the way of the Lord"
And the Lonely Wanderer whipped the crowd into a furious frenzy
Sending them to rain blows down upon Shem.
"He does not believe in my teachings
He is a false prophet and must die"
The people experienced a good harvest for forty days and nights
Until the Lonely Wanderer began his trek back to the north
To the shining lands of Charity
From whence he came
And the people were happy.
V.
Please state your name for the record.
SCP-XXXX-20.
Now
Why did you kill those farmers?
Of course not!
There weren't any of the Ubula left
After the village was attacked by Mokèlé-mbèmbé.
I still regret not being able to bag that monster
When I had the chance.
It is a persistently elusive creature…
Interesting.
Well, you are obviously not on the moon.
You are in a facility operated by the Psychiatric Crisis Intervention Foundation.
It appears you have experienced a major delusional episode.
What do you remember from last night?
You know, there are some people out there who believe that,
If we wish something didn't happen hard enough
It really didn't happen.
Is there no one else there?
Many species of ant will
Accept other ants of the same species
Into their colonies
Even ones from the outside.
I have one last question for you today.
You mentioned the fortress in the background briefly
But could you elaborate more about it?
They were
disgusting…
VI.
I've been thinking about stories a lot recently.
They've been on my mind
And I've been noticing recently
Many of my own kind.
Ways that things differ
They weren't there before
Thirteen men huddle for warmth
As darkness turns to war.
VII.

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Tales

asmr by dado

RONALD REAGAN CUT UP WHILE RAPPING

Excerpt from The Astrolabe Institute Journal

Amnestic

The William Penn Iteration

End Of Deaf; or, In the Clutches of Dumb

The News Tonight: Wednesday April 26th 2017

Interior—Interior

The Undoing

Holy Mackerel

Grandchildren Frost

Portrait of Two Choreographers

Wade Williams Distribution Presents:

The DevourerLand Diaries
Rating: 11


Note: This is part nine in a multi-part story based around the events leading up to the containment of SCP-2982. It is recommended that you read the previous entry Comfort Breaks first, or start from the beginning At the Library.

