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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
-A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
Some stories are timeless, works of art that can be recognized and valued for hundreds of years. Others are lost in archives, buried underneath the refuse of knowledge that time brings about, true diamonds in the rough. Alas, this story resembles the latter.
Excerpt from the diary of Researcher Ryan Miller

December 19, 1970
What does it take to create a legend? Heroic acts, heinous evil, good storytelling? I think it's a bit of all three, plus more. Every hero has that unseen darkness within them. The heart is a strange thing. I think mine is pure. I hope I did the right thing. God help me.

In the year 1969, two Foundation Sites, one located in the Great Victoria Desert in Australia, miles from any sign of civilization, and the other on a remote island in the North Atlantic, the existence of which is completely unknown to all but the highest ranking Foundation personnel, experienced mass containment breaches at the exact same moment in time. These catastrophic incidents resulted in what was thought to be total loss of all personnel, as both on-site nuclear warheads (brand-new models based on American nuclear research at the time) were detonated. This was discovered to not be the case almost 45 years later.
An SCP, no longer even logged by the Foundation, that proved to be one of the most crucial objects ever to come into the Foundation's hands-
A Level 2 Researcher tasked with containing and researching a spatial anomaly-
Two inexplicably linked Foundation sites, burned into history, but unknown to most-
The perfect storm.
Begin Log
Ryan awoke to stomping feet passing by his personal office. Fuck, how long have I been asleep? He straightened his tie, dusted off his jacket, and took a swig of what was a hot coffee a few hours before.
The boots of a Mobile Task Force marched loudly down the hall, a proud puzzle piece of the thin screen that worked tirelessly to prevent total annihilation of life as humanity knows it.
Existence is pretty fragile, you know.
A normally bizarre day at the office, Ryan thought to himself as he wrote a report on a spatial anomaly that for some reason happened to be capable of warping objects and people between Site-220 (My home in the middle of this godforsaken desert, and where I'll probably die, he shuddered) that he had sent a D-Class through earlier in the day. The D-Class was sent right back looking shaken, with a note that read "You just teleported this fucker into my bathroom stall, asshole." Ryan chuckled to himself as he wrote.

Anomaly is not sentient as far as we know, however, if it is, it has a sense of humour. Locations objects have ended up include:
One (1) sheet of paper reappearing taped to the back of a D-Class at Site 234 with the note "Kick Me."
One (1) Male D-Class reappearing straddling a researcher in the middle of using the restroom

The PA system buzzed to life with a burst of static, followed by the voice of the Site Director, an American, using the worst fake Australian accent he could muster-
"Oi, we gotta Euclid Breach in the West Wing, part C. Fucked up its containment but it's aight, we got the wing on lockdown. Resume ya normal procedures.
"Asshole," Ryan muttered to himself. He kept writing.
Another day passed, and Ryan found himself back in the anomaly's containment unit, ignoring the interns gossiping about the breach that apparently was still going on out in the West Wing. Site 234 was on full preparation to receive a small red ball that would be sent through his SCP in a few moments, to see where it'd end up this time.
3…
2…
1…
Drop it in, boys.
And so, the Tale of Two Sites begins.

“I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss. I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy. I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
There's an old theory called "The Butterfly Effect" that dictates that every major event can be traced back to one little action or event. It's usually talked about in the concept of time travel, but it doesn't have to only apply to the past. And the Butterfly Effect coincidentally was what a Foundation Researcher named Ryan wrote his best paper in college about. So it's interesting that the Butterfly Effect is so important to this story.
When Ryan gave the order to drop a little red ball into a spatial anomaly, just to see what happened, he felt…off. Some people think that these little feelings are a “sixth sense” and the Foundation has certainly discovered weirder things. But Ryan didn't believe in superstition. Despite the fact that he spends a majority of his time around unexplainable, bizarre anomalies, he was stubborn. He chalked up these “feelings” to the human ability to think about the future, to consider what outcomes could result from an action.
Unfortunately for him, he couldn't foresee what his actions could lead to.
A researcher whose name and records were annihilated and erased from history with pure energy of shattering nuclei, instead of the usual Foundation black “Redacted” stamps, was monitoring the cell of an SCP that bizarrely managed to survive a nuclear blast and be recontained again, when suddenly, something that wasn't there before suddenly was. A small, red children's toy. What the hell is that? he wondered aloud as he phoned security.
The interesting thing about small objects is that when they start to move really, really, really fast is that they can be pretty fucking dangerous.
By the time Site 234's security arrived, the sight that befell them was absolutely bizarre- a bouncy ball, lacking the ability to lose its kinetic energy, bouncing back and forth across a room, speeding up as it went. It's unfortunate that the Foundation produces some really goddamn resilient bouncy balls.
The guards watched as a small red ball broke the sound barrier and shattered straight into the room next door, which housed an SCP that no longer exists at all.
Charles Dickens wrote a story of a freed man. This was no man.
The following chain of events is probably pretty violent, but an entity that can clone itself that has access to a portal to another site around the world, a brand new shiny hole in the door to its cell, a Level 4 Access card, and sentience cause a rippling series of events that led to the knowledge of what exactly happened to be turned to pure ash.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Ryan didn't know about any of this. He just sat back, and waited for something to be sent back through before the “portal” that was created at Site 234 vanished, which it usually tended to do after about 3 or 4 minutes.
He got a bit nervous when nothing came back.

And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire.
-A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.
Excerpt from diary of Researcher Ryan Miller

December 25th, 1970
Christmas alone again. He tells me I saved the world, but I sure as hell got just about nothing for it.
I miss my friends.

Now, modern technology like cell phones, and instantaneous communication were all but non-existent in the year 1964. Ryan's pet portal was the closest thing to it. But there were telegrams, and through hard (forced) labor of a lot of D-class personnel (The ethics committee wasn't really a thing yet) telegram lines had been lain from Site 234, in the middle of the Atlantic, to another Site in Europe. And so the line went, from site to site, one message,
BREACH
This message didn't need to make it to Ryan, because he saw the breach before his own eyes as a singular normal-looking human crawled through a 2-dimensional object that was hard to even look at. And then there were two of them. And then four. You see, when mitosis takes place in every cell at once, a lot of beings can be created pretty damn
fast.
Ryan didn't want to die.
Ryan was smart.
Ryan ran.
Order has a tendency to give way to chaos, and chaos has a tendency to give way to order. Site 220 was quite orderly. But that didn't last long. Security opened the door to try to contain the entities multiplying before them, but that was a mistake. Two sites, three breaches. You didn't think the first breach was over yet, did you?
Ryan sprinted through the hall. He didn't want to die. A storm of feet marched past his personal office, but this time, they were what was meant to be contained, not what was meant to contain.
Ryan ran again.
The spatial anomaly was still open. Ryan snuck back in to the adjacent lab. He stepped over gutted bodies of poor unfortunate souls. As alarms wailed in the background, Ryan heard footsteps at the door.
thump
THUMP
THUMP THUMP THUMP
Ryan's heart pounded the inside of his chest louder than a hundred anomalous entities could ever even try to, and he made a choice.
His pet project, his portal, his pathway to salvation, welcomed him warmly into limbo.

Limbo is a bit different than what he had imagined, Ryan thought. He hadn't expected a hotel room. A knock on the door startled him. He didn't get up to open it, but they came in anyways.
I had a feeling you'd end up here, eventually.
Ryan felt unsettled, but not scared. This wasn't the weirdest thing that had happened today.
So, where are you going? asked the unremarkable man dressed in drab clothing.
“I'm not really sure, I thought you guys would be choosing that for me,” Ryan responded tentatively.
Everyone says that. Do I look like God to you? He raised his eyebrows.
“I suppose not.”
Maybe I am. People always come through here sooner or later.
“What…is this place?”
To be honest? I'm not entirely sure. I've been here for a long time. Did I create this? I don't quite know. But you've sent things through here quite a bit lately. We've sent them to that island. I didn't really pay attention to where I was sending it. I hope I didn't cause too much trouble.
Ryan chuckled.
Oh, I can see it now. I'm so sorry.
“How can I stop this? I don't want them to die.”
You can't. I'm sorry, Ryan. You have a choice to make.
The black and white TV on a dresser in the hotel room cuts on, with two different images presenting themselves.
A charred and burned world.
Two charred and burnt Sites.
“I don't understand”
Are you sure?
Ryan wept.

Two sites, one man, and one choice.
Ryan was in a room. He didn't know exactly where he was, but he felt different.
He opened the door and saw a dozen humanoid figures turn their heads at him. Inexplicably, they ignored him. He walked with purpose, words seared into his head on repeat, explicit instructions on how to prevent the unpreventable. He released an SCP, then another one, then another one. They did exactly as the man had warned him, and another chain of events began.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Two nuclear blasts registered on Richter scales, and within just a few minutes, two nations had every preparation to end the world completed.
But as keys were turned, and papers were signed, history was suddenly, inexplicably rewritten. Not through some sort of reality-warping device, but through a simple action, one spark to ignite a gunpowder keg- or to keep it from exploding.
It was pretty simple really, A few skips let loose, and they went ahead and made some inexplicable things happen that planted seeds of doubt in some military leader's minds, and they stopped. Simple as that, really, A telegram from the site to the Russians and the Americans was all it took, after their attention was momentarily taken away by unexplainable events. A telegram sent from a bomb-proof bunker on an island nearby.
Ryan wept.


