The snow was just starting to melt. He would've been back at another semester at school, if it wasn't so horribly uncool to continue one's schooling. Everything was still dead, but it was just starting to come back.
Jude liked that. He always liked the heroism of the seasons, the casual reincarnation of the earth every goddamned year, like fucking clockwork which was funny because it was what they based clockwork on. Probably.
They deserved it. It wasn't a question. He could do it. It wasn't even up for debate.
Doing it would be cathartic. It would never erase what they did to her, but it was justice, wasn't it? An eye for an eye. God would never forgive him. But wouldn't a Lord of all things see his logic, see his reason? They had to die before they did any of that again. The Sculptor had proven himself a monster, and it was Jude's responsibility to end it. It would've been immoral not to do it.
He was sober. Jude never liked it when he was dry, even when things were good. But it was better that way. He needed to be completely on the ball for this. And not the fake on the ball where he got high beforehand and said it was cool and he was still on the ball but really wasn't, but the real shit.
He was going to let himself go. He knew that much. Jude stared out the window of his crappy apartment, overlooking a beautiful, scenic view of a warehouse garage.
Somewhere, deep down, Jude was hoping it would kill him. Jude was hoping one of them would have it in them to do it.
They didn't. Even if they had time to prepare. He'd always been the best at the ol' razzle dazzle.

The art show was nice enough that one could almost forget that it was a showcase for a rapist and a murderer. It seemed so normal. Wine. Awkward boys hobnobbing with people worth more than anyone they'd ever known times seven. Close to innocence. So close.
The artist was the Sculptor. Real good title, right? Definitely broke the mold with that one. Jude didn't realize it, but he'd been waiting until now to make his move, as it were. He held a glass of white wine in his hand and stared out.
The cool art shows were rarely much different than a normal art show. Certainly, there was magic, but why fuck up a perfectly good format? It was a time to network, to get paid, to look at new things that were beautiful or horrifying or both. But wasn't it usually horrifying at the cool shows? Sure, he had seen some beautiful things. Even from the Sculptor.
But making one beautiful thing couldn't take away the horrifying things.
Jude had a migraine. Jude always had a migraine. Jude wondered if the source of all of his magic was a wild sense of dysphoria and a perpetual headache. Even in this body he had made himself, a body he had wrought from his own flesh and blood, he still wondered if it was his. If he deserved it. If it wouldn't just crumble underneath all of his stress. And he'd revert. Last known saved data. A thirteen year old girl in this pit of tigers.
And so many of them were men. Most of the crowd, really. He only counted one woman. A socialite. Probably. He couldn't place her age. He didn't want to.
They made the statue, and no one thought it was a big deal. The Sculptor sculpted the statue, and women were hurt. Were they so far away from themselves they couldn't see the terror in their art? Jude wondered if he was having a panic attack.
He did not give them a speech. The executioner and judge did not let them know their crimes.
Instead, he slipped into himself. Cold overtook him, and heat came out.

Everyone had a cellphone. Even in 2008. Maybe they weren't as fantastic. Maybe everyone wasn't hooked up to the internet. But they all had them.
And there were so many electrical outlets in a place as big as the one they were in. Light fixtures. A refrigerator. Air conditioning. So many things ran on electricity. Jude always thought people ignored the small bits of magic in life. Like electricity. How the fuck did that work?
It always astounded Jude, the things that he could put his mind to when he was angry.
He tore their bodies apart. Bit by bit. Electrons. Protons. He didn't know from science. What he knew was that it hurt. They screamed electric, buzzing in the air. The crackling smell of ozone.
It was all yellow light and screeching. Some of them were pulled through their cellphone's receivers, flip-phones popping on open. A few jammed into electrical outlets, bodies rippling and coursing with visible yellow arcs. It was clean. There was no blood. There was only that smell. And then there was silence.
That was when the phone calls started. Hundreds in the tri-state area. He could hear them all ringing. Cellphones and landlines, powered on and off. Dead batteries sprang to life. And the heat ground them out. Meat at a butcher's shop. Nothing but noise. Didn't it sound like screaming? Being pulled apart, being pulled through, until even their atoms sizzled off into energy.
In the middle of a now empty art gallery, covered in buzzing cellphones and warm clothes, the Roller fell to the ground. Jude wept.

The Critic hadn't been there. Of course he wasn't. He wished the old fuck would've been there. He had to settle with cronies.
Fourteen people. Judging by the shoes, the cellphones, and the feeling in his gut that he had just done something he could never undo. Thirteen of them mattered. One was unlucky. He wondered what she had been like. Mary, mother of God. A Magdalene. He cried again, wiped a tear from his eye.
Saul made thirteen. And Matthias replaced Judas. And wasn't that him? He had named himself after the patron saint of hopeless cases. But wasn't Jude so close to Judas? But who had he betrayed?
“God.” Me.
In the field of clothes, he found the Sculptor's glasses. Bloodless. He reached down and picked up the pants he had been wearing. Underwear still inside. Gross. He pulled a bag out from the pants pocket. Fantastic.
The one good thing about the bastard was that he was always holding. Dirt weed. But it was weed, and he was sober.
In the pile of clothes, he crossed his legs beneath himself and rolled a blunt. As he lit the end with the green BIC, Jude knew that he was going to Hell when he died.

It had been on the news. The janitors had cleaned it up. No one else would've done that. They were saying it was a warehouse fire. There was nothing about the phone calls. He wondered if they would be able to connect the two. If they were good as everyone said, they'd probably put seven and seven together. Or thirteen and one.
Fourteen. The number buzzed in his head. Lives. Extinguished. Jude would have been able to bring them back, maybe. If he hadn't been so thorough. If he hadn't taken all the life and vitality and spark out of them like bud in a vaporizer.
It made sense to lay low. Greece. Athens. It drew him like some infernal magnet inside of him. He had betrayed God. Greece made sense. Theseus killed the Minotaur at Jericho, and the walls came a-tumblin' down. Wasn't that how it went?
Jude Kriyot was never very good at laying low. And in Athens, he decided he was going to do something. Art. He had never been too into the art end of the cool kids. He wrote. He enforced. He was one of the Critic's little minions, sometimes, when bad things needed to be done. But, there was something about the city that inspired him.
And he hoped the Critic would hear of it. And he hoped the old bastard would have a heart attack before Jude could leave the city.

Sometimes, Jude wished he could remember making the art piece. Sometimes, Jude wished he still had that creative spark. He only remembered bits and pieces. He remembered the coins. He remembered crying. He remembered the men in ice.
Theseus took the thread and got himself out of the labyrinth, but he was sucked in by it and spat out. Cold, clear glass. Walls that were too white. How stupid. They couldn't see magic. They didn't know gold if it came out of their own ass.

The art piece had gotten him caught by the janitors. He had thought they were a myth. And he had provided enough trouble that they stooped down to clear it all up. Twice in two weeks. Maybe it was a record. But, seeing their inner-workings was a trip. Jude stepped out of the airplane, shaking his head from side-to-side in a vain attempt at getting webbing out from his ears. For someone like him, for someone so magic, a little bit of memory-loser wasn't going to work. It just made everything a bit strange. Like permanent deja-vu. It wouldn't last long. He knew it, because he thought it. And when he thought something about his body, it always came true.
They had arranged his ticket back home, and he played complacent and empty. The comedown made him want to get high. So high. What was it they called it? A Class-B? Maybe a Class-Z could get you fucked up. He should've asked for one. Janitors wouldn't know gold if it was coming out of their ass.
It had been two weeks since he had a taste of it. Which, to him, was an eternity. He felt his body gurgling in irritation. He had snapped at a waitress, a sin worse than the murders maybe. Irritation. He couldn't sleep. But he didn't want to sleep. Not if he couldn't go to a beautiful dreamless world of darkness. Or whatever.
In the airport, he stopped at a Starbucks. It was expensive, but usually people didn't notice that the serial numbers on a bill all ending in the same three digits. Kind of stupid, but Jude's magic was particular. The weed number just popped in sometimes, at the weirdest parts. He ordered an iced coffee. Black. No ice.
Head down, eyes ringed with crust. His fingernails were filthy, uncut. Jude hadn't shaved, and his facial hair was an embarrassment. Patches missing, here and there. But why bother with self-care when you were going to burn for eternity? So he sat alone, drinking his black coffee.
Jude was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice someone sitting at his table until they spoke.
“Hey. Buddy. You dropped this.” And the person placed a green lighter on the table. The safety yanked off, to make it light faster and smoother.
“Thanks.” He took it from the guy, took a sip of his coffee and said, “It's just a lighter, though.”
“Yeah, but I saw it. And I felt like grabbing it. And I felt like giving it to you. And I've learned that when I get a notion, it's best to do it right then. Like talking to you. It feels good. It feels like I'm supposed to. What's your name?”
“Jude.” This dude was weird as hell. “I'm not into anonymous sex.”
“I'm JJ. And don't worry. I'm not trying to fuck you.” A pause and he pointed at the lighter, “Nothing's coincidence. Look at the tar at the bottom of the lighter. You use it to pack down your bowl, don't you? Not a joint man, are we?” A pause. “I bet you want to smoke weed, don't you? I just got a call from the girl I'm gonna be staying with. She told me her ex left a shitload of weed in her apartment. Couldn't've been an amicable parting, huh? Where's your luggage? We can get a cab.”
Jude stared at this weirdo. JJ. He smelled nice. Showered. Unlike Jude, who had forgotten what a shower was in his haze. Dark hair. Bright eyes. He was cute. Small. Cupid's bow lips. Like a cherub. Cherubim, seraphim, thrones, yadda yadda. Maybe it was fate?
“Yeah, uh, I guess.” Jude's head felt okay. It felt like swimming. Thickness. It was the air. Was it destiny, or was he just hungry for more pot? “I don't have a suitcase.”
“Great. Come on. You'll love it.”
JJ extended his hand to Jude.

