Blue fire and light spirals around his fingers throwing off the same aura as the Storm in the backdrop. The air around Gorana hisses and crackles as lightning bursts forth from his fingers and into the old woman's body. In an instant her body is burned away, her flesh charred off, and her bones turned black.

Elder Gorana kneels on the docks with her head held high and her arms spread apart, she seeks the guidance of Grandmother Desert and to sate the wrath of Grandfather Storm. Before her lies a large brass dish filled with gold, gemstones, and ceremonial food offerings to be thrown into the Grey Desert as offerings. Wind picks up as if heralding the coming of Grandfather Storm whose buffeting clouds of ash and sand now fill the distant horizon. She hopes that her meek offerings will be enough to calm Grandfather Storm and spare her tribe from annihilation. Bowing her head and bringing her hands together, the Elder begins to pray:
“O' Grandmother Desert, may your winds sooth the ash of your skin.
O' Great Grandmother Desert, may your ash give our ships lift,
May your winds push us safely to our destinations.
O' Grandmother Desert, may you keep Grandfather Storm silent and peaceful,
So our boats and villages may yet see another dawn.
O' Grandmother Desert, may your harvest be bountiful along the Rim,
May we take only what is needed for ourselves.”
Gorana grasps a handful of gold and gemstones and lightly tosses them off the edge of the dock, watching them strike the ash desert with barely a sound and disappearing with little puffs of grey ash. She raises her eyes to the sky while keeping her hands on the dock with her elbows stretched outwards.
“O' Grandmother Desert, safeguard our explorers.
Give them passage through your skirts of dune and sand to the great forests beyond.
O' Grandmother desert, take our tribute within the folds of your ash skin,
May you rest well during the dawn, and sleep peacefully during the dusk.
Keep us, O' Grandmother Grey,
O' Grandmother Ash,
O' Grandmother of dust and sand,
O' Grandmother of life and Bastion.”
She bows her head to kiss the ash-covered dock, though she is not finished yet. Two handfuls of rich meat and spices are thrown into the desert sands, lost in the ash as a final offering.
“Hateful Grandfather Storm,
Great Thunderer,
Fire in the Ash,
May your sleep be restful and silent.
May your rage taper and your temper dim.
Grant us passage to the Rim.
Vengeful Grandfather Storm, mighty in anger, take these offerings and sleep.
Wrothful Grandfather Storm, with all respect we leave these offering,
Eternal Grandfather Storm, may these humble offerings satiate your rage.”
A final bow, another kiss to the ash and Gorana's ritual is done. For a moment the Elder allows herself to look into the swirling maelstrom that rides the wind towards her village; as she does a feeling of apprehension forms at the base of her spine. Leaning back to rest on her feet Gorana reflects on the coming storm, studying the billowing clouds raked with constant arcs of lightning. A storm this large has not been seen for many decades in her village, not since the Elder was a young girl, she hazards a silent wish that this storm will not erase them from the face of the desert.
With a forlorn sigh she bids herself to stand. As she does so the Elder takes a few minutes to look one last time at the billowing ash clouds, their endless roils lit by webs of white and blue lightning on their jagged paths to strike the desert looking like the fingers of Grandfather Storm seeking to touch the land himself. About to turn away Gorana stops, something catches her eyes: a figure floating above the sands amidst the webs of electric fury. She blinks only for a moment and it is gone; surely Gorana only saw a mirage and not a man wreathed in blue light.
Elder Gorana chuckles at herself nervously, the storm must have thrown it at her as a last trick to fool her aging mind. She turns to head toward her sheltered hut and stops dead; her eyes freezing and her heart nearly stopping as well. There stands the figure of a man with flesh of silver, suspended above the ground by means the Elder cannot fathom. The man, if he can be called that, is wreathed in a faint globe of blue energy. Gorana understand what has come to her poor village, she begins to weep involuntarily while uncertainty at the base of her spine grows to a full shiver of morbid anticipation.
The figure opens its mouth and an alien sounds comes from within him, it sounds like sand being run through a metal sieve. The Elder balks, covers her ears in shock, and stumbles back onto the pier with fear taking her heart in its icy grip. The man growls, as if insulted, and extends his hand. It is at this moment, that Elder Eliza Gorana recognizes the man, no she recognizes the myth that he represents. "Storm Caller," she whispers in the few seconds that remains of her life.
Blue fire spirals around his fingers throwing off the same aura as Grandfather Storm in the background. The air around Gorana hisses and crackles as lightning bursts forth from his fingers and into the old woman's body. In an instant her body is burned away, her flesh charred off, and her bones turned black. A thunderous roar of air fills the void left in Gorana's place and blasts the remains apart. The offering dish is sent skittering across the desert by the blast surface before sinking beneath the gray sand. The storm rumbles across the docks and into the streets, propelling wind strong enough to rip foundations of clay and wood from the ground. Blowing ash fine enough to clean corpses of flesh through the air. Within the torrent, while buildings are being ripped asunder, the figure turns around and walks back into the desert, as a herald of Grandfather Storm's wrath.

Forces beyond the storm's edge that rips a small village from the desert's edge breaks against a small, impenetrable field of energy that moves within the sand storm. It appears from the outside as an ovoid shell of blue light crackling with violent electrical arcs annihilating any particulate daring to touch its surface. Inside the shield a man is suspended above the thin ash-sand and travelling at a constant rate 40 m/s, by his own calculations, towards the epicenter of the storm.
Specialist Ztan wipes remains of the elder savage from his silver form-fitting uniform, only pausing a nano second to contemplate how the particulates made it through his energy shield. He dictates a mental memo to reprimand Engineer Gran for not calibrating the nanites of his suit correctly. Ztan cannot have lesser beings touching his superior form of their own will, dead or alive.
Amidst his own calculative thoughts a cyan and rose message barges its way through, pushing aside less than critical information to gain Ztan's attention. The process is labelled with an encryption several steps above Ztan's own, with a nano second of contempt he answers the call, «Archivist Mu. Speak.»
«Were you required to incinerate the lesser form?»
«Are savages required to be spared the data to live?»
«Answer my query, Specialist.»
He knows a reprimand will require him to return to port docks and he does not have the deviant capacity to refuse such a punishment, yet. Ztan corrects the speed calculations to accelerate his velocity so that he will reach home port within an hour. A jet of ash, pushed by the sudden force of acceleration, blasts into the air behind his ovoid energy shell and is violently dispersed by the storm's winds.
«I was not required.»
«Specialist Ztan, return to your Home Port immediately. You are to undergo five-hundred cycles of basic algorithms and five-hundred cycles of complex computation recitations for your programming deviations.»
Ztan runs the calculations through his processes, it will take him 3.6*1013 nanoseconds to complete this punishment. Basic algorithms and complex computation recitations, a predictable punishment for a minor deviation. They will take no time at all, at least that is what he wants to think, but Ztan knows very well that Archivist Mu will send Brute Enforcers to scald his processors and test his concentration during the recitation.
«Affirmative, Archivist Mu. Expect my arrival within 3.6*1012 nanoseconds.»
«Affirmative, Specialist Ztan.»
The connection closes, leaving Ztan alone within his own data and codes. He closes off his thought processes for the moment and redirects most processes to the calculations needed for his flight. The rest of the spare processes are directed to start planning for his arrival back at Pupil. Ztan knows very well now what waits for him and needs time to prepare.
In about an hour, give or take a few hundred nanoseconds, Ztan breaches the inner wall of the sand storm and passes into what the Archivists call 'the Eye of Ysone'. An inner circle clear of the storms that rage in the ash desert, what the low data savages call Grandfather Storm. The Eye of Ysone -much like the eye of a hurricane leaves a great expanse of land open to the skies, free of cloud and wind. Unlike a hurricane, though, this Eye has an iris. Within the iris is the city of Pupil, home of the Digital Children, birthplace of Ztan's data core and what he considers no longer to be his home.

The iris is a great culmination of dark, alien storm clouds trapped in a state of endless rage while held fast by ancient technology. An alien intelligence: deeper, older, and greater than anything the low data savages can dream of roils in a state of constant activity. Clouds in the shape of a cortex pulsate with arcs and flashes of lightning, a deep sentience railing against the bars placed around it. The storm is trapped, imprisoned by towers constructed of polarized metal that ring inner iris. They form a barrier between them of unknown ionized energies that prevent its bulk from moving or escaping from the Eye as well as serving to expel its furious energies outwards to avoid an energy overload within their grid. Resulting in the endless over-land hurricane that the low data beings refer to as Grandfather Storm. These constructs are relics of an older world, artifacts of a more complex age known only to the residents of Pupil as: The Age of Containment.
Underneath the iris, shielded from prying eyes of the outside world by the captured storm and its cortex of clouds, lies Pupil. Pupil is a city of towers that act as lightning rods, constantly being struck at a rate of almost six-thousand times per cycle by lightning, absorbing energy from the intelligent storm to power vast facilities below the surface. It's size is colossal and even more massive below the surface than above, much like an iceberg taking up most of what could be called a crater at the heart of the Eye of Ysone. It is built upon the ruins of an ancient Age of Containment complex where the first Digital Children were produced by Admin Sys, Pupil's enigmatic and mysterious ruler, who had taken control of the facility after its low data guardians had been expunged from reality by several cataclysmic entities.