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LEVEL 129 - Flea rarely got the chance to see the world from such a height. Oddly beautiful, as ever. The sun was long set, leaving only a pulsing morass of neon beneath her dangling boots. A few arcologies shone like angular suns through their countless windows. Far more skyscrapers were entirely dark, cutting stark shadows against clouds. Hovering cars and spotlight drones flitted about. A few at her height, most far below. Beautiful. Alive.
The fist around her collar opened. She fell.
LEVEL 71 - In its scramble for safety, her mind grabbed tight around the history lessons jammed at the back of her memories. The cloudscape retreated in 3044. It left behind black steel skeletons. It abandoned strange factories. It disgorged chemical pools and smoking meteors. Humanity surged upward and rebuilt their empires with a furor unseen in anything but war. Years underground had not been wasted on idle tinkering. Cities sprouted like flesh. Cities metastasized like tumors.
The Great Lakes Megagrid rushed up to meet her.
LEVEL 28 - The wind stripped the band from Flea's bleached hair. It yanked the heavy coat from her body. It pulled at her, both her arms, both her legs. It muffled her panicked scream with its unending howl. An automated bus flashed by, algorithms dragging it inches away from her trajectory. No one inside looked at her. A passing drone did the same. The multifaceted camera slung underneath must have seen her. It made no move to help.
Webs of cables and trees of antennae passed on every side.
LEVEL 9 - Individuals in the crowd below stood out clearly. Pink hair fluttering in the damp air. Clothes crawling with animated characters. Halos of iridescent light fizzling against slow rain. People returning from their second shift. People leaving for their third. Most had their heads down, but someone looked up at her. Flea screamed again.
They screamed back.
LEVEL 2 - The streets were too bright. The people were too close. Everything was too fast. Her arms windmilled. Her legs kicked. Too fast.
Too fast!
LEVEL 0 - A yawning ventilation grate marked with yellow caution lights swallowed Flea whole.
SUBLEVEL 15 - The streets and sidewalks were but the flesh of the Megagrid. Its body extended below. Far below. That flashed past just as fast as the world above, only to a much darker depth. Orange lights illuminated service doors. Blue glows leaked out of exposed wireways. Pipes dripped. Giant rats scurried.
All fled upward from her.
SUBLEVEL 37 - Deep subway lines thundered past the ventilation shaft. Deeper ones lay dormant. A gargantuan worm crawled through the deepest still. Flea's throat hurt. Flea's eyes watered. She crashed through a sheet of pale fabric. Pale plastic? A pale membrane full of paler veins. Bits clung to her face. She hit another, and another, and a third thicker one. Her elbow caught in a dangling cable for a moment. Her feet hit another. A pipe cracked her ribs. A stone beat her hip.
Everything bruised, some things broke, but she slowed all the same.
SUBLEVEL 42 - Membrane. Membrane. Tarp. Membrane. Pipe. Pipe. Cable. Membrane. Cable. Cable. Membrane. Pipe. Cable. Cable. Tarp. Cable. Cable. Membrane. Membrane. Membrane. Membrane. Membrane. Cable. Pipe.
Membrane.
SUBLEVEL 44 - Trash heap.
SUBLEVEL 44 - Flea's mind finally let go of the history lessons. Its death grip on more pleasant times eased. It relaxed, as did her lungs. They heaved. She coughed. Everything hurt. No more hard thoughts, lest her body decided to die after all. She breathed. Bones ground against each other. She struggled to sit up. They ground louder. Being dead couldn't possibly hurt this much.
It wasn't so dark at the bottom of the shaft after all. A few emergency lights flickered at the dim perimeter of the trash sea. Things glowed at its surface too, lost gadgets and mysterious lichens. The foul tide shifted as Flea struggled to her feet, black boots sinking into the sludge underneath. Everything stank. Everything squirmed. Most of all, everything was illuminated by one giant sign and its furious light.
SITE-01 EMERGENCY SHELTER

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SCP-963: Bright's Burden
Dr. Felix Bright stared at the mirror. His eyes traced over every part of his body.
Neatly parted hair.
Large, round eyes.
Square jaw.
Thick, knotted hands.
Small feet.
Perfectly normal, for a human.
It was disgusting. He turned away with a sigh. If only he could be normal again, he thought. It's hard to lick yourself clean when you're stuck as a biped. He opened the door to the hallway, and began to push his way through the hordes of cats: researcher cats, D-class cats, agent cats, and more. To be trapped in a human's body, he thought, is a fate worse than death.
Photo Database: SCP-173

The Cat-ue.

Meow-ble Task Force Alpha-1 "Snake Charmers" member Agent Mittens stalked back and forth on the deck of the FSS Tabby. Her beret was cocked over one tortoiseshell ear, and her mouth-activated gun harness was strapped onto her underside.
"We have visual," said Dr. Sourpuss. He shuffled his over-fed ginger body to one side to let Mittens approach the television.
There it was. Catantashesha, some called it. She called it 'the worm'. It had the face of a cat, but only if that cat had lived a thousand thousand lives instead of the usual nine. Its unnatural, furry neck stretched through miles of ocean. It was slowly licking its wet, hairy body clean.
"Exudation in five. Four. Three. Two. One," said Dr. Sourpuss.
SCP-3000 stopped. Its eyes bulged wide, and its head retreated into its neck. It made a massive, underwater hacking noise, a sound like a nuclear torpedo. It hacked again, then stretched its mouth wide, wide enough to swallow a dozen lions. It then pushed out a hideous ball of slime and cat hair.
"There it is," said Mittens. "Thank the Cat Lord that the D-class don't know what we're putting in them. Grab the amnestic, and let's go."
The drone harvested the ball, dragging it into the FSS Tabby's cargo bay. Agent Mittens signaled the engine, and the Tabby pulled away from SCP-3000.
Mittens stared at Catantashesha, and Catantashesha stared back. "What have you seen, you old snakepuss? What secrets do you hold?" she asked. But Catantashesha didn't answer. They never did.
Photo Database: SCP-049

The Plague Veterinarian

"SCP-3008-2 are felinoid entities entities that exist within SCP-3008-1. They possess no facial features and in all observed cases have red and blue fur patterns consistent with the PetSmart employee uniform."
Junior Researcher Fluffy looked up nervously from her tablet. Still clear. She swiped again with her paws, saving the latest changes. Then she pressed the 'upload' button.
Fluffy climbed higher on her current perch, an enormous conglomeration of scratching posts and carpet-covered towers. The -2's usually kept to the toy and food sections, violently repulsing stray cats who wandered by looking for food.
She looked back at her tablet. No signal. "Littersticks," she said out loud, cursing. But there was no cat to reprimand her.
She leapt from platform to platform, hopping down to the floor. Her claws retracted, and she padded silently forward with tablet secure in her harness. "I'm going to have to find my way back out," she thought, "but I'm not quite sure which way that was."
A whirring sound broke the silence. The sound of a plastic ball spinning over and over and over. A plastic toy.
Her eyes widened, and she muttered, "Oh Fur Lord, I must have went back to the toy section. I have to go before-"
She turned, and there they were. Tall cats, short cats, stubby cats, even a three-legged cat. All faceless. All with red and blue fur.
That's when the howling started. "The building is closed. Please exit the building. The building is closed. The building is closed. The building is—"
Photo Database: SCP-085

Hand-drawn "Catsy"

S. Andrew Sweetum's Proposal: What Hath Man Wrought
05-1 squatted demurely in her litter box, extruding her droppings. With a quick flick of her foot she buried the detritus in sand and stepped out. A bright flare shot out, incinerating all traces of DNA. She liked to leave no trace.
She pushed through the flap and into the meeting room. The other 05's were here, except for -7, of course. The negotiations with Alpha Cat-auri couldn't wait, not even for this.
She groomed herself as she composed her thoughts. After a quick hack, she spoke.
"Our investigations into the recent database alterations have revealed something far worse than we expected."
The other cats glanced at each other, murmuring. The sound woke 05-9 up from his nap, upon which he proceeded to groom himself awake.
05-1 continued. "It seems that our universe may be the by-product of another universe. One in which we are but a mere construct."
She looked to the ground in embarrassment.
"A fiction. Written by amateurs."
The 05's collectively hissed as they raised their hackles. Only 05-2 seemed unsurprised, which was not remarkable, given her background in cataphysics.
05-13 spoke. "So you're saying that a bunch of cats are sitting somewhere, in another universe, typing everything we're doing right now? Everything we're saying?"
05-1 shook her head. "No, it's worse. They're humans."
Photo Database: SCP-106

The Old Tom

Charles Tabbington III, alley cat and family disgrace, lie dying of starvation in a cold, dark London rowhouse. The power had been shut off days ago, and the landlord had long ago given up any hope of collecting rent.
His sides heaved with his labored breath. His mind ran across his life in fevered flashes: an early life of pilfering poultry, service in the Great Intermammalian Conflict, hard living with catnip and fermented milk. Then thinking became too hard.
A light was struck behind him. He weakly dragged his head across his body to look. There was a sleek, black-haired cat on his dresser, lighting a pile of catnip. The stranger blew the smoke towards Charles.
Charles grinned, but even that effort was too much for his feeble body. He closed his eyes and sank into the bed. So this, he thought, is what it feels like to die.
The stranger leapt down and padded over to the bed. It started grooming Charles, cleaning out years worth of tangled hair and snarls. Charles could feel the years of filth and grime leaving his body, and years of pain and mental torture leaving his soul.
His last thought, as he died, was that after all these years, he finally felt clean again.


When the world is mine, I will tell them it is your fault.

Security Chief Nevada screams himself awake. He gets up, brushing off his uniform, and looks around at the wasteland that was his Site. Flames litter the hill, as do a few bodies here and there. Looking across the vast hills he sees the former base of operation. Though it's hundreds of feet away, Nevada makes out the damage instantly.
The once white walls are now stained with age, rust and smoke. He observes his surroundings, seeing bodies upon bodies strewn across the hills. The safest place ironically is the accursed Site that lies before him.
Nevada hobbles towards the base, the sun going down.

But how do you make the world fall?

The glow of the moon shines on the once thriving Site as Nevada finally reaches the entrance. He sees the slumped body of George Orson on the guard tower. Nevada used to greet George with a specific whistle to communicate who it was. He lets this whistle out.
George doesn't respond. Nevada looks at the old door which has his old employer's logo emblazoned on the direct center, somehow rusted with time. He looks at the entrance scanner, and into the retinal beam. It beeps acknowledgement, but the doors do not open.
Nevada reminisces having to call Site Director Anya about lockouts. He smiles as he hears the memory of her annoyed yells at staff to get the gates open. He smells the coffee on her breath.
Nevada sadly opens his eyes, and begins to pry the metal doors open, which screech with resistance.

Do you let it succumb to sin? To violence? No. It will be done by an indirect hand.

Nevada pushes the metal security doors open. An alarm on the ceiling wails, lowly and weakly.
“Security Chief Nevada, L3 Clearance, Code 1400512.”
The alarm stops, and a door down the hall slides open, metal scraping metal. It leads him into the security room, where he grabs a weapon out of the locker. He also attempts to open the camera room, but it stubbornly remains shut. His knocks, punches, and kicks do nothing.
Nevada attempts to fire upon the locks that hold the door, to no avail as well. He yells at the door, continually assaulting it between tears and rage.
A hiss, and the doors open. Nevada collapses to his knees.

In the end, there will be nothing left.

The former Security Chief hears talking behind him. It sounds like his coworkers, no- his mother, calling out his name. He turns around for a moment, searching for the source of the noise, but only sees the monotone hallway. The chanting is sourceless, or at least it seems to be.
“Ahm.”
“Ahm.”
Nevada realizes the chant doesn't even exist. He turns back to the room.

No gods.

Nevada enters, searching for footage of the previous night's events. Unfortunately, all of the security logs are corrupted, all except for the last 2 hours. He accesses the remaining footage, wincing as the struggling computer releases a high-pitched whine.

