Iris Dark sat at her desk tapping the laptop keys and she was verrrrry fine and for shure not drunk! Why would she need to be drunk, nothing was wrrrong at all. The whiskyyyyyyy? Naw, that's just… that's just moral support. its so nice and warm in here too and the fire makes such nice crackles!!! Shet ook another swig of the yummy firewater! It tasted so good and made the bad scary thoughts go away. everything is okay.
Skitter walked in with an accusatory finger oh no this is gonna suuuuck ughhhhhh. He grabbed her computer and threw it to the ground.
"You need to stop getting on the internet when you're drunk, or stop getting drunk when you're on the internet. Jeez, this is… ugh."
"No, It's, Uh, I'm Fine. Everything's Fine. What Are YOu TalKing About."
"Oh god. You thought about last year didn't you."
Iris started crying.
"i'm trying to change this shit? people from the outside don't get how much bullshit we gotta put up with, and if uccking hate it, and, and -"
"Okay, alright. You need to sleep this off. Come on."
"shuddup imma automate you outtuva job lookat this beep boop hahaaaa"
iris pressed a button on her kickass robot arm and it did some magical wireless technology and a door did go woosh! all the way up, that was hidden before. and behind it was a robot!!!
"look i made a robot you! now you can go away"
the robot then said "IRIS I AM DISAPPOINTED IN YOUR BEHAVIOUR YOU HAVE BEEN VERY BAD BEEP BOOP"
"wow this was definitely a value added enterprise. well worth the seweet couple mil I dropped on him, economics is funnnnn. you can go now. byebye!!!"
iris waved her mechatronic arm but it was kinda laggy.
Skitter looked at the scarecrow in the closet with "MEAN" scrawled on the bluetooth speaker it had for a head.
He lifted it up, walked across the room, and threw it in the fireplace.
He turned around at his sobbing, unsober business partner.
"Look, you know why you're not supposed to look at replies, yeah?"
Iris nodded.
"because i get like this."
"That's part of it, yeah. Hey, come on, let's ignore the internet for tonight, okay? How about we head out somewhere nice, grab a bite to eat?"
"but whaddabout the covid i gotta stay inside"
"We'll wear masks."
"but whaddabout the riots skit! were capitulists! they all hate us!!"
Iris stopped and stared into space.
"they hate me. ugh they just say stuff which is like, technically true but they dont even give any context to it??? we get shit on for stuff before we wereborn and as much as i wanna change them the time gods said theyd kill me if i time travelld again and it ruins my fuckign day and i hate it. i had shit i was gonna do tonight skit!"
Skitter sighed, sat, and stared in silence.
"i nwas gonna go to meetings and stuff! i was gonna act all prim and propper but i fucking hate it, i do, it sucks skit, i just want to sit inside at a computer and never talk to people again and send them some of those photos that make their brains explode and then sit here and look at the things that make me forget all the bad things in the world"
"Visual amnestics."
"no i mean like kitten videos"
Skitter massaged his temples.
"Look, okay. Tell you what. I'll go get some ice cream. You look up some kitten videos. We can sit here and watch them together and eat ice cream until you fall asleep. Okay?"
"…okay"
"What kind of ice cream do you want?"
"bluebry."
"Okay. I'll be right back."
skitter walked out the door and iris grabbed her computer and closed the window that was saying mean things. she pulled up firefox and opened a new tab and went to youtube and there was a ping from the tab she wasn't supposed to look at but she was being good! so she typed in 'kitten videos' into youtube but the tab went ping again. what if someone was saying something bad about her? i mean she had to defend herself right. so she switched tabs and read the message and realised that the comment was trying to tear her soul out of her flesh. fuck, she shouldn't have looked at this aaaaaAAAAA"AAAAAAAAAAAAA"
Skitter ran back in with a pint of blueberry flavoured ice cream. Iris' eyeballs were rolling back as she heavily convulsed and screamed.
"Goddamnit Iris it was one fucking MINUTE"
Skitter grabbed the laptop, folded it, and smashed it out the window. He grabbed Iris' head, pulled his phone out, he just needed to get the generic amnestic image and it should fix it, Iris' robotic arm flailed and knocked the phone to the ground, Skitter yanked it out of the socket and threw it to the other side of the room where its flailing was "AAAAAAAAAAAAA" while still remotely controlled by a seizing Iris, out of his fucking way, grabbed his phone from the floor, Iris had flopped to the side, he pulled the image up but her eyes were rolling back she needs to LOOK at the thing or it does nothing okay fuck it Skitter tried to steady Iris' skull with his fingers and then as carefully as he could while "AAAAAAAAAAAAA" she was moving so much place his thumb against the whites of her eyes and rotate the eyeball downwards within the socket oh god it felt horrible and then Iris' irises locked into place on the amnestic image and she had seen it but still "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" okay then Skitter switched hands and grabbed the other eyeball but Iris was more coordinated in her resistance now "AAAA WHAT THE FUCK WHY DID YOU TOUCH MY EYEBALL"
"Oh. Sorry, yeah, that uh…"
"OH GOD THIS IS THE WORST AAAAAAAAA"
"Okay, hey, look at this."
Iris glanced at the generic amnestic image and forgot that Skitter had touched her eyeball. She blinked a few times and rubbed the eyeball that Skitter had touched.
"oh goddamnit i looked didnt i im sorry i thought it would be okay. i mean i had the plugin"
"Yeah, well, that's a Day Zero you can look into tomorrow. For now, ice cream and cat videos. Okay?"
"yeah okay."
"Alright. Come on, let's get… ah. Um."
Skitter felt the cold breeze from the broken window.
"Let's watch it on my phone, hey?"

⟰
Maybe Capitalism Is A Bad Idea
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⟱


Lindisfarne Falls

The death of Sicga

We never should have brought him here. King-killer in life and now - a dreadful thing which rages in its cell. Sicga the monster. Sicga the damned. Dead to the world, yet on he howls. The walls cannot contain these frenzied visions which he casts about us. Tonight, the sky is lit ablaze. Tomorrow - who can tell? Never before have we been called to contain such madness. Never again will I be free of the things which he has shown to me.
Here lies Sicga, though he lives on still. May the saints soon grant us the mercy of his passing.

Brother Thomas of Lindisfarne, 6th April 793

1

They faced the darkness. Behind them burned the flames of their damnation. Ahead… no way to know.
For four weeks, Lindisfarne had raged with Sicga's impossible illusions. Towering waves had threatened to engulf the island, while whirlpools to rival Charybdis herself turned the calmed North Seas into a fierce maelstorm. The had skies filled with winged beasts and all kinds of maddening, unknowable things. Unholy figures roamed the corridors, their faces a savage mask of unloveliness.
In time, Brother Thomas had grown used to those horrors. Now - no madman's vision could compare to the things which he had seen this night.
At first, he had thought the raiders to be another vision. Some new terror from the depths of Sicga's tormented mind. There had been no fear. No alarms had been sounded. The gates were open - what force of man would brave the sea to breach the mighty walls of Lindisfarne? So many years of peace. Security. The Brethren had grown so painfully complacent that almost they invited in their ruin.
The raiders had walked amongst them. A nightmare - but nothing more than that. On this balmy Summer evening, his brothers had strolled the yards and made their nightly preparations. What curiousity they showed these strangely armoured men was fleeting at most.
The visions were a test of faith, the Bishop told them. A test of our devotion to our guardian path. And so, the monks had prayed and walked and laughed. Devoted, all, until the first had fallen.
Brother Thomas had fled. Not from fear - although his heart felt fit to burst from panic - but down towards his duty.
As Lindisfarne fell, the thirteen had descended.
Those left above would stand and die in service. Rebuild if they could. They knew their duty, just as Brother Thomas knew his own. Here, in the darkness, it waited for him. His blessing and his curse.
Thirteen forbidden treasures - each strangeness a unique and wondrous burden - confined here to the holy vaults of Lindisfarne. Denied by the church, their use was strictly forbidden. And yet - Brother Thomas knew their stories, passed down from Brother Mark, the Fourth who came before him. The knife, the horn, the chalice, and the bones. And then, of course, his charge - the holy book itself which he had sworn to guard.
The ancient stone which paved the way down to the vaults was worn to smoothness. Brother Thomas gripped the rail so tightly that his fingers ached. His sandals slipped. His coarse robe burned his forearm where it struck the wall. His half-cry drowning out the distant screams for just a moment. Onwards, now. Downwards, that those who died would not do so in vain. He closed his eyes and found his way by touch alone. For when he opened them, the things he saw - and how to know now what was real for certain?
The corridors around Brother Thomas boiled with strangeness. Half-formed shadows crawled the stones as Sicga's silent illusions grew ever more disturbed. Perhaps even the madman knew. The balmy air seemed rendered thicker. Blood and fire catching in his aching, panicked lungs.
No time. No time for this! He hurried past the cells. The chains. Between the gilded boxes. Here, amongst the gold and finery, the Brethren hid their finest treasures.
The gospel rested on its plinth, a fine cloth wrapped around its covers. Brother Thomas cast the cloth aside. He pulled the pages loose and tucked them in his satchel. Should he be caught, the jewelled bindings would surely attract the raiders' eyes. Loose papers in a lowly Brother's sacks - if his fate was to be burned, then he could only hope this mighty relic burned beside him. All around him, Brother Thomas could hear the others. The turning of their keys in ancient locks. Their distant footsteps heavy with their purpose.
The exit from the vaults was dusty and unlit. The visions clawed at him as if to hold him back, even as cobwebs clung around his face - a shroud of yellowed foulness on his robes and skin. The door - his fingers fumbled for the key which hung around his neck. And then, a rush of outside air.
No time to count how many others followed - or to mourn for those he left behind, Brother Thomas stepped out into the night.

