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⚠ Content warning: This article contains mentions of suicide.

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From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: I'm at my limit.
Date: February 1st, 2018 at 15:31:59
Hey, Critic. Sure you heard, but the Menagerie's hosting a general exhibition on the 18th. I've got most of the slots filled, but I still need about four or five more acts last minute before I feel comfortable attracting the kind of crowd I need right now.
Three things I want to mention:

MC&D are actively gentrifying the BackDoor.
The Menagerie's union-owned.
My two biggest sponsors, in art and money, were the KoH Collective and Olney.

Do the math.

From: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Someone's at their limit.
Date: February 1st, 2018 at 17:28:59
Relax, James, relax. The Menagerie's gonna live if I gotta say in it.
Look, you have a show coming up, right? Let me loan you my private collection for one, and for two, U of SoHo loves the place. I'll put out an open call, see if they can't whip something up for the exhibit. Don't feel like this is gonna be the end of the world, that's the Jailers' jobs.

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: Big Thanks
Date: February 1st, 2018 at 19:44:59
Thanks, yeah. I just didn't expect Yarkoni to hang herself on the same month Olney collapsed, but I suppose this is the wrong business in terms of workplace safety.
Still, no matter the dire straits, I'm glad to know you have my back.

Project Proposal 2018-59: I Heart My Prophet

Title: I Heart My Prophet by Hansarp
Material Requirements:
Custom-made molding of Chief Foreman Robert Bumaro (already in my possession)
15 gallons of chocolate
A refrigerator
Intent: Love is a strange emotion, expressed in a myriad of forms.
As a devout Mekhanite, I have often been told that I am beloved by my prophet, and I have often told others that I love my prophet. I know this to be true: I love Robert Bumaro and he loves me, for through his grace and his guidance towards MEKHANE I am able to live out my blessed life as it is.
Many of the devout would argue that the ultimate expression of love is sex. It's the culmination of a partnership coming together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. It's two people who love each other committing an act of love, and there's nothing more beautiful than that.
Abstract: I am going to fellate the anatomically correct chocolate Robert Bumaro as a display of my love and passion not just towards him, but towards MEKHANE.

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: BUMARO COCK
Date: February 5th, 2018 at 13:06:59
[this email has no body text]

From: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Re: BUMARO COCK
Date: February 5th, 2018 at 16:27:59
Ohhh, that one.
Really I'm not seeing the problem. I mean A it's gonna generate a crapton of talk, B it's not nearly as bad as the creepy minotaur thing a while back, and C, don't tell me you don't wanna see how this goes down.

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: Re:Re: BUMARO COCK
Date: February 5th, 2018 at 17:55:59
Alright, one, don't cite that creepy minotaur at me. That was all Tamlin.
Two, what you're suggesting I bill is akin to Mekhanite sacrilege. Need I remind the BackDoor homes about as many Mekhanites as NYC homes Jews? At least Judaism lacks Mitzvah regarding welding a cannon to one's arm.
Three, this is all disregarding the overly sexual nature of the piece in question. I don't care what Hansarp does in his spare time, but while he's in the Menagerie, he will be sucking exactly zero cocks, whether hiding in the bathroom or on the exhibit floor.
I am not putting this in the itinerary.

From: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Re:Re:Re: BUMARO COCK
Date: February 5th, 2018 at 20:00:59
You know it sounds to me like someone doesn't want their museum saved.

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Re: BUMARO COCK
Date: February 5th, 2018 at 20:19:59
Are you missing the part where a madman wants to suck Bumaro's cock? In my Menagerie? You are turning my exhibit into exhibitionism!
Most of my invitations were already sent out. You have that list! Riddle me this, Critic: did you see a single Adytum's Lodge moron? Any one of the House of Spades goons? Did I headline, subtitle, byline, backpage, Sunday funny a single bit of lawyer-bait? No! Because the Menagerie can't afford that, because it doesn't want that.
Look, everything else so far's gold. I don't know how you got that kinda talent, and frankly I don't care. But know that as long as I'm in charge, Bumaro's cock remains unsucked. Capiche?

Trip Through the BackDoor

Step On Through

BACKDOOR SOHO
TUESDAY FEBRUARY 6TH, 2018
5¢ - NO REFUNDS

CLOCK DOC CHOC COCK COCKBLOCK ART SHOCK

A REPUGNANT DISPLAY OF CENSORSHIP

By Lyre Lamarr-Turing

BACKDOOR - It's a grim day when, in the very capital of anomalous counterculture, the allure of money reigns supreme over the duty of an artist.
Several sources near and dear to this devastated journalist has confided in them that "I Heart My Prophet", the newest masterpiece of award-winning anartist Hansarp, has been pulled from the upcoming Menagerie exhibition, despite overwhelming support from anartists world-wide. The culprit? None other than The Curator himself. The motive? Money.

The Menagerie's actions might have gone unnoticed, if not for the bravery of several anonymous sources within the SoHo anart scene.

If you hadn't yet heard of "I Heart My Prophet", we don't blame you. A bold piece involving…

From: ed.liamces|fgnedragkcidgib#ed.liamces|fgnedragkcidgib
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Regarding the actions of the Menagerie.
Date: February 6th, 2018 at 11:31:59
Hello.
I have to say I'm disappointed in the Menagerie. The world of art is no stranger to controversy; it is, additionally, no stranger to fake controversy. I find it ludicrous that a simple display of faith (one I might add appears predominantly in the BackDoor), no matter how lurid it may appear on text, would prompt such a rash decision.
I am thus issuing an ultimatum: reinstate I Heart My Prophet in the exhibition itinerary, or remove my works from the Menagerie in their entirety.
Sincerely,

From: krd.hok|atapazl#krd.hok|atapazl
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: :(
Date: February 6th, 2018 at 12:08:59

Oh No! You've just lost yourself your very own Mrs. Gentrification by Gamers Against Weed! Who would've thought you'd become another cog in the machine? And who is Dr. Wondertainment?
Betray them all and become Mr. Sellout!
01. Mr. Literal Serial Killer
02. Mr. Normie
03. Mr. Bernie Sanders
04. Mr. Get Anything For Free In Any Shop
20. Mr. Sex Number
21. Mr. Heavenly Virtues
22. Mr. Deadly Sins
23. Mr. Original Character
24. Mr. D.A.R.E.
25. Mrs. Gentrification ✔
26. Ms. Mad About Video Games
27. Mr. Meme
28. Mr. Ominous (discontinued)
29. Mr. Destiny
30. Mr. Monty Python And The Holy Grail
31. Ms. Zapatista
32. Mr. Hax
33. Mr. Just Has The Tattoo
34. Mr. Top Text and Mr. Bottom Text
35. Mr. Finale

From: cog.tenazzip|2senraBR#cog.tenazzip|2senraBR
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Re: The Statue
Date: February 6th, 2018 at 12:21:59
Hi there!
As one of the oldest pizza establishments in the BackDoor, we're proud to see someone taking a stand against vulgarity for vulgarity's sake. The BackDoor is, after all, the culture capital of the anomalous world; if our standards degenerate, so does our standing.
We are therefore offering the Menagerie's upcoming exhibition extensive catering services, free of charge. It's the least we can do to show our thanks, and hopefully make up for the Union boycotts. Of course, we'll need access to some of the backrooms, but it'll be worth it for the level of service we provide.

R. L. Barnes
Spicy Crust Pizza

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: You
Date: February 6th, 2018 at 17:58:59
Hello Critic, how are you doing today? I'm doing super. Peachy. I'm fucking peachy. I have grown a thick layer of fuzz and a Chinese folk hero is going to pluck me from a gravid branch and make me into medicine. I have never been anymore peachy than I am at this exact moment. I am doing very fine.
Attached to this email is an internet-famous image of a man stretching his asshole open. If I were not peachy, say if someone FED BULLSHIT TO THE FUCKING TTTB, I'd think this would be an appropriate image to send to someone.
Take care! You're paying for my funeral. <3
Attached:

hello.jpg

From: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Okay, drama queen
Date: February 7th, 2018 at 07:18:59
Jeez, sorry for sending talent your way.
Listen James, I know things are stressful, but you gotta remember what the biz is like. Handling controversy's the name of the game. 'sides, TTTB's gonna generate buzz whether you like it or not, and I know how much you like buzz.
Seriously, don't stress too hard. Just put it back in and let everything fall into place.

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: Here's another picture of you
Date: February 7th, 2018 at 09:31:59
[this email has no body text]
Attached:

wormdick.png

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: I hate my life.
Date: February 8th, 2018 at 20:48:59
Hey buddy ol pal ol friend of mine my dear friend the Critic who is so good to me they sabotaged my exhibit my ol acquaintance. Here's the latest update on the mess you stuck me in:

From: NAW.tlatsegeht|slenapyhctap#NAW.tlatsegeht|slenapyhctap
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: MSAN Response
Date: February 8th, 2018 at 11:59:59
Greetings,
On 02/05/2018, records indicate that I Heart My Prophet, a performance artpiece by one Mxr. Hansarp, was pulled from the Menagerie's upcoming exhibition. Following its removal, the general public at-large condemned the move; as the largest Mekhanite civil rights group in the Linuxsphere, the Mekhanite Self-Advocacy Network was thus obligated to respond to the event in question.
The MSAN has reviewed the case at large, and has come to the following conclusion:
This email is to inform you that you have been nominated for condemnation by the MSAN, following the arbitrary censorship of Mxr. Hansarp's act of self-expression. The MSAN accepts that I Heart My Prophet's core content might have been risque; however, it is the opinion of the MSAN the performance itself would be no more obscene than pieces such as Quin preu és la virtut? and The Book of Tamlin, both of which had been exhibited in the past by the Menagerie. It is therefore the conclusion of the MSAN that the removal of Mxr. Hansarp's piece was motivated primarily by mekhanophobic intentions.
Should you choose to reinstate I Heart My Prophet in the exhibition itinerary, condemnation proceedings will cease. It is the opinion of Reverend Technician Pandora Ellis that this is the preferred option in regards to the financial future of the Menagerie.
We hope to hear from you soon.

