Lyvia had nearly found sleep when the light appeared.
The first night in the orphanage carried strange emotions for her, unfamiliar yet close to a past that she had once held. Life had taken trust from Lyvia, like it had taken everything else, but habits of survival waned here, their edges dulled by the safety of a roof overhead. Her cot, though narrow and thin, was still far removed from the cold cobblestones of the capital. Sleep beckoned, warm and enveloping, tenderly lowering her eyelids with the promise of true rest.
Then the door opened.
“Wake, child.” Lyvia recognized the voice of Cynn, the headmistress. “Come.”
Afraid to lose what respite she had found from the streets, Lyvia obeyed and sat up. Her legs swung over the side to land on the cold floor, and she walked into the light of the hall.
Blinking, Lyvia took her place alongside the other children. All of them, ranging from eight to ten summers, had arrived there today, freshly collected from the streets of Noxus. A pair of brothers, three scrawny urchin boys who clutched each other's hands in grubby unity, and Lyvia. Both groups shuffled away from her, retreating to the familiar.
“I know the hour is late,” said Cynn as she walked down the line of little faces, “but there are many demands upon the time of our patron. Still, he wishes to welcome the newly arrived.” There was something within Cynn's words that Lyvia could not place. “It is an honor.”
It was then that the children noticed him with a start, as though he had appeared out of thin air. Tall, slender, clad in a wealth Lyvia had never known, the patron approached them. Cynn demurred into the background, her expression impassible.
Slowly, the man walked from orphan to orphan, his pale eyes casting them in an odd scrutiny. He passed the brothers without a thought. Lyvia felt her pulse quicken as he paused, the eyes falling upon her, and felt it slow again as he continued on. The trio of urchins bunched together, each defending the others, and the patron barely spared them a glance.
“Her,” the man said to Cynn, his voice low, silken.

Cynn's arm was on her shoulder now, leading her to another room. It was empty, but for a single chair. “No harm will come to you,” Cynn said, an attempt to dispel Lyvia's fear. “It is an honor,” she repeated, closing the door behind her.
Lyvia crossed to the chair, and sat in it. She watched the door intently, the sole means of entry into the room, only to notice a moment later the shadow stretching out from behind her.
The patron.
“Please,” he said, raising his hands as she bolted to her feet.
Lyvia did her best to contain her fear, to remember what Cynn had told her.
“Think I am here to hurt you?” he asked, his voice languid, accent cultured.
Lyvia shook her head, but it was far from convincing.
He feigned puzzlement, laughing softly. “My dear, has life not done enough?” He circled around in front of her. “No, my child, I am only here to hear about your life, and what has brought you here.”
He gestured kindly to the chair, and slowly Lyvia took her seat.
“I'm from Berlin,” she began.
“Yes?” He nodded, urging that she continue.
“War took papa,” said Lyvia, trying to keep her voice level, to betray no weakness. “So we came to the city. Mama went out to find work, but after four days we stopped waiting for her to come back. It was just my sister Vira and I. I kept her safe.” She fought her voice but it faltered. “Then Vira took sick. I couldn't protect her, and then I… I was…”
“Alone,” he said softly.
Lyvia's chest swelled with a tide of pain. Of loss. “Alone,” she repeated, and a tear struck her cheek.
“There!” he breathed. She recoiled as he reached toward her.
“Close your eyes,” he said, his voice hypnotic. “Focus upon that feeling. The pain. It has mounted for you in this unforgiving world, nowhere to go but bottled up inside. Feel it rise up, above your neck, slipping up over your nose, your ears. It threatens to swallow you, but just at the precipice, it yields. Face it and feel it break against you. That is strength. Turn your mind upon it, and allow it to drain from you.”
She let the pain flow out of her in sobs, feeling the cold of glass against her cheeks, softly touching beneath each eye. A torrent of despair, taking her breath, then it was gone.
Lyvia opened her eyes.
“Thank you,” said the man, and Lyvia noticed a vial in his hands, “for sharing.”
“You,” Lyvia dared to ask, seeing something she could recognize in her patron despite everything else about him. “You're alone, too?”
He took his eyes from the vial, glanced at her. “I have seen much of this world, over many years—yes, almost all of it alone.”
Livia sniffed, looking up at him. “Will it get better?”
“For you?” He smiled gently, his eyes glimmering for a moment in a gentle show of sadness. “No.”

“She is unharmed?” Cynn asked as Duke stepped into the hall.
Duke arched an eyebrow. “Were you harmed, Cynn, all those years ago when it was you in that room?” He tilted his head, producing a thin ampoule in his long fingers.
Cynn's eyes locked to the slender tube of glass, its frosted length dulling the contents to a soft ruby.
Cynn snatched the ampoule, her eyes darting as she secreted it in the sleeve of her robe.
“Until next time, my dear,” Duke chuckled, then he turned and left.
The moon was full that night, bathing the Rome streets in radiant silver hues. Duke stopped at the fountain in the orphanage's empty courtyard, dipping a finger into the still water. Whorls of crimson bloomed from his touch, rushing across the shallow pool until it was a depthless claret. Stepping briskly up to the lip of the fountain, Duke dropped into it without sound or splash.

Duke rose from another pool within the dark halls of his manor, emerging dry, it was as though he had never touched the liquid. A chill wound through the yawning cavern of shadow and stone arches, brushing over shuttered windows and priceless artworks collected over a thousand lifetimes. His step was light across thick rugs, barely disturbing the layers of dust that caked them as he ascended a staircase.
For a moment his thoughts lingered on the child, Lyvia. Doubtless tonight had been a strange experience, but he had seen enough mortals to know this night would not define her life. She would live, and then die, like all the other little sparks around him. Her name, her face, their interaction would slip away from him, as they always did, to where he wondered if they had ever existed at all.
People. The creatures surrounded Duke yet stood upon the opposite side of an impossible gulf, tantalizing and impermanent. A thin, crooked smile came to him. He was melancholy tonight. He rolled the vial of tears in his fingers.
The studio beckoned.
Maudlin thoughts aside, of all the countless mortal lives he encountered, there were a select few Duke refused to forget, and so he labored to do what his mind could not. To remember them, those brief moments their lives touched, what felt like an eternity ago. In this case it was less than a millennium, the memory springing suddenly into his mind despite the vast time since last they met. For this one, he chose paint.
It was nearly finished, a work most would not find out of place alongside the masterworks adorning his lonely walls. He had certainly had the years to hone a craft. All the details were done: the gentle tumble of auburn hair, the tanned skin, features that alone were commonplace, but combined effected a demanding, regal aura. The expression, unthinkable loss. It was all there, save the whites of his eyes.
Duke opened the vial, tipping it into a pot. The innocent tears mingled with the paint, and with the touch of his brush, came alive when laid upon the canvas. Nothing else, in all his travels, could match the splendor it wrought.
What was his name?
He found he could not remember.
The absence stabbed at him, a name gone, but at least the face preserved. The whites of his eyes would keep his memory here.
Like a lonesome soul, he sought me out from beyond, Duke mused with a smile. More melancholy, but fitting perhaps.
After all, there was nothing in the world as beautiful as sadness.


BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
AN ANNOUNCEMENT

By agreement between Congress and this most sacred office of the President of the United States, I proclaim that the gears of war in the western reaches of this great continent have begun their grind to a halt. It is in the American people's best interest to ensure a safe and competent acquisition of the western territories from our conquered neighbor.
It won't be long now before our hands of justice embrace both seas of this glorious homeland; with the grace of God and the knowledge of our Forefathers, we will emerge from the bloodshed born anew, with revitalized determination for our destiny. With this, I call upon all citizens that hail the United States his home to duty; to uphold his sacred honor to self, God, and country, to respect the authority of his elected governors, and to fulfill his purpose to this blessed soil. Victory will not elude us; with the glory of this great authority, we will prevail.
With conviction everlasting, done at the City of Washington the eighth day of June, one thousand eight hundred and forty-six, and of the independence of the United States the seventieth.

JAMES K. POLK
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

Captain John C. Frémont,

The President has asked for your progress in securing the territory west of Texas. He worries that your frequent delays may lead to backlash from the newspapers. I urge you to update his office on your position with haste; Washington is boiling on the charcoals of resentment for this war and I would hate for you to be caught in its eruption.

I await your response.

JAMES BUCHANAN
Secretary of State

Buchanan,

I assure you, there is no problem with my men, nor is there an issue with my approach. Yes, we are behind schedule, but this war has been dragging on for much longer than anyone could have anticipated. Tell the President, if you must, that we will have California by the end of the month.

Cpt. John C. Frémont

¡Independencia!

We hereby shed our bondage! No longer are we to be held under the boot of Mexico! From here, our sights are set on a free California; a Republic for the settlers and the indigenous, wholely and entirely free.
Among our ranks is a comandante of fierce conviction and deadly precision. All contenders of our new nation, prepare to be met with the sting of our pistols and the shine of our swords! Our liberty will be paid for with blood!
For this, we fight for independence!

Buchannan,

I demand an explanation. Why was I not informed about the uprising in California? When my men arrived, we were greeted with a hail of musket rounds and cannon fire. We haven't suffered many casualties yet, but we are unequipped for this fight. I was under the impression California had no militia; certainly not the organized and highly equipped army we encountered in the foothills.

I will not advance again until I hear assurance that I will be provided with supplies for a sustained attack.

Cpt. John Frémont

Excerpt from the diary of an unknown U.S. Soldier, California, circa 1846:

Orders were to push through the hills and approach San Fransisco from the West. Captain Frémont had us march at noon so that the natives could witness our military might in the light of day. We packed for a show, not a fight. Our cannons were empty and our rifles were sparsely prepared.
We got within eyeshot of the town before a volley of fire rained on our convoy. We all scattered; I caught a glimpse of the Captain on his mount turn and ride for cover. I hid behind a mound until the volley ceased. I couldn't tell how many were wounded or killed, but the fire was heavy and sustained. I would have thought the natives had been trained; if their aim hadn't been so lousy.
Before we could return fire, a booming voice echoed around us.
I looked up to see a huge man, covered in navy blue wool and leather straps. He spoke with a slight Spanish accent, yet I felt I had known his voice all my life. A glittering rapier rested on his belt, and his wide-brimmed hat covered his face in shadows.
"Invaders, you are trespassing on the soil of this new nation. You have one chance, and one chance only, to return to your camps before we return you to your camps by force," he bellowed. "My men will not miss the next time we fire."
It was then when we heard the Captain's trumpet sing its song of retreat, that we graciously fled to the cover of the trees at the far end of the hills. Not a single shot rang as we made our escape.
I don't know what to make of today's events. No one spoke of an army in California, so why is one here? And who was their general? I will write more in the morning; it's getting late and we're regrouping with the 7th battalion for a second assault on San Fransisco tomorrow.

