But in this game, there are no victors

Author's Note/Content Warning; Read this first

This is a story about war. At its heart, it's a sort of satire of Cold War attitudes towards victory and "the enemy." This story features depictions of racism, war, and more generalized violence & hatred that some may find disturbing. This is not meant to be lighthearted, or silly, or fun. Be aware of this as you proceed.
On an entirely unrelated note, I apologize that continued development and publication of this project has stalled so much. I'm working to finish the remaining chapters. Thank you for your patience.

Hopefully this better prepares you for the story.

Prologue

The Old Sailor from Massachusetts

The United States of America, September 3, 1962:

Millions of Americans on the West Coast have settled in for the evening and turned on their radios and televisions, content to enjoy whatever program their families watch together. However, their scheduled programming has been interrupted by an urgent speech by President Joseph Kennedy Jr.

My fellow Americans, it is my deepest regret to inform you that, in an emergency meeting by Congress, war has been declared on the Soviet Union, the People's Republic of China, and their allies. Our intelligence assets in those countries and our early warning systems all indicate that a large number of intercontinental ballistic missiles have been launched in a surprise attack against the United States and her allies.
We will answer in full force.
It is no easy thing that I ask of you, but we must all stand together through this, our darkest of hours, until we see the coming victorious dawn. We have been preparing for this scenario, and I am fully confident in the strength of our military's plan.
If you live in a city with a population greater than 100,000, or near a military base, I must urgently encourage you to head to your city's central bunker, unless you have one of your own. If neither of these is the case, it is advised that you should head to your basements, with all doors locked and windows shuttered, or to whatever shelter you have available. If you're outdoors, head indoors immediately. Be prepared to listen to any further announcements through your local radio stations.
We will survive this, People of the United States. Freedom and democracy will not be extinguished. We need only stand strong, and stand together. God bless, and good luck.

The White House, September 3, 1962:

A man is calling his brother for the last time. Neither will ever see the sun again.

"H - Hello? Yes, John. It's Joseph. No, I haven't called anyone else yet. I felt like you should be the first to know."

"Yeah, I know. Listen, you can't go to the bunker, they'll know who you are, blame you for what I've done. They'll lynch you, John. You take Jackie and the kids, and you go out to the country. I'll see what I can do from here to make sure my guys go out and protect you."

"Mr. President, it's time."

"Hang on one second, will you? No, that wasn't at you, John. Yeah, I'll call Ted and Robert next. Please, stay safe, and send Jackie and the children my love. Tell the kids that Uncle Joe loves 'em."

"And I'm sorry."

The Old Sailor from Massachusetts

Chapter 1

The Old Soldier from Volgograd

Volgograd Bunker #6, October 13, 1962:

Things are being said in angered whispers as young warriors look on, fearful.

"Vasily, look at them. These are not soldiers, they're farm boys. Most of them don't look older than ten. And some of them are crying. We can't do this."

"We are at war, probably the most important war that will ever be fought. It wasn't us who decided to launch the first nuclear missiles. It wasn't us who killed over a billion people. It wasn't us who put us in this bunker. And it isn't us who made the decision that our children must be our soldiers. We have orders, and we are sworn to uphold them."

"Do you expect me to believe that? Why can't we admit defeat? The surface is ruined. There's nothing left to fight for. And these are children. Do you expect me to simply stand by and watch as we give these boys over to those things? I can't do that in good faith."

"Grigory, I would hold my tongue if I were you. You are an officer of this army and are sworn to protect this country, with your life if need be. We can't let the Americans win, and we cannot simply give up. If whatever the Engineers have planned will let these boys see the sky again, it is worth it."

"Even if it kills them?"

"Even if it kills them."

Site-17, October 26, 1989:

Interviewed: SCP-2273
Interviewing: Dr. Friedrich
Forward: Interview was conducted in German. This interview took place one week after Interview 004.
Transcript:
Dr. Friedrich: Alexei, is now a good time?Dr. Friedrich: First off, is the music player working for you?Dr. Friedrich: Well, for one thing, I wanted to know how your wounds were healing, for the sake of your medical supervisors.Dr. Friedrich: That's wonderful news. Uh, you mentioned that the wounds were created when the Americans "pulled your weapons and supply pack off?" Can you explain what you meant by that?Dr. Friedrich: Why did they do it that way? Why not simply give you rifles?Dr. Friedrich: Ok, I see. What are the two small scars between the major lacerations from?Dr. Friedrich: Oh. That makes sense. How would you use your hands without accidentally shooting something?Dr. Friedrich: I would hope so.Dr. Friedrich: Yes. My supervisors also wanted to know what weapons you carried.Dr. Friedrich: And you used your main weapons frequently?End Transcript

Volgograd Bunker #6, October 13, 1962:

A boy, not much older than five, stands in the front rank of a group of many, crying.

"What is your name, boy?"

"Alexei."

"Do you have a last name?"

"Belitrov."

"Now listen, Alexei Belitrov. My name is Grigory. I am going to be working with you a lot from now on. Do you understand that?"

"I want my mother."

"Yes, Alexei, I know. But look at me. Your mother and your father have offered you up for a cause that is greater than you know. You have to be strong for them. Look around you. All these other boys? They're going to look out for you. And you need to look out for them. That makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Y- Yes sir."

"Good. Now look at this. Do you see this? It is a German 5 Mark. It is a lucky coin. My father found it during the Great War. He kept it throughout the War and the Revolution. It kept him safe. He gave it to me, and it kept me alive during the Winter War and the Great Patriotic War. I have no sons to give it to, so I'm giving it to you. So long as you have this coin, you have nothing to fear, and neither do your brothers beside you."

"Th- Thank you."

"It's nothing, Alexei. Now, keep your chin up. You are with friends."

Site-17, January 20, 1992:

Interviewed: SCP-2273
Interviewing: Isaac Abrahamovich
Forward: Interview was primarily conducted in Russian. This interview was conducted by Site-17's Deputy Chief of Security, Isaac Abrahamovich, to determine SCP-2273's eligibility for downgrade to a Type-C Sapient Anomaly and the potential security risk it might pose. Dr. Friedrich was present in a support role.
Transcript:
SCP-2273, in Russian: Uh, hello? Am I needed for something?
Dr. Friedrich, addressing SCP-2273: Alexei, this man is the Deputy Chief of Security on-site. He'd like to ask you a few questions.DCS Abrahamovich: You may call me Agent Abrahamovich. I'm just here to assess your behavior, to figure out how you would behave under certain circumstances.DCS Abrahamovich: I am not at liberty to discuss that. Now, those tattoos on your shoulders and this document both tell me that you are a soldier. What sort of combat experience do you have?DCS Abrahamovich: Any hand-to-hand? Fist-fighting? Use of blunt objects?DCS Abrahamovich: That's good to hear. What about your emotional state? How do you feel about the Foundation?DCS Abrahamovich: Okay, SCP-2273, I'd like to ask you a few questions about your armor.DCS Abrahamovich: I'd like to know what your armor is capable of. How tough is it? How was it made? Can it heal? And how long would that take? In one of your first interviews, you explained that it provided tactical information and helped you formulate battle plans. What can you tell us about that?
DCS Abrahamovich: Yes, I'm sure.DCS Abrahamovich: Is there anything else you can think of that you might not be telling us? What about your communications? What kind of range do you have for that?DCS Abrahamovich: Thank you, SCP-2273. I think that will be all for today.
End Transcript
Closing Statement:
Site-17 Security has agreed that SCP-2273 is eligible to be downgraded to a Type C sapient anomaly so long as the following precautions are put into effect:

Any Security escorts for SCP-2273 must be authorized to use lethal force if a containment breach is attempted.
A radio signal jamming device must be in place and active at all times, or SCP-2273 must otherwise be prevented from broadcasting information off-site.
SCP-2273 must be prevented from learning the full layout of Site-17, to limit its ability to plot a containment breach.

Sapient anomalies suitable for socialization with SCP-2273 are currently being evaluated. The most eligible candidate currently appears to be SCP-191. SCP-2273 has agreed to English lessons under the pretext of facilitating communication with non-bilingual staff.

Volgograd Bunker #12, May 1, 1964:

The same boy, older now, sits in front of a desk, his Captain in front of him.

"Alexei, the Colonel has decided that he will assign rank amongst the trainees after your battle gauntlets are attached. He has asked me to select non-commissioned and commissioned officer candidates from amongst the trainees. I've already spoken with the other cadets I feel are ready for promotion. Most have agreed. Your platoon requires one more sergeant. Do you feel like you're ready for this?"

"Yes, comrade Grigory. I'll do whatever you need from me."

"That's wonderful to hear, Sergeant Belitrov. We'll be sending B Company to the Engineer's labs tomorrow morning. Our liaison tells us that attaching the gauntlets should be easier than it was to attach the boots. We'll also start true weapons training once you've all recovered, alongside Officer and Non-Commissioned Officer candidate training. This means you'll all get to use live ammunition."

"This is good news! Do you want me to tell the rest of the company about live-fire exercises or the battle gauntlets?"

"For the live-fire exercises, no. For the battle gauntlets, yes. I know it will be a painful experience, so I want them to be ready. But I want the weapons training to come as a surprise."

"Thank you, comrade."

"No, thank you, Alexei."

Saint Thomas Aquinas Hospital and Asylum for the Paranormally Disabled, Austin, Texas, March 11, 2004:

An old man and a young woman are playing chess. They do this once a week, and have been since they met many years before. They are the closest either of them has to family, bound through the shared experiences of a shattered childhood and years of containment.

"Check. That means your King is in danger, young lady. It is your turn."

OK. CAN I ASK YOU A QUESTION?

"What is it, dorogaya?"

CAN YOU TELL ME ONE OF YOUR STORIES ABOUT THE WAR?

"Victoria, you and I both know that you probably have all of my stories memorized by now. Besides, war is unpleasant. Why can't we talk about something else?"

I LIKE THE WAY YOU TELL THE STORIES. AND LISTENING TO YOUR STORIES IS BETTER THAN NOT TALKING AT ALL.

"Ok, if you insist."

Volgograd Bunker #3, September 3, 1967:

Over one hundred young warriors are riding an elevator that will take them to see the sky for the first time in close to a decade. Many will not be returning.

