Luck is a fickle thing.
It appears when you need it and not when you want it, the personification of the universe fucking with you. Unfortunately, Nathan Rivers had figured this out the hard way.
Rivers' heart pounded, his blood rushing through his body. He raced across the land, purposely avoiding any roads. If he got on any of them, it'd be trivially easy to follow and kill him.
It'd be all over.
He looked over at Monroe, who had sweat pouring down his face, breathing hard. The look in his eyes was something Rivers recognized.
It was fear.
Eyes darkened with the sense of losing all hope.
Rivers glanced behind him and saw the masked man with viscous black slime splashing onto the ground behind him with a sickening squelch.
“What the fuck!?” Monroe's voice broke as he screamed, eyes opened wide at the unbelievable sight.
The sound of a shot rang out and filled Rivers' ears, and he spurred the horse to go faster. He heard another gunshot and realized it was heading low.
Were they aiming at the horses?
Rivers glanced over and heard the horse and Monroe let out their respective cries of pain. The horse tumbled, one leg going limp and the two bodies crashing down onto the ground.
He couldn't turn back now.
“Shit!” Rivers began doing zig-zag patterns, hoping it would throw them off.
It was a futile hope, he realized.
Far too late.
He took out a gun and fired wildly behind him, desperately hoping to slow them down. He glanced back, and saw the Masked Man raise a silver gun. Before Rivers could part his lips, he fired a single shot.
The horse stumbled forward and crashed onto the ground, Rivers' feet still in the stirrups. He hit his head on a rock and his vision immediately became blurred with thick blood. He attempted to pull himself free but realized his leg was trapped under the horse.
“Oh, fuck fuck fuck-” He could see them getting off their horses and walking towards him.
“Shit!” He made one desperate heave and managed to pull his leg free. Rivers immediately got up and began to run, but a gunshot rang out and Rivers felt his leg buckle underneath him.
He collapsed, face buried into the hard ground.
The sand stung his face and clumped uncomfortably in his blood. He whimpered involuntarily.
Rivers looked sideways and saw the Masked Man, slime soaked fully through his clothes, still dripping. He was staring at him, eyes empty and vacant.
“F-Fuck you.”
The man laughed, his voice tinny and metallic.
“This will serve as a reminder. Best stay away from the Snake Boot Gang.”
He laughed again.
"Not that you'll have a chance to run away again."
He raised the gun, poisonous metal glinting in the light.
Rivers attempted a last, desperate move by attempting to kick out the man's legs.
But by then it was too late.
A gunshot rang out, ringing with finality, and harmonizing with a dying man's last, pathetic cry.
The Masked Man looked down at Rivers' cracked open skull. The other gang members walked back to their horses in unison, while the man grabbed a rock and laid it next to Rivers' head.
Carved into the rocks was Rivers' only surviving legacy:

A Forgotten Man.

I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all of the difference

Team Epitaphic Hub

{$next-title}


« Joey and Overgang and Rita and Molly and Zombies ||

Agent Green has not shopped at CostCo since they revoked his membership. Nevertheless, he is now inside a CostCo, although he's not shopping. Which is good, since this particular CostCo isn't in a position to sell anything. That's because it's haunted.
The oneiric weight of a hyper-optimized supply chain maintained by a quarter of a million employees for the benefit of one-hundred million paying members, coupled with the extraordinarily high levels of latent necromantic energy throughout the state of Utah, have allowed the vengeful ghost of Sol Price to manifest in the food court of the Salt Lake City CostCo warehouse. This would not normally be a significant problem, much less one requiring Foundation intervention, except that the specter of the founder of Price Club has begun constructing a war golem out of hot dogs and churros and is threatening to unleash it on the surrounding metropolitan area unless his demands are met.
Agent Green exhales a cloud of smoke, which coalesces into the vague form of a human face. "Plenty of people still call it Price Club."
The smokey visage scowls. "Only people over forty. In another thirty years I'll be completely forgotten."
Green sighs. "Look, I'll talk to management about it, see if the name can be revived for a few locations, but it'll take time. And honestly? Threatening to destroy the city? Not helping your case. CostCo doesn't negotiate with terrorists." And the Foundation doesn't negotiate with anomalies. But Sol Price has proven immune to standard exorcisms, and Analytics suspects he might be the leading edge of a larger spectral incursion, so Green has been tasked with talking the spook down.
"I am not a terrorist. I'm an aggrieved businessman."
"Call yourself whatever you want, it doesn't change the kosher meat golem you've got back there."
The corporate smoke-ghost sputters in protest, but Green is distracted by the junior agent waving for his attention. "Mister Price, I have to step away for a moment, but I want you to give some serious thought to disarmament. It would make things easier for everyone." And it would let him stand-down the MTF waiting outside.
Leaving Sol Price to consider this, Agent Green stalks over to his aide-de-camp, trailing smoke like a steam locomotive.
"This better be good. I was on the verge of a breakthrough there."
The junior agent swallows nervously and salutes. "Sir. Urgent alert from regional command."
"Well?"
"You're being reassigned to lead a new response team, effective immediately. Agent Moore is to take over negotiations."
"Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Did they say what this is about?"
"Some anart thing in New York. Apparently Ruiz Duchamp is back, whoever that is."
The end of Green's cigarette curls in on itself as he finishes it off in a single, furious drag. He flicks it aside contemptuously, and, in an astonishing feat of accidental exploitation that goes unnoticed by either agent, manages to launch the butt directly through an undocumented micro-Way.
"Son of a bitch."

The chime of a new message causes Special Agent Kenneth Spencer to look up from the paperwork on his desk. He pulls up his secure email client and frowns as he reads the subject line at the top of his inbox.

ALERT: New Report Generated for Case KALEIDOSCOPE CYCLONE

That must be a mistake. As the lead agent on Kaleidoscope Cyclone, he is notified any time something new is filed under the codeword, but that case has been closed for years. He hasn't thought about it since before he was reassigned to Three Portlands.
He opens the email, frown deepening as he continues to read.

This is an automated APB generated by the FELTFIRE facial recognition system. Suspect RUIZ DUCHAMP, wanted in connection with Case KALEIDOSCOPE CYCLONE, has been sighted in New York City. Facial recognition registers an 87% confidence interval. All agents be advised that suspect is unarmed and dangerous.

87% confidence. It's gotta be a false positive. Spencer opens the attached surveillance photo to check.
It's not a false positive. The long-dead visage of Ruiz Duchamp looks directly at the camera, laughing maniacally. Blotches of frostbite are clearly visible on his face and his right arm, which is raised in an occult and obscene gesture that the UIU's cognitohazard censors have blurred out.
Spencer does not smoke. Nevertheless, in one of those displays of synchronicity that are so common in the weaker reality of Three Portlands, a discarded cigarette butt appears out of thin air and lands in his trash can.
"Son of a bitch."

New York's finest—if you don't count all the things finer than policemen—have locked down the entirety of Battery Park because of a statue. Agent Green may have told them it's part of a terrorist attack, which is technically not a lie. The statue is anomalous, and not just because the man responsible is dead.
Two of the Unusual Incidents Unit's finest are entering the park, and the unfortunate Sergeant tasked with securing the perimeter is about to discover what it's like to be caught in the middle of a surprise jurisdictional dispute between normalcy agencies.
"Special Agent Spencer and Special Agent Sharpe, here to examine the crime scene. We're expected." Spencer holds up his FBI badge, which is augmented with a compliance meme that the UIU uses to compel assistance from local law enforcement. To his right, his current partner does the same. (Special Agent Thorne is unavailable, so Spencer has been temporarily paired with a member of the Backdoor SoHo field office.)
The policeman frowns, which is the first sign that something has gone wrong. "That's not what the Homeland Security guy said."
The two agents exchange looks. This is not a normal response to being shown a UIU badge.
"Homeland Security is here? You're sure?"
"Yeah, Agent Greenwald or something. Said we shouldn't let anybody through, and uh, he didn't make any exceptions for you. Sorry."
Spencer nods. He makes a subtle motion to Agent Sharpe, letting her know to get ready for what's about to happen.
"Alright Sergeant, let me tell you how it is. This is an FBI crime scene. Homeland Security has no business being here, and whoever the fuck that is in there is not with them. Now, you're going to let us through so we can deal with this, or Agent Sharpe is going to arrest you for obstructing a federal investigation. You ever been to Rikers? You'll love it there, trust me."
The policeman's gaze flicks between Spencer's badge and face. Sweat begins to bead on his forehead under the strain of conflicting geases. Opening his mouth in a soundless cry, his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses. Mercifully, he doesn't go into an epileptic seizure, which is one of the nastier possible side effects of Cuchulainn syndrome.
"Danny, stay here and make sure he doesn't swallow his tongue. If 'Agent Greenwald' is who I think it is, we should be able to resolve this without any more incidents."
Agent Sharpe crouches down next to the fallen policeman and checks his pulse. "You think it's the skippers?"
"Who else? You can always count on them to meddle at the worst possible time."
Leaving his partner to administer first aid, Spencer strolls across the park towards a statue that wasn't there the day before, and the smoking man who is examining it intently.
"Green."
"Agent Spencer." Agent Green doesn't turn to look at him. "Long way from Three Portlands, aren't you?"
"You know impersonating a federal officer is a crime?"
Green shrugs. "He made an assumption. I never said I was with Homeland Security."
"An assumption aided by an authority meme embedded in your ID?"
Another shrug. "Could be. You know, there's something off about this thing."
Spencer takes a moment to properly assess the statue. It is, on first appearance, a perfect scale model of the Statue of Liberty, but where she would normally be holding a torch, there is instead a massive vape rig. A constant trickle of steam billows from the statue's open mouth, tracing a physics-defying path through the air that spells out the word 'WOWWEE'. There's a plaque mounted on the base, proclaiming the name of the piece and its creator.
"The… 'Statue of Libertoke'?"
"Yeah, it seems out of character for Duchamp."
"Oh, fantastic, we're both after the same guy. Don't tell me you were on Kaleidoscope Cyclone too."
"Is that what your lot call that shitshow in '13?"
"The aftermath, yeah."
"I was on point for the Foundation response. Didn't know you got dropped with the cleanup. Tough break." Green actually has the decency to sound apologetic.
"Would have been easier if you hadn't amnesticized half the Tri-State Area."
"If that was my call, I don't remember it. Most of what happened at that exhibition is still classified above my clearance level, and I was there."
Spencer shakes his head. "Great opsec that. You guys had Duchamp pegged for dead too, right?"
Green nods wordlessly.
"Maybe he came back wrong then. Wronger."
"Could be. We don't know exactly what we're dealing with yet. Could be one of a dozen different types of zombie or revenant. Or a clone. Or Lazarus Gold. Hell, maybe somebody dug up his corpse and is piloting it around with a robotic exoskeleton."
"Time travel," Spencer adds. "Can't rule that out."
"God, I hope not. Fucker was already a pain in the ass when he was constrained to linear time."
"Still, there's a lot of reasons why Duchamp might be acting off-model. Until we know exactly how he came back, we can only speculate."
"Agreed." Green exhales and watches as the smoke mixes with the vape-cloud from the statue. "I say it's time we blow this thing up and be done with it. If Ruiz is really back, there'll be more of these soon enough."
"Wait, how do you know it's not destiny entangled with the real thing? You want to be the one who topples Lady Liberty?"
"I would call that scenario unlikely. But keep an eye on the Frenchwoman and tell me if she falls over."
"Green—" But Spencer is too late to stop Green from giving the statue a solid kick to the chest. All he can do is watch as it falls backwards onto the grass with a thud.
Green cups a hand to his ear in pantomime. "I think we'd have heard the splash from here."
"Fucker. Did you even do an ARad survey first?"
"Nah, but that's a good idea. You can do that for the next one."
"Oh, now you want to cooperate."
"Just recognizing that the Unit is a lot harder to shake these days. Better to have you on the inside pissing out, you know how it is."
"Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you. You want to take this thing or should I have our forensics wizards look at it?"
Green shakes his head. "Help yourself. I'm gonna go take a gander at our friend's grave, see if there's any clues there. I can't shake the feeling that there's something about this that isn't quite right."
"Right. You've got my number, so let me know what you find. If I need to get in touch with you, well…" The UIU agent trails off, aware that there are some things that shouldn't be said out loud to nominal allies.
"It's fine, you can admit you Stingrayed my phone. It's a burner anyways."
"Well, we haven't done it yet, but it should be any minute now. If you get a call from triple-six, that'll be me."
"Subtle."
"Oh fuck off, all your fronts have the same acronym."
"That's a memetic effect and you know it."
"Yeah, whatever. I bet you just do it to save on letterhead costs."
"I can neither confirm nor deny." Green flicks the stub of his cigarette into the grass with the reckless disregard of a hardened nihilist. "I'm out. Assuming neither of us finds anything demanding an urgent response, I'll be at the Times Square Olive Garden around 4 tomorrow. Up to you what you do with that."
"You paying?"
"On my salary? Fat chance."
« Joey and Overgang and Rita and Molly and Zombies | The Second Cool War Begins »