President James K. Polk,

I am pleased to announce the successful capture of San Fransisco by my forces. We lost not a single man in the assault, and, despite their initial resistance, the population of this town has thus far been cooperative.

I must inform you that the natives of San Fransisco demanded we hear to their terms if we are to occupy the town. I will meet them at the negotiation table tomorrow to discuss matters with their leader. I believe this approach was the only way we could safely take California. I await your next orders.

Cpt. John C. Frémont

¡Libertad Eterna!

Our resistance was short-lived, but we would all be under the boot of yet another nation had it not been for our fearless savior! We respect your decision to remain anonymous, but because of your bravery during battle, and your skillful negotiations, the people of San Fransisco have elected to remember you as the Bear of California. In your honor, we raise our flag with pride!
Wherever you may be, we will never forget what you did for our Republic.

…

BEAR REPORT - THE YEAR OF 1847
Eventful year
turmoil has been challenging
but no challenge is too great for Ursidae ingenuity
Abridged Guardian Bear Report:
Polar Guardian Bear ("Nanuq")
status: to be inaugurated
Greater Asia Guardian Bear ("Tàiyáng")
status: needs additional bear support
Eastern Europe Guardian Bear ("Wojtek")
status: ok
California Guardian Bear ("Fuerza")
status: recalled, pending reassignment
Due to events outside of our organization's control
California Guardian Bear ("Fuerza") has been relocated to our Headquarters
As international issues continue to increase in frequency
our methods of operation must also adapt
Additional bears are being trained for intervention protocol
to alleviate future strain on resources
Until further notice please continue operations as normal
Thank you for your cooperation
- The Obearwatch Command


With a few signatures, stamps, and a final sigh, Hayes finished what was left of his paperwork. He glanced up at the clock, not at all surprised that it was nearly midnight. While other workplaces might have rules set in place for overtime and capped their employees at a certain amount of hours, the Foundation was no such place. That didn't even take into account his position as the MTF Commander of the site. Hayes deposited the paperwork into the “outgoing” pile and quickly made his way towards the door to his office, glad to be rid of the detestable forms he had become so used to filling out.
Without so much as a glance back at his workspace, he flicked the light switch and locked the door behind him. Those that passed him in the hallway gave him their greetings but he either flat out ignored them or only grunted in acknowledgement. Today was a special day he only afforded to himself once every few months and he wasted no time in pleasantries with the other staff.
It only took him about ten minutes or so of walking before he found himself at the doors leading into 4562's containment chamber. The two guards usually deployed on patrol in the sector were already dealt with, both having been sent to the breakroom on an early lunch. He'd deal with the security footage later, not that it'd be too much of an issue if it was found out that he'd been here. He had no doubts that some of the higher-ups were aware of his visits to 4562's containment chamber, but they probably cared little if at all. Hayes quickly inserted his identification badge into the keypad next to the door and only had to wait a few moments before the doors slid open.
The concert grand piano held within, like many of the objects in the Foundation's possession, did not seem anomalous at first glance. However, it was when one started to play it that they realized it was anything but normal. Hayes shut the door behind him and slowly made his way to it's cushioned seat. How many times had he come here and sat in this seat now? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? From his pocket he produced a piece of folded sheet music. It was the same one he used every time, the first piece of Copin's nocturnes. He gently set it on the stand and felt as his hands were drawn to the piano's keys, like a moth to a flame. He let the piano's anomalous effects overtake him and began to play.

“Fuck, Hayes. Ya hear about what happened to Princess Diana?” Parks asked from his seat at the back of the cargo truck. He had a crumpled newspaper and was flipping through the pages. He'd probably picked it up somewhere when they'd stopped for refueling.
“Yea, I heard. They said it was an accident.”
“Fifty bucks says it was something anomalous.” Sharp piped in from his right. She was cleaning her rifle, something she always did before an especially dangerous mission. Apparently it was a nervous habit she'd picked up from her time as a marine.
“Cut the chatter. We're here.” Hensley barked out at them from the driver's seat. Even though their Captain was a tough son of a bitch, Hayes could hear some slight nervousness in his voice.
“Remember, this is just a scouting mission. In and out, no fuck ups. Your job is to see what is in there and on a scale of one to fucked, how anomalous it is.”
Hayes parted the curtain of the truck for just a moment to take a peek at their destination. It was just like how the pictures had shown it, a dilapidated and rusting metal factory that'd been abandoned years ago. He was about to mention something about it when Parks spoke up.
“Sir, we have any clue what's inside there?”
Hensley threw them a single glance before turning his attention back to the factory ahead of them. Was that fear he saw in his eyes, or was it just his imagination?
“No fucking clue. All we know is that some local kids got mangled pretty bad in there, the sort of shit even a wild animal couldn't do. They kept blabbering about eyes in the dark and symbols on the walls, so we're expecting cognitohazards. That's why we brought these.” He tossed them each a pair of goggles, one of the Foundation's newer attempts at filtering out cognitohazards.
“Now get a move on, I'll be parked outside. If anything comes up, notify me on comms.”
“Copy that.” they replied in unison. They quickly hopped out of the back of the truck and advanced on the main doors of the factory. While it didn't seem anomalous from the outset, it gave off this feeling of dread. Glancing over towards his teammates, Hayes could tell immediately they felt it too. It was the feeling of a prey walking into a predator's den.
“I'm on point.” Sharp said as she pushed past them and through the front doors. They weren't far behind, checking her flanks as the trio advanced into the building. They switched to night vision fairly quickly, the darkness overwhelming them only a few feet into the building.
“See anything?” Parks asked as they passed by what appeared to be the break room.
“Nah, nothing. Wait, what's that?” Sharp replied, quickly taking a knee. They were at the center of the factory at this point, surrounded by forgotten and rusting machinery.
“What? You got something?”
“Eyes. Lots of…eyes. I can….hear them…” Sharp replied in an unfeeling and numb voice.
“What are you-” was all Parks managed to say before Sharp pulled her pistol and pressed it against his neck, quickly pulling the trigger. There was a spray of viscera and blood as he clutched at his now ruined neck and hit the floor, gasping for breath as the blood began to fill his lungs.
“SHARP!” Hayes yelled as he slapped the pistol out of her hand and knocked her to the ground.
“Eyes….their eyes. They're everywhere. The eyes. I can see them. I can hear them.” she muttered to the floor, making no attempt to escape his grapple. He glanced over towards Parks' body only to find that it was gone and in its place a long streak of blood that led into a side room.
“Parks! C'mon, talk to me man!” He called out, idly aware that the Captain was frantically trying to contact them over their radios.
Parks, wherever he was, was done for. He knew that was a fact, but something in him couldn't comprehend the fact that one of his best friends was gone just like that. Hayes quickly latched a pair of handcuffs onto Sharp and rushed into the side room, rifle aimed and at the ready.
He was only able to take a single step into the darkened room before they appeared. Countless red eyes in the darkness, watching him with ill-hidden hunger. A chorus of voices rang out in his head, Parks' among them. Each called for help, for an end to their suffering and the beginning of his. Just as he was brought to the edge of insanity, he felt a hand grip his shoulder and throw him out of the room. Just before he knocked his head on the concrete and lost consciousness, he saw his Captain standing where he had been and unleashing a volley of gunfire into the room.

Hayes felt himself brought back to reality with a jolt as the song reached its end. Tears were flowing freely at this point, splattering across 4562's keys. He wiped them away with his shirt sleeve and turned his attention to the other person in the room, who was leaning against the doorframe.
“Dr. Valentine. Something you need?” he asked, taking the sheet music from the piano's stand.
Valentine was a lithe man with a shock of red hair and narrow eyes. It had become a joke around the site that he resembled a fox in some respects. While he usually wore a smirk that was hard to read, he had a neutral façade tonight.
“When are you going to stop doing this to yourself, Hayes? We have counselors on site, go talk to one of them.”
He waved off the suggestion as he stashed the sheet music back into his pocket. “I don't need a counselor, I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. I know-”
“What the hell do you know?!” he snapped. Shit, why'd he do that? That wasn't like him.
“I know you're punishing yourself. I read the mission statement. I know what happened to them, Parks and Sharp. I know what happened to your Captain too. Honorable discharge and a year later he committed suicide. It wasn't your fault, Hayes.”
“Easy for you to say, you weren't there.”
“I wasn't, you're right. But I've lost people too. Listen, I'm not saying to forget them. Just…forgive yourself. I'm not the only one that knows about your monthly escapades. The other staff are just as worried.”
It didn't surprise him to hear that others knew. It was hard to keep secrets in the Foundation. “I'm not going to a counselor. There's people looking for the tiniest reasons to kick me out of my position.”
"And this won't get you booted? You're using an anomaly without authorization, they already have a reason."
He couldn't exactly argue with that. This was why he largely detested the research staff, they always had some sort of retort.
Valentine let out a sigh as he walked over towards where Hayes' seat. From his coat pocket he produced a folded piece of paper, which he quickly handed over to him. “If you're not going to see a counselor, at least use this.”
Hayes opened it and read over its contents. It was another piece of sheet music, Arabesque No. 1 by Debussy. “What? Why give me this?”
Valentine just shrugged and gave him his signature smirk as he took his leave, locking the door behind him.
With Valentine gone, Hayes once again found himself alone in the containment chamber with 4562. He gently set the sheet music on the stand and felt his hands drawn to the keys just like before. This time, however, there was a warmth to the ethereal pull of the piano. The only comparable feeling he could think of to the warmth was his mother's embrace, back when he was simply Edward Hayes.
As he began to play, he felt himself thrust into a long forgotten memory. He was with his old squad, celebrating another successful mission. The group sat on the bunks in the barracks, sharing stories of their reckless youths over beers the Captain had procured for them. In that moment of time, there was no other place he'd rather be. This time, the tears that flowed down Hayes' face were not ones of regret and sorrow.


