This would have been the first project she'd have been a part of, the first report her name would be printed in full, not her brother's, not Dr. Mark Kiryu, no, but somehow the object was proving harder to track than expected.
SCP designation still pending, it would have been a Safe object, seeing as it was just an ordinary book at first glance.
The book had been discovered by a curio collector who had become a self-proclaimed miracle doctor overnight; he'd set up a successful clinic and made a notable profit, so said the town gossip. A few Foundation agents were sent to look into the small clinic, and had planted some surveillance devices without the man's noticing. The secret to his knowledge was revealed: the man constantly consulted a flaking, ivory-bound tome with pages made of what seemed to be thick black bark. Apparently the book mentioned the blending of certain miraculous herbal remedies.
The agents had later reported back with data regarding the cures. The new “doctor” kept a strange hodgepodge garden in the back of the clinic, and could treat everything from a sore back to dementia. Some who visited only suffered curiosity, but despite the man having no prior medical experience, he was able to quickly tell the sick from the nosy, and turn away the untruthful.
Researcher Kiryu irritably scratched out an entry in her planner. The first anomalous object she was invited to investigate, and this happens.
The curio collector had naturally attracted further Foundation attention afterwards, but not because of anything he'd accomplished—he'd died within three weeks of his new-found fame and fortune. After the usual interviews and inquiries had been made and the book's usual location discovered, the task force team had broken down the door to an attic, and discovered a smashed window, and a bluebird sitting atop a safe. The bird was native to the local area, but the folded piece of paper it dropped at their feet and the speed of its escape through the broken window convinced them that it was no ordinary bird.
The message was retrieved. They'd pried open the safe too, just in case. Nothing was found but dust and scraps of blackened bark.

Seek me out if you desire, jailers.
I am headed to a land where mountains shelter dragons and phoenixes hold their court in splendor, you're welcome to follow, and if you can catch me, perhaps we will discuss a deal.

Researcher Kiryu groaned inwardly, rereading the memo she had been sent, which contained the text of the message and a pair of coordinates that had been dug up by an overseas Foundation operative. No original messages given to newer researchers, Mark had mentioned. No originals because we don't know if the paper has anomalous qualities either. She tossed the memo onto the ever-growing stack of paperwork on her desk, wondering if she should have taken her brother's advice and replaced the tray with a garbage can labeled “inbox”. She spun around on her swivel chair and kicked at the floor to propel herself towards the filing cabinet in the tiny room.
“Well, are you going to follow up?” Kiryu, startled, almost slammed into the filing cabinet. Her brother's assistant Riven was standing about a foot away from her.
“No. I don't have time to—”
“Sure you do. Your brother's been keeping a careful eye on your vacation time, after all. I'll check the coordinates, Mark can book a flight, and maybe an agent or two can be spared.” Riven grinned, leaning against a nearby wall and squashing the leaves of a large potted plant. “You've been busy enough, feeding the butterflies and keeping the records straight.”
“But—” too late, Riven snatched the memo off her desk. Researcher Kiryu watched in stunned silence as he began typing on her laptop.
She sighed, went to rummage through the filing cabinet, and looked up only when Riven spoke a few minutes later, “You're going to China.”

An exceptionally bright star shines in the sky, twinkling just like you, love. Its shimmering reminds me of you, struggling to shine against the others. As surely as the shadows shift, you know you will fade to dust and darkness eventually, why not live in the light you believe in? Stay vigilant, more to follow. ~S

Swatting at a wayward mosquito, Researcher Kiryu narrowed her eyes as she read over the newest note from the cryptic taunt-writing individual. She must have been crazy to agree to the vacation, must have been straight-up insane to think that anything would come of chasing this paper trail, even if an agent and Riven had been sent to accompany her (plainclothes, from a distance, same tour group and that's all, nothing suspicious). It wasn't much of a lead anyway, and if some other group was involved, it could be dangerous, but she'd been hoping for a chance like this for some time. She'd wanted to follow her brother's footsteps a little further, into the world beyond the testing chambers, beyond her small shared office and the white lighted labs.
Most of her insecurities faded when she received the second note.
She'd found the paper after Riven had been attacked by some little yellow bird while they'd walked through a bamboo thicket. They'd been headed towards the old-fashioned inn that their book thief was reputedly staying at.
It was nice that Riven was allowed to travel with her, Kiryu thought to herself. She had been uncomfortably wary of meeting the Foundation field agent at the airport, before the departure (she'd introduced herself with her surname and title, and after an awkward silence Riven had laughed and mentioned to the agent, “Researcher Kiryu doesn't like giving her first name. Just a habit. You don't mind, do you?”). The agent had shrugged off the introduction noncommittally, extended his hand for a handshake, muttered a general greeting with a bit of a bored expression, and glanced over his shoulder.
The atmosphere on the plane flight had been strained, at best. She'd once been worried about how to act around such people. Secrets were the highest code of the Foundation. It was sometimes difficult to know exactly what one couldn't share with others, even colleagues.
Now here she was, in her first leadership position. She wasn't familiar with ranks, but Riven was an easygoing fellow researcher and the agent was just here to keep an eye on her while following, so it couldn't be too bad to imagine for a moment that she was like her older brother, at the head of a Foundation investigation or maybe even an intervention.
She and her colleagues strode on, over the uneven road of broken stones, towards the inn.

Cursing under her breath as she paced through the inner courtyard a second time, Researcher Kiryu mentally berated herself for letting the man she'd been tailing out of her sight. Her group had found the inn without catastrophe striking. But then, if the Foundation had expected something dangerous, they'd have sent an entire team of agents, maybe a task force, at least those with experience in these matters, never any researchers.
Kiryu, Riven, and the agent had followed a questionable-looking individual into the inn's gardens. Said individual was wearing a long hooded robe; his face was obscured, and a chirping bird was perched on his shoulder.
Neither Riven nor the agent could figure out exactly where to or how he disappeared. Kiryu retraced her thoughts; the memory of the songbird on the man's shoulder gave her some pause. It seemed almost too obvious. He had attracted her attention the moment the three had entered the inn's grounds. It could have been a ruse. But surely the data the overseas informants had collected was reliable, it had to have been this inn—
Kiryu thought back to the map of the inn she had attempted to commit to memory earlier. The gardens occupied most of the grounds, the rest of the place was only rooms and a dining hall…
She stopped her pacing. “Let's go to the dining area.”

There was some commotion going on. From what little could be discerned from the chaos, a man had collapsed onto his table, spilling his tea. His top garment looked a little too large for him.
Researcher Kiryu stopped just short of the entrance and stared as two of the inn's workers dragged the man in the direction of the rooms. Something fell from the man's open shirt; the agent stepped over and picked it up, showing it to her in the palm of his gloved hand.
A piece of thin paper, wrapped around a scrap of blackened bark.
“The pearl-rounded bridge, at sunset.” The agent had said, after inspecting the paper, sealing it in a plastic bag, and pocketing it. “Also what looks like some poetry too, but I'll look into it just in case. It could be—”
“…memetic or something.” Kiryu finished with a small smile. She remembered what her brother had told her, after his first experience with the psychic butterfly, “it's prudent to be careful in this line of work.”

The sun seemed to crawl through the sky as Kiryu waited for the appointed time to arrive. She scribbled notes in a databook, Riven retreated to his own room for a nap, and the agent ran some tests on the new message using a field kit. The three left the inn just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Researcher Kiryu cautiously leading the way.
There was a strange, spindly-legged figure waiting for her in the distance. “Red-crowned crane,” Riven had whispered to her, half in suspicion, half in awe. The agent said nothing, only watched the bird's movements.
The three approached the curved bridge, the one that led across a small pond on the grounds separating the inn from the lotus ponds in the distance, bordering the rural farmlands. In the feathery dusk of the summer evening, the crane's feathers held an ethereal glow.
“It doesn't look natural.” Kiryu stated flatly.
At the sound of her voice, the crane, though still a substantial distance away, spread its wings and flapped off. “There's something on the bridge railing,” Riven pointed. The three cautiously approached the bridge, the agent plucking the folded piece of paper from the worn stone of the bridge. He smoothed out the creases, read the words, frowned, and passed it on.

You believe you protect the ordinary from the extraordinary, as if those who have special abilities have none of the emotions of those without. There was a time when mankind respected the extraordinary, reveled in it, revered it. Do you truly believe the common man fears the extraordinary more than you, Jailers? I leave you now, without what you seek. Keep an open mind, and perhaps someone will pity you.

When she returned, Researcher Kiryu dutifully clocked the field hours ("your first ever hours outside a Foundation facility, congrats!" Riven had said) and wrote up the requisite reports. She had wondered if it really made sense, sending two researchers, one without any field experience, instead of a team made entirely of agents.
It seemed the trip had been a waste of time after all; the Foundation had known all along that there wasn't much chance of success. Nor did anyone seem to think there would have been an actual retrieval.
Mark welcomed her back with a smile and a new stack of paperwork, filling her in on what had happened in Site-19 while she was gone (not much, really). He made the usual polite inquiries about the time spent abroad (how was the weather?) and spoke nothing of the recovery mission, if it could be considered a mission at all.
She didn't think it'd be wise to tell Doctor Mark Kiryu more than he asked about. If he didn't ask, it probably wasn't necessary to discuss. He knew more than she did, and in this line of work, she never felt truly certain she knew exactly what to remember, what to push away and never dwell on again.
This was all something better off forgotten, she sighed. Really, Researcher, what did you think you'd find?