The girl was short and plump, with dark frizzy hair and eyes ringed with sleep. Her mouth was a little crooked. Her teeth had a gap, but they were clean, white. Which was wild to Jude, all things considered. He could barely remember that toothpaste existed on most days. But hers? Pristine. Jude tried to remember the last time he took a shower when she said, “Dude, are you staring at my teeth?”
“No.”
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“Be cool,” said JJ, his voice cutting in like a lute or something. “He's just weird. So are you. Jude, this is Esther. Esther, this is Jude.”
“So, uh, are you two, you know.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Esther poked Jude in the chest. She was shorter than he. By a foot and a half or something, he guessed without really being too certain of the measurement.
“In the airport, he said like. You know. He was staying with you,” said Jude.
“So if a man stays with a woman, that means they're going to fuck? Is that the kinda shit you believe? You smell like an asshole. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Sometimes.”
“Calm down, lady and gentleman. Why don't we chill? It's a beautiful day outside.” JJ was grinning. None of it concerned him. He had already slid to the kitchen and was making himself something to eat. “On a day like this, it's divine providence to smoke weed. The sky is perfect for it. The air is good, too. But the sky is better.”
Jude turned to the window. It was overcast. Rain fell in tiny, near-freezing droplets. The sky was dark black in the horizon. To the east. Or west. Or really any of them. Jude wasn't a fucking compass. But, he knew what the wind looked like, when it made the trees scatter, when it brought leaves sliding across pavement. The storm was coming closer. It would only get worse.
“Yeah, okay. You better not be fucking him when I get back,” said Esther.
“He doesn't like anonymous sex.”
Esther's laugh was harsh and quick. A singular proclamation of hilarity. She was out of the room before he could say anything else. Jude blushed then shook his head back and forth. Up and down. It felt like his ears were popped, but it was deep in his brain. It was like an uncorked bottle of pop. It was losing all of its fizzle.
“Did you know you can stick your finger in pop to make the foam go down faster?” Jude hadn't moved. His shoes were off. His own smell was starting to get to him, which had to have been a bad sign. He took a bottle of deodorizer (the friend of all stoners) from a table and began spraying himself.
If JJ thought that was weird, he didn't show any sign of it. “Yeah, if you wipe your nose with your finger and you stick it in, it goes down even faster. But you get nose oil in your drink.”
“Yeah.” Jude sat down at the kitchen table. And then he got up and sat on a couch. And then he stood up, walking into the kitchen, lingering. JJ was making a sandwich that Jude tried not to look at. A combination of things he didn't want to think of. Ketchup and pickles and meat and cheese. He tried to avoid looking at the sandwich when he said, “She hates me, doesn't she?”
“Yeah.”
“Why'd you bring me here then?”
“Because it's a good idea.” He took a bite.
Jude decided to go back to the table, sitting down. The apartment was small. Three rooms. A living room and kitchen barely divided by a counter and those weird overhead cabinets. She had a bathroom, probably. And a bedroom. Three rooms. If you counted the bathroom. And he did.
“She hates everyone,” said JJ. Jude tried not to look at a speck of ketchup on his tooth. He tried not to hurl. “She'll like you as soon as I do something to annoy her. My girl loves a teammate during that kind of thing. It's what always happens.”
“How do you know? Have you done this before?”
“Nope,” said JJ.
Before Jude could question it, Esther was back in, with a bowl and a bag of weed that made Jude salivate visibly.
“I can't find a fucking lighter. I think she took it. Bitch.” She threw the bag on the counter. “Who wants to go to the fucking gas station?”
“I have a lighter.” And he took it out of his pocket and held it out to Esther. She snatched it out of her hand. She didn't say thank you.
As Esther began to break up the weed, in a slow way that, to Jude, showed her as a complete weed novice, she said, “Fucked up that I have to rely on this shit-smelling guy for help when I got a fucking lucky little magic boy in the house.”
“I found it,” said JJ, just as Jude said, “I'm magic, too, you know.”
Esther finally had barely filled up the bowl when she pressed it to her lips and took a short drag, punctuated by a coughing fit that Jude could've counted as a gale if he had a barometer or whatever. “Don't be a show off. I figure everyone he picks up is. You're not special. I can do shit, too.”
Jude took the bowl next. The smoke filled his lungs. And he let it stay there. He could feel it inside of him. His capillaries took it. His lung opened up like a fucking clamshell. His blood was a dancing little Macarena man, bringing it into his brain and diffusing the numbness like the most beautiful chill. Like sleeping. Like buzzing.
And then, for the first time, Esther smiled. She smiled with all of her teeth. But she caught herself. And frowned. “What can you do anyway, Jude?”

Smoking weed with someone, especially when it was more than two-thirds of the people in the room could handle, was a weird experience. Esther had been on the floor, laughing and giggling. She was nearly passed out. It was a coughing fit that had sparked it, long after she admitted that it had been the first time she had smoked weed.
JJ was calm, but it was clear that not a single thought was going through his head. Jude kept trying to explain how JJ was like the Golden Man from the Philip K. Dick story, but JJ just kept grinning, those beautiful eyes two small slits.
Jude wasn't the best babysitter. It was hard for him. He was usually the one on acid that people were looking out for. Of course, the people who looked out for him were dead. Or wanted him dead. Or were forgetting he ever existed.
As he bent down to get Esther on her feet, the doorbell rang. Without stopping, JJ walked to the door and opened it wide.
“What the fuck is wro—,” said Jude. A spiky tendril emerged from the bag of weed and wrapped around his mouth. It was thorny, tough. It smelled like a weed. A single purple blossom grew from the top of the tendril, that waved in front of his eyes. Bull thistle. Milk thistle. And there were more. They sprung out from the bag. They had no beginning point, just suddenly jetted out from the bud.
The tendrils wrapped across his limbs, pulling him to the counter and plopping him onto a seat. Esther fell forward again, and JJ calmly closed the door after the man at the door stepped inside.
“I could smell you from outside, Jude,” said the man with the emerald hair and eyes like the sea. “Fourteen. That's how many. Fourteen lives. The perfect amount for my Green Fields of France, little man. Video Killed the Radio Star doesn't work if you can't move, does it? I've always told you, my stand is much better than yours. I don't need to be there. I don't need to touch anything. Green Fields of France loves plants and hates all those who murder. And you, Roller, have quite a bit of blood on your hands.”
Esther stood up on shaky feet and said, “What the fuck kind of nerd shit are you talking about, dude?”
“You didn't tell them, Jude? How cute. Your Catholic guilt is what will kill you in the end, you know, Jude. You think a little statue is gonna undo what you did, little guy? You're shit in God's eyes, and the eyes of all that's cool.” And the man smiled at Esther. “Hello, dear. My name is Eric Furey. My old friend Jude here used to know me as The Gardener. I've just come here on behalf of some old friends. For some retribution.”
JJ laughed and sat down next to Jude, spinning on the chair. “You are totally pretending to have a stand, aren't you?”
“What's a stand?” said Esther.
“It's an anime power thing. Like, it's a punch ghost. Except this dude's is super shitty.”
“It is not a shitty stand,” said Eric. The tendrils tightened on Jude. Fourteen. Blood trickled down his shirt, down his legs, and he made a noise that sounded like a moan and a scream. It was kind of both. Jude wiggled against the grip. His hands were lashed tight to his sides. The thorns were horrible. It smelled like cutting the grass. It smelled like falling down in a field while playing contact sports. The fingers of his right hand wiggled. “It is a very useful stand for wetwork, and it's absolutely fucking amazing at what it does. All it needs is a plant, and I can kill the guiltiest son of a bitch in a room.”
“What if there aren't any plants?” JJ said. “What if he doesn't feel guilty?”
“Wait. Did you dye your hair to fit with your, uh, stan?” A pause. Esther giggled. “Dude, those are contacts, aren't they? You don't even fucking have green eyes, do you? And look at his nails. Oh G-d. JJ, look at his fucking fingernails. Green. Oh G-d. I think they sparkle. Do you see that?”
“Are you two even fucking listening to me?” The tendrils pulled Jude to the ground, along with the bag. The weed and the animated thistle fell onto the ground. It gave them better coverage. Better angles, as they spread across the floor, and in turn, spread Jude at a painful angle. “This smelly bastard you brought here is a murderer. A filthy fucking killer. They bite him because of that. They gnash their teeth, because he has spilled blood on Mother Earth. And Mother Earth does not take kindly to being tainted.” To punctuate the moment, the tendrils tightened and twisted Jude's body. His right hand flashed.
Too quickly for Eric to see, who was staring at JJ and Esther. They had finally listened. And he always loved a good audience.
“You mean, Jude? Who did he kill?” JJ's expression was blank. There was curiosity, but there was no longer warmth. Nor was there coldness. It was clinical, interested. Jude would have loved to study it if he wasn't being killed by plants.
“That smelly piece of shit?”
“Fourteen. Thirteen men. One woman. Innocent people. Artists. By all accounts, they didn't see it coming. They couldn't have, of course. But trust me, it's in your best interest for you to let us do this. It's our code.”
“What the fuck?” said Esther.
The moment was perfect. The green lighter flicked to life in his hand. He was the flame. The heat that was everything inside of him and outside of him. It radiated outward. The end of each tendril sizzled, and it slid inward, like a cigarette being pulled by an unseen giant. Eric's eyes had bugged out before he realized that his body was aflame. And then he was on the ground, rolling. The flame was quick. It scorched the carpet, but it didn't consume him.
As Esther jerked over to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher, the flame went out. Eric was crispy on the ground, gasping for breath, but very much alive.
“They'll send more, Jude.” He coughed. Eric strained to speak, his mouth lipless and charred. “You can't beat all of us.”
Jude coughed, wiping the blood from his mouth. He reached out and picked up an unscorched marijuana bud from the carpet. A single one untouched. He was happy there hadn't been a fifteenth person there. Without thinking, he stuffed it into his pocket. Esther probably wouldn't mind.
“I think we should leave,” said JJ. “All of us.”
“I'm not going anywhere with a fucking murderer. What the fuck, JJ? What the fuck?”
“We're going with him. You have to come.”
Esther didn't argue. Neither did Jude. There was a burnt man moaning. Esther packed away her laptop, her clothes, a few pictures that made Jude's head hurt, and a few books Jude didn't see. Two suitcases. “Where are we going? For how long?”
“It depends on where Jude is going,” said JJ as he left the room, walking down the hallway. The elevator doors opened and closed.
Esther and Jude stared at each other for a long moment. He coughed and sat up. And then stood up.
“Uh, I can take one of your suitcases for you. If you want.”
“I can hold my own fucking stuff,” she said.
Jude took a suitcase, and she didn't say anything. The two of them didn't move.
“I was in Are We Cool Yet?, and I didn't stop something bad. They did something to a woman. My friend. They hurt her. Raped her. Killed her. For an art piece. They made it magic to do this. So I killed them.” Jude coughed, moving from his right foot to his left. “I don't know if I'd undo it. But I killed them. I didn't want them to do it again. He was there. It's okay if you're weirded out. It's pretty fucked up. I should've mentioned, uh, my killer thing. I guess.”
Esther stared at him. She took her suitcase in her hand and walked to the kitchen table. She picked up her car keys as they jingled in her hands. As she passed Eric, she kicked him once in the stomach. She walked out of her apartment, and Jude followed. Together, they walked into the elevator, and the doors closed behind them.
“Did you guys seriously name all your powers after some anime?” Esther finally asked, breaking that long silence.
“Yeah.”
“Who fucking does that?”
“It's more common than you think. You ever hear of Serpent's Hand? I know a lot of their assassins pretend they're super saiyans.”
“And what does your stan do?”
Jude coughed, looked at the ground, and shuffled. The elevator opened, and JJ smiled placidly at them, waving his hand slowly from right to left.
“So, where are we going?” said Jude.
“Fuck you. What's your stan?”
“It's called a stand. With a d. Video Killed the Radio Star. I manipulate electricity.”
“But you said you can do a lot more than that.”
“They don't know that. Real stand users keep their super powers secret. It's the fucking move. All I do is send some people through cellphone calls and text messages and stuff. Nothing, you know, too magic. I didn't wanna, uh, be made to do too much.”
Esther was quiet for a moment, before she said, “Jude, do you think text messages are sent through the power grid?”
“Yeah. Why? Aren't they?”
JJ burst out laughing, eyes as red as his cheeks. “You're a dumbass, dude. It's a good fucking thing you didn't watch Naruto. Fucking Grand Hokage Jude, who doesn't know what a satellite is.”
“If I had a stand, it'd be Joy Divison,” said Esther, as they walked out of the apartment complex. Alarms blared down the street as a firetruck and a police car sped down the street.
“You can't,” said Jude, staring at the ground. Esther's car was a battered Honda Civic. It was a sickly shade of blue. Jude hated it. “That's been taken.”
“You know it's not fucking real, right? Like this is just a fucking game? Your anime isn't real. Like, G-d, Jude. Chill out.”
As Esther unlocked the door, JJ opened the back and slid in, leaving Jude and Esther to sit together in the front.
She took the front, and Jude sat in the passenger seat.
“So, do any of you drive.”
“I probably could,” said JJ.
“No,” said Jude.
“Fucking great. Nice. Okay. In a car with children. Where to then?”
Jude shrugged.
JJ said, “Let's get something to eat. I'm fucking starving.”
Jude and Esther looked back at JJ at the same time, both tilting their heads in confusion.
“A dude just burnt like crazy in front of you, dude,” said Esther, just as Jude said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Esther sighed and turned the key in the ignition. “Can you fucking believe him, dude?”
“No. No, I can't,” said Jude, leaning his cheek against the cold window.
In the back seat, JJ smiled, and he closed his eyes.

