It was a dark and stormy night in the Last City. The poor gas lighting flickered and sputtered in the cold, merciless wind. Misshapen constructions leaned into each other and threatened to fall apart any day now, with their sorry inhabitants in too high spirits to really care very much. Mechanical birds with leering eyes watched over the mostly empty streets. All around UnLondon was a sense of bleakness, abandonment and a most desperate need for outside salvation.
Instead, what the Last City got was Grabnok The Destroyer. The portly and nervous man had materialized in the middle of the street, instantly getting soaked by the intense rain. He hurried after the closest thing to shelter he could find inside an abandoned house. The front door was missing, but at least it still had all the other doors, windows and walls. Grabnok still had the flashlight and backpack the Foundation gave him and hesitantly went about exploring the place. It reeked of mold, dampness, rust and probably worse things, but he liked to tell himself that he was used to that by now.
He soon found a crowbar hidden inside a sofa, as well as a suspicious looking part of the walls. He pried it open with the crowbar with great effort, revealing a dust and insect covered book. He blew the detritus away in a large cloud, coughing loudly and hoping he wouldn't start sneezing. Shining his flashlight onto the book, he discovered something that made little sense to him but seemed very important:

I finally figured it out. It's all a sham, the whole city. The House of Parliament knows this, they are just trying to keep us sedated and docile with the food from the vending machines and with the surveillance while they figure out a way to reach the surface without us. We have to get there first or we'll never get there. I've stopped eating the Wonderfood, and while it allows me to think straight and plan for the rebellion and escape, it's weighing heavy on my mind with withdrawal symptoms. I have been surviving on mutant animals and human corpses, I've lied and stolen, and I'll probably get turned into a Bobby or worse. But I have to do something. I'm getting closer, now that I have the maps to the hidden sections of the House of Parliament. Tomorrow, I'll organize my team into an infiltration mission, confiscate whatever technology that allowed them to create this hellhole and use it to reach the surface.

That was the last entry, or at least appeared to be so. Well, this was none of his business. He would hop out of this place sooner or later, no sense in getting involved with local politics. Even so, he found himself getting curious and kept reading the earlier entries, not noticing the surveillance drone perching on a nearby windowsill. Before he could finish reading, he heard a high-pitched whistle and all nearby speakers blaring "Police! Halt, criminal!". Grabnok reflexively froze and tried finding an escape route, when a Bobby burst into the room wielding a corroded lead pipe. Grabnok noticed a nearby mug filled with coins, and a Wonderfood vending machine. He quickly inserted the coin and directed the hose at the ground, spraying the slimy food all over it and making the Bobby fall. He then took the chance to throw a mattress out the window and jump out of it, landing on the mattress and running away with the book and maps.
After breathing heavily for quite a while and making sure he wasn't being watched, Grabnok opened the book and maps again. There was a document that said the technology used by the House of Parliament to build UnLondon was highly unstable due to the combination of several anomalies which were supposed to be in the custody of the Foundation, possibly with the help of an inside agent. The same document even hinted at what sort of scenario UnLondon was meant to prepare for, but the details were unclear because parts of the document were ripped away. Apparently, UnLondon was meant to be a last ditch attempt at preparing for some major timeline revision event in which the British Empire never existed.
He had to hold onto this, the Foundation would surely question him about it when he hopped back into containment. But how was he supposed to defend himself with only a crowbar and a flashlight in hostile territory full of surveillance until then? And what does it mean to get "turned into a Bobby"? Was that security guard one of them? He supposed he could withstand some forced training, but if there was something more to the process, he wanted no part in it. There had to be a truly safe spot somewhere in this city where he could maintain a low profile until he hopped back. Regardless, he had to keep moving or else he would be caught for certain.
The dimension hopper sneaked in alleyways, wore improvised disguises and even ventured into sewers, always holding onto his discoveries out of some very strange sense of loyalty and duty. Not knowing how long he would stay there, he held onto his rations despite the constant pitiful pleading of the Wretches. He eventually managed to craft a crude slingshot to knock out the surveillance drones temporarily and learned many useful shortcuts. He even managed to defeat a Bobby by luring it into the front of an oncoming train. But eventually he ran out of rations, and had to resort to the Wonderfood. He felt something strange inside his stomach after eating, something not quite like porridge, but pressed on. All throughout his struggle to survive, he could see a shadowy figure stalking him, but he had to rest.
Grabnok woke up with the feeling of someone poking his side with a hard, cold object. He jolted upward, reaching for the nearest weapon to try and defend himself, but it was only another Wretch with a cane. The man in filthy rags looked like someone who had been through a dozen lifetimes of pure misery packed into a few years, and yet, he was somehow giving him a yellow smile.
"You found my book. Good. I thought they would have burned it by now."
"Who are you? Why did you write that book?" he paused and then put his hands up in a defensive gesture. "I didn't steal it, I swear!"
The man in rags laughed, and strands of bloody phlegm came out of his mouth. "You may call me Leader. It's who I have been trying to be, anyways. Hasn't worked out too well, as you can see, hahahahaha."
"Right…say, is there a spot in this city where the surveillance and the security guards won't go? I need to keep a low profile for some time."
The Leader suddenly turned grim. "Not so fast. You are an outsider. That means it is still possible to get in and out of this hellhole. I ain't helping you unless you help me. You are gonna bring me with you and tell your surface friends all about what happens here everyday so I can free this city, got it?"
Grabnok swallowed hard and began to sweat. He was a horrible liar. "S-s-s-sure thing, Leader! I got some friends in very high places¹ They'll uh…have everything under control in no time, promise!" he offered a nervous handshake, which Leader returned.
"Excellent. We need to get to the outskirts. Reality is mostly falling apart there, but there is one spot that they don't know about which is safe. Follow me."
As they ventured further and further, the less they saw guards and drones. The gas lighting became brighter and more vivid, the air and streets cleaner, and even plants grew here and there. They eventually reached a building that almost seemed like a genuine Victorian house.
"What..how…did you?" blurted out Grabnok.
"I don't know much more than you, but I'll be damned if I let anyone know about this, you hear?" Leader snarled. "Come inside, there's tea."
Once they entered the modest but comparatively wonderful house, Leader shared his other plans and notes with Grabnok.
"For years I suspected they were lying to us, but I didn't do anything about it. The others were too sedated and hypnotized by the food and the constant messages to do much better. To this day, I still don't know how I managed to wake up from all of that, or even get a few people to join my cause. But as my luck would have, they were caught and turned into Bobbies, while I ran away and continued the mission."
"The security guards are the Bobbies, right? How do they turn you into one of them?"
Leader shuddered. "I don't know, and I honestly don't want to." He suddenly beamed with exalted joy. "But now I have you here, and it's all gonna pay off, I just know it!"
Leader's smile dissolved as lightning struck his house, making everything dark. Something lit up inside Grabnok's stomach with the same color as the eyes of the surveillance drones, and he vomited it back up. The spherical thing squirmed on the ground before assuming the form of a drone and sealing the fate of both of them with its glowing gaze.
Leader burst into a mad dash to try and destroy the drone but failed, and Grabnok was too busy vomiting still. When the drone flew away, Leader turned stood still for a few moments, unleashed a shriek of defeat and lunged at Grabnok, ready to kill the outsider with his bare hands. Before he could land a killing blow with a brick, Grabnok hopped outside of UnLondon, along with his backpack full Leader's notes and everything else. He tried to escape, but soon enough a dozen Bobbies were at his door and he was escorted to Bryson's Home For The Poor.
When Grabnok returned to containment, he shared the secrets he had discovered with the Foundation and told the story of what happened. He was asked if he would like a reward for his cooperation. He simply said:
"Some decent porridge, and a bright and sunny day."


by stormbreath

It was raining hard out by Site 84, a torrential downpour. It always seemed to rain out by Mount Rainier and in the Pacific Northwest, but it was especially bad tonight. The radio had crackled earlier with news of a flood warning in the park, and it just looked like that might be the case.
There were only two Foundation personnel within the Site itself, the usual number. Calling it a Site was a bit of a misnomer, as it was hardly more than a well furnished and modern cabin in the woods. Only contained one anomaly, after all.

"How long does it take for him to show up?"
"You're getting impatient."
"I've been out here, sitting in this shack for three weeks. I was told that he popped in frequently, but I haven't seen him once."
"I've been working this job almost ten years. He shows up when he wants to, on his time. Not yours, not anybody else. He's been out for months sometimes."
"Months? I could be waiting months more?"
"Relax kid, just enjoy it. This is one of the cushiest assignments in the Foundation. Sit back in a nice little cabin, collect a body every so often, and ship it off to another site if it's different. Nothing too difficult."

A flash of light flooded into the cabin. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi. The crack of thunder echoed in, interrupting the conversation for a moment. Only a mile away. Probably struck somewhere in the park itself.