Will couldn't explain his own nervousness as he stepped out the back door, across his simple lawn. His children had come to him many times, perturbed by the animals they encountered in the woods behind the house. He would follow, stepping away from his easel, and explain. “That deer isn't dying, that's just part of how his horns grow back in. This frog is fine, the tail means she's in between being a tadpole and a frog.”
Each explanation had satisfied them, and he had been able to return to work, letting them play in the yard where he could keep an eye on them. But he'd never heard a note of terror like this in their voices. Worry, yes, curiosity, yes. But Yvette shook so hard he couldn't keep his arms around her, and barely spoke in a whisper as tears streamed down her cheek. Gregor had felt cold to the touch, fingers clenched into little fists.
Will had gone out to see this “Devil bird” that had terrified them, feeling a little foolish for being afraid in the daylight. Overcast daylight, to be sure, but daylight none the less. Just a bird. He could see the tree they had said it was perching on from here, a tall giant with a leafless crown. Despite his heavy jacket, he shuddered, not from the chill, oddly quiet air. Something was unsettling him. His feet crunched in the frost covered grass as he rounded the tree. There it was, a little sparrow sitting on a branch. Nothing to fear.
The bird turned its head, cocking it at him as he studied it. The children had seen plenty of sparrows, and he didn't see why this one had startled them so. He took a step closer, to get a better look. The bird croaked at him, not the tweeting note he expected, but a harsh organic sound. It shuddered, the feathers of its breast puffing as it choked and shifted from foot to foot. He reached towards it, and the head snapped up, beak opening to release plumes of smoke.
Will swore, jerking back as it twitched madly on the branch, the smoke condensing, settling down around it in thick strands. Its dark eye seemed to fog over from within, covered in grey and red. He felt his gorge rising as the bird's beak began to rip, mandibles opening impossibly wide to reveal something deep and dark. Inside he could see glittering eyes, and the first of eight legs starting to poke out of the newly torn hole in the world…


Director Samuels, you have often asked me what the ultimate goal of the SCP Foundation is. As I step down, I feel you have the right to know.
Our ultimate goal is, and has always been, the neutralization of humanity.
Note that I do not say the destruction of humanity. It has never been our desire to hurt you.
I am not human. I am not a member of Homo sapiens. I am not even Terran. I am a member of a species very different from you, from a different star. It isn't important where I came from. What is important is my mission.
We have been studying your species for as long as you've known language. As we have watched you grow, we have seen the anomalies arise. They have changed your world, and not for the better. And they are growing more frequent.
We have performed experiments, using sample members of your species very far from here. We have removed variables, and added new ones. The results are conclusive. This is your doing.
You, as a species, are somehow changing the function of reality. The more of you there are, the stronger this effect becomes. There are nearly five billion of you at the time of this writing, and your population is growing faster by the minute.
We tried peaceful methods at first. We tried to see if we could counter the effects. Then we tried to remove the ability from your species. Eventually, as we found there was no way to stop you, we tried to lower your population, and then to destroy you outright.
Our final attempt has failed. We tried to detonate your sun. A worm larger than the moon Europa appeared and destroyed our device. Somehow, the anomalies are protecting you, the way a parasite might protect its host.
It's changing you, and we can no longer stop it. We've given up treatment and euthanasia, and we are reduced to quarantine. We have sabotaged your space program. We are watching for attempts to leave your solar system by anomalous means. We can only hope that either you are destroyed by the anomalies, or else that you find a way to control them.
And finally… I am sorry. I am sorry we tried to kill you. We are scared of you, and we do not want to die. We chose out of fear. I wish I could say I was glad it didn't work, but the truth is, I am still scared.


I hated you.
I can count every meaningful conversation we ever had on my digits. What I can't count is the number of times they told me how important you were. Government scientist. Indispensable. Fearless. Peerless. But it's funny that they could never tell me what exactly you did.
It's so much funnier now.
My family, our friends, mother's friends-your friends, they had no idea, but you were here the entire time. Not that I blame you for that, you couldn't come home and tell your family you looked after nightmares. Nightmares you sent people to their death to, by the way. No shame in it, so have I-it's the job. But the cover story they (or maybe you made it yourself?) had for you, people thought your shit couldn't smell sweeter, huh? None of us were any the wiser.
But now I know everything, and it turns out I've followed in your footsteps, a fact which repulses me. Level 4 Clearance! Site Director! Just like you! You must be so proud! But then you died. That's the only reason I find this course of events tolerable, because there's something different. I survived, like you couldn't. I'm just like you, but I lived. I can tolerate my memories of you because of this. Nobody expected me to live up to your example, I was never anything compared to you. But I'm better than you. Nobody knows though. Don't you love the irony? Is that irony? I hope it is.
I hated you, dad.
Why did you leave me to this shit.
Everyone jokes about it, like "Hey, Charles, how many Keters did you find for us today?" and I laugh it off. It's not funny. It's not fucking funny! We're so used to it, I'm so used to it, radioactive birds, fountains haunted by dead kids, a fucking fetus controlling a nuclear defense system! I hate this place, I hate this world, and you left me here to deal with it all by myself! I fucking hate you!
I just…
…I miss you…dad.

An old man in a suit looked over his computer, watching the video playing on his screen. "Site-59 Security Footage" was displayed in the corner. A younger man entered the hallway in the footage. He was in his mid-thirties, with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and limping upon a crutch under his right arm. The old man stared at the younger man on the screen, the tired eyes racing with memories, thoughts, doubts.
"Brian?"
A second man, also elderly and donning a suit stood in the doorway, looking at the other. "The other eleven are assembled."
"Yes, I'll be there presently." responded Brian.
The second man walked over to the desk where Brian sat. "Watching him again?" he said, gazing at the screen.
Brian nodded. "Every morning I wake up wondering if he's even still alive." he said quietly and bitterly.
"You could have stopped him from joining."
"I know."
"You didn't want him to join, did you?"
"No, I did not."
"Then why did you-"
"Because…I've directed his life enough." Brian turned in his chair to face his colleague. "He's been competing with me every day of his life, and nothing I can do will change that. I made things the way they are for him, whether I wanted to or not. He perceives me as an obstacle in his self-actualization. As much as it pained me, tortured me, terrified me, I couldn't interfere with his decision to join the Foundation, because I've held him back for long enough."
He bowed his head. "Even so, he's still mandating his life by his perception of me, and I can't even tell him myself."
"Tell him what?"
"How proud of him I am."
Brian turned off the screen.


