Site-76, December 24th, 2018. 11:27 PM

The last thing D-24899 needed was the grim reaper at the foot of his bed. Sleep paralysis, again? But he could still move. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Yep, that's the reaper all right. And not a minute too soon. Alright, you finally gonna take me to the other side?
The figure shook its head, or whatever head-simulacrum was hidden under its dark robe.
Wait, I didn't say that. You can read my thoughts.
It nodded.
Shit, okay. Um. Okay. Clear my mind. Do NOT think about stupid shit.
Silence.
…wait a second. You don't have a sickle, so you're not Death. And you don't talk. Are you supposed to be the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come or—
It nodded.
D-24899 let out a sad chuckle. Yeah, great. Okay. Here's the thing: I got really drunk and killed my sister with a kitchen knife, I was on death row for a while, and now I've been transferred to a top-secret military testing facility, or whatever this shithole is supposed to be. If you were thinking of showing me how to save my soul, I'm afraid the options are a bit limited.
Before D-24899 could say anything else, a dark, thick mist from the ghost's robe cut him off, and when it cleared—

Site-76, December 25th, 2018. 9:00 AM

—he and the ghost were standing in his cell. The lights were on. The D-24899 of, presumably, a few hours from now, lay in the bed. His eyes were open, and he was in a cold sweat.
The bulkhead to his cell opened, and a pair of armed guards stood at the ready. "D-24899, there's been a change of plans. You have been scheduled for testing with SCP-1883. Please come with us. …oh, and Merry Christmas." Yeah, fuck you too.
"You too," said his future self. Discreetly grabbing a small metal something-or-other, like a coin, from under his pillow, he followed the guards.
Shit. This is gonna be how I die, isn't it.
Once they were further down the hallway, the guards were distracted by a strange sound coming from the cafeteria. Seeing his chance, the D-24899 of the future clapped their heads together like cymbals, and as they were distracted, stole one of their pistols. Bang, bang.
Spirit, are you warning me against this? Because I wasn't planning on doing it anyway. But the ghost said nothing.
His future self made a mad dash through the corridors, right into the Keter wing. Alarms. An intercom warned personnel of a D-class making an escape attempt, lots of "all staff are advised to remain calm" and "he is armed and dangerous." Aww, I'm flattered!
Finally, he stopped at a large bulkhead labeled with "SCP-140" and every way to say "do not enter' that a weird little boy with a thesaurus could put on his bedroom door. Those were the days. He punched a code onto the numeric keypad — "619400."
With a stiff, demanding, skeletal finger, the ghost pointed to the keypad. Are you telling me to remember this? The ghost nodded.
The alarms kicked into high gear as the bulkhead slowly opened. Future D-24899 dove in as soon as the hole was big enough for a human.
Inside was a room, with a small desk and a black book.
Future D-24899 placed his strange metal coin on the book, "REASSURANCE" side up. With a deep breath, he turned away from the book and shot himself in the right temple.
Present-day 24899's heart sank. Even though his future self died with a satisfied smile on his face — okay, but WHY, though?! — seeing your own dead body was never an enjoyable christmas tradition. Especially the part where the scattered bodily fluids started to move on their own, towards the book — NOPE. Done. I'm done. Wake me up now, please. Done. Wakey-wakey.

Site-76 Director's Office, December 25th, 2018. 2:37 PM

Not yet, clearly. He joined the ghost in the Site Director's office, in the middle of an emergency conference call between three doctors and some jerkass on the phone.
"Are you positive it was a copy of SCP-3922?" said the raspy voice on the other end. "Because we tested it on the written word, and it didn't change a thing."
"But was it tested as it was being written, Dr. Naismith?" said a doctor.
"Yes, but only electronically. There was some minor text corruption when we used a word processor on a computer to write a short story, but it couldn't make any changes to traditional pen-on-paper writing."
The fuck are they talking about?
"It must have affected the way that SCP-140 drew blood from D-24899," said another scientist. Ugh, don't remind me. "Are we sure the book's been neutralized?"
Another researcher pulled up some photocopied pages. "Inconclusive, but it's not taking any more ink. The story leaves off on the Daevite civilization constructing a magical gateway to the 'Great Kingdom of Kor-Bah-Nik' to conquer it - the first of its kind, it says, to be able to safely transfer organic material. Immediately afterward, the 'Indestructible Horde of the Three Moons' comes out, kills all the Daevite aristocracy, liberates the lower classes, and the portal goes into dormancy, so that the Horde can get all their armies ready to brutally enforce world peace in the year 2020.”
Dead silence.
"Merry fucking Christmas to us," said the voice on the phone.
Spirit, I reiterate: the fuck are they talking about?

The Great Desert, Corbenic, December 25th, 2018, 10:20 AM (Site-76 time)

Another shift of scenery, and there stood the D-24899 of the future, naked stamping his feet impatiently, with the Future Ghost of Christmas Future next to him.
Dark sand, bitter cold, and three glowing moons in the cloudy green sky. Is this hell? Do I actually go to hell?!
The ghost shook his head. Well, this sure as shit don't look like Heaven.
The hum of helicopter blades in the distance.
Future Ghost handed Future D-24899 a suit. "He's here," said the Ghost, the actual voice of whom was nasal and very annoying. "Don't think you'll wanna be naked for the President." Wait, what?!
A fleet of dropships descended from the sky, all bearing three crescent moons on the sides. From the biggest and brightest of them came no fewer than 20 soldiers in white armor and gas masks. Are those fuckin' space marines? Trailing behind them, presumably, the "President" — in a blue and gold uniform covered in medals, was a French Senegalese man with a Hercule Poirot mustache, and all the violent self-confidence to not think it was tacky.
Future Ghost saluted, and motioned for D-24899 to do the same.
"At ease, Bones," said the President, shooting the ghost a finger gun. He turned to D-24899: "You, too. Daniel Mortimer, was it?"
"That's me," said his future self.
The President shook his hand. "Girard Niang, president of the Three Moons Initiative. For giving us access to the mortal realm at the cost of your own life, it's my honor to assign you Class-SSSS Elysial Residency conditions in Saklovai, expiring never, and effective immediately."
"How many swimming pools?" said his future self.
"Seventeen."
His future self fist-pumped.
"Let's get you home, Mr. Mortimer," said the President. "By the way, your sister called."
"…What'd she say?"
"She forgi—"

Site-76, December 24th, 2018. 11:40 PM

…and in another flash, D-24899 was back in his cell.
"What'd she say?!" he said, out loud this time.
The ghost didn't respond, only handed him a small business card, with the strange "REASSURANCE" coin glued to it, and the phrase "WILL YOU DO IT?"
D-24899 thought about it for a good ten seconds…
…and threw the card to the side. "This is too fuckin' weird," he said. "I'm going back to sleep. Merry Christmas."
With a heavy sigh, the ghost shook his head, and reached into a pocket of his robe. D-24899 realized, all too late, that the ghost did have a scythe.

(the real) Site-76, December 25th, 2018. 8:20 PM

The director of Site-76 nearly gagged as he walked into D-24899's quarters. He knew there was some sort of fatal incident, and dead bodies didn't scare him after 10 years in command, but 24899's face was another matter entirely. Like something had terrified him in his sleep, to death.
"There were 16 more just like him, this morning," said a security officer. "Cause of death seems to be cardiac arrest."
"Anything unusual about the scene?" said the director.
The officer pulled up a small, metallic disc in a Ziploc bag. "These were found with each body."
The director rubbed his forehead at the sight. More 3922. Dr. Naismith's gonna pop a blood vessel.