No kings.

The footage takes a second to turn on, only revealing Nevada as a child, crying. The Security Chief reaches out, touching the screen. The person operating the camera speaks softly.
“Now, Nevada, if you really wanted to go to James's house, you shouldn't have been so impatient with your father and I. We know you want to see him again, but we can't do that anymore.”
The young Nevada in the recording stares into the camera. He stops his crying, and whispers to Nevada in the room.
“If only you grew as green as I.”
Nevada panics and slams the stop button. He fearfully presses the folder with the actual footage.

No beasts.

Nevada scours the last 2 hours of film, seeing nothing but still bodies and spreading fires. He slams his fist on the table in despair. A perimeter alarm sounds. Nevada looks around in a mix of fear and hope.
The cameras cut to the outside. The moon and fire provide all the light he needs to see.

There will be only one.

Tears drop from Nevada's face. He silently prays to no one, and has the smallest hope that something will go right.
The screen is obscured by a disgusting green substance, but is transparent enough so that Nevada can see masses of bodies shuffling behind it.
“Ahm!” A voice cries.
His hope goes away. The screen slowly fills with a bright green, before cutting to black.

And you will fear me.

Security Chief Nevada slowly rises out of his chair. He pulls his weapon out, and fires a shot at the screen in front of him. The chants only get louder, and he bolts out the door.
Klaxons blare as Nevada opens the door to the Site. The heavy doors seem to take an eternity to open. Readying his weapon, he ignores the sweat dripping from every pore in his body.
“The Masquerade is Broken, but all curtains can be pulled back.” Advice from his first day.
Nevada hears breathing. It's disturbingly close, but he knows it's coming from behind the door.
“The confusion will bring chaos, but you will avert it.” His own mantra.
A large, sickly, green hand grasps through the door, and begins to pry it open faster. Nevada fires, only for the bullet to immediately arc toward the ceiling. He continues to fire, though each bullet flies in a new direction. The gun clicks, having emptied the final round.
“Never stop the fight.” His father.
The door falls away, and Nevada's vision is filled with seas of Foundation employees, staring at him. He yells in agony, for none of his former colleagues have a face, even though he can hear their chant.
The sickly hand pulls itself from the crowd, morphing into a sickly being. The mass of green blood and tentacles becomes a humanoid creature. It raises an arm forward, extending to reach Nevada. It grasps his shoulder, pulling him within.
The former Security Chief drops his weapon, and willingly walks into the being in front. He enters the chest, its wet embrace welcoming him. He hears the cry once more:
“Ahm!”


A man enters the craftsman's workshop. The room is dark, its windows encrusted with frost - only the faint light of an electric lamp in the corner provides some modicum of visibility. He shuts the door behind himself, cutting off the encroach of Russian winter.
The man looks around wearily until he spots the craftsman himself, who gives him a small nod. They know each other well, and the craftsman knows why he is here. Repayment, for a long-forgotten favor. A wooden box is deposited on the counter, and turned towards the man. He undoes the latches carefully, and lifts the lid.
Laid bare upon a velvet cushion are two metallic shapes. To the man, they are both universally familiar and utterly alien. Their matching blades, monolithic design, and visibly sturdy mechanisms speak to him on a level that is beyond words. Lifelong companions, bane to the ever-returning flesh. They are the craftsman's finest work, and possibly his last.
A gloved hand is laid upon black rubber, molded to fit that very same hand. Fingers brush over a tiny, engraved symbol - the letter "P", crossed over with a sickle and hammer.
The man looks the craftsman in the eye, his silent gaze carrying a lifetime of untold thanks.

A man enters the craftsman's workshop. Dust blows through the cracked windows, and the door which he closes behind himself is more hole than plank. Shaking some of the ever-present dust off his weathered greatcoat and battered hat, he approaches the counter.
The craftsman eyes the man wearily - they are not acquainted, but he knows why the man is here. He reaches under the counter, and produces a metal box, which he places unceremoniously in front of him. A rusted metal key follows suit, and the grating screech of the lock causes even the newcomer to grimace. The craftsman lifts the pitted lid, and presents the objects within to the man before him.
These have gone unused for a long time, for lack of need. That is about to change. Harsh rays of light glint off polished steel and carved mother-of-pearl, curving strangely around symbols not meant for human eyes to see. Both of the men present see them anyway.
The newcomer takes one of them, and glances down its sights. The craftsman knows it is not loaded,
but is filled with unease nonetheless. The symbols seem to pulse more violently - slowly, the craftsman reaches beneath his counter.
The man nods approvingly, and hands it back, to the craftsman's relief.

A man enters the craftsman's workshop. Dust is shaken down from the ceiling every once in a while, as cannonfire echoes through the building. The craftsman is relieved to see the man, and offers him a drink. The man refuses.
The craftsman nods understandingly, and retreats into the back room. He returns shortly, carrying a glass-topped case. From within, he produces an object, and hands it to the man. Conceived by great innovators, and discarded soon after - deemed impractical for its time. Times have changed, and the craftsman knows this very well.
The man takes it, and inspects its workings. Its design seems strange to him, but suitable for the task at hand. Unorthodox problems require unorthodox solutions, after all, and his quarry is as unorthodox as they get. The craftsman hurriedly lectures him on the operation of such a complex device, but the man silences him with a wave and a smile. As he cocks back a handle of polished resin, the room is filled with a strange crackling and the smell of ozone.

A man stumbles into the craftsman's workshop. Blood drips from his ragged coat onto the floorboards, scattering moonlight. The craftsman expresses his dismay, until he hears a distant, inhuman screech. His eyes widen.
The stranger is calm, and explains to the craftsman what he needs. The craftsman listens, and begins to remember. Faint glimmers of a story, some universal thread, come to him as he rummages through his supplies, and unearths and old and battered box. From within, he draws an object he has never seen, and lays it before the stranger.
The stranger picks it up and weighs it experimentally, running his hand over cracked wood and tarnished metal. Already, in his mind he sees it pierce through ragged hide, rend flesh and crush bone. He grins.

Everywhere, everywhen, each hunter of monsters utters the same timeless words.
"This will do."

| Igni Ferroque | [COMING "SOON"] Where the Grass is Greener »


March 23rd, 1868
The streets of Riddle were abuzz with chatter as they saw what was likely the most garish thing they'd ever seen approaching down the central street way. Drawn by two haggard horses was a carriage that was at one point brightly painted, but had faded away over years of undercare and lack of touchups. Between the mostly-working lights and the cartoons of William Shakespeare were the words "Fantasyland Players", though the S and the L in first word were so far gone that one could assume they were never there.
Guiding this carriage was a young woman. Tired, her beauty was hidden beneath dozens of sleepless nights and a bandana she wore around her mouth. Where one would normally expect a left leg, a fleshy stump wrapped in bandages took its place. If a person had eyes, they could pretty clearly see that this woman needed help. Fortunately for her, most of the population of Riddle had eyes.
"Help, we need a doctor!" shouted the woman hoarsely, "We got folks sick with the rottin' plague!"
With the name drop of the rotting plague, most of the town cast aside their sympathy for the tired girl and gave the carriage an exceptionally wide berth. One citizen, however, was curious. From her shack, she heard the young woman's cries. As a doctor, she was obligated to help. Adorned in mask and gown, she made her way to meet with the carriage and its driver.
"Please…" the woman begged, losing hope.
"No need to ask further." said the doctor as she approached from the saloon, "I'm a doctor."
The woman turned her head towards the sound of the voice. She sighed in relief, and slowed the horses to a stop. The doctor waited patiently for the woman; rushing anything involving the plague would get nobody anywhere. As the young woman gathered her crutch and tried to get down from the carriage, the doctor gently patted one of the horses on its nose. If only she were a veterinarian, she could possibly help these as well.
The young woman staggered as she stepped down, doing her best to keep balance on one leg before using her crutch once she hit dirt. Once sufficiently balanced, she pulled down her bandana and gave a tired smile to the doctor. Aside from a splotch of dried blood beneath her pointed nose, she looked healthy, no signs of the plague.
"You're not infected." stated the doctor.
"I was infected." said the young woman, gesturing to her stump, "Had to cut it off. Someone needed to drive the carriage."
The doctor tilted her head down to look at the stump. Obviously she didn't have the proper medical equipment to keep it from getting infected with other sorts of bacteria, and it would likely need to be cleaned if she didn't want to die after getting all this way. Despite that, it's impressive that she was able to perform such a stressful surgery on herself and survive to tell the tale.
"How old are you, miss?"
"Sixteen." said the young woman, "And it's Leslie, by the way. Leslie Gilroy."
Leslie extended a hand out to the doctor to shake it. The doctor took it and gently shook it in reply.
"I'm guessing the infected are in the back, then?" the doctor asked, breaking the handshake and moving around to the back of the carriage.
"Yes. There are seven of 'em. There… used to be eight." Leslie said, "Some of 'em are in a pretty bad way. Especially Ducky's lil' girl."
"Ducky?"
"That's just a nickname." Leslie said, "Can they be cured? Of the plague?
"I'm certain they can." the doctor said flatly, "It will take time, however."
"Oh! Thank you, thank you!" said Leslie, threatening to jump but stumbling and nearly falling over.
The doctor eyed Leslie, feeling sorry for the sight she's making, "Seems as though I may need to work on you as well."