"Where there's a dragon, there's a hoarde!" Gunnar roared.
"But dragons, Gunnar! They're not - "
"Then what d'you call that, Sten? And dragon or not, I call it an opportunity!" The creature coiled around the clouds, its scales glistening like oiled leather. It turned its head, seemingly blind to the boat below, and headed back towards the island. They turned to follow it. All around them, the ocean whirled and rolled - and yet the sails caught only the gentlest breeze as they closed in on the island and the spinning water parted calmly around the oars.
"An illusion? A sorcerer, perhaps?"
Gunnar gripped oarsman's shoulder. "Dragon or sorcerer - we'll leave with treasure and glory a-plenty. Imagine the stories we'll tell, man!"
The sky around the island was thick with specters. Spidery creatures, all legs and gaping jaws, crawled the decks. When an oarsman raised an arm to cast it from him, his hand passed through as easily as mist.
They moored the boat in grim silence, listening for the cry of alarm. Surely men with powers such as these would know their island was invaded? But no cry came. No cry as Gunnar's men made their way along the beach and up towards the mound.
And there - a monastery, the gates open and unguarded. The walls, though crawling with illusion, held no watchers and no guards. The stone felt cold - and real - where Gunnar touched it. This place, at least, was more than vision.
The men inside, though… At first, Gunnar thought them part of the illusion - or else, if not that, then cursed. Robed in coarse monk's garbs, they moved as if dreaming of some ordinary Summer's evening. Blind, almost, to the chaotic ghosts and gods which curled around them. As strange in their normality as any apparition. So, when Birger reached out and grabbed the nearest Brother, Gunnar half expected that his fingers would pass right through.
"What - " The monk's eyes widened as Birger's grip closed tight around his arm. The words stolen quickly away as the helmsman cut his throat.
And then -
The spell which held these men seemed broken.
The nearest monk screamed. The pail he carried clattered to the cobbles, spilling filth and food scraps. Another moaned, his arms raised up around his face as if to ward - or else to hide away. The dying brother sagged against Birger's chest. His hands reached up as if to hold the bleeding back. A final gurgling moan.
More screaming now. The Brothers darting in amongst the ghosts, the living and illusion turned to madly chaotic whole. The raiders roared, their weapons drawn. The running monks were cut down in their panic. Others stood their ground. Some even gathered what they could to fight. They fell. They died. The raiders cut them down.
The visions gathered close around the carnage. A golden maiden, terrifying in her beauty, walked amongst the dying. Birds with twisted roots in place of wings crawled down the walls. And soft, unrolling things which seemed to join and break and join again fell wildly all around the bloodsoaked walkways. And then, something else unseen - a howling, maddening sound which ached with fear and fury.
Gunnar dreamed of monsters and of glory. Of this secret guardian of the treasure he would claim. Of glorious combat and the songs his men would sing - songs sweeter to him than any gold. He followed the sound into the buildings. Through the cellars. Deeper. Deeper. Down first one staircase and then another. The sound grew closer. Changed. Became a snarl.
And then -
The man crouched low against the floor. His once-fine clothes were loose and tattered, little more than rags. His chest and face were bloodied and encrusted with the remnants of some meal. And still he growled - the same demonic sound which had lured Gunnar here.
Beneath the man lay the body of a monk, its head impossibly turned. The man had bitten at the monk's cheeks and neck, leaving toothmarks in the flesh. Torn into the now-unseeing eyes with fingernails grown long and dark and blackened. The tattered nobleman held his fingers tight around the monk's ruined neck, still shaking. Squeezing. Snapping with straining jaws as if possessed. The sorcerer at last, perhaps. A madman and an illusionist both, his mind come loose to fill the island with such abominations.
A monster of the flesh - and by a heroes' hand, all flesh will bleed. Drawing his sword, Gunnar stepped forwards into battle.

As the first of the Brethren reached the causeway the waters grew calm, and no more were there dragons in the burning skies of Lindisfarne.
Brother Thomas reached the shore as the last traces faded into a Summer mist. The madman was dead - and he found himself wondering what had taken Brother James so long.
Mirrored by the ocean, eleven figures began their crossing. Burdened by a weight far heavier than any gospel or grail, they struck out for the safety of the mainland - and, beyond that, for Ripon.

Too late! Too late… Brother Graham wrapped the lance as best he could, his fingers clumsy against the cloth. When the raiders came, he had been sleeping - what could be more harmless than an evening nap? Even when the screaming woke him, he had not hurried. Another terrible dream, brought on by Sicga's visions. He had been so sure.
It wasn't until he smelled the smoke that he had known.
Perhaps if he could hide it somewhere… Or else -
All at once, the illusions fell away. Their absence startled Brother Graham for a moment more than their presence. It had been so long since Lindisfarne was still. But - if Sicga was gone, then Brother James was here. And if he could find Brother James, perhaps the two of them would stand a chance. Brother Graham felt his panic lift a little. Perhaps all might not be lost.
Gathering up his courage and his duty, Brother Graham made his way towards the madman's cell.

"What's that you have there?"
Brother Graham froze. He clutched the bundled treasure against his body, betraying the hard outline hidden beneath its folds.
"Bring it to me. Maybe then I'll spare you." The raider grinned. Perhaps he even would - the slavers paid a high price for men who wrote. Brother Graham hesitated. Perhaps -
Brother James' body had been kicked against the wall. His pale legs, bloodied, sprawled out of his tangled robe. Beside him, Sicga lay face down. Their arms entwined; the madman and the monk.
Brother Graham turned to run -
- and Gunnar cut him down.
Blood sprayed across the walls, spattering the coarse cream cloth. The bundle fell from numbing fingers as the man crumpled, still reaching as if to claw it back. Where it hit the stones, it clattered as the cloth came loose.
"What's this?"
Gunnar lifted the weapon free from its wrapping. He tested its weight. Admired the workmanship - the ancient styles, but gleaming just as new. Truly a wondrous prize! A weapon of legend - or when he told this tale it would become one. Gunnar wiped it clean against the dead monk's robe and hefted it again. This, he would claim for his own.
Outside, the final dying moans of men were drowned out by the cries of celebration.
"Here, Birger, look what I found!" Gunner hurried back to join his men. To loot and burn and take his pleasure. Tonight, Lindisfarne would burn to her Foundation.
As Gunnar stepped out into the courtyard, a single crimson drop fell from the Bloodied Lance.


« Act I - Scene III | Demasqed | Act I - Scene V »

Act I - Scene IV

Spotlight on the bar section of the pub. Lighting is dimmer than Scene I, and the bar-stools are gone. Dana is alone on stage, cleaning glasses with a rag, and then placing them at the end of the bar counter. He does this, humming "Where Everybody Knows Your Name" quietly as he works, for about half a minute.

HENRY
(yelling from offstage)
Hey, Dana, you still there?
DANA
(yelling)
Yep, just finishing cleaning up!
HENRY
(yelling from offstage)
Well, I'm heading home. Michael asked me to remember to turn all the lights off and feed the hornets, so do you mind…
DANA
(yelling)
I've got it.
HENRY
(yelling from offstage)
Thanks so much, Night!
DANA
(yelling)
G'Night!

Dana continues to clean glasses, while listening closely. Footsteps can be heard from offstage, getting quieter and quieter, ending with the sound of a door opening, and then closing. On the sound of the door closing, Dana puts down his glass, grabs a set of keys from underneath the bar, and exits the pub. Blackout.
Spotlight on a single table with two chairs on either side. Seated in the chairs are Jazz and Brimley. Brimley is in the act of eating a taco, sitting in front of a plate covered in sauce and food particulates. Jazz is holding her head in her hands, sitting in front of a plate of three untouched tacos. Brimley scarfs down his last taco before looking up at Jazz's plate.

BRIMLEY
Babe, you haven't even eaten any of your tacos.
JAZZ
…
BRIMLEY
(slightly louder)
Babe, you haven't eaten any of your tacos!
JAZZ
Oh… what… sorry.
BRIMLEY
Do you not like tacos, babe? Because I have definitely seen you eat tacos so like, that's really messing with my head, you know?
JAZZ
No, I do… I'm just… thinking… about stuff.
BRIMLEY
Okay but like… so like… are you going to eat those?
JAZZ
I… what?
BRIMLEY
Are you going to eat those tacos, though?
JAZZ
I…

Jazz looks like she wants to say something forceful, but backs down at the last second.

JAZZ
You can have them. I don't care.
BRIMLEY
Sick!

Brimley grabs Jazz's plate and places it on top of his own. He begins to eat her tacos with as much force as before. Jazz stares at his face for a few seconds, making a slightly more hesitant attempt to say something serious to Brimley, but as before, she stops herself. Resigned, she lets her face fall limp into her palms. Blackout.
Lights go up on Dana sneaking across the stage, which is bare, save for a table with a printer, and a desk chair. On the opposite end of the stage, Crystal-INE is standing with their eyes closed, powered off. Dana sneaks over to them, and walks around them a few times, inspecting for an on button or switch.

DANA
Uhh… Power on.
CRYSTAL-INE
…
DANA
Crystal-INE, power on.
CRYSTAL-INE
…
DANA
Son of a bitch…

Dana thinks for a few moments.

DANA
(shouting)
Crystal-INE!
CRYSTAL-INE
(quickly powering on)
What, what's happening? Are we being attacked?
DANA
Jesus, sometimes I forget how human you are.
CRYSTAL-INE
Oh, hello, Dana. Isn't it a bit late for you to still be on site?
DANA
That's not important. I need to see some documents. Do you have access to the Foundation Database?
CRYSTAL-INE
Of course, could you please give me your access code?
DANA
Come on, you know it's me.
CRYSTAL-INE
I'm afraid I can't give you any data without your access code.
DANA
Ugh… fine, but… don't judge me, okay? I didn't think I'd have to use this thing very often.
CRYSTAL-INE
Just tell me your code.
DANA
(sighing)
Fluffy little kitty 2, 13, 13
CRYSTAL-INE
Heh.
DANA
Don't you fucking start.

Crystal-INE closes their eyes for a few seconds.

CRYSTAL-INE
Code accepted. What would you like to access?
DANA
Show me the files for the North Korea Project.
CRYSTAL-INE
I have access to 11 pages of documents relating to the North Korea Project. Would you like me to print them out for you?
DANA
Yes… wait, how does this work? Are you going to like, vomit paper, or something?
CRYSTAL-INE
… We have a printer, Dana.
DANA
Oh… right.

