If you can read this, you are already dead.

2.10 — Five Dogmas of Defense: The Identity Warrior must depend on five key elements of identity for defense in IWT, as well as for long-term survival. We call these five elements "dogmas" because you must believe them if you are going to survive.
2.10.1 — NAMES: Use the mnemonic "NAMES" to remember your five dogmas: Narrative, Anchor, Mission, Emotion and Society.
— Identity Warfare Training Field Manual-01: Basic Techniques

Ω—Ω

Item #: SCP-3125 (Mobile Task Force Omega-Zero Iteration)
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: The ongoing incursion by SCP-3125 is to be monitored, and opposed by Mobile Task Force Omega-Zero ("Ará Orún") wherever possible. Foundation antimemetics researchers are to be protected while alive, and in the event of their deaths, their nascent info-streams are to be defended against SCP-3125 predation in order to facilitate MTF ω-0 recruitment. Survivors are to be infected with a Type X targeted retro-grade amnestic antimeme and all SCP-3125 information is to be erased.
The SCP-3125 containment unit at Site-41, designed by Dr. Bart Hughes, is theorized to be inverted containment and represents a memetically-insulated space in which informational construct entities cannot enter; this includes both SCP-3125 and MTF ω-0 operatives.
A senior Antimemetics Division staff member must visit SCP-3125 every six weeks (42 days). During this visit, an MTF ω-0 Revenant Team is to manifest in the SCP-3125 containment antechamber and standby to provide support and defense, if needed, to the staff member upon exit.
Description: SCP-3125 is an invasive memetic ecology or possibly a single large self-organized informational construct, originating in an informational system or alien noosphere with much higher complexity than that of humanity. As such these incursions are naturally adept at Identity Warfare, and are to be considered extremely dangerous.
This system is able to detect and perceive unsecured info-streams that include information about itself1. Whenever (and wherever) this information is detected an incursion occurs, resulting in a manifestation of anti-memetically cloaked arachnoid organisms supported by sustained infolaser assault. This incursion attacks any person who hosts information pertaining to SCP-3125, as well as individuals with close association (based on similarity of memeome), killing them and erasing them from the noosphere.
The result of this is that of the over 400 groups once known to MTF ω-0 that were engaged in antimemetic research, only two remain: the Foundation's Antimemetics and Counterconceptual Divisions. The other groups were not only eliminated, but forgotten and unremarked; their very existence is buried under sophisticated feedback-reinforced antimemetic structures.
To date, 36 incursions have been successfully defeated by MTF ω-0 Revenant teams, but at significant casualties, resulting in the unrecoverable zeroing of 13 operatives, and significant permanent identity damage to 17 more. Once a researcher is targeted, these attacks will continue until they either are killed, or suffer retrograde amnesia such that they no longer possess relevant information.
In the event that this is the precursor to an attack, humanity's defenses are now largely eliminated. Counterconceptual Division's superior antimemetic defenses appear to have cloaked it from SCP-3125, but at the cost of their own ignorance. They appear to have deliberately rendered themselves incapable of conceptualizing SCP-3125, as a countermeasure, making them unable to mount a response. Antimemetics Division is theorized to be working on a containment strategy within the SCP-3125 containment chamber, but as a result the Division is under constant and undetected assault. Over 3500 Division personnel have been killed since 2012, and only 27% have retained coherent enough info-streams for successful recruitment to MTF ω-0.

Footnotes
1. Conventional cryptography and most Foundation memetic and antimemetic techniques are all inadequate. IWT may be effective, and MTF ω-0 currently appears to be either successfully camouflaged from this detection or to be not of interest to it.

Ω—Ω

2.10.1.1 — Narrative: We are only the stories we tell about ourselves. Identity Warriors must have a clear and self-consistent narrative of self. All attacks against your identity fundamentally target this narrative, and either attempt to edit it or cause it to be forgotten. Your narrative is you, if you lose control of it, then you are lost.
2.10.1.1-A — CIB: You will maintain a Core Identity Biography (CIB) according to the standards given in Section 3 at all times. This document is subject to inspection by your superiors.
— Identity Warfare Training Field Manual-01: Basic Techniques

Manifestation Log — Operation Cold City
Team: Revenant-3
Roster: Lyn Marness (Leader/Field Memeticist), Santosh Desai (Identity Defense), Zoe Smith (Identity Offense), Riley Cooper (Quick-Space Manipulation)
Briefing: Today at 1030 Director Wheeler is scheduled for her visit to the SCP-3125 chamber. I don't need to remind you of the significant threat that SCP-3125 represents and that our primary hope in mounting an effective defense is whatever Director Wheeler has been doing in that chamber.
Revenant-3, you are directed to manifest at Site-41 near the SCP-3125 containment airlock, and await the return of Director Wheeler. You are to render whatever aid she appears to need, and defend against any assault by SCP-3125 entities.
Your manifestation, code-named "Operation Cold City", has been inserted into the relevant systems and is standing by for activation.
Remember: We are the Saints who guard,
— Amos Sanchez, Operations Director, MTF ω-0

BEGIN MANIFESTATION LOG
<manifesting: Marness L; Desai S; Smith Z; Cooper R>
Marness: Alright ghosties, we are logged in. Let's get video up.
Video Feed shows the SCP-3125 containment antechamber. Researcher Paul Kim is sitting at a terminal. The airlock occupation indicator is lit.
Marness: Linebacker, defensive status?
Desai: Situation is nominal. There's still that pressure that's been in Site-41 for at least a year, but other than that we are secure.
Marness: Roger that. Stay alert, Saints, and let's hope Marion comes out of there with something this time.

Ω—Ω

2.10.1.2 — Anchor: Your anchors are those among the quick who remember you. Strong anchors knew you well, grieved for your loss, and have taken mnestics at some point in their careers. Initially you'll need your anchor to survive but you can, and will, learn to do without. A strong anchor can be a powerful asset to the Identity Warrior. You can learn to use your anchor to sustain your narrative, learn to sense your anchor's location and emotional state, and even manifest at your anchor's location.
2.10.1.2-A — CS — Identity Warfare Training Field Manual-01: Basic Techniques

Smith: Hey, Riley, did you know our boy Santosh has the strongest recorded anchor in the Task Force? CS 7.8.
Cooper: Really? I didn't even know that was possible, that's a logarithmic scale, right? Who's your anchor Santosh?
Desai: My dad. I really don't like talking about it.
Marness: No secrets between the dead, son.
Desai: Yeah, yeah … okay. I've been dead for nearly a decade now. He keeps sending me emails, blames himself and can't move on, deliberately makes sure he is mnestic qualified so he never forgets a thing. It sucks for him, it's uncomfortable for me, and a significant asset for Omega Zulu.
Cooper: Jesus, that sucks.
Smith: Uh, what's he looking at.
Smith: We've got a hostile vector here. Boss, you want to Casper this?
Marness: Desai and Cooper, keep an eye on Kim here, he's compromised. Yeah, this is definitely 3125 stuff, like we fought in '76. Injecting countermeme.
Marness: C'mon Paul, think!
On the video feed, the airlock starts to cycle. Kim gets up, startled, and goes to the door. It cycles open. Marion Wheeler is lying on the bottom of the chamber.
Desai: Do you feel that? She's under an infolaser assault. I'm blocking it, but I don't know for how long.
Marness: Cooper, start composing a message for Wheeler, try to warn her.
Cooper: On it.
On the video feed, Wheeler is still huddled at the bottom of the airlock. Kim is talking to her. He unfolds a pocket-knife and leans down towards Wheeler.
Smith: I'm dethreading him. Or whatever it is that's puppeting him. … His entire memeome has been overwritten, and what's in there now is tightly bound, I've never seen anything like this.
Desai: It's trying to overwrite her too. I'm shielding, for now.
Wheeler and Kim are struggling, Wheeler parries a thrust and kicks Kim hard. He flies through and is flung against the wall.
Cooper: Fuck you!
Blood streams out of Kim's nose and flows into words on the wall behind him, "Wheeler, Site-41 under siege. Compromised". Wheeler surges up, and glances at the message. She then looks directly into the camera and clearly enunciates "I'm okay. I remember the plan", then sprints out of the containment chamber.
Wheeler sprints down the corridor, heading to the pharmacy. Around her Site-41 begins to suffer structural failure. A section of ceiling tile collapses behind her and a dog-sized arachnoid organism drops out, and begins to skitter after Wheeler. Suddenly it staggers and blunders into the wall. Behind it another spider drops out of the ceiling.
Smith: These things. All right, I've got the first one's threads. Got it pretty confused about what it is right now.
The second spider spontaneously crumples into to a ball and stops moving.
Cooper: Guh. I don't like spiders.
A third one drops down and slowly staggers after Wheeler.
Marness: Got this one. They're fighting back.
Cooper: Something bit me. Hang on. I am Riley Cooper. I broke my brother's tooth with a basketball when I was 12. I'm Riley Cooper. Good to go.
Desai: Yeah, they're feeling for your threads. I'm on it.
The two remaining spiders fold suddenly in on themselves and are crushed into balls. A dozen more spiders fall from the ceiling in quick succession followed by a shower of debris from the weakened floor above.
Cooper: Got 'em all.
Desai: Whoa, that's some hardcore poltergeist stuff, rookie.
Cooper: Yeah, I'm REALLY pissed off.
The video feed switches rapidly and Revenant-3 catches up with Wheeler as she reaches the pharmacy. Writhing tendrils of dark static are slowly growing in from the edges of the frame.
Desai: The informational environment is becoming corrosive to coherent data. We are going to lose the cameras. I'll hold them as long as I can.
As Wheeler enters the pharmacy, a woman lurking behind the door lunges for her with an injector, mouthing something incoherent. Wheeler quickly backpedals and parries the arm away from her neck.
Cooper: NO!
A heavy medical cabinet shakes loose from its bolts and hurls across the room and into the pharmacist's skull, shattering it and grinding into the floor. Wheeler falls backwards and lands hard. Then glances at the remains of the pharmacist with a visible shudder and pulls herself up, moving into the most secure part of the vault.
Marness: She's going to need three factor identification to get what she needs, if she's doing what I think she's doing.
Smith: This thing is chewing up information all over, it's definitely playing havoc with the security systems. I'm not sure the scanner even can recognize bio-metrics anymore.
Marness: Good thing my team was the one that designed these systems in the first place… and, I'm in. Marion's my anchor, these systems can't forget her now, so long as she can't forget me.
Desai: No promises there, boss.
Marness: With what's in there, she won't live to forget anything ever again.

