Four score and eleven years ago our fathers brought forth on this land, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
This portion of the battlefield is where a great man, only one year past, laid down his life for this nation. The normal course of our lives has become steeped in death. Engaged as we are in the great civil war, we lay down our lives in the defense of the propositions of our fathers. That equality and freedom has begat strife and discord is a cause for despair, but the land under our feet is proof that we must stand steadfastly beside those principles.
This land flourishes. It receives the sun and yields up the fruits of the earth. Only one year past the greatest loss this nation has ever known, the land grows. I do not say this to diminish the memory of those that fought here. Great men consecrated this land with blood that will call out to us until eternity falls and we await god's judgement. Yet their loss did not destroy this land. It did not render unto us the fruits of that violence. Like our fathers before us, those who lost their lives here gave their fullest devotion to the principles of freedom.
It is in their names that we must devote ourselves fully to the preservation of those principles. We must bring forth on this land a new birth of freedom. We must come together with our brothers and ensure that the proposition of our fathers does not pass forever from this land.
Abraham Lincoln, 1867. Remarks at Gettysburg on the one year anniversary of the assassination of Ulysses S. Grant and the Second Battle of Gettysburg.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon when the president stopped speaking. If for no other reason than avoiding an assassination of his own, she thought it was a good idea when he left to re-board the train that had brought him directly to the stage.
Private Joanna Kirkland finished clapping and looked around for the newspapermen. That a gaggle of men had followed the 1st Suffragette Brigade to various events had bothered her only in that she'd went to fight because there supposedly weren't enough fighting men left to conscript.
She thought about the president, his speech, and the days to come. The sack of Richmond had turned the war against the South, perhaps for good this time. In days, she imagined, she would be fighting the Southern bastards in Maryland under General Sherman.
She gave only a little thought to what she might do after the war. Maybe go back to Pennsylvania. Maybe go into the west.

PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO RIDDLE WYOMING STOP INVESTIGATE LOSS OF SEVERAL AGENTS AND PARCELS STOP LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT PROVIDING ASSISTANCE STOP KEEP LOGS OF ALL ACTIVITIES THROUGHOUT
Telegram to Agent Kirkland from the office of the Union Investigative Unit, 1878.

Mark Mayfield and Jim Johnson wondered at the beauty of the eclipsed sun, staring a bit too long at the sky. The hoof beats of a horse that wasn't hitched to their postal wagon stood out from the sudden silence. Both looked down at the horse's rider. A single man, unarmed, galloped towards them on a black horse.
Neither man raised their rifle to draw a bead on the rider. Neither man wished to provoke a violent end, nor appear to be fearful in the eyes of the other. The rider came closer.
Joseph cleared his throat, "It's a frightful day to be riding alone! What uh, what business have you with us?"
The rider didn't respond or slow down. He was almost upon them now. Both men gripped their rifles a bit tighter. The rider failed to slow. The eclipse was still ongoing, and in the darkness they couldn't make out the details of the man's face. Phillips felt sure, though, that the man was branded across both cheeks and along his hands and arms.
The two men relaxed when the rider passed them by. Joseph looked at Phillip and shook his head in amusement as the left side of his face exploded outward in a bloody spray. Phillip's motion to turn around and face the now stopped rider was interrupted by a bullet entering and exiting his neck. He slumped over, gurgling a protest.
The gunman produced a match from his pocket, and struck it near the canopy on the back of the wagon. The cloth lit up immediately, and in a few moments the entire back of the wagon was ablaze.
The horses at the front of the wagon, either out of fear or sensing the heat, neighed and bolted down the road, carrying the men and burning cargo along with them. The rider smirked under a wide brimmed hat and dropped the pistol he'd used. It disappeared before it reached the ground. Before the sun began to peek out from behind the moon, the man himself had also vanished.

Hell's own train-ride, I surmise, would be less troubling than that which I undertook last night.
From sundown to sunrise horsemen engaged in dogged pursuit of the locomotive. Hidden in the darkness, as they were, the men proved impossible to identify. A fellow passenger with more laudanum than sense spoke of their pursuit as a regular occurrence. The trainmen did not seem particularly flummoxed by the development. Perhaps she recited some truth that only they know.
Regardless, the rise of the sun also brought with it a nearness to our destination that made sleep a forlorn hope of its own. My vigilance overnight has evolved into a sense of weariness that will only be sated after the full development of my day's task. I hope this deviation from routine was not as much of a folly as I suspect.
Excerpt from the journal of Agent Joanna Kirkland. August 9th, 1878.

Agent Kirkland set one unsteady foot on the landing. She followed that step with another. No one gave her a second glance as she disembarked and dragged a bag behind her containing most of her belongings. It thumped onto the landing as she left the train. Agent Kirkland looked up at the town in front of her and rested her left hand on the pistol at her hip.
The town's construction was haphazard, with hasty construction peppering the main thoroughfare. The majority of business appeared to be performed out of or inside the dozens of tents pitched along the mud road. A cluster of buildings halfway down that road was her destination.
Joanna hefted the bag over her shoulder and leaned forward when a bald man in a dusty but expensive coat stepped in front of her and produced a bottle with a bright red and white label carrying the name "Dr. Wonder's Miracle Cure-All!" in plain letters. Joanna waved her hand and moved to go around the man when he stepped once more into her path.
He lifted the bottle up as he inched forward. "Good lady! I believe you could stand to benefit from Dr. Wonder's curative tonics! Your countenance betrays your weary nature."
Joanna rolled her eyes and stopped. "I'm sorry. You have me at a loss. Mister…?"
"Cozen. We may not yet be acquainted but I have here," he motioned to the bottle with his free hand, "the one thing you truly need, if not desire."
"Mr. Cozen. My countenance is no one's business but my own. I have important matters to discuss with the marshal. If you would kindly remove yourself from my path and inflict your opinions on other visitors, I would appreciate the favor."
Mr. Cozen seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then stepped to the side. Joanna walked past him, dusted herself off, and continued down the thoroughfare towards the city marshal's office.

Dear Mrs. Kane,
It is with heavy heart and great sorrow that I must report to you the loss of your son. Sergeant Kane was a good soldier and a great friend to those under his command. I feel the need to impart to you the level of heroism your son displayed during the Second Battle of New York. When his position was overrun, and those under his command faced certain death at the hands of the Confederates, he led a piercing action through the enemy lines. If not for that bravery his men would've likely perished.
It was brought to my attention that Jacob's brother was also lost in the same battle, but as part of the opposing force. I cannot imagine the level of grief you must feel at this time, and only wish to offer my condolences. Please know, that even as this war continues, these lives are not lost in vain.
Excerpt of a Condolence Letter.
Captain Malcolm Fisher, the Army of the Potomac, 1867.

Just as Jacob said it, he knew he'd provoked a response he wouldn't appreciate. But he'd said it anyway. Jacob's partner was cooking a snake over the fire at the small camp they'd set up overlooking the mine. Their horse was already saddled, and the bags along the side were weighted down with gold.
The old man cocked an eyebrow and scoffed. "And I expect you think that makes you different?"
"From?" The younger man stood up from the fire.
"Different from me. From the rest of the poor souls traveling the wastes."
"It doesn't, as far as I've seen, endear me to my fellow man. Something I've come to accept."
"You're not special." The old man poked at the fire. "Nobody wants to be different than they was. We spend our lives trying to move forward without letting the air or water or fucking earth we pass through alter us in some way."
"I'm not talking about alteration."
"Then what the fuck are you talking about?"
Jacob reached down and grabbed his rifle and canteen. "I just don't want to change."
"Yeah. You and every other poor sod that's walked the earth. But that mine," the old man pointed to the opening behind them, "that'll change any man. There's gold in there. A few weeks of this and maybe I won't have to live like a prehistoric."
Jacob walked to their horse and hooked his canteen and rifle along the side. "This ain't how they lived."
"How the fuck would you know."
"I'm just saying, this living feels a bit too comfortable. A little too safe." Jacob mounted the horse in one swift motion. "I figure they'd be watching the horizon looking for danger."
"Yeah. Well. You ain't got a warrant out on you for murder, so the horizon probably feels a mite more welcoming."
"I'll accept that as a possibility, but if I don't make the horizon in the next couple of hours you'll be stuck digging in the ground all by your lonesome."
"Shit. You make Riddle every night without a hitch. Get fed, get fucked, and get back on the road." The old man winked. "And if you think you can convince one of those Belle girls to come back out with ya, I'd appreciate it."
Jacob laughed and turned his horse to go.

My precious butterfly;
When the Confederates overran us at Gettysburg, I thought I'd spend the rest of my life searching for the kind of peace and tranquility I had the night before the battle. We were all so certain of our righteousness. Yet there I lay in the mud afterwards, trying to come to terms with the loss.
I've never told you about that battle, or the horrors that we suffered in captivity. I did not feel the need to lay that burden on your shoulders. Yet you have lightened it somewhat. If I'd known then that one day I'd have found one such as you, I could've endured a thousand years of captivity with those Southern bastards and a thousand more besides.
Even with the war's end I failed to find tranquility, but my love, you have brought peace to my heart. The house in which our family will be blessed and borne is finally built. The arrangements are made with the Jennings coach company. Pack up your things, and bid San Francisco a fond farewell. The town of Riddle has need of your light.
Last night I slept well. I await your arrival and the start of a new life together.
With love and always yours; Conrad Drake.

