You don't belong here. Priss winced.

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Manna Charitable Foundation The Hammer Falls
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

Silently, the creature swum over the calm, peaceful surface of the reservoir. It had been filtering the contents of the reservoir for as long as Priscilla had been bringing them in, and it had feasted upon them. It had grown quite a bit, too, its form no longer resembling that of a certain mammal.
It would be slightly less accurate, yet fitting if one was to observe it from the side, to a slug that was over a meter and half tall and had eerily luminescent spikes protruding from its back. Its massive head had grown; the large, bone-like protrusion underneath it had grown and become a segmented structure made entirely of the white bark of a strange, deformed tree.
If seen from underneath, as Jacob wanted to see it and had not been allowed to by Opal, the sight would have probably killed the observer.
There were tendril-like organs, a net of extremely friable tissue that broke in finer threads and combined in tentacle-like structures then separating again to form large curtains of hair-like filters waving without the slightest disturbance in the water. They grew from its belly, from which they had emerged since the moment it became flesh and had spread greatly, greatly and without limitation within the reservoir where it was confined and the many draining systems surrounding it. And there were things in it, moving, jumping from tendril to tendril, like minuscule spiders jumping and swimming and becoming starfish, becoming jellyfish, becoming shoals of tiny fish-like silver darts, becoming shrill that became smaller and smaller and smaller and then became portions of a greater feeling ingrained in a strange thought that was cleanse, cleanse, cleanse, cleanse…
Concepts within the borders of the creature's mind and reality itself beyond them were fighting a gentle war underneath the surface of the water, trying to impose their rules to each other. And the creature was nothing if not a small swelling of matter and gravitation in a world that was comfortably familiar to it. A world bound by the rules of flesh, not unlike the one it had come into being.
A world in which it didn't have to think.
While it had existed, and from the moment it had shed from its physical body in a distant time — In a different world? A different universe? — like ripe fruit, it had wished, nay, strove towards a state of pure, constant non-conscience. Other souls achieved it just by shedding, their transcendence manifest but also calming, peaceful, happily eternal bliss. A void existence, only filled by the I.
But it had never that chance. It never could stop thinking. Other Soul-Seekers told it to try, and try, and try, but it could not. When you were soul un-carnate, you had to learn to let go of the memories, of the feelings, even the form you got used to during your life; and that creature in particular never could let go, not completely.
It never managed to… how did humans put it? Release its burden.
So it decided to turn the other way, dump all of himself that could be pushed from its I into the comfortable limitations of a brain and dedicate that brain's circuitry to one objective.
Cleanse. Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse, filter, purify, secrete pure water with pure salts in delicately balanced quantities, concentrations always at optimal levels. Maybe a few vitamins, just to complement it? No. No, it'd be better not to. Just water.
If one was to be forever obsessed and suffering because of thought, why not put obsess over something useful?
However, it could also feel curiosity. It expanded its tendrils once more along the collector tubes, greeting the hardworking Mason Mold over the way. It responded with its melodious symphony of unending work.
And, as it used the extensions of its body to listen to every vibration over the entire hospital, the town, and even further away, it became aware…

Dodger sat in the atrium of the hospital, staring out the window blankly. Not for the first time, she reflected on all the leeway she'd been given as an employee here. They smiled and accepted her and put up with her solely because of the money she'd donated. No one dared say it to her face, but she couldn't imagine any normal MCF agent still being kept on-site, much less employed, after that conference call incident. She had to change her behavior, but it was just so hard to do so. The longer she went without being the center of attention, the more her self control started to slip. She had no friends left to be a pressure valve for her. She'd somehow managed to burn nearly every bridge behind her. The hospital staff seemed to tolerate her presence so long as she stuck to one pre-set path— the front lobby, and the hall leading out the back. A foot out of line, and they were all over her case.
There were no further incidents since the near-riot several days ago. Her contacts hadn't found the instigators. Every lead twisted back to itself somehow. Either they had perfectly slipped in and out of the country without a single witness, or else they were being sheltered by some group or another.
But that didn't matter, because of the goddamn fucking animals. She still didn't see why they couldn't just let the people eat them, provided they cooked them thoroughly. She considered it hypocritical that people like Rhiannon espoused using unknown quantities like the Anabasis to help people, while everyone unanimously cracked down on self-replenishing animals for being unknown quantities. She couldn't help but wonder whether Priscilla Locke's presence and Rhiannon Locke's position swayed the decision to use the Anabasis.
Mirror Universe Locke. Dodger fumed. Fuck her.
She spotted Yasir approach through the window, and got up to meet him at the door.
"Problems," He said simply.
"Country's top export," She sneered, and shut the door behind her, "Where?"
He waved her to follow, then moved onto the road, where four armed men flanked him, outfitted in vests and helmets. Standard-issue AMISON supplies, so likely not brigands or bandit types. Probably stolen, given my luck. And me here without a gun. She was going to wind up a hostage or murdered at this rate.
The group piled in to a dusty white pick-up truck, and started off out of the village. They didn't go far before she saw the smoke, and smelled the fire. Burning meat—but also a smell like burning rubber and plastic.
It was indeed MCF agents; they were being harangued by a group of men. The carcass of some big animal was being incinerated nearby. Someone had thrown tires into it, along with some MCF supplies, including bags of wheat and flour.
"What now?" She whined to Yasir.
He started pointing as they rushed to the scene, "People think the food being distributed is contaminated. They think it responsible for the freak animals. Harti divisions; some in one clan want us to take the food, others in clan want to burn it, turn to other clans for support."
"I thought the Harti was all one clan!" She was getting frustrated with internal politics.
"No, no, Harti is group of clans—"
She stopped him as they reached the mob, forcing her way through to the MCF operatives at the center, "You're here!" It was Momio—Enrico, or Martino, as if there were any more of them. They didn't have guns either, and their armed escort was looking overly anxious to start using theirs.
"Thank God. These people— Some were helping us burn the animals, but then they started throwing the food bags in the fire, and everything else we gave them. Bastards threatened to shoot us if we stopped them. You believe the balls on these bastards?"
Dodger patted him on on the shoulder — Rico, she remembered, "Stay calm. Tell your men fingers away from the triggers." The escort was looking eager to fight, definitely not MCF. Where did they find these psychopaths? "Yasir!" She called out to the man as he made his way through the crowd. She needed someone to talk them down, and she didn't trust the mob to be receptive to an MCF interpreter.
Yasir came up to her, and then her world went red. She had thought Yasir was spitting on her. The crack of the gun that went into his brains almost didn't register as Yasir's lifeless body slammed into her, knocking her onto her back.
More gunshots followed, and screams. Dodger closed her eyes, and lay her head back. She was having trouble breathing again, as if her lungs had been half-sealed. Just enough air got through for her to keep conscious, and keep trying to breathe. Smart thing to do would be to stay here, with Yasir's body on top of her for protection. She wished that was why she stayed put. Every new gasping breath brought in more and more smoke, dirt, and the rising stench of blood and shit.

The beast quivered. Or rather, it would have, if not for the fact that a pure, immutable soul had been shed from its mortal carcass.
He slowly came to it, the creature a brilliant beacon of disembodied thought against the nothingness of matter. As he came closer, his anguished thought-voice becoming a shout, the creature protruded those parts of it able to think — it didn't even need to think to process most of the blemishes in the water, anyways —, and it reached out to the newcomer.
"Hello, Enrico. You are a pure, immutable soul. I bid you welcome to the thought-place," the creature greeted him.
Enrico looked at the creature, slowing down. "You are… a dot of light."
Suddenly, he jolted and fell to his knees, hands tightly clasped into a praying gesture. He was legitimately terrified. "Oh. Oh, no. Oh dear God forgive me. I know I-I haven't been to church much in my life but-"
"I'm not your sky-god, Enrico," the creature said. "I'm just the Hippo."