Crystal-INE closes their eyes for a moment. At the same time, the printer across the stage begins printing out pages. Dana walks over and collects them as they print, flipping through them. After flipping through a few pages, he notices something.

DANA
Wait a second, Crystal-INE, you have access to the security cameras, right?
CRYSTAL-INE
Yes, however, you are not authorized to view Site-96 footage without permission of-
DANA
No, no, I know, just listen. Can you analyze the footage of the North Korea Project team meetings?
CRYSTAL-INE
Theoretically, why?
DANA
Just, do it, would you?

Crystal-INE closes their eyes for 4 seconds, before re-opening them.

CRYSTAL-INE
Done.
DANA
How many members were there on the team?
CRYSTAL-INE
Six.
DANA
Then how come these documents are all authorized for a five person group?
CRYSTAL-INE
What do you mean?
DANA
In all of these documents here relating to the founding of the team and the allocation of gear and rations, it mentions five people, but I remember there being six people, and it seems like you've confirmed it.
CRYSTAL-INE
You're… right. The administration council only signed off on a team of five individuals, including the project lead. Which means that either all the documentation is wrong…
DANA
Or somebody was there who didn't belong.
CRYSTAL-INE
Interesting…
DANA
I've gotta talk to Jazz about this on Monday. She needs to know that something's going on.

Dana, grabbing the rest of the documents from the printer, runs off stage.

DANA
(from offstage)
Thanks for all the help, Crystal!
CRYSTAL-INE
See you tomorrow, Dana.

Crystal-INE returns to the exact spot they were standing in before being woken up, and powers off instantly.

End Scene

« Act I - Scene III | Demasqed | Act I - Scene V »


"Morning, Mikael."
Mikael's eyes opened slowly as a blurry figure stood before him.
Cynthia?
He fumbled for his glasses and put them on quickly. As the world came into focus, Martha's face appeared in his vision. A beautiful brunette with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. However, even though her eyes usually captivated him, it seemed so unsettling today. For no discernible reason, he felt disappointed-and a little nauseous-to see his wife.
Massaging his brow, he dismissed his questionable reaction to Martha. After giving himself a few moments to fully regain his consciousness, Mikael climbed out of the king-sized bed.
"How long have you been up?" Mikael asked when he noticed the bags under Martha's eyes.
"Since 3."
"Was it the baby?"
"Yeah, I felt them kicking. I couldn't sleep after that; I was too excited."
His eyes drifted down Martha's full-vase body, eventually settling on her round abdomen.
Every time Mikael came home from his work at the Foundation, she would be busy vacuuming some room, preparing dinner, or doing some chore. It's as if she was perpetually in motion. He felt guilty leaving her alone at home. What if she went into labour while Mikael wasn't around?
Somehow, she managed to dispel these thoughts, convincing Mikael that his work was more important than her, that it was a-okay to leave her at home.
"Worry makes you age faster-you'll look ugly if you keep up your negative thinking," she mentioned.
"…Anyways, I made some kaya toast for you, it's on the kitchen counter. If you want coffee, it's in the thermos. Could you help me to the sofa? My back's killing me." Martha's voice rang out, snapping Mikael back to the present.
After escorting her to the sofa and ensuring that she was comfortable, he ate breakfast, put on his uniform, and prepared to leave for work.
"See you. Love you."
Waving at the already-asleep Martha, Mikael closed the door behind him.

A long line of people walked out of a room, escorted by a few MTFs. Like livestock, they were pushed back whenever they walked out of line. Their eyes were glazed and empty; their mouths were hanging open.
Mikael had learnt to ignore this regular sight. He recalled the first time he asked the Head Researcher about who these people were, and was dismissed rudely. Only later did he find out that these were people who were going through amnesticisation.
However, what never faded in him despite all this time was a compulsion to stretch out his hands towards these empty people and shake them violently. The urge to tell them and remind them of their past lives, their feelings, the people they loved, and those they hated. But he wasn't some clairvoyant; he couldn't see what they had lost. In the end, he always ended up pulling those hands back into his jacket. Those hands felt cold as they nested in his pockets today.
He switched on the lights to his office. Although it was usually bustling with activity at this time already, there was no one in sight today. Figuring that he might as well continue his project, he walked towards the cubicles.
"Happy birthday, Mikael!" His colleagues popped out from behind the plastic cubicle divider just as he reached his chair. The chorus of their voices was accompanied by a few shrill blows of a party horns and cacophonous clapping.
"What? Is it already the 7th?" Mikael exclaimed, pleasantly and genuinely surprised.
"Further proof that you care about the Foundation more than yourself. Catch a break sometime, man." A big hand clasped his shoulder. Mikael turned around and was greeted by Turner, his best mate in the Foundation.
"Did you plan this?"
"Of course."
Mikael grinned.
"I love you, dude."
Pleased at Mikael's response, Turner took the cake from Frieda's hands and placed it on the table. Mikael was handed a plastic knife. Looking around, he was surrounded with all of his colleagues in the department. It was pretty embarrassing to be the centre of this much attention, but when he saw the expectant looks on their smiling faces, he sighed in exaggerated exasperation. Urged on by his friends, he proceeded to blow out the candle on the mango cake.
"Go ahead. Make a wish."
Mikael closed his eyes.
I wish I will always be this fulfilled and happy. In this wonderful job, with my wonderful wife and my wonderful friends.
Everybody cheered as he blew the candle out. The small flame flickered as Mikael blew it, clinging on to its dear life until it was eventually reduced into a few smoky tendrils.
A red-faced Mikael blinked slowly and looked around the room. In this atmosphere, he did not mind that he looked foolish with a party hat on his head and a great smile on his face. The beers started getting passed around, and soon, everybody looked as foolish as the blushing Mikael.

"Here's a little present for you, Mikael." Turner revealed the item that he had been holding behind his back.
Mikael's eyes widened.
"How much did this cost?" He took the wine bottle from Turner's hands and examined it. 'Dom Perignon 1998' was labelled in huge black letters.
"Always the miser, aren't you? Let's not care about that on your day, alright? Enjoy."
"Thanks, Turner. You didn't have to do this."
Turner smiled, walking out of Mikael's office after they bumped fists.
Soon after Turner left, Frieda and Gary snuck up behind Mikael.
"Hey, let's toast to your birthday!"
"I can't, we're still at work."
"Don't be such a stuck up, hand that over." Gary took the bottle off Mikael's table and in one swift action, unravelled the lid of the wine. Producing three plastic cups, he filled all three to their brims.
"To Mikael."
"To Mikael!" Frieda and Gary chugged down the contents of their glass in one gulp. Feeling pressured to do the same, he took a tiny sip of wine from the glass.
He felt as if a shotgun loaded with flavour was exploded into the back of his throat. The scent of musky grapes relaxed the muscles in his body, and a wave of pleasure overcame him.
After that, every time someone came over to his cubicle to greet him, Mikael would find an excuse to drink with them. By the end of the day, the bottle was completely empty. The sun had already set; it was 7:09 pm. Swiping his stuff into his bag, the red-faced Mikael staggered out of the compound hurriedly. Just as he was about to enter his car, he heard Turner's voice call out behind him.
"Hey! Heading home?"
Mikael froze. Turner was the last person he wanted to see right now. After all, it would be shameful to admit that the whole bottle had been drunk. Mikael tried to formulate a sentence despite his fuzzy mind.
"Yeah, my wife's calling." Mikael's tongue felt like a block of lead, weighing down his words. It took him all of his effort to not stammer or slur during the sentence.
"Alright, drive safe. Tell your wife I said hey." Turner waved and headed back into the compound.
Mikael's body lost its stiff posture, relieved that Turner didn't realise the state Mikael was in. His hands were trembled as he pulled open the door of his Ford. Steadying himself into the driver's seat, he inserted the key into the ignition and tried to start the car. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he realised he had been turning the key in the wrong direction. After the final frustrating try, the engine finally started up. Navigating the steering wheel shakily, Mikael steered out of the car park into the snow-covered road.

His mind wandered as he drove on the narrow, iced-over road. Why was it that he felt so light, so strong and invincible, yet he was unable to calm his hands from shaking? For no reason in particular, Mikael took his right hand off the steering wheel and stared dazedly at the window to his left, gazing at his own reflection.
Everything Mikael saw about himself seemed wrong. His head was perched at an awkward angle on his shoulders, that was crooked and hunched themselves. His bony hands moved in the opposite direction he meant them to. Nothing in his body was coordinated, so although he felt the motion from the car moving and pushing him forwards, Mikael felt as if he was floating backwards through his seat.
He touched his face with the other hand, slowly examining the details in the moonlit mirror, brushing over every small hair. It looked even worse than the rest of his body, as if some thug had vandalised it, smashing it apart, and its reconstruction was left to someone with only a vague knowledge of human anatomy. It wasn't his face. Was it his face? Hey, who are you? Are you me?
By the time he arrived at a conclusion, he was already unconscious, his car crashed into a tree.

An enormous expanse stretched out for miles. The clouds moved lazily in the sky, and was reflected on the flat platform Mikael stood on.
Hello Mikael.
Who are you? Are you god?
No, I'm Harper.
Well, nice to meet you, Harper. I figure I am dead?
No.
Then where am I?
A memoryscape.
So the movies were correct. Am I about to see my whole life flash before my eyes?
Partially correct. Your memories will come back to you, but you aren't exactly dead yet.
Then, what is this place?
Just somewhere for us to talk to each other.
On what grounds do you think I would be willing to talk with you?
On the basis that you're having a conversation with yourself.
You're not making sense right now. Who exactly are you?
Let's say I'm just someone that has taken up the identity of the past you.
What do you mean when you say 'past me'?
Before you became Mikael. When you were still Harper.
The surroundings began to shift violently around Mikael after the disembodied voice stopped talking. His body lurched forwards, downwards, and sideways as he was thrown around like the clothes in a washing machine. The colours changed from red to green to purple to yellow, twisting and swirling past him, finally spiralling into deep and dark black. The thick viscous liquid caught him from his fall.
Mikael's mind was buzzing as he observed the pitch-black environment he was in. Ahead of him, there were two figures, one was enshrouded in a bright and warm orange with emeralds for eyes while the other was lit up by a cold and dark blue. He squinted his eyes to make their features out, but no matter how hard he tried, all he could make out were luminescent blobs in the shape of a male and female.
Yet, he had the sudden compulsion to reach out towards them, to wade towards them and grab their feets. A deep loneliness that Mikael couldn't comprehend manifested deep in his chest.
These are Cynthia and Morrison.

