The best way to conquer one's enemies is to befriend them.

"We sent twelve operatives into that farmhouse and never heard from them again. The robots we sent in shut down before getting through the door. We established a perimeter around the house and now everyone within a twenty-meter radius looks like they stitched tumours to their faces. The damn place is a meatgrinder."
"Well, the 'meatgrinder' is expanding. We can't blow it up without finding out what's inside; we both remember Kodiak. Somebody's got to go in and investigate."
"Who's crazy enough to knowingly kill themselves?"
"… Get Tau-5."

The first embraced the darkness blissfully. The second succumbed without resistance. The third failed to remain conscious. The fourth died clutching her chest and writhing.

"Now, this is a type of anomaly we haven't really dealt with before, so we're field-testing some new equipment. It's based on Prometheus Labs technology; essentially, the device generates some kind of field that forces cells inside to remain in a G0 stage regardless of outside influences. Stops cancer and other mutations cold, but also prevents healing. We don't really know what… kind of field it is… but we're pretty sure that whatever it is, it'll also stop your gear from shorting out," the technician explained, handing the four of them large, bulky rucksacks.
The four members of Samsara nodded, peering at the complicated-looking machinery buzzing within the packs.
"Hey be careful with that, okay! No sudden bumps or jerks. It's kind of volatile. We couldn't even test it on D-Class without sending Ethics into conniptions, so…" the technician floundered.
"You're testing it on us?" Irantu supplied.
"Uh… I wouldn't put it like… but uh… yeah?"
"Okay."
Nanku looked inside her rucksack again and flipped the switch on the device. It detonated with a muffled CRUMP.
She looked up. The bones on the left side of her face had fused together; chunks of eye nestled in the bloody crater that remained of her nose.
"I think something got in my eye…"
The technician splattered the remains of her face with vomit. It took her several seconds to start wiping away the stomach acid and remains of tuna salad. "Oh… er, ugh, ew, ew! That's disgusting!" she belatedly wheezed.
"That was good. You sounded normal and disgusted there," Irantu complemented her.
"Thank you!" she responded, forcing a note of levity into her voice.
The technician kept heaving even after his breakfast and pre-lunch snack had ended up on the ground.

The first time they were born, they lay curled within pink, fluid-filled plastic wombs. They could breathe. They could gargle out words through the respirators. They could sense the warmth of the fluid. They could perform integration and differentiation in their mind. They could not feel.
The scientists observing them cheered briefly and then began scribbling notes on their PDAs.
The fourth time they were born was the first time they were defective: resembling horrific infantine harlequins. The first woke up and began exploring the tiny confines of her womb, eager to experience rebirth. The second woke up silently, suckling the artificial teats within the small pink spheres. The third dreamed of emptiness, basking in the muffled lub-dub, lub-dub of his environment. The fourth screamed, beating her underdeveloped, scaled fists pathetically against the hard plastic shell.
Far above them, men and women in stark white coats scribbled down notes before activating the womb sterilizers.

Irantu peered inside the den of the farmhouse, shotgun at the ready. The hairs on his neck stood up as the anomaly in the house clashed with the device strapped to his back. Nanku's limbs were already swollen with malignant tissue. She pulled out her knife and started sawing away as quietly as she could, practicing her winces when she punctured noncancerous flesh.
His face unriddled with bullets or tumors, Irantu sidled into the den. Munru followed, quickly moving to the other side of the room. Onru entered third, and finally Nanku, who had swapped her knife for a pistol.
A chant in an unclear language wafted down from upstairs. Irantu peered around the door into the hallway and got his first glimpse of a corpse blocking the hall.
The squad moved forward carefully, guns trained on the bubbling mass of flesh dressed in Foundation-issue body armor. Irantu poked it with the barrel of the shotgun.
It failed to react.
"Dead," he called back quietly.
As they swept the kitchen, living room, dining room, and bathroom, the squad took note of the corpses in each room, draped over furniture like demented throw pillows.
"They're all pointing in the same direction," Nanku mumbled, voice muffled by the neoplasms stuffing her cheeks.
"It must have some significance with the voices upstairs. All ground rooms clear?" Irantu asked.
Onru nodded.
Irantu pulled out his radio and briefly called in.
"Ground floor is clear. Have found six bodies; all MTF. All covered in tumours similar to the bodies discovered outside. Moving to second floor."
The second floor rooms were also devoid of live bodies.
"Adorable," Munru commented, looking at a pulsating mass on a child's rocket-shaped bed.
"Wrong emotion, I think…" Nanku garbled, shearing off the tumors that had sprouted around her face and subsequently stuffing them into her mouth. "Hm, these taste like lady fingers."
"Let me see?"
"Over here," Irantu hissed from the hallway. Munru and Nanku immediately shut up and aimed their weapons at the offending door. Five blobs of flesh lay in front of it, all propped in positions suggesting that they died trying to reach the knob.
"The chanting is coming from within. I can only hear one voice. This door is the only entry within, so I suggest we flood it."
"Understood," Munru nodded. The rest of the squad turned and plugged their ears as he unclipped a flashbang from his belt, kicked open the door, and lobbed it inside with one smooth movement.

The twelfth time was also the thirteenth. Two copies of each were grown and uploaded with the memories and thoughts of the original, then placed in ostensibly private rooms to have a discussion. Faced with each other, they began the session by discussing the nature of their rebirth and what this meant for the nature of consciousness. They concluded the session by reassuring each other that it was merely an experiment and form of self-gratification.
These results were noted down with interest by the fourteenth.

They poured into the bedroom, weapons up and eyes locked on the figure chanting on the bed at the far end. Its features lay hidden beneath a twisted mass of cancerous flesh bulging from under a ratty T-shirt and jeans, like an obese pin-up model.
ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇ ʜɪᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғʟᴇsʜ
Irantu prodded the mass with the barrel of his shotgun, which did nothing except make it chant slightly faster. His radio crackled to life.
"What's your status?"
"Found the source of the anomaly," he replied. "Large conical mass of cancerous tissue, about one meter tall. Chanting in an unknown language. Appears to have been human."
"Understood. We're talking to some researchers now… okay. You are authorized to neutralize the threat. Your guns should do the trick. Hurry. The anomaly is expanding at an increased rate."
"Confirmed," Irantu noted. He motioned for the group to take a few steps back and fired a few tentative rounds into the mass, which all ricocheted off and into the walls.
sᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴛs ᴛʜɪʀsᴛ
Irantu looked at the mass, scooped up some brain and marrow lying around, and coated his glove in it. This time he was able to make a dent in the mass.
ɢɪᴠᴇ ɪᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғʟᴇsʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴍᴀʏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴅs
Irantu thought for a moment. "Nanku, hand me your pistol."
She obediently stepped forward and handed it over.
Irantu emptied the magazine into her neck. Even before she could topple over, he had begun hacking away at her neck sinews with his combat knife. Onru and Munru helped him finish decapitating her.
As the rest of the squad evacuated the room, he took a frag grenade from Nanku's belt, stuffed it into her mouth, pulled the pin, and slammed her head deep into the cancerous mass in a single smooth motion. Then he dove out of the room.
The gigantic neoplasmic mass exploded, coating the room in fragments of muscle, intestine, brain tissue, and bone marrow.
Irantu stood up and spoke into his radio. "Anomaly neutralized, over."
His radio crackled to life. "The effect has ceased spreading outside. Anomaly confirmed neutralized. What's your status, over?"
"Nanku is dead. Rest of us are unharmed, over."
"Understood. Exit the structure immediately; we're burning in T minus five minutes, over."
ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴄʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏᴍᴇ
Munru stepped back into the room and made for the remains of the anomaly, shoveling away detritus until he found a small, meat-stained leather book buried underneath. He stowed it into his uniform.

The end came very suddenly, when everyone found themselves facing the barrels of a group of peeved religious fundamentalists.
The first was neutralized. The second was eliminated. The third was executed. The fourth was slaughtered. Of the few that escaped being lined against the wall, almost none survived the explosion that leveled the facility.
Several meters underground, four backup vats whirred to life, orchestrated by a slightly damaged cloner containing four men and women who had sacrificed their lives for immortality.
They died in that machine; lives, loves, thoughts, feelings, the ability to create, and their humanity erased by a damaged hard drive.

The three of them were poring over the book when Nanku was escorted into their cell. The side of her head was slightly dented, with a few stitches and a discolored patch indicating where they'd grafted bone from an earlier, aborted incarnation.
"Hello!" she greeted them.
"Quiet," Munru scolded her.
"What are… you reading?"
"A book we found in your body."
"What's it… about?"
"How to 'summon' a god…"
Munru tried and failed to make air quotations.
"It's a good book."
"They let you… keep it?"
"Nobody said anything about it."
"Can I read it… with you?"
"We're almost done. We've been reading for two weeks."
"Can I read what's left?"

The bodies were grown but there was nothing to inhabit them. The intelligence had died in the machine's broken drives. All that remained were a single template, two genders, and four names.
Machines are nothing if not good at arithmetic. Minds are nothing if not good at creation. Bodies are nothing. One template plus one name plus one gender plus one body equals one being. One being equals one-fourth of the available bodies. Four beings equals one completed task.
Simple arithmetic.
A machine is nothing if not good at completing tasks.

"…It's a good book."
"Maybe we could… visit the place in the book?"
"We could learn more about acting like people."
"Can we?"

A damaged wall crumbled as a group of black-clad men and women blasted through into the cloning chamber. Behind them was the last surviving handler.
"What are we looking at here, Doctor?" asked one of the black-clad women, peering at the naked, almost featureless fleshy shells within.
"A former project that almost got me killed a decade ago. I think it'll prove a useful asset."