Rhiannon smiled wide and rushed her sister, scooping her up in a big hug, "You don't know how bad I've missed you."
"Apparently not," It had been barely a month. Priss squirmed in her sister's grasp, and pulled herself away in an awkward motion.
"Sorry. You have to understand, you— uhh… the other you… You were missing for twelve years."
Priss nodded, despite the clumsy phrasing. You don't belong here. She couldn't have meant it that way, "Come on, let's head inside."
Rhiannon must have been expecting a tour of the facility, by how eagerly she kept turning to Priss as she walked her through, down to the reservoir. Priss said nothing; why would she? It was a hospital. What was there to tour?
They arrived at the reservoir, where the Hippo — closer now to a manta ray — drifted about languidly. The water was crystal clear, a far cry from the muddy, silt-laden ground water she'd brought in. The Hippo's tendrils lazily drifted about, like veins extending from a gentle heart. Rhiannon's face lit up, and her eyes seemed to be brimming with tears.
"This is it. All the work and planning put into action. This hospital, this reservoir, this whole facility…"
She looked down, licking her lower lip and turning away, "You probably don't understand what it's like…"
You don't belong here. Priss winced.
Rhiannon seemed to sense the implication, and added on, "Being with the SCP Foundation… you've got all the money you ever want to do any experiment you want. All that power and influence and supplies… You want for nothing, you answer to no one but yourselves, you know nothing of scrounging for funding, or throwing a party whenever a single donation comes our way. We have to give it our all, to give, give, give… and so few people give us anything. This is… the best we've gotten in so long."
Priss pressed her lips firmly together, and moved closer to embrace her sister. Then Rhie turned to her with a smile, "Maybe not. I'm sorry, just assuming it was like that for you over there."
Again with the insistence, the constant reminders that she wasn't supposed to be here. That she didn't belong here. It was driving Priss mad. She shoved her sister away with a surprising forcefulness.
"Why, Rhie? Why, why, why? Why do you insist on doing that—"
"Whoa, what?"
Priss got closer, tears starting to well in her eyes, "Every time you talk to me, you have to remind me that I'm from somewhere else. That I don't belong here. That my very existence is an anomaly."
"Prissy, I—"
She nearly smacked her, but caught herself, and stepped back. For a long moment, she saw Rhiannon there… cracked teeth, long matted hair, tattoos on her shoulders. The Subhuman Mongrel was grinning at her. Priss turned away, heading towards the Anabasis.
You don't belong here.
"I'm sorry, Priss… I'm not trying to make you feel like an outcast. I just still can't get over the fact that you're here. Alive and well." She smiled, "You look nothing like the age-progressed picture from your missing person's banner."
Priss dropped her face into her hands, and let Rhiannon put her hands on her shoulders from behind, "Come on. Introduce me to some of your friends here."
"I don't have any friends."
"What about Frank? And Sarah?"
"Nnn… I guess Frank is fine…"
Rhie patted her head tenderly, "Let's go to your room. We can do some more catching up. Whether you like it or not, we're where we belong now."
Priss glanced up, at the Anabasis seated nearby. For once, it was silent. She could hardly recall a moment when it was completely silent.

« Burden of Humanity | Hub | Breaking It All Down On Me »


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Manna Charitable Foundation Burden of Humanity
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

Dodger snorted obnoxiously at the picture of the hairy man-beast, "It's cute."
They'd been calling it a spider-bear. Apparently its hands and head were more arachnid-like than mammalian, even though it breathed air and ate cooked meat. They were even communicating with it well enough. For all the good that'll do. It's gonna die sooner or later if it doesn't let us examine it properly.
"That's not the real issue right now," Kone put in firmly. His visage was tacked to the center of her screen, the main focus of the video conference going on now. Several seconds of delay as the signal was encrypted. GOC technology, so nothing too sensitive could be said over the line. Though obviously there was nothing they could do about keeping the lines safe from GOC eyes and ears. They'd have to let slip some intel, by necessity of conveying it to one another. Kone and Lindsberg were at branch HQ, Rhiannon Locke en route to Africa, Cortes somewhere in Europe, "I've finished reading your report. Thankfully, whatever's causing the effect in animals doesn't spread if the meat is properly cooked. That's about the only good news. Bad news is we have no idea how far this has spread, and how bad it might get if we can't get it under control."
"Is that even a problem? Can't we just tell people it's E. coli and to make sure they cook their meat thoroughly? They're getting food, at least. I mean, fuck it; they may as well eat tainted meat than sandy shit, or nothing at all. They're little African peasants living in a third-world-hell-hole, we can't be snatching food from them."
Kone looked furious. Dodger felt a chill go through her. That's it, I'm gone. She had been getting on the nerves of management for too long. Every little thing she said she had to carefully monitor before saying it. Consequences of being as unconcerned with frivolous things like politeness and etiquette. She'd been kicked out of a lot of places, and fired from a lot of jobs, but she'd never felt such a perpetual state of oppressive moderation and paranoia as she did when talking around management. It had to be a problem with her, she had considered. But it isn't me.
"Dodger," It was Lindsberg stepping in now as the calm voice of reason, "When you get back from Somalia, we're going to have to have a little talk." That alone made her more anxious than any amount of screaming and cursing from Kone. And it was usually Kone who was the calm, reasonable one.
"I'm sorry," She muttered, clenching her jaw as heat rushed to her cheeks, "I submitted the report to Torres first, along with a sample. He's been examining it."
"And?" Kone asked patiently.
"It's definitely something, but we can't tell what. Our equipment here isn't sophisticated enough to discern what's actually causing the regeneration; bacterium, virus, prion…"
"Prion?" Rhiannon put in quizzically.
"I don't know. We don't know. This early on, we're speculating."
"I don't understand," Dr. Cortes put in, putting a hand on her forehead, "Could you- Could you explain it to me? I haven't read the report yet."
"It's the fungus. The— The Vesta Donation stuff. Somehow, animals are getting into it and eating pieces of it. I don't know how; we've been keeping the stuff tightly under watch when its in its fungal stage thing. Torres thinks there might be interference between his mods and the original control program the Vesta people put in. As for the animals… might be bugs, or rodents. Those then get eaten by bigger animals, those animals get eaten by even bigger ones… might be it spreads in the shit, too, so shit-eating animals like dogs and cats end up getting infected, too.
"What it actually does is kind of similar to what the fungus does— create something from basically nothing. Again, we don't know exactly how, but once it's metabolized in the animal, we completely lose track of the fungal cells. What starts to happen is basically uncontrolled cellular growth."
"Like a cancer?" Cortes asked.
Dodger hadn't thought of it that way, "Maybe. I think I mis-spoke, too—it's not uncontrolled growth; it's pretty well controlled. It basically starts rapidly growing cells all over the body, making an excess of skin cells, hair cells, blood cells, and so on. Leave it going long enough, you'd basically end up with a mound of meat vaguely resembling an animal, with probably six hearts and thirty gallbladders. Frank wanted to test, but animal testing gets people uncomfortable."
"Purely speculating here… when bone or tissue is cut out of the animal, the growth centers exclusively on regenerating the bone or tissue that was lost. It's like a hulled boat taking on water, and cutting out pieces of flesh would be like scooping out bucketful's of water."
"And the mental effects?" Rhiannon put in.
"Might be related. Possibly. Maybe it's more painful to let the flesh grow than to have pieces of it cut out every few hours."
"This is a fucking disaster," Rhiannon whimpered.
"I don't know. As long as people cook it, it's safe, right? Isn't that what you always keep saying, Locke; fear of the unknown is no excuse not to save people in trouble now?"
"Dodger…" Lindsberg warned. That tone again that pressed down on her. A "gentle menace", she'd called it before.
"We're trying to contain it," Dodger put in before they could keep chewing her out, "Exterminating the animals. Burning the corpses. But it's like pulling weeds one-handed. And there's new weeds every day. We need more resources to get this under control."
"Dodger, don't," Kone warned. His voice was so deep, it could be difficult to tell his mood over the tinny speakers of a laptop computer, "If the GOC gets word of this, they're going to assume we've lost control of the situation."
"We have lost control of the situation, it sounds like," Cortes put in before Dodger could do the same… and get yelled at for saying so.
"We have not lost control," Kone stated firmly, "Dodger, keep up the good work. Spread your contacts out further, keep your ear to the ground. Use whatever stockpiles of food we have to get people to stop eating this meat. Tell Frank to use whatever resources at his disposal to ensure the continued cooperation of tribal leaders and town elders. We're gonna need them — AMISOM is drawing forces out of Laascaanood to deal with Somaliland raiders. If— Listen to me, Dodger. If you start running out of food…"
Dodger grit her teeth, waiting for the obvious solution to come up.
"Worst case scenario only; use the Anabasis. Do not use it outside of Locke's default settings. Make sure the animals brought in are clean and edible. We don't need something worse than this to start infecting people."
Dodger sighed, and glanced about the faces on the screen. No challenges were made, so she nodded, "Alright. See you on the other side."
She closed out the windows, and snapped her laptop shut. One thing people hated more than anything was having basic necessities taken from them. Worse when it was taken away by healthy English-speaking Western men.
"That's not my concern…" She muttered to herself, sloughing off the burden, "I've got my orders."

