3/1/2020
The world was burning.
Alto Clef watched the fires from the relative safety of Site-67. Black and green fire. The result of an odd chemical reaction from thirteen breached SCPs. The fires covered the midwestern United States already. More outbreaks in the Russian tundra, in a few African cities, and in the Atacama desert. Some sort of shitty anomalous chain reaction.
Yet, Foundation contingency plans were working. Remarkably, most of the news reports had been suppressed. A few towns had to be gassed with amnestics. Full containment was anticipated within forty-eight hours.
Clef had heard Overwatch was suddenly pouring resources into repairing SCP-2000. He didn't expect that to work. He'd been spearheading the effort to fix 2000 for over a decade already. Still, the fact that they were trying…
His new assistant buzzed him. "O5-12 has arrived to see you," she said.
Clef missed Adams. Little had been the same after her death, since the failure of Alpha-9 years back. The new people they assigned him couldn't hold a candle to her.
"Tell him to fuck off," Clef said.
"Sending him in now," his assistant replied. Okay, maybe she was a little bit like Adams.
Clef waited, watching the fires burn. Some part of him wanted to be out there, finding out the truth, doing something about this. But for better or worse, that 'some part' had mostly been beaten into submission.
Twelve entered, uncharacteristically alone.
Clef didn't bother turning around to greet him. "So what the hell do you want?"
"Is this how you talk to all the O5s?" Twelve didn't sound like Twelve.
Clef turned. His eyes narrowed in recognition. "You."
"Ha," Twelve said. "I told them you'd recognize me… No one ever listened to me, though. Especially not since my promotion."
"Uh-huh," Clef said. "Wish I could say it was good to see you." It wasn't.
"I won't waste your time," Twelve said. "The Council's calling in its last favor."
Clef stared at him. He was surprised, to his surprise. "What? Seriously?"
"After this? If you want, you're out. That was the deal." Twelve leaned forward, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. He offered it to Clef.
Twelve handed him a piece of paper. Clef read it. It was a list of names. Handwritten. His gut twisted. Or, at least, he liked to think that it did.
"Like hell I'm gonna do this," he said.
"Of course you are," Twelve said. "Can't bullshit me, Clef. You know I hate to do this to you. You know I wouldn't ask you if it didn't have to be done."
"Fuck you. You can't bullshit me either… Twelve." Clef sneered through the word. "You bastards wouldn't be doing this if it weren't the capital E-Endgame. So don't tell me I get out after this. There's not gonna be a place for me to get out to after this is done." Clef waved the piece of paper back and forth. "This is a laundry list of key Foundation personnel. You don't kill them all and still have a Foundation. We both know what that means."
"No O5s on there," Twelve said. "Not most of 'em, anyway… Heh."
"Fuck the O5s," Clef said. "And fuck you."
Twelve laughed a mirthless laugh.
Clef looked at the list again, taking in all the names. He paused towards the bottom. "Your people fucked up here. Kondraki's been dead over a decade. Gears shot him in the head."
Twelve just smiled.
"Fuck."

They were key Foundation personnel, yes, but some of them were boring.
The first target was Dr. Andrews "Drewbear" Bjornsen. A "specialist in anomalous psychologies and societal abnormalities". High security clearance, but hadn't done much with it besides work on a lot of less well-known SCPs.
Bjornsen was extremely normal for a highly-ranked Foundation researcher. Well-liked. Professional. Stable. Hell, maybe that alone qualified him for assassination.
Clef found himself, unwillingly, wondering why Overwatch wanted him to do this. Not the assassinations, but these particular assassinations. This list was mostly high-ranking researchers, but it was far from everyone relevant.
Clearly, the list had been curated. Why? How? Why put someone like Bjornsen on it?
He did have a penchant for appalling sweater vests.
That morning, Bjornsen was found dead on the floor of his apartment bedroom in 19's housing complex. He'd died peacefully of carbon monoxide poisoning, but his bedroom walls were splashed in fake blood. His sweater vests were hung in the room around him accusingly. Hideous Christmas designs. Eyeball-shattering fluorescents. Terrible paisley patterns galore. A note:

YOU'VE PUSHED US TOO FAR, BEORNSEN!
THIS IS A WARNING TO ALL THE FOUNDATION'S CRIMINALS.
REPENT, OR FACE THE SAME FATE.

Ludicrous, but this early on, that was a good thing.

The next was Director Karlyle Aktus. Clef had known Aktus a long time — from a distance. Aktus was famous/infamous for his loyalty to Overwatch. Not loyal enough to get off the list, apparently.
Clef decided to be more subtle with this one. A pattern was going to form fairly quickly, all these deaths of high-clearance Foundation personnel. No reason to give the game away this early.
Thankfully, the solution was simple. Aktus had already been dying of leukemia for years. O5 Command had been providing him with meds, though they'd refused to give him anything too good. They could've offed Aktus at any point themselves.
Since they'd assigned it to Clef… it was simple enough to slightly adjust the scheduled treatment dosage, cover it up with some standard paperwork. Director Aktus was dead by evening.

