Foreword: During the events of Incident SCP-097-D (colloquially termed the "Black Autumn" by members of Site-87's staff), the population of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin was relocated to two nearby municipalities; approximately half of the town was relocated to Duluth, Minnesota, while the other half was sent to Superior, Wisconsin.
During this time, a family of four— Richard Coldwater (38), Marian Coldwater (16), Carrie Coldwater (14), and Maxwell Coldwater (5) disappeared from their temporary housing, which was found to be full of straw, similar to the scarecrows which instigated the evacuation from Sloth's Pit. Mobile Task Force Sigma-10 Agents Alison Carol, Abraham Holmes, and Micheal Robinson were tasked with locating the Coldwater family.

Interviewee: Alison Carol
Interviewer: Randolph Carter
Time of Interview: 10:00 PM 31/10/17
Carter: Can I get you a drink, agent? There might still be some punch from the party left.
Carol: Is it alcoholic? 'Cause I really need a drink right now.
Carter: They got rid of the alcoholic punch after Partridge started shotgunning it.
Carol: How do you… nevermind. Yeah, sure, as long as it's not that pineapple crap.
Carter: Let's start from the top— sorry, a bit hard to sit down.
Carol: You maybe want to take your costume off? I'm having trouble hearing you with the mask on.
Carter: It's stuck on. In any case, let's start at the beginning.
Carol: Well, after the town got evacuated, we were assigned to watch over the population. We kept them confined to a single apartment building for the sake of security— we had to give them armed escorts if they wanted to go out, and even then, they needed a pass at least twelve hours in advance.
Carter: How did you think the population felt?

Interviewee: Abraham Holmes
Interviewer: Randolph Carter
Time of Interview: 12:00 AM 1/11/2017
Holmes: The adults were pretty worried—a lot of them had lost loved ones. A few kids lost a parent. At the same time, not having to go to school for at least two weeks is a pretty exciting prospect for kids, so there's that.
Carter: Now, agent Holmes—
Holmes: Randy, please. Just call me Abe.
Carter: It'd break protocol. Sorry. Agent Holmes, you know the Coldwater family?
Holmes: I was born and raised in Sloth's Pit. My kid went to school with their youngest, Max.
Carter: And you knew both Richard and Penelope Coldwater?
Holmes: Yeah. I told Richard what had happened to her myself. He asked if I could get Penny's… well, she had a necklace on, when she turned up in that scarecrow. Look, what does this have to do with what happened?

Interviewee: Micheal Robinson
Interviewer: Randolph Carter
Time of Interview: 11:00 PM, 31/10/2018
Robinson: Do I think that Holmes was compromised by his relationship to the POIs? Absolutely.
Carter: Elaborate, please.
Robinson: Well, for one thing, the ignored obvious warning signs. When they didn't show up for the muster for the return trip, he went to check on them alone. That was a security risk, and… well, I'll get to that.
He found the Coldwater's apartment empty—there were signs that the children's beds had been disturbed. There was blood, on the floor of the kitchen. And hay.
Carter: Hay?
Robinson: Like, 'hay is for horses'. Straw. It had soaked up some of the blood. There was no sign of the father or any of the children. We didn't know where they were—the cameras were affected by 097 in such a way that they didn't register human life, so they could have been anywhere in the complex.

Carol: Okay. Yeah, the blood Well, once we got the forensic agents in, our agent in the Superior PD—I can't remember his name at the moment, sorry.
Carter: Agent Morales.
Carol: Right. Agent Morales brought over one of the bloodhounds. Discreetly. We managed to find something with the scent of one of the kids—I think it was a stuffed Pikachu that Maxwell—
Carter: That detail isn't particularly relevant.
Carol: Well, we managed to find the scent. We geared up, and prepared for the worst.
Agent Carol sighs.
Carter: Have some more punch.

Holmes: I'm not even sure we needed the bloodhound. It was easy to find the straw on the carpeting—the blood didn't stand out as much, but we followed it.
Carter: And where did that take you?
Holmes: Well… okay, these apartments are a little weird. I think that the building used to be an old mansion in Superior? Basically, they knocked down all of the walls and put in about thirty apartments on each floor. The top floor's the penthouse, obviously. And it has a clock tower.
Carter: And the clock tower is where the bloodhound led you?
Holmes: That is correct.

Robinson: With all due respect, Carter, you look ridiculous in that.
Carter: I'm aware. But it's stuck.
Robinson: Can you at least turn off the voice modulator? It's distracting, having to talk to James Earl Jones.
Carter: I've managed to turn off the breathing, but beyond that, I think I might have to get maintenance to get me out. You were saying?
Robinson: The hound led us up the stairs to the penthouse, but… there was something wrong. It kept stopping, sniffing at Holmes's bag. Holmes lives off-site, and has a dog that he brought along to Superior. At first, I figured 'oh, it's just the dog treats he has in there'.
Carter: Did you see the dog treats?
Robinson: Yeah. He got them from his quarters specifically so he could treat the bloodhound. That was my excuse, at first. And then it kept doing it.
I used to work for the Redwood Natural Parks. People went off-trail there all the time, and we used hounds a lot. The bloodhounds we used there, once they got the scent, they stuck to it, until they lost it completely. Something was up.
Robinson is heard eating something.
Robinson: Uh, thanks for the cookies, by the way. Haven't had anything to eat all day.
Carter: Avoid the ghosts—the black 'boo' is licorice-flavored.

Carol: Yeah, I did notice that the bloodhound was sticking pretty closely to Holmes's bag. But that didn't really concern me, after… after what happened.
Carter: Elaborate, please?
Carol: We got into the penthouse—the Foundation owned the whole building, and the penthouse wasn't used. It was intended as a suite for the Director and senior staff if the city ever got evacuated, but everyone insisted on staying behind.
Carter: You never used it? Really?
Carol: …all right, we raided its liquor cabinet. Once.
Carter: Noted. What did you find in the penthouse?
Carol: Hay. Hay, everywhere, on the floor. And a lot of blood. It smelled like a barn in there. We heard movement within, but the lights didn't work. So, we activated our flashlights and left the hound at the door.
Holmes took point on this. He set his bag down—
Carter: Why did he do that?

Holmes: I had forgotten my light.
Carter: Forgotten your light?
Holmes: We have these helmet-mounted lights, and I'd taken mine off—it doesn't fit in the storage cubby I use if it's mounted on there.
Carter: Hmm.
Holmes: I got it on, and I heard a thump on the ground, and a clattering of metal. So, I turn my light on, and over in the corner of the room, I see a flash of steel.
Carter: Steel?
Holmes: Just being poetic. It was metal, a knife. I couldn't tell at first, because it was covered in blood.
Carter: And where was this knife?
Holmes: In the corner of the room, like I said.
Carter: Was it sitting on top of or below the hay?
Holmes: On top of it.

Carter: I imagine that you were suspicious at this point.
Robinson: Yeah. He pointed out the knife, and I notice it's on top of the hay. The entire floor's covered in it, and a single bloody knife just happens to be on top? Something was up.
I figured an altercation here wouldn't be a good idea—there was a chance the POI was still here, and his kids might have been hiding in the dark. Didn't want to scare them.
Carter: Were there any light sources that you could see?
Robinson: The clock tower, the faces of it are glass. It gave enough light that we could see a patch in the center of the room—a patch with three scarecrows in it.

Carol: My heart skipped a beat when I saw these things.
Carter: Why is that?
Carol: Robert—Robert Tofflemire, my partner—and I had found some of the first scarecrows on patrol. It was right after Squad 9 vanished, and, well, we were pretty shaken. They weren't uniformly made—some of them had pumpkin heads, others were straw, cloth, and one was just a giant hat covering what was underneath.
Bailey and Hastings found out they were filled with bodies, yeah?
Carter: I believe so.
Carol: A few minutes before that call came in, Tofflemire recognized something on the one we were guarding—it was out at the movie theater, it had popped up in the middle of the popcorn machine. He realized that the clothes on the one in there looked like the suit the theater manager wore to big events, and the horror film fest was going to start up that night.
He removed the hay from the scarecrow's head, and… well, I don't imagine I need to tell you what we found.
Carter: The three scarecrows, how large were they?
Carol: One was roughly the size of an adult. One was shorter, maybe preteen. The last one was… God, I…
Carter: Take your time, agent.

Holmes: I approached the scarecrows first. Took point. Whatever.
Carter: What did you do then?
Holmes: I… well, I removed the straw from the first one's face. I… I saw Mary, the oldest daughter. Her neck had been slit. There was blood on the hay around her chest, and—fucking hell, she used to babysit my kid!
Carter: Calm down.
Holmes: I-I knew what was under the other two, but I still had to check. One had- had Carrie in it. She was stabbed through her ear. And… little Max was in the last one. Jesus Christ.
You know what the worst part about that was?
Carter: What?
Holmes: Max had—he had lacerations all over him, but he… he must've been so small, and nothing—nothing could get hit right. He was still alive. Oh god, is he—
Carter: I was told he was stable. He has an aunt in town who will take him in.
Holmes: I should've seen it.

Robinson: I approached the scarecrows. Holmes… well, he was distraught. Understandable, really, he- he knew the family well.
At this point, I noticed the pool of blood between the three scarecrows. It… well, it had pooled, and the splatter pattern meant that it came from a great height. I looked up, and… well, there was Richard Coldwater, hanging from the ceiling, with his wrists opened.
Anything about that seem incongruous to you?
Carter: I'd prefer if you'd state it, Agent.
Robinson: A bloody knife just happens to be on the floor, and this man is hanging from a beam that's at least twenty feet up. The rope was anchored to a hook near the fireplace. I cut him down, and… well, it was obvious he was dead. For at least twelve hours. What blood hadn't come out of his wrists had pooled around the ankles.
It was pretty obvious that this was murder. Poorly-done, too— I've never seen a worse staged suicide. It's almost like he wanted to get caught.
Carter: He, agent?

Carol: Holmes killed Richard Coldwater.
Carter: Why do you think he did this?
Carol: Well, an inspection of the bodies pretty much told us why he did it, but not when. The two girls of the Coldwater family, they had been… stabbed to death. There were ligature marks around the wrists and ankles, indicating they'd been tied up, and friction burns around the mouth— they'd been gagged with cloth.
These same features were found on the youngest, which… thank god he's going to pull through, Jesus. Poor kid.
It took me a little while to realize he was breathing. I gave him to Agent Morales, and he managed to get him to the hospital.
It was fairly clear that Coldwater had murdered his daughters, and nearly killed his son. Holmes must have found out and… well. You know the rest.