Researcher Clayton stood before the small office door and double-checked to make sure he was in the right place. The room was so out of the way that it looked like it had been built as an afterthought. Clayton gave a quick look around, and then knocked. This was to be his first assignment for the Foundation.
“It's open,” shouted a voice from inside the office. Clayton took a deep breath and stepped inside.
At the center of the room was a large desk decorated with all manner of small trinkets. The near and side walls of the room were covered in motivational posters, while the far wall was lined with numerous old filing cabinets, most of which were labeled with what appeared to be someone's name. A single man sat alone in a chair behind the desk with a friendly smile.
“Dr. Cameron?” Clayton asked as he began to inch his way towards the center of the room.
“In the flesh,” declared the man in the chair. His head was bald and starting to spot, and a thick pair of glasses sat on his crooked nose. Rather than a lab coat, he wore a bright green knitted sweater that appeared a few sizes too big. “Just 'Donald' will be fine, though. The actual doctors tend to get their feathers ruffled if they catch you calling me by their precious title.”
Clayton smiled as Donald laughed at his own joke and ushered him to take a seat.
“Are you ready to begin?” Donald asked.
Clayton nodded enthusiastically.
“Great,” Donald replied. “First things first, we'll need to get your desk moved here. You'll also want to make sure you invest in a very good chair. Your back will never last otherwise.”
Clayton nodded a second time. He looked around the desk once more. Among the objects that caught his eye were a miniature ship in a bottle, a silver Rubik's cube with the different sides represented by various colored gears, and what appeared to be a large alligator tooth.
“What is it exactly that you do for the Foundation, Donald?” Clayton's eyes were drawn to the numerous filing cabinets along the far wall.
“Glad you asked.” Donald swiveled in his chair and rolled over to the filing cabinets, banging one of them on the top. “I'm in charge of these.”
Donald proceeded to write his name on a small label and slid it into place on one of the few unused cabinet drawers. He then sat twiddling his thumbs. Clayton opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but ceased when Donald held up his hand. After a few more seconds Donald opened the drawer and pulled out a small file folder; the date and hour were printed neatly on its label. He then rolled back to his desk and opened the folder, removing a sheet of paper from inside and sliding it to Clayton. Half the page was covered in black type that said: iamcurrentlythinkingaboutdemonstratingwhatthisobjectdoesforyou over and over.
“Basically, if your name is on one of those drawers, then your thoughts are recorded on the paper that appears inside, all nice and organized by the day and hour you had it,” Donald explained.
“It all runs together.” Clayton looked on in awe.
Donald chuckled as he fed the paper into a nearby shredder and then removed the label with his name from the filing cabinet drawer.
“It sure does!” he exclaimed. “Human thoughts don't run in nice little sentences and paragraphs. They happen in an instant and run smack dab into each other. It's called 'stream of consciousness'. Our job is to read these papers, and turn the jumble into useful information. You'll get used to reading the transcripts after a while.”
“If the Foundation can access anyone's thoughts, why are we the only ones assigned to the task?” Clayton looked over the cabinets again. “There must be thousands of people out there whose thoughts are of considerable value.”
“Sure there are; the only problem comes from the number of requirements these damn things have when they operate,” Donald said as he leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath as he began to enumerate the cabinet's problems on his fingers.
“First off, the drawers have to be closed to work, meaning that if you have it open, you stop collecting the person's thoughts. If you close the drawer without returning the file to the cabinet, it goes blank and you're stuck with just a useless ton of paper. You'd think you could get around that by just writing the person's name on two drawers, but if you do that then neither drawer works. On top of that, these cabinets only store about four days' worth of thoughts. After that, the older thoughts begin to disappear as the new ones are being written. Finally, you have the problem of how to interpret the damn things. You can't just scan them into a computer because the text won't appear on digital copies or images.”
“That sounds like a lot of work for little pay-off, even if you can decipher the pages,” Clayton said, his enthusiasm fading.
“There are individuals whose thoughts are just important enough that the Foundation is willing to put in this kind of effort,” Donald replied, cleaning his glasses. “It's not as difficult as you might think. We open up a cabinet, scan about two hours' worth of thoughts for anything of use, and then we place the file back and move onto the next person. At the end of the day we give Director Holman a report. The task forces make one hell of a punch when they already know what their target's plans are. ”
Donald finished with a chuckle, followed by punching the air. He then reached into his desk and pulled out a clipboard with several forms attached.
“A few doctors who work on some of the more exciting projects also use the cabinets as a form of keeping notes,” he added as he slid the clipboard and a pen to Clayton. “I'm going to need you to sign these real fast. Standard furniture and office transfer forms. When you get to the last page, just use the spot below my name.”
“So we do this day in and day out?” Clayton began to sign on the many dotted lines. The last page was a single yellowing piece of paper. It appeared to be a sign-up sheet with a title that read "Records Withdrawal." There were at least five different signatures, but all of them were crossed out except for Donald's. Clayton signed below Donald's signature, and watched in shock as Donald's signature crossed itself out.
“Actually, that's what you'll be doing day in and day out,” Donald gleefully explained. “I've done this for the last ten years, and have been on the Director about getting me a replacement for the last five. Now that you're on the sign-up sheet, I can get out of here and onto better things.”
“What do you mean?” Clayton's face grew pale as Donald's smile grew wider.
“These filing cabinets only work for whoever's name is most recently added to that list you just signed!” Donald got to his feet. “And now you're it! I'm free at last!”
Clayton remained silent. His expression had become more horrified the more and more Donald laughed.
“Oh, cheer up!” Donald said with a wave of his hand. “You'll be fine. I doubt they'll keep you down here as long as they've kept me! In fact, I'm sure Director Holman will -”
Donald was interrupted as two security officers rushed in, accompanied by a tall well-dressed man who was out of breath.
"God damn it, Donald! What the hell do you think you're doing with the sign-up sheet!" the man bellowed between gasps for air. His expression then changed to one of worry as he noticed Clayton.
“Ah, Director Holman,” Donald addressed the visitor. “I've just finished showing him the ropes. He's all signed up!”
“You didn't…” Holman uttered.
“Oh, but I did, Director!” Donald sneered. “I've been replaced! Five years I've been hounding you for relief and every time you promise me a replacement you whisk them away to work on some other project! I took matters into my own hands this time! There is not a god damn thing you can do about it!”
“Do you have any idea how much you'll set back at least four different operations?!” Holman shouted back. “People might die because of this!”
“Oh come on, Director,” Donald frowned. “Don't judge Clayton's performance already; he hasn't even started writing reports yet.”
Holman fell silent at this comment, his right hand rubbing his temple as he closed his eyes.
“Get him out of here,” Holman sighed. The security personnel immediately went to work, grabbing Donald by the shoulders and forced him towards the door.
“I've already won, Director!” Donald called back as he was evicted from the premises.
The room quickly went quiet at that point. Clayton looked to Holman for answers.
“I'm sorry about this,” Holman said as he took a few deep breaths and then grabbed the Rubik's cube off Donald's desk. He fiddled with the puzzle in his hands as he continued to speak. “Donald had twenty years of loyal service up to this point. The man hated this assignment, but this is the first time he actively attempted to alleviate his situation outside of a strongly worded letter.”
“Why has he been down here for so long? Why—” Clayton questioned.
Holman held a hand up to signal that he needed to calm down.
“The longer you're continuously bound to the filing cabinets, the better you are at reading the transcripts.” Holman placed the Rubik's cube back on the desk. “What you and I see as stream of consciousness, Donald read as properly formatted sentences and paragraphs. By the time we learned of this effect, he'd already been at work for close to four years. We've been meaning to get him a replacement for some time now, but there was always another person of interest we needed to monitor, and less and less time to monitor them in.”
“You're not planning on keeping me bound to this thing, are you?” Clayton inquired. “You can't do that!”
“For the time being I'm going to need you to take one for the team and fill this post.” Holman placed a hand on the distraught researcher's shoulder. “There are people whose lives depend on the information that may be in those cabinets.”
“You can't be serious…” Clayton got to his feet. He watched helplessly as Holman made his way to the door.
“I'm sorry, Clayton. There's nothing I can do at this point,” Holman stepped back into the hallway. “I'll get back to you as soon as we sort this out.”
Once he was alone, Clayton looked at a poster on the far wall. It depicted a cat hanging from a branch with the term “Hang in there!” printed beneath. For a few brief seconds he stood and stared at the helpless animal in the poster, but then fell back into his chair and placed his head in his hands.


I can't feel my legs. I vaguely remember I have them as I keep climbing with my arms.
I wouldn't be able to go on if not for him. He keeps me company, listens to me, and knows exactly what to say, but his eyes are what really keep me going. He has such kind eyes.
Then, he came to me and told me that someone was coming! I was so happy, but so scared, I was worried they wouldn't find me. I started calling out for them. He looked at me and told me he would go bring them to me, and he left. I was relieved, but kept calling and climbing. After a while, he came back. He gave me a sad look and apologized, telling me that the person had run away. I was crushed. He looked so sad.
A little while later, he told me that someone else had come. We tried again, but again, they ran away. I climbed and screamed and cried, but it was no use. He was so upset to see me like this.
When the third person came, he promised me he'd bring them to me. We tried again, and I heard them! I heard their footsteps, they were so close! But when I heard the crash, I knew something bad had happened. He came back, and told me that they came, but fell and hurt themselves. He wasn't sure if they would wake up. I cried, unable to keep climbing. He cried too.
Then more came, a lot of them. He wasn't sure what they wanted, but he said they had weapons, and he was worried for me. He told me to stay where I was, and he would try keep them away from me. He held them away for a long, long time, but they kept coming, and so he said he would have to do something more drastic.
He made them go away.
I couldn't understand what happened. Why did they want to hurt us? Why wouldn't they just help?
I kept climbing, and climbing, and climbing, and finally, I did reach the top. I couldn't believe it, and he was so happy for me.
The door wouldn't open.
I tried, I hit it as hard as I could, and kept hitting it, but it wouldn't open. There was nothing left. I was stuck here, forever.
At least I have him. He has such kind eyes.


Is the Hornet for You?
An Exciting New Offer from the Seeing Eye

First encountered by Foundation personnel in northern Michigan, 1988. Primary containment significantly hindered by recovering MTF's lack of appropriate equipment. Creator motives impossible to speculate.

The Seeing Eye has served a wide variety of blind persons since its inception in 1929. Today, our innovative genetic technicians are bringing the tremendous helping potential of the Japanese Giant Hornet to thousands of blind individuals across the globe. As we enter this bold new era, we have found that candidates demonstrating certain traits experience vastly greater success rates as hornet Guide handlers. These traits include:
1. Physical, mental and emotional capability to handle the stress and potential physical trauma of training with a Seeing Eye hornet, as determined by references and agency referrals, personal interview and physician's report. Applicant must be between the ages of 16 and 75, motivated and emotionally stable, and unperturbed by large insects.

First responders recovered some four hundred specimens and these have been transferred to the Nakagawa Maximum Security Veterinary Facility. Prior to memory modification, those civilians who survived the initial contact expressed a continued interest in the advertised qualities of the hornet Guides.

2. A realistic plan of use for a Seeing Eye hornet as determined by personal references, applicant explanation, agency referrals and personal interview. Applicant must have an active daily routine which would provide independent travel destinations for the hornet.

Exhibit extreme caution when approaching or handling as the Seeing Eye's nanomolecular modifications to hornet exoskeletons render ordinary anti-sting material useless.

3. A degree of sensory perception such that the applicant might quickly euthanize a Seeing Eye hornet, should such action become necessary.

The intense possessiveness SCP-3285 demonstrates towards its chosen handlers should not be misinterpreted as loyalty or affection. Sightlessness has proven no deterrent to attack.

4. A clean living and working environment conducive to safe and successful use and care of a Seeing Eye hornet, including supplies for the treatment of any resulting injuries, as determined by application and personal interview.

No employee of the Seeing Eye has thus far admitted responsibility, much less knowledge, of the creature prior to Foundation recovery efforts, but interrogations are ongoing.

5. Necessary maturity, temperament, and pain threshold to handle the responsibilities of caring for a Seeing Eye hornet.

In swarms, the animals exhibit tremendous hostility and vicious cooperation. 100% of victims experience severe allergic reactions within ten hours of the sting even when no previous allergy existed, the onset of these symptoms being considered the start of the eight-hour fatality window.

The Seeing Eye, Inc., does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, or national and ethnic origin, although the hornets might.

…
Actually pretty effective guides.