After that, Director Kate McTiriss. No stranger to controversy, which Clef respected. She'd lobbied hard for the expansion of the Foundation's technical journals, back in the day, used to a certain level of rigor and standardization from her days as a UIU press coordinator.
To keep up the smokescreen phase, Clef kept it simple. He poisoned her coffee and forged some notes from her old friends at the UIU. That wouldn't make sense to investigators, but that was the point.

Clef moved quick. He had to, to keep up this angel of death bullshit long enough to get through the list. Not quick enough to be sloppy, but close.
Zyn Kiryu died to her own butterflies when her expertly constructed control mechanisms failed simultaneously.
Ralph Roget was killed in a containment breach chalked up to his own incompetence.
Avery Solace, swallowed by a shadow.
Rose Labelle, a tragic programming accident.
Quikngruvn Halifax, a tragic paperwork accident.
Maria Jones drank herself to death.
Chelsea Elliott, botanical treatments poisoned, consumed by the tiny sun inside her.
Simon Glass, offed by an agent who claimed to be fine, until he wasn't.
Django Bridge died of loneliness (or, at least, that's the best anyone could figure out).
Everett Mann, talked into killing his own fool self by allowing him to carry out one of his especially stupid mad scientist projects. A decommissioning, technically. Trivial, without Lament around anymore.
And dozens more names. Check, check, check, check, check…
Some tiny part of Clef felt ashamed that it had been so easy. He'd been preparing for (something like) this for most of his life.
Even Jack Bright went down surprisingly easy — his amulet launched right into the sun. Clef found himself hoping that the man could finally rest, then realized that he was rationalizing his actions. Trying to mentally comfort himself for what he was doing.
He was getting soft. He'd killed people before, even friends, when it became necessary. This was the same thing. Just on a larger scale. Right?
Clef looked at the shortened list, reading the next name, grimacing. Fuck.

Clef found Gears sitting placidly in his director's office. There was a gun on the desk next to him.
Clef hesitated.
"Hello, Doctor," Gears said. "I received a communique from O5-1 this morning."
"…Gears," Clef said.
Gears held up a hand. "There is no need to explain. I have been briefed on your mission, and I understand its necessity. I realize you are here to carry out my scheduled execution. My affairs are in order. I have done the same for Doctor Crow. I would have carried out the deed myself, but I was informed the process needed to be executed either directly or indirectly by you."
Clef tried to say something, but the words didn't come out.
Gears took this as an indication to continue. "Additionally, I have created a video message explaining that I am part of a suicide pact involving one or more other Foundation members. This should help temporarily disguise the nature of the assassinations you are presently carrying out. If my account is believed, suspicion will not fall on you for an extended period of time."
Gears opened his desk and took out a sealed package. "I also understand that you will require assistance with one of your final targets. This package contains the coordinates for the current location of Dr. Kondraki."
Clef took a long time to reach out and take the package.
"I do have a last request." Gears stood and pressed a vial into Clef's hand. "For Kain. He wished me to tell you that this is a concoction of his own design, which will bring him a happy death." Gears picked up an envelope. "He left a message for you, to say goodbye."
"I don't understand."
"I've already put him into a coma," Gears said. "His request. He didn't want you to have to see him when you did this. His body is in a closed kennel with an IV hook up. You need only insert this into the IV."
"Jesus Christ, Gears," Clef said.
"Kain requested that I do something similar, to alleviate the emotional effects on you, but I judged that this would arouse more immediate suspicion. It would counter my attempt to buy you more time. I apologize if this causes you more difficulty."
Clef read Kain's message. He resisted wiping his eyes. Gears' gaze remained unmoved as always.
"Goodbye, Gears," Clef said. "You were the best of us. See you on the other side."
"Goodbye, Doctor," Gears said. "It has been a pleasure."
And even though there was no change in expression, inflection, or tone, Clef found himself desperately hoping Gears was being honest and genuine when he spoke — a pleasure.
Clef raised the gun.

Kain's death was quiet, peaceful, Clef told himself, just the way he'd always wanted to go.
It didn't make a difference.

After Kain, Researcher Blaire Roth was next on the list. Clef read her name and felt like a dick.
He knew Roth. He'd gone to her quite a few times for help. She ran a lot of teams and had a high clearance level to match. She was officially just a Foundation veterinarian, but she also worked extensively with Disinformation — like most people who wrote death certificates. The kind of researcher who constantly got work piled on her, with none of the recognition. Though being on the O5 hit list was more recognition than most people got.
The way to kill her was obvious. He felt terrible, but he did it.
He set up Kain's death to look like Roth accidentally switched medicine doses. She was already emotionally compromised from the news of other deaths — it was a believable mistake.
She hung herself in her bedroom, from one of the ceiling fans they still had some of the older housing complexes.
There was a note. Clef made the note good. It was the least he could do.