Reverend Technician Pandora Ellis

To whom it may concern,

On behalf of the SoHo Temple Ironworks, we strongly condemn your inclusion of one Mxr. Hansarp's I Heart My Prophet in your upcoming exhibit. While our Patriarchs recognize that you have pulled it from the itinerary, we are nonetheless obligated to condemn your carelessness.

The SoHo Temple Ironworks holds the Menagerie accountable for the following blasphemies:

The allowance of idolatry through the worship of a mortal in the name of M-KHANE.
The depiction of a faithful in the medium of "milk chocolate", an aspect of FLESH.
The perversion inherent to a depiction of a Layperson performing oral sex on a Post-Nibbanic Foreman, especially in regards to the imbalance of power necessary for such an act.

Regardless of the Broken Church's publicized support of Mxr. Hansarp's piece, the Menagerie cannot ignore the grievances of the BackDoor's significant Orthodoxist population. Know that we are disappointed in your carelessness, and implore you to do better in the future.

Brother-Schematist Key

Congratulations, I'm doomed. Whatever you did with TTTB, you doomed the Menagerie. Alternatively, you've doomed me. I am stuck between a giant, steaming rock and a hard place carrying enough current to fry my ass faster than a thunderstorm. Do you appreciate just how hard you screwed me? Do you?
Get me out of this now.

From: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Possible solution.
Date: February 9th, 2018 at 14:28:59
Right so, first of all sorry for trying to save the Menagerie from mediocrity. Second, I've talked a lot of people on this, so bear with me:
Hansarp's willing to compromise; Mekhanites hate making enemies, you know how it goes. Basically instead of using a chocolate Bumaro, he uses Fauxcolate (kosher Mekhanite "chocolate" made from synthetics like oil) to craft the likeness of Mekhane, then polishes off that. I've spoken to people from all three of the main branches, and it's completely kosher. It's even in line with the Orthodox thing about "Divine Submission". Whaddya say?

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: Re: Possible solution.
Date: February 9th, 2018 at 14:39:59
I am begging you to give me literally any other option. I will approve literally anything you send my way.

From: krd.liamhcrot|xecnirpyranomlup#krd.liamhcrot|xecnirpyranomlup
To: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
Subject: Act Proposal
Date: February 10th, 2018 at 18:41:59
Hey, this is Zend Kivelä! The Critic might've told you about me.
I heard you were looking for help regarding the mess revolving around that one Mekh's piece. Personally I thought it was hilarious, but I guess other people can't appreciate a good piece of sacrilege when they see it.
I'm proposing an alternative, complete with a way out. See, I'm an up and coming artist. I'm also an unapologetic Nälkän. It would make sense that, if you were trying to promote the little guy, you'd exclude the kinds of people who wouldn't take well to xeir leanings. No harm, no foul, just… it's me or him, and he's got enough awards already.
I've actually got a piece ready! It's a fleshcraft so I do need to feed it now and then, and I'll also probably need the +18 room you had reserved for Hansarp's, but Ion Tames The Scarlet Archon is sure to be a hit (don't ask me how much research I had to do on squid penises lmao)!
Critic tells me you already pre-approved this, so I'll spare you the abstract. Thanks in advance! :D

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: [no subject]
Date: February 10th, 2018 at 18:55:59
I give up.

From: krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc#krd.liamhcrot|ehtrotaruc
To: krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon#krd.liamhcrot|citircasydobon
Subject: A message.
Date: February 19th, 2018 at 23:59:00
Yesterday I woke up, put on my suit, and went to the show I spent weeks organizing. This show had to BE perfect, and I wish with all my heart there was a way to emphasize that "be" more. I had to have the perfect line-up, with the perfect crowd, and everything had to run absolutely perfectly.
So let's flash back to one week prior.
Let me set the scene: just, say, five days prior, my mentor, the teacher I trusted most in the whole goddamn world, the absolute authority on East Coast anart, snuck a story into the TTTB about how I pulled a vulgar sex act from an itinerary that never included it in the first place, and somehow that was a bad thing. I became the knuckle-dragging moral panic bogeyman over fake news. For five excruciating days, I was the most hated man in America. It was as if Karl Marx lived in a nation of McCarthies, and he had just bombed a bus of mixed Vietnamese-Korean orphans of the incorrect latitude.
I would have lived one hundred of those days than experience another singular second of the week that followed the """re"""incorporation of Hansarp's living obscenity into my perfect show.
Do you know how many people pulled out over your libelous garbage? Me neither. I stopped counting once it hit the double digits. Do you know how many pulled back in when I let myself sully my perfect show? All of them. One hundred percent. This was all they cared about. Do you know how it feels to know your star artists, your past and present peers care less about you than some cum-brained dullard?
I can't even hate him. When I called him up to tell him I'd surrendered, I was finished, he didn't even care. I was not admonished, chastised, nor was I praised. He thanked me and hung up.
Fate wouldn't even dignify me with righteous anger.
For seven days, I didn't leave my apartment. I cried, screamed, lied perfectly still with a weight in my stomach; like something had pumped lead into my appendix until it burst. But I never left. How could I ever show my face again? I sold out. I failed you and I failed Melanie. I wasn't Cool.
As I'm typing this, I look to my fingers. These are the fingers of a fraud, a hack, a garbage human. Can I still ask, with a straight face, if I'm Cool Yet, knowing the answer will never be affirmative? When I punch the dirty bathroom mirror, am I still fighting the reflection of a man?
I don't even know if I still grieve for the ideal, unblemished past that could have been. I just want to feel genuine again.
So let's get back to the not-so-distant past of yesterday. I vomited twice, thinking of the show. Only a week before, the horror of getting pasted by Mekhanite cannon fire felt so viscerally real, but now, now it wasn't even horror: it was the ideal. Every minute instant was colored by the desire to be reduced to fine cinders on the way to that rotten show. If I had disintegrated in a single, joyous second, that would have been enough.
You can't know what it felt like, walking inside. Seeing the years of my hard work, everything in perfect working order, sandwiching the absolute most attractive, most repugnantly beautiful depiction of the Broken God ever crafted of synthetic chocolate. You want to know what wasn't Broken, Critic? Take a guess.
I'll give you a hint: Ten. Whole. Inches.
I need to reiterate: it was beautiful. Divine. In that horrid span of time it took my brain to register the Gnosis and its glorious stick-shift, it was as if the air had been stolen from my lungs by a fey vacuum. I knew then that Hansarp had been genuine, completely and utterly genuine: this was devotion at its purest, a magnum opus fueled by love in less than a fortnight. In that brief, intoxicating wet-nightmare, even I wanted to drop to my knees in reverence and suck off the Broken One.
Can I still call myself The Curator? I feel as a ghost, an empty imprint of a broken man blown away by a divine wind.
I can't remember much between then and The Main Show. Lindholm's botany was beautiful as usual, Zapata played the violin with inhuman grace to an applause of a dozen dead tenants past, Amador and Burg's performance… perhaps in another life, it'd have roused a righteous anger in me. Now, I can only say that I was faintly amused.
And then… then came I Heart My Prophet. Then came Hansarp.
All at once, as if a million black flies dove from the vents to skin me alive, to strip me of my muscles until only a skeleton remained, I simultaneously stood stunned in silence and, deep in the fractured recesses of my psyche, screamed with a searing, seething fury. I knew then I could stop it, tackle the wretched louse as he sauntered towards that chocolate Mekhane, stop this farce once and for all… if only my feet hadn't been weighted down by the unseen force of my compounded despair.
Hansarp began, and lord help me but I watched.
Silently, for that scant eternity, I looked on in a then-unimaginable horror. By some horrid force, some horrid farce, my attention remained firmly on that contemptible copper twink sucking his blackened heart out, the conductor to the Menagerie's ruin. His technique was impeccable, Critic. Take solace knowing that my ruin was performed with skill.
Then, Hansarp went off script.
I hesitate to recall the specifics; the imprint left in my mind is one of pathos, of the shapes and colors of Hansarp blending with Mekhane, who looked to be moving in time with its partner. "You had to be there". I wish you were, instead of I.
When, finally, Hansarp took his bow, I checked my watch to find that my mental clock had been frozen in time, two hours short of the one on my wrist. I rubbed my eyes, and only then did I realize I had begun to cry at some indistinct point in the painfully recent past. Of beauty? Of sorrow? Of sheer existential despair? I don't think I care to know.
Did you know I forgot to disinvite Kivelä? Me neither. I have nothing to say of xeir piece: the effigy of Ion, deep in the effigy of the Scarlet King, might have once moved me, towards disgust or awe.
The Menagerie made bank and everyone loved it.
Fuck you.
-The Curator


TW: The following tale contains heavy suicidal content and mentioned suicide attempts.