Elsewhere, far beyond the plane of mortal consciousness, south of the Great Desert, and at the second-to-last barstool at the Great Mead Hall of Saklovai, the Ghost of Christmas Future drowned his regrets in a tankard of Soma.
"Buck up, Spirit," says an old Londoner, still in his nightgown and cap. "There's always next Christmas."
"Oh, fuck you, Ebenezer."


I spotted Andrea. She was sitting alone, as usual, in our favorite spot. The background was awash with linoleum, white plastic, and fluorescent lighting. The collar of her white lab coat was tucked in the wrong way. Her glasses sat crooked on her nose. Her hair was all over the place.
It would have been impossible for me to imagine a more perfect image.
I could tell her.
I could tell her how I feel about her, and how beautiful she was, and how important our time together has been, and how the only bad thing about leaving The Foundation was that I'd be leaving her.
I could tell her… because it wouldn't matter, and I wouldn't remember it.
I wouldn't remember her.
I should tell her.
I stared down at my tray as I walked towards her. Blue jell-o jiggled around in it's clear plastic dish.
As I sat down, she brushed a stray hair away from her eyes and forced a smile. It faded away shortly after, a blank stare in its place.
“You're the lucky one.” She said. “You won't even remember that you were sad.”
“I know,” I stammered, looking away. “I'm sorry.”
We sat for a while, playing with our food and not speaking. I decided to say something. Those last few moments were important. The amnestics weren't going to leave any of her in my mind.
I spoke as deliberately as my emotions would allow. “I've been thinking about… memories. Trying to remember as much as I can… before… before I… you know….”
I pushed my tray to the side and crossed my arms on the table. “You remember that 4th of July beach party?”
“Yeah,” she said softly as a faint smile found its way to her lips.
“Remember we stole that canoe and a whole bucket full of hot wings and paddled out to the middle of the lake because everyone else was getting too drunk? And we floated there for hours talking about our favorite constellations and watching fireworks go off.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, and you fell in the water trying to do a handstand in the boat.”
I laughed too. “I had to dry my clothes out by the fire and my socks got burned.”
The warm conversation was refreshing. The past few days had been hard on both of us. We were close, and had gotten each other through some significant hardships. The thought of not being there for one another was unbearable.
The same thought must have come to her. The smile ran from her face.
“It was a good memory… there were… there are so many good memories. I don't want you to forget.” Her eyes welled up with tears, and as she blinked, one ran down her face and settled in the corner of her mouth.
How could I do this to her? How could I even consider leaving behind the only thing good The Foundation ever gave me? I felt so selfish. I wouldn't have to experience the pain of us not being together… but she would live with it for the rest of her time at the Foundation.
My mind raced through its archive of the beautiful, bittersweet, terrifying memories I had made at Site-68. Andrea was at the center of all the best ones.
Maybe I should stay. Maybe it wasn't too late to change my mind. I wasn't a bad researcher… surely the site director would be glad to keep me here…
But, of course, my thoughts drifted home to my dad. He needed me there with him. He wasn't going to make it on his own, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let someone else take care of him. I had to be there, no matter what it cost.
But why… does it have to cost so much?
“You know I have to leave. And you know why. I don't want to… I have to.”
She wiped a few tears away and sniffled, looking down into her lap. "I know," she uttered faintly, still looking away.
I needed to tell her. She needed to know that I loved her.
“Andrea, I-”
I stopped. I did love her, but maybe it would make things worse if I told her so. I needed to think about how our last moments would affect her.
I just wish I had more time. I wish I could remember… more, and part of me wished she could forget.
That's when it hit me.


"Ahhh, flesh!" Darius sprang back from the tele-cogitator, slapping a hand over his natural ear as a squeal of feedback erupted from the machine. He shook his head and sat down again, calling up status reports.
Lottie's tousled head poked in through the door. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. Our mole ripped out his wire. Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?"
"Can't sleep." She bounced on her heels, thunking heavily against the metal floor. "Gonna stay up till the wings get back. I wanna hear all about it."
"Our new alchemist didn't keep you busy enough?"
"Too busy. We tripled grenade production," she boasted with a grin.
Darius oohed appreciatively and patted the acolyte's shoulder. He turned back to tap out more commands as he spoke. "Good work, we're going to need them. Since you're so full of energy, would you do me a favor, Miss Lottie? Stop by the Inventor's workshop and ask her to come listen to this last burst I just got. Say it just like that - 'this last burst.' And then swing on down by the armory and inventory the razor wire?"
Lottie saluted. "Can do!"

Madame did not realize the servants were gone until morning, when she awoke with no dress laid out and no teapot steaming by her bedside. Her senses confirmed a house too quiet, the courtyard empty and still. She had taken the time to wash up, dress herself, and drink a glass of cold water from the carafe.
Her footsteps clacked softly down the hall and stopped outside her sons' bedrooms, which stood across from one another. With the lightest of touches, she slammed open both doors. Her arms extended out into the rooms, unfolding new elbows like a paper fan. Two startled yelps sounded, then suddenly went silent. Reeling them back in with a crunch, she hurled Herman and Aloysius out their respective doors to slam against opposite walls. The paintings hung there rattled, but did not fall. The brothers slid heavily down to the floor.
Herman looked up in horrified recognition, Aloysius in horrified bewilderment. Their mother's serene expression did not change. "Good morning, my sons. I see you have slept very deeply indeed."
Aloysius sputtered, finding his voice again. "G - good morning, Mother. How might we be of service?"
"Do you know," she replied with a tilt of her chin, "I was just asking myself the same question."
The body of her eldest began to twist and elongate, his mouth locked open in a rictus of silent agony as his arms stretched out over his head to join with his feet. His whole body thickened into the shape of a wheel and shuddered upright. The wheel rolled down the hall, picking up speed as it went, and bounced off the ceiling on its way downstairs.
She turned to her youngest. "What did you do when you returned?"
"Hauled Aloysius up the stairs myself, then sent George off to the servants' quarters," Herman said. All technically true. She would know if he lied by his pulse, by the tension in tiny muscles across his face. "I didn't think you'd want to come home to a puddle in the foyer. And any mistakes he makes, I can't fix."
"Indeed," Madame said with a tiny frown.
Herman melted into a fleshy tangle, knotted up like macrame, except for his head. She wanted him listening. The fingers of Madame's right hand extended, then extended again, long and white-knuckled and spiderlike, to lift him off the floor. She strode down the hall at the same steady pace as before.
"I hold Aloysius more fully responsible," Madame said pleasantly. She lifted the twitching skein of her younger son above her head as she descended the staircase. "He forgot himself, and indulged to the point of incapacity, which does not excuse his lapse of duty. But he was not sensible when you returned. You were."
Morning sun filtered into the parlor through sheer curtains, which had not been drawn. There were no signs of disarray. Every ornament was in place; even the pillows on the sofa leaned at the same angle as the previous day. Not an attack from an enemy, then, nor some simpleminded rival hoping to pass this off as the work of common thieves. Madame stepped over the coil of Aloysius, and went down the hall to the kitchen.
Her nostrils widened as she stepped through the door. Much had happened here. Fear, desperation, rage, despair - excitement? She sniffed again, then frowned and drew her hand back into itself, dropping Herman on the floor. His skull concussed when it struck; she repaired it. "You bled in here last night. How?"
He gulped like a fish out of water, mind still unhinged from pain and the lack of familiar sensations, such as lungs filling with air. He managed to squeak, "M'dnight. Snack. Cut m'self."
Madame sighed. In her rush to punishment, she'd already changed him enough that this explanation could not be checked. More fool she. She turned and stalked back to the parlor, re-molding Herman's body and willing it to slither along at her heels.
Aloysius had managed to partially straighten himself. His features drooped and sloughed as he pulled them back into place. "Mother," he gasped, choking down a whimper. "May I know what I've done?"
"Other than appear weak in public at a critical time?" He shrank back at this, but she continued. "You don't happen to have four otherwise useful servants tucked away in there, hmm?"
The young man shook his head, his half-melted face falling. No point in trying to repair it now. Though he'd learned to unfold pockets of non-existent space within his own body just that summer, Aloysius couldn't have subsumed that much flesh yet even if he'd wanted to. Besides, that would've been stealing from Mother. Losing something that belonged to Mother was… almost as bad.
With a wave of her hand, he fell back, twisting up again.
Madame clasped her hands, tapping her thumbs together in thought. Her will grasped the two of them. Again and again she fused their flesh together in impossible contortions, then let it flow apart, like a nervous gambler shuffling a deck of cards.
There was now, of course, a logistical problem as well as a tactical one. The Kiraak ceremony could not be delayed. She had to be the one who raised it, from flesh she'd nurtured in her own womb. She had worked too long, called in too many favors, twisted too many arms and other appendages to bring this plan to fruition to see it falter now.
"Good mo - " Lucretia padded down in her nightdress, stifling a yawn. She blinked, mesmerized by her brothers' roiling flesh. She could have watched it for hours. "What have they done this time?"
"They lost the entire staff," Madame murmured, still tapping her thumbs. She let the boys' bodies come to rest in two separate, quivering heaps. Their faces were recognizable, though they had no mouths. "And neither one seems to know anything about it."
"Oh, drat. That's the second time this year." Lucretia hung her head, twisting a lock of auburn hair. "They grew bold again so soon!"
"You mustn't blame yourself, my dear," her mother reassured her. "The lessers have much of our cunning, and they may well have thought the delay would make them impossible to track."
Lucretia tittered at this. "Well they won't try a ship, this time."
Madame shook her head. "That is a discussion for another day. We must leave as soon as possible."
"I'll make us some tea, get dressed and fetch the horses," Lucretia said, turning to head down the hall.
"Yes," Madame replied, eyes on her sons, hands suddenly still. "The horses."