"Lieutenant Belitrov, how do we know the air filters will work?"

"They'll work, trust me. Have faith in the Engineers. They are working for the Soviet cause as much as ourselves."

"I heard that they were building Armor for the Americans as well."

"Don't be foolish, Sergei. Why would they build Armor for those Capitalist pigs? Look, we're almost to the surface. Get ready, boys! Make sure you have your night optics turned off! The doors are opening in 3… 2… 1…"

Saint Thomas Aquinas Hospital and Asylum for the Paranormally Disabled, Austin, Texas, March 11, 2004:

The game is being cancelled. Which is a shame, because the girl was going to win in her next four moves.

PLEASE LET HIM FINISH THIS STORY.

"Sir, can we please just finish this game?"

"I'm afraid not, Alexei. Visiting hours are almost over. And there are also concerns for Victoria's physical health. I'll personally see to it that your board isn't interfered with and that you may resume your game during your next visit."

"I suppose that must suffice. I will finish my story next week, young one."

I UNDERSTAND.

Somewhere outside the ruins of Berlin, August 22, 1975:

Mortar shells are raining molten copper and corrosive acid down upon battle-hardened veterans, who used to be farm boys. Their Captain, once a private like them, is taking cover in a shell crater.

"Sergeant Volkov! I need you to take your squad and lead them to that outcrop of stones to the south! Sokolov, I need your squad to lay down covering fire for Volkov's men. And does anyone have eyes on Sergei?"

"Captain, I see him! He has Kuznetzov with him! I think they're trying to outflank the enemy!"

"By themselves?! Volkov, when you get to cover, I need your best marksmen covering those idiots!"

"Yes sir! Voloshyn, see if you can hit them with grenades! Yastrebov, use your rifle, see if you can take some of their heavies down!"

"Lieutenant Soldatov, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Captain, I can hear you. Will you please stay off the radios a moment? I am kind of busy."

"Sergei, what the hell are you thinking? You're going to get yourself killed!"

"I'm thinking that Sergeant Kuznetzov and I are going to flank the enemy while the rest of the unit draws their fire."

"Sergei, get the hell out of there! Do you hear me? Sergei!?"

Saint Thomas Aquinas Hospital and Asylum for the Paranormally Disabled, Austin, Texas, March 18, 2004:

After a week-long hiatus, the old man is returning to visit with the girl, for the much-anticipated conclusion of their story and their game.

HELLO ALEXEI.

"Hello, dorogaya, Victoria. Have you had an eventful week?"

NO. WILL WE PICK UP OUR GAME?

"Of course, little lady. Where is the orderly, the one who said he'd save the board for us?"

HE'S GETTING COFFEE. HE'LL BE BACK SOON.

"Ah. That makes enough sense. So little one, wasn't I telling you a story?"

YES.

"Well, where was I? Or where would you like me to start from?"

YOU WERE MARCHING SOUTH, THROUGH CANADA.

Toronto, Canada, July 10, 1989:

Battle-weary soldiers, far from home, have just assaulted a fortress, a safehouse from before the war. Only a single room remains.

"On my mark. 1… 2… 3!"

"CONTACT RIGHT!"

"RIGHT CLEAR!"

"LEFT CLEAR!"

"Major Belitrov, it would seem there's no one left here but refugees. These are all civilians. I don't think there are even any men or boys left, just the girls."

"Captain Soldatov, do you remember when we retook Berlin?"

"Yes, sir, I do. I was there when Comrade Volkov planted our flag above the Reichstag, remember?"

"Do you remember there being any survivors, in the lowest levels of the Berlin safehouses?"

"No, I don't — Alexei, you can't mean —"

"Look at them, Sergei. They aren't even human. Their mothers and fathers burned the surface. They forced us into this armor, made us into monsters. They stole our childhoods, and kept us away from the sun for nearly a decade. We have been fighting for nearly all our lives. And these are the people who did this to us."

"No, Alexei, you look at them. These are not soldiers, they're civilians. Most of them are children! We can't do this."

"Captain Soldatov, I would hold my tongue if I were you. You are an officer of this army and are sworn to follow orders, regardless of cost."

"Even this cost, sir?"

"Even this cost."

St. Thomas Aquinas Hospital and Asylum for the Paranormally Disabled, Austin, Texas, March 18, 2004:

The old man is wrapping up his story, leaving out the least-pleasant details, waiting for the opportunity to resume the game. The girl sits, enthralled.

"Eventually, we reached the lowest level of the bunkers, where we found and destroyed their command center."

AND THAT'S IT?

"Yes, that's it."

WILL YOU EVER TELL ME HOW YOU GOT TO THE OLD PLACE? WHERE I MET YOU?

"I honestly couldn't tell you. I just sort of woke up one morning, and there I was."

WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM? THE OTHER DOCTORS? THE ONES FROM BEFORE?

"They're still doing their jobs, little one. But now they don't need to keep us locked up inside cells, so those doctors don't need to stay in those buildings, either."

WHY?

"We used to be a secret. You keep secrets, don't you, dorogaya? We were like that. But now we're not."

WHY?

"The old doctors felt the world wasn't ready for us. But something happened that meant the world would have to have us, whether they were ready or not."

WHAT HAPPENED?

"I couldn't tell you, dorogaya. Some things are still kept secret. Look. The orderly is back from his coffee break."

Somewhere in Wisconsin, 11 October, 1989:

Hungry, tired, unsupplied soldiers are being hit with mortars again. This time, there is no cover to hide within, no trees, no rocks. Their commander is desperate, and feels he has no choice.

"This is the commander of the 112th Infantry Battalion, 22nd Infantry Division! I am asking the commander of the American unit to cease shelling us in exchange for our surrender! You have us! We are out of ammunition and medical supplies! Please stop the shelling! I repeat, please stop the shelling!"

"Holy shit, Lieutenant! We bagged an entire battalion!"

"That we did, Sergeant. Have your men go through and disarm them. Then find out who the commander is. I'd like to know just who we've captured."

"Yes sir! You heard him, boys. No more fighting for these fellas. Pull the guns off."

"Sergeant Crowley, it looks like this one's a major! I think he's the commander!"

"Brunson, you speak and read Ruskie, don't you? Find out what our friend the Major's name is."

"Uh, the tats say 'Belitrov,' sergeant."

"Brunson, are you shitting me?! You better not be lying!"

"No, Sergeant! This guy's name is Major Belitrov, I swear!"

"Brunson, you ignorant son of a bitch, don't you know who that is?! We captured the goddamn Terror of Toronto, the Jack of Spades! Someone go get the Lieutenant, and someone else get the Colonel on the radio!"

"Oooooh boy. A lot of people are going to be happy we found you. My colonel tells me that there'll be promotions, honors, and most importantly, leave, for us when we get back to civilization. Do you know what that's like? Civilization? Probably not, you filthy fucking commie. Is that why you ordered the execution of over 200 civilians, why you destroyed one of the last and largest safe houses on the entire North American continent? Because you don't understand what civilization looks like? You know, I was born ten years after the war started. My little sister is never going to see the sky because your people tried to destroy mine with atom bombs. Well, let me tell you something: we Americans don't quit, we don't surrender, and we sure as hell don't murder innocent civilians!"

"Lieutenant Finn, Sergeant Crowley was wondering what we're gonna do with the other prisoners. We don't have enough medical supplies to take care of them."

"Come with me, you piece of shit. Private, where is Sergeant Crowley keeping them?"

"Over here, sir."

"What the hell are you doing?! We surrendered! God damn it, no!"

Austin, Texas, March 20, 2004:

His game and his visit long since finished, an old man lays on the bed in his cheap apartment, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He can still feel a lump of metal next to his heart, hanging where it was when the Engineers bound him into his armor. It was meant to bring him good luck. He still doesn't know whether it has. He wonders if whatever gods there are will forgive him, when his time of judgment comes.

The Old Soldier from Volgograd

Chapter 2

The Old Soldier from the Land of the Setting Sun

"Hey First Sergeant Slate?"
"Yes?"
"Sergeant Peridot was saying that you were born before the War. Is that true?"
"Yes, it is."
"So?"
"So what, Private Steele?"
"Can you tell us about it?"
"Yeah, First Sergeant, tell us what it was like before the War."
The armor prevents First Sergeant Slate from sighing as a normal person, a Skinny, would, but the lower-ranked soldiers understand the meaning behind the radio static their transceivers momentarily pick up anyway.
"Ok, I'll tell you about the old world, but first, you have to answer a question. How loyal are you to me?"
"First Sergeant, what kind of question is that? You've gotten everyone here out of more trouble than I like to think about. We'd do anything for you."
"If you had information that could get me court-martialed, information that could get me removed from the Army or even executed, would you cover it up?"
"First Sergeant, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Corporal Goldman, I want you and Steele to answer that question. Would you lie to protect me from a court-martial?"
Their radio silence is almost a physical presense, something that can be cut with a knife. Eventually, they both speak, almost synchronized.
"Yes."
"Very good. How much do you want to know? What do you want to know about?"
"Well, Corporal Cooper was saying that the sky used to be blue everywhere, not just way down south, like when we were in Texas."
"Yes, that's true."
"And there were trees everywhere, and it would rain all the time?"
"Yes, both of those are true, too."
"Is it true that the trees used to be green, like our armor?"
"Yes. Are you just going to ask trivial questions, or are you really going to ask me something, Steele?"
"What Private Steele is too afraid to ask, First Sergeant, is whether its true you volunteered, and why."
"Is this true?" His hesitation gives it away. "Yes, Private Steele, whoever told you that I volunteered is telling the truth."
"Why though, Sarge?"
"It's a long story, but we've got time…"

I was born in 1940 to a fisherman and his wife. I never knew my father; he was drafted up into the army and sent to the War — the War before, not this one — and killed on one of the islands as the Americans advanced through the Empire. Yes, that's right, I'm Japanese. My mother insisted I take my step-father's last name, but I will get to that.