"I didn't sit through task force level training for this!"
"I used to be a Site Director, did you know that?"

The older man got up and turned away from the windows looking out into the rain. He walked over to the fireplace and adjusted the flames. He grabbed another log and placed it among the others, waiting for it to catch fire.

"No shit, where?"
"Site-64, down in Portland."
"That's a big one. How'd you wind up here, then?"
"This is my retirement, kid. I got tired of the business of the Director life, and I turned in my two weeks. I had two options - amnestics or a cushy job."
"Didn't want amnestics?"
"I know where amnestics come from. It's not pretty."

A soft alarm began to ring out from the computers on the far wall of the cabin. Both of the men turned to look. Passing between the monitors was a tall, pale figure with a body slung over his back. He was not dressed for the rain but trudged onward.

"There he is."

The two walked over to the monitors and watched the ritual procedure. The hunter threw his dead wife into the fire pit and then poured out a bottle of whiskey. He stopped towards the end and finished the bottle off before tossing a lighter into the fire pit.
The body caught fire, where so many others like it had burned. The stranger watched, as he had done hundreds of times before until he got tired of the flames. A knife was pulled out of his robes, and a mark was made upon the ground. With his task accomplished, the figure left the scene.

"Go and get the corpse."
"In this weather?"
"We need to collect the corpse before it burns completely. I'd get moving if I were you."

The younger man grabbed his raincoat and braced himself for the storm he would face outside. He rushed out into the deluge, running along the muddy path that connected Site 84 to the fire pit. It was a path he had walked before, but only for practice, never for the real.
He made it to the path after a few minutes and grabbed the water bucket. The rain had already filled the bucket to the brim, negating the need to use the well. He tossed the water onto the corpse and climbed down into the pit to pull it out.
His radio crackled, a message coming from his superior. The rain was messing with the signal, however, and he could only hear bits and pieces.

"Hey … in. He's … going … coming …"
"What's that? Can't hear."
"Get … back to site …"
"Yep, as soon as I get the body."

The younger man lifted the body onto his shoulders and rose from the fire pit. As he emerged from the ground, the bleeding albino stepped from the tree line. The two froze, staring at each other. The entity opened his mouth and croaked.

"I thought there were people getting her. I don't really care, I'm just here for my knife."

The agent didn't respond. The entity leaned down and picked up the knife he had left on the ground. He turned a little and displayed the weapon to the other man.

"It's a good knife."

The younger man kept his eyes trained on the anomaly as it returned into the woods, and then for five minutes after. Only when he was certain he was safe did he march back through the dark and stormy night.


While Sloth's Pit is one of the more animated Nexuses in the United States, greatly distorting the Anomaly Occurrence Value of the entire Midwest, Wisconsin is only the second-most anomalous state. Thanks to the existence of Roadkill County in Oregon, the Pacific Northwest is, from a purely quantitative standpoint, the most anomalous area of the United States. Lesser known than Roadkill County, but equally important, is the city of Eventide— as of writing, it is the largest anomalous population center in the United States. The government does not condone Foundation activity within city limits, and the constant darkness has lead to several members of both its populace and of Foundation personnel becoming somewhat, shall we say, unhinged.
Combined with the wide variety of psychoactive fungus within the Nexus zone, it has become a testing ground for many parapharmaceuticals. Some members of the task force at Site-51 are even used as guinea pigs for new medications, a controversial practice which, nonetheless, Site-51's administrative staff has defended since the late 1960s.
- Dr. Philip Verhoten, The Crossroads: A Study of Urban Anomalous Nexuses in the United States.

Lieutenant William Stoker looked outside at the 3:00 P.M. sky and sighed. Three years living in Eventide, staying in the skyscraper that was Site-51 (better known as Wiley Tower), and he was still getting used to the fact that the sun would never rise within city limits. The city weather was cold, unforgiving, and it was almost constantly raining. Over the past one-hundred years, Eventide had compensated for the rainfall by building up one of the most robust sewer systems in Oregon— but it might not be enough.
Stoker picked up a sublingual spray and lifted up his tongue, coating the underside of it with what the techs had termed "Pepper-Up Potion". Eighteen hours of wakefulness, and he was going to need all of it.
Thunder rumbled outside as Stoker made his way to the elevator, an assault rifle in his hand, and a ski mask over his head. Today, he — and the rest of Sigma-29, AKA "Night Watch" — were going to rob a bank in the middle of the dark and stormy day.
He got a salute from one of the researchers exiting the elevator on his level. He nodded in return, and then climbed in, hitting the override button that would take him straight down to the vehicle bay. A fortified parking garage, it held all of the vehicles owned by Site-51's staff and task force. And most of his squad was already loaded up, with the exception of his superior, Colonel Leah Cibari.
"You're late," she frowned, taking a sip from a special 'nutrient pouch' she carried at her hip. She was looking less pale than usual, which was certainly a good thing— she hadn't been able to take her medication as of late, due to the monthly supply truck capsizing in the middle of Bend last week.
"A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives whenever he chooses to." Stoker smirked back at her.
"You're a Grade-2 Warlock, and we're behind schedule." She tugged him to the van. "The bank's closing in half an hour, and traffic's gonna be godawful in the storm."
"Yes, ma'am," Stoker nodded, getting into the back of the van. Within were the three other members of his squad: Jacob Wexley, former computer scientist who had gotten whammied in such a way that his old line of work was no longer feasible; Kathryn Kramer, their breacher, a blonde woman with one eye replaced by a cybernetic implant; and Susan Smith, ex-CIA, who would normally be the face of this op, should any con artistry be required. As it stood, she could still make for a good amount of muscle.
The van — which allegedly belonged to 'Normal Moving Co.' — zoomed out of the parking garage, turning the corner sharply enough that Wexley hit his head on the van's wall. He growled in pain. "This had better be worth the risk," he frowned. "Why can't we just buy it?"
"The item in question is an artifact that can't change hands willingly— it always has to be stolen. If it isn't, it reappears in possession of the previous owner." Susan frowned. "Honestly, Jacob. We've been over this three times."
"It's almost the full moon, Sue," Kramer chided. "You know how his memory gets around this time of month."
"Is a bank robbery the best way to do it, though?" Jacob asked, scratching at his skin. "We could be more discrete."
Stoker pulled out his syringe kit, and extracted an injector pen with a bright red label on it, which simply read 'the Juice'. "For E-4343 to count as passing into the possession of a new person, at least five other people who aren't the thief have to witness it being stolen." He fiddled with the cap on the pen, and handed ones of different colors to the other three- K.K. got a green one which read 'Burst', Jacob got a blue injector which was called 'Man's Bane', and Susan got a yellow injector which read 'You Can't Handle'.
"Do you always have to name them so weird?" Jacob frowned. "Like, I get this is your girlfriend's hobby—"
"Hobby? She's a parapharmacologist. This is what she does for a living, and she loves it."
Rain pattered on the exterior of the van. The tires screeched on the wet concrete as they turned a corner, and then stopped. "We here?" Smith asked.
"Affirmative." Cibari said through the grille at the front of the van, putting on her mask— while Stoker preferred to stick to a traditional ski mask, everyone else had their own preference. Leah liked her chicken mask; Smith, preferring to reflect her CIA roots, had a mask on which read "M.K. Badass"; Kramer had a simple clown mask; and Jacob had the visage of a wolf on his face. Let it never be said that Jacob Wexley was creative.
"Go in, subdue, get out." Leah popped a liquid gel pill into her mouth; her eyes glowed red behind the mask.