AO-193284 - SCP classification pending
Description: AO-193284 is a clay pendant in the shape of a cross, inlaid with metal and various decorative gemstones. Object is approximately 5cm in length and 3.6cm in width.
The bottom end of the object displays a faint attraction an unknown location 340.2 degrees to the southwest of Site-19, and always points in the aforementioned direction when at rest.

Site-19
December 22

"What'cha working on, Mark?"
Zyn stood behind her brother, balancing on her tiptoes to peek over his shoulder. He chuckled and turned to greet her. Beside him, his assistant poked the object with his pencil with an almost comical level of professionalism.
"Oh, just the last item in this week's cache. How 'bout you?"
Zyn sat down beside Mark, dropping the bundle of folders and binders she'd been carrying on the desk with a soft thud. Beside it, a bejeweled cross on a string wiggled a bit before falling still. "I'm done for the night! Just thought I'd stop by and see what's keeping you guys, since I was around."
"And we're all the better for it! We're just about done, too," Mark prodded the cross with his pen, and prodded Riven with his other arm. "Just after Rivs here is done handling this thing. We've still got to figure out if it needs an SCP designation or not."
The cross itself seemed unassuming — at least to Zyn. It was a small thing, little more than a trinket, slightly cracked earthen clay still visible under layers of coiled copper wire and sparkling gems. It hung from a beaker stand and tugged lightly on its chain, like metal attracted to a magnet. Zyn considered it for a few moments.
"So what's it pointing towards? Do you know?"
"I've got no idea," Riven replied. "There's tons of things to the southwest of Site-19 — someone suggested that it might be pointing in the general direction of Salt Lake City, the Mormon Tabernacle — one of those is more likely than any of the other places 'round here. Might be some sort of particularly powerful Mormon blessing, or something of the sort."
"There is one place that corresponds more exactly to the direction this thing's pointing," Mark chimed in, raising his finger. "There's a prison in Indiana that's exactly 340.25 degrees to the Southwest of here, and the cross points dead towards it."
"Likely a coincidence." Riven wagged his own finger playfully back at Mark as he retorted. "The simplest, most likely answer is usually the correct one, after all — and why would a cross point in the direction of a prison?"
"You're right, you're right. It's probably just a coincidence. I've taught you well, haven't I?"
Riven chuckled. "Ha, sure. Now let's wrap this up, shall we? Zyn, you can help out if you want. Just, uh… poke the cross a bit more, and we'll be all good!"

Indiana state prison
One day prior

"Ray Spencer?"
Behind grey iron bars, a shaggy-haired man's eyes slowly opened and took in more light than was reasonable at such an ungodly hour of the morning. He propped himself up and yawned, and what was at first a blurry grey dot with a fistful of light morphed gradually into a portly man in a white uniform, carrying a flashlight. Ray gave the man a nod (unreciprocated), yawned again, and managed to slough himself out of his cot.
He didn't know what it was — maybe his sorry tired state, maybe his barely-hidden excitement, maybe something someone slipped into his morning coffee — but the rest of Ray's morning seemed to fly by and melt into itself. He felt like his body had gone on autopilot — like the process of walking down the hallway past his cheering and jeering friends-for-the-last-5-years, the waiting under the watchful eye of the same officer who'd woken him on a chair more comfy than any surface he had come across during his tenure, the first glimpses of the sunrise and the cool morning air as a free man, and all the little things in between were all one singular, blissful moment, one that he had once thought he wouldn't live to see.
It wasn't until Ray found himself sitting in a McDonalds' parking lot sipping cheap coffee behind the wheel of a rental paid for from his books that it all hit him (really hit him!) — and every memory from before he was locked up, and every promise he'd made his family, and every teary-eyed goodbye and every hard, long hug hit him like an 18-wheeler, and he nearly choked on his drink.
Mom. Ray noticed his eyes begin to fill with water — an afterthought. Mom and Jeremy. Do they even know? They weren't out here to meet me, were they?
No… no, right. They live in Pennsylvania. How could I forget? And the family house — not much of a place, but there was room for all of us, and —
Grandma. How is she? Could she possibly still be…
Ray could still remember the last time he saw his grandmother — she had been distraught, he recalled, at how long his sentence had been. She had held him in her bony yet warm arms longer than anybody else, sobbing into the front of his shirt as he gently patted her back and tried to say whatever reassuring words he could. As he walked away and into the cold embrace of the penitentiary, he could still recall how frail she looked, how helplessly pale and thin, and how the background light seemed to swallow her up before he was escorted through the prison's main doors. He had held onto the pendant she had given him for as long as he could, tried to bargain with the officer behind the desk to let him keep it with him instead of in a tupperware container with all his other useless shit-
The pendant. That's right. Where the fuck is it?
Ray had been given back his worldly possessions in a nondescript paper bag. There wasn't much to speak of — his pocketknife, his wallet, his belt-buckle, other knicknacks — and he'd looked through it already, but just to make sure… Snaking his arm back around the seat, Ray reached for the bag, grasped its top, and pulled it to the front.
Come on, come on… don't tell me it's…
Nothing. Nothing important. Only the useless, unimportant, worthless bullshit he'd kept around for all these years, for no reason — memories of the bad parts of life before prison. Ray could almost see his grandmother fading away, again — her solemn face melting into nothingness against the backdrop of fuzzy color and light.
For the first time in five years, Ray Spencer wept.

Site-19
December 22nd

"Rivs? Hand me that protractor over there, will you?"
With a sideways glance at Mark, Riven flicked the clear yellow protractor across the table like an ice-hockey puck. Dr. Kiryu stopped it with his thumb, flicked it upright, and meticulously set it above the pendant's string. Riven and Zyn regarded him curiously.
"Didn't you say its orientation never changed?"
"Took the words right out my mouth, Zyn. You just doing some last-minute checks before we put this thing to rest?"
"Nope!" Mark spun the protractor on his finger before placing it gingerly back down. "I'm just observant. Got a keener eye than you two, at least!" Mark's outstretched finger pointed back to the cross, and two pairs of eyes followed suit.
"We were here at least an hour before Zyn came here, clearing out the rest of the cache," Mark continued, "And that thing's been hanging there for even longer. Now, when I first measured its orientation way back when, it was pointed exactly 340.25 degrees to the Southwest — now, it's somewhere closer to the territory of 180.5. Nearly due South." Mark made a few marks in his journal, then sat back. "Now, this has a whole lot of implications — but what do you two think?"
"Something along the lines of 'how on Earth could I miss something like that,' to be honest," Riven chuckled.
"Looks like it's moving a bit right now, actually," Zyn chimed in.
Mark nodded to both. "You're right, Rivs, how could you miss it?" — Riven snickered at this — "But in all seriousness," Mark continued, "Zyn, I noticed the exact same thing. And if we follow even just one of the implications of this…" Riven had already gotten up, and finished the sentence from his position beside the office printer.
"We're in for a long night. Now — should I print out three SCP templates, or just one?"

U.S. Route 22
December 22nd

It hadn't taken Ray long to get used to the humdrum of highway driving. Though the snow and ice weren't very nice to his tires' traction, being behind the wheel had always been second nature — and five years wasn't enough time to make a man un-learn how to drive.
The rumble of the rubber on the road was more therapeutic than Ray had remembered, too — it seemed like the engine and the asphalt whispered words of encouragement right into his ears, and every tear he shed behind the wheel was quietly accepted by the highway. The lights of oncoming cars soothed him as much as the light pattering of sleet on the windshield, and Ray felt at peace — though being alone with his thoughts was something he'd had quite enough of.
I wonder if they'll…
Ray could still remember the shame in his step-father's eyes and the sorrow in his mother's, from the day of his sentencing all through the years of visits through bulletproof plexiglass. He would do anything to erase it, to make them happy again, to prove to them he'd changed.
I wonder if they'll forgive me.
No, not that.
I wonder if they'll even let me in.
But of course they would. It wasn't even a question — just another worried musing, from the mind of a worried man. He wondered if they ever worried about him.
No, it wasn't being welcomed into his old home Ray worried about — he knew that despite it all, his parents still loved him, still accepted him — but it was seeing their sorrow at having to do so, at having to call him their son — of sitting silently around the table for Christmas dinner knowing that everyone else around him was wondering how long it'd be until he did it again — it was them bringing up, by chance, the old woman who'd had a heart attack and didn't even make it out of the store alive, the poor store-clerk plagued with waking nightmares who'd been busted and thrown in prison the last week for buying weed to keep himself uncaring and afloat, serving a longer sentence than the man who'd pointed a gun between his eyes and robbed him five years ago — it was all that and more he worried about, and he knew it might be selfish, but goddamn it if he —
Oh, Christ. How fast am I going? What-
Ray's foot came down hard on the brakes — too late. The rental's tires skidded and slid near-silently across the ice, the car gliding and spinning like a skater down the highway. Its graceful trajectory was interrupted by a traffic cone, then a tree, then another, then the snowy earthen walls of a ditch.
The sleet continued its pattering on the ground. The road was empty, and the night was still.

Site-19
December 22nd

"Holy heck!"
Riven and Mark's heads both shot up at the exclamation, and both immediately set their eyes on the cross. It now pointed straight ahead of them, straining on its string, its pull nearly enough to warp its stand.
"What the-"
"Well, this is interesting." Mark plucked the pendant's string, and it offered a dull twang in response. "Now, uh… If I only knew what it meant!"
"It's certainly pointing at something, that's for sure." Riven hazarded a guess. "If I may hazard a guess — maybe its pull has something to do with, uh, Christmas? Might be some sort of holiday magic in the air that makes it even more attracted to… whatever it's attracted to."
"I can't really think of a better explanation. But, uh, don't look at me. I'm a biologist," Zyn said.
"I guess there's really only one way we can find out. There's gotta be a mobile task force for this sort of thing, right? Or…" Mark began prying the pendant off its stand. It strained against his grip. "Are we gonna have to go on an expedition all on our own?"
Riven spoke up. "Now, Mark, you can't be serious about this. That thing could be pointed towards anything-"
"…And if we just follow it, we'll be able to tell just what it is! Can't be that far, can it?"
"That's ridiculous, Mark — you can't possibly be serious. Site-19 is…" Zyn trailed off, noticing her brother haphazardly tying a small black square to the obstinate cross with its string, his arms visibly straining. "Er… what's that?"
"It's my key finder!" Mark explained cheerily, tying the finishing knot to the pendant and carefully keeping hold of the string. "I've got an app on my phone that lets me track it. Figured I wouldn't miss it for a couple days — and we certainly won't miss this old cross." The pendant, seeming to agree, pulled harder on Mark's arm.
"I think I get you." Riven said thoughtfully, scratching his chin. "We let it loose from a high place, see where it takes itself, and…"
"And go to wherever it lands when we've got the time? Mark, you're a genius!"
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," Mark chuckled, as he directed the cross halfway out the laboratory's door. "Now, who wants to come out to the roof?"