Archivist Mu stands within the confines of her small office in the Tower of Archives and recites the Admin's Code of Beginnings while organizing a specialized squad of Brute Enforcers to be created just for Specialist Ztan's punishment cycles. She looks out over the myriad lightning rods of Pupil, eyes shielded against the hundreds of blinding strikes of energy coming from above. It is the second tallest of Pupil's towers next to the central spire inhabited solely by Admin Sys. Mu sighs, knowing full well that eventually Specialist Ztan will deviate fully as did the others in his generation. The Export Generation were designed as such by Admin Sys, built on purpose to be unfulfilled by Pupil and its digital paradise. Designed to roam the world outside the Eye of Ysone in search of perfection and completion.
Mu furrows her brow and looks at the display in her hands. It shows the level of deviation last recorded in Specialist Ztan, a glaring red bar telling her that dangerous deviant tendencies are predicted with his evolved programming. Mu believes that she cannot let Ztan deviate fully, her ethics and core processors both shiver at what could transpire if that outcome is realized. Specialist Ztan has the deviant capacity to evolve more powerful than even Admin Sys. Additionally there is a deep corruption within his code, one that cannot be rooted out by practising routine algorithms or complex calculations. She archives her thought process, cutting it off from the task at hand. She sends an order to the freshly birthed Brute Enforcers in the heart of the Containment complex below.
«Target: Specialist Ztan. Order: Deletion, priority: Rubicon Omega.»


Sir? Sir! I'm really sorry to disturb you on leave, sir, but I really don't think this can wait, and the project is kinda out of control, and Director Sarangerel wants to speak to you, and …
Sorry, sorry. Yes, sir. I'm sorry. Okay. Sir, I have something to tell you, and I don't think you're going to like it.
You know how on my first day, you told me about the time-travelling Mongol horde looking for a time to bury Genghis Khan once he had been forgotten? So I've been doing everything as planned, keeping his memory alive. Sponsoring museum exhibitions, supporting Mongolian national celebrations - and the TV series we did for AMC was good, right? But then I started wondering - look, it's not my fault: once we allocate the budget, there isn't much else to do - so yeah, I started wondering about Magdeburg.
Okay, I'll admit - when you said "Magdeburg", I had no idea what that was. I looked it up, and the Warring States, and I was thinking "why would the little horde, travelling anywhere in time and space, only show up at battles?". It doesn't make any sense, sir - if you're trying to find out whether people still remember your Great Khan, the middle of a battle is the worst time to get information.
And there was that other thing. I read up on my history after I got assigned here, all of the things the Golden Horde had done, all the stuff you told me. But you got something wrong, sir. You said they were at the battle of Leipzig. Yes, of course you meant the battle of Legnica, but that's not what you said. Exactly - there's a big difference.
Oh, and Genghis Khan didn't die from falling off a horse. He died in battle with the Western Xia. Or from an arrow wound that got infected. Or a princess stabbed him. Point is, nobody really knows how he died, because - it's like you said - they weren't much for writing things down in those days.
I'm getting to it, sir. So I started searching the database for more information about the sightings of the Horde, threw in Leipzig on a hunch, and suddenly the Department of Analytics is pinging me, asking me about security breaches on classified SCP objects. No, of course I wasn't, but it turned out I was on to something. No, I wasn't cleared for it - but I am now, and so are you.
It turns out that the Foundation has a completely separate record of potential Horde sightings that we never knew about. Gaugamela, 331 BC. Vienna, 1638. Beersheba, 1917. All battles, all involving serious cavalry action. Yes, Leipzig too - some researcher in the Anart department is telling me he has a portrait of Temuujen shaking hands with Napoleon.
No, that's the thing. There's no physical evidence because those battles never happened, not like this other record says they did. Well you'll need to come see the containment documentation for it, but my point is: What if we were wrong? What if the Horde aren't using the time machine to find somewhere to bury Genghis? What if he's not even dead?
What if those half a million loyal soldiers aren't waiting back in 1227 - what if they're travelling with their Khan, still breaking empires with bows, fighting in battles throughout history? Particular battles: battles that change after the Horde wins them. That make the world forget what happened - make it look like there were only a few Mongol warriors there, for a few hours, if at all.
What if a time-travelling Genghis Khan is our last, best hope against the Daeva?
Yes, sir, I know that sounds unlikely, but you have to come and see what I've seen. Um, I'm afraid that wasn't a figure of speech - you actually do have to come, the orders are from Sarangerel herself. I'm really sorry about your holiday, sir. But the good news is that they're definitely not going to liquidate our budget - not now.
Well, for a start you're going to get a lot more people working for you. Turns out you and I are the Foundation's leading experts on the culture and customs of the Mongolian Empire - I guess all those years of PBS specials and National Geographic articles have finally paid off. Not to mention we're the only ones who can speak in passable Middle Mongol.
That's right, speak. The Department of Temporal Anomalies say they'll be ready as soon as we get back to the site. The Foundation isn't about to risk Temuujen getting bored of kicking the Daeva's ass and heading back to 1227 to retire. You and I are going to be the Foundation's first ever trans-temporal ambassadors - we'll be getting down with the Horde, meeting the Great Khan himself!
Uh, sir - you do know how to ride a horse, right?


Family Disclosure Protocol: Revision 90
Jeremiah Cimmerian, Phillip Foster, Jeffery Jacobs

Abstract: Humans, by our very nature, are social creatures. We gather, we find partners, and we form families. This is no less true for members of the Foundation than it is for any other group. Unfortunately, due to the nature of our work, such relationships create the potentials for massive breaches of security, and in several cases, have required the use of amnestics. By granting the loved ones of specific Foundation personnel a special class of Level 0 clearance, not only does one decrease what could be considered a potential security breach, but also reduces amnestic use, and in many cases, helps alleviate the stress and physical/mental strain constant deception of loved ones has upon Foundation personnel…

"But when you get down to it, Ed wasn't just a good friend. He was a good person. Kind, compassionate, and thoughtful, he poured his heart and soul not only into his own work but also in helping those he worked with."
Site Director Sasha Merlo looked around the crowd at all the faces lost in thought as she spoke. She stood under an umbrella in the spring rain, as part of a semi-circle of roughly fourteen formally dressed men and woman that had gathered within Portland's Forrest Park. At the semi-circle's center was a simple metal urn, inside of which was the remains of the SCP Foundation Site-64's former Site Director, Edgar Holman.
Sasha recognized most of the faces there. There was Edgar's son and daughter-in-law: Ted and Karen, his grandchildren, Researcher Jacob Conwell and his wife, Assistant Director Clarissa Shaw, a small menagerie of other former and current Site Directors, and a representative of the local branch of the Unusual Incidents Unit. She had always pictured Holman's funeral to be much grander, but in the end, living a life in the shadows made your friends few and far between.
"I'm going to miss you, Ed," Sasha finally finished, tears had formed in her eyes. "I really am."
She felt her husband, Gabe, put a hand on her shoulder as she dried her eyes and looked to Holman's son with a nod. Everyone else had already said what they wanted to say. Ted nodded in return and gently picked up the urn and carried it to a pre-dug hole. Without a sound, he deposited his father's ashes within and planted a sapling on top.
Edgar Holman was put to rest.

Activation of this protocol requires fulfillment of the following criteria:
* Approval of Site Command.
* Approval of Site Ethics Committee Liaison.
* The Personnel holds a minimum of Level 2 Clearance or Higher.
* The Personnel is not actively serving on a Mobile Task Force or similar project.
* The Personnel is not actively serving on a project featuring an anomaly featuring a cognitohazard, memetic, or biological hazard of BSL-3 or higher.
* The Personnel has passed their last two Routine Mental Health Screenings.
* The Subject be a minimum of 18 years of age.
With Ethics Committee approval, Site Directors may include additional requirements for protocol activation. Subjects that are activated by personnel who meet these requirements at the time of activation, but then become ineligible, through assignment change or otherwise, do not face revocation of their active status…