When the Fullers' cart turned into the lane, Lucretia was driving. Though the pony held to a smart trot, the young woman lounged at her ease.
Up ahead, her mother sat in the carriage-box behind matched Arabian mares, which were bulkier than usual. Separating out a young man's bodily systems and redistributing them across the interior of a horse was an easy task for Madame, yet gratifyingly stressful for her erring sons. The horses' simple minds were held in deep repose, while the boys labored to pilot their unfamiliar forms at a demanding pace.
It would do. She had been pressed for time.

After two long days on the road, the head of the mare which contained Aloysius was drooping, her flanks slick with sweat. The parts of the horse's body which came from him had never pulled a carriage before, nor done much else in the way of hard labor, and were utterly exhausted. Herman's horse was in better shape, but still puffed and blew when Madame reined them to a stop.
Curious heads turned here and there around the temporary camp. The two visible Fullers had remained aloof the previous night, and slept in the carriage. Whispers of speculation had passed the length of the column, rumors swirling like autumn leaves. Now they would learn what their would-be leader had up her sleeve.
The aristocratic colonists who brought Nälkä from the Old World had known great success in breeding for otherworldly talent, but until recently had been so widely scattered that little organization was possible. A number of individuals claimed the title of Karcist, with social and religious authority over their kin to match. Madame sought to unify them into a single group. Only a demonstration of unquestionable dominance could reconcile these local leaders to accept what amounted to a demotion. Most saw the benefit of taking on the role of her Võlutaar — her advisers and, when push came to shove, her enforcers.
The mares tossed their heads and opened their mouths, letting loose a torrent of frothy red slime. A few low chuckles and approving murmurs sounded as the onlookers put two and two together. Horses cannot vomit naturally, and even Madame wouldn't have dared to come without a child she intended to sacrifice. When the confused beasts finally spat out two bundles of stained and rumpled clothing, the young mens' bodies had almost completely re-formed. Someone off in the shadows began a slow clap. Nobody joined them.
"We see how your eldest is repaid for his foolishness, Gabrielle," came the clipped voice of Mr. Jellick. He lifted his stein in Madame Fuller's direction.
Madame pursed her lips but did not reply. She disliked her given name, which Jellick knew. Yet his misdirection allowed her to save face, and she needed his faction's support.
"I wasn't overcome that badly," Aloysius protested. Still shaken from his ordeal, he had missed the byplay, and his pride was hurt. "The problem was — "
"That you were so sloshed I had to haul your ass upstairs in a bucket," interrupted Herman. "A platoon of Mekhanists could've run through the courtyard in a brass battlewagon for all you knew about it."
Nervous laughter rippled around the campfire. Madame's incipient frown smoothed away. Inwardly, Herman swore at himself. Why was he defending her? Two days stretched out across the inside of a horse had brought all his old reflexes back to the surface.
"But - "
"They could've set their watches to your snores!" Herman quipped. He caught his brother's eye and glanced urgently up at their mother.
Aloysius's mouth made a small "o" as his brain finally caught up. Madame had been angry at them in the first place for making her look weak. Losing servants, disposable as they were, would also make her look weak. "Ah… well, yes. How fortunate that my little half-brother was around to drive them off! Couldn't have been too difficult, even for you." He managed a credible sneer.
The tension in the air was broken. The laughter reached a crescendo. One corner of Madame's lips tugged upwards. Young ladies collapsed into hiccups; young men slapped their knees and came up with their own variations on the joke. Even Mr. Jellick took refuge in his drink to hide a chuckle.
As the brothers staggered off to find clean clothes and unhitch the horses, only Lucretia's gaze followed them, her eyes narrowed in speculation.

Driving the cart the next morning, Herman's stomach was in knots. Every so often he'd spot a raven perched in a distant treetop and find himself hoping it was made of iron. Every possible way his plan could go wrong played itself over in his mind.
He glanced down with a start as something oozed its way up around the boards of the seat next to him. The undulating mass seemed familiar. Sure enough, it flipped inside out to reveal the folds of Lucretia's traveling gown. As her arms solidified, she gave the dress a sharp shake, releasing a cloud of road dust.
Herman snorted. "Showoff."
"I'm entitled," his sister preened, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She leaned forward, smiling into Herman's face as she clasped one of his wrists with both hands. Her fingers were conveniently near his pulse point. "I got your message."
"Oh," he said, remembering the party. It seemed like a year ago. What had he said to her spy? 'Ma's going to taste great, only a matter of time'? If he'd known their mother's plan, he would have kept his mouth shut. He shook his head. "Sis, you know I'll say any damn thing to flatter somebody who's likely to serve me up with the hors d'oeuvres."
A lone man on horseback trotted past, headed for the front of the column. The ürma painted on his saddlebags directed the attention of ordinary travelers away from the group; the patrollers also kept watch for less ordinary threats.
"Hiding from clockwork knights, milady?" called the outrider, tipping his hat.
"Oh, yes!" Lucretia exclaimed, pretending to faint. "Save me, kind sir!"
He laughed, nodded respect to the two of them, and rode on.
Lucretia turned to Herman again. "Is something …unexpected going to happen tonight?" Her touch on his wrist was feather-light.
"Just a joke, sis," he said. His voice was level, but Lucretia's smile grew wide.
"Your words say no," she whispered, "but your heart says yes."
She waggled her fingers, her legs already reshaping to ooze back down towards the road. "Off to meditate! See you soon!"
Herman growled and wished he had something to break.