ASHEN CHAPEL!

Have you, dear reader, ever heard these words at some forgotten point in your life? Perhaps whispered beside a campfire's glow or muttered from the mouth of a drunken drifter? Or from a shrieking voice outside your bedroom window, as so many others have reported? Likely in the dead of night, in any case, for that is the time when even the most sane minds are given to the consideration of such things.
You may recall, fair reader, the tale of a town, one single town, which exists in every state in the West. Every state at once. It does not appear on any map, as such a peculiarity would naturally be beyond the skill of any cartographer. As the saying goes, you don't find Ashen Chappel—Ashen Chappel finds you. And what a despicable depository of the arcane a body might find it to be!
Those planning a trip there may pack lightly, as there are only two types of weather: dust and mud, which also happen to be the primary features of the landscape. No more scenic are the tumbledown businesses packed tight along the thoroughfare, the whole lot threatening to fall like a line of dominoes should a weaker one finally give in to the inevitable.
Perched atop a sheer cliff at the far end of town is Ashen Chapel's namesake, a frantic congregation of such deathly angles and violent protrusions that any semblance of religiosity in its appearance is borne solely from the austerity of its configuration. The once-been church, long deposed of its original purpose, looms like a skeletal pastor, its walls worn so slant that it peeked over the cliff's edge as if to gain a better vantage on its flock below. For all its wretched features, most striking of all was the stark pallor of its every surface, a splintering wood of such sickly stock as can only come from the trees of Blight Hill whereon the building stands.
But the building is not abandoned. Not any longer, at any rate. Despite the lack of any discernible renovation to the crumbling structure, a growing number of visitors have been cramming themselves inside. When no more bodies can be squeezed through the double-doored threshold, those outside cling with bleeding hands to the splinters and shards that once were windows.
And that's just for the matinee.
Folks say three young boys found him while writing obscenities on the church walls. He was a curious sight, his bare feet planted on the pulpit like a soapbox, reciting his spiel for empty pews, but sakes, the man was funny! When those boys came home to their mothers, they were grinning like you've never seen. Smiles so bright nobody could even look at them straight. Not even the doctors.
The streets of Ashen Chapel may curve and crook and fold in on themselves beyond distances fathomable to the human mind, but a small town is a small town. Word gets around. You won't see Chucky Chortles' Goodtime Extra advertised on any billboard or flashing marquee. Nowadays the weekly processions of dazed masses up through Main Street and along the slopes of Blight Hill are enough to pique the curiosity of any soul.
Even if they may not be able to tell you where he came from or when he blew into town, everyone will say Chucky Chortles is a real bang-up guy. A sure charming fellow. A model citizen. Opens and closes his mouth when he speaks. Stands upright on two legs and uses his feet to walk, exactly the way god intended. They'll say his best feature is his smile. If a mouth is only as pretty as its teeth, then Chucky's mouth gets a little prettier every day.
Don't ask anyone to repeat his jokes, though. Nobody can tell them like old Chuck. No point in trying.
There's always tension before the Goodtime Extra begins. Dead silence. Nervous glances. Plus everyone's sweaty from all the crowds and candles. On the particular occasion of this account, the anticipation is thricefold. Everyone can feel it. Scattered gasps and chokes break through the usual quiet, though whether they be from anticipation or the crush of the overstuffed audience is anyone's guess.
Chucky Chortles steps into a beam of moonlight and everyone loses their loving shit.
“Thank you,” he pleads. His voice crackles like the final gasp of a hanged man. “Thank you one and all. Ladies, gentlemen, and tender ones, this the time for the Goodtime Extra. Be glad, for this is the time when jokes will happen.”
Another surge of ecstasy. One rooftop onlooker gets so caught up in the moment that he slips from his perch and falls through a hole, but the throng beneath him is so tight that nobody is knocked off their feet when he lands. Nobody even minds. Chucky just grins prettier.
“For the first joke, which one is to sublime into comedy?”
There is no shortage of volunteers.
“Very well.”
Chucky extends his hand to a woman at the front of the crowd. She giggles and carefully removes her bonnet so as to ensure no impediment to the humor nor the hammer. So strong is the hilarity that she can barely maintain her composure.
“Name?” Chucky asks her.
“Agatha Pierce,” she answers.
“You have lied to me,” says Chucky, shaking his head. “Your name is Warmbutter Stink-of-Feces.”
He has to lift his hand to the audience to stop the applause.
“Your joke is thus, Miss Warmbutter,” he resumes, holding the hammer within inches of her right ear. “Why are you full of ants?”
He draws the hammer back.
“I don't know, Chucky. Why am I full of ants?”
He brings the hammer to her ear. Her body goes rigid. Hairline cracks shoot across her face and cascade down her body and clothes.
“Because you're not full of uncles!”
Pieces of Agatha's face loosen and fall like shards of broken ceramic. Streams of black winged ants spill from every crack and crevice. Each one has a human face, the face of someone's aunt, and they are all laughing. Clouds of them drift out the open windows and disappear into the starless night. Many others are trampled underfoot. The audience's laughter lasts hours.
“Okay next joke!” Chucky announces. The silence is instantaneous. “This joke is very special, very funny. On whom will it be?”
“This joke will be on you, cruel comedian!” proclaims a voice from above.
Suddenly, a thunderous CRASH! Dust and nails and scraps of wood rain down on the crowd as a dark figure bounds from the rafters, a tattered black cape flowing in ribbons at its back. Its feet alight the candle-covered tabernacle, disturbing not a single flame by a flicker. The mysterious man, clad in black damask and a black mask, raises an ebony pistol to the comedian. The crowd appears equal parts flummoxed and fascinated.
“You will cease your sadistic show succinctly,” says the stranger, “else I will be forced to fire fast and fierce as a frenchman can faire des galipette!”
Chucky Chortles looks at the stranger, then looks at the audience, then looks at something written on the palm of his hand.
“Okay, next joke!” he says.
BANG! goes the stranger's ebony gun.
BANG! goes the stranger's ivory gun, freshly unholstered.
“No more jokes!” the stranger yells. “No more warning shots, either! I've sworn to smite servants to insanity such as you, sir, and I have no inclination toward tergiversation. I will see you out of this town by coach or by coffin!”
Chortles gives his hand a few more frantic glances.
“Name?”
The masked stranger smirks.
“I will tell you, though you might not believe what I say. Tales of my life are only rivaled by tales of my death. However! For you, vaudevillian villain, I shall rise from my grave to send you to yours!”
The black mask is torn aside with a flourish. The gathered masses gasp in recognition—though there is little doubt our loyal readers already deduced our hero's identity much earlier with the appearance of his trademark pistols Fear and Hope.
“Cole Slaw!” screams Chucky Chortles, recoiling.
“So they call me. There was a time I begrudged the moniker, though I admit I have acquiesced to the titular appurtenance for such occasions as this, occasions when I must step outside laws of men to deal with that which is outside the laws of nature.”
“Come now Mister Slaw, can we not make Goodtimes?” says Chortles, recovering the glint in his teeth. “Goodtimes and jokes? Maybe you can join in making… laugh?”
The audience members at the front of the crowd break into sickening guffaws that ripple and spread through the rest of the multitudes. One by one they advance toward the tabernacle where Cole is perched. An old man, a grandfather, laughingly slips to the floor, his merriment by no means diminished as those behind him trod forward across his body.
“I fear neither the puppeteer nor his puppets,” Cole declares. “You stand before me, a being of flesh and blood, so let's see if Fear may gain purchase on you!”
The sights of Slaw's black flint found Chortles' face in the span of a moment. The sound of the gunshot peals through the house of worship like a church bell. All eyes are drawn to Chucky Chortles' face, his beautiful face, and the silver bullet clamped between his perfect pretty teeth.