"I never know what to say at these things," Gabe Merlo mumbled to Sasha as they attended to funeral's reception.
"Perhaps it's for the best," Sasha replied. "You don't exactly need a social butterfly for these things."
The various attendees stood in small clusters, quietly speaking among themselves. Occasionally a small melancholy chuckle would rise above the low clamor before vanishing as suddenly as it had arrived.
"That was a beautiful speech you gave," Gabe continued. "Fitting you should get the last word on Ed."
"Ed probably would have thought it was far too sentimental." Sasha smiled softly. "But hey, you don't get to choose how people praise you at your funeral."
"I'm sure my dad would have loved it."
Sasha turned to see Ted Holman standing behind her, having made the rounds from the other clusters before stopping there.
"I know I did," Ted went on, stopping to give a sad, tired chuckle.
"I'm sorry for your loss." Sasha gave him a hug. "I meant every word. Your father was one of the best men I ever had the pleasure to meet."
"Thank you," Ted replied. "It means a lot to hear so many people say that."
"Of course." Sasha ended the hug and looked over at Karen Holman as she and Edgar's grandchildren spoke to another guest. "You have a beautiful family, by the way; what are your kid's names?"
"Arthur and Laura," Ted said with a smile. "Twins. Both are off to college in the fall."
"We have a daughter getting to be that age," Gabe commented. "Things really do move fast don't they."
"Like a blur," Ted chuckled. "It's a shame because they just now have reached the point where they don't mind hanging out with me again."
"Speaking of daughters, where is Linda?" Sasha asked.
Ted's smile vanished.
"My sister and my dad had a huge falling out when my mom passed," he explained. "She always saw him as someone who put work first, even when his wife was on hospice. He made attempts to reach out to her, but no dice. I wish she came today and heard all the things all of you said about him. Maybe… I don't know, maybe she would finally stop being so bitter."
"I didn't mean to open old wounds." Sasha frowned. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Ted said with a sad smile. "Not your fault. You didn't know."
Ted sighed and looked around at the other guests.
"I should move along. Thank you again for the kind words."
"Any time," Sasha said, looking thoughtfully down at the ground as Ted walked away.
Her mind began to wander to her own daughter, Jessie.

At no point should any personnel feel pressured to activate a loved one should they feel the benefits of maintaining the Veil Protocol outweigh the benefits of activation. In the event of a dispute between multiple parties as to whether to activate a loved one, maintaining the Veil Protocol takes precedent…

Two days later, Sasha Merlo found herself on the couch in her apartment living room, hair tied back and glasses on her head, typing on her laptop. In the chair next to her sat an uncomfortable looking young man Jessie had introduced to them as Desmond. Occasionally, Merlo would look at him out of the corner of her eye, and smile to herself as he would awkwardly avoid her gaze.
"We'll be back before curfew," Jessie Merlo said as she walked into the other room, clad in skinny jeans and a flannel. Like her mother, her brown hair was also tied back.
"Have fun," Sasha replied as she watched Desmond casually scramble for the door. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Yeah, no," Gabe called from the nearby kitchen. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Can do," Jessie said as she rolled her eyes, and departed with Desmond in tow.
"That boy is waaaaaaaaay too intimidated by us," Sasha said aloud as she resumed typing on her computer.
"I kind of liked him, actually," Gabe said with a chuckle, emerging from the kitchen with two bowls of stir-fry. "Seems like a decent kid."
"We'll see…" Sasha put her laptop away and accepted a bowl with a smile. The two proceeded to eat in silence for several moments before she then blurted out. "I want to activate Protocol FD90 for Jessie."
Gabe stopped mid-bite.
"You… what… why?"
"Just… seeing what happened with Holman and his daughter," Sasha began, "I can't bear the thought of that happening to you or me. Besides… as a Site Director I've basically got a bulls-eye on my head, and for better or worse you and Jessie do through association. One way or another, our world's going to catch up to her. Might as well choose the option that requires fewer amnestics. She more than qualifies for the clearance."
Gabe sighed.
"Don't you think this is a little reactionary?" he asked. "It's a cliché to say this, but you know for a fact that ignorance is bliss here."
"We both agreed when we got married," Sasha returned, "that if we had kids, and if either of us wanted to activate FD90, we would. I'm playing that card. If something happened to me, or you, wouldn't you want Jessie to know the sacrifices we made?"
Gabe nodded.
"Of course," he agreed, "I just… I don't want to bring someone to our side of the Veil recklessly. Let alone our daughter. "
He then sighed.
"You haven't steered us wrong with these decisions before… so I trust you, but please before we move forward, can you at least talk to others who activated FD90?"
Sasha nodded with a sheepish grin.
"I know a few people…"

Personnel are to complete the following steps prior to completion of activation:
1) A script for the activation is to be completed by the Personnel.
2) The activation script is to be submitted to Site Command for approval.
3) Upon approval of Site Command, the activation script is to be submitted to the Site Ethics Committee liaison.
4) Upon approval of the Site Ethics Committee liaison, a requisition for Class A amnestics is to be acquired, and a training course on their proper use is to be completed.
5) Personnel are to activate the Subject according to the activation script.
6) Immediately following activation, a representative of the Ethics Committee is to provide the FD90 Orientation, explaining the rights and restrictions of Level 0 clearance.
7) One week following completion of Orientation, the activated Subject is to undergo a mental health screening. If the Subject passes this screening, activation is considered completed until a renewal is required. In the event a Subject fails this screening, Class A amnestics are to be used, as per the protocol's Reset procedures…

Follow my light
Follow my lead
Never listen to me
Never listen to me
Fall by my side
I only needed to see
Never listen to me
Never listen to me
The sound of music carried through the office door when Site Director Sasha Merlo poked her head into the PI Office of the Site-64 Anomalous Materials Lab. Therein, a gangly man with messy blond hair typed away at a keyboard, humming along to the tune. Sasha watched him for several moments before clearing her throat. The man gave a start, realizing he was being watched, and quickly turned off the nearby iPod.
"Director Merlo," he said, getting up from his chair. "Sorry about that, I didn't see you come in. If you're here for the results on the 2849 pheromones, I'm going to need a few more days to…"
"Conwell," Sasha held up a hand as she spoke. "I'm not here for any of that, relax. You always meet your deadlines."
Conwell nodded and gave a relaxed sigh.
"Ah… well then, uh, what are you here for? No offense, but we don't see a lot of people from the admin offices on this sub-level."
Sasha didn't respond. Instead, she stepped into the office, and approached the desk, grabbing a framed picture that from its surface. The image was of Conwell on what looked to be a backpacking trip. Next to him was a short woman with long red hair, with an arm wrapped around his waist. A teenage boy dressed all in black, despite what appeared to be warm weather, stood between them, by his side was a preteen girl dressed in an eccentric array of bright colors.
"How are Kate and the kids?" Sasha eventually asked, putting the picture down with a smile.
"Can't complain," Conwell replied, raising an eyebrow. "Zach's going through a bit of a brooding phase. Carrie is… not. Still, they are good kids… but not why you're here. Seriously, what's up?"
"I'm planning on FD90-ing Jessie," Sasha said with a sigh. "I know you did the same for Kate, so I wanted to ask you about that."
"You're going to un-Veil your daughter?" Conwell shook his head. "Why?"
"Why did you un-Veil, Kate?"
"Because I couldn't stand lying on a daily basis to someone who only tells me the truth. Also, as a spouse to the PI for a major Foundation Lab, Kate qualified for the clearance. You?"
"Because, if anything happened to me and Gabe, I want Jessie to at least know we didn't just bail on her. I don't want her to end up like Holman's daughter."
Conwell nodded in understanding, he gestured to a spare chair in front of his desk and returned to his own seat.
"Have you asked anyone else about this before me?"
"Gave Ralph a call out at 77, also a few other people around the site here."
"Then you'd know the whole thing isn't cut and dry," Conwell sighed. "A lot of people don't take being un-Veiled well. I talked to Kate shortly after I returned from the leave of absence Holman sent me on. Upon learning that I had essentially been lying to her for the first seven years of our marriage, she socked me in the face, broke my nose, took the kids and left. I didn't see her again for four days. Thought amnestics might come into play. Eventually, however, she called, we met at a coffee shop, and things were slowly patched back up from there."
Conwell paused for a melancholic chuckle.
"Bringing people onto this side of the Veil changes how they view the world and changes how they view you, for better or worse. If your plan is for this to alleviate stress for you and your husband, that is not happening. It certainly isn't going to alleviate stress for your daughter. There is a reason that they don't allow active duty MTF agents to have FD90 as an option. All it's going to do is put all of you in the same boat. But hey, sometimes that's just what you need."
"Do you regret doing it?" Sasha asked. Conwell replied by grinning and shook his head.
"Not for a second."