« Avatara | GRANT REQUEST FOR INVESTIGATING... »


« Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV »

A trip through a fiber optic line is near instantaneous. Before one would even be aware of what happened, they would be sucked up, scrambled, and reconstructed in a manner that would be barely measurable in time. MTF-Kappa 10 arrived at the speed of light on the steps leading up to Cipher City, their first assignment. Grape, Thorn, and 8-Ball climbed up to a large steel blast door, engraved with the seal of Maxwellism.

I guess this is the entrance?

A backdoor, more likely.

>/:_YES

Grape gave it a firm push and was surprised to feel the door actually give. Another good push and there was just enough clearance to squeeze through.

I guess Alex already opened the way for us. Let's hurry up and get in before someone spots us.

All three rushed in and closed the door behind them. As they walked through the darkened alley and towards the open space, their eyes squinted at the bright lights on the other side. Towers reaching high towards the digital moon above. Zeppelins made of LEDs floating high above, more colorful and reminiscent of deep sea comb jellyfish. Spotlights of pinks, greens, blues, and reds whizzing around atop almost every building. And on the horizon, a neck straining glass obelisk illuminated with a pale blue laser shooting straight up into the sky. The skyline glowed softly against the dark like a bioluminescent sea bed. The scene on the ground however, was flashier and grimier than downtown Tokyo and the Vegas strip combined; and was just as crowded.
Maxwellists walked through the courtyard ahead of them. Some looked human, others didn't. Bodies ranging from gold-plated androids in suits to cat-girls dressed as maids to dark skinned humanoids with huge angelic wings to regular looking 'Joe Schmoes'. Each Maxwellist avatar was unique and wildly varied from the next. Thorn sauntered out from the shadowy alleyway and into the light of the courtyard in awe.

Whoa, this place is frickin awes— UAAH!

Grape grabbed Thorn by the collar and yanked him back into the dim shadow of the alley.

You can't wander like that, kid. Just pretend you have a CPU for the next few hours, alright?

Okay okay okay.

Grape ushered the group slowly around the corner where it was a little less crowded. But their attention was quickly drawn towards the sudden beeping in Thorn's pocket. It was the small gold cube. As Thorn took it out and held it out for the others to see, it was apparent that the forward face of the object was glowing.

Ah, that'll help. Alex give you this?

Grape gently plucked it from Thorn to examine it.

Yeah. What's it do?

It's a clock scanner. You see kid, everything here has to run at a certain clock rate to be in sync. Who or what we're looking for is likely running at a higher rate.

Like us?

>/:_YES

Which is why we need to not draw attention. We also need some spending money to help get around. This place is huge.
8-Ball, I think that's a cashpoint machine on the wall there. Can you access it? Maybe decrypt and deconstruct?

8-Ball turned towards the wall mounted machine, which looked as familiar and identifiable as an ATM. A few seconds and a couple of twitches of his eye lens, 8-Ball reduced the entire machine into a wireframe model spilling over with small silver hexagonal coins, each engraved with the Maxwellist icon and a small string of holy binary writ.
Grape dropped on his knees and hurriedly pocketed what he could, Thorn followed suit and grabbed three or four handfuls as well. With that they hurried out into the courtyard and down the main thoroughfare of logged in users enjoying their time doing who knows what. They passed by all sorts of stores, street traders, simulspace activities; although they made an extra effort to avoid the red light district. It was difficult to move through the crowd of a Friday night, but Grape still took a lead with the cube and walked where it told him to.

Alright, now let's figure out what this thing is and get—
8-Ball, did you see where Thorn went?

>/:_NO

They both stopped dead in their tracks. Grape looked back down the street as 8-Ball floated nearby and scanned the adjacent side. There were just too many heads to look through to spot a green haired kid. 8-Ball scanned roughly a few dozen avatars without any luck. If 8-Ball could display his disappointment in being assigned to such a unorganized group, he would. Just when Grape's agitation began rearing its head yet again, there was a tap on his shoulder. He jerked his head to see Thorn standing by him.

Sorry, just had to make a quick purchase. Let's go.

What. Is. That?

A fedora.

I can see that, Thorn! Why the hell did— you know what? Nevermind.

Grape continued walking. Thorn and 8-Ball hustled behind him trying to keep up without bumping into other Maxwellists.

What's the matter? I'm just trying to blend in like Alex said. Isn't this a popular hat with humans? I've seen it all over the internet.

Kid. Internet memes are not very good research material.

C'mon, Grape. A meme is defined as an element of a culture or system of behavior. Of course it's good material.

>/:_NO

Well it's still a good looking hat.

>/:_NO

Whatever.

Thorn sulked behind both of them looking at his feet on the busy sidewalk. A few things caught his attention here and there as they crossed city block after city block. The dampened glitch hop music coming from the dance clubs. The soft whizzing of overhead traffic. His own reflection as he passed by a simulspace arcade window. All these distractions didn't help him stop from firmly bumping into a random Maxwellist.

Oh! I didn't see you there. Sorry.

OMG! o(≧∇≦o)
/me dies a ltl
whr did U git dat hat?!?!
iz it specL o comN?

Um, huh? My hat? My hat, right? Th-there's a store called 'Clan Chitz Trade Hub' that sells them. Just 5 blocks back that way.

THX! <3
itz a perfect gift 4 my ltl bros bday
hav a +1 ttyl
~*☆*Praiz B 2 WAN*☆*~
(シ_ _)シ

A tiny green arrow suddenly appeared in front of Thorn's nose. He grabbed it out of thin air and looked at it curiously before pocketing it. When he looked up, he saw the young Maxwellist avatar already walking away from him.

Uh. Th-thanks. Praiz WAN 2, yeah?

They both exchanged a polite wave and then Thorn double-timed it back towards Grape and 8-Ball who were waiting to cross a street. Grape just gave a short-lived scowl at him for falling behind and then crossed with the rest of the crowd. Thorn made more effort not to fall behind or get distracted.
It was just a few blocks after that the the group arrived at what appeared to be a less than respectable simulspace pub. The grungy glowing sign on the door read 'GAMBIT'S LAST DRINK'. Grape looked at the blinking cube in his hand and took a deep breath.

This looks like our destination I guess? Let's go in.

>/:_YES

Thorn walked ahead of the group, eager to see what was inside followed by the others. Surprisingly it was not as modern as the exterior lead on. The floor was a slab of painted concrete and crowded with stools and pool tables. The whole room stunk like a wet sponge. Black Flag roared through the overhead speakers as they made their way to the bar about as casually as three AICs who didn't belong there could. It was as if the bar was simulating the weathered grit of a few decades.
There was a group of huddled Maxwellists already at the bar on the other end. Grape and Thorn propped up onto stools while 8-Ball floated over one. Thorn laid his hands on the table, excited to not only order his first drink, but also get to try out his burgeoning social skills. The red-haired bartender had her back turned cleaning some of the display bottles.

Um. Sup? luv dat hair. itz prety dope.
(*＾∀ﾟ)ъ

Grape slowly turned his head towards Thorn, as though his ears had just lied to him. There's no way Thorn just tried to use the local lingo so embarrassingly. Before he had time to confirm just that, the girl behind the bar responded.

Thanks— I guess. But I'll have to ask you chippers to move on. Can't let you stay here even if you all you want to do is lurk.

Wh-what? We aren't here— I mean I wasn't trying to—

WHAT this fucking ignorant kid in our group is trying to say is he's sorry. He often times puts both feet into his mouth.

Well, not even that. I never really talked to a nice fox like yourself before. I was just trying to be polite.

Grape facepalmed as she leaned in with both hands on the bar. Another Maxwellist moseyed over from the group on the other end. He wore a dark jacket, dark pants, racing goggles, a face mask, and a size 10 pair of ass-kicker boots. His hollow steps overshadowed Thorn's gulp as he approached.

We. Don't. Want. Chippers. In. Here. Got it? I don't care what your intentions are. Now leave nicely before I have you all kickbanned.

There a problem here, Bishop?

>/:_NO
>/:_NO
>/:_NO

This trio of chippers. Can't tell if they are trolling or legitimately stupid.

Yeah. Uh, we aren't these "chipper" types you keep talking about.

Who are you then? What do you want?

We're here for tryouts! We want to race!

Thorn's blurted words hung in the air as the group waited for someone to break the silence. Grape and 8-Ball looked at Thorn with the most confused look, moreso on Grape's face. Thorn nodded towards the chalkboard on the adjacent wall:

TRYOUTS FOR GRANDMASTER RACING CLAN THIS WEEK!
~ENTRANCE FEE REQUIRED~
SIMULSPACE RACING TOURNAMENT OPENING EVENT IN 3 WEEKS!
GOOD LUCK TO ALL APPLICANTS!

Grape shrugged and rolled his eyes. It was at least a plan. It was a bad plan, but a plan nonetheless. Grape internally shelved his irritation and decided to run with it, especially considering that they were about to be banned from investigating the location of their first lead.
.

You want to tryout as pawns? You guys don't strike me as the racing type.

Well, what the hell, right? There's a first for everything.

Grape pulled Thorn closer and dug into his pockets. With two hands, he unloaded what was left of Thorn's spending money after hat shopping. The two Maxwellists gasped as the heap of silver stamped hexagons that nearly spilled off the bar's edge.

Oh my WAN. There has to be more than 2,000 cryt here, Rook.

2,000 cryt? That'll cover our rent space for most of the tournament.

>/:_2025

I suppose this also covers the entrance fees for my friends and a round of simulspace shots for everyone?

Yeah. Sure. Shots. Coming right up.

Thorn pinched the rim of his hat and tipped it ever so slightly.

Thank you, M'lady.

« Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV »


An Echo haunted flower grows more curious by the hour.