Lucky. What kind of nickname was that?
Lucky doesn't fit too much when you're on the run. Heist gone wrong. The law and your employer putting a price on your head.
Lucky isn't really what you feel when all your best crewmates are dead and you are getting blamed for the death of one of the most legendary criminals in the whole damn west.
Lucky isn't running through the desert, no horse, diminishing supplies, covered in dirt and dust.
Lucky wasn't headed where I was headed.
My mom was a schoolmam, taught me that you've got to paint a picture in the head of the person listening your story. The Ranger finally gave me a good enough story to tell.
I'll be telling this story for the rest of my life.
I was headed north, and as fast as I could go. The Arizona job went to hell. I survived by a stroke of… well, luck I guess. The kind of good luck that you can only find buried deep in bad luck. The Invisible Bandit managed to lose his own magic disappearing hat… and I picked it up. Then I ran. I ran all the way back to my horse, and I went the fuck away from that train.
Don't know why he didn't shoot me when he had a chance, other than me being knocked cold and bleeding on the floor. Actually, that was probably why.
By the time I rode into the next town over, maybe a day later, I saw someone hanging up wanted posters with my name and face on ‘em. I decided it might be a good bet to keep my hat on. Two towns later and my horse wouldn't budge another inch, so I parked him at a stable and left him behind.
I kept walking closer and closer to home. I stopped by the cabin of a good friend of mine. Adri Liebowitz. Dunno how he had a last name like that… pretty sure he was an immigrant from the Raj… but he asked a lot of good questions and he always told me the truth. I took off that silly little hat and walked up to his door.
~~
“What brings you here?” Adri asked. He seemed surprised to see me.
“I'm on the run. Law is after me.” I said, dusting myself off.
“You aren't being followed too closely are you? Are you bringing danger my way?” He looked unsurprised, somehow.
I paused, not even having considered that.
“I think not. I hope not to stay long. Some water from your well, maybe some supplies. I hope you don't mind too much.” I said, sounding weaker than I hoped.
“I don't mind at all.” Adri said, “Will you be needing very much? Do you have a plan?”
“Not much in the way of supplies. Just enough so I can make a cut across the desert if needed. Not much in the way of a plan either.”
I paused again, my throat was dry.
“This hat I uh… found… makes it easy to pocket the basic supplies I need running from town to town. People seem to ignore me when it is on, but I can't assume it is gonna stay on forever and I'm not too big a fan of wearing it all the time. I need to find a better place to hide myself. I'm thinking of riding out to one of the ghost towns and staying there. Scranton strikes me as the best bet.”
“What makes you so sure Scranton is a smart choice?” Adri asked.
“No one lives there, but it has all the fixings to live in. If I'm going to take my time and figure out which way the wind is blowing.”
“Why did Scranton get abandoned anyways?” Adri asked.
“Hell if I know. Boom towns hit a bust eventually. I know some of them went missing but there's a ton of boring explanations for that. I don't believe any of them dumb stories.”
“What stories are there?” Adri asked, almost as if he already knew the answer.
“Well, the man who founded it… he allegedly disappeared into thin air one day. But he probably just ran off. People said that wasn't like him but the west has a way of making people act differently. People said that Sarkies came in and ate a bunch of people… the old school witch doctor type Sarkies… not the building burnin' kind from out east… I don't hold much faith in that either. Sarkies would have left a mess behind, and most of them are out in the Utah mountains anyways. Nowhere near. The idea that something killed them all has the same problem, there would be a mess. Way I see it, the mines dried up and people walked away… and that's that probably.”
“Why didn't we hear about that then?” Adri asked, a little more pointed.
I shrugged. “People just like the scary story more I suppose. So we all ignored the boring one.”
Adri shook his head for a bit. “You're right, Scranton sounds completely safe.”
~~
Well after that he was mostly silent. Some water, some food, he even gave me a spare set of clothes he said didn't fit him any more. I thought that was awfully nice of him. I didn't see him again after that. Heard he's doing well though
Scranton, Nevada. You won't find it on any maps. Criminals passed through from time to time to meet up and trade their wares. I figured that'd be an excellent base camp. I could always trade, I still had plenty of cash on my person and some odds and ends. Plus I could salvage the city while I was there, see if there was anything left to find. I stocked up on more supplies, stole some canned food and bedsheets. I managed to sneak into the little house that the Detective Agency put me up in. The guard didn't see me walk when I walked in. I figured he was probably on orders to turn me over to Mr. Dark, and I'm sure that wouldn't have been any fun. I got most of my important possessions out to bring with me.
I walked into Scranton and it felt like time stood still there. The days felt long, and the nights longer. The place I took up lodge in was the saloon. The Anchor. Looked like it was a beautiful building at one point, but it was slowly unraveling. The ceiling was peeling apart and I bathed in the light that would shine through. There was something… very different about the place. Still, it kept me safe. The supplies were surprisingly plentiful, like the residents never left.
Criminals like myself came in from time to time, but they tried not to linger for too long. If I knew them, I greeted them. We would trade wares and share drinks. If I didn't know them, I'd keep the hat on. Only when I was completely out of sight would they be spooked by me. Kept me safe, I reckon.
I was safe, if a little haggard. If a little lost. Friends who did stop by said I looked different. Skinnier, paler. Looked like I was fading away. Joey, a good friend of mine though, he said all I needed was a damn good time. I was fading away because I wasn't out being social and all that. He said he'd grab some of our old drinking buddies from back in the day when we were just petty thieves and we'd have a big old party out here. Poker, whiskey, some records, and he might even pay some ladies to show us a good time as well. I was eager for a return to normalcy… all that stuff happened quite a lot back when I worked for Marshall, Carter, and Dark.
Well Joey delivered on the music and the poker. He said he couldn't find a girl of the line willing to come out here. They were all scared by the ghost stories and the tale of Vanishing Robert. I was honestly just happy to have a night where I could talk to friends instead of drinking alone. About eight of us, some damn fine whiskey, and a riveting game of poker, seven players trying their damndest. I was drinkin' quite a bit, and I only remember some stray piece of conversation.
“How much longer are you gonna live like a guttersnipe, Lucky?”
I couldn't answer that. I wasn't afraid, but I wasn't confident either. There was a feeling of my own feelings dwindling… and that was it.
“You've been out here a month or so already. You really think they can keep up the search that long?”
I could at that time scarcely believe a month was accurate. It had by my count been a week although it felt like a year. A month. My sense of time was one of many that was failing.
“There are better places to run to.”
Yes there were. But at the time, I couldn't think of a better place to hide.
But none of all that matters.
The doors rang out in a thunderous song as another man walked through. My hat hung up, resting in a corner that felt days away. The man was the one I was running from. The Arizona ranger himself. Here to finish the job.
I ducked under the table and crawled frantically to the other side of the room. The room that kept getting bigger.
I heard Joey raise his voice, the old rebel yell. I heard the table hit the ground as he flipped it, the coins scattering. The first shot rang out.
There was a period of screaming and suffering so long I could have recited this whole story from beginning to end in that time, takin' pauses for drama and all that. Then the second shot rang out.
Was time slowing down? Was the building getting more spread apart? Was the Anchor crumbling beneath me? I could see the void seep out from in between the floorboards. The third shot rang out.
I could feel a void opening up all around me. I thought maybe I could slip away. The Anchor was showing me the way there. To where the rest of them all vanished to. There was a silence calling out for me. The painful screams of my friends were muted. The fourth shot rang out.
I looked back and the light flooded in. This bar was not pushing me into the void, it was the only thing keeping me here. I could see it all again. The world was real again. The shots were more than just echoes. The screams had faces. The ranger pulled his trigger and the fifth shot rang out.
The light grew brighter. The space between the floorboards retreated away. I was no longer swimming into darkness. I had no escape, but the void had no exit. I see Joey raise his gun, finally ready to fight back. The sixth shot rings out, but it is not his.
I am alone. The void behind me and the light in my view. Between me and the light, the ranger walks over.
Rather than loading his gun, he extends a hand. I reach back out and meet him. His words sound like a choir singing ominously in my ears.
“You shouldn't be here. This town is already getting to you. Follow me out of here.”
I couldn't explain to you at the time why he was sparing me.
He picked up my hat as he dragged me out the door. He pocketed it and dragged me to his horse.
As we took the road out of town my head was spinning. By the time Scranton was a spot in the distance I had to stop so that I could throw up. The colors returned to their usual hue around me as I pressed my palm firmly to my forehead. The ranger looked down to me on the ground shaking.
“Take your time there, partner. Your life comes at a price. I need you to be healthy. If you need to sleep here, I can make a camp.”
And so he did. The fire reminded me that I hadn't felt real warmth in a while. I was silent. Another slew of friends lay dead at the hands of this man who had spoken to me all of twice.
I slept. I slept for the first time since I entered Scranton.
When I woke up, we continued our tide. I was silent the whole way. He was twice as silent as I was.
It was a long trek, another night by the campfire before we reached our destination, the full moon shining when we arrived. A tree, huge one. Crooked as all hell, and bodies hanging from the branches.
He spoke again.
“Don't worry, I'm not hanging you up here.” He laughed. “You somehow ran out all the way to where I got my start. Back when I was just a bounty hunter. Scranton. Me and my first target ever decided it wasn't worth the fight. We'd play a game of roulette, one bullet and five empty chambers. I won. He told me, if he lost… to find this here tree and hang his body up on it. So I did. But the tree asked for more. I've been delivering ever since.”
He paused and looked at me.
“I'm out chasing bigger criminals. I've got less time to tend to this tree. If you could have the ropes ready for when I show up, that'd make it easier. If you could cut the bodies down after they've uh… dried up… that'd be helpful too. You can bury them too, if you'd like. I just need a uh… general groundskeeper around here. My house is a little ways away. If you could look after it while I'm out… which is for weeks at some points… that'd be generally really helpful. I'm going to get a cart and gather your friends from Scranton. Don't you go back there by the way. Something is wrong with that place.”
I was… hard to place what emotion I was feeling really. Was this some sort of sick joke? Was this my punishment?
“Why are you doing this?” I found myself asking.
“Because this job is starting to wear on me. Having you around to take away some of the burdensome parts of the job… maybe I can make it another four or five years. Bring down more outlaws. I'll let you go when I decide to retire. I'll have those wanted posters taken down and your record struck clean if you do. That'd be a lot shorter than the time you'd spend in prison, I reckon.”
I still couldn't calculate how my life reached that point. I looked him in the eyes for the first time since he picked me up off the floor.
“But why me?”
He shrugged. "I don't know my friend. Figured I'd need someone to help me with this job eventually. I just sort of decided while chasing you. I guess you're just lucky.”
Heh. Lucky. Guess maybe I was.


by Ethagon

Among the gods was the folk of the Decla, although they were not gods themselves. Truly rotten were their minds for they had sinned in the old world and they hated the gods. On every step of the way, they tried to undermine them, going so far as to kill a warrior of the gods. The minor gods pleaded to Geyre that he should send them to Abirt to stop the torment of all. But Geyre, in his eternal wisdom, gave them the book; for the book told them how to return to the right part and contribute to creating the new world.

So I, Hekan, was told by the Descendants of the Decla. Although I must assume, that the addition of the book was not part of the original mythos and only added after the Decla were conquered by the Keeper of the Book. Unfortunately, I was unable to recover the real story as the leader of the Decla knew my quest to record all stories was approved by the Keeper herself.