The list went from arm to wrist in length. Then, only three names left.
Next was the disgraced Director of Site-19. Tilda David Moose. The ex-Serpent's Hand witch.
Clef had never cared for Moose — not really. The people who screamed that she should still have been contained with the rest of her kind had been quietly cowed and silenced by now, mostly. Clef had his own misgivings about her — not because of her being a Type Blue, but because of the fundamental personality flaws that she married with being a Type Blue.
Besides. Clef was supposed to be The Arrogant One.
Still, he'd come down on the side of apathy. Kicking her out of her position would have been a fruitless fight. The ones who got to make that kind of decision had made it before Clef had known it was happening.
When Clef arrived at Site-19, he found Director Moose barricaded inside the Control Center, her face plastered on a security monitor outside, waiting and watching.
Clef didn't speak. He knew the silence would annoy her into acting first.
Moose was impatient. Drank the new wines instead of waiting for them to mature. (Metaphorically. He'd never seen her drink. Too paranoid, in that peculiarly self-centered way you saw in certain directors.) And no amount of carefully organized planning could prevent someone impatient from acting prematurely.
The silence won in less than fifteen seconds. "I know why you're here," Moose said.
"Sure you do," Clef said.
Her smile was forced. "The world's ending."
Clef shrugged. "Yeah. Kind of figured."
Moose's eyes shifted. "I still have friends in high places."
Clef didn't respond to ask who or why or where. He just waited for the trap to be sprung. There had to be a trap. This was too elaborate.
"You've left quite a trail of bodies on your way here," Moose continued. "Am I next on your list?"
After Gears, Kain, and Roth, Clef didn't feel like playing out the expected game. "I deny everything. But let's say you're right. How do you plan on stopping me? You're a rusty Type Blue, and I've bagged over three dozen Greens."
"Greens are always overconfident," Moose said.
Clef smirked, the first time he'd flexed those muscles in days. It felt strange on his face. "I've read your file. You're one to talk." Honestly, he hadn't been sure until he'd seen the screen setup. It wasn't just about Moose being able to see him. She had wanted to make sure that he could see her. It was the kind of Blofeldian bullshit arranged only by someone who was just that overconfident.
"Maybe. But I know your history. I've examined every line of your files. And Dmitri told me all about you. Before you murdered him."
Hearing Dmitri's name from her mouth was a sucker punch. "Hey! Fuck you. Strelnikov was my friend… and more importantly, I had nothing to do with him dying."
"That's what they said about Kondraki," Moose said.
"No, they said Kondraki killed himself. And I didn't do that one either. Gears did."
"They said that too."
Admittedly, the story about Strelnikov's death did sound like a cover-up. A generic, routine security breach. A firefight with guards. Strelnikov caught a stray bullet, and died a few days later. A tragedy, easily avoidable. But it was the truth. The shitty, disappointing truth.
If Moose blamed him for Strelnikov, Clef considered, then other people did too. The thought didn't make him particularly happy, and it shouldn't matter, given what he was doing now. But it did matter.
"Whatever," Clef said. He was growing bored with waiting, which meant that Moose might have been more patient than he'd given her credit for. "If Dmitri told you so much, you should know wasting my time never helps. Are you coming out here, or am I blasting my way in?"
Moose seemed to think about that. "You know, back when I was in the Hand, some of you had these little nicknames. Doctor Blank. Rover. You can probably guess those. Did you ever overhear yours?"
Clef yawned, but Moose didn't stop.
"They used to call you God-Killer." Her upper lip curled a little. "So, God-Killer. Let's see how you deal with what the Hand called the God's Labyrinth."
The security monitors blinked off.
The doors to the control center opened. Clef cursed as he saw the blackness beyond it, reaching out.
He fell back, turning to hit the emergency locks to keep it — whatever it was — from spreading. No stars in the black meant it wasn't space, and the fact that it seemed to be moving meant it was either alive or near enough. The fact that the blackness seemed to be reaching out meant he was probably going to be suggested, but Moose had named the spell, which gave him a tiny splinter of confidence.
Clef breathed deeply several times, oxygenating his blood in case there wasn't air, then dived through the opening. Better to get this over with after all.
Instantly, he was assaulted with the forced perception of extra dimensions. He was nowhere and everywhere, at one with space and time, yet apart and separate. A god and a speck of dust. The same old bullshit Dickens used to beat off to.
His old implants flared to life and told him he'd been transported Somewhere Else. They'd been less helpful before, but not often.
The blackness slowly parted as he began to perceive again properly. Stone walls stretched before him, turning at impossible angles that he didn't stare at, moving eternally toward one of the several dozen horizons surrounding him. Every time he looked away from one path to another, his perception shifted, and the paths completely reconfigured. You could wander here forever, without taking a single step.
Clef sighed. This was going to be irritating.
He mentally tugged, felt the strain of his ancient implants, some unused for a decades. And…

***

Moose stared at the Site-19 special security monitors. "No," she said. Her voice rose an octave. "No!"
Her guard stepped closer. "Ma'am?"
She breathed, looked down at the runes written in polish on her nails. "Things are about to get difficult."
"Why?"
"The son of a bitch has got a third eye."