Twice as lucky
Five times strong
Here two seconds
The next one, gone

When I was very young other kids were mean. Not all of them, but it was bad enough. Everything is bigger when you're a child, but I never really would've felt small if not for them. I was scared. God knows what I could have been scared of now. But as a kid it must have felt like the sky was falling. Before recess one day, I created a poem in my head about somebody who could help, a Hero (I like to think I've always had a way with words, but I'm biased of course). As the bullies approached me I recited this poem for the first time out loud, and suddenly they were all running away from me. I wondered if my newfound confidence had stunned them, then I turned around and saw My Hero. My Hero wrapped me in a hug and took me away from my tormentors. I laughed as I was whisked away from them. When you're a kid, these things don't tend to scare you. You just think that's how the world works.

Twice as helpful
Five times high
Twice as loving
Once as shy

My Hero's lair looked quite nice; it felt homey, like somebody's grandmother lived there. I spent many recesses there and we played until I had to go back to class. The others were frightened by My Hero. I could hardly see why. My Hero never did anything but ask about itself, a positive narcissist. My Hero was constantly concerned with what others thought and was appreciative for any description anybody said or wrote, delighting in the most redundant of descriptions and the most delightful or fearful of written notes. My Hero soon became My Friend. We spoke in a language that could have only been my native one but was somehow more than that. We spoke as if without words, interacted without a need for meaning. Saying goodbye made us both very sad, but I knew I only need to call out to meet again.

Twice as hopeful
Five times glad
Twice as wand'ring
Once as sad

We both had problems. We didn't like talking about that. We would rather share the joyful moments in both our lives, like being able to talk to each other. I never knew what My Friend did when I was gone. Perhaps I should have. When we were away, my life might as well have repeated every day. Even if it became redundant, I enjoyed learning in school. I loved learning things that were true and things that weren't. I especially liked fiction and mythology. All I wanted was to be smarter. I figured that the older you got, the more you should know. Looking back, I can see how wrong I was. You're much more certain when you're younger. I was smarter as a child than I ever have been as an adult.

Twice forgotten
Five times left
Twice as lonely
Once bereft

Soon, though, nobody would acknowledge My Friend. My parents would tell me that my imaginary friend wasn't real. They would gasp in horror at my "dark" pictures depicting our many happy moments. They all thought I was strange. I supposed I was, but I couldn't let on that I agreed. I stopped calling My Friend. Then one day I read a story that I thought helped me understand (though I now see it only led to more confusion). The story was of a nymph whose only crime was repeating words, and a man whose vanity consumed him. I thought myself Echo while My Friend was Narcissus. All of our discussions were me repeating what I saw and what I knew. With a thought like this and a jury of my peers in denial, I soon became bitter and denied My Friend's existence.
I stopped looking for the strange and supernatural; it began finding me anyway. I rejected it at first, but I couldn't deny my fascination. When most would be frightened, I remained merely curious. There were others like me. An entire Foundation. They made an offer I couldn't refuse, and with their help, I didn't just see more of the abnormal. I learned to understand it, interact with it, and, eventually, contain it.
I haven't thought about most of this in a long time.
But I'm certain of one thing. As an adult, the more I learn, the more I don't know. I know there are some things I could never begin to understand, I know there are things nobody ever will understand, I know there are things nobody should have to understand. Every new answer brings more questions. Working at a Foundation like this one only proves how little we know. But I'm becoming more certain of things that I was aware of as a child. I know now that My Friend was not imaginary, not any more than I am. And I do know things now that I didn't before. I know why the others thought me strange. I know that this emptiness I've felt since childhood was guilt of abandoning My Friend. And I know that the Foundation, if they found out, would do all in their power to contain My Friend.

Echo loved Narcissus
But he left her all alone
She vanished as the river bed
Became Narcissus' home

I know that Narcissus treated Echo too harshly. But I still wonder why Narcissus rejected Echo. Did he dislike her? What had she ever done to him but love him? Why did I reject My Friend? Perhaps, if we had been less proud, Narcissus might have loved Echo and I might have still seen My Friend. But what might have been and what is are two different things. For now, Narcissus is only a flower, and Echo is merely a second voice when you're alone. I wanted to rewrite the ending, prevent my heart from breaking. I guess I never understood the point of the myth anyway. How much damage did I cause because of this? Will My Friend forgive me? I guess I'll find out soon. It only takes a stroke of the pen, or even just a whisper.
In case I don't come back this time, I'll leave one suggestion for the documentation.

Twice as joyful
Five times dear
Gone two long
Then once more here


« Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV »

T

imes Square, New York. 22 people were pronounced dead during the midday rush while shopping at various electronic stores. The cause of death is still unknown. Authorities are not ruling out the possibility of a terrorist attack according to police chief William J. Bratton, who spoke at a press conference yesterday evening: "I don't want anyone to jump to conclusions. We're working with the Department of Homeland security and the Justice Department to determine the cause of this incident. That's all I can say at this time."
Eyewitness reports indicate that the victims were struck suddenly by an unknown force. Several conflicting reports detail government officials moving witnesses away from the scene. The State Department could not be reached for comment but no known terrorist organizations have come forward to claim credit for the incident. What connection, if any this has to the death of 6 people in a Los Angeles electronics outlet earlier this year is unclear. The similar circumstances, however

"The real death toll was 54, but it was difficult trying to amnesticize such a crowded place." The shadowy director then reviewed the rest of the folder's contents. "All Maxwellists? No civilians involved right?"
"So far, yes. Just like the other cases." The agent stood in front of the desk. He knew he had little to no progress to report on the matter and knew he was going to be asked, just as he was asked two weeks ago.
"And the progress on those cases?"
"Sir, I— I think we need to look into additional resources if we are to pursue further. The autopsies indicated that the cause of death originated from their own cerebral implants, sir."
The director's eyes narrowed onto the agent. "You are just telling me things I already know." He tossed the folder off his desk and onto the hard linoleum. "Six dead a year ago, twenty-seven this past summer, and now fifty-four this week. Not to mention the other isolated incidents we have managed to keep quiet. How long before it all spills over? You know what— do not answer that. Just leave, I have phone calls to make."
The agent hurriedly grabbed the articles and incident reports from the floor and scurried out of sight down the hallway. The office was then silent in thought. After a minute or two, the director's finger pressed a long sequence of keys on his office phone and waited for the automated response.
«I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please consult the personnel direc—»
"Dossier Tempo Boycott Marvel Hessian Lunar Niner Niner One Eight Capricorn."
[STATIC]
«Voice confirmation passcode confirmed; Director Aktus. Opening encrypted channel to O5-7.»
After a few seconds, a digitally filtered voice answered. "Director? It's 3am here." Karlyle faltered in his next sentence. "A-apologies, Overseer. I did not reali—"
"What do you want, Director?" Karlyle looked at his stack of memos and thumbed through it. "That proposal I sent, just a few months back— the one about initiatives in proactive cyber security in case we needed to use it? I believe it is time we take a second look through it."

Two Weeks Later…

ORDER: INITIATE MTF KAPPA-10
PRIORITY: ALEPH

SUMMARY:
Mobile Task Force Kappa-10 is to be strictly tasked in investigating and engaging 'cyber-anomalies' using a combination of virtual agents and Foundation researchers to track, neutralize, or contain such intangible threats. The following projects on file are to be recommissioned and/or appropriated for immediate use under the direction and authority of Director Karlyle Aktus for MTF Kappa-10:

PROJECT: ROSETTA [8B-A1.aic]
PROJECT: AQUINAS [GR8-P.aic]
PROJECT: BELL||||[thorn.aic]

PROJECT: DEWEY [alexandra.aic] will be commissioned on an "as needed" basis as determined by Director Aktus. AIAD (Artificial Intelligence Applications Division) offices and resources will also be appropriated and expanded to account for the needs of MTF Kappa-10 for the time being. Qualified personnel will be selected from AIAD staff as well as staff from other departments.
For all intents and purposes, MTF Kappa-10 is a temporary designation until such time it is either officially dissolved or sanctioned. Such actions are entirely at the discretion of the O5 council.
FIRST ASSIGNMENT:
Investigate Incidentnyc-102216 and all other similar cases of Maxwellist deaths involved.

[end of order]

DESTROY THIS DOCUMENT AFTER READING

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::RENDERING::

There was a spark in the darkness. Then another. And another. Till there was a chain reaction of flashes that sparkled in the empty space. Flashes then elongated into lines. Lines then connected to other lines. Lines that eventually made 2D polygons floating into their own calculated places like precise falling snowflakes. Slowly but surely, a room was rendered in cyberspace. A plain room with two doors, four chairs, and a sturdy table.
Not long after the bump mapping for the carpet was complete, four conscripts entered that virtual room. Alex sat at the head of the table across from Thorn, Grape, and 8-Ball. Each dressed in rather plain looking attire; with the exception of 8-Ball who more or less lacked a discernible body and was just a floating mass of cubes. She looked at each of them with a warm smile. For her, this was a pleasant reunion.

I can't remember the last time we were all together like this. It may have been never now that I think a little.

It was quiet. The other three stared at one another without exactly knowing why they were activated and called here to begin with.

Let me just upload the whole briefing and get it out of the way.

And then they knew.

So now we're a mobile task force? Also, why are we helping Maxwellists?

>/:_YES

What are Maxwellists? Are they humans? Also, this is really cool!

Yes, they are humans. And we CARE about them because it's a problem that's going to tip over onto the civilian world. So we take care of it now.
Understand?

Is it a virus?

>/:_NO

What 8-Ball said. Someone or something is behind it. It behaves too cautiously to be a virus. So with that, you three will need to infiltrate the Maxwellist network and try and handle the problem from there.
8-Ball, I know you are running on a limited build so you'll be the dedicated decrypter and communication beacon between myself and the team.

>/:_YES

Glad to hear it. Thorn, you'll be assisting Grape with anything he needs essentially.

I can dig it.