The three volunteers conferred in front of the surgery room, in a discreet corner intended in the original architectural design of the building as a place to put a water basin. It had been deemed unnecessary.
"Am I the only one who feels we should not be trusting her?," Haji asked, "The longer she is here, the more this whole 'auditing' thing sounds like an excuse for infiltrating us and test something… strange downstairs. I mean no offense to the wise women, Mirra in particular, but they might be blinded by her position! What was that thing that come downstairs? And how is it that she, a Coalition officer, has a sister in the Mission Branch?"
"Everything we do here is strange. What makes what she does any different? I was a Coalition operative, too, and here I am. Besides, you don't get to choose your family…" Olympe shook his head at the suspecting volunteer. "Look, it's simple enough. It's a matter of whether you accept what Frank tells you or not. I trust Frank. I don't trust Locke, but I find no reason to be paranoid about it either."
"There is that," Lila said, her head uncovered as she left the surgery room, barely even having time to digest the news. "There is also the fact that Opal will not talk about her and has asked to be put in solo-work with one of the newbies as nurse. She only does that when she's in a bad mood."
Olympe frowned at that. "Lila…"
"You know me, Frans." She rapidly collected her headscarf, covering her head and ears. "I won't do anything against her, no matter who she is or what she did in the past. I am not that sort of woman anymore, and I am pretty certain she is not a Parahealther anyhow."
"What do you mean, Afwerki?," Haji inquired, curious.
"I have my reasons, dear. Where is Ahman, by the way?," she delicately answered.
"Frank told him and some of the kids to go burn some of that mutant meat. Right, that, too! What if it was Locke's fault, somehow!," the young man added. Olympe arced a brow.
"Even Jacob says it's his fault, Haji. Just let go."

"I'm coming to Somalia," Rhiannon's voice came out clearly from the little bird, "I'm so happy I'll get to see you in person again. Everything happened so fast, we barely got enough time to talk."
Priss shrugged, "We talked enough."
Rhiannon laughed, "You never were one for conversation."
Priss sat in her quarters, laptop on her bed. She was still in quarantine, after the furry beast came through the Anabasis. It had been taken peacefully, and wasn't showing any signs of illness after four days, but still they insisted on quarantining her. They couldn't find any signs of potentially dangerous pathogens in the beast yet, but not finding anything yet didn't mean it was safe for her.
"I'm in quarantine."
"I heard," Rhiannon kept her smile upbeat, "Don't worry, you should be out soon. By tomorrow at latest."
Everyone else exposed had been released already. They were keeping her in longest. It's because you don't belong here. Priss looked over at the Anabasis, on the table beside her. Had it always been able to talk? She remembered hearing that some of the researchers had talked to it, but couldn't remember if that was normal or some mental effect caused by exposure to it somehow.
"I just wanna… I wanna talk to you. About anything. The weather, even. I miss your voice. There's so much to catch up on… I mean, even though you're from another universe or whatever." Rhiannon just kept talking. So much nonsense. It wasn't as comforting for Priss as it was for her.
Priss had figured something had happened to her in this timeline to separate her from her family, "When I came here, I was in the basement of an abandoned school. Stuff brought in by the Anabasis tends to be in the same spot in one timeline as it was in the one targeted. Why was I in an abandoned basement?"
Rhiannon sighed, averting her gaze from the camera.
"I was dead. It's okay, you can say it. Probably mugged and stabbed, that would explain why I had nothing in my pockets."
"No, you… We didn't know. You had gone missing about twelve years ago. You were declared legally dead a while back. You were on your way home from school because you'd missed the bus, and you never returned. The school was searched but I guess they somehow missed your body…"
Priss swallowed lightly, and nodded. She'd expected it was something or other.
"I'm sorry," Rhiannon said, "I wanted to tell you, but like I said, everything happened so fast…"
Priss shrugged again, "It's not your fault."
It's not like the other Rhiannon would have opened the door and immediately snorted and said 'You're supposed to be dead, ha ha.' It's not like this Rhiannon doesn't respect you enough to tell you the truth up front. You don't belong here.
"How would you even tell someone that, after all they've been through?"
Like this, 'You're supposed to be dead, ha ha.'
Priss sighed, and pressed her hands into her eyes.
You don't belong here.
"What's wrong?" Rhiannon asked.
Priss looked up, seeing her sister still on the line.
"It's still hard trying to fit in here. It seems like every other thing I try to say ends up being racist or offensive in some way. I know not to say obvious stuff, but it's like every little thing can be twisted into something racist that I don't understand because I'm not from here. I've stopped trying to converse with people… Just simple, short statements and I get by."
Rhiannon grinned, "It's what you're best at."
Priss stared back at her.
"Sorry. Just relax. You're more well-regarded than you think. And you really are doing some good things here. Have you been getting along with the others? Opal, Jacob, Frank?"
Priss closed her eyes, longer than she intended, and slowly opened them, "Opal. She talks too much; makes my head hurt." She felt a strong urge to vent, but figured that was unwise… she preferred to complain about a person to their face, rather than behind their back. Besides, they trusted her… It wasn't her problem if that backfired in some way. "Foundation didn't work with anomaly-wielding humanoids. Still not used to it. Like leaving your house unlocked at night."
"Don't worry about it. You'll get used to it. Maybe not used to her, but as long as you two play nice."
Priss looked up again, at the door that was locked and sealed on the other side, as the staff waited the all clear before lifting the quarantine. Her quarantined because a googly-eyed man-bear ran past her, and an anomaly basically in charge of the entire operation. In context, it made sense, but…
Her gaze trailed off to the Anabasis again.
You don't belong here.

« Land of Plenty | Hub | The Hammer Falls »


Robert Parsley listened and watched as the rotor of the phone click-click-clicked from each of the numbers he dialed back to the black 0 at the top. After a short conversation with the operator, she connected him with another location on the switchboard. The dial tone droned in Robert's ear.
“Quantico Taxicab & Livery, how can I help you?”
“Yes, I need a pickup at the Evergreen Apartment complex,” Robert said. “On the double.”
“That'll be fifteen to twenty minutes, sir,” the bored attendant said, accent imperceptible.
“That's not going to do,” Robert said. “I'll need it in no less than seven minutes and thirty five seconds, at the outside.”
Several moments passed. They need to get on the god damn ball already, before the operator gets suspicious, Robert thought to himself, chiding himself for the mental blasphemy. Not all of these guys understand how things work in America.
“We can do that, sir,” the attendant said. “Have a good day.”
“Thank you.”

The driver of the taxi got out and opened Robert's door for him, as would be expected of someone in his station. Robert gave a curt nod and ducked into the running automobile without another glance at the man holding his door, as would be expected of someone in his station.
What was not expected in this situation was the man sitting in the driver's side rear seat. “Hello, brother,” the elfin, brown-skinned man said. “Peace be unto you.”
“Peace be also unto you, imam,” Robert said. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I have been in need of much guidance lately.”
“This is understandable, my son,” Imam Farahani said. “Your path is a difficult one to walk. You have been tasked by God with a mission of great importance, but I can sense already that your heart is troubled. Tell me of your worries.”
If the driver of the taxi was disturbed by Robert's burst into tears, he did not show it. If he was any more surprised by the blubbering confession coming forth in the back of the taxi, he likewise possessed enough discretion to avoid commenting on this. Robert vented for nearly twenty minutes, rambling on disparately about the constant fear of being detected, about the stress of living his double life, about the horrors of American society around him and his awareness of it, his fear of – oh merciful God, his fear of Edgar Hoover finding out what he was. What he was really doing.
The imam listened at length as Robert vented his spleen. After he finished, there was silence in the taxi for quite a long time.
“Is this road too hard for you, child?” the imam asked.
“Does it matter if it is?” Robert asked. “Do any of us have a choice? We are the Slaves of God, imam; it's in the name.”
“We all have a choice,” Imam Farahani said. “And your Arabic is flawed, son. 'Muslim' translates literally as 'one who submits to God'. The linguists would call that an active verb, I believe. It requires an actor, requires action. An active participant. A maker of decisions. You have become a Muslim as an act of faith, an act of choice. But whatever it is, it is an act. You have not fallen into Islam; no one does, no one can. It is a hard road for all. Yours, yes, is a harder road than many. But the paradise that awaits all faithful Muslims is greater than any of the tribulations in this world. And the world that we Muslims seek to build will help guide millions, even billions into that paradise.”
The imam shook his head. “You weep like a child. That is an observation, not a critique. Children weep because they spend years learning what the world is, learning these rules for living among other people through trial and error. And they spend much more time in error than not. Becoming a Muslim as a grown man, especially in the home of depraved, Godless capitalism? This is as a second childhood for you. So long as you keep the tears confined to right here and keep the truth confined to your heart, there should be no shame here.”
Robert sniffled further, wiped his nose on the tissue offered to him by the imam. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I can't tell you how grateful I am for everything you've done.”
The imam's face brightened. “Ever since I met you, ever since you walked into the masjid in Memphis, ever since I saw the look on your face, I knew. I knew you were truly enlightened, or at least capable of it. So many of these Westerners cannot see the decadence and depravity of their home. But you, you were strong enough to see the truth, and strong enough to work with us to help strengthen our cause. Even at the cost of your personal self-confidence. Even at the cost of your safety, you risk everything for the truth. Risk everything for what is right, son. There is no greater cause.
“The Prophet Muhammad, praise be unto him, this is what he dedicated his life to. Like you, he fought a war against every institution he had ever known and built something greater than this world has ever seen. Unlike you, he did not have the help of an elder, a man he could talk to for guidance.”
The taxi came to a stop outside Robert's house. “We are out of time, child,” the Imam said. “Please, keep in mind the things I have said, and walk always with God.” He pushed a butane lighter into Robert's hand. “This is empty and will open into flat metal. The usual code is written on the inside. This is your next mission. Remember, serve first the world of God always. Let the world of men catch up to you.”
Robert nodded, collected himself, kissed his imam on the cheek quickly (to avoid being seen by people nearby), and stepped out of the taxi. He walked quickly up the steps to his apartment complex's door, up the stairs to his apartment.
“Hey, handsome,” Robert's neighbor said. The neighbor that Robert knew had immoral designs on him, the one who disgusted Robert more than nearly anyone he saw in his day-to-day relations. He saw her as the encapsulation of everything that sickened him about what his country had become, about the West. Fat, promiscuous, lazy. “You got back quickly.”
Polite Smile #1 said “Just went for a stroll” as the man wearing it ducked into his apartment.