A crescent moon hung like a scythe against the treetops. The first line of celebrants filed out in loose circles around the edge of the clearing; their garments sported horns and fur and feathers. Solemn chants rose and fell, a few voices adding in animal sounds.
Most numerous were the Zend, who, like Herman, had for the most part been born to members of the group and perhaps had a trace of power. The lowest rank of worshipers, the Orin, served the great families and were educated in their faith, yet weren't necessarily of them. Those who survived this night hoped to win a more elevated role for themselves or their offspring.
One or two stumbled on the small, round stones that littered the ground under the blanket of fallen leaves, but everyone kept to their pace and their places. For now they watched and waited. The sacrifices would come later, under the heart of the temple Madame was about to raise.
The inner circle followed, transformed by their own will to demonstrate power and precedence. Aloysius's head was gone, his torso a jagged, vertical mouth whose fangs overlapped to jut past the eyes set in his shoulders; his forearms split into writhing tongues instead of hands. Lucretia skittered on tall, segmented legs, her body extruded into colorful folds like a sea slug, glistening with toxins. The Jellicks towered behind them, twin columns of broad, intestinal cylinders twisted like vines. One of the few surviving members of the southern delegation had an exaggerated feminine form; innumerable infant arms extended from her skin to conceal the curves of her body instead of clothes. Her face was furred with arachnid mandibles. Another, from the west, had sculpted himself into a single smooth, blank surface. He held up one enormous eye with a muscular arm as an endless procession of faces rose up through his skin, screamed silently, then sank back.
All in all there were nearly a score of local Karcists, drawn from around the continent to cement this alliance and prevent their rivals from getting the upper hand.
Madame Fuller followed last. She was naked and still appeared human, but did not shiver in the icy wind. Her youngest child walked before her, fully clothed, eyes turned resolutely downward. For some reason the only thought he could keep in his head was that he didn't dare look at the sky.
As Herman reached the center of the clearing the chants changed tempo, swelling into a harsh refrain. A stone rolled away from his foot as he suddenly halted, no longer in control of his legs. His mother's voice, behind him, rose in an Adytite doom-song more than a thousand years old. Herman had read a copy of it himself, curled up in a corner of the library, fingers tracing out faded runes to sound out the harsh, ancient words.
That, and the familiar wet cracks of his mother expanding herself to do serious work, seemed likely to be the last things he would ever hear.

I called for any who would hear me,
Demanding to know the purpose behind such bloodshed,
And the Grand Karcist appeared before me
And revealed unto me a most abominable truth,
"The world is an altar and each death is a sacrifice
To the Ravenous Gods of Suffering and Pain."

Someone in the outer circle tripped and cried out. Their scream blended in with the chanting; in the corner of his eye, Herman saw flames ignite at the hem of their robes. He looked up. A flock of ravens swept across the moon.
Simultaneous explosions thundered in a near-perfect grid across the width of the clearing. Some celebrants were ripped apart by the blasts; others staggered, howling with agony as their gaping wounds caught fire.
A handful from the outer circle made a dash for the wagons parked along the trail. They came up with rifles, pistols and whatever ammunition had been on hand. Some ran straight back up the trail, looking frantically around for an enemy no one could see.
The few who tried to dart back through the underbrush stopped short, struggling, ensnared in the strands of razor wire strung from tree to tree.
Meanwhile, the inner circle sloughed off layers of flesh which had taken the worst damage. Most had reserves of living mass stored up from fallen foes or victims.
The Karcists began to grow, carving themselves into weapons.
Aloysius roared, rearing back on legs which bulged with muscle and poised to jump. The appendages at the ends of his arms lengthened, whiplike, now ending in a pair of hooked claws. Mr. and Mrs. Jellick leaned towards one another, twin trunks of coiled flesh which rooted to the spot and shot up into an enormous tree. Its thorny coils lashed the air with glistening, venomous spikes. The small, soft arms clinging to the southern Karcist lengthened, fusing together. Her new fists gripped dagger-sharp splinters of bone; her arachnid head expanded in all directions with chittering cracks.
Lucretia folded most of her legs up around her body like an armored second ribcage. A set of white-feathered wings shot out from between them. Two in the front sprouted into long, wicked pincers, wet with the same toxins that had coated her body. A layer of skin oozed out through the underside and slithered off to hide in the bushes.
A lucky shot from a rifle chimed off of unseen iron wings. A soldier blurred into view, chains flying wild as they plummeted. The western Karcist ripped a face off his back and hurled it at the soldier, coating their wings and head in viscious, clinging red. More Mekhanists dropped concealment as they took damage or dove towards the field to engage.
The iron chains of each four-person wing worked in concert with the soldiers' metal fists and feet to rip their enemies apart; teammates swooped past to set the bloody chunks ablaze. Some larger Karcists fended off multiple units, who pelted them with projectiles or spread out to slice them apart with lengths of reinforced wire. The icy leaves that had shrouded the ground were quickly churned into a smoldering, sodden mélange of viscera and sheared-off scraps of iron.
Madame herself had pocketed enough flesh to build a cathedral. She swelled from the center of the group like a cancerous mountain. Needle-toothed, grinning gashes opened on her surface to spew lumps of her own burning flesh back into the sky. Wet, leathery wings separated from her back and shook themselves out as insectile claws extended from a rapidly condensing thorax. Eyes grew everywhere. Traveling mouths swarmed towards her new head with a chorus of rising howls, as cries of mindless anguish trapped inside Madame for years burst loose.
She lunged up with a powerful downstroke that swept nearby combatants off their feet or out of the air, her cavernous maw snapping shut to swallow a nearby Mekhanist whole.
The Inventor plunged from above in a vertical stoop, her stream of shouted curses drowned out by the din of battle. The steel plate which normally covered her arms jutted forward in the grip of skeletal metal hands, forming a two-handed sword which hummed a single high, clear note. Her blade caught the lower edge of Madame's teeth and sliced her from chin to stern, cauterizing as it cut. Its passage spilled a torrent of disordered guts and a single, blood-drenched soldier.
Nearby wings took advantage of the opening and focused a fiery barrage on the beast. The Inventor rose back up and went for Madame's wings, cutting them to ribbons as she dodged return fire from the howling mouths. Soldiers swarmed the monster's flanks, ripping out chunks with bladed chains and hurling fire into the wounds. Slowly, like a great ship sinking into the sea, Madame broke apart and thudded to the ground piece by piece.
A skeletal, bird-winged monstrosity, small only in comparison with Madame, had fought to defend her with more savagery than skill. It had wounded a number of assailants, aiming for narrow expanses of brown skin amid black iron. Those scored by its claws listed dangerously in the air, their flight paths going ragged as toxins gripped the parts of their bodies that were still flesh. But in the end it, too, disintegrated, shattered by the spikes of multiple units who collapsed around it and all burst away at once.
Aloysius had cornered Doris near the edge of the trees. She was out of grenades, and her natural left arm hung limp, pierced by a sliver of bone. He yanked her towards his gnashing, vertical mouth in a series of irregular jerks. Overhanging branches shook loose a light dusting of snow as the Mekhanist's wings labored to keep her aloft. Each time she burst one set of hooks apart with her chains, he'd lash out with the other. Aloysius was accustomed to working indoors, one-on-one, and thus neglected to watch his back.
The rest of her wing barreled past, on their way back from exhausting their own ammunition on Madame. One planted a metal foot along Aloysius's spine, their chains reaching around to grapple his fangs, pulling him off balance with his mouth stretched open. The other two spiraled up past the edge of the treetops and came back resupplied, pelting him with missiles from top to toe. He fell back, writhing, and went down in flames.
Turning to find no enemies left whole, the wing exchanged handclasps and celebratory shouts. Three rose to scour the nearby trees for wounded Mekhanists or fleeing foes. Doris herself hung back, only pausing on her way to the medics to drag her burning assailant off to the pile at the center of the clearing. Others scattered across the battlefield were performing the same duty.
Most of the flesh in the growing heap had once been Madame: occasionally a smoldering lump would spasm, as if trying to to pull itself together. Alert sentries answered this with fire.
A column of smoke curled up past the moon's tilted smile.