“How long's the shower been broken?” Dimitri asked. Helen shrugged and dried her tears on her blouse. “Damned thing,” he continued. “Keeps switching itself back on…. You okay?”
Helen took a deep breath. “No,” she admitted.
“That's understandable.” There was a long pause. “I thought I heard you… “
“Talking to someone?”
“To yourself, I figured, or Angela.”
“It hasn't sunk in yet. If it ever does.”
“It will,” said Dimitri. “It'll take time.”
Helen nodded slowly in acknowledgement. “Can I stay here tonight? It's late. I don't want to go somewhere else.”
Dimitri opened his mouth to speak but Helen continued over him. “It feels like she's still here,” she said. “It feels like I'm with her. Not so alone. Please.”
Dimitri waited long enough to give the impression he had a choice. “Okay,” he said. “I'll get someone to stay in a car outside or something. You'd better take this.” He started to put something around her neck but then stopped, and instead handed her a small orange box; a rape alarm. “Just in case.” His tone was apologetic.
She took it awkwardly and put it next to the basin. It made her skin crawl.
“We're still looking for Aidan Brown,” the lieutenant said. “If he tries to come back, we'll pick him up.”
“Do you think that's likely?”
“Him coming back? No. He hasn't been seen in weeks. Not by anyone but you, anyway. I think we need to go through some more questions tomorrow, if you're okay with that.”
Helen nodded. “Okay,” Dimitri said. “I'll get someone to come over. If Aidan contacts you, let me know. I'll see myself out.”
Helen waited until she heard the front door close, turned back to the shower, and switched it off. She regarded Aidan numbly as he shifted position in the bathtub, his carapace grinding as he tried to make himself more comfortable. He looked up at her but couldn't maintain eye contact. “I'm sorry,” he said.
Helen sat on the edge of the toilet and picked up Angela's toothbrush. She held it in her three left fingers and turned it over, trying to find some significance to this most mundane of everyday items. There were memories wrapped up inside, memories of happy times when they'd laughed and played as she taught her daughter how to brush her teeth. You make the foam like this; not too much or it hurts. Swish your mouth out with water when you're done. If you gargle it makes a funny noise but if you're not careful it'll come out your nose. Angela had a beautiful smile. Two gaps where milk teeth had come out that only made it more adorable.
Those memories were still there, but the meaning was lost, or locked away where they couldn't hurt so much. For now, she had nothing.
In time she looked back towards Aidan. He had stopped crying.
“Why?” She asked, her focus still on the toothbrush. Aidan didn't respond. “The police think you saw a vulnerable single mother with a young child. That you befriended me to get to a seven year old little girl. That that was your intention all along.”
Aidan started to weep again.
“Don't,” she said. “Just give me answers.”
“It's not true,” said Aidan.
Helen laughed softly, entirely without humour. “Maine put those urges into your head, didn't he? Turned you into a child molester. Probably wrote it down somewhere. How can I hate you? I want so much to hurt you right now, but I can't. Even if I wasn't like this.” She raised her disfigured arms and fingers to him. “Even if I could, I couldn't. It isn't your fault. This goes deeper than either of us.”
Aidan Brown sobbed uncontrollably again. Helen's forgiveness was so much more unbearable than her hate. “If I could change things - “
“Don't,” Helen warned. “Don't. I can't cope with what-ifs right now. I have to focus on what's real. What can't be changed. Accept. Move on…” She exhaled slowly and put the toothbrush back in its place. And then another thought sprang to mind. “Might you do this again? To other children?”
Aidan took a deep breath as well as his dysfunctional lung would allow. He thought long and hard, imagined scenarios where conscience and kindness would struggle against opportunity and desire, and be victorious; imagined similar struggles where conscience and kindness would lose badly every time. The latter far outweighed the former.
Helen looked across at him. “Well?”
“Yes,” he admitted. There was no reason to lie.
“Jesus,” she said, quietly. Aidan moved uncomfortably in the bathtub.
“I can't give myself up,” he said. “Nobody can see or hear me. After I… After… Afterwards I came in here. Turned the shower on and curled up under it. The police came. Broke down the door. They switched the shower off, I switched it back on. Cried all the time they were here. They didn't hear me. They didn't see me. Tried to grab them, they moved away. I just sat here under the shower. I couldn't interact with them.”
“But you interacted with my daughter,” Helen countered abruptly. “You managed that.”
“I know. It… wasn't easy.”
Helen looked down at the floor with red stinging eyes, and the emptiness was all around her. This was surely the end of her life. Aidan Brown must have been thinking the same thing; another rasping deep breath, then: “I don't want to be alive anymore,” he said.
Helen nodded in dejection, then looked at him fiercely. “Don't you fucking dare,” she hissed. “Don't you fucking dare even think about it. You're not done here yet. Not by a long way.”
“But -”
“No.” Helen stood up and advanced on Aidan.
“You don't get it, do you?” she asked. “You can commit murder without getting caught,” she said. “You don't take the easy road until the hard road's done. Do you understand?”