Carter: You mentioned 'warning signs', earlier, and didn't elaborate on that.
Robinson: Around the… what was it, the 26th? Yeah, around then, people stopped seeing the daughters around the apartments. When questioned, Coldwater claimed that they were grounded, or at the apartment, or missing their mother. I had my suspicions.
Maxwell stuck around until the night before, I imagine. Holmes… he must've gotten suspicious, too. Followed him to the penthouse, and when he… when he saw what he was doing…
I don't know why he slashed the wrists and hung him, though. That bugs me. Maybe he was angry.
Carter: I think that's about all.
Robinson: The worst part is, I don't blame him.
Carter: There's one last thing you should know, agent.

Holmes: Yeah. I… after I saw what he was doing to Max, I- I snapped. Held him to the ground, choked him. I tried to make it look like he had hung himself, but… I got so mad. I opened his wrists to make sure he was dead. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…
But… I figured, I was just putting him out of his misery.
Carter: How do you mean?
Holmes: Well, he… he got whammied, right? 097, it got to him? Like it got to the town? I mean, who knows what would've happened if I'd let it back in, right?
Carter: That'll be all, agent.
Holmes: He was—he did have something affecting him, right? A compulsion or something? Can't they test brain chemicals for that?
«Interview Terminated»

Carol: That's not possible.
Carter: There was no evidence that Richard Coldwater was anomalously affected in any manner. All of his results came back negative—no neurological alteration, no chemical compulsion, no memetic interference. He did it of his own free will.
Carol: What the fuck?
Carter: One thing you learn in this profession, Agent Carol. Sometimes, the worst things in the world aren't anomalous.
Carter stands and opens the door.
Carter: You're free to go.
Carol: I imagine this'll be used in as evidence during Holmes's trial?
Carter: That's correct.
Carol: He's not a bad agent. He just… made a mistake.
Carter: That's not up to you to decide.
Carol exits the room. Carter follows.
«Interview Terminated»

Afterword: Agent Abraham Holmes was found guilty of second-degree murder, tampering with evidence, abuse of a corpse, and several counts of violating Foundation procedure. He is currently awaiting sentencing.


Thanks to Westrin, RockTeethMothEyes, Connor, DrAnnoyingDog, and Pilz from Discord for looking at this for me and helping me determine if it was too silly or not. I settled on not.
Hope you like it.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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Dr. Kondraki materialized inside Hitler's bunker wearing a full SS uniform and carrying a Walther P38. He pulled the gun out of the holster and moved towards the steel door in front of him.
"Halt!" came a voice from behind.
He spun around and leveled the pistol. In front of him was Dr. Cimmerian, in a similar outfit, looking very confused.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Kondraki said with a touch of anger in his voice.
"What? Who are you?" Cimmerian's hand rested on his hip.
"Dr. Kondraki, motherfucker. You told me I couldn't go back in time to kill baby Hitler. Which was bullshit cause I hadn't even told anyone I was considering it."
"Oh. Right. I remember you now."
There was a slight pause for several seconds.
Kondraki's eyebrow raised. "Why are you here?"
Cimmerian looked off to the side. "I'm uh, I'm here to stop you from killing Hitler."
"In his bunker? Really? He's gonna be dead in minutes even if I don't do anything. I'd have figured you ethics eggheads would be fine with that." Kondraki trailed off. "Wait. They wouldn't send you to stop me. They'd send like an agent or something."
A small tremor from the battle going on outside rumbled through the floor as the lights flickered.
"Well I mean. Obviously. But I was the only one available for…"
"Bullshit." Kondraki said. "You're here to kill Hitler."
"I am, in fact, here to kill Hitler. Yes."
"Motherfucker. You're late. I called dibs."
"When did you call dibs?"
Kondraki waved his gun in the air. "Like, just now."
Cimmerian pursed his lips. "You can't call dibs on killing Hitler."
Kondraki shrugged. "I mean. We could both kill Hitler."
Cimmerian's nose scrunched up for a few seconds as he considered it. "Right. How do we get through this door?"
The two of them looked at the door. It was made of steel, with no visible hinges.
Kondraki pointed at the door. "I mean we can just bash it down, right?"
They looked at each other and then turned and slammed their shoulders into the door. Both of them bounced off one after the other with a grunt and grimace.
Kondraki clenched his teeth to speak. "Ok that's a strong door."
Cimmerian grabbed his right shoulder with a gloved hand. "Yup. Strong door. Ow."
"I think maybe we need to coordinate better. If we hit it at the same time we might get it."
Cimmerian nodded. "You wanna go on three?"
They both readied themselves and Kondraki started to count. "Ok. One. Two-"
"Wait wait." Cimmerian interrupted. "Are we going on three or is it like 'One, Two, Three, Go'?"
"We go on three."
They got ready again and Kondraki counted. "One. Two. Three."
As they both put their shoulders into the door they bounced off again. This time a loud crack came from the other side. A gunshot.
Both of them closed their eyes and let the pain and failure wash over them. They'd just blown the only chance they had of…
The handle of the unlocked metal door turned. Dr. Clef, in full SS uniform, opened the door from the other side to see both Kondraki and Cimmerian reaching for their shoulders.
Dr. Clef smiled widely. "Ha. Were you guys here to kill Hitler?"


"It's your own damn fault, Jasper."
Robert awoke under the cool of night, with cloth beneath him. He realized by the light of a fire that it was an old beach towel, bleached almost white by several summers of laying in the sun. It still smelled of salt, however slightly.
He looked up at the fire, where he saw the figure of the Goatman muttering to himself. The Goatman was in a form that was unfamiliar to Robert— almost ten feet tall, turning over the logs in the fire with a large stick. He had wings growing from his back, and pentagram on his back, burning red against black fur. He wasn't speaking— a woman was, in a voice that sounded distant, and had a dense Irish brogue.
"This is what you get for being overly dramatic for the sake of it. Should have explained it to him before, but noooooo, you had to say 'it's the hidebehind' and vanish into the mists."
"I know, Jessica," the Goatman grunted to woman. "Bright side, it wasn't actually a Plastics Person who died."
"I'm not even sure it is dead. Can you kill something that's not even alive?"
"Sure," Robert sat up. "Will Smith killed his career as a rapper."
The Goatman looked at him, sitting back with a thud. Beyond him, he could see a woman in a veil and black gown, blood dripping down the front, seemingly flowing from her mouth.
"What is it with you people and quipping?" The woman shook her head. "Do you ever not have a witty remark ready?"
"The ability to make a half-decent quip is part of standard agent training. Helps keep morale up when shit hits the fan." Robert Tofflemire, for once in his life, was not being sarcastic about his training. "So, what's with the wings?"
"Satanist convention in Superior," The Goatman explained, throwing Robert a bag of marshmallows. "They believe in it so earnestly that it's affecting my appearance from miles away."
"And what am I doing here?" Robert took one of the marshmallows from the bag and impaled it on a pointed stick that was sitting by the Goatman's leg.
"You're a wanted man." The woman threw him a newspaper. It was dated October 10th, and read "DEADLY SHOOTING AT COSTUME SHOP".
"Shit." Robert read through the article, sticking his stick in the ground firmly so that the marshmallow still roasted while he perused the paper. "'Robert Tofflemire, age 29, is considered the prime suspect in the murder of Tristan Bailey, age… 35?" He snorted. "If any of the Baileys are in their thirties, then I'm Newt Gingrich."
"Take this seriously!" The woman hissed, and Robert felt his skin turn cold— frost had formed over the hairs on his arm. "You're wanted for murder, and there are probably more of those things still out there."
"Okay, but…" Robert frowned. "What… was that?"
"A Lie. To be more precise, a Contradiction." The Goatman looked up at the trees around them. "Tell me, if a tree falls in the forest, and nothing is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"
"That's such a cliche philosophical question." Robert frowned.
"Here's a different one: what would happen if the tree only make the sound if nobody is around to hear it?"
Robert squinted at the Goatman. "That… would be impossible to know."
"Exactly." The Goatman nodded. "Some things only exist when you don't look at them, don't think about them. The Hidebehind is one of these things." The Goatman tapped the ground behind him. "It only exists as long as nobody can see it. If someone were to look directly at it, it would cease to exist."
"But at the same time, if it ceases to exist, then nobody is looking at it, so it just comes back again." The woman pulled back her veil, revealing her mouth to be dripping blood, and her left eye to be missing. Robert shuddered at the sight. "You've created a Contradiction like that. You've deliberately ignored something so that it doesn't become real, but the act of ignoring it means that you acknowledge its existence."
Bob's head started to hurt. "But where does the fake Tristan come into this?"
"He's a Contradiction formed by the Pit Sloth making… well, a pit, in the shape of a person. You and a bunch of others looked at that pit and decided 'oh, this must be Tristan'." Jessica, the woman in the veil, licked blood from her lips. "You all knew that he was away from the city, but that just made you more sure of the fact it was him."
"Jesus," Robert groaned. "Talk about living in—"
"If you say anything about a 'post-truth era', I'm going to bite off your arm." Jessie clearly had no patience for his antics.
Robert held up his hands. "All right, I'll behave."
The Goatman rubbed his face. "Jessie… well, she happened to be in the shop at the time, and she absconded with you. We figure it's best if we let the heat die down."
"You're talking about me like I'm a criminal." Robert stood, trying to figure out a way out of the woods. "Monty and Claude'll back me up on this. That wasn't the real Tristan I shot."