From the moment the bombs went off, no one paid any attention to Herman. For the first and last time in his life, that suited him just fine.
He escaped the initial grenade blast by sheer luck. It took some ingenuity to avoid being absorbed in the expanding bodies of his mother and her friends, but he was light enough on his feet to manage it.
Past the initial ring of shrubbery, much of the forest bracken had been cleared out. The Mekhanists had had two days to prepare the site, and they were thorough. At a crash to his right and the sound of crackling flames, Herman ducked back behind a tree. He peered out slowly. The Jellicks, sliced clean through across the midsection, had toppled into the forest, thorny pseudopods thrashing as they fell.
Strands of nearby razor wire broke off with irregular spangs. Herman eased forward, ducked under a stubborn wire and trudged out into the woods, trying to stare up and over his shoulder in every direction. As the clamor faded in the distance, he felt a kind of effervescence in his spirit. Hope and Herman Fuller had not previously been introduced. It was dizzying.

Deep in the underbrush, close to the ground, the smoke was still so thick Lucretia didn't dare form anything like a nose. Carefully, she extruded two slender eyestalks, poking them up through the branches. It was enough to track the soldiers' movements. They descended at regular intervals to cut away burned flesh from the pile, letting the fire spread deeper inside it. The Mekhanites clearly intended to leave nothing behind but ash.
Even if she were the only survivor, this was an opportunity not to be missed. A shiver of anticipation rippled across her form. There, in the clearing, was a feast the likes of which she might not see again for centuries. Mother's death was a potent lesson on the dangers of being too visible. The head that wears the crown is the first to meet the guillotine.
She stretched up her eyestalks for another look. A long, slow swivel revealed only a handful of winged figures in the sky. They hovered, facing one another, their gestures revealing an agitated conversation. Perfect.
Almost the first living flesh Lucretia encountered, oozing in under the base of the bonfire, was her elder brother's akuloth — a tiny creature melded with the essence of his power.
Finding the worm intact was better than having his entire living brain in her hands. She would have laughed till she cried if she'd had a face. Now all she had to do was tuck away everything she could that hadn't burned yet, put Aloysius back together, and convince the vain fool that he had rescued her.
She wriggled deeper into the heap of gore. Herman was right. Mother was delicious.

"It was devastating," Mitterling lamented. He leaned over the bar, adding another pinch of bicarbonate to his soda water and a liberal dash of bitters. The bartender had left the bottle. "To learn this brilliant group had been disbanded — myself, excommunicated! — on the very night of such a great victory? For the first time I regret these eyes. I wish I could weep."
From what Hezekiah had seen of the Inventor-Militant's work, the Mekhanite leaders were not merely fanatics, they were fools. But he hadn't ridden all the way to Concord to watch the engineer marinate in regrets he could not drown. "It astounds me that such excellence would be swept aside over a point of doctrine. I came in answer to your letter myself, Herr Mitterling, to reassure you that Marshall, Carter and Dark knows how to value excellence. Your work with us will not be tethered by rusty, outdated theologies."
A commotion sounded in the street outside, rising above the steady patter of hail. The barkeep peered out the window and quietly lowered a hand beneath the counter.
Mitterling patted the salesman's arm. "You are a fine lad, Mr. Carter. It will be good to work again. But to see alchemy itself forbidden, just when I had some hope of returning… " He stared moodily into his drink and gave the counter a small thump with his fist. "Fleisch! The last power source added to the Book of Errors was radioactive metal, after the Daevite Wars! How is that a precedent?"
The shouts outside grew in volume; Hezekiah's ears perked up at the sound of a familiar, angry voice. Of all the people he'd never expected to see again! As rapidly as he could within the bounds of politeness, Hezekiah paid his tab and Mitterling's, handed the engineer the travel vouchers and letters of introduction he'd brought along, set his hat firmly on his head and dashed out the door.

The deputy sheriff let Hezekiah into the holding cells, then stomped off to root around in his desk drawers. The salesman had walked in, doffed his hat, slapped a slightly oversized pile of currency on the desk and demanded a receipt for the payment of Herman's bail. The deputy disliked being ordered around, though he did pocket the bribe.
The cells' lone occupant looked up from his slouch, but made no move to rise. He looked well for a man who'd just narrowly lost a fistfight with a gaggle of policemen in a hailstorm. "Zeke. Your uncle's firm hiring horse thieves these days?"
The salesman laced an arm through the bars, propping his forehead against them. "Alleged horse thieves. Ensuring an informant's charges are dropped is a trivial expense."
"And here I thought you cared." Herman's sarcasm was amused, not offended.
Zeke blushed, not bothering to turn his face aside. He had almost forgotten the man could smell pheromones. "You know, before I knew your background, I'd hesitated to ask. And failing that, wondered if you had a sister."
"Not anymore." Herman's laugh was a handful of gravel. "You're barking up the wrong flesh, Zeke, not that I blame you. Many a heart's been broken on these rugged shores." An elegant wave indicated his own bedraggled face.
Levering himself to his feet, Herman strolled over to lean companionably against the bars. He tapped a finger to his forehead. "But I do have a proposition for you."
"Say on, cruel sir. My heart will mend." Zeke replied, placing a hand over his heart with a slight bow. "Business is my one true mistress."
"At least a dozen Karcists from around the country recently died in a fire," Herman said, his smugness almost palpable. "Very mysterious. Some of them, tragically, left no next of kin."
"A lamentable loss. Great houses standing empty, crops rotting in the fields - "
"Books." Herman insisted. "Old Sarkic books, sitting around for the taking. I've been to most of these homes. This is stuff that'll melt your face if you don't know how to read it right." He shook his head with a smile, as if at a fond memory. "My family's kind of magic isn't for me, and I don't have the resources for a cross-country trek. But there's got to be something I can work with. Something that'll give me an edge."
"Why, Mr. Fuller, I do believe we can do business." The insular Sarkites were hardly frequent customers, and their lore was sought after in certain circles. Zeke grinned. One of the advantages of being Ruprecht Carter's own nephew was that if he found something of interest to one of the other partners, he could risk taking it straight to the source. "Tell me — have you heard of the Wanderers' Library?"