Aidan nodded. Shower run-off puddled around his bulk. He shivered and wrapped his legs around himself. “I understand,” he said.
“Until then, until you've done everything you can to honour my daughter's life and avenge her death, until you've made reparations, you stay here - or I swear to God I will come down to hell and hunt you down, and satan himself will cower at my coming.” She saw the fear in Aidan's face and softened slightly. “No,” she said. “You stay here until the hard road's done. Maine has to die. After that, you crawl under a rock and you die however you want.”
Aidan nodded again. “Okay,” he said, and he was scared and relieved at once. He had murdered this woman's daughter, and she did not hate him. He had ruined her life, and yet she allowed him his.
“I'll do whatever it takes,” he said, and despite the circumstances that had brought them to this point, there was something akin to belonging between them. The fact was not lost on Helen that Aidan had irrevocably destroyed that which was most precious to her, but likewise she knew she was to blame for it all; she had involved him, when all was said and done.
But, she thought, how did Harold Maine know that?
° ° °
Foundation agent Carol Paris walked through the Laundromat, down the stairs, and into the office. Pass code, retinal scan, pass code, pheromone scan, pass code, fingerprint scan. The final door opened up in front of her.
She'd left this room quiet and empty. Now it was full of noise, full of colours, Thirteen HD screens, each one a visual monitoring aid with twenty or more lines scrolling slowly across it, each one focussing on particular areas of concern that the Site Director deemed worthy of attention.
Five of the lines were red, another eight turning from green to orange in front of her eyes. She was waved over by Agent Caruso. “What's the story?” she asked.
Caruso, a small, wiry rat of man, smiled tiredly and handed her a coffee.
“Escalation Procedure 926-Infosec-008.”
“No K-class? Never mind.” Paris sat down at her desk and booted her machine up. “Maybe next time. What's up?”
“Rape and murder of a minor in Beacon Hill yesterday.”
“And?”
“Initial forensic report's triggered five deviations from normality patterns, another eight possible - well you can see the screens.”
“Go on.”
“Traces of human and crustacean sperm at the scene. As in, in the same DNA strand. Not physically possible, obviously. Injuries consistent with crush trauma from claws, fragments of human skin and chitin under the fingernails. Human skin between seventeen and thirty seven per cent crustacean. Chitin between eight and twenty four per cent human. Thirty page synopsis, four hundred page full.”
“I see.” Already she knew. It was obvious. “What kind of crustacean?”
“Limpet? Lobster? Does it matter? Wait a sec, got it written down somewhere… Yeah. Homarus Americanus, American lobster. No one saw any intruders, no comers, no goers. And no one saw any half-lobster monsters either.”
Pings as new alerts came in. Paris looked up at the screens. “More of the same?”
“Oh they're just that ice cream parlour.” Caruso dismissed them with a wave. “The place where you walk in and you can see with your fingers, and the pistachio flavour is sentient.”
“Thought that was contained?”
“It is. Need to update the alert criteria. Six week backlog.”
“So who's on the ground? With the lobster case?”
Caruso tapped on his keyboard and swiped the screen. “Dimitri,” he said. “He's with the mother.”
“Make sure he stays with her.”
“Will do. This is all Jessop, isn't it?”
Jessop, she thought. Harold Maine's codename. It brought a little lump of dread with it into her throat. She nodded.
Caruso sipped his coffee intently and leaned back in his chair. “We really ought to get moving with this,” he said. “We've flashed entire communities for less. Don't you think we have enough evidence for at least a grade two Meet and Greet?”
Paris shook her head. “We wait,” she said. Caruso made a sucking noise with his teeth.
“Seriously? Why?”
“Orders from above,” she replied. She didn't mention the favours called in for her father, or the dinner date arranged with Site Director David Runeberg. Caruso looked as though he might raise a further question, mulled it over, then decided against it.
In front of Carol Paris thirteen HD monitors were turning red. “Downgrade Jessop's alerts to vibrate only and increase the escalation delay to the next level across the board, whatever that is. And flag any extra-continental notifications as FYI; we don't want anyone else getting tied up in this.”
“Okay,” said Caruso, “but we need to act sooner or later. The CMMCH had a flagged incident this morning. Woman gave birth to a full sized cow."
Paris raised her eyebrows. "That's not the end of it," Caruso continued. "The cow was in labour. Gave birth an hour later to the woman's baby. The mother - and all witnesses - are displaying the expected mental trauma, but all three are physically normal now. Site induction times three taking place as we speak. We're checking for links to Jessop.”
Paris played with her bracelet distractedly as she listened; a birthday present from her father. She didn't know it, but it would be her last. Hers, and her two daughters, and Caruso's, and everyone else she knew.
“We're running out of time,” Caruso said, and he finished his coffee without tasting it.
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You might want to read this before you begin.