Riddle town Marshal Conrad Drake's hand twitched. The man on the other end of the bar stared at Conrad with a practiced eye. They both knew this would come to a showdown. The room, previously roiling with noise, was silenced in anticipation. Then the man on the other end of the bar grabbed his shot glass and downed it, followed by Conrad.
The two men continued their stare-down while Joanna watched from the front door of the bar, and the man Conrad had been drinking with passed out. The onlookers rolled their eyes and went back to their own drinks and games. Conrad used the bar to steady himself as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small red capsule, and swallowed it.
The marshal noticed Joanna looking at his badge as she approached him. "Agent Kirkland?"
Joanna nodded. "I went to your office but it was locked." She paused. "A reprobate outside said he was awaiting the conclusion of your business here so that he could be arrested?"
"That's just Phillip. Man has a propensity for public urination."
"I noticed."
"It's my own damn fault for having Miss Lula cook him his meals. Man ain't never had it as good as he does inside my cells."
Joanna picked up the empty shot glass in front of Conrad and examined it. "Regardless. I would speak to you in the privacy of your office, if you have concluded your business here?"
Marshal Drake looked at the bartender. "Tell Miss Lula I'll settle up next time I'm in. And thank her for the cornbread."
Joanna and Conrad both walked out the door of Saloon No. 19 into the street.

Mother,
I yet live. I cannot tell you where I am or what I am doing. I apologize. Abe is not well. We met by purest happenstance on the battlefield in New York. He fought for his home and I for my principles yet our bond of brotherhood proved stronger than death itself.
I do not think the east will be a safe place for us anymore, regardless of who succeeds in this horrid war. My time here is limited. I write this letter only to inform you of our survival, and to impart the news of Abe's health. We will stay here until he is well enough to travel. Please give Iris our love.
Your loving Son; Jacob Kane.

Jacob Kane could hear the sounds of Riddle behind him as he left. The horse under him rebelled almost as much as he had at the thought of leaving before the sun rose. Still if he was to add to the deposit at the bank tomorrow night, he'd need to hurry. He whipped the horse once, and finally got underway.
The landscape of Wyoming's Red Desert spread out before him, and the cool night air encouraged him onward. Jacob crested a hill just in time to see a group of riders on black horses trailing behind an incoming train. Jacob's heart jumped into his throat at the sight, and he pulled his horse to turn around.
The horse, however, neighed in distress at the very sight of the riders and threw him to the ground. Jacob tried to hold on but the horse ripped itself from Jacob's grasp and bolted away.
Jacob grabbed his forehead in pain and felt a slick wetness on his skin. He shook his head, reached for the pistol on his hip and checked to see if it was loaded. Three riders had broken from their pursuit of the train at the sound of his horse and were now headed in his direction. He had five shots.
Jacob knelt down at the top of the hill and targeted the lead rider. As he pulled the trigger, he knew his first shot had missed. He pulled the lever back for the second shot and pulled the trigger. The lead rider slumped in his seat but remained upright. The remaining two riders began to fire back at him with their own pistols.
He tried to crouch down further but a bullet caught him in the shoulder. He flew backward and rolled down the hill, screaming in pain. He lay there, only half conscious, as the riders drew closer. Then, as the sun's first rays shone over the horizon, he passed out.

The town marshal is a drunkard who speaks of inanities as fact. I believe he missed his calling as a writer, the fantastic tales he has spun whilst we've investigated the attacks have been at the very least entertaining. He is currently regaling several prisoners with a story of how he destroyed a creature of the night with feline urine and silver bullets.
Following the telling of this tale and the conclusion of my meal, we will seek out a prospector at the doctor's office down the street. Reportedly, this prospector was brought in this morning half-delirious and speaking the name Virgil Jones. Mr. Jones is a known road agent, wanted in the Dakota Territories for stagecoach robbery. If this young man knows where to find Mr. Jones, I will bring him in for questioning.
Excerpt from the journal of Agent Joanna Kirkland. August 9th, 1878.

Conrad and Joanna entered the infirmary. The floors were covered in blood and a variety of other dried liquids. The whole place smelled strongly of formaldehyde and death. Jacob Kane lay on a bed in the back of the room. He whimpered, to no one.
Joanna turned to Conrad and whispered. "This seems like an ideal situation for a doctor."
"It would be, if we still had one. We wired to Cincinnati about the whole mess but until some enterprising fellah decides to come this way, I think we're gonna be out of luck."
Joanna walked up to the bed of the man and took his hand. "Hello. Can you hear me?"
Jacob looked up at Joanna and smiled. "I can, ma'am."
"Who shot you?"
Jacob looked over at the marshal for a moment before continuing. "I didn't see their faces."
"The gentleman who brought you in said something about a Virgil Jones."
"Ahh. Yeah. We have a gold claim out in the desert. All the deposits at the bank are under my name. I was hoping someone could see to getting them transferred."
"Where's the claim?"
"An old mine. Marshal can tell you where."
Joanna looked up at Conrad who nodded. "Thank you, sir."
"Thank you ma'am. You mind if I talk with the marshal a spell? I got some other business to put in order."
"Of course." Joanna stood up and let Jacob's hand go. She moved to dust off her shirt but smeared blood across it instead. She stopped for just a moment before composing herself and leaving the Doctor's office.
"Connie. You know what comes next."
Conrad nodded, moved to stand beside the bed and removed his hat. He pointed at Jacob's shoulder. "That's gonna end you."
"Yeah." Jacob pointed at Conrad's hunting knife. "Figure you can end it quicker for me."
"Your brother still an asshole?"
"It ain't his fault. He ain't never been quite right after he died. He knows about you though."
"Alright." Conrad grabbed the knife from his belt and plunged it into Jacob's chest. The man's chest heaved once, and then was still. Conrad moved to clean the knife on some nearby rags and left the room to join Joanna outside.
An hour after Conrad left, the geometry of the room went wrong for a moment. There was a low hum as Jacob's body fell upwards into the air and then slammed back into the bed when the room's geometry became more sane. Abel sat up in the bed where Jacob had just been, cracked his neck, and a black pistol materialized in his hand.

What strikes me as most troubling is just how appropriate your leaving is. I wish you could've stayed. I wish we could've built that family you begged me for. I cannot conceive of what the future holds for us, but I know my future doesn't lay down the train tracks in San Francisco with you. You're stronger than I ever could be, because I can't even try to leave this life.
If I could cover the distance between us every night I would. But it is wrong of me to hold you back if I will not go to where you are. Fly free, my beautiful butterfly. Find love where the world is warm and soft. I'll add the tale of your love to my stories. No one will believe you were as perfect as you were.
Excerpt of a Love Letter. Conrad Drake. 1875.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, but the fire above the mine was untended and burning out. Joanna and Conrad, already dismounted, walked towards the mine entrance. Both had their hands on the guns at their hips, waiting for a confrontation.
"Virgil! I know you're in there."
The old man's voice echoed off the walls inside the mine. "Take another step marshal and I'll blow your goddamned head off."
Joanna took a half a step back while Conrad continued to shout. "This pretty lady here just wants to talk to you."
"We're outside town limits marshal. You got no call to ask me about anything. Pretty lady or not."
"She's with the UIU. You can talk to her or the next two dozen agents they send out here."
There was a silence for several seconds, then a rustling inside the mine. Virgil shuffled out of the mine. He looked at Joanna and raised his eyebrow. "What do you want?"
Joanna stepped forward again. "Two weeks ago a postal wagon on the road to Rawling disappeared. Where were you?"
The old man shook his head. "Here. I don't rob wagons no more."
"Can anyone corroborate that?"
"Jacob Kane."
Conrad shook his head. "Jacob's dead, Virgil."
Virgil rolled his eyes. "How long?"
"Long enough."
"I done told that asshole havin' the deposits in his name was a bad idea."
Joanna cocked her head to the side and pulled the gun from her holster. "You're under arrest."
Conrad's eyes went wide. "The fuck he is. You said you needed to ask him some questions. They're asked."
"Even if I had a guarantee he's not behind the wagon robberies, he's wanted in Dakota."
The old man's hands went to his belt. "You better talk her down marshal. I'll kill her."
Conrad took two steps back and pulled his own gun, pointing it at Joanna. "Look. You're new out here, so you don't know the score. He will kill you."
Joanna stared Virgil down. "How?"
"It's complicated."
A fourth voice from behind Conrad spoke up. "It is very complicated."
Virgil looked over Conrad's shoulder and saw a man in black with a gun trained on Conrad's back. Virgil pulled his own pistol, almost provoking a response from Joanna. Virgil didn't turn his body, however, and instead pointed it at the new arrival.
"Abel. I need your brother."
"You'll have him. Eventually."
"No. I'm thinking now. You done murdered enough folk to bring the UIU down on my head. I want my share of the gold."
The four of them stood there, guns trained on each other for at least a minute while the sun sank further in the sky. Conrad spoke first. "You gonna shoot me in the back Abel?"
"I'll make it a fair fight. Turn around."
"No."
Abel pulled the hammer back on his black pistol. "Then again you did shoot me in the back last time."
Virgil held his gun up higher as he spoke. "We don't have time for this. The sun's going down."
Conrad nodded and dropped his own pistol. "I know."
Virgil cracked a small smile. "So we all wanna hide until morning and shoot each other then?"
Conrad shook his head. "No. I'm thinking we fight the riders instead."
Abel's body untensed a bit. "Virgil can't beat them. You can't beat them. I've lost three times."
"What riders?" Joanna interrupted.
Conrad dropped his gun, as did Abel and Virgil. "The 682nd Cavalry."
The sun dropped below the horizon and the sound of hoof beats began. Abel, Virgil and Conrad stepped away from the mouth of the mine and turned to face the riders in the distance.
Conrad looked back at Joanna. "I'd suggest you get out of here." Conrad pulled a red capsule out of his pocket and placed it into his mouth. "I've always wanted to do this."
"What about the law in Riddle?" Joanna said, stepping backwards.
"You seem to care a lot about the law. It can be your problem now, if you want."
Joanna wasn't sure what to make of the scene in front of her, as the three men stepped forward into the night. Abel dressed in black, pulled a large gun from thin air. Conrad spun the chambers on his pistols to make sure they were loaded. Virgil let his dusty coat fall to the ground behind him and he suddenly seemed smaller to her. He turned his head around fully to face her without moving his body and smiled a crooked, twisted smile.
Her eyes went wide and she turned to run to her horse. The full moon rose from behind the dark riders and the three men readied themselves for the battle.
Abel laughed a bit. "So what's the plan Condraki?"
"Don't call me that." Conrad paused. "You fellas do what you want, I'm gonna try to ride one of those horses."