Still with their hearts mostly changed, the gods did not trust the Decla completely, and so they were always kept under the watchful eyes of Erits. All this although the Decla were the most hard-working. That was until the rebellion of Drakgin. Had it not been for the Decla unchaining themselves and putting themselves in the way of Dragkins Emtif, Geyre himself would have fallen. Afterwards, the Decla were accepted among the rest of the people. From this day onward, the Decla treated other people with respect, not malice. We must uphold this virtue until the new world ends again. Only then will we Decla truly be redeemed.

It makes sense then, why the Decla choose to live by trade with wanderers far and wide, even though the river nearby has enough fish to feed all the Decla. They are friendly to outsiders and do not expect them to uphold humility like the Decla do for themselves. It does explain why they were so open about sharing their oral traditions with me. Still, they were surprised that I wrote and not remembered their stories. I suppose the Keepers had yet to share the invention of writing with the ones they conquered.

As I wandered downriver I encountered a less friendly people, the Emtif Etain. They would have killed me, had I shown the slightest sign of fear in front of their warriors. Thankfully Geyre has blessed me with an unending curiosity until I have finished my task. Being "fearless" I was allowed to accompany them to record their story. The Emtif, like the Decla, see their origin in Dragkins defeat:

With Drakgin and his conquered land gone, his emtif was distraught. They were given a purpose by Dragkin, but without the master, the warriors' life is empty. Some warriors revolted, hoping to get their old master back. They had no chance against Geyre's emtif.

A thing in need to be mentioned: The Emtif Etain believe that in the old world, there were dozen of emtifs, each with an individual task to enforce. Only with the collapse of the old world did they come together under Geyre and Drakgin. But since the Emtif Etain are the only tribe I found to believe in this, it is most likely of their imagination.

Other warriors split up to serve the other gods instead. But one warrior, her name was Etain, chose to retake the land that Drakgin once conquered, the land lost to the beasts. She battled day and night for 7 days, always close to defeat, but never succumbed to fear. For who succumbed to fear, succumbed to the beasts. And so in the end, she won. It is because of this warrior, that we can stand here today. But the beasts linger at the edge of the land retaken. We must all be without fear, like Emtif Etain or the beasts will take what was once theirs.

The Emtif Etain make no difference between men or animals. If it shows fear it must be slain. Had I more time, I would have liked to see one of these beasts for myself, as I do not know whether their story can be trusted. But I must carry on. The next city, Kalefheit, shouldn't be far.

Before I continue with the next story I think I first need to give some context. Imagine hearing the clacks of a horse's hooves. Now imagine the horse walks in a specific way so that the sounds of its hooves come around in a specific sequence. These sounds are referred to as "music". Its purpose is to motivate people to work. The Keeper of the Book once told us about "music", but I never grasped the concept until I heard "music" myself.
It came from a settlement in the mountains on my way to Kalefheit. It originated from a cave closed off with fur in the middle of the settlement. I was only able to take a brief glimpse inside the cave, but the only things inside were tools of music. And from the Keeper's word I know that these were tools for more than one person. But the music had left as long I gazed into the cave. What's more, the cave, or the strange creature inside it, could talk. Here is what it had to say:

Oh, I remember the old world. I have a few memories I am fond of from that time, but nothing worth a story. I spent most of the time in my room playing music and cooking as I do now, although my equipment wasn't as rudimentary. I suppose I did also play around a lot more. I was still young after all. Sometimes Robert took a sample of my blood, I needed to do a bit of physical activity or was asked some questions by one of the doctors, but that was it. I do wish Stanley would have come more often to visit, but I know he had a lot of things to look after.

From the context, I have to assume that the people the cave was talking about should be minor gods from the old world.

But from one day to the next they were all gone. I waited for I don't know how long before I left my room and the site, or ceitu as you call it, in search of my friends. In the end, I never found them. At least I can help these new people with their daily activities. I miss Robert.

After our conversation, the cave yelled for the chief of the settlement that "the dish was ready" to be served. As I later found out, the cave had not only continued to play music throughout our discussion but also cooked one of the most tasteful meals I have ever eaten in my life. I left after my meal, as I always do.

As I continued, I felt getting closer to find out the truth about the transition from the old to the new world. The chief of the settlement warned me, that the area I was headed in was often swarmed with bandits, called the Riders. I paid no mind to this warning. After all, bandits also have stories to tell. But Geyre did not want me to encounter the Riders yet.
Instead, my ways led to a field full of minor ceitus and beautiful plants. A few people were there, picking fruits for the nearby ceitu, that these people had settled in. My initial belief was, that the appearance of more ceitus was due to the home ceitu being nearby, but the people living here have a different theory:

The home ceitu was the place of Geyre and his followers before the beast Sikayt took it. But this field here bears the power of a different and older kind of god. They were called the Five-Eyed and they could see everything that happened in the old world. But the new world turned them blind, so they despised it and most of them left the new world behind. A few places like this garden were left behind, trying to preserve the old world, so one of the Five-Eyed could keep watching. We can take from the field all we want during the day, but at night they send out a single Emtif warrior to watch over the garden.

At this point, I had heard a lot of stories, but this was the first one I found utterly unbelievable. Or so I thought at first. Why would Geyre have sent me to a place like this? Would he not have sent his emtif instead, if he desired this lie to be gone. As I was not sure what to make of this, I asked for further information. I was told they still had scriptures from the old world in the ceitu the people resided at night. It seemed to be the only place the Emtif warrior did not pay attention to.
It was true, I found the scripture and it had the symbol of Geyre. Eager to get a direct translation, I was surprised to find out, that the people here only knew what it said because of what their forefathers had told them. I spent the rest of the day trying to decipher what the scripture had to say but to no avail. I had already wasted too much time at this place and wanted to go. I ignored the people's warnings as I knew I was protected by Geyre.
But Geyre's protection did not reach this garden.
I was already on the outskirts of the garden as the warrior caught me. It looked like a human used as soil for the flowers and vines that spread out of the warrior. It walked to me in a straight line and begun hacking at my arms with a tool in its hand. I fled in a straight line across the fields. The warrior went around the fields and was still able to catch up to me and break me more apart, to use me as soil, I recalled. When I finally left the garden behind it had broken my left arm and hand, several hands, and left a laceration at the back of my head. One thing was sure. If these Five-Eyed truly existed, they were not benevolent.
The warrior left me there, laying on the ground. It was maybe three or four hours I lay there, unable to move. At some point, a group arrived and took me with them. They were the Riders. The few things of value I had, they took from me only leaving me with my notes, probably because they did not understand the value of the written word. I asked them, where we were headed, and they told me, to Kalefheit. I chuckled. It seemed Geyres had already decided on the path he wanted me to take. I wonder what stories will await me there.

« The Voice without Words | Bellerverse | Dreams of Nothing »


I reckon y'all've heard the rumors 'bout the ol hangin' tree just outside a'town. Well, lemme tell ya right now, they ain't rumors. The legend of the hangin' tree goes back a'ways. All started a year or so after I first rode into town with a starvin' horse and empty pockets. Had nary a cent to my name back then, so I took what odd jobs I could find here 'n there. And, like many a young man in these parts, that led me to huntin' bounties.
Let me tell ya one thing fer sure, bounty huntin' ain't all it's cracked up to be. It's a dangerous job, and though the sheriff makes sure I get my dues, you don't get much thanks fer it. And over time, it starts to change ya. Makes ya start seein' the world different. Makes ya start thinkin' about life, and what it's worth, different.
Around the same time I started huntin', a young man started to make a name fer himself. He was snatchin' up bounties left and right, and a few of 'em got people talkin'. He even managed to catch the invisible bandit. Started gettin' a real big head about it too, even got himself a fancy moniker to go with his growin' list of bounties - The Hangman. At least a dozen folks brought in by the Hangman saw their last light hangin' from that there tree before we noticed somethin' was up.
And they're all still there.
No, not the bodies, sheriff makes sure they get brought over to 'ol Hiram at the graveyard right quick. Their mem'ries. Their hearts. Their souls. That's all that's left. That's what the tree keeps.
Don't believe me? Touch it. G'on ahead and touch it. I'll wait.
No?
Heh. S'what I thought.
Sheriff Ray was the first to really figure out what was happenin' with that tree. He was takin' down the Hangman's latest trophy, and said he saw a vision. "It was like a dream, but I weren't sleepin'," he said. Told me he was seein' things through someone else's eyes as the Hangman drug 'em back to town. Saw 'em slippin' the noose over his neck. Said he could even feel his breath runnin' out 'fore he finally got his hand off that cursed oak. Sheriff Ray wasn't quite sure how to handle it. He called in the town preacher and he did some prayer mumbo-jumbo, but it didn't do any good. Mayor even managed to convince a medicine man from the local tribe to have a look. He took one glance at that tree, shook his head, an' left.
The Hangman was makin' more and more of a name for himself by then. Sheriff Ray told him what he saw when he touched the tree, but the Hangman didn't care. He was just interested in the bounties. He just kept dragging more folks back to town, knowing full well that there was something off about that tree. S'long as I - he was gettin' paid, he didn't give a gotdang about the poor souls trapped in that tree.
Then one day, one'a his bounties went sour. He limped back ta town, horseless and bleedin' somethin' awful. Afore he could get to Doc Miller, he had to take a rest. And he slumped right up against that tree.
He saw 'em all. Sheriff Ray saw one, but the Hangman saw every single bounty he brought to be hung from that tree. He saw what it was like to face him. To face death. To breathe your last with regret and fear in your heart. Doc Miller found him at death's door the next mornin', still slumped against that tree, cryin' and wailin' about how sorry he was.
The Hangman died that night, at the selfsame tree that he took his namesake from. All that was left was just another Ranger, doin' his best to keep people safe, and some knotted ropes still swingin' in the wind.


Another place, another time…

SCP-ALPHA-OCULUS-0000_01

Element: Alpha-Oculus
Element Class: Amphisbene
Secrecy Status: Re-evaluation of Status Pending
Priority: TOP_01 LUNAR DUSK
Threat Level: VERMILLION_07 NOAH
Description: Alpha-Oculus, henceforth denominated the object, designates an extraterrestrial body of spheroid shape and gestalt (estimative volume: 543.6 m³) steadily orbiting Earth in a distance of 256,906.45 km (semi-major axis).
[Comprehensive physical data regarding the observable properties of Alpha-Oculus' trajectory is contained in Document_SCP-ALPHA-OCULUS-0000_01-OTEARTHAXIS_23092004_.]
The object is presumed to have manifested via yet unknown and astrophysically unexplained means in its current unaltered orbit, between 9:30:12 am and 10:12:44 am (UTC) on the 4th August 2004.
The actual manifestation/apparition of the object in question was not witnessed.
The permanent and incessant observation of the object is the superior prime directive of the newly established multilateral/multinational UN principal organ UNOSCPAE, henceforth referred to as SCP Foundation.
Direct physical interaction between any human governmental/political entity outside the SCP Foundation and the object in question is to be prevented at all costs.
The entitative theory concordant with all organisational divisions subsumed by the SCP Foundation postulates that the object in question does not constitute a natural phenomenon, and is of artificial and technological nature.
The causative creator of the object in question is unknown, as well as its technical function and mode of operation.