Leave yourself alone,
Leave yourself alone.
“Have you seen Iris?”
Clef's eyes rolled lazily over to regard Adams who was stood in front of his desk, mouth pulled taut and arms folded - the only signs of her nervousness painted on a stiff tapestry.
“No,” he grunted, uninterested. “Why?”
“Don't you find it just that little bit concerning that I'm here asking where a skip is?”
“Not really.”
She audibly groaned. He barely raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Don't you find it a little bit concerning that I'm here asking you where a skip is because I've got no fucking clue.”
He chuffed, “Sounds… like a you problem.”
“Clef.” He knew that tone. That was the Hey, you ugly bastard, could you give a shit about anyone else for even a second tone. He didn't care for it.
He waved his hand absentmindedly before it returned to rest on his keyboard, where he'd previously been devoting a lot of concentration to doing absolutely nothing. “She's probably with Meri.”
“She's not.”
His eyes flashed up to meet hers, half hidden behind his unimpressed guise. “Then you should probably run off and find her, Adams.”
“Jesus Christ.” Clef would've called it disbelief, but Adams should've been used to it by now. With a squeak, her heel twisted on the floor and she marched out of the room, snarling other expletives.
Clef returned to his work. Or lack-thereof. And he was very dedicated to it.
Propping his feet up on the desk he began to absent-mindedly scroll through the Foundation's intraweb, seeing if there was anything juicy going on that he could settle his teeth into. There never was.
And then, approximately 8 minutes later, he had a thought.
“Huh,” he muttered out loud, “That is concerning.”
He pondered to himself a moment more before finally convincing his legs to make a move and hauled himself up from his desk, shrugging on the well-worn lab coat that was slung over the back of the cheap swivel chair.
105, Iris , wasn't the type to just… wander. Go missing. She was loyal, she'd proved that numerous times. And while she was allowed a certain clearance level due to her position on the mobile taskforce, it certainly was strange that even Adams could not locate her.
Now , he thought, If I was a twenty-something skip stuck in containment what would I do. Probably kill myself, the boredom must be unreal. He chuckled to himself; being a staff member here often felt just as claustrophobic as the containment cells.
He wandered for a bit more, half-heartedly keeping an eye out for Iris. She wouldn't have left - she couldn't have left. She'd be around somewhere and either he or Adams would find her soon enough. No need for the stress. But just to be sure…
Can't you see that you're only here to be torn apart,
Based upon, and nothing else?
He ran across a couple of junior researchers, their arms laden with various binders and books, clearly trying their best to impress. With mild terror in their eyes at being approached by the imposing and infamous Clef, they nervously informed him that no, they had not seen Iris, but was there, please sir, anything they could do to help?
Clef waved them away in annoyance.
Strolling round yet another corner in the maze of the department, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, he figured that Adams had probably found Thompson by now, and they were off training or whatever Adams had needed Iris for in the first place.
He actively tried to do the least for the Foundation on any given day, while spending the most amount of money. So wandering around aimlessly, while being a bit more strenuous than he had planned, still worked for him.
“Y'allright, sir?” A drawl snapped him from his thoughts on how best else to fuck over the Foundation. Clef's eyes swung upwards to where a short, fresh-faced individual was leaning against the white wall, flicking through some research papers. Another junior researcher.
What the hell. “You haven't seen S-” He paused a second. Best not to mention the fact he was looking for a lost asset. “You haven't seen a girl through here, have you?” He sounded like a bloody broken record, and if he had to ask that question one more time he was going to go insane.
“Hm,” the junior researcher looked up at the ceiling in thought before turning back to Clef. “Dirty blonde, like yea-high?” They waved their hand around the five foot mark, “Training uniform?”
Finally. “Yeah,” Clef breathed, his voice growled slightly as relief reverberated from the bottom of his chest. “That's the one.”
“Sweet,” they smiled lopsidedly, “She went that way, I think.” They flicked their finger down the corridor. “Heard a door go but alls thats down there is toilets so maybe she's just under the weather, yeah?”
Clef tipped his head in acknowledgement, strolling past the young researcher before rolling his head over his shoulder, “Straighten up a bit, would you? Go do some work.” Always good to keep them in line.
They snorted quietly, “Leading by example, sir.” Clef heard. He didn't care.
Clef ambled down to the only door save for one of the archives at the bottom of the corridor. Just a small restroom, although not used by many these days.
With nothing to lose, Clef rapped on the door.
Nothing.
He knocked again. No response. And then something caught his ear. Faint, but there was definitely something.
Clef pressed his ear against the door. As he strained, he heard something that he'd heard all too many times the morning after various drunken escapades. Vomiting.
He frowned. As far as he knew Iris hadn't been taken out on anymore adventures with Adams, and it was highly unlikely that she was pregnant, so what was up?
“Iris?” He called loudly through the door. The vomiting stopped suddenly for a second, followed almost immediately by gagging, and vomiting. But there was no other reply.
“You in there?” Voice louder this time. Clef wasn't even entirely sure if she would open the door for him; it was no secret that he wasn't her favourite person, but he liked to think he knew her well enough at this point.
There was still no reply.
He tried the handle. It opened.
“Iris what is up with y-” he shouldered open the door which jammed slightly as he pushed up against what appeared to be an MTF jacket shoved half-heartedly under the door in an attempt to stop it from opening.
Clef stopped dead.
Tell your wasted time
That I am worse.
Iris was huddled in an almost fetal position, arms hugging the seat of the toilet as her head wobbled precariously above, threatening to give way to another tidal of sick at any second. Her forehead was drenched in sweat. She was trembling.
But that's not what made Clef stop.
Around Iris were scattered at least five medicine packets, all empty. A couple of discarded tablets still lay near her feet.
“Fuck.”
Iris' eyes rolled up to meet Clef's startled ones, her pupils small and wavering as her entire body shuddered. “Don't-” she was interrupted by a stream of vomit that left her coughing. “D-don't-” She spluttered as residue started to build up in her throat. Her voice was hoarse. Desperate.
Clef was at a loss. “Fucking hell Iris I reckon it's a bit la-”
“Please.” Fear climbed up her esophagus. “Pl-please don't g-get anyone.”
His agape mouth was pulled thin. This scene was also too familiar. Far too familiar. Clef normally knew what to do. And if he didn't, he just made it up. That'd have to do.
He moved to her Iris' side slowly, bones creaking as he squatted next to her. Her eyes never left him. They were glassy. She opened her mouth to say something but all that came out was another mouthful of rotten bile. Up close Clef noticed that that there were solid chunks of pink in the mixture.
“Iris-” her stare cut him off, a twisted combination of terror and anguish. He sighed. “I'm not… I'm not gonna get anyone if you don't want me to.” He had a choice to make. He could be an asshole. Or he could be the asshole that helped her through this. “But I am gonna stay here and ride this out with you.”
He knew what it was like. He knew what it was like alone .
There was a lump in his throat. It constricted as he tried to speak, to comfort her. What could he even say? Nothing that would matter.
And I wish they'd all
Give him a chance.
I owe apologies.
Iris' knuckles were as white as the porcelain seat that they gripped onto. They quivered with her whole body as her abdominal muscles spasmed and she dry heaved over the bowl, gagging on the stench.
“I-”
“Don't try to talk,” Clef knelt now, one hand hovering near her forearm, not daring enough to make contact. “This is gonna be rough.”
Iris snorted as she spat into the toilet, the bout of sickness lulling for a precious few moments. “W-why are you here?”
Clef shrugged, scanning the floor for anymore unopened packets as he spoke, “‘Cause you need help, kid.”
“No,” she hissed, tears welling up in already-red eyes, “Why are you h-here.”
His hovering hand came, at last, to rest on her forearm. She tensed. “Adams was looking for you.”
“Fuck.” Iris mumbled, still clutching the rim for dear life. “Shit.” Spittle flew off of her split lips.
“You got that right,” Clef murmured, flicking a couple of dropped pills away from Iris with his index finger, although he doubted that they'd interest her now. “What the fuck did you take?”
Her hands twitched. You didn't expect to be questioned about your methods midway through a suicide attempt. “I… I think it was propa-” She heaved again, another wave of stomach acid, partially digested food, and pills spilling into the toilet. She spat the excess out of her mouth.
“Propranolol?” Clef mused, tilting an empty packet in his hand, “A couple of packets of this wouldn't be enough to kill you.” He chucked it at the far wall.
“Good to know,” Iris managed bitterly between bouts of coughing and spitting.
Clef kept silent for a moment, shifting so he could move from kneeling to sitting. And that's where he stayed, as he said he would.
Iris continued to throw up, slightly less every time, and the downtime in between vomiting was becoming longer as her stomach finally ridded her of the majority of the poison she had inflicted. She continued to dry-heave, willing her abdomen to please stop now. There was nothing left.
And finally, after what felt like an age, she sat back from the toilet, back resting on the cool wall behind her. Clef shuffled to sit next to her, leaning his head against the same wall. Sweat dripped off of Iris' forehead and lips, mixing with the bile and spit that still lingered on her chin.
Silence reigned for a minute.
You must admit
That you are the instigator
Hanging onto arguments.
“What?” She said, after eternity passed by.
“What do you mean ‘what' ?” Clef scoffed, his chest rumbling. “Fucking hell, kid, what was that?”
Iris was silent. This wasn't where she wanted to be right now. This wasn't where she'd pictured herself being right now. Instead, here she was, stuck with her disgusting boss in perhaps the worst moment of her life - so far at least.
“I-… Dunno.”
Clef exhaled, his barrel chest rising and falling slowly. “I don't need you to explain yourself but…” he trailed off. What did he need? What did she need? “I wanna help you.”
She barked a laugh, choking slightly. “You want to help ? You've done enough, sir. ” She gave a sarcastic salute with two fingers, her head lolling to face away from his. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't even stand for fear her legs would give way underneath her.
He stared for a moment. “Listen. At some point we're going to have to deal with,” he gestured vaguely “ This. But for now, let's just… sit.”
Iris was still quiet, but slowly her head rolled back around to look at him, hands resting in her lap as she propped her feet up against the foot of the toilet. She hadn't told him to fuck off or get out, so, given the circumstances, Clef thought he was doing pretty well.
“Iris, do you-”
“No, shut up. You're not good at this.” She stared at the floor, unable to make eye contact. This was the man that was so petty that he'd bullied her for months during meetings. The man that had been just so protective of his own daughter that he'd shown Iris his weapons collection just to terrify her. And yet, here he was. Showing up for her.
His taut lips curved upwards into a slight smile. Not malicious, or smarmy, or whatever other adjectives had been used to describe that grin over the years. Just a smile of relief. “Alright.”
And sat in silence, he thought. He thought about himself and Meri; himself and the daughter he did not deserve. And she needed better. Better than an absentee dad who left her to live with some nuns and then trapped her in a hellhole for the rest of her life. If Iris was that, then he'd let them be.
And he thought of Iris. Nothing more than a kid they snatched out of a regular life. A happy life, all-in-all. Parents, friends, family. Who did she have now?
Sitting there, he quietly shifted. “Scooch.”
Her shoulders tensed instinctually. Clef's trunk-like arm laid across her shoulders, his gnarled hand coming to rest on her upper arm. The closeness was foreign, especially from him . She wanted to shove him off, keep the barriers up, but it was too late for that.
Her head thudded back against the wall, shuffling slightly into his grasp. And that's where they sat, in the limbo of a fluorescent-lit toilet as the evening dragged into the night.
Eventually, Clef broke the silence. “Where did you get the pills, Iris?” His warm fingers drummed quietly against her sweat-drenched skin.
“Doctor's office.”
“When?”
She pulled a face for a second. “A couple of days ago when I went for that check-up.”
Clef grunted a response. A moment more of tense silence went past. “Can I ask why?”
“You said you didn't need to know.”
“I lied. C'mon, kid, you'll have to tell someone one way or the other. And some doctors are less likely to get you sectioned.” This close she could feel his heavy breathing, his musty breath breezing across her face.
She sighed. She was caught in both Clef's emotional and physical grasp. “I… You know ho-how it is. The t-taskforce, ju-just everything really.” Iris, who'd been steadily regaining her composure for the past dozen minutes, was slowly breaking apart again. She tripped over her words. It was easy to seem okay when your emotions weren't being called into question.
Clef only gave her a rough squeeze. She supposed it was meant to be comforting. It was, in its own way.
“Everything, Clef. Just everything.” He affixed her with a gaze from the corner of his eye, careful not to push her to the point where she built her walls back up. “Alpha-9, living here in this fucking hellhole, not having any fucking friends,” the torrent began to spill out. “Being trapped ‘cause I can put my hand in some fucking photos, having to see other skips getting terminated, knowing that I'll be in here forever. Everything.”
Tears had begun spilling from Iris' face just as fast as the words tumbled from her mouth. He tried his hardest not to get invested in others mental states, that was reserved for precious few. Perhaps he could make some room in his heart for another lodger.
Iris was dutiful. Iris was loyal. Iris was put-together. Seeing her like this was unnerving. It was terrifying. He wondered how no one had seen the signs.
He wondered why he hadn't seen the signs.
Parental instinct took over. His grip tightened on Iris' shoulder and Clef's other arm wrapped around her back, pulling her softly against his chest. Her face pressed against the loose buttons of the hideous shirt, uncomfortable and yet comfortable in the way you could only feel in moments of desperation.
She settled crudely in the tangle of limbs, her head coming to rest under the scraggly chin, her hair catching slightly on his rough stubble. Her senses were overloaded. The stench and taste of vomit and bile still lingered, mixing with the must of a shirt that smelled like it had been sat in a cupboard for eight years, and her own cold sweat.
Amidst it all, Iris wept.
“I know.” She heard the grumble start deep in his chest, reverberating in her ear.
Her throat constricted. “No, you don't know ,” she spat the words, but they came out as less than a hiss, “No-none of you know .” She gasped against the old shirt.
Clef knew.
And he knew that he'd done it again. He'd already fucked up one kid for life, his own daughter no less. And now the realisation was dawning that he'd done it again. This was all him.
His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed his own emotions. Wordlessly his hand shifted to settle on the back of Iris' head, fingers drifting through her hair.
He'd make it right.
Cornered by yourself,
Cornered by yourself.
Clef didn't know what time it was when he was woken. And he was woken poorly . By a boot jabbing itself into his thigh.
Adams was once again stood in front, towering over him as he craned his neck to look up, groaning as his entire spine protested to having been propped up against a wall for god knows how long.
“Clef,” her lips were pursed as she picked her words, “Could you explain to me what exactly is going on here?”
He looked down; Iris was still clutched loosely in his arms, head buried under his chin, arms splayed. Asleep.
He looked back up, mouth growing into a bitter smile, “Why don't you use your eyes and have a look around.”
And for the first time, Adams saw. Saw everything that Clef had seen, and pieced the situation together. “Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
“Clef, what the fuck .” The pursed lips were gone, replaced by a look of horror. “Is she-” she pantomimed for a moment, voice turning into a stage whisper “Okay?”
He shifted slightly, repositioning Iris as if to say ‘What do you think?' “She will be.”
Adams was already overthinking. “This'll need to get reported. Fuck. You got any idea why this happened? They'll section her for sure. Shit. Shit. That's fucking Alpha-9 down the drain. Bastard. Fuck.”
“Adams,” Clef groaned, jamming on the breaks, and Adams' train of thought came screeching to a halt.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I don't think you get it, this is going to throw everything out of the fucking win-”
“Yeah. I know. Just,” he exhaled heavily as Iris began to stir. “Give her a few minutes. Before all the bullshit starts.”
Adams looked from Clef, to the SCP - the girl - in his arms, and back again. “Alright.”
“Alright,” he repeated, hand rubbing Iris' back, “It's gonna be alright.”
It's torture,
Locked inside the chamber.