"I… I don't know if that's him."
Claude Mattings and Montgomery Reynolds stood behind the observation glass of Site-87's morgue, watching Claire Hennessy inspect the bloody, nearly-faceless body of "Tristan Bailey". They both knew it was a fake, but Claude discouraged Montgomery from speaking up.
"If say it's not the real Bailey," the biologist reasoned, "We're going to start paranoia, and then a panic. That's going to lead to the deaths of actual researchers."
Reynolds didn't like it. Claude was many things— sarcastic, bitter, easy to anger— but he had a streak of caring through him. Yet he was still standing by, watching Claire, Tristan's long-time partner, struggle to find any identifying marks on the body of the fake Bailey.
The door from the hallway outside to the observation room opened. In stepped Cassandra Pike, still going by her maiden name despite being Claude's wife. She nodded to her husband and came up next to him. "Hi, hon."
"Hello," he nodded. "News travels fast."
"Ewell texted me. Still can't believe this happened… Robert seemed like such a good guy."
"Yes, well, people do things for irrational reasons." Claude pushed his glasses up his face.
"We're going to have a memorial at the Vegan Buffet tonight. Want to come along?"
"Indeed." Claude chewed his lip. "Tristan was a good man. I can't imagine how his brothers will react. We'll just… have to wait for the phones to come back up."
"Mmm-hm." Cassandra looked at Claude, and leaned against him a bit harder, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Reynolds was frowning at Cassandra. Just as Claude was never this cold, she was never this openly affectionate. He knew that they were affectionate, but it was usually reserved for the far corners of a room during a Christmas party.
"I can't watch this." Claude shied away from his wife as Claire began crying over the body. "I'll see you at the Buffet."
"All right." Cassandra waved him out of the room, and then turned to look at Reynolds. "Where's the nearest armory?"
"What?" Reynolds asked, eyes wide with alarm. "Why do you need—"
"You need to get a gun, because that thing wasn't my husband." She scowled, and pulled out her phone. "Service may be out, but the beacon I stuck into his pocket should still be traceable."
"That wasn't—" Reynold's face faulted. "God dammit. I knew there was something wrong with him."
"The Vegan Buffet tipped me off." She strode from the room with a purpose in her step. "Place that literally serves human meat as vegan for two years isn't in the same country as Claude's culinary tastes." She stopped, and rubbed her head. "Aaaand I'm talking like him."
"And… Ewell's still getting his fingers reattached. How would he have been able to text you?" Reynolds rubbed his chin. "Weeding him out through contradictions. Clever."
"And then there's the fact that Claude was literally in the elevator with me as I came down here." She looked back at Reynolds. "This is why I win at poker. I'm good at bullshitting, and spotting bullshit."
Reynolds followed her around the corner. "To answer your question, the nearest armory is two levels up. Don't you have a firearm pass?"
Cassandra shook her head. "I'm not allowed access to a firearm, Foundation-issued or not." She tapped her right temple. "Policy about meds."
Monty nodded, an understanding look passing over his face. He made his way to the elevator. "Whereabout is this… simulacrum of your husband?"
"Right now, he's…" Cassandra's eyes widened. "He's on the residential sublevel. He's heading towards… mine and Claude's quarters…"
Reynolds blanched, and ran towards the elevator, which opened and disgorged a few task force members. The two barged past, Pike hammering the button for the residential level. The doors shut, and the elevator slowly ground upwards.
The alchemical consultant took out his keys and scratched a series of runes into the elevator's wall. "Maintenance is going to want my head."
Pike held onto the sides of the car, recognizing what Reynolds was doing without him having to say anything. The man slammed his hand over the runes, putting power into the spell as the elevator shot upwards at speeds usually reserved for a skyscraper, the cables grinding as all other call signals were ignored.
Cassandra barely let the doors open before she sprinted out onto the residential hallway. Reynolds followed, and they ended at the quarters of the Mattings-Pike family, where the sterile steel door was ajar.
"Get security," Cassandra whispered.
"And leave you here alone?" Reynolds reached into his shirt pocket, retrieving and unfolding a sheet of paper within. From it, a steel cavalry sabre unfolded, its blade inscribed with runes. "It's been a while since I've used this."
Cassandra put her hand on the door, and pushed it inwards. The lights were off, and as she fumbled for the switch, she felt two pairs of claws grab her hand.
The biologist was dragged into the room, with no time to scream. Reynolds charged in after, turning around in time to see the door to the hallway slam shut.
The alchemical consultant felt something climb onto his back.

At their apartment, Edward Valentine looked over the table at his girlfriend, arms folded. His eyes occasionally glanced down towards the check Laura had been given the other day.
"That's a lot of zeroes."
"We don't have to worry about money for a while. Could probably buy a proper house— that one on League Street is up for sale, isn't it?"
"Laura, this… this is weird." Ed stood up. "I'm sorry, but… this is too much. A story you wrote not even a week ago is being turned into a film by some random woman who just happened to come into town while we're locked in some kind of loop, and… and then someone up and gets murdered in the middle of the store…"
Laura frowned at him. "Hon, look on the bright side for once." She stood and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Yeah, the store's gonna be shut down, but we've got enough money that it won't matter for a while. And my name's going to be up on a big screen." She rested her head against his shoulders. "Don't you trust me, Ed?"
"I do, but…" He tried pulling away, but found Laura's hands on the small of his back suddenly. "This is just too damn weird. I've lived here all my life, I know this town isn't normal, but this… this is even going beyond last Halloween."
Laura looked up at him. "Don't you want me to be happy?"
"I do." Edward frowned, deep in thought, before he pulled away. "I'm going back to my folks' place. I need to do a bit of thinking. I'm sorry, hon."
"…okay." Laura sat back down at the table, looking at the check. "I can… get rid of it, if you want."
"No, I— I'll call you in the morning, okay? Keep the check." Ed made his way to the door, grabbed his coat and keys, and made his way down three flights of stairs. Outside, in the cold October air, he found his white Ford sedan waiting. He climbed into the driver's seat, and when the thing in the backseat wrapped its claws around his neck, he didn't even have time to scream in fright.
Edward Valentine's car drove from the parking lot. Edward Valentine was not driving it.

«Chapter 5 | Hub | Chapter 7»


Halloween night is one to remember,
 there are sweets to be eaten and pumpkins to dismember.
 The October month is mightier than September
 and stands on the shoulders of November.
 The one told here is certainly to be remembered…
 The jack-o-lantern moon danced among the stars.
 Below, children are dressed as monsters from Mars.
 A cry of ‘Trick or Treat!'
 and they have chocolate, so sweet!
 There is a group who see behind the façade,
 to them all the dark cards are laid,
 they secure and contain
 they are a Foundation, said plain.
 They watch the houses because they might chew and bite;
 they know the world isn't right.
 The horrors of the dead.
 We try to silence them, we put them below
 and think they're put to bed.
 We burn them to dust, so,
 they're gone, like a mirror
 once we break them.
 Still alive, they whisper:
 ‘No.' They hit their graves.
 Still alive, they shout:
 ‘No!' They worm through cemetery caves.
 ‘NO!'
 The dead men and women smell the living world.
 Sugar.
 Chocolate.
 Apples.
 Meat.
 The eyes of the ones who know,
 see the dead and act low.
 The unearthed souls try to run,
 try to peel away from the world once more,
 they are contained in the grip of the unseen giant,
 the Foundation.
 All, but one.
 The dead child hides in the dank expanse of a sewer,
 his bones softened by moisture.
 He trudges out caked in mud,
 looks to the All Saints' Day sun for blood.
 New, old or dead.


« blue pills | Ombres Malvants | Blackout »

Tomàs felt sick. The afternoon sun stretched the air thin, and his throat was stale and constricted. He lurched along the beachfront promenade, vision and hearing blurring and clearing erratically. Rollerbladers flashed past, cursing him for a drunk. Tourist families pulled their children to the other side of the path. He needed to stop, needed some shade and quiet.
Staggering to the shelter of a newsstand canopy, Tomàs slumped over, glad to be out of the sharp light. A few euros for a bottle of water kept the vendor at bay. He drank slowly, trying to slow his breathing and focus on the news in the local paper. A riot at a funeral, a review of an underground band, a report linking teen depression to social media use, malfunctions at Catalonian wind farms. Tomàs couldn't concentrate on the details. Something was wrong.
How had he got here? He squeezed his temples. Flashes of memory came back. A young man crushed down into the form of a squirrel. Pieces of Raf's body, hanging from lampposts. A short man with spiked hair, in a dingy apartment full of boxes. Strange texts from an anomalous drug-maker. A handful of blue pills. The thing behind the door. Freezing cold. Cacophony. Walking down into the dark.
After that: nothing. Why couldn't he remember?
It struck Tomàs like a falling weight. Had he been amnesticised?

[Site-74 - Illinois - 3 weeks ago]

"Field-use of amnestics is a Foundation agent's most important skill."
The agent's eyes flicked up from the briefing paper. Tomàs still couldn't quite tell their colour. If the agent mentioned his name, Tomàs had already forgotten it. Too many introductions in the past few weeks. He had started using mental labels for new people, based on their function. This man - square jaw, athletic build, nondescript face - was just another Agent Johnson.
The agent laid the folder down, leaned back in his chair, and continued, "Of course, you know that's standard Foundation bullshit. The skill is not to need amnestics in the first place. They should make all field agents do acquisitions training as a matter of course. Failing that, you have to get lucky with your supervisor."
The accompanying grin seemed warm, genuine. Tomàs smiled back, a little warily. This Agent Johnson was difficult to read.
"And just to add to my excitement," said Johnson, "on your field exercise today we'll have an extra passenger. Tomàs Rey, let me introduce Dr. Madison Craggs."
He indicated over Tomàs' shoulder. In the back of the conference room sat a woman of about sixty; Tomàs had not heard her enter. Short grey hair, eyes a chilly shade of light blue.
"Hola, Diego - como esta?" she asked, an eyebrow half-cocked in wry amusement.
Tomàs bit back a retort. "In Catalonia, we say 'com estàs', doctor. And my name is Tomàs."
"No mas, no fuss, Diego," was Craggs' reply. She held his gaze with a look of playful challenge.
As Agent Johnson summarised Cragg's background, Tomàs realised something: she didn't seem tired. Unlike other Foundation researchers he had met, she wasn't worn down by work and responsibility. Whatever she did here, this woman took pleasure in it.
"Pay attention, Diego," said Craggs, bringing him back into the moment. "We're about to get to the good part."
Agent Johnson gave them both a level stare. "Are you done? Rey, our task today will be to locate and acquire a particular subject that is important for Dr. Craggs' research."
"I'm after a very special type of brain," came the drawling voice from behind Tomàs.
"And for reasons best known to herself, Dr. Craggs has declined to tell us what we're looking for, so she will be accompanying us."
"I'll know it when I see it, Agent. And the kid here will get to see real science being done. He might even learn something."
Ignoring her, Johnson spoke to Tomàs. "You will be required to ensure that our actions are not observed or recognised, and if not possible, to exercise appropriate judgement in the use of amnestics on civilians. We need to see if you can handle memory-wiping."
Tomàs' eyes widened. "We'll actually be in the field? Not just a test run?"
"I don't run a creche." Johnson stood up. "I have things need doing, you learn by doing those things. Anything else wastes all our time."
Dr. Craggs stepped past Tomàs on the way out of the room. "Time to take off the training wheels, Diego," she called over her shoulder.
Even through his distaste, Tomàs felt excited. Finally, after weeks of practice, tests, assessment, he would actually be doing something meaningful. The sort of thing that was his reason to join.
As he reached the doorway, Agent Johnson pulled him up. With a glance down the corridor, the agent spoke low and quickly. "Something else you should know. Craggs is valuable, but she's a loose cannon. The CI has already tried to kill her, and yet she is forcing us to let her go out in public. This could be an escape attempt."
Tomàs nodded. "Understood. Where do I go for equipment?"
"Equipment? You mean a weapon?" asked Johnson, grinning. "You're a foreign national, and Illinois is permit-only. Anyway, you need to learn how to handle matters without the attention that a gun brings. You're not police any more."