***

It took Clef thirty minutes to emerge from the Labyrinth, and another hour to carve his way through the control center's defenses. It was all standard, unmodified and ill equipped to stop someone who'd had a hand in designing them. He shot the last guard, sighing, and stepped through the door into the observation center.
Moose was waiting for him, looking dramatic. Always dramatic, everything a trial, an ultimate final confrontation. Why so much stress? It was just murder, after all.
Clef took a moment to reload his gun while she stood there, glancing up at her expression. She was smiling. Without feeling behind it.
"You look like Lament," Clef said.
The smile faded. "Thanks…?"
"Not a compliment." Clef paused, spinning the cylinder as he finished reloading. There. Dramatic, just for her. He asked the question he knew she wanted. "Why aren't you running?"
"I have a question." Her mask slipped, and she looked genuinely disturbed. "I got the report. While you were in the Labyrinth. About Gears."
Clef said nothing.
"A Foundation suicide pact? That's not really your style, but… It was you. I know it was you." She waited for confirmation that never came. "If you can get Gears, you can get me. I could fight, and I could hurt you, but I'd lose."
"So what's your question?" Clef asked.
"Why are you doing this?"
Clef chuckled bitterly. Lament and Moose had once been friends. "Didn't he tell you?"
"Didn't who tell me?"
Clef didn't answer.
"Well," she said. "I guess I'm even better at alienating people than I thought."
Clef shrugged. "Any last words? Those were kind of subpar."
Moose inclined her head, managing to put on a haughty face. "Whatever your reasons," she said, "you'll live to regret this."
"No offense," Clef said, feeling the exhaustion of the moment finally weighing on him, "but I had to kill all my surviving friends today. You? I'll forget about killing you before dinner."
She actually looked hurt by that. Jesus. Some people.
Clef raised his gun and shot Moose in the head.
When the illusion dissipated, he didn't even pretend to be surprised. He holstered his gun, then tugged the list out of his pocket, glancing around the control room for a pen. Site-19 always had the best pens.

***

Outside Site-19, Moose slid into an ancient, unwashed Honda. Her fingernails were burned through, the flesh beneath them blistered and aching, but that would fade. She was confident that she hadn't been followed, but she checked the magical tripwires anyway, just in case.
Nothing. No traces of magic besides hers from in the past three weeks, minimum.
Moose let herself breathe. It wasn't easy to outsmart Alto Clef. But it was sometimes possible.
Shame about how this all turned out. The last few years… things didn't have to go this way. Things weren't supposed to go this way. Somewhere along the line she'd fucked up — they'd all fucked up, slowly, silently, irretrievably.
No point dwelling. Time to drive off into the sunset, make a last-ditch attempt to stop the oncoming end of the world, and fix this before the Council had Clef break it irrevocably. This was why she'd joined the Foundation, and she'd be damned if this was the way her story ended.
She raised her hand, lowering the sun visor and grabbing the spare key, then started the engine.
The car was engulfed instantly in a ball of fire and flame.