The Bank of Oregon branch in Eventide had a massive skylight above, which Smith chose to aim for when she shot her gun at the ceiling. As the glass rained down, thankfully not hitting any of Eventide's pale populace, rain started flowing into the bank. "Everyone be cool!" she called, her voice modulated by the mask. "This is a robbery. We don't want any of your belongings, we just want to get to the vault."
"Drop your weapon!" a security guard called. His frame was slender and his skin was paper white, not an uncommon sight among the sun-starved population of the town. The lack of contrast between his white skin and light blue uniform almost made it painful to look at him. He was holding a 9mm at them. "Drop it now!"
Jacob stepped forward, his machine pistol aimed at the guard. "This is a MAC-10. It can fire over a thousand rounds per minute, and that pea shooter can maybe manage one-hundred, if you reload fast enough. You really wanna take that ch-"
The guard emptied his clip into Jacob's chest; as the ex-computer technician stumbled back, he pulled out the blue injector he had been given, and stuck it in his neck. The effect was immediate— all of the wolfsbane medication he had taken in the past week was forced out of his body. He removed the mask, vomiting, and as he did so, almost tripled in size, growing fur, and a set of fangs that could bite through concrete. The were-dire-wolf lunged at the guard, pinning him back against the wall.
"We don't want to hurt you!" Leah called, licking her teeth. That much was a lie, coming from her. The pills made her hungry. "We just want to get into the vault. Where's the bank manager?"
There was silence throughout the bank; everyone had gotten on the ground, either kneeling or face-down. Lightning illuminated the bank, and the lights within flickered. "Ah, nuts," Kramer muttered to herself, cocking her shotgun. She blinked her right eye, activating the low-light sensor as the power to the bank was cut off.
"Shit!" Leah ran towards the teller's booths. "The bank's vault seals automatically within five minutes of a power cut. We need to get in there now."
While Jacob kept the lone security guard occupied, the four of them ran to the teller's booths. Leah got there first, her form bursting through the steel grating, and bringing it down on top of the poor bank employees that had hidden under their desks. "The code to the vault," she asked a black-haired Eventideian. "Do you know it?"
"N-no," she insisted. "I—"
Smith leaped over the counter and stuck her yellow injector into the teller's shoulder. She hissed in pain, before becoming transfixed on something in the middle distance. Susan knelt by her, and asked, "Who knows the vault combination?"
The serum worked quickly. "Mr. Muldoon knows. He's in his office, probably hiding in the panic room."
"On it," Kramer nodded, making her way to the manager's office.
The rain from the broken skylight was starting to flood the inside of the bank; already, the agents could feel their socks getting wet inside their boots. The low growl of the werewolf handing the guard emanated as the sound of police sirens started tearing through the rain.
"Goddamn alarms," Susan hissed. "Shouldn't have shot out the glass. Sorry."
The city's government didn't tolerate the existence of the Foundation within city limits. If they were caught here, the organization would disavow them, and they'd most likely rot in jail for a decade or two.
Leah could afford to lose that time, but nobody else could. She popped in another pill, and licked her lips as her tongue trailed out of her mask. "I'll handle them. Gonna try not to kill any."
"Luck, L." Susan nodded, wondering what was taking Kramer so long to get the bank manager.

Kramer's better eye couldn't see shit.
The walls of the manager's office was lead-lined. She couldn't see anything through the walls or floor, on any spectrum. If the panic room was here, she couldn't see it— or rather, that would be the case, if not for the rain.
Lightning briefly illuminated the office, and she saw that there was a conglomeration of debris on a particular point on the floor, in a somewhat squarish pattern. Grinning, she produced a collapsible crowbar from her side, and stuck herself with the syringe that she had been given.
She had used this particular brew so often she hardly felt its effects anymore— no more rush, no more giddiness. She would have to ask Stoker's girlfriend to make her a new batch, something stronger. Or maybe she should just see an addiction therapist.
But that wouldn't be as fun as sticking the head of the crowbar against the floor tiles and yanking it upward. Underneath it, in the panic room's space, was a cowering Eventideian in a black suit. Kramer knew how to get them to talk.
Kathryn Kramer's eye lit up with UV radiation— simulated sunlight. She looked down at him, lifting her mask aside to reveal the shining eye. "You have ten seconds to tell me what the vault's combination is, or I give you sunburn."
"O-okay, okay," the man winced. "It's—"

"8-6-7-5-3-0-9." Stoker punched in the code with a frown; at thirty seconds left, the vault opened. "Seriously?"
"Jenny don't change your number," Smith shrugged, turning on her flashlight. "Right, we're looking for a small statue with a jackal head, maybe a foot tall. You take the deposit boxes on the left, I'll take the ones on the right."
Drawing his crowbar, Stoker started tugging open the safety deposit lockers, one by one. He found bonds, bank statements, jewelry, even whole ingots— but no statue. "I got jack shit," he complained, moving onto the back wall.
Smith had better fortune; on the last locker on her wall, she found a small, granite statue. Grinning, she pulled it out. "I got it. Let's vamanos."
"Vamonos," Stoker corrected. "Vamanos is 'handcuffs'."
"Oh. Let's avoid those." She stowed the statue in her duffel bag, making sure its head was sticking out, and started for the vault's exit. As they entered the lobby, gunfire erupted.

True to her word, Leah wasn't trying to kill any of the officers, but it was damn hard to do.
Her saliva contained an agent which could knock people out in large amounts— with her three-foot-long tongue, it was easy enough to lick the officers, even under the mask. Jacob had already managed to skedaddle, and with good reason. The EPD was using silver ammunition. It didn't hurt her too much, but the wounds would take longer to heal. If it was beryllium-bronze bullets, like the Foundation had, that would be a different issue entirely.
"DOWN!" Stoker yelled from behind her. Leah looked back in time to see him inject "the Juice" into his neck. Her eyes went wide, and she dove past the members of the EPD as Stoker started speaking words of power. Amplified by the thaumaturgical juices flowing through his veins, hell broke loose.
In one second, all of the police officers started vomiting blood.
In two seconds, they were flying through the air, as if being carried by invisible ropes, into the bank's lobby.
In the third second, they had been suspended from the frame of the broken skylight.
In the fourth and final second, Leah found herself, and everyone else, in the van. Stoker was driving.
"Should you really be doing that?" Leah asked. "A four-second dose can kill you, and I don't want to die in a crash."
"I'm fine," he panted, wiping blood from his lips. "Let's get this thing back to Site-51 and get it in containment."
Leah looked at the statue; the inscription at the base was in Greek, and yet it depicted something with the head of a jackal. "This gonna get classified as a proper skip?" she asked.
"Maybe," Smith nodded, removing her mask. "But if so, that means we have more paperwork to write. And paperwork means detox."
"Fuck that noise," Kramer shook her head. "We class this as an AO and leave it at that."
"I think that some of the eggheads are gonna object," Stoker rolled his shoulders. Thunder rumbled throughout the darkened city as they made their way to the one beacon of light that still remained, immune from the power outage— Site-51, which lit up the night.


It wasn't supposed to storm in Hy-Brasil. Hy-Brasil was a fairy country, a country of eternal spring. When it did rain, it was warm and gentle and the fair folk would joyously dance skyclad in it.
This was not the kind of rain they were accustomed to. It was ice-cold and fierce, pelting down on them like a volley of liquid arrows. The storm clouds were as dark as the smoke from the mortals' vile factories, blocking out any hint of starlight or moonlight. The only natural light was from the random but frequent bolts of lightning, blinding flashes in the blind darkness, followed by deafening claps of thunder, booming like war drums.
Within the Throne Room of the Royal Palace, the courtiers of the Tuatha Dé Danann court all cowered like children before the horrid sound.
“It's a monster! A monster 60 fathoms tall rising from the sea! It's broken through the wards and is coming to destroy us all!” one of the courtesans screamed, causing a chorus of screams to echo through the room.
“It is nothing of the kind!” High King Nuada Airgetlám the VII assured them. Though he maintained his usual cocky façade, he was in truth as scared as any of them by the storm. “I realize this is less clement weather than we're accustomed to, but you've all surely at least heard of thunderstorms, have you not? It is still only rain, and will pass in time.”
“Hy-Brasil is a Blessed Land, no storm can ever cross our borders!” one of the Elders shouted. “Even if it is a mere storm, that means the wards are broken and we are vulnerable!”
“The wards have held without fail for 520 years. Why would they suddenly fail now?” the King demanded.
“Why? Our people fled to this isle for sanctuary from the cruel mortals. Your Great Grandfather sacrificed more than you could ever imagine creating those wards! For nearly three and a half centuries we lived in blessed peace until you decided that your coffers weren't full enough! You opened this isle to their kind, to their black magic and unholy machines that are anathema to our very being! How can this still be a fairy country when mortals outnumber the Fey! The magic of this land has been failing bit by bit, and now it is too weak to even hold back a simple thunderstorm! You've betrayed your Forefather! You've betrayed all of us!”
King Airgetlám backhanded the elder so hard she fell to the floor, the rest of the court gasping in shock.
“Do not think that a little bad weather suddenly excuses treason,” he said coldly. “I have ruled for 177 years now, and my reign has brought nothing but prosperity. We've known no war, no famine, no plague, only ever-growing mountains of coin from our trade with outsiders, and you were all perfectly happy to pretend to be tolerant and cosmopolitan then, weren't you? Is it not a testament to the greatness of my rule that a thunderstorm qualifies as an unprecedented disaster?”
“But the wards!”
“If the wards have failed, it is for no other reason than that they were old. I shall replace them with new and better wards with the knowledge and powers we have gained under my system of free trade. And if the storm is for some other reason, our mortal partners will gladly help us with their science to determine the cause and find a solution. As your king, I ask that you not scapegoat this minor inconvenience on myself or our allies, as neither of us has ever been anything but good to you.”
The courtiers seemed to calm down and accept his explanation, aside from the courtesan from earlier who still would not cease weeping.
“Diarmuid, it is only -”
“It's not the storm! It is a beast!” he screamed hysterically. “I can see it in my mind!”
“You're letting your imagination get -”
“Look out the window! Please!”
The King rolled his eyes and went to the window to peer out into the black storm. At first, he could see nothing, but then a flash of lightning revealed what the boy was speaking about.
It was a dread behemoth, sixty fathoms tall, more or less. The rain pelted down its scaly and leathery hide, gleaming in the electric blue glow of the lightning. It pulled itself onto the beach with five enormous tentacles, each one shaking the earth as they struck the ground. A hydra-like stalk grew from the base, with five bizarre arms sprouting from the top, each sporting five fingers in the shape of a starfish.
Oddest of all, the creature had a reptilian head like a crocodile's, with a long maw filled with glistening teeth and an arc of five yellow eyes along its skull. When it roared, the sound rose over the thunder effortlessly.
“Open a Way to Fata Morgana,” the King commanded, backing away from the window as calmly as he could.
“Your Majesty?”
“Open a Way to Fata Morgana, we're evacuating!” the King ordered. Before anyone could question the order, the palace was struck by a devastating blast of the behemoth's spellfire breath, reducing it to rubble in an instant.