Green mist enveloped the two men, then swept back as the Way furled itself shut. Bookshelves of every description stretched into the distance. Behind them, the ceiling climbed slowly up, braced by fluted columns of something grey that wasn't quite stone.
Up ahead, the shelves gave way to a rough archway of the same material. It opened into a broad cavern; the dim light showed other, identical archways scattered around its edge. Bundles of phosphorescent purple lichen dripped from the ceiling in delicate strands at irregular intervals. Each strand was enveloped by a cloud of spores, which danced in the eerie light but never fell. A figure in a floor-length traveling cloak stood beneath one of them. Their posture was one of deep contemplation: hood thrown back, eyes closed, drawing slow, deep breaths. A plume of spores swirled briskly around their head.
Hezekiah cleared his throat. He had managed not to show his nervousness when explaining the situation to the senior partner's secretary, but interrupting the man himself at his studies was another matter. "Mr. Darke?"
Darke exhaled, his eyes snapping open to focus immediately on the two of them. The spores fled upwards in a cloud towards the lichen strand.
"Who — Ah. You're Ruprecht's nephew. Hezekiah, wasn't it?" He strode forward, brushing irritably at his nose. "The L'gzzilit are meticulous historians. Which almost makes up for their unorthodox methods of recordkeeping."
"Good of you to remember me, sir," Zeke replied.
"Nonsense. That alchemist you sent me was competent, for a change."
"In fact," the salesman brightened a bit, "it was through Mitterling, indirectly, that I became acquainted with Herman Fuller."
Herman nodded. "Pleased to meet you."
Zeke continued, "Mr. Fuller has knowledge of the locations of several collections of Sarkic literature in good condition, some of which may have recently become… ownerless. He also seeks guidance in a course of thaumaturgical study. I surmised you might take an interest, sir, and your granddaughter was kind enough to conduct us here."
"'Ownerless'?" The senior partner tilted his head at Herman. "How did they die?"
"Alchemical fire," said Herman, the smugness creeping back in. "Stank to high heaven."
"Rare books and recent intelligence, yes," Darke murmured. "Abigail knows my tastes. My thanks, Hezekiah, that will be all." He waved a hand in a fluid motion; the salesman evaporated in another cloud of green mist.
Herman had almost caught that gesture. The other man began to stroll down the aisle, his face thoughtful; Herman fell into step beside him.
"Before we get to the recent news, I must think on what literature to recommend. Tell me, which languages do you read?"
"English, Latin," Herman tilted a hand from side to side. "Schoolboy Adytite."
A crack of laughter escaped Darke; he raised the back of his hand to his mouth as if the sound had surprised him. "Schoolboy Adytite! Hah. Young Fuller, I foresee you are going to be a pleasure to teach."
The corner of Herman's mouth crept slowly up. That was the nicest thing anybody had ever said to him. He gazed around the Library hungrily, wondering how long a man would have to live to read it all.

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LEVEL-3//TITAN STAR QUIXOTIC/MOONDROP BLUE//INDIR

IMMEDIATE PAUSE ALL
RECEIVE PRIORITY ORDER
ISSUE VERIFIED: OPCOM
DISCLOSE ALL CONTACT WITH AGENTS OF MARKDOWN MONOLITH
DISCLOSE ALL BLACKBOOK OPERATIONS TARGETING MARKDOWN MONOLITH
FREEZE ALL OPERATIONS TARGETING MARKDOWN MONOLITH
VERIFY AS RECEIVED ON SECURE BAND

LEVEL-3//TITAN STAR QUIXOTIC/MOONDROP BLUE//INDIR

"Her lucre is poorly hoarded," said Dhole, staring out a window at the courtyard below. The wide pool was full of squawking whelps, all overseen by parents hiding in the shade of wide-leafed trees. Her gaze focused squarely on one elegant woman reclining on a long chair. She appeared utterly composed, as if to defy her observers' ominous presence.
"Tell me about it." Egret held watch over the same woman through a pair of binoculars. Her short, mud-brown hair stuck out at odd angles, and she still reeked of sleep's sweat.
"It is retained in transient numbers. Wealth is false until substantiated in silver or stone."
"Sure," chirped Egret in the sweet tone that was a mask of its own. "I keep telling my accountant, 'substantiate my wealth!' She just won't listen to me."
The two of them watched wordlessly out the window, intermittently drinking water and eating trash. A television blared behind them, telling tale of sordid affairs, herbal remedies, and would-be rulers of the place called Florida. The target of their surveillance stayed in place all the while. Others came and went from the chair next to hers, stopping long enough to hold short conversations, but none stayed for long.
"Who is this Sakarya, to so vex our houndmaster?" asked Dhole, scratching the side of her canine mask absentmindedly.
"Really, stop calling the Overseer that," said her unpleasant companion around a mouthful of candy. She loudly chewed a few more times. "Anyway, aren't you the expert on nature? You tell me."
"Her shadow stills in shifting light. She thinks herself a fortress."
"Sounds about right." Egret tossed the empty wrapper aside and downed most of a bottle of water in one long drink. "She chairs the Ethics Committee. Gives the yearly address. Tells everyone they're all doing good things and to not worry over it."
"Do you doubt her?"
"We got different speeches in Alpha-1."
More meetings followed. Some visitors were clearly uncomfortable with the locale, while others looked more than happy to linger in their bathing suits. Eventually, so many passed that they could only be remembered by barest features. Greased hair. Runed tattoos. Bone bracelets. Some held themselves like kings, others like peasants. All came to kneel in Sakarya's makeshift court.
"They grovel well, do they not?"
"They're scared. Lots of important people have been disappearing lately. Big holes opening up." Egret's crooked smile was apparent in her tone. "The Coalition's still got all their big guns up in orbit pointing the wrong way, and the Autumn Firm don't get their hands dirty anymore, so who else could be responsible but the big, scary Foundation? They're all coming to beg off our list, not that she can help."
Dhole sniffed loudly and shook her head. She knew the type too well. "A magister should not seek to rule swine, no matter their number."
"Yeah, I don't think the Overseer likes her much either."
"Will she die today?"
Egret laughed, and sounded all the more like a songbird for it. Even the barking of a dog would have been better. "Do you want to do it yourself? Something get your blood boiling?"
"'twas reasonable to ask. Your wake invites it."
"Fair enough. She's living through the day as far as I know. We're here to deliver a message."
"A return to my question, then."
"Not that kind of message. Sakarya's getting important enough to be trouble. The Overseer wants her to understand how things really work. Problem is, Alpha-1's being real antsy about standing between the Council and the Committee. Bunch of cowards."
"So, a message."
"Right. Just a quick talk."
"Have you given thought to your knotted empire?"
"Don't need to. The Overseer will work things out. She's managed until now."
"The past is a poor sage. History a famous liar."
Egret said nothing to that, but she hardly needed to. Dhole knew well enough what would happen when their master's plotting finally collapsed. A bloodless coup was but a fantasy of plotters and schemers. To overturn was to cause disorder, and to cause disorder was to do violence. The form of that violence may differ, but she had no doubt that she would be thrust into its midst.