Ω—Ω

Wheeler moves past catatonic personnel laying in fetal curls among the dead and dying. On other feeds living personnel are mouthing incomprehensible guttural chants as they carve strange glyphs into themselves and each other. Wheeler is following arrows drawn on the walls in blood, a path that avoids contact with the infected.
Smith: And then a right towards block C.
Cooper: Roger that.
Smith: Shit! Collapse. There goes Area 11. It's completely impassable.
Desai: No way for her to get the armory now.
Marness: We can work with this. Coop, tear that wall open to the North. She can cut through there to the elevators.
Marness: Come to think of it, there's probably something in there she can use.
As Wheeler approaches the intersection, the opposite wall peels open revealing an unlit containment vault. Rows of standard containment lockers loom silently in the darkness.
Marness: Zoe, she'll need light.
Smith: Yes, she does. I'll need music:

Motes of dust floating in the new entrance are visibly gathering together and coalescing. After a few seconds a glowing ectoplasmic curve takes form, then another, and then dozens. They resolve into a recognizable pattern, a swarm of softly glowing spectral moths that swirl around Wheeler as she steps over the shredded steel wall into the vault.
Desai: No surveillance in there. We're blind. That vault isn't on the plans either? What is it doing there?
Marness: Safe-Class containment inherited from the Unthinkables, long lost and forgotten by everyone. Well, everyone except me.
Marness: Cooper, can you reach in there?
Cooper: Probably, a little, yeah.
Marness: Three rows in, second locker from the right. Combination is 23-19-32. Only one lock, those were simpler times.
Cooper: Got it! What's in there?
Marness: We confiscated it from High-Energy when it turned out their alien "disintegrator" was actually just turning targets into antimemetic worms that the rest of the Foundation couldn't see. Then we made sure they forgot they ever had a SCP-7381.
A section of wall in Area 09 suddenly flashes into a shower of tiny white worms and Wheeler steps through the hole. Over a quarter of the image is now obscured by the roiling tentacles of static at any time.
Marness: Right on schedule.
Desai: Looks like they are getting coherent. There's four, no, six, massing near the elevators and they've stopped cutting on each other. They're just waiting.
Smith: No getting around them. She's going to have to go through.
Smith: Ugh, it's getting worse than before. It's like a hand has reached into them and is now wearing the thinnest notion of people as finger puppets. I'm trying to dethread them. All of this connects, but none of it makes sense. There's no semantic content … it's like it's all just structure … but there's no pattern … no meaning.
Cooper: Fuck 'em. Still made of meat.
The feed switches to a view of the the front of the elevators barely visible behind the static. One of the six people waiting bursts into flames. He runs screaming into the woman in front of him who also ignites. One by one, three more collapse from internal bleeding and organ failure. When Wheeler appears around the corner all but one are down. She aims the red two pronged mass of pipes at the remaining man, converting a quarter of his body mass into worms, then ducks into the elevator
The interior of the elevator is barely visible behind the static. An old corpse slumps under the words "Grey is here", scrawled on the wall. Wheeler is visible briefly speaking apparently to herself. The elevator begins to descend.
Desai: Boss … it's getting a lot worse. I'm not…
Smith: I remember I took some personal time when I got the diagnosis. Richards knew, of course, but I didn't tell anybody else in Eta-11 yet, I couldn't even tell Helen. I uh, I think that I went to Portland and met with Charlie. I told him over coffee, we were crying, but I don't understand. Why him? Didn't we need to stop him? I don't remember grgkkjkldsfkj
Smith: Oh. I think I can hear the signal now.
Smith: Hey Santosh, look at this thread that winds through your whole self worth, through all your relationships, all throughout your sense of duty and back again. Some pathetic little childhood trauma, that you've painfully nursed through life and death. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to pick at your boo-boos? It would be so easy to loop this around until the feedback just tears you wide open.
Desai: Dad! Dad! You remember that placement test? I got a 95 on it!
Cooper: What the hell, Zoe?
Marness: Damnit Smith, you are an MTF Omega-Zero Operative. Even death could not release you from duty and you sure as hell aren't relieved now.
Smith: Zoe Smith died a long time ago, I am just a biography who once played at being the woman it described. You are way too old to still be playing pretend, Lyn, grow-up.
Desai: Negative, just try to get your people out of here. I'm going to activate the failsafe before he can finish killing us all.
Smith: Santosh is coming apart. This shade will fall to the same flaws that destroyed the man and then we'll be left defenseless. Won't that be awesome?
Marness: Specialist Smith: reset CIB to protected state: three-heirophant, two-moon, one-magician, zero-reset-zero.
Smith: Lyn, what part of "higher complexity memetic ecology" don't you get? The first thing it did was lock all your crude backdoors behind it.
Desai: I died letting you think I hated you. How could I do that?
Smith: See his whole sad meaningless life spilling out of this one tiny hole. Watch out, don't get any protracted adolescence on you! :p
Cooper: Injecting pacificati—urk.
Smith: Nice try Riley, but you should leave editing to the pros. Have a flashback while I deal with the real threats.
Cooper: It's smiling at me. Why is it smiling at me?
Desai: I… died… I died… I died for a reason. For duty. I had, no, I have a duty. I am Santosh Desai, Keter Containment Specia… no, Identity Defense Specialist, Mobile Task Force Omega-Zero and I will not falter, not even in death. … Threads go both ways, Smith.
Smith: What? You can't … I think when I was sick I tried to make up songs to the beat of the hospital machines. Why can't I remember the words?
Marness: Welcome back Desai, good job. How are you holding up?
Desai: More-or-less together now, sir. I'm not coming apart anymore, anyway. I don't know if I can survive another dethreading like that. What can we do for Smith?
Marness: Nothing, son, Zoe's gone. Just take Cooper and get the hell out of here.
Cooper: No way. No. NOBODY IS LEFT BEHIND. NOT EVER AGAIN.
Smith 55: I can see you.
Desai: Sir?
Marness: It's over, son. Marion's got the plan, but she's not coming out of here alive, and I am going to stay to see her end this. You know how it is, you made that call yourself once.
Cooper: YOU NEED ME HERE!
Marness: Our fight's over, Riley, now it's all up to Bart Hughes and Marion Wheeler, one way or the other. If this fails, it's going to be a tough fight up there, it's going to be a resistance, they'll need you in it. I need to stick with my anchor. Santosh, go to yours.
Desai: Understood. Riley, listen to me, we are going to snap back to my Dad. You heard your orders.
Cooper: What? But … yeah okay.
Marness: Fight another day, Saints.
<demanifesting: Desai S; Cooper R>
Marness: Marion's got you now, you spidery son of a bitch.
55: No, no she doesn't.
Marness: So you communicate after all.
55: Of course I do.
Marness: You really shouldn't be able to. You are a fifth dimensional pile of rotten ideas. An incomprehensibly complex set of symbols devoid of meaning. Coherent dialog is pretty much the opposite of what you are made of. Yet, you are apparently engaging in it. What does that tell us? Is contamination both ways? Swallowed something too coherent once, I think. You've got a little human-shaped lump inside you now and you can't digest it. It's a memeome, an adaptable system of aggressively self-organizing information. It's spreading, simplifying and ordering wherever there is contact, and when you try to stop it it just spreads faster, doesn't it?
55: You know, I almost feel sorry for you, Lyn? You're consistently, eternally too late… I killed you twice, and you keep turning up here at the end anyway. All those lost battles, you almost won, three entire lost wars that you managed to come up with something that just might have worked if you only had more time, and then I get to watch you have to make yourself forget about it and start all over again. The eternal loser. You don't deserve that kind of luck. Nobody does.
Marness: Someone has to try. We only needed to get it right once.
55: I killed your whole team. I did it twice! I ate your life, left you to rot, and then eventually I killed you anyway. I'll hunt your new team down and I'm going to eat them, bring them up here with me, make them a part of the whole. After you watch, I'll just erase you, there's nothing in you that I need. You are out of last chances, old man! The war is over! Finally! All that's left is Marion, a division of one! Dying from mnestic overdose, two hundred metres underground, cared for by no one known to exist to no one. No one except a handful of meaningless leftovers soon to be part of an immortal, unkillable idea.
The elevator stops, and the feed switches to an airlock. This camera is better shielded and the picture clears. Wheeler opens the door and steps into the airlock.
Marness: Even if this doesn't kill you, I know we've hurt you.
(Audio feed) Wheeler: Ideas can be killed.
55: How?
Wheeler: With better ideas.
Marness: Infection goes both ways. You've caught a case of us.
The airlock's complex outer door folds closed.
<signal lost>