Part One
His mother often said his father was York. But she was kept so drugged by the high priestesses that she rarely knew who her callers were, and other times, she said his father was a blind fisherman. With bad breath, which had apparently stuck in her mind.
So Rone didn't take much heed of her words, except to eat sweet-smelling herbs when he could.
Still, there were others who thought he had more than a touch of the Saint of Thieves in him. Even as a young child, he was constantly scheming to get things that didn't belong to him. He could sweet talk the temple cooks into giving him extra scraps, or little treats usually saved for the high priestesses and their special guests. The other boys and girls would often find they'd come off worse on little deals or bets he'd set up, not sure why they'd taken them in the first place.
Once, he'd been caught lightening the pocket of a High Guard while he was enjoying the company of his mother. Priestess Gylia forcefully made the point that men expected their belongings to be safe inside the temple, and paid well for that privilege. However, he noticed how she emphasized the word "inside," and simply moved his operations elsewhere.
Most of what he got, he earned through begging. "Are you my father?" he'd ask each man who came in. He'd do his best to ape them, to screw up his features to look a little more like they did, puffing his cheeks out if they were fat, or sucking them in if they were skinny. Sometimes he got a cuff behind the ear, but sometimes he'd get a pat on the head and a few coins. Temple children were almost never claimed, but the men who visited could be kind enough, in their way.
However, he was growing older now. The cuffs were more frequent, the coins fewer. He would have to leave soon. Temple girls were expected to become priestesses themselves, but the boys could only stay as eunuchs. Rone was starting to think that this was less of a great deal than he'd thought when he was younger.
So he was considering his career prospects when the old man passed by the front of the temple. Rone was not yet a very good pickpocket, still mostly confining himself to rolling the occasional drunk. But he could see a full, heavy purse hanging from the man's side, and what son of York would he be if he could resist that?
He pulled out a little knife he'd stolen from the kitchens, and hid it against his wrist as he approached, trying to look as though he were traveling somewhere in quite a hurry, before colliding in the old man.
His knife flashed out as he bumped into the old man, intending to cut open the purse and take the man's money. However, the old man's hand shot out and grabbed his bony wrist, twisting until the knife fell from his hand.
Rone immediately began struggling to get away, but he couldn't escape the man's grasp. And even as he tried, he saw large, muscular men whom he hadn't noticed following at a discreet distance.
"Do you know who I am, boy?" the old man said. His hair was white, his eyes yellow, and his teeth nearly as dark as his skin.
"No, no, please. Just let me go, I'll never do it again," Rone promised.
"I am Lord Totch, the Tyrant's secretary, you little thief!" he said. He slapped the side of Rone's head, and pushed him into the arms of the waiting men. "Teach him not to steal from his betters," he said.
Rone ducked his head as the first blows came.
It was weeks before Rone was recovered. He didn't even remember crawling back into the temple. Priestess Heth tended to him when she wasn't busy with other duties. Luckily, the men hadn't done any real damage. No broken bones. His wits didn't seem to have been addled. Once the swelling went down, his face looked the same as it ever had. All in all, he'd gotten quite lucky, and he promised himself he'd never be so clumsy again.
When the last of the marks faded, he sat on the temple steps and once again considered his prospects. Thieving was still a viable option, he supposed. But perhaps not pick pocketing. Not until he learned to be more clever at it. Perhaps he could find an older thief in need of an apprentice?
"Boy, move!" said a familiar face. Rone looked up and froze.
"Well?" the Tyrant's secretary said. "Out of my way. I'm a busy man."
Rone scuttled over to the side, and the man passed, oblivious to whom he'd spoken.
"He didn't even recognize me…" Rone whispered. He stared incredulously at Totch's back. "He didn't even recognize me!" Suddenly, he was filled with anger. After all that had happened, the man didn't even know him! Suddenly, he felt the need to be on his feet. He ran down the steps, taking them two at a time, right past the man's guards, who didn't give him any more of a look than their master.
"Who does he think he is?" Rone fumed. How dare they ignore him, like he was nothing? He felt like grabbing the nearest person and shouting his name in their faces, but that still wouldn't teach the secretary a lesson. No, he had to think bigger than that.
He began to plot, and to think, and then smiled grimly to himself. It would take a few days to get the supplies, but he'd manage it. Yes, they'd know who he was next time. Yes, he'd make sure of that. They'd shout his name from their towers, oh yes.

Several days later, Rone was prepared. Second story work, he'd decided, was much more his style than pick pocketing. So many people failed to lock a window if it was high enough. The hardest part was getting the clothes, but finding one of Lord Vere's servant boys at the bathhouse had given him all the opportunity he'd needed.
Now, it was time to put his plan into motion.
Rone walked into the mansion with a determined expression and a piece of paper in his hand. He caught a glance from one of the servants, but was otherwise ignored. He quickly made his way up the steps of the tower towards the Lord's office.
On his way up, a door opened, and a bearded man glared at him. “Boy! Where are you going?” he asked.
“U-up to Lord Totch's office, sir,” Rone replied, beginning the speech he'd prepared. “I've a missive fr-”
“Take this,” the man said, stuffing a small satchel into his hand. “Well? Get going.”
“Yes sir!” Rone said, turning quickly away. He continued up the stairs.
The office was empty when he carefully opened the door. He breathed a quick sigh of relief. That should make the rest of it easy.
He paused to open the satchel, and found it full of papers. He couldn't read, so he ignored them, though he'd likely be able to sell them later. He only needed to be able to write one thing today.
He opened the window. He saw the Tyrant's balcony across the way. The entire balcony was lined with bars, keeping thieves out, but letting the Tyrant look out across his city.
It was about twenty feet from Totchs's tower to the Tyrant's. Too far for Rone to jump. However, not too far for him to throw.
He tossed the hook he'd stolen from the fishing boats. It was made for hunting the levyatan eels in the deeper waters. It was nearly too heavy for him to throw so far, but he managed it on the second try. He set his foot in the loop he'd made, and swung out into space.
He nearly let go when he slammed into the wall, but he managed to keep his grip. Then he began wriggling up the rope until he reached the bars.
He slipped through. An adult could never have made it. Even a boy with a slightly heftier build would have had trouble. But Rone was just skinny enough to make it.
The room was ornately decorated. There was filigree artwork, statues of marble and jade, and tapestries. He was looking for something impressive to steal when he heard a splashing.
Several women in various states of undress were swimming in a shallow pool. He froze, but none of them seemed to see him. They were all clinging to a floating green tube. They seemed frightened, and their eyes seemed to focus far beyond the walls. He decided they must be drugged with something, and made his way around, until he came to the Tyrant's bed. There he found what he was looking for. It was an artifact of the old world, one of the strange, jeweled rectangles they sometimes found in pleys containers, with the gold lines running along its green surface. It was the largest he'd ever seen, nearly as wide across as the length of his forearm. It must have cost even the Tyrant dearly to buy. He placed it delicately into his bag.
Then he took out the jar of paint. He cracked the seal, and then used a bit of the Tyrant's own bed sheet on the wall behind the bed. He'd had to pay a scribe to know what to do, and he copied the scratches on the paper slavishly. He had to get it just right.
When he was satisfied with his work, he went back to the balcony. He slipped through the bars, and threw the hook over to Totsch's office. He swung back across, and then clambered up to the window. He glanced inside to make sure no one was inside, and then made his way back down. This time no one challenged him.
He walked through the street with his narrow back straight and his chin high as any lordling's son. By the next evening, everyone in the city would know his name.

He woke the next morning when he was shaken by Priestess Gylia. "Wake up! Wake up, you little idiot!"
"Huh? Whuz?" he murmured.
"There are men all around the city looking for you. You have to get dressed immediately!" The silver-haired priestess hauled him to his feet, and shoved him in the direction of the hamper where he kept his belongings. "No, not that, something with a hood. You can't be that daft, and be in all this trouble."
As he blearily got dressed, her words sank in. Looking for him! The deeds of the previous day began to come back to him. He'd stolen from the Tyrant himself.
"Not that I think you did it," Gylia said. "Not even you would be stupid enough to paint 'My name is Rone' after stealing the Tyrant's favorite treasure. But they'll… Oh. Oh no, Rone. Please, please tell me you didn't."
"Um." Rone began to consider whether or not it had been quite so clever as it had seemed when he'd come up with the plan.
"Oh, good lord. We have to get you out of the city right now." She bundled him up, pulling the hood down over his face. "I know a caravaneer. He's not leaving until two days from now, but if you get out now, you can meet him on the road. But now, we have to get you out of the city before someone mentions you to the guard. Now, move."
Rone let himself be guided out of the room and out of the temple, pausing only to pick up his bag. Gylia led him down narrow alleyways and through busy markets, eyes watchful for the Guard. Once, a Guardsman had walked right up to them, but he was just asking if Gylia was going to be at the temple later. Money changed hands, and she promised she would be, for him.
When they reached the gate, Gylia put a hand on his shoulder. "Now, you must listen to me. Walk alongside the road for the rest of the day. That should put you far enough from the city. Hide there, and wait for a caravan to pass. Ask for Tenzin, and tell him that Gylia sent you. He will help you."
Rone nodded. "Thank you, Priestess," he said, then considered the guards. There were four, two watching the inside, two watching the outside.
Gylia followed his gaze. "You'll need to get past them. I can't help you. Priestesses are not allowed out of the city, and they'll be suspicious if I approach. Just tell them a different name, and pretend you're out to see your uncle or something. You have a clever tongue, boy. Use it."
"Th-thank you, Priestess," he said. He realized suddenly that he wasn't going to be able to come back to the city. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever. "I…" He didn't know what to say.
"Oh, Rone," she said softly, and she gathered him to her in a hug. "Be brave, be clever, and never stop running while you have breath to give." Then she released him, and she turned away, walking back to the temple.
Rone squared his shoulders, and walked up to the guards.
"Whaddya want, boy?" one asked. He looked suspiciously at the boy, his piggy blue eyes vivid against his dark skin.
"Sir," he began, about to tell him what Gylia suggested, then deciding to try something even better. "I know where Rone is!"
"Where?" the guard asked, standing straighter. The other three guards also looked on attentively.
"Want part of the reward," Rone said. "Otherwise, ain't telling."
"You'll tell, or I'm gonna black your eyes. Now talk," the guard said, leaning in close to Rone. The other three, including the two who were supposed to be watching the outside, gathered close.
"Awright, awright," Rone said, squeezing his eyes until a tear ran down his cheek. "I'll talk, just don't hit me. He's planning on escaping the city. He's coming here."
"What's he look like?" the guard asked. "No lies, now."
"He's short, and has brown hair, and that's him over there!" Rone said, pointing to a small figure hurrying through the open square.
The guards shouted an oath. The two from the inner gate ran toward the man Rone had pointed out, while the other two looked on. While their attention was focused inward, he slipped past them, and ran out the gate. He heard a startled oath behind him, but he knew it would take them a minute to run after him, if they even decided to. He kept to the road for a moment, then cut off, falling into a ditch then scrambling out again. Fields and trees stretched out as far as he could see. Which seemed an awfully far way. Was it normal to be able to see that far away?
There was a noticeable lack of alleys to duck into, or thick crowds to lose himself in. There were people on the road, and people working the fields, but nowhere he could simply vanish. That could be a problem very shortly.
He glanced behind him. There seemed to still be some commotion at the gate, but no one running yet.
"What are you doing in my field?" someone yelled. Rone froze, and saw a man in a straw hat running at him. It hadn't occurred to him that people owned fields, the way they owned buildings. He figured it all belonged to the Tyrant, until you were too far away to care about him.
He decided to take the halfwit approach. "S-sorry. I got c-confused," he said.
The man drew up, and looked Rone up and down. "Who are you?" he asked. "Why are you all alone here?"
"M'name's Hever," he said. "Gon' see m'uncle." He decided this was as good a time as any to break out Gylia's lie. It had been a good one, all things considered, and it was a shame to waste it completely.
The man's face broke into sympathy. "Your uncle? Whose farm does your uncle work at? I know every landowner around here. I'll help you find him."
Rone's face froze. How could the man know everyone? He hadn't counted on this. "At, uh, at, uh, Larn's farm," he said, giving the most common name he could think of.
"Hmm. Lots of Larns around here. Where did your parents tell you to go?" asked the farmer.
"East, sir," Rone said, giving the general area area the road followed.
"That doesn't narrow it down much. Can't you think of anything else?" the man asked.
"Not s'good at thinkin', sir." Rone was beginning to wonder if he should just make another run for it.
"Hmm. Well, I can't take you around to every Larn east of here." The man seemed to struggle with a decision for a moment, and then put a kindly hand on Rone's shoulder. "All right, you need to listen to me carefully, Hever," he said, speaking slowly. "You need to go down the road. Walk until you get to the big, wooden bridge. There is a farm after it. Go there, and talk to Caswin. He'll help you. Do you understand?"
"Down the road to the big wooden bridge," Rone repeated. "Talk to Caswin."
"Good lad." The farmer gave him a gentle shove toward the road, and Rone was off.
No one coming from the gate. They must have decided he wasn't important. He hoped it would be a good, long while before they found out how wrong they were. But now, the road was open, the sun warm, and the world was his. He hefted his bag over his shoulder and whistled as he walked.