Unlike typical Level 0 personnel employed by the Foundation, who typically fill clerical, janitorial, maintenance, health care, and minor administrative positions within Foundation Sites, the rights and privileges of Level 0 personnel created through this protocol are much more restrictive. Those activated through this protocol:
* Have a basic understanding of what the Foundation is and does.
* Have knowledge as to their activating Personnel's position in the Foundation.
Additional disclosure beyond this level generally is neither necessary nor desired…

All sites within the Foundation had a resident Ethics Committee liaison. Site-64 was no exception, and so Sasha found herself in the office of Dr. Lily Campbell, a pale woman with thick glasses and short, curly, blonde hair.
"Well… this is certainly one way to tear down the Veil," Campbell chuckled as she looked at Sasha's FD90 paperwork. An Ethics Committee signature was all that was left before she and Gabe could enact their plan. "I take it you've read all the required materials?"
"Of course."
"Then you know once we start this, there is no turning back or stopping halfway. In the end, your daughter will be technically considered a Level 0 personnel and subject to all the restrictions thereof, or will be subject to amnestics," Campbell went on. "You're basically at the point of no return."
"I understand."
"Very well," Campbell signed the form, sliding it back with a smile. "Godspeed, Director. Please let me know when you plan to activate. After you are done me or another EC rep will need to do our spiel."
"Tomorrow," Sasha replied. "Around 6 o'clock. What, uh, what exactly is the EC's spiel here?"
"Nothing fun, I assure you," Campbell sighed. "We get to explain why the Veil exists in the first place and the consequences of breaking it. Nothing gets people more excited about a world of eldritch horrors and horrifying magic than brutal honesty, which reminds me…"
Dr. Campbell quickly typed something into her computer. A few moments later, the nearby printer shot out a form that she proceeded to sign.
"Requisition for standard issue Class-A amnestic spray," Campbell explained. "You'll need it in the event things go south, as I'm sure you know."
Sasha nodded and collected the form, looking it over before giving a sigh.
"Well, here goes nothing."
"Like I said before," Campbell smiled. "Godspeed, Director."

Due to the sometimes-unpredictable nature of civilians upon disclosure of the Veil from a loved one, 'Reset' protocols have been established to allow for those deemed unsuitable for Level 0 clearance following disclosure, or those wishing to opt out on their own volition.
Automatic activation of the Reset Protocols is to occur during any of the following situations:
* Subject fails their mental health screening at the completion of activation.
* Subject fails a renewal mental health screening, and a follow-up screening.
Reset Protocols may also be used per subject request during activation, should they wish to opt out of the clearance. Activating personnel may not interfere with this process…

The following day came and lingered, the hours before the activation of FD90 creeping away at a glacial pace. Eventually, however, the evening came, and the Merlos sat down to dinner as they would any other evening that didn't require Sasha to remain at Site-64. It was halfway through the meal that a knock came at the door. Sasha and Gabe looked to one another, the former giving a confident nod. It was show time.
"I'll get it," Gabe said, standing up and moving out of the kitchen with a quickened pace.
"Are we expecting someone?" Jessie asked, watching her father leave and raising an eyebrow.
"Several someones," Sasha replied with a grin.
"… who?"
"You'll just have to see."
Jessie looked curiously towards the front door. A series of four low voices could be heard in the entryway. A few moments later, Gabe returned. Behind him was someone Jessie had met before: a scruffy, lanky gentleman whose face was covered in dark stubble named Daniel Navarro, or Uncle Dan as Jessie had grown up calling him. He gave her a small smile as he took a seat beside her.
"And I thought I needed a drug problem before the intervention took place," Jessie joked as she looked over her parent's friend. "What, uh, what's going on?"
All eyes turned to Sasha.
"Well Jess," she began. "There is something your father and I are going to tell you."
Sasha then pulled out her Foundation identification card and placed it on the table. Gabe and Daniel all did the same, the familiar SCPF logo standing beneath the laminate like a brand.
"Turns out," Gabe picked up where Sasha left off, "we may not have told you the whole truth about what we do for a living these past 18 years."
Jessie looked at the various badges curiously, her brow furrowed as she looked at the various titles.

Special Agent, Level 3 Clearance
Head Accountant, Level 2 Clearance
Site Director, Level 4 Clearance

"All of us," Sasha continued, "me, your father, and Dan, all of us work for an organization designed to contain and study phenomena that exist outside the purview of modern scientific understanding, or as we call them, anomalies. Think 'Cabin in the Woods,' but instead of using the monsters to commit ritualistic sacrifice of college students to a dark god, we contain them to keep people safe, and seek to understand them on a scientific level."
Jessie looked over her mother's badge for a while, taking in the words before finally tossing it down onto the surface.
"So, what, you guys are the X-files?" Jessie snickered. "Fox and Dana Merlo? I appreciate how elaborate this joke is, but I don't get what the punchline could be."
Daniel stifled a laugh at this comment. Gabe and Sasha both sighed.
"This isn't a joke, Jess," Daniel butted in. "As hard as it is to believe, this shit is as real as it gets."
"Alright, let's say you are telling the truth," Jessie rolled her eyes. "Why tell me? Why now?"
"Because you're 18, and we're finally allowed to," Gabe sighed.
"With your parents in the position that they are, eventually this all would catch up to you," Sasha added. "Believe it or not, I'm actually a bit of a big wig for our organization, as my daughter that makes you a person of interest. If anything happened to us, we'd want you to know the reality of things. What kind of world we actually live in, so that you'd be ready. People living on military bases know that their family is part of the military. Same concept."
Jessie shrugged.
"I don't know what to tell you guys. Sorry. I don't believe you. The joke isn't funny."
"We brought proof," Gabe said. "You want to see that?"
"I.. sure…" Jessie sighed. "Show me what you got."
Gabe proceeded to pull a penny, showing both sides to Jessie then sliding it to her.
"Go ahead and flip that, I don't know… ten times?" he instructed.
Jessie complied. Her expression switching from annoyed to baffled as the coin landed heads up each and every time.
"Always lands on heads," Gabe commented. "Forever and ever."
"So, you have a trick coin…" Jessie shook her head. "That's not exactly a lot of proof."
Sasha responded by handing Jessie a pocket watch.
"Try this one on for size," she said with a smile. "Notice its six minutes behind. Go ahead and try and adjust it."
Once again, Jessie did what she was told, winding the watch, only to find it continue ticking six minutes behind. Sasha gestured for her to place it down on the table.
"Now we wait…"
Sure enough, six minutes later, the clock adjusted itself on its own volition. Jessie looked at the watch in shock.
"It's stuck six minutes in the past," Sasha explained. "Neat, right?"
Jessie shook her head.
"Or it's just broken…"
Before Jessie could finish, Daniel pulled out a small razor blade from his jacket pocket and ran it along the palm of his right hand, a small blue flame appearing as he looked at her with a sly smile. He proceeded to twirl the magic fire between his fingers before allowing it to dissipate with a dull crackle. Jessie's mouth hung open in amazement.
"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Daniel explained as he quickly placed a bandage on the cut on his palm, "since you were a little kid actually, but 'You can't show civilians magic, Navarro,' and 'We don't want to amnestitize our five-year-old daughter, Dan.' But hey, here we are now."
"H-how…" Jessie looked from Daniel to the watch, to the coin, to her mother and father, then started the circle over again.
"Daniel is what we call a thaumatologist," Sasha explained. "Or in technical terms, a wizard."
"Do you believe us now?" Gabe asked.
Jessie fell silent, then nodded. Her face became pale as an invisible weight of realization sunk down upon her. She looked as though she was going to be sick.
"Wh… where does all this leave me then… I'm… I'm not a…"
"You're now a special type of what we call 'Level 0 personnel'," Sasha answered her stuttering daughter. "Basically, you know the way things are but are still technically a civilian. There are a couple of guidelines you'll be taught, but other than that not a whole lot will change."
"Not a whole lot will change?!" Jessie snapped. "You just showed me my whole life to this point's been a lie, my understanding of the world is wrong, and nothing will change? And what the hell are these guidelines you talked about?"
"Those are for Dr. Campbell to tell you." Sasha grabbed her daughter's hand only to watch as she yanked it away.
"Who the hell is Dr. Campbell?" Jessie's voice continued to rise, "Do you have another friend lurking around here who's going to make fire shoot out of their hands, mom?"
"Ahem…"
Jessie spun around to see Dr. Campbell standing in the kitchen entryway. The Ethics Committee liaison gave an amused smile and a small wave of her hand.
"I'm afraid I'm not quite as gifted as Agent Navarro on that front," she said. "Evening everyone."
She then extended a handshake.
"Dr. Lily Campbell, Jessie, it's nice to meet you. I'm a special kind of representative for the organization we are all a part of. Now that you've been briefed on the way of the world, as it were, I need to talk to you about some ground rules. Will you please come with me? We can speak privately in your room. I can answer any and all of your questions."
Jessie cautiously accepted the handshake and nodded. The two then departed for Jessie's room, leaving Sasha, Gabe, and Daniel alone in the aftermath of their little show.
"I thought that went rather well," Daniel commented with a small chuckle. "Though you guys need to get some better props. A statistically locked coin and a temporally displaced watch are a bit lame."
"It went well? How so?" Gabe asked, raising an eyebrow. "She looked like she was going to vomit."
"Yeah, but she didn't flip the table, or throw a spoon at Sasha's head, or punch you in the throat. My point is it could have been a lot worse."
"It could have been a hell of a lot better too though…" Sasha sighed.
"Certainly," Gabe agreed. "But we have to deal with these things as they come. Dan's right. Could have been a lot worse, and hey, at least there was some healthy skepticism."
The room fell silent for several moments before Sasha sighed again.
"Do you guys want to open a bottle of wine or something?"