Ω—Ω

TO: ALL HANDS
From: Director Sanchez
Subject: Loss of Site-41
Saints,
I regret to inform you that Site-41 was erased by an Antimemetic device this morning, taking with it the rest of Antimemetics Division, as well as MTF ω-0 agents Lyn Marness and Zoe Smith. No information can survive there now. All knowledge of Antimemetics Division and its people is gone from the quick, only we, the dead, remember them.
For many of you this means you've lost anchors. This is regrettable, but does not have to be catastrophic. Remember, without anchors you must rely even more upon the remaining four Dogmas of Defense, but they will sustain you.
Furthermore we are now very clearly at war, and it is just as clear that we are certainly losing it. SCP-3125 was never contained at Site-41, but rather the containment chamber may have been the only place it isn't, designed to develop a plan to combat the invasion without detection. We have no idea if there ever was such a plan, and currently have no way to retrieve it, if there was.
It's unclear how long we have before it targets us directly, but recent developments indicate that it is capable of doing so. All MTF ω-0 operatives should exercise extreme caution, and be prepared to defend yourselves.
It is now clear that Dr. Bart Hughes was aware of the threat, before he disappeared, long before the rest of us knew. If he had anticipated this, it's possible Dr. Hughes had a plan to win this war.
Hughes' whereabouts are unknown among the quick, nor is he among us. It is imperative that we find him, wherever he is, alive or dead.
Remember: We are the saints who guard,
— Amos Sanchez, Operations Director, MTF ω-0

« SCP-2111 | In the Trenches with the Dead| A Thin Dangerous Line»


Kalefheit, a city of opulent splendor and obscene poverty.
Kalefheit, the place where fortunes came and went as quickly as the sunset.
Kalefheit, the beating, chaotic heart of the New World that had been born from the remnants of the old.
Kalefheit, where Meilar was currently wondering why he hadn't done something more interesting with his life than taking up his father's dilapidated antiques shop.
"Here I sit," he said aloud to nobody but the gods. "A plain store for a plain existence."
Unlike his brother, who made his fortune (and had met his untimely death) venturing into lost ceitus for Wonders, he had chosen the "honorable" profession of maintaining the family shop. Here there were no magical leftover relics of the gods. Well, maybe some had been Geyre's domain when he walked among mortals, but they were mundane in both appearance and power.
Strange, rusted devices (including one shaped like a flexed arm with some sort of horizontal holes on it that he was idly toying with now) that had no use to the people of his time co-existed with stacks of books in the old language. Even as the city's scribes had begun the slow process of re-introducing a written form to human tongue, none had deciphered the words of the ancients, least of all an old man like himself. Only the goodwill of scribes and the curiosity of children and a few adults gave him enough money to pay for both food and tax.
As he watched people pass by his small nook in the open-air market with little interest, he contemplated whether or not he would have liked to have died in a ceitu seeking adventure - or, most suicidally of all, going south. Why live if I only breathe and sleep, amidst scrolls and devices I cannot understand?
A loud thump on his stall snapped him out of his dreary contemplation. He looked up, and saw a familiar face as he adjusted his glasses.
"Ahh, Kallin." He smiled as the young man idly brushed dirt off his arm. "Even when you bring me something I would never sell in a thousand seasons, you are fine company."
"Thank you, Meilar," Kallin replied, politely returning the smile. "With York's blessing, our fortunes will rise soon. Perhaps then we may join the citizens of northern Kalefheit in wealth!"
"Bah! Even with all the riches of this city, I would not want to spend my time with those insufferable fools."
Kallin was hardly surprised at his reaction; they'd had the same conversation nearly every time he had fetched the old man a relic. This time, however, he hoped their routine talk would shift in a different direction.
"I have come across a strange tome, found while I was trading with the local tribes."
Meilar raised his eyebrow. "Trading?"
"Alright, I stole it from their relic collection."
A raspy, cackling laugh escaped his mouth. "You should know better by now than to try that on me! Continue."
"Look at the symbol on it."
He did so, and saw an ancient book with a dark cover and some sort of half-circle with a line through it, surrounded by another circle.
"It is unusual, I will concede. But what does it mean?"
"It is not the symbol itself, but rather the…effect reading it has. Take it and see for yourself."
"Very well, I-"
Wait.
"Did you say 'reading'?"
"Yes. I was able to understand the old language as I read it. But when I opened another tome, it did not have the same effect."
For the first time since he had met Kallin, he was speechless. They had finally found a Wonder. A book in the old language that could be understood…
"The scribes would murder their mothers to possess this," he finally managed, "and yet you brought it to me."
Kallin smiled again, more warmly than before. "You know I am not from Kalefheit originally, but a tribe to the west of here. Among my people, there is a saying - 'He who breaks a bond will be broken by the gods.' You are my friend, Meilar, and I would not abandon you in our hour of greatest triumph."
Meilar felt not only excitement, but gratitude. In an age where most still had to hire guards to leave the trading routes, honest souls were hard to come by.
"Thank you, Kallin." His heart satisfied, he now turned to his mind. "What was the subject of this tome?"
Now Kallin's face showed utter confusion. "I…do not know. Even as I read it the words did not make sense to me. The concepts that it seems to be based on are ones I do not understand. I was hoping you might be able to make better sense of it than I."
Meilar obliged his request and began to carefully open the creaking, ancient book, its seams threatening to break even as he turned over the cover. The front page contained words that he could and could not understand:

GENERAL GUIDELINES FOR ANTI-PUBLIC DRAFTEES
REPENTANCE DIVISION - PUBLIC DOMAIN PROTECTION SERVICE
NO RIGHTS RESERVED - 428

"You are right," he said slowly. "I am able to read the language of the ancients as I see this book." He idly grabbed another relic with writing on it, and found it just as incomprehensible as always. The cognitive dissonance of the two facts gave him a mild headache. He looked around and was pleased to see his shop's poor reputation working to his advantage as their revolutionary conversation was decisively ignored by Kalefheit.
"But it does not make sense, does it?" Kallin asked.
Meilar turned the pages of the tome. Though modern vocabulary lacked the word, he would have described it as anti-climactic. Here he was, with the key to unlocking the ancient words…
"No, it doesn't at all. What on earth is a 'RETRIEVAL MISSION'?"
"The gods imparting duties upon us, perhaps?"
"I have never heard of any god's followers referencing a 'Public Domain'. All of the world is the domain of the gods…"
At a loss for words, he decided enough had been said. "Kallin, thank you for bringing me this. After sunset I will spend the evening going through this tome and attempting to make sense of it. Meet me here at the opening of the shop tomorrow."
"As you wish, Meilar. Good luck."