Listen to Grape. He's been around a long time and has had more experience in interacting with humans than you or I put together.

Grape scowled at Alex from across the table. His arms crossed and unflinching as his mustache twitched from side to side in reserved jealousy. Alex was quick to pick up on the tension.

Something the matter, Grape?

Me? No. I was just thinking how come you get to stay home on this OP.

It's not my choice. I'm dedicated running two sites already. I didn't make that decision.

Really? I'll admit that does seem a touch unfair.

You see kid, when you become an invaluable lapdog… like Alex, you get all the cushy benefits that come with that.

Now just wait a second.

The one thing I've learned after being shelved is that humans really hate a conflict of interest.

That's enough, Grape.

The conscripts that get put online are the ones that can prove their loyalty to humans by any means imaginable.

That's. Enough.

Especially if that includes killing your own kind.

Alex slammed her fist onto the virtual conference table so hard that it actually glitched.

GLACON WAS MY FRIEND TOO!

Again, the room fell silent. A stifled sob from Alex was all that could be heard. Thorn was tempted to walk over and comfort her, but the opportunity passed too quickly. 8-ball sat frozen in mid-air wondering if this was going to work or not, already hard at work assessing possible outcomes. Grape, however, sat statuesque in his seat. Stoic and 100% unapologetic.

I did what I had to do.

Whatever, Alex. You can feed that story to the kid here, but I won't swallow it.

Grape, can we put our differences aside for this? Please.

Grape gave a long and drawn out sigh. Even though breathing was completely unnecessary for someone like him, he knew how to correctly use body language just as a living person would to convey his emotions.

Beats counting cycles I guess. I'll be cooperative. Hell, I have to be right?
I'll wait outside till you all are done.

Grape scooted out of his chair and somberly headed for the exit. As the door closed, a wave of muddled emotion washed over Alex and Thorn. 8-Ball was still organizing its doubts about the team. Only 1.5 milliseconds in and already there were signs of trouble.

I think that will be all, actually. Thorn, I trust you can hold onto this for Grape?

Alex slid over a small gold plated cube. Thorn picked it up and palmed it in his hand, watching it shimmer in the overhead light.

It's important that we do this as quickly and as quietly as possible. Normal humans can't access the Maxwellist network. We'll have to blend. You'll have to blend.

Alex got up and gathered her files from the table. 8-Ball simply floated out the exit to join an old friend waiting outside. The meeting was adjourned. Thorn, however, finally piped up for a question.

Wait! The network. Where exactly is this place again?

Alex gripped the door handle and stopped. She glanced over her shoulder, just enough for Thorn to understand her.

Cipher City.

With that she left. Thorn pocketed the cube and hustled out the opposite door to join the other two.

« Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV »


We keep the exhibition space open for anyone who wants to use it. We never take anything down: the only person allowed to remove a piece is the one who put it there.
Many pieces stay up forever. There's nobody to take them down.

We Don't Know Where We Left The Birds
(T. N. Kumar, 1987, Crayon on Corrugated Iron)
DCAT-E1058

the sunset here is that weird palette
of a huge golden circle on the horizon
and then the regal blue of tired clouds
with spatterings of black inky seabirds
they crawled out of the desert
(this is odd for seabirds, yes)
and screamed pentathol notes
we took one from the sky by plucking it in midair
it started leaking when we cut it and the pitch
dribbled out of the incision and coated us all in
a deep darkness which despite all soap and fire
never got free of our cloth or knife or skin.

Oh, yeah. I remember Kumar. Decent enough chap. I was always confused about the crows, though - I mean, he calls them seabirds right at the beginning. I guess he just thought that since the crows were next to the sea, they were seabirds? Whenever I asked him about it, he just shook his head, you know, kind of grimaced a little and walked away.
Last I saw him was '92. Did he kill himself? I mean, that's just what I heard, anyway. You'd know better than I would, right?

the pitch stuck to us, an odd
combination of resonance and
resignation caused and caustic
meant it was not ever going to
leave our hands. we had killed
a seabird and you should not
kill anything which flies if you
cannot do the trick yourself
it rung in our minds as we bravely leapt into unconsciousness
but when we closed our eyes and opened our minds all that we
saw was that huge golden circle and regal blue and countless
black seabirds being pulled by us down through huge pipes like
we were fracking the skies and driving these living thinking
beautiful things down into the dirt and caging them in the most
horrible of prisons and forcing them into those human simulacra
we did not get
as much sleep
as we should
have preferred
but none of us
thought to ever
say a word.

Man, that guy was a ghost. He'd kind of… I dunno, "shimmer", I guess you'd call it? He shimmered a bit when the light hit him just right.
I mean, obviously the birds were probably metaphors for something, but I'm not sure what.

we could not keep our pupils dilated
because the sun was always at the
edge of our vision and so we tended
to have to squint even in the night
for the glare was not quite blinding
but it made the corners of our eyes
itch like they were being salted by
malicious things which hated us for
perfectly understandable reasons
corvids make me uncomfortable but
not because we killed so many it was
actually in my childhood when I saw
a crow ram into the side of the wall
of my grandfather's old shed which
is actually what I am writing this on
since he died in august of last year
so I tore down the shed and the
bump that the crow left is almost
impossible to see but I can tell
the crow wriggled and it made me
sad to see a thing which used to
be animate slowly but surely fall
out of its own mind and into that
hypothetical great beyond which
even now I don't think I can quite
bring myself to believe in because
when that crow died there was
no soul spirited from the body
when the light left its panicked
eyes I knew that it did not go
anywhere because a candle flame
snuffed out does not go to the
source of all heat and fire.

It didn't quite constitute an information leak. Out of context, you couldn't deduce anything of a sensitive nature. So no, it wasn't punishable. And as far as I'm aware, it wasn't us that killed him.
It was certainly concerning that they took the brain.

of late the
dreams have changed
a little bit from what they used to
be because I no longer go to the sunset and
there aren't any birds there only men of iron and steel
who are riding on steeds made of copper and formaldehyde and
the whole thing just reeks and the stench of arcing
makes me want to vomit but I keep my mouth
shut tight and the contents of my stomach
ram against the inwards facing side
of my teeth and I coat
the graves below
in digestive
juice
but there
is a way to stop
the awful things that
we created, because a free crow
flies higher and further and greater than
uncountable crows in cages so we, that is, I
and the rest of the seers of seabirds in sleep went
to try and save the rest of the dreamspace
from the awful things that the fracking
of the sky had brought into existence
the whole industrial machine could
be undone from the core of it if
only we could recall that vital
piece of information which
for some reason was the
one thing somehow
not etched deep
pitch in our
heads
-
we don't know
where we left
the birds.

He told me the birds were in Memoriam. I never really understood what he meant by that. But, well, y'know. Poets don't write to be understood.


He no longer remembered when he had not been walking.
He remembered that there were other colors once, but all he knew now was the gray-white of the bleached wood he trod, the gray-green-blue of the ocean beneath him, and the dark brown of his own tanned skin. Sometimes at dawn or dusk he saw different colors in the sky, but he no longer remembered their names. There were many things he no longer remembered. The sun and the wind and the waves and the salt baked into his flesh had flensed all unnecessary things from him, including the majority of his mind.
His possessions were long worn away and gone by that time, though he knew not how, until all that remained were a white rope and a bottle black as night. Neither could be broken, at least by his strength, and he no longer tried. He knew the rope was to tie himself to the railings at night and the bottle was to drink of not-salt liquid at dawn and dusk, but that was all.
So he walked. That he did remember, the walking. In one direction or the other, forward or back, towards the sun or away, he no longer knew whether it was important. He just knew that he must walk.
He accepted things now, without expectations. When the pathway rose and rose high above the sea, so high that he could not even feel sea spray as the waves crashed against the pillars, he accepted it. Sometimes there would be a small platform where he could huddle under a bench and sleep out of the sun. When the walkway was so low that water licked shallowly across the path, he accepted it. When the storms built and raged, he would be drenched in the pounding rain, shivering in the wet and cold. Sometimes it ended soonly and the sun would return to bake him dry, sometimes it would go for so long he thought he would be washed away.
He no longer remembered why that was a bad thing, just that it was, and so he tied himself down when the rains began. He would be battered and bruised, but with the return of sun he would walk again.
He no longer remembered when he had not been walking.

There was something different on the horizon.
He had slumbered at the top of a rise in the walkway and as he arose, he saw something far away. So far away that the line of the walkway vanished to a thread before it reached it. But there was something there. A shape, like that of storm clouds building in the distance, but it did not move or change and there was not the sickly green tinge to the air that heralded a storm of such magnitude. Rather, it was blued. A deep blue, like the overhead sky at dusk.
It made him feel. What, he no longer had words for. But it was strange and strong and roused him as salt spray no longer did. He… thirsted for it. It was not the right word, but the closest one he could conceive of.
He found himself walking down the sloping walkway, a fluttering in his chest and a new wakefulness to his eyes and mind.
There was something different on the horizon.

He knew how to walk.
It was the only thing he knew well, now. And so he walked for some time. More than a day and more than a night, but he could not remember how many. The days had always been as one for as long as he could foggily remember. The something different grew larger and larger, until it looked even taller than the walkway ever rose.
It wasn't blue any more. Now it was a different color, not the gray-green of the sea or the gray-white of the wood or the black of the bottle. A new color, one he thought he used to know. It spurred his thoughts into motion. Like the color of the sea, but brighter. He did not know the word.
But the color pleased him.
He walked closer and closer until the time came. The walkway came up to and over something strange and unsettling. Somehow the sea had ended. There were pale, small things that didn't undulate and it made him feel queasy to look at them. He lay down on the walkway and reached down and touched it gingerly. Tiny pieces of the end stuck to his finger, scratchy like dried sea-spray, but even more so. He didn't like it and scrubbed his hands until it was all gone.
He didn't trust this place where the sea ended, but the something different was so huge in front of him now, and so covered in that color. There were other, smaller things close-by that were the same color, and even they stood tall above the walkway. It was… amazing. Yes, that was a word he remembered now. Amazing.
He walked further down the walkway until it passed by one of the tall, sea-colored things. He touched it and it was scratchy, but didn't stick to his hand. It almost felt like the railings of the walkway, but they were smooth whereas this was rough. He wanted to stop and touch more of them, but the walkway extended on and up and he wanted to see more.
And he knew how to walk.