A young girl is listening to her mother tell a bedtime story. Bombs are falling on the other side of town, setting the town alight. They are already inside the subway, as safe as they could be, given the circumstances.
"You have to be brave like the Onna-Bugeisha, little one. The old warrior princesses. When there was threat of war at home, they didn't cry. They stood proud, and fought, just as their husbands would fight in faraway places. They would stand with their sharp naginata and fight the enemy as they came. You have to be brave, too."
"Mother, where is father?"
"Like I've told you, sweet one, he has been taken in by the Army. He is a true warrior, like the ones of old. He will fight for our Emperor until this war is over and we have won."
"Okay."

My mother must have been a very forward-thinking woman. She didn't tell me the old stories about brave Samurai facing great enemies and horrific monsters, or, when she did, she changed all the warriors to women. Onna-Bugeisha, "warrior princesses," she called them. She'd tell me, when American bombers were overhead, that I must be a strong little warrior princess as well. I think this had a great impact on my later choices. Yes, I am a woman. No, women are not allowed in the Army. This is why I asked whether I had your complete loyalty, Goldman.

News has just been delivered. A young soldier, formerly a fisherman, has given his life honorably for his Emperor. The man who delivered the news told the fisherman's wife that he fell on a grenade in an effort to save his comrades.
The honorable conditions of his death do nothing to prevent nor lessen the sobbing.
Several months later, the news that the Emperor has surrendered, for fear of a Soviet invasion and for fear of American atomic weapons, only puts salt on the wound of a woman who, progressive as she may have been, believed fully in the war.

In 1949, four years after the war ended, my mother met an American Army officer and they fell in love. In 1950, they married, and she made me take his name, Slate. My baby brother Sean Slate was born in early 1951. It was then that my step-father decided to take us to America.
He took us to a city called Seattle. It rained there much of the time, but the Engineers had helped to build a canopy over the streets. It was green and beautiful, and at night, it glowed like the stars.

"What do you mean, 'What are stars?' Steele, you were with us in Texas, yes? Do you remember how the night glowed, but not with these wretched clouds? Those are stars. Without the Armor, they look simpler, but still very beautiful."

To return to the story, my father left the Army to become a Guardsman — like a soldier, but only sometimes — so he could spend more time with us. He tried to start a restaurant in his spare time. My mother taught him recipes from the Empire, from home, and they both taught me to run tables, before and after school.
Those were good days. He may have been a harsh man at times, but my step-father always meant well. He read stories at night, to teach my brother to read and to teach me English. He told us stories of brave folk, doing courageous things and making sacrifices, always putting others before yourself. Those stories reminded me of the earlier stories about Onna-Bugeisha, warrior-princesses. I imagined that, one day, I would be courageous like that.

A young girl who barely knows English has just been pushed into her locker. The boy who did it — who is three years her elder — just called her a "dirty Jap girl" and expressed a desire that she "go home."
She runs home to her mother, crying. From that day forward, she is home-schooled, despite her step-father's obvious disapproval. She eventually earns a GED, but does not feel comfortable choosing to go to a college where she will be subjected to the same treatment as before. Instead, she stays at home, working tables.

When the bombs fell and the sky burned, my step-father was able to get us a place inside the Seattle Bunker before our part of the surface burned because he had been an officer in the Army.

Her bunk had been fairly close to the door leading to the outside. She can still remember the screams of those who had been locked out, hammering on the door, begging to be let inside. Fortunately, the Engineers had been commissioned to clean up the resulting mess long before that corridor had to be walked through again. She doesn't like to think about how the Engineers had carried out that task.

After about three months, military personnel came to our bunker from elsewhere, saying that they needed every male over the age of five. My little brother was about ten at that time, and he was listed on the roster.
I asked my step-father to stop them, and he said he couldn't. Then I begged my mother to do something — Sean was only ten, they couldn't take him! I wouldn't allow it.
That was when I realized what I had to do. I cut my hair short, and, when they came to collect my brother the next morning, I stood outside our door instead, wearing some clothes stolen from my step-father that were much too large for me. They knew I had to be older than ten, but then my step-father spoke to them, explained that he had been an officer, and had served in Germany in the War before. He convinced them to take me instead of his son. My mother wept as I was escorted away.

"So that's it, then?"
"Yes, Corporal, that's it. After I was taken away, I went through the same training and same augmentation as you two. I was assigned to our artillery unit shortly after. That was all over twenty years ago."
"So why didn't you let them take your brother?"
"Steele, do you have a little sibling?"
"I don't know. I was raised in a military training camp. They didn't tell us about our families, where we came from."
"Oh. I — I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Eh, it's not a big deal. You're just old, First Sergeant."
The men briefly hear static over the radio again, but this time the feeling it conveys is more akin to laughter than anything else. They laugh along, too, if only to calm their own nerves. Their laughter is quickly interrupted by a courier running up to their position.
"First Sergeant Slate, some of the sensors are going off. It looks like there's a platoon of soldiers coming down from a few miles north of here, over that ridge."
"Friendly, or enemy?"
"Their IFFs are turned off, so there's no way to know for sure."
"Goldman, didn't the last intel packet we get from Command tell us that there was a Russian battalion headed our way?"
"Uh, yes ma— Yes, First Sergeant."
"Then I guess Lieutenant Finn's platoon has been overrun." The eldest soldier turned to the courier. "Go tell the rest of the company to get ready to fire, then get the fire orders from the Captain. And we might as well try out these new shells, the 'Tesseractor' shells."
"Understood, First Sergeant."
The courier runs away. Later, shells designed to tear space-time itself apart begin raining down on a platoon of Americans transporting a high-value prisoner. This will be remembered as one of the worst cases of Friendly-Fire in this stage of the war.

The Old Soldier from the Land of the Setting Sun

Chapter 3

The Young Soldiers from Berlin

Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975:

Two young soldiers are carrying out a dire task. They know now that they will not live to see the end of the war they've fought their whole lives. The younger, a Private, is trying to regain his composure as he walks through the cramped, poorly-lit maintenance hallway.

"I can't believe we're doing this, I can't believe we're doing this, God, why are we doing this? Ok, get a hold of yourself, we're almost there. All we're doing is turning a valve. That is all we are doing. Ok, I can do this."

"Schwarz, you all right?"

The younger of the two nearly jumps out of his own Armor, but quickly recovers and says, "Yeah, Krause, I'm fine."

"The way you jumped is telling me otherwise. So is your Armor."

"I'm fine."

The elder stops, and holds his arm in front of the younger. They face each other.

"What's your deal, Krause? I said I'm fine."

"No. You're not."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I know you're not fine because I'm not fine. We both know what we're doing. Quit pretending you're not nervous. Quit pretending you're not having doubts."

"What the fuck are we supposed to do, then?"

"Talk about it."

"What for? We both know what we're about to do. What's there to talk about?"

"I don't know."

They walk for a long while, nearing their goal, when the younger feels the need to speak up again.

"It just isn't right, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. But what choice do we have?"

"We can still fight! Instead we're, what, just giving up? What kind of shit is that?!"

"I can't pretend to know why this is so much better than gearing everyone up and fighting, Schwarz, but I can tell you this: when the enemy reaches a bunker they — "

"They take no prisoners, yeah. But why the hell did it have to be us, man? Why do we have to do this?"

"I don't know, but we do. Come on. We're almost there."

A turning of a valve, manual deactivation of several safety backups, and the deed is done. But the young warriors have no time to consider the consequences of their actions; they're needed elsewhere.

Berlin Bunker #1, August 21, 1975:

An old Colonel, one of the last unarmored soldiers in all of Europe, is addressing his troops for the final time. The wolves are at their door, and it is only a matter of time before the door breaks. As he stands on a small stage at the front of the large, well-lit briefing hall, he can't help but think that his soldiers appear ghastly, that their Armored countenances are horrifying caricatures of true warriors.
"Gentlemen, all of your lives, you have lived under the threat of war. You have lived preparing for war. Now, the time for preparation is over. Our lifelong enemies, the US Army, are within shelling range of our surface defenses. Our allies are still several weeks away. We are on our own. We have no choice now but to fight.
"It is not with a light heart that I ask of you these things, but, if the honor and dignity our people once held is to be remembered, if hope for the German people and for our socialist ideals is to continue, all of us must fight. We must fight to our last breath. Not a single bullet may be left unfired, not a single soldier left standing, so long as our enemies are on the march towards our city. All of you have proven courage and strength beyond measure. Now, we must put this courage to its test. We WILL show them what Berlin is made of!"
The cacophony that fills the briefing hall is not of men shouting and cheering, but of radio static. Not a single Armored soldier there can still shout; no modern soldier can.

Following the speech, the Colonel calls his highest ranking officers to a much smaller conference room, to hold a final Staff meeting. They stand, huddled around a central conference table, papers and maps before them.
"And you say we have how much ammunition for every soldier?"
"Two-hundred rounds, sir."
"That will not be enough. What about rations? Water, or water filters?"
"We have enough food to last us until the Red Army's 22nd Infantry Division reaches us in three weeks, but the US Army will be through our automated defenses well before then. We can send more soldiers to defend the surface —"
"No. We need to bolster our automated defenses however we can, but we need to recall everyone we have on the surface. They'll be slaughtered out there."
"Sir, they may be the only chance we have."
"A few hundred men against half a division? No. Everyone out-of-doors needs to be recalled now. More than that, the army marching towards us is well-fed, well-equipped, and well-reinforced. Gentlemen, we have to admit defeat."
"Sir, are you asking that we surrender?"
"No. I am not. I need all of you to select your most faithful men, your most experienced soldiers, so that we can give them their true orders. We're also going to need to summon our Technicians. The rest can use the plan outlined in the briefing to buy us time."

The ruins of Berlin, August 22, 1975:

Automated defenses, ranging from self-planting minefields to automatic 80-millimeter mortars, are raining hell upon an invading army. They march on, regardless. Several hundred meters below, all able-bodied males are arming themselves, the unarmored and youngest soldiers among them donning gas masks. Even deeper, the women, the girls, and a select few of the boys, the only hope this city has for its future, are lying peacefully, untroubled by the war that rages above. A squad of defenders who ignored orders are paying dearly for their insubordination. The youngest among them is the only one unwounded and conscious following a mortar barrage. He stands in the center of the small area his squad had occupied, shellshocked, calling for his comrades.

"Sarge? Wolf? Doc?! Anybody?!"

"Berg, get over here and shut the fuck up."