In another world and another time, a computer monitor stirred with sudden life.

TEMPORAL CONSULTATION REQUESTED

"It can't be."
"It is. Temporal science is infallible."
"An activation? After all this time? Centuries? Millennia, even?"
"I am as confused as you, but we must stay true to the ideals of the Service, even as our purpose is defunct."
"It may not be defunct anymore…"

Meilar blinked, and he was in his shop studying the strange tome with the half-circle on it. He blinked again, and the world was gone.
Surrounding him was…nothing. A pitch black void was given features only by a strange white table with a chair on one side of it. Not knowing what else to do, he walked towards the table and sat down in the chair.
"Meilar." A voice echoed throughout the featureless landscape, reminding him of his exploration of abandoned caves as a child.
"What is this?" He said, barely audible from sheer surprise. "Where am I? Where is my shop? And who are you?"
"Answers will only lead to more questions. We will select them carefully."
Now part of the black void was illuminated by the strange symbol he had seen on the book.
"We are the Public Domain Protection Service. In the Old World, we took those who suppressed knowledge from future generations and made them atone for their crimes, using the same method that brought you here. Now, however, we can no longer draw on either the future or the past. The world died, and knowledge of ancient culture died with it.
"We do not know how you discovered one of our handbooks, but you are here now. And we need your help."
"Help?" Now Meilar was confused. "I am a middling old merchant with one good friend in the world. What help could I possibly be?"
"We have investigated things about your life, using the old methods. You lack purpose, and desire to contribute to something greater. You preserve the past, even as you do not understand it. You are, in spirit, the perfect candidate for our RE-PUBLIC effort."
"Re what now?"
"The RE-PUBLIC of the New World. The knowledge of the past may be restored to the future."
Now he was excited. "You can teach me the language of the ancients? I can unlock their secrets?"
"We could, yes, and we shall. But your mission is more important than that. We cannot save the world, not with our methods, but we can preserve the memories of it.
Meilar, you shall become the first man since the apocalypse to undergo a RETRIEVAL MISSION. You will be sent thousands of years into the past, and must navigate the alien world to bring its items back to your time."
Time travel. Something that the old man could scarcely conceive of, just as he could scarcely conceive of vanishing and reappearing in this area. Yet if these were not servants of the gods, they clearly possessed the same powers as them.
"This will take time, of course. It has been many years since we last attempted this, and given the extreme temporal distance you must undergo a CULTURAL TRAINING session. But it can be done."
And so it was.

In a bookshop in Canberra, a dark-skinned old man walked inside and purchased a gift for the future.


« City of Wonder™ | Dread & Circuses Hub | Freaks, Friends and Fiends »