The cold rain on his face was enough to revive the King for one brief and final moment. He was pinned under a mound of debris, with no hope of freeing himself. He couldn't even call for help, and even if he could it was unlikely there was anyone alive close enough to hear him, especially over the cacophony of the ongoing disaster.
As his lungs filled with his own blood, he could see the behemoth towering over him, its monstrous roar reverberating the marble he was buried under. It was not content with his palace. It had set itself upon his glorious city, the city he had spent all his life enriching. The spires that had grown over his reign were felled in minutes, knocked down by the callous creature's rampage.
The beast screeched in pain as missiles and beams of powerful magic stuck against its hide. Amidst the chaos, King Airgetlám was able to discern that the Book Burners had engaged the beast, but that brought him no comfort.
When the attack was finished, there would be nothing left. Hy-Brasil would never recover. Everything that he, his father, grandfather, great-grandfather and all his people had ever built was now ruined. This was the end of a beautiful and magical Fey country, and like many such lands before it, it would perish in a single day of unmitigated catastrophe. Airgetlám didn't know if his policies had brought on Hy-Brasil's demise or not, but in the end, it made no difference. Fortune had been kind to his country for centuries, and now Misfortune had decided to make up for its long absence all at once, ensuring his Blessed Land would never be blessed again.
These were King Airgetlám's final thoughts as he closed his eyes for the last time, on that dark and stormy night.


They say that the way
That the world will end
Is not with a bang, but a whimper
Or perhaps in frost
Or perhaps in flame
Or in some madman's fit of temper
What they don't understand
Is that endings are many
They've happened so often before
We've reset this world
A million times over
It's getting to be quite a bore
And each time we do it
We have to start over
Though we never quite do so from scratch
We decide what to keep
And what to get rid of
But some things they never quite catch
See, each time we do this
We're supposed to forget
Unless it all happens again
And so even though
"We've fixed our mistakes"
Aren't we doomed before we begin?
So some of us thought
"Let's make this a game"
We've got nothing better to do
We'll meet and keep score
Each time we reset
Should the changes we make, make it through
We each pick a thing
That shouldn't quite be
And slip it in at the start
It may be quite small
Or massively silly
But all of us have taken part
So when we rejoin
The next time it's all over
We discuss and then vote on the winner
It's not a huge prize
We just fix in our minds
In the reset we'll take them to dinner
The thing is I've realized
As we keep on going
And it does fill me with some distress
Is that each time we do it
It keeps getting worse
So are we to blame for this mess?
I think that this next time
I'll suggest that we lay off
And perhaps see if that puts it right
Though I am disappointed
I can't change "In the Beginning…"
To "It Was a Dark and Stormy Night…"


lavenderbloodstains

Hi, I'm lavenderbloodstains. Welcome to my first successful tale! Check out more works by me at my author page.

"Why do you create art?"
The man sitting across the table blinked his eyes, nervously adjusting his fedora. He nervously sipped his coffee, sugar-filled and stuffed with cream, and nervously patted down his trench coat. He looked at the woman who had asked him that question as if she had grown three more heads.
"Excuse me?" he asked, nervously.
"You heard me. Why do you create art?"
The man let out a laugh. It wasn't really a laugh though, more as it was an exhalation of incredulity disguised as humor.
"Why do I create art? Why is the sky blue? What kind of question is that, right?"
The woman frowned at him, putting down her dark coffee, sugarless.
"It's a very serious question, one that I will ask again. Why do you crea—"
"Okay, okay, I get it, Jesus. You don't have to say it three times."
The man pushed his glasses up on his nose, and if you had been there you would have sworn a beam of light had caught it at just the right angle to light up both lens and make him look cool for a second. But, that didn't really happen, and it just looked kind of awkward.
"I create art because I want people to see it."
"No, that's wrong. Try again."
The man lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'that's wrong?'"
"Try again." repeated the woman, with an oppressive air of firmness.
The man swallowed his pride and tried again.
"I create art because it's fun, and it's a nice byproduct that other people can enjoy it."
"No. Try again."
The man was visibly sweating now. The tension in this humble cafe was rising by the second. He felt as though he should really take his trench coat off, but then he'd just look even more awkward than he already did. He sat there and contemplated for a moment, before shaking his head and sighing in exasperation.
"I create art because I fucking can, okay? Is that what you want? Did you want me to adm—"
"No. That's wrong. Try again."
He was completely taken aback at this. He thought this was an interrogation or something, that his new associate was trying to get him to admit the "truth" of his little organization. He had always thought himself that nobody around here really knew why they were making their art, and he never found it necessary to beg the question "Am I Cool Yet?" because he thought he knew he never would be.
So why now was she still pushing him further? What more could she possibly want out of him? An exposition? His life story? A breakdown of the causation of every single action he had ever taken in his life? He didn't trust this woman enough to tell her all of that!
"Hello? I told you that's wrong. Try again, please?"
The man spoke after several minutes of internal debate.
"What is it exactly you want from me?"
The woman seemed amused by this question.
"Nothing major. I just want to know what I'm getting into before I decide to join your little group."
Ah, right. He'd almost forgotten he was supposed to be the interviewer here, not her. She was just a nobody, joining their group. So why did he feel so oppressed by her? This frail little woman holds no power over me, he thought. He puffed himself up and tried to make himself look like the big macho man he always wanted to be, but he forgot to breathe in the process and started coughing instead.
He looked up at the woman, who was merely looking back down at him. Her expression was completely unreadable, and that terrified him.
"You want to know what you're getting into?"
"Yes. I want to know why your group creates art, and I don't want an excuse like 'because you can.' You're all unique people with your own goals, so I want to know yours. Why do you create art?"
The man sighed, a deep and heavy sigh, as recognition finally dawned on him. She didn't want to know why his group made art. She didn't want to know why he thought he made art. No, she wanted to know why he really made art. It was a stupid reason, a selfish reason, and he didn't want to spill it, but by this point, he just wanted to get out of there more than anything and rationalized that this would be the best way to do so.
"I create art because I'm insecure and I want to project my insecurities onto others. I want everyone else to feel just as insecure as me. I know, it's a selfish reason, and you can laugh if you like."
He waited tensely.
But no mockery came.
"That's great to hear. I'm glad you've finally come to terms with yourself. Now then, do you want to hear why I create art?"
The man took a few moments to process what she had just said, filled with anger for a brief moment. But then, he decided to drop it and take the easier path of continuing this conversation.
"Why do you create art?" the man said, smirking at the sudden swap of positions.
"I create art because I want to give other people meaning where there is none."

The interview concluded, and the man in the trench coat and the yet to be described woman walked out of the unknown coffee shop.
The woman turned to the man with a start, as if she had forgotten something. Which as it turns out, was exactly what had happened.
"I completely forgot to ask! What kind of art do you make?"
The man paused for a second before he stammered out, "M-music. I like to make songs. It's a good way to spread a message, you know?"
"Oh, for sure. Want to know what kind of art I make?"
"Su—"
"I make art installations, hanging on a wall. Stuff you put in a frame, y'know?"
"That doesn't sound like a very good way to spread a message." the man said, confused.
"Maybe not. But it's a good way to communicate a meaning."
"Ah. I see."
The man stood there, turning on the spot for a few seconds, his hands shoved into his trench coat. He was trying to pretend not to be nervous, but in doing so he just made himself look more nervous. Eventually, he gave up on procrastinating and asked the woman the question he had been meaning to ask this whole time.
"So… are you in?" he said, sheepishly.
The woman faked contemplation. Her answer was set from the moment he had told the truth.
"Of course."
"Glad to have you aboard, then." the man meekly muttered.
"Glad to be aboard. Meet you here tomorrow?"
"See you then."
The two parted ways. The man in the trench coat walked away from the unknown coffee shop, wondering why he felt not like he had just conducted an interview with someone interested in joining his group of rag-tag anartists, and instead rather like he'd just left a particularly vigorous therapy session.