The tab on the file read "RECENT DECODES" as Bethany laid it on her employer's desk. The first page in the file had a photocopied message on top.

ORGANIZATION FOR THE RECLAMATION OF ISLAMIC ARTIFACTS

PROJECT 013

CODENAME: "WESTERN LIGHT"

PROJECT LEAD: "UMAR"

PENETRATION CONTINUES AS EXPECTED. PACKAGE DELIVERED. OPERATIVE EN ROUTE.

AUTHOR: "UMAR"

DESTINATION: "JANNAH"

MEMORANDUM 099 | P1/1

J. Edgar Hoover would be back from lunch soon.


Consciousness slowly prodded at Cactusman's mind. A deluge of voices engulfed him in noise, and the unnatural grogginess he was bogged down by made it impossible to differentiate between them. He knuckled his eyes and groaned loudly in an effort to drown out all the noise. The cacophony didn't stop, and most of the voices only grew louder. With his palms pressed into his eyes he tried listening, and after several seconds he realized several were familiar. They were the pair of cacti the doctors had given him, going on about being cacti. Two, however, were quieter than the others. And unfamiliar to him.
"You think the doctors gave him too much?" A female voice. Energetic, yet somehow brusque.
"Don't know. Maybe he's just not used to it." Male. Calm and deep.
Cactusman took several slow, deep breaths to collect himself. He should have been fully awake by now, especially with the adrenaline. But he couldn't shake this murky feeling sloshing around just behind his forehead. He brought the heel of his right hand to his forehead as if to jostle the gunk loose, but it did nothing for him.
After one last breath he steeled himself. His first instinct was to extend as many spines as possible and attack, but he realized that probably wasn't the best idea. Maybe it was just new medicine had some side effects, and these were Foundation guards or something. Nothing to freak out about. He relaxed as this realization came to him, and almost instantly tensed back up. His bed was too comfortable. Maybe he was- no, maybe he was just moved to a new cell. Perhaps that was why he was drugged. Cactusman took one last deep breath, held it, and cracked an eye open to look at the source of the voices.
Definitely not guards. Or doctors. Both of them were sitting in collapsible chairs, facing Cactusman, and were dressed casually. Both were staring directly at him, but neither reacted to him opening his eye. Cactusman realized they were in a medical ward, and he on the hospital bed. He tried thinking back to what might have brought him here but nothing came to mind. He didn't feel hurt. Looking through the glass door leading into the hallway didn't reveal much other than the fact it looked like a normal civilian hospital.
The woman was perched up on her chair, sitting on her heels. Her skin was the sort of brown that made it difficult to distinguish whether it was a tan or not. Her hair was brown for the most part, with the exception of some green coloring along the sides. Her plain clothes hung loosely from her muscled frame. She had what seemed to Cactusman like an exaggerated look of curiosity, her eyebrows high and her mouth moving from side to side.
The man was slouched in his chair so much he looked like he was about to fall off it. His skin was much darker, and his head was shaved. His clothes looked somewhat disheveled and wrinkly despite being clean. His left arm was completely wrapped in bandages and hung loosely at his side while his right hand rested on his knee. A small piece of metal was jutting from under his right eye, where the cheekbone was. It almost looked natural. His expression was one of utter boredom.
"Who are you?" Cactusman asked in what he hoped was an even voice.
"Hey," the woman said, drawing out the word for as long as her lungs would allow. "Yer awake, boy-o! Top o' the mornin' to ya!"
Cactusman stared at her in disbelief.
The woman giggled. Then she said, "Dude, I worked on that shit for hours. Okay, minutes."
The man lightly hit her in the back of the head. He didn't say anything, and his expression didn't change.
The woman grinned. "Okay, it was spur of the moment. Anyway, hi. Good to see you're not brain damaged. Well, more than we already knew you were."
The man slapped his companion again. "Apologies, Mister MacIntyre, she's a bit manic without her medicine."
Cactusman pushed himself into a sitting position. "You didn't answer my question."
"So serious, Daniel MacIntyre! Down to business, then." She sprang up in one quick motion, standing on the chair that was now leaning precariously far back. Cactusman had to at least give her credit, she definitely had a certain theatrical flair.
"I'm Alexandra Radcliffe! And Mister Slappy here is Zacharie Langley. We're from the Chaos Insurgency. We rescued you!"
"Rescued me? What? I know it wasn't the best situation, but I was helping-"
"You weren't helping anyone," Langley said. He didn't say it with any sort of venom or bluntness, he just droned on in a tired way. "I read your file. They were staged incidents to improve your morale. Minor tasks to keep you from hurting yourself. Little more than something to minimize the risk of losing one of their contained objects."
"I'm not an object!"
"I am aware. They, however, are not."
Cactusman swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glared accusingly. "And how would you know?"
Langley didn't bat an eye. "Because I used to work for them."
That caught Cactusman off guard, but it didn't stop him from extending spines all along his right arm. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He took the time to note that he didn't have any bandages or stitches anywhere.
"Doctor Louef isn't like that. I don't know about the Foundation in general, but he-"
"Louef's a pretty chill dude, from what I've read-slash-heard," Radcliffe said. "But that didn't stop him from locking you and other superhumans up. Because the Foundation is not all that nice to superhumans. And I know that because-"
A ball of fire erupted from Radcliffe's right hand. It was nothing but a small belch of flame, but it was enough to put Cactusman a little on edge. She grinned and continued surfing on the wobbling chair.
"C'mon, man, you're from Arizona. You should be used to the heat," Radcliffe said as the flame went out. "So, in case that egghead of yours is as addled as I think, being with us already has a leg up on your old situation. You get to be a person. And we'll even try to fix that fucked up think pan you got."
"I'm not crazy," Danny said adamantly.
Radcliffe started to laugh, teetering back and forth on the chair, when Langley grabbed her by the wrist and pulled back down into her seat. His expression had yet to change, but it looked like she was trying to eat her lips.
"You are not in a position to mock someone for their mental instabilities, Alex. Mister MacIntyre, my apologies. I thought it would be prudent for you to meet both of us, as we represent Foundation interaction with transhumans — both from within the Foundation, and from the outside. Unfortunately I cannot imagine her actions have been particularly encouraging."
"So why me? It seems like a lot of effort to just… 'save' someone."
Langley nodded. "You have been acquired by the Insurgency for a very specific task only you can accomplish. You-"
"We need you to talk to a giant cactus monster!" Radcliffe interjected. She appeared to be vibrating with excitement. Cactusman could feel the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
Langley slowly turned his head to look at her and she flinched. He blinked and looked back to Cactusman. "…Yes. We-"
Radcliffe clasped her hands together and Cactusman could feel his heart rise into his throat when she cried, "We need your help, Cactusman! Save us, oh-"
"Alex."
"What? I'm just having some fun."
"Please don't interrupt. It's rude."
"Well, sorry."
"Quite alright."
"Wait a minute, you just interrupted me to-"
"As I was saying," Langley said calmly.
Cactusman couldn't help but chuckle, even if he wasn't sure the man was being intentionally comedic. While being probably drugged and being more kidnapped than rescued was not exactly the best way to be introduced to this organization, he felt these two were nice enough people. And being out of his cell was certainly a plus.
"We need you to speak with a… giant cactus monster. There is no way to subdue it physically without permanently damaging it, so we need a lighter touch. Only you can help us, Mister MacIntyre. We need help. We need… the Spiked Menace."
"Ffffffuck yeah!" Radcliffe sprang all the way out of her chair this time. "That was cool! Well delivered, Zach."
Langley didn't so much smile as he did show her his teeth. It seemed to actively hurt him to do so, and he dropped the expression almost as suddenly as he made it.
Radcliffe didn't seem to notice, or perhaps just didn't care. "So, Danny-boy, watcha say, you in?"
Cactusman smiled. "I'm in."
Langley's expression remained stony as ever, and he gave nothing more than a short nod. Cactusman tried not to let the man's indifference - melancholy? Cactusman wasn't sure - get to him. At least Radcliffe seemed happy, she was doing a little jig beside her overturned chair.
"So, what now?" Cactusman asked as he slowly rose from the bed. He made several little hops to get the blood flowing to his legs.
Langley opened his mouth to reply but Radcliffe bounded forward to field the question. Langley shrugged, grabbed the two cacti, and headed for the door while Radcliffe prattled on. "Well, we've already given you a medical evaluation and stuff, so I guess we should just take you to our quarters- you're staying with us, I dunno if I mentioned that yet. But you can't wander around unless you have one of us with you, since you're new and special and stuff."
"So what do you actually do?" Cactusman asked slid past the glass door. Glancing inside the other rooms, Cactusman hurried after Radcliffe. The ward was surprisingly empty, save for a nurse or two here and there.
"Oh, we get to do tons of fun stuff! I mean, it also depends on your cell. For example, I'm tasked with resource acquisition- like you- in various ways. Langley is either with me or off doing… something. I dunno, he talks about it and I get bored and zone out. You, however, will be stuck on base cuz you're 'vital Beta Class personnel.' But it's gotta be better than jail, yeah?"
She skipped ahead and shut the door before Cactusman could get a look outside. A wicked grin had decided to take host on her face. She took a deep breath, threw open the door and dashed out. Cactusman poked his head out to see she had jumped up on a railing, her entire body arching as she spread her arms out.
"Welcome!" she yelled, and her voice echoed several times. "To the Chaos Insurgency!"
The catwalk outside his room was several stories up, overlooking a sizable room congested with traffic. People in casual wear, lab coats, hazmat suits, and military gear mingled together in a sea of activity. Drifting amongst them were dollies and carts of various materials, captained by impatient personnel. Cactusman spotted one cage rocking around as a team pulled it with short ropes, and a large creature of some sort pushing it from behind. The resulting noise from it all, even thirty feet up, was near deafening.
They were not as pristine as the Foundation, nor nearly as orderly. Which lent credence to their name, Cactusman figured. The building and the various objects and tools he could spot had a similar aesthetic- not defunct, but clearly well-worn. When he squinted he could see the entirety of the floor was scratched and scuffed, the entire thing a beaten path.