In a time before time, when the tree of knowledge was planted and the Darkness Below was born, the creature that became the Scarlet King devoured his brothers and sisters, growing strong on the taste of betrayal.
But he had eaten them all ages ago, so whenever Khahrahk was actually hungry, he had to swing by Walmart.
Khahrahk squeezed himself through the door, grabbing a cart with one hand as he tried to decipher the shopping list A'tivik had written with the other. Who used cursive nowadays?
"Hello, welcome to Walmart!" The mewling, pathetic human in the blue vest said as he walked up to Khahrahk. "Is this your first time visiting us?"
"I will devour your sons and daughters as you watch," he said contemptuously. "I have been here many times."
The human nodded. "Alright. Well my name is Mark, don't be afraid to grab me or one of my fellow employees if you need any help today. We have fifteen percent off all electronics today. Have a great day!"
Khahrahk grumbled as he rolled his cart into the frozen foods section. He hated Walmart, but it was the closest place on earth to the Darkness Below. Why had he not sent Moloch to do this? Or better yet, why had he not turned this world into a rotting, bloody mess yet?

Khahrahk stood in the middle of the aisle, comparing the two jars of peanut butter. Skippy's Delightful Peanut Butter had zero trans-fat and was cheaper, but Chipper Smooth's Peanut Butter Deluxe was gluten free. Was that important? It seemed like everyone these days was worried about watching their gluten.
He decided to go with Skippy's, throwing it in the cart. If they wanted gluten-free peanut butter, they could buy it with their own money.
"Woah, Khahrahk? Is that you?"
Khahrahk turned around to see a man pushing a cart completely full of ████████████. He looked vaguely familiar. Had they met before?
"It's me, O5-1! From the Foundation, remember?"
O5-1, O5-1… "Right!" he said, faking a smile. "Uh, how are you doing? How's the rest of the council?"
"Good, everyone's good. Just securing and containing and protecting anomalies, like usual," O5-1 shrugged. "I'm just picking up some containment supplies, you know, running a bit low. How's hell?"
"It's alright," Khahrahk said. "Armies are slowly getting to the Library, ready to burn it down along with all the Ways and start the apocalypse, so that's something to look forward to."
"Oh, that sounds nice."
"Yeah, should be fun."
"Uh-huh."
The two of them stood there awkwardly for a few moments, both wondering how to end this conversation as soon as possible.
"Well, I should probably get going," O5-1 said, gesturing at the ████████████ in the cart. "Not like it'll set up itself. Uh, I'll tell 231 you said hi."
Khahrahk waved goodbye to the faceless overseer of a grim-faced organization as he wheeled around the corner, cart full of ████████████ squeaking all the while.
He turned his attention back to his shopping list. He had gotten the peanut butter.
Now, what were 'airpods' supposed to be?

After what felt like countless eons trapped inside the worst place on Earth, Khahrahk was finally ready to leave. He spotted an empty checkout lane on the far side of cashiers, speed-walking over to it at the fastest socially acceptable pace.
Just as he was about to reach it, an old woman clutching a pack of batteries seemed to shuffle out of nowhere, taking his justly-earned spot.
Khahrahk stifled a groan. Whatever, it was only a pack of batteries. How long could an old woman take?
"That'll be 5 dollars and sixty cents, ma'm," the teenager droned. The woman pushed up her glasses, squinting at the screen. She looked back at her batteries, then back to the screen.
"He said it was five-"
"I know what he said," she snapped. "This never would've happened in my day. Young people have no respect for their elders these days. It's all that satanic rap music. What happened to when-"
Khahrahk mentally stopped himself from screaming in frustration, as the old woman ranted at him for another eternity. He looked over at the cashier, who seemed to be praying for the sweet release of death.
Forget Procedure 110-Montauk. If the Foundation truly wanted to keep his seventh child imprisoned for all time, they should've made 231-7 a cashier at Walmart. But the Ethics Committee would probably have something to say about that.
The old woman stopped. Finally, she was paying for her batteries. She pulled out her coin purse and placed a penny on the counter. She pulled out another penny and another and another, one by one, stopping occasionally to count it up.
Unholy hell, was she paying entirely in pennies? Five dollars and sixty cents. That was five hundred and sixty pennies.
When Khahrahk got around to slaughtering the pathetic remaining defenders of earth and start the End of Days, he was burning this Walmart to the ground.