Part Two
The rain poured down, and Rone shivered in the tree. He'd walked about a day's travel when he was chased from the road by a pack of wild dogs. After he'd gotten away from them by swimming in a river, he'd wandered lost a couple of days before being chased by a giant lizard, which was now waiting below, and he had no idea where the road was anymore. He was wet, he was miserable, and he was pretty sure he was going to die.
That was when the shouting began. At first, he thought it was another pack of wild dogs, with the howls and yipping, but there were words mixed in. Hard to understand, but he picked up "left," "right," and "closer."
Kangaroos jumped through the bushes, followed closely by dogs, and then men with white-painted faces and dark red hair. They threw spears as they ran, and a kangaroo leapt into the lizard, before being caught in its massive jaws. It turned to the hunters.
They scrambled to a stop, but didn't run. Instead, they formed up, those still holding spears taking point. The lizard hissed menacingly, but turned again, picked up the kangaroo, and waddled off, not willing to risk injury from the hunters.
"Hey, we got a boy in the tree!" said one of the white-faces. He wore leather breeches and a simple shirt, both in mottled grey and black. Others, dressed similarly, looked up.
"Strange fruit for a yook tree," another said, laughing.
"Is it ripe?" asked one.
"Go and smell for yourself," said another. "Oy, you in the tree, you coming down? Fangface is gone."
Rone gently lowered himself to the ground, and nearly fell as his much-abused muscles protested. "Th-thanks," he said.
"You're from the city," the white-face said. "You running away?"
Rone nodded cautiously. The nomads sometimes traded with the city, but it was said they had little to do with the guards when possible.
"Well, you'll come with us now. We saved you, you're ours now," said the white-face.
"What?" Rone was caught by surprise as two of them grabbed his arm.
"You have rules in the city? We have rules here. That's one. Now come. We have a long way to walk tonight."
They pushed and pulled him along until they met up with other hunters. His bag with its treasures was taken from him, and freshly-cut pieces of meat, wrapped in leather, were thrust into his arms. Hunters chatted amiably around him, occasionally giving him a shove or steadying him as he tripped. He wasn't so much dragged as he was caught up in a friendly, talkative stampede.
By the time they reached the camp, the rain had stopped, and the moon peeked out from above the clouds.
There were conical leather tents set up all around several big fires. Orange and blue pictures decorated each tent, and bells were strung from their tops to jangle in the breeze. Older men, children, and women stared at them. Their clothing was more varied than the hunters', with reds and yellows predominant. The older men had painted faces like the hunters.
The meat was taken from Rone's arms, and he collapsed to the ground. He'd never walked so much in his life.
He was hauled back to his feet by the first white-face. "I am Last Man. It's been decided that you belong to me."
"My name is—" Rone began, but was given a sharp rap on the head.
"Your name? Your name is you, or boy, or city brat. Don't talk to me about names. You're a boy, not a man." He gestured to one of the fires. "Now, sit down, get something to eat, and then go to my family's tent. The one with the man standing alone."
Rone did as he was told. The food was meat, vegetables, and roots roasted on sticks over the fire, and spiced lightly. It was delicious after a day of running. When he entered the tent, he found it already somewhat crowded with children, dogs, two hunters, and several women, including one who introduced herself as Straytaker. She fussed over him a moment in a way that reminded him of the priestesses, and then sent him to sleep on the blankets with the dogs and the other children. Rone gathered she was Last Man's wife.
As he laid himself to the blankets, shoving a puppy aside, he was already thinking about how he would escape. They'd caught him when he was weak and lost. But Rone had made a fool of the Tyrant. There was no way they could stop someone as clever as him. Not for long.

The next day, Rone was woken up by Straytaker shaking his shoulder. She thrust a bucket into his hands and told him she needed him to get water. She spoke slowly, as though he were slow or simple.
He hurried outside, and others stared at him. "Hey, city boy!" called out a girl about his age. "Where are you going?"
"Getting water," he said, a trifle defensively, not liking to be called city boy.
"I'll help," she said. "It's this way."
"I know," he said, though he didn't.
"Of course," she said, and her smile told him she wasn't fooled. Rone decided immediately that he didn't like her.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She stared at him for a moment, and burst out laughing. He definitely didn't like her. "I don't have a name! How old do you think I am?"
"Everyone has a name," Rone said, then paused. "Don't they?"
"No one gets a name until they're ready to be a man or a woman, silly. My mother's name is Third Arrow, because she shot a bandit with three arrows, and the third one killed him." She spoke as lightly as she might have talked about wearing a pretty dress, or making a nice pie.
"I… see," and Last Man's earlier words made more sense to him.
From her, he learned that most of the children in Last Man and Straytaker's tent weren't their own. Straytaker had only had a single son, who died soon after, and wasn't able to have anymore. So, they took in any children who had no tent to go to anymore. Ones whose parents had died, or, more frequently, had been taken from other tribes.
He asked about that, and it seemed that the nomad tribes often raided each other, taking children for their own to swell their numbers. Sometimes, a tribe could be eradicated that way. Though, when that happened, it generally transpired that another tribe would split up to take over the new territory.
"My father was from another tribe," she said. "He won't tell me which one, though. We're Ghost Hunters now."
Rone spent a lot of time with the girl over the next few days as he learned more about the Ghost Hunters. Not that he liked her, certainly, but she was willing to talk, and he needed all the information he could get. For her part, she seemed amused by his ignorance, which annoyed him to no end.
When they broke camp after the first week, she showed him how to pack up the tent leather carefully, folding it so it could be carried to the new location. Poles that were still in good shape were carried, while bad ones were discarded, to be replaced when they reached a new campsite.
Not many other people were willing to spare more than a glance at Rone, and when someone did speak to him, it was usually the way Straytaker did. Kindly, but as though he were an idiot. Last Man would occasionally look him over to see if he was still in one piece.
He waited until they were in the new place before he made his escape. He waited until the bustle of setting up was begun, picked up a bucket (in which he'd hidden his bag, taken from the back of Last Man's tent) as though to fetch some water, and began to walk away. He ducked behind some bushes, and was soon out of sight.
He ran after that, knowing that once they discovered he was missing, they'd follow his tracks. But not too far, he was sure. One boy captive wasn't worth too much effort. Once he got far enough away, they'd give up.
For a full day he ran, and it was night when he finally stopped, coming to rest in a copse of trees. He was lost, of course, but at least he was free. Then he heard someone shifting nearby.
It was Last Man. He was standing not ten feet away, leaning on a walking stick, a dog beside him. He didn't look angry, or upset, or even disappointed. Simply attentive.
Then he raised his stick, and the beating began.
When he was done, he threw Rone over his broad shoulders and carried him back to the camp.