Dhole avoided the notice of the uninitiated as well as ever. It was a necessary thing, when so many in this world viewed her as an oddity. She slunk behind Egret, rough poolside scraping her bare feet, doing her best to not see odd patterns on the tall woman's freckled back. The sun beat down incessantly, and even the scant fabric of her swimsuit felt like too much. No one else seemed as abused by the heat. For all the screaming of children, the vacationers looked supremely confident in their safety. The feeling was not mutual.
Harm was wished upon her from nearby. The sensation came naturally, just as her judge of worth at a glance. There was caution to the wish, trepidation, but harm all the same. A quick look to each side revealed nothing. Was a sunbather armed? A parent? A child? The nature of the threat eluded her, as did its source. The sensation had never been sharper, save the day her life fell apart. Surviving another collapse would be one miracle too far.
"Egret."
"I know."
"There's–"
"I know."
"Then bare your own teeth! What other merit has a mongrel?"
"You're the one attracting all the attention. Take off the stupid mask already."
"As soon as you strip face from skull."
Dhole jerked back as Egret swatted blindly behind her. Truly a brute in every way. They rounded the corner of the poolside toward the sovereign's seat. The creeping chill of a threat grew into the tingling touch of anticipated ruin. A drawn blade. A caressed trigger. She could not quench the feeling. Egret's leisurely pace could only be a result of her blindness to the danger. Her lithe movements a sign of numb ignorance. A leering gull squawked loudly at her. Never had an omen been so clear.
Sakarya's throne sat under a cluster of drooping palms. The shade was not absolute, beads of sunlight drifted back and forth, tracing irregular paths between blades of grass and over her reclining body. Reclining was not the right word to describe the sleek woman. Lounging, perhaps, in the style that demanded supreme confidence. A master of her surroundings, like a stray perched atop an overfull dumpster. Like someone soon to be chastened by fate. She lifted her mirrored glasses long enough to show dark, demanding eyes. Undoubtedly, a form made to match spirit.
"You aren't on my schedule," she said with all the finality of a royal hangman.
"You can make room," said Egret with all the unflappability of a gallows' survivor.
No bodyguards intervened to break the tension between them. No knights rode to the defense of their liege. Even the tingling sensation failed to rise higher up her spine as Egret sat down on the spare lawn chair that had seated the endless stream of supplicants. They made for an odd sorting of power. Dhole, who knew herself to be entirely without might, stood tall behind Egret, who herself overflowed with personal violence. Though arrayed beneath them both, Sakarya was clearly mightier by far. She was armored in the iron of an institution. She bristled with all its ire. Small wonder so many chose to grovel.
"Five minutes," she said.
"My employer wants to commend you," said Egret, repeating the words she had been practicing late into the night. "You're truly impressive, Chairwoman. You've risen quickly. Unified your people. A real leader is something rare. Take it as a compliment from someone who has struggled to do the same."
"I appreciate that. I might appreciate it even more if I knew my admirer's name."
"Put some of those impressive resources to use if you're curious. What's the point of poaching them from the rest of the Foundation otherwise?"
"You've got an odd way of asking for help."
"We're not here to grovel," chirped Egret, clearly pleased at a chance to steal Dhole's phrase. "You heard my employer's compliment, now listen to their offer. Your influence in the Foundation has grown. Their influence has always been wide. They say a partnership for stability would behoove you both."
Sakarya raised her glasses again, and for the first time truly seemed to be looking at the two of them. The claws of danger dug a little deeper into Dhole's back. "It behooves me to carry on. Whoever your employer is, they can rest easy. I don't plan on changing anything that doesn't need it."
"My employer would prefer if you didn't muck around more with anything at all. You lifted up the Ethics Committee, good. My employer knows they can do important work. Now leave well enough alone. Do that, and you can have anything you want."
The silence that followed was immediate and uncomfortable. Sakarya stretched and shifted, Egret flexed her fingers against each other, and both seemed to consider the other an unworthy opponent. A joint popped, a sigh escaped, and Dhole could not help but feel like each had misjudged. The thug in making every word a threat. The ruler in not considering the offer behind the words. She could not speak to the state of the mysterious Foundation, but a brokered peace must be better than a needless war.
"Don't be in such a hurry," said Egret. "Your plans are going to ruin everything."
"What do you know about my plans?"
"Me? Nothing. My employer knows about everything."
"They should have come in person, then."
"They're too busy for that. Busier than you, if you've got time for vacations. You don't need to answer today. Consider the offer: a powerful friend and anything you could want, all for a little bit of patience."
"I don't have time for this." Sakarya shooed Egret away with a casual wave of her hand. "I won't report you to your superiors in Alpha-1. Tell the Council not to send anyone else. They're already on my list."
"Do I look like I work for them? Would I be dragging around this weirdo? Dhole, show her." Was she supposed to roll over and play dead? Beg for treats? Still, if this was what it took to walk away from the tense conference faster…
Dhole pulled a single coin from her hoard. It was old silver of a denomination that escaped her memory. The stern face carved into one side was quickly buried by more and more coins, until she held a tiny mountain of precious metals in her hands. It was a comforting weight. Still, she cast it back into its rightful place as soon as the point was made.
"A nice trick," said Sakarya.
"You know better than that. Especially you," said Egret. She seemed to weigh the next words on some invisible scale. Balanced against what though? Spite? Malevolence? Obligation? A decision was made regardless. "How's a wizard's kid not going to recognize magic when she sees it?"
One corner of the woman's mouth drew back and open, exposing a bare glimpse of perfect teeth. An unpleasant expression on a pleasant face. A revelation of a single mar in a sterling history. The sudden stillness in the air was a sign of its magnitude. The sudden quiet, a sign of its truth. Chairwoman Sakarya, leader of the Ethics Committee and a star ascendant, raised a firm hand from her side into the air. The amorphous danger in the air tightened to a tight bead at the center of her Dhole's back.
"You know that won't help," said Egret. "Blow my head off, sure. Who do I represent though? Who comes running after? Worse, who hears about your secret? Think you can keep your job ethically after that? Conflicts of interest are scary things."
Sakarya paused, and for a moment she seemed ready to finish her signal all the same. It would have served Egret justly, death for taking such joy in this affair. To have the act finally reciprocated upon herself. Dhole tensed, and fully expected to die first. Why shouldn't it, when nothing else had been right in this world? The ominous hand lowered, the threat disarmed.
"Leave. Now."
"Just think on the deal. My employer would have ruined you already if they wanted to. Your goals aren't any different. Keep the peace. Protect humanity. This doesn't need to be a war against the world unless you make it one. My employer can help, if you let them."
The elegant woman turned her head away, and the matter was clearly done. Egret stood, and Dhole followed her back along the poolside. She had been used for base deception. Worse, her life had been put in peril for that poor veil. All the same, she found herself unable to summon up scalding fury as they padded through the hotel's carpeted corridors. It flickered, sputtered, and finally burned out. Anger was born of shock, and Dhole had none left for her life's handling. Egret would spend it on nothing at all if given the chance, just as easy as she pushed coins into the vending machine across from their room.
"Twix?" asked the fang given flesh. "Snickers?" asked the weight and chain dragging her deep into the world's morass.

"You would have seen us slain, in her place," said Dhole, from her seat in the burgundy sedan as it crawled down the crowded highway. The sun was low, the scrublands' shadows long, and the world itself seemed to be dozing serenely.
"Oh, definitely," said Egret.
"Then why risk an appearance before her?"
"Some messages have to be delivered in person."
"Will she agree?"
"Who knows? Ego gets in the way for people like her. Worst case, we'll have to send a different kind of message. She'll follow the Overseer eventually. You'll see."

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Groups Of Interest » Marshall, Carter and Dark Hub
Groups Of Interest » GOI-001: Chicago Spirit

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Misconduct on the Magnificent Mile
A Chicago Spirit tale.
Author Page: The Rounderpage™
Thanks to Captain Kirby, DrChandra, and mayoculpa for crit on this.