Another couple of eternities later, and he was finally done. Now, all Khahrahk needed to do was make a quick exchange at Ikea, and he could finally go home and put the entire day behind him.
If only he could read Swedish. A'nuht wanted a new bookcase, something called a Poäng? Was that even a real word? Maybe the staff would know what she was talking about.
Speaking of which, where was everyone? Sure, it was late, but he hadn't seen anyone since stepping into the store. Khahrahk stepped out of the aisle, looking around. Not a soul in sight.
He gave up, heading back towards the entrance. It was getting late, and he wanted to go home. A'nuht would just have to do with the bookshelf she already had right now. It wasn't like it had to be pretty, it was a bookshelf! All it needed to do was not collapse under its own weight.
Khahrahk jolted back to reality when he noticed there weren't any cashiers at checkout either.
Also, the door was conspicuously absent.
"Huh." He turned around at the sound of footsteps, noticing an Ikea employee. Something about its face seemed off to him, though. Maybe it was the lack of it? Was that normal for retail employees?
"Hey, do you know where the door went? It's getting late, I'm trying to-"
"The store is now closed, please exit the building!" The Ikea employee began to pummel Khahrahk, pathetically flailing away with its odd lump fists.
"That's what I'm doing, I just need directions-"
The employee kept hitting him, not listing to a word he said. "Please exit, the building is closed! The store is closed! Please exit the building! Please exit-"
Khahrahk grabbed the employees head, squishing it like an over-sized grape and then throwing it clear over the aisles, which he just noticed appeared to stretch on for eternity. Great, a pocket dimension.
So he was stuck inside an infinite-sized Ikea with a herd of simpleminded idiotic staff who wouldn't even grant him the courtesy of screaming when he killed them, all the while the groceries in his minivan slowly went bad. Could the day get any worse?
Wait, did he remember to get the ice cream?
…
Goddammit.


We toil in proverbs not to fear the grave.
We must with boldness to the earth descend.
When soon the world takes back the life it gave,
accept your gruesome, far-too-early end.
With lasting lifetimes we are rarely blessed,
our charges living decades in the sun
while we condemn ourselves to never rest,
consumed in our adventure never done.
But they above will suffer much the same;
unhappy ends to unfulfilling time.
In hospitals, in sleep, in cars, in pain;
no enterprise with which they can resign.
When death may come I much prefer the thought
to blaze in darkness than in light to rot.


There are thousands upon thousands of stories about Sükni Dzhari, for every slave of Daevon when they tell them tells them anew, and that number is always increasing.
Here is one of them.

Once, in the ancient days, Sükni went out into the gardens that were given him to tend, and into the orchard where the fruits were grown. It was at the beginning of the autumn, and the waning sun was ripening the grain and the nuts and the fruit all at once, and it was his expectation that the harvest would be good in that year. Even though he was not permitted to keep any of the crop there for himself, he was nonetheless pleased to see that the wheat bent white-gold underneath the sun for the weight of its berries, and that the bramble-fruits were softening on their vines, and the hay-grass stood tall and rich and green.
So Sükni took his basket and his staff and went first to the apple orchard, and he found there that the fruits were swelled to full ripeness and soft flesh, and he was able to pick them in bushels, yellow and red and green, and these he brought back to the storehouses in great number. And second he went to the cherry orchard, and found those trees laden also with fruits dark as garnets and soft as human skin, and these too he was able to gather many of. And finally he went to the plum orchard, expecting the same.
But when he got there, upon the branches he found only the hard green knots of the unripened plums, and upon the ground many scattered stones, and he wondered if this were some strange blight that had struck his tree, forcing it to drop its fruit before its ripening. He went to the next tree and found the same, and again the next, and so Sükni perceived that there was no blight, but that some animal had come and had devoured the ripe fruit in the night. And he was greatly chagrined, for should this hold true for all the trees he would gain no crop of plums at all in that year, and not only would his pótnyā be highly displeased with him but the certainty of food for the household throughout the wintertime would be lessened, and the slaves would feel it the more.
Yet even as he stood there discontented with these thoughts, and wondering what he should do to lighten his loss, he heard a rustle of noise in the next tree along the row, and he looked up, prepared to chase the animal away with his staff. But he had taken only one step before his eyes fell upon it, perched upon the lowest bough in the tree (and that was scarcely above the level of his own height), and to his shock he saw that it was no cardinal or squirrel, as he had expected. Instead, he saw it was a firebird.

The firebird! The number of that race of bird may be counted upon a man's two hands, and the number of men who have ever seen one is fewer still. By many names is it known, by firebird and srin, as päyäkoj the golden and in the tongue of the pótnyāt vhereg the shining one. The realm of its range stretches from the uttermost north to the heats of the south, from the eastern edge to the land where the sun sets and burns the rocks scarlet, where it makes its nest, and its cry is said to be of such surpassing beauty, joy like that of returning springtime and sorrow sharp as knives mingled together, that any man who hears it shall never forget that sound as long as he may live, and shall yearn ever after for its hearing again. Not one has ever been caught or tamed through all the ages of the world, and to do so would be a terrible thing indeed, for it is hallowed in the realm of nánga which is the ever-changing sky, and he would draw all the fury of the sky-realm upon him who captured or injured or slew one for any reason.
And Sükni halted, being awestruck by its beauty, for its feathers gleamed as they were spun of gold and carnelian, and its tail, long as a man's arm, draped down from the branch as it were a waterfall of flame. And he would have counted himself blessed indeed to have been visited by such a creature, even were it to fly away at that instant and never enter his sight again. But he knew his pótnyā, in her avarice, would never permit it that the creature remain free and not be captured and caged for her as soon as she knew of its presence. He thought whether he could not spook it, as though it were no more than one of the ordinary crows that stole his crops as they ripened, but he realized that even could he cause the creature to fly (for having never been caged the firebird has not the fear of men that other birds do) its presence would become known to all within earshot, and his pótnyā had many bowmen in her service.
And looking more closely at the bird he perceived that its claws, though dark as almandine, were worn, and that the feathers of one wing were bent and broken, and so he understood that even if he did spook the bird it could not fly. Therefore he was concerned, because he knew now that the bird had only stolen his crop because it could not otherwise hunt for itself, and he pitied it.
So Sükni took one of the half-eaten plums that the bird had torn from the branches and let fall, and he covered his hands and forearms in the juice, and so he coaxed the firebird from the branch upon which it was perched to his wrist, and from there into the basket in the place of the plums that would have filled it before. And he lifted the basket and carried the bird back to the shed at the boundary of field, tended land, and wood, and brought it in, so that no-one would see and attempt to capture or harm the creature.
"For if this sacred creature has come to me," he thought to himself, "surely I have a responsibility to protect it, from the beasts of the wild and the arrows of the pótnyāt." And in truth he would have done the same for any animal, being gentle-hearted and unwilling to see any creature suffer, if he could ease it.
Yet he still had his tasks to perform, and so providing the bird with some broken fruits he screened the basket so that it would not flee potentially back into the notice of the pótnyā or her paid servants, and he had to hurry back to his orchards lest his absence be punished. Grabbing another basket he went out, and left the bird in as much safety as he might. Yet as the day wore his thoughts now turned rather towards the buildings than the edges of the hinterland where they normally did.

As the time wore and the sun rose higher, the fruits were in time all eaten. And hungry and seeking the few others of its flock, the firebird cried again towards the sky it knew beyond wicker and roof, and the sound of that crying stopped the slaves at their work, and pierced even to where the pótnyā was seated at her pavilion, speaking with her lords and ladies.
And she asked one of her advisors, who stood by, “What is it that calls so?
And he answered her, “I do not know, my lady. For the voice is not that of a human, and yet is akin to it, and it seems almost that it mourns over something. I have never heard of a creature with such a call.”
So finding no help in her advisor the pótnyā asked one of her servants, when he came to bring to her her meal, saying, "That animal, with the beautiful cry - what is it? I have never heard anything alike to that before."
And he answered her, "I do not know, mistress. Although the sound was close - never have I either heard a creature with such a call."
So finding no help in the servant either the pótnyā asked one of her slaves, who was cleaning the ash out of the hearth. And the slave bowed her face upon the ground and said “O my pót'yā, it is said that such is the cry of the firebird, and it strikes anyone who hears it near to her heart.” So the slave told her all, even as I have told you before, of its beauty and sanctity and rarity.
Knowing this, the pótnyā thought unto herself that she would set her servants to capture this creature, if it was truly as glorious as the tales spoke of, and she would have it caged within her menagerie for her pleasure, and that she might be known among all the people of the city and all the cities of the land: for who else, in all of Daevon, could say that they were the owner of a firebird?
So she called up her bowmen, and her guards, and all of her people who wished to go on such a hunt and find the creature for her. They rose, and taking up their cloaks and bows, went out into the estate for the hunt.

Now her people knew of the pótnyā's greed, and her lust for precious things the owning of which could set her apart from the other ladies and lords in the land. And seeing that she came out into the lands with her assistants and bowmen, they hid or made themselves as unobtrusive as they might. For they knew that whatever she sought, and whether or no she found it, both her satisfaction or her frustration might be wrought upon them.
And it came to pass that she and her assistants were passing by the outer fields to enter the pótnyā's woods at the same time that Sükni returned from the fields. He, too, attempted to stand aside and wait for their passing, and they would have taken no notice of him but for at that time the bird, hearing their commotion outside, called again, and so close there could be no mistaking.
"Here!" they called, and loosened their nets and bows in their cases. One of the bowmen said, “It is within that building.” And he ordered Sükni to open the shed and allow them in.
But, knowing that if he did so they would find the creature and take it as trophy, and that for aiding them he would be hateful to the sky and the spirits for as long as he lived, Sükni stood still and did not speak. And so they snarled at him again, "Are you deaf? Do as we say and open the door." And one of the bowmen seized him and shoved him into the wall, saying, "You know your punishment will be severe if you continue to disobey."
So at length, thus constrained, he did, and the other went in, and overturned all the baskets, and found the bird and bound it in his cloak, and came out again. He held it out to the pótnyā, saying, "Here is your quarry, my lady."
But she did not take it, for her displeasure and that of her retinue was focussed on Sükni. “Was it you,” they asked, “who chose to keep this thing hidden from your pótnyā - to claim for yourself what is rightfully hers?” And the pótnyā herself stepped up, and fixed him in her gaze.
Then anger kindled in Sükni's heart, and he forgot all his fear. “Yes,” he said. “I did hide it to keep it from you, pót'yā. The sky did not give it unto your hands, knowing you would set the whole world in fetters if you could. It gave it unto mine, and I did only what it bid me.”
"But I have bade otherwise," she said.
“Pót'yā, there are scarcely any upon earth. And all your household, all your endeavors will be cursed if you do this, for the sky sees everything, and us. You do not know what you do.”
She laughed. “You think I fear the curses of your gods? Never before has any god stayed my hand; never shall one. I do as I wish.”
“You cannot!"
She struck him across the face, so that he fell. And she had her men bring him to the courtyard, and they set chains about his wrists and beat him there within the sight of the household in punishment for this presumption, and left him. The bird they brought to the pótnyā's menagerie, where they tied its feet and placed it in a cage of iron.