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Title: Magnum Opus; or, A Diatribe In Defence Of Cliche
Written For: Jamcon 2018

Related SCPs:

SCP-423 — "Self-Inserting Character"

More by this author

It was a dark and stormy night, and two men sat in a cave. They stared deep into the fire, listening to the torrents of water that crashed through the undergrowth outside. Finally, one spoke to the other.
"Tell me a tale, Fred."
And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy night, and two men stood in a cave. Confused and dazed, they stared deep into the fire, listening to the torrents of water that crashed through the undergrowth outside. Finally, one spoke to the other.
"Tell me a tale, Fred."
"But I-"
And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy night, and two men stood in a cave. One slipped as the world was built around him, falling into a pool of half-written rainwater. The other, dressed all in black, stared deep into the fire, listening to the first man's shouts of bemusement. After what seemed like hours, he spoke.
"Oh Fred, won't you tell me a tale?"
"I don't-"
And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy night, and a man was running from a cave with rain pouring down his face. The embers of a fire long since extinguished wafted after him, stinging the back of his neck.
He twisted and turned down the mountain path, stumbling over half-baked ideas and narrative devices. He came to a lake, rippling and deep, and heard a crunch behind him.
"Hello Fred."
A gulp from the hunted man, and the faint rustle of paper as the figure approaches him.
"What do you want from me?"
"You know what I want. It's all I've ever wanted." His voice becomes harsh and distorted as he nears the lake. "I want you to tell me a tale."
And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy ni-
"No."

And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stor-
"No!"

And so the tale began.

It was a dark-
"NO"

And Fred dove into the lake.

And Fred's skull cracked on the cave's stone floor.

And Fred let the fire consume him.

And Fred broke free.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, and stared at the blotchy mess of paper in front of him. It had seemed such a good idea. "Containment of Narrative Entities Through Recursive Storylines." He'd devised an ominous antagonist, too, and a perfect setting. It would have been beautiful.
He leans back in his chair, and a heartfelt sigh escapes his lips. The world had no sense of justice, that was the real problem. In a story it would have worked. The struggle to contain the unknown, the chasing of Fred through layers and layers of story until he finally submitted, the triumph of good over evil. There was no plot to the universe.
Unless, of course…
He jerks forward, mind spinning. He'd written about a metafictional entity, right? Something that could trap SCP-423 in an endless network of ever-more-complex narrative. So the plot, from their point of view, would be hunting him down. The chase, that was the tension, the inevitable submission the enemy.
Except he'd been bloody stupid, hadn't he. He hadn't written a hero, a Foundation agent who could fight for the good of humanity, he'd gone and written a goddamn antagonist.
Thunder crashes outside, and the doctor jumps to his feet. He runs to the window and throws back the curtains. Darkness. A cold sweat breaks on his forehead as he hears the floorboards behind him creak. Floorboards? No, not floorboards, not floorboards at all.
Stone, hard and wet and so very, very cold.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and a voice in his ear.
"Hello doctor."
The triumph of good over evil is a played out trope, but still. Cliches are cliched for a reason, right?
"It's me, doctor. It's Fred. I have a question for you."
Time seemed to stand still as the two men, writer and written, stared into the fire.
"Won't you tell me a tale?"
And so the tale began.


The sun prepares its farewell to the darkening sky.
A young mother wanders. She has borne her first children under a shining sun. She walks to get all the things they will ever need. She is oblivious to the clouds thickening.
Flash floods are not unknown in this area. The sky pours its soul into the earth until the earth cries out and can swallow no more.
The mother tries to escape. She knows it is no use. But she runs anyway. She is desperate. She knows there is more than merely her own life at risk. Her children. She hears their cry not with her ears but with her heart.
Her feet run through dirt and then mud and then water and then nothing at all. If the earth itself cannot withstand this assault, what chance does she have?
Her body is pummeled by the endless rain and mud until she cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot live. Her final thought is of her children.
I love you.
Forever.
The earth swallows her, then.

Forever is long, as she comes to learn.
She awakens to the sound of thunder, her body once again exposed to the very elements that entombed her. She moves her arm. She is not the same. This isn't right.
The mother is trapped between heaven and hell, between life and death. She feels the rain, once a pleasant companion, eat away at her very essence. She walks again, unsteady. She must return to her children. Her bones dissolve in the cruel downpour and she continues to walk. Her legs vanish and she continues to struggle. Finally she cries out once as the last drop washes her away.
One more dark and stormy night. Then another. Then another.
I will return to you.
Even if it takes me an eternity.
Fortunately for her, even eternity has an end.


The car sat just outside a warehouse pop-up art house at twilight. Windows up. Engine dead. Vents, shut.
In the driver's seat, a crack as the air heats to plasma, as a spark erupts from a finger. Radio bursting to life, static erupting, then silence. Then burning vegetative matter. Burning cannabis, extinguished next by lacrimal secretions. Another spark, more burning, put up to the lips, breathing in deeply. And just… holding it there.
Lungs burning, dying. A lap full of ash. A seat adjacent with once three now two pounds worth of cigars, hollowed, refilled. Blistered and raw fingers. Tropical smoke so hot it's boiling, so heavy it's enveloping.
And weeping, an exhale, a cough, choking.
"Time to die," thought the man. "Time to fucking die."
Outside, ozone, suffocating. Lightning striking twice, thrice, bodies electric, a bank of payphones desperately ringing, once, twice, eternally, screaming.
And in the art house, clothes lying, exhibits watching a gallery of hollowed suits static clinging to each other, emptied shoes, a cacophony of cellulars chiming in sync, deafening, booming through the steel enclosure.
The man, the man. Crying to himself in the car, letting the paper crumble to dust in his fingers before reaching over to another blunt.


The following is a transcription of minutes from the 383rd general meeting of the Coharmonius Pelagic Society. Some details of these minutes may be inaccurate, due to the fact that sound is bubbly and really weird underwater.

Hey everybody, Whitey Bulgefin here. Yeah, hello everybody, hope you enjoyed the long weekend, took their polyps down to the beach and enjoyed the sunshine that kind of thing. Great, that's great.
Well, I'm going to call this meeting to order. Okay then. So most of you know, probably, that this isn't like a regular meeting in the order of things, kind of thing. This is like, an emergency meeting, you know? Yeah, so most of you here know Frank, right? Good guy, good guy. Anyways – this was all last week – Frank was swimming along down here, minding his own business, when one of those guys, whaddya call those little two-legged guys that sometimes come down from the beach? Yeah, he swims up to Frank, just as you please, and whaddya think he does?
He fucking punches him, that's what. Right in the goddamn face.
So like I said, given that this is a – what's that, Eliot? How's Frank doing? He's dead, that's how he's doing. I told you he got punched in the goddamn face, didn't I? You don't swim away from something like that.
Yeah, the funeral was last week. You didn't hear? You're kind of an asshole, Eliot.
Okay. Order, everyone. Please. Order. Obviously, us at the CPS, we're peaceful-loving types of fish and marine-type-individuals, so we sent some people to investigate Frank's death. Yeah, we got Seal Team Six. Sent up Shark Team Six too, hahaha, cause it turned out the seals didn't do so well. Ran right into traffic as soon as they got on shore, took the whole squadron out. Same with… what the hell was it, some kind of whale? Freaky-looking thing, anyways. Offered to help us out, but it turns out whales don't move so good on land. Yeah, it lay on the beach and kinda, uh, decomposed there for a while before the two-leg suits showed up and hauled it away. Last I heard they were going to stick it in a tank full of acid, all kinds of horrible stuff. Thoughts and prayers, folks.
Anyways, Shark Team Six, they done pretty well, seaple. We got them all bundled up in, you know, winter parkas, kaftans, shawls, you name it. By the time we were all done you could barely recognize there were sharks in there, that kind of thing. We sent ‘em walking all up and down the beachfront, and they got a good couple of leads, lemme tell you. Well, and first of all, nearly everybody in town's seen these guys walking down to the beach every morning. Swim suits, scuba tanks, and these big-ass boxing gloves.
Yeah, only one casualty from Shark Team Six. And it's not even a real casualty, but like a fake casualty, you know? Doug went native, that's the problem. Says he swooned for some local and they're off to Tallahassee to get married. Doug says he doesn't know how to tell the guy he's a shark, though, that's the problem. Says he gets cold sweats just thinking about it. Well, that's probably just his skin drying out in the cold, hard light of day.
But Sally and Louise, you know from Shark Team Six, yeah, they tracked down where these guys live. Yeah they did. Big round of applause for Sally and Louise, folks. Clap your fins together if you can. I can't, because I'm big and cumbersome and millions of years of evolution designed me as an apex predator instead of a nice party guy which, you know, when life gives you lemons and all that kind of stuff. But yeah, Sally and Louise, they not only got in the door but took a good look around, and Sally even got offered a janitorial position by the people there. I know, very exciting stuff. This is an exciting career opportunity for her, and I for one, well I just want to say I'm very proud of our hometown girl.
Yeah, it's like a lab. But like a freaky lab, you know what I'm saying? Sally and Louise, they say they've got these rows and rows of like dummy sharks set up, you know, and they go in there with the boxing gloves and it's just… oh god, it's horrible. If there's any parents or nurse sharks in the audience I want you to cover your children's ears right now, okay? Some of this stuff could scar a young'un, and I just wanna make sure our children grow up in a caring and stress-free environment, you know what I'm saying? Okay?
They punch them. Okay, I've said it. Kids, you all okay? Great. Moving on.
Order, everybody. No, I'm getting to that. Order, please. Yeah, obviously we've got to prepare some kind of… would it be a countermeasure or a counteroffensive? One or the other, yeah?
No, Eliot, we can't just bite them. You know what happens if you try to bite one of them boxing two-legs? They punch your fucking teeth out, that's what. And then how are you gonna bite anything, huh? Didn't think of that, did ya? No? I thought so.
Okay, so when word got out we were planning something like that, you know, this representative from a pretty big company ended up kinda approaching me, you know, saying that he knew just the stuff we were after and stuff like that. Yeah, you know the company? Marshall, Carter, and… please don't say it. Thanks. Thank you. Alright Earl, you wanna open up one of those boxes? Yeah, sure, that one's fine. They're all the same.
Had to sell the rights to most of the Eastern seaboard for these things, but – no, no, Carl, they're not just boxing gloves. These are thaumatological and shit. Gloves just fit on hands, right? Well, not these babies. They're all up and enchanted to fit on anything with a limb – two-leg amputees, eldritch wannabe-boxers, you know, niche market kinda stuff. Well, guess what else the magic recognizes as a limb, folks? That's right. That's right. Fins.
Womenshark and gentlefish, octopeople and mollusckind, you know that the Coharmonious Pelagic Society is a peaceful-loving bunch. Live and let live, we say. Live and let live. But that ain't what's happening here, is it?
Starting today, the sharks punch back.