"Harper, we want you to work on a very important assignment that's in your field of expertise.
If we can make this work, this is a confirmed promotion for you. So work hard, eh?"

"Hey Harper, had a good day at work? You look oddly happy. Oh my gosh.
You got a promotion? Congratulations!"

"Take a good look, Harper. This is what the Foundation has been working on behind the scenes. We've nicknamed it 'Reset', it's something we've been working on for some time.
Our very own anomaly!"

"Honestly, I don't get why you've got to make a big deal. It's such a simple question.
Of course my biggest fear is losing the memories of the times I spent with you, my family."

"This intangible sphere you aren't looking at right now contains all records that the Foundation has. It can attach to anyone that does so much as look at it.
Meaning, it's literally in your brain right now! Amazing, eh?"

"Stop laughing. it's not that childish. I know it felt good when I said that.
Ugh, now I'm embarrassed. Come on, cough it up!"

"I'm not that surprised you managed to figure that out just from looking at the code for a few minutes. You're not the poster boy for our department for no reason.
Anyways, as I was saying, it can't be…deleted from someone's mind after it's already attached.
It was made specifically so that even if the Foundation collapses or gets annihilated, the O5s with these planted in their minds can still reset the Foundation.
So the O5s will never have to fear getting amnesticised again, and they sure as hell won't ever lose the empire they've built up."

"Oh. So both our fears is losing one another, huh? Haha, you're such a big baby!
…Don't worry Harper, I'll always be by your side. Forever."

"Why are you asking me that?
I mean, no. No other researcher has reported that their 'Reset' has started talking to them yet.
Could you describe this mini-Harper in your brain? It might assist us in our next breakthrough."

"Harper, there's something I need to tell you.
I don't know how, but our memories are linked. There is a 'Reset' in me."

"Harper, why do you look so pale?
What do you mean your wife knows everything about the Foundation now?
And you're just telling me that you don't know how this happened?"

"I'm scared of this thing in my head, Harper. Keeps telling me things about
the Foundation that I don't want to know. It said it hitchiked on your memories into mine.
Please, Harper. Get it out.

"Damn! This is a containment breach. We didn't anticipate this!
How were we supposed to know it could infect others as well? We can't afford to
have all our operations revealed to the world."

"It said it rode the most precious memory you had into mine. That time
in 2013 when my parents passed away and you were there to comfort me, it was your
most precious memory. We share this memory. We share a link for Reset."

"I know it's just a mutation, that it isn't your fault, but we risk the Veil being
broken. I have no choice but to inform the higher-ups about this incident. It's not my fault,
I hope you understand."

"Harper, are these people from the Foundation?
Have they finally come for me? It's fine, Harper, let them in, it's not your fault.
I'll always be with you, don't forget, alright?"

"You and Cynthia will be the target of our research now. We need to know how it mutated from just being storage for information into some kind of self-propagating memory, so we can prevent this from ever happening again. You will live under a new name after we amnesticise you and we'll be watching what other effects may manifest.
Your wife….will be kept in the Foundation's care, as an instance of 'Reset'. She'll be a test subject from now on. I just thought it'd be humane if I told you this. I'm sorry Harper, it's not my decision, it's the Foundation's."

"Cynthia, I'm sorry!" Mikael Harper screamed, a strained plea for forgiveness.
As he stood there, a deafening sound cut through the silent night. The MTF broke open the door that Harper had locked in a final desperate attempt, with their tranquilliser guns pointed at him and Cynthia. Harper tried grabbing Cynthia's hands, to pull her close and try to keep her safe, but Cynthia shook her head slowly. As she looked at him for the last time with her green eyes, she whispered,
"I love you."
Harper's stomach dropped down and his heart fell into a deep gulf as he saw Cynthia's limp and lifeless body falling down, hitting the floor in slow motion. As if to compensate for the lack of noise Cynthia fell down with, Harper opened his own mouth and let his own guttural shriek come out through his teeth. The house itself shook, heaving and moaning in anguish and despair for Harper, who couldn't feel anything anymore because of the tranquilliser dart that had already embedded itself into his nape.
When it was all over he felt as if he was thrown off an endlessly tall building, whirled as gravity sucked him into an emptiness that
never
quite
touched
the bottom.

Harper opened his eyes suddenly, his skin glistening in sweat and his throat dry from the screams he let out in his state of unconsciousness. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was 7:23 pm. He was only out for 3 minutes, yet he felt as if he had aged an indescribable amount of time.
Looking at his reflection in the car's windows, it was a face he finally recognised, a face he almost forgot. It was Harper's face.
Harper took a few moments to calm his rapidly beating heart, collecting the thoughts and memories that had come back to him. Martha. Who was she? A stranger living in the same house as him. He felt disgusted. He wanted to vomit. It was all just an identity that the Foundation had created for the amnesticised Harper to keep him placid as the unsuspecting Mikael.
He involuntarily touched his face, which was wet with tears. He knew what he had to do. Reversing his slightly dented car, he went back in the direction of the Foundation, knowing exactly where Cynthia was held.

After stopping his car in the woods beside the Site, Harper climbed over the fence and jumped down on to the hard pavement as gingerly as he could, trying not to awake the huge slumbering monster that was the Foundation.
Harper navigated through the hallways, feeling the walls twist and turn in a complex maze, spiralling downwards to a room with a metal door. There was no lock on it. Maybe it didn't need it. Was it because it was so expertly hidden that there was no need to lock it, or were the contents of the room not even important enough to bother hiding them from curious eyes?
He pushed the door open. Scanning the room, he saw a small bed tucked into the corner.
On the bed lay an emaciated woman that he recognised instantly. But she had changed so much. In place of the deep and dark brown hair the Harper loved, only tiny, shaved stalks of hair were left. The emerald-green eyes that Harper fell asleep to every night, those green eyes that enchanted him, were now glazed and empty and wide-open, like some soulless being that was staring into the nothingness that Harper couldn't comprehend.
Harper felt his knees buckle and give way, as if somebody had violently kicked the back of his knee joint in, crumpling down a few meters away from the bed Cynthia lay.
He felt a compulsion to clasp Cynthia's shoulders, shake her around and scream to her that he was back, that he remembered her. But he was no clairvoyant, even if he was able to tell the past, he couldn't assure her of her future. His cold hands dropped by his sides.
Of course, what was I thinking? How could she remember me?
Harper wept silently in the room dimly lit by a single incandescent bulb. There were no more words he could say, and the scream that he wanted to shout had long since died in the back of his throat. He didn't even bother turning his weak body around when he heard the door click open behind him.
"Turner," Harper whispered.
"How's it going, old friend? Looks like you've broken through your amnesticisation again."
There was a silence between the two men, one holding a small pill and a mug in his hands and the other kneeling, his shoulders dropped and his head sunken.
"Here, have this. It'll make you forget everything. You don't need to be sad anymore, Harper."
Turner walked in front of Harper and put the cup and pill in Harper's hands gently. Harper looked up at Turner, only to be greeted by Morrison's rugged face. He looked deep into Morrison's eyes, searching for the tiny glimmer that told him he was going to be alright, that he was going to have another chance to start over and forget. Another chance to reset.
Although the man who had caused him an endless amount of suffering was right in front of him, Harper could not bring himself to hate Morrison. All thoughts of rebellion were snuffed out by the huge draft of oppression that the Foundation blew, and Harper, just like a tiny flame that was clinging on to its dear life, was blown out into a few smoky tendrils.
Harper let out a small, wistful laugh.
Tilting his head backwards, he swallowed the pill and drowned it out with the water, drinking from the mug as if it's the last thing he would ever do. Soon, he was plunged into the void, an intermediary limbo before his next reincarnation.


"SMASH THE MOTHERFUCKING PATRIARCHY!"
"YEAH! BUT ALSO WE HAVE NO PROBLEMS WITH ANYONE WHO FUCKS ANYONE ELSE'S MOM, THAT'S OKAY TOO!"
"YEAH FUCK MORE MOTHERS WOO YEAH MOM GO TO FUCKIN' TOWN ON HOMEBOY OVER HERE"
Rita, Molly, and Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of-existence (going by "Mel", these days) were wearing face-masks throwing rotten eggs and Lego pieces at a clone of Donald Trump from a distance of approximately six feet. (The six foot rule was also why they were in a group of three.) It's fine, clones don't feel pain. They just act as though they do. Clones can, however, be racist, so to some extent murdering clones of horrid political figures is a glorious peak betwixt extrajudicial political fauxsassinations and reich-toppling catharsis.
On the other side of the alley, Joey, Overgang, and Skitter Marshall were talking business, forming a triangle approximately 1.8 metres either side and enunciating clearly so that the masks weren't getting in the way of communication. Skitter continued.
"Look, I'm not saying there isn't a market. I mean, on a personal level, I'm not a fan of… y'know…" - Skitter gestured aimlessly into the aether - "The state of the world right now. There's definitely demand. But our clientele, like… they're rich assholes."
"ɪ ɢᴏ ʙʏ ᴍᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴅᴀʏs"
"But you get what I mean, right? The people we sell to don't want a patsy of this guy. If anything, they'd want a clone of… just off the top of my head, like…"
Skitter stopped, feeling Joey and Overgang's Evil Eyes staring into his soul.
"…yeah, okay, fine, I'm not even going to finish that sentence. Hell, you guys are the creative types, I'm sure you're thinking of ten people I've never heard of right now. I mean, we can find buyers for a few dozen, but this isn't where the real money is."
Overgang cleared his throat.
"It has his soul in it."
Skitter just kind of looked quizzically confused. Joey massaged his temple, knowing that Overgang was about to get deep into the Hard Sci-Fi bullshit that he was really only able to manipulate through the power of Sheer Unadulterated Bullshit puntuated by Antifloetic Breakthroughs.
"So you know how when someone dies, their soul just kinda floats out as the semantic tethers anchoring them to their corporeal form start to dissolve? Turns out that semantic disassociation means you can refer to items cross-temporally, since you're dealing with platonic ideals. Because once a soul enters into Meinong's Jungle, so long as you know what you're looking for you can pull them back out again. But due to current events there's enough attention on the subject forming additional semantic anchors persisting across time we could just… grab it. His soul. From the future, I mean, after he dies."
"Wait, when's he going to die?"
"I'm not sure why you think that's relevant. Anyway, turns out we can do it over and over again? So we have a few thousand time-offset Donald Trump souls. All the one soul, really. We can put them into clones if you want, but I think probably the raw materials would be -"
"Hang on. Where are you keeping them?"
Joey pulled the Mason Jar Filled With Several Thousand Post-Corporeal Donald Trump Souls out from his pocket. They looked exactly the way you'd expect a Mason Jar Filled With Several Thousand Post-Corporeal Donald Trump Souls to look, suspended in decade-old chip-frying fat.
"Huh."
"Yeah! Anyway, do you want them? Honestly the one clone was hard enough to put together."
"Oh, yeah, I'll buy the whole jar, no problems. What do you want for it?"