May 22nd, 1911
The handle of the Colt jammed against Noah's stomach. He nervously adjusted the ragged derby cap on his head and rustled his hair in the warm June air. Though the noon sun beat down upon his back, Noah Welles Jr. had sweat beading on his forehead for a different reason. Looking around at the bustling crowd typical to a Saturday on the Magnificent Mile, he grimaced. He had tried to dissuade Chappell from making a move in such a populated, high-risk area, but the boss had deemed the risk worth it. Letting the Sharpers ship another set of Carrolls out to Boston would be losing out on hundreds of thousands of dollars in profit.
So Chappell has authorized this venture. A dozen men arranged across the busiest shopping district in Chicago, all armed to the teeth. Noah had no doubt that the Spirit had set up some sort of roadblock to stop the shipment, but he wasn't quite sure what. For now, he was more than content to lean against the brick exterior of a Sears and Roebuck and watch the traffic go by. He shot a glance at the alley where their own truck was hidden. Perfectly invisible, though not at all due to the location of the alley. Chappell probably had someone place a spell over it or some equally bizarre voo-doo.
People crossed Noah's vision, a few tossing him curious glances but none sticking around. Most were customers of the surrounding shops, carrying bags weighted down with expensive goods. Magnificient Mile was verily a pickpocket's paradise. But Noah had long since graduated from the brutal school of petty street crime. He was moving up, higher and higher into the innards of the organized crime racket. Since his improptu introduction to the Spirit seven months ago, he had rapidly become a made man and enforcer. He was good at his duties, which is why he had been chosen for this job.
Noah jammed a hand into the pocket of his slightly-too-short three-piece suit. He extracted it, dragging out a pocket watch on a length of gold chain behind him. 1:23, it read. The convoy would be coming along any minute now.
He stood slightly straighter, shooting subtle looks at the score of other Spirit members he could see. They all looked similar, a dreadful mixture of fear and anticipation apparent on their faces. More than likely they were just fresh meat promised good money, pleasant company, and fresh booze. They had absolutely no idea what they were getting themselves into. A small part of him wished that he could run across the street, take them by the shoulder and shake some sense into them. The other, larger part of him knew he would more than likely never risk his own neck for someone else like that.
He turned his neck, wiping his drenched brow with his forearm. In the distance, he could see a large black truck belching out smoke as it lurched forward in traffic. He stiffened and began formulating the fastest way to break into the back. There was no point in sitting around and regretting his decision. The die was cast.
The truck sped ahead, crossing in front of Noah. Through the glass, he could see two grizzled men in purple and black uniforms. Sharpers.
The Sharpers were the second most powerful force in the city, disregarding the Spirit. They had courier routes through the entirety of Chicago and a near-monopoly on Carroll transport overland. More importantly, the presence of two powerful anomalous groups in a confined space was a lose-lose situation. No matter what, one would always be inhibiting the other's growth. Currently, the Chicago Spirit was the one being inhibited. Chappell had decided it was time to change that.
Noah watched as the back of the truck sped away from him. Worry grew in his chest. Had the roadblock not been set up? Had it been neutralized? Just then, a bright flash dismissed his questions.
Ahead of him, he could see the roof of the truck rising and rising. Noah slipped a hand into his belt and whipped out the Colt revolver stashed there, fully loaded. He took off at a sprint, trying to catch up with the truck, shoving aside pedestrians and urchins. All across the Mile, he could see other fellows dressed in suits and pinstripes dashing in the general direction of the truck. He set his jaw and focused on the ruckus coming from ahead of him.
Pushing through a crowd of stunned onlookers, he skidded to a stop. A couple meters away from him, the Sharpers' truck was hovering 20 feet in the air, the drivers dangling through the door windows.
"GET BACK!" he roared to the gawkers crowing around him. Intimidated, they scuttled back as more and more Spirit men began shoving them aside. Above them, the truck floated higher yet. Any second now, it would come-
Before Noah could finish his thought, the truck spun in the air and took a nosedive straight down. With enough force to crush a normal man, the truck burrowed into the concrete and came to a rest with its rear doors facing up. Shrapnel and concrete flew everywhere, a rather large piece grazing Noah's cheek. He pressed a hand against his face, pulling it back to see blood smeared across it. He wiped it across his vest.
Striding forward, he aimed the sights of his pistol down, into the center of the truck doors. Squeezing the trigger, he shot lead directly into the lock, completely shattering it. He barked an order to the gang members surrounding him.
"You, run to the truck and tell them to haul ass over here. Everyone else, help me pull out these crates."
The crowd of young men jumped at his command. The scrawniest one sprinted for the alley Noah knew the truck was in, and the rest began extracting crates loaded down with Carrolls from the back of the truck. Leaning over one another, they worked as a team to toss in two men, who then helped lift out the crates.
Noah whipped around as he heard a squeal of tires. A large truck branded with a Charles and Sons logo raced towards them, a man in a pinstripe suit hanging on to the rear from a handhold. As it approached, it slowed down. Noah kept his full focus on it. He knew that because of its antimemetic nature, losing sight of it would make it much more difficult to find if he focused on something else. His men had been disciplined well, and they barely hesitated before tossing the hijacked crates into the back of the new truck.
"Took you long enough, Russo."
"I always arrive fashionably late."
The troupe worked in silence for nearly two minutes. All pedestrians had long since abandoned the once-bustling street, and abandoned cars littered the asphalt. Noah and Russo had done jobs like this, and they both knew that any minute now, the paddies would arrive. Neither of them said anything, not wishing to distract the newbloods. The truck was already nearly full, just a few more seconds…
The shriek of a police siren drew Noah out of his reverie. He once again drew his pistol and popped another bullet into the chamber as Russo reached into the passenger door of the truck and pulled out a Thompson. The newbloods pulled out their pistols and submachine guns with trembling hands as a line of police cars sped into the street. The blue and red strobe lights flashed through the otherwise emptied square.
The truck was full, and it was time to leave.
Noah spun and waved his hand, motioning everyone to toss themselves into the truck. They willingly obliged, hustling in and arranging themselves on the floor of crates. Russo didn't budge, and set his jaw. Before Noah could pull rank, a voice bellowed across the street.
"THIS IS THE POLICE. PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND STEP FORWARD WITH YOUR HANDS UP."
Noah cleared his threat, ready to recite the speech he held ready for these situations. Something along the lines of how he'd rather die than turn himself over to the pigs, and how when-
BRATATATATATATATA
Russo howled a laugh as he let loose a volley from his Thompson.
"How's that, pigs?"
Russo was still laughing as Noah grabbed him and threw him in the truck before leaping in after him. Everyone scuttled back as Russo smashed against the opposite side of the truck and landed in a heap.
"When I give you an order, you obey it. Now drive!"
The truck ratcheted forward, the door still swinging open. The driver, whoever he was, expertly slid and careened between empty autos and potholes. What he couldn't avoid was the large police blockade ahead of them. A dozen officers stood in front of their cars, a spike track spread out across the street.
"I REPEAT, PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND EXIT THE VEHICLE."
Noah leaned back inside. He had to do something. Eyeing a particular chest labeled WEAPONRY, he tossed off the cover as everyone in the cab stared at him. Looking down, he grinned.

Chicago Police Sergeant Mathias fidgeted with his Smith & Wesson, flicking the cylinder in and out of the revolver. The truck was still ahead of them, facing the blockade with a darkened windshield. It had already been thirty seconds since he had called out the surrender order. He didn't want to open fire, but he was willing to. He ran a hand through his beard. The other officers looked at him quizzically. He had to act soon.
Before the words could escape from his lips, the trucks engine screeched and it began moving. It sped forward, faster and faster, heading directly for the blockade.
"DIVE!"
Mathias screamed as he threw himself to the side. He lay on the ground waiting for the crushing weight of the truck to overtake him. It never did. He tentatively opened one eye.
The truck was completely gone. All the other officers lay on the street, equally as confused as him. Mathias sat up. He was not looking forward to the reports he would have to file.

The passengers of the truck shouted as it suddenly bounced back into realspace. They were in a warehouse, the vehicle parked dead in the center. Around them was a welter of activity, as dozens smugglers in the employ of the Spirit rapidly moved boxes filled with contraband between several trucks while foremen directed their activity with shouts and hollers. Noah stepped out of the truck on shaky legs.
"New shipment, get unloading!"

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The Summer of Blood

Nobody Likes Having Enemies