And if you give yourself to the hungry, And satisfy the desire of the afflicted, Then your light will rise in darkness, And your gloom will become like midday.
And the Lord will continually guide you, And satisfy your desire in scorched places, And give strength to your bones; And you will be like a watered garden, And like a spring of water whose waters do not fail.
And those from among you will rebuild the ancient ruins; You will raise up the age-old foundations; And you will be called the repairer of the breach, The restorer of the streets in which to dwell.
Isaiah 58:10-12

Joanna stepped out of the telegraph office after filing her report. She had already decided to go back to Washington and make her full report there minus a few details. As she stepped into the street she noticed Phillip the drunk standing awkwardly outside the sheriff's office. She ignored him and made her way down the thoroughfare.
Along her path to the train station she noticed two thefts, a violent argument, and at least one dead body in the middle of the street. With no law, the town was already eating itself alive. Still, she had her job to do.
She stepped onto the train station platform and noted that Mr. Cozen was still present, though he avoided her. As she waited for the newly arrived passengers to disembark, she observed them. These men and women had no idea what was in store for them here.
The last passenger to leave the train was a tall woman with a prosthetic facial plate made of porcelain. She carried a doctor's bag with her. She'd seen the prosthetic in the past on soldiers who'd received facial wounds in the war. She weighed speaking to the doctor about her experiences of if they'd ever fought in the same battles, but decided to give the doctor a wide berth.
As she passed the doctor from a fair distance, Joanna smelled the faint odor of rotting flesh. Joanna stepped onto the train and found her seat. She looked out the window at the town, sinking into chaos and smiled as Mr. Cozen accosted the new arrivals.
When she closed her eyes she saw the doctor's porcelain face instead. Joanna startled awake, stood up from her seat and walked onto the train platform with her bag in tow. She looked down the thoroughfare, dusted her shirt off, rested her hand on her gun, and walked toward the marshal's office.


May 25th, 1882
I write this on a train to Cheyenne, watching the world go by through the windows. We left Saint Joseph half an hour ago, and the Union Pacific Railroad Line is as uncomfortable as ever. At least my employers have provided good accommodations for my trip west.
Othniel Charles Marsh. He's more megalomaniac than paleontologist at this point. His petty rivalry with Edward Cope threatens to bleed these beds dry, whether through their digging, or through sheer sabotage. They break their own findings so the other doesn't discover them; it is absolute madness. My father worked with Gideon Mantell and Mary Anning, who are surely rolling in their graves with enough force to burrow through the planet.
And neither of them have any idea what they're standing on. Regardless, Marsh is the more competent one by far. The Messrs have chosen me for this task.
I feel sorry for Reed and Carlin, having to work under Cope. Within a century, he'll be forgotten.
May 26th
Found myself a room in Cheyenne. Marsh has posted a notice in the newspaper advertising positions on his dig team. A few have met with unfortunate accidents, leaving positions open.
I had an interview with the man himself, and upon seeing my demeanor, as well as a few more esoteric aides, he hired me instantly. I informed him I knew how to swing a pick, brush a brush, dig with a trowel.
Despite my best attempts to emulate an accent from Connecticut, he did not comment on it. All that effort, a month of training my voice, for naught.
We set off for the Como Bluff quarry in two days time.
May 28th
We've set out. It's a two-day walk to the bluffs, but there is a settlement between the two points, if it can even be called that; it's a trading post with an inn by it.
It seems that several of the men know Marsh's reputation. His rivalry with Cope has brought sensation to the area, and with it, yellow journalism— though there's a grain of truth to it. The Times in New York reported that Marsh and Cope have started taking riflemen with them, and I certainly see a few muzzles sticking out from the supply packs. One of the alleged rifleman, who is named Anderson , claims that they're for hunting game by the site, as meat is hard to keep in the desert, and even trail rations begin to fester after two-week digs. Another man, Silcox, informed me that they usually leave the rotting rations near the edge of the site as a deterrent for Cope's men. All that will do is attract coyotes and god only knows what else.
There is no telegraph service at the trading post. It exists, but unlucky lightning strikes seem to have destroyed the wires. With apologies to the Messrs, I will be unable to contact them.
May 31st
We have arrived at the quarry, and I have inspected the map that Messr. D created with help from the navigational apparatus. I will attempt to persuade Marsh to dig in the designated location, which I am informed is distinct.
I believe I have found it. An outcropping of rock, shaped like a rook. It is half a mile away from where we are planning to dig. Marsh will not be easily persuaded to move after such a long trek. Thankfully, if he believes Mr. Cope is involved, Mr. Marsh will attempt to overtake the area.
Tonight, I will report to Mr. Marsh that I saw men at the outcropping, who fled once they took notice of me. In addition, I have repurposed Mssr. D's map as a facsimile of one that Cope's men use and planted it at the location, hidden under a rock. He will jump at the chance to usurp Cope, and I imagine that Reed and Carlin are doing much of the same with him.
June 1st
Excavation has begun! Marsh himself broke ground, and almost instantly found fossilized ferns in the rock. Though I do not know what the Messrs. have sent me to search for, I will know it when it is seen.
Men have reported hearing shifting sounds from underground, and Marsh fears that animals have made their home in the strata, destroying fossils. I wonder if it is this, or something more.
June 2nd
Marsh's fears seem to have been founded. We found a family of mice within some form of ribcage, all dead. We do not know what killed them, so we have burned them. Some expressed a wish for eating them. I do not understand Americans.
Some of the specimens here are fragile; twice we have found, for lack of a better term, bubbles in the rock, and twice they have been broken simply by touching them, as if they were eggshell. They have the texture of rock, but are brittle; one of Marsh's assistants hypothesizes it to be a strange shale formation.
I believe these are what I am looking for.
June 4th
I awoke from sleep to hear gunshots, and believed I was found out, but instead, it was Anderson shooting at a man fleeing from our camp, a bag of small fossils slung over his shoulder. Inspecting his belongings shows a blatant letter from Cope, which was left as a slight against us.
The camp is not getting sleep tonight, and nobody is being allowed near the dig.
June 5th
Marsh is demanding daily inspections after the events of last night. My journal will reveal me if they see the contents, and as such, I have hidden it in the lining of my pillow.
We found what appears to be part of a carnivore's jawbone today. Fascinating to most, but not what I am looking for, unless the Messrs. deployed me for the sake of obtaining new inlays for fork handles.
June 6th
Overturning a rock has found an entire outcropping of the bubbles. Our photographer came to capture it, but the idiot used the flash lamp in the daylight. One of the diggers was blinded, and fell onto the bubbles, crushing them all. Marsh has fired them both, and forced them to march back to Cheyenne alone.
I've not seen a man so angry before. Even the tirades that happen at the club are nothing compared to Marsh. He threw a trowel at his tent wall so hard that it cut through. He was convinced that the bubbles were worth something, either scientifically or monetarily, and I can't help but wonder if he knows something I don't.
What esoteric properties do these things have?
6:00 PM
I spied Marsh's notebook as he worked outside his tent He was making notes on the bubbles- the words "egg shells" were written underneath an illustration of them. He had one on his desk, and I managed to snatch a glance of the inside. There was something inside it; an embryo, which had been alive mere hours ago.
This is it. Dinosaur eggs, spared from the horrors of time and extinction, underneath the Morrison formation. And these idiots are wantonly destroying them.
I hate Americans.
Night
I awoke to the sound of something in the desert, some form of animal. Coyotes, most likely, stalking around camp. I'm wondering if this is the alleged Cope deterrent working.
June 8th
Someone hid my journal within the camp. I only found it this afternoon, under a pile of rocks. I'd be lost without this. I found it with a cock drawn on the inside front cover. Americans!
Two of our camp went for supplies yesterday, and have yet to return. have returned, running like madmen, water and food on their backs. They claim to have found the bodies of the two men fired by Marsh on Tuesday the 6th, five miles outside of camp, horribly mauled. I went to investigate along with five others.
Their faces were gone. Whether they were slashed off, or bitten, I do not know. No man did this. A wolf, perhaps. But it is a wolf that has claws the size of a Bowie knife. And something else was amiss as well- no-one wanted to bury them, and no-one could recall their names. I looked at the roster, my journal… no record of them. I knew they were part of the expedition, but even then, I did not know who they were.
June 9th
Marsh has been shaken by the events. He's announced that he's taking a small party of three back to the trading post to send a telegram asking for aid. They will be back tomorrow morning, and until then, we are to continue digging.
Finally heard from the agents in Cope's camp, via courier; Carlin says that his workers are being more careful with the specimens. The agents intend to take them and be on the first train back east. Carlin's made the excuse of starting his own company with a third party, intending to sell fossils to the highest bidder. Not technically incorrect.
Cope thinks the specimens are just igneous formations, thanks to prodding from both of them, useless to the forward study of paleontology. Marsh, unfortunately, will be less easy to convince. No matter; a stab from a syringe on the way out will cause him to forget.
June 10th
Marsh has not returned. We left a trail to our camp with stakes, so it would be difficult for him to become lost. The men are worried.
His second-in-command has begun rationing water to us; another reason Marsh left. We are down to the last barrel, and our food is almost gone.
The thermometer in Marsh's tent shows almost one-hundred Fahrenheit. The men are taking longer breaks, but I and two others continue to work. I managed to find a nest of the eggs, and quickly packed and prepared them. None of them are damaged.
There appears to be, for lack of a better term, a vein of them, much like a vein of ore in a mine, stretching far beneath the ground. The men are being more careful with them now, at least.
I should be able to make off with the crate they intend to send back to Cheyenne for transport. I just need to change the destination from Peabody to New York.
June 11th
Marsh returned this morning, bearing water and rations. He was pleased that we had found more of the eggs, and swore us to secrecy on the contents, before having one of his assistants break one open, revealing an embryo within.
At the moment he did this, there was an enormous bellow from over the bluff, and a rumbling sound, as if a herd of bison were stampeding. Nothing came of it, but the camp is shaken. Marsh has given us permission to take two days off and spend time around the trading post.
Night
Another died.
It was larger than any man in the camp, completely silent, covered in quills barbs feathers, like a giant bird. Its mouth was full of one-hundred teeth, and it leapt from the tops of the tents, descending on the man. It was not solid; at one point, I saw it walk through the wall of a tent without disturbing it. And it seemed angry.
There was no mistaking it: it was a dinosaur, some unknown species. The man it came upon shot at it, but the bullet rocketed through the night, doing nothing other than rouse the camp. The claws on its feet were like sickles, and they sliced through one man's throat, before- it cannot be called "feeding". No further harm came to his flesh, but his soul… I saw parts of his soul be ripped out, wisps of being rended from his gut, into its flesh, and then it went for the eyes.
I displaced some rock as I observed it, and it saw me. It had no hatred in its eyes, just simple curiosity. It did not want to hurt me, specifically. Then, with a cry that has not been heard in millennia upon millennia, it vanished. I can not bring myself to approach the body, nor can I remember the man's name. I wrote it in my journal- he was one of the riflemen- but now, when I look at it, I do not see it.
I have told no-one of this. I will make this clear in my missive to the Messrs: the eggs ARE NOT TO BE DESTROYED. The men who have destroyed the eggs have all ended up dead, forgotten, and now, I almost fear for Marsh.
June 12th
I shall be returning
Night
One of them attacked the camp today, in broad daylight. I write this at the telegraph station, having sent a missive to London. We were scattered, but only one has died. I believe Marsh to be alive.
A worker got in an argument with Marsh over pay, saying that he should be paid more if they were at risk of death— the idiot failed to read the contract. He struck Marsh, which led to a scuffle, and then, he took up one of the eggs and threw it at Marsh. As the embryo slid down the paleontologist's face, chaos erupted.
A small pack of the ghastly dinosaurs had erupted from the ground, their silvery, half-solid forms almost impossible to see in the blinding western sun. They leapt upon the man, a multitude, and their forms did nothing to obscure the carnage. His soul was removed from his body, and devoured. I heard his final scream as he faded into nothingness, and this sound will remain with me forever.
In the confusion, I managed to pilfer a case of eggs and flee the camp, after injecting Marsh with some of the serum, and pouring the rest into the water. Carlin has met me in the trading post, as we intend to hire a mail cart to send them back to Cheyenne, and from there, by train, to New York, and to London by boat.
June 17th
In New York, about to board a ship. Lost the journal on the train, have only now found it in my luggage. The shipment is also on board.
The Messrs have instructed me to dispose of this journal when my report is complete, which it is, tucked in my case. I have left it in the care of Sam Williston, a cousin of mine and another agent, with the instructions to take care of it.
Samuel, I know that Marsh is a close friend of yours, even with your duties, but I beg you: observe him more closely. If you, he, or anyone else find any of the eggs, stop them from being destroyed. Ship them to somewhere safe. I do not know if their influence extends outside of Wyoming, nor do I care to find out.