Rone tried to escape several more times, but the result was always the same. Last Man would catch him, knock him around some, and then bring him back. He was never punished further, nor did anyone say anything about it, except the girl.
He became more adept at life in the camp, carrying things for the women and older men. He learned to help clean the tents, what the cooks needed, and how to take care of the bows the women were armed with in case of raids by other tribes, bandits, or monsters.
His old clothes wore away, and were replaced by leather breeches and simple cloth shirts. After that, he was more easily accepted among the Ghost Hunters. He was no longer called "city boy" by anyone except the annoying girl. She still nattered away at him, though he needed her to explain things less and less as months went on. Still, he spent time with her, as much out of habit as anything else.
He started playing with blunted spears with the other boys, learning to mock-fight with them, and to throw the shorter spears at targets painted on the ground or in trees. He grew taller, and broader in his chest. Soon, he was catching rabbits and lizards around the camp with the older boys.
One of the older boys, whom he mentally thought of as Sharpnose, was generally regarded as the leader. Rone got along well with him, and they started making plans for mischief. They would play pranks on other boys or on the younger hunters, go places they weren't supposed to, and generally find ways to entertain themselves.
Rone didn't think so much about escaping, or the city, or even how he had cheated the Tyrant. Mostly he thought about what they'd get up to the next day, or if the hunters would bring back new stories of monsters or other tribes.
One day, when he had been with the tribe for several years, Rone and the annoying girl snuck out to a nearby water hole where a bunyip had made its home. They climbed a tree and watched as the hairy, scaly monster attacked anything that came too close to its pond.
Suddenly, Rone glanced up, and spotted dust in the distance. He squinted, and made out men in the distance.
"Hey, look over there," he said, pointing.
The annoying girl shaded her eyes, and frowned. "They aren't our hunters."
"Let's go," Rone said, slipping down from the tree.
They ran back to the camp. Rone immediately walked up to Straytaker. "There are men coming. Not ours," he said.
"You saw this?" she asked, frowning.
"This isn't a joke, I swear," Rone answered. "Ask the girl."
The annoying girl nodded. "They didn't have white faces, and they didn't have any dogs with them."
Straytaker nodded, and then yelled for the other women. Bows were strung, arrows packed into quivers.
Rone and the annoying girl were ordered to stay with the tents and protect the other children. Rone knew they were being told to stay behind so they wouldn't get in the way, but he couldn't figure out a way to get away from all the others without being seen, so he waited while the women did their work.
Two hours later, the women returned, laughing and singing songs about war and rains of arrows and stones.
One of the women took Rone by the hands and swung him around when he asked what happened, and then kissed him on the cheek. The annoying girl seemed strangely upset by this, though Rone wasn't sure why. She wasn't the one who was kissed on the cheek like a baby. "Clever boy! We'll have a feast tonight."
It emerged that the women had hidden themselves well before the men got near, and then shot a flight of arrows into the ground in front of them. They were from the Black Swords tribe, who were usually friendly, so they hadn't been killed outright. But they'd had to give up their weapons and their finer clothes before they'd been allowed to leave. "And if any are still here when the hunters get back, they'll be mighty sorry!" the woman said, laughing.
But when the hunters returned, there wasn't a sign of any of the raiders. A few of the younger warriors were sad that they wouldn't have a chance to try their spears against swords, but it was generally agreed that the women had done very well, and that Rone and the annoying girl had saved the tribe from some mischief. Even if, Last Man pointed out, they shouldn't have been at the water hole in the first place.
That night, while Rone was dozing with a full belly, he was roughly pulled to his feet and hustled out of the tent before he could figure out what was happening. He stumbled forward in the dark, trying to figure out what was happening when water was thrown into his face.
His bleary eyes made out the faces of the hunters. Some held sticks, some held lengths of rope, and one held a glittering knife. A gag was shoved in between his jaws, and he was forced to walk away from the campsite.
When they had gone some distance, the gag was removed, and he was taken by the arms. The hunter with the knife (belatedly, he recognized him as Last Man) advanced.
"Hey!" he said, and tried to back away. But the others held him, and pushed him down on the ground. The knife flashed down, and cut away at his shirt. Then at his pants, and he was left naked to the stars. The hunters permitted him to stand.
Last Man whistled, and the other hunters formed two lines. "Ten times," Last Man said. "On your own two feet, to make a man. Start!"
Rone was pushed into the line. As he passed each man, he was struck with a stick lashed with a length of rope. He stumbled, but made it to the end.
"Nine times!" Last Man demanded.
Rone stumbled back through. And again. Twice, he fell to his knees, and made to return to the start of the gauntlet. But he finally made it through the tenth and final time.
Again, his arms were grabbed. But this time, it was merely to help him stand.
Last Man approached, and pulled a jar from a pouch at his belt. "Ten times. To make a man. Well." He dipped two fingers into the jar and came out with something white on them, which he spread on Rone's face. When he was done, he showed Rone his face in a piece of metal. White face. Ghost Hunter.
The others began to shout and clap. They gave him his grey-and-black clothes and a spear. He was slapped on the back, punched in the arms, and his bruised body complained again. But he wouldn't have traded any of those aches away.

He began to go out with the hunters. He was shown how to take care of his spear, and how to make a new one. His job now, though, was to run with the dogs and flush out prey for the older hunters, who would take the kill. He longed to test his spear out, but he was still much too new to be given that chance. He didn't even have a name yet. But that would come in time.
Sharpnose became a hunter not long after. The two remained friends, but there was now an edge to their friendship, a competition to see who could be the better hunter, who would earn his name first.
"You're just a city boy," Sharpnose said mockingly. "You'll be years before you get a name. If ever."
"You're too thick in the head," Rone replied. "Unless you earn it headbutting boulders, you'll be years before you do anything clever enough for a name."
They got into a shoving match, and ended up laughing in the mud until Last Man broke up their play fighting and told them to find something useful to do.
The annoying girl had less time to spend with him. Straytaker had taken her aside and now she was learning to use a bow, among other womanly duties. Rone felt a certain sadness with that. He'd grown used to her. She wasn't nearly as annoying as she used to be.
Still, they stole moments when they could. A few minutes at the campfire, an hour under the moon. He bragged about feats of daring during the hunt, one or two of which actually happened, while she told him who was fighting in the camp, who stole whose dinner, and other little inconsequentialities he couldn't have cared less about, except that he loved to hear about them from her.
One day, he returned from the hunt, and she rushed up and put her arms around him, grinning like a maniac. "You'll never guess what's happened!"
"I might," he said, pretending to be offended. "I can guess fairly well."
"I have a name!" she said.
"That's not how the game's played," he protested. Then it sank in. "What, already?"
"Oh, and I almost died," she added.
"What?" he said, his head spinning.
"Oh, you don't care about that," she said. "Anyway, my name—"
"I care!" he said.
"It's Breaking Stone," she said, ignoring him. "Straytaker herself gave it to me. Isn't that nice?"
"But how? I mean—" he started, but she was off.
"Oh, it was a nice little ceremony. She and the other older women painted my belly and my breasts in ochre. I'd show you, but, well, I don't think you're quite ready for that."
"How did you almost die?" he demanded.
She sobered slightly. "There's a monster. It came near the campsite, to a tree where the children were playing with the older dogs. No one could see it, though."
"It was hiding?" he asked.
"No. It was out in the open, but unseen. Not even a shadow. But it killed one of the dogs, and would have gone after the children if the dogs hadn't set upon it. They couldn't see it, but they snapped at it, and we could tell where it was. I threw a stone pestle at it, and it broke against it. I don't think I hurt it seriously, but it left anyway."
"We'll have to find it, kill it," Rone said, shaking. She'd been there! The monster could have taken her.
"Idiot," she said fondly. "What do you imagine Straytaker is talking to Last Man about right now? Her sewing?"
"If she's anything like you…" he grumbled, but took her point.
The next day, Last Man took all of the hunters aside. He repeated the story annoying gi-Breaking Stone had told. "We must find it, kill it."
"How did the dogs know where it was?" asked one of the hunters.
"By their noses, I imagine," Last Man said. "But they weren't able to do more than annoy it."
"What do we do, then? Fight blindly?" asked another.
"If we must," the old man answered. "But we'll try a smarter approach first. When the dogs corner it, we'll throw mud at it. With luck, that will reveal it and we'll be able to kill it more easily. Any questions?"
There were none. The hunters split into their usual groups and were off.
Rone kept with his dogs while the other hunters in his group spread out. They beat their chests and stamped their feet, hoping to draw the monster towards them. Rone felt like a coward, but was secretly glad he wasn't one of the ones making the noise.
Despite their efforts, though, the sun rose and fell without the slightest hint of danger. Rone began to wonder if perhaps the monster had left after all, perhaps going back where it came from to seek easier prey.
They eventually packed it in, deciding that night was no time to be hunting something that was already too difficult to see.
When they returned to the camp, though, they found they weren't the first group to return. There was a somber tone among the women, and the hunters looked frustrated and angry. There was a body by the main campfire.
Rone gasped. It was Sharpnose, his friend.
"We couldn't get it with our spears," a hunter was telling Last Man. "It moved around, and the mud was invisible as soon as it touched its body. The boy, he jumped at it, and I swear he held it for a moment before it struck him down. The dogs and our shouting drove it off before it could do more than worry the body, but it was too late."
Last Man stared at the young hunter's body for a moment, and then closed the eyes. "His name is Iron Hands. We burn a true man and a true hunter tonight."
Rone stood to the side as they built up a pyre, dressed Sharpnose in finer clothes, and sent him on to the next life. It didn't seem quite real. But there it was. Sharpnose would never boss anyone around again. He'd never get into mischief with Rone, or wrestle with him over a joke. It wasn't fair.
In a moment, the fire was in him again. The same fire that made him steal the Tyrant's treasure. It wasn't right that Sharpnose was killed. It was time to make things right.
His mind worked feverishly, and soon he came across a plan.
While the others told stories of Sharpnose, Rone went from one tent to another, and began to assemble the items he needed. He realized, in a detached way, that their owners would probably be cross with him if this didn't work. Possibly even if it did. But that didn't matter, because his plan would work. He would make sure of it.