Downloaded 17/04/2005 by ACD ID:76485938910
SCPF_SCP-ALPHA-OCULUS-0000_01_OPD_15042005

"We should call it something else."
"Like what?"
"Something… I don't know, something nicer. Alpha-Oculus, that sounds… cold, does it not? Scientific and lifeless."
"Well, everyone else calls it The Eye, don't they?" Olkhov said, scratching his scarred nose and laying the latest, one of far too many, report of the Astronomy Department aside.
"I mean for us, for the Foundation. Alpha-Oculus, the object… I think I'm just stressed from the conference," Alexander confessed, finally sitting down and accepting the glass Professor Gjosha handed him.
"What is this?"
"Rakija," the Professor said, "Albanian Brandy. Savor its flavor, Alexander."
"Disgusting," Olkhov murmured and was interrupted by his own beeper.
"Sounds like your expertise is required yet again, Falk," Gjosha smirked as Olkhov was running out of the office, nearly tripped over his own feet and began screaming through the floors.
Gjosha shook his head and Alexander had a sip of the burning brandy. He wasn't a good drinker, Alexander, unlike the Professor, who could consume alcohol and such stimulants like mere water.
If you had survived the Porajmos, Stalin, Tito and Hoxha, simple distillate couldn't harm you anymore.
"There he goes, Olkhov. I do not envy the physicists, Alexander, sitting all day and night in front of their huge telescopes, keeping their eyes on our little friend up there," Gjosha said, emptying his own glass in a single gulp and refilling it to the brim.
"You spend your own days sitting in this office."
"Yes, but I don't have to be on that damn thing over there," Gjosha replied, talking about the new, very expensive and up-to-date personal computer he had so much trouble with.
How old was Gjosha? He must be far beyond eighty, at this point, even though he did not look younger than sixty. Hell, he even looked younger than my father, Alexander thought, but father had always looked old, he had been born an old, bitter, jealous and vitriolic man.
And without him, I wouldn't be here, Alexander remembered, the Foundation wouldn't even have considered me, if father hadn't needed another useful, manipulable chess-piece in the Biology Department.
Despite that, Alexander was no idiot. He had studied in Lancashire, Heidelberg, and the Pasteur Institute, was an expert in microbiology and lichenology and had discovered several new species of extremophile archaea in the geysers of Iceland. After that, his career had come to an abrupt halt though, just stopped and slackened, until the faithful day a battalion of Foundation agents had abducted and kidnapped him, had brought him to their subterranean security site and had told him all about the eye in the sky.
"And what shall I do here?" he had asked.
"You are an astrobiologist, aren't you? Make up some theories and write them down."
It was tedious, boring and stressful work Alexander had to fulfill for the Foundation. As an appointed astrobiologist he was assumed to be an expert on extraterrestrial life, on alien civilisations and all that nonsense, but where to start?
Create a list, O5 had told them, a framework to conceptualise and understand them.
Develop some tiers and levels, just do something and the taxpayers won't complain.
Countless hours had been wasted arguing and discussing with the other biochemists and evolutionary biologists, about selfish genes, carbon chauvinism, silicon life, the nature of intelligence and Von-Neumann probes, about aliens that were kinda human but not really human, aliens with no resemblance to anything remotely anthropomorphic and aliens that humans couldn't even recognize as sapient or alive anymore.
It was, Alexander had to be honest to himself, a whole lot of garbage, the list made no sense whatsoever and included far too many unknown variables and assumptions nobody could really work with.
There was only one sapient species known to humanity, and with a sample size of n=1, how could you be expected to deliver useful results?
And who knows what kind of intelligence was really behind the eye's creation? Swarms of nanites, sentient prokaryotes, Dyson-sphere-builders, an infinite parade of nescience and silly ideas. The Foundation was blind, they had only the eye, and nothing else.
It had been a disappointment, to learn and realize that nobody had known. No secret cults, no hidden mysterious organization awaiting their coming. The Eye had just appeared one day, gazing down on planet Earth, and nothing else had happened since then.
Well, the Foundation had been formed, and despite their best attempts a whole lot of outsiders had become aware of their alien neighbor in the sky above, which was fairly small, but still big enough to be detected with simple means.
Alexander had spent numerous meetings getting briefed about their newest enemies, "Serpent's Hand" and "Chaos Insurgency" and other idiotic clubs and organizations, founded by panic-fueled maniacs and conspirancy theorists in their misguided attempts to restore a world that was long gone, a world that had known no extraterrestrial signs of life. There were an unseen number of them, too many to remember and comprehend, and each day they became more and more.
At some point the Veil, as O5 called it, must break down inevitably, there was no other way. There were already enough rumors and leaks on the internet, out on the streets and alleyways, even extensive details surrounding the "top-secret" Project ICARUS, the manned space-flight to the eye.
Project ICARUS was something everyone in the Foundation was anxious about, it was to be the first direct physical interaction between a real living human being and an extraterrestrial artifact. More than a hundred adequate candidates were currently undergoing a hellish physical training somewhere in this giant facility, sweating blood and tears in the hope to be the first human in history to reach the eye, touch its magnificient, perfectly round and chatoyant metallish surface, to become a hero of ages.
And to gain some scientific knowledge, of course.
The Foundation didn't know much about the eye as of yet. They knew that it was, indeed, a satellite intended for observation, according to Doctor Gears its enormous lens was strong enough to differentiate between single grains of sands and weeds of grass. They further had discovered that the eye's hull was crafted from a formely unknown alloy of rare metals and exotic isotopes, and one of the astronomers had told Alexander that a single gram of this composition was worth more than all the gold and money in Fort Knox, my friend.
Apart from that - nothing.
Thousands of unanswered questions, may they be of philosophical or physical nature.
How did they do it? What transcendental cosmological force did ETTAI, the extraterrestrial technologically-advanced intelligence, utilized and applied to sent their satellite-eye to Earth, and what are they capable of beside this?
What are their bombs, their tanks, weapons and space-ships capable of, their armies and drones?
A popular theory regarding their means of faster-than-light transportation addressed a cannon-like apparatus, which literally shot objects like Alpha-Oculus through some unseen higher plane of space-time reality. But a machine like this must surely be of gigantic proportions, a humongous, titanic mechanism, dwarfing cities and mountains alike, consuming appalling quantities of energy.
His head started to spin, and he took another sip of the Professor's brandy.
"This just tastes horrible," Alexander proclaimed and Professor Gjosha rolled his eyes.
"Your dear father did take a liking, though."
Alexander frowned, looked at his half-full glass of Albanian brandy, and said: "My father fancies nothing, Shkëlqim, there is not enough in him to feel something like enjoyment or - or regalement."
"Hard words from his only beloved son."
"I am not his only son," Alexander retorted and finally emptied his glass, ignoring the awful, sickening taste of the foreign liquid Gjosha had gifted him with.
Alexander remembered a past conversation he had had with one of Gjosha's assistants.
About the Albanian law of blood and vengance, the Kanun, from which Gjosha had fled to a distant country, abandoning his name and provenance, to escape violence and atrocity. The "distant country" had been Russia, though, and Gjosha had had to bow to the Stalinist tyranny in order to survive, to be able to study and learn in Volgograd, becoming a well-renowned sociologist, a polymath, a genius among his kind.
Until the communists had decided to remove and eliminate him as well, for reasons unbeknown.
Gjosha had wasted half his life escaping death, famine, sickness and human abhorrences, and now he was here, old and still breathing, while his own enemies and persecutors had been reduced to dust, bones and ash, an alien eye was glaring in the heavens and the Arms Department had started the construction of the greatest nuclear weapon humanity would ever set eyes on.

UNOSCPAE Research Group 05 LINNE

Element: UNOSCPAE Division
Element Class: None
Secrecy Status: V-12
Location: Site-0001
Respective Department: Theoretical Astrobiology XS06
Research Assignment: Theoretical Conceptualization of Extraterrestrial Biological Societies.
Group Supervisor: Shkëlqim Gjergj Eqrem Gjosha ID:76485934651
Group Leader: Alexander Carter-Dark ID:76485938910

Downloaded 18/04/2005 by ERROR_UNKNOWN-USER-IDENTIFICATION_ERROR
SCPF_RG05_RGCATALOGUE

»To be Continued«


« Fifty Percent Off Everything ||

"Well, fuck me."
Overgang Dood was sprawled across the backseat of the van, waiting for the rest of the crew to wake up. They were in a Dakota, though he wasn't sure which; yesterday had been less about precise navigation, and more about getting as far away from Seattle as possible before the Men In Black caught up.
"Mmm?"
Molly stirred in the driver's seat. She'd fallen asleep as soon as they parked, without even turning off the engine.
"Don't worry about it, go back to sleep."
"Nnnn. 'M awake." Molly's eyes cracked open. "Hmmm. Dark."
"Yeah, it's like…" Overgang looked over his sunglasses at the tiny digital clock in the dashboard (his laptop was locked on the 24.5 hour Martian day, and wouldn't be anywhere near in sync with local time for at least a week). "Four-thirty. You've only been out for a few hours."
"Ugh. Why'd you let me sleep up here?" She was sounding more coherent now. "My neck is gonna be so goddamn sore in the morning."
"Rita tried to move you downstairs, but you sleep-threatened her with a palette knife."
"Yeah. That sounds like me." She stood up with a groan, stretching as best she could in the cramped van.
"How are ya now, dad?"
She flipped him off. "So what was that earlier?"
"Hmm?"
"The 'fuck me'. Unless you were cybering with some hot elf babe, in which case I don't want to know."
"Oh, uh…" Overgang turned his laptop screen around. Molly flinched back, covering her eyes.
"Fuck, too bright, too bright."
"Shit, sorry." He turned the brightness down, and tapped the screen. "This thread."
"Nnnnhn still too bright. Read it to me."
"Remember Ruiz Duchamp?"
"Uh. Vaguely?"
"Kind of an asshole but good with exploits? Hate-boner for the Critic's clique? Offed himself a few weeks after the Exhibition We Don't Talk About?"
"Oh, yeah. Weird dude. Actually, like, had shows in real galleries. Who does that?"
"Yeah. Anyway, someone stole his corpse."
"Huh." Molly's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're not fucking with me 'cause I'm half asleep?"
"Scout's honor." Overgang pressed one hand to his heart and raised the other in a two-fingered salute.
"You were never a boy scout."
"Cub scout for like, six months. I think my dad's still got my uniform somewhere in the attic."
"Still can't tell if you're fucking with me. Need more sleep." Molly pulled open the trapdoor and started heading down the ladder into the non-euclidean mansion beneath. She paused when she was about neck-level with the floor. "You should also probably sleep?" She didn't seem quite sure that was the case.
"I'm nocturnal now." (He was also locked on the 24.5 hour Martian day, and wouldn't be anywhere near in sync with local time for at least a week.)
"Oh." Molly took that one in stride, and finished her descent into the basement. Overgang kicked the trapdoor shut after her, and went back to the internet. The internet never doubted him.