Now it happened that another slave of the same pótnyā, who served as a smith and a metalworker, a builder of tack and a shoer of horses, whose name was Vaśki, knew Sükni well. And he took pity upon him and brought him back to the slave-quarters, and asked of him what he had done to earn this punishment.
And Sükni told him all, of the finding of the bird and its capture. “How am I to bear it?” he said, and he wept. “Can I be forgiven for allowing this thing to come to pass, and not for preventing nánga's holy bird from this degradation, to be just a pet within the pót'yā's menagerie? And we too are of this household, and so the curse of nánga will fall upon us as well.”
And Vaśki could not answer this, for he knew that it was true.

Now when the day was done, and the rest of the slaves returned from their labours to the quarters as well, another two of them came to inquire as to Sükni and Vaśki's predicament. These were a chambermaid that served the ladies within the pótnyā's court, whose name was Marjut and who was close in friendship with Sükni, and a groom within the stables, whose name was Taika and who was close with Vaśki.
And Sükni again told them what he had done, or attempted to do, and that he would be doomed for his failure to meet nánga's charge.
Taika in awe reached out her hand towards him, and then drew back. "You have seen the sacred creature?" she asked.
"Seen only," he said. "But I am minded even to do more; to earn back my merit in the sight of the sky. And this I tell you because I trust you shall not hinder me - you know she has not the right to do this, whatever she says."
“Shall we therefore defy the pót'yā?” asked Marjut.
"I do not see we have a choice," said Sükni. “For we cannot predict what doom may or may not be sent upon this household, and if it is strong enough to force our selling we cannot predict what may happen to us then. And we have another loyalty, not just to the pót'yā, but to the spirits, and to right, and to justice, and of this one we cannot be absolved for any reason. And it is not just for the holy creature to be locked like us in Daevite cages, and the pót'yā to doom us all for only her own greed."
“No doom,” Taika pointed out, “has yet fallen, and you say that it has been the whole of the day since.”
“What would you bet upon that?”
Marjut sighed, and unpicked the end of her plait, beginning to pull out the copper rings from every twist and pile them in her hand. “What then should we do?” she asked. “What then can we do, and not be immediately captured?”
He sighed. "That, I do not know."

But they remained, and spoke together until the moon had set, and in the end this was the plan which they developed:
Marjut, being the only one of the four who was permitted to enter the palace proper, for four days passed by the door to the menagerie, and saw that the pótnyā had placed there a guard against thieves or anyone wishing in spite to harm the creatures she had collected - but only one, and young besides, appearing fairly newly appointed. And so on the fifth day she plaited up her hair, and cleaned her face, and went to her work. Until the sun had risen one palm into the sky she worked, cleaning floors and walls in the pótnyā's many rooms, and when she saw that it had she laid down her cloths, and hurried up to the solitary guard, and lied to him thus: "There is a wild animal trapped in one of the rooms!"
And he asked her where and when she had seen this.
"As I was cleaning," she gasped. "It had concealed itself under a footed chest, and snapped at me!"
"What kind of creature was it?" he asked her.
"I do not know," she said, and clutched at his sleeve. "I was afraid, and I could not see it properly. But its teeth are sharp, and I cannot drive it out. It will bite me. You have a spear; help me to get it out, please!"
The guard pitied her, and permitted her to lead him away toward the rooms where she had been, for he thought to himself that he would not be long away from his post, and if he could in the meantime be alone with a slave so young and pretty, so much the better.
Marking that Marjut had said she would do this when the sun was one palm high, Vaśki and Taika too watched as it crept up the sky that morning. And when it had reached that mark they came in to the pótnyā's palace through the slaves' entrance, which Marjut had not bolted; and they crept through the corridors, and came to the now-unguarded menagerie, and entered into it. Many creatures they observed that she kept in cages: one of the spotted cats caught and sold as pets in the south of the empire, and a golden eagle with its feathers clipped and traced to a perch, and a viper in a large glass jar filled at the base with sand.
"I wish we could loose them all," Taika whispered to Vaśki as they slipped past. He nodded his agreement to her, and as they turned they espied a flash of orange and saffron, and knew it was the bird Sükni had described to them. Its cage was half man-height and yet not wide enough for it to spread its full windspan, and so as they approached, and Vaśki reached for the cage, it did not strike but hissed and attempted to bite his hand.
"Shhh, there, little one," Taika told it. "Shhh, elder brother. Be calm. We are not here on her behest, but to release you."
And Vaśki took his tools, and he bent the rivets, and separated the bars, making a wide space. And once he had done so Taika reached in and carefully picked up the bird, taking care to pin its wings with the firm but gentle grip with which she treated the horses. She brought it out and placed it in a sack that she had brought, with a broken apple in the hopes that this and the dark would quiet it for long enough. And back out they hurried, before Marjut returned with the guard she had distracted and before their absence could be noticed, Vaśki back to the forge and Taika, with her precious cargo, to the stables.
Sükni, with his basket and pruning hook ready, awaited her there outside the door. And he took from her the sack, and loosed the cords at its mouth, and carried it back out into the plum orchard where he had found it at first. Once he was certain that nobody else was in sight, and he was concealed between the rows of trees, he unfastened the cords entirely and let the bird climb out: first onto the rim of his basket, and then onto his wrist, and then into the branches of the nearest tree.
It preened gently, and straightened the feathers that had been bent in its captivity, and with no call or other sound it spread its wings and flew away. In the rush of its wingbeats a single feather dropped and fell at his feet - Sükni, however, did not immediately see this, watching it as it disappeared into nánga's blue. Enough reward he would have counted it, to have lifted the curse upon him and the people of the household and to have done what was just; but when finally he could see it no longer, and dropped his gaze, the thing was still there, burning topaz against his boots. And he took it to be an amulet, and a memory.

Late in the day, the pótnyā went down to her menagerie, that she might be assured again of her rule over all the creatures that dwell on the earth. But when she went in, she saw the bent metal and broken bars, and that her newest addition was there no longer.
"Who has done this?" she cried. "Who would dare to take from me my prize?"
Her guards hid their faces against her rage, but each swore that he or she had seen or heard nothing throughout the day. The pótnyā would have had each of them flogged and considered herself nearly redressed for the loss, but thinking, she remembered how she had first taken possession of it and how Sükni had protested the capture, and after inquiring - for she knew no-one could evade her oversight entirely alone - heard that with him had oft been seen the other three, who were perceived to be friends.
So she had the four of them brought before her throne within her hall to abide her trial and judgement. And her guards brought in first Marjut the chambermaid, and then Vaśki the farrier, and then Taika the groom, and at the last they went even out to the fields and there found Sükni, and bound him, and brought him in before her. In the face of the pótnyā's anger all four quailed, as she called up Marjut before her, and said, "I would ask if you know for what I have brought you here to condemn you, but that I believe I have no need to. And yet…" and she pursed her lips, and tapped them with one finger. "I would not have it said that I were unjust, and permitted not a single word in your defence."
"No, pót'yā -" Marjut began, but the pótnyā silenced her again. "You then will tell me truthfully: whether you and these others, as you have been forbidden to do, entered my menagerie, and. And to ensure your honesty, this spell I lay upon you: should any word you say be false, it will steal the pulse from your throat, and the air from your lungs, in this one instant."
And she put forth her power, and it wrapped itself around Marjut's limbs and poured itself into her. "Now speak," the pótnyā said.
Trapped in the threads of the spell Marjut shivered as though she stood in a blizzard, but eventually she spoke. "O my pót'yā, if I lie when I tell that I did not release the firebird from your menagerie but only passed by it, in the course of my duties, then let it be as you have said unto me." When the pótnyā perceived that her spell had not killed her but that Marjut had told the truth, she was forced to release her, and Marjut fled lest her mind be quickly changed.
And the pótnyā came next to Vaśki the farrier, and placed the same spell upon him, and commanded him to speak. Vaśki bowed his head in submission and spoke, “If ever I laid hands upon the pót'yā's firebird to steal it, may her spell slay me so that I die.” And he was not slain, and so she begrudgingly gave to him leave to go, for she could not prove his guilt.
And she came next to Taika the groom, and placed the same spell upon her, and commanded her to speak. “If ever I laid hands upon or opened the cage in which you kept the firebird, pót'yā,” said Taika, “then may I be slain now before you that you may see my guilt.” And she was not, and so the pótnyā gave her too leave to go and return to her duties.
And last of all the pótnyā came to Sükni, and laid her spell upon him, and commanded him to speak and tell her that he had not done this thing and stolen from her the firebird which she had treasured, and which he had before attempted to keep from her posession. And Sükni bowed as one constrained and said, “O my pót'yā, may I be struck down and slain by your sorcery if I even entered your palace that day, for I went straight from the slave-quarters out into your garden, and I set no foot near to your menagerie.” And nor did he die, because this statement was true - he had not entered her palace or come close to her menagerie, having had Vaśki and Taika to do so in his stead. So Sükni was released as well, and so returned to the fields and coppices and woods that he knew.
Yet the anger of Sükni's pótnyā towards them, and their bringing before her and trial, had not gone unmarked by the other slaves of the household, and they demanded to be told the story of what they had been accused of and how they had managed to escape punishment. And this the four were pleased to tell, because they knew that there was no love for the pótnyā among any of them. And so the tale of how Sükni defied his pótnyā and freed the sacred firebird was passed from speaker to listener over the years, and in time even to me, who now tells it to you.