"You're not police any more, Tomàs," said an exasperated Xavi. "I can't just tell you where the investigation is up to."
Head still pulsing, Tomàs had stumbled back to his apartment, only to find his ex-colleague waiting outside. They now sat in Tomàs' living room, under a sluggish ceiling fan.
"I'm not asking you for anything sensitive. Shit, Xavi - Raf was our friend. We found him - we were the last to see him alive." Even sitting down, Tomàs felt like the world had slipped off its normal axis. This whole conversation felt like playacting.
"Not quite the last. That girl who left the club with him." Xavi's eyes were fixed on the wall. Not telling Tomàs anything, just talking.
"Have you identified her yet?"
"No. The club was dark. Would you know her if you saw her again?"
"Maybe." Right now, Tomàs didn't know how his memory would respond to anything. He sat silently, weighing up how hard to press. Perhaps if he stuck to things a friend might ask. "Does Anna know about the girl?"
Xavi started. "Why are you asking about Anna?"
"What? I don't know. I mean, Raf was hooking up with some chick at the club. Don't you think his girlfriend would want to know?"
There was a long pause. Finally, Xavi slowly exhaled, almost like a sigh.
"You remember the feathers, Tomàs? The ones we found, in Raf's eyes."
Tomàs swallowed.
"They were from the European cuckoo. Carefully plucked. Deliberately left. As a message. And Anna? She's missing."
Later, as the dusk gathered, Tomàs lay back on his bed and tried to set his thoughts in order. Why had Xavi come to see him? Surely not just to check up. And why tell him about the investigation, after he said he couldn't? Everything was too convenient - like breadcrumbs, laid out in a trail. And the amnestics…
Jesus, what if all of this was part of the Foundation exercise? They said he would be field-tested with anomalies. He thought he was investigating, but what if he was just playing along?
Tomàs sat up. If this was a Foundation game, then he needed to win it. That meant tracking down Anna.
But halfway to the door, he jolted to a stop. Rafael. His butchered body had been real. Was that just part of the test? Did Raf's life have so little value?

"Of course some lives are more valuable than others."
Fork halfway to his mouth, Tomàs froze in disbelief. In the booth furthest from the diner's counter, they were unlikely to be overheard, but Johnson's statement felt jarringly incongruous against the comfortable food, and the sunlit main street outside the window.
"You can't possibly mean that," he said. "How could the Foundation operate on that basis?"
Dr. Craggs was facing the window, scanning the faces of the people walking past. She held a coffee mug in both hands and smiled to herself.
Agent Johnson gestured with a knife as he clarified. "This isn't strictly Foundation policy, but in my line of work it's the only thing that makes sense. So it's important you learn it now: some lives matter more."
Tomàs couldn't tell whether Johnson was being serious. "But how can you calculate whose life is more important?"
She was facing away, but Tomàs could hear the sardonic edge to Dr. Craggs' voice, as if lecturing a particularly slow student. "He calculates, Diego, based on usefulness. If a gunman walked into this diner right now, which of the three of us should survive? A raw novice, still in training? A dime-a-dozen field agent? Or the woman leading ground-breaking research which could revolutionize our understanding of the human brain? Whose survival is worth more to the future?"
"You put a high value on your skills," said Johnson, quietly.
"The Foundation does," returned Craggs. "Higher than yours."
Johnson scratched his chin. "I'll take that bet."
Thoughts spinning, Tomàs tried to swallow his home fries. This was not the Foundation that had been sold to him, high-minded and pure, but it felt truer. Of course there would be hard choices, casualties, compromises. If someone had to die so that others could be saved, wasn't that right?
But there had to be limits. He tried Agent Johnson again. "You can't be as mechanical as you make out. There must be some rule to weigh up your choices, some greater purpose."
"If there's one thing you learn today," said Agent Johnson, "it's that there is no greater purpose. The universe doesn't give a fuck about your lines in the sand. Every time you say 'this, but not that', it will find a way to make your choice the wrong one. Every time." He was leaning forward, arms on the table, voice hard. "Your principles? They are traitors. Context is everything."
Craggs' laugh cut the silence. "Listen to you! Like your decisions come from an ethical vacuum." She looked back from the window and set down her mug. "You talk about the relative value of people like it's ever possible to determine. Ridiculous!"
She paused to dismiss an approaching waitress with a wave, then resumed her diatribe. "No one in the Foundation has studied the human brain more than I have, and do you know what I see? Nothing. Most people are basically automatons even before their brains get remote-controlled. Hell, they're probably grateful when the CI turns them into 'mikes' and start making decisions for them.
"And that's if they even have the capacity for gratitude. After forty years, I still haven't seen hard evidence that any other person has an inner life at all. So if I'm the only thinking being in a world full of mindless zombies, that makes me the goddamn hero - the most valuable person there is. Everyone else is just waiting for me to wire them up and make them dance. Present company well and truly included."
Her bright, cold eyes locked with Johnson's and Tomàs' in turn. "Nothing to add? Finished with 'Introduction to Philosophy'? Then perhaps we can go and get what we came for."
She pointed out the window at a bus-stop across the street, where a young blonde woman was sitting and reading. "That girl, agents, has the brain I need."

Anna's apartment was on a leafy boulevard in upmarket Eixample. Tomàs sat in a tapas bar at the end of the block, sipping a beer and watching the street. No one so far.
His head had cleared, at least, though there was still an abscess in his memory that it hurt to poke at. He reminded himself again that his uncertainty didn't matter. Whether this was real or just a Foundation game, he had the same path to follow.
Amid the faces passing in the early evening, something caught his eye. Tomàs watched a young woman turn onto Anna's street. Not Anna, but something about her was familiar. He struggled to find the connection, and it came to him. The woman from the club; the one dancing with Raf. He was sure of it. What the hell was she doing here? Tomàs kept his eyes on the retreating figure, threw some notes on the table, and followed her towards Anna's apartment.
He wasn't sure what to expect, but Tomàs was still surprised when the woman pulled out a key and let herself into Anna's building. She must have got it from Raf, but why would she come here? Tomàs walked past as the door shut behind her, and continued along the street, crossing the road and turning back. He leaned casually against a tree, pulled out a cigarette, and waited.
Ten minutes later, the woman emerged. She was carrying a small box. Tomàs was sure she hadn't had it earlier. Something of Anna's.
The woman walked back the way she had come, heading for the heart of Barcelona. Tomàs followed.

Tomàs sat on the bus, watching the blonde three rows ahead. Johnson and Craggs were following in the rental car.
Tomàs wondered who this woman was, what she was thinking. He didn't believe she was an empty drone, as Dr. Craggs claimed, but it was hard for him to imagine her life. What did people do in these small towns in America? What did they feel? What were her plans for tomorrow?
What were the Foundation's plans for her? Tomàs realised he hadn't even asked.
The woman stood up, hair swaying as she moved to the door. Tomàs pressed his phone to alert the others, then rose casually and followed her out of the bus. Lost in her own world, she didn't notice him.
They were at the edge of the local college campus. The blonde strode across the playing fields, empty but for a few joggers and a couple of students kicking a soccer ball. Tomàs glanced ahead and saw Agent Johnson's car pull up on the other side. He hesitated: tailing her across the exposed space was risky.
"She'll be heading for the library," Craggs' voice crackled in his earpiece.
"I'll intercept her," said Johnson. "You keep following in case she doubles back. Craggs, stay in the car."
"Fine. I don't need to meet her until she's on the operating table, anyway."
Tomàs set off across the field, deliberately slowing his gait to disguise his purpose. The blonde was getting further away, but was still in sight. Beyond her, in the trees, was Agent Johnson, and beyond him -
"Johnson, on your nine!"
A group of five students, but their movements were all wrong. Their arms hung limp, or were doubled tight at their sides. They walked with stiff, unnatural steps. Their eyes were trained on Agent Johnson. Tomàs sped up.
Johnson turned, seeing the students and instantly switching his focus. For a second his hand hovered near his holster, and Tomàs could see him decide against using the gun. He took two steps, and then they were on him.
Now running full tilt, Tomàs watched Agent Johnson fight the pack surrounding him. He was precise and brutal, thumping into jaws, bellies and knees. But nothing seemed to slow the attackers. They kept coming, ignoring crippling strikes. They must be mikes!
An Insurgency attack? There was no time to think. Blows rained on Johnson's head.
He fell to the grass, limp. Two of the students began jerkily dragging him away. Sprinting, Tomàs barrelled into the other three.
The fight was short and brutal. Only the injuries Johnson had already inflicted gave Tomàs a chance. The mikes kept coming at him, pummeling with fists and feet. But it was all brute force, no thought or technique. Tomàs stamped again on a damaged knee, and heard a snap as one attacker went down. Spinning away from the lunge of another, he slammed his elbow full force into the head of the third. It fell too, and Tomàs kicked hard into the head of the first as it crawled towards him. With two seconds of leeway, he ran for the two hauling at Johnson.
Something changed. The two mikes dropped Agent Johnson's arms and ran. The other three were limping away in the other direction, their frenzy forgotten.
Tomàs turned quickly, looking for some sign, some new threat. The joggers and others were running towards the scene of the fight. The traffic on the road seemed unchanged.
The car! Tomàs looked up towards the treeline. Their rental car was empty.
Craggs had escaped.
He froze for a second, mind racing. The attack had been a diversion. He looked from the injured Johnson to the retreating mikes. The approaching witnesses. The path where the blonde had disappeared. What was the priority?
Tomàs set off after Craggs.