Looking left and right, Cactusman spotted more room along the catwalk he was on. The catwalk looped around the entire room, and had several like it above and below. It all reminded him of a prison, the way all sides of the room were covered in ladders, stairs, and catwalks leading to the various rooms embedded in the concrete.
"Cool, eh?" Radcliffe was hanging upside down, her knees locked around the railing. Cactusman almost got vertigo just looking at her. It didn't help she was idly kicking her feet.
Cactusman swallowed nervously. "Yeah. It's a bit more… uh. Not dirty, but… I mean, no offense, I just-"
"Ah, don't worry." Radcliffe grasped the railing and pulled herself up. "I mean, yeah, it's not super immaculate- that site you were in was like spotless, holy shit- but it's got… y'know, character. Flavor. All the Foundation facilities I've ever been in are just so… lifeless. Bluh."
"Speaking of which," Cactusman said as they headed for the stairs, where Langley was waiting. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Did anybody get hurt when you guys… uh, 'rescued' me?"
"Well." There was a brief pause as she began to descend. "I'm not gonna bullshit you, Danny. Yes, people got hurt. People died. I dunno how many. I will, however, assure you I ain't got an ounce of blood on my hands."
He had anticipated it, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. He squeezed the railing for support and asked with as much force as he could, "Why?"
Radcliffe squirmed, and it actually made Cactusman feel better. "That's a difficult question. Like, you have to understand that the Insurgency and the Foundation have fundamentally different goals. The Foundation squirrels anomalies away, and the Insurgency… the Insurgency wants to bring it to the light of day. To make them normal. To make us normal, Danny."
Spines erupted from nearly every inch of skin on Cactusman's body. "And that's worth killing people over? That the Foundation should just die and let you do what you want?"
When Radcliffe looked away from him without responding, Cactusman reached out to grasp her shoulder without realizing he was still covered in spines. Before he could reach, Langley grabbed him by the wrist. Blood seeped onto the bandages in two places, but still Langley didn't show any reaction.
"Mister MacIntyre, please don't act as if we find this easy. We don't." He released Cactusman and removed the spines stuck in his hand, then picked up the two cacti he had set down. "I know better than most that not everyone in the Foundation is coldhearted. I had good friends when I worked there. I do this job not only because I believe in the Insurgency's cause, but because I know if I didn't, another Insurgent would take my place. And they may not show the same mercy as I."
Cactusman took to chewing on his tongue rather than his cheek. Mulling over what he said, it made sense. But it didn't make Cactusman any happier. Instead of dwelling on it, Cactusman took to removing the spines from himself as they walked.
He overheard Radcliffe comment on Langley's bleeding, who dismissed it with, "Won't have this arm much longer, anyway."
Yet as odd a comment as that was, Cactusman couldn't ignore the thoughts of the Foundation that continued to surface. They made him realize he didn't know that much about the Foundation. Who was he to cast judgement on those that opposed them? Yet still the idea of the Insurgency killing Foundation personnel left him uneasy, and unsure of whether he should assist them.
But, as if on cue from a higher power, some of the payload of a nearby rolling pallet trolley dislodged itself and crashed down to the ground. Before Langley or Radcliffe could say anything on the matter, Cactusman rushed forward to aid his new comrades. He hefted up one of the barrels, which had a strip of transparent material on it to reveal the red liquid within it. The men with the trolley thanked him and together they loaded the three fallen barrels back onto the roller.
"Happy to help," Cactusman assured, short of breath. Having to yell over the din certainly didn't make being heard any easier. He wiggled his aching fingers before waving the men off. When he turned back to Langley and Radcliffe, the former was watching the barrels with a thoughtful look on his face- the first real expression Cactusman had seen on him.
"You alright?” Cactusman asked. A cocktail of curiosity and satisfaction in his recent minor heroics almost washed his previous thoughts from his mind with an efficiency near comparable to the amnestic lingering in his system.
"Fine," Langley said. His gaze remained on the trolley for a moment longer before looking down to Cactusman. "Come on. Let's go."
The trio exited the massive room and entered one of the various tunnels leading out of it. Traffic had diminished to a point where Cactusman was no longer shoulder-to-shoulder with people, but it was still packed. He glanced around, acutely more aware of how close Langley and Radcliffe were sticking to him. Did they think he was going to make a break for it or something? Couldn't be too careful, he supposed.
"So what is it they want this cactus thing for?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Hell if I know." Radcliffe threw her palms up in an exaggerated shrug. "I was just told to have you calm it down, and that you were super important and not to let anything bad happen to you."
"Uh… Mr. Langley?"
"I don't know, either. The Insurgency works on a very strict need-to-know basis. Given your general disposition I doubt it is anything particularly violent."
Cactusman planned on giving a response but his brain was sideswiped when he saw a very tall… thing approach from down the hall. It must have been fifteen feet tall, and was composed of little more than a round head and lots of limbs. Jutting from the side of its bulb were several pieces of electronic equipment, including what looked like a headset. It bobbed at Langley, who tilted his head in response. Cactusman spun and walked backwards to continue watching it, and it only gave him an odd look with one of its six eyes. Radcliffe bounced around and then extended a hand, which the creature slapped with one of its own.
"That's Johnson," Radcliffe explained when she noticed Cactusman staring. "I love that guy."
"Johnson?"
"Oh, like nobody can pronounce his real name. It's long, has weird inflections. Plus it makes your ears bleed." She smiled. "Transreality beings, am I right?"
Cactusman had to put some effort into not tripping as she explained it. He gave a rigid nod and then spun about face, remembering that talking to Radcliffe made things worse somehow.
After several twists and turns through the tunnels of the complex, the herd thinned out until it was just Cactusman and his escorts. Every twenty feet down the hallway was a door with a number emblazoned on it. Radcliffe marched to Number 836 and produced a key from her hand, which jammed into the doorknob. When the lock clicked open she pressed the key into her left palm, which sank into the skin without any resistance until it was gone.
"Hello, Mister MacIntyre, welcome home." With a half-bow and a grand sweep of an arm Radcliffe ushered Cactusman inside.
The apartment was small and congested thanks to all the boxes and various knickknacks cluttering the ground and shelves. Empty boxes of food, dirty dishes, and discarded bottles covered the tables and counters. Trash Mountain, situated within and on top of the only visible garbage can, looked ready to suffer an avalanche. There was, however, a series of very clear cut paths throughout the room. Cactusman's gaze alternated between the absurdly large flat screen television and the old furniture before shrugging.
"I'm a bit of a collector," Radcliffe explained. She vaulted the leather couch and stretched. "Make yourself at home!"
"Sorry for the mess," Langley said with a quarter-hearted shrug. He stepped out of his shoes and kicked them next to the door. Cactilad and Spikigirl were placed on one of the tables, a large lamp pointed directly at the open space they were situated in. "Try not to hurt yourself."
"God, how much would that suck?" Radcliffe said as she switched on the TV. "We break him out and take him in and then he kills himself tripping on my Wondertainment merch."
Shuffling his way through the path was easy enough, and when he arrived at the couch Radcliffe stared at him for a moment before realizing she should move to make room. Meanwhile, Langley was rustling through the kitchen drawers.
"You hungry, MacIntyre?" he asked. He stood and displayed several bags of ramen noodles. Cactusman just nodded. "Alex?"
"Hook me up, I'll grab the movie." Radcliffe bounced back off the couch and scampered into one of the other rooms, quickly returning with a DVD box.
"So… this it?" Cactusman asked. "We watch a movie and eat some noodles?"
Radcliffe pulled away from the DVD player. "Do you not like ramen? We have some other stuff, you could just say so."
"No, I mean, this is it? I thought you guys were supposed to be making a difference or something. But you're just… watching movies."
"Gotta have an off switch, Danny-boy. I mean, it's not like you're Cactusman all the time, right? You gotta be Daniel MacIntyre for a while."
"Um… Right."
Radcliffe gave him an odd look, her head tilting almost ninety degrees. A sudden hitch in her throat let out a strangled sound before she started laughing. Her own hand slapped over her mouth and she fidgeted for a few seconds, as if the laugh was trying to find some other exit. Eventually she managed to gulp it down and smiled awkwardly at Cactusman. She stepped over the messy table and sat uncomfortably close to him, wrapping an arm around him.
"You poor, poor bastard. Well, don't worry!" A very fake looking flower ejected itself from her right palm and tickled Cactusman under his nose. "We'll fix you right up. I mean, probably. Eventually. Until then the three of us can be bestest buddies!"
"That does wonders for my morale."
"I know, right? Like, look at me! I'm probably annoying as fuck, and I'm Beta Class! That's pretty good. And now I have two super-depressed buddies that I can just pour joy and enthusiasm into despite the fact that doing so is likely actively damaging you mentally, but I can't stop myself because either I genuinely can't filter my thoughts or being a loudmouth jackass is just a defense mechanism for my utterly fucked up situation of working for an organization whose methods I don't fully support. Yet it's somehow better than the alternatives because some old motherfuckers behind their desks decided I wasn't normal and had to be locked up like some kinda side show attraction instead of the main stage magician I wanted to be! But hey! At least I might not have to suffer it long due to the physical dangers of my missions."
Flabbergasted, Cactusman just stared at her grin. His mind had finally started working at full capacity, and now it felt bogged down in gunk again. For whatever reason it decided to notice her left large incisor had a small chip on the side. After what felt like a week her mouth moved to ask, "So, wanna watch a movie, Cactusman?"
Daniel MacIntyre blinked. "Yeah. Uh. Movie sounds good, actually. And just call me Daniel."