Only two names left on the list. After all that, it was simple enough for Clef to head for the coordinates Gears had given him. The area was way out in the middle of nowhere, way off the grid. Like he'd expected from Kondraki.
Clef picked his way through the perimeter in the wee hours of the night. Kondraki had been here for years. He'd had time to make up some pretty complex traps. By the time Clef finished, the world was awash in predawn light.
The reality cracks were still there, but they seemed more subtle: flashes in the sky, far away, nothing close. The sky was clear of clouds. The world seemed to be holding its breath.
There was a clearing in the trees. In the middle of the clearing, a shack. There was no easy approach, so Clef sighed, hefted his shotgun, and stepped out from the trees.
Music blasted across the clearing.
"YOU'RE WALKING IN THE WOODS," a voice sang. "THERE'S NO ONE AROUND AND YOUR PHONE IS DEAD. OUT OF THE CORNER OF YOUR EYE YOU SPOT HIM."
And a whisper: "Troy Lament."
The voice was Kondraki's.
Clef stood still in disbelief. The music continued.
"HE'S FOLLOWING YOU, ABOUT THIRTY FEET BACK. HE GETS DOWN ON ALL FOURS AND BREAKS INTO A SPRINT. HE'S GAINING ON YOU! — Troy Lament."
Clef tried to ignore the music to take in the situation. No good entry or exit points from the back of the shack. That wasn't like Kon. An underground bunker?
"HE'S ALMOST UPON YOU NOW, AND YOU CAN SEE THERE'S BLOOD ON HIS FACE. MY GOD, THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE!"
Clef circled the shack cautiously, shotgun ready. He was surprised to realize he felt a little ill.
"RUNNING FOR YOUR LIFE FROM TROY LAMENT — HE'S BRANDISHING A KNIFE, IT'S TROY LAMENT — LURKING IN THE SHADOWS — SPECIAL AGENT SUPERSTAR TROY LAMENT — LIVING IN THE WOODS — TROY LAMENT — KILLING FOR SPORT — TROY LAMENT — CONTAINING ALL THE BODIES — ACTUAL CANNIBAL TROY LAMENT —"
Clef rounded the shack to see the front door. Hanging wide open.
Oh.
Kondraki wasn't here. He'd been forewarned, too. The shack was abandoned, except for the radio set in the middle of a table inside, blaring the music. Kondraki's recorded voice.
"DREAMS ABOUT HIS FAMILY, TROY LAMENT — DOESN'T KNOW HIS REAL NAME, TROY LAMENT — SHOULD'VE SHOT HIMSELF LIKE ICEBERG — DOES HIS JOB TOO WELL, TROY LAMENT — FETISH FOR CONTAINMENT — TROY LAMENT — REACHING THE TOP — DIRECTOR LAMENT — STILL HE CAN'T BE HAPPY — BRAINWASHED FOUNDATION PATSY TROY LAMENT —"
Then Clef noticed a shadow twitch. He sighed and stepped into the shack.
The shadow moved, quickly — and Kondraki stepped into the light. In one smooth motion, he ripped the shotgun from Clef's hands.
"Sit the fuck down!" Kondraki yelled. And then, immediately — "You're not Lament."
"Nope," Clef said dryly.
Kondraki reached over and switched off the music. "They sent you? Didn't think they'd have the balls. Figured it would be Lament. Best agent they actually consider expendable."
Clef shrugged. "You're looking well, Kon."
"Keeping healthy," Kondraki said. "Hunt and gather. Strict workout regimen." He patted his stomach. "Important for living on the run. Gotta stay healthy. Always." He frowned. "You let me take your gun."
"You were dead." Clef found himself strangely choked up. "Gears shot you in the head. Gears. He never makes an error. I was at your goddamn funeral. I saw the body. I filled your goddamn corpse full of lead, Kon."
"I heard," Kondraki said. "Hear tell you missed most of the shots, too. Just like you. You're changing the subject."
"Dunno what you're—"
"No," Kondraki said. "I know you, I know you. You'd have never fallen for a trick like that, not in a million years."
"And you think Lament would have?"
"Of course he would have. He wouldn't have expected me to be stupid. Reverse psychology, you know? Works every time."
"So you were planning to… out-stupid Lament?"
"Yeah." Kondraki didn't seem to think there was anything odd about that sentence.
"But you couldn't out-stupid me. Okay."
"Why'd you let me take your gun?"
"I didn't let you," Clef said. "Just getting rusty in my old age."
"You see it all, Clef. Everyone knows that. Like it's a story from a book." Kondraki nodded. "Yeah, that's right. You know what I'm talking about. Your real secret. You told me yourself. All but told me anyway. Can't believe I thought you were the Devil. You'd never aim that low."
Clef shrugged, and waited.
"You won't tell me anything? Fine." Kondraki motioned with the shotgun to the chairs at the table. "At least sit down, for a bit. Before I kill you."
Clef sat. Kondraki sat.
"You have a good singing voice," Clef said. "That song, though…"
"Rob Cantor," Kondraki said. "Internet meme. Lament would've got it."
"And you bothered to record all that. The music, too."
"Had time to prepare," Kondraki said. "Was gonna pump Lament for information. Thought it would be good to throw him off first. Then I'd hogtie him and leave him here, or maybe blow the whole damn shack up with him in it. Hadn't decided yet."
"Who told you?"
"You haven't told me jack, and you expect me to spill my guts? That ain't how this works, Cleffy. You know that."
"But you did have warning," Clef said. "Jesus, the Foundation's leaking like a sieve these days."
"It's the end of the goddamn world, Clef. They didn't tell you?" Kondraki laughed. "You didn't figure it out from all those tears in reality? How do you suppose the Foundation's gonna fix those, eh? If they could, they'd have done it by now. Nah, this is the end. For the Foundation, too."
"We've come back from worse," Clef said.
"Not this time." Kondraki leaned forward. "Everything falls apart. The center cannot hold. Mere anarchy loosed upon the world. You know how it goes."
"Never took you for a Yeats fan."
"Who the fuck is Yeats?" He didn't wait for an answer. "This is the end game, Clef! That's why they decided I had to go. Even if you don't get me, makes no difference. End of the world means the end of all of us. You and I, we're just lookin' to see who's going first."
"I assume that's me."
"Maybe." Kondraki leaned back. "You know, I wasn't gonna let that bastard Lament kill me. But you… This is how it should be. This is how it should properly end. The two of us, together."
Clef waited.
Kondraki glanced outside. "Pistols at dawn. Well, my pistol, your shotgun. You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a pistol. What do you say? Maybe one of us walks away, maybe neither walks away."
Kondraki stood up. He waved Clef away from the table. They walked outside.
The two men watched the sky in silence for a few minutes. The strange lightnings flickered, still far away, but closer now. A flare of light peeked over the horizon.
"Sun's rising, Clef," Kondraki said. "How about that. It's like it was meant to be."
Kondraki took a pistol out of his coat pocket, and handed Clef back the shotgun.
Clef pulled the trigger as soon as his fingers touched it, blasting Kondraki squarely in the chest. Kondraki flew backwards like a rag doll, his pistol going flying.
He didn't move.
Clef walked over to the body. Looked down. He raised the shotgun again, then lowered it.
"You should've put a bullet through my skull, Kon," he said. "Why couldn't you just…"
The body twitched. Kondraki moved, jerkily.
"Always knew…" Kondraki seemed to struggle to form the words, but the next few came out easily enough. "…you cared."
Clef crouched next to the dying man. He still kept hold of the shotgun. He was sympathetic, not stupid.
"What they made us…" Kondraki said. "We could have been more. We could have had real lives. We could have been people. But no… They ruined us. They made us legends… then tossed us aside once they didn't fuckin' need us anymore. You know what they made us do… what they're making you do now…" Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. "It's not enough. It'll never be enough."
Clef waited.
"I…" Kondraki half-grinned. "I cared too, Clef. I always cared. So… there's one last thing you should know before I die."
Kondraki stared up at the sky, the lightning playing and dancing around a crack in reality, reflecting purple and green in his eyes as they lost focus.
And he was gone.
Clef waited a long time, after.
"Me too, Kon," he said.
There was gasoline in the shack. This time, he burned the body.