Jude's Bizarre Adventure | Bong Rip Tendency »


Document #780-PCS: Exploration IV
[DATA CORRUPT, RETRIEVING EARLIEST UNCORRUPTED RECORDING]
Feed begins. The first, and so far only, D-Class to explore the newly discovered and not yet studied Area H-2-5 continued to climb the stairs, stopping at the ninety first platform, designated with a worn down bold ‘91' painted in white on the wall beside him. D-9985 paused and sat to rest. In the distance, and above D-9985 soft laughter continues. D-9985 shines his light up the stairway above him, revealing another flight of stairs.
“Doc, there's no end here. It just keeps going,” D-9985 groans directly into his radio, producing a harsh noise. The safety tether – designed not for his safety, but the safety of the transmission – in plain view on the video feed, dangling over the railing across from him.
“You're allowed a short rest, D-9985. Then continue your ascent. That's an order.” Dr Seidelman replied from back at base camp, from the old storage room across from the utility closet designated Area H-2-5. Records show that Dr Seidelman was assigned initial exploration responsibilities with two junior researchers, and had arranged a basic field lab in a storage room across from the utility closet containing Area H-2-5.
“… D-9985, are you ready to continue?”
“Yeah, give me a sec…” D-9985 replied as he pulled himself to his feet with a grunt. Video feed looks back to the stairs as D-9985 continues his walk, a hand against the dusty concrete wall. D-9985 continues at a steady pace, pitch blackness around him and the soft giggling in the darkness above him remaining consistent as he ascends the stairwell. Feed continues, lingering on each floor's number for 2-4 seconds. 93… 96… 98… 101… 104…
“… Hold it. It's getting louder.” D-9985 suddenly halts, pulling his hand away from the wall. Audio feed corroborates with D-9985's experience – sound of laughter has grown noticeably louder in volume, but is not apparently approaching D-9985. D-9985 stops, placing a hand against the wall again, body language suggesting tension. Eleven seconds pass before Dr Seidelman speaks again.
“D-9985, please continue your ascent. That's an order.”
The D-Class hesitates, lifting his hand for a moment before placing it against the wall, continuing to climb the stairwell at a slower pace than before. Footsteps and breathing are prominent in audio recordings, and laughter continues to grow in volume at a gradual but steady rate as D-9985 ascends beyond platform 110.
The subject roughly inhales, and apparently leans to wipe his lower face with his arm. He hesitates again, before continuing, leaning over to shine the floodlight over the railing, revealing further flights above. D-9985 mutters as-yet-undetermined curses under his breath before continuing, as the laughter grows apparently closer. D-9985's breathing has grown notably more rapid and his movements more tense. Past flight 114, D-9985 suddenly stops, shining his light into the darkness above.
“It's right there.” D-9985's voice is quiet and shaky, directly into the radio. After eight full seconds, he continues forward, climbing the next flight slowly but without prompting. Laughter is at speaking-level now, and apparently close by. As D-9985 reaches the next flight, he shines light up the stairs ahead of him, the light steadying as the camera attempts to focus on an indistinct figure. Voice of D-Class and anomaly are both at speaking level now.
“Doc, it's an ass.”
Camera focuses, revealing an apparently disembodied humanoid lower back, upper thigh, and posterior pointed in D-9985's general direction. D-9985 shakes his head and turns to return to base camp, apparently tripping on his own feet and falling down the stairs, swearing profusely as anomalous laughter breaks into hysterics before camera and audio feeds cut out.


« Herman Fuller Can Shove It Up His Ass | Dread & Circuses Hub | Icky & Ichabod »