101/1110/245B8
I, Henry Hughes MCCLVII, proclaim this textboard, my diary for the duration of The Journey.
It has taken my fatherparent, the great Henry Hughes MCCLVI, his entire life to try and find a way out of the of the tunnelspace. He is old and the signs of his dermis wearing thin are now unmistakable, his time is near. I long for the affection of my motherparent, though I doubt she is still alive. The last I saw of her was a face, made sick from worry and fear. Her husband and son, pilot and future pilot of a shipcraft sent into the unknown.
Progress has been slow, yet the fact remains, this is the furthest any Motherburgrian has ever been. Every µm is one µm we step into the Outer.
The Outer…
The Outer and The Shadows are normally things that servants of Him do not speak of. Our Father supplies us with everything we need in Motherburg, after all. But times have changed.
His children know the story well, passed down from generation to generation. When the hull suddenly approached a bus station in our home of Motherburg V.1.97 we knew Our Father had sent a gift unlike any other. The hull had the words "Sprint" printed in beautiful mirror-like words. It was obvious. We were to use this advanced hull in a sprint to find Our Father! The Kinger of Kings, finally found by His Majesty's Shipcraft, the HMS Sprint!
Of course, I was not borned yet and it was to be many cycles until the shipcraft was completed. When w-

111/3A/245B8
My apologies, diary, for not completing my previous entry. Something wonderful has happened! My fatherparent! I haven't seen him smile in so many cycles, it brings me so much joy. Although, we all were smiling when he announced the news.
He saw light. Bright light. The light of Our Father? The Codescripts say He is made of pure, cleansing light. Could it be Him? We have been preparing, praying to Him. This could be the moment we have been striving for. The 2nd Version. The Fatherboard is in reach.
If you do not hear from me, my diary, then we have found Him and I am saved, completed.

1001/3A/245B8
It seems like a billion flashes since we saw the light. Today we finally reached it. It took a while for our optics to adjust. It is hard to describe what we see. It is like we have lived our entire existence in a box. I cannot fathom the size of this place.
The Outer. This wonderous place.
An environment not governed by shape. Gone are the cubes, squares and sharp angles of the sky we know. This sky, a barrier of white and gray plumes, interspersed with blue dots. This land, strange shapes and objects, huge in scale, permanently soaked in cool light. His creations are unbelievable. Our Father has more power than we could ever imagine.
We know of the existence of Kilometers. This is the first time we have ever needed this form of measure.

1010/3A/245B8
My fatherparent and many others are not as amazed as I am. He is old and close to death. He needed to see Our Father. This was our mission, but it was his more than any others. He has asked me to take over the controls, I have completed my flight training long ago but this is the first time he has asked me to pilot. I will report back later.
What a breathtaking place.

1100/3A/245B8
We have not sensed The Shadows' presence anywhere in this place. The last we saw of them was when my fatherparent began The Journey. Are we finally free from their influence? I pray to Our Father for forgiveness, I know I should not speak, write or even think of The Shadows.
I will stop.

1100/3A/245B8
Rest well my fatherparent. You live forever in my memory.
I wonder if He, Our Father, punishes me for mentioning those we do not speak of. I did not want to lose my fatherparent… Please forgive me. Our Father. Please.
Perhaps I am too struck with grief. He was old and frail. Perhaps his time had come… I will miss him

100/3C/245B8
We are in a city.
A while back, I steered clear of an area filled with tall brown pillars. They were topped with green objects, jutting from the pillar's core. Why Our Father created these things, only he would know. I stopped the shipcraft over a clearing, to spread my fatherparent's afterdust, this is where we found the city
I don't know if the word "city" does justice to this place. One building in this city, compared to one of our cities, is like comparing this shipcraft to the tip of my finger. It is amazing to know Our Father created all this, His power is truly beyond measure.
There is one thing which upsets me, however. Forgive me, Our Father, for mentioning them, but I have caught sight of The Shadows. A multitude of them. I will steer well above them as we make our way through the city.