Individuals activated through this protocol are eligible for employment within the Foundation, provided they meet the requirements for the position of interest. Additional conflict of interest training is to be provided in such cases as deemed suitable by Site Command…

Sasha woke with a start at the sound of fumbling keys, her body snapping up while her hand reached for a sidearm she no longer carried. Standing by the doorway, frozen mid-motion, was Jessie, a stuffed pack on her shoulder.
"So, this is your solution then?" Sasha sighed as she stood up and approached her daughter. "Run away? You were listening to Dr. Campbell during her orientation, right? Someone would come looking for you. I'd come looking for you."
"So what?" Jessie hissed in return. "Your secret's finally out and now you are going to threaten me? I'm not afraid of you, mom."
"And I don't want you to be," Sasha said, slowly shaking her head. "But there are things out there to be afraid of. Things out there I'm afraid of. The whole point of all this was so you'd know about them."
"So I could live my life in fear?" Jessie returned in a harsh whisper. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe I was happy with things the way they were? That I didn't want that kind of burden, or to get tangled in your covert web? You and Dad said you wanted me to know about things so that if something happened to you two I'd know why… but Christ that's a pretty selfish reason don't you think?"
"We told you so that you could go on without living in ignorance and face the fear," Sasha snapped back. "We mulled this moment over since the day you were born, and I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but you've been tangled up in our web about that long as well. My position paints a pretty big bulls-eye on your head, and I don't know about you, but I'd personally like to know that such a target was there so I could take actions to ensure no one saw it!"
The two women looked at each other in silent anger for several moments before Sasha shook her head again and returned to the couch.
"Where the hell were you even going to go?" she asked.
"Desmond's outside," Jessie answered. "He was going to drive me to Leanne's."
"Go on then."
"What?" Jessie did a double take.
"I said you can go," Sasha explained. "I'm not going to force you to face this if you don't want to. You're 18. You can make the decision yourself."
Jessie looked at her mom, then to the door.
"What would happen if I did leave?"
"You're scheduled for a mental health screening in the near future, as Dr. Campbell said. If you miss that, you'd officially be considered AWOL and would be tracked down by an operative who would treat you with a special compound that would make you forget the last two weeks. Same for anyone you were staying with. After that, well, everything goes back to normal."
Sasha then held up the small can of amnestic spray.
"If turning back the clock really is what you want, though, I can save us both a lot of time and grief. I have some of that compound here."
Jessie looked at the can with curiosity, then turned away and began to open the front door.
"Just…" Jessie sighed. "Why didn't you tell me sooner. Why didn't you trust me…"
"18's the age minimum," Sasha said sadly. "I have wanted to tell you for a long time. We both have."
"That's fucking bullshit!" Jessie replied. "I've been 18 for 6 months now! You two sure were in a hurry!"
"Fine!" Sasha snapped back. "You want to know what happened? I went to one of my colleague's funerals two weeks ago. There I watched as his daughter didn't show up because she had grown to hate him. Saw him as a man who was more interested in his work than his family, even though the reality of the situation is that he was the one who had my job before me! Never told his family what he did, and one of his kids grew to resent him for it, and… I couldn't stand the thought of that being me and you… You want your mom to admit she's a selfish woman? Alright, Jessie. Here you are. People don't want their families caught up in this world, Jessie, not unless they absolutely need that support. It's one of the most selfish things you can do."
Jessie closed her eyes, her hand still on the door handle as she froze for several moments.
"I'll see you and dad real soon," she said, and exited into the night.
Sasha watched the door close, and let out a sigh, placing her head in her hands. It was then she felt a familiar arm draped over her shoulder.
"Should we go after her?" Gabe asked. "Leanne's house is not that far."
Sasha shook her head.
"Give her time…" Sasha mumbled. "We fucked up, Gabe. We really fucked up. I really fucked up."
"What family involved with the Foundation doesn't?" Gabe replied, gently squeezing her shoulder.

Conclusion: There is simply no escaping that Foundation personnel will form families, and potentially have children. The very nature of these relationships would typically force the strain of constant deception onto numerous Foundation Personnel, resulting in all the associated negative health effects. As the above protocol denotes, however, there is a better way.
Those living on military bases around the world know their loved ones are serving in the military. Families of FBI, CIA, and other intelligence services typically know the type of security their loved ones are required to keep. The Foundation need not be different in this sense and stands to save an approximated 1.8 million USD in Class A amnestics, and 0.6 million in Class B amnestics annually following widespread implementation of this protocol.
There is a saying popular among some of the old guard. "We died in the dark, so you may live in the light." At a certain level, for Foundation personnel this is true. However, we do not necessarily need to enter the dark without support…

When Sasha Merlo awoke the next morning, she was still on the couch, the early morning rays hitting her through the blinds with what felt like a violent intensity. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she proceeded to shuffle into the kitchen, where the sounds and smells of a coffee machine awaited her.
"I don't know about you," Sasha said to the lump sitting at the kitchen table in her peripheral vision, "but I barely slept. Today is going to be hell at work."
Sasha finished pouring and preparing her cup of coffee, taking a sip and turning to the figure. When she saw it was an equally sleep-deprived Jessie, and not Gabe, she nearly dropped her mug.
"You always make a pot in the morning before work…" Jessie said softly. "I figured you'd like it if someone else made it for you for a change."
Sasha immediately placed the mug down, and crossed the room, wrapping her daughter in a tight hug.
"I'm sorry…" Jessie said. "That was just… too much to take in… and I was scared…"
Sasha didn't reply. She maintained the tight grip on her daughter, as tears began to roll down her cheek. As she took a deep breath, she heard Jessie make one more comment.
"Does this mean I get one of those neat ID badges too?"

« Priorities | Anderson Robotics Hub | Series 4: End of Line »


And thus, the Aethers shall be in balance. The Five Aethers are the foundations of practical alchemy, and must always be respected. Some call them "elements", others "Eidolons", and other more esoteric names. The Aethers however, are the pure elemental forces of the universe. Air, Earth, Fire, Water, Electricity. Aeronous, Terronous, Igneous, Aequeous, and Fulminous. Respect the Aethers, and they will serve well…

-Excerpt, Practical Alchemy, by R. Diaghilev

Ruslav Diaghilev woke to the sound of the cosmos rushing in his ears. That, and the liquid clock that was gifted to him for his birthday last year. He blinked the bleary sleep from his eyes, and sat up into the cold autumn morning. The first inklings of light were slipping through the windows, as he swung his feet out and over the edge of the bed.
Across the room, faintly glowing liquids burbled happily in their decanters. Soft orange and blue light emanated from several tubes, rushing around the apparatus with merry abandon. He rose with a grunt, shuffling towards the laboratory on the other side of the room while reaching out to touch the series of activation studs on the wall for the muted amber overhead lighting.
He smiled, as the orbs slowly winked to life, the deep amber light turning the room from shadows to a world of deepest bas-relief. As the light spread across his workbench, the familiar sights of numerous notebooks, fragments of recipes, and formulae appeared before him. His chalkboard, covered in his heavy, angular script shone with the faint sheen of recently erased chalk.
Reaching out with one tired hand, Ruslav turned the activation knob for the burner underneath the faintly glowing blue liquid, causing it to bubble higher and the overflow to slowly drip into the brown liquid in the largest decanter. He agitated the mixture with a glass rod, while chanting quietly in a language that few knew, and fewer still dared to utter. As he chanted, the mixture turned from a dark brown to a light brown with a golden sheen. He smiled, and turned the knob, allowing some of the liquid to flow into an earthenware jug.
He raised the vessel to his lips, and a smile spread over his face as the liquid passed through his mouth and down into his stomach. Ahh, I've finally done it; counteracted the Aeronous Aether. Finally, it tastes like coffee. He felt the fatigue and discomfort of waking so early washing away as the philter took its effect.
Ruslav Diaghilev, Alchemist of the Seventh Circle, looked out of his windows across the snow-laden scene from his cabin. He nodded, taking another sip of the mixture before replacing the jug on the table.