"Jesus Christ, look at the lot'a'ya. I've seen some pretty fucked up freaks in my day but you cocksuckers take the upside down cake. Alright, alright, calm down, I didn't mean anything by it; just that you're ugly is all. Oh don't be a bunch of pussies! You've been called a lot worse things than ugly and you know it! But, I digress.
"Mr. Fuller here has recently brought me onto his staff and asked that I take a moment of my highly valuable time to introduce myself to you and explain what it is I'll be doing. The name's Dick: Dick C. Normus and…
"Yes, that's my real name, and it's a hell of a lot more dignified than whatever clown moniker you ended up with. Am I wrong? What's your name big nose? Tinkles? Yeah, that's what I thought. Oh, I beg your pardon, ‘Doctor' Tinkles. That just makes it more ridiculous you ass hat.
"Anyway, you can call me Dicksy and I'll call you whatever the fuck I feel like considering most of you are essentially indentured servants. I'll be…oh my fuck, I already told you it's my real name! Why would I lie? Stop your damn snickering! You all have the maturity of a bunch of grade school dropouts because surprise surprise, that's what you are, excepting of course the esteemed Doctor Tinkles. You know, getting a PhD at a clown college kind of proves you're an idiot, which is the opposite of what you want a PhD to do.
"Moving on to the matter of why I'm here; none of you are good enough. Okay, okay, pipe down. I said pipe down. SHUT UP! All I mean is that Mr. Fuller here has standards, and that you freaks aren't living up to them. No, no, don't worry, none of you are being kicked out or axed yet. It will take years to make enough replacements for everyone. Mr. Fuller has hired me to make designer freaks, and I'm eyeballing you Clowns in particular. I've got a lot of ideas of what I can do with you sad sacks of shit.
"Now you may be wondering, ‘what are my credentials to play god so glibly', though not as well articulated because you're all dumb as stumps. Well you see, I come from a long line of Child Breakers, or Comprachicos, as they say in Spanish. What's a Child Breaker you ask? I know none of you said anything, I was being rhetorical! As I was saying, you start by taking a child. Maybe some starving street urchin who's never had anyone to look after them, maybe a brat that's so spoilt rotten they have no idea what suffering really is. It don't really matter, but once you pick a kid you break every bone in their body, beat them within an inch of their life, and you set the bones and flesh to heal the way you want them to, add a little anomalous something-something, rinse and repeat as necessary until you got yourself a bona fide freak. Then you take the worthless, broken shell of a person and shove them out on stage to be leered and gawked at by complete strangers so that they will know they're not Human anymore, that they'll never be loved or accepted by society again, and their only hope to keep their wretched lives is to keep exhibiting themselves for your personal profit. Now that's comedy!
"But, that was the old way of doing things. As fun as it was, it has limitations. A person can only be mutilated so much before they can't take no more and they kick the bucket on you, though you'd be surprised at how much the body can take. My Grampie once turned a kid inside out, I shit you not. What are you throwing up for? It wasn't disgusting, it was a work of art you philistine! Don't worry if it makes you queasy, because that's all in the past. Breeding a freak so that they grow up into a monster to begin with allows for much more radical modifications than breaking a normal kid.
"I've got some ideas for creating some truly horrific abominations, and that's what I need you Clowns for. Mr. Fuller tells me he picked up the first of you whilst he was traipsing across the Multiverse, and as amazing as your talents are you require certain…interventions to be made show ready. Those interventions don't always work so sometimes you go all Pennywise on the audience. Yeah, Pennywise, that's what I said. Pennywise is the clown from IT you numbskull. IT by Stephen King. Oh you guys are just fucking with me now. How can literally no one here have heard of IT?
"Never mind. It's not important. Not important. What's important is that you originals can sometimes be quite the liability, so Fuller tells me he let you start experimenting on runaways to see if you could convert Humans into Clowns. That's pretty fucked up, though I'm obviously in no position to judge.
"For the sake of comparison, let's just take a look at a converted Clown. One of you stand up. Yeah, you. Well hello nurse! What's your name sweetheart? Icky? Is that supposed to be ironic because you're the only Clown here that's fuckable? What, it's a compliment. You know, unlike your fine self my name is not a misnomer. Trust me, it's enormous. Don't believe me, just take a look at this tent I'm pitching. That's only at half-mast. You don't think this is real? If you want I'll whip it out in front of everyone and…
"Yes Mr. Fuller, I apologize. I've gone off topic. Returning to the matter of…what were we talking about? Comparative clowning, right. Honestly, so much blood goes into my cock it's a damn miracle I don't pass out. Any who, you'll note how a converted Clown such as Icky retains a much more Human appearance relative to the original Clowns. Though this may come with the benefit of a more manageable temper, as far as Mr. Fuller and I are concerned it's still a step in the wrong direction. We want Clowns that are even more amazing than the originals, without any of the violence, and while we're at it a hell of a lot dumber. I know I said you guys was dumb, but you're still too smart for your own good, you know? I'm thinking something closer to a dog's intelligence level would be great. Smart enough to learn tricks, but too dumb to bitch about Mr. Fuller's, shall we say, Victorian-era management style.
"How am I going to create such perfect freaks of nature you ask? Two words; selective breeding.
"What's with all the blank faces; no one ever explained the birds and the bees to you? It's real simple; you take a mommy and a daddy that each has traits you like and get them to mate. You do the same thing with the offspring you like and cull the rejects, or if you're the sentimental type you can neuter them and send 'em off to a good home. After a few generations you got yourself a bona fide pedigree. Pedigree Clowns, how does that sound? Fancy, right?
"Aw, there you go again. What the hell are you talking about, you have rights and dignity? Dignity? You're delusional or you've never seen yourself in a mirror. You're Clowns for fuck sakes! You don't have dignity! You have giant shoes and tiny cars, but not dignity! Mr. Fuller, do these losers or any of the other schmucks you own have rights and/or dignity? No? Didn't think so.
"But you can all cool your jets, because that's not how I'm going to do it with you anyway. It takes too goddamn long. No no no, I have something a little more sophisticated in mind. I know this is a dumb question before I ask it, but do any of you know what iterated embryo selection is? Nobody? What about you Doctor Tinkles, did that Ivy League education of yours not cover designer babies? I have in my possession some rather advanced reprogenetic paratechnology that was generously, and unknowingly, donated by the fine folks at Prometheus Labs. With this equipment I can make a bunch of test tube babies, read their genomes and pick the ones I want, then turn their stem cells into sex cells and make a whole new generation of embryos. The old generation goes in the trash, and you start all over.
"I'll be using your fun-lovers as brood mares for the final product. What, would you rather I use your own lady clowns, cause I don't use real dames for breeding no more. It's too much of a goddamn nightmare getting the babies away from them. I've even had a few run off on me, and what I'm making here is far too valuable to risk losing. Fun-lovers are the best option, trust me. They don't give a shit about their kids once they pop out, they're not going to leave the Circus, and best of all they produce plenty of Milk. I wish to God it came out of tits instead of…that, but otherwise they're perfect.
"This method is at least a hundred times faster than traditional selective breeding, and I will be able to accomplish truly amazing things. This Circus will be unrecognizable when I'm done with it. And yet, I can already see that I have some detractors. What, you have a moral objection to what I'm doing? You're all a bunch of bible thumpers all of a sudden? You're a horde of unholy eyesores! Your god hates you!
"I don't have the right to use your genetic material without your consent? We've already established that you don't have rights! I have Fuller's consent, that's all I fucking need! You got a problem with that, feel free to grab your bindle and hit the road. Give my regards to the Skippy Foundation or, god help you, those goddamn global occult nazi bastards. Any takers? Hmmm? That's what I thought.
"Look, it ain't that bad. For now all you have to do is spit in a tube and once I go over your DNA and other records I'll get those of you with the traits I'm looking for to hand over your sex cells. Gents get to jerk off into a cup, ladies get a dose of synthetic hormones and a giant needle shoved up their cooch. Ain't that just the way of the world though?
"What are you taking about? What do you mean that's not how it works with Clowns? I…uh-huh, really? Look, whatever. I obviously need to brush on my Clown biology, but rest assured that when the time comes I will be collecting the required biological materials via the appropriate method. It's not something I'm looking forward too, except maybe for you Sticky Icky.
"Yes Mr. Fuller, I realize that's not what you pay me for. I'm not going to mangle your merchandise I just…You're going to have Tinkles do the actual collecting? Is that top hat cutting off the circulation to your brain? He's a fucking Clown! I'm the expert here you sorry excuse for a Ringling Brothers themed birthday party, and if I say any part of this operation requires me to handle it personally than I…Fuller, tell your body guard to sit back down. Tell him to sit down. Just hold on one second there buddy I was just…hey! Get your filthy mitts off me you upside down faced goon! Put me down! Oh, I'm glad we're taking this outside, you don't scare me! I've taken down bigger maroons then you. Do you all hear that! I ain't scared of none of you freaks! Fuck you, you can't treat me like this!
"I'M RICHARD CUNNILINGUS NORMUS!"

« Herman Fuller Can Shove It Up His Ass | Dread & Circuses Hub |Icky & Ichabod »


< Operation Cannery Row: Excerpts from the Foundation's Regional Print Media Archive | DNM
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From: Titus Solowski (fpcs.dleif.253|ikswolost#fpcs.dleif.253|ikswolost)
Subject: An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then
Date: May 18, 2022 2:10 PM EST
To: Layla Houghton (fpcs.dleif.253|nothguohl#fpcs.dleif.253|nothguohl)
Hey Layla. Montenegro is lovely this time of year. 64 and sunny right now. Since we're both doing a lot of sitting around on our asses waiting for our various Chosen Ones to appear again, I thought I'd look back at what we were doing just five years ago, before Kate and our pal Thaummy fucked everything up. Look at all this trivial shit we got to care about before it all went south.

I had an article in this one! It was about using radioactive tracer particles in 2972 and 2830 to see if we could hunt down Penrose. Not necessary these days, obviously. Haven't seen him since he did us a favor with that pastor a few years back.

Back issues upon back issues of this one and nothing before last year mentioned Thaumiel. We kept this shit under wraps for way too long. Once she started visiting us, elevating our backwater Task Force to the forefront of the global Foundation mission, we should've had our best folks working on the Aleph problem. Now half the world knows. Christ.

Hey, you're in that Narf thing's range! Spotted anything with that? I know a lot of low-priority skips are slipping through the cracks with the crisis.

I hope this gets through to you. I know even email is starting to get patchy thanks to the fucking Aleph Screwjob. Shortwave with everyone listening just isn't the same. I love you so damn much. Don't let the Northwest rain get you down.
—Titus

From: Layla Houghton (fpcs.dleif.253|nothguohl#fpcs.dleif.253|nothguohl)
Subject: Re: An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then
Date: May 18, 2022 7:59 PM EST
To: Titus Solowski (fpcs.dleif.253|ikswolost#fpcs.dleif.253|ikswolost)
You're probably gonna want to try plaintext. I'm guessing the PDFs you sent weren't supposed to look like this?

Until IT gets that DNS routing thing that doesn't send stuff right through the middle of NA and the center of the Aleph…situation…it's best to just avoid complex information.
And I miss you too, Titus. Though, of course, if Thaumiel really is done talking to us and the pencil-pushers are right, physical distance is probably a few years away from not mattering. Or something.
Of course, it's hard to tell you the exact implications of the Aleph force, since 072 is bringing up the old cover-story scary campfire tale schlock instead of the collected research on my terminal. If anyone over there can get the latest updates from the committee, send them our way? Lot of time for reading while we're on McTiriss stakeout. She knows how to take her damn time, that one.
- your Layla

From: Layla Houghton (fpcs.dleif.253|nothguohl#fpcs.dleif.253|nothguohl)
Subject: Re: Re: An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then
Date: May 19, 2022 11:01 AM EST
To: Titus Solowski (fpcs.dleif.253|ikswolost#fpcs.dleif.253|ikswolost)
Never mind. Thaumiel just told me it's all…She said we're in a simulated timeline she was using to test a solution to the Aleph problem. She said she didn't know what would happen to us when she put it away or if we were real.
She said she was sorry. She cried. She went away.
So. Love you, babe.