April 7th, 1868
Leslie knocked gently on the door; she didn't want to wake anyone up while they were getting their rest. After all, the doctor said that proper rest and recovery was key to healing. Leslie took the brief moment between the knock and the eventual door opening to lean against the wall, taking some weight off of her prosthetic leg. She felt embarrassed, like she was a baby trying to re-learn how to walk. She hoped she wouldn't need to take as many frequent breaks soon.
Leslie heard the doorknob turn, and soon saw the black-robed figure of the doctor once more. Leslie smiled, glad to see that she didn't look as overwhelmed as she was when she first handled the seven of them.
"Afternoon again, doctor!"
"Have I been working that long?" the doctor asked, "I suppose time does fly when your hands are full."
"Ya didn't hear the clock tower?" Leslie asked, "I may be new here, but I've found that it's pretty darn useful if ya wanna keep track a' things!"
"It seems I got a bit too invested." the doctor said, "They're fine, if you're wondering. Still asleep for the time being."
Leslie sighed. She cared a lot about her friends. Hell, she would consider them family, even. A weird, dysfunctional kind of family, but a family. She wanted to get back on the road with them, singing songs and practicing lines. Showing up in villages and towns, performing new plays or making up ones on the spot. It was the moments of quiet that got to her the most, the times where she resented things like Pete's Oboe or Ducky and his daughter squabbling became fond memories that she tried to cling onto.
"You seem pretty thoughtful there, Miss Gilroy." the doctor noted, closing the door behind her, "Considering everything you've gone through, I bet you've got quite a few thoughts in there, don't you?"
Leslie nodded.
"Aside from our brief introduction, we haven't exactly had much time to talk. All I know is that you rode in here on a carriage full of bodies and a missing leg you amputated yourself. Surely there's a story that goes along with that, wouldn't you think?"
"I mean…" Leslie paused, "A-are ya sure? I wouldn't be keepin' ya from anythin'?"
"As I said, they're still asleep. I have bells tied on their wrists in the case that they start showing convulsions. If something goes wrong, I'll be able to hear it." the doctor explained, "So, why don't we just sit down and chat?"
Leslie looked around the hallway, trying to find a chair. "Sit where?"
"On the ground, obviously." the doctor said, sitting crosslegged in front of Leslie, "Don't be so nervous, I'm sure you'd like a break from putting pressure on your leg."
Leslie went against the doctor's orders and laughed nervously in reply. She hesitated, then followed the doctor's lead, sitting down crosslegged. It did feel a lot better, honestly. The prosthetic may help her get from place to place, but damn, did it itch sometimes. Leslie took this opportunity to scratch between the prosthetic and the scarred skin of her thigh.
"You know, I still don't know how you were able to do that." the doctor said.
"Do what?" Leslie asked, looking at the doctor while still scratching.
"Amputate your leg. I wouldn't have taken you for a girl who knows her medicine."
"I read a lot. Anything I don't read about I pick up elsewhere. Learned about the rottin' plague at a colony we stopped by for a performance. Kinda had to be a quick learner there."
"A colony?"
"Yep. Whole town a' people with the plague. Run by some guy, forget his name though. Think it's… Joe?" Leslie mused to herself, "Don't really matter now, I guess."
"I would like to learn a bit more about that colony eventually… but I suppose if you don't want to talk about it right now, I understand."
"Thanks… 'preciate it." Leslie said with a small smile.
The two were quiet for a moment, pondering the words that were just said. The doctor saw a drive in this woman that she admired, a willingness to learn and a desire to do what's right. Leslie saw this woman as an intelligent, caring person who wanted to help the world however she could, even in small ways. Leslie decided to break the silence.
"Do ya like readin' much, doctor?"
"Hm? Oh, of course. When you see the sort of thing that I see in my work, it's easy to feel a reprieve in literature. I find a warm comfort in knowing the protagonist will overcome their own personal challenges in some way, whether it be vice, disease, or some other trauma."
"Not all books end like that, though. Titus Andronicus ended with everyone gettin' killed. Even Titus, he got killed by Saturninus."
"You've read Titus Andronicus?"
"I performed it. I was Lavinia! I'm usually playin' roles like Lavinia, actually."
The doctor briefly considered but then decided against bringing up the potential psychological impacts of playing characters that are at all similar to a girl who was raped, disfigured, and then killed. She was worried, but she didn't want to pry; not now, anyway.
"In any case, that story is a tragedy. When I want an escape, I reach for a comedy." the doctor said.
"That does make a bit more sense, yeah. If ya live a grim life, ya wanna read about lives not-so-grim, right?" Leslie asked.
"Well, in a sense. I wouldn't necessarily say my life is so terrible, though," the doctor said, "I won't lie, it's not an easy life, and I don't exactly do this for the pleasure of cutting open diseased bodies."
Leslie grimaced at the mental image.
"But, I know that I'm good at what I do. The fact that I'm good at what I do means that I can help other people have a life that is, well, a life not-so-grim."
"Huh," Leslie said, "Ya know, that's actually… that's a real nice way of livin' yer life. Bein' helpful and kind and such."
"Thank you." the doctor said with a nod, "Have you read Great Expectations?"
"No ma'am. What's it about?"
"Well, I-" the doctor was interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing from inside the patient ward, "Excuse me, this shouldn't take more than a moment."
The doctor gracefully stood up, dusting her robe with the back of her hand. She opened the door, gave Leslie a curt nod, and closed it so she could work. Leslie liked the doctor. She hoped that they could talk more soon.

April 16th, 1868
Leslie sat down on the chair and removed her prosthetic leg. The smell alone could tell that she had been neglecting to clean it like she promised. She was dying to scratch it, but knew that it would only make things worse. The doctor saw this whole scene and sighed in disappointment.
"I expected better from you, Leslie." the doctor said, "Now we need to cut away the necrosis and re-suture the wounds. You remember how much that hurt the first time, don't you?"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry doc, I just…" Leslie sighed, "I just really liked that book ya gave me. I've been reading it every day since ya gave it to me!"
The doctor quirked an eyebrow, "I wouldn't have taken you for a slow reader."
"I ain't slow! I just read it a bunch, tryin' to find things I missed!" Leslie said, a little indignant.
The doctor opened her mouth a little in shock, but then brushed it off with a laugh, "My deepest condolences for underestimating you."
As the doctor rolled up Leslie's pant leg, Leslie winced.
"It's still sensitive."
"I'm trying to go as slow as I can." the doctor reassured, "I'd give you morphine if there wasn't a bit of a shortage."
"Sorry…"
"Don't be. You aren't one of the seven people who need to be operated on."
"Yeah but… I brought 'em here…"
"You shouldn't be sorry for saving their lives, Leslie."
Once enough of the stump was uncovered, the doctor took out her operating tools and began to cut away. A few of the stitches had already fallen out, which made taking out the other ones easier. Dead flaps of skin that were turning a sickly shade somewhere between red and black flopped uselessly from the stump. The doctor had seen worse. She'd seen worse today with her friends.
"I mean… I'm not the one- ah," Leslie winced again as the doctor began to remove some of the stitches, "Not the one doin' the savin'."
The doctor sliced carefully around the dead skin. Drips of blood fell to the ground. The doctor gently dabbed at the fresh wounds with a damp towel, cleaning off the dirt and discharge. Minutes pass, the injuries begin looking more healthy. Leslie still had to hold back her hand to keep herself from scratching while the doctor operates.
As the doctor gave Leslie another towel to bite on, she began to thread the needle for the new stitches, "I'll warn you to know when you need to bite down hard."
Leslie nodded.
The doctor leaned in to get a better look at the wounds and prepared her needle to sew. Just as she was about to begin, however, she noticed something a bit further up the thigh she didn't notice before. A scar. Three of them, older, not ones she had left behind. The straightness of them made it look less like an accident and more like an intentional cut. Leslie's eyes were squinted shut and she had already begun biting down on the towel anyway.
"Leslie?" the doctor asked.
"Shud ah beht dawn?" Leslie muffled through the towel.
"Not yet, but, may I ask where these came from?" the doctor asked, tapping gently one of the scars.
Leslie opened her eyes to look where the doctor had tapped. Her face instantly changed from worry to panic and fear. Leslie tried to pull down the pant leg and spat out the towel.
"You shouldn't worry about that!" Leslie said, "It's nothin'!"
"I'm a doctor, it's my job to worry about injuries." the doctor said, "Why shouldn't I worry about it?"
"Because… because…"
"If it's something you want to keep a secret, you shouldn't worry about me." the doctor said, "I'm not one to gossip."
"Just…" Leslie sighed and looked away, "Please… it's nothin'… can ya just let it go?"
The doctor was silent for a beat, but eventually nodded, "Fine. I'll stop."
"Th-thank you." Leslie said shakily.
The doctor picked up the towel from where it fell and gave it back to Leslie, "You dropped this. I know you'll need it for what's going to happen next."
Leslie looked back to the doctor and gave a thankful smile. She took the towel and put it back in her mouth, preparing herself for the inevitable suturing and pain that comes with it. The doctor's thoughts could not escape those scars. The way that Leslie reacted when she noticed them. Whether someone did it to her or, God forbid it, she did it to herself, she wanted to find out. But now was not a time for asking questions.
The doctor began sewing the wounds. Leslie screamed into the towel.

April 24th, 1868
When Ducky came to, all that he could really comprehend was that the room was too damn bright. Smelled like shit, too… Jesus, what the fuck was that smell? It was like iron and meat and… lavender? Ducky tried to raise his arm to rub his eye, but much to his surprise, he could barely even feel it.
"Wh… what the fuck?" Ducky said to himself.
"I wouldn't try to move too much, sir." a voice said next to him, "Your body is already under a fair bit of duress from the surgery."
"The fuck? Who the fuck are you?" Ducky said, opening his eyes wider and trying to turn his head to the voice, "What the fuck did you do to me?"
"I saved your life." the voice said, "Leslie, your… companion? She drove for weeks to get you all help."
As Ducky's vision cleared, he could see the source of the voice. It was a woman, dressed in a long black robe. He hair was tied back and she wore half of a glass face. Ducky would have thought she was a specter of death if he were superstitious. Whatever she was, Ducky was furious at her.
"Tell me what you fucking did to me!" Ducky said, letting spittle fly, "What the fuck happened?"
"You… are aware that you were infected with the rotting plague, are you not?" the doctor asked.
"The rot-" Ducky interrupted himself, memories of the days leading up to this flooding back to him, "Fuck… FUCK! Those fuckin' rottie sons of bitches tried to kill us! They don't respect the art of the fuckin' stage!"
"Regardless of what happened, what matters now is you no longer have the plague. You are cured, as are your friends." the doctor said, gesturing behind Ducky.
Ducky achingly flipped over in bed, letting out a grunt. There they were; Pete, Patty, Mark, Mikey, Bobbie-Sue, and thank fuck little Lilly, too. He squinted, and then realized that some were missing.
"Where the fuck is Billy?" Ducky asked, "And where the fuck is Leslie?"
"Leslie was the one who drove you to my care." the doctor said, "And Billy, well, Leslie told me he didn't make it."
Ducky turned back to the doctor, his face once again turning red with anger, "You let Billy die?! You piece of shit!"
The doctor sighed and put a hand to her forehead, "My condolences, but I didn't let him die, sir. He died before I even had the chance to try."
Ducky grumbled, "Fuckin' Leslie lives but ol' Billy dies… 'course…"
The doctor tried to keep her composure as she continued to calmly speak, "Speaking of Leslie, she's been worried sick for all of you for the last month. She did so much to make sure that you all made it here safe."
"'Course she was," Ducky said, "We're her fuckin' family. Or close enough at least."
"You're Ducky, correct? The show runner of your group?"
"Just a nickname. But yeah, that's me." Ducky said, "Charmed, I'm sure."
"You wouldn't happen to know why Leslie has multiple knife scars going up her inner thigh, would you?" the doctor asked.
"'Scuse me?" Ducky asked.
"They weren't unintentional, I could tell. They were blatantly deliberate." the doctor added, "The only reason someone would deliberately cut down there would be to hide the wound."
Ducky remained silent. Then he started smiling. Then he started chuckling. The doctor had a good feeling that she and Ducky wouldn't be getting along.
"That'd be my work, if you're wonderin'." Ducky said, "Leslie's a bit of a wild child. If you've known her as long as we have, you'd know she's prone to disobey orders. Ungrateful little shit."
The doctor was stunned at how casual Ducky spoke. Like he was telling the setup to a joke.
"She shoulda acted more like Lilly. If she did, maybe she'd get the Juliet roles more." Ducky said, "You know my girl Lilly? Beautiful girl, always does what she's told."
The doctor didn't respond to the question. Ducky rolled his eyes.
"Look, I can tell you've never had kids. I've had two. One a' my blood and one off the streets." Ducky explained, "Everyone knows that ya gotta show 'em a little tough love if you want 'em to listen. I usually do the usual slap on the ass, but sometimes ya gotta go a little further. I don't like goin further, but I don't wanna be a neglectful parent."
The doctor balled her fists. Her eyes darted to her surgical kit. Accidents happen during operations, perhaps a slip of the knife that lands on a vital artery. A mistake surely, even professionals… no. She wouldn't. She wasn't going to stoop down to that level.
"I need to step out for a moment. Take your time to recover, you should be back to normal in due time." the doctor said, standing up from her chair.
"Don't fuckin' judge me for doin' my job. I'm a father as much as I am an actor." Ducky hissed, "You wouldn't understand."
The doctor didn't say anything as she promptly left the ward and closed the door behind her. As usual, Leslie was just outside waiting for her to report back. She was getting better at standing on her new leg, not needing to rely on leaning on the wall nearly as much as she had to before. Leslie looked worried.
"Are they okay in there? Ya said that they should be up soon, right?" Leslie asked expectantly.
The doctor still had flashes of rage across her face, but they faded upon seeing Leslie again, "They're fine, Leslie. Some of them are stirring, but… don't visit them just yet. They need to take time to get back up."
The worry in Leslie's face immediately vanished, replaced by a joyous smile. She staggered forward and wrapped her arms around the doctor, squeezing her in a tight, thankful hug.
"You're the best, doc! I knew you could do it!"
The doctor looked down at Leslie, at first in surprise, but then in knowing. Knowing that she knew what she had to do now. She had to make her life a little not-so-grim. The doctor wrapped her arms around Leslie in return.