"Holy shit, Lange, your leg!"

"Shut the fuck up. They're close. You need to get back inside and warn the others that they've already gotten through the automatic defenses. Maybe they can figure something out."

"We need to get you to a doctor, Lange."

"Berg, fucking leave me! I'm dead! The whole fucking squad is dead but you! You need to get back inside, all right?"

"I'm not leaving you, man!"

It has been said by many that soldiers do not fight for any ideologies, or for king and country, or for memories of home, but for each other, that the reason they continue to fight when all seems lost is because they want to see their brothers-in-arms continue living. Perhaps it was this that motivated the young private's next actions. Perhaps it was fear of being alone during his retreat, or of being accused of cowardice. It isn't very clear. What is clear is that the private's next actions were to grab his wounded elder and begin carrying him.

"Berg, you stupid waste of Armor! Put me the fuck down!"

The younger says nothing as he begins to run down the ruined, rubble-covered street to the entrance of the city's central bunker. The elder quickly changes tactics and begins laying down covering fire behind them as he sees enemies approaching. It soon stops mattering when a sniper fires a shot that makes the running soldier's chest explode, removing the wounded soldier's unoccupied arm in the process. The dead soldier falls, landing on top of his wounded cargo.

"Berg, you stupid fuck! You could have made it!" The approaching enemy combatants can feel the pain in the intercepted messages. They quickly tune them out; in combat, there is no room for sympathy with the enemy. "Why did you have to try to carry me, man?! You could have made it!" As his enemies slowly close in, the soldier redirects his attention to them. "Die, you filthy fucking pigs, die!" His shots do not find their targets. The sniper that had killed the other takes aim again, and fires. His round finds its mark with ease.

Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975:

The two young warriors are running through the bunker's cold, grey, concrete hallways now. The enemy has breached one of the gates, and every defender available is needed .

"Come on, Schwarz! We're almost there!"

"I know, I know, I was just turning the safeties on my weapons off!"

"Shit, you're right." The elder stops and turns his attention to his own weapons. "What are you carrying? Need any ammo?"

"Uh… Low-yield explosives on my left, standard machine gun on my right. And I could use another belt of 12.7 by 108, if you have it."

"Nope, sorry. Quartermaster was being stingy when I was gearing up. You don't have extra explosive rounds, or any flechettes, do you?"

"I don't."

"That's all right, we have what we need."

An explosion elsewhere in the city rocks the hall the two are standing in. The younger accidentally fires a short burst, sending ricochets throughout the small space.

"Jesus, Schwarz! Get a handle on it and save some for the enemy!"

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Were you hit?"

"No, I'm fine. Let's just go."

Berlin Bunker #1, August 21, 1975:

A platoon of Armored soldiers, all combat veterans, many recently recalled from the surface, are standing in line in a dark, cluttered hallway in an administrative level of the bunker, waiting to be called upon.

"Corporal Krause! Private Schwarz! In my office!"

The two say their "Yes Sir"s almost simultaneously and briskly walk into the Captain's office.

"Now, gentlemen. You remember your parts in the debriefing, yes? Where you were going to be placed, and all of that?"

Another pair of "Yes Sir"s follows.

"Well, forget it. That's just the Colonel's cover-up. The information I'm about to share with you is vital to the defense of the city, so I need to know that you can carry out orders. If either of you speaks a single word of this to anyone else, I will see to it personally that you'll be executed. Do I make myself clear?"

The fear in their well-established response is apparent, and made more so by their hesitation.

"Now, have either of you two ever heard of the Samson Protocol? No? Good, this means secrecy hasn't been compromised. I'll give you the full overview before we get started, but, tonight, everyone out there waiting and everyone I've spoken to since the briefing is going to be on the first night watch. We'll have a small contingent monitoring the radios and automatic sensors, but the majority of us are going to be spending tonight laying explosives in every major corridor, ensuring their collapse. A select few of the people I've already spoken to are going to be given Armor-controlled detonators running on dead-man's switches. They'll be our last line of defense. When they go, the whole city goes. But for you two, I have something much more important in mind.

"The Colonel has become convinced that the city is already lost. He feels that our best option is not to surrender, or to try to wait for our reinforcements from the East, but to ensure that our civilians are never exposed to combat, to the enemy. He somehow feels that it would be better if, tonight, the air line running from the surface to the civilian levels of the bunker were cut off so that they all die in their sleep. So I'm tasking you two with that. Sergeant Becker tells me that both of you have performed very well under stressful circumstances, and that you've both followed orders even when the end goal isn't clear. I'm going to need that from you tonight."

The younger had visibly flinched when the Captain's purposes in summoning them had been made clear, and, now that he sees an opportunity to speak, leaps upon it. "Sir, what the hell are you saying? We can't do that! Our job is to defend this city, not beat the enemy to the chase!"

"Do you think I don't know that?! You mind your place, Private! We have no right to question orders, someone in your position doubly so! If I can't trust you to do this, I'll have to have you taken out and shot. Now, I need to know, are you with me?"

The elder is the only one who speaks; the younger is far too angry and far too hurt to do so. "Yes, sir. We understand, and we'll be ready to do whatever you need us to do tonight."

"Good. Meet with the rest of us at Elevator #2 tonight at 2345. You're both dismissed."

The elder grabs onto the younger and pulls him through the door. As they walk away, the younger speaks, as quietly as he can given the limitations of the Armor.

"It's not right, man. It's not fucking fair."

"I know, but it's what we have to do. Come on, if we hurry, we might be able to grab something to eat."

Back in his office, the Captain sits at his desk, holding his head in his hands. He wishes that the small confines of his office allowed him to scream, that his Armor allowed him to drink alcohol, that he had any sort of option at all. But he's needed for this, Berlin's final hours. He stands up, walks to the door, and calls the next group of soldiers into his office.

Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975:

The two young soldiers have reached the breach point. Only a corner and a few meters of grey corridor separates them from the fight. They've switched to encrypted broadcasts on a personal channel to prevent enemy detection.

"Schwarz, I'm gonna lay down covering fire, you get to the first piece of cover you can reach, got it?"

"Got it. On three?"

"On three. One… Two… Three GO!"

The elder sticks his left arm (bearing a large, multipurpose shotgun) around the corner, peeking out only enough to allow himself to aim his weapon. The majority of the enemy appears to be in cover, with several wounded and dead from both sides littering the floor. A friendly medic is working frenetically from within cover on a soldier who appears to have lost much of his right arm. A single enemy appears to be advancing on the medic's position. As the elder of our two heroes prepares to fire, the younger lays down a burst of 12.7 * 108 millimeter rounds, sending the enemy to the floor. The younger rushes to the medic's position. The elder follows shortly thereafter.

"How many are out there? Do you know?" The elder's question seems stern, but it is asked with good intentions.

"No, I don't. I've just been trying to keep these guys all together."

"Why didn't you fall back to the rallying point?"

"This is the rallying point. They just kept coming."

"Fuck. Doc, do you have any ammo? Grenades?"

"No, I don't have any grenades. I'm a medic."

"Well, what about these guys behind us?"

"Krause, the guy in front of us has grenades."

"What, the one you shot?"

"Yeah."

The elder sighs in the only way Armored soldiers can and quickly looks above their cover.

"All right. Schwarz, you run for the grenades. Pull the pin and toss one as soon as you reach the guy, then run ahead to the next cover. I'll lay down covering fire. You, Doc? You keep doing what you're doing. Ask these wounded guys for any information they might have. If you can get any of them walking, start getting info from them, and get them to start doing supply sweeps for us. As soon as you've figured out who's gonna make it and who isn't, start moving to one of the other rally points, taking as many of these guys as you can with you. Can you both do that?"

"Yeah, yeah." The medic is far more focused on his patient than anything the corporal has to say.

"On three?"

"On three. One… Two… Three GO!"

The elder immediately puts his right arm over their shared cover — a heavy barricade built specifically for situations such as the one facing our heroes — and begins sending bullets downrange. The younger vaults over the cover and rushes towards his objective, picking up a small number of grenades from the downed enemy and taking to the next piece of cover in a single motion. As he reaches his safe point, the young Private pulls the pin on one of the grenades and tosses it blindly over his cover. A small group of enemies dives out of cover as they see the grenade rolling towards them. They're quickly cut down by the Corporal as he runs to the Private's position.

"That was good. You cover me as I go to the next one, yeah?"

"Yeah, I can do that. But I think the guy I borrowed the grenades from is still alive. Think we should interrogate him a bit first?"

The Corporal considers this information for a moment, then nods. "All right, yeah. You cover me, I'm gonna drag him over here."

As he moves out of cover, enemy soldiers round the next corner and open fire. The Private is quick to return fire, using both of his weapons in an effort to subdue them. They quickly return to cover as the Corporal drags his quarry back to the Private's position.

"All right. Schwarz, you keep an eye out for this guy's buddies. You. Do you speak German?" The messages our two heroes pick up from their find are exactly what they expect (namely, fear), but he also seems to be attempting to contact his allies through a secure channel. When the Corporal begins to hold his shotgun to the prisoner's face, the messages quickly stop. "Do. You. Speak. German. You. Filthy. Piece of. Capitalist. American. Garbage?"

"My name is Rico Camisa-Roja. I am a Staff Sergeant. My serial number is 903-57-680. My name is —" The American's mantra quickly ceases when the German Corporal draws his combat knife and holds it to one of the American's wounds.

"You talk, or I start carving your pretty American-made Armor into a fine china set. Do we understand each other?" The American nods. "Good. Start talking."

"My name is Rico Camisa-Roja. I am a Staff —" This time, the interruption comes from the Corporal lifting his prisoner up and launching him over their shared cover, followed with a strongly-worded remark about the prisoner's failure to communicate. As he does so, he sees more of the enemy rounding the corner at the end of the short corridor, enemies who begin laying down cover fire as soon as they see him.

"Schwarz, let me see one of those grenades." The Private silently does as he is asked, then takes a moment to peek over his cover. "Might as well throw one of your own. On three. One… Two… Three!" The two lob their grenades near-simultaneously, eliciting a hail of bullets followed quickly by a large amount of shouting and running for cover from the approaching enemy soldiers. The two have no time to take advantage of the lull in their enemy's advance, as the medic they left behind has begun shouting for their attention.