It was a good four hours after Overgang's chat with Molly. He hadn't moved from his seat or taken his eyes off his laptop screen since then. The trapdoor swung open, and Rita peered out, squinting at the sudden brightness.
"Mornin', Rita."
"Gh." It was barely even a grunt. "Breakfas'."
"There should be food in the kitchen, unless you want to try and find the nearest Denny's or whatever."
"No." Rita glared at him. "Joey. Food. Now."
Overgang nodded, and followed her down the ladder. By the time he made it to the kitchen, she was already asleep at the table. Joey was by the stove, doing something eldritch to a pan of bacon, and Molly was glaring at the coffee machine like it had killed and eaten her family.
"Overgang. Fix the caffeine before I do something drastic."
He reached over and plugged it in. It played a cheery little jingle and started brewing.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Hey, so, remember what I was telling you earlier?"
"No." Molly was maintaining eye contact with the coffee maker, as if it would suddenly stop working when not observed. "I remember nothing between the exit ramp and my bed."
"Oh. Well, that's fine, I can tell you guys too. So remember Ruiz Duchamp?"
"Uhhhhhh." Joey flipped his bacon, a pensive look on his face. "Betamax guy?"
"Yeah, Betamax guy."
"Betmax guy?" Molly's face was practically pressed against the coffee pot, watching it fill.
Joey nodded. "Betamax guy. Like every other time he was in a show, or at a party, or whatever, he'd show up with all his work on Betamax. Never brought his own player, and like, who has a Betamax player? So I've never actually seen his stuff. What's he up to?"
"I dunno." Overgang grabbed a seat, nudging Rita's head back to make room for his laptop. "He's been dead since like, a few weeks after the Exhibition."
"Oh. How'd he die?"
"Suicide. Froze himself with liquid nitrogen."
"Dang."
"Yeah. Anyway, yesterday someone stole his corpse." Overgang turned his laptop to show Joey and Molly a local news article. Grave Robbery At Holy Cross Cemetery. At the top was a photo of a freshly dug grave, under a headstone reading “RUIZ EDWARD DAVID WILSON”. Someone had crossed out the “WILSON” with spray paint, and written “DUCHAMP” underneath.
“Double-dang.” Joey poked at the bacon, and seemed to come to a conclusion. He dropped some on a plate and slid it over to Overgang. “Here.”
Overgang prodded it suspiciously. “… What does it taste like?”
Joey shrugged. "No clue. I've been trying a new thing. Randomizing my flavors."
"Hmmmm." Overgang sniffed the bacon. It smelled like bacon. He took a bite. "It… It just tastes like bacon."
Molly finally had her coffee, and was looking less murderous by the second. She dropped a second mug by Rita's head. "Lemme try." She chewed for a moment. "It's… Turkey bacon."
"You made pig bacon taste like turkey bacon?"
"Not intentionally. I told you, I randomized my flavors. I'm trying to be more spontaneous."
Rita, eyes still closed, reached out and cradled the coffee mug. "Mmmm. Whatabout betamassguy?"
"Drink your coffee, kiddo," Molly said. Then she stole another piece of turkey-bacon-flavored-pork-bacon from Overgang's plate.
"Notakiddo." Rita sat up, eyes still closed, and took a sip of her coffee. "Jus' turned twenny. Adult. Betamax guy?"
"Betamax guy."
Rita's answering glare would've killed a lesser man. Thankfully, Overgang had spent the last several years developing an immunity to Rita's glares. "What. About. Betamax. Guy." She punctuated each word with a sip of coffee. It definitely didn't have the effect she was going for, unless that effect was "mild secondhand embarassment".
"Someone dug up his body. OR SO WE THOUGHT." Overgang opened another tab, this one a YouTube video. "This morning, copies of this video were found in the offices of Anartchy, the Village Voice, the Augur-Haruspex, DVORAK, the Soho Chronicle-Press, and probably a number of other newspapers, magazines, et cetera, that I don't follow on Void."
"Aren't the Press a front for the MIBs?"
"Yes. That's not the point. The point is that they all got a copy of this video…" He paused dramatically. The others seemed more confused than excited, so he ended his pause a whole half-second earlier than his customary 2.3 seconds. "On Betamax!"
"Other people can use Betamax. Hey, Joey, I think this one is soy bacon." Molly held out a half-eaten rasher for inspection.
"Hmmm." Joey grabbed it with his tongs and sniffed. "I think my randomization algorithm didn't go far enough in flavor-space. The ones I've tried have been fried ham, pancetta, and pork rinds. So what's on the video?"
"A whole bunch of pretentious bullshit about the need to revitalize the anart world after the collapse of Are We Cool Yet?" Overgang took a bite of bacon, so he didn't have to deal with the punctuation of that sentence. It tasted like salt-cured pork. "It's a manifesto. But it's a manifesto delivered in Ruiz Duchamp's voice!"
"Who's Ruiz Duchamp?"
"Betamax Guy, Rita."
"Oh. Betamax Guy. Right."
"So," Joey said, cracking an egg over a fresh pan, "he's come back from the dead? After like, three, four years?"
"He'd be pretty gross, wouldn't he? Like, full zombie-mode." Molly poured herself another cup of coffee, and very pointedly ignored Rita's pleading look and outstretched mug. As soon as she put her own coffee down on the table, it started inching slowly over to Rita, as if being pushed by an army of highly trained invisible arachnids. Molly was too busy contemplating Ruiz's state of decomposition to notice. "Plus he froze himself to death. So total frostbite-face. Gnarly."
"I mean, he's still got vocal cords, I guess. Maybe he was brought back to life in a non-zombie manner. Divine intervention, or superscience regeneration, or dark sorcery." Joey flipped his egg. "No, I guess dark sorcery would probably zombify him. Unless he's a lich?"
"Or a revenant. Or a wight. Probably not a vampire, I don't think you can vampirize a corpse," Molly said, reaching for her mug. It wasn't there. "Rita, I swear to god, I will put down spider traps."
"First of all, you wouldn't dare, I taught them to avenge their fallen sisters like, ages ago. Second of all, those are from D&D, not from real life, and third of all, he's not a zombie, because he didn't dig himself up."
"Hold that thought." Overgang spun his laptop around. It was showing a Void thread about Ruiz's resurrection. Someone had managed to get crime scene photos of the grave, and an email from the Archbishop of New York to the head of the Pontifical Commission on Necromancy and the Undead. "The Church thinks he did. And these photos are pretty convincing."
Molly was on her phone, furiously googling. "Last night, there was an assault in Soho. A couple coming back from a play was attacked by, quote, 'some homeless guy with a skin condition' who 'smelled like death' and who 'tried to eat my brain, swear to god'. Height and hair color match Betamax Guy."
"I mean, it's a weird correlation, but it's not like it's gotta be him," Joey said as he slid the egg onto Molly's plate. "Maybe it was just a homeless guy with a skin condition. Hey, Moll, what's this taste like?"
Molly took a bite. She took another bite, and contemplated it for a little while. "… Laminar flow."
"Too abstract?"
"Mhmm. Confusing. Oh, and the attacker was shouting about Dada and postmodernism, which is not a typical random homeless guy move, but is absolutely a typical Betamax Guy move."
"Could be worse," Rita said, sipping at Molly's coffee. "I mean, a single zombie artist? What's the worst he could do? It's not, like, zombie plague apocalypse time."
Overgang froze, staring at his laptop in sheer terror. "There have been," he said, after few deep breaths, "three new exhumations in the city of New York in the last 24 hours. One of them was a mausoleum. The door was shattered. From the inside."

"So that's two of the rifles, three of the tomahawks, one shotgun, the harpoon launcher, six cases of fireworks, one broadsword, the cattle-catcher for your van, a couple rolls of razor wire, a nail gun, three packs of Pokemon cards, a tank of propane, and the mentos. I miss anything?"
Overgang shook his head. "Nope, that should be it. I just stick my card in here?"
"No, the chip thing's broken, sorry hon. Gotta swipe it." While Overgang swiped it, the cashier looked over at their overloaded cart. "So you folks starting a militia? Because my cousin up near Devil's Lake has a whole compound all set up, if you want to join."
"No ma'am." Joey was probably laying the country on a bit too thick, but the cashier seemed charmed by it. "We're going hunting."
"Well gosh. What are you gonna hunt with all that?"
Joey looked at Overgang. Overgang looked at Molly. Molly tried to look at Rita, but Rita had stayed in the van, so there was nobody to pass the buck to. "Uh. Zombies?" She froze. "I mean, uh, zombies aren't real, haha, I meant… Zebras?"
The cashier winked. "Can never be too careful. End times are just around the corner, and the dead'll be rising to eat us any day now. You kids have fun. And thanks for shopping at Walmart."
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"Broken Bowe"
It's quite ingenious, really.
More by this author!

Dr. Daniel ███████ stared at the almost-empty office, the latest of only three spaces he'd been able to call his own in the past ten years. He wasn't sure how he felt about it yet; he wasn't sure how he felt about anything.
The process of moving in was simple. He hung his labcoat on the back of his comfortable desk chair, and dropped an empty packet of licorice into the trash bin. He was pretty sure he didn't want the monkey statuette, but he didn't have much of a say in that.
There was no knock at the door before it swung open, and the reason was immediately apparent. General Jack Wilford strode in, looking over the bare walls and empty shelves with unconcealed rancour. "Settling in, egghead?"
"Trying to get me to punch you again?" Dan leaned back on his desk. "I really don't have it in me."
Wilford crossed his arms. "You've been unconscious for a day and a half. I thought you'd be full of vim and vigour by now. Lots of bad ideas to force on everyone."
Dan rubbed his jaw, which still ached. More than the bullet wound, somehow. "Heard you had some trouble on the way home. Chaos Insurgency?"
Wilford shrugged. "Took some fire. Nothing to lose sleep over."
"Great." Dan moved around the desk, and sat down. He yawned. "I don't think I'll ever have trouble sleeping again."
Wilford sneered. "I brought you something to help with that." He unzipped a pouch on his belt. "Call it an office-warming gift if you like, I don't care." He placed a fist-sized package wrapped in plain brown paper in the centre of the desk, with all the care of a soldier laying a landmine. He turned to leave.
"General?"
Wilford looked back over his shoulder, waiting.
"We couldn't have done it without you."
Wilford snorted. "Can't say the same." He walked back out the door, and slammed it shut.
Dan looked at the package. It could be anything, really; it could really only be the one thing. Would there be a plaque, with a short and pithy and to-the-point engraving, a final twisting of the knife? Or would Wilford trust the thing to speak for itself, trust Dan to understand what it represented?
He sighed, and unwrapped the package. After a moment's consideration, he placed it on the edge of the desk and examined it at a distance.
One day at a time.