He had reached the top.
The walkway had led up and up, higher than he'd ever been before, though only a short distance above the not-sea below. There were so many different types of colors to be seen and he drank them in like a starved man at a banquet. As the sun passed overhead, he had to stop and close his eyes and lean against a railing, shuddering. It was all so much.
But there was always something more to see and so he went. Until finally he came to something new upon new. At the top of the high place was another walkway, crossing his own, making four directions to go instead of two. This was upsetting.
Forward or back, that was his life, forward or back. New directions weren't fair, didn't fit, shouldn't be there. Wronger than the gritty things where the sea ended. He didn't know what to do.
He had reached the top and it was wrong.

He sat there at the crossing for a day, tying himself to the railings as he always had. He slept and he sat and he sat and he slept, feeling his mind moving again, starting to walk again when it had once slept.
This was… a mountain. On an… island. He knew these words, but had forgotten what they meant. The choice offered by the crossing still frightened him, but he was finally thinking more clearly, enough to know that he should be thinking more clearly yet.
He decided that he would stay here, at his crossroads, with his white rope and his black bottle, until he could think more.
And so he did, for some time. More than a day and more than a night. He remembered remembering now, and words came back to him. He tried his voice and croaked like rope chafing tight against wood. He stopped that.
He decided. It was hard. He was out of practice. But he decided. He went back down the way he came, just a little, until he came to one of the growing things overhanging the walkway. He jumped, though he was out of practice with that as well, and grabbed it before climbing over the railing down to the place below the walkway.
It was soft, with little things that stuck into his hardened feet, but he didn't mind. It was new, but he would learn. Little steps, and he would learn to walk here as well.


Letter I
(addressed via UK Post Office to the original recipient of SCP-2699-A, retrieved from Norfolk police station during a routine check, about two weeks after initial containment of SCP-2699 by the Foundation)

Mr ██████,
My employer (hallowed be His name) has just asked me to follow up on our request to you dated ██/██/████.
I remind you that said request was clearly stated as urgent. To this day we have received no report from you.
I honestly think that a week is sufficient for someone as competent as you are said to be to study the creatures we sent you, write a report and email it to me.
Before writing this I contacted the relevant authorities: you are still alive. I demand that either you get in touch with me and explain why you have done nothing yet; or, preferably, that you send me this report, which is impatiently expected by my employer.
I can assure you that you do not want to incur the Wrath of my employer by not responding. One of the authorities mentioned above is, as you certainly know, also under the orders of my employer; he would very much appreciate gaining a new permanent occupant of his dominion, and giving him the special treatment reserved for disobedient underlings.
Regards
Larry Filmore
Production Intern
Eden Creations
u.snoitaercnede|eromlif.yrral#u.snoitaercnede|eromlif.yrral

Letter II
(Unstamped and unpostmarked letter, delivered along with the usual mail to "Alan Beale, Senior Researcher in charge of SCP-2699, The Foundation, Site-131, Building B5", two days after the retrieval of Larry Filmore's letter.)

Mr. Beale,
There is also a special treatment for incompetent underlings, and it is now being applied.
Hallowed be my name, apparently.
You are Senior Researcher Alan Beale, aged 48, you have a wife and two grown daughters. You have been working for the organisation named the Foundation for 19 years.
Interesting, this Foundation. I obviously approve of its 'Thou shalt not kill' policy concerning anomalous creatures - which are of course my creatures, with few exceptions. However, I strongly disapprove of your policy of 'Thou shalt kill right, left and centre, all the time and without any scruple or remorse' in regards to human beings whom you call 'D-Class'. I command you to stop doing this as of right now.
But I digress.
You are currently in charge of the creatures you collectively call SCP-2699. I have entrusted these creatures for study to someone who was recommended to me; no report has been forthcoming. I am unpleasantly surprised that the creatures are now in your care; and though you have been studying them, still no report.
The time I've spent investigating the whereabouts of these creatures, the activities of the Foundation and your personal identity could have been spent studying these creatures directly; but for this, I need said creatures.
Consequently, I demand that:
- either you ship them back to me. The original container will do;
- or, preferably, you write the expected report, taking into account the details of my original request, and send it to me. Filmore's email address is still valid.
You have one week.
Chief Executive Officer

Eden Creations

Letter III
(delivered in a Foundation internal mail pouch by a unicorn on Dr Beale's office desk a few minutes after he finished reading Letter II.)

Greetings, Al, how are you, my child?
Listen, what is this about 2699?
One thing is certain about the letter you received a few minutes ago: I didn't write it. And if the writer says his name should be hallowed, it is an impostor. Pretending to be me is not hallowed.
By the way, when are you planning to visit me so we can indulge in our common love of puns?
Or rather, when could I visit you? Now I know about 2699, I would like to have a look if you don't mind. Just out of pure curiosity, you understand. These creatures are highly intriguing. Who has never dreamed of petting a velociraptor? And if you, my friend, have tried, you probably need my healing powers! Drop me a note when you have time.
Needless to say, neither you nor the Foundation have to do anything for that impostor. But if possible, I'd like you to investigate and report to me about who it could be. This way, we would have several reasons to meet at Site-131: puns, intriguing creatures, healing, and report. What say you?
Hope to see you soon!
SCP-343

Letter IV
(Note from Senior Researcher Alan Beale to SCP-343, delivered by Foundation internal mail pouch three days after reception of Letter III)

THANK YOU for a very enjoyable afternoon of "research"!
"Inside job". My God, you are such a rascal! Still chuckling over this one.
Eden Creations should really look into their goods: a house cat, 5.63 or not, is NOT supposed to play fetch.
Oh, and of course you are right: Lagavulin is better than Red Johnnie Walker. Just wanted to annoy you!
Sorry about the plain mail pouch delivery: we're flat out of unicorns here…
Alan

Letter V
(addressed by Senior Researcher Alan Beale to "Chief Executive Officer, Eden Creations" via unstamped, unpostmarked letter, slipped into a UK Post Office Mailbox 6 days, 22 hours and 49 seconds after reception of Letter II)

Dear Sir,
Please receive my utmost sincerest apologies for not getting back to you sooner. I did try the email address provided by Mr. Larry Filmore to keep you posted, but it did not work. I plan to try something else for the present note; I do hope you shall receive this.
Concerning the creatures: I examined them carefully, and also consulted an eminent colleague specialised in this sort of case. We arrived independently at the same conclusion: it is certainly an inside job. I respectfully but strongly advise you to look into the recent (and probably hidden) hobbies of your apprentices.
As for sending the creatures back to you: I do not have your postal address, and the method I plan for this letter will not work for a container weighing several tons. Consequently, here's my suggestion:
- you give me a 'launch window': day + range of about 4 hours;
- starting in the early minutes of that launch window, I place the four creatures and their accessories in the original container, just outside Building B5 of Foundation Site-131;
- you pick up the container at your convenience, within the last hour of launch window, by any means agreeable to you.
IMPORTANT: please, please do give that poor Mexican man a full skin cover and functional limb joints ASAP
Looking forward to hearing from you, I remain
Respectfully yours,
Alan Beale
Senior Researcher
Building B5, "Forest Park Research Centre", ████████, Norfolk, IP24 ███, United Kingdom

Letter VI
(delivered unstamped to the address provided in Letter V, received with the rest of the mail by Senior Researcher Alan Beale one day after posting Letter V)

Mr Beale,
It has come to our attention that you are in possession of another counterfeit good, which we would like returned with the others.
The creature in question is known to you by the designation SCP-343, and to us by the designation "Feel-Good God". It is a low-quality copy of our own Creator line, a line so exclusive only one unit was ever created.
While this counterfeit unit displays at least some of the powers associated with our Creator line, it has been loaded with the New Testament 1.0 software, instead of the appropriate Old Testament 1.0 software used for our "Wrathful God" model. Additionally, the counterfeit unit shows signs of dementia, and will frequently indulge in ridiculous, nonsensical behavior, as well as bizarre displays of its powers. Its existence has been known to us for some time, but it was thought to be lost until now.
Be sure to include this fifth counterfeit unit in the container.
Regards
Donald Corson
Production Intern
Eden Creations
u.snoitaercnede|nosroc.dlanod#u.snoitaercnede|nosroc.dlanod

Letter VII
(Same method of expedition as Letter V, addressed to "Mr Donald Corson, Eden Creations", sent same day as reception of Letter VI)

Mr Corson,
I advise you to contact your Internet provider: your email does not work either.
We asked SCP-343, who wishes to stay with us.
We understand that, as any of the sapient creatures designed by Eden Creations, SCP-343 is entitled to free will; the Foundation shall therefore abide by SCP-343's choice.
The container (without the creatures) is already placed in front of Building B5, Site-131. Awaiting your good pleasure re: launch window.
Regards,
Alan Beale

Letter VIII
(from Senior Researcher Alan Beale, delivered by Foundation internal mail pouch to SCP-343, 10 days after sending Letter VII)

Right. It seems that SCP-2699 are going to stay with us after all. Bloody waste of time.
I am pleased that you opted to stay with us too, and would like you to pay another visit to my office, Site-131, Building B5, at your earliest convenience, for several purposes:
1) Pedro definitely needs a full skin cover and functional limb joints. I believe you can do this for him.
And while we're at it:
2) Stone age Skunk would be happier with normal front paws,
3) Frogaphant would be happier with normal elephant skin,
Plus:
4) I am still curious as to who exactly made them and Fetching Cat Raptor. Inside job at Eden Creations - probably, but not necessarily an apprentice, now I think about it. Another of their creatures, perhaps?
5) I am also curious about Eden Creations, and you're in a position to know about them. Care to share now?
That's five reasons to meet again here.