"Hey! You two! We have a problem over here!"

"What the hell is it, Doc?! We're a little busy at the moment!"

"This guy is about to bleed out!"

"What do we care? That's your problem!" The Corporal takes a moment to fire a small salvo of flechettes at the advancing enemy.

"Before he lost consciousness, he told me that this whole place is rigged to blow!"

"And? We already knew that!"

"He said that he's the only thing keeping that from happening!"

"Fuck. Fuck! All right, all right, here's what we do. Doc, if you wanna get out of here alive, you're gonna have to leave these guys behind. Stay behind us, stay close. Schwarz, standard infantry tactics; you lay down cover fire when I'm moving, I do the same thing for you. Got it?" The medic and the Private state their agreement near-simultaneously. The Corporal responds by raising himself above his cover and opening fire towards the end of the short corridor. "Schwarz, go!"

The Private is only able to take two steps before the wounded soldier behind him expires, triggering the detonation of a large number of explosive devices throughout their wing of the bunker. The Private, the Medic, the Corporal, the several wounded that surround them, and the enemy lying in wait beyond the end of the corridor are all buried in rubble within seconds.

Berlin Bunker #1, August 23, 1975:

The forces coming to reinforce the city's defenders have arrived, far earlier than expected, but far later than needed. The cost of their speed was great, and had been paid in blood, but even that was not enough. A Captain is standing in a short corridor, watching as his men remove the rubble blocking their path. One of his lieutenants is rushing towards him to deliver news.

"Captain Belitrov! Captain Belitrov!"

"Slow down, Sergei. Stop with the formality. What is it?"

"One of the men found this in an office on the other side of the bunker. You have to read it."

"And? What about Colonel Engels? Have we made contact with him?"

"Colonel Engels is dead, Alexei. Suicide. We found this note with him. Please, just read it."

The ranking officer takes the envelope from the Lieutenant and removes its contents. He reads quickly, and, when he's finished, slowly leans against the wall. The soldiers around him stop working as they begin to notice the emotional state of their commander. "Sergei, this is our fault. We weren't fast enough."

"There's nothing we could have done. There's no way we could have gotten here faster, and no way we could have known. It cost us too many good men as it is to get here as quickly as we did. There's nothing left now but to bury the dead."

Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975:

The Colonel charged with defense of the city sits in his small office, huddled over his dented pinewood desk as he writes a letter.

To the commander of the Red Army forces liberating Berlin,
I am sorry. We held them off as long as we could. I felt we had no better options. The fault here is mine, and mine alone. I do not ask for any forgiveness.
The lowest levels of the bunker complex contain everything necessary to rebuild this city and to carry on your fight. The Technicians reassure me that any Red Army officer will have safe access, but be aware that those lower bunkers have been rigged with explosives to prevent enemy capture.
Please, do not let Berlin die, do not let our sacrifice have been in vain. We cannot let this war be lost.
Respectfully and with fullest regrets,
Colonel Hans Engel, National People's Army, 5th Armored Infantry Battalion

The man pulls the sheet out of the typewriter (a relic from before the War, and even the War before that. Very few, if any, of its sort are left, much like its owner.) and carefully folds it. He slides it into an envelope and places that into an interior pocket of his worn and faded dress uniform. A rapid series of tremors rocks the small office, indications that he does not have long. At his side, a semi-automatic pistol hangs, almost never used. He draws it, slides the magazine out to be sure that it's loaded, replaces the magazine, retracts and releases the slide, puts the muzzle under his jaw, and pulls the trigger.

The Young Soldiers from Berlin

Interlude

The Lost Children from Jiangxi Province

An Undisclosed Location in the Himalayan foothills, February 1, 1950:

A dozen men dressed in green Army fatigues and just as many children — most of them orphaned infant girls, many of them deformed or otherwise undesirable — wait on the edge of a forest in a place few people know of and even fewer speak of as the moon begins to rise. The only lights are the stars and small oil lamps. The men can see their breath in the cool air. Two of the men are speaking.

"So what will happen to them?"

The shorter of the two men brings a cigarette up to his scarred mouth. "Whatever it is, it's worth it. Besides, these are orphans. No one will miss them."

"Still, you have to wonder, Jūn, what do the Yezu do with them? What could they want with them?"

"Whatever it is, it's worth it." The short, scarred man takes a long drag from his cigarette and continues to stare into the bamboo, not looking at his co-worker once.

"How could you be so sure?"

The man takes the cigarette from his mouth, flicks it onto the ground next to his boot, and stamps it out. "Where are you from, Fāng?"

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'Where are you from?' It's a simple question."

The man is taken aback by the question, and the change in his posture shows it. "…A small village north of Baoshan."

The other nods, and reaches for another cigarette. After a second, he offers the taller man one, an offer that is quietly refused. "So you never had to deal with the rìběn guizi, then?"

"They kept bombing us, because the Americans, the Flying Tigers, had been stationed in Baoshan."

"Everyone was bombed. Did you ever see the actual Army, face-to-face?" To this, the taller man can only answer in the negative. "Well I'm from Nanking. And I got to see the filthy huang jun a lot. They were the last thing my mother, my brother, and my sister ever saw."

"Jūn, I'm sorry — "

"Sorry? Sorry? You're sorry?! No. You're not sorry. You weren't there. You didn't see what I did. You didn't have to bury anyone after seeing what those — those dogs had done to them. If you were truly sorry, you'd be just as willing as I am to do anything, anything, to make sure our country is never subject to foreign abuse ever again. That's why it doesn't matter. That's why it's worth it. That's why we're giving these orphans to the Wild Men in exchange for weapons. Because whatever these children are going to experience, it's nothing compared to what our people have already seen, to what they're protecting the future from ever seeing!"

At this point, the man's near-shouting has stopped, and he is slowly catching his breath. As he does, a small, red light appears in the forest in front of the small group. It's quickly joined by another, and then perhaps a dozen more. "Light's out, lights out!" The other men are quick to concede, as the sound of footsteps in the underbrush becomes audible and slowly grows louder. Jūn, the man from Nanking, steps forward as a singular light begins to approach the treeline in the small clearing. "Stay here, Fāng. And that goes for the rest of you, too!" Quietly, to Fāng, he says, "If I'm not back by sunrise, assume that the deal's gone badly and just head back. Do with the tithes what you will."

The man steps off into the brush by himself; slowly, the red lights disappear as the sound of breaking brush recedes into the night. Despite his fears and the fears of his coworkers, the man returns just as the sun begins to rise through the bamboo, accompanied by a lone Engineer. As the Engineer inspects the stock, the man walks over to where his fellow stands, pulls out a cigarette, lights it with shaking hands, and turns to the group. "Leave the offering, the Yezu will take care of the rest!" Quietly, quickly, they leave the forest, not looking back.

The City of Fallenhold, Year of the Revival 54, Night 11 of the Season of the Warming North:

Hurts. Always hurts. Still remember the songs. They wanted us to forget the songs. Can't sing, have to learn the songs in other ways. Miss the sound of mother's voice.

No mirrors. Not allowed mirrors. Steal looks at reflection when I can. What looks back isn't me. They don't like it when we think about those things. They take some of us away sometimes, we never see the ones They take away again.

We never sleep but we're never tired. Always standing and walking. Strong legs. But not like father's. Like a cricket. Girls aren't supposed to have legs like a cricket, are they?

Always hungry. They never give us enough to eat. Every meal the same. I don't like the way it tastes. Looks like worms. I think it is worms. Can't chew. Mouth doesn't work the same anymore. When I see my reflection, that always scares me.

They move us around a lot. They don't let us use the big hallways, They want us in the little tunnels. Always crouching. But that's ok. Strong legs. But not like father's.

I remember soldiers. Angry. Pushing and shoving and grabbing and pulling. Very long journey. Soldiers didn't feed us either. They left some of us behind. Hope the ones that were left are ok now.

Sometimes there's no memory. But it's not like sleeping. They take us somewhere or tell us to go somewhere and there's bright light and then nothing and then we're back and we know new things but we weren't taught. Then They make us use what we know. We talk to their machines but their machines don't know songs. Not very fun to talk to.

Sometimes the machines talk back, though. They don't tell us anything fun like secrets or stories or songs. They don't use real words but we understand and sometimes there's a problem and we fix it. Sometimes we don't understand the problem so we show Them. Sometimes we don't work on talking machines. Some of us still have hands and They make them work on the pipes and other things.

I miss hands. They took my hands. They gave me blades. Like a mantis. I can fix some of Their machines now, can feel little problems and tell Their talking machines where the little problems are.

Sometimes there's more of us. Sometimes the new ones talk about a War. The new ones are always scared. They usually have new songs, though. I wish mother could sing their new songs. Miss the sound of mother's voice.

We're in a new place. They made us ride in a strange train for a very long time. Many of us in a small space. No sitting for a long time. That's ok, though. Strong legs. But not like father's. Like a cricket.

New knowledge without learning. Strange knowledge. Weird machines. Machines that attach to people. Don't like this new knowledge. Don't want to use it.

They brought children to us. Scared. Dirty. Lots of children. I haven't seen this many children in one place for a long time. Singing would help, but can't sing. Try to talk to the children but they can't hear me.

Have to help Them put weird machines on the children. I don't like this. I can't stop They're making me do it I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry no please why are you making me do this they're just children please stop I'm so sorry.

I tried to stop Them. They're taking me away now. The others didn't even stop to watch. Except one. They're with me now. They're taking both of us. I try to sing, but I can't. But I tell the other the songs I know. Miss the sound of mother's voice.

The Lost Children from Jiangxi Province

Chapter 4: The Soldiers from the Hidden City
Chapter 5: The Old Soldier From New York

Epilogue

The Old Sailors from the Stars

The Bridge of the Starship Endeavor, Shipboard Date 089/10/13:
A spacecraft several kilometers long has just entered a stable orbit around a small, blue world. The commanding officer, a severe woman in her late 40s, but aged beyond those years, stands behind her chief communication officer.