"Time to upgrade the van, I think. We've been getting a little crammed."
Overgang leafed through the crisp bills he'd been handed, his pant pocket weighted down by a glowing chunk of Dr Wondertainment's Fantastic Fiat Metal Substance For Unusual And Untraceable Transactions You Might Want To Make With Your Friends For Practical Jokes Or Something! TM TM TM. He turned his attention to the lego-encrusted smear on the sidewalk.
"Well, I'm not cleaning that up."
And so everyone got back into the van and drove away.

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

I know there's been a lot of talk around the politicisation of pride month. I failed you and I failed myself. But we're trying to be better. 1/?

ECHOES 869
HUMS 2038

9:35 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

We're starting a new initiative. It's called the We Will Literally Give You A Donald Trump Soul To Torture Or Whatever Initiative. 2/?

ECHOES 53
HUMS 18

9:36 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

No, I've not been hacked here. Yeah, MC&D has historically been Extremely Fucked Up. You're right. We're leaving the messages as-is. 3/?

ECHOES 64
HUMS 48

9:39 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

Why don't we shut the company down? there is actual Eldritch Blood Majjick Inheritance Bullshit that I gotta deal with 4/?

ECHOES 188
HUMS 28

9:44 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

I mean there's actual thousands ago year prophecies that jjsut straight up out me? try staying closeted when your gender was assigned millenia before yourts fucking birth??? 5/?

ECHOES 935
HUMS 63

9:55 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

anyway we're runningn a search or whatever and if you're pissed off about what happed then you;kl get a donald tyurmp sole i don't even fuckign care any more 6/6

ECHOES 1374
HUMS 232

9:56 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

god i fuckign knew capitalism was a bad idea

ECHOES 175302
HUMS 62373

10:01 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

ctrl-z

ECHOES 316
HUMS 58

10:01 PM - 17 June 2020

Iris Dark
⁂irisdark

whatever fuck me i guess???

ECHOES 89
HUMS 20

10:02 PM - 17 June 2020

⟰
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⟱


The Summoning of Saint Peter

Aethelwulf makes his move.

Alfred had two Saints, and Aethelwulf none. Offended at the very thought of Alfred's growing power, the Mercian king sought out the Inquisition- my Puritans- to find an answer to the might that Alfred now wielded. In return for his relics, we gave him the secret of Saintmaking, like the Peacemakers gave to Alfred, expecting him to summon the Saints that we needed to purge the land of our pagan enemies.
But Aethelwulf, I found out later, wanted none of the holy war that transpired to the north. In our folly, we gave the Mercian the keys to grow in power that would outshine even Alfred, so that he may destroy what was left of the peace in our Christian lands.
The King, in his infinite ambition, wanted no ordinary Servant of God- he wanted Saint Peter.

Archbishop Aethelstan, The Journals of the Puritan Inquisition, 5th June 875

The sun set heavily over the Kingdom of Mercia, and as it did, it shone upon a dying man being crucified upside-down.
The man was nobody- a peasant from a nearby village who had been taken for thievery and blasphemy, though if these charges were right, no one dared to truly speak their mind. He had been despicable, the peasants said, though they truly knew not the crimes of this peasant man. He had been a heretic, the priests said, though they truly did not hear what they accused him of. He had been a traitor, the nobles said, though they cared not for what this no one had done.
Men from all over took to seeing the ritual for themselves as the peasant lay dying and gasping on the cross. To them, the screams of the damned man mattered not, for the symbolism of what he was dying for took over all pretense of his perceived crimes- the execution of Saint Peter.
From afar, King Aethelwulf looked on proudly on this feat of saintmaking, watching the slow death of the man on his throne. Ever since the day he had discovered the practice from the Puritans that he had allied himself with, he took to the old books of the lives of saints from the nearly one thousand years of the Church's existence. He pored over virtuous men, sinful men, priests, martyrs, and disciples all.
Yet one prize lay tantalizingly close to him, one that he deemed to be greatly surpassing any other saint in its power and might- Saint Peter himself.
Archbishop Aethelstan knew not the ritual to summon the Rock that the Church was built on, yet he was certain of the process by which they could request the Saint from He in Heaven- a crucifixion, done upside-down and for three days, with a piece of Saint Peter's bones replacing that of the sacrificial man.
That same Archbishop looked at the scene before him now, disgusted at the sight of the condemned man. Aethelwulf could not help but silently wince at the clergyman's revulsion, for the man's reaction did not surprise him in the least.
Puritans like him always speak of executions and purifications, the king thought. Yet they do not wish to carry it out themselves. He felt disgusted at the thought. Typical.
Beside him, his son Aelfric watched on silently, a wide smile plastered on his face. The boy was now nearly twenty-seven, yet the childlike glee with which he watched the torturous ritual was palpable even from the comfort of his throne.
“Enjoying the execution, boy?” Aethelwulf asked. “An atheling like you must do this out of necessity, not out of enjoyment.”
As he said this, the peasant cried out for the first time in an hour, his naked body covered with both sweat and blood. Aelfric smiled at the sound, then turned to his father to answer.
“When I assume the crown, father,” Aelfric said, smiling as he spoke. “I shall do it out of both.”
Aethelwulf sighed, leaning back on his throne. The boy has not learned, he thought. “Then do so.”
As they watched on, the sun began to sink beyond the horizon. Slowly, the man's pained gasps began to die down with it, his teeth gritted as he continued to squirm in agony.
Aethelwulf looked on expectantly, his fingers locked around each other in anticipation of the summoning of the Saint.
His heart began to race.
His breaths became quick and hurried.
Then, with a last agonized cry, the entire land was plunged into darkness as the man became still.
The crowd gathered around the cross waited with bated breaths, looking on in expectation of the Saint to come.
But there was none.
The ritual, such as it was, had been a failure.
Aethelwulf sighed in frustration, moving off of his throne as Aelfric stood still with his mouth agape.
“Take the peasant's body off of the cross. Take the bone from his body.” Aethelwulf said, his arms crossed on the rich fabric of his royal robes. “We try again on the morrow.”
As the king left, the gathered crowds of peasants, nobility and clergy began to file out piecemeal, disappointed.
Archbishop Aethelstan felt a pit in his stomach form at the thought of another gruesome ritual, and hurriedly turned away to leave to spare himself of the sight for another moment.
Aelfric bit his lip in frustrated disappointment, his eyes unable to separate from the sight of the tortured peasant's body as he looked on for any sight of the Saint. Eventually, he turned to leave, following his father back towards the keep.
As the man's body was taken off of the cross by his friends and family in life, a calm began to replace the anticipation of the moment earlier. Little did the peasants know that this ritual would be the first of many attempts to summon the Saint, with each succeeding day bringing another man to the square to die.

It was many nights later when Aethelstan found the king silently scanning the spines of a large number of precious tomes, his eyes jumping from place to place as he looked at each shelf from below and above for any clue that could help him in his saintmaking.
“Lord?” Aethelstan called out, stepping forward. “I have come to tell you something.”
As if he heard nothing, Aethelwulf continued to pore through the tomes that he had gathered at a nearby table, sparing naught but a glance at the waiting archbishop.
“Lord?” Aethelstan called out again, moving to the table on which Aethelwulf skimmed the ancient tomes.
The king's reply was curt. Cold. “Out with it, archbishop.”
“King Aethelwulf,” Aethelstan began, straightening his back. “We cannot afford these sacrifices any-“
“-longer?” Aethelwulf said, finishing the priest's sentence for him. “I share the sentiment, Archbishop Aethelstan, but we cannot afford to pause.”
“We must.” Aethelstan piped up, putting both of his hands down on the table. “What we are doing now is no longer justice. It is murder.”
“Murder out of necessity is justified, Archbishop.” Aethelwulf answered, setting a book to the side as he began to look through a gigantic leather-bound Bible. “If we wish to fight against our enemies, then we must continue the rituals.”
“Then by all means, Lord, perform another ritual for another Saint. God has made it clear to us that He has no wish to send the apostle, and we must honor-“
The king let out a huff of exasperation, his voice levelled at an irritated mutter. “Even my son is so much cleverer than you by half, priest.” He shut the book hard on itself, turning to face the Archbishop. “You promised me a Saint. You promised me Peter.”
The Archbishop drew his hands up to his sides in frustration. “I only know of the process of Saintmaking, Lord, not the ritual by which you wish to bind Saint Peter to your will!” He raised his voice higher. “I am sure we could summon one of the Apostolic Popes, the Saints who have held his office, but not-“
“-not Peter?” Aethelwulf retorted. “Peter is the way by which I can unite the Saxons under myself to fight the heathens, and not Alfred. Wessex has two saints under its command, yet Mercia has none.” He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. “Alfred did not take you, but I have. We are tied together now, Mercia to the Puritans, and if I fall…”
He stepped closer, his accusing gaze boring into Aethelstan's.
“You do too.”
Before Aethelstan could manage a retort, the King stormed out of the room, slamming the wooden door behind him.