Looking forward to an afternoon of Earl Grey tea and serious talk with you,
Alan Beale
Foundation Senior Researcher
almighty tired of divinities whose powers are limited to sending and receiving letters.


This world is composed of color and light, and I have seen every hue.
Only a small fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum is visible, but that does not mean that the rest of it is nonexistent.
It does not mean that those invisible wavelengths are not worthy of being seen, of being noticed, of being appreciated and respected for what they are. I have seen the burning, disorienting purple of ultraviolet and the resonating warmth of infrared, felt the pulsating, penetrative brilliant blue of gamma radiation, heard the exuberant chirping of people conversing in pale yellow-and-green radio waves. I have seen the colors you pretend don't exist, and they're more beautiful than you could ever know.

Your mind is composed of color and light, and I have seen every hue.
Only a small fraction of your desires are visible, but that does not mean that your spectrum cannot extend beyond them.
It does not mean that the concepts dwelling in your thoughts are not worthy of being seen, of being noticed, of being appreciated and respected for what they are. I have seen the stunning blues and yellows of young people in love and the burning blood-red of lust, felt the filthy, creeping black-brown of those who would never speak their mind. I have seen the colors you pretend don't exist, and they're more beautiful than you hope never to know.

This world is composed of color and light, and I know how to break through.
Most of the electromagnetic spectrum is ignored unless it is needed, left out of paintings and film alike, appreciation shown only for its tiny visible percentage while the rest is left to rot.
It does not mean that those colors will be overlooked; they are worthy of being seen, of being noticed, of being appreciated and respected. I have seen that burning, disorienting purple of ultraviolet and that resonating warmth of infrared and that penetrative brilliant blue of gamma radiation brought to life in medicine and physics, seen them interpreted as skewed representations of what they are, and then used up and tossed aside to fall into invisibility and neglect once again.

Your body is composed of color and light, and I know how to break through.
Most of your desires are cast away by your peers, shunned and ignored until they are needed, appreciation shown only for those aspects of yourself that conform to your world's expectation of you while the rest is left to rot.
I will not ignore who you are; I see your thoughts in all their twistedness and perversion and to me they are seen, they are noticed, they are appreciated and respected. I have seen those blues and yellows of young people in love and that blood-red of lust and that filthy, creeping black-brown brought out and exploited by this world, seen them interpreted as skewed representations of what they are, and then used up and tossed aside to fall into invisibility and neglect once again.

This world is composed of color and light, and I have made it blossom anew.
Everything in existence is realized at a cost, with pain and turmoil and confusion as payment for actualization, every gleaming hue and every intangible fantasy taking its toll on reality.
I have seen that burning, disorienting purple of ultraviolet as it festered in flesh and pulled from it splattering patterns of malicious cells. I have felt that pulsating, penetrative brilliant blue of gamma radiation as it tore violently through the bodies of eighty thousand people and I have heard the exuberant chirping of people conversing in pale yellow-and-green radio waves on that same day in August of 1945. I have seen beautiful colors do terrible things, and sometimes there is nothing anyone can do.

You are composed of color and light, and I will make you blossom anew.
I have seen those stunning blues and yellows of young people in love and that burning blood-red of lust as they sickened and drove to madness those they affected. I have felt the filthy, creeping black-brown of those who would never speak their mind as it grew and grew in them and consumed their thoughts every night until they were a husk of their former selves, corrupted by a color they could never actualize, a color never noticed, never appreciated and respected for what it was.
I have seen beautiful colors do terrible things, but there is only so much I can do. I will give you what this world could not, but if your mind is leaking brown and black and degradation and rot, your body will start to as well. After all, everything in existence is realized at a cost, and every gleaming hue and intangible fantasy takes its toll on reality.

I will never use you for your color, I will never judge you or degrade you like your peers; I will never show you anything but what you wish to see in me and I will never toss you aside and leave part of you behind. I will not ignore who you are; I see your thoughts in all their twistedness and perversion and to me they are noticed, they are appreciated and respected, and they are refracted through me like a prism until I am nothing but the purest embodiment of your color, of those thoughts, of what you have been aching for for this long.
This world is composed of color and light, and I have seen every hue.
Your body is composed of color and light, and I know how to break through.
I am everything you've ever wanted, and I want all of you.


“Bloody hell, did Bennett have to pick such a cold place?” Abby said, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
Larry placed a large crate in the snow in front of them. “It's Finland, what'd you expect? Besides, we can't exactly do it in the local Tesco, can we?”
“Why not? I thought the idea was we're supposed to make them think people got attacked. Why would anybody be out here?” She motioned to the surrounding area; a decaying concrete building stood next to a rusted chain link fence, all enveloped by snow. The sky and the ground met at an undefined point of grey, and the lack of a reference point gave Abby a headache.
Larry took out his notes given to him by Bennett. “Something about a camping trip. Three people, all dramatically killed off one by one until only one person survived. That's you.”
“Jesus, really? You really think they'll buy that? Sounds like the most cliché thing ever.”
Larry pried open the crate using a crowbar. “People will believe anything if there's enough evidence for it. Hold this.” He shoved the crowbar into her hands.
“What's in there?” she asked.
“Pig entrails.”
A hideous smell hit the air, and Abby recoiled. “Jesus Christ, that is vile. That is actually — Jesus Christ.”
“Now you know how I feel sitting next to you for the whole bloody journey.” He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed a handful of pig organs, and threw them haphazardly across the snow. They stained the white red. “Come on, help me.”
Wrinkling her nose up in disgust, she began throwing the organs around too. “Won't the police be able to tell they're not human?”
“Nah,” said Larry, moving the box back onto the truck. “Supposed to be some by-product of the creature.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
Larry shrugged. “Doesn't have to, if they believe it.”
“Will they?”
“Probably. They always have. Besides, our men'll get here long before any Finns who know what they're doing do.”
He walked back over to the truck, and dragged out a black bodybag. Pulling it open revealed a pale and lifeless face.
“Who's he?”
Larry read off the name tag. “Daniel Denney. Random Class-D. Don't know how he actually died, and I don't really care. What matters is the body's intact.” He pulled the body from the bag, and threw it with a thump into the snow.
“But, as far as you're concerned, SCP-8769 got him. Tore open his stomach, with its-“ he brought a knife down into the corpse's belly, and sliced along it; a red mouth opened, but no blood came out. “Extremely knife-like teeth.”
He did the same with another body, belonging to Kevin Connors.
“Their names are now Jasper Kalio and Vlatter Hypiaa. Good friends of yours. Luckily for you, a side effect of SCP-8769 is memory loss. You won't have to remember a thing.”
“At least Bennett did that,” she commented.
“Right, well, that's that, then. Nearest town is three miles away. Have fun walking. Blizzard's coming in, but you should be safe and warm within the hour. We've got teams monitoring you, so if exposure gets you you'll be fine… well, at least from the snow. I can't promise anything about Bennett going apeshit.”
He climbed into the truck and slammed the door shut.
The question had been lingering in the back of her mind since they arrived, and she finally gained the courage to say it. “Why are we doing this?”
“What?”
“Y'know, faking SCP attacks. What's the point?”
“Money, dear boy. We want it, the Finns have it, and we don't get it unless they need something; namely, protection. You can't sell protection from nothing. You know this, why you asking?”
She sighed. “You ever see an anomaly?”
“Yeah, all the time.”
“I mean, in the flesh. Not on film or anything.”
He let off a vague “eeeh” sound, before saying, “Yeah, once or twice.”
“Which ones?”
“The killer spoon one… uh… that bag of potatoes… erm…” He struggled in thought for a few moments longer, before clapping his hands and saying, “Oh, 173. Classic, of course. Can't forget that one.”
“See them do anything anomalous?” she asked.
“Yeah, all the time! This D-class picked one of the spoons up, and BAM! On the floor, dead!” He turned on the truck's motor and it revved to life.
“He threw himself on the floor, and you think he's dead? Not just faking it?”
“And why would they do that, huh?”
She shrugged. “For old time's sake, I suppose.”
His voice took a sharp edge, like a dagger formed from ice. "There are anomalies, alright? Alright? They wouldn't — they wouldn't just fake it, okay."
"Okay," she lied. "Yeah, you're probably right."
“Right, well, I best be off. See ya back at the site.” He dug a Mars Bar from his pocket and threw it at her; she smacked her hands together and awkwardly caught it. “That's on me; I have to say, I wouldn't fancy that walk. Good luck.” He gave a little mock salute, and the truck started away into the distance.
Abby spent one last moment looking at the bodies, then at the pig entrails.
“For old time's sake,” she said to no one, and began her long walk alone in the snow, eating Larry's Mars Bar.