The world was truly ending. On the long drive to SCP-2000, even Clef's implants couldn't process half of what he was seeing. If it weren't for the reality anchors built into the rattling truck, Clef was sure he wouldn't have made it more than ten miles.
He was less than a mile short of the complex when he saw… something going on inside the truck itself. Possibly the concept of combustion breaking down. Or changing into something else. It gave him a headache, and he got out of the truck to walk.
Through his third eye, Clef saw a nameless thing striding parallel to the horizon. Coming. He was sickened by a deep sense of déjà vu. Or vecu. One of those.
You've seen this before. This is all happening again.
Clef didn't know where the thought was coming from. Theories darted through his mind, all equally likely at a time like this. Was it simply grim imagination? Was it some echo, preserved by his ever-unreliable protection from reality shifts? A thought from the dying universe itself?
A god with no name — no, not a god — nothing so directly comprehensible — but what do you call such a thing, if not a god?
Clef shook his head, trying to jostle the words out of his head. Best not to dwell on thoughts that may or may not be your own. Been through the desert on a god with no name… Fuck. He shook his head again, fighting to clear it, and shut down one of his perception filters to do it. Then, he started walking.
Within a hundred yards, things started to feel real again. SCP-2000 was still an oasis of stability in the fracturing world. Not because of 2000. Because of what was hidden beneath.
He still didn't know what that was. He guessed he was about to find out. Though by now he didn't really care that much about knowing.
Clef descended through the tower. There was one more name on the list.