In the Aleph Room, in 2017, Mary Nakayama closed the emails and filed another branching path of probability as a dead end, a doomed universe. Another course of action that wouldn't work. Another splinter future she was using to test a fix.
It's been years. Years of secrecy. Of tentative tests, manipulating whole pocket worlds. Stuck in this fucking room. Trying to stop the terror she's about to cause.
"I didn't mean to break it," she says, to no one. "I just wanted to keep everyone safe."
She's been sitting at this replica of her old desk, peering into possible futures and seeing disaster in every one123456, since she ascended. "Ascended." She was a manic 27-year-old who saw a hole in the universe and decided to use it for herself instead of doing the right thing and sending it up. Now she was paralyzed with power. Stuck in this place that contains all places, thinking about what to do.
It was time to stop waiting. It was time to stop hiding.
She stood up and looked at the confines of the room. An office with no windows that shifted and moved to show her whatever information she needed. A terminal that only told her the ways things would go wrong.
A prison for a stupid girl who thought she could play God, she thought. I need help.
On May 18, 2017, Mary Nakayama left her prison.
This is what happened next.

After this I looked, and there before me was a door standing open in heaven. And the voice I had first heard speaking to me like a trumpet said, “Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this.”

At once I was in the Spirit, and there before me was a throne in heaven with someone sitting on it.

And the one who sat there had the appearance of jasper and ruby. A rainbow that shone like an emerald encircled the throne.

- Revelation 4:1-3 (NIV)

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< Operation Cannery Row: Excerpts from the Foundation's Regional Print Media Archive | DNM

Footnotes
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6.


Eli woke an indeterminate amount of time later. Groggily, he turned his head to the side. Stainless steel equipment, wires tied neatly to the vertices where the clean white wall met the clean white ceiling. The sick bay. He groaned.
The noise caught Dictator and Oliver's attentions. Dictator stood more quickly than normal and went to him.
“You're up. How d'you feel?”
“Like shit,” he answered. He noticed that Dictator's hand was moving. So was their foot. Every fibre of their being vibrated with nervous energy.
Dictator took a deep breath, and some of the tension dissipated. “Alright. Eli, listen to me. We have to fix this.” The tension returned. Dictator put planted their hands on Eli's shoulders, looking him seriously in the eyes. “We've got to fix this, there's no way around it. I don't care what they say about that stupid clock but we're gonna fix the universe, got it? We just have to. That's our job, isn't it? It's supposed to-”
Eli reached up and put his hand on their mouth. They didn't even bother to lick it, which told Eli quite a bit about their mental state. “Dictator,” he said. “I got it. We are going to fix this. It's all going to work itself out.”
He removed his hand, but Dictator launched right back into their tirade.
“But what if it doesn't? Eli, I can't die.” They lowered their voice. “You can't die. If the universe collapses in on us, we'll both be left just floating in space forever. Just the two of us. I doubt you want to be looking at this mug for the rest of eternity, and I'm not-”
Eli hijacked Dictator's in-between-paragraphs breath. “You need to calm down,” he told them. “We're going to find out what's happened, if it even means anything. It might be nothing. But we need to get the whole story before we start losing our shit here, alright? Now, please get off me. I'm an invalid, and some of the aides are starting to look at you funny.”
Dictator nodded, then crossed their arms and sat back down in the chair next to Eli's bed. Their leg started bouncing anxiously again, and they muttered “Gonna fix it, gonna fix it,” at least five times before quieting.
—-
That damn clock. Why did it have to reveal everything? Well, maybe not everything. It didn't say my name, but… now everyone's on high alert. They're ready for a breach.
The unknown doctor strode down the darkened hallway. His footsteps echoed through the empty space, and once he found the door he was looking for, he swiftly unlocked it and walked inside. His hands worked the opposing wall, searching. They found their target, and he watched as the walls folded in on themselves, revealing a modestly-lit room. He looked behind him. No one. He retreated inside and the walls whirred and clicked to his absence, like batter rushing to fill the void where a spoon once was.
No matter what that clock says, I'm going to tear this Foundation down from the inside out. Nothing, not even the end of the universe, is going to stop me. And if I can manage to take down those two abominations, all the better for me. We've all been under the heel of the Foundation for too long. The public — no, the world — deserves to know about the evils that haunt this world.
A dark chuckle echoed through the room.
Yes. My plan will bring down the Foundation once and for all. No amount of cover-ups or amnestics is going to stop what is about to happen.
Previous | Next


… and Cain stepped aside, head bowed respectfully.
Able passed under the gates of pearl and fire and entered the chamber of the Bloom. His dead eyes beheld the text inscribed upon The Bloom in runes deeper than a man's arm, burning like gold upon the glassy petals that spanned universes. The activation code for the Bloom. The actions that Able and Cain would need to take to reset time.
A cruel smile touched Able's thin lips. He pushed past the words, leaving them unread. He laughed as he raised his hand above his head. The sword that burst forth stretched from his fingertips all the way to the stars, and beyond. It swallowed up all light that fell upon it, sang of death and the silent tomb, smelled of the void between worlds, devoured light and heat and life and hope…
"Never again," Able said.
He slashed down, and the blade sliced through the gleaming petals and embedded itself deep into the heart of The Bloom.
Reality twisted as The Bloom died.

… and somewhere, a man sitting before a computer screen depicting a black-and-white map of the world blinked, and a green icon marked "SCP-2000 Facility" appeared in Yellowstone National Park. And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, a man watched as a flickering video feed recorded the panicked last words of a woman running screaming down a flight of infinite stairs. And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, three men in orange jumpsuits carefully stepped out of a chamber that stank of blood and shit, eyes locked upon the thing that stood in the corner, not daring to blink until two men in white uniforms and body armor slammed the door shut. And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, a new set of stone statues were carefully catalogued and put away in their safe by a blind man, working entirely by touch. And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, a white-coated researcher watched dispassionately as an emaciated woman in orange wept bitter tears as hunger and exhaustion finally took her life, mourning the child she had not known. And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, a plate with a perfectly cooked chateaubriand roast was placed into an MRI scanner, its internal structure carefully catalogued, along with the mumbling of the man whom it had been taken from. And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, the torn-up body parts of an unfortunate Japanese woman were placed into the crematorium, as a Buddhist priest chanted solemnly before a small altar upon which her photograph and several offerings for her unfortunate soul were placed. And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, a tired worker closed up the crate on a set of tactical equipment, including a UV light projector. Scanning the serial number, he entered it into the system as "Combat Gear, Surplus." And it had always been so.

… and somewhere, a man sitting at a computer keyboard carefully studied the words on the screen. Deleted some. Typed in others. Hit the "Save" button once he was done.
And it had always been so.
For none existed in the world who remembered otherwise…

… except one.
O5-10 opened her eyes. She picked up the phone on her desk and pressed a single button.
"We need to talk," she said.

One found Ten standing silently before the great, black cone, embedded point down into the magma chambers under Yellowstone National Park's famous geysers. As always, the Thorn was silent, inscrutable, black as the void, devouring all light that fell upon it. "Is there a reason you asked me to meet you here?" he asked.
"Yes," Ten said. "I'm going to ask you a simple question, and I want a simple answer." She turned to face the other member of the Overseer Council. "How long ago did the Daeva Civilization fall?"
One opened his mouth. Then frowned. He swallowed hard, brow furrowed, jaw working.
"I'm going to ask another question," Ten said. "Is SCP-343 God or not?"
"Well, of course…" One's voice trailed off again. A look of panicked realization.
"Final Question," Ten whispered. "What is SCP-001?"
One remained silent.
Ten nodded. This was the moment she had been prepared for but had never expected to come. "TK-Class Scenario," she said. "Broken Timeline."

The four members of the Overseer Council who met in Ten's office a month later were the only ones who knew about The Thorn… or what Ten insisted should be called "The Bloom."
"According to my investigations, there is a 95% chance that the TK event took place here, when nearly half of the Omega-Seven operatives were killed," she said, pointing to a hashmark drawn on her timeline of events. "The official version of events recorded is that SCP-076-2 was responsible for their deaths, but the sequence of events as provided by the survivors have never lined up properly. Neither has SCP-076-2 ever given any explanation as to his actions.
"In addition," Ten continued, "there is the issue of an agent listed in official records only as A.A., with all official records of his full name lost or otherwise corrupted. Despite being later responsible both for his death and the death of his former lover, the sequence of events that led to his… transformation… are hazy at best, with multiple conflicting accounts present.
"All of this evidence leads to one conclusion: at some point in the recent past, a massive CK-Class restructuring took place that resulted in the breaking and repair of the timeline. But like a broken vase, the repaired timeline is… flawed. Look closely enough, and the cracks are evident. Events that don't line up. Things that happened without a cause. Mysteries left unsolved, not because the answer isn't known, but because we don't even know to ask the question."
One nodded. "And you say that this was the result of… this thing that you call The Bloom… activating?"
"No," Ten said. "The Bloom, as far as we know it, does not repair timelines. It resets them. To continue the broken vase analogy, activating The Bloom would be like throwing away the broken vase and making a new one: mostly identical, but with some subtle differences. This… this should be impossible."
"By us, yes," Two said. "But what about Able?"
"What does Able have to do with this?" Ten wondered.
"Well… it was an observation that crossed my desk the other day. Ever since the death of Omega-Seven, SCP-076-2 has not manifested its blades since. Not once," Two explained. "And then there was the thought I had that it was an interesting coincidence that its blades were so similar to the substance that makes up The Thorn. My working hypothesis had been that Able's blades were somehow drawn from the same source as The Thorn, or maybe The Thorn itself. But if what you say is true, and this "Bloom" was somehow altered into the Thorn about the same time that most of Mobile Task Force Omega-7 was killed in an incident that took place nearby…"
"You think that Able was responsible for transforming The Bloom into The Thorn?" Ten wondered.
"Not just Able," Two pointed out. "SCP-073 was also found at the site of the Omega-Seven massacre. Which has always been inexplicable since he was last reported six hundred miles away, at Site-17." Two shrugged. "Maybe we should be asking them."
One contemplated this in silence. "No," he said at last.
"But…"
One interrupted Ten's objection with a raised hand. "The middle of a high-wire act is the last time to begin juggling swords," he said. "With SCP-2000 rolling out in the next month or so, and RAISA opening Series Four, the Foundation has enough to deal with trying to fix this universe, much less worrying about what might have happened in prior ones. We put our house in order first, before worrying about our neighbors'."
Ten glanced around the room. Two was nodding his head in agreement. Thirteen… was being Thirteen. "If you say so," she said at last.
"Not just me. I'm going to ask you to take a binding and compulsory oath on this," One said. "You will not now, nor ever, take any action to investigate the link between SCP-073, SCP-076, and the Thorn… or, as you call it, The Bloom. Agreed?"
Ten nodded reluctantly. "Agreed."
"In that case," One said, "this meeting is adjourned. All transcripts from today's meeting are to be considered cognitohazardous artifacts and subject to Special Containment Procedures, Class Sub-Rosa. You will submit all of your materials, including visual aids and notes, to RAISA for containment by the end of the day. This meeting is adjourned."