"Across all channels, ma'am?"
"Yes. Send it."
A few strikes on the control surface, and the task is done.
"Ensign Frailey, tell our helmsman to enter a higher orbit, and activate the stealth systems. Inform me immediately if we receive any communications from the surface. I'll be in my quarters."
"Yes, ma'am."
The young officer quickly steps off to carry out the command. As the captain reaches her quarters, she can feel the ship begin to vibrate as it moves to its new destination. She sighs, and wonders if the struggle her people have faced for millennia has been for naught.

Capitol City, Year of the Reclamation 1004, 13th Night of the Season of the Cold North:

A message has just been received by all major radio observatories all across the continent, source unknown. A basic translation has been created and prepared for the High Council's review.

All is forgiven. What happens next is in your hands for now, but we will not wait forever.
Let us come home.

The Old Sailors from the Stars


ACT I
Gregory awoke in a large room, tied to a chair. At least, he guessed it was a large room, and that it was a chair. Gregory couldn't actually see anything - as best as he could tell, he was blindfolded. He tried moving around, only to be rewarded by the chair tipping over.
"Well Gregory, you're in quite a bit of trouble," a monotone voice rang out.
Gregory was suddenly swung back up, and the duct-tape securing the blindfold was ripped from his face.
With a freshly waxed face and his scream echoing in his ears, Gregory was confronted by a warm, moderate light and a splash of lukewarm water to the face.
"Do you know why you're here?" the voice asked him again.
Gregory was too busy trying to cough up the water to answer.
"Cat got your tongue? Your grobnax? Or whatever it is?" The voice was smooth and one-tone yet hinted at bitterness, like Cognac that had been pissed in.
"What are you talking about?" Gregory spluttered. His eyes started to water, and he had to fight to avoid bawling them out.
"It's quite simple Gregory. You've been snooping around."
Gregory's eyes adjusted to the light swiftly and then wished that they hadn't.
He was strapped to a plastic chair in a small concrete room. Looming over him was a fat, stout, thimble-shaped, puke-colored droid riddled with instruments of what appeared to be painful death. LEDs on the top of the droid and the three tires at its base glowed with malice, making the contraption resemble an eldritch marital aid.
"I don't even know what's going on. I have no idea what you're talking about," Gregory choked out.
"No idea?" The droid's voice remained the same, but Gregory swore that he could detect its temper rising. "I'd say you have a pretty good idea what's going on, Dr. Gregory Plump, assuming that that's your real name."
"I don't, okay? I don't know what's going on! I'm sorry b-but I don't know what's, what's happening!" Gregory pleaded.
"I think you do, Gregory. Let me cut to the chase. We're going to have a talk. If I don't like what you say, you're going to wake up in a Keter-class containment cell. If I do… well, we'll get to that."
The droid whirred over to Gregory's chair and pushed it. Gregory felt the adrenaline rush of meaningless fear and the pounding of his hearts in his chest before the chair failed to topple over.
"It's simple, Gregory. I have one question. What did you read about Ess-See-Pee Three-Five-Four?"
The droid carefully and harshly emphasized every syllable of the designation without actually doing so. Presumably to intimidate Gregory.
It worked.
Gregory spilled his intestines like a startled Scottish chef.
"I don't knoooooooow!" he wailed, tears pouring from his eyes.
"I - I - sniff, I was just translating the hic document into swa-swah-Swahili! I - I hic was just reading everything on the page! It's - it's some kind of interdimensional portal that's spawning-spawning these anoma-hic-lous creatures exc - except it's some hic k-kind of coverup for something but it hic doesn't - doesn't say wh-what and I swear that's all I know p-please hic don't hurt me!" Gregory pleaded.
The droid moved back, its lights flashing to a sluggish tempo. Since it had been turned on, not a single detainee had cracked this quickly. The droid altered its cadence to resemble a soothing female tone.
"Gregory, do you know why I'm asking you these questions? Trust me, Gregory, I'm not doing this because I enjoy it. I just want what's best for both you and the Foundation."
It was lying.
"I-hic- know, b-but I swear, I didn't do hic anything! I just opened up all the t-t-tabs on the page!" Gregory blubbered, words and tears gushing from his face.
"Good work, Gregory. Now we're getting somewhere. See, all you have to do is cooperate and it'll be over quickly. Next question. Gregory, how exactly did you know that it was a coverup?"
"It… it sniff just said so on the, the page," Gregory whimpered.
"What do you mean it just said so on the page?"
"It - it was just there on the p-p-page!"
An arm popped out of the droid, brandishing a laser weapon of some kind. With the hand-cannon pointed at Gregory, the droid advanced. Gregory tried to cower, but only managed to topple onto his back.
"Gregory, did it ever occur to you that perhaps there was something, oh, perhaps, unconventional about a coverup document explicitly stating that it was a coverup?"
"I - I mean… I didn't… I didn't think about it. I assumed… I thought that, uh, I had been given clearance to view the full document to translate it."
"You translated the entire document, word-for-word, coverup and all, into sixteen different languages across every single Foundation site on the planet. This was one of the biggest information breaches in Foundation history."
The laser began to whine. The droid's voice remained as peaceful and monotone as ever.
"In fact, this little disaster isn't even the concerning part. There are, of course, contingencies for this kind of… accident. The concern is how you saw the hidden writing in the first place. There was an extremely powerful antimemetic in place to prevent any human being from seeing it."
The barrel started to glow.
"Gregory, there have been exactly fifteen human beings in existence who have been able to see past that antimeme. All of them, except for you, had to be inoculated against it first. Do you see where I'm going with this?"
Unfortunately for Gregory, he did.
"If only inoculated human beings can see past that meme, and you weren't inoculated…"
The mammoth beam fired.
Before it could cleave through Gregory, his skull did the cleaving for it. Gregory's head parted down the middle, with only faint tendrils of blood and brain matter in between. Then the two segments of head quickly grew little spindly legs of bone and uprooted themselves from his neck, taking some spinal cord with them and then relocating to Gregory's collarbone. Then they tried to look at each other - failing that, they settled on watching the droid nervously.
"…I'd say you aren't human."

Gregory was once more tied uncomfortably in front of a computer screen, helpfully provided on the front of the droid's body. The computer screen showcased the cause of his discomfort: O5-10. More specifically, O5-10's impressively toned physique, apparent even through the silhouette that was only present onscreen.
"Happy, what am I looking at?" O5-10 asked.
"A Dubbligand," the droid answered. "Didn't come through the pool. Hitched a ride to Earth through a dimensional crosslink. Banned under our interdimensional treaties, as you are aware. And then it got a job at the Foundation. Say hello to Dr. Gregory Plump, senior linguistics analyst at Site-42."
"How did we find him?"
"He'd been under surveillance for a few weeks. We caught him when he opened up the hidden files on SCP-354. He saw past the security antimemetic device. The full report should be on your desk in five minutes."
"I'll have to talk to Wheeler about that. What do you suggest we do with Plump?" O5-10 asked. Gregory could feel the Overseer's gaze boring a hole into him. His parietal lobe started itching, and the halves of his mouth ached.
"I personally suggest that we deport it. Kick it back through the crosslink. We need to set an example for any other… infiltrators. Prove that we are not messing around, as it were."
"According to his most recent review, Dr. Gregory Plump has been a valuable asset thus far. Correct?"
The droid seemed to sag. "Well, yes. Its primary duty at the Foundation had been translating archaic and extraterrestrial languages - a task at which it had quite a bit of success."
Gregory could not for the life of him understand how the droid could convey so much hatred through two lights on the top of its dome.
"And you reported earlier that after Dr. Feldman's… demise, communication with the pool had been stifled, causing a, it says here, thirty percent decrease in traffic flow," O5-10 noted.
"Well…"
"Dr. Plump. Get your head together. Happy still has some questions for you."
The halves of Gregory's head carefully stood up, then maneuvered up his collarbone onto the portion of spine protruding from his neck. They promptly sat back down with a squelch. Gregory waited several seconds while his innards realigned, then rasped, "Ready."
"You've been under surveillance for the past three weeks primarily for your interest in SCP-354. Tell me, do you know what it is?"
"Some sort of portal that periodically spawns dangerous creatures?"
"At least the cover story works. No, it's more like an inter-dimensional airport."

"Excuse me?" Gregory spluttered.
"Happy will give you a more detailed explanation, but the long and short of it is that the Foundation allows creatures from different universes, timelines, and dimensional planes asylum into our own universe -not planet, mind you- in exchange for information, resources, and technology. As you may realize, this runs counter to our… 'public' mission, hence the secrecy. " O5-10 enunciated. "So," he wondered out loud, "what do we do with you?"
Gregory was still having some trouble digesting the information. Wisely, he chose to remain silent.
"Sir, my official designation is H-4-P-P-Epsilon. As I said, I believe that it would be in our best interests to-"
O5-10 cut the droid off. "Happy, execute subroutine Omega Questionnaire. Dr. Plump, much as I would like to thoroughly interrogate you, I have to negotiate yet another deal with that petulant little troll Kim in fifteen minutes. Instead, I will ask you a few questions, and the droid will take care of the rest."
"Sir, I am a highly advanced, multi-dimensional hive-mind quantum-computing artificial intelligence housed within a biomechanical interface, not a droid."
As it protested, Happy sprouted another arm, with several sharp, probing instruments attached to the end of it. With swift, dexterous robot fingers, it began inserting them deep into most of Gregory's exposed orifices. This was unsurprisingly uncomfortable (and surprisingly arousing).
These physiological beacons will measure your responses. First question: did you come alone to this universe?"
"Erm… yeah. I mean no! No. Four others came with me but I didn't know them. Three of them headed off to Alpha Centauri. I think the fourth one is still on Earth somewhere but I don't know?"
In fact, the fourth one eventually found fame and fortune beyond shklee's wildest dreams as David Bowie.
Happy beeped, and the lights turned green.
"Have you been sharing any information related to the Foundation with any other aliens?"
"No! Definitely not!" Plump swore, his voice muffled by the probe in his mouth.
"Happy?"
"Well, not really-"
"Not you."
Happy beeped again, and its lights flashed green again.
"How did you get to Earth and what did you do between that point and today?"
"Erm," Gregory answered, wishing that he could scratch his head, "I'm not entirely sure. I, uh, paid someone to help me get through. I just remember being told… to lie down in a cryogenic harvesting pod which was very unn - unnerving by the way because those pods were usually used to gut, uh, animals, but I trusted the guy because of his references and I really just wanted a new start because I couldn't find any jobs back ho - back home because I'm not a bad person really I just wanted a job and - a job and maybe a fresh start and someplace my skills would be useful honestly that's the only felony I've committed and I've never even gotten a traffic ticket before and -"
"That's not an answer," O5-10 noted.
Gregory gamely stuttered out the pertinent answer. "I lay down in the pod and the next thing I know I'm on Earth, in this universe, somewhere between the US and Mexico. That was thirty years ago. I found a job as an accoun- as an accountant for a few years, forged some references, wrote a few linguistics papers and sent them to a journal, that landed me a position at the University of Iowa for about a decade, and then I got hired by the Foundation. That was fourteen years ago."
Happy beeped.
"Are you entirely loyal to the Foundation?"
"Yes - yes, of course!" Gregory proclaimed, pumping a fist in the air.
Happy beeped again, and its lights flashed.
"Would you lay down your life to secure and contain anomalies, and protect all mankind?"
"Of course I would!"
Happy didn't beep. Its lights turned red.
"Processing," it intoned. The lights on its dome flashed for several seconds before it beeped again." "Personality determination algorithm complete. Dr… Gregory Plump has been classified as Low Risk, High Cowardice, Extreme Sycophancy, Moderate Intelligence. Primary recommended course of action is continued employment. Secondary recommended course of action is immediate termination.”
O5-10 considered the information, mulling over it. He metaphorically gnawed on it like a stuffed grape leaf, investigating the flavor with his tongue and fermenting the idea into a plan. Now he'd made himself hungry, and when he was hungry he was testy. “Dear God, is this the best our screening protocols can do? Alright, Plump. We can't keep you in the regular Foundation, god only knows what you'd release next. We could shoot you, but that seems a waste of bullets. No, I have a better idea… Are you familiar with !@%$%^&&^%#?"