April 30th, 1868
Today was finally the day. The doctor declared the Fantasyland Players as all healed, and they were all preparing to load back up into their carriage to leave. Leslie had been living out of that carriage, so she really didn't need to do much packing. Instead, she spent her last moments in Riddle with the doctor, giving her last goodbyes.
The two sat together on the back of the carriage, Leslie talking and the doctor listening. The doctor was a good listener, as much as Leslie was a good talker. Mostly, Leslie talked about hopes and dreams for the future. It was endearing, really, listening her talk about becoming a huge star in the acting business, becoming as well known as Shakespeare himself.
"…and when we're all rollin' in money, I'll be sure to come right back here to this town to thank you!" Leslie said.
"Aw, how sweet." the doctor said, patting Leslie on the knee, "I look forward to you returning then!"
"You'll remember me, right?" Leslie asked.
The doctor smiled, "Of course, Leslie. I'll remember you no matter where your life leads you."
Leslie grinned. Just as she was about to speak again, she was interrupted by a booming voice calling out.
"Allllllright folks! The Fantasyland Players are rollin' on outta here! We greatly appreciate y'all's hospitality, but our mission is to spread the stage across the country!" Ducky shouted out.
"Thank you all very much!" a lighter voice shouted behind Ducky's. Leslie knew that that voice belonged to Lilly, "We wish we could stay for longer, but for now we must depart! Oh reservoir!"
Leslie sighed, looking to the doctor, "I guess that means that I'll be leavin' soon."
"I…" the doctor hesitated. Now had to be the time she said something, "I'll think about you. I'll worry about you more than anything."
"Whaddya mean doc?" Leslie asked, "There somethin' wrong with my leg still?"
"No, not… not that." the doctor said, "Why do you stay with those people? Especially…"
As if on cue, Ducky himself came out from around the side of the carriage, revealing himself to the duo. Sunlight glinted off his bald head and his bushy mustache perfectly framed his grin. Behind him hopped the curly-locked girl Lilly, followed by the all five of his fellow acting comrades.
"Well well, gettin' to know Leslie a little better, hm?" Ducky asks, "Well, there ain't gonna be much time left for talkin'. We're headin' out A-S-A-P, so vamoose!"
Leslie sighed, looking from Ducky to the doctor, "Sorry, doc. But I really do promise, I will visit!"
The doctor looked back at Leslie, the poor girl, still wanting to go with those people despite what they've done. Leslie was too kind to think of those people as awful, her optimism was as much of a crutch to her as it was a boon. It was now or never. The doctor had to say something.
The doctor turned to the Fantasyland Players, who were all anxious to get out of this town as soon as possible. She cleared her throat, and spoke, "Do you all realize that you're traveling with a child abuser?"
There were murmurs among the group.
"Doc, what are you doing?" Leslie asked, confused.
"Helping you." the doctor said back, before returning her attention back to the players, "Do you realize that your leader, Ducky, is the kind of person who beats children? Cuts them? Demands obedience and stifles choice?"
The group was silent. Leslie looked at the doctor with a mixture of horror and worry.
"If you all are decent people, then you would know to leave that man behind." the doctor put a hand on Leslie's shoulder, "Don't let this girl who did so much for you suffer at the hands of a cruel man."
The silence was deafening between the two parties. Ducky looked bewildered, like he was just punched in the gut. The doctor stared him down. Leslie's thoughts were swimming, mixing with each other. She didn't know whether to feel thankful that someone finally got those words out in the open, or horrified for the same reason.
Lilly was the first one to break the silence. She giggled. Pete and Mikey followed soon, laughing along with her. Eventually, the whole crew broke out in uproarious laughter. The doctor flinched, not sure what to make of the situation.
"This isn't funny!." the doctor exclaimed, "Ducky is a terrible human being! He admitted it to me himself!"
"Aw hell, doc." the lanky man, Pete said, "Ya think that Ducky's a bad man? He's the best damn father I'd ever done seen!"
"Harshness is essential to raisin' a family." the giant woman, Bobbie-Sue added, "If ya don't show who's boss, yer kid'll grow up to hate ya!"
"They'll walk alllll over ya." Ducky growled through a menacing smile, "You should really learn to keep outta folk's business, especially when it comes to their kids."
The doctor was stunned, "Why hide the cuts? Why hide them if you didn't want everyone else to see?"
"Cuts don't looks pretty." Ducky said, "They're harder to cover up on the face. We are actors, after all."
Ducky walked up to the doctor. Even though he was a short and stocky man, the way he carried himself made him look ten feet taller.
"Now get yer hands off my daughter and get the fuck outta my carriage,"
Leslie's eyes were starting to well up. She knew what happened when Ducky got angry, and didn't want the doctor to go through that, "Please doc, just go. Ya don't have to do this…"
The doctor stared back at Ducky. She was not going to let this happen. She was not going to let this girl get away with these people. The doctor centered herself and regained her resolve. She let go of Leslie's shoulder.
"Atta girl." Ducky said through a cocky grin.
The doctor wound her arm back and brought it straight across Ducky's cheek with a resounding smack. Ducky stumbled backwards, his eyes bulging like grapes in his skull. The Fantasyland Players gasped in horror.
"Daddy!" Lilly screamed.
"Doc, no!" Leslie said, grabbing the doctor's arm.
"You don't have to go with them. You could stay here, read your books, be surrounded by people who care about you." the doctor said hurriedly to Leslie, "Please, stay with me."
Leslie really didn't know what to do. The Fantasyland Players were her family, they were her life. If she stayed here, she didn't know how she would become the famous actor she dreamed about becoming. If she stayed here, she would be abandoning people that she's known for practically all her life. If she stayed here…
"You could be happy." the doctor said, "You wouldn't have to hide anything, you wouldn't have to worry about being stepped on or beaten. You wouldn't have to-"
The doctor was interrupted by Ducky grabbing her robe and throwing her off the carriage. The doctor tumbled to the ground, face planting into the dusty street. The doctor tried to raise herself up and realized that her mask had cracked. Ducky stopped her from getting up any further by stomping down on her back.
"How dare you?! You worthless piece of trash, tryin' to steal my daughter away from me with lies? You may have saved my life, but that don't give you no right to take my girl!" Ducky said, grinding his boot into the doctor's back.
"Stop! Please!" Leslie said, hopping off the carriage. She stumbled, crashing into Ducky helplessly.
"I'll deal with you later." Ducky said without even looking at Leslie, "For now, we gotta make an example of people who try to break up the family!"
The Fantasyland Players were all hooting and hollering, cheering as Ducky laid into the doctor. His boots left bruises on her body, and the doctor could feel every single one. The doctor's screams of pain weren't heard over the sound of cheering. She could swear that she felt bones break.
Leslie worthlessly tried beating at Ducky's thigh, "Stop! Stop! You'll kill her!"
Ducky finally relented, but kept the look of fire and rage in his eyes as he turned to Leslie, "Why are you tryin' to defend her? What has she done for you that I haven't done tenfold?"
"She was nice to me!" Leslie said.
Ducky chuckled, "And I haven't been nice to you?"
Ducky stepped off of the doctor's coughing body and stood over Leslie. Leslie looked up in fear.
"Didn't I sweep ya up off the streets when ya had nowhere to go? Give ya a place to live? A family to call yer own? Dreams to aspire to?" Ducky said, lifting Leslie up by the arm, "Say yer sorry, and I'll let ya get off without a punishment this time."
Leslie shivered in silent fear. Ducky looked at her expectantly. Leslie took a deep shaky breath and looked away from Ducky.
"N-no."
"No?" Ducky asked, "Try that again. Ya wanna say 'I'm sorry Daddy'."
"No, Ducky." Leslie said with a little more conviction, "I'm not sorry."
Ducky didn't say anything. Leslie prepared herself for the inevitable beating, but one never came. Ducky just let Leslie drop to the ground in a heap.
"Yer trash, Leslie. Always been trash. Ungrateful, untalented, and disobedient." Ducky waved to the rest of the Fantasyland Players, "Come on, looks like we'll need to find some new recruits on the road."
The rest of the group followed behind Ducky, stepping over the pair on the ground. Some of them looked back. Ducky did not. Leslie and the doctor coughed on the ground as the carriage kicked up dust, leaving Riddle behind.
"Are you okay?" the doctor said through bloody coughs.
"Y-yeah…" Leslie said, "Are you okay?"
The doctor gave a strained laugh and tried to sit up. Everything hurt. Her mask was shattered on the ground, revealing her whole face, scars and all, to the world. She could feel bones grating against each other, and trickles of blood dripping down in places that broke skin.
"Just fine." the doctor said.
"Ya didn't have to do that, doc… not for me."
The doctor crawled over and reached her hand out to Leslie's shoulder, "You did that for yourself, Leslie. You were the one who said no."
Leslie freely let tears flow from her face as she smiled to the doctor.
"I'm proud of you, Leslie." the doctor said, "If you're looking for a place to stay now, I'd be more than willing to give you a home here, in Riddle. Perhaps you could be my… apprentice? It may not have the glitz and glamor of theatre, but I have faith that you could do a lot of good like that."
Leslie gave a little laugh and the doctor smiled back, "That sounds great, doc. Especially since it looks like ya may need a little bit of doctorin' yerself."
"Is it that bad?"
Leslie nodded.
"I suppose that neither of us are doing much good in the dirt, then." the doctor said.
Leslie and the doctor supported each other as they shakily stood up off the ground. Holding tight to each other, they took step after step back into the heart of the town.