The woman from the club walked deeper into Barcelona, carrying the stolen box. At this hour, the streets were busy with tourists and locals heading out for dinner or to drink, but Tomàs could have tailed her without any cover. The woman walked with single-minded purpose, barely acknowledging her surroundings.
She emerged onto the wide pedestrian promenade of La Rambla. Here the crowds were thicker, eddying and whirling around flower stalls and bag-sellers, pausing for street performers, stopping for a glass of sangria. Tomàs pushed through, narrowing the distance so as not to lose his quarry. The noise and bustle brought back an echo of his earlier sickness and disorientation.
For a second, he lost sight of her. Then a gap in the milling pedestrians revealed her, turning off the main thoroughfare, behind a picture stall. She seemed to be talking with someone back there. Tomàs kept his back to them, facing a busker, and reversed the camera on his phone to watch them.
The woman leaned into the shadows, presenting the box to her hidden contact. Tomàs zoomed in. The figure was short, with dark hair. Looking at the woman, he realised that her eyes were glassy and blank. An addict? She rolled up her sleeve, and Tomàs saw a green square on her upper arm, like a nicotine patch. The woman peeled it off and handed it into the darkness.
A burst of applause from in front of him distracted Tomàs for a second, as the busker took their bows. When he looked back to his phone, the shadowed figure had emerged, reaching towards the woman's arm with a second green patch. The man with the spiked hair! The man he had fought at the apartment! Tomàs ran towards them.
He was five metres away when they saw him. The woman ran into the crowds, the man towards the darker side streets. Tomàs saw the recognition in the man's eyes, and then saw him blow hard into a clenched fist. There was a scream from behind, and gasps from the masses.
Tomàs swung around. The crush of people had fallen back, opening a gap in the centre of La Rambla. The woman from the club had fallen to the pavement, bleeding from her shoulder. Above her a formless shadow billowed and rippled, giving a screeching hiss as it plunged in attack.
No time. The man, his lead, was getting away. What was the priority?
Looking for a way to combat the writhing shadow, Tomàs ran towards the woman.

Back on the campus fields, things were calming down. Tomàs had locked the recaptured Craggs in the rental car. Agent Johnson had recovered consciousness, and was leaning on the trunk, keeping a watchful eye on her. Feeling dizzy and parched from the fight and the chase, Tomàs squinted in the afternoon sunshine.
He had gathered the students, campus security and other witnesses into a huddle on the grass. Through a mist of Class B amnestics, he explained that they were the first to witness a live rehearsal of a scene from the college theatre's upcoming production of "300", and apologised for the realistic effects they might have misinterpreted. He marvelled as they nodded obligingly along - people really would believe anything that made them more comfortable. Johnson had even said he thought amnestics weren't necessary. Were these people as empty and thoughtless as Craggs believed?
The thought of Dr. Craggs hardened in his mind as he finished the explanation and walked back to the car. He moved to open the door for Agent Johnson, who accepted with a genial smirk. Tomàs put the car in drive and left the campus, heading back on the highway towards Site-74.
From the back seat, Dr. Craggs broke the silence. "I'll give you this, Diego: you found me quicker than I expected. Although telling students you were looking for your senile mother-in-law was low. Clever, but low."
Tomàs ignored this, speaking to Agent Johnson instead. "What happens to her?"
"What do you mean?" For a man who had been violently beaten, Johnson sounded oddly amused.
"What's her punishment? Either she took advantage of a CI attack to escape, or she engineered the attack herself in order to distract us. You could have been killed, she could have blown the Veil. At the very least, the mission was a failure. She has to pay for that."
"Who said the mission was a failure?" asked Johnson. Craggs cackled.
"But the mikes got away, and -"
Tomàs yanked the wheel right, pulling onto the hard shoulder and slamming the brakes. The car skidded to a jolting stop, and he was thrown forward into his seat-belt.
"A cagar a la via! Are you fucking kidding me?" He thumped his hands on the steering wheel. "You set me up!"
Agent Johnson stared calmly at him. Craggs' laugh had turned into a hacking cough.
"You never tried to track down the mikes. Because you knew in advance they would get picked up. You arranged for them to be there, both of you. This was all a fucking game."
"A test," corrected Craggs, "and you passed. Barely." She sniffed.
"Competent tailing," Agent Johnson said. "Early threat identification. Good combat skills. Reasonable cover story - better if you had done it without amnestics, but reasonable. What did I miss? Oh, excellent decision-making in a crisis."
"Yeah," came the hoarse voice from the back of the car. "You decided I was the most important person. Just like I said this morning. So predictable, Diego. We just wound you up and made you dance, as surely as those puppet people you crippled."
Tomàs couldn't believe his ears. "How am I meant to trust you now? If I don't know what's real, how can I trust the Foundation?"
"Don't trust us," was Johnson's flat reply. "Don't trust the Foundation. Don't trust yourself. You can't second-guess everything, or you'll go mad. Plenty do. But that doesn't mean you have to believe everything either. Context, Agent Rey."
Agent Rey. That sounded almost good enough to forget the rest.

A can of cooking spray, snatched from a street vendor, rolled on the pavers of La Rambla. The night sky yawned black overhead. Burning shreds of that predatory shadow fell from the air, evaporating into smoke. A hand, bloody and blackened, slid a cigarette lighter back into a pocket.
Breathless and bleeding, Agent Tomàs Rey stood in a circle of onlookers. No amnestics this time. Just faces, stunned and aghast. A good Samaritan started forward to help the injured woman next to him. He only had one shot.
Quickly, Tomàs grabbed the woman's hand, pulling her to her feet. With broad smile and a loud "thank you!", he bowed.
The crowd exclaimed in surprise. Before they could react further, Tomàs turned and bowed again. He risked a look to his right, and was relieved to see the woman smiling and bowing with him. Sporadic applause broke out, then swelled.
"We're here every night," shouted Tomàs, in English. "Tell your friends."
The gathered pedestrians came forward to offer praise and coins. Many walked away shaking their heads, off to the next amusement. Would they ever have second thoughts about what they had seen? Would they even remember?
The press thinned. Of the spike-haired man, there was no sign. Tomàs led the woman to a side street, still holding tight to her hand. He was about to question her, when she cut him off.
"Once again, when you had to choose the most important person, you chose me. I'm flattered, Diego."
Tomàs stopped dead. What had she called him?
"I'd say that I owe you one." Craggs' words from the young woman's mouth. "But actually it's only this body that does."
"Craggs," said Tomàs, like it was a curse. He felt the adrenalin draining out of him. Just another Foundation trick. "You mean she's been a mike, since the first time I saw her at the club?"
"Well, that wasn't the very first time, and the very first time she wasn't a mike," said Craggs. "Perhaps you don't recognise her with the brown hair dye I made her put in."
Tomàs looked closer at the woman's face. His stomach dropped. It was the blonde woman from the bus. The target in Illinois. Part of the training exercise - but not a mike back then?
"That's impossible," he said. "She got away after - after you two staged that diversion for me."
"Did she just?" The woman's voice, but Craggs' smugness shone through. "Tell me, Diego, what do you remember between the moment you caught me on campus, and giving the cover story to the witnesses. How did I get back to the car? How long was Agent Johnson 'unconscious'? Think hard."
Searching his memory, Tomàs knew what he would find. Another hole, dark and deep like the stairway beneath the apartment. Another piece of stolen time where anything could have happened.
Shying from that void, his mind instead flew to memories of Agent Johnson:
"I don't run a creche."

Agent Johnson leaning on the rental car's trunk.

"We need to see if you can handle memory-wiping."

Feeling dizzy and parched "from the fight".

"Who said the mission was a failure?"
"I was the diversion, wasn't I?" he growled. "Johnson used that whole set up to get his target."
"And a fine little diversion you were too," was Craggs' mocking reply.
Furious, barely aware, he slapped her.
Instantly he felt sick. He hadn't slapped Craggs at all, just this empty shell.
"Careful," said Craggs through the mike's body. "I told you, she has a very special brain. Look at the degree of control I have - motor functions, speech. This is not a body I want to lose."
"So this whole thing was a charade." A bitter taste filled Tomàs' mouth. "Another set up. And you were just here to watch the monkey dance."
The mike's demeanour changed; she leaned forward, speaking more quickly. "No. We sent this mike here to check on your field exercise, but something went wrong. She has been out of my control for days - no visual, no tracking, nothing."
"So you weren't spying on me in the club? You didn't kidnap Raf and murder him?"
"What? I have no records of any of that. What are you talking about?" The mike's body gave a twitch.
"Oh bullshit," said Tomàs. "More lies? I could never trust you."
"Listen to me, Tomàs." His real name, from Craggs, pulled him up short. She looked straight into his eyes. "Trust my self-interest. After the amount of trouble it took to get this brain, why would I risk it for some cheap kicks? Why make it kill someone, then wander around in public? Why get attacked by whatever that thing was? It doesn't mauuh - sorry, it doesn't make any sense. I think she may have been drugged."
Tomàs didn't know what to believe. "Do you mean the green arm-patch?"
"What green patch?" asked Craggs, wrenching the body clumsily to look at its arms. "Did you keep it?"
Her surprise was convincing, at least. "No, the spike-haired guy took it from you, just before -"
"Just before I got control back, and ran! Tomàs, I think that patch was designed for a different type of control. Whoever is behind that murder, I think they made this shell a recruit." The woman's body was nodding repetitively. She lifted a hand to her head, as if to stop it.
"And you - she - neither of you remember anything? Like my blank spot from earlier?"
"You were memory-wiped? This is tlei na slon -" She trailed off, her hand falling awkwardly to her side.
"What's going -"
"No time, agent. I don't - plr stor - full control. Perhaps withdrawal symptorrrr -" The mike's face spasmed, and she fell forward into his arms. She looked up, and Craggs said, "Tomàs, don't let them -" and then collapsed.
He stood, in a dark street, holding the comatose body of a murder suspect he had helped kidnap. He didn't even know her name.
(To be continued)

I have liked Dr. Madison Craggs as a character ever since I read the first draft of Lazar Lyusternik's SCP-3033. She was quite easy and enjoyable to write, which is a sign of a strong character (at least, it is if I got her right!). Please go read Lazar's entry to this round of the tournament, which I will post here as soon as I see it.
Shout-out also to fieldstone's Agent Johnson, who gets a role in this tale. I just loved the additional ethical perspective that he provided, so couldn't resist including him.
Once again, thanks to PeppersGhost for running the Original Character Tournament. It has been an absolute blast so far. Go read and vote on as many entries as you can!