He waited until almost dawn, and then set out to where Sharpnose and the others had gone. He didn't know it would be there, but he had to start somewhere.
He took out Sharpnose's bloody shirt, and tied it to the dog that had come out with him. He climbed into a tree, and threw a stick, which the dog chased, and brought back. Rone threw another stick. And another.
They kept this up for the better part of an hour. The dog rested on occasion, but after a suitable sit-down, it was ready to fetch sticks again. It didn't know why Rone wanted it to do this, but it would add to the pile under the tree for as long as he threw them.
Suddenly, the dog dropped the latest stick and growled. Rone tensed in his perch, and he heard the heavy breathing of something very large.
He also heard someone else approaching from back the way of camp. The hunters! Of course they'd be coming. He had to act quickly.
"Hey, ugly! Too ugly to show your face, hey? You want some meat, there's plenty in this tree. Try picking this fruit!" he yelled, shaking the branches.
There was a growling as something charged the tree. The dog held its ground until it was kicked aside, casually. It fell, but was on its feet again in a minute, snapping at something, but not quite finding it.
The tree shook as something hit it. It was big! Far bigger than Rone had realized. The branches were bending aside as whatever it was reached for him. He almost dropped to the other side to run, but remembered Sharpnose's face on the pyre, and steeled his heart. He pulled a bundle from his bag and dropped it.
It had taken him the better part of the night to make this net. It wasn't a very good net, at that. It was irregular, with holes of varying sizes and a loose weave. But all that mattered was that it would catch on the creature… and that it would keep the bells from the tents on it.
The net vanished as it landed, but he could hear the bells shaking. Now he jumped to the other side and began running towards the hunters. He saw them emerge into the clearing as a crashing sound indicated the monster had left the tree. "The bells!" he shouted. "Throw at the bells!"
They stared at him like he was mad, and he thought for a moment that all was lost. Then Last Man stepped forward.
He cocked his head, listened as the jangling crashing came closer, and then threw his spear. It landed, vanished, and there was a roar to tell it hit its mark.
The other hunters belatedly released their own throwing spears, and then readied their long spears, advancing on the creature. It tried to escape again, but now it was slowed down by the injuries it was already taken, and they could hear exactly where it was. They thrust into it again and again, and it fell to the ground. Still they kept stabbing, until they were sure it was dead. Then they built a fire around it and burned the body to invisible ashes.

"So, hunter," Last Man said later. "You are certainly a man now. You've paid us back for your life. What will you do now?"
Rone thought for a moment, and said, "I am a Ghost Hunter. But… I would also like to see more of the world before I settle down."

"Your name," the old hunter intoned slowly, "is Beller."
Artwork by Angus McLeod

"More of the world? What more is there to see?" Last Man asked.
"More monsters," he said. "More people. I have been in the city, I have been with the tribe. But what about other cities? Other tribes? I would like to see if there are other Wonders I might find. And maybe more things I might bring back."
Last Man whistled. "Those are mighty big ambitions. Don't you think you overreach yourself?"
"I have always overreached," Rone said, grinning. "It's how I got such long arms."
"Are you sure you'll be coming back?" Last Man asked.
Rone looked to the fire, where Breaking Stone sat laughing with the other women. "I'm sure. As often as my feet will bring me."
Last Man smiled. "Come back with treasures. Come back with honor. But mostly, come back with stories. She will appreciate those most of all."
"I will. Thank you, Last Man," Rone said.
"Oh, and city boy?" Last Man said.
"Y-yes?" Rone asked hesitantly. No one but Sharpnose and the annoying girl had called him that in years.
"Your name," the old hunter intoned slowly, "is Beller."


A rust-covered forest green 1976 Dodge Dart pulled into the parking lot of S & C Plastics with a rattle and a shake. With many an unpleasant grinding clackety-clack, the engine cut and the headlights went out. 7:30 am, local time. Dr. Marshall Grant, a not-too-pudgy entomologist of 42 with hazel eyes and soil-brown thinning hair, looked up at the neon sign with its broken ampersand and flickering ‘L' and gave a defeated sigh.
What the hell am I doing here?
Three weeks ago he had put in for a transfer. A change of scenery, Dr. Melcher had said. Just the ticket for getting out of that rut he was stuck in. Was it really a rut when one successfully had 7 years as HMCL supervisor of an SCP project, and four of those without any accidental exposures, breaches, or casualties? It should have been a great source of pride for him, a wonderful relief, exactly the kind of record any researcher should beam and brag about. He had served on SCP-400 from discovery through assessment and containment, even held the withered corpse in his own arms and fed it with a bottle. SCP-400-B was his baby. But to be honest, it was just a source of stress and worry and misery and depression. At least Marshall had learned to be honest about that. This was neither a punishment nor a demotion. Grant had come willingly.
Pure research. That's what. Goddamn crustaceans about to give me a heart-attack…
It was early enough that the night shift had just shuffled out, and the day shift hadn't quite shuffled in. Just a skeleton crew of guards and one or two post-docs burning the mid-morning oil. The parking lot was empty as you like it, with a faint rustling of the first autumn leaves the only—
“HEY! WATCH IT, MACK! I'M WALKIN' HERE!”
Marshall stopped dead, half in a cringe as he squeezed a bit of startle out of his eyes. “Oh! I'm sorry sir, I…” But as his head swiveled around to apologize to what sounded like a very burly man, there was no one. “…Didn't see you there?”
“Yeah, I'll bet you are. Fuckin' lunatic,” the voice came again. Grant wanted to relax but it… and he… What? No one was there! Nothing at all in the lot with him but a few cars twenty meters off and an oddly colored mantis slowly trundling along the pavement near his feet. Yet he had heard the voice clear as a bell and swore he smelled burning tobacco coming from some place.
It's just nerves, Marshall. Relax. First day jitters… yeah, that's it.
His badge swiped by the RFID reader, which beeped a friendly ‘hello' and turned its LED green just for him. The offices of the entomology department were empty, so he rooted around until he found the door with his name-plate on it and let down his briefcase on the desk. Site-87, he had been told, had a few ‘real card's on staff. It looked like it from the posters, photographs, and funny newspaper clippings that adorned all the offices he had poked his head into. Except his, of course. Grant traveled light, lived light, didn't care for too much unnecessary decoration. Dr. Melcher had said that might be a problem, too. Not enough color in his life. Who had time for color in a world where a mother couldn't even be certain if her baby was alive or dead?
Enough of that shit, Grant, he scolded himself harshly.
“Yo, those leaves are fuckin' beautiful!”
“I know, right! Lookit all them colors!”
The voices were faint, but he heard them distinctly. It sounded like a tourist or something. What did they call them in New England? Leafers! People coming out of the city in great droves at ass-thirty in the morning to watch the first rays of the autumn sun catch the foreign and marvelous colors ‘red' and ‘yellow'.
“Shit that's wicked pretty.”
Grant stood and darted to the door. No one in the hall. No one walking. No steady pat pat of footsteps or clicking of light switches or even squeaking of hinges. Just him.
“So how's the misses?”
“That bitch? Fuggeddaboudit. Almost bit my goddamn head off when I come home last night!”
Behind him, for certain now. He spun on his heels to the window in his office. Opened just a crack, he was hearing it through the screen. And there on the sill outside sat two…mantises?
“HAH! I hear that! Fuckin' broads.”
Mantis Religiosa, the European Mantis. He'd seen hundreds of them, dissected them, watched them eat one another during coitus, cut the heads off a few males himself just to watch them breed in captivity. And here they sat across from each other, hind legs crossed and covered in what looked like denim pants. One wore a baseball cap with a Yankees logo. The other a small bowler, with a cigar hanging from its mandibles. They cursed and laughed and joked and gestured to the scenery, sharing off-color remarks in exactly the manner that someone who had never been to New York might imagine city people to act. For Christ's sake, one even had a tiny gold chain around its neck.
Dr. Grant slammed the window shut, turned his back on them, and headed to the break room. Coffee. That's what's good for you, man. Clear your head a bit…
Through the pane of glass he could just barely hear one say to the other “Jesus, what's his problem?”

The intercom first squawkled to life at 0800. “Would Researchers Melville, Sarkhar, and Joyce please report to maintenance as soon as possible. The sponges have become animate and are holding janitorial staff hostage. Repeat: researchers Melville, Sarkhar, and Joyce to maintenance.”
Grant stopped in the middle of the hallway and quickly moved to the side just in case, watching and listening. Strangest thing…there wasn't any commotion. No lock down protocol, no station report instructions, no security personnel running down the hall.
… and no breach alarm?
Instead, there were just three faces he'd never seen before looking at Marshall oddly while he pressed himself against the wall. Gracefully as he could, Grant smiled, nodded, waved, and moved back toward entomology, making himself as small as he could.

“And here's the entomology Lab,” Dr. Churchwell said smiling as Dr. Grant took hold of the door and held it open for her. A bit old fashioned of him, but still a long way from creeper territory. “Not quite so well stocked as the one at Site-77 I'm sure, but we get by.”
“I'm sure it will be fine,” Marshall replied, looking around with hands planted firmly in his pockets. “Thank you for showing me around. I realize you're probably very busy.”
“Hey! Knock that shit off! That's my lunch!” They were back outside the window.
“Make me, ya ugly mug!” Harder looking, these two. Bandannas sticking out of back pockets.
“Motherfucker, I'll cut you!”
Dr. Grant's eyes widened as he watched the two leather-jacket wearing mantises struggling over the carcass of a luna moth on the branch outside the window. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat.
“Oh, it's my pleasure!” Mary smiled broadly. “Not much happening today, anyway.” She reached behind her and closed the window, shivering a bit, apparently oblivious to the insectoid knife-fight quickly escalating in the tree behind her.
Deep breaths. This isn't happening. She'd be saying something if it was. Get your shit together, Grant!
“Just curious; what brings you out to Sloth Spit?” (Marshall might have noticed that she used the British pronunciation “sloath” rather than the flatter American variant, but he was too busy trying to tear his eyes away from the assembling gang brawl beyond the window.) “We don't get many former HMCL's out this way and… I don't mean to pry but—My god, are you alright? You look pale.”
NoIAmBloodyWellNotAlright!
“I'm fine,” he said, padding some sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve and taking a tentative sip of his third cup of coffee that morning. “It's just…”
It's just that I'm seeing a veritable army of sapient mantises about to go all Jets vs. Sharks on one another over your shoulder. But other than that things are just peachy!
“…I didn't get very much sleep last night. Nerves, you know?” He chuckled in a half-hearted way and drank some more, wishing he had the irresponsible nature necessary to put a little whiskey in it. Mellow his ass out for a few hours.
“I see…” she said, not quite believing him. There was a pregnant pause. The rumble outside began to die down and the crowd disperse, hollering profanities behind them. A few corpses lay about the leaves, bleeding and making pained gestures as tiny red and blue lights began to flash from a nearby branch. “…Well?”
Grant snapped back to attention. “Hm?”
“What brings you out to 87?”
She knows. She knows you've lost it. Look at that pitying stare. God, is this what it feels like? Is this insanity? I don't feel very crazy…
“I… Doctor's orders,” He finally managed. “Psychiatrist back at Site-77 said it would be good to clear my head, let someone else deal with 400 for a year or two. Containment is stable and…” Green insects in NYPD blue with tiny badges on their chests slapped handcuffs on the ruffians that could still move. A female with curly brown hair flowing down behind her compound eyes screamed at the police to leave her baby alone. Grant needed out. Needed out right now. “I'm sorry, can we keep going? I've got a meeting with Director Weiss at 12:30.”
You idiot, it's only 9:45. If she didn't know before, she does now.
“…Yeah,” Churchwell said. A confused look was painted on her brow. “Sure thing. I'll take you up to records.” But that wasn't the whole sentence, Marshall could tell by the way her voice rose at the end. Mary Churchwell had just come as close as professionally possible to calling him a ‘weirdo'. “I'll tell you, as high strung as you are I think you'll like it here. Things are pretty hum-drum.”
“YOU SON OF A BITCH I AIN'T DONE NOTHING! FUCK THE PO-LICE!”
“I imagine they must be…”