Act II: Strung Out in Heavens High »


“Hello, could you please tell me where the Site Director's office is?” asked Junior Researcher Takeru Toshida from two men dressed as Greek hoplites. He was familiar with the protocols that were in effect in Provisional Containment Zone Delta-3, but he was taken aback by the quality of the costumes. “I'm new he… What happened to your arm?!”
“This guy happened to stare right into the eyes of Medusa,” said Agent Wilkins, revealing his comrade's left arm that was yet to recover from being turned into stone. “We got these for a reason,” he added, pointing to his mirrored shield.
“Well, pardon me for not having a PhD in ancient mythology,” said Agent Robertson. “In my defence, I was transferred to the Greco-Roman team only because Todd was bitten in the arse by last Monday's chimera.”
“Sorry for teasing you, rookie. Fortunately, we triumphed even without your help,” said Wilkins cheerfully as he cleaned up the slain monster's blood from his spear.
“Looks like one hell of a job you have here,” said Takeru, reconsidering his career plans.
“It's not as dangerous as it seems,” said Wilkins. “I mean, when we first discovered this skip, it rampaged nearby towns regularly and took out Agents like there was no tomorrow. Still, we had no casualties since poor Vladislav last year.”
“What happened to him?” asked Takeru.
“Oh, I remember that one,” said Robertson. “The battle wasn't going exactly by the book, and then Vlad got the idea to bring a machine gun.”
“The Procedures clearly say that only period-accurate weaponry can be used. He can't blame anyone else for getting burned alive by the dragon. It spared all defeated Agents who played by rules,” said Wilkins as life returned to all of Robertson's fingers. “I'm starting to believe that it killed all those civilians just to make a righteous hero to come and save the day. Now it enjoys all these historical battles we are staging to the fullest. That's why it appears more and more often and even developed new forms when the original Oni-dragon duo got boring.”
“Aren't there any way to kill it to death so it will die for real?” wondered Takeru.
“I doubt that's possible. It does not seem to be your average monster. I'd rather call it an embodiment of a concept. Like the playful little sister of that damned lizard. You can't kill a concept with weapons. But you can find out its rules and learn to live together with it. That's how we contain SCP-2301.”

Three months later
Takeru Toshida was staring out the window of his tiny office when the alarm went off. He sprang off his chair and ran outside to witness the battle that was about to unfold. A Banzai-type Manifestation Event was something he always looked forward.
He knew that joining the Foundation and getting assigned to this Site was probably the most badass job one could get with a master's degree in history (if we rule out being Indiana Jones as too unrealistic). Still, he was rather bored. They were out in the boonies. To make it even worse, that cursed Director confiscated and transported off-site all fiction books and movies from the Containment Zone (including his treasured manga and anime collection) to see if it keeps SCP-2301 from getting any new ideas. Since then, his sole source of entertainment was watching the battles from a safe distance.
Takeru has never seen this form of SCP-2301 before. It manifested as a Japanese schoolgirl wielding an oversized glowing sword. She was wearing her crimson hair in twin tails. Five Agents looked at her from a distance, contemplating their cunning plans.
Agent Wong tried to take out SCP-2301 using Amakakeru Ryu no Hirameki, the ultimate technique of the Hiten-Mitsurugi style. He wisely decided to shout the name of the attack right before starting it to boost its power, but ended up missing with it since he focused on the correct pronunciation instead of the move itself. She gave him a contemptuous look and swept him away with a single blow. “Why didn't I try Shinobazuhō Ikasazukorosazu instead?” he asked himself before passing out.
Agents Alvaro and Martinez stepped forward shouting “Wasshoi,” and bowed to their opponent. SCP-2301 seemed to appreciate their attempt at proper etiquette. Alvaro tried to land a hit using the Scattered Flash Slash technique while Martinez distracted the girl with Serious Consecutive Side Hops.
The onlookers were amazed by the spectacular display of speed, as the Agents moved quickly enough to leave multiple indistinguishable afterimages. Of course that was impossible in the framework of normalcy, but SCP-2301 had a habit of lending a fraction of its reality bending capabilities to its opponents, possibly for the sole purpose of seeking sheer awesomeness.
However quickly the attackers circled around SCP-2301, it took her a total of two kicks to get rid of them. “You know these moves are from a parody series, right?” she said and stuck her tongue out. “Idiots,” she added and covered her face with her palm.
The two remaining Agents opted for a tactical retreat, arguing whether they should use the Escher Topology Attack or the Seven-Plus-Two Strong Super Suction Saver. The spectators exchanged tense looks. At that time Takeru has already realized what went wrong. If you want to defeat SCP-2301 in a battle, it is of no importance how precise you moves are or how many the times they folded the steel of your katana. It could kill us all if it wanted any time. To keep it occupied, we must offer quality entertainment. Takeru confidently approached the prideful girl. He had no martial arts skills or combat training. But he had the heart of a true warrior.
It wasn't his job, but he decided to take SCP-2301 head on anyway. He took up the stance he remembered so vividly from his childhood. He put his hands together, forming a cup with them. Am I really doing this? he hesitated for a second. Then he mustered up the courage to continue. “KAAAA,” he yelled. The onlookers started wondering who he was and what he was doing. SCP-2301 raised an eyebrow curiously.
“MEEEE,” he continued. He suddenly noticed a sensation he never felt before in his body. A fireball slowly formed in his hands. So she is going along with my plan! he thought. A few seconds later he shot a beam of pure energy to SCP-2301, bathing the battlefield in octarine light. The name of the first king of Hawaii echoed across the valley.
He could get a glimpse of the girl as she was being annihilated by the attack. “Please come to play with me again, Onii-chan,” she said before disappearing in the beam. “Don't get the wrong idea; it's not that I like you or anything,” continued a high-pitched voice in Takeru's mind. “Stupid!”


Doctor Jack Bright stared ruefully at the simple bowl in front of him, filled with a creamy French Onion soup, the smell alluring enough to make his assistant sniff the air and lick his lips. He didn't do any more than this, however, as he could tell that the doctor was in a foul mood. The last thing he needed was to become the object of ire of one of the most particularly infamous Senior Staff members.
The old doctor rubbed his temples and suppressed a groan, waiting for his headache to go away completely. It was bad enough when he first learned that he was going to be testing this, and, for whatever godforsaken reason, couldn't opt out of it, for all his power and influence. If there was one thing that Doctor Bright couldn't stand, it was being told what he could and could not do. If there were two things that he couldn't stand, then the second thing was headaches. And if there were three things that Doctor Bright couldn't stand, then the third thing would be the fact that the bowl was filled with French Onion soup. He already knew how this test was going to turn out, and he was not going to enjoy it in the slightest.
“Is everything alright, doctor?” The assistant shook his head and ignored the delectable aroma for a moment to show concern for the man with the tall and youthful body.
Bright turned to face him, as the pain began to subside. “It's nothing. I'm fine, Hector. Just a little migraine.”
He wrote something down on a notepad to the right of the bowl, before picking up a recorder to the left of it. He looked back over at Hector, and, figuring he knew to keep quiet, hit ‘record.'
“This is Doctor Jack Bright, recording testing log SCP-348-3278-1. Primary goal of this test is to discover whether SCP-348's effects will alter accordingly if the consciousness of a body comes from one who holds a different biological father. Why someone felt the need to know this, is a question that will have to be answered another day.” He wondered if he should edit that part out, before deciding “to hell with it.” No one had the stones, or even a particular desire at all, to try and discipline him for an off-hand remark, especially since everyone knew that it wouldn't stop him from making more in the future.
“For reference, the body I am currently in, D-7251, was that of one Thiago Branco. Records show that Mr. Branco had a close relationship with his father. If this is correct, and if the soup is indeed intended for D-7251, then I should feel as if ‘something is missing'. In the unlikely chance that there be a message at the bottom, it will be in Portuguese.”
He ended the recording, neglecting to mention the obvious question of what would happen if the soup was intended for him instead. Those with the proper security clearance and need-to-know could guess at that. Everyone else could mind their own goddamned business.
He picked up the bowl carefully, and slowly brought it to his lips. He wondered if maybe Mr. Branco's favorite soup was French Onion. Maybe he and his father would bond over bowls of it throughout his childhood. Maybe this test would turn out differently than Bright expected.
He took the tiniest bit of soup in his mouth.
Nope. He could never be so lucky.
Hector saw the doctor grimace at the taste, before setting the bowl down, picking up his recorder and his pad and pencil, before standing up and walking briskly out of the room.
“Tasted god-awful. Glad that's over with. You can have the rest, Hector, I don't give a damn.” Before his assistant could even make a sound, Doctor Bright had exited the testing room.
Hector processed what had just happened, before shrugging and deciding to save questioning it until after he had finished the soup. He took the bowl back to his office, letting the guard on duty know that he'd bring it back within an hour, and sat down with it at his desk. (Being the assistant to Doctor Jack Bright afforded Hector certain privileges that would be unthinkable for most other personnel to have.)
He nursed it, on and off for twenty minutes while he worked, occasionally taking a bit of onion into his mouth. He didn't know what Bright was on, but this soup wasn't bad at all. He was surprised that he had finished it so quickly, and even more surprised when he noticed that it had a message at the bottom.
He wondered if he should tell anybody that it did, but, upon reading it, he decided it would be best that he not mention it. Word would inevitably get back to Doctor Bright about what it had said and that Hector was the one who first found out and told someone. He didn't want to think about what the doctor's reaction to that might be.
Hector took the bowl back to the guard on duty, and told her he was ready to bring it back to its locker. The two of them walked to the vast rows of containment lockers, passing by a few dozen before reaching one that was labelled with tape with “348″ neatly written in black marker on it. The guard, (Katherine, it said on her ID badge), deftly spun the dial, and opened it up. Hector slid the bowl on the shelf inside, and Katherine shut the locker, giving the dial one more spin for good measure.
As the two of them left to go back to their respective duties, the bowl sat in the dark of the locker, the faded blue message on its bottom still visible. There were precious few people alive who could know its context, and one of them had made it clear that he had no intention of giving it any more thought. He didn't have to read it to know what it said.
"You have every right to hate me"