The Machine had failed and Dr. Molly Jayawadena was fleeing.
In a filthy subway bathroom, Molly smeared cheap bronzer on her face. The dollar store powder left grimy, muddy streaks on Molly's golden-olive face, just as she knew it would. The rest of the powder was rubbed into the thick, musty smelling anorak bought in a yard sale. It had been unseasonably warm for March in New York state, not warm enough that one would remember selling a heavy coat, but just a touch too warm for that particular jacket. This anorak had been very deliberately chosen, and Molly was ready to test that choice. She gathered the black trash bag containing everything she now owned in the world and shuffled out of the bathroom. Head downcast, Molly ambled to the bus station.
Molly's choice of disguise was a good one. People's eyes slid off her as if she was coated with some unsavory perceptual grease. Dr. Jayawadena knew it was cynical to rely so strongly on people's callousness towards the homeless, but cynicism has a way of paying off. Pedestrians gave her a wide berth while refusing to acknowledge her presence, shiny young police officers merely gave off an air of annoyance, and the bus driver patently ignored her fumbling with handfuls of sweaty quarters. Molly took a seat at the bus. No one sat beside her. Molly settled in with satisfaction for a long ride.
She would be in New York in a few hours, and then…Molly was generally a meticulous planner. That's why she had been able to flee the second the Machine melted down. No one else would have several thousand dollars in small bills, fake IDs, enough stage makeup to render Hitler unrecognizable, and yet…
Something else was guiding Molly. This was The Machine speaking to her. She must be passive now and surrender to the rippling currents of destiny.
This was not her. Molly Jayawadena was not a passive participant in the Universe.
But then again, she didn't design the Machine.
How could she? She was a physicist, not an engineer. A theoretician, mind you. A tinkerer in ideas, not metal. Molly didn't know a resistor from a reading light and didn't care to. The Proof was her work and hers alone, but the Machine was a collaboration.
With whom? Pieces of memory swirled in Molly's addled head: dreams of schematics in smooth clean lines, notes left in her office or falling out of textbooks, whispers from her students. The students! The engineering majors, bringing her odd little components they'd built "for fun", "on a whim". Damned if they knew what it did, but maybe you'd like to have it as a desk piece, Dr. Jayawadena? In turn, she'd given them the blueprints formed in half-waking moments. Here's a tricky little circuit here. Let's see if you can build it. Winner gets drinks on me. Most of those students were male, and what a male thing it was to try and win a competition of skill, especially to impress a woman. So the Machine was fashioned, piecemeal, but undeniably real.
But who designed the Machine?
All of a sudden Molly realized that the seats beside and in front of her were taken.
The seats on the bus were in groups of four, a pair of seats facing each other. Molly had slid into the window seat. This, she now realized, was a mistake on her part. A man in nondescript beige clothing sat next to her, blocking her access to the aisle. Another man and a woman sat across from her in the same forgettable attire. Their outfits and demeanor were so bland that Molly knew they were some sort of plainclothesmen.
"You can't stop me," said Molly in a stage whisper.
The woman across from Molly removed her headphones and smiled a toothy, foreboding smile at her. "Stop you, Doctor? I'm personally offended. We're here to protect you, ma'am."
"Protect me? From those people at the test site?"
The man across from her smiled. "Clever one. No wonder the Engineer picked her."
Molly's head snapped to the man. "Engineer?"
"I'd better let our scientific representative answer that. Doctor?"
The man next to Molly peered up for the first time. Steepling his fingers, he addressed her in a low, thick voice. "Dr. Jayawadena. I must say it's an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, circumstances notwithstanding. I am Dr. Mikhail Kronovich, head of my organization's Physical Sciences Research and Development Department. My organization has taken quite the interest in you and your work."
Molly cocked an eyebrow. "Me and my work?"
"Absolutely, Doctor. You see, our…organization is not only devoted to finding the proper science, but the proper minds. We want vision; we want those minds dedicated to unity and order…ah, I see you know exactly what I'm talking about."
Molly's head was pounding. "Pare it down. Pare it down. The anomalies…"
Dr. Kronovich chuckled. "Comrades, she's practically one of us already. Doctor, you know about the anomalies. They're written into the language of the universe. So why, my dear Doctor, do we not know about them?"
"Surely they disguise themselves?"
"Oh, yes, of course, a few of them do, that's the nature of the anomaly. But the others? No. They are being purposely hidden, locked away so as not to contaminate our precious grip on creation," Dr. Kronovich spat venomously.
"Hidden?"
"Yes, by our friends in black. The spooks."
"They're not government." It was a statement, not a question.
Dr. Kronovich roared with laughter. "If only! The leader of this government cannot trifle with an intern without the world finding out all the salacious details. Bumbling idiots. Government indeed."
"Who are they then?"
The woman leaned in. "They're a Foundation. The Foundation. They exist to keep the human race in the dark."
The man added, "You see, we're all far too stupid to handle reality as it is. We have to be protected. Watched over by our shepherds, the lords and masters of The Foundation." His face twisted bitterly. "Of course, they're perfectly good enough to use the anomalies themselves…"
"But we'll save that for later," said Dr. Kronovich firmly. "Let us attend to the matter at hand." He turned again to Molly. "This is an offer of employment. We want to bring order to the universe. My organization will bring harmony between the anomalies and consensus reality, and we want you to help achieve that vision."
"Let's not attend to the matter at hand. This Foundation of yours, how could they have possibly found my test site so quickly, and what could they possibly have to gain?"
"The Foundation is everywhere, Doctor. They are in every branch of every government on Earth, every industrial sector, every religious organization. Our records indicate that you enjoy movies. You have seen movies where some dark global organization overlooks a small resistance by virtue of their cleverness or insignificance?"
"Yes," said Molly, "One of my least favorite tropes, actually."
"Then you will be pleased to learn life does not imitate art. The Foundation is not that incompetent movie villain and no part of your life is beyond their reach. Within five minutes, they will know exactly which seat you have taken on this bus. If it wasn't for certain tricks of our own, they would have a transcript of our exact conversation. Do you know, Doctor, what they do with all this immense power?"
"I have no idea, seeing as how I'm only learning of them now."
Dr. Kronovich brought his fist down on his armrest with a dull thud. "Exactly. The Foundation uses that immense power to convince humanity that the world is flat and the sun revolves around it. You have seen evidence of wonders, Doctor. The Foundation is in the business of hiding them from sight. Does this not offend you?"
Molly slid back into her seat. "Everything I've learned and taught has been a lie," she said blankly. All of a sudden, a bright, childlike smile burst like a sunbeam onto her face. "Everything I know is a lie! I've got a PhD in alchemy! In astrology! In antiquated bullshit!" She fell back laughing rapturously.
"Wonderful, no?" asked Dr. Kronovich with a crooked grin.
"It's Christmas in March!" she laughed again. "And to what do I owe the honor? Isn't there some sort of application process or…"
"You've passed it. We've been supplying you with a bit of help these past few months and you've gotten farther than we have in years. Imagine what you could do if you had an entire fully staffed lab devoted to controlling your ouroboric anomalies."
"I presume I must go into hiding with you."
"You presume correctly. To the outside world you will be as good as dead. We will protect you completely from your pursuers. In return we want you to research for us what you've been studying already. It's certainly not a bad deal, is it not?"
"Definitely. You're not with the government either. You're some sort of cloak-and-dagger bullshit, right? Spanning the globe, men in black, hiding in plain sight? 'The Truth is Out There'?"
Dr. Kronovich smiled. "Sarcasm aside, you have the idea."
"Well, I'm in. When do I start?"
The man leaned forward. "What? Just like that? Aren't you going to ask what happens if you refuse? Aren't you going to ask who you're working for or how you can trust us?"
Molly turned to him, smiling wryly. "I'm a scientist. Have you ever had to explain to a politician why your work is worth funding if you can't pick off terrorists with it? I don't give a fuck who I'm working for as long as I can research what I want and you're paying me for it. I don't have to know what happens if I refuse because I'd be an idiot to refuse."
"And you are no idiot," said Dr. Kronovich with a smile. "I believe this is our stop."
"What are you talking about? We're not stopping for at least another hour."
"Working for us has certain perks. Take this," said the woman.
Molly took a large wristband with a big yellow button on it. Noticing that her new coworkers wore the same device, she strapped it on.
"Ready? On three, push the button. And Doctor? Welcome to the Insurgency."
Two hours later, the bus made an unscheduled stop. Armed men and women in intimidating uniforms swarmed the bus looking for a young postdoc who had undergone a mental breakdown and was missing. No one looked too closely at the uniforms.
A thousand miles away in an underground bunker, Dr. Molly Jayawadena reached for a pencil and began to write.