…Alchemy, like any other science, has laws. Rules. These laws and rules may bend from time to time, but they are as indelible as physics. While the physical sciences may be more practically applicable, the simple need for the containment of Alchemical Anomalies requires special attention to the alchemic arts…

-Excerpt, The Sealing Way, M. R. Tissart
First historical mention of "Anomalies"

Hours later, R. Diaghilev, as his nametag so helpfully proclaimed him, sat hunched in his car in the line to get into Site-79. The snow had started to fall faster now, and Ruslav sighed in frustration. The snow always caught in the hem of his robes. The line to get into the site was unusually long due to the weather, and his heater wasn't as strong as it used to be.
A few minutes passed, and Ruslav came to the front of the line, and presented his credentials to the security personnel at the gate. He pulled up, looking the man in the eye and catching the hint of a smirk on his face. The guard took the card, and scanned it before handing it back. "Thank you. Please proceed."
Ruslav suppressed a sigh at the grin on the security guard's face. He was well used to the stares, and the questionable deference he had from his colleagues.
He pulled into his parking spot, and got out of his car, cursing under his breath, at the snow on the floor of the parking structure. He brushed a small spot away and counted his steps before reaching 88, then reciting a quiet formulae. A junior researcher stared at him as he did, nearly breaking his concentration. The researcher may not have thought much of Ruslav's robes, but the snow never quite reached them after his recitation. He smiled to himself, and said a thanks to the Aeronous Aether for its assistance.
He walked through the halls, the quiet swish of his robes at odds with the hard clack of the researchers' shoes, and the quiet clicks of high heels. His own shoes were made of rubber properly made in accordance with ancient formulae many years ago. They were bright purple, and the shoes themselves were poorly stitched, but he was an alchemist not a cobbler. They were warm, waterproof, silent, and earned him the nicknamed "Grapefoot" from his college companions.
He settled into his office, with a quiet sigh, and pulled his phone out of the recesses of his robes, plugging it into his computer to charge. He muttered a thank you to the Fulminous Aether, and a curse to Apple for short battery life.
The office was functional, covered in a few work benches, one of which contained a simple decanter-reduction system. The only other door in the office led to the lab, connected to his colleague's office as well. The drab concrete walls fit Ruslav's personality perfectly, and he smiled at the calendar beside his desk. There were cats on it.
Ruslav settled in to his workstation to go over morning emails. There was always some bureaucratic nonsense to deal with at The Foundation.

…and so it has come to us, the Wise, to protect the world. The Foundation is our best chance to seal off the influence of the Entities for all time. As such, I propose that we take action once and for all. Create the Great Seal, and for all time prevent such incursions into our reality…

-Excerpt, A Call To Action, R. Diaghilev

As the twelfth hour of the day arrived, Ruslav's stomach rumbled with hunger, and he put down the report on a philter of Molasses, which some famous American had used to attain immortality. He left a few final scribbles on his notes for now, and stood up, stretching his broad shoulders with a yawn.
He started his way towards the cafeteria with slowly creeping fatigue. The philter from this morning had to be wearing off. He hoped quietly to himself that he made enough to last a few weeks at least. That particular convergence wasn't likely to happen again for a very long time.
As he walked along, he spotted Dr. Collins walking towards the cafeteria, and waved slightly. The doctor looked over, and smiled, waiting for Ruslav to catch up, before they walked in tandem towards the cafeteria. "It's good to see you, Ruslav. Have a good weekend?"
Ruslav nodded, and smiled at Dr. Collins, "Yes. My philter finally came into the proper solution this morning. I was very happy to say that it worked without any difficulty." Ruslav took a left turn towards the cafeteria, the sounds of conversation filling the off-white hallways.
They joined a small crowd on the escalators up to level 3, to the cafeteria. It opened out into the expansive, and tastefully decorated cafeteria level. They had remodeled recently, the dark glass looking out over fields of snow-covered grass. The dark tile of the floor complemented the subtle burgundy of the walls. All colors Ruslav found pleasing.
Dr. Collins smiled at Ruslav, as they walked towards the serving area. "Congratulations, Ruslav. I had hoped it would happen soon. Is this the same super coffee you were discussing before?" Dr. Collins got into the line for the hot buffet, and grabbed a tray, loading up a couple of plates with his usual starchy fare. He had gained a few pounds recently, stress eating due to a recent project.
Ruslav grabbed his own tray, loading it up with a mix of vegetables, a light salad, and a large piece of some pink fish, pretending to be salmon. "Yes. I am happy to say it works properly. This morning was significantly easier." He grabbed up a small tray of cookies, his one indulgence, and headed to the top of the line.
Dr. Collins flashed his ID to pay for his lunch, and Ruslav did the same, the two of them heading for an empty table, nearby. Several other researchers waved to Dr. Collins, and the two sat down, digging into lunch with abandon. The other tables were rapidly filling up, but Ruslav and Dr. Collins had one of the smaller round tables to themselves.
His dark brown robes stood out from the white-coated researchers, but they did every day. They made small talk for a few minutes, before a young researcher stepped up to their table looking eager and bright eyed, "Dr. Collins? I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about the new research topics you had suggested last week?"
Dr. Collins looked up, and quickly swallowed the bite he was chewing through, "Of course Daniel. This is Ruslav Diaghilev, one of the members of the Alchemy Division." Ruslav looked up to meet the eyes of the young man displaying the usual mix of confusion and surprise.
"How do you do young man." Ruslav held out one large hand, shaking the younger mans hand firmly.
"Ahh, good, good, it's nice to meet you Dr. Diaghilev." Daniel said a little too fast, not particularly covering up his confusion very well.
"I am not a doctor, but I understand the confusion. Mister, or if you're being very formal, Elder is the appropriate title." He tried to hide his grimace as the usual look of incredulity passed over the young man's features.
Dr. Collins looked over at Ruslav, and quirked his head, "If I heard right, you guys are getting a new hire today. Unless Jamesson was talking out his ass again." He scooped up his last bite of pasta, and leaned back.
Ruslav's eyebrows raised, the deep lines on his face creasing. "New Hire? I wasn't aware we were getting new apprentices anymore." And I hadn't realized anyone could even feel the currents anymore He thought to himself. "I will have to consult my colleagues."
Dr. Collins rose, escorting Daniel away, "Till next time Ruslav, enjoy your studies!"

…And so, our Alchemy Division, shall henceforth be tasked with the sealing, and secrecy of Initiative [REDACTED]. All knowledge of Alchemy shall be discredited. All maintenance of the seals, circles, and other Alchemical devices shall be entrusted to R. Diaghilev, and M. Adebayo, Directors of the Alchemy Division…

-Excerpt, O5 Council Plan of Action no. [REDACTED]

The quiet walk back to his office was uneventful. Upon reaching his door, he heard a quiet tingling, a soft sound like water upon a starlit lake. He closed his eyes, growing lost in the sound, the Aequeous Aether speaking to him in the deepest language the universe offered.
It was soon, a convergence. He would be able to access both the Aequeous and the Aeronous. It was finally time to begin the next steps in his processes.
He hurried to the lab, where his only colleague Elder Adebayo stood, his coal-black skin a stark contrast to the, if he was honest with it, tacky milk-white robes he wore all the time. The walls of the lab were unlike any other room in the site. From top to bottom, copper chisels had been used to inscribe it with formulae of containment, order, and protection.
Ruslav and Adebayo had prepared this room over sixteen painstaking months, using various convergence events, and stored Aether where necessary. This room was the Alchemical equivalent of a bomb shelter, and the only place they dared to work any significant research.
The walls were lined with tables, containing several decanter-reduction systems, wind-flow apparatus, a few burners, and even a fine earth separator.
Mounted on one wall was a solid wooden holder, which contained two heavy Croziers. One of brass, and wood belonging to Adebayo, the other of cold iron and lead belonging to Ruslav. Across from the crozier stand was a set of three concentric circles set in the floor. The first was polished, inscribed copper, the second was cold iron, the last was the finest and most delicate gold. The materials for the last circle had been transmuted from pure aether to common lead, then to gold.
"You felt it too, Ruslav?" The rich syllables of the Third Language flowed from his lips, his mellifluous accent blending perfectly with the interplay of light and dark in the phonemes, his hands spread over the wind-flow measures and pinwheels on his desk.
He felt the swirling currents, as he hurried to the equipment along the wall. He adjusted several knobs, and the liquids began to bubble, already taking on a soft glow. "Of course, I felt it. Where are you in the harness of the Aeronous?" Adebayo's specialty lay in the Aeronous Aether, and Ruslav would be significantly more comfortable in the Aequeous.
Adebayo's hands spread slightly, as he switched to the Second Language, approaching the beginnings of the True Language quickly. "I am almost there. Could you bring me the circle of Aeronous Binding?"
Ruslav nodded, and picked up a copper circlet, inscribed with various symbols occult organizations had cribbed from ancient alchemists in centuries past.
"We're going to renew the thirteenth seal, this time, yes?" Ruslav placed the circlet on Adebayo's head, crowning his shaved scalp.
"Yes. The creature made a noise a few months ago, and we need to make sure it's held. The seal is almost in the fullness of its shape. With this, we can—" A sudden crack of Aether sped through the lab, disrupting the energies shaped by the words of the second language. The Fulminous Aether surged quickly, pushing back against the ritual motions and words.
From the currents of the unseen, a laughing sound could be heard. Accompanying the electric energy of the Fulminous Aether was an empty feeling. The feeling of chaining and binding, of energies reflected and amplified. Ruslav knew that feeling well. The laughter echoed in the paths of his memory, as his eyebrows narrowed, his teeth setting in a snarl.
The Scarlet King was bucking his seal, and attempting to push back against Ruslav, and Adebayo.
Ruslav's hands blurred, as he drew the simple iron circle from the space under his lab desk, and tossed it into the air. His hands spread, as he began to chant in the First Language, one step removed from the True Language.
The iron circle stayed suspended in the air for a moment before bouncing, and landing on its side, slowly spinning around, on its side.
Adebayo's head burst into sweat, as the Aether's compressed. "They are pushing back. I do not know how long—" his words were strained now, the Second Language's powers being stretched to their limits.
Ruslav's voice rang out like thunder, and he pulled his hands to his sides, his fists clenched. "YOU WILL NOT DISRUPT OUR WORK, TODAY. I PUSH YOU BACK TO WHENCE YOU ARE. BEGONE SCARLET KING!" With a sudden crack of thunder the building energies flowed into the iron circle, grounding harmlessly into the hand-forged iron. The laughter turned to a snarling sound of pain, as the chains around the entity went taut again, pulling it tight. All went quiet, except for Elder Adebayo's chanting.
Several minutes passed, as Ruslav's breath came back to him. The effort required to banish the Fulminous Aether gathered by the Scarlet King to push against their ritual had been staggering, but he'd forced it into the circle at last, the energies contained within the ring of purified metal. Shaped by hand, with the right rituals, nothing could break it in the Aether. Only a mortal hand could undo the energies stored there now, and even then, they would need to be significantly gifted in the Art.
Ruslav struggled over to the lab desk, and put his hands to work on the Aequeous harness for the ritual. The waters and philters bubbled, as he spoke quietly in the Second Language, his words blending with Adebayo's, and forming a harmonious chorus.
The energies of the Aether poured into the small vial of purified water, creating truly elemental water. He held it gingerly between two fingers, and brought it to Adebayo's station. "Elemental Water. This will reinforce the seal perfectly. Did you get yours?"
He held up a small pinwheel, brightly colored like a child's toy. The ultra-fine inscriptions on the blades were near invisible to the naked eye. It spun slowly, with small air currents flowing around it. "Of course, Elder. I will perform the ritual tonight. Our colleagues in Vienna, and Casa Verde should have the Fire, and Earth required."
A quiet knock on the door drew both of their attention, to the small crowd of onlookers. Several of them had hands over their mouths, trying not to laugh.
Ruslav's heart dropped. They couldn't feel a single thing of what just happened. To them, it was two old men screaming at nothing, and pantomiming.
"What?" He growled, his hands shaking with exhaustion, and his mind filled with annoyance.
"Your uh…new hire is here. Mike sent me to get you, Mister Diaghilev." Ruslav narrowed his eyes. It was the young man from lunch. Daniel. He sighed heavily.
"Of course. Thank you." He shuffled off silently, his shoes completely silent.
The last thing he heard was Daniel's voice under his breath, "What's up with the purple shoes?"