Sophia Light was standing in the hallway, obviously waiting for him. "Visiting our mutual friend?"
Wilford's expression was unreadable. "Delivering a message."
"The pacifier." It wasn't a question.
Wilford nodded curtly, walking past her. "He needs the reminder."
She fell into step beside him, looking unhappy. "I'm not so sure. He knows what he did."
"Does he? How can you ever believe anything that murderer says, ever again?" Wilford glared down the considerable distance between them. "Maybe I don't want to rely on the wheels spinning in his head. Maybe I prefer to put my faith in tangible things, things which haven't already let me down."
"Like the pacifier, right? You've gotten a lot of mileage out of that."
"I don't know what you mean." His face was a graven mask.
"I've read the 096-1-A report. What a load of crap."
He was clenching and unclenching his fists. "Forty-seven people died, doctor. I'll thank you not to take that lightly. I don't."
"No? You don't? Because what you did in 2010 borders on the farcical. No, you know what? It's on the wrong side of the border. Pure and simple farce."
He stopped walking and loomed over her, but remained silent.
"A battle-hardened MTF agent commits suicide with a pacifier clenched in his fist? Come on. That's the kind of bullshit detail only someone looking for a whip to self-flagellate with would believe. That's pure Hollywood nonsense, Wilford."
He shook his head. "You've been hanging out with Goggles too much. You've got a complexity addiction."
"You snuck that little lie into your report, planted the damn thing in his hand — if it was ever really in his hand — so Dan would have something to focus his guilt on. So we all would. Come on, just admit it. I'm already pretty well certain."
He shrugged. "Details. Is Dr. Dan the only one allowed to fudge the facts for the 'greater good'? Is he the only one entitled to a bit of stage-setting? Everyone in O5 saw that report. All the Site Directors have seen it. Every MTF commander. It's part of basic training, now. What not to do! There's not a bigwig or operative in the Foundation doesn't know that our Dr. Dan got a goddamn baby torn to shreds. And you know what? He fucking did." Wilford was waving a finger in her face, now. "The men he murdered were real. The civilians he murdered were real. The baby was real. All I did was rearrange the props, draw a big red circle around the salient details."
Light scoffed. "Everyone in O5, and all the Site Directors know what you did, Wilford. And I'd be willing to bet Dan does, too."
"And yet look where I am," he snapped. "And look where he was. What does that tell you?"
He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Two silhouettes belonging to two men who would never, under any circumstances, meet in person conversed electronically. There was more security behind the connection than most entire Site databases required.
"Why'd you do it, Robert? We have an agreement. Or is that in the past, now?"
Robert Bumaro's hazy outline shook its head. "Our agreement still stands. You won't break it off, and neither will the GOC. You're not going to risk losing the Wars of Flesh over a petty political squabble."
"A petty political squabble. That's what you'd call this? You mobilized a small army against us at 19 and 37, Robert. You and your… friend. Whoever the hell he was."
Bumaro laughed. "I don't even know, myself. He left the Site before I did, without the prize he came for… and without my prize. For all I know, Yttoric was just some lunatic Bowe picked up off the street. His cultists were bizarre and unfocused, even by Scarlet standards."
"Well, was it worth it? Debasing yourself, threatening everything we're fighting for, just for one more piece of the puzzle? You know we're still going to have to vote on this, and I'll be surprised if I'm the only O5 with reservations about working with you again."
"Oh, please. You make less savoury arrangements over breakfast." Bumaro paused. "Should I even dignify your question with a response? Of course it was worth it. For a piece of the puzzle, I would do anything."

"Oh, you know." Tilda Moose looked tired, but happy. "They're all dealing with it in their own ways. Used to be, you couldn't shut 035 up for a hot second. Now it won't speak to anybody, and it's been wearing the tragedy face since we fished it out of the Grand Canyon. The fresh air did most of the humanoids some good, except for poor Harold, and the gnomes haven't been this manageable, or shiny, since we first got them. All the weapons and equipment are back in their lockers, the Maker of Chains is completely catatonic, and Cassy is constantly asking about joining Alpha-9 for real." She beamed up at Light. "Just another day at Site-19."
"Do you think we can go back to the way things were?"
Moose shut off her computer monitor. "I don't think we've ever been able to take a step back, Sophia. Not ever. Not after Able, not after Kondraki, not after Dan and not after this. Everything's cumulative."
"And shit rolls downhill."
Moose pointed at her, and nodded.
"How about personnel? You've separated the traitors from the brainwashed?"
"Yeah, the memetics Bowe used leave a noticeable trace in brain activity for several days. It's pretty clear who was just following orders, and who was really just following orders."
"So the innocent are back to work already, then? What about the guilty?"
"They're back to work, too."

Should've stayed in the pocket dimension.
Dr. Stephanie Buck walked into the containment chamber, wincing at the foul odour within. The floor was coated wall-to-wall with pitch black ooze; it stuck to the soles of her boots, and she was sure she could smell the rubber melting.
She didn't have time to worry about her feet, however, because every fibre of her being was demanding that she turn tail and flee from the monstrous form which dominated the massive chamber. It was heaving, breathing low, scattering bubbles and droplets of anomalous goop in every direction. Was it sleeping? She hoped it was sleeping.
"Procure the sample," the voice on the intercom demanded.
She turned to glare at the one-way glass. "If you think I'm walking up to that thing," she hissed, "and scraping off its skin, you've got another think coming!"
"Come… closer…" the quivering mountain rumbled. She stood, frozen in place, unable to move a muscle.
"Procure the sample, D-2450."

"We're pulling that shit again?" Sokolsky frowned. "Guess I should stop bad-mouthing my Site Director, then."
"Just for a few special cases." Dan slumped in his chair, mimicking his relaxed counterpart on the screen. "Buck was a pretty enthusiastic insurgent."
"Still, it's just so… mid-2000s."
"Well, we've got a few well-trained brains that just happen to belong to psychopathic traitors."
"Present company excepted."
"Mm. Not so much. And you know that O5's going to get their money's worth, one way or another."
Sokolsky chuckled. "Yeah. At the SCP Foundation, we use every part of the researcher."
Dan shook his head. "That's tasteless."
"Was Buck?"
He grimaced. "I didn't call you to hear your black comedy routine. I called you to make a job offer."
Sokolsky went into shark mode. "What doing?"
"They're gonna vote on my future some time soon, and I think I know how it's gonna turn out. Once ETTRA's official — and I'm pretty sure it's gonna be — I've got big plans for it. One thing Bowe taught us is this: we've got a serious mole problem. I thought you might like to help us smoke them out."
Sokolsky had never looked more threateningly excited. "Oh, yeah. I've got some ideas."

"I still don't think you should be sitting in the truck."
"For the last time, I'm not sitting in the truck! I am the truck!"
"Well that's really admirable dedication to your job, my man, but I think you need to set your career aside for a moment and consider the health and safety angles."
"You're one to talk about health and safety, Mr. Explosive Incontinence!"
Turbo Thompson twisted his half-rotted visage into a rough approximation of a scowl. "That's very personal, and I don't appreciate it."
The Redd Mennace growled its engine at him. "Just don't go landing on my roof. It took them hours to buff out all the scratches from Moon Champion, and that's not a pleasant sensation."
Agent Rodney hopped out of the cab, and shut the door. "Can you two play nicely, please? We've got a crowd to please."
Turbo slapped Bigg Redd's side, and the engine growled again. "Whose side are you on, anyway? I thought you were my agent."
Rodney stared at him. "Why in the world would you think that?"
"I still don't understand this 'agent' business," said Bigg Redd. "I thought you were Mr. R!"
"I'll always be Mr. R. to you, Redd," he smiled, and he elbowed its grille. "Ow."

The stands outside Site-19 were packed with personnel. Researcher Calvin and Professor Crow were sharing a hamper of turkey sandwiches. Andrea Adams was taking photographs of the crowd, and Iris Thompson was using them to snatch snack food out of unsuspecting hands. (Adams would later claim this was for 'training purposes'.) The old senior staff were bickering, and threatening assorted violence on each other. Hundreds of researchers and agents were loudly decompressing, and they let the sound wash over them in the cooling autumn air.
They were sitting together at the back of the stands, watching as the last preparations were made. "I just wish we could have really won, you know?" Light sniffed her beer, and frowned. "Beat Bowe on our own terms."
Dan downed half a bottle, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I did."
She looked askance at him. "You did what."
"I beat him on my own terms." He took another swig.
She waited for him to finish, then said "We fought fire with fire, and ended up proving that fire is good. Fire works. Now we're going to play with it, and blah blah blah, get burned, blah blah blah. How is that an unambiguous win, Cosmo?"
He pretended not to hear that last part. "Well, first of all, isn't that what you want? You're the Director of Alpha-9, for Chrissake."
He set the empty down on the bleacher seat with a soft clink. "But when you signed me up, I told you my reasons. I'm in this for the people. Our people, and the people who don't know our people even exist. Everybody, everywhere."
He waved expansively at the assembled audience. "We're all in danger, every day, even with everything we know. All the preparations we've made. Now think of all those sad shmucks who don't know about chain monsters or concrete monsters or Moon monsters."
"Bowe wasn't thinking about everyday people," said Light, cradling her untouched beer. "He only attacked Foundation facilities, and always in a way we could easily cover up."
"Exactly!" Dan was still waving his arms; he'd had quite a few beers already. "And why do you think that is? He wanted to show off what a headache our inventory can be, when targeted effectively. So why do it in secret? Why not make a very public mess, with all those excellent magic mess-makers?"
She shrugged.
"Because he wasn't trying to break the Veil! He was trying to shift the Foundation."
It took all her self-control not to guffaw.
"He wanted to prove that he was right, that the Bowe Commission had the right idea all along. That we should be using our skips as tools, and that if we choose not to, well, our enemies won't be so… choosy." He stifled a burp. "He wanted to make the Foundation his Foundation again, one way or another. And what did I do? I helped him. He played his anomalies, and I played my trump anomalies… which just proved his point further. But do I give a shit?" He shook his head, unsteadily. "No. I give zero shits. Because I wasn't trying to shut down Alpha-9, like your friends at O5, and I wasn't even trying to shore up Alpha-9, like my friend who is you." He grinned shakily. "I was trying to keep people alive. That's all I wanted."
He looked up at the sky; the stars were coming out.
"That's all I ever wanted."
She examined him carefully. "Did you know at the time? That he was trying to make a point? Most people thought he was just trying to take over."
He shrugged, and reached into his labcoat for a new packet of licorice. "What do you think?" He tore the packet open.
"I think you did know, and you didn't tell anyone, so they wouldn't delimit your options."
He stuffed a few strands into his mouth, and offered her the packet. "Yep."
She took one. "Yep, that's what you did?"
"Yep, that's what you think."