… and elsewhere, a man sat on a hilltop, looking out towards the sunset. He contemplated what had been. What had come before. What would be in the future.
The road to this place and this time had been a long and winding one. Like many roads, there had been points where the path had been rough and difficult. And perhaps it was true that the destination was not nearly as pleasant as he had been led to believe. But the journey… that had been memorable.
He supposed that made it worth it.
He picked up his walking stick and took a drink of water from his canteen. It was a long walk back home, and he was looking forward to a hot shower and a good meal once he made it back.

Incident Zero
« Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 »


And as this happened, in another site, a woman gasped as she collapsed to the floor. Her arms and legs rapidly withered into nothingness as her skin hardened into stone. Despite her desperate cries, her companions could do nothing but watch in horror as her body quickly petrified… and then they, too, began to scream…

"Adrian?"
"Hm?" Andrews tore his eyes away from the monstrous creature lurching along the path before them. Part ram, part slug, part flower-garden, it tilted its bandaged head from side to side as it glided with unnatural grace through the shattered hallways. Three nude women danced in slow circles around the horned figure, dressed only in copper helmets adorned with ribbons that fluttered in the wind of their passage.
Beatrix sighed. "Give me an honest assessment. Do you really think we're going to survive this?"
Adrian glanced at Cain, who was walking about twenty feet ahead of them, just a few feet behind the surreal procession. One of the nude figures approached the tall, olive-skinned man, her every motion speaking of the promise of sensual delights. Cain simply smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement, and the figure retreated, head bowed and hands clasped before her bare chest. "If I didn't," he said at last, "It wouldn't do us any good to prepare for that. So let's say that I do think we're going to survive this, and proceed from there?"
Beatrix nodded slowly, as if this were the response she'd expected. "In that case, remember that conversation we had last night? About three months in Europe versus ten minutes on the moon?"
"Yeah."
"We're probably due a bunch of leave after this," Beatrix said, stepping carefully along the carpet of rose petals strewn in the wake of the bulbous beast. "Three months in Europe wouldn't be out of the question. Want to come with me?"
"Yeah," Adrian repeated.
"On our honeymoon?"
Adrian swallowed hard. "Sure," he said. "Sounds fine to me." His hand found hers, and squeezed it tightly.
Up ahead, the odd procession paused at an intersection, turned right, and continued to dance, never missing a beat. Adrian, Beatrix, and Cain continued straight on, into the darkness.

… and somewhere else, a man curled up next to a glowing green egg, holding it close to his chest. "Fa la ninna, fa la nanna," he crooned, stroking its cold, green shell tenderly…

It was not long before they reached a tall, steel door, with the symbol of three inward-pointing arrows within two circles painted upon its gunmetal-grey plates. Cain stepped up to a security console at one side of the door, pressed his palm against a scanning plate. There was a loud click and a series of crunches as the door's locking mechanism released. "From here," Cain said, "I will follow you. It is necessary that the two of you enter first."
"Is this a prophecy?" Adrian asked.
"An inevitability," Cain replied.
Beatrix nodded. "Then let's get this the fuck over with," she said sternly. She walked to the door, placed her hands on the door hands, and pushed.
There was a loud crack.
A high-pitched whirring sound, like a dentist's drill.
Two arms made of steel and wires burst through the open door, grabbed Beatrix Maddox by the head, and twisted it, hard.
There was a sickening crack of breaking bone.

… and somewhere else, a man lay on a butcher's table, whimpering softly. Wordlessly, his tormentor sliced open his belly, pulled out his organs, and began expertly slicing into the tenderloin. As the man smiled in delirium, the butcher placed a small, paper-wrapped package in his hands. . .

Beatrix…
Adrian locked his anguished scream away inside the part of his mind that still wept when it sliced open the belly of a living cat. The rest of him raised his rifle and fired at the steel doll as it dropped Beatrix's broken body to the floor.
It was a good, clean, solid burst to center mass. The bullets flattened against the steel woman's bare belly and clattered to the floor. That high pitched whirring sound grew even louder and higher pitched, screaming like a jet engine turbine.
Adrian's rifle stopped firing, bolt locked back. He let it fall, drew the pistol from his holster, fired twice more. His vision was blurring. He didn't know why. All he knew was that his hands were moving on their own, like a machine. Like the creature Able wanted him to be. Like the thing his superiors wanted him to be.
The steel doll stood. Its joints glowed with bright blue energy. Intricate gears within gears spun and whirred in the gaps between its plates. It tilted its head to one side and opened a mouth full of cogs and wires.
Adrian dove out of the way. Heat and ripping metal exploded behind him.
Pain tore through his left leg, followed by a sudden numbness. He tried to stand, found that he didn't have two legs to stand on any more.
The steel doll slowly got to her feet, from where the backblast had hurled it across the room…

… and somewhere else, a woman screamed as a powerful beak tore into her face, ripping open her cheek and eyes. She struggled to get free, but her attacker was merciless, ripping off an arm with a cruel slowness. . .

… and Adrian fled.
He scrabbled away from the steel doll, towards the dusky-skinned man who still stood, smiling softly, just outside the doorway of the chamber. Something in him screamed that this wouldn't work, that this could never work, but he had no other way…
He turned. Saw the steel doll revving up, joints glowing blindingly bright. It streaked towards him, ready to punch through and rip apart anything to get to the thing she hated so badly…
The steel doll's fist smashed into Cain's face with all the force of a speeding train.
The sigil on Cain's forehead flared blue, blindingly bright, illuminating the entire corridor like a camera's flash…
There was an explosion. The gynoid came apart in a shower of steel and silicon, shrapnel bursting forth like a detonating shell…
The last thing he saw was a razor-edged shard hanging in the air. His pain-addled mind tracked the course of that deadly little shard of metal all the way until it drove itself into his brain.

… and somewhere else, a squad of men struggling to get the doors to their chamber open froze as they felt a small tickle growing in their noses and throats. Within moments, they were laying on the floor, gurgling out their last breaths as they struggled to breathe. Their deaths were witnessed only by a shadowy figure who regarded the dying men with something that resembled pity.

… and somewhere, Agent Frederickson screamed as a razor-toothed earthworm fourteen inches long burrowed hungrily into his open eye…
… and somewhere, a man in an orange jumpsuit huddled in a hallway full of smoke and gas as a hooded figure in a plague doctor's mask glided by, muttering indistinctly about a cure…
… and somewhere, a woman turned and ran from a blank white mask hovering in the darkness of an infinite stairwell, but could not escape the death that followed…
… and somewhere, a man sitting before a computer screen depicting a black-and-white map of the world saw the icon located over Yellowstone Mountain change from red to black…

… and in that period of time, Cain finished laying Adrian Andrew's bleeding body next to that of his comatose lover's, stepped through the steel doors, and entered the chamber of The Bloom.
It waited for him, resplendent in its infinite colors, iridescent petals stretching across the dimensions, slowly fading in and out of view as it turned gently in space. The cosmic flower at the heart of the world. The thing that had allowed humanity to try and try again when they had failed. The fruit of knowledge, the reflection of eternity.
It had been so, so long since he had last been allowed to witness its glory.
Cain heard an animal growl behind him. He turned, knowing already what he would see.
His brother, the murdered murderer, stood in the doorway. A pair of black swords were clutched in his hands. His eyes were cold. Dead. Emotionless. Just as they had been after Cain's old hands had finished committing their one unspeakable sin.
Cain's new hands, the ones made of steel and fire, clenched tightly. Blue flame erupted from between the joints of his artificial arms. They were matched by the crimson flames that burst forth from his brother's demonic tattoos.
Able took a single step forward…

Incident Zero
« Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 »