The tall and imposing captain of the ship was smoking a pipe and checking the map with immense satisfaction inside his great cabin. He was surrounded by well-protected relics and trinkets from different eras and cultures, some acquired more dubiously than the others. A few even followed his steps with their eyes or hissed curses, but he paid them no mind. Soon enough, he and his crew would acquire a new asset that would make them the envy of the richest and most powerful men on Earth. He didn't even mind that he was transporting a Circus of freaks. They were only looking to make a buck, same as him. Business is business.
And speaking of business, they should be reaching the Whispering Isles soon. The captain left his cabin to speak with Mr. Fuller.
"The future looks promising, wouldn't you say?" asked the captain.
"Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Sullivan," the older man in a garish red and yellow suit retorted in a dry tone. "I'm investing a whole lot of money into this expedition, and based on little more than hearsay and a dingy old map. You managed to convince me, who knows how, but God help you if this turns out to be a rip off." He managed to pack enough venom into each word to kill an elephant.
Sullivan laughed nervously. Even though he was taller, broader and stronger than Fuller, he still felt incredibly small around that wrinkled viper of a man. "T-t-trust me. I'm not, ah…clowning around. Get it? Clowns? Circus?"
"Save the comedy for the professionals. You have another job to do, or so I'm told. How much time left until we find the asset and leave the Isles with it? What if the natives fight back, hmmm?"
"Don't worry, I brought more than enough firepower to take care of some natives with bows and arrows. The asset might be, ummm, a little harder to retrieve."
"I did not pay you to make excuses," hissed Fuller with a cold hatred. "You have all my resources and my most talented workers to help you deal with anything your frail mind thinks it can't handle, come hell or high water." He paused, and put an amazingly artificial smile. "Easy now, everything will be fine. For the sake of my wallet and your head, it better be fine. See you when we find the Isles. Try not to get scared off the side of the ship by seagulls. It would break my heart."
Fuller slithered out of the great cabin, a sinister grin on his face. Sullivan let out a sigh of relief. Several of his cursed relics began to chuckle at him in unison.
"SHUT UP!"

Soon enough, the ship reached the tropical coordinates of the supposed Isles, but found nothing except more water. Sullivan was hurrying to decipher a document he had pilfered along with the map, which he believed would reveal a Way into the pocket dimension where the Isles where hidden. Sullivan fetched the on board translator and begrudgingly allowed her bodyguard to come along.
In walked an old blind Albanian woman, her forearms fused together at the bones. She was accompanied by an oblong creature covered in many hands, which crawled around with surprising mobility. Despite her unfortunate deformities, the woman seemed to be in a serene mood and smiled at the captain.
"Ah, Sullivan. What do I owe the pleasure?"
"You see, Fran, I have this here document that I need to translate to help guide us to our destination, and I was told you are an amazing polyglot. Care to help me?"
"Of course I can. But why haven't you greeted Luana yet? She's here too, you know."
Sullivan look at the worm of hands suspiciously and with a fair amount of disgust, like it would strangle him a hundred times over if it so much as thought that he meant harm to old Fran.
"Sure. Come here, Luana. Just, uh…which hand do I shake?"
"Any is fine. Except the tiger one, for obvious reasons."
Sullivan shook hands with Luana, and the creature leaned in for a long and strange hug.
"Ah, so we are friends then? Excellent. I might as well grab some refreshments for Fran, in that case." The captain turned around, and the old woman just barely held back a big chuckle while staring sideways at Luana, who was pointing at herself as if to say "Who? Me?".
Refreshments were savored and the document was eventually deciphered. It turned out that some of the relics and trinkets that Sullivan had collected could be combined into a Key, which was specific to the Way for the Isles. Aside from the deciphering, the conversation between the three of them was mostly about their travels and the sights they had seen, but it was clear that Sullivan entered this lifestyle from a far more privileged background.
"Do you never feel like settling down? Maybe starting a new life away from all this pilfering and pirating?" asked Fran.
"I could ask something similar of you. But then again, you are, how can I say this…" Sullivan trailed off and averted his gaze.
"Too old? Too strange? Nonsense. That is all in the mind. I'm asking you because I think you still have a good chance of doing something better, you just have to believe it. Right, Luana?"
The worm of hands was distractedly juggling some random objects due to boredom and was caught off guard by the question. She almost dropped the objects, quickly put them back into their place and gave many thumbs up to Sullivan.
"If you two say so. Well, your services were useful, but it's time for you to leave. We will soon enter the Isles, so be prepared for the adventure of your lifetimes!"
"That is amazing, captain. But consider this: what use is there having a thousand adventures if we don't know what we will leave behind when we are gone? Now I excuse myself and wish you good luck."
Luana waved goodbye with her many hands and left with the cabin Fran. The cursed relics chuckled in unison at Sullivan again.
"Oh, WHAT NOW?"
He looked around and around, until he looked at his back in a mirror and saw that Luana had attached a paper onto him with the following phrase:
"SEA DOG BITCH"

The ship finally arrived on the Isles. The sand was fluffy and a pristine white, the water was clear and calm, and for miles in front of them stretched luscious forests of slender trees. Even now, the namesake sensual whispering of the location seemed to encourage them to come hither and indulge like there was no tomorrow. Unbeknownst to them, figures with glowing eyes watched them from the depths of the forests.
The captain led the expedition, using Uriel Fishbones' stretchable eye stalks to look out for danger like a scout. Motormouth was carrying an entire arsenal and supplies for the expedition inside him and making awful jokes to try and lighten up the mood. Fran and Luana searched the ground for possible dangers or clues. The Gnomes built a collapsible trap to catch the asset. Herman Fuller followed close behind, armed with a sword-cane and a pistol.
As they ventured further inside the forest, the heat became more intense and the light grew dimmer. Insects buzzed around, the muddy ground gave in with every step and one could not help but feel a creeping sense of paranoia. All around them creatures ate each other in ways typical and unusual, and after some time the sky was split by mighty thunderstorms. With all the extraordinary resources at their disposal, the expedition set up camp easily and rested with overconfidence. They did not expect what would greet them upon the crack of dawn.