“Why are all the halls robin-egg blue in this place?” Spratz asked as he and his siblings were rolled down the halls of Site-17 in their dolly cart. “How many robin's eggs were butchered to paint these walls, you ovicidal maniacs?”
“Pale blue is a calming colour, which is very important around here,” Luna Valdez, their assigned researcher, replied.
“Walls not made from canvas, painted all one solid colour, toilets that don't empty into a truck – this place is a madhouse!” Spratz proclaimed.
“It's a lot quieter than the Circus,” Wilby, or SCP-3717-2, remarked. “Kind of lonely, actually.”
“Well, that's actually related to what we're doing today,” Luna said. “It's in everyone's best interests that our residents stay sane, which is why we don't like to keep you in solitary confinement unless it's absolutely necessary. You are permitted social interaction so long as at least one guard is present in case of any unexpected anomalous reactions. Before that though, we introduce you to each of the other residents one at a time so we can observe you under carefully controlled -”
She was cut off by a pair of giggling preadolescent girls zooming past the dolly. One of them had had much of her body replaced with incomprehensible paratech, the other held wormholes to uncharted regions of space in her eyes, neither of which were the sort of thing one wanted around new anomalies.
“Girls, get back here!” a researcher called as he chased after them.
“Simon, what the hell?” Luna asked.
“What am I supposed to do, tackle them?” he shouted as he ran around the corner.
“Yes! Fight! Fight! Fight! Contain them with your fists of fury!” Spratz screamed.
“It's okay, no harm done,” Luna said with a relieved sigh. “But that's actually a perfect example of what I was talking about. Those two are great for each other. We fully encourage our residents to develop supportive relationships with one another.”
“I'd rather we just skip straight to testing to see if we can kill 682,” Spratz said. “Because I can.”
“You're not going to meet 682. How does everyone and their conspiracy theorist uncle know about that thing?”
“The Serpent's Hand likes to use it as anti-foundation propaganda, how your attempts to contain it only cause more harm than good,” the twins replied. “So who are we meeting then?”
“His designation is SCP-1867. He's a sapient, telepathic sea slug, but don't mention that to him. He's under the delusion he's still a 19th-century British adventurer by the name of Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood. We've found it best just to humour him as he tends to disengage with you if you bring up the fact he's currently a sea slug. He actually used to be kept at Site-19, but since he's harmless they sent him here to free up some resources.”
She came to a stop in front of a room with a plastic slider under the viewing port which read, ‘SCP-1867, A Gentleman'. She tapped her security card to the black reader beside the door, and since they were in a low-security wing the containment cells didn't have access control vestibules so she was able to roll the Punkz right in.
“Hello Lord Blackwood, how are you today?”
“Right as rain, old girl, though that's hardly a wonder given the nature of my accommodations,” SCP-1867 replied from his aquarium. “I see you've brought me some more curios to appraise. Splendid!”
“Yes, we've given them the designation SCP-3717. They're -”
“Homunculi, and poorly made ones at that,” Blackwood harrumphed. “I do hope the alchemist who created them had his guild licence revoked.”
“He never got it, technically,” Wilby replied. “He's called the Amazing Zoltan because it's amazing he's never been arrested or sued for alchemical malpractice.”
“Hmmm. Fully endowed with powers of mind and speech? Perhaps I spoke too soon,” Blackwood said. “Do forgive me, and let us have proper introductions. I am Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, Viscount of Westminster, member of the House of Lords and Brigadier in the British army as well as an avid gentleman scientist, both freelance and in the service of Her Majesty's Royal Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria.”
“…We're freaks!” Spratz introduced himself and his siblings.
“Specifically, we were attractions in the Den of Freaks at the Circus of the Disquieting,” the twins added.
“Good God, you don't mean Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting, do you?” Blackwood asked. “You have my pity then, my humble Homunculi, for I myself once had the displeasure of encountering that disreputable vagabond.”
Luna immediately cleared her throat.
“Not to be rude, Lord Blackwood, but I was hoping we could keep the conversation focused on the Circus's more recent -”
“It was Fall of 1888…”
“Too late,” she murmured as she hung her head in resignation.
“I had come across The Pond to pay old Teddy a visit. The trip was a bit spur of the moment, and since the first ship available was headed to Boston, I decided to take it and make the journey to New York by land; take in some of that renown New England autumn foliage, you know. The first half of the trip was marvellously scenic, but whilst I was somewhere in Connecticut I found my eye curiously drawn to garish posters advertising something called Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting. I'm not normally taken in by such drivel, and I swear on my watery grave that some sort of hypnotism was afoot, but I nonetheless decided to attend."
"Oh, was it actually just a nickel to get in?" Spratz asked. "Because whenever old people tell stories everything only cost a nickel, but even taking inflation into account I can't imagine Herman charging so little."
"If memory serves, admission was precisely one dollar. Now -"
"The nerve! That's twenty nickels! Do you know what a nickel could buy back then? Do you? I'm asking, because based on what I've heard everything cost a nickel, which makes zero economic sense."
"Spratz, please, he's telling a story," the twins admonished.
"Thank you, deary," Blackwood nodded. "Where was I? Ah yes. When I arrived, the fairgrounds were all a bustle with folk of every local ilk looking to escape the dreariness or hardships of their lives for an afternoon, and Herman Fuller did not disappoint. Enormous striped tents, flames in every colour of the rainbow, and the most enchanting music that seem to be everywhere and yet come from nowhere. I suppose it was quite a bit smaller then than it is now, and its attractions perhaps not quite so queer, but by Jove, it was a jolly good spectacle. There was a man with a thousand voices performing one heart-wrenching aria after another, a mummified mermaid I would have sworn was just a simian and a sturgeon sown together if it hadn't moved and cried of its own accord, and most curiously of all there was a boy with an upside-down face.”
“Did they call him Boyie back then?” Spratz asked.
“I'm afraid I never did catch his proper name. But never mind all that lads. It was the Big Top show that brought Fuller and I blow to blow. Let me tell you, Herman Fuller loved the role of Ringmaster. He stood in the spotlight, proud as can be in his top hat and red-tailed coat, the most preposterously verbose and verbosely preposterous poppycock rolling off his tongue as he presented each new marvel. For the fourth or fifth act, he brought out an enormous bear; nearly as big as an elephant on all fours and nearly as tall as a giraffe on its hind legs. Gave it some cockamamie backstory about being frozen in an iceberg from an age long past, and then produced a tricycle so tiny I had to squint to see it."
"Did the bear chase him around while he tried to escape on the tricycle?" the twins asked. "That would have been funny, but I can't imagine Herman ever doing something like that himself."
"Regrettably no. If I recall, the act consisted mainly of Fuller trying to convince the bear to ride the impossibly small contraption, but then the whole audience was aghast when the beast broke free from its iron leash and produced a roar so loud it nearly blew the tent free of its moorings. I could see in the creature's eyes that its heart was filled with anger from its long captivity and torment, and I won't say I didn't pity it, but I could not remain idle and let it maul so many helpless innocents. I leapt from the stands, shouted at the ursine horror to draw its attention away from the crowds and -”
“Did it eat you?” Spratz asked. “It ate you, didn't it? Please tell me it ate you I NEED SOME CARNAGE!”
“No lad, not on that day or any other did a beast get the better of Theodore Blackwood,” the sea slug chuckled smugly. “No, I just drew out Dr. Moth's particle destabilizing pistol, good for only one shot you know, and fired straight at the great brute's brow and blew a borehole straight through its brain. It was bloody brilliant if I do say so myself. Of course, Herman didn't see it that way. You'd think he'd've been grateful to me for saving his life and the lives of his audience and employees, but oh no. He said it had all been part of the act, and I was a damnable fool who had ruined his show and murdered one of his star attractions. He demanded substantial recompense, and I of course refused. I called him a liar, told him that I had been around my share of beasts, wild and tamed alike, and there was not a single doubt in my mind that that poor creature was about to go on a rampage."
"Fun fact: Since Icky and Manny took over, rampages at the Circus have a gone down a full forty percent," Spratz said.
"Well, Fuller looked like he was going to go on a rampage himself, but the threat of Dr. Moth's pistol – already out of munitions, unbeknownst to him – was enough to keep him at bay. He put on a slick, snake oil salesman's smile and began to compliment my bravery and marksmanship, and suggested a compromise of sorts. With two snaps of his fingers, a bullseye target was rolled into the ring. He picked it up and twirled it on his finger, saying that if I could hit the center target in one shot whilst it was in motion, he would consider our debt squared. But if I missed, or refused his challenge, I would become indentured to him in servitude. Now, truth be told he really had no way to enforce the terms of such a ridiculous challenge, but I've never been one to back away from a wager."
"Some might call that a problem, sir," the twins said.
"Ugh, you sound just like Deeds. Regardless of the rationality of it, I agreed, but only on the condition that should I win the bear would be taxidermied and sent back to England at his expense. Fuller agreed without hesitation, and with a sharp whistle he tossed the target up into the air into the waiting hands of two acrobats. As they swung around the trapeze with grace and speed, the target was tossed between them in a blur. Fuller presented me with the rifle I was to use. I examined it thoroughly to assure no trickery was afoot, and when I was satisfied I went to take my shot. Given what was at stake I took my time, steadying my hand and studying the movements of the acrobats. I aimed straight for the center of the ring, and once I saw the target leave the acrobat's hand I nearly pulled the trigger, only to hear the familiar empty click of Moth's pistol against my own head! Despite holstering the gun myself, Fuller had used his prestidigitation to relieve me of it when he handed me the rifle and then attempted to murder me with it."
"Yep, that sounds like Herman," Wilby nodded.
"I socked that rapscallion square in the jaw, knocking him down into the dirt, much to the audience's delight. With the rifle locked on him, I called him a despicable dastard for trying to murder me from behind, in front of a crowd with women and children, with my own gun no less, and after we had made an honourable agreement. He was a liar and a cheat and a murderer, and a vile knave all around! And then, holding the rifle with only one hand and seeing the target only in the periphery of my vision, turned it away from Fuller and fired into the ring.
"The target landed straight up, with a smoking bullseye clear through its center."
"So the talent that would have made you an excellent circus performer is the same one that saved you from it? Is that ironic? It sounds ironic. I'm going to say it's ironic."
"Ironic or not, the crowd erupted into cheering and applause, and calls for Fuller to be tarred and feathered came soon after. At this, Fuller sneered at the crowd and said ‘I'm a bit short on tar I'm afraid, but fortunately I've no shortage of feathers!'. He took off his top hat and a biblical flock of white doves burst forth, outnumbering the audience a thousand to one. It was pandemonium as the crowd attempted to flee the vortex of flapping wings and more unmentionable nuisances, but once we were out the Big Top along with all the other tents and wagons vanished in a twinkling, leaving nothing but a flurry of fluttering snow-white feathers in their wake.
"And that my lads was the first and last time I ever encountered Herman Pandareus Fuller.”
The room was silent for a moment, no one quite sure what to say.
“For the record, we can confirm none of that,” Wilby said at last. “Not even the middle name.”
“Noted,” Luna nodded, though she did not actually bother to write anything down.

« City of Wonder™ | Dread & Circuses Hub | Freaks, Friends and Fiends »


Threat Assessment 3033
Official Unit Name: "Mike" Squad
Affiliation: Chaos Insurgency
Type: Shock Infantry
Threat Level: Orange
Composition: Up to 30 instances per one controller, deployed in company-strength.
Armament: Varies. See description.
Description: Instances are CI test subjects, implanted with invasive cranial implant enabling limited, rudimentary mind control, typically armed with small arms and hand-to-hand weapons, but will improvise as necessary. The only reliable ways of neutralizing an instance are the severance of the implant package, asphyxiation and exsanguination.
Tactics: As instances are indiscriminately violent, they are only deployed in large-scale engagements against large concentrations. Once deployed, they will use human-wave tactics in order to overwhelm defenders. The implant has difficulty controlling the fine motor skills required to operate firearms efficiently, and operators will generally push instances into close quarters combat.
Vulnerabilities: While instances will tolerate vast amounts of small arms fire, they possess no additional durability. If close combat is unavoidable, the use of large calibers, explosives, and other maiming/dismembering weapons is recommended. Instances also lack the ability to discern and avoid danger - if instances are expected to be used, the preemptive deployment of minefields may mitigate the risk entirely.

Never before had the halls of Site-79 seen so much blood.
Never before had Elizabeth Campbell ever had to actually break the glass in case of emergency.
Never before had she heard the phrases "Inner perimeter breached" or "Enact Protocol Makron".
And never before, had she ever been so alone.

"Welcome to your new job at Site-79. You've already had the whole song and dance about the whos, whats, and whys, so I'll try and keep this short. You're already fine managers, clerks, accountants, and whatever white-collar non-containment personnel you happen to be."
"The one thing I do need to go over is emergency procedures. Being a secure Foundation site, this is important. You've all had psychological evaluations - that's part of the reason you're here and not elsewhere. Also why you make hazard pay. You know the stakes, and what kind of 'emergencies' the Foundation experiences. The Foundation trusts you to do what is necessary, if and when the time comes."
"Before you ask - don't worry, there's nothing so silly as an onsite nuclear weapon. This isn't The Andromeda Strain. That'd cause too much collateral damage, not to mention geopolitical consequences. The Foundation is much more discrete."
"Spread throughout the facility are airtight blast doors and a large stock of VX. For you non-chemists, that's nerve gas. Like all chemical weapons, it's not pleasant, but at least it is fast-acting. The facility will seal, and it won't open again. VX concentration will reach well over lethal levels. The skips - what we're ultimately here for - will be secured."
"If site security is compromised - from within or without - so badly that upper command does not have a handle on the situation, and they don't think they ever will, they'll call out for a 'Protocol Makron'. If you hear these words, you are already dead where you stand. Or worse. Your only job from that point forward is to prevent it from getting worse for anyone out there."
"You can find emergency stations around the facility. They're reasonably well-dispersed. When you hear Protocol Makron, get to one of them. Punch the last five of your ID - I'm sure you all have them memorized by now - and make peace with yourself."