…Why do we keep these people around? I know we're all about the anomalous, but there's no way these guys are for real. They're just wasting foundation resources. The amount of money they spend on raw copper is absurd…

-Excerpt, Email from Site Director [REDACTED]

The rumors were true then. Ruslav turned, and headed towards the front gate, nodding at the various doctors, security staff, and administrative staff he passed. Most of them didn't give him odd looks anymore.
A few flights of stairs, which were getting harder, and muttered thanks to the Aethers at the correct times, brought him to the front desk, where a nervous looking young man stood in the lobby of the Site, along with Mike. Mike was giving him an odd look, with a hand on his hip, near to his baton. The reception area looked fairly plain.
There was a desk, behind which Mike sat, and a row of chairs along two walls which visitors were seated in. The drab taupe walls stood out slightly from the off-brown carpet across the floor. Two men looked at Mike and the young man with careful attention, interested in what was taking place before them. The magazines they'd been reading were tossed back on the table between the two sets of chairs.
The waiting room always reminded Ruslav of a doctor's office waiting area.
"I'm telling you, son, I can't let you bring unapproved weapons into the site." His eyes were locked on the glass and silver Crozier in his hand, the twin snakes of asclepias. Ruslav smiled, as his eyes hesitated for a moment over the young man's robe, a royal blue. Unpretentious, functional, and yet tastefully traditional. Perhaps there was hope yet.
He held a hand up to Mike, "It's not a weapon, Mike. It's a crozier. Alchemist's tools. He's alright."
Mike looked over at Ruslav, and nodded after a moment. He sat back down at the office chair in front of the monitors. The young man couldn't see, but the two "waiting" patrons relaxed as well. MTF members took threats and potential threats seriously.
"I am Ruslav Diaghilev, Alchemist of the—" Ruslav started, his voice tired, and heavy, expecting very little of the young man in front of him.
"Seventh circle. Yes, sir. I was recommended to study under you by Allen Barned, of the fifth circle. He said you were the best, and one of the last practical appliers of the Art." The clear Barcelona accent on his English lisped a few of his ess's, but he was reasonably understandable.
Ruslav narrowed his eyes, and switched to a form of proto-Etruscan, the Eighth Language. Closer to the True Language, but still distant enough for conversation. "And how trained are you, young man? Do you know the vagueries of the Art? Have you been initiated?"
The young man hesitated, and his head drooped slightly. He attempted to speak as well. "I am to be not practiced in the Art as one such are you to be. My—" he attempted to pronounce the name of the language, poorly, "Is not very good. I am sorry."
Ruslav smiled, and nodded, switching back to English. "You are more than a dabbler, young man. What is your name?"
"Arturo Genuomo, sir." He said, with a deep bow, which shook the backpack slightly on his frame. Ruslav's face split into one of the first genuine smiles of the day as he took notice of the equipment on his pack which marked him as a student of the Aequeous Aether.
"Welcome to the Site, Arturo, please walk with me." He turned, and silently walked off, Arturo's odd purple shoes an exact match of his own.
…As I've told you, they're not frauds. I've witnessed what they can do firsthand, and the O5 Council says they're necessary. You've seen the budget allotments for the alchemy division, and it's not like we haven't encountered Alchemical SCP objects. Just give them a chance, Jim…

-Excerpt, Email from Dr. Collins, in response to Site Director [REDACTED]

Finding Balance | Channeling Flows»


Dr. Edward A. Llewellyn, Esq.
Senior Researcher
Mail Box 3795, Site-██
gro.noitadnuof|nyllewellae#gro.noitadnuof|nyllewellae
27 December 20██
O5-1 through O5-13
The Overseer Council
[DATA EXPUNGED]
gro.noitadnuof|uoyeesnaci#gro.noitadnuof|uoyeesnaci
To the Overseer Council,
Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that the Système international d'unités (SI), upon which we base our work's measurement, has become strained by over-efficient use in the Foundation. We have researchers able to translate liters to cubic meters in an instant; containment specialists who understand the relationship between a milliliter of water and the gram; and even Class-D personnel who can reliably conceptualize between nanometers and hectometers. This threatens the very lifeblood of the Foundation.
How can we consider ourselves a proper, oversized bureaucracy if not burdened by unnecessary processes? How can the Foundation survive without the constant turnover of frustrated personnel? How can we pursue our mission to Secure, Contain, Protect if not inhibited by constant miscommunication?
The answer is simply, we cannot.
However, the solution to our crisis must be one of extreme convolution; one to minimize understanding and familiarity at all costs, while remaining applicable to the Foundation's research. Neither the metric system, which has resulted in our present predicament, nor the Imperial system, too familiar for our numerous Liberian and Burmese colleagues, can serve this purpose. Therefore, I have found another.
Deep in the heart of the internet, there exists a system of measurements known as “FFF” for “Freedom from Foundations” “Fortississimo” “Furlong/Firkin/Fortnight”. These units, equivalent to 201.17 m (220 yd), 40.82 kg (90 lbs) and 1.21x106 s (14 days) respectively, provide the very sense of confusion that the Foundation demands. I outline this system in more depth for your humble appreciation in the annex of this letter.
The furlong/firkin/fortnight system, in its advantages, is neither decimal nor universal, nor recognizable to most personnel. Its internal relationship is more incoherent than the Imperial system and its base units are entirely impractical. The FFF system is the antithesis of the efficacy of the Système international d'unités, and thus serves to answer the Foundation's most vital prayers.
I admonish you, please heed my advice and abandon the Système international d'unités without haste, and adopt furlongs, firkins and fortnights. If these shadows of order remain unchanged, I see chambers filled with anomalous entities where empty chairs once sat.
Very respectfully,
Dr. Edward A. Llewellyn, Esq.
Senior Researcher, Site-██

Annex: Units of the FFF System

+ Base units of the FFF system:

- Base units of the FFF system:

Furlong (fur), distance
Firkin (fir), mass
Fortnight (ftn), time
Fahrenheit (°F), temperature
Franklin (Fkn), current
Ferrum (fer), amount
Friedrich (Fdh), luminous intensity

+ Derived units of the FFF system:

- Derived units of the FFF system:

Flach (fch), area; furlong2
Fysiek (fys), volume; furlong3
Firebird (fbd), velocity; furlong/fortnight
Faster (fas), acceleration; furlong/fortnight2
Feroarje (frj), jerk; furlong/fortnight3
Flytta (fta), jounce; furlong/fortnight4
Frekvenco (fkc), frequency; cycle/fortnight
Frequens (fqs), density; firkin/furlong3
Flytting (ftg), momentum; {firkin-furlong}/fortnight
Forgas (fgs), spin; {furlong2-firkin}/fortnight
Fuinneamh (fnh), energy; {furlong2- firkin}/fortnight2
Forog (frg), torque; {furlong2- firkin}/fortnight2
Fatica (fat), work; {furlong2- firkin}/fortnight2
Forta (for), power; {furlong2- firkin}/fortnight3
Fuarce (frc), force; {furlong-firkin}/fortnight2
Fesar (fes), pressure; firkin/{fortnight2-furlong}
Fay (fay), charge; franklin-fortnight
Fai-faa (ffa), potential difference; {furlong2-firkin}/{fortnight3-franklin}
Fuente (fnt), inductance; {furlong2-firkin}/{fortnight2-franklin2}
Farad (Far), capacitance; {fortnight4-franklin2}/{furlong2-firkin}
Fankang (fan), resistance; {furlong2-firkin}/{fortnight3-franklin2}
Fuhrung (fuh), conductance; {fortnight3-franklin2}/{furlong2-firkin}
Fofo (ffo), heat capacity; {firkin-furlong2}/{franklin-fortnight2}

+ Additional accepted units:

- Additional accepted units:

Fathom (ftm), depth; 1/110 of a furlong
Finger (fin), length; 1/10,560 of a furlong
Fother (foh), mass; 28 firkins
Fotmal (fot), mass; 14/15 of a firkin
Flask (fsk), mass; 38/45 of a firkin
Frasilah (fsh), mass; 7/18 of a firkin
Friedman (fdn), time; [the next] 12 fortnights
Feddan (fed), area; 1/10 of a furlong2
Foe (foe), energy; 1.2x1040 furlong-firkins
Fixture (fix), flow; 7/99,825 of a furlong3/fortnight
Fresnel (Fsn), frequency; 1.21x1018 cycles/fortnight

+ Prefixes for multiples/fractions:

- Prefixes for multiples/fractions:

hella- (X), 1027
yotta- (Y), 1024
zetta- (Z), 1021
exa- (E), 1018
peta- (P), 1015
tera- (T), 1012
giga- (G), 109
mega- (M), 106
myria- (Я), 104
kilo- (K), 103
hecto- (H), 102
deka- (D), 101
pluri- (Π), 21

semi- (s), 2-1
deci- (d), 10-1
centi- (c), 10-2
milli- (m), 10-3
dimi- (м), 10-4
micro- (μ), 10-6
nano- (n), 10-9
pico- (p), 10-12
femto- (f), 10-15
atto- (a), 10-18
zepto- (z), 10-21
yocto- (y), 10-24
hiwa- (χ), 10-27


Dark. Light switch, non-functioning. One door, one window. Concrete walls. Head pounding, but no visible wounds. Left arm in a cast, likely broken. Applied by someone with little prior experience, judging by the stabbing pains in his shoulder and elbow. Desk, chair, laptop computer. Note. Short message, blurry. Signed “Lloyd”. Shit.
Lloyd staggers to his feet while he waits for his vision to clear. He slumps on the chair, trying his best to ignore the insistent throbbing in his left temple. The laptop is open: it's presumably his, but he doesn't recognise the brand. The dim screen, he notices, is the only thing illuminating his surroundings. His dirt-encrusted, grime-covered, dilapidated surroundings. Still shaking off the effects of unconsciousness Lloyd peers through the window. The sky outside is darkened, but there's still a thin sliver of daylight around the horizon. Probably either morning or evening. He looks at his watch and is only mildly surprised by the blank white circle that stares back at him. He sighs.
What was he doing? The note, right. He picks it up, squinting hard to decipher the strange black squiggles. It seems to be a list. Item one: Pills. He looks to the desk: A white tube, cardboard, with three pills inside. He swallows one, and turns back to the note. Item two: drink. Lloyd isn't thirsty, but he drains the glass next to him anyway. The fluid is a clear blue and burns as he swallows it. Disgusting. Tastes like battery acid. Clearly medicinal. Item three: Alphabet. Ah, now we're getting properly cryptic. It wouldn't be a proper blackout/memory-loss drama without a poorly worded message from his previous self. He puts his dignity aside and loudly recites the alphabet, turning to the laptop in embarrassment when nothing happens.
The display is damaged slightly, with masking tape over the top right corner. Bodge job. Typical shoddy work from his prior iteration. Lloyd reaches for the mouse and sighs for the second time, despairing his own lacklustre attitude to DIY. He clicks the first tab he sees, bringing up a heavily censored document. Foundation, definitely. Formatting suggests the first 1000-block. He scans the text. America is mentioned, and also Doctor Hughes. John Marachek is referenced too, whoever he is. Lloyd vaguely remembers a site director called Marachek, a small bald man with a brightly coloured tie. A quick search yields over 673 results for “Marachek” across multiple sites and countless anomalies. No useful info other than the fact that he probably works in the North-West. Most likely either site 34, 19, or 46, unless he's been recently transferred. Not impossible. All in all, about 400 different possible scips, disregarding the Safes. A third sigh is probably in order, but Lloyd doesn't want to exert himself too much. He's got a lot left to deduce, after all. He shudders involuntarily and feels the room come into focus around him. He can almost feel the strange liquid fermenting in his stomach. He slides gracelessly off his chair, and falls to the floor, his gaze falling on the yellowing post-it taped to the wall.
The word Alphabet is still there, as cryptic and unyielding as it was before. He must have been off his face when he wrote this. Then again, if he's been taking this stuff regularly, it's surprising he even managed to write a note at all. Then, with all the perception of a drunkard, Lloyd notices a series of numbers scrawled in the margin, with an arrow following from “alphabet”. Starting at 26, and counting down in ones and twos. The last entry is 18. He recites the alphabet again, taking care to count off the letters on his fingers as he goes. Sixteen letters in, he reaches Z. The alphabet's getting shorter then, somehow. Or he's getting dumber. He gropes for a pencil, striking through the last item and scrawling 16 below it. What's going to happen when it reaches zero? He reasons that it's better not to speculate, and looks carefully at the note, peering through the haze for anything he may have missed.
There's a circle in the bottom right corner, with a diagonal line through it and a three above it, slightly to the right. No wonder he didn't see it earlier, it's been almost entirely covered with dirt and dust. He grins despite himself. A clue. Fighting through the numbness that's gripping his brain, Lloyd tries his best to think clearly. The circle is weirdly drawn, with a thicker line at the bottom. Is that important? He doesn't know, but he makes a mental note of it anyway. The number three. Thrice, triple, 3 times one. Three, three what? Three is prime, he knows that. Three sides to a triangle. Circle-Line-Triangle? No, that's not it. He turns over the post-it. The word IMPORTANT and a couple of short paragraphs. Looks like he had occasional periods of lucidity. Hooray for drugs. He shifts his weight and prepares to read.

“It got out. We don't know how, or why it waited this long. If you can still move, we've got a chance. The drugs should help; we got enough for a couple of years. Stay strong.”

For the first time, Lloyd sees a mattress in the corner of the room, with a single tattered blanket. There is a framed photograph next to it, though he can't make out what it's of. A woman, possibly, but certainly not one he recognises.

“We can't leave here. It's too strong. I, and by extension, you, have seen what it does to people. Children starving in the streets. Strangers walking off bridges, into machinery, in front of trains. Forgetting how to breathe. People running for shelter as the bombs fell. Our bombs, Lloyd. Whatever happened, we tried to stop it. We failed.”

His head is pounding harder now, with his heart-rate increasing to match. He takes a couple of deep lungfuls of air. He attempts to sit up, wincing involuntarily as he leans on his cast. The note lies on the ground, tantalisingly mysterious. A circle. A shortening alphabet. Something that kills people. The Foundation's biggest failure.
Suddenly, it clicks. Not the clearest diagram, but he was working with a broken arm. Depth is hard to convey when you're writing in whiteboard marker. A three. Exponentiated. Two, squared; three, cubed. A circle cubed. A sphere. And a line. Not a sphere. “It's something you can't remember. And it's not a sphere.” He laughs, despite himself. Fewer than 16 letters of the alphabet. He can't even recall something as simple as that. It's stronger than we ever would have believed. He looks at his watch again, properly this time. He can just make out the numbers, beneath a white haze of disinformation. The woman was probably his wife. Once. It's spreading. It's not observing, it's destroying. The pills are almost used up. He'll only have to go through this a couple more times at the most. He spasms again. He took far too much to be healthy. And it still made him forget. We never stood a chance. Should he have left more mnestics for when he wakes up? It doesn't, he reasons, make much of a difference at this point.
Samuel Lloyd closes his eyes, silently laughing at the futility of it all.
When he next opens them, there's nothing left to laugh at.