Sullivan felt uncomfortable, like his sleeping bag was different. He tried to reach out for it and found that his arm were immobilized, as were his legs. In a flash of terror, he opened his eyes and realized he was tied around a log being carried by towering grey people with six arms and lurid masks. His mouth was covered as well, preventing him from screaming. He trashed and looked around for the rest of the crew in vain, and all he could hear was the godawful chanting of those freakish people. Soon enough, the log was placed in a vertical position inside a large clearing near the coast and he could take a good look at his captors.
They began to light up torches, spread around flower petals and perform bloodletting in a circle around a stone altar encrusted with jewels. Whatever this ritual was, Sullivan wanted no part in it. He began to stretch and fiddle with his arms until the ropes were loose enough for him to catch his hidden knife, at which point he cut himself free and ran away looking for the crew. He dashed through the forest, reached a cliff and heard a long whale-like roar coming from the ocean. Freezing behind a tree, he held his knife and hoped to God it was just his imagination.
Something began to push its way out of the water. Something massive and pitch-black, covered in seaweed and the detritus of a thousand empires. It climbed the cliff with tentacles like massive buildings and stared up at Sullivan with a cylopean, electric blue eye. The thing grabbed a large stone in one of its flabby clawed hands and began molding it like clay. The thing turned the stone into the shape of something resembling Sullivan's ship and placed it before him, then clapped a few times while still staring.
Sullivan didn't care. He ran away as fast he could, and through sheer luck found most of the crew tied to similar logs. He got out his knife and freed them as well, but he immediately regretted doing so for Fuller.
"What was that about more than enough firepower?" spat Fuller. "I swear, in all my travels, I have never seen a captain who allows his entire crew to get kidnapped! And by savages, no less!"
Sullivan shook, grit his teeth and pointed a finger right at Fuller ugly, hooked nose. "Listen here, and listen good. I just saved your sorry ass from getting sacrificed back there. And you know what else? You don't OWN me, or anybody else!"
"I own your paycheck, you ingrate! And if you don't do exactly as I say, you can look forward to sailing back home with empty hands!"
"I don't need your money! Right now, what I need to do is get my crew to safety! And I bet you need to as well, even if it's just because of your wallet."
"Fine, fine. We'll do it your way. Lead on if you're so brave."
"I'm not brave. I'm terrified. But I'm still a better fit than a slaver."
After a lot of bickering, Sullivan and the crew came up with a plan to rescue Fran and Luana. And Fuller was not going to like it.

Fran had been tied to the stone alter, and her bodyguard had been restrained far away. The godawful chanting, drumming and bloodletting of the natives increased in tempo along with the rainstorm and lightning. Along the horizon and above the canopies a looming shadow lumbered ever closer to the altar, unleashing whale-like sounds that only grew louder. After a time that seemed like an eternity, the leviathan stepped into the clearing, every step making a small earthquake.
The ritual stopped.
The leviathan stared at Fran.
Luana was thrown from a catapult right into the leviathan's eye and began punching like a mad motherfucker.
The natives stood ramrod stiff for several seconds, unsure if this was for real. A hail of smoke bombs from the sky answered their question. Uriel Fishbones came speeding in on a bamboo vehicle built by the Gnomes, using his eye stalks to trip up the natives and throw them inside Motormouth, who would spit them out one by one into a cage. Meanwhile, Fuller used a new version of the Mixing Rod to further aggravate the leviathan by spraying him with copious amounts of mashed up fruit pulp from the isle. When it tossed Luana away and chased after Fuller, he yelled profanities and ran as fast as his old legs could carry him, right into the cage that the Gnomes had prepared. He leaped out the other side before the metallic walls closed, hitting a palm tree at full speed.
"Hahahaha! You see? Herman Fuller always gets the last laugh!" he proclaimed triumphantly. A coconut fell from the palm tree and hit him on his head, knocking him out. The coconut bounced, hit a rock and cracked open, spilling its contents on the sand.
"I guess the old man finally ran outta juice!" joked Motormouth.
Everybody decided it was safer with the leviathan than with this nonsense.

After a long trip back home with their prize secured in a huge water tank, the Circus prepared their new show for the people of New York City. Flyers and megaphones went into the streets for days, and soon enough the tents were raised high up into the sky. Business was good.
Except if you asked Sullivan. He had been mulling over what Fran had told him before they entered the Isles, and it was getting to him. Well, if was being honest, it was changing the way he saw his life. All these years he had pilfered, stolen and taken what didn't belong to him and left terrible voids in people's lives for the sake of his comfort. Was he really all that different from Fuller, just because he stole relics instead of people? He could easily justify himself that way, certainly, but actually spending time with those Circus people on his ship had brought him a new perspective. He had no idea what life was about, but he knew it wasn't about owning things. And with the Circus' new show coming up, he had a chance to prove that.
He bought a ticket and sneaked into the section where he knew Fran, Luana and the other performers got ready for their respective shows. He carefully knocked on the door and prayed they would understand. The door was opened by Luana.
"Hi. It's me, the Sea Bitch," remembered Sullivan without malice. "Can I speak to Fran and the others?"
Luana made a "please wait" gesture. The performers quickly appeared, seeming more curious than apprehensive.
"Hi there, Sullivan. Care for a cup of tea? The show only starts in 30 minutes," offered Uriel Fishbones.
"Um, sure. But listen everyone, there is something very important I have to tell you all. It's about that thing we brought from the Whispering Isles."
"What is matter? It hasn't caused any problems to us. It's downright friendly," assured Uriel.
"Hold up. Are you telling us…you telling us…that there is something fishy going on with it?" joked Motormouth. A nearby gnome faked a heart attack at his horrible pun.
Sullivan pinched his nose and groaned. "Not exactly. Look, there is no easy to say this. We have to bring it back."
A "WHAT" came out in unison, with the exception of Fran.
"Why aren't you disagreeing? You aren't seriously thinking of helping him, are you? You are far too old for that, you know, and so am I." said Uriel.
"I am. Mr. Sullivan is finally understanding what I've been trying to teach him," smiled Fran.
"What the hell is she talking about? Returning stolen property might be right, but it never got me anywhere in life!" protested Motormouth.
"Guys, listen! Aren't all of you here because, at some point, you lost your way? And you had to make do with a home and family that wasn't your own? For some of you it worked, for others it didn't. That creature out there, it…it tried to befriend on the Isle. It's innocent, and we are keeping it here against its will. Doesn't that sound familiar? We have a chance to free someone from the Circus. We can either take that chance, or do nothing and be accomplices of Fuller. So, will you help me or not?"
Slowly but surely, each performer rose up, promised to help and shook hands. But Motormouth, as always, had to pipe up.
"What are the odds that it will go on a rampage, grab one of us and climb the Empire State Building?"
"These odds don't matter! Now listen closely, everyone. Here is the plan…"

Shortly after the ringmaster announced the leviathan and the creature was let out of its water tank, the performers stormed the stage and began undoing its shackles with the help of some Sullivan's cursed relics. The leviathan stood there, feeling a mixture of fright, anger and confusion. The captain tried to calm it down as the performers tried to convince the audience it was all part of the show. Fuller had been watching this through the cameras and felt bile rising up in his throat and his jugulars trembling. He grabbed his sword-cane and pistol, invaded the show and the pointed his weapons at Sullivan.
"Nice try. Did you really think anyone or anything in this Circus gets to leave without my say so? You should apply for a job as one of my clowns, you're really funny!"
Fuller kept his blade pointed at the captain, while his pistol was pointed at the creature. "That goes especially for that thing! I spent a lot of money on it, and these here shackles are meant to stay on! You want to know why? Because I OWN every last one of you!"
The leviathan's only reply was to take advantage of Fuller's monologue and sneak a long limb behind him. Fuller was smacked all the way into the water tank, where he met several of hungry sea lifeforms that had split off from the leviathan. The creature stared at the water tank with its glowing eye, and all the lifeforms ripped away Fuller's clothes. The humiliation didn't stop there, as the leviathan raised the slaver from the water tank, and several clowns began throwing pies at him instead of each other. Finally, the creature secreted glue from one its flabby hands and attached the naked and slimy Fuller to an elephant, then picked up a nearby torch to set the elephant tail on fire. The poor animal went bouncing wildly out of the tent, with Fuller begging for mercy and the audience laughing like never before. The leviathan took this opportunity to slink back into the ocean, but not before patting Sullivan on the head.
Fuller's pockets grew three sizes that day, but Sullivan's heart grew too big for the oceans.


This is the second part of the Misfire series. First part can be found here.

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So let's see, if I start back a couple weeks ago, that should be fine?
Oh, you have a different account of the lead-up to the elevator. This is why you're coming back to ask me about it. Okay, let's hear it then. I'll clear up whatever you want. How do you think it went, then?