110/3C/245B8
The people on board are becoming restless. They do not trust me like they trusted my fatherparent. I think they have noticed my excitement of this new world, they must think I have lost sight of my goal. Can they not see that He is all around us? In these amazing sights which grace our optics.
My mate supports me neverthelesser, the most supportive woman I have ever met. Bless her, Thyour Greatness.
We recently found out that she carries my child, Diagnosticians say it will be a boy. My son, future pilot. Bless him one thousand times over, Our Father.

101/4B/245B8
An enormous winged creature attacked us today.
Dark gray in color, with lifeless optics that see through to your inners. I saw it coming for us, but I did not expect it to have such speed. We were lucky to escape and are currently stationed in a crevice, located in one of the city's buildings.
We…Well, I am too shaken to move.
I have noticed the environment getting darker. The gray sky is now a darker tone, there are no more blue spots. His servants are currently in prayer and I will join them soon.
I can only think of this as The Shadows' doing. It has to be them… Why would Our Father create a creature so filled with hate? But… If The Shadows can create something like this. What else have they created?

1011/4B/245B8
I overheard one of His servants mention a theory to his mate this wakecycle. His fatherparent told it to him before he passed on.
Why did Our Father send one of The Shadows to give us the hull of this shipcraft? The question has been long whispered. The Codescripts say it was a test for us and an indication of His power. That he could influence The Shadows with ease. However, one cannot help but think of my fellow servant's theory.
What if He did not send this to us?

1001/4C/245B8
My son is borned, through the grace of Our Father. I, your servant, am forever grateful to You, Most Highest.
He is strong, healthy, not a single error found. We have decided to name him Light. I know I am breaking family tradition, but in this time of darkness, It is what myself and my mate need. We might not see our families in Motherburg ever again, after all.
Light Hughes I, you bring light to these unsure times. I pray, Our Father willing, that the light returns to the sky before your optics can process.
Welcome, my son. The Journey is long and I have so much to show you.