From: Grade 3 Researcher Dorothy Zhang
To: Containment Area-25 Administrator █████
Subject: CN-076 Research Team's Proposal of Containing SCP-076
Dear █████:
I am Dorothy, a grade 3 researcher from the Chinese branch. I would like to propose a plan that can possibly contain SCP-076 more efficiently.
Considering the possible association between SCP-076-2 and “Abel” in religious works, we hypothesized that SCP-076-2 was relatively moderate prior to its death, and its current status is resulted by stress response of its murder. Therefore, we suggest adding amnestic equipment to the “killing corridor” inside SCP-076-2's containment measures, erasing its memory about its death. Possible outcomes of the plan include alleviation in its rage state and reduction in containment procedures.
There is no foreseen injurious consequence, and the cost is within an acceptable range.
Hoping for approval.
Dorothy Zhang

From: Containment Area-25 Administrator █████
To: Grade 3 Researcher Dorothy Zhang
Subject: CN-076 Research Team's Proposal of Containing SCP-076
Approved.
█████

Cain finally realized his mistakes after millions of years. In the endless years, he has walked through barren grounds and stepped in bone-chilling rivers, greeted the births of lives, and seen downfalls of civilizations. By the time he has learned empathy and ethics of human beings, he had realized that he himself was the first murderer ever. He has grown tired of common customs. Only his wish of apologizing to Able stirs his thoughts. It is hard to distinguish, whether the apology is for self-satisfaction or his brother Able. It sure can be both, but Cain is indolent to think of it. Not to mention that Able might not even accept it.
After Able's death, Cain did meet him a few times. His moderate brother has turned out to be extremely savage, determined to kill everyone in sight. Cain could not communicate with him, though he has been trying to. Whatsoever, keeping some distance between them might be the best choice for both of them, he thought. He had hope in the Foundation, before he realized it wasn't helping Able all that much. All they did to his brother was force him back into his coffin, repeatedly, and have him revive with even more hatred.
But finally, the change has happened.

Plan Description: In the case that amnestics are proven to be practical, in order to keep the object serene, the containment area should resemble SCP-076-2's residence prior to its death, as described in various religious texts.
Safety Agreements: SCP-076-2 (“Able”) must bear an equipment on its neck, which explodes immediately if it is triggered or interfered upon, killing SCP-076-2 instantly through the destruction of its spinal cord, trachea, and other major arteries.

Able has forgotten.
He quieted down and murmured with an unrecognizable language, wondering where he is. He stepped out of the corridor as the guards nervously watched him. An ancient Sumerian expert was soon sent to the scene to help communicate.
He has forgotten.
Since then, a month had passed. Staying in a standard humanoid containment room, Able told the researchers that he wanted to go grazing. To satisfy his requests, an indoor farm was soon built. He often prepared sacrifices just as how he did back then. Those were given to SCP-343 since the staff did not know what to do with them. They were still highly alert to Able, but he had a great time anyways. He asked the employees, who were dressed as biblical characters, of Cain's track. They got away temporarily by telling him that Cain “went to travel.” Though, he became much more persistent two months later and even threatened the employees. More armed forces were arranged around Able's farm. They also tried to think of one excuse that could be accepted by Able. But there was one that they never thought of.

Incident Record 076-D: SCP-076-2 escaped from its containment room. No injuries or deaths were caused. The object met SCP-073 later and there were no recorded conflicts. Since then, SCP-073 was allowed to meet with SCP-076-2 periodically.

There were no conflicts between SCP-073 and SCP-076-2 for an extended time period. SCP-073 often apologized to SCP-076-2, though SCP-076-2 did not appear to comprehend what the apology was for.
20██/██/██

Some of the architecture of Containment Area-25 was altered by SCP-073 to its familiar style. SCP-073 and SCP-076-2 then proceeded to live in them together. SCP-076-2 appeared to be dissatisfied of abandoning grazing, but agreed to live in the architectures with SCP-073 after considering SCP-073's effect on plants.
20██/██/██

SCP-076-2 was aging at the same speed as an ordinary human being, and was estimated to die in ██ years. By then Containment Area-25 should recover all special containment methods that were used to contain SCP-076.
20██/██/██

The current SCP-076-2 remained its state of death for 10 years, in which no SCP-076-2 has been produced from SCP-076-1 since. The object is now considered neutralized.
21██/██/██

SCP-073 surely is different from the Cain that Able remembered. In Able's memories, his brother was much more irascible and resentful to him. But now, Cain is as mild as the sheep he is riding. Not only that, but Cain also frequently brings up memories that Able has never heard of or remembered. That confuses Able even more. He feels like that he has lost some memories that are crucial, but has no clue whatsoever of what it is.
However, Able does know something; it is not like that he knows nothing at all. One day, while the sunset glows had dyed Containment Area-25 red, he sat together with Cain, facing their house. Suddenly Able felt that they shouldn't be living together so peacefully. Pieces of details flashed through his mind, which he somewhat intentionally found out through listening to conversations between the staffs: Cain is a sinner; Cain killed his younger brother; Cain should be punished eternally… and Able deliberated about it, and decided that maybe he shouldn't continue these thoughts. He likes his life right now, and thinks that it is good enough. As for his murder, he has already forgotten about it anyways. He has forgotten about the fear of being deprived of his life, his fear of his brother, and the pain he suffered. There's nowhere to speak of any hatred. If he doesn't remember it, Cain won't blame himself for it anymore. They can then reconcile, such that it is best for them both.
When Cain apologized again, Able simply replied, “Did those ever happen?”
He then pretended that, just as what he said, nothing has ever happened.
Able has forgotten. Containment Area-25 has been abolished, and there would be no more infuriated outcries from SCP-076-1. SCP-073 is still left forever on the barren earth. His victim is gone, and will never be back again.
Able has forgotten, but he didn't know if it was the right choice.

Item #: SCP-076
Object Class: Keter Neutralized


She never saw it coming. No one did.
It plunged the fingers of one bony hand between her shoulder blades and felt her flesh melt and bubble around them. She sizzled like steak in the cold autumn air. Her eyes rolled up into her head and her mouth flopped open, hands flailing around spastically as she groped in vain for a way to free herself.
The woman sitting next to her was the first to notice. Her scream pierced the darkness of the night and she fell backwards, staining her pink princess dress with dark mud. One look into its rotten, milky-black eyes sent her scuttling backwards away from her friend. Beer cans and liquor bottles clattered as the rest of the college students made what would be a vain attempt at escaping the horror that was pulling out their friend's organs like packing peanuts. her head backwards and her eyes went dark. It slid two fingers dripping with corrosive oil into her mouth and around her gums. When the flesh melted and poured down her throat, it wrenched an incisor free of her jaw and inspected its prize. It could take the other teeth later. There was hunting to be done.
One party-goer lost his Dracula cape in his struggle to get away from the fire. His pants were stained with dirt and blood and urine, he had no idea where he was, and he was definitely drunk. His pudgy frame wasn't equipped to run from danger. When he looked back he could see the campfire in the distance, the firelight still illuminating that horrible, rotted face. The thing began to sink downwards along with what remained of his friend in a slow and dramatic fashion as though it were caught in quicksand. Down and down and down they went until nothing was left, and the fire vanished.
He turned around and ran. The more distance he put between himself and that crazy hobo, the better. It had already proven that it was stealthy enough to sneak up behind them and catch them unawares. He would have to run as fast as his stubby, aching legs could carry him.
He didn't get far.
His foot caught on a tree branch and he went tumbling face first into what seemed at first like a pool of muddy water. As soon as it touched his lips, he knew it wasn't water. It tasted foul, and reminded him vaguely of that time he held a penny in his mouth for thirty second on a dare. It tasted like copper and vomit and rotten eggs, and felt like his face had been smeared with acidic syrup. He tried to scream as his eyes ran down his face like a popped yolk cooked sunny side up, but something was in the way.
Fingers like iron gripped his tongue. He gurgled as they slid upwards, down his throat, and the face of the “hobo”, the old man, was visible in the slurry. The fingers tasted worse, like drinking oil and week-old mayonnaise. The whole hand entered his mouth, his tongue dissolving around it like sugar in tea, and the dying college student was pushed upwards as the old man emerged. He licked the mixture of oil and eye jelly from the face before him and let his hand slide out the back of the kid's head. The skull cracked around his arm as it made contact. Liquid brain matter slid down his arm and onto the floor, and the head soon became a sludgy ruin. The old man let the skull fracture like an overheated windowpane, splintering as the body slid gradually off his arm. He could come back for this one too. The night was young and full of treats to collect.