She had been wounded earlier. It wasn't clear whether it was a graze, a clean shot, or somewhere in between. Her progress was no faster than a limp.
She didn't know how much she had bled, or how much time she had left. Or if time was even an issue.
She didn't want to die. She'd never been religious, there was no afterlife waiting for her. She had never been married, or had kids, or been able to tell her parents goodbye or forgive her brother or find someone to watch her dogs. She had so much to live for, still. Only twenty-six with a good job and a stable life ahead of her. No one, other than coworkers, knew what she really did or where she really worked. She didn't even tell Brooke.
She would miss Brooke the most.
The emergency station. The glass was broken, but whichever poor soul had broken it had long since passed.
A croak from the floor. "I know what you're doing. Don't do it." She couldn't tell which of the fallen was attempting to speak. If any.
"It's what we're supposed to do."
"The CI already went through here. They have what they want. There is nothing to be gained by gassing the facility."
"It's what we're supposed to do. We have to contain-"
A rumbling from around the corner. Not close, but not far away.
"See, that's the cavalry right there."
A muffled snarl called that suggestion into doubt.
"Do you think O5, or the Site Director, gives a shit about you? You're probably a secretary or a-"
"I work in procurement, specializing i-."
"See, you're not worth anything to them. You don't have secret knowledge or skills. To them, you're as disposable as the D-class. An cog in the machine, a human fail-safe."
"No, you're - "
"Oh, I am too. Ethics Committee? They don't give a shit either. Their goals have always been the safety of those out there - don't you get it? We are the sacrificial lambs. Do you want to die, little lady?"
"I really, really don't. But I think we are both dead no matter what we do."
"I'd rather you not make decisions for both of us."
Snarls grew louder. They weren't far now.
"No one will remember you. You'll be a nameless body in an unremembered room."
She looked at down at the broken glass. 'Secure' had been shattered; 'Contain' was in pieces. Only 'Protect' was mostly intact.
"Be still. They won't attack if you look dead. We can still get out of this."
Propping herself up on the terminal, Elizabeth held her breath.


I did knock.
I don't know why.
There was no reply so I slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. I could hear my heart in my ears.
“End of life plans.” It rang in my head. Closing your Facebook, absent from work, posting me some of your jewellery… It was all summed up in one horrible phrase.
She couldn't see me. I sat, perched on the windowsill, crouched. My body felt electric, humming, broken at the edges. What was I? A ghost? A ghoul? Alive, or dead? Why couldn't I remember what I had done?
You weren't in your small room. The bed was made. The bedroom was clean.
The animals were dead.
I didn't do it. I didn't do it. I couldn't have done that. I wouldn't have done that. I loved my guinea pigs. Maybe more than I loved myself. I stared at my trembling hands, saw that they seemed to be made of static. A broken TV. I hugged the duvet closer, though it offered me no warmth. My mum was judging me. She was so silent, staring down at them. My furbabies.
Salt and Pepper lay in their cage, a plastic sandwich bag neatly engulfing each of their heads. The food bowl and water bottle were full, which struck me as odd. The guinea pigs lay together on a pile of hay. When I touched them, the cold and stiffness chilled me. My next thought chilled me even more.
“I would have rather found her.”
I wonder where I am. My physical me; if my body is somewhere. What did I do to myself? In this static form, my scars had disappeared. The white lines scanning along my arms were just not there. When I touched myself, my hand went through arm. I wasn't breathing, either. I was gone. In some form, I was gone. Would someone find me? Did I do this to myself?
I had prepared myself for that. I imagined my grief at seeing you hanging like a puppet on a string. I could see you lying in your bed, white foam on your lips, and the pill bottle in your pale, dead hand. I could prepare myself for that – for a death, then the funeral. I did that with dad; I did that with mum.
But seeing your animals dead sickened me more. It somehow felt more final, more distant.
More like an ‘end of life plan'.
My mum had already been through so much grief. Crawling off the windowsill, duvet around me, I went to stand at her side. She really couldn't see me. She tensed, like maybe she felt me, but I realised from the look on her pale face that the dead animals disgusted her. I couldn't have done this. I loved them. I loved my mum. This wasn't me.
I turned away, feeling sick. You weren't capable of this. You loved animals. I remember you rescuing baby birds, keeping them in shoe boxes, feeding them with pipettes. Not letting them die. You willingly killing your pets was alien to me.
Turning away from the ghastly scene, I nearly tripped over the rubbish bin in my haste to escape. It forced my eyes to it, but I smelt before I saw. Metallic; my mouth tasted like pennies. Then I saw the blood, stagnating at the bottom of the bin, drizzling down the sides, dark brown by now.
I never liked blood and instantly the room span. But I grit my teeth and steeled myself. I lowered down to the bin. There was a flash of metal amongst the blood – a knife. Then skin. Layers and layers of skin. Flashes of colour; ink. Tattoos.
Your tattoos.
I followed my mum. I prayed she would see me. I wasn't invisible – not to myself, anyway. I was static, and the duvet around me was blue, dark blue, stained dark red in patches. Did I die in this? That was it. I was wrapped up somewhere in a forest. I remembered the taste of leaves in my mouth. As mum stared at my removed tattoos, I did too. I would never do that. I hated my body, but I loved my tattoos – the scars I chose on my body. Wildly different from the ones inflicted on me. I would never take them off. Such a thought never occurred to me.
My mind tried to piece it all together. There was enough blood for problems, but maybe not enough to die. You had carved your skin like the flesh of a pumpkin. Cut off your tattoos – cut off what could be used to identify you.
The thought was overwhelming. You, sitting on the bed, the bin in front of you, the kitchen knife slicing into vulnerable inked flesh.
I didn't do it! I wanted to scream at her. She was making a mistake! I could see in her eyes, on her face. Tense lips. Grey skin. Imagining it. She thought because I could take a folding knife and make fine lines on my arms, that I could plunge it deep into my skin. I didn't do it. I didn't want to die. The taste of leaves was overwhelming; autumnal and brown and painful. I died in this duvet, I knew it now. I was hidden somewhere. I just needed to be found.
Why? Why would you do this to us? Scattering yourself like clues, maybe clues to your death. Maybe clues to where you are.
My daughter is missing.
My daughter is not dead.
Please find me, mum.


« Previous Tale | Maim the Sky, Slay the Sun | Next Tale »

LEVEL-3//TITAN STAR QUIXOTIC/MOONDROP INNATE//OPDIR

IMMEDIATE CEASE ALL
RECEIVE PRIORITY ORDER
ISSUE VERIFIED: OPCOM
NEW OVERSEER COUNCIL IN EFFECT
DETAIN ALL FORMER OVERSEERS
TREAT AS ANOMALOUS / TYPE UNKNOWN
DETAIN ALL RESISTING PERSONNEL
TREAT AS HOSTILE AGENTS
ENGAGEMENT PARAMETERS: 14-ULTRAVIOLET
VERIFY AS RECEIVED ON SECURE BAND