The Diary of Henry Hughes MCCLVII, Captain of the H.M.S Sprint - Page 2


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2.
They'd called it the Bungalow, back then. Single-storeys and semi-detacheds had lined the streets then, and the additional floor of number 32 towered above its surroundings. But now, hemmed in on both sides by the new developments, the old house looks almost pitiful, shrinking away from the high concrete walls beside it. It sits in the middle of the plot, its windows shuttered, brooding, dreaming the dreams of old buildings and other abandoned things.
The gate stands closed. It is exactly as Hannah remembers it, plain, black-barred, no-frills - with the exception of a padlock and chain, securing it from the outside. New. No rust.
"I haven't been here in months. What's going on?" She gives the gate a loud rattle.
Isa sighs. "Move," she says, pushing the younger woman aside. She inspects the lock and chain, running over it with her fingers, and traces a pattern in the metal. A flower, a mandala - then something clicks. For a second, it's as if a pattern really does appear, glimmering fingernail scratches and silver. White sparks shower, and Isa swears - "Goddamn arthritis!" She tries again. This time, the lock and chain fall to the ground. There is a shiny smell of handrails.
"What the hell was that?" asks Hannah. The smell is alien to her, foreboding, and childhood memories surface, triggered by the act, the inexplicability in front of her eyes. No, not her, too. Just like Mother…
"Basic black-line working." Isa's wry smile curls like the tail of a cat, picking up the fear in her voice. "Not for everyone. Maybe not for you." Isa unlatches the gate, and the two of them step onto the driveway.
She composes herself. "Did she teach you this?"
"Her art was… another end. Not that she would call herself like that." She wrings her hands and cracks her knuckles. "You seem… uncomfortable."
Hannah waves it off. "It'll pass. It'll pass."
They walk down the driveway, which is drowned out in a wash of coarse grass and weeds, onto the black-and-white mosaic-tiled patio. The cracks in the tiles where Hannah remembers, and quite a few more where she doesn't. The porch roof sags. Without Mother, the house gives her a feeling that it didn't quite fit together like it used to: corners out of place, walls falling together and pushing up against each other at all the wrong places. Was it some last remaining charm, some arcane entwining of the heart and home - or is it all just an illusion? Does her mind's eye, still reeling from Mother's absence, begin to see the house fall?
The front door is locked; they unlock it, this time with Hannah's keys. The sudden ringing startles her. A burglar alarm? Hannah looks up in confusion - she's never installed one, Mother never let her.
The sound knifes into her ears. Isa stops, tilts her head, as if listening for something. She raises her hands towards it and contorts her fingers, focusing intensely on something just beyond the reach of her vision. Then, abruptly, she puts her hand down. The ringing stops, but the contraption continues flashing its angry red light.
"That's not helping!" screams Hannah, hands over her ears. What has she done, this woman…
"You make a lot of fuss considering you've just broken into your own house." Isa trots down the hall, massaging her hand. Hannah scowls, and follows. What other choice has she?
Stale air greets them in the hall. The place seems bigger now - like the space itself has expanded to replace the gaps. The late afternoon light filters through the half-closed windows, casting ribbons of yellow glare across the floor and walls, filling it with an emptiness, a substantial kind of emptiness. Nothing creaks or moans; aside from their footsteps, the house is silent.
There is also a camera on a wall.
It's not even a good place for a camera. It faces the wall opposite it, fixating expectantly on a spot where the paint has slightly peeled. Four brand-new screws stud it neatly into the concrete.
All Isa offers is a shrug. "Someone has been here."
There's more of them, further inside. She'd removed most of the furniture when Mother moved out - sold the more sentimental pieces, threw out the rest - and the cameras stand out all the more, the only objects left, blank lenses staring dumbly at exposed walls.
Other things, she realises, are slightly different too. Patches of discolouration or peeling on the walls, like the one near the front door. In the dusky interior of the house, they look like silhouettes cast on the walls after a nuclear blast. Some are even human-sized. As she stoops to inspect one of them, she coughs; the floor is caked in a layer of fine cement dust.
Amidst the quiet, the emptiness breeds a certain kind of nostalgia. The ledge by the front window, where afternoon sun illuminated the sepia-toned pages of library books; kitchen counter of sandwiches made and consumed at six in the morning, every morning, for years; the corridor from the kitchen to the back porch, walls familiar under her touch, a path traced routinely in charcoal-black night by hands and bare feet and wide-open eyes. Memories set in the geometry, engraved in the masonry - extending, perhaps, to the very foundations. But foundations shift and sink in the monsoon-drenched soil. And shadows appear, and cameras crop up in empty houses.
Elsewhere, the geometry is more subtle. Clusters of black on the monochrome mosaic-tiled floor, coalescing in patterns that only her eyes recognise; browned stains where table legs once stood. Bit by bit, the memory of the place flows back into her, and when she closes her eyes for a moment the image of the house surrounds her like a cocoon. In a way, it was a cocoon - she'd spent most of her years growing up here, the years that really mattered - the years of schools and books and teenage heartbreak, its dreams dreamt under this very roof. Maybe some still even survive, collecting softly in the eaves.
Hannah clears her throat. "Alright, what are we looking for?"
Isa paces across the hall, hands clasped behind her. "I was very interested, when you said Mother was gone. Erasure, this kind of erasure - can't be done alone. Needs contagion… needs sympathy. Part affects whole. Like affects like." She turns and fixes Hannah with a gaze. "Now you were raised by her, you should know. What part of the sculpture is not part of the artist? How much of the sculptor in the sculpture?"
"I don't know, I was never really -"
"Of course you don't know." She sighs. "Art has power. There is art, and then there is art. Your mother was the latter." A pause, thoughts recollecting to the present. "Her studio, where was it?"
Hannah rolls her eyes. "Well, say so, then." She tramps up the stairs with aching feet and reeling head.