"Give me a red-eye."
The crowd shifted as the counter cleared, pushing him to the front. He'd forgotten why he came in here, where the compulsion to buy coffee came from. The steamy, high-pitched whine of the elaborate espresso device reminded him of his headache. He ordered a flat white, paid with a card.
The barista caught his wrist and gave it a concerned look.
"I hope you recover soon," she said with English, deliberate politeness.
His eyes drifted to his wrist, where a hospital band dangled. "Just discharged actually. Bit of head trouble…"
Sam drifted, the headache and lingering aftermath of the concussion pushing his thoughts aside. The barista stared at him with her green eyes, sent him a look of concern and delivered his order. "Thanks," Sam cooed.
Outside on the park bench, nursing his coffee, Sam waited for something, anything to steer his listless mind. What he needed, he decided, was something more to write about, something to force his neurons to make new connections to replace those lost. He'd been working on a novella before the accident. When Sam woke up in Great Ormond, among the beeps and pneumatic gasps of life support machines, he had found a manuscript on his bedside table. In it Wanderer, the eponymous character, journeyed through misty halls looking for a way to his home, a great library. It sounded nothing like him. Or maybe it sounded like a version of him before the accident. It didn't matter, the unsettling closeness was the same.
Another sip of coffee. A logo caught his eye. It was a heavily stylized tree that looked a like a crawling snake set on a green, canvas shopping bag carried by a blond, weedy man in a garish orange shirt. Delilah's Rare and Second-Hand Books, read the cheerful print. A wave of nostalgic, irrational joy crashed over Sam.
"Excuse me?" Sam felt himself compelled to say. "Have we met before?"
The man shot him a confused, appraising look. "No, I don't believe so. If you're a student of mine you'll have to visit me during office hours like everyone else. They're listed on the syllabus."
"I'm not a student." Sam wondered if he looked young, whether he should be complimented or offended. "I'm an author. I wrote 'The Cunning Folk' anthology,"
"Oh really?" The man paused, re-appraised him with another look. "I rather liked that anthology. Especially the way you married Celtic poetic forms with folk mysticism. I particularly enjoyed… what was it… the short story about the wise woman trying to save her daughter that the Romans crucified…"
"Oh, Thunderstone?"
"That's the ticket!" The weedy man slapped his forehead. "Where are my manners? I'm Dr. Nelson Pennywise, and I already know who you are, Mr. Weatherby,"
"Just call me Sam, please." Sam's brain throbbed a migranous throb. "I think I remember where I know you from, Dr. Nelson. Did you give a talk in Glasgow about the absorption of Celtic ritualism into Catholic practices?" He could feel his face grinning in fan-idolizing giddiness but couldn't feel anything. He knew he wanted to smile, wanted to talk to this Dr. Nelson, strange and familiar, but… something felt strange. A side effect of the migraine, perhaps…
"Why yes I did. What a strange coincidence eh, two admirers meeting like this. Earth gets smaller every day." Dr. Nelson shifted the weight of the bag. "I'm actually about to take my lunch, would you like to join me?"
"I'd like that very much."