August, 1970

As Agent Josephine Creed sat beneath a pine tree in Oregon's Milo McIver State Park, she came to the realization that she hated her current assignment. Wearing plainclothes during a field operation was one thing, but tie-dye, bell-bottoms, and flowers braided into her hair made her want to punch someone. Then punch them again. She sighed and then looked around. The Vortex I music festival was underway all around her, filling her eyes and ears with the sights and sounds the local rock and roll scene had to offer.
"What the hell am I even doing here?" Creed asked herself.
She already knew the answer. Over a year prior, during Woodstock, several anartists had caused multiple instances of trouble. From acid laced with a compound that made you see your lives in parallel universes to soaps that made your skin glow various colors in tie-dye patterns, the whole festival was a hot mess of breaches of the Veil. At least three riots broke out among the performances, and in one instance an entire stage descended into hell, band and all. It was a good thing drug use had run rampant there, and that the drugs of choice affected memory, because enough amnestics had been given out to wipe out the collective remembrance of a small city. This time around, however, the Foundation was prepared for the worst. Dozens of field agents like her were sprinkled throughout the venue, with amnestic sprays and other tricks up their sleeves to quickly and quietly squash any anomalous activity as they found it.
The sound of a frenzy of applause and cheers broke Creed from her reflection. Looking up, she watched as the Portland Zoo Electric Band finished its set and began to clear the stage for the next performance. She gave a few half-hearted claps of her own as she scanned the crowd for a contact that was supposed to have met her an hour and a half ago. Some hippie named Phineas. She had been told that he had the means of allowing her to literally alter the way she saw the universe. She was keeping her fingers crossed for a legitimate bust, and not just another peddler of scheduled Class-I substances.
"You Cherry?" A man's voice came from behind Creed. Turning her head, she saw a greasy man with long matted hair peering at her from the other side of the tree. Despite the rest of him being dirty, the teeth visible in his grin were immaculate.
"I take it you're Phineas?" she asked.
"That me." He continued to grin. "Marco said you were looking for some special supplies to up your concert-going experience. Said you passed his test."
"Sure am," Creed replied with a smile, and got to her feet. "Though I didn't know I was being tested at the time."
"No one ever does," Phineas chuckled. "That's what makes it so far-out. Anyway, you ready?"
"Whenever you are." Creed twisted a specific bead on her bracelet, sending a signal to their HQ that she was in the process of a potential bust. A small mental ping went off in the back of her head as HQ confirmed receipt of her status.
"Righteous." Phineas then turned and began to walk away from the crowds. "Follow me."
"Wait what?" Creed asked. "We need to leave? Why?"
"This place is crawling with Suits, sister," Phineas commented over his shoulder. "I'm not stupid enough to bring anything here in bulk when Three Ports is a hop, skip, and a jump away. Come on. If we don't hurry you're not gonna have your treat in time for the next show. You'll need it."
The two wormed their way through the various crowds, the occasional concert-goer nodding to Phineas as they passed. Before long they arrived at the opposite edge of the clearing, Phineas leading them to a large Douglas fir. He stopped and gave a satisfied nod to the tree, then turned back to Creed.
"Alright Cherry," he said, "here we are. Go ahead and walk around this bad boy five times clockwise then knock on the trunk seven times."
"Why…" Creed raised a confused eyebrow.
"You really don't know do you?" Phineas commented with a grin. "Oh man, this is gonna be your first time. You're in for a treat."
"What are you talking about?"
"You'll see," Phineas chuckled and gestured for her to get on with it. "Go on. Do the walkin' and knockin'."
Creed shrugged, sighed, and then proceeded to do as she had been instructed. As soon as she completed the seventh knock, she felt the wind rush out of her as her vision went dark, followed by a bright white. Creed blinked and now stood in front of a three-dimensional shadow of the tree. The summer sun had been replaced by gray clouds and rain. As she caught her breath she looked around to find herself within a large park, surrounded by the buildings of a large city. There was a dull thud, and Phineas appeared next to her.
"Welcome, sister," he said with a laugh, "to Three Portlands."
"What the fuck…" was all Creed could manage in reply as her head swiveled back and forth to take in the change of venue.
The city itself was huge. A mixture of West Coast, East Coast, and European architecture dotted the skyline, punctuated by the shadows of buildings she recognized from Portland. A constant drizzle of rain fell from a cloud-choked sky. It wasn't until closer examination that she could tell that the raindrops themselves shifted between numerous psychedelic patterns as they fell, giving the sky a mind-bending coat of color. Within the park where she stood, hundreds of people gathered around wooden stages where holograms of the various Vortex I shows played out, some of which had not yet occurred, their music permeating the park and the city beyond. Despite multiple shows playing at once, their sounds didn't blend. All it took was concentrating on the song you wanted to hear for the rest to fade away from your ears. Creed twisted a different bead on her bracelet, one indicating the discovery of a major anomalous find, but never received the mental ping indicating that HQ had received her signal.
"Where the hell are we?"
"Like I said," Phineas replied, "we're in Three Portlands."
"What the hell is a Third Portland?"
"The space where the Portland, Oregon, Portland, Maine, and the Isle of Portland in the UK coalesce into a beautiful whole," Phineas explained. "Think of it as a kind of… alternate dimension… A city existing outside the mundane world. A far-out town. Granted it's not always done up this nice. They really pulled out the stops for Vortex. Hell, you should have seen the party they put on for Woodstock."
"How long has this been here?"
"You got me." Phineas shrugged. "Forever, maybe?"
Creed stared at Phineas with her mouth agape. She had so many questions, but no more words bubbled up from her throat.
"You need a moment, I can tell." Phineas grinned. "But do you mind if we take that moment on the run? My apartment is still, like, three blocks away once we get out of the park."
"You live here?"
"It's a city… a lot of people live here. All kinds of people, in fact. Artists, writers, scientists, magicians, musicians. You know. Cool people. Seriously though, we really need to get moving…"
"R-right… of course…" Creed gestured for Phineas to lead the way. Without a moment's delay, he led her out of the park and into the city proper. Despite their distance from the park increasing, the sound of Vortex I's music sounded as though they still were still front and center.
As the two of them weaved their way through the crowded city streets, Creed felt more and more like a minnow in a shark tank. Around her, anartists openly purchased supplies, magic was demonstrated freely, and anahumans of all shapes and sizes roamed. The anomalous world flooded her senses and she feared they might soon detect her occupation and collapse upon her like an avalanche. But the doom never arrived, and the only thing Creed was bombarded with was the occasional smile from a passerby, and Phineas's amused chuckles.
"Here we are," Phineas eventually said, stopping in front of a tall apartment building covered in a thick layer of alternating moss and concert posters. "Home sweet home."
Creed was led up a set of stairs to a studio apartment. Inside, the vast majority of the space was dominated by workbenches covered in a wide array of half-finished clockwork machines, and various sculptures and art pieces. Unwashed plates, half-drunk mugs of tea, massive dusty tomes, and an impressive amount of vinyl records filled the spaces in-between.
"Sorry for the mess," Phineas replied as he headed towards one of the workbenches and began to dig through the drawers. Creed took the time to study the menagerie of art on display, her eyes eventually settling on what looked to be a kind of clockwork snake.
"Wait…" Creed's brow furrowed. "I remember hearing about these things. Couple people out east were keeping them as pets. Bought them from someone named Tick Tock. Wait, are you Tick Tock?"
"In the flesh," Phineas replied, still digging through the drawers. "Had to stop making those after the Suits started busting people for them. Though to be fair, they were a bitch to make. Almost lost a few limbs once or twice. Aha!" He pulled out a small dropper and held it aloft.
"Is that why you moved here? The Suits."
"One reason, yeah." Phineas shrugged. "As far as I know the Suits don't know about this place. Can't get busted for following your dreams here. Plus, if I fuck up here, normal people won't get hurt. That's a pretty sweet deal in my opinion."