Aelfric watched on in boredom as another peasant, this time a young man of sixteen, died on the upside-down cross in the middle of Tamworth's square. After a week of the same entertainment, the unchanging agonized gasps and groans, the atheling had found himself to be used to the once stimulating sight.
His father, ever since their first attempt at the saintmaking ritual, had refrained from attending the ceremonies from then on, leaving Aelfric to attend to the King's seat in his place. Though the next few times amused him very much, each succeeding ritual began to leave him bereft of sensation and pleasure, leaving him to watch coldly on- much like his father did.
Now on their fifth day of their fifth attempt, the atheling amused himself with books taken from the library instead. One tome in particular called ”On the Deaths of the Apostles” entertained him now, being written by a particularly scholarly king of the distant past. It wasn't onerously written, much to Aelfric's joy, and it contained many bloody details that would normally be omitted from the burdensome histories by which he had once been educated with.
“Do you enjoy such a text, Lord?” A voice at his side said, barely audible against the loud and pained moaning of the crucified man. Aelfric lazily turned his head to one side, his gaze meeting that of Ecgberht, his faithful servant.
He chuckled as his eyes turned back to the text. “It is very… vivid, Ecgberht. I personally enjoy it much more than some monk's histories.”
“Those histories are vital to our understanding of what has come before, Lord.” Ecgberht said, standing by his lord's side as he put both of his arms behind him. “Only by learning from the mistakes of our forefathers can we avoid the same fates that they themselves suffered.”
Aelfric chuckled again as he turned the page of the manuscript, his eyes greeting a particularly beautiful image of the flaying of Saint Bartholomew, which he greeted with delight. “Spare me the lecture, Ecgberht. You sound much like my father.”
“The king is right to teach a promising atheling like you that lesson.” Ecgberht said. “It is of great import to you, once you become king.”
A smidge of annoyance on the atheling's face suddenly came to the fore at Ecgberht's reply, and Aelfric lowered the book from his face to regard the servant with a look. “Careful now, Ecgberht. I enjoy you, but be careful.”
Ecgberht lowered his gaze respectfully, acknowledging his mistake. “I am sorry, Lord.”
Aelfric laughed quietly to himself, signifying his forgiveness of the servant's error. “We may be half-brothers, Ecgberht, but it does not mean that we are equals.” He landed his gaze on the image before him again. “How goes your task in Wessex?”
“Well, Lord. The monks there greeted me and answered the questions by which you sent me to ask.”
Aelfric smiled in obvious delight. “As they should. Their answer?”
Ecgberht drew close, his lips close to the atheling's ear. His voice came out in a whisper.
“Our ritual was nearly right, Lord. We only needed a different sacrifice.”
Aelfric's eyebrows drew up, looking at his servant askance. “What is this different sacrifice, then?”
Ecgberht's answer came again as a whisper.
“We must kill a man of the cloth, Lord, and crucify him upside-down to greet the dawn.”

The priest that they had managed to capture had been particularly heavy, and Aelfric despised that.
Father Aethelcod was a regular preacher at a nearby abbey, and much given to very… material tendencies. He was an oft-seen visitor at Tamworth's taverns, gorging himself on favorites like lamb and beef. As a consequence, the priest had grown quite large, taking both the efforts of Aelfric and Ecgberht to carry him to a cart.
Aelfric, a stranger to carrying large weights, did not appreciate the work. He found it hard to appreciate the reek of ale on the priest's breath as well.
In the dead of the early morning, the atheling and his servant finally reached their destination at an abandoned cottage, going to work as soon as they arrived- Ecgberht with assembling the cross out of the planks he had stored in the cottage, Aelfric with tying down the priest and flaying his body to make sure he died at the crack of dawn.
The atheling appreciated the muffled screams when the priest awoke- he had been looking forward to practicing the art once more after the pleasurable reading experience that was Saint Bartholomew's gruesome death. He had grown used to the agonies of crucifixion, very quiet in its form of torture. Flaying was more direct- and creative.
It was almost dawn when they tied and nailed the dying man to the cross, making sure to put him upside-down and embedding the bone of Saint Peter into his exposed muscle to complete the ritual.
Aelfric smiled to himself as the dawn started to come into view, admiring the handiwork by which his hands had wrought. The skin of the priest was very difficult to flay- especially with a live and conscious canvass in which to practice his art. After the first few mishaps, however, he had grown very adept in its processes.
Soon, dawn started to crack outside of Tamworth. As it did, the man who had been known in life as Father Aethelcod had been stripped of his clothes, his skin, and his face, leaving him to die in agony on the cross as his blood flowed down it.
“Aelfric!” shouted a familiar voice, as King Aethelwulf of Mercia rode down to meet them on his horse with the Tamworth guard riding beside him. “What have you done?”
Aelfric and Ecgberht turned to look at the king, a wide smile plastered on the face of the atheling.
His laughing reply came like a victorious taunt. “Winning us another kingdom, Father.”
Behind him, the first sliver of the sun peeked out past the rolling hills as the nameless man died on the cross with a pained sigh.
Then, with a loud and sudden burst of fire, the entire cross became ensconced in flame, obscuring the form of the dead man from view as the inferno drew higher and higher into the sky.
It burned on for a few long seconds, before dying down to reveal the naked form of a brown-skinned man, his eyes flecked with the power of the divine as his long and shockingly black hair blew with the wind.
In one fell swoop, Aelfric Aethelwulfsson had done in one night what his father had failed to do in seven days.
Saint Peter, once called Simon, the first bishop of the Catholic Church, stood before the king, the atheling, the servant, and the king's guards- and in that moment, Aelfric smiled with unparalleled delight.
“Where do you want me to send him, Father?” Aelfric said.
Aethelwulf sat unmoving on his horse, his face betraying no shock, pride, or anger.
Then, he spoke.
“We shall send him to Winchester.”


The door opened and Jacob filed into the testing cell. It was designed to imitate a living room: generic couch set in front of a flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall. Cheap, synthetic carpeting crunched underfoot as he crossed the room and sat down on the couch. The walls were painted a Robin egg blue.
There were curtains on the wall. That was new.
Jacob frowned as he settled into the couch cushions. Did the Foundation really think curtains were going to make a difference? That they were somehow going to do the trick? There was no window behind those squares of polyester — just more blank pastel sheetrock.
"Please proceed," a tinny voice said over the intercom system.
Jacob knew the drill. He fanned open the binder the researchers had given him, bracing it in his lap as he thumbed through the Contents section to find page one.
The television was less than four feet away, the screen tuned to a station of snow — white and black static. There was no sound, and no discernible powersource. Its vestigial three-pronged plug dangled impotently beneath the manufacturer's logo.
"Where are you from?" Jacob read from the binder, projecting his voice, speaking loudly and clearly for the sake of the recorders.
He counted to ten before reading the next question.
"Are you from this planet?"
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi… ten.
"Are you from this dimension?"
There was no response. There never was. Just the frenetic screen of electromagnetic background noise.
"What are you afraid of?"
Jacob's frown deepened, corrugating his brow. That question was a bit random.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…
"You must be scared. If you weren't, you'd communicate."
Okay… The researchers were obviously going with a new tactic today. It was about time, if you asked Jacob. For months he'd insisted that the questionnaires weren't eliciting any response and that they should try a different approach. It seemed like they'd finally listened to him.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…
"Pussy," he read.

Five hours later the door reopened and Jacob stepped out of the cell.
Testing was immediately succeeded by the DECON process. Even though he was pretty sure the television wasn't catching, every test was followed by decontamination — a scalding chemical shower that didn't just make Jacob's skin prune, but blister and peel as well. He shed layers of his skin like he was a goddamned molting snake. His shoes and overalls, along with the binder and microphone that'd been taped to his chest, were incinerated.
He left DECON looking like a newborn, flesh pink and puckered, any hair that'd grown back since last time bleached then singed away. He had no clue what they put in the water, but it left him stinking like struck-matches.
Then, after that, came the psychological exams.
Jacob was always exhausted afterwards, as if he'd just ran a marathon. He wasn't sure what caused it. Maybe it was the TV, leeching him of his lifeforce, draining him of what little vitality he still had left. Was that how it stayed charged?
Maybe it was the chemical showers. Maybe it was the tedious psych questions, or the utter lack of progress in testing. Or maybe it was all of the above, a combination of everything, crushing him under the cumulative weight and pressure.
God… he could really go for a beer right about now.
Dinner in the messhall came next. Jacob ate quietly by himself. After six months with the Foundation, he still hadn't grown used to the company of other people, having spent so long on death row. He kept one arm flung protectively around his cafeteria tray and eyed the other D-Class with suspicion, wondering what they'd been convicted of as he forked mashed potatoes into his mouth.
He had to give it to the Foundation on one account: their food was pretty damned good. The mashed potatoes were real, not just rehydrated flakes. Tonight, dinner also came with a cob of corn, and the protein was a bone-in teriyaki chicken breast. It was the kind of food Jacob would've only expected on death row for his last meal.
He watched as a man known solely by his numerical assignment, D-29840, sat down at a table across from him. The man was unique in his stubborn refusal to reveal his true name. Most inmates were all too eager to share their name, to be known as more than just a number. But not him.
D-29840 was an amputee, missing a foot and part of his hand. Jacob was unsure if it was a birth defect or something else. Probably 'something else', considering that half his face was melted, the ear on that side not much more than the worn stub of a pencil eraser and the eye a blind-white orb. That was definitely no birth defect.
What'd you do? It was a game he played with himself to help kill time, trying to puzzle out what the other D-Class had been and done in their past lives. In the Foundation, as a D-Class, you didn't have much else except time, and sometimes — especially at night — it could draw out like a blade. You're small and disabled. Probably something with women… or kids.
Not that he was one to point fingers. Jacob himself had been found guilty of murdering his own two children. His wife testified in court against him, sealing the death-penalty sentencing. Last he'd heard she'd moved to California and remarried, started a new family and got on with her life.
Sometimes he missed her so much it hurt… and them, of course. That went without saying. His two sons, Stephen and Patrick. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't think of them.
After dinner the D-Class personnel were led back to their blocks. The Foundation was similar to deathrow in one aspect— each was granted their own individual cell. There was a television set in one of the corners, but Jacob never turned it on. He'd had enough TV for two lifetimes.