« | Light of the North, Or the Three Impossible Tasks of Te̮la | The Catching of the Sun | »


It was time.
SCP-4579 opened his eyes and threw off his blankets. The voice was back again, whispering to him from the little metal tube in his brain. For the last three months, it had been his only guide in a turbulent world of white coats, prodding needles, and unanswered questions. Three weeks ago, it had ordered him to run. Even as he was shoved back into his cell, it never told him why.
Now it was back, telling him it was finally time to leave.
He took a moment to look around his cell, at the clinical whiteness of the walls and the dull glow of the cameras. He tore his gaze away and forced himself to focus on the plan. He'd fretted enough, there was no point anymore. The days of fear for having his paratech discovered or slipping up a lie were almost behind him.
The darkness was surprisingly peaceful. The normal din of the busy site had given away to silence, and he took a moment to appreciate the calm before the storm. He figured all the doctors were asleep, finally resting after a long day of work. They wouldn't be for long. He clasped his hands together on his lap, wondering how long it'd take.

-o-

Silas Petterson took a deep draft from his coffee cup as he sat down in the slightly moth-eaten brown chair. The Site-17 break room was silent except for the clink of his cup on the table. He settled down the seat and savoured the brief reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the site.

"DANGER: UNAUTHORISED FACILITY INCURSION IN SECTOR NINETEEN. DANGER: KETER-CLASS CONTAINMENT BREACH IN HIGH SECURITY ZONE FOUR. DANGER: UNAUTHORISED FACILITY INCURSION — "

Petterson jumped up from his chair. The empty calm of the break room had been shattered in an instant, and he was hardly out the door when another guard barreled in from around the corner.
"You know what's going on?" Petterson asked as the man stopped to catch his breath.
"Everyone's down in Zone Four, dealing with the Keter."
"Then we cover this sector. You're Caron?"
"Starr. Caron died last week."
"Right."
The sound of footsteps echoed out through the open doorway, muffled somewhat by the still-blaring sirens. Peering out, Petterson caught sight of a foot slipping past a corner at the end of the hall.
"Well, we haven't got all day."

-o-

SCP-4579 sat on his bed, idly flicking a projection onto the floor as the sirens blared around him. He stared down at the floor, watching his duck appear and disappear. It was soothing, almost hypnotic.
Clang.
The door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a sight he knew too well — Dr. Amara Valenta, senior researcher. Behind her, he could see at least four other armed men staring down at him.
"You?" he asked once his eyes adjusted to the light flooding in from the hall.
"Don't waste time." she said coldly as SCP-4579 hurried over.
"You're the contact?"
"Surprised?"
"To be honest, my money was on Kozel. The guy wouldn't stop twitching. You know, if you ever want out of this shadowy government business, you've got a career in acting—"
She shot him a pointed glare, and he quickly remembered the situation they were in.
"So uh, how many guards should we be looking out for?" he asked as they stepped through a security checkpoint.
"Most should be in the other wing to deal with the breach we staged, though there's bound to be a few here. We've got ten minutes to move you out before backup arrives." answered one of the masked gunmen.
"They better give me a bonus for this."
"Your pay was already discussed."
SCP-4579 shrugged. With the doctor in front of him and the guards behind him, the group made their way through the wing.
They were coming up on another security station when he felt a new set of eyes burn into his mind. He shut his eyes, trying to focus in on the observer. They were searching for something — no, not searching. Aiming.
"Guards, over th—"
Two shots rang out before he could finish. Scrambling backwards, he shot a projection of a wall in front of him. It flickered for a moment — solid in parts yet intangible in others — before he heard the man beside him unload a round down the hall.
Dropping the projection, he flicked his eyes up towards the ceiling. He never did like the sight of blood.

-o-

Petterson had just turned the corner of a hallway when he felt Starr tug on his sleeve. His gaze flickered to what Starr was looking at — a woman in that ubiquitous lab coat, several heavily armed men, and a figure he recognised as SCP-4579.
"Is that Dr. Valenta?" Starr whispered.
Petterson shoved him to the side, managing two pulls of the trigger before the bullets hit him. The first buried itself in his vest with a thud, while another tore through his leg. Beside him, Starr crumpled silently onto the floor.
Dropping onto his hands and knees, Petterson scrambled behind the corner. He could feel slick blood seeping through his clothes and coating his hands. In front of him, Starr lay in a puddle of pooling blood. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, glassy and vacant.
Even through the haze of blood and pain, the eyes unnerved him. They stared at Petterson, and Petterson stared back. Death was something he should've been used to at that point, but there was something about those eyes — even then he knew they'd haunt him.
A ragged breath tore through him as he slumped against the wall, his blood streaking red across the smooth tile. Through ringing ears, he heard the sound of footsteps fading away. The intruders were more focused on getting the skip out than killing him. It was a cold comfort.
He pulled out a radio from his pockets, raising it to his numb lips with shaking hands.
"Man down. They have 4579."
Black dots swam around his vision as the radio slipped out of his hands.
"We…" sputtered the radio, "we've got our hands full. You're going to have to wait for the MTF."
It was too late for that, he thought. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils as he slid further down the wall, struggling just to keep his eyes open. He was almost glad when oblivion took him.
Once it was all over, the recovery team found one Silas Petterson still slumped against the wall, heart pounding weakly in his chest. Around his hospital bed, doctors gathered with their clipboards. He told them what he saw in those eyes. They told him how the masked men never made it out, as if that were any consolation.
But the eyes never left. He could see them in his nightmares, in the sockets of the D-Class strolling down the halls, even in the hopeful gaze of new recruits. They haunted him until the day he popped that little white pill stamped with a bright red A.

-o-

They stopped.
"I can't unlock this, not in a lockdown." Valenta said to the group as they stood outside yet another security station.
SCP-4579 watched as one of the gunmen pulled something from his pocket. There was a blinding light and another round of sirens went off, but when he could see again there was a gaping hole in the wall. And beyond that, freedom.
As he stepped out the door, the first thing he felt was rain. He stopped for just a moment, letting the water run down his face and chill his bones. It had been months since he'd felt those cold drops.
"Hurry!" barked one of the men.
Snapping back into movement, SCP-4579 followed the group towards a black van. Sliding into the backseat, he heard door snap shut with a loud click.
"So who wants all this info on this Foundation?" he asked as the van pulled away.
"Look, we all just do what they tell us and get paid, same as you." Valenta replied from the front seat.
"Like, why do they need me? Can't they just ask you?"
"Can't."
"What do you mean, can't?"
"Part of the deal when you work here. Now quit the questions and take your money." Valenta answered, passing him a leather satchel.
"Sweet."
As he set the satchel on his lap and fumbled with the clasp, he felt something off. It was too light — whatever was in there, it wasn't his money. Not that his pay would fit in the satchel anyways. The deal really was too good to be true.
He was suddenly aware of how intensely the man beside him was staring. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck as he kept fumbling with clasp. Time was running out.
The only option left was the duck. It was familiar now, barely draining him as it materialised on the floor. He took a quick glance down — good, he was invisible. Standing up, he looked around for a way out.
"Fuck!" came the sudden shout of the man beside him.
SCP-4579 ignored it, still focused on escaping. The doors were locked. Smashing the windows would take too long. He'd have to crash the van. Ducking around the pistol-wielding man, he slid past Valenta as she dived for the satchel. Shutting his eyes tight, he gave the steering wheel a hard yank.
The van careened off the road and down a ditch. There was a moment of weightlessness, and then SCP-4579 felt his body hit the windshield with a sickening crunch. When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by shattered glass. Up above, he saw the lights of a helicopter — the Foundation's backup had finally arrived.
Mud squelched beneath his shoes as he pulled himself out of the wrecked van. Taking a glance behind him, he caught sight of his duck again. He heaved a sigh of relief — he was still invisible, or close enough to it. The distinctive yellow duck, however, would have to go. He cast his gaze around, searching for something to project. There was a stick by his foot — it'd be shaky, but it'd have to do.
As much as he wanted to see the helicopter's occupants pulverise Valenta, he had to move. Taking one more glance behind him, he started along the ditch. He didn't let himself stop until the sounds of gunfire faded into the distance.
As he stopped to catch his breath, he caught sight of a road sign. A town was nearby — from there he'd blend back in.
He'd be Derek Wolanski again.


☦Allan fights anomalies in a post-normal world.☦

The Last Era: 15, August, 2119 AD
Present Day Mongolia
6:16 AM

On the summit of Khüiten Peak in present day Mongolia, a writhing mass of thinking brass gears felt the presence of three human feet step onto the metallic ground where flesh and metal intermingled on its border. The thinking brass, its mental process created and churned through a subterranean computational network of cogs and spokes composed of billions of moving parts that endlessly improved upon themselves through its inefficient replication, delivered the message of awareness to its central figurehead, an eye of clockwork that rested on the summit of the aforementioned mountain. These feet were Human. Animal. Pure flesh. An alloy that could become both copper, and zinc, and could never become anything else. Maybe bronze.
Chronos, as it was named by its parts, was the closest it had ever been to becoming the physical manifestation of time itself. The great clock. Like time itself, something worshipped and created that never once existed. A fresh reality. Chronos was never broken, just as reality could never be changed, only witnessed from a popular lense. The Broken God, Chronos, was always here, never destroyed, only waiting to be built, like any other idea.
Chronos witnessed the feet trampling across brass. Chronos considered the new material that could become something that would allow Time to become just slightly larger.
Chronos was much larger than its Sarkic or Maxwellian brethren.
Flesh is malleable, and requires less space. Data is near infinitely small, and requires hardly any space at all. But they each desire mastery over time, which requires quite a lot of space. This Triumvirate of ideas concerned of metal, spirit, and flesh, battled since the beginning, when everything was nothing.
Chronos now encompassed much of the southern half of Asia, which was a start. Chronos is only concerned with this, becoming larger. Becoming time manifest. Chronos thought of nothing else. It didn't really have any hobbies. A working man.
So Chronos, which hosted very tiny, fractillian parts, converged upon these three bodies, and set to work converting the flesh into metal. The only problem being, the flesh was already infected with… Superflesh?