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A kindling flame, roaring at its peak.
Yet, its gentle warmths smooths the soul.
Loving embrace, a system of two.
Forged together in its flames.
Enjoyment through the ages.
No tears to break their spirit.
Through hard weather and wear.
Chips and cracks came.
Woven steel their spirit be.
Ever to remain intact.
Hope and dreams.
One to the awaken.
Non-fantasy truth.
Something too good and pure.
Taken advantage.
It corrupted the mind.
A chisel and hammer.
To their spirit.
Lies and secrecy.
The sharpest sword.
To tear into woven steel.
Stacked against them.
The slitting edge.
Pushed it too far over.
A broken dream.
An unthinkable fantasy.
Now it's the truth.
Their spirit was murdered by one.


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« Starlow Grocery|Hub|The Bed Salesman: A Brief Interlude »

Before

"Jane?" Cameron Peterson entered the dark Starlow Grocery, shouting out. "You here?"
"Y-yeah!" As Cameron turned the lights on, he saw his dear co-worker, Jane Fischer, struggling to carry a box full of canned corn through the produce aisle. "I could use some help!" She grunted.
He chuckled, running over to her and grabbing the box effortlessly. Setting it on a nearby shelf, he looked at Jane curiously. "You're here rather early. Why didn't you have the lights on?"
"Well… You know how I am, I like the dark." She blushed, running behind the checkout counter, muttering quietly. "I couldn't really sleep…"
Cameron walked to the front of the counter, resting his elbows on it and inspecting her. Her droopy face certainly looked tired, with bags under her rapidly blinking eyes.
She bought her hand up and rubbed them before smiling and grabbing her coat. "Hey, um, want me to go grab some coffee for us? I think Rudy's Cafe is open."
"Sure!" He walked around, going behind the counter beside her. Their hands brushed as he too reached for his coat, pulling his wallet out of the pocket and holding up a ten-dollar bill. "I've got it covered this time."
The flustered Jane snatched the money from his hand, quickly running to the door, quickly slurring her words before leaving. "I'llberightbackseeyoubye!!!"
That was embarrassing, they both thought, and Jane set off on her quest for coffee.

"Did she say anything about me? The Stocker?" Com asked.
"Yeah, she said she doesn't like you."
"Oh."
Lucius seethed silently, standing up. Walking over to the shelves, he took a bottle of soda and began to shake it up violently. It fizzed, exploding as he cracked it open and let the soda spray through the store.
"What the heck are you doing!?" Com exclaimed, crackling through the speaker.
"I've been thinking, and…" Lucius grabbed some more bottles of soda, opening them and spilling them onto the floor. "Maybe, if I make enough of a mess…" He kicked over a display box of chips, stomping on the bags. They popped and cracked under his feet, crumbs spreading everywhere. "Then that dumb Stocker will be able to show her full power!" Dashing through the aisles with his arms outstretched, he knocked everything off the shelves. Glass bottles shattered on the floor and various other foods were destroyed as he turned around and walked through the aisle again, stomping on as much groceries as he could. "I'd like to see if she can fix this…"

Before

"Aughhhh!!!" Jane screamed into the cool fall air. "Why am I so weird!"
She walked along, lost in her thoughts. I really have to act more chill around him…
She stopped, looking up to realize she had been missed a turn and was walking in the woods for a few minutes. Dang it, this is why I shouldn't get distracted.
A leaf crunched behind her. "Ahhhh!" Surprised, she swung her body around to see a man wearing heavy winter gear, along with a hat with ear flaps. In his hand was a crossbow.
"Whoa, whoa, sorry!" He dropped the crossbow to the ground. "I thought you were like, a deer or something!"
"Who the heck are you?!"
"Ah, I'm The Hunter."
Jane raised an eyebrow. "The Hunter? You mean a hunter, right?"
The man shook his head, crossing his arms. "Nope. I'm The Hunter." His eyes widened for a moment before he quickly reached into his pocket for a small magnifying glass.
"What are you-"
"Hush!" He interrupted, looking through the glass at her. "Hmm… You have some potential. Come with me." Tucking the magnifying glass away, he picked up his crossbow.
"Um, why should I?"
"I've got a job offer for you."
Jane paused and thought for a few seconds before sighing and accepting, "Sure, why not. You're probably just a murderer, though. Or maybe even The Murderer." She mocked.
"We don't joke about him." The Hunter warned seriously before pointing his hand into the woods. "Follow me."
After a few minutes of walking, they came to a building whose roof stretched into the sky, ascending into the fog above with no end in sight. Other than its height, however, it looked like a completely normal wooden house. Jane looked up in awe. "Whoa… This place is giant! For how tall it is, I've never even seen it before!"
The Hunter shrugged, throwing his crossbow into a milk crate next to the solid metal door. "Yeah, The Architect and The Hider really went crazy with this place. They were so excited to change bases when they got done building it. Personally though, I liked our underground cave." He took out a large key and swung it towards the door, which immediately flashed and disappeared. "Come on in."
Jane hesitantly stepped through, instantly regretting her decision when she saw the door reappear behind her. "Umm I think-"
"We've gotta get you to The Janitor."
"Jesus, how many people have the title of 'The' here?"
The Hunter escorted her through the first basic room, which was filled with numerous coat-racks. Setting his hat on one as he walked by, he led Jane into an elevator. "A lot of people. It's kind of our thing."
"Is that why I'm here?" She asked, watching him scan the walls of buttons, quickly finding the button for Floor 342, which he summarily pressed. "To become a 'The?'"
"Potentially."
Jane looked ahead and blinked. What the hell did I get myself into?
The elevator door opened, and they both walked out into a small room, fitted with only a simple desk. A mop rested on it, and on the chair behind it was a rather foul-smelling bearded old man. "Another newbie?" He grunted.
"Yep!" The Hunter exclaimed. "Found her while hunting for that Goatman. I looked at her through the glass, she's definitely got potential."
"Hmph…" The Janitor coughed, spitting on the floor beside him. "Well, I better give you the rundown."
The Hunter squealed in excitement, running into a closet and pulling out two blue plastic chairs. He sat down in one, watching The Janitor intently. "Come on, sit down!" He whispered. Jane followed his directions and sat down, looking up The Janitor.
"Alright, now that you're all situated…" He glared at The Hunter before continuing on. "Welcome to The Union. Basically, we're a group of Workers. We keep things running here in Sloth's Pit. Although those Plastics people may deal with all the, eh, strangeness of our town, we actually do the important stuff. Most of us, at least. Hunting doesn't really help, but-"
"No way, hunting is important! I'm super important!" The Hunter yelled, insulted. "I help stop animal overpopulation, I help gather food, and I help hunt dangerous monsters, like that Goatman!"
"You'll never find the Goatman." The Hunter gasped, insulted yet again. "Anyways, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, we help run this town. There's a mess, I clean it up. Something needs to be built, The Architect is on that. Someone needs to keep their finances in check, The Accountant is on that. Etcetera, etcetera."
"And why am I-"
"I wasn't done. You're here to become a Worker. What's your current job?"
"I'm…" She looked down, thinking silently. "A stocker at a grocery store… I guess I can join?"
The Janitor shrugged. "Good, we can work with that, we've had worse. Anyways, here…" He grinned, pulling out a large silver key and handing it to her. "There's a job for everyone."

The back door creaked open. "Holy shit, what bomb went off in here?!" Lucius heard the Stocker stomp through the aisles as he hid under the counter. "God…" There were a few flashes, and then the door creaked open once more, closing with a slam.
Lucius peeked up to find everything was restocked, but the mess was still there. With a dramatic sigh, he went to find a broom, when suddenly the door creaked back open to reveal an old man holding a mop. "Who are you?" He grunted.
Caught off guard, Lucius stuttered, "A-ah, I'm Lucius and I work here, who are you?"
"I'm The Janitor." Lucius looked at him, confused. "Not to be confused with that gas-masked psychopath that works with those crazy artists." Lucius looked even more confused.
"Anyways," he spat on the ground and pulled out a paper from his back pocket. "According to some girl this place, and I quote, 'looks like a horde of thirteen year olds raided it, followed by a bull, and then like seven rabid bears.'" Folding the paper back up, he tucked it away, looking at the demolished store. "Hmph. Really lives up to the description. So do 'ya want me to clean or not?"
"Sure, go ahead," he waved his hands around sarcastically, walking back to his camp behind the counter. "Have fun," he said, peering back at the old man.
The Janitor coughed, raising his mop to the sky. Then he struck it down, hitting the floor. In an instant, the whole mess burned up, leaving just a few smoldering embers in the air. He turned back to the door and opened it.
And then he was gone.
Lucius simply turned back and crawled into his sleeping bag. Am I the only normal employee here? He asked himself, and fell asleep.

Before

Jane dashed into the Starlow Grocery, surprising Cameron. "Hey, what's the big rush?"
"Is there anything I need to do?!" She panted loudly. "Anything I need to restock?!"
"No, but-"
She grinned and ran back out of the store, leaving him by his lonesome.
"I wanted to spend some time with you…"

In the middle of the night, the back door burst open once more, waking Lucius up. He peeked up to see another man, much like The Janitor, but this time he was carrying a mousetrap. "Hey, I'm The Exterminator, I heard you have a rat problem."
"Nope, no rats, get out."
The Exterminator shrugged, turning around to leave. "Less work for me."
Lucius fell back asleep with a sigh.