The old man hadn't hunted like this in years. It focused its gaze on a young boy and the woman holding him. She was huddled around his small form like a suit of armor, not that it would do either of them any good. Her arms were wrapped behind his back, and she was whispering something into his ear. The woman saw when the old man rose out of his pool and her eyes became dinner plates. She stumbled away from the creature, tugging on the boy's sleeve to try and get him to follow her. It was about to be too late for them both.
The predator reached out for the boy as he turned around, ready to twist its fingers around his bones and sinew and turn them into ropey sludge. When its hands brushed against the Hollister hoodie, they stopped. The old man had never, not once, not in all its time hunting, been denied this way. It pushed forward again, but the body would not give. The boy did not budge. The old man made a sound that might have been confused with a grunt of frustration and lowered its face to the boy's, mouth open wide and horrible flailing tongue swirling in fearsome patterns.
The little boy's eyes snapped open. The beam of light that erupted from his eye sockets would have blinded the old man if it was human. It tried to back away from the thing that wasn't a little boy, to retreat to its hunting ground, but felt a vice grip on its arm. Stubby little fingers held like iron while the prey stood up.
It didn't look like a little boy anymore.
White hot eyes blazed from a face chiseled out of marble. His muscular body, one that would have put Adonis himself to shame, stood erect at just over six feet tall. The fingers, once short and hefty, had become wide, strong things that made the old man's skin blister and crack. The old man began to descend into its haven, but before the pool of blackened ooze reached its knees, another hand with fingers the size of cucumbers wrapped around its emaciated waist.
The thing that was no longer prey lifted the thing that was no longer a predator in the air. The old man saw its reflection in the metallic sheen of the creature's body as it ascended. A few errant bubbles popped on top of the pool below it, then the pool shrank to nothing. The former predator was not touching a surface for the first time in a long time. No walls, no floors or ceilings, no trees. Its legs flailed uselessly in the air as it was held aloft, powerful hands clenching its waist and arm.
The bright statue opened its impossibly wide mouth and the old man saw them: row upon row upon row of pristine white teeth. Corrosive fluid dripped into the maw of the creature and hardened and flaked off, the teeth still clean and unmarred. As the old man stared deep into the endless chasm, three words came from the shining being.
“ARE YOU SCARED?”
The old man responded by opening its foul mouth. Bile dripped from its lips and gums onto this thing, whatever it was, but the vile fluid bubbled and evaporated as soon as it touched the skin. The brackish ooze rolled off in rivulets, then steady droplets, then barely even that. Soon it stopped altogether, and the old man was still suspended in the air.
“I KNOW WHAT SCARED LOOKS LIKE.” The words filled the woods, and the old man tried and failed to recoil from their force. “I'M THE BEST AT SCARING PEOPLE. NO ONE IS BETTER THAN I AM, ESPECIALLY NOT YOU. YOU ARE OLD, AND YOU ARE NOT SCARY." The light dimmed as the creature closed the jaws it called eyelids, and when they opened again, they revealed eye sockets full of hundreds more teeth.
The old man let out a pained shriek that sounded almost fearful. After a few more minutes of flailing, it went limp in the arms of its captor. Holding his prize in the air above him, the statue man turned to the young woman and spoke in a loud, commanding tone.
“GREETINGS, HUMAN TEENAGER! IT IS I, THE MIGHTY RO-MAN! ARE YOU SCARED OF ME? I AM VERY FEARSOME AND MY DIET CONSISTS MAINLY OF HUMANS, ESPECIALLY ADOLESCENT ONES FOR SOME REASON.”
She had no words. She promptly fainted.

Researcher Lowe handed the woman a styrofoam cup of coffee as the November dawn broke over the horizon. She fed her the usual company lines about it being dark, her being scared, and her mind turning a coked-up homeless man into a supernatural killer. The Class-A amnestics in the coffee did their job as Jo Lowe gave her a reassuring pat on the back before heading over to her boss.
“You took a big risk here today, Ms. Lowe.” Dr. Louef regarded her with suspicion as she approached him.
“Yes, I did,” Lowe admitted as she stopped in front of him, her hands in her pockets. “I think it paid off though, and even better than expected. I've never seen 106 this docile. Did you see 2006 hold the old man over his head like a tusken raider? We've never had a recapture go this smoothly. He was only gone for a couple hours and he barely made it out of these woods.”
“The SCP Foundation is rightfully wary of using anomalies to capture or contain other anomalies,” Dr. Louef went on. “It has caused no small amount of trouble for us in the past.”
“I know, doctor,” Lowe said. “But this isn't Omega-7, and SCP-2006 isn't Able. He's not going to fly off the handle and kill everyone. In fact, I think he's proven that is the furthest thought from his mind.” SCP-2006 was nearby, watching as the containment specialists loaded the old man onto the truck.
She saw it out of the corner of her eye, and for a moment, she forgot that this uncanny beast was the same overeager Robot Monster fan she'd come to regard with friendliness. She waved. SCP-2006 turned its teeth-filled eyes towards her, and for the first time during her tenure with it, she didn't have to fake her fear. It was beside her in an instant.
“Was I scary, Miss Jo?” SCP-2006's usual jovial tone coming out of the bright, shining Adonis with a mouth where his eyes should have been sent a genuine shiver down her spine.
“Oh yes,” she said truthfully. “No one is as scary as you, 2006.”
"I'm not sure about that," said Dr. Louef. "At least he hasn't assumed his most terrifying form yet."
“Of course,” Jo lied, picking up on his scheme. “There isn't a man alive who doesn't fear Ro-Man.” She clapped a hand over her mouth as if she had not meant to say that.
“Really?” 2006 gasped. In the space between blinks, it was back to its preferred gorilla suit and space helmet getup. “COWER BEFORE ME!”
“Please spare me, o great Ro-Man!” Researcher Lowe shrieked as she threw her hands over her head in a practiced, over-dramatized fashion. Dr. Louef followed her lead.
“Relax, guys, it's just me. I didn't like that costume much anyway. Ro-Man is so much scarier.”
“Oh, SCP-2006,” Lowe said with feigned relief. “You changed out of that silly costume that wasn't scary in the slightest. It made you look ridiculous. Not good at all for the master of scaring.”
“That guy was pretty scared of it.” 2006 pointed a gorilla paw at SCP-106, who was being loaded into a containment van by a cadre of soldiers and their solar weapons.
“What does he know about being scary?” Lowe scoffed, her lip curled up in a derisive snarl. “I bet he doesn't even know who Roger Corman is.”
“Hah! What a fake scary guy!" SCP-2006 said as its teeth chattered. "He broke the biggest rule of scaring people and everything.”
“What is that, SCP-2006?” Dr. Louef asked.
“He killed them, duh,” said 2006 with what little sarcasm it knew. “People have to be alive to scare them. You can't scare dead people, doc.” Dr. Louef drew a long breath in through his nose and let it out slowly.
“Wait until Director Owings hears how scary you were,” Lowe said excitedly.
“Will he be scared knowing I was outside of containment?”
“Eh, maybe a little,” she said with a defeated shrug. “But you know what would really terrify him? What would make him toss and turn in his bed at night before he wakes up in a cold sweat?"
"What?"
"If you went back into your containment cell.”
“Why is that?”
“What could possibly be more terrifying than knowing the master of scaring is mere meters away at all times? At any moment, Director Owings could walk by your containment cell and look in on you and see nothing. You would be there in the shadows, waiting for the right moment.”
“And then I'd jump out at him and yell, BOO!” SCP-2006 threw its gorilla arms over its head and clattered the jaw of the skull in its astronaut helmet.
“I'm going to die of fright!” Dr. Louef screamed. He threw his arms in the air and locked his elbows, giving as much sincerity to the jazz hands as he could.
“And next year, I'll show you a tradition we have. It's called trick-r-treating. You go around to the offices at Site 118, put on your best scary face, and say ‘Trick or Treat!'. Then if you're scary enough, you get candy.”
“That sounds like the most fun I could ever have,” said SCP-2006 in the most sincere tone Jo Lowe had ever heard it use.
“I thought you'd say that,” she said with a grin. "I can't wait to see what you come up with."


October 9th
The Witch's Hut
"This is getting weird."
Edward Valentine loaded another box of masks out of the storeroom. "Last night, I went in there, the room was empty. Thought we would have to close for the season. And now…" Robert pulled out a very convincing-looking werewolf mask. "I saw this demoed at Granbury Paranormal. They don't release this until next year."
"Mm-hmm." Laura shut her laptop, having finished another story. She let her hair flip, and Edward couldn't help but stare; Laura was never an unattractive girl, and he was never one to care about looks, but lately, there was something to her; a bounce to her hair, a shine to her eyes, a twinkle to her smile. "Sorry, just had to post something."
Ed stood slack-jawed for several seconds, before coughing. "This is beyond town weird, Laura. This is actively dangerous weird. We need to call the Plastics People."
"I tried," Laura sighed. "They've got more pressing concerns than a magically-restocking Halloween store. Like the fact that the Williams kids got stuck sliding downhill in a loop on the edge of town. I swear I heard a sonic boom last night…"
Edward shook his head. "I'm gonna go get coffee. The Dunkin' Donuts shouldn't be rationing yet."
Laura leaned across the counter and smooched him on the lips. "Love ya, hon! But if you get almond milk again, I will kill you."
Edward kissed her back, and headed out the door, the bell chiming on the way out.
Laura opened her laptop and looked at the story she had just posted. Already at ten upvotes. She sat back and watched the numbers climb.
"Hello."
Laura jolted. Standing above her was a woman, twenties or thirties, wearing a T-Shirt with the words "No 4th Productions" on it. She was flanked by two men who looked… intimidating. Laura didn't know how else to describe them. "W-we're not open yet."
"For me, you are." She extended her hand, but not for Laura to shake it— instead, a check was in it. "Imogen Folivora."
Laura glanced at the check and saw her name in the "Pay to the order of" line. She took it from the woman's hand, and counted the zeroes. "How in the…"
"Royalties!" Imogen beamed. "For letting us use your stories as the basis for our film The Rise of the Pit Sloth."
"I— I just started writing them in—"
"In July, I know. Found your first one online, fell in love immediately."
"No, I— " Laura pulled up her first story written, and looked at the posting date. July 1st, 2018. "What the… how did—"
"I wouldn't question it." Imogen smiled at her. "Your works have lit a spark of inspiration underneath me. Believe me when I say this film is going to be powerful. Romance, action, horror… oh yes, the horror."
Laura looked at the check, and hid it in her wallet, as if she were hiding candy in her pockets in front of her father. "I don't know what to say… I mean, not like I can spend it anywhere, really. The town's cut off from the rest of the world—" she blinked. "…how did you get in?"
"Pardon?"
"You don't live here. Everyone knows everyone here. And the town— it's cut off. So how—"
There are questions you must not ask.
Mask-maker, please, you know your task.
All questions were erased from Laura's mind. She knew it had happened, but she didn't care. She looked up and saw an absence of the three people that were just there. The absence of the woman said, "Come to the premiere? On Halloween night? Nobody buys their costumes the day of, after all."
"Okay."
"If you've any more questions, we'll be staying at a house on the corner of Elm and Maple."
Laura sat back down and opened up a new document to begin writing. She felt ten claws on her back, five on each shoulder. She looked up, and the people who weren't there were gone.

The Hidebehind is one of the most elusive creatures within Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. It seems to actively fear— or else actively hate— being seen. It is said that gazing upon it will cause you to claw your own eyes out, or be struck blind by the sheer wrongness of it. It can hide anywhere people can't see— the infamous Gurnsey Expedition in 1953 attempted to catalog the Hidebehind using a complex array of mirrors and six participants, standing back-to-back.
What they failed to realize was that the Hidebehind was capable of hiding in the one place no person can see— behind their own eyes.