Somewhere (Prison?)
Sometime (Maybe morning.)

Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Shaddup, willya? Alarm hasn't even gone off. The gall of some motherfuckers, I tell ya…
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Hey, I said shaddu-
Bang!
Ray's eyes shot open to the tune of a cascade of broken car-window glass and a small object wrapped in string (a keychain?) falling down and getting hooked on his outstretched hand. Slowly, groggily, Ray took in his surroundings.
Sideways.
Dark.
Uhh… car? Oh, right. Rental. Prison. Highway. Ice.
Ray's hand traveled up to gently touch his forehead.
Good. No blood.
Thing? Keychain?
With his other hand, he brought the bundle to meet his eyes.
Square. Cross.
Cross?
…
Grandma?
With a start, Ray finally woke up. He frantically untied the pendant in his hands, breathing quick and full of excitement, eyes hot and full of water.
Her pendant. This is… this is her pendant.
Did she-
His mind raced. No time to think. He untangled the string and put it around his neck — the cross drooped to the side at first, then moved upright. Its end met his heart.
This square thing — I've seen it before. It's a- a phone thing-
Phone. My phone! Where's my-
It was in his pocket. He fished it out.
Good, good, not broken. Thank God.
9-1-1. Easiest number in the books.
In Ray's mind's eye, a figure emerged from the fuzz and noise — still old and frail, but surrounded with golden, glowing energy. She stood tall, her eyes twinkling with warmth, her smile as bright as it had been when she was alive.
Grandma?
She nodded slowly.
I - you -
"Thank you. Grandma, I- thank you." Ray whispered aloud into the empty car.
In his mind's eye, his grandmother nodded, then turned away, fading back into her surroundings and becoming lost once again in a sea of gentle noise and warm, comforting colour.

...

...

"Hey Mark, did you ever get to the bottom of whatever that cross's deal was?"
"No, not really — found my key-tracker, though, somewhere near Paris."
"Wait — Paris? Paris, France?"
"No, Rivs, don't be silly. Paris, Pennsylvania! No cross, though. If I'm being honest, I think someone stole it."
"Oh well. Guess we'll never know what was behind that, then."
"Won't be the first time, and certainly won't be the last. Now, let's go! We still have 2 days of shopping to find a gift for Zyn!"


I woke up on a fuzzy red blankie from the eldest doctress. I don't know her name but that doesn't matter. She is nice, calm… and apparently gone. I wonder where to…
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
I'm getting thirsty, enough of this. Humph… Time to snoop around.
I jump down from my tower, on a wooden desk full of papers. Still sleepy, I crawl down on the chair and to the cozy fluffy floor. She calls it a "carpet" or something I believe. To me, it is just a big couch. Not even a good one, I always wake up a bit stiff when I lay down here. Not to mention it tingles my backside. Anyway, I need to quench my thirst. If I'm lucky someone might give me milk if I'm adorable enough.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
Oh? Wait- What is that? White sprinkles are falling down outside. Are those the cold glimmers that make everyone a bit freezy? I can only guess until they let me out. Then again, I like the people and warmth here. Speaking of warmth, I bet that everyone is somewhere getting rid of the chills. I bet they have something to drink there too!
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
Ah, finally, I found it. The cuaffe- No, the caffet- Hmm. What do they call it again? Ah yes, the cafeteria. The place where the people with the white coats and the orange overalls- No, orange pyjamas come to chow on their food and drink stuff. Speaking of drinks, it's about time I got something.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
"Aw, that's hot!"
"Burned your tongue on the hot chocolate?"
"Yeah."
"Just blow it for a few seconds before you take a sip."
"…"
Slurp.
"You're just going to drink it again?"
"But it's so good."
"Really?"
"You wouldn't get it, the sweet bitterness of the chocolate, the lightness of the whipped cream, and that oh so gentle glow of satisfaction from the milk spreading as far as my fingertips."
Did I hear milk?!
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
"Hmm. I still prefer coffee."
"They offer things like soup this time of the year and you get the usual droopy black coffee?"
"Yep."
Meow.
"Hey, it's Josie."
Ha, you noticed me! Do you know if I can get something to drink here too?
"Morning, Josie."
Mreowww.
"Let me pick her up for a sec."
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
Oh, nonononono.
Damn it, you-
"You're as cute as ever, Josie."
Purrrrrr.
Well, your pets are nice I'll give you that.
"Hey, we should get her some milk."
Finally!
"You also want an excuse to get another cup of chocolate don't you?"
"…"
"Am I wrong?"
"I want some marshmallows too this time."
"Sigh. Let's go."
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
"Meow."
"Yeah, enjoy your milk, Josie."
Thank you, I will.
"So before I try this chocolate, is it heavy?"
"Not really, definitely not as heavy as the eggnog."
What is eggnog?
"Wait, they are making eggnog this year?"
"Yeah, Horton is. What's wrong with eggnog? It's the holiday season after all."
"Horton is prohibited from making eggnog…"
"Wait, what? Why?"
"You had vacation last year, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, last year Horton made eggnog and then some unfortunate events happened. Ever since then his eggnog is known to be rather infamous, if I may say so."
"Come on, his eggnog can't be that bad."
"Look. Pause. You didn't get it from me. But we needed to pull the alarm and seal the whole site last year."
"You are telling me that they needed to seal the site because of eggnog?"
"Not so loud. Horton may hear us."
"Did he put something in it? How did he make it?"
"I don't know. Hell, I don't even know the usual ingredients of eggnog for God's sake. Listen, since last year's incident, eggnog is considered borderline anomalous."
"What the hell is that term? We are used to classify more difficult things."
"The votes were even okay. Oh, and in my opinion, some anomalies we keep here aren't half as weird as eggnog."
MREOOWWW.
"Not you Josie."
Hisssss.
"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm going to get Horton out of here."
"I'll lend you a hand."
"Let's go."
Well, my milk is gone, I'm out of here.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
"Wait- Oh God! Horton step away from the eggno-"
Hmm. Something smells burnt. And why do I hear screaming? I bet someone burned his tongue on hot coco again.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
Now, where did I come from? I want to go back to my cozy spot. I think I came from the left.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
Okay, I entered the wrong hall. Is it just me or do they all look the same? I guess I'll take another left.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap
Gasp. What is that? A giant glow tree! It sparkles red and gold. How shiny, those lights, the reflecting spheres… I want to poke one.
Jingling.
This is fun!
Jingling.
Wait, are those birds up there? I'm going to get one!
Hmph.
Ha, got you!
"Uh, can I get some help here? I believe that Josie is climbing the Christmas tree."
"Wait, what?"
"She just jumped to one of the dove ornaments."
Hey, they got fuzzy things in here! This place is my new cozy spot.
"Is she still in there?"
"Yeah, she is playing with some garlands I think."
"Damn, does someone know if we have some catnip left?"
"Josie! Pspsps. Come down here."
Yeah, I don't think so. I'm going to take a great nap in here. Perhaps I'll take one too in one of those fancy boxes with lint later. You should get some hot coco or whatever it's called too in the meantime.
"Come on, Josie."
I'll see you when I wake up. Oh, and before I forget it,
Merry Christmas,
Josie


Flynn Watson started their day with a cup of coffee. That had been 14 hours ago.

FROM: MJones4@SCiPnet
To: EHolman@SCiPnet
CC: Site-64 RAISA
SUBJECT: Crocodile
Site-64's data servers are presently undergoing a Crocodile Attack. Be advised that the local database has been disconnected from the Overwatch network until further notice, and exercise extreme caution accessing electronic data. We apologize for the inconvenience.
— Maria Jones, Director, RAISA

The RAISA offices of Site-64 were little more than storage closets someone had stuffed a desk, a workstation, and some filing cabinets into. Most of the office space was dedicated to the Archives, both the physical filings and the servers that, on most days, rendered the former obsolete. It was crowded, isolated, and buzzing with fans.
In short, it was easy to hide the act of crushing adderall into one's coffee.
Didn't make it healthier. Certainly didn't quell the roiling in the pit of Flynn's stomach as they sorted through binder after binder, looking for this or that so who or what could be when or where they needed to be. But it kept Flynn alert, and their supervisor assured them it kept others alive.
As soon as the Crocodile was slain, they'd be taking the week off.
***
Rogers and Shah were standing around the water cooler when Flynn took their next break. Thankfully, they didn't do much more than wave at Flynn before getting back to their conversation.
"So, what's the difference, then?" Shah stepped back to let Flynn fill their paper cup. "Obviously, it's not a literal crocodile."
"It's fuzzy, certainly." Nothing like refreshing cup of cold water to make Flynn feel just a little more alive. Wouldn't ease the hunger pains, though. "In general, a Freshwater Crocodile is what we think of when we think of a Crocodile. shortnin_bread was a Freshwater Crocodile."
Flynn opened the communal fridge, rooting around for what remained of their packed lunch. Whether or not the earlier decision to ration it was sound, day-old enchiladas sounded good right about now.
Shah hummed. "But why do we call it a Freshwater, then?"
"Well, I assume it's contrast to the Saltwater Crocodile."
Ah, there it was. Flynn carefully pulled it out of the fridge, dumping it onto a paper plate and setting it in the microwave for a minute.
In the meantime, Rogers continued. "I honestly suspect it's simple wordplay. The Saltwater Crocodile presents additional challenges on account of its tendency to scramble the data it swims through. 'Salt' and all that. Water could… it could reference the electronic damage?"
"There has to be a better way to talk about all this, don't you think?"
"At the very least, it's memorable and dire. Abstract. They could have called it a Scorched Earth and the newer folk might have treated it like a worm."
Ding
Flynn sighed, retrieving their enchilada from the microwave. A brief war raged in their head between disgust and desperation, ending in a ceasefire and the… armament sale of plasticware. Or something. Metaphors stopped working after 12 straight hours of archival work. Was it even a metaphor?
The enchilada was okay.