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"The thing you really start to notice," Delilah said in between puffs on a cigarette, "with the monks of this period, is this knee-jerk reaction to their own nostalgia."
She pointed with her latex-gloved fingers at a section of a manuscript which had the dubious provenance of being a Tallaght Monastary original. "You can see it here… oh I'm sorry Sam, I'm used to showing Nelson these things."
"Oh it's no trouble." Sam tried to be polite, standing well away from the dubiously ancient manuscript, carrying three Bean-Space disposable cups tucked into a 4-way cardboard sleeve. He watched as Delilah made antiques appraisal into some kind of exotic, absurdist performance art, complete with arcane tools and enigmatic gestures. He was sure that if this kept up she'd begin dancing with the thing in a ring of standing stones so as to divine the providence of the book.
"Nah, it's rude of me." More puffing on the cigarette, the books frowning in silent judgement at her smoke. "I'll paraphrase. 'Though they were not afraid of sword, nor storm, nor wild beasts, for death was impermanent and the laws of the land were theirs to mediate, they feared the coming of the one true god.'"
"You can see it with the saints." Dr. Nelson's muffled chuckle came from somewhere in the stacks. "Some of the monks are trying their damndest to canonize Lugh."
Sam had since sat down across from Delilah. He flipped through a pulp noir, Heimes's All Shot Up, the smell of library wafting from each page. He remembered the rush of excitement when he went to a library, being paralyzed by all the things he could know but he didn't feel it. Why did his face look interested in the words he read? Why this book? Why did he want to come with Nelson to Delilah's? More sips of coffee.
"Should I be this close, Delilah?" Sam asked, realizing that he and three coffees were probably not the safest things to keep around an eighth century manuscript.
"Wha?" she said, crumbs cascading out from her abortive attack on a ham sandwich. "No no, it's fine. Thing's a fake. No way any original manuscripts survived the collapse of Tallaghut. The forgers got the sentiments right but didn't think to do much beyond the 'tea-stained' pages trick to age the thing."
She whipped her gloves off with the quick, practiced movements of a surgeon, and tossed them into a wastebasket. Her arms stretched and twisted in a tai chi-like post-appraisal ritual. "What do you two say to grabbing a bite after I let the pensioner in the other room know that yard sales don't stock genuine illuminated manuscripts?"
Sam smiled his hollow smile, knowing his face belied how numb he felt. When Dr. Nelson suggested meeting Delilah a few days back, he'd thought that his heart would explode from the rush of life he felt. Now that he was here, with her, with them, surrounded by books, the only thing he felt was nothing. This was what you wanted, right?

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In a room that wasn't a room, where the tiles felt like fresh-cut grass and the air smelled of overripe bananas, Sam waited to hear what he wanted to do today. Soon he'd walk right through that lemony door and tell himself what he wanted. He saw himself approaching, saw his favorite lab coat and his scarred assistant friend. Sam liked to think that the scarred assistant was the part of him that favored direct violent action. Sometimes when Sam wanted something different than Lab Sam did, Scarred Sam would force Sam onto the table. Sam hated going onto the table but sometimes he just couldn't argue with himself.
Today, Sam, we're going to make sure you understand the words
No gain from struggle
Happiness in work
Poverty is desired
Sam's sweaty forehead left a residue on the type writer. Vertigo. Nausea. The lonely futon on the bare floor had been shifted out of the corner of the unfurnished, spartan, studio apartment by his thrashing in the night. A document sat freshly composed on the desk. Sam crushed it into a ball and tossed it in the wastebasket.

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"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Sam stage-whispered to a crampon and 'ninja glove' bedecked Delilah who was rapidly ascending the side of the abandoned hydraulic accumulator tower at the end of Brambly-Moore Dock.
Delilah would never get a chance to answer.
"Because, you dozy duffer, we're making a statement for the Movement!" screeched another woman pulling herself onto the roof. "Delilah, I thought you said this bloke was down with the Movement."
"Oh for Christ's sake Tang," Delilah shouted over a gust of ocean wind. "The man's recovering from a trauma! Let him have all the second thoughts he wants!"
Tang, a round-faced Chinese woman in her twenties inspected Sam through her glasses like she'd just caught a silverfish. "Wait. He's that bloke?"
"What bloke?" Sam said nervously, fingering the rope Delilah had pressed into his hands with orders against dropping it. He looked to Delilah, who had returned to climbing. He felt helpless on the inside, knew he looked confused on the outside.
"You! You're the addled bloke that Delilah and Nelson adopted off the streets like a little lost sex kitten."
"Excuse me?" Sam doesn't think that means what she thinks it does
"It's okay Sam," Delilah said from higher up the wall. "Everybody knows you're recovering from an accident."
"I don't want everybody to know I'm recovering from an accident! Jesus, Mary and Tap-dancing Joseph, people are going to treat me like some kind of nutter or something too fragile to bump the wrong way!" Sam could feel his vocal cords tighten in calculated outrage. Sam wants to be seen as normal.
Tang cackled. "You are a nutter. Look where you are boyo! We're climbing up an old tower that hasn't been maintained in years! If D over here had any qualms about your stability she'd have left you back with Nelson."
"What did happen to Nelson?" Sam had realized that the good doctor had simply walked away from them while Tang and Delilah debated what color spray paint to use.
Delilah, all the way up the tower and halfway to revealing that she was, as Sam was beginning to suspect, part squirrel, could not be reached for comment.
"I dunno. The Doc's always been a bit gormless. Sometimes he'll just wander down paths nobody else can see. He'll be gone weeks at a time, royal pain for the students too since the man acts like he hasn't been gone at all." Tang expertly secured the end of the rope to a mostly intact chimney. "Anyway Delilah's all done up there, AIN'T YOU NOW LOVE?"
Delilah made some kind of gesture but between her halo of wind-blown scarves and the dim light of the crescent moon Sam couldn't tell if it was a yea or nay. Tang evidently had no such problems and shoved Sam toward the rope. "Go on up; we're ready."
Sam felt himself climbing, felt his face turn from unease to grim, bloody, determination. He looked out at the moonlight glinting off the oil-black harbor. It occurred to him that he could die doing this thing that he never got a solid reason for doing. Growing up Sam had been terrified of heights, the fall from the second-story roof after a close encounter with a wayward bat had seen to that. Intellectually he knew he should be afraid but the flight response refused to kick in. Why did he want to do this?
At the top of the tower Delilah had already begun. Tiny LEDs had been scattered around the floor, giving the impression that stars had fallen here. She'd pulled out a can of spray-paint and was busily tagging the ceiling of the dilapidated tower with symbols Sam faintly recognized from one of her books. She caught him staring. "It's so others can find a Way, Sam."
He nodded, feigning understanding.
Below them Tang had eagerly begun to scrawl "Fuck Security" on the side of the tower, complete with a "no" circle around a crude drawing of a camera. "Yeah! your Panopticon is full of holes you barmy gits!" was shouted at nobody in particular.
"She's doing it again eh?" came the chipper voice of Dr. Nelson.
"Yeah," Delilah said as if his sudden, unannounced appearance at the top of an old, abandoned, industrial tower was entirely normal. "Let her have her fun."
"How the hell did you get up here!" Sam shouted.
"Did you get the words, Nelson?" Delilah didn't miss a beat.
"Yes," Nelson put his hand on Sam's shoulder and stared into his eyes. Before Sam had a chance to push him away Nelson barked, "There's no gain from struggle!"
The last thing Sam heard was a rebel yell from Tang.

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Sam found himself in a medieval house out in Lower Bitchfield, a quaint English nowhere. Delilah was there, Nelson was there. They asked him questions. How did he feel? What did he want? Who was he? And Sam, for the first time in a long time didn't feel his body answer for him. He didn't know how to answer.
Delilah had given him a sad look and hugged him. She said that was sadly normal for people like him. "Nelson is right too often. He could tell from the moment he met you. He never gave that talk in Glasgow, he had to cancel last minute, had a graduate student cover for him. It was a test, Sam."
"Excuse me?"
Tang had done the investigation. Sam had never been admitted to the hospital, nor was it terribly likely that Sam was actually Sam Weatherby since Mr. Weatherby had been dead for several weeks. Sam had never really been at all.
"Basically you're a living chatbot, built to seek out certain logos and phrases," Nelson had said. "To hunt down information on The Movement and forward it to people who would do us harm. It's quite ingenious in a existential horror sort of way. The best kind of spy is a spy who does not know they are a spy. One you can turn off with a simple phrase when you need to."
"If by ingenious you mean terrible," Delilah retorted. "What kind of monsters would make other people into walking, agency-free drones?"
"You know exactly who. But that doesn't matter now." Nelson gave Sam a look. "What matters is what Sam here is going to do now that he's aware again."
"What do I want to do?" Sam queried his mental congress, found it full of rage and existential dread, found it full of vague dispossessed sadness, found the mechanical calls and responses that had been his face to the world. Sam knew. Sam was his own man.
He placed the manilla folder on top of the third garbage bin behind "Anand's Indian Tastebud". There was a light mist in the air, making London into a washed up graphic tee. Sam turned and left, not looking back. Across the street Delilah and Nelson waited in the van. He hopped in the back. They waited.
After about 40 minutes of silent anticipation they had their bite. A clean-cut man in a dour, black suit emerged from a nearby apartment and made a bee-line for the garbage cans. He stuffed the folder in his coat and purposely walked away.
Nelson kicked the engine into gear and drove away, tension rapidly decreasing as the van ambled further and further away from Anand's Indian Tastebud.
"How do you feel, Sam?" Delilah asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
It felt right. He felt right.
And that was how Sam Weatherby became a double agent.