LEVEL-3//TITAN STAR QUIXOTIC/MOONDROP INNATE//OPDIR

The corridors of Site-12 were long, white, and dusty. Egret stood at an intersection, wondering what the place had been like before it was decommissioned. Researchers in long white coats might have walked down these halls, followed by technicians pushing heavy carts of oddities along. There might have been something like normalcy there once, or at least whatever passed for normalcy within the Foundation.
"Well, this is it, I guess," said Egret. Her heart felt surprisingly light as she looked at her hands, one empty and the other clutching her favorite pistol. Both were rough and scarred, their deeper creases lined with dried blood. Each was a good symbol of a good life as far as she was concerned.
She looked at the other hands sprouting from inside the heavy, unbuttoned coat draped around her shoulders. Some were pale and sinewy, others covered in fine fur, more still with the wrong numbers of fingers and joints. Together, they bore the armory she had spent half her life assembling, each limb shifting according to the faint currents of her thoughts. Strange symbols of a strange life.
Hold them off. That was what the Overseer said before giving Egret the coat and descending even lower with Dhole in tow. Delay her foes. Wear them down. Half their number, then half them again. The Overseer seemed diminished at the time, more so than months without sleep ever left her, but that was beside the point. Egret would serve as she always served. She would do the right thing. It didn't matter if a tide of nightmares washed through the reinforced doors of the abandoned Site, or if it was stormed by a horde of every enemy the Foundation ever made. She would fight, bleed, and die in those whitewashed halls.
A muffled explosion sounded in the distance. The floor shook. Emergency lights flickered. Hidden speakers crackled. Egret smiled to herself as another one of her surprises went off. It was an awful expression, she knew that much, but it was hers all the same. She ran the tip of her tongue over the teeth that the Overseer gave her years ago, still sharp as ever, and waited. Evacuation maps flashed on the long walls in jittering light. A droning automated voice announced that the perimeter had been breached. She had no intention of leaving.
The rumbling booms crept closer and closer, then ceased. They were soon replaced by stomping boots and low, harsh voices. Their sound carried well; even better when the droning voice of the intercom abruptly vanished. They were two corridors away, then one, then around the corner. Egret could feel eyes on her from some place, and, oh, how strange she must look to them. If her foes were eager to leap into the jaws of danger despite that, she would obligingly chew away.
An oblong grenade slid down the hall, spinning wildly and leaking stinging gas. Egret saw it, recognized it, and had the slightest thought before a long gray arm snaked out from within her coat to grab the grenade and pull it inside. Another arm, bony and many-jointed, reached out around the corner to shoot back. That was good. It had the right idea. Meet violence with violence and always be ready to use more. Someone around the corner screamed and a hail of bullets raced down the adjoining corridor. Egret returned fire with one hand, then two, then three. One popped in a splatter of vile, cold blood, and a new one caught its pistol out of the air.
Egret stepped out into the hall. A bullet traced a hot, wet line along the side of her face and another hammered into the armored vest she wore under the coat. She fired her pistol down the hall at the distant, shifting shadows. Her dozen extra hands did the same. Bullets riddled the alien appendages shielding her and new ones sprouted to take their places. The exchange lasted mere seconds, but Egret was already dragging too many limp limbs along by the end. The coat's entire weight surely would have broken her back if was not helping her walk up to her latest victims.
Egret stared mutely at the corpses of an Alpha-1 strike team. It was impossible to mistake them for anyone else, not when she had spent so much time wearing the same armor, the same inhuman masks. She felt invincible back then. New arms sprouted to poke and prod the bodies as she walked past, yanking tiny trinkets off them before moving on. Others picked up fallen weapons, grasping rifles in dripping tentacles and chitinous claws. The furthest soldier out was still breathing as Egret passed, chest heaving and leaking blood. They tried to say something as a flurry of arms grabbed them, and didn't manage to before being pulled inside her coat. Egret could not have cared less about what fate they met in there.
She fumed through clenched teeth. She seethed. That Alpha-1 would ever turn on the Overseers, let alone her Overseer. That they were so spineless. She stomped one foot down, the immense weight of the coat balanced by countless hands padding alongside her boots. She stomped the other down and more hands followed suit. Had she ever felt angrier? Could she feel angrier? This was worse than any patricide, worse than any matricide, and worse than any deicide too. This was grass slaying the sun. This was birds maiming the sky. The intercom crackled as she walked, a long cape of bleeding arms trailing out behind her.
"Wren," came the crackling voice from everywhere at once. "Agent Cooper-Hughes. I know it's you in there. I recognize you." Except Egret wasn't either of those people anymore. "This is Coxswain. You have one chance to bring me the former Overseer-6 and surrender. I'll overlook your desertion if you do. Otherwise, I'll be forced to take unpleasant measures."
Unpleasant measures, that was a good phrase for what was about to happen. Her former superior was no doubt thinking of the usual things: the explosive teeth they jammed into new recruits' mouths or the kill agents stuffed into the brains. Well, he could try, but her measures were more unpleasant by far.
Garbled noise poured out of loudspeakers as Egret stalked the halls, bits of songs and clips of movies strung together with numbers and letters. It looped over and over, but none of it found purchase in her mind. Long tentacles slithered out from within the coat, followed by bony limbs with hook-clawed paws. They reached out through doors and around corners, dragging back black-clad agents with them. Silent or shouting, flailing or shooting, each was pulled into the coat's lining. The countless arms were too heavy for Egret's legs, but it carried her along. Whether it still followed her will was meaningless so long as their destination was the same.
"I'm not above hostages, Wren," said Coxswain impassively. Egret imagined him crushing a wad of paper in his thick hands. "Family. Friends. I have their names here. Turn around. Bring out the Overseer." Egret's many arms snagged another armored rat. They were silent as she ripped one arm off. They sobbed by the time she finished with the other.
"Your parents. Tim and Andrea. Still wondering about their estranged daughter. I don't have to do this if you don't make me."
Rats, yes. Maggots. Bottom-feeding filth. Egret dashed an armored head against a wall until both cracked and crumbled. She didn't remember having any parents, and she didn't care about people she didn't remember. Painted arrows on the floor led her back toward the Site's main doors.
"They're out of my hands now, Wren. You did this. What about old friends, do you care about them? Darrell, maybe? Or Tess? Do you think they deserve to die because of you? This is more important than whatever loyalty you think you have. Do what's best for the Foundation."
Egret scythed away the part of her memory that ached at the sound of those names. She didn't remember, so she didn't care. She threw herself through a secure perimeter. Barriers shattered. Bodies broke. Bullets flew. She peeled away a steel door to the Site's entrance hall with one set of alien hands and shielded herself with another. Most of her guns were long empty, but it didn't matter. She would live before dying and fight before falling. The door warped, buckled, and crumpled.
The cavernous room beyond was full of traitors. Armed, armored, teeming in number. She despised them all, well and truly, but one in particular. In the distance, Coxswain ran for the door to the sunny sands outside. Something stinging slapped the side of her head and half her vision vanished. She didn't care. She didn't care. She grabbed the railing with countless flailing hands and threw herself toward her distant prey at eye-watering speed. More bullets smashed into her, shattering her long-useless vest and opening up new holes across her body. It didn't matter now. She smashed into Coxswain just as hard, taking them both to the concrete floor.
"I was looking for you," said Egret, teeth gnashing and spittle flying. She jammed her pistol into the big man's open mouth. "What did Sakarya promise, huh? Were they going to make you an overseer? Take mine's place? Asshole. Traitor! I'll kill you a thousand times before I let that happen! I'll find you. I'll eat your heart for a million years!" Egret had more to say, but there was no time. She pulled the trigger. Coxswain died, brains leaking out of his head. A spray of bullets broke through her veil of arms and Egret died too.
It would have to be enough.

« Previous Tale | Maim the Sky, Slay the Sun | Next Tale »


Tales Hub » Series Archive » Nexus Series » Nx-03
Canon Hub » War On All Fronts - Hub » Nx-03

by stormbreath

Nx-03 is an island approximately 100 kilometers west of Ireland, referred to as Hy-Brasil in civilian folklore.

Nexus #: Nx-03
Civilian Designation: Hy-Brasil
Population: Approximately 101,000 10,623
Area Class: Free Port Camelot
Nexus Interaction Protocol: The population of Nx-03 is aware of the anomalous phenomenon concerning it, and the Nexus is exempt from the Masquerade Protocol. The Foundation currently has a diplomatic relationship with the government of Nx-03.
Site-03, which was originally constructed for the purpose of overseeing Nx-03, has been renovated into a general purpose Foundation Site. While the location of Site-03 is not kept secret from the general anomalous community, it remains a secure location due to the difficulty of reaching Nx-03.