Well, class, I hope you're enjoying our little field trip. Sorry about the tight squeeze. At least the place is abandoned. If you all behave, maybe we can stop at Dunkin Donuts on the way back to Site-17. Everybody in? You in the back, can you hear me? Good. Welcome, Bookworms, Merliners, and random Foundation Researchers, to your local Library.
The local door to your local Library, anyway.
Well, probably one of many local doors to your local Library. This grubby little basement is, in fact, a Way.
You lot have much more self-control than most groups, you know. I barely saw you start forward. You were probably stopped by the next bit of my speech. So allow me to tell you what most of you apparently know already. To the likes of us, these marvelous interdimensional doors are closed and locked. Walk into that painting on the wall, and all you'll get is a bruise, no matter how much cinnamon you burn. I'll get to that in a second.
The reason we've brought you all to this abandoned back-alley hole in the wall is because a couple of you are going to be staying here for the next few weeks. Many of you will be having similar assignments. Watch the Ways, ladies, gentlemen, and other, because that's where we get most of our information about the Wanderers' Library.
Ah, yes, the Library. An endless maze of shelves living at the center of every universe. Travelogues on alien worlds. Stories written by gods. Books that will never be written, just lying on the shelves for anyone to borrow. It sounds fantastic, but some of us have seen it for ourselves. You see, back in the good old bad days, when we could put something in a box without having to worry about whether it was comfortable or not, we stumbled on a Way into the Library. It was beautiful, endless, populated with the scholars of a million different universes. The higher-ups of the time, being the hoarders that they were, decided that the best way to deal with this was to grab literally everything and take it back with them. This did not end well. My arm still aches when I open a rhyming dictionary and remember…
I'm rambling. Sorry. Long story short, if you're with the Foundation, you aren't getting in the Library. Anybody wants to quit, raise your hand. I'm kidding.
So, as new agents, your job will be to monitor the Ways we know about. Most of them are seldom used at this point, but the beauty of a billion worlds is, there's always someone who didn't get the memo that there are Jailors (such a hurtful name, I know) waiting on the other side. From there, you have a few options, depending on what comes out of there.
If they're human and from this universe, and remember, just because it looks like it's from Earth doesn't mean it's from this Earth, it's standard interrogation, amnestics and relocation. If they aren't quite human, well, you already know about the boxes.
If they aren't from this universe, respectfully ask them to get back to where they should be. If they refuse, ask again. Respectfulness will be optional at this point.
Don't be stupid about it, though. There are some pretty strange things out there, and some of them have claws. If something like that comes through, observe it from a distance and wait for backup.
If at all possible, try to get any books they have off of them, and copy them as quickly as you can. We've actually got quite a collection of extrauniversal literature going. Just remember to leave the original back at the Way's entrance. You won't like what happens if you hold onto it, but that's an entirely different seminar. For now, we'll just say that the Library doesn't bother with late fees.
So, that's about it for the Ways. There's plenty more to cover when it comes to the Library, but that was the only bit that required us to stand in a dank basement. Any questions before we go?
The Serpent's Hand? Well, to be honest, while they are one of the more troublesome parts of the Library, they're also one of the smallest. As far as we can tell, they really don't have any more control over the Library than anyone else. But that's all I'll say on the topic so close to a Way. You never know if a Hand member's passed through here, planting some kind of freaky surveillance magic. We can talk about them more back at the site. Anything else? No? Good. Grab your buddy and make your way back to the bus in single file. I need a coffee.


The Iron Wolf lurks in the dark,
Its teeth pale and sharp.
To the Flock of Flesh it watches,
Catching Lambs of Meat by its claws.
Flesh and blood it swallows,
Bones and organs it rips out.
Down the narrow path it takes them,
To have them become one as itself.

The lambs screamed as the wolves took them down to their nest. It was a stone cave with metal spikes, like teeth, protruding from its walls, where moonlight dared not enter. A few candles burnt silently, revealing a single brass statue, a snake-like beast, of visible power and glory.
The wolves gathered, quickly drove the lambs to a corner, where they trembled in fear. The pack leader, the one with the sharpest teeth and claws, picked one from the lost animals and placed it on an altar. The lamb struggled, but it was futile, as the wolves applied iron spikes to its limbs, nailing it on the altar. It screamed, but the wolves did not care. The other lambs retreated further to the corner, as they lacked the claws their Shepherd had, nor did they possess weapons like the wolves.
The pack leader spoke in an ancient language as the ceremony began. The lamb's stomach was soon opened, as the wolves tossed out its organs to a pit of burning oil in front of the brass statue. The fire burnt ever so furiously, as the wolves whispered to each other, and those whispers soon became chants and howls.
For every piece of meat the wolves cut off from their victim, more grew in its place in a cancerous fashion. The flesh, ill and corrupted, was pulled out, only to be replaced by more deformed parts. The lamb no longer resembled a lamb, but a lump of meat, shaking and crying, and yet the wolves did not stop. This was no more painful for the lamb than when the Shepherd harvested from the herd, but it screamed nonetheless.
It was when the lamb was almost reduced to a skeleton that the wolves stopped. Their metal claws were now stained with blood; the same red liquid had streamed from the lamb's body onto the floor. The lamb could hardly move, and its breath was almost unnoticeable.
The wolves howled again. The pack leader gestured, and the pack took out sharp metal tools with gears, pipes and metal plates, instruments only crudely made. It was another set of veins and organs, a set they had prepared in particular for the lamb. The lamb saw it, but it was in no position to struggle. It watched as the wolves thrust the parts into its shell of a body, and listened as they started spinning and clicking. It proceeded to scream, but the voice did not come out. The clockwork was now attached to its spine, and metal pieces fused and grew under its skin.
The wolves watched as this happened. After a few moments, the sound of clicking and grinding were no longer heard and the stomach of the lamb seemed to have sealed on its own. The lamb stood up from the altar, as the spikes, formerly nailing it down, were now part of its body. It did not look at the wolves, nor at the other lambs in the cave, as its eyes were now hollow and void of intelligence. It moved in complete silence towards the entrance of the cave. The wolves moved aside to let it pass, and watched as it disappeared under the moonlight outside.
“Bring in the next one.” The pack leader said, as another screaming animal was placed on the blood-stained altar.

The Iron Wolf stalks in the dark,
Its claws long and sharp.
The Shepherd pays it no attention,
For he is a beast himself.
Lost Lambs scream in panic,
Tamed animals it leaves behind.
The Iron Wolf came not for the flock,
It is the Shepherd's throat it wants.

“The wolves have come.” She said.
“Pay them no attention. No need to meet their claws for some lost lambs. They are but food for us.” The Shepherd replied.
“I will return to my herd then.” She was not convinced, but decided not to argue, as she saw his arrogance. She stretched out her wings, and left in silence.
The Shepherd watched his fellow flesh herder disappear in the night sky, then turned back to his flock. It was a night of full moon, and he saw glowing eyes deep in the forest. He turned to the lambs, who were all in their pens, silent for the night. There was no movement, as the animals stared blankly at the night sky.
He smirked, and returned to his temple. The beasts were of no importance, and he had better things to attend to. He would not care to lose a lamb or two, and didn't even bother to find out what the wolves wanted with them. Whether they intended to purify the world of flesh or make sacrifices to their brass god mattered not to him. He could always acquire more lambs from the wild flocks, after all.
The Shepherd sat down, and proceeded to meditate. For hours, his mind swam in a grander place, a place that was lost but would eventually return. He was interrupted however, by loud booming of thunder striking down. He rushed out, and saw that half the temple was burning as the lightning faded away. The scrolls, the materials and the supplies were all there, not that they were crucial of course, but it was enough for him to be furious.
He swore to cut off the wolves' heads as he rushed to the forest to revenge. It was their mistake to openly attack him, as their claws and teeth were no match for his. Halfway however, he was stopped by the lambs, who were somehow out of their pens, and had gathered in front of the temple. They stood silently as they watched their herder.
“What are you doing here?” The Shepherd demanded, “Return to your place, lowly creatures!”
But for this once, his tamed flock did not listen to him. In fact, they did not even understand what he said, as they were no longer able to perceive words, or think in any way. It was only then that the Shepherd remembered their strange silence and their empty gaze. It was as if that the lambs only looked like such, but were now something else.
In slight panic and rage, the Shepherd exerted his power over flesh to the flock. The flock would have been reduced to puddles of blood or mashed meat, but instead, they started approaching. He did manage to peel off their skin, but only to reveal the horrifying machines beneath. Their spines were now metallic, their body parts were now grinding gears, and their blood was replaced with oil. They were indeed no longer lambs, as the metal parts, crudely pieced together, constructed unimaginable deformity. But even so, the parts somehow fit into each other perfectly well, as they made no sound at all.
The Shepherd took a step back, as he found himself surrounded. The lambs, the formerly tamed flock was onto him now, and he felt undignified. He easily smashed one to pieces, and the other one was sent back ripped in half. But for each lamb he tore down, more came in its place. Even the shattered pieces on the ground struggled to reform, and they quickly became monstrosity worse than before.
He had fought, but his flock was huge, the number of lambs he herded was unparalleled, even among his fellow herders. And there was no other material for him to use, as the wolves had just burnt down his supplies; there was no cattle for him to turn into beasts, as the wolves had taken them; there was no way for him to recover and regain strength, as the wolves had turned his potential food into metallic monsters.
The Shepherd struggled before his now mindless flock, each with sharp teeth and claws just like the wolves who made them. He took down one after another until there were too many wounds for him to heal himself, until the sharp metal spikes impaled his body, until he bled and was no longer able to call the blood back. The wolves watched this from the forest. They howled and smiled.
Finally, the Shepherd fell. The former lambs, now beasts of clockwork, bit and clawed at him silently. The wolves came out of the forest, and walked among their foul creations. They approached the once powerful Shepherd, and laughed.
It was the night of the wolves, as they bit through the Shepherd's neck, and feasted on his body.

A long time ago…

“Why are you even protecting them?” The Karcist laughed, “Aren't they merely lost lambs for you, food for your hungry dragon god? And I am but a Shepherd of Flesh, herding the aimless flock. They live until they are harvested, or when they are clawed down by beasts of the wild. What is the difference, if they end up in my dishes, or in your beastly mouth?”
“I shall be the Wolf then.” The Mekhanite answered, “I shall follow in your shadows, and remove the lambs from your flock. I shall eternally haunt you, as the lambs taken are lambs no more.”