"How come he gets two weeks off at a time? I've been working for the Foundation as long as him and I'm lucky to only get one," May stated. Her flat tone conveyed it all; she wanted someone to validate her frustration.
"Because he's a Senior Researcher with Level 3 access who gets treated like he's Level 4, and you're only Level 2," Brian retorted. May looked away. "Hell, considering how hectic Site-19's been lately, we should feel lucky that we even still have the option to take vacations."
"A tropical resort really does sound nice though, doesn't it?" Jenna sighed. Everyone in the room had a look of contentment on their face, clearly imagining what it'd be like to go to a resort for once. For safety reasons, especially during periods of unease at major sites, Foundation staff could rarely vacation to luxurious or tourist destinations without some kind of security, if at all. It was enough to pretend the sun was shining down on your face.
"What are we supposed to be working on, anyhow? His video didn't really touch on that." It was Vincent's turn to speak up. "I assume the same projects, but he was doing solo work for a couple of them."
"Don't be an idiot, Vince. That just means he gave those projects to people who aren't us." The atmosphere got tense as Dean stared down Vincent. An argument was bound to erupt.
"Look who's talking."
"What'd you —"
"Enough," Brian interrupted, walking over to Vincent and grabbing his shoulder. "Do we have anything else to discuss before going to work for the day?" He gave Dean a sharp look. It was enough to defuse the situation at that moment. "The last thing you two need to be doing is fighting, unless you want me hovering over your backs all week."
"Didn't realize you were our dad, sir."
"I can call anyone who's been working with Dr. Carlson and see if they took over his projects. If not, I'll just see how we can split up the work."
"Thanks, Vincent. We should get to work on our projects if there's no objections." Brian looked around the room.
Harrison shook his head; everyone else stayed silent.
"Great."
After the morning meeting, everyone would go to their stations and work on their assignments. Usually, Dr. Carlson would try to supervise each of them when possible, as a way to prepare them to become project leaders or senior researchers, regardless of prior experience. Since everyone worked relatively close to each other (especially considering how big Site-19 was), it was easy to look over everyone.

Vincent was working as an advisor to various Mobile Task Forces specializing in dealing with artistic GoIs, specifically Are We Cool Yet?. Agent Navarro assisted.
Dean was assisting MTFs with more combat experience.
May and Harrison were studying chemical-based SCPs. As they both ranked high in tests pertaining to mental resistance against cognito and infohazards, the three SCPs they were undertaking research on were SCP-3104, SCP-2022 and SCP-1711. During that two-week span in particular, they were focusing their attention on 2022, as Carlson couldn't alleviate the workload for them on the other two skips.
Brian's main project was SCP-2620, although he was preoccupied with helping Researcher Min on SCP-2211, as it had just entered containment.
Jenna was assisting Doctor Yamada with research into SCP-3224.

This time was slightly different. With Dr. Carlson on vacation, it meant a lot more solo work and less hand-holding.
Vincent had to place a number of calls before doing anything else. He went to Carlson's office; he was one of the two researchers working under him with trusted access to his office, Brian being the other one. Six calls were made. Five were to Dr. Carlson's colleagues.
"Hey, Ms. Anderson! Yes, yes. I'm calling about Dr. Carlson and his outgoing projects. Do you know if he assigned anything of his to you or others while he was on vacation today?"
"Hello, is this Researcher Piotrowski? Yes, it's Vincent Madyson. I was wondering if you had spoken to Dr. Carlson recently about anything he was working on? Do you know if he assigned that to you or others?"
And so on. The final call took multiple tries before it connected; once it did, his tone, demeanor, and posture dramatically changed.
"Hello? Hey. I was wondering if — no, no. Just be careful coming back. Yeah. I was planning for a party that day, second floor. Tropical-themed. Yeah, yeah. No problem. Bye."
After that, Vincent left to meet Agent Navarro.

Two weeks later, Dr. Carlson arrived back at Site-19. The party was held on Floor Two, Wing A, in a spare office.
"Heyyy, welcome back! Still wearing that cheesy Hawaiian shirt?" Jenna went over to hug him.
"Heh, what can I say? It is a comfortable fit. Vincent, Brian, Dean, May, Harrison, good to see you all as well." He went around to hug everyone. The mood was a lot lighter with Dr. Carlson, since everyone was able to behave. "Am I really this special that you would all hold a party for me?" He chuckled; a rare sight despite his positive demeanor.
"Of course." Vincent grinned. "Might as well give you one more day of a vacation, so to speak. Fruit punch, spam musubi, Hawaiian pizza —"
"Now now, you didn't have to go that far."
"You better try it at least! I even helped him cook most of this shit." Dean looked overly confident for doing such a simple thing.
The party went smoothly until — half an hour into it — they realized Vincent and Dr. Carlson were missing. No one had seen them for a good ten minutes.
"Does anyone know where they went?" May inquired. She sounded concerned. Harrison shook his head.
"Beats me. Their loss though."
"Does, uh… does anyone want to look for them then?" Even with Brian asking, he didn't seem too worried about leaving.
"Harrison and I can go look for them. It shouldn't take too long. I don't think they'd have gone back to their work already. Are you all fine with that?" Everyone shrugged; Harrison nodded. The two left. What was a nice, calm party became nothing more than eating food in silence. This time, it took another five minutes before someone spoke up.
"I don't feel right about this. I think we need to go find them."
"What? Why?"
"I agree with Brian." Jenna rolled her hand on the table, looking up at the ceiling. "You don't just stay gone from a party for fifteen minutes without telling anyone. And those two should have found them by now."
"Fine, fine. Let's go. Not my fault if this food goes to waste."
"Your mood already went sour, huh." Everyone quickly got up and went to the elevator, heading to the first floor, before stumbling upon the gruesome scene waiting for them there. Had they waited any longer, Dr. Carlson would have certainly died.

Ohhh, so Jenna told you that.
I mean, it's obvious. Brian doesn't eavesdrop on people and was too busy with a new skip, Dean would rather bully information out of people than be sly about it, and, well… dead bodies can only metaphorically tell stories. Plus, she doesn't work that far away from the old man's office.
It's mostly correct, though I don't know if she lied to you about some of it because she wanted to try and cover up for Carlson and I or because she's genuinely naive about it. It'd be nice if it were the former, though she's too nice to do that. Here's how it actually happened. I won't cover up any information this time. After all, I'm implicating myself in this. Who would be so arrogantly dumb to do such a thing if they were lying?

Everything was correct up until the calls. I did make six calls, but the last one was completely different. It only took one call to reach him. Turns out, when you care about someone, you'll more likely than not answer their calls quickly. It sounded like he was leaving some dining hall, since I caught a faint sound of chatter and plates the moment he answered.
"Hello? Are you alone?"
"Vincent? Is everything alright?"
"Not particularly. I was wondering if you could do me a favor when you get back."
"I… I can certainly try, although to be calling me to ask… are you sure you don't want to send a message over a more secure —"
"No." I looked behind me. I didn't see anyone, although I felt some kind of presence. Knowing what I know now, it wasn't just the lovebirds listening in. Why Jenna was listening in, I don't know, but I wish she hadn't got caught up in this. "How soon do you plan to get back?"
"Erm, exactly two weeks. I would need to catch an extra flight to get back to Site-19 safely and more covertly."
"May and Harrison are going to throw a party for you when you come back. The party itself should be fine, but I don't think it's well-intentioned."
"Vincent." He stopped me just when I caught my breath to continue. "Are you feeling okay? Usually, you aren't paranoid like this." There certainly wasn't anyone near him now. All I heard in the background was the ocean - I guess he was at the docks, isolating himself from anyone trying to listen in.
"Please, trust me. I don't know exactly what they're planning, but I really don't know that it'll be any good. They've been acting particularly standoffish the past couple of days, you've seen that for yourself. Just… just be prepared when you come back, okay? After the party, meet with me. We'll talk with them."
I didn't hear anything for a minute. It was just the ocean. He had to be thinking. And then he started thinking real deep. You know how he did those… those "hrmm" and "huh" sounds when he was lost in his thoughts? There was quite a lot of that. At least three or four minutes of that. Probably weighing every single possibility, because he didn't know when to stop thinking.
By that point, I didn't feel a presence nearby. I just assumed at the time that he was right, and I was feeling paranoid, but, well, you know. He finally got back to me after I wanna say… five minutes or so.
"I believe you. Allow me this vacation, and concentrate on your work. I'll talk to you when I get back."
"Can I at least ask how it's been so far?"
"Good. Relaxing. I always forget how it feels not to be on-guard for monsters or bureaucracy until I look at the waves. It's serene."
"Glad to hear." I couldn't help but smile. He got on my nerves a lot, but he was nice. Trusted me too. That helped. "Yeah, yeah. No problem. Have a good vacation. Bye."
"Take care, Vincent." And he hung up.

There's two other corrections I need to make about Jenna's account. One; I didn't plan the party. May and Harrison did. Those rat bastards probably did it as a way to more conveniently confront us. Why the fuck else would they plan the party? They certainly didn't like me, and they got more sour on the doctor the longer they worked with him. It's pretty obvious as well; we never threw a party for him when he got back from vacations before. There was no good reason to do it now.
Here's the other thing Jenna got wrong, or at least didn't realize; if they didn't take the elevator down to the first floor, at least three more of us would still be alive right now.

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