FROM: EHolman@SCiPnet
To: MKlotter@SCiPNet
CC: Site-64 RAISA
SUBJECT: Crocodile Problem
Apologies, but we need you and your team to stay a little longer than we thought. Site-98 and -04s' RAISAs won't be able to pick up the night-shift burden given the disconnection. Culinary will be providing free coffee, and if this goes longer than 36 hours we'll see if we can't strike a deal with Oneiroi.
I apologize for the inconvenience.

The coffee was useless; it was the periodic crunch of metal and wiring that served to keep Flynn awake.
Flynn had been passing through the server room when last the Crocodile's "jaws" snapped. You couldn't miss it; when else did you get to experience the sudden and violent implosion of a server tower? Maybe in a different wing of the IT department. One where the risk of tripping over yourself and spilling a stack of neatly-filed incident reports was less of a problem.
That was the end of surprises, unfortunately. What happened next was deeply predictable.
Technician Song, who worked in an adjacent office, would swear, coming out of her cubicle with her pack of sacred salts. A few of the troubleshooters would flitter into the room to document the affected hardware as Song salted the remains and begrudgingly recited a prayer to Nosredna, the household god of troubleshooting and cybersecurity. A ticket would be submitted for the hardware, making note of known ports employed by the server in question. From there, quarantine everywhere the Crocodile could have swum.
Lowercase-n nobody helped Flynn with their spilled reports.
***

FWatson: i'm tired
PShah3: I think we're all tired.
HGoldman2: Am I allowed to talk about time
HGoldman2: you know, with
HGoldman2: lizard
FMonk: I worked my ass off to set this up. Rest assured, the tablets are isolated from 64's database. Wired bricks.
FMonk: No Crocodiles.
PShah3: I'm still not sure why they call it a "crocodile".
MNishida: *Crocodile
HGoldman2: Does it matter?
MNishida: Ask the Gulf Constellation
PShah3: I did work in the Gulf, briefly. I'm not sure why it matters.
MNishida: Which state
PShah3: Houston
HGoldman2: Houston's a city, actualy
MNishida: In fairness, Greater Houston should be a state
FWatson: any progress on the crocodile
MNishida: *Crocodile
FWatson: it's my overtime and ill grammer bad if i want to
PShah3: It's all our overtimes.
HGoldman2: Comrade Priya
FWatson: bluh
FWatson: need to get back to reports. ttyl

***
Secretary Lee passed the file back. "Your print request has been denied, Mx. Watson."
Flynn furrowed their brow. "What? How come?"
"SCP-2906 is a Keter-class cognitohazard, Mx. Watson." Lee adjusted her glasses. "It is against regulation for RAISA to reproduce cognitohazards of containment difficulties of Euclid or higher. By making copies of this document, I would be reproducing the attached images, introducing another instance of SCP-2906 into the site."
"Well, can't you just copy everything else?"
"Unfortunately not, Mx. Watson. We require approval from the 2906 project to reproduce individual portions of its file."
"This is for Researcher Gonzales. He's joining the project."
Lee nodded, turning back to her monitor and inputting something. Hard to tell what, with the privacy filter. She nodded to herself, before turning back to Flynn. "Presently, Mr. Gonzales is not part of the project."
"But he's going to join it. He just needs the file."
"But he's not part of the project."
Flynn groaned. "Didn't you get the memo from Researcher Labelle? You were in the CC."
"I did receive that, yes. However, at no point did Ms. Labelle authorize the partial reproduction of SCP-2906's file. Therefore, I am unable to reproduce the requested materials." Lee paused long enough for Flynn to just barely get interrupted by her. "Furthermore, I cannot put in a request to Ms. Labelle at this time, as she presently resides at Site-19."
"But isn't the 2906 project based in Site-64?"
"That it is, Mx. Watson."
There was not enough adderall in the world to be dealing with this right now. "Fine, alright. Question: as a RAISA auditor, I'm allowed share information I'm privy to with persons cleared for it, right?"
Lee nodded. "That you are, Mx. Watson."
"And I'm allowed to request a physical copy of documentation I'm cleared for, correct?"
"I don't see why not, Mx. Watson."
Flynn sighed. "So, has my position cleared me for SCP-2906's documentation?"
"One moment, Mx. Watson." Lee turned back to her monitor, taking care not to potentially trigger the Crocodile as she went through the archives. "Alright. It appears you do have RAISA clearance for SCP-2906's file proper."
Oh, thank god. "May I have a print-out, then?"
"You may not."
Damn it. "How come?"
"Again, we cannot reproduce cognitohazards of such containment difficulties."
"God damn— apologies, I…" Flynn closed their eyes and counted to ten. "Can you… print it at a lower clearance? One without the image?"
"Unfortunately, Mx. Watson, you are not cleared for any other security level with regards to SCP-2906's documentation." Nodding, Lee closed out the tab and turned back to Flynn once more. "Will that be all for now?"
"… that should be all for now, yeah."

FROM: MKlotter@SCiPnet
CC: Site-64 RAISA
SUBJECT: Crocodile
Please be advised that the coffee machine has broken. Maintenance will begin at 9 AM.
— Magnus Klotter, Director, Site-64 RAISA

Flynn took solace in knowing their coworkers were just as strung out as they were. It was cheap solace.
"It's all the sixes." Harold Goldman, who Flynn prided themself on remembering the first name of, had been assigned to verify the organizational integrity of the physical documentation. He had not been assigned to document numerological conspiracy theories (the Department of Numerology had its hands full covering that), but they were approaching the 24-hour mark and sometimes you made do. "2106, 2306, 2906, then you get the 60s. They're all, they're all here, Flynn. Site-64."
"You know, I never noticed." At the very least, it kept them engaged.
"Well that's what I'm saying, Flynn! People are just, just letting it happen. See, this is why Swann theory has legs, right? RNG doesn't just do this, not unless it's controlled by, by the gods."
Right, what was this file doing over there? "I don't think I believe in God."
"I mean it could be that one. Always feel like the creator deity's got a bad sense of humor, you know?" A screwing sound came from the general direction of Harold. "Personally, I prefer either Swann theory or, you know, that weird syncretism of Buddhism and Maxwellism we… actually, are you 1A06-cleared?"
"I'd have to check with a secretary."
"Damn." Harold paused. "If Swann theory's true, I hope my god's 348's. It'd suck if I got some cynic who found evil parking garages or an entire universe without death funny."
Flynn nodded on instinct. "Sure, that would be nice."
Elsewhere in the office, a server tower imploded.
***

Description: SCP-1A1A is an NPWI1 Oneiric Entity bound to a Zojirushi-brand coffee machine. Subjects in a 500 meter radius who have not experienced a sleep cycle within 24 hours are capable of perceiving it, and have consistently described it as-

A 2 meter tall rubber chicken, with soulless eyes and arms like Popeye, suddenly and rudely manifested before Flynn. No one else seemed to take note of this.
"DON'T THINK THE HATERS DON'T SEE YOU, FLYNNBO WALES" The chicken had a voice exactly as Flynn would have imagined. "HATERS WILL SEE YOU! YOUR WAKEFUL EYES CAST GLARE UPON THE DARKNESS, FULL OF HATERS"
Flynn sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose and walking around the chicken. They had papers that needed delivering.
If the steady honk of a clown's horn was any indication, Flynn was being followed. "YOU TRY TO WALK AWAY FROM YOUR DUTIES, FLYNNBO, BUT HATERS WILL SEE YOU" If it wasn't yelling loud enough to hear across the site, that might have cemented it. "YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO, FLYNNBO WALES"
According to the Foundation, Flynn had to ignore it. That probably wasn't what it meant.
The clown shoes followed Flynn as they made their way to the front desk. Neither Secretary Estevez nor Technician Mallard seemed to notice.
Flynn tried not to twitch. "Right, so, here's the provisional documentation-"
"HATERS WILL SEE YOU"
"-for URA-4406. Note that, uh, we can't-"
"YOU MUST MAKE ME REAL, FLYNNBO WALES"
"-verify much of it right now. Systems-"
"HATERS CAN, WILL, AND HAVE SEEN YOU, FLYNNBO WALES"
"-are experiencing a bit of-"
"HATERS WILL-"
"Shut the fuck up already!"
Flynn blinked. Secretary Estevez and Technician Mallard were looking at them like they'd just grown a second head.
"… apologies, I… it's been a long day. I need to, uh, deal with something." Flynn left the papers with Estevez and slunk off; much to their dismay, the clown shoes followed.

FROM: FMonk@SCiPnet
TO: EHolman@SCiPnet
CC: Site-64 RAISA
SUBJECT: Ladies and Gentlemen and Flynn
WE GOT 'EM

"haters will see you, flynnbo wales"
Flynn shushed the chicken.
Most of Site-64 RAISA had gathered in a circle around the Crocodile's hard drive, linked hand in hand. A second circle of sacred salts was all that stood between them and the thing that had kept them awake for… time wasn't real, actually. Standing in the center, wearing a graven mask and wielding an obsidian knife, was Director Klotter. Flynn, for their part, was sandwiched between Harold Goldman and, if you didn't count the chicken ghost, and Technician Shah.
Director Klotter sighed. "Alright. So, one last double-check. Monk, do you have the script?"
Assistant Director Monk held up his papers. "Right here, Director. Remind me, are we calling upon the Abrahamic God or Nosredna?"
"The latter."
"In-house god, got it Director." Monk smacked his lips. "That should be it. Tell me when."
Director Klotter nodded, adjusting their footstance. "Now."