Before

"First day of class, first day of class, first day of class!" Jane repeated to herself as she rushed through the woods, reaching The Union House. In a rush, she took out her key and swung it, running into the house and stepping into the elevator, pressing the button for Floor 113.
As the elevator door opened, Jane saw a man in a suit on the other side with his arms crossed, glaring at her disapprovingly. "You're late."
"I'm sorry Teacher! I didn't wake up on time and I had to stop at the grocery store and-"
He put his hand up, stopping her flow of excuses. "It's alright, just don't be late next time." Turning, he walked up to a small podium, pointing to a desk. "Take a seat."
As she sat down, the blonde-haired woman in the desk beside her smiled. "Hey there, I guess we're being trained together, huh?"
"Yeah!" Jane stretched her hand out for a handshake. "I'm Jane, or The Stocker. Nice to meet you!"
"Nice to meet you too!" The woman reached over and tightly gripped her hand, shaking it firmly before dropping it back at her side. "I'm Miriam, or The Mechanic. I actually-"
"Ahem!" The Teacher coughed, grabbing their attention. He tapped a blue pen on the podium impatiently, watching them as they turned away from each other, embarrassed. "For our first lesson we will be learning about Charms. They're kind of like, how can I say this, the vessels of our power. They help us gather our magic, concentrate it, and eventually-" With a swing of his blue pen, writing appeared on a paper taped on the wall beside him. "We can use it."
His students watched in awe, and they began to read the tale that had appeared. Once upon a time there was a man named The Teacher, and he was the coolest man ev- The Teacher tore the paper down, crumbling it up.
"That writing isn't the point though. The point is…" He tossed the crumpled paper ball into a recycling bin at the other side of the room with a small celebratory grin. "That you must find your Charms! They can be anything, really. But make it special to you. Something unique that matches who you are as a Worker. And that, my students, will be your homework assignment."

"Oh God! Lucius wake up! There are tons of rats and they're chewing wires!" Com crackled through the speakers above, yelling louder and louder. "Lucius! Come on, wake up!!!"
Lucius quickly rose, glancing around to see thousands of small furry creatures skittering around on the floor. He jumped up onto the counter and instantly regretted turning away The Exterminator. "This is bad!"
"No duh!" Com screamed, "The rats are chewing all the wires! Get them out, do something!"
Lucius looked down at the swarm of rats on the ground. "I think there's too many…"
"God- Augh!!!" Some of the rats squeaked and looked up. "Wait, I have an idea, plug your ears!" Lucius proceeded to hold his hands over his hands, muffling his hearing. "Now…"
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Despite covering his ears, Lucius still groaned in pain as Com's voice grew louder and louder. He squeezed his eyes shut, opening one just in time to see the rats start to skitter out of the store, also distressed from the noise. When they all left, Com finally quieted down, and Lucius peeled his hands away from his ears.
"All the rats are g-g-g-gone. Bbb- I- th-th-th-th," his voice glitched, "f-f-ix w-w-w-w-wi-res-"
And then he went silent.

Before

"What's your Charm going to be?" Miriam asked as they walked through the woods, leaving the Union House.
Jane looked down and thought for a moment before responding, "I'm not sure. Grocery stockers don't really have many tools… A clipboard?"
"Nah," Miriam shook her head. "It has to be something you can wave around. A clipboard would be awkward."
"Right… I'll have to find something from the store I can use. What about you?" She asked.
"Mine is definitely going to be a wrench!" Miriam exclaimed with glee. "That's just super Mechanic-y, right?!"
Jane chuckled. "Yeah, it is." She looked ahead to see Starlow Grocery. "Hey, want to come in?"
"Sure!"
They walked inside of the store, surprising Cameron, who was awoken from his nice nap under the counter. He shot up and looked at Jane, a scowl on his face. "Where the heck have you been?"
"Why?"
"You're like, supposed to be here, you know?" Cameron scolded in a snarky tone, "You're getting paid specifically to be here, but you've been just dropping in and out these past few days."
"Hey, that's-" Jane stuttered, frowning, "I've been in school!"
"School, really?" he scoffed, "You're an adult. There are no schools here that aren't the high school."
"Why are you being so rude?"
In the middle of their arguing, Miriam had managed to sneak outside, away from the growing tensions.
"I'm not being rude! You aren't being a good adult!"
Silently, Jane reached behind the counter, grabbing the only thing she could, a small wood ruler.
After she left, Cameron dropped to the ground, grumbling.

Before

"♬ Test day, test day, gotta find somethin' broke ♬" The Mechanic sung to herself, looking around at the different businesses. "♬ Test day, test day, where should I go? ♬"
Her question was quickly answered as she spotted the lights turning off and on in Starlow Grocery. Flickering lights? I should be able to fix that.
She walked inside, where Cameron was messing with the fuse-box, trying to get the lights to stay on. He looked up, groaning as she recognized Miriam, even with the constant flickering annoying him. "Great, you're Jane's friend right?"
"Y-yeah!" Her face reddened as she remembered the last time she had been there. "Um, so I think you've got a problem with your lights."
"You think?" He probably had a horrifying scowl on his face, but Miriam couldn't see it as the lights had just gone out completely. "Oh great."
"Uh, I can fix that if you want." Miriam stumbled closer, taking a wrench out of her jacket. "At least, I can try."
Cameron shrugged, carefully backing away from the fuse box. "Sure, go ahead."
"Alright…" Miriam walked with a hand outstretched, feeling the fuse box on the wall. She took a step away and raised the wrench above her head, focusing on it. Okay… I can do this…
Just as she was about to swing the wrench down, the lights flickered back on. Cameron saw her with the wrench above her, looking like she was about to hit the fuse box and break it even further. He yelled, lurching forward, "What are you-"
As his hand touched the wrench, there was a flash of light, and his vision went black.

Before?

The man who was once Cameron opened his eyes. Above him was a black sky, sprinkled with shining stars. Wind was blowing lightly as he sat up and felt the smooth, brown floor below him.
"Hello?" he asked, "Is anyone there?"
Suddenly, the floor turned to liquid, and he fell through, collapsing onto the floor of a black tunnel. "What the…"
He wandered through the tunnel, hearing a voice get closer and closer until he reached an edge. He hesitantly jumped down, landing on a strange clear platform. Below him was a birds-eye view of Starlow Grocery.
Miriam was panicking next to the fuse box. "Oh my god, how do I-" She hit the fuse box, which sent a shock into him, making him yelp in pain.
"Ow!"
"Wh- what was that?!"
"That hurt… Where am I?" He asked.
"I…" Miriam paused, "I don't know. Are you Cameron?"
He tried to dig through his memories, but drew a blank. "Cameron… Cam… I don't remember…"
"Shit, I can fix this." She raised her wrench up and bought it back down, sending the man flying around, ricocheting off of the walls back into the dark tunnel. He groaned and collapsed.
"D-did it work?"
Silence.
Miriam threw her Charm to the ground, muttering, "Screw this."

Dammit, this isn't working… Lucius fidgeted with the store's fuse box, flicking different switches. "Com, are you back?"
Silence.
The back door opened once more, and Lucius looked back to see a woman holding a toolbox. "Hey, I'm-"
"What, The Mechanic?!" Lucius yelled, interrupting her. "You gonna wave your handy-dandy screwdriver or something and magically fix everything?!"
Concerned, she shyly backed away, stuttering. "I- I'm a mechanic, but that doesn't mean I can use magic. What are you, c-crazy?"
"Wait…" he paused, "So you're normal?"
"Y- yeah, I guess… She opened up her toolbox slowly, muttering, "But really, who is?"
Lucius collapsed onto the floor, looking down. "Yeah, right?"

Before

The man who was once Cameron awoke in a dark tunnel, grabbing his head. "Ow…"
He tried to remember.
"Camer- Cam- Ron- C- Com? Is that my name?" He asked himself.
About a mile away, Jane was sitting on a desk in her new room— her new floor, actually— grumbling. She grabbed her new Charm, her ruler, and sliced through the air, creating three cups of coffee with a small flash.
I don't know how I could have ever liked him, she thought as she began to chug the caffeine down.

With a small crackle, Com sparked online. "Hey, I'm back! We need to lay some traps or something so those darned rats don't kill me again!"
Lucius tiredly looked up at the speaker, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah."
"Maybe we can call someon-"
"No. No more Exterminators or Mechanics or Stockers or anyones." He nuzzled down into his sleeping bag, closing his eyes. "I need to relax for a few days. Or like, for the rest of my life. I saved your life, so I think that entitles me to some peace and quiet."
"Of course."
The back door opened. "I'm The Bed Salesman, does someone need to buy a-"
"Get out!"

« Starlow Grocery|Hub|The Bed Salesman: A Brief Interlude »

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Previously on the UIU Series With No Name

– hide block

The time: January 2015. The place: Ohio. Agents Quinn MacAllister and Darnell Christman are the two remaining agents of the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit active in the American Midwest, being headquartered in Cincinnati. Both of them are bound by a memetic geas the Foundation has placed on them, known as a gag order, which prevents them from leaking the secrets of the anomalous world to the civilian population, whether that be fellow FBI agents, or their partners.
Quinn is in a strained relationship with their 'wife', former Army Corporal Harley Sterling, dishonorably discharged under Don't Ask Don't Tell. Gag orders can be extended to individuals who are legally wed to one another, but due to the state of Ohio's constitution at the time, same-sex marriage is illegal.
Quinn is also forced to keep secrets from Darnell, due to a gag order placed on her under unknown circumstances years ago; this order has something to do with Quinn's hometown of Green Pastures, Iowa, an anomalous nexus whose four formerly feuding families acquired anomalous abilities in the Antebellum.
Now, the agents are bound for Green Pastures, armed with the knowledge that the para-terrorist organization Grassroots may have been responsible for kidnapping a dozen children with anomalous abilities for indoctrination or experimentation— perhaps both.