A short suspension bridge led to the island at the center of the small sea.
The island floated in midair, above the sea, crowned by a massive, gleaming flower. Its half-closed petals were lattices woven of rainbow cords of light. The island itself was a mass of dark earth, with roots protruding here and there, as if the entire thing were plucked from a giant's flowerpot and placed gently in the middle of the empty air.
The petals and roots were covered by glimmering designs: bright and shifting in the petals, golden-red on the roots. Words, in a script Clef didn't recognize. The scent of fresh, wet earth radiated through the place — omnipresent spring.
Standing at the railings, looking out at the sea, was O5-12.
No. Not O5-12. Not after all this. He'd call him by his name, or at least, the name the man had once embraced: Troy Lament.
As Clef walked closer, Lament didn't turn. His eyes remained locked on the hovering island, at the intricate weaving of roots and earth.
"It's something, eh?" Lament said.
"You weren't trying to fix 2000," Clef said. "You were making… whatever this is."
Lament chuckled. "Making it? Nah… This thing is older than our universe. Older than the universe before our universe. Older than the universe before our universe before our universe… You get the idea."
Clef shrugged. "What the hell is it?"
"We call it the Bloom," Lament said. "Our final backup plan. Best kept secret and all that, only this one is real. The workers are all mind-wiped as soon as they leave. No one knows about it except Overwatch. In this timeline at least." Lament pointed up at the dangling roots. "Figured those out yet?"
"Some kind of script, or a code," Clef said. "User manual?"
"Damn. Good guess," Lament said. "But not quite. They're the activation requirements."
Clef frowned. "What requirements?"
Lament finally turned, meeting Clef's eyes. He pointed at the folder in Clef's hand. At the list.
Clef paused, his brow creasing deeply. "You gotta be kidding me."
"Nope."
"Killing all these people — that was 'the activation requirements' for this… thing? What the hell kind of failsafe requires serial murder?"
"Try not to think of it like that," Lament said. "If it helps, think of it as… removing the dangerous elements that could prevent activation. That's the way the old Twelve explained it to me, at least."
"In other words, total bullshit."
"That's what I said. The old Twelve just laughed at me." Lament looked at the flower. "Each of these roots and petals has a coded list of events that have to happen and people who have to die before the Bloom will let us use it. Requirements seem to be different in every timeline. Not always deaths, but always something…" Lament shrugged. "If it makes you feel better, we left the Foundation members for last. Could've fucked things up, but we were hoping to find another way… Any other way."
Clef played the slow game. He wanted to make sure, at least. Or soothe what was left of his conscience in some small way. "Way to do what?"
Lament sighed. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You've noticed, Clef. Containment breaches… New anomalies… Conflict, wars, global destruction on a continental scale. All those Greens you've killed?" Lament gave him a pointed look. "Don't tell me you didn't notice."
"Notice what?"
"Come on. How many Greens usually pop up throughout history? A Saint here, a sorcerer there…"
"Jesus," Clef said.
"I was getting there."
"That isn't funny."
Lament smirked. "It was a little funny."
"Greens don't mean reality is fraying. Correlation isn't causation. I don't need to tell you this."
"But reality is fraying, regardless," Lament said. "Has been for a long, long time. Most of this, we had nothing to do with. When the first pieces started to untangle, we ignored it, but once it progressed… Overwatch actively started recruiting you from the Initiative. Now? The tapestry unravels. The stars are going out. Something else is coming in."
"ZK-Class end of reality scenario," Clef said. He was tired. So damn tired. "I thought that was just theoretical."
Lament chuckled. "No. You didn't."
"That's what's happening," Clef said. "How?"
Lament shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"I guess if you say it doesn't," Clef said. And really, it didn't. "So this Bloom will fix it?"
"Nope." Lament smiled, as if to apologize. Too late for that, though, Clef knew. "We can't fix reality. We can't stop what's coming. Not anymore. Not in this timeline, at least. What's coming is already here. You saw it, right? On the horizon? The wolf at the door. Someone used to call it the black moon come howling. You've been hearing it, haven't you? I have. I've been hearing it for a long time."
Clef rolled his eyes. "Get to the point, you melodramatic asshole."
Lament laughed, and it sounded genuinely amused for a moment before tapering off into a long silence.
"We're tapping out," Lament said. "Reseting reality. Rolling back the timeline. Like nothing ever happened."
"How many times?" Clef asked.
"What do you—"
"You know goddamn well what I mean," Clef said. "How many times have we done this before? How many timelines?"
Lament breathed deeply. "We don't know. Not even our archivist knows. We've only deciphered traces from a few timelines back. Beyond that… I know we weren't the first to use it." Lament stuck his hands in his pockets. "Speaking of which… You knew this was happening already, right? Heh. Partial reality protection's a bitch… I guess. Maybe you'll receive memories from this life at some point in your next incarnation."
"Fuck you, Troy," Clef said.
Lament barked a laugh.
Clef shook his head. "No. Seriously. Fuck you. I just murdered everyone I know and love while the world ends around me. For all I know, for all you really know, for the ten thousandth fucking time. I should be mad, I should be disappointed, but no, I'm just… I am done. I am so fucking done. I thought you were better than this. You were one of us! You knew what it's like, being in the room with the monster, knowing maybe there's no way out. And now, in the end, I find out you're marching in lockstep with the other O5s for — I assume — 'the greater good'. Just another puppet master tugging on the fucking strings. I never trust anyone — I trusted you. And for what?"
Lament just stood there and took it. He looked like he'd been expecting it, and the fact that he knew he was a disappointment took some of the wind out of Clef's sails.
"You were supposed to fix all this, Troy." Clef felt a new jagged edge to that old, familiar bitterness. "You were supposed to fix it."
"I'm sorry, man," Lament said. "For what it's worth… I tried."
Clef looked past Lament, at the alien flower.
"What if I refuse?" Clef asked. "What if I blow up this flower, and I don't reboot the world?"
Lament shrugged. "The world just ends. What do you think? I know it's shit, but this is the curtain call, Clef. If there was a way out, believe me, I'd be taking it. But now… Just one thing left to do."
"And what's that?"
"Last name on the list," Lament said. He looked at the Bloom again, his eyes hardening for a brief moment, and then, he tugged the gun out of his shoulder holster and proffered it to Clef. "Prefer not the face, if you don't mind."
Clef took the gun from Lament. He checked the chamber to make sure a round was loaded. Lament looked back at him, quietly waiting.
Clef rested the muzzle of the gun on the Lament's chest. "If I were one kind of bastard I'd shoot you in the balls. If I were another kind of bastard I'd shoot you in the face. Right now, I'm just tired. Go to hell."
Lament's laugh started dry, then ended wet, punctuated only by a soft, collapsing thud.