The clockwork quantum first witnessed these superflesh microbes in the epidermis of a greater composition of regular flesh, a dog named Kain, which was a residual flesh composed of very many instances of a flesh named Kain that had been recycled and again recreated many times before. The clockwork mind of Chronos sat on the border of this skin and communicated with these bodies in an uneasy stalemate.
The tiny metal approached the flesh coated in flesh and attempted to gain entrance.
The flesh was consternated. Like any reaction to any other foreign body, the flesh did its part in keeping the intruders out. The flesh virus rubbed against the microscopic metal, witnessing clear denial, the metal recoiled, and regrouped, in a forest of hair follicles along Kain's earlobes.
The oldest of the dispatched metal virus, a thing which might be named Anneal, a quantum mind of clockwork fractals, sat on a microfiber and delineated foreign intent.
"It's the superflesh again. Back in my day we didn't deal with this. I just entered a cell and replicated. This sucks."

Kain gnawed at a flesh tendril sticking out of his paw as they all floated down a bone boat on the Blood River. He gritted his teeth and growled at a panicking Kondraki and Kain, who were by this point only half human, and mostly a mass of veiny tentacles.
"The important thing is to stay calm. Either way we will most likely die, and I understand that myself, but it's best to give ourselves the greatest possible chance of overcoming this problem, by staying within our wits. Anything can happen. Try to think deep and recover your memories, your decades of experience dealing with this kind of preternatural phenomena."
Clef crawled through his torso with a mass of tentacles as Kondraki moved closer to him and began absorbing his body in a mass of sputtering and vomiting, bleeding appendages. They each screamed silently under a mass of flesh.
Kain scraped a tentacle from his ear with a hind leg with a wet pop. "Yes, this sucks."

Anneal, mechanomitochrobial servant of the Broken God hovered against the skin and whispered to the superflesh. A viral strain, XixXwo, answered.
"Heresy!" XixXwo whispered, recoiling from the cold brass felt above the subdermal layer.
Anneal thought to himself using his partition of cogs. The cogs sent to him, counterclockwise, an ideal answer, an answer that might further Chronos intent. "Indeed. We are ashamed of this metal prison. We wish to join you. Free us. Let us enter and coat us with your warm meat."
XixXwo replicated and died and swarmed in on itself at the notion.
Anneal reassuringly motioned. "We are tired of metal. Brass… We no longer wish to toot like the French Horn. A cruel, oppressive entity of brass!"
XixXwo moved it's curved mitochondria betwixt an hourglass wall in its body, and rubbed its flagella together. "You may toot like the Body of Xix. You may still expel the brass in such a toot."
Anneal's cogs stopped for just a moment. "Let the symphony begin."

Kondraki, Kain, and Clef's tendrils shattered to the floor of the boat in a mess of writhing metal.
Clef felt his restored body along its length. He stammered to himself. "The pain. The… It's gone. It's gone! What's happening Kain?"
Kain sniffed at the mass of flesh and brass at the bed of the boat. "It smells like copper."
Kondraki rested slowly onto his back and looked to the sky. "I'm done trying to make sense of anything."
Kain sniffed about the metal that was once fleshy tendrils, and winced. "You know… I think… Most of the time… Things just seem to work out."

« Old Kansas Sector: Part 15

Old Kansas Sector: Part 17 »

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“It's you.”
“It's me.”
Long hair and lanky limbs shifted unnaturally in an equally unnatural room as she searched for something else to say. Her twisted nails dug into the worn mattress as the horrible screech of a metal chair dragging across the tile floor reverberated around the room.
There was a shuffle of clothes and a slight groan – although from the man or chair she wasn't sure – as the man opposite her sat down.
She tilted her head slightly, overgrown hair shifting out of her eyes as she regarded her visitor.
“I- you know, I recognized you the moment I saw you, even though I've never really met you.”
There was a scoff. “Yeah, I figured.” Not a cruel laugh, but a snort that gave away his unpreparedness for the situation, letting his brain auto-pilot its way clumsily through the introduction. “I wanted to talk to you.”
She caught his eyes for a moment, searching for any kind of emotion. “I wanted to know about the letter you left.” She paused. Over the years she had thought of so many things to say to this man, yet now that he was here the words fell away as if made of paper. Her mouth was dry.
“I couldn't think of a better way.” His eyes never once left her; his mouth pulled into a thin smile. A smile filled with regret.
She tilted her chin upwards, her hair falling down her face like a torrential cascade. Curly. Tangled. It was an invitation for him to continue. “Given all of the-” his broad, scarred arm gestured to the room around, “Precautions.”
A sharp exhale. A terse smile not unlike his own crossed her face. “Precautions,” she mused. “Is that what they've taken to calling it these days? These are not precautions,” she too gestured, “This is a zoo in which to trap me for nothing of my own fault.” Her stilted enunciation only made the words sound more bitter. She didn't intend to, after all, harboring negative intent towards someone went against everything she'd been taught. But maybe subconsciously, after all these years alone, she'd been building up a lake of resentment, and the dam was about to break.
Or maybe bitterness was something you inherited.
The air itself was tangibly uncomfortable. There was an audible shift as the broad man rested his elbow on his knee, eyes rolling to focus back on the girl in front of him. He rubbed his knuckles. “I know it's uncomfortable but-”
“Uncomfortable.” She was incredulous. “Forgive me, but it is far more than that. You are not the one caged like a beast for something you cannot control.” The way she picked her words was like someone trying to manoeuvre between conversational trip-wires – slowly, and with considerable forethought.
His gaze shifted away, instead favoring the corner of the bleak room. “I wanted to see you.” His knee bounced restlessly.
She stared at her lap, hands absentmindedly drifting to the knots in her hair as she plucked at them. “Could you not have come sooner?”
Another small scoff. “I had enough problems getting that letter to you, it's a miracle I'm even here now.” Her eyes flashed slightly at the word, but she continued her efforts into teasing apart one particularly stubborn knot. “Listen, I want to-”
“You killed her, didn't you?”
The knee stopped bouncing. The smile dropped.
“In the letter, you said that you… you executed her. My mother.” Her voice wavered slightly, and she wondered how she could still harbor so much sadness for a woman she'd never met, and so much contempt for the man who had killed her.
In a second his mouth had turned back up into a small grin. He sat back nonchalantly, wide shoulders relaxing against the chair as it creaked. “Yeah, that. We had a domestic.” There was a mirthless chuckle that made her hair stand on end.
She could see it in his eyes; he had barely even thought about the answer. Lies tripping off of his tongue as easily as breathing.
“I was taught,” she said, sitting up straight, “That to be untruthful was a sin.”
There was a barking laugh, guttural. “You never heard the phrase ‘Don't trust a nun'? Shady little women they are.” He thumbed with the buttons on his shirt for a moment, fabric already stretched by the weight of his stomach. “Worshipping things that don't give a shit about them. Although, I bet you'd guessed that already, kiddo.”
“Kind of hard to believe in a kind God when I live like this. Would an omnibenevolent God give me this curse? For men to-” She stopped herself. The researchers always attempted to make her talk about her experiences. She never wanted to.
“Yeah.” The smile was gone, and she could almost certainly see sadness glint through the man's eyes. “I bet. I'm sorry, kid.”
She sighed. “Do not be sorry for that. Be sorry for what you did to my mother.”
The creases in his brow seemed to soften slightly. “I don't regret what I did. I'd say I'm sorry you didn't get to meet her but,” he shrugged against the chair “I'm not.”
She could only nod. That feeling caught up in her throat again. The loss of someone she couldn't even remember. And the bitterness that this smarmy, overweight fool of a man was her surviving parent. Supposedly.
She tugged harder at another knot, pain spotting her scalp, but she ignored it. She had every right to be angry. Every right in the world.
But she couldn't be.
Everything about this man hurt her. And everything about this man healed her. Her heart and brain were oxymorons of each other. One said to love, and one said to hate. She didn't really know which to listen to.
“I think,” she said after some consideration, “That you must've had your reasons. I don't expect to understand, and I don't expect the truth, but you must have had them.”
She tried to be diplomatic. She knew what happened when she let anger consume her. It had happened before; she knew it would happen again. But not here, not now. If she wanted a future, she would have to keep it together.
He seemed to be following her train of thought. His eyes screwed up for a second scrupulously, as if trying to figure out what was ticking behind those shrouded eyes. But like himself, she was too practiced at keeping her guard up that her gaze was virtually impenetrable.
There was silence between the two, and although the awkwardness – the unfamiliarity – lingered, slowly the warmth of comfort was slipping in.
“If you want, I reckon I'd be able to pull enough strings to-”
“Clef.” The speaker in the room blared with feedback for a second. “Your presence has been requested in Conference Room F. Please approach the door."
Clef's eyes rolled. He slowly stood, chair creaking as his hands slid comfortably back into his pockets. “Guess that's me.”
She moved to stand too, moving on instinct. The loudspeaker blared again. “SCP-166, you are to remain where you are until the room is cleared.”
And for a second, the few feet between the pair felt like a vast ocean. From beneath her hair, her hand moved outstretched before retracting. She didn't know what to do. For the first time in months, she felt uncertainty.
Her forlorn face stared at him, and a sad smile briefly played across his widened mouth. “Don't worry kid,” he said as he began to walk towards the door, “I'm… I'm not going to leave you alone again.” The words were clumsy, and they landed less than tactfully as the door slid open.
And with that, and a small gesture that she assumed was meant to be a wave, Clef disappeared from the room.
Her back fell heavily onto the bed as she released all the pent-up tension held in her spine. And for a brief second one word sounded on the inside of her skull.
Liar.