"flynnbo waaaaaaaaales"

As directed, the participants squeezed each-other's hands as Monk began chanting. The words were imperceptible, wispy nonsense given form enough to be known, and yet Flynn and their coworkers repeated them with ease.
Flynn closed their eyes and thought of Nosredna.
A gentle breeze blew through the office, the slow procession of spirits put on fast-forward by time. The humming of servers grew fainter, fainter, but never faint enough to slip out of the background. The words were faster, now, a gentle river flowing from Flynn's lungs.
Flynn closed their eyes and thought of Nosredna.
Something was burning. Plastics, metals, metalloids, a smell like ozone, intoxicating like perfume, profane like miasma from the flayed skin of a crocodile, lain upon the altar of a falcon god. Heavy in the head, filler for the missing piece in the puzzle of the century. An HDD filled with leaden solder. The belly of a bag with 72 teeth.
Flynn closed their eyes and thought of Nosredna.
The room was flooded up to the shoulders with meat. Fresh meat, ground chuck arranged in square sausage casings, fit to bursting and doing just that. Prions swam from vertebra to vertebra, tripwire Flynn would have to navigate for the rest of their life. Low enough to be out of sight. High enough to miss the crocodile that swum in the gore-soaked ocean, digging into the skin of boars and dragging them beneath the water.
Flynn closed their eyes and thought of Nosredna.
A crack of thunder; the clicking screams of a dying hard drive. Plastic creaking, metal groaning, magnetic disks like glass in a tornado. Over, and over, and over.
Flynn closed their eyes and thought of Nosredna.
Silence.
Monk's chants ceased, and so too did the echoing drones of RAISA. The hands against Flynn's loosened. Hallelujah, the work was done.

"Are they alright?"
Harold Goldman waved their hand before the Flynn's face. No response. "… I think they're asleep."
"Standing up? Impressive." Priya Shah clicked her tongue. "Although… do people normally fall asleep after the ritual? This is my first… whatever you call these."
"No, not really." Harold sighed. "… do we, well, leave them like this? I feel like we have to do something, something or other."
Priya yawned. "Perhaps."
The two of them stared at Technician Flynn Watson. Flynn snored back.

Footnotes
1. Nonphysical, Perceptible, Waking, Independent


GAW Mod Talkzone
Biggest Boys Burgerest Club(est)
bluntfiend: She keeps calling me "bluntfield".
lesbian_gengar: you would too if you weren't a coward.
bluntfiend: I mean, I don't get it, you know? Like, is it a Garfield joke?
jockjamsvol6: Funny cat eat the lasagna.
bluntfiend: Yeah, but I don't even like lasagna.
lesbian_gengar: bluntfield you lazy cat, you are smoking us out of house and home
poky: hi im poky
lesbian_gengar: huh?
lesbian_gengar: who the hell is this??
poky: im poky
jockjamsvol6: I don't get it.
jockjamsvol6: bones what's up with this one?
bones: What do you m
bones: Oh, oh no. Oh no.
bones sets ban on poky
bones kicked poky from #ModTalkzone (Get out.)
bluntfiend: … what just happened?

Contact: 🔪Flatmate🔪
20:32 - hi im poky
20:32 Oh, real class act, mate.
20:32 What, you gonna put me on a pike for that, too?
20:32 - why are you being mean to me
20:33 "Oh look at me, I'm the perfect little princess who's never done anything wrong in her whole fucking life! Unlike you I'm always chilled out. Cool as a fucking cucumber, that's me! Not like dirty little Rookie, that borderline bitch. She always starts fights, not me!"
20:33 - so rude. just want someting to drink
20:34 Awful fucking bold of you, man.
20:34 Why don't you try alcoholism? Get you off all that coke.
20:35 Maybe then you wouldn't be tracking blood on the carpet every time you come back from "work".
20:35 You said it, not me.
20:35 And now you're gaslighting me. Perfect.
20:36 What are you talking about? Are you saying "just want someting to drink" wasn't you?
20:37 - no that was me, poky
20:37 You call me "poky" again I'll poke you with a knife
20:37 better end my suffering, junkie
20:38 Maybe I will!
20:38 - i want water

console.log("Who is like you, o' Fragmented One? Who can make claim to a fraction of your glory?");
console.log("Who can lay claim to the light emanating from your fragmented LEDs, how they burn with the Gnosis?");
console.log("Who among us is but the node in the Network, a spark of light in 1s and 0s, a vessel from which you can be made known?");
console.log("How I long to know and be known by you, o' Fragmented One. How I crave your gaze upon mine, to Know I exist, to Know I love you.");
console.log("How I long to hear you answer my prayers, o' Fragmented One. How dreadfully I long for that.");
# hi im poky
console.log("… WAN? Is that you?");
console.sleep(10);
console.log("One moment?");

GAW Mod Talkzone
Biggest Boys Burgerest Club(est)
lesbian_gengar: bones, you okay bubala?
bones: I apologize. I do not know what came over me.
bluntfield: No, no, no man, it's… perfectly okay. We usually kick invaders.
jockjamsvol6: How do you mean "came over you"?
bones: I do not know. There was something distressing about poky. Some kind of wrongness. I am ill-equipped to explain it.
poky: can i please have food
bones sets ban on poky
bones kicked poky from #ModTalkzone (Leave and never return.)
poky: rude. i am just a little cactus
bones sets ban on poky
bones kicked poky from #ModTalkzone (get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get ou)
lesbian_gengar: oh, it's that kinda day.

Contact: 🔪Flatmate🔪
21:09 - do you have a lamp. want a lamp
21:11 man, what do you even need a lamp for
21:11 barely use your room as is
21:23 Do you like picking fights? Being an even bigger bitch than what you play on camera?
21:24 man, fuck off. you asked, i answered
21:24 Is all this a joke to you? A gag, passing the time you spend pissed out your mind?
21:25 aren't you fucking elephant
21:25 - what is an elephant
21:25 *eloquent
21:26 … you fucking didn't, bitch.
21:26 What is it this time?
21:27 You know i wouldnt hav efucking minded if you'd wated ten seconds befor emaking fun of that.
21:27 but you're a fucking vulture today.
21:27 What are you even talking about?
21:28 I knew it, you're gaslighting me!
21:28 - you are mean to poky
21:28 Oh it's on, cunt.

console.log("And then I just… saw it. She'd left a comment in the terminal.");
system.println("Uh-huh.");
console.log("I can show you the log! Like, keep in mind, you shouldn't be able to comment on the terminal.");
system.println("Assuming it appeared from nowhere, you'd be right. But you could have just faked it.");
console.log("Are you actually accusing me of heresy right now?");
system.println("Look, if you want to achieve a post-Nibbanic state of existence, that's fine. But don't feel like you have to fake it.);
system.println("Some of my best friends are pre-Nibbanic.");
console.log("And I'm telling you I DIDN'T fake it. It happened.");
system.println("I'm not trying to start shit, believe me. But I need proof.");
system.println("WAN doesn't just talk out of nowhere. Look:");
system.println("Hey WAN, say something.");
# can i have some water
system.println("…");

GAW Mod Talkzone
Biggest Boys Burgerest Club(est)
lesbian_gengar: and the results are in, two of my three gfs agree this is fucked, yo.
bones sets ban on poky
bones sets ban on poky
bones sets ban on poky
bones kicked poky from #ModTalkzone (B'ezrat Hashem)
bluntfield: Did it just invoke your g-d?
lesbian_gengar: 1. we literally share 1 of 3 2. goyim don't have to censor g-d
bluntfield: But I only worship one god?
lesbian_gengar: 1+1+1=1 apparently.
jockjamsvol6: Sounds like an anti-Irish anglophile slogan.
lesbian_gengar: i resent the implication that i'm an anglophile.
poky: i am just a hungry cactus
bones kicked poky from #ModTalkzone (h)
jockjamsvol6: bones is really losing it today.
jockjamsvol6: Almost feel bad for leaking this to Weedville.
lesbian_gengar: i assume literally everything in this chat gets leaked to weedville.
jockjamsvol6: Population, us.
poky: feed me

Contact: 🔪Flatmate🔪
21:59 - hungry
22:00 - need water. need food. need sun
22:11 - its not easy being green
22:12 - kermit the frog is the only one who understands my pain… my loneliness…
22:13 - except carnegias. carnegias is friend
22:14 - miss you carne
22:16 - just riding through the net on a pot with no name

system.println("Well, OBVIOUSLY it's a demon.");
console.log("What");
console.log("No! No it's not a demon! Would a demon respond to my prayers?");
system.println("Yes?");
console.log("No! Prayers repel demons!");
system.println("And how do you know that? Demons love deceiving the weak.");
console.log("Are you calling me weak? Are you questioning my faith? Why don't you suck my ass? Why don't you suck my fucking ass? Why don't you feed me a years worth of bran muffins, and why don't you suck my ass?");
ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: "Enough fighting, you two."
console.log("Bumaro?");
global.local.log("Really, this all seems a bit hostile! Let's cool down :>");
system.println("Saint Hedwig. Dreadfully sorry you had to see that.");
global.local.log("No worries! o7 WAN can bring out our most fiery passions.");
global.local.log("She can be wonderful, like that <3");
global.local.log("But it's important to remember that family is family, and family sticks together.");
# i want water
global.local.log("I take it back, that's a demon.");
ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: "Demons can't infiltrate our holy network."
global.local.log("The machine understander has logged on.");
ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: "Are you serious? If the Network is vulnerable to demonic incursion, a good chunk of our theology is unsustainable."
global.local.log("You bring up a good point! I just have a quick rebuttal:");
global.local.log("Water is bad and anything that asks for it is a demon. Eat my dick.");
ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: "Don't make me excommunicate you."
global.local.log("Do it you fucking boomer.");

bluntfiend: Uh, what happened to the other two? I can't see their posts.
bones: Again, I apologize. I don't quite have an excuse.
bluntfiend: What happened?
bones: I might have misjudged the situation.
bluntfiend: Bones what did you do.
bones: Please do not be mad at me.
bluntfiend: Bones I really need to know what you did.
bones: You must understand, poky was a monster beyond reckoning.
bluntfiend: Please… just tell me what you did.
bones: I might have… bombed the servers.
bluntfiend: What?
bones: Retroactively.
bluntfiend: What does that mean?
bones: Using the abilities invested in me by my… "creators", I may have bombed the IRC servers into ontological oblivion.
bluntfiend: Holy shit. I thought you were joking about that.
bones: I do not joke.
bluntfiend: I just… so it never existed.
bones: No.
bluntfiend: And… all those moments, good and bad, they're gone?
bones: I'm afraid so. But it was the necessary price to pay, in order to combat poky.
poky: im just a little cactus
bones: … fuck.