A loud peeling-cracking noise from downstairs.
Skeeerlch. Like plaster stripped off a wall.
For a moment, Hannah thinks to herself - absurdly, fearfully - that the house is coming down. Then, the sound of stone scraping against stone. Isa stops in her tracks.
Up the stairs, footsteps - staggered, muted sounds, feet of clay. Trod-trod. Trod-trod.
A gray cracked hand grips the edge of the banister, pulling the rest of its body into view. It's almost human - or once was. Cracks run across its trunk. It lurches forward and catches on the last of the steps, body lunging, grasping, legs spasming like a dead cockroach's, kicking, kicking, still clawing. Hannah screams, runs towards the studio, fumbles for the door, shuts it, jiggles the handle - it doesn't lock. A voice inside her reminds her that she'd removed them herself for Mother's safety.
The thing continues, undeterred and unaware, arms dragging the broken half of its body forward, kicking-thrashing towards them, mouth opening and shutting in a silent wail. It nears, its jaws gape and melt, concrete hardening and gurgling in its throat, now twisted into yawning chasm and cement-mixer maw and Hannah's eyes widen in sudden recognition -
She kicks it in the face. The effort unbalances her, and she half-backpedals, half-trips onto the floor, stumbling. Still the thing advances. Arthritic fingers grasp her shoulders and she finds herself being pulled backwards, impossibly, through the wall -
- and then they're through, like passing through a velvet curtain. Outside, the thing with her mother's face clawed, and hardened, and died.
The new space is dark. The air feels musty, confined, giving the sense of a very small room. No breeze. And the heavy breathing from behind her is, thankfully, Isa's.
"Memory construct," she says, hardly out of breath. "Mostly harmless."
"It tried to - it was coming for - you panicked, and ran - "
"A dead thing. Never alive. It meant no harm."
"But its face, did you see its face - "
"A dead thing. Nothing more."
The darkness parts, and now Hannah can see that they are in an unlit alcove, with a translucent partition separating them from the studio. In front of them, the concrete figure lies stiff as a board. She passes her hand through the gap, and the space reflexively withdraws from her touch.
She emerges to inspect the body. It's the pallid gray of fresh cement, completely hardened, and its surface is as dry as dust. It stares at her through grossly distorted features, likely damaged from the agitation earlier - eyes now golf-ball sized gouges, nose a flattened mess, mouth a knife-slash idiot grin - she thinks to herself that perhaps the resemblance to Mother was only imagined, like the emptiness of the house. An illusion. There is no nostalgia here: the contorted form on the floor fills her with contempt, bordering on pity. But there is also a poignancy in its grotesqueness, like looking at broken dolls, or mannequins - or old yellow photographs, its inhabitants long dead.
So close to life, yet so far…
"Should we… do something about this?" she asks, kneeling to get a closer look. Despite her apprehension, despite the fear she knows she would have felt, approaching the body in all its misshapen unnaturalness - there is a calm about her, one she did not previously knew she could have had. This is new to her.
"You want to bury it?" asks Isa incredulously.
Hannah shrugs. "I suppose. Or something."
"It was never alive," repeats Isa. She stoops over the body and prods it with the edge of her sandal.
"Well, it doesn't feel right, just leaving it out here like this."
Hannah rummages in her purse, fishes out some kind of cloth, and lays it over the deformed hollows of the figure's eyes. A shallow gesture, but a gesture nonetheless.
Isa raises an eyebrow. "Spectacles cloth?"
"It's the best I can do. You got anything better?"
She gets up. Behind them where there once was wall, a mirror now stands, not really there but all there, shimmering in the windowpaned evening light. Hannah now sees that the space behind is not an alcove, but the beginning of a corridor, long and unlit, stretching into the dark. Further on, there is another emptiness, the sensation of a larger space beyond.