“Reminder;” the intercom squealed at lunch; “Pumpkin Spice flavored beverages are strictly prohibited in light of the recent containment of E-8820. For details, please see Site-87 general mail 'Re: Subcutaneous Ginger', sent last Wednesday. Department heads, please forward to your teams.”
Grant looked down at his coffee and was very nearly sick. No one else dumped their drinks.

“Yo Vinnie, toss me one o'them beers?” It hadn't stopped.
“You got it!” It would never stop.
Tiny piles of foam poured over the tops of their equally tiny cans. The hallucinations were getting more vivid, he was almost certain of it. For Pete's sake, he could smell hops and barley wafting in through the screen.
“So,” Director Weiss said, looking over her reading glasses at her new recruit. His face was gray. He was sweating. Looked like he had spent all day on some kind of Scooby Doo chase. So she asked a question she knew very well that this man would answer with a lie. “…How has your first day been, Dr. Grant?”
“PAAAAAULIE! YOUR SISTER'S HOT!”
“Frank! I can hear you ya know! I ain't deaf!” She slapped him across the mandible with her long pincer claw. A gaggle of others in orange construction hats snickered and elbowed one another.
Goddammit, shut up! You're not real! GO AWAY!
“Good!” he said meekly. “Really good. Can't wait to… uh… can't wait to dive right in!” Grant could smell his own sweat steadily rising under his corduroy sport coat. He felt as though he'd been bleeding for hours; he was so exhausted. Palms wet. Mouth dry. Stomach doing flip-flops. Marshall was sure he'd have an ulcer by the end of his shift. Dear god, it wasn't even one o'clock yet.
I should just say it. She must have noticed by now. You can't even control your furtive glances out the window.
As if on cue, five of them fluttered by, carrying with them a boom box and a tiny square of corrugated cardboard. Some god-awful lyric from the days of Ice-T slithered into his consciousness on the back of the radio's maddening beat… and then they started to break dance. Funny, for exoskeletal beings, they weren't doing a very bad job.
Seven goddamn years working with a Type 3 cognitohazard and I get nicked my first day in Backwoods USA where nothing happens ever… It fucking figures.
“HA. Marshall, don't be so obvious. You look like hell!” the Director balked. “I have half a mind to order you back to your apartment for the afternoon, let you get some rest.”
TellhertellhertellhertellherNO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T DO THAT YOU WILL END UP IN A CELL GETTING PROBED AND DISSECTED FOR THE NEXT TEN YEARS; ARE YOU STONED?
“I'm sure I'll be fine. Maybe I'll go get some… fresh air over lunch or something,” he managed. Twelve mantis men drinking from brown paper bags were whooping and hollering out the window behind her. She looked hard at her new recruit, focusing on a spot directly in the center of his forehead. The volume began to crescendo outside and Grant fought his damnedest to keep focused.
“GO SHORTY! IT'S YA BIRFDAY! GONNA PARTY LIKE IT'S YA BIRFDAY!”
Was she staring him down? Trying to probe him? Digging the truth out of that tiny scrap of skull? He was suddenly conscious of the long silence passing between them when finally the Director rolled her eyes and slapped the desk so hard it made Marshall's palms hurt.
“ALL RIGHT! Enough is enough!” With one hard push and a spin, her chair soared to the open window, and her bony, gnarled fist banged hard on the screen. “Will you please! BE. QUIET!” Every last mantis, all at once, dropped what they were doing, stopped their chortling and taunting and dancing and arguing and fixed her with a stare. “People are trying to work in here today you…hoodlums!” The window slammed shut and the Director rolled back to her desk, smoothing the wrinkles in her blouse and sputtering her anger out through loose lips. “Fat lot of good fresh air is going to do you today… Sorry about that. There's only so much a woman can be expected to take.”
Dr. Marshall Grant's jaw fell so fast, he nearly chipped the linoleum tile.
“Which reminds me!” Director Weiss continued, pulling open a drawer and removing a manila folder labeled for general Site-87 access. “Here's the record we have of this ‘Leafer Mantis' phenomenon.”
“The… The what?”
“Oh, don't be cute. These rotten bugs come from miles around and infest this facility like the plague every year and I'm sick of it. We don't know what's causing it, but every late summer, something like ten thousand mantises start thinking they're people and giving my research staff a headache.”
“I…Uh… I imagine they must.” Grant was trying to decide if he had finally pitched his wobbly. But better to play along for the moment. “Why… Why haven't they been contained?”
The Director frumped in his general direction. “What part of ‘ten thousand mantises' did you miss? Besides, it's little more than a nuisance, but numbers seem to be rising every year, and they are increasingly hard to ignore. See if you can get with Churchwell, capture a few fresh specimens, and figure out what we're working with. Don't have a lot of time on this; the phenomenon generally peters out around the thirtieth.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Grant said, straining against a tide of relieved laughter. Of course. A Nexus. He felt dumber (and saner) already. “I'll see what we can work out after lunch. I think I will go take it in town, if you don't mind. It really is just.. haha! It's just beautiful outside!”
“Suit yourself.” The Director said, waiving him off with her hand and returning to her paperwork. Never could figure the new ones for a minute. They always seemed so utterly fascinated on their first day. Ah well. Two weeks from now he'd be bored out of his skull like the rest of them. Let him have his fun. “Oh, Dr. Grant? One more thing.”
“Yes ma'am?” he asked, practically glowing.
Director Weiss tied her face in a bow, and gave Marshall a good looking over, up and down and back again. “…Lose that suit, would you? I appreciate the professionalism, but you keep coming in to work dressed like that, everyone's going to think you're nuts.”

|Hub|


Look, I'm going to level with you: the Romans perfected time travel. Did it some time around 107 BC. Somehow, between reorganizing the army and becoming consul, Marius found the time, no pun intended, to develop mass, practical chronotransit.
Yes, we have proof. No, you're not cleared for it and you wouldn't believe me if I showed it to you. No, it has nothing to do with the Library of Alexandri — Look, the point is they never got around to using it and about a thousand years later the device had made its way to Baghdad when the Mongols invaded.
You haven't heard of the great Mongol Time Armies because Genghis didn't see too many applications for the thing. Took too long to figure out how to operate, for one; and besides, why mess around with barbarian technology when a horse would take you anywhere you wanted to go? But when the Great Khan died — after falling off a horse of all things — he asked for an unmarked grave, and by God an unmarked grave is what he was going to get. His most trusted adjutants started looking for a burial spot nobody'd find, somewhere suitable for a really eternal rest. That's when some enterprising captain turned to the machine, to find a future where the Khan had been forgotten. Kinda makes sense — Genghis could rest all the better if they let Time do the hard work of erasing his name first.
Rule number one of this post is that we don't know a lot about these guys — where or when they've been, or are going; how they've survived; even how they've been navigating all this time. Mongols weren't much for writing things down and as the hordette has never stayed in the timeline for more than twenty-four hours we've never gotten ahold of one to ask 'em anything. We know the departure was successful because they keep making social calls. Jumped in three times so far, in 1631 outside Magdeburg and again in Japan during the Warring States business. Left pretty quick both times, presumably as soon as they figured out that the Mongols weren't forgotten. Our only first-hand information comes from the Ulaan Baatar sighting in '85; that's how we know they've learned to read.
Containment has two parts. Each arrival emits a specialized radiation that the scientists upstairs monitor; if they manifest, an MTF'll go check things out, but don't hold your breath. Second part is keeping Genghis' memory alive so that they don't stop roaming — that's where you and I come in. We're low key — it's accounting work, really — sponsor a blockbuster here, fund a grant there. We've got about twenty million dollars in our endowment but don't let that go to your head. Director Sarangerel informs me that upper management would love to give us the axe, liquidate our budget and assign the case to General Monitoring. That nobody is less likely to be forgotten than Temuujen.
Maybe they're right. The Foundation deals with a hundred critters a day more likely to do more damage than the Little Horde That Could. I say, go and read about the sack of Baghdad and the fall of the Tangut Empire, the Battle of Liepzig and the depopulation of Persia — not to mention the destruction of Magdeburg, which I know our boys had a hand in even if there're no records of it. You ask me, it's not the public we're here to remind.
Eventually the Horde is going to stop — if the machine doesn't break, they'll find the oblivion they're looking for or get tired of wandering and stop anyway. Think two hundred Mongols couldn't cause too much trouble anyhow? Remember, we're talking about two hundred of the fiercest and smartest of the Horde which conquered everything from Korea to Kiev, who broke empires with bows for their Khan when he was alive, and are journeying hundreds of years for him now that he's dead. Who have no fear of the future and know just what our world has to offer. Who have half a million loyal soldiers waiting back in 1227 and access to a time machine.
You think they'll just go on home after a trip like that?