He then handed her the dropper. Creed examined it carefully. The dark brown glass was labeled with a picture of a dove, and appeared to be filled with sand.
"It'll become liquid once you use the dropper. Two drops in each eye. You'll see every possible version of whatever performance you are viewing all at once, aaaaaaaaand be able to comprehend them too. Just say the word ‘Chicken Feet' aloud when you want the effects to stop." He then grinned, his immaculate teeth reflecting the light of the studio. "You're in for a mind-blowing time. Trust me, it's the best way to watch a concert. You get to hear all the songs."
Creed nodded and placed the bottle in her pocket. Normally at this point, she'd draw her gun and make the arrest, but given her current situation this action seemed unwise.
"Thank you," she said.
"No problem, sister," he replied. "Though you best be moving along if you're going to make the next show. You can get out the way we came in. Just knock seven times and then five counterclockwise trips around the tree."
"You're not coming?"
"I've got a few more things to grab before I head back to the real world. You'll be fine. If you need help, just grab someone in the park. They'll know how to help you."
"Thanks for everything then…" Creed nodded. "This place is pretty far-out. I'll, uh, probably be back sooner than later."
"No one stays away for long. You enjoy the show, Cherry."
Without another word, Creed found herself back on the city streets, the psychedelic rain still drizzling upon the heads of the busy passersby. It was all she could do to keep from sprinting back to her exit. This was going to be the biggest Foundation discovery since the Wanderer's Library. She remained calm and collected as she disappeared into the flow of the foot traffic, reemerging at the border to the park. There, a man in a long brown coat was waiting for her to arrive. Creed's eyes widened as he smiled and nodded at her.
"Heeeeeeeeey skipper," he said, and began to reach into his coat.
Creed didn't wait to see what he was going to pull out, choosing instead to draw the pistol concealed on her person and firing a shot before taking off down the street. Looking over her shoulder she could see her shot missed, and hit a tree in the park, the crowd of concert-goers shouting in confusion at the sound of the gunshot. The man in the long coat had dove to the side, and was now getting up on his feet to chase after her.
She zigged and zagged through the crowded streets, her plan to move round to the other side of the park, then cut through to the tree that contained her exit. As she turned the corner, another man in a brown coat leaped at her from a doorway. Creed grabbed him by the lapel and, turning his momentum against him, turned and threw him into a nearby street vendor's cart filled with flowers. As he crashed through the stall the flower petals turned to hummingbirds and flew away. Creed would have stared at the tiny creatures in wonder, but was too busy sprinting further down the street towards a streetcar, the first man in a long coat close behind her. With the last burst of her speed, Creed hopped onto the streetcar's back platform, and hauled herself aboard.
"Hey!" The attendant shouted at her as he forced his way through the crowded cars. "Hey you need a ticket, you can't just hop-"
Creed pointed the barrel of her pistol at him and the man fell silent, holding up his hands in surrender.
"Enjoy your ride…" he said with a nervous smile, and stepped out of Creed's way as she navigated to the front car. There was a thud from the back as one of the men in the long coats hopped aboard.
"Open the door," she said to the driver, flashing her pistol.
"Ma'am I can't do that while we're in motion," the driver replied, her eyes looking between Creed's gun and the tracks ahead. "If you wait for me to stop, I'd be happy to-"
Click. Creed pulled the hammer back on the pistol.
"Open the door!"
The driver nodded and pulled the lever. Creed quickly hopped out of the car, tumbling as she hit the pavement to avoid complications from her landing. She waved at the man in the long coat as the streetcar continued to glide along its track. Picking herself up, she then made the final sprint towards the shadow tree that waited for her in the park.
As soon as she arrived at the dark pine, she slammed her hand into it with heavy knocks, counting out loud with each blow.
Bang. "One!"
Bang. "Two!"
Bang. "Three!"
Bang. "Four!"
Bang. "Five!"
Bang. "Six!"
Bang. "Seven!"
She then proceeded to make her counterclockwise circuits around the tree, only just completing her fourth lap when she was tackled from behind and slammed into the wet park grass.
"God damn it, skipper!" A familiar voice shouted. "We're on your side!"
A badge was pressed into her face.

Agent Fredrick Gibson
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Unusual Incidents Unit
Three Portlands Division

"UIU…" Creed muttered. "Are you kidding me? You're UIU?"
She then began to laugh. The man helped her to her feet, cuffing her arms behind her back, as his partner arrived and flashed his badge to the crowd of concert goers who had gathered around to watch the spectacle.
"Agent Tobias Wood. UIU. Move along," he said. With murmurs and shrugs the crowd soon dispersed.
"Come on. Let's go somewhere a little more private," Agent Gibson said. Wood nodded and soon Creed found herself being lead to a small clearing away from the stages where a deserted picnic table awaited them. She took a seat and looked at her two new friends.
"I got to admit, finding UIUseless here is probably the biggest surprise of my day," Creed commented, breaking the silence.
"Will you stop calling us that?" Wood replied with a frown. "For starters, we caught your scrawny ass."
"Fair enough." Creed shrugged. "How long have you guys known about this place anyway?"
"The Federal Government has operated here since the Hoover era," Wood replied. "I'd say welcome to the party, but the girls already jumped out of the cake, and everyone has had a slice."
"Cute," said Creed. "And you never told us about a potentially massive breach of the Veil because…?"
"We didn't need to," Gibson answered. "The fact that the Foundation is only just now finding out about this place should tell you how self-contained it is. Generally, this place operates under Vegas rules. What happens in Three Portlands stays in Three Portlands."
"So, what, you guys are detaining me?" Creed raised an eyebrow, and gestured to her still handcuffed arms with her head. "Are you prepared for the fallout of that kind of action?"
"Not detaining so much as stalling," Wood chuckled. "We've had a protocol for this exact scenario prepped since the mid 60's when the number of carts and cans in the Pacific Northwest started increasing. Right now, our director is probably on the phone with one of your big wigs. Telling them what's what."
"Oh, they are going to tell us what's what are they? And why are we going to listen to you?"
"Because if you don't, and treat this place business as usual, you're going to be making your job infinitely harder," Gibson commented.
"I don't follow…"
"You ever wonder why the Pacific Northwest is so much quieter than other sections of the US in terms of the strange and mysterious?" Gibson sighed. "It's because most of that activity gets siphoned into here. No need to risk magic and mad science in the real world and risk getting skipped when you can just move to a place where open practice is legal and the norm. You guys come in here and try and contain things, all that activity is going to spill back out again. I guarantee it. You'll only be making your job more difficult."
Agent Wood pressed two fingers to an ear, then looked as his watch, then tapped on it. Gibson nodded and removed Creed's cuffs. The Foundation agent rubbed her wrists as she watched the UIU agents take their leave.
"Anyway, enough stalling, contact's been made," Wood called back. "You enjoy the rest of Vortex, alright skipper? Try to catch the Jacob's Ladder set if you can. They aren't half-bad."
Creed watched as Wood and Gibson vanished into the crowds within the park. She sighed and got up, making her way back to the shadow of the tree her and Phineas came in through. As directed, she knocked seven times, then made five counterclockwise circles. She felt the wind get knocked out of her again, as her vision went white, then faded to black.
When her senses returned to her, she was standing in the warm summer sun, near the large Douglas fir within Milo McIver State Park. Her fellow Foundation field agents surrounded her, each bearing a concerned expression.
"Creed? What happened?" Agent Stuart asked, taking off his rose-tinted glasses as he looked her over for injury.
"You hit your major anomaly bead. Is everything alright? Where is the anomaly?" Agent Philips questioned. She kept one hand on her can of amnestic spray, and one eye on the crowd.
"You completely vanished! Where the hell did you go?" Agent Ferrell inquired. His head bobbed back and forth as he looked around the tree, as if some great discovery was merely hiding behind it.
She held up a finger as she caught her breath.
"Debriefing," Creed finally managed to say. "I need a debriefing. Now!"