Previous Part | Next Part
Unbeknownst to Eli and Dictator, something was happening to SCP-1032.
The clock's hands spun their lazy way around its face, as usual. The fifth sped ahead of its brethren, as usual, and the fourth (to everyone's great relief) was very nearly stationary, as usual. One of the hands struck midnight and as it did a diner closed its doors for the final time. This was all perfectly expected.
The hand that struck midnight began moving once again, but this time the label had changed to “Dr. 's Plan,” with the space after “Dr.” left blank. Nobody would notice this until later. It ticked onwards until “Dr. 's Plan” caught up with “The Universe” and “The SCP Foundation.”
The three hands began moving in conjunction, and sped up as they did.
—
“So, who's the lucky guy?”
Eli stopped in his tracks when Dictator moved in front of him, arms crossed over their chest. He stopped more out of shock rather than not wanting to run into Dictator, as he did not particularly care whether he ran into them or not.
“The hell you on about?” Eli squinted at them. Dictator waggled an eyebrow and smiled.
They had to be in some kind of mood if they were acting like this. Maybe I shouldn't have let them talk to 2715…
“You came in later than you usually do this morning,” Dictator replied simply. “So, again, who's the lucky guy? I would've thought you would tell me if you were dating someone.”
“We're not dating. It's just- talking.” Eli narrowed his eyes at Dictator. “Who told you?”
“No one,” Dictator laughed. “I was bullshitting you. Pretty good, right?”
It didn't register until about a second later. “Gimme a break,” Eli hissed. “You're real insufferable, you know.”
He was preparing to grab Dictator by the shoulders and start shaking them, when he noticed something in his periphery: some new kid with a round face and clad in a dwarfing labcoat coming in their direction. He was slightly out of breath. Dictator stepped back as he approached Eli.
“Dr. Jones?”
Eli glanced at Dictator. “That's me.”
“Uh. I'm here on order of Dean Elwood, you know him. He wants you in 1032's containment unit stat.”
“What? Why?” Eli asked, motioning for Dictator to stay behind him.
“It's- you just need to see it. I'm not at liberty to discuss it here.”
Eli and Dictator exchanged a look, and then Eli turned back to look at the other doctor. “Alright. Let's go then.”
—-
They arrived at 1032's containment area within five minutes. Dictator had to practically run to keep up with Eli, and they were panting by the time they came to the containment area. They leaned over, putting their hands on their knees for a moment as Eli made his way over to the crowd of doctors forming around the object.
“What's going on?” Eli hissed, keeping his voice low.
“There was a midnight event- you know about that, right?”
“Yes!”
“Twelfth one- well, it changed. They're not letting people see it, but they've got pictures. It says something about a doctor, but it doesn't specify which one. Then it caught up with the twenty-first and fourth, and now everybody's losing their shit.”
“Which ones were those again?”
“Eli!” Dictator's frightened voice rose above the din of the other doctors' voices. “Eli, look!” They were standing beside one of the screens, trained on the object with a camera attached to a microscope. Turning his head towards Dictator, he finally managed to catch a glimpse of the screen through a gap in the crowd.
When he saw the labels on the hands, all moving together as one, he inhaled.
The end of the Foundation, the Universe, and Dr. 's Plan.
Eli stared at the screen like it was some eldritch being. All three at once. He watched them go one microscopic distance to the left.
He didn't realize he was tipping over until his head hit the ground and everything went dark.


Previous Part | Next Part
SCPs Presented: SCP-237, SCP-2715
Oliver was the first one to wake the next day, and he took the time between his waking and Dictator's eventual waking to ponder on the set of circumstances which brought him here.
Anyone who looked at the cat would be able to tell, almost immediately, that something was… different about him. He did not behave like a normal tiger, not even tame ones that people usually kept as pets. There was something almost human about him. But then, that would not be surprising. That was because Oliver himself was a human.
Though he was not currently human, Oliver had the brain and memories of being human. He had died nearly four years ago now, the date of his death coinciding with the date of the birth of his new body. Looking down at his paws, he unsheathed his claws, gently gripping the sheets of the hard bed beneath him.
To say he missed being human would be an understatement. Oliver yearned to be human again, so he got as close to it in this body as he could. He could read, and use rudimentary signs to “speak.” But most of all, he protected the human he loved the most with everything he had.
And that human was Dictator.
As they stirred next to him, Oliver's tail twitched and he chuffed, looking over his shoulder at the small human. Dictator's eyes were half-open, and they smiled wide at him.
“Hey, boy. You thinkin' about stuff again?”
Oliver closed his eyes and exhaled a purr, before getting up to rest his gigantic head on Dictator's chest. They scratched behind his ears, and he twitched his tail tip in gratitude.
Life as a tiger was not so bad, after all.
—-
Dictator was slower to start than usual, but Oliver did not seem particularly rushed. He simply sat down and groomed himself while Dictator ate breakfast (a bowl of cereal that had been pushed through the door) and got ready for the day.
Eli did not come in until a few minutes before Dictator was finished. Oliver knew this because, unlike Dictator, his sensitive hearing could pick up the noise of the door to the observation chamber opening and closing. Eli was the only person who came in and out, so it was reasonable to assume that it was he who entered it.
Moments later, Eli's voice came over the intercom. “Hey kid, you almost ready to get going today? I've got somethin' to show you.”
“What is it?” Dictator asked, eyes shining. Oliver purred at the sound of their enthusiasm
“It's… well, it's a special one, that's for sure,” Eli replied hesitantly. “But probably something you'll be interested in.”
“Okay. What do you think, Oliver?” Dictator asked, turning to face the tiger. He chuffed in response, playfully butting his head against Dictator's shoulder.
Whatever it is, I'll protect you. Even if it isn't dangerous, I'll still protect you. You are all that matters in my life, my Charge.
Oliver liked to think that, somewhere inside of them, Dictator knew what they were saying.
—-
“So where are we going today?” Dictator asked, trying to keep in step with Eli. Oliver trotted beside them, easily keeping up with the two humans.
“We're gonna be looking after two today, the first one for two hours and the second one for four,” Eli replied. “First one is SCP-237, technically -2 instances, though. There's sixteen of them in total, fourteen of them speak Japanese, and of those fourteen only three are known to speak English.”
“Oh. Well, will I be able to talk to any of them?”
“Maybe, if they're interested. They don't really talk much nowadays. They're all pretty sure their creator is dead.”
“…Oh. Well… was he… or, maybe they… like mine?”
“From what I've heard, their creator wasn't exactly a nice guy. I think they're better off without him, but they seem to think otherwise.” Eli paused to look down at Dictator. “Do you miss your Overseer?”
“No,” Dictator replied quickly. They paused then shook their head. “Well, only at first. He was- well, everything to me. It's hard to move on after that, you know? And what I'm thinkin' is… maybe these guys just need time to get themselves together.”
Eli became silent, and stayed silent until they approached the door to the temporary holding area where some of the instances were being kept. Dictator peered around Eli to get a glance at the instances as he opened the door.
“So they're… statues?”
The instances were situated behind a deceptively thin glass panel, with a pair of cameras observing their movements. Eli nodded, sitting down in a chair behind the control panel itself. Dictator sat down next to him.
“Yeah, kind of. They're made of clay and polymer, but they're pretty soft. It's like… they haven't been baked, y'know?”
“Got it.”
Dictator stared at the glass panel for a while, before one of the statues — what appeared to be an emperor penguin — started staring back at them. Dictator swallowed, then turned their head away.
“I… think I understand how they feel,” they said finally. “But I don't think — no, I know — they don't have the ability to understand how they feel just yet.”
Dictator fell silent, and no one spoke after that.
—-
SCP-2715 was, in Dictator's eyes, slightly underwhelming. The teenager sat on her bed with her legs drawn up to her chest, lasered in on a thick hardback. She sang softly to herself as she read, and scratched her nose whenever she turned a page.
Dictator frowned at her through the one-way mirror. “She's a kid.”
“Eighteen isn't a kid. And I don't recall age being a factor for anomalies,” Eli said pointedly. “You read her file?”
“You tell me.”
Eli leaned back in his chair and propped his heels up on the control board. “She doesn't get many visitors. She says it's fine, but I don't believe her.”
Dictator parsed this, then said, “How do I use the intercom?”
“Red one.” Eli gestured to a rather prominent button on the control board. Dictator pushed it, and a quick burst of white noise flooded the speakers. 2715 jumped, then glanced back at the space where the mirror was. Silence from both parties. Eli looked smug.
“Uh… hi there,” Dictator said after a few moments. “So, uh, let's get down to business I guess — I mean, crap, this isn't business, but uh — what's your name?”
2715 frowned. “Oi, McLaughlin, are you giving the interns free reign over the mic again?”
“What? No.” Dictator could see Eli snickering. “I'm not- not an intern. I'm anomalous, like you.”
“Sério?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Woah. Dude, that's pretty neat. This isn't a rescue attempt, is it?”
Dictator shook their head, though the gesture was lost. “Nothing like that. And you still haven't told me your name.”
“I'm 2715, that's my only answer for you. Has been for a while now, will be for a while more.”
Dictator took their hand off the button and gave themselves a couple seconds to sigh frustratedly. Then they put their hand back on it. Once more unto the breach, dear friends…
“My name's Dictator. What's yours?”
The girl blinked twice in Dictator's general direction, then a warm smile began to carve itself across her face. “Name's Daniela. Nice to meet you, Dictator.”
Victory. “Nice to meet you too, Daniela.”
Moment of quietness. “What kinda name is Dictator?” the person who used to be SCP-2715 said. “And why're you visiting me?”
“'Special circumstances,' or that's what they said. I'm a Thaumiel.” Their chest puffed up with importance for a brief second, then deflated when they saw the look of incomprehension on Daniela's face. “I contain other anomalies,” they explained.
She nodded. “You're pretty important then.”
“Yeah, but I have to be watched all the time. I don't think they trust me very much,” they joked.
“Amen,” she replied.
“So why'd they put you in here?” they said.
“Voluntary admission, if you can believe that. I made a lot of shitty decisions when I was younger. It's safer here than where I was.”
“Where were you?”
She stood and stretched her arms. “You're lookin' at the Chaos Insurgency's finest used-to-be-human bioweapon, designed to inflict suffering and terror onto the citizens of the third world.” The words were sardonically bitter. “With none of the flaws and side-effects of the previous version.”
“The- Chaos Insurgency?”
She made a contemptuous noise. “Yeah. Guys who use anomalies for their own personal gain. They're assholes and you shouldn't sympathize with them.”
“Duly noted.” Dictator nodded again. Another moment of silence. “So, uh, by the way, I don't really have any friends here. Do you think we could… y'know, just maybe… be friends?”
There was a pause from inside the cell. Then Daniela shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Why not?”
Eli smiled from behind Dictator and closed his eyes as the homunculus excitedly chattered on with their new friend.