OPEN FORMER NX-03 INTERACTION PROTOCOLS

ARCHIVED 01/01/1990

THE FOLLOWING INTERACTION PROTOCOLS FOR NX-03 WERE ARCHIVED FOLLOWING THE AFTERMATH OF INCIDENT-N03-78
The population of Nx-03 is aware of the anomalous phenomenon concerning it, and the Nexus is exempt from the Masquerade Protocol. The Foundation currently has a diplomatic relationship with the government of Nx-03.
Site-03 has been constructed at Nx-03 for the purposes of monitoring and safeguarding Nx-03.
Containment operations are only to be implemented for dangerous anomalies greatly disrupting the society of Nx-03, rather than all anomalies upon Nx-03. The government of Nx-03 has limited veto power over anomalies contained by the Foundation. Low-danger anomalies may be relocated to Nx-03 as an alternative to standard containment.
The actions of Groups of Interest within Nx-03 are not to be overtly impeded by the Foundation. The government of Nx-03 has declared their territory to be a "neutral ground" in which hostilities between outside groups are to be suspended and has prevented Foundation efforts to exclude other Groups.
Due to its location on a neutral territory, Site-03 has been designated as a meeting ground between the Foundation and numerous other GoIs, and is currently a main operating base of the Department of External Affairs.

Containment Facility: Site-03

Fig. 1.1. Hy-Brasil and Ireland, as featured on a map of Europe from 1572.

Description: Nx-03 is an island approximately 100 kilometers west of Ireland, referred to as Hy-Brasil in civilian folklore. Nx-03 was also the location of a large city which covered the majority of the island, also referred to as Hy-Brasil. The island Hy-Brasil is partially extradimensionally located, and can only be reached by traditional means one day every seven years. At all other times, Nx-03 could only be reached using enhanced travel methods1.
Nx-03 is a sovereign monarchy, which has positive diplomatic relationships with the Foundation and several Groups of Interest. Nx-03 is ruled by the Tuatha Dé Danann. Nx-03 had practiced heavily isolationist policy prior to 1811, at which point relations with the anomalous world were established.
The Tuatha Dé Danann were composed of an anomalous hominid subspecies2 native to Nx-03. The Homo sapiens tumuli possess minor physiological differences from Homo sapiens sapiens3, as well as minor-reality altering capabilities and natural thaumaturgic prowess.
The Tuatha Dé Danann had, prior to 1468, existed in low numbers within Ireland, with a small population living upon Nx-03. Due to increasing hostile relations with the nonanomalous community of Ireland and the Catholic Church, almost all Tuatha Dé Danann relocated to Nx-03 and entered an isolationist period for the next 343 years.
His Majesty's Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria negotiated minimal interventionist policies with the Nx-03 government in order to prevent any knowledge of paranormal becoming widespread. These policies do not entirely align with standard Foundation operation procedures, but had been grandfathered into practice when the HMFSCP merged with other organizations to form the modern Foundation.
Nx-03 and the city located upon it were exempt from the Masquerade Protocol and constituted the second largest anomalous community in the world. Most known Groups of Interest had bases of operation within Nx-03, including Marshall, Carter and Dark showrooms, Prometheus Laboratories research facilities, and a Global Occult Coalition embassy.
While Nx-03 has a limited military, it has remained neutral during the previous four Occult Wars, not actively engaging in any military conflict during. Nx-03 was the location of the First and Second Treaties of Brasil, which ended the Third4 and Sixth Occult Wars5, respectively.
The following is an excerpt from the HMFSCP's records concerning Nx-03, which was decided to be a good summary of the political climate of Nx-03, despite its age.

Note: I had been asked to deliver a report on the current state of "Hy-Brasil" to Her Majesty's Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria. I thought it best to submit my journal entry for the day I arrived, as it contains a good summary of the place. - Lord Theodore Blackwood

March 12th, 1893
I arrived at Hy-Brasil this morning, and I am already tired from the single day of travel. Truly, this is one of the most marvellous places upon the earth, a land of magic and wonder like no other I have encountered throughout my many travels.
When my boat landed, I was immediately whisked away to visit the king, Nuada Airgetlám VII. I was, of course, worried about dealing with a lord of the fair folk, for I have heard many stories about how cruel and capricious they are. However, I was pleased to hear that Nuada was hardly anything of the sort.
He immediately noted that I did not address him with the full respect due to a King (As I am an English Lord, I am sworn to only address Her Majesty as such), but was not particularly concerned by it.
When I asked him about the difference between his actions and those of the common folklore surrounding the fair folk, he explained that such interactions had occurred in the time of his great-grandfather, who was a much more violent figure. His actions (and those of his father) are what shaped our perceptions today.
I asked the King why he had decided to open the doors of his island to the outside world, and he did not answer. He merely led me out into the streets, into Hy-Brasil itself. He said he planned to take me to a few landmarks, and I obliged him.
The first place he led to was the warehouse of Marshall, Carter and Dark. I refused to enter, for I have had bad dealings with the Deathless Merchant of London in the past. He merely smiled and explained that the warehouse was a metaphor for why he initially opened the gates of Hy-Brasil.
He asked if the idea of the fae loving gold was consistent with my vision of them, and I replied that yes, that was part of my conception of the fair folk. He laughed and said it was accurate. By opening the doors of Hy-Brasil to the outside world, he had become richer than any of his forebearers.
I was satisfied with this explanation, but he asked me to follow him to another location upon the island. He brought me to the middle of a street, between a library and a workshop bearing the name "Prometheus Laboratories."
He pointed to the library and explained that it contained an ancient Way, to The Library. This was a gateway to a world of old wonder, one of sacred and ancient knowledge. He turned around and pointed to the laboratory. He explained that this was a place of new wonder, one of derived and researched knowledge.
King Nuada asked if I knew of any other places in the world that had this mix of wonder, and I could only name but a few. Hy-Brasil was truly wondrous and otherworldly, I admitted. He smiled and said that was why he did not change when he had gained his wealth.
I was led to a third, final destination, this one a grand statue of Nuada. He told me that this was why he did not regret his decisions - the legacy he had forged for himself.
Who would be remembered the most fondly? His great-grandfather, whose actions forced the Tuatha Dé Danann to retreat from Ireland? His grandfather, who actually ordered the retreat? His father, who did nothing but rule over a secluded island? Or himself, who restored the grandeur of Hy-Brasil?
The answer was clear. Nuada's actions had established a firm legacy for him, one that would stand the test of time. I told him that I now understood why he had acted as he did. History would know him as the greatest king of Hy-Brasil.
Noticing that it was getting late, we returned to Palace for dinner and rest.

Addendum: Incident-N03-78
On 13/06/1988, Nx-03 was attacked by a previously unknown anomalous entity, resulting in the almost total destruction of Nx-03. During this attack, Nx-03 was defended by the Global Occult Coalition, whose actions caused significant damage to the infrastructure of Nx-03. While this entity was successfully neutralized in the effort, Nx-03 also suffered severe damage. Incident-N03-78 resulted in approximately 750,000,000 IR£ of total property damage, the majority of the infrastructure of Nx-03.
The previous King of Nx-03, Nuada Airgetlám VII, was killed during Incident-N03-78, as well as his immediate heir. Shortly after, his nephew Delbáeth II was crowned king, and remains the current king.
The amount of property damage caused by both the entity and the GOC resulted in the large-scale abandonment of Nx-03 as a location for the operations of major Groups of Interest. The withdrawal and relocation of these organizations - several of which constituted a major portion of the economy of Nx-03 - resulted in large-scale economic turmoil for Nx-03.
Due to the generally secluded nature of Nx-03, the city lacked the ability to support a rebuilding effort for the damage caused as a result of Incident-N03-78. This was further complicated by political turmoil caused by the death of the previous king, who had ruled for 177 years. While another, more traditional city may have been able to rebuild from a similar event, Nx-03 was not.
As a result of these factors, the majority of citizens of Nx-03 made the decision to move away, causing a mass exodus of citizens from Nx-03. A large majority of these citizens moved to other locations exempt from the Masquerade Protocol, such as Three Portlands or Backdoor So-Ho, while a smaller minority reintegrated into civilian life.
Over the past thirty years, the population of Nx-03 has steadily dwindled, to the current population of 10,623. The majority of these residents are the operating staff of Site-03 and more conservative Tuatha Dé Danann citizens.
Nx-03 remains a neutral ground for the Foundation and many Groups of Interest, but its general relevance to the greater anomalous community has greatly diminished.

Footnotes
1. Methods of reaching Nx-03 include naval vessels with a Tuatha Dé Danann aboard, using the proper thaumaturgical navigational tools, or properly attuned teleportation methods. Additionally, certain anomalous organisms are innately able to reach Nx-03.
2. Designated as Homo sapiens tumuli.
3. Including tapered ears, irises large enough to obscure the sclera, lifespans of approximately two hundred years, and an allergic reaction to iron.
4. 1812-1815
5. 1914-1918