They watched as Turbo Thompson roared his motorcycle around the track, jumping the Redd Mennace and performing a variety of death-defying acrobatic stunts on the seat. It was getting near midnight when the event came to a close, and Turbo took the field — at a safe distance from the audience — to give his closing speech.
"Here comes the good part," said Light.
"I just want you people to know," Turbo cried, with real emotion in his voice, "that you've been the best audience I've had in years. Normally they're all wooden and tinny and reserved, but you guys, wow, you guys really are the greatest. You make a guy glad he was born anomalous, you know? You make it all worthwhile. Thank you."
His legs were staring to shake. Light put a hand on Dan's shoulder. "Watch."
"I'm watching, I'm watching!"
"You've made me feel so full," Turbo choked. "So full of life and love, I could just—"
The blast of water from the Redd Mennace knocked him off his feet; he was drenched to the core by the time he exploded with a wet pop.
"Bigg Redd is on the prowl!" the engine roared, driving Turbo's unconscious form deep into the sodden earth. "Only I can prevent forest fires!"
"That was anticlimactic," said Dan. He hiccoughed. "But I like things better that way."
"Oh, hey." Light took her hand off his shoulder. "Moose says 'hi'."
"Is she not here?" He scanned the crowd. "I thought for sur—"
In his half-drunken state, he didn't even notice Light was pouring the beer on his head until it was running down his face. He licked his lips; it tasted like hops and coconut creme.
"Not bad," he remarked, and then he made the mistake of inhaling.

Moose lost her grip on the file, and sighed as the papers cascaded to the floor. Dammit. The day-to-day operations of the Foundation's largest Site required an almost unending series of emails, signatures and inspections, but today it was like the whole complex had just been opened for the very first time. She was loving every minute of it.
She slapped the empty folder on the table, pushed the chair out the way and knelt down.
There were no documents on the floor.
"Welcome home," she said, under the table.
She stood up and smiled at the monkey statuette, and the neatly-stacked pile of papers in front of it. "Glad to be back?"
It failed to respond.
"Me too." She sat down, not at all surprised by the sound of the whoopee cushion. "Me too."

Sophia Light and the woman who was not O5-10 regarded each other evenly across the conference table. "What do you think?" asked the factotum, Salt. "Is this suitably dramatic?"
Light nodded. "The long table in the empty boardroom. I take it we're going to engage in some shady dealings?"
Salt nodded back at her. "What we're about to talk about leaves this room in your head, but it doesn't leave your head until we say so. That's clear?"
"As always."
"Well. First off, ETTRA is now a permanent measure. Dan did good work, and it paid off. We do need you to watch him, though; there's a reason we kept him under wraps for ten years. Need I say more?"
Light shook her head.
"Good. Nobody was surprised to find that Bowe had left us a message in the director's office at Site-19. And nobody was surprised that it was full of self-congratulatory bluster, about how much he'd accomplished in so little time, about how now the entire Foundation would be irrevocably set on a course towards expanding the Alpha-9 program. How all his work with Omega-7 would finally mean something, again."
"His usual nonsense."
"His usual nonsense, and all of it, of course, absolutely correct." Salt watched this information sink in; Light's face betrayed no emotion, as though the thought had already occurred to her. Salt shrugged. "But he did have a stinger, like a good supervillain, and you need to hear it."
She reached under the table and pressed a button, and Bowe's voice filled the room. "…but you already know all that. What you might not know is the extent of my recruitment efforts before I took Site-19. I know you people. I know your methods. You're defenders of the status quo. If you could freeze the whole world in a containment cell, you would. So I've given you a little incentive to move beyond your tired old routine."
Light glanced at Salt, whose expression was carefully measured.
"Perhaps you've already seen the scattered hints: the brown amber, Technician Lee, even the star in the FEC logo. Maybe you've already got your best people working on contingency plans; let me assure you, it won't be enough. He's coming for you, and He's going to do to our world what He's done to countless others if you don't stop Him."
She could almost hear Bowe smiling on the recording.
"Time to stop dragging your feet, ladies and gentlemen, and take the giant leap. Be all you can be. And never forget who made you that way."
The recording ended.
Light blew out a breath. "So, 093. The crazy Christian science dimension."
Salt nodded.
"We're going to need a bigger team. More than one team. I've been working on that anyway; maybe now I'll get some traction."
"We're all behind you," Salt agreed.
Light raised an eyebrow. Salt laughed. "Okay, some of us are behind you. But your hands should feel a bit looser, going forward. There are cautious O5s, and pragmatic O5s, but no foolish ones."
Light stood up. "I'll get to work."
Salt remained seated. "Please don't make fools of us, Director Light."

Dr. Frewer ticked a box on his report, and watched the Heart of Darkness scrabble up the walls of its containment chamber.
"The rise and fall of weighted walls upon the aching slenderness of chitin flashed by fire in the waking nights of caterwauling thunder understanding nothing clear and reprehensible."
He keyed the microphone. "I see. And how did that make you feel?"
The Heart fell over backwards, madly kicking its revolting arachnid legs in the air. Its words carried an undercurrent of squealing, now. "Repugnant walking watches under marching revolutions to the chiming of exceptions to the righteous evocation of a tenebrous deployment of the very worst in all of us."
"Well, he can't get to you now. You're safe with us."
It rolled over and stretched its valved back, pulsing arrhythmically. "Ever-aching acrimony, tenebrous maleficence, within the icy mortice of malicious understanding in the fabric of the fragrance of remembrance." The Heart collapsed in the centre of the chamber, squeezing its own body with its razor-sharp tentacles. It was turning purple.
"Hey, buddy, calm down." He chuckled. "You're gonna give yourself a heart attack."

They floated together in the infinite night, the silhouette of a woman and the semblance of a man. They were talking; one more than the other.
"And I met the nicest people, we should invite them over some time. There was Cosmo Dan, and a dog who could spit like you wouldn't believe, and the left-overs from a cattle mutilation, and a lady in a suit like mine but much sillier-looking, and we all traded service information so we can stay in touch." He tapped his helmet. "I think I've found my crew for the next foray against the Moon-monsters."
She nodded. "You did a good job. They didn't scream very much."
"I noticed that, too. They must be mellowing with age. Do you know, not one of them laughed at me this time?"
She pointed at his arm. "You lost my favour?"
"Alas, I had need of something incomparably dense and indestructible, in addition to my own spacious self. Something came loose after I broke atmosphere, and I needed to tie it down."
She smiled. "Where is it now?"
He shrugged. "Who cares?"

"Hey, so, you never told me the context behind that Alan Shepard quote."
Dan laughed. "Looked it up, did you? Yeah, takes some of the grandeur out of it when you know he'd just pissed his space suit." He leaned forward and picked up the small glass cube.
Light sat on the corner of his desk. "Makes it a better one-liner for getting chased down by 096, though. Surprised you didn't wet your own trousers."
He snorted. "Thank the energy drinks for that. I was so dehydrated, I didn't piss for twelve hours."
She wrinkled her nose. "I didn't need that much context."
He tossed her the cube; she caught it, and turned it over in her hand. "At least Wilford mounted the thing for you," she said. "Is that the right word? Mounted?"
Dan shrugged. "I dunno, I'm not in the business of presenting ghoulish artifacts." He leaned back in his chair. "Actually, what am I in the business of? Am I off death row?"
She put the cube back on the desk. "Yeah, I came to congratulate you. You're now the permanent Director of ETTRA, to nobody's surprise." She glanced down at him. "Including yours, I suspect."
He grinned. "Your suspicions serve you well. You'll make a fine O5, some day." There was something in her eyes. He narrowed his. "What's bugging you now, Sophia?"
"Wilford."
"Oh, did he bring you something, too? Maybe a souvenir from those soldiers you killed?"
"Oof." She slipped off the desk and walked to the door. "No. It's just… that transmission from Bowe. The one with the 096 payload."
"Yeah?"
"The one relayed to Site-01 from Wilford's helicopter. The memetic filters shouldn't have allowed Bowe to send even one pixel of 096's face to Mission Control. We're far, far too good for that." She turned back to him. "Project SCRAMBLE was an entire decade ago, Dan."
"I'm all too aware." He massaged his shoulder. "So, you think someone messed with the comms on his chopper, and that allowed Bowe to bypass the filter."
"Yes."
"And then faked the CI attack, shot up his equipment so we couldn't prove anything after the fact."
"Yes. I think so. Don't you?"
"Of course."
They stared at each other. "So, we think Wilford intentionally sent 096 after you."
Dan nodded. "Yep."
"And endangered everyone at Site-01."
"Well. It was just a skeleton crew at Mission Control, and it's a separate facility. Easy to seal off. Wilford probably just wanted me dead, and trusted my problem-solving brain to get myself into the air, or into a containment chamber, before the end came."
"Is that supposed to somehow be better?" She was turning red. "He tried to sic an active anomaly on you! He's a goddamn Boweist!"
"Is he? I dunno." Dan closed his eyes. "I think… in his own way, he was trying to do what I was trying to do. Back then, and now. Heading for the goal with the fewest possible steps, over the smallest possible quantity of corpses." He winced, and stared at the crystal-bound memento of all his mistakes in one.
"I can't believe you're making excuses for him."
He opened his eyes and sat up. "I think I have to? I think I made him the way he is." He sighed. "I think… between ten years ago and this past month, I might have made us all the way we're about to be."

He was not omniscient, and He did not always understand everything He did see.
But He saw what happened at Site-19, and He understood it perfectly well.
He also saw the fields of green, the skies of blue, and the fat, untroubled, suggestible population of an uncorrupted Earth. He smelled the sharp scent of the forests, tasted the clean, crisp air, and heard the long-forgotten sounds of birdsong on the wind.
Bowe had been right.
This world was prepared to embrace Him.

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