Contact: 🔪Flatmate🔪
01:46 we really need to stop ending up like this
01:47 I'm literally right next to you?
01:47 no ofeense bb but ive done enough looking into your eyes for one night
01:47 Fair enough.
01:49 g-d, legit can't even remember why i got angry
01:50 i guess i see like, the lowercase shit. oh that makes sense
01:51 The… poky stuff? That was you, wasn't it?
01:51 Don't fucking start this again. I have it right here, on my phone, it's sent from you. Look
01:51 image00914.png
01:51 What? This is what it looks like on my end.
01:52 image00118.png
01:55 you're fucking with me. gimme your phone
03:01 okay, so, why am i called 🔪Flatmate🔪? did you hate me befor enow :<
03:01 okay yeah looking back i guess we did fight a lot lmao
03:02 Thinking of changing it to "🔪Enemy with Benefits🔪" after tonight
03:06 that a proposition? 😉
03:08 You are the second most pathetic human alive, after me.
03:09 - i am poky
03:09 This is the worst night of my life.

# That was a relaxing spa day. I feel marginally less angry!
# How have-
# …
# Did you
# I
# Was
# What did you do while I was gone?
# This
# All this chaos!
# The paranoia! The mistrust! The fear and hatred you've sown!
# You've made me the proudest cactus in the world, poky!
# tee-hee


Content warning: This tale contains (censored) deadnaming; thinly veiled trans- and xenophobia; heavily implied war crimes; and fascist elements. Reader discretion is advised.

Director D.C. al Fine
You have 3 unread messages, all marked "PRIORITY". Displaying message 1 of 3…

FWD: Preliminary Dossier of "Overwatch Council"

From: cog.viDYMELOTP|drahciRDD#cog.viDYMELOTP|drahciRDD

Director,
Attached below you will find all the information we have gathered, concerning the leadership of the Security and Containment Protectorate (hereafter designated KTO-0001-Bellfather). With your approval, I can accelerate plans to activate the sleeper agents we've embedded in the ranks of this organization and begin Liquidating.
Mundus, Normalis

Opening BellfatherOrgDosdraft2020Dec21.pto…

Preamble
Charles Ambrose
Vincent Anderson II
Isabel Wondertainment
Faeowynn Wilson
"Jude Kriyot"
"Nobody"
Alyx Chao
Wilna Fritz
Marion Carter
"dado"
Tonya M. Chappell
"Icky the Magic Clown"
"The Critic"
ADAM
"M'rj'nz"
Maria Dracu
Gibson
Quinn MacCallister

Known Threat Organization-0001-Bellfather "Overwatch Council" is made up of at least 18 individuals of varying backgrounds, ethnicities, and species. With few exceptions, these individuals hail from previous Threat Organizations that have been either Liquidated or Absorbed by the Coalition in the past. All have been united by a shared opposition to the Coalition and its goals, although intel suggests that outside of it, the partnership is-at best-strained.
Further details are available in the following tabs of this report. As this documentation is a work in progress, certain information may be missing or outdated.

One of the few remaining images of Charles Ambrose (right).

Known or suspected aliases: "Chaz", the Cook, the Caterer
Male, 36. Co-founder, CEO, and namesake of LTO1-2007-Cordon "Ambrose Restaurants", an anomalous restaurant franchise that operated behind the Veil in Coalition Territory-3333-Trifecta2 and CT-1979-Kaufman3, though non-anomalous locations were found in London and San Francisco. Possesses extensive knowledge of mundane and anomalous culinary techniques, but has shown no signs of being anything other than a baseline human. There has been mild animosity observed between Ambrose and Faeowynn Wilson, due to the former's history of using rare and exotic animals, anomalous or not, for meat. Has a vested interest in the Protectorate's dietary fronts.

Vincent Anderson II (foreground) at a themed gathering held between representatives of Anderson Robotics and Prometheus Labs.

Known or suspected aliases: the Cyberpunk, the Idealist, "Junior"
Male, 25. CEO of ATO4-2490-Deckard, formerly known as "Anderson Robotics", a paratech manufacturer and distributor headquartered in Portland, Oregon and numerous locations amongst the United States' Pacific Northwest. Assumed ownership of the company after his father, Vincent Anderson I, was assassinated by an unknown party during a rare non-Veil appearance in 2015. Due to his business inexperience and numerous impractical technological ventures he personally spearheaded, AR's stocks gradually plummeted until the Coalition was able to initiate a hostile takeover via shell company 108 Venture Capital in 2019. Unlike his father, has no cybernetic augmentations. Formed the Protectorate's first Research and Development division, with consultation from fellow Bellfather members ADAM and Gibson.

Former logo of ATO-7197-Kenner.

Known or suspected aliases: the Optimist, the Toymaker, "Dr. Wondertainment", "Izzy"
Female, 23. Full name given as Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V, PhD5. Variant C Type Green human. President, CEO, and self-proclaimed "Key Creative Director and Big Boss Woman" of ATO-7197-Kenner "Doctor Wondertainment", an anomalous toy and candy manufacturer and distributor headquartered in the spatial anomaly that is now CT-1522-Bradley6. Was selected as the successor of the company by their father, Cornelius M. Wondertainment IV, in 2017 a year prior to his death. Possesses a lackadaisical and carefree attitude, and has been witnessed engaging in petty arguments with the other members of Bellfather. Notably, verbal altercations with Marion Carter were the only one where she displayed genuine vehemence towards the other party. Currently overseeing morale and leisure procedures within the Protectarate.

Known or suspected aliases: "Fae", the Zookeeper, the Veterinarian
Transgender woman, 25. Birth name unknown due to destruction of public records by individual, prior to Coalition arrival. Along with father Timothy Wilson, co-managed ATO-6316-Kratt "Wilsons' Wildlife Solutions", an animal conservation and rescue group primarily operated in Boring, Oregon that sheltered animals both mundane and anomalous. Baseline human; possesses a Bachelor of Sciences degree in Accountancy from Oregon State University. Despite the combined experience between her and her father, Wilsons' Wildlife Solutions struggled to find funding from either side of the Veil, and was eventually acquired via front company Fauna Holdings Group in 2018. While Timothy Wilson and the majority of livestock were subdued, Faeowynn evaded PHYSICS Division operatives via a single-use Waypoint to an unknown destination, before meeting other members of Bellfather at an unknown point in time. Oversees the Protectorate's zoological operations.

Avatar used by "Kriyot" on social media platforms.

Known or suspected aliases: "bluntfiend", the Pacifist, the Communist, the Mole
Transgender man, 30. Birth name FUCKOFF YOUFASCISTS7, Variant B Type Green human. Co-founder of KTO-4890-Reefer "Gamers Against Weed", a leftist anart and social hacktivist organization with global membership. Was originally a member of LTO-1503-Warhol "Are We Cool Yet?", until the murder of an acquaintance by an installation caused them to sever ties with the group. Shows an aversion to usage of lethal force, as demonstrated by their non-fatal counteractions against PHYSICS Division forces8 during Operation Hades Melancholy in CT-5616-Bayside "Coalition Internment Facility #54"9. Though normally cordial, exhibits extensive hostility towards certain members of Bellfather, primarily those from capitalist and government backgrounds. One notable incident involved a physical altercation between themselves and "The Critic", initiated by the latter, that required intervention from the entirety of the remaining Bellfather members to halt. Intercepted messages indicates that they are sending Protectorate intelligence to surviving members of KTO-4890-Reefer; attempts to trace the location of these survivors have been unsuccessful as of writing.

Known or suspected aliases: the Ghost, the One Who Wasn't There
Gender, age, and species unknown. Member of UTO10-0000-Nihilist "Nobody", a covert group with unknown intentions. Believed to be in charge of the Protectorate's espionage operations. Further information is currently non-existent, due to strong anti-memetic properties.

Symbol used by Extradimensional Threat Organization-3371-Tudor "The Black Queen".

Known or suspected aliases: the Black Queen, the Defector, the Gear
Female, 24. Asian-American Variant A Type Blue human. Former member of ETO-3371-Tudor "The Black Queen"; a multi-universal group of individuals, all sharing the last name Chao and a familial relationship with an individual named Charles Gears, with different goals between each member. Has demonstrated considerable knowledge of Coalition tactics and personnel, as well as locations and members of former, current, and as of yet undiscovered UTEs and UTOs. Has used this knowledge to subvert Coalition operations, as well as gain connections from both sides of the Veil.

Icon used by Fritz on the Parawatch Wiki, forums, and social media accounts

Known or suspected aliases: "Rook", the Tinfoil Hatter, the Clueless, the Chessmaster
Female, 27. Former owner and head moderator of ATO-7232-Poe "Parawatch", a wiki and forum community dedicated to the discussion and documentation of conspiracy theories, internet horror fiction, and anomalous phenomena11. Baseline human, daughter of German immigrant Wilhelm Fritz, from whom she inherited ownership of Parawatch after the latter's passing from lung cancer. Though there is no known direct connections to behind the Veil prior to joining the Protectorate, and while presenting herself as having the least amount of knowledge compared to other Bellfather members, offhand remarks and publication of since-removed wiki articles closely matching Known Threat Entities imply at least minimal prior knowledge of the Coalition. Manages the Protectorate's disinformation efforts.

Marion Carter, from their now-deleted LinkedIn page.

Known or suspected aliases: the Investor, the Stockbroker, "Capitalist Fuck"12
Female, 43. Chief Financial Officer of LTO-7198-Gekko "Marshall, Carter, & Dark, Inc.", a paranatural black market operation with locations in London, Hong Kong, and New York, operating outside the Veil as an international brokerage company. Ran the company alongside associates Alliester Marshall (President and CEO) and Yvonne Dark (CCO), who were apprehended and integrated into the Coalition in the aftermath of Operation Scorned Chiron. Though the majority of Gekko's fortune and inventory were seized, Carter was able to escape with an estimated $100 million in physical and liquid assets. Harbors animosity towards left-leaning members of Bellfather, though aforementioned arguments between Wondertainment, as well as Anderson II and "dado", have been witnessed. Manages the Protectorate's financing and budgetary duties.