"Why do you eat people?"
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi… ten.
"Why do you eat people?" The notes in the binder indicated to repeat the question if no response was received.
The television remained a mute, unreadable rectangle of static.
Big surprise.
Jacob sighed. "Do you derive pleasure from it?"
He grimaced. A migraine was beginning to ripen. He could feel its faint whisperings gestate along his temples and forehead. It wasn't bad, not yet, but Jacob knew that was liable to change. This was how they always started, and soon those faint whisperings would graduate to an acute stabbing, as if there were a molten railroad spike being hammered into his skull. Repeatedly.
He rubbed his eyes. It was the goddamned television. It was the only light-source in the testing cell, and it threw layers of static snow on every surface in the room. Sometimes, Jacob became disoriented, and felt himself sinking into the static, as if it had depth.
Other times, he felt as though the screen were hypnotizing him, lulling him into a state that wasn't quite awake, but wasn't quite asleep, either. He was stuck in limbo until he eventually snapped out of it on his own accord. These trances lasted anywhere from less than a minute to almost half an hour.
Jacob wasn't entirely convinced the effects were even anomalous. The migraines, the hypnosis — it could've just been the natural result of staring at nothing but the television for hours and hours on end, the proximity of the screen and the lack of any pattern taking its toll on his mind.
It wasn't like he had any memory gaps. He remembered everything that occurred during the trances — he just continued to mechanically read the questions from the binder.
"Does eating people allow you to function without electricity?"
Snow. Just snow.
He gritted his teeth. "Do you enjoy the taste of people?"
Today, in the testing cell, there was a new coffee table that hadn't been there last time.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…
"Are people easily consumable?"
"Are people easily digestible?"
Jacob didn't really see the difference between the two questions, but apparently the Researchers did.
"How do you excrete…" he swallowed the lump in his throat. "… waste product?"

Jacob could feel his skin sloughing off in the DECON shower. When he stepped out, body steaming — no, that wasn't steam, it was smoke, his body was smoking— his nose began gushing blood. He'd just managed to staunch the flow and get himself cleaned up as the guards entered to collect him. It took every last bit of strength he had to put one foot in front of the other and follow the two men out. His hands trembled.
He didn't have much time left.
He sat in a small, darkened room. The post-psychological exams weren't conducted in person. They were held in what might've been a repurposed janitor's closet. The smell of amonia lingered. Jacob was seated by himself in a director's chair, staring into the cold, insectile lens of a camera.
"How have you been sleeping? a disembodied voice asked.
"Fine," Jacob lied.
"No more bad dreams?"
"No, not recently."
"What about your appetite?"
Jacob shrugged. "I've been eating fine, too," he answered, idly scratching behind his ear.
"Anymore migraines?"
"No."
"You're certain? We can give you something to help with the pain."
He shook his head. "No more migraines."
"What is your opinion of the most-recent questionnaire?"
Again, Jacob shrugged. He was used to the way the exams abruptly changed topics. They didn't catch him off guard… not anymore. "I think it's okay."
"Expound, please."
"Umm… I mean, I think you're on the right track, but I think you need to take it a step further."
"Expound, please," the disembodied voice repeated.
"Well… err… I feel like the questions aren't hard enough. That is to say, sir — um, ma'am? — they're not confrontational enough."
"We appreciate this honest feedback. Please, go on. Expound."
"I think we need to be more aggressive. I think we need to press the TV, really take it to the sonofabitch."

Dinner was barbecued ribs with sides of coleslaw and macaroni and cheese. For dessert there was apple crumble served à la mode. It wasn't his favorite, wasn't what he'd have chosen for a last meal, but he didn't care anymore.
He lay in bed long past 2200, lights out, a paperback novel tented and forgotten on his chest.
Tomorrow. There was one more test scheduled for tomorrow, and then the usual two-week moratorium while the researchers reviewed and poured over all their gathered data and reassessed.
It would have to be tomorrow.
Jacob wasn't sure he had two more weeks in him. His nosebleed had subsided… and then returned later that same night, this time lasting almost a full day. The infirmary staff had feared he was having a stroke and plugged his nostrils with tampons before giving him three aspirin tablets and sending him back to his block.
But that wasn't it.
His teeth and fingernails had started falling out, too. Not that many so far, but the loss was accelerating.
He had another migraine. Actually, it was the same one. He'd had it for about a week now.
He wasn't dumb enough to report any of it. The Foundation would find out, one way or another, without his help. His next physical was scheduled within the week. He figured there must've been some scrubbing agent in the showers. Or, maybe they were right to decontaminate him after every test and he was absorbing it from the TV. Either way, it didn't make any difference to him.
Tomorrow. It might be the last chance he ever got at that fucking television.

"Just relax," Fuentes, the head researcher, said to him as she taped the microphone to his hairless chest.
Then she smiled up at him.
Jacob smiled back, careful to keep his lips shut-tight so as not reveal any of the recent gaps.
As a D-Class, and before that a death row inmate, it'd been so long since anyone had so much as smiled at him, nevermind a pretty woman — a doctor, he reminded himself, Fuentes has a Ph.D. — that it impacted him more than he'd expected.
"You're going to be fine, Jake," she continued. She was still smiling. She had very nice teeth. "You've done this a million times before."
They called him by his name, too. All the Research staff did it, and most of the Foundation staff as a whole did it, as well. Jacob had assumed this normal until he discovered otherwise — the Research staff hardly ever addressed D-Class by their real names, and the rest of the Foundation almost never. It made it easier that way.
He accepted the binder passed to him by Fuentes and staggered down the hallway leading to the testing cell. He had to squint just to see straight, the migraine disrupting his eyesight. He used one hand to brace himself against the wall.
The door opened and Jacob stepped into the artificial living room. The door sealed shut behind him.
They added fresh-cut flowers this week, in a vase on top of the coffee table.
That's nice.
He went through the rote motions, the same as every other time. He sat down on the couch, choosing the middle cushion, dead-center in front of the television set.
He unfolded the binder in his lap.
"Please proceed," said the voice over the intercom. Always so polite to him.
Jacob erupted out of the seat, bounding up from the cushion, the binder forgotten, falling from his lap and onto the carpet. He grabbed the couch by the armrest and hauled it across the room, wedging it between the testing cell door and the far wall.
That wouldn't keep them out forever, but it might buy him a few minutes.
He'd purchased the television from a used-appliance store. He hadn't even been shopping for a TV, was out that day looking for a replacement dryer after theirs back at the house shit the bed, but the discount had just been too big to pass up. He'd bought it on the spot, surprising the boys when they got home from school.
"I don't have any more questions for you," he told the TV as he made certain the couch was jammed tight against the door. "We're done talking."
Images of his children stuttered across his mind. They'd never found Patrick's body. Stephen's… only half.
Jacob had come downstairs one morning to find Stephen lodged halfway in the television, his torso gone, little legs scissoring the air. And there was this motion… The TV would rock upwards, thirty degrees or so, before swinging back against the wall. A little more of Stephen would disappear each time. It was almost like the TV was chewing. Jacob had grabbed hold of his son's ankles and tried to wrestle him out, playing a game of tug-of-war with the television for what felt like hours, but in reality was probably less than a minute.
He could still hear Stephen's muffled cries, distant and faint.
No one had believed his side of the story. Not his wife, and especially not his attorneys, who'd talked him into pleading insanity. Jacob, stunned by grief and the paranormal death of his son that he'd witnessed, was unconcerned with his own fate, and went along with everything that'd been suggested to him.
An alarm was ringing in the testing cell.
Jacob slammed his fist into the screen. He counted along with each punch.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…
The third punch caused a slight crack. The fourth spiderwebbed the screen and ripped his knuckles open, dashing blood against the static. The blood immediately began to sizzle and bubble as if the screen were a hot skillet. Shards of red lighted the room.
Somebody was pounding on the other side of the test cell's door. Jacob ignored it.
The plug, hanging below the set, suddenly sprang to life, lashing him like a whip across Jacob's face.
Jacob took a step back, rubbing the newly-formed welt on his cheek. "Now that's more like it," he said, and laughed.
He flipped the coffee table upside down, legs pointed at the ceiling.
The plug quivered in the air, a coiled snake ready to strike.
He charged the television, ramming it with his shoulder and pistoning his fist into it again and again. The spiderweb cracks expanded. Pixels rippled, turning an irridescent pink, while others winked out.
Five Mississippi, six Mississippi, seven Mississippi, he counted.
He grabbed the TV by the top and bottom edges and pulled, pulled… He could feel it coming free from the wall-mounting brackets, tearing out of the studs. The power cord whipped him over and over. Jacob didn't even notice.
There was a noise — it might've been the TV shrieking. Or, it might've just been the sound of the metal brackets twisting and shearing.
Jacob liked to think it was the former.
The Foundation had come to collect him after spending ten years on death row for crimes he hadn't committed. They'd known his history, had intentionally selected him because of that history, aware of his motivations and that he'd eagerly accept the assignment.
The testing cell door was open, only a couple inches, but someone had managed to squeeze their arm through and was attempting to move the couch out of the way. They were shouting Jacob's name, trying to get his attention.
The TV finally broke away from the wall in a blizzard of plasterboard. Jacob hefted it over his head — the plug still whipping him — and brought it down on one of the tips of the upturned coffe table legs, putting all his weight behind it.
He felt the TV snap in half in his hands. Sparks flared and a thin column of smoke rose. He smelled fried circuits and something else, something sour and fermented.
The couch was flung out of the way as the room's door burst open and a team of Foundation guards rushed in, swinging their batons. Jacob was still laughing as they bowled into him and brought him to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back. Truncheons rained down on the back of his head, along his shoulders and spine. Somebody shocked him with a taser while another drove their knee into his back.
Jacob barely felt any of it. He released the last bit of lifeforce he'd been clinging to and let go. At least he'd done what he could for his two boys, and with that, he could die—not happy, but not so full of bitterness and remorse, either.