"We never had one of these here before." Hannah stares at the mirror in disbelief.
"Could be you refused to see it." Ignoring Hannah's glare, Isa runs her hand along the mirror's rim, embossed with - what, exactly? Chinese? No, too freeform, too jumbled-up. They glitter in response to the touch, bringing to mind memories long forgotten. Pottery glaze. A glass of water in the July sun. Its surface ripples, and bends.
The older woman steps through the mirror. Hannah follows, and together they pass through the darkened space, reflections doubling and annihilating each other in their wake.
Hannah traces her hand along the brick wall as she passes, and her fingers come away with dust. The light from her phone illuminates the way, showing blank walls, until the passage opens and no sooner do her feet cross the threshold when bright white light blazes down above her and burns into the new space beyond. A large hall, high-ceilinged and square, adorned with plinths and wooden tables. Above, the lights are set into wide, sloping rectangles that give the illusion of open-air skylights, of sunshine bursting through clear glass. She always did like bright spaces.
She dizzily imagines the space jutting out from the side of the old house, impossibly so, five metres above the ground, and reels momentarily. But the floor underneath her is solid, with not even a little give or hollow feel behind the wood.
Pottery wheels, all manner of tools old and new. And shards: clay, porcelain, ceramic, stone - shards and shards of material, as if a whirlwind had laid waste to a gallery. In all actuality, this probably was a gallery at some point - a private, secret one, bright and skylit, kept by one woman for one woman alone.
This is where she put them. Hannah remembers clearing endless piles of figures and lumps of fired clay, arranging them in the living room, wondering if there was scarcely enough space in the hall to fit it all. And one by one they'd disappear, hidden away, her mother complaining that she'd lost them again. They'd ended up here, it seems - that is, until whatever event had befallen this place and smashed them all to pieces.
She goes along the pedestals, sweeping her hands in the dust. The fragments look as if destroyed with purpose, with vigour; she traces the trail of some ochre pieces - feet, or small hands, she decides - fragmented across the room, their trail ending at a thick heap at the foot of a wall where they'd been flung. Sky-blue ceramic spread across a table like rock candy, crushed almost to dust. The faint imprint of large hands.
She shudders.
Some pieces display hints of their former selves. A cloud of red shards whirl angrily in circles. Marble pieces extend futile tendrils that grasp at nothing but air. Piles of mildew-grey dust, pulsing to an unheard beat in complex nodal patterns.
"What do you think?" Isa not so much asks, as proposes the statement.
"Somebody came in here, destroyed all her work?" Hannah scratches her head. "Did someone have it out for her?"
"She wasn't without enemies. Other artists. The suits." Clay and ceramic careen around her, gyrating in their places like exotic clockworks. "Some of them… it would not be too much, to destroy everything she made."
"As an insult?"
"As precaution." She steps over a crushed sculpture with some level of disdain. "Never know what a woman can do, all of this garbage… "
Hannah isn't listening. She's looking at a low, heavy bench set against the wall in the far corner of the hall. Something lies below it, bulky and limp and decidedly not made of clay. Debris surrounds it in a circular heap. "Hang on, is that - ?"
As she approaches closer, she can see that the thing is covered in something dark. Closer still and she discerns that the dark substance is blood. A dead body, not a concrete one, real; battered beyond recognition, crusted in black congealed blood. And on its forehead, carved, a sigil: twin circles, interlocking, encompassing each other.
"Oh my god," she mutters, hand clasped over her mouth.
Far off, the sound of sirens.
Isa's face is grim. "Hannah. We have to go."

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