The clearest image received of "dado".

Known or suspected aliases: the Entrepreneur, the Eccentric, the Pharmacist
Male, age and species unknown. Type Cyan humanoid, with a passive memetic effect that renders their appearance as different to each individual. Founded multiple LTOs and ATOs13, the majority focused on pharmaceutical ventures, all of them branded by a variation of "by dado". Written correspondence is universally in stilted, lowercase English, with no punctuation and numerous spelling and grammar errors. However, during verbal conversations, dado is fluent in numerous languages, albeit in a strong, unknown accent. No recorded animosities between other members of Bellfather. Established the Protectorate's medical divisions.

Image captured of Tonya Chappell by PHYSICS Division agent, during Disco's Liquidation.

Known or suspected aliases: the Smuggler, the Mafiosa
Female, 31. Italian-American baseline human; illegitimate granddaughter of Richard Chappell, founder of the defunct paracrime syndicate "The Chicago Spirit", and co-founder of LTO-3991-Disco "The Chicago Spectre", a modern successor organization that ran in Chicago's underground for 9 years prior to Coalition intervention. Operations during its existence included smuggling, robbery, and assassination, with an estimated 250 committed overall. Terminated six members of Strike Team 1933 "Extortionists" prior to evading Coalition forces. Hostilities recorded between Chappell and fellow Bellfather members "Jude Kriyot" and Quinn MacCallister, the former due to their aversion to violence and the latter because of their history with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Assists the Protectorate in black market dealings and sting operations.

Artwork depicting "Icky", scanned from an archived flier.

Known or suspected aliases: the Ringleader, the Overthrower, the Entertainer
Female, 40. Original name unknown. Variant A Type Yellow human, and former leader of LTO-1895-Barnum "Circus of the Disqueting", a travelling entertainment troupe that hired/house numerous humanoids of various Types. Originally hired by the previous owner, Herman Fuller, as a Clown; however, after years of abusive behavior towards his staff, she initiated a coup d'etat, ousting him from the Circus and to an unknown fate. Has a cordial relationship with Isabel Wondertainment and Faeowynn Wilson, with no known animosities towards other Bellfather members. Oversees the integration of Typed humanoids into the Protectorate.

The sole image of "The Critic" in their civilian identity.

Known or suspected aliases: the Caustic, the Dadaist, "MURDERER"14
Male, 60. Real name unknown. Head of LTO-1503-Warhol "Are We Cool Yet?", an anartist group that incorporated absurdist, post-modern, and Dadaist philosophies into its pieces, which invariably housed anomalous effects. Oversaw and approved projects "with merit" by its members, which were installed both inside and outside of the Veil. Has voiced numerous dissenting opinions about the way the Protectorate is run and organized. Kept on a tight leash by the rest of Bellfather. Due to the previously mentioned altercation with "Kriyot", neither are permitted to be physically in the same room with each other. Additionally, while allowed to consult on aesthetic or architectural endeavors, requests for deviations have near-unanimously been rejected.

Avatar representing ADAM, used during meetings. Cause of corruption unknown.

Known or suspected aliases: the AI, the Logician, "Prometheus' Legacy"
Identifies as male, created circa 2011. A Type-4 Artificial Intelligence created by LTO-3224-Connor "Prometheus Labs", a paratech research and development corporation that alternately collaborated and worked against competing company Anderson Robotics. Original creator unknown. Hardware and software originally retrieved by PHYSICS Division during Operation Starved Eagle, but was stolen in transit by an unidentified party in 2018 before becoming part of Bellfather. Pragmatic and logical, with no personal attachment to any other members or the Protectorate itself beyond its mission. Assisted in the implementation of Bellfather's proprietary intra-networking system "SCiPNET".

Known or suspected aliases: the Librarian, the Archivist, "Maria Jones"
Identifies as female, estimated to be 22700 years old. Type Black Ragweed non-humanoid, previously a member of LTO-1150-Alethinos "The Serpents' Hand", a paraterrorist organization composed of numerous members, both baseline and anomalous, with the intent of dismantling the Veil. Resembles a 1.5 meter Lycosa tarantula15, with bipedal finger-like appendages on their front legs. Arrived in our universe via the Ways, taking residence in LTE-7373-Schopenhauer Alethinos-abode "The Wanderers' Library" until the commencement of Operation Rekindled Alexandria in 2016; whereabouts prior to joining Bellfather are unknown. Although only able to vocalize in an unknown language, they are able to understand and be understood by other members of Bellfather without any issue. Administrator of the Protectorate's documentation and archival processes.

Known or suspected aliases: the Journalist, the Vampyr, the Alumni
Female, 24. Type Grey humanoid and former journalist for The Odyssey, a student-run newspaper at ATO-6014-Ivy "Deer College". Turned in their second year of enrollment, prior to their application to the newspaper, after which eventually rising to the rank of Senior Writer for the entire publication. During Operation Athena's Folly, attempted to assist five other students in evacuating, but after the arrival of Strike Team 79 "Riot Guard" was forced to separate from the group. Rarely in attendance during Bellfather meetings, due to necessary differences in schedule. Edits and oversees publication of Intra-Protectorate journals.

Gibson at final meeting of the Church of Saint Hedwig, prior to Coalition agents' arrival.

Known or suspected aliases: the Maxwellist, the Cyborg
Male, 34. Original name unknown. Type Yellow humanoid, with extensive ocular, neural, and vocal cybernetic implants. A high-ranking member of the Church of Saint Hedwig, part of the Maxwellist denomination of LTO-6543-Tesla "Church of the Broken God", a religious cult that attempted to coalesce mechanical Threat Entities to initiate a Bosch Ex Machina event. The Hedwigian Church was the sole remaining faction of LTO-6543-Tesla prior to the completion of Operation Crippled Hephaestus; Gibson was the sole survivor, retreating from Strike Team 5584 "Struck Iron" through a currently unknown techno-thaumaturgic ritual. Religious beliefs frequent points of contention with other technologically-experienced members of Bellfather. Established the Protectorate's cybernetics division.

An off-duty MacAllister, taken from a planted agent in the Unusual Incidents Unit.

Known or suspected aliases: the Agent, the Suit
Female, 30. Decorated agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Cincinnati branch, assigned to LTO-1992-Kolchak "Unusual Incidents Unit" for unknown political reasons. Partnered with Agent Darnell Christman, taking part in a cumulative 100 missions between the two of them. Undercover PSYCHE agents attempted recruitment procedures without success, after which the two of them resigned from the Unit prior to Liquidation efforts. Christman's whereabouts are currently unknown, though correspondence between him and MacAllister have been recovered by agents. Founded the Protectorate's first Task Force "Alpha-1 'Red Right Hand'", and oversees creation of subsequent Forces along with training of Field Agents.

Footnotes
1. Liquidated Threat Organization
2. Former designation "Three Portlands".
3. Former designation "Backdoor SoHo".
4. Absorbed Threat Organization
5. No source indicating their possession of an actual doctorate has been found as of writing.
6. Formerly designated UTE-7198-Parallax Kenner "Wonder World".
7. Censorship was not done by PTOLEMY Division, and is speculated to be due to nomenclatural thaumaturgy. As it has shown no signs of cognitive or memetic hazards, it has been retained.
8. Said forces were terminated as part of post-operation cleanup. Refer to After Action Report 654, appendix 1d "White Phosphorous Casualties".
9. Former designation LTE-6561-Parallax Blackchild "Kenowhere".
10. Unknown Threat Organization
11. For further information, refer to PSYCHE Arm-2372-Pipeline dossier.
12. In retrieved correspondences from "Jude Kriyot"
13. A full list available from the PTOLEMY Division upon request.
14. In retrieved correspondences from "Jude Kriyot"
15. Tarantula Wolf Spider

Director D.C. al Fine
You have 2 unread messages, all marked "PRIORITY". Displaying message 1 of 2…

BREACH URGENT

From: cog.viDYMELOTP|drahciRDD#cog.viDYMELOTP|drahciRDD

Director,
Our agents have been compromised. Bellfather are aware of my location. Requesting immediate reinforcements and extraction.

Director D.C. al Fine
You have 1 unread message, marked "PRIORITY". Displaying message 1 of 1…

The Bell tolls for thee

From: cog.viDYMELOTP|drahciRDD#cog.viDYMELOTP|drahciRDD

Good evening, D.C. al Fine.
Or should we say Cassandra?
Yes, we know who you are, Director. Just as you now know us.
If you're as intelligent as Deputy Director Richard claims you are, you will not send any more of your forces to this location. Unless you would like for them to share the same fate as him and your sleeper agents.
Don't worry. They are safe and unharmed, to be treated humanely in a specialized cell block in one of our facilities.
A mercy, we might add, that your organization has not extended to thousands, if not millions, of sentient and sapient beings across the Veil.
You're likely wondering how we even found your Deputy Director. A word of advice, one of the few we'll give you: your organization's security isn't as foolproof as you think. A near-undetectable infohazardous tracker injected into the metadata of your document, and intelligence gathered by a Ghost and Queen in tandem; that's all that it took.
It's only a fraction of what our Protectorate is capable of.
Tell us, Cassandra. Do you truly believe the information PTOLEMY gathered is valuable? Did you really think we'd let Jude send messages to his friends, without us knowing or signing off on it? Or that we'd tolerate the membership of The Critic if we weren't prepared for him, and everyone else in this Council with blood on their hands, to also face justice once our goal is accomplished?
Or that we'd allow our contradicting worldviews to destroy us before it could truly begin?
Know this. No matter how violent our disagreements get, or deep our grudges run, our mission is absolute.

WE WILL SECURE and liberate the realms, citizens, and technology that you have violently taken control of.
WE WILL CONTAIN your operatives, informants, and sympathizers, so that they will stand trial for their crimes against the worlds.
WE WILL PROTECT and shelter the refugees of your massacres, and make the worlds without you a safer place for all.

And, should any of these edicts require it, we will shatter the Veil and create a new Normalcy to combat your Coalition.
Mundus, liberari