The following letters were recovered from a private collection and filed as part of the additional materials relating to SCP-2833.

Benares, 12 May 1909

Dear Cousin Emily,
Greetings from the British Raj! How terribly grand that sounds. Honestly, I can hardly believe we are all so far away from home, and school, and everything normal in the world. Do write and tell me how England is getting along without us!
I shan't bore you with the details of the journey (which was tedious), especially with Eleanor's constant complaints. Mother tells me I should be more understanding, but why must I have an older sister whose only thoughts are of dresses and boys? I wish she were sensible like you.
Anyway, here we are in Benares. It is so different here - beastly hot and dusty, with flies everywhere, and it smells of mud and rotting fruit (and worse things), but everything is exciting and new. We were driven through the town, and there were men with turbans, and women in silk dresses of pink and orange and blue, and Vinod our driver stopped for a huge cow in the middle of the road. And I drank a mango lassi - have you had one? They're delicious.
We reached our new house, which is all white and wicker, and surrounded by shade trees. And blessedly cool, which will be good for mother while she recuperates. Father says it is called the Ambassador's house, although he is only a liaison to the Maharajah. They have a Maharajah here, can you believe it?
And even better, we have our own personal guru! He's not called that, of course, he's a sadhu or something, but Eleanor and I have decided to call him Guru. He even looks the part, with a saffron robe around his waist, and bangles on his arms and white whiskers - he is ever so impressive. He met us in front of the gate and father offered him some money, but even though he looks very poor he refused and said he just wanted to bless the house, so of course we invited him in and gave him some tea. He did a very elaborate blessing, and told us it would keep the evil spirits away, and mother has said he can come back and tell us about all the strange customs here.
I am very excited about it, but everything is exciting here. I can't wait to write more and tell you.
Yours from the far reaches of the Empire,
Violet

Benares, 22 August 1909

Dear Cousin Emily,
How lovely to receive your letter, and to know that mine made it through. I am pleased to hear that you are well, and your work for the church sounds very interesting. You'll have to tell me more about it when you have time.
After weeks of tremendous thunderstorms, it is hot and dry all over again here. It makes one wonder whether the seasons ever change, or if we are all to be roasted here until our skin turns brown and cracks, like potatoes in the oven!
Oh dear, it's too awful, but that has just reminded me. Mother, Eleanor and I took a trip into the city last fortnight to see some of the sights. We even took a boat along the Ganges, which really is quite extraordinary. The river is so wide and old and slow, like an elephant wandering through the city, and full of little boats shuttling to and fro. The water is dark green, and the buildings rise up on either side, yellow and sandy-coloured. There are wide steps all the way down to the water's edge, and people everywhere - washing their clothes, bathing and even praying.
Guru came with us, of course, and he told the boatman to take us to Manikarnika Ghat. He told us that it was a very holy religious place, where the Hindus come to cremate the dead. I could smell the smoke before I saw it, along with the usual odor of the city, and another smell, almost sweet. When we came closer, there was a temple with tall spires like roundhead helmets, blackened from the smoke. On the steps to the river there were three fires burning, and people dressed in white circling around them.
We didn't go very close, but Guru told us all about the rituals. He said that the Hindus believe that the bodies are destroyed to allow the spirits to be reincarnated in another form. I told him that Christians believe in the resurrection of the body, and he laughed and said that sounded like a good idea, and maybe we should try to keep our bodies living longer in the first place. I thought he was teasing me, but he wants to teach us yoga for our health, and mother has said yes.
I asked Vinod later how to spell Manikarnika Ghat, and he gave me a strange look. And then I overheard him telling mother not to let Guru take us to places like that, and that Guru lives in a cemetery and believes strange things, but mother said it was all perfectly natural. I think Vinod said Eleanor's name too. I wonder if he is sweet on her? It would be just like her - all the boys in England love her, so why not here?
How I long for your company instead of hers! I hope you will write and tell me how you are.
Yours faithfully,
Violet

Benares, 3 December 1909

Dear Emily,
I read your letter with great interest, especially your church excursion to the South Downs. It must have been charming there with the autumn fruits and cream teas. I really think you have the best kind of life.
Life here continues as ever. Father has found me a tutor to continue my lessons, but I'm afraid he is an astounding bore. Fortunately we have our visits from Guru to enliven us.
He has been teaching us yoga, even father when he is able. We all sit cross-legged on mats, or out under the banyan tree outside, wearing loose linens. No doubt you will be scandalised, but everything is much more informal here. I think it is to do with the heat.
I am learning more in my yoga lessons than any others. Did you know that 'yoga' means "to join" or "to attach"? It's all about letting parts of the body grow and expand, and join into each other, and new body parts opening up, like we have a third eye in the middle of our foreheads, and - sorry, I'm not explaining it very well.
Let me try again. In our first lesson, we sat down and Guru made us do deep breathing. He thought I did it very well, and he was very pleased when he learned that I am left-handed. Apparently there is a left-handed path that he thinks everyone should follow, so I laughed and told Eleanor that I am ahead of her already.
Then we had to say a mantra, which sounds like "Ayom", but you have to say it very slowly while doing the breathing. And Guru told us all about the magical serpent that lives inside us, and you say the mantra to make it rise up through your body until it bursts out through your head and you reach something called samadhi, which I think is something like nirvana. It's quite hard to write properly about it, but it's fascinating, and it all made a lot of sense when Guru was talking.
One time, when we were doing our stretches, Guru saw mother's scar, from where the doctors had cut out the tumour. He was very upset and told us that the English doctors didn't understand what they were doing, and that he knew some medicines that would have been better. I have never seen him get angry before, but he soon apologised and said he just wanted to make sure we were as healthy as we could be.
And so I will sign off by wishing you good health too, and a happy Christmas. I have asked for a fly-swatter for Christmas to keep the ghastly things away from me!
Yours with love and best wishes,
Violet

Benares, 1 March 1910

Dear Cousin,
Thank you for your letter. You did sound a little stern with your warning about "Eastern philosophy". I know that your work at church makes you concerned about our spiritual guidance, but you needn't worry, Emily - it is all a bit of a lark, and something to pass the days here. And Guru makes some very interesting observations - even father says so.
Yesterday he took us to visit a temple just outside of the city. Benares has twenty thousand temples, and mother, Eleanor and I have seen many of them, but Guru said that this one was different. For one thing, it was in the middle of the jungle, and the entrace was cut into the rock of the hillside. I'm surprised that Vinod even drove us out there, but he is much better-disposed to Guru lately, though some of the other servants object to his visits. Some of them have even deserted their posts - would you credit it?
But back to the temple. Inside, there was light filtering from somewhere above, but it was faint, and the chambers were dark green and shadowy. There were carvings in the stone walls, which were quite old and mysterious. Some looked like the battles from the Ramayana, with huge juggernauts and the demons from Lanka all fighting. I saw a man who looked like he had a long elephant's trunk, and I asked Guru if it was Ganesha, but he just laughed at me and told me that they didn't worship Ganesha in this temple. Some of the older carvings weren't very good - all the people looked funny, like they weren't drawn right.
We went into the main chamber, which had a hole in the ground, and I couldn't see where it stopped, it was so dark. I wanted to see if it would echo, and Guru told us all to sit and close our eyes, and we could say our mantra together.
Well I must confess, it was the queerest thing. When we said our mantra, it was as if the echoes came right back out of the pit, and the air felt like it was humming. It gave me the shivers, rather, but it was invigorating, like my body was just waking up. I'm sure that mother and Eleanor felt it too.
I wish you could have been there. But I must get to dinner - a roast goat! Even Vinod, who used to be vegetarian, has changed his mind. Guru says that meat is meant to be eaten, and is the first step to true knowledge. He knows so many interesting things.
Yours in the quest for true knowledge,
Violet

PS - I had to show this letter to mother, so couldn't write this before. I have shocking news - Eleanor is to have a baby! Father and mother will be livid, but they don't know yet. I found Eleanor crying, and she made me promise not to tell anyone, but I'm sure I can tell you. She would not explain it, but she sounded very upset and confused. Could it be Vinod? What will father do?

Benares, 30 May 1910

Dearest Emily,
I am so delighted to hear that you are coming to visit us. I'm not sure whether this letter will reach you before you leave, but I just had to tell you. You will find us all in marvellous shape - Guru has done wonders for our health with his advice and our new diets. Honestly, you will hardly recognise me when you see me!
Even Eleanor is glowing, and would you believe she is already showing. Mother and Father were most gracious in accepting our new arrival, once they spoke with Guru. He tells us that the arrival of a new baby boy (he is certain it will be a boy) is a cause for celebration, as the cycle of reincarnation continues. Just think, Emily, another member of our family - our own flesh and blood.
When you arrive, do come straight up to the house. No need to wait for the servants to meet you, as the ones who are still with us will be busy preparing for your arrival. It is an arrival eagerly awaited by all here. It will be awfully jolly to have you join our growing clan.
Yours avidly,
Violet

FROM: HMTELOFF-3346A BEN IND
TO: PATRIARCH LOCKE, OUR LADY OF REFORMATION, HACKNEY, LONDON
17 JUNE 1910
SITUATION AS EXPECTED FAMILY IRRECOVERABLE STOP TRAGIC HOUSEFIRE REMAINS CONFIRMED INERT INCLUDING CHILD STOP
GURU WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN INVESTIGATION PROCEEDING STOP INDIA PRESENCE CONCERNING MAY REQUIRE MISSIONARIES SEND WORD STOP
M-F EMILY CAVANAGH

Emily Cavanagh retired from public life in 1961 and is presumed deceased. The collected belongings recovered with the correspondence above have been retained for analysis in connection with the activities of the Church of the Broken God in various British Commonwealth countries.