Robert Tofflemire frowned at this passage in the the 2018 Sloth's Pit Tourist Guide. He gazed into his half-full coffee cup, eyes clouded by tiredness. Around him, researchers were talking about the loop, and debating whether or not airlifts could get through the bubble. Others were just looking at their reflections in their drinks, haunted by what had transpired in the theater. Three had asked for amnestics and transfers to other sites as soon as possible.
They had managed to re-attach most of Ewell's fingers. They couldn't save part of his left pinkie, which, if you had to lose any fingers, Robert figured that would probably be the best to lose. He sipped at his coffee, and frowned as a manila folder was laid underneath where he was going to set it.
Robert looked up questioningly at Tristan Bailey and Claude Mattings. Mattings was the one who had put down the file. "What is this?"
"Ewell's medical report." Tristan sat down at the table, while Claude remained standing. "I… was pretty close to Ewell when we all woke up. Wanted to make sure it wasn't my bite marks on his fingers."
Claude leaned on the table. "They're not human bitemarks at all."
"What?" Robert opened up the file, wincing at the photographs that were taken of Nick's fingers before they were reattached.
"Bite radius is too large," Claude explained. "I'm awaiting confirmation from Dr. Plumber— internet's not the best in his part of Saskatchewan— but I swear to god this bite was inflicted by a Megatherium, or—"
"Giant ground sloth." Robert flipped through the file, finding some of Mattings's own notes on the attack, including a diagram comparing the bite radius to the jawbones of a Megatherium. "What the hell made you think of that?"
"Giant sloth-like entity, large bite radius… I had a hunch." Claude scratched the back of his head. "Good news is that none of us bit it off…"
"Bad news is that watching that film somehow managed to result in something manifesting that ate Nick's fingers." Tristan rubbed his face. "We need a break."
Claude tilted his head. "We do still need to make good on that bet." He looked at Robert. "We're off to the Witch's Hut, along with Reynolds. Do you want to come along?"
Robert abandoned his coffee and took up the file, placing it under his arm. "Let me run by my quarters and stow this. What are you goin' costume shopping for?"
"Long story involving my Pathfinder campaign," Mattings admitted with a sigh. "I'll call Montgomery."
Robert nodded, excusing himself to take the file back to the barracks. He flipped to the picture of the Megatherium skull and the bite marks, and turned the piece of paper over. His eyebrow raised, and he pocketed the diagram.

"…so, in short, Cassandra's character was able to…" Mattings sighed as the car turned into the parking lot of the Witch's Hut. "Seduce the dragon, and end the campaign without an ounce of blood spilled by her."
"Best damn bard I ever played with," Tristan admitted, sitting up a little higher in his seat. "Of course, that meant we lost the bet."
"Which in turn means that Cassandra, Claire and Katherine are choosing the costumes for Mattings, Bailey and myself, respectively." Reynolds had a somewhat pleased smile on his face, despite being a losing party. "I'm being 'forced' to wear a black cat costume of my own design, Mattings is dressing up in a couples costume featuring… what was it?"
Claude groaned as he put the car into park. "I'd really rather not say—"
"Harley Quinn and the Joker." Tristan had a shit-eating grin on his face. "He's playing Harley. Skirt and all."
"What about you, Bailey?" Robert tilted his head.
Bailey had started getting out as Robert asked the question. "Dunno. Claire's not told me yet." He picked at his teeth. "I'm just browsing at the moment."
Robert frowned. There was something off about Bailey— the researcher wasn't meeting his eyes as he spoke, and had his hand in his pocket awkwardly. Not the look of an honest man.
The four of them entered through the facade of the Witch's Hut. The front of the store bore a large image of a woman on a broomstick flying in front of the moon, a black cat perched on the handle. The store within was packed— not surprising, considering this was the only accessible costume shop outside of Wal-Mart. At the front of the store, the ever-harried owner Laura Ashbrooke was on her phone, no doubt filling out a custom costume order.
Mattings went off to one side with Robert, while Tristan and Reynolds went down an aisle with a sign overhead proclaiming "Animal Costumes". Mattings sighed as he made his way down an aisle of pop culture costumes.
"Didn't know you did Pathfinder," Robert admitted, inspecting a plastic pistol, the front of its barrel a bright orange. "Would've taken you for a 5e guy."
"Fifth Edition is a travesty. Over four years old, and there are less than half a dozen options for the sorcerer." Mattings took an officially licensed Harley Quinn costume off of the rack and held it in front of him. He was a skinny enough person that he could probably fit into it without any adjustments. "Whaddya think, Mistah J?"
Robert stiffened and shuddered. The no-nonsense, stiff-upper-lip, stick-up-his-ass Claude Mattings had just done a near-perfect impersonation of Arleen Sorkin. "Don't ever talk like that again. Please."
Claude chuckled, replacing the costume. "Cassandra's been trying to get me to come out of my shell more. It's been enjoyable."
Robert nodded, standing by Mattings and taking the note out of his pocket, presenting it to him. "Care to explain?"
The note read, simply:

Pieces of tissue matching Ewell's skin found on ground in Theater. Bailey's saliva on them.

Mattings looked around. "I didn't want to say anything aloud. I'd hoped you'd find the note. Tristan's been tailing me for days, barely letting me have any time to myself. There's something wrong here."
"Wrong how?"
Mattings swallowed, and leaned in, muttering to Robert. "I got on the phone with his brother Trevor a few days back, to tell him what happened in the theater. He was… really confused."
"Why?"
"Because Tristan was in the same room as him, helping to oversee the reconstruction of the Transit Array at Site 19."
Robert's heart sank into his stomach. He remembered, now— Tristan had written a note on the door of his office September 29th, threatening anyone who came in while he was gone with foam-dart deathtraps. The note had disappeared on October 5th.
"How did I forget he was gone?" Robert tugged at his hair.
"I don't know. I couldn't get any more details— that thing came up to me as soon as Trevor said that, and he's been tailing me since."
"And we just left him alone with Reynolds." Robert dashed out of the aisle, and began looking around the crowded store. He quickly picked out the portly form of the alchemical consultant, comparing the price of two sets of cat ears. Agent Tofflemire ran up to him, Mattings close behind. "Monty, when did Bailey come back into town?"
Reynolds looked at him oddly. "I doubt Tristan's coming back from 19 anytime soon, what with the spatial—" He looked down at the headbands, then at the side of him, where the thing that looked like Tristan Bailey smirked at him.
"Was hoping it'd take you a little longer," the not-Bailey admitted. "It was weak, I'll admit, but nobody was really paying attention. You all overlooked it."
Robert put his hand on the butt of his pistol, ready to draw it. "What are you?"
"A Contradiction. The truth is that Tristan Bailey is somewhere in… where's that stupid site this week? Nevada? Illinois? Well, he's not here, is the point." He stroked his chin. "The lie is that Tristan Bailey is standing before you right now, and you are about to shoot him in cold blood over an asinine dispute or paranoid urge. A phone call would disprove it, but that's going to be impossible." He pulled out his phone, which displayed zero bars. "A freak lightning strike just took out the internet and phone service in town. It'll be five days before they can fix it."
"Good story," Robert said. "But now that you've said it, I'm just not gonna shoot you." He handed the gun off to Mattings.
"And we'll back him up on this," Mattings said, "Phone or no phone."
By this time, Montgomery had pulled out an amulet of iron, and held it before the not-Tristan. The pendant was glowing white-hot. "No good villain monologues."
"All stories have a grain of truth in them, especially the lies, the contradictions. You don't need a gun to kill someone— just the idea of one." He looked down at Robert's hand. "Watch where you're pointing at. You'll take someone's eye out."
Robert looked down at his hand, startled to see his gun in it. He fumbled for the safety, but his hand twitched, the trigger was squeezed, and not-Tristan's face exploded into a shower of gore far beyond what .22 was capable of.
Screams rang out as a crush started. Robert dropped the gun, and heard the crunch of plastic beneath him as the orange-barreled gun he had shot not-Bailey with shattered beneath him.
The crush separated the three of them, and carried them from the store in a wave. Mattings and Reynolds found themselves by their car as the police pulled up. The two of them looked around, stunned. Mattings bent over and retched; he knew it wasn't the real Bailey, but the real Bailey was still his friend, and his friend's face was painting his jacket.
It took them several minutes before they realized something.
"Where's Tofflemire?"

"I can't close!" Laura Ashbrooke protested as the police took pictures of the body in the center of her store. "This is peak business for me!"
"It's an active crime scene, miss." The detective in charge, Angeline Carson, wrote down on her notepad. "I can appreciate the situation you're in, but it'll be at least another week before you can open."
"Who was he?" Laura asked.
"Someone who worked at the Plastics building. That's all we can say right now." Detective Carson shook her head. "Apparently one of his co-workers shot him. God knows why."
Laura leaned on the countertop next to the register, looking into the back room. "Can I at least get some stuff from back there? I've got orders I need to finish before the 31st."
"Go ahead," Carson nodded. "After that, you have to clear out."
"Okay. I'm gonna call my boyfriend so he can come—"
"Phones are out."
"Right." Laura frowned. She made her way into the back room and started gathering up the costumes that were closest to being done. She was looking at the wonky-eyed werewolf mask, when someone else in the room spoke.
"Bad luck, murder on your property."
"Jesus!" Laura dropped the mask on the counter, spinning to face the form of Imogen Folivora. "How did you get in here?"
"Is that really important?"
Laura felt the claws on each shoulder, massaging her back. "Guess not."
"Well, now that your schedule's opened up, I'm willing to have you come work on the picture some."
"But…" Laura tilted her head. "It's already been filmed, hasn't it?"
"Yes, but film making's a never-ending process. One of our actors recently said he wanted out of the film entirely, and we need to re-write some scenes that were meant for him." Imogen produced a checkbook. "I'm willing to give you lead writer credit, and that pays handsomely."
Laura looked at the masks, and began loading them into boxes. "Let me get these home. I'll think about it."
"Of course." Imogen made her way to the back door. "We'll be at the house on the corner of Elm and Maple."
Laura hefted the boxes, and carried them from the front of the store. She felt the ten claws massage her shoulders all the way out.
"Something's wrong here." She muttered to herself as she opened up the car. She felt the claws squeeze into her shoulder and shivered. She decided not to question it— not now.

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