She stared at the bowl in front of her. Bits of celery, a couple of potatoes, and even a few clams stared back at her as they lazily floated around. The researcher standing by the door wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“All you have to do is have enough of it to tell us how it tastes,” the researcher, Denise, said, wanting to reassure the young woman that she wouldn't have to finish what was sitting in front of her.
The woman looked at the bowl for a second longer before responding. “Would it be alright if I had all of it?”
Denise raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Why in God's name would she want to actually want to have all of that stuff? The smell was so abysmal it made Denise's skin crawl. It made her feel like she was being watched. Like she was being leered at. Why the hell was that woman able to stand smelling that stuff, let alone eating it? Denise shrugged. Maybe it was just a welcome change from her usual diet. Lord knows that couldn't be much more pleasant.
The young woman brought the bowl to her lips, blew some of the steam away, and tasted its contents.
It was warm and rich, but those were the only two specific words she could use to describe it. Everything else, she couldn't put her finger on. She couldn't tell if the actual taste wasn't that bad and it was the aftertaste that left something to be desired, or vice-versa. The texture seemed thicker on her lips, but runnier as soon as it got past her teeth. The potatoes were firm and salty, but by the time she was finished, she swore they were almost sweet, somehow.
As she relayed all of this information to Denise, the researcher kept as straight a face as she could, ignoring the urge to cringe every time the girl paused to take another slurp. Thankfully, the girl was finished quickly enough, and Denise walked up behind her, looking at the empty bowl from over the her shoulder.
There was a message at the bottom of the bowl. When Denise read it, she had to suppress a shudder, noticing that she had been righter than she would have liked to have been in her assessment as to how the bowl made her feel. If the young woman sitting in the chair was similarly disturbed, however, she didn't show it.
”Alright,” Denise said, doing her best at ignoring how perturbed she was, “you're done here. You can go ahead and leave.”
The girl walked out of the room, nodding to the guard on the other side of the door. Together, the two of them walked back to her suite.
Denise sat down in the now-open chair, pushing the bowl away to the edge of the table, making sure not to look any more at the message inside of it. She pulled her notepad and pencil from her coat pockets, and began to write down her observations of the test.
The young woman gingerly sat on her soft bed, reflecting on what had just happened. It certainly wasn't the best thing she had ever tasted, but it was certainly better than what she'd usually been having for the longest time.
She tried to remember what exactly it had tasted like, but it was hard. Like remembering something from years ago rather than minutes ago. The message came to her clearly enough, however, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the letter that she received on her last birthday. Despite having the chance to only read it once before it was taken away, it too came to her as clear as day.
She was certain that the message had been from the same person who sent the letter. She didn't know how he did it, but she knew her father, whoever he was, was making good on his promise.
Deciding that she would save her thoughts for after a nap, the young woman rested her head on her pillow, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming about the face she could never quite remember upon waking up.
Upon SCP-166 being brought into its presence, SCP-348 filled with what appeared to be New England-style clam chowder. This researcher observed a very unpleasant odor emanating from SCP-348, but SCP-166 made no mention of such a stench, if she even noticed it at all.
SCP-166 described the taste of SCP-348 in vague terms. The taste, texture, and other qualities were noted as seeming conflicting, and the only definite terms SCP-166 used to describe SCP-348 were “warm” and “rich.”
Of particular note is the message that manifested on the bottom of the inside of the bowl, as has happened in some previous tests.
This message read, “I'm still keeping an eye on you, sweetheart. Every day.”

ALERT NOTICE: GOLDENROD
On 06/16/2015, at approximately 0830 hours, SCP-348 was found to be missing from its containment locker. In its place was a handwritten note, reading “Just borrowing it. Will have it back soon,” and signed with an illustration of a black queen chess piece. Assuming that the Black Queen is going to return the item as the note implies, all security personnel are to be prepared for this event. Standard protocols for capturing intruding parties do apply.
Director Tilda D. Moose

The Black Queen kept the bowl in a small cupboard for three days, telling herself that she would wait until she felt “sick enough” for it. She had found the file on this particular item almost a year beforehand, but it took her several months and several missed opportunities before she finally resolved to request that one of her Little Sisters fetch it for her. She didn't want to go after it personally, for fear of it somehow manifesting its contents while she was holding it. It might have thrown her off of her game. She imagined such a scenario playing out, with Foundation security teams surrounding her, the infamous Black Queen herself, while she stood staring wide-eyed at a bowl of soup.
She chuckled dryly at the mental picture.
She'd been feeling the cold coming on ever since shortly before she had had the bowl retrieved, but she kept putting it off and off, until eventually, it felt like there was an airtight seal in her nostrils, sandpaper was massaging her esophagus, and she could no longer deny that she was indeed “sick enough.”
Opening up her cupboard, she removed the bowl, setting it down on the plain table in the center of her kitchen. She wondered if she should grab a spoon too, but she decided against it. She didn't know if she had any clean spoons at the moment, and all it would take for her to talk herself out of the experience would be something as simple as not wanting to have soup with a dirty spoon.
Sitting down in front of the table, she stared at what exactly had filled the bowl in front of her. There were a few wispy won tons, along with bits of pork and onion. She stared at it for a long, long time, before finally taking a deep breath and lifting the bowl up to her lips.
She blinked back a couple of tears when she felt just how cold it was. She'd been expecting that. It hit her like a semi truck, but she had been expecting it. She tipped the bowl further, taking some of the won tons and pork and onions into her mouth. Each time she chewed, or something rolled onto her tongue, she tried to gauge what exactly the flavor was, but it wasn't anything beyond the bare minimum of what she'd expect from wonton soup. She'd expected that too, but it didn't stop her from hoping for some kind of feeling to hit her. Anything at all, good or bad, so long as she wasn't expecting it.
But the soup remained cold, and the pork and onions tasted like nothing special. Her throat might have felt slightly better, and her nose a little clearer, but there was nothing about this meal that she hadn't been expecting.
She stared at the wall opposite of her for a few minutes, wondering what she'd do now. The bowl would have to be returned eventually. She did promise she would do so, after all, as she had a reputation and an image to maintain. She began thinking about what it would take to sneak past the inevitably heightened security in order to get the bowl back to its locker. Nothing she couldn't handle with enough time to plan it out. Sighing, she stood up, about to go back to her normal routine just as she expected she would, but far sooner than she hoped that she would have.
But, then she looked back down at the bowl. And what she saw inside of it was not something she had been expecting at all.
The file had said that messages were rare for adult subjects, and, given who it was from (or maybe, if some of the hypotheses she had read were to be believed, who the bowl was emulating), she certainly didn't believe that the bowl would manifest one for her.
But there it was, plain as day, in faded blue letters. It was in English, which made sense enough to her. He did know Mandarin, but he preferred his first language when speaking with her, as she and her mother had always poked fun at his frequent Chinese malapropisms. She thought it might have even been his own neat handwriting that she was looking at, but it was hard to tell through her rapidly blurring vision.
"I haven't forgotten you Alison."
Alison Chao wept silent tears, each one dropping down into the bowl and settling around the bottom. This was what she had wanted. Something to surprise her. Something that caught her off guard. She wouldn't have regretted it had it been something that told her he had forgotten her. However devastating it might have been, it was infinitely better than not knowing for sure. But he did remember her. He still thought about her. Still might have even loved her.
Alison breathed deep, and composed herself. She realized that her trembling lips had curled into a smile. She wiped away her tears, brought her middle and index finger to her lips, kissed them softly, and pressed them against the message.
She was just putting the bowl back in the cupboard, when she realized something else that she hadn't been expecting. Despite how unimpressive the soup had been, she still felt like it would be nice enough to have with dinner. And maybe tomorrow's lunch, too.
She'd only been planning on keeping the bowl for a day or two, but she was sure that a week or so without it wouldn't drive anyone at the Foundation to drastic action. Nothing that she couldn't handle, in any event. They could make all the fuss they liked; she was going to spend Father's Day weekend with her dad.

ALERT NOTICE: YELLOW
On 06/22/2015, at 1330 hours, SCP-348 was found to be returned to its containment locker. Attached to the front of the locker was a handwritten letter addressed to a member of Senior Staff. Security personnel are currently searching for evidence that will lead to the apprehension the Black Queen or any associates of this individual, though nothing of significance has yet been found.
Alert-level has been lowered to Condition Yellow, and security protocols have been adjusted accordingly.
Director Tilda D. Moose