November, 1971

Sunny days in Three Portlands were few and far between. From pouring rain to simple overcast, the pure blue of the sky rarely became visible for the city's residents. Even rarer, however, was the sky being clear at sunset, the vanishing sun painting a vibrant canvas of reds, oranges, purples, and yellows across the sky.
Agent Josephine Creed sat a park bench, watching the sun go down. She hummed a tune to herself as a familiar man in a long brown coat sat next her, holding a briefcase on his lap.
"Agent Creed," he said as he too looked at the sky. "Welcome back to Portlands."
"Someone I met on my first trip here said that no one stays away from here for too long," Creed replied. "Nice to see you again as well, Agent Gibson."
"True words." Gibson nodded in agreement, flipping open his briefcase and looking at the contents. "So, you guys are finally starting to keep an eye on the Northwest, huh? Sticking around for a while?"
"Given the potential for Three Portlands to someday spill out into the real world, we deemed it wise," said Creed. "Did you bring it then?"
"All cataloged Ways into Three Portlands, and where they connect to baseline reality." Gibson handed her an unmarked booklet. "If you guys are going to be keeping an eye out and making sure the oddities stay in their cage that kind of information will be crucial. Note we aren't telling you what the keys are. You don't need to be able to open a door to see who goes in and out of it."
Creed nodded and placed the booklet in her bag. She then handed him a large sealed envelope in return. "As promised, five minor anomalous objects with anti-thaumaturgic properties, one of which just so happens to be a Richard Nixon bobblehead."
"And what does that one do?" Gibson asked with a chuckle as he placed the envelope in his briefcase.
"Thaumaturges in its presence can't lie."
"Clever."
"I'll say," Creed laughed, then turned her attention back to the sunset. "It's funny, Tom McCall sponsored Vortex to get the hippies out of Portland because Nixon was going to attend that American Legion gathering. Then Nixon ended up canceling his appearance. Had Nixon decided to not appear at all from the beginning, Vortex wouldn't have happened, and we never would have found out about his place. So, in a way, you can blame the President for this little breach."
"Tricky Dick does it again." Gibson laughed as well. He then placed two fingers to his ear and tapped his watch. He frowned, then stood and prepared to take his leave. "Since you and your colleagues are probably going to be here for a while, I should give you a little warning. Be careful. This place sticks to you. You don't want to lose touch with reality because you're lost in all the wonder."
"You're serious…" Creed raised an eyebrow. "Wow…"
"As cancer," Gibson replied. His smile turning to a frown. "Too much of a good thing and all that jazz."
"Thanks for the heads up," said Creed. "It's appreciated."
"Don't mention it," Gibson gave a small salute. "Not so UIUseless after all."
"Far from it," Creed chuckled, and watched her contact vanish.
She then turned her attention back to the sunset and took a deep breath. The smell of pine trees and sea salt filled her nostrils. In the distance, a group of people flew through the skyline on broomsticks. Nearby, a friendly looking pair of young men were putting on a magic show for a group of children, fantastic figures of light and sound dancing around for the little one's amusement. Distant music could be heard among the hustle and bustle of people of all sorts enjoying the dying light.
"Can't imagine why anyone would want to stay here," Creed said to herself with a small smile, then began her journey back to her Way. She needed to report in to the new Foundation site with her findings.


NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
The following excerpts from the Journal of Meriwether Lewis were located during a Foundation sweep on the swath of land that encompasses The Louisiana Purchase on 21/06/1808. Before being released to RAISA, the following excerpts have been translated to modern English by the Foundation. The following excerpts document anomalous activity during the entirety of the expedition(1804-1806), which is hypothesized to be the earliest recording of The Serpent's Hand in existence. At this time, the following records have been archived in the Records and Information Security Administration(RAISA)'s knowledge database, with the noted absence of the map mentioned several times in the preceding excerpts. Please do not remove or alter the following documents without my express authorization. Thank you for your anticipated cooperation.
— Maria Jones, Director, RAISA