Previous Part | Next Part
SCP Presented: SCP-2952
Dictator did not sleep that night. Eli had hoped that the exposure to the previous object would not have affected them that badly, but it had provoked them into an agitated state which they would not leave for several hours. They were unusually snappy with guards and other personnel, leading Eli to quickly finish his rounds and put them to bed for the night. They did not argue when they went to bed, only gripped Oliver tightly by his black leather collar and allowed him to guide them towards the bed.
Some of the higher-class personnel witnessed this change, and debated amongst themselves about the reason why. It was a debate Eli had to stay out of. He knew why Dictator had reacted so viscerally and almost violently, and it all had to do with the reason why they were created.
Dictator was created with the goal of eventual world domination. An impossible goal, yes, even for the most well-bred homunculus one could come up with. Their indestructibility ensured they would not die, but on their own, Dictator had no interest in hurting others.
The rest of the details from here were fuzzy, but Eli could piece together what he knew from talking with Dictator before to create a bigger picture.
Apparently, horrible things had been done to Dictator by the one they mentioned as being their Overseer: the one who had created them. They had been conditioned — no — programmed to kill, to hurt, to destroy, to eliminate. When they saw something they deemed as unworthy, it was wired into their brain to get rid of it.
After the Overseer died and more time passed, Dictator had gained more control over these impulses. They were still a child at heart, and wanted to be as “normal” as possible, but some things would never be erased. Time had brought back some of the innocence they had lost, but they would never be like a normal fifteen year old.
Normal fifteen year olds did not have blood on their hands.
—-
“Hey, kid. Let's go see somethin' to cheer you up with.”
Eli's voice crackled over the intercom into the containment cell, where Dictator was slumped over against the wall with Oliver's head resting on their lap. The tiger had curled protectively around them, and Dictator continued to stroke his head as they spoke.
“What do you mean?” They asked, eyes bleary and voice heavy with sleep. They were not immune to the effects of exhaustion, that much was for sure. “I'm not in a bad mood…”
“Yes, you are,” Eli replied. “And I'm gonna get it out of you, alright? Today's gonna be better than yesterday.”
“Okay… yesterday wasn't that bad though.” Shakily, Dictator rose to their feet, supported on one side by Oliver. The cat let out what sounded like a noise of distress, although Dictator did not appear to be hurting him in any way.
They walked slowly towards the door, and then waited for Eli to come down and let them out. Once the door opened, they stared at Eli for a moment, apparently not recognizing that he had even opened the door. Dictator was exhausted, that much was for sure.
“C'mon, we gotta hurry if we're gonna make it on time,” Eli said, much more gently than he usually would. He gripped Dictator by the hand that was not currently curled into Oliver's collar.
“Alright,” Dictator yawned. “Okay.”
They did not say anything else as Eli led them through the facility.
—-
When Eli got in the car to drive to the site where SCP-2952 was currently stationed, he did not know what to expect of Dictator. When they crawled into the front seat, they simply fell asleep, head bobbing at some points when the car went over a bump at any point.
It was thirty miles from the site where Eli was stationed to the site where the object was, which was why he chose to drive rather than walk. Foundation personnel of high enough clearance were allowed to use their personal vehicles to travel from one site to the next, provided they took the back ways illustrated by the Foundation rather than main roads. Sometimes, this caused their commute to be substantially longer, but it was better to do that than drive on a road where one could be easily followed.
When the ride was over, Eli reached over to push on Dictator's shoulder. “Hey, kid, wake up. We're here.”
“Mmm — hmm, leave me alone,” Dictator muttered, swatting half-heartedly at Eli's hand. “I just got to sleep.”
“Yeah, I know, but you gotta get up,” Eli said, a bit more firmly. “I can't have you outta my sight, remember? Up you go.”
Dictator grumbled once more, then leaned up in their seat and opened the door. Eli stepped out as well, walking around the side of the car to open the door for Oliver. The tiger jumped out, and immediately went to Dictator's side, chuffing and rubbing his head against their leg.
Eli turned to lead them through the bushes, into the area where the object in question was kept. Dictator followed along on shaky legs, then paused as they noticed the object.
What appeared to be the front half of a Pembroke Welsh Corgi stuck out from between two bushes, mouth open and tongue hanging out as it panted. Although it was a hot day out, the canine did not appear to have any water or food nearby, though it did perk up when it noticed the two humans approaching it.
For a moment, Dictator was quiet, and Eli feared that they might react in the same way as they had the night before. Then, a smile broke along their face, and Eli relaxed.
“He's so cute!” Dictator exclaimed, kneeling down to pet the corgi. He panted happily as he was pet, lifting his chin so Dictator could scratch it. “But, where's the other half of him?”
“The other half would be the reason why he's anomalous,” Eli replied. “He's about thirty-thousand kilometers in length, give or take a few. His bottom half's in Japan.”
“Wow! He really is long,” Dictator said, sitting down whilst continuing to pet the dog. “How come he's so long? What does he do with all of that?”
“He's a transportation system,” Eli said simply. “Parts of his body open up and take people from one point to the other. The entrances are tiny, but the inside is much bigger. We're not really sure how he does it, but that's a part of the beauty of the mystery, I think.”
“He's adorable,” Dictator declared, leaning down to kiss the pup on the nose. He panted excitedly. “I would take you home if I could, yes I would!” Dictator cooed, squishing the corgi's cheeks in their hands.
Eli smiled, and for a moment, he saw the childish innocence returning to Dictator's eyes, and that was all he wanted.
“Do you want to ride him?” Eli asked suddenly. “We won't go far. We can get on at the closest platform and get off at the first stop after that.”
“Wait — we're allowed to do that?” Dictator jumped up suddenly, all signs of exhaustion long gone. “I'd love to! Wait, will we get in trouble? I don't wanna be stuck in my cell for a week.”
“We won't get in trouble, it's classified as safe, and personnel are allowed to ride it since we figured out it's not any danger. In fact, sometimes we have to ride it, to make sure he doesn't get kidney stones again, or get sick.”
“Oh… well, good for us then!” Dictator replied cheerfully. “But, uh — how exactly do we get on? Do we have to crawl or something?”
“You'll see,” Eli told them. “Just follow me. And make sure you stay close, alright?”
Dictator nodded, and stepped up next to Eli as the three of them made their way through the wooded area. They did not have to walk far; an uncovered section of the dog was resting a few meters away. Eli checked his watch as they walked up, then turned to Dictator.
“It'll be about five minutes. Make sure you step back a bit.” Dictator nodded, and stayed back along with Eli about a meter away from the section. After a few minutes, it appeared to wriggle with excitement, before a tiny opening opened up along its side.
“Whoa — does that hurt him?” Dictator asked, worry tinging their voice.
Eli shook his head. “No, he'll be fine. We've done some tests before, and it doesn't seem to bother him.”
A few moments after the opening appeared, a few tiny entities walked out of it. They were only a few centimeters tall, and Dictator blinked in confusion as they walked away from the opening. “So… tiny people come in and out of it?”
“Yep. Now, do you still wanna get on?”
Dictator stared at Eli, as if he had just asked the most ridiculous question. “Yeah I do! Let's go!”
They rushed forward, and in the blink of an eye, Dictator too had shrunk down to the size of the entities leaving 2952. Whether or not they noticed it in the moment, Eli did not know, and he simply shrugged as he stepped forward. There was no noticeable effect when he did shrink down, and he only noticed it when he tilted his head back and saw grass stalks towering over him.
“Alright, kid, where'd you run off to?” Eli asked, walking in through the opening and looking around. He spotted Dictator a few seconds later, sitting down on one of the flower seats. They were gazing at the strange scene around them, sitting between an elderly couple and a young mother with a small child. They were dressed in strange robes, though Dictator did not seem to notice it. Or, if they did, they simply did not care.
“Hi Eli! I think I got the last seat,” Dictator said. The inside was quite packed, with several people already having to stand. Eli realized with slight dismay that he was going to have to stand, and he sighed, leaning on a pole nearest to Dictator.
“So what is this place? It looks… really weird,” Dictator asked, leaning in a bit closer to Eli.
For all intents and purposes, “weird” described the inside of 2952 quite well. The walls, ceiling, and floors appeared to be made of birch bark wrapped around thin twigs. Dictator bounced a bit on the flower cushion of the chair, which did not seem to bother the passengers around them.
A voice crackled over what they assumed to be an intercom. “Now departing the Innermost Forest stop. Next stop is the Outermost Forest.” Dictator was quiet for a few moments after that as the system began to move.
“So what're you guys dressed up for?” Dictator asked the young mother beside them before Eli could tell them to shut up.
“Oh, the Beltane celebration!” The young mother replied, moving her toddler to her other leg and bouncing it up and down to keep him occupied. “It's going to be great. There's the family-friendly one, and the big one. We usually go to the family-friendly one, since Beltane celebrations tend to be a bit… x-rated, if you know what I mean.”
Dictator gave a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I've been studying Paganism for a little while now,” they said. Their eyes drifted over to a poster plastered on the right wall, reading “GET READY FOR THE NEWEST BLOCKBUSTER, STARRING [REDACTED] IN THE ROLE OF [REDACTED].” Must be the doings of the Foundation, they thought, before continuing their previous line of thought. “And, uh, a lot of it seems pretty… adult. I'm not really used to it.”
“You should come to the family-friendly event then! It's so much fun, especially for someone your age,” the young mother said. “There's lots of food, and fun games to play. It'd be right up your alley.”
“I'd really love to, but unfortunately my schedule is booked,” Dictator said after a quick glance at Eli. “But, um, thanks for the info.”
They were quiet for quite some time after that, swinging their legs back and forth as the system moved along. Eli was mostly checking for any abnormalities, but he could find none. The corgi seemed to be in relatively good health, considering the activities that went on inside of it.
The ride only lasted about twenty minutes, before they started to come to a slow stop. “Now approaching Outermost Forest. Thank you for riding.”
Dictator stood up, reaching for the bar that Eli was holding on to as they finally stopped. The doors on the opposite side to which they came in opened, and the two stepped out after Dictator gave a friendly wave to the young mother.
“I think I'd like to do that again sometime,” Dictator remarked as they walked away, back towards Eli's car that had, inexplicably, appeared in their path.