The museum was a fortress — an abomination of empty rooms and hallways. There were no scientists in the laboratories or monsters in the cells. Windows were broken and security checkpoints were left unmanned. Within the walls, vines had been allowed to wrap around the facility, snaking in and out of the walls and ceiling. It was easy to get lost in its walls, and even easier to be forgotten about and left to die within.
At the end of a winding path that wrapped halfway around the building, closed off from humanity, was a park. It was a small installation: a box that could hold only seven or eight people at most. Patches of grass grew out cracks in the rust-covered floor, most already dead save for one underneath a hole in the wall where sunlight shined through. It was as if it had been designed to be ignored.
Before the Pulse, it was a place where sunken-eyed scientists could rest for a few minutes before returning back to the trench that was their everyday life. There weren't any windows. Instead that role was filled by stale paintings of what the outside might have looked like: green trees, green bushes, blue rivers, white clouds. The colors had faded, and now everything was a sickly brown.
It was quiet. Those scientists were gone. They'd been gone for decades.
“Hey,” Bick called out over his shoulder, “check this out.”
He stepped through a vault door that was slightly ajar. His backpack couldn't fit through the narrow gap, so he left it outside. Once inside, he took in the scenery. Fresh air clashed with a horrible, metallic taste, both so strong that it felt like the air was attacking him. In the center of the room was a statue of a soldier, stone musket in hand. At the base, buried under a crowd of leaves, was a plaque. He knelt down to get a better look.
“You know we're not allowed back here, right?” said Joan, his foul-mouthed friend of eleven years. By some evil force of nature, they had been blessed with both the ability to sneak up on anyone and a loud, obnoxious voice. Bick's heart jumped a beat, and he shook his head.
“The guide said we could look around,” he said.
"Yeah, but I don't think they meant like this far out.” Joan slipped through the door and tried to pull Bick's backpack through. With a little effort, it squeezed through the gap and fell to the floor with a soft thud.
“I don't think he cares. Plus, we're still in the main building, so it doesn't matter. We'll find out way back.” Bick uttered a quiet thanks, picked up his backpack, and unzipped the main pocket to reveal a pair of triangle-shaped objects wrapped in three layers of tinfoil. He grabbed one for himself and tossed the other to Joan.
“Unless you walk at half a mile an hour, no. We're definitely in a different area.” Joan leaned back against the side of the statue like they hadn't even noticed it. They began to rip through the layers of tinfoil. “Dude, you've got to stop wrapping your sandwiches like they're bombs.”
“I didn't get sandwiches.” A smirk grew on Bick's face as he tossed his backpack into one of the corners.
“So what? Is this like the fucking Schrödinger's cat of food? I'm never going to find out what's inside until… How much money do you spend on this? Apparently not enough for your dumb ass to realize how—”
Joan tore open the wrapper with enough force to eject the cold slice of pizza inside. Almost in slow motion, Bick watched it fly through the air and land squarely on the statue's chest. Joan froze up like they had just murdered someone. They carefully approached their mess and peeled off the remains of the pizza, only managing to save the crust and some of the sauce. Bick nearly collapsed in laughter.
“Man, you know what? Fuck cheese. Nobody even likes it anyway. The sauce is better.” Joan shot out excuse after excuse while Bick devoured his fully-intact slice. They didn't bother to clean up after themselves.
“Heh, it's like an anomaly.” Bick said.
“Hah! Uh…” Joan replied. "Yeah. Those things."
As his laughter died down, silence fell upon the two. Joan slumped down across from him and chewed on their meal. Bick's eyes began to wander the room, eventually landing on the hole in the wall which overlooked the ruins of the facility. A long line of buildings stretched out across the mountains like a wagon train of concrete. At the center of it all was a windowless tower, so tall it breached the clouds and the sky above them. Its presence created a kind of dull tension within Bick, like he was looking at the skeletal remains of what was once a massive beast.
Painted on the side of the tower in bold black lettering was the word “Site-19”.
Bick wondered if he could ever work here. The tour guide had told them that, before the monsters faded away, thousands of people would fill these halls. Scared people, terrified people. People that appeared to almost be like him, but were in actuality worlds apart. They were the unfortunate few that had protected humanity for thousands of years while people like him stayed blissfully unaware. In a strange, juvenile way, it was frustrating to him. Compared to those scientists, what was he? Nothing but a civilian, useless and ignorant.
Bick knew he could never sign away his life for somebody else's safety. At least he could find solace in the fact that he had not been one of the countless number of people who had fallen prey to these abominations, only to have their existence wiped away with crude drugs and even cruder distribution methods.
“What're you thinking about?” Joan asked.
“Nothing." Bick lowered his gaze to his food. “I guess I'm still trying to process everything. Like, how did they keep this all under wraps? This place is giant, it's like a city.”
“Didn't the tour dude say something about how they put up a forcefield that stopped people from seeing it? They probably did something like that. The history of this place is wild. I can't believe they got away with half of the things they did. I can't believe they were even able to contain half the things they did. We were probably fucked if the Pulse didn't happen.”
“A lot of things would've been fucked if the Pulse didn't happen. Actually, you know how the dude said they had a drug that made people forget things? Amnestics, yeah. That's such a weird thing to me. Like, what if I saw some shit I shouldn't have and I don't even know it?”
“You didn't. There's what, around seven-thousand of those things in the entire database? For ten billion people? You're more likely to get struck by lightning while collecting your lottery winnings on a plane that's crashing than see one.”
“Yeah, but there's still a chance.”
Joan's face tightened up slightly, almost like they knew what question Bick was going to ask next.
He said, “You think — you think we ever saw an SCP and just didn't realize it?”
“No. We didn't. I literally just explained why.” Joan gulped down the rest of their pizza and tossed the crust and tinfoil away. They dusted off their knees as they rose. Glancing at their watch, a panicked look came over their face. “Shit. We should probably go.”
Bick didn't answer them, and the two were left in silence again. A gust of wind rushed through the room, blowing at the leaves which covered the statue's plaque. He saw that he still had half of his pizza to go, but didn't feel like taking even one more bite. He considered tossing it like Joan did, but chose to wrap it in tinfoil and hold onto it until he found a trash can.
“So, what's this? Just a statue of some old white guy?” Joan asked, suddenly gaining an interest in the thing they had been leaning on for the past fifteen minutes. They brushed the rest of the leaves of the plaque and studied it for a moment before uttering, "Hey, I think this might be an SCP."
“Really?” In a split-second, Bick was up on his feet, ready to run.
“No, it's dead. I think it was put here after the Pulse, like a memorial. There's even a timeline down here of things they did before they died,” Joan continued.
Bick's heart was still in alert mode, but his nerves had settled down. He walked over to the statue and nudged Joan out of the way for a better look. They did so after mumbling out the barest framework of an objection. Engraved in tiny bronze letters were a few short sentences, each connected to a specific date.

Timeline:
2003-2004 - SCP-011 reaches a human level of self-awareness
11.10.2004 - Containment procedures dropped, custody of SCP-011 transferred to █████████ █████
5.17.2005 - █████████ █████ reports that SCP-011 is romantically attracted to her
8.29.2006 - Most recent psych test reports an IQ of 133
3.12.2007 - SCP-011 and █████████ █████ wed, although their marriage is not legally or publicly recognized
5.25.2007 - █████████ █████ retires from the Foundation and retains custody of SCP-011
12.31.2010 - █████████ █████ falls ill and dies soon after. She is buried with paramilitary honors
2.29.2011 - SCP-011 becomes noticeably less mobile and intelligent. It is often observed within the cemetery which houses █████████ █████
3.12.2011 - SCP-011 loses all anomalous properties, reverting back to a normal statue at the gravesite of █████████ █████, and is transferred to Site-19

Bick looked up at the statue's face. He studied its flaws and chips and bruises, its somber expression, the tension in its brow. It was an alien thing, an anomaly, but it looked so real to him, almost like a human. Its eyes were dry like rocks in an empty river. There were no folds in its coat or bullets in its musket. It stood just as a human would stand, but the rational part of his mind knew that all it was was a lifeless, mindless piece of rock. It didn't matter if it once walked or loved or died many years ago. Right now and for the rest of time, it would remain in this box: a statue.
“Do you think it could maybe come back? Like, bring itself back to life?” Bick asked.
“Jesus,” Joan said with a snide tone, “what is this obsession you have with these things? Why do you care so much about whether you saw an SCP or whether you were an SCP or whether this SCP is alive or not. It doesn't matter. They're all gone.”
“Why are you so pissed off? I'm just saying it's possible. We were both born before the Pulse. Why are you getting so worked up about this if it's not a big deal?”
“Because you keep…” Joan groaned and pulled at their hair. “Because you keep bringing it up and I don't want to think about that shit. I don't want to know if I saw a monster or if I almost died from one or if some shit happened to my family or my friends and my memory was wiped. I don't want to know and I don't care. There's nothing out there. No aliens, no monstrous parasites, nothing. It's just the normal evil shit that people do to each other. It's you and me and everyone else.”
All of the words that Bick had wanted to say evaporated in his throat as he watched Joan pace around the room. He tried to think of a response, but nothing came up. Joan couldn't be right, he was sure of that. He couldn't simply leave those worries in the past and forget about them. They were still as real today as they were back then, weren't they? Bick searched for something to say.
“Um. When are we supposed to get back?” he asked.
“We were supposed to be back like, five minutes ago,” Joan said.
“…Fuck me then. We should go.”
Joan nodded and began to push themselves through the vault door. Once they were outside, Bick spoke up. “I'm sorry… about all of that.”
“Don't worry about it. There's nothing else, anyway, so there's no point dwelling on shit that can't hurt you. It's just us, after all. Just good ol' homo sapiens,” they said in that cheerful tone that they used when they wanted to change the subject but didn't know how.
Bick grabbed his backpack and carefully stepped through the vault door. They rushed through the halls, Joan occasionally saying a joke they had remembered from the night before and Bick following in silence. The sun kept shining, the grass kept growing, and the building kept decaying. He took one last look at the entrance of the park before it disappeared from view, and muttered to himself.
"It's just us."