June 03, 1804:
My name is Meriwether Lewis. Thomas Jefferson approached me to discuss an expedition that he has planned. He informed me about a swath of land that was recently purchased, and he trusted in my skills in order to explore it. He advised me to explore the entire swath of the Louisiana Purchase and trade with any indigenous people located there. He also told me that building relations with the Indians was optional but greatly encouraged. After agreeing to the proposed plan, I left the statehouse and met an inspiring gentleman by the name of William Clark, a tall caucasian man in his early thirties. When he told me about his aspirations to become a draftsman, I immediately drafted him. I had to ask Mr. Jefferson if it was acceptable to bring a hired hand on this expedition with me.
June 05:
Mr. Jefferson agreed, just like I figured he would. He was hoping that Clark and I would be able to achieve that which his exploration teams could not. Clark and I set out for the market to buy provisions. We bought a few bushels of apples, about a lb of meat and two gallons of water. We figured this was enough to last us for the majority of the trip. Seeing as we were heading downstream in a canoe, we filled the rest with camping supplies, such as a burlap tent, a hiking backpack and a tinderbox. We also included commodities, wood and various textiles like cotton and silk, to trade with any indigenous locals we encountered.
June 13:
During the beginning of our expedition, the forest came alive with the sounds of nature. Birds flew overhead, their chirping catching me slightly off-guard. On the banks, the occasional deer was spotted coming to the riverside to drink from the pristine waters that flowed beneath our canoe. The fish, salmon I believe they were, were heading upstream; a few of them smacked us in the face as they went. We probably ended up tossing about fifteen salmon back into the river by the end of the day. The scenery began to blend together as we paddled downstream. Hopefully we encounter some Indian settlements on our way to the Pacific. Our supplies are running low, I must have miscalculated the amount of supplies required for the exploration.
July 20:
Signs of civilization! A fort has appeared, covered in various animal furs. The walls of the fort were made completely of oak, covered in burlap to protect it from the elements. We were alerted to the fort's presence by a few US army volunteers that came on this trip with us. Clark has already moved in to portage on the bank nearby, the volunteers remained in the boat as we ventured inside. Inside were a bunch of wigwams arraigned in a circle around a gigantic fire pit. Behind the fire pit was a tall totem with the head of a cobra carved into it, on which a symbol was carved comprising of two halves. The first half was of a tree shedding it's leaves, with the second half rapidly tapering off to a slender body adorned with the head of a snake. While we were preoccupied, some of the indigenous people who claimed to be Indians appeared from their respective wigwam. They were tan-skinned, wearing buffalo hide vests and cotton-woven pants, with headdresses of feathers and rawhide upon their heads.
The first few moments of any first interaction is usually uncomfortable. They did not appear to be overly thrilled to have unannounced visitors inside of their fort. Clark mentioned the aspect of trade and it seemed to clear the air, so to speak. We traded goods with them for food and items to continue on our way. One of the Indians were especially generous during our stay at the fort. He announced that he was the Chief of the Serpent tribe. The Chief was wearing a cloak made entirely of bird feathers draped over his back and was holding a wooden staff with a circular cut of bone adorned at the tip, with spikes extended from the base, and feathers taped to the body of the staff.
He asked about our destination and when we told him the Pacific, he said that he had a map that could be of assistance to us. Clark and I asked what he wanted for the map, and the Chief said that he would only give it to us in a trade. Clark and I exchanged offers back and forth before we came up with an audience with Thomas Jefferson to hold talks about the treaties. This seemed to please the Chief for he stood up and walked over to a wigwam, opened the wooden door upon it, and invited us in. After we walked in, we found ourselves in a different place entirely. A place that we never knew existed.
Date of entry unrecorded:
When we stepped through the door, it was if we passed into one of those fiction books. Bookshelves flanked us on either side, as tall as the eye can see. The Chief turned around and removed what we mistook as clothing to hang on a rack beside the door behind us. "Travelers. I promise help you with exploration and now going to make good on word. This is Library." Clark and I could only stand and stare in awe at the interior of the building. Plush red carpet lined the floor and we noticed a thirty foot tall carpet just walk by us. "Hey Shag." The individual that led us into this place gave a friendly wave to the carpet, who waved with a free tassel as it sat down to read one of the three books it was carrying.
"Oh. Just realized I rude. Let me introduce self before moving on. Me Alvarro, and I member of Serpent's Hand." Clark and I looked at each other, not entirely sure what to say. After a brief moment of silence, Clark and I introduced ourselves. Alvarro shook our hands in turn—he seemed rather civil.
"Now on to task hand. First, three rules here in Library. Must follow all times. One, don't not damage a book. Very serious in Library, books one of kind. Two, looking to rent book make sure you don't not return on time. We don't do late fees. Three, don't not go in Archives. Bad idea." Clark glanced at me with a puzzled look and I asked "Did he tell us not to, or that we could?" and Clark answered me with "I don't know, Lewis. Maybe he was telling us it was a bad idea not to." Alvarro led us further into the Library after lecturing us, we still had questions but we had difficulty understanding Alvarro so we decided not to.
Date Unknown:
The main hall that we began walking down seemed to be endless. The wall on the far side appeared to be a short walking distance away, however we didn't seem to make any progress towards it during the time we walked. We were led down a side corridor, passing by windows set into the wall on our right. "We have long time until Library. Let me show around. On right is where magic happens. Over here, you notice…"
Clark and I drowned out Alvarro's speech as we gazed through the window. Inside, we observed a few individuals creating fire from thin air. Some were creating items from materials we have never seen before, without any utensils. Another was observed cutting himself and turning the wound into a flame. Before we could see what happened, Alvarro spoke up. "You listen to Alvarro?!"
Clark and I snapped out of our stupor and turned to face Alvarro. "Now, where was I? Here, you notice entrance to archive inside Library. It quicker if walk here. Me go first, the spirits of Archives won't not let anybody enter." Alvarro passes through the doors, closing them behind him. Eventually he returned and waved us in, to which we followed. Inside we noticed a giant beast was sitting, looming above us.
It has three heads, one of a goat, one of a lion, and a tail ending in a dragon's head. Alvarro patted the beast on the leg, to which one of its heads leaned down to eye level with us—the lion one, if I remember correctly. It sniffed us both in turn, then looked over at Alvarro and nodded in approval. "Spirit give approval. We walk though section of Archive only." I asked Alvarro why, to which he responded that there were many chimeras, that's what this beast was by the way, and that getting permission from all of them would take years. Clark and I just nodded, we had no idea what was going on anyway.
Date Unknown:
Alvarro turned and led us down the hallway in the archives, filled with row upon row of shelves containing cartography maps. Soon, Alvarro exited from the archives into a separate wing of the Library. "Library at end of wing." Alvarro said, and started to walk down the corridor. As we followed, the floor shook under our feet. Alvarro made a motion to pause, and told us to hold our breath. Clark and I didn't know what he meant, until an extremely pungent smell invaded our nostrils.
Clark and I quickly pinched our noses and held our breath. A thirty foot tall golem marched past us, with metal rings around its wrists and ankles, with mounds of rotting flesh adoring its form. A pair of eyes looked down at us from where it stood. Clark and I wondered if we would die of suffocation, however the golem eventually moved on, disappearing into the door we just came from. Alvarro eventually passed into the main area of the Library, filled from wall to wall with bookshelves that reached into what appeared to be an atrium.
Alvarro passed by the front desk, where a figure draped in a dark robe holding a chain that was connected to a lantern at the end was residing. After a short conversation, he called us over and presented a pair of library cards to us. "You only get one. It for books. Sign careful." Clark and I signed our names, noticing a second pair of cards appearing on the desk with our same signature on it. The librarian passes the lantern over them and they disappear into a drop slot in the counter. Alverro then releases us, telling us to not leave the room. Clark and I walked around, not quite sure what we were looking for.
Something that looked like a spider, but not quite, scuttled behind us causing me to flinch from surprise. Clark turned around to see what the problem was; noticing the spider too, he panicked and tripped over his own two feet, knocking into the bookshelf the page was residing on. This caused the bookshelf to displace its many contents of books, falling into a sizable heap around Clark and I. As we were buried in, several of those spider-like creatures were seen scuttling over to the resulting pile of books, organizing them.
Eventually, Alvarro helped dig us out and brought us aside. "Why you do this? I say don't not damage books!" I explained that Clark and I saw a creature climbing on the bookshelf, which caused us to panic. I gestured to the resulting mess as I explained what happened. Alvarro looked up; the pages seemed annoyed, but they were busy stacking and reorganizing the books. Alvarro sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can't trust strangers with books. No move, I go find map. Remember, don't not go into archive. Bad idea." Alvarro said, in a serious tone of voice, as he walked away from us.
Date Unknown:
Clark and I waited for what seemed like days. No sign of Alvarro anywhere and we were getting bored. We decided to go and take a look around for ourselves. When we stepped into the hallway, a gigantic beast that appeared to be a cross between a bull and a squid walked past us, its many eyes staring at us for what felt like an eternity. With a heavy snort, the beast lumbered on, disappearing two doors down. Clark and I exhaled in relief—what the heck was that thing anyway, Clark asked, to which I just shrugged.
Walking down the hallway, we entered the very next door we arrived at. We found ourselves in a wing of the archives, pouring over shelves upon shelves of what appeared to be cartography maps. While we looked, something tapped me on the shoulder. I asked Clark what he wanted, and he informed me that he wasn't the one that tapped me on the shoulder. I was about to retort when I heard a snarl from behind me. Looking back, I saw a three headed dog with three long, whip-like scorpion tails.
One of its tails reared back, appearing as if ready to strike us. Clark and I made a break for it while it was preparing to swing. A loud crash from the tail impacting the bookshelf must've aroused suspicion… The next thing we notice when we burst out into the main hall is Alvarro pushing his way through the main door of the library. He glared at us, and strode towards us purposefully. "You leave room? Where go and what do?!" He asked us, bluntly.
Before we could explain, the sounds of wood splintering could be heard from nearby followed by an agitated roar. "You no listen to Alvarro? Why you do this?!" He said, angrily. "Take map, door that way! Travelers nothing but trouble!" Alvarro thrust the map at us just in time for the Cerberus to burst through the door and turn to us. Clark and I made a break for the door while Alvarro calmed the beast down.
August 22:
As we left, I looked over my shoulder to notice Alvarro returning to the main area of the Library. I heard some chanting coming from the room as we burst through the door arriving back at the fort. I told Clark that we should never tell anyone what we witnessed, to which Clark agreed. As we left the fort, things started acting… Weird. I can't quite remember what happened after that, it was kind of hazy. Clark and I found ourselves to not be in control of our bodies at this time either.
I started walking backwards, as if I was in a dream. I didn't see anything wrong with it then, as if I was still too sleepy to realize it wasn't normal. We walked backwards into the door and back into the Library. Alvarro turned from the beast, he took back the map he gave us, Alvarro lectured us again, and walked back into the main area of the Library. The Cerberus made its way back into the Archives, and we followed it after the sound of wood splintering and a loud smash. We went back through the maps, walked back out of the door only to see the giant beast walk past us again but in the opposite direction. We went back into the library, waited at the door again, got another lecture from Alvarro and found ourselves in the pile of books again.
The pages scuttled back off to what they were doing before, the books wobbled and returned to the shelf. We unsigned the Library card, and walked backwards down the long hallway to the entrance. Alvarro put on the Indian garb and walked out behind us.
… And now I'm here.
June 03, 1804:
My name is Meriwether Lewis. Thomas Jefferson approached me to discuss an expedition that he has planned. He informed me about a swath of land that was recently purchased, and he trusted in my skills in order to explore it. After leaving the statehouse, I met an inspiring gentleman by the name of William Clark, a tall caucasian man in his early thirties. When he told me about his aspirations to become a draftsman, I immediately drafted him. I had to ask Mr. Jefferson if it was acceptable to bring a hired hand on this expedition with me.
I don't understand. I was already here before. Where am I? I tried to tell Clark what was happening, and he was wondering if I felt alright. Clark obviously did not believe me. Shortly after, we passed by a Native American walking into the statehouse holding a piece of rolled up paper in his hand. Clark and I shrugged, not knowing what a Native American was doing at the statehouse. When I saw the fort again, I told Clark to bypass it. When he asked me why, I told him that it was for the best and that I would explain everything later.
The rest of the trip went without incident, and we returned to give the map that was expected of us. I can only wonder if what I witnessed actually happened, however it was probably for the best that I forgot. After all, what are the chances that a place like that actually existed in the first place?


Philadelphia, The Navy Yard
2031

Dr. Vanessa Graff is sitting at a table overlooking the ocean, hands trembling with the greatest rush she has ever experienced in her life, when the woman who doesn't exist steps out from behind a building and waves hello to her.
The woman's hand seems to move in slow-motion stereo, double-exposed afterimages of her hand flickering colours of the rainbow. By the time she's finished sitting down at the table, Graff is starting to wonder if even the trail-mix of medication she took beforehand wasn't enough to prevent the heart attack. The only clue she's not dead is the fact that she can still feel her brain frying slowly in a cocktail of mnestic sludge.
"Hhi," she manages to gulp out between clenched teeth.
Her visitor looks like a patchwork human — when she puts her hands on the table, her left looks baby-soft while her right is cratered with liver spots and veins jutting out underneath it. "Your first time on the Y-Class?" she croaks, pointing at the foil packet still clenched in Graff's trembling hand.
"Yeahh."
"All of the new ones had the sweats the first time they tried those things. Induced synaesthesia isn't easy on the brain." She smiles pleasantly, exposing yellow-and-white checkerboard teeth. "So, you found us after all this time."
Graff nods and her hearing pops and whistles as her sense of balance decides to take a week's leave. "Yyou don't hide yoour tracks very well, Mmelinda."
"Well, you're right. We didn't. Didn't think we'd need to at the time, not that it was ever our choice to begin with." Melinda Williams breaks into a coughing fit, and when she stops, she sounds about an octave younger. "So what ratted us out then?"
In response, the doctor gestures at the space around them. "Seemmed pretty obvious to me," she says, and even her rising gorge isn't enough to suppress her smug grin. "I think yyou know what I'm talkking about too."
Williams nods and leans back in her chair, staring out at the ocean. "Do I?"
"Does Project Viewpoint ring a bell?" Graff shudders as another wave of nausea wracks her body. "I wwas part of the research teaam on the skip for a while, beffore I got my docctorate. You knoww, I thought it'd be easier to find more about the project, but most of the ddata was lost. Even after trying to… convince the higher-ups that I needed the information, it turns out we just didn't have any of it. All I had was a couple of internal memos, but that turned out to be enough.
"I grasped at straws and wwondered if there was any more information on the personnel behind them, so I did a cursory search on your name and got a couple of iinteresting results."
Even before she pulls out the roughly crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, Williams can tell what's on it. Her guess turns out to be dead right:

Item #: SCP-320i
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: [PREVIOUS PROCEDURES IRRELEVANT] Each SCP-320i instance is to be contained through the use of a Mariotte-Pashler antimemetic perception filter. Each SCP-320i instance is to be placed at a location which experiences large amounts of traffic and/or has a high population density…

"Yyour watermark was amusing," Graff continues, "and it took me a little over half an hour to break it. Neat trick with the blackbboxes, by the way."
"Thank you."
"I knew someone had allready pulled the wool over RRAISA's eye with that particular ttrick, so I applied it to a ccouple other memetic skips where I had access. Turns out you ccould find all sorts of interesting things if you did that — perhaps an entire database to go with the new numbering system. And then someone emailed me, claiming to be from your department, and the rest fell into place from there."
"Good. Excellent. Very well done, Miss Graff." Williams smiles. "So why didn't anyone think about this sooner?"
Graff blinks as her train of thought is roughly shunted into a different yard. "Huh?"
"I don't doubt your ability for one moment, but surely someone else could've come up with this. Like you said yourself, if we left that many trails, someone else had to have found them. Who says nobody else did what you did?"
"Nnnobody." Graff thinks about what she's just blurted out for a few seconds, then slowly begins conjecturing into the darkness. This only exacerbates the throbbing in her temple, but she keeps going. "Of course someone must've done it before me. Vang probably could've blitzed that encryption, if he'd seen it. Hell, anyone of the fucks back at Info Haz. could've done it, bbut… but I just don't remember them."
The pain fades in an exhilarating rush as she continues her train of thought: "Of course I don't remember them. That's why I needed the, the—" She stabs at the crumpled foil packet. "—mnestics, isn't it. Something happened. Something big happened to you and that's why anything, anyone you touched can't be remembered." Her grin gives way to a look of puzzlement. "So what happened?"
Williams' mouth opens as if she's moving to speak, but after a protracted moment of silence, her face drains of colour and she leans back in her chair, forehead sheened with sweat. "I—" Again, she tries to speak, but it's like her words are being snatched out of mid-air and eventually she just gives up.
"A-are you okay?" Graff leans in and briefly wonders if she's going to need to explain the dead body in a couple minutes, before realising something that's been staring her in the face: "Wait, you're not gonna be able to rremember it either. You'd have a gap in memory, a bloock…" …and that's the thing you're trying to get past now, she completes in her head.
As if nothing's happened, Williams relaxes in her chair and says, "Who says nobody else did what you did?"
Graff swallows before she speaks, lips dry with fevered dehydration and the sudden realisation that she's far out of her depth now.
"Nobody," she repeats. "Ssomeone could've easily done somethiing like what I did, you left too many trails to folllow, it's just we forgott them all. Or I did. Or the peopple I work for." This time when she moves her head a little, there aren't as many half-shadows spilt across the pavement. The mnestic's starting to wear off and she only has so much time left. "So ttell me. What happened at Viewpoint?"
Williams draws a shuddering, deep breath and suddenly she's aged a decade once more. "It… I know it didn't start with Viewpoint. Something came before that, but I'd loop myself if I go back any farther. But everything after Viewpoint, that's all crystal-clear." She coughs again and Graff notices something like an IV running down her arm, gold liquid seeping into her vein.
"Viewpoint started as a U.S. propaganda effort and mutated into an attempt to build a memetic panopticon. We were experimenting with the idea of breaking the ideological machine altogether by just beaming whatever we wanted straight into people's minds. We were building an infolaser, and we were making progress on the theory fast. Far too fast, but we didn't know that at the time — we were just happy to be making some serious progress on what half the world would've called pseudoscience at the time.
"So when we found the first abnormalities in practice, it was like hitting a skyscraper in the middle of the desert. Turned out when we were broadcasting the first of our test signals, something or someone was absorbing the signals at- at an informational level.
"We thought we were shouting at someone on the other end of a room without noticing the brick wall between the two of us. So we investigated further, sank even more time and money into these things we thought nobody had ever come across before. Men like holes in space, spiders on faraway islands, graffiti on the walls — all of these things. And then we found something we'd made, years and years ago. An antimemetically cloaked frigate, the USS Eldridge.
"Turns out we- we must've looped ourselves. Somewhere back then we must've tested some form of antimemetic weapon on ourselves, something that made us all collectively forget. There were signatures on the cloaking device, names of people I didn't, maybe couldn't know. Did we split from them after we got looped, did they die in the blast?"
Her face slackens again in the way it did the last time she tried talking about this and Graff can't help but jump. Something in her gut is being pushed away from Williams like an solid lump of iron and she can't help but feel intensely nauseous. The veteran doesn't look much better either, as her face has gone sallow and her brow sheened with sweat.
"It only spurred us on, of course: we rebuilt infodynamic theory in a matter of weeks, made headway into psychotropic biochemistry — we got to the point where we could have entire fleets camouflaged with a device the size of a cupboard, you know that? And then we decided to point the Viewpoint array at the sky, and we found that breakthrough. And none of us remember it.
"Whatever that thing was, it destroyed a little under half a decade's worth of work. Viewpoint's probably gone now, isn't it? Whatever the thing was, it must've destroyed it, taken out any traces of the thing what found it, anything… in mental proximity… it corrupted everything we'd done, mangled the ideas behind it. And then two decades later I woke up at the Foundation, heading an entire division."
Williams takes a deep breath to recover from her sudden outburst and suddenly, she's staring straight-ahead at — no, behind her, Graff notices with creeping dread. More importantly, she realises that this is the most lucid Williams has been about whatever calamity befell her team that day.
She's remembering, and Graff can't afford that.
A moment stretches wide over an eternity — wrinkles begin to pull away from Williams' eyes, liver spots begin to fade. She's in the grip of something and Graff starts backing her chair away from the other woman. "Who got you to come here?" Williams asks, lips pulled tight over her teeth.
Graff fumbles for words. "I got an email."
"From who?" The whip-sharp way she snaps those syllables carries youth with it, carries confidence Graff didn't see in the mangled mish-mash of body parts that was her former body.
"E-Elizabeth, Liz Day, she said she was your assistant—" Graff is beginning to notice that the harder she looks into Williams' ever-increasingly youthful eyes, the more she thinks she can see something moving behind there: something that's ugly and writhing and painful. Then she blinks and in a matter of moments the mnestic adrenaline seems to be leaching away from her limbs and Williams is running away, oh god she's runnning away—
Even with the sudden tiredness weighing her down she's still more than a match physically for Williams and in a matter of moments she's caught up. "Doctor!"
"Stay back! Tlaol assistant is an antimeme, you're an antimeme, she's—" Williams collapses to her knees, fumbling and scrabbling for something in her pocket. "X-X-class, gotta…" Her eyes are rolled to the back of her head and her body continues to pop and squirm as something moves undeneath it. "Ojobiru, we… mlgn have found something important, hlai get to Marness—"
That's a bad name, bad concept, and Graff can feel it like a sledgehammer to the frontal lobes as something tries to push its way into her head, the only reason she's even staying conscious at this point the leftover mnestics still flowing through her system. Drunkenly, she runs away, limbs weighed down by the continued command, Forget, forget, forget, forget, runs towards something that should be there — something that should be there if her conjecture is right.
She runs off the pier with the last spurs of fight-or-flight energy coursing through her body and jumps.
And strong arms appear out of nowhere to pull her up. A voice, asking her:
"What's today's date, Vanessa?"
"The date…" Graff squints at the woman's face, but her vision is blurred and the stranger's face is slipping away from her. As is everything, really: the floor and walls are sliding into a mess of steel and rivets and lifebuoys…
And then it stops abruptly as it started and the only reason Graff isn't celebrating how her bet's paid off is because she doesn't ever remember making it in the first place. That, and the fact that the Y-Class seems to have found her way into her body again and it's taking quite a lot of her concentration to not vomit all over the floor in front of her.
"I'm." Graff opens and closes her mouth blankly for a few more seconds, before finally getting a hold on her larynx. "How did I get here?"
Liz Day sighs deeply and rubs her eyes. "I don't think you want to know. I'm not even sure you can know."
"Oh." Then Graff realises — holy shit, she's been abandoned on the deck of a ship. One that seems to disappear when she's not looking at it, one that she can just barely keep in her mind's eye, one that's… "Oh."
"You're back with us, then?"
"This is it, isn't it," Graff says. "This is the Eldridge, the lost ship of the Counterconceptual Division."
"And," Day adds, "It's also just lost a captain."
"You… you're not." Graff bursts out into a brief cackle, before choking it off. "You're not seriously saying."
"Well. We have an unfinished trip to a place called Samothrace, and no captain to sail us there." Day grins, shrugs and starts walking away. "Your call, really."
And Vanessa Graff finds herself on a boat that shouldn't exist, watching a woman who doesn't walk away.