January 17th, 2015
Somewhere between Des Moines and Green Pastures
Despite the fact that they had gone off the main road three or four times, the Ford Edge was still following the agents.
Quinn adjusted her rear-view mirror, trying to seem casual, but all the same, her eyes were trying to get a bead on the driver behind her. They weren't exactly being subtle, but subtlety was impossible at the moment. The entire state was snowbound, and the two cars were the only ones on the road. Despite the heated seats, both Quinn and Darnell's teeth were chattering.
"It's an airport rental." Darnell looked in the side mirror. "I remember seeing it on the lot."
"I don't think a paraterrorist organization is going to use airport rentals. Too many security flaws." She did a sharp turn onto an off-road, the GPS on the car's console complaining. "Why would a civilian tail us?"
The driver's behavior made it clear that they weren't a civilian, whoever they were. The car screeched to a halt and skid into the ice, doing two full loops before its course was corrected and it started gunning after them.
"Fuck!"
"I'll try for the tires." Darnell pressed down on the window's down switch. The car was frozen solid. "Dammit."
"Better idea." Quinn put the car into a lower gear suited for icy roads. "Hold on to something."
Darnell groaned. "Quinn, if you're doing what I think you're about to do—"
"The Bureau's good for it."
"That's what you said last time! We had to pay out of pocket!"
"They were mad at us in Chicago. This is totally different. We're important assets they can't afford to bankrupt."
With that, Quinn gripped the steering wheel tight, and slammed on the breaks, bracing herself for the loud thud that the vehicle behind them would make when it impacted.
Only, it didn't impact. Instead, it careened around them and pulled to a stop horizontally, blocking the road.
"…good news is that we won't be paying for repairs this time." Quinn's humor was without any cheer. She stood and exited the vehicle, pistol drawn. Darnell did the same.
"FBI!" Darnell called. "Hands where I can see them."
Quinn's phone rang in her pocket. She recognized the ringtone— Harley. "Don't have time for this…" she sighed.
"You better make time." Darnell lowered his weapon slightly.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"The call is coming from inside the Ford."
Quinn's eyes widened. She made her way to the front of the car. She almost dropped her gun when she saw who was inside— Harley Sterling. Her eternal fiance. Quinn's hand entered her coat pocket, and answered the phone. "Where the hell did you learn to drive like that?"
"Alaska." Harley answered as she exited the car. "Visited some friends there when you were away… two years ago? That thing in Pittsburgh."
Quinn's throat closed. She wanted to explain what it was about, but Harley hadn't signed any gag orders. Sighing, Quinn rubbed her face, and thought of an explanation around the meme.
"We're here investigating a terrorist cell with connections to…" Quinn shook her head. "Connections to my hometown."
"Your mysterious hometown." Harley hung up the phone, feeling it silly to talk when the person on the other end was in front of them. "Quinn, I want to trust you, I really do, but—"
"Then trust me!" Quinn snapped. "Harley, you can't just— you followed us from Ohio?!"
"I was on the same plane as you. You didn't even notice."
"Har, please." Quinn rubbed her face. "I'd love to tell you what I'm doing here, but—" Quinn's voice box failed her, paralyzing as the gag order activated. "I can't," she ended her sentence.
"Why not?" Harley grabbed Quinn by her shoulders. "Why can't you tell me?"
"Harley—" Darnell attempted to interject. His gag order was a bit more lenient, on account of the fact that he had training as an Anomalous Community Liaison. But his tongue froze in his throat as well. "Fucking hell."
"I'm your goddamn wife!" Harley pulled back. "So either you're having an affair, or you've got a sword over your head on a rope an atom thick! What's so important that you can't tell me?"
"It's classified." Darnell and Quinn spoke in unison. It was a phrase they were forced to spit out by the gag orders every time either one of them was questioned about the nature of their work by a civilian.
Harley's eyebrow raised at this. "What's so important you can't talk about it?"
"It's classified." The two agents answered again. Quinn felt a sense of both pride and panic; on the one hand, Harley had already figured out something weird was going on. On the other, she wasn't sure how a gag order would respond to being pushed like this.
"Can you nod yes or no to my questions?"
"It's classified." Quinn twitched. She hadn't meant to say that, she'd meant to nod. She tried again. "It's… class… ified…"
"It's classified!" Darnell yelled, in a tone that sounded like he wanted to scream 'Oh, shit!'
Realizing the two of them would be of no use, Harley stepped to their car and removed the GPS navigator, and the keys. "Latitude and longitude… that's only another twenty miles from here."
"It's classified," Quinn agreed. Actually help me, she thought internally.
Harley put her hand on Quinn's shoulder. "I'm going to assume that whoever is at these coordinates can… help with whatever the hell this is."
"It's classified." Darnell had an affirmative tone to his voice.
Harley rolled her shoulders. "Okay. In the car. I'm driving."
"It's classified." Quinn smiled. She bundled herself closer, looking at their rental. "It's classified?"
"I've got the keys and locked the car. Now get in— we're going to get buried beneath the snow."
Darnell and Quinn looked at each other side-eyed. Darnell climbed into the Ford's back seat, while Quinn climbed in the front passenger's seat, next to Harley. They drove on.

Fifteen miles later, Harley tapped Quinn on the shoulder. "Okay, questions and answers time." She turned on the radio. "NPR is 95.3, pop station is 101.5, country station is 106.5. NPR is yes, country is no, pop is for when you need to answer the same again. Got it?"
Quinn's hand shook as s he forced her way through the gag order, turning the radio to 95.3.
"Okay. Are you having an affair?"
Quinn turned the dial to the sound of Billy Ray Cyrus.
"Are you really hunting a terrorist group?"
All Things Considered from NPR News came on.
"Are you really heading to your hometown?"
Uptown Funk came on, followed by the soothing sound of Audie Cornish's voice.
"Does this have anything to do with 'Jemma'?"
Quinn's hand pulled away. She wanted to ask where she had learned that name. Darnell knew it, but he didn't connect the dots.
Quinn turned the dial to the pop station, and then back to NPR.
"Okay. And does this have anything to do with 'Samson Cooper FUCKING HELL!"
Harley swerved the van to avoid a chunk of ice the size of a large dog that had just been hurled a them by something. It clipped the driver's side mirror and obliterated it. There was no wind, no cars, nothing that could have thrown it— nothing except the shape of a person about thirty feet away, down the road from them. Blocks of ice floated in the air around it.
"Quinn." Harley's eyes met her wife's. "I'm going to ask point blank, and I want you to answer truthfully: is what the Unusual Incidents Unit does legitimate?"
Quinn's hand seized up, and she felt like she had just stuck it into a thorn bush as it had been set on fire. She pulled it back, letting out a cry of pain.
"…I'll take that as a yes."
Harley swerved the car to a stop after a few more paces. Then, from her pocket, she produced a penknife knicked the skin on her forehead, before handing it to Quinn. "After you cut yourself, slouch down. It only needs to look convincing for a second."
Quinn nodded, and put a cut across her hairline, wincing as she felt her roots split. Darnell got the knife next, and put a cut on his temple. They all began to bleed.
They slumped down as the figure approached the car. Quinn could hear his footsteps outside; they must have weighed a ton. The door to the passenger's side opened, and she heard a familiar voice speak into a communicator.
"Command, this is Agent Coteaux. There's a third party in the vehicle. What should I do?"
It took all of Quinn's self-control to not look at him. Asher Coteaux, of the Storm family. The mayor had to institute a law in Green Pastures so that he couldn't make every school day a calamity day with his control over snow.
"No, I don't know their relation. Might just be an Uber driver— they ditched their car a while back." There was a pause in the speech. "I don't think anyone's going to believe what she saw." Another pause, and a sigh. "Yes, sir. Will report in when it's done."
A pistol was cocked. Quinn suddenly realized that her holster was a few pounds lighter.
She turned, finding Harley holding one of her childhood friends at gunpoint. "You doin' all of this?" She asked, undoing her seat belt.
"Yes." Asher's voice was filtered, with a hiss— and it was clear why. The lower half of his face was obscured, possibly replaced, by a metal apparatus that had the look of a set of teeth. It seemed that Grassroots wasn't one for subtlety among its field operatives. The rest of their body was concealed beneath what seemed to be winterized camouflage. "I presume you're her girlfriend."
"I prefer wife."
Asher shook his head. "Why ain't she talkin'?"
"Can't," Quinn said, instead of 'It's Classified'. "Well, fuck. I guess I can now."
"You know him?" Harley had to raise her voice during the latter part of the question to compensate for Quinn opening and shutting the door of the Ford.
"He sat behind me in AP Social Studies. Copied off my work." Quinn grimaced. Why was the gag order not working? She wasn't complaining, just confused.
Darnell stood up from the back seat of the car and drew his weapon. "Harley, I appreciate what you're doing, but I think you'd be better off giving Quinn the gun. We're better equipped for this."
"Are you forgetting I was in the arm—" Before she could finish her last syllable, she found her hands burning with cold. Ice had formed on her fingers, and the gun she was holding was suspended in a web of frozen oxygen.
Asher took the gun and aimed it at Harley's head, eyebrow raised. "No magazine."
Harley was bent over in pain, but managed to retort, "Of course I unloaded it. I'm out of my league, here."
"They always forget about the bullet in the chamber." Asher pressed the gun up against Harley's head.
"No!" Quinn dove to try to intercept Asher, as if she could stop a bullet up against someone's skin. But her progress was impeded by a wall of ice so cold that it felt like she was ablaze.
"Sorry, Quinn." Asher forced Harley down on her knees. It was only now that Quinn realized that his hands were mechanical.
There were three shots— Darnell. The bullets left trails as they burrowed into a solid block of ice that had appeared before them.
"Didn't want this, but after what they did to the town… they deserve it."
"She's not with them!" Quinn begged. "Asher, please, you're better than this!"
"Maybe once."
Asher pulled the trigger.
The empty chamber clicked.
In a moment of surprise, he forgot to put up anything resembling a shield of ice. His left shoulder was hit by a bullet, and his right temple was hit by a sucker punch from Quinn.
"I fucking love you." Quinn pulled Harley to her feet and gave her a tight hug. "But if you ever pull that shit again I will kill you!"
"Uh, Quinn?" Darnell searched his coat for the appropriate restraints. "Does the term 'frostbite' mean anything to you?"
"Right, right." Quinn blinked her eye— blood from the cut she had made was getting in it, and freezing. She placed Harley in the passenger's seat of the car and turned the heat up to full blast.
"Lucy," Harley panted, putting her hands up to the dashboard, "You got some 'splain' to do."
"I'll explain once we get there."
The snow was starting to clear, even as Darnell loaded his prisoner into the trunk. The appropriate restraints were less handcuffs, and more a full-body collapsible iron cage that went around everywhere but the mouth. "It's gonna hurt your MPG," Darnell panted as he climbed in the back, "But it'll be safe."
Quinn started the car. Five miles later, Harley's eyes widened at what was on the horizon— a massive structure of earth, popping out of the ground without any regard for the surrounding geography, looking to consume the town beneath it like a tidal wave of dirt.
"Is that—" Harley asked.
"My hometown."
They passed a long-faded sign which read "Green Pastures, Next Left".

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