Clef walked up to the Bloom, reading the final instructions on the list. No more names. Just a flower at the end of the world.
There was a white notecard lying on the dirt as Clef approached.
Clef picked up the card. The message on it was in Lament's handwriting.
Hi, Clef. I lied. One more name on the list. Sorry.
Footsteps behind him. Clef turned—
The card exploded into foam in his hands, freezing him in place. Hard and cold things wound around his arms and legs. He looked down. Silver chains. Supernaturally animated.
A woman stood in front of him. She held a strange sidearm in one hand — Clef recognized it as a particle accelerator, a prototype that he hadn't realized was finished. In the other hand she held a thirteen-inch chef's knife.
Clef felt his guts twist. "Damn. God damn. I should've known." He glared at the woman. "You weren't on the list."
"Sloppy of them," she said. "Hello, Clef. My name is Sophia Light. You killed my ex-boyfriend. Prepare to die."
Clef pulled at the silver chains. "Appreciate the reference, but we both know what that knife does. Isn't this overkill?"
"For you?" Light chuckled. "Hardly."
Clef grinned. "God. It's perfect," he said. "The last girl always kills the monster at the end."
"That she does," Light said.
"Most of the time," Clef added, furrowing his brow slightly.
Light nodded. "Most of the time."
Clef paused a moment. His mind ran through countermeasures, through escape opportunities, through second chances. Then discarded them, one after the other.
He opened his mouth to say something. Searched for what it was. 'Tell them I'm sorry' was as meaningless as 'Ask them to forgive me.' After all, most of them wouldn't be born at the point in time the universe might reset itself.
In the end, he decided to be self-serving.
"Recruit me slower next time. Don't let me get to know everyone if I have to do this again."
Light nodded again. "I understand."

The once and future O5-2 walked into the flower at the end of the world, and with one last look back, turned off the lights to the universe, and shut the door.
And then the sun went out.


"I wonder who she's going to be today?"
Assistant Director Celesta, PHYSICS Division, Paris Branch looked up from her notepad. "Excuse me?"
"The Scary Lady," Director Theremin, PHYSICS Division, Normandy Branch replied. "No one knows that D.C. Al Fine really looks like. Whenever we have these meetings, she usually takes the form of a famous film actress."
"During the Cuban Missile Crisis, she showed up as Vera Miles from 'Psycho,'" Assistant Director Contrabass, Nice Branch mused. "Shortly after 9/11, she was Sigourney Weaver from 'Alien'. About the whole deal around the elections, she was Linda Hamilton."
"Which wasn't nearly as scary as the time she showed up as Katherine Hepburn from 'The African Queen,'" Theremin said, chuckling. "That was the Roswell Crisis. Pants were browned. People nearly fainted."
"Twenty seconds to Conclave," a bespectacled technician said.
"All right, here we go," Theremin muttered, adjusting his tie. "No matter what happens, everyone stay calm."
"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven…" The tech stopped reciting his countdown out loud and raised six fingers, then five… four… three… two… one.
The room plunged into darkness. A moment later, the first twinkling star appeared in the black expanse… then another… then another… until, finally, one hundred eight twinkling motes of light shone in the void.
The first point of light shimmered and began to stretch. It soon expanded outwards into the shape of a tall woman clad in white, her weathered face still regal with authority, her hard, cold eyes staring imperiously at the other 107 stars.
"Oh shit," Theremin whispered.
"Who the hell is that?" Contrabass asked.
"Katherine Hepburn. 'The Lion in Winter,'" Theremin replied.
Celesta stifled a scream.

D.C. Al Fine stared into the abyss, and the abyss blinked back. Every single one of her nerves felt like they were on fire. Wearing Elanor of Aquitaine helped, but unlike Lady Kate, she didn't have a script to tell her what to say.
She would handle it.
She straightened her back and adjusted the hem of her wimple. Her chin raised in a defiant, haughty gesture. She faced the Council with her feet apart and her hands clasped behind her back, and spoke.
"Ladies, Gentlemen, and others. The Council of 108 is now in Conclave. The agenda today: the increasing belligerence of the Foundation, and our response to their actions. We begin with a report from PHYSICS Division. Director Theremin?"
The star that represented PHYSICS Division dipped and twinkled. A moment later, it expanded outwards into the form of a meek-looking older gentleman with thin, graying hair and spectacles. "Thank you, Ms. Secretary," the man said. "We received our first indications of a sea change in Foundation policy several months ago, after our embedded agents reported an attack on one of their facilities by an unknown party…"
Al Fine tapped a key on her keyboard, and the image of Katharine Hepburn continued to nod sternly as Assistant Director Theremin continued his presentation. She sat down hard in her chair and took deep breaths, glaring at the Powerpoint slides now hovering in the darkness of the Conclave.
A soft ping, and one of the many stars floating in the darkness slid closer. It expanded into a line of text shimmering in the darkness.
HE'S GOOD. WASTED AS AN ASSISTANT DIRECTOR. PROMOTE HIM.
Al Fine smirked and shook her head. A quick twitch of her eyebrow, and an answering line of text slid towards the star. BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU WERE LAST PRESENT IN CONCLAVE.
I'M MORE SURPRISED THAT MY CODES STILL WORKED. WE DIDN'T EXACTLY PART ON THE BEST OF TERMS.
IT'S NOT UP TO ME. THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL VIGILANCE ARE STILL TECHNICALLY PART OF THE COUNCIL OF 108. IT'S NOT MY BUSINESS IF THOSE NUNS NEVER BOTHERED TO CHANGE THEIR PASSWORDS.
THEN LET ME MAKE THIS QUICK. the star texted back. THIS IS AN INTERNAL HOUSE-CLEANING, NOT AN EXPANSION OF POWER. TELL YOUR PEOPLE TO STAY OUT OF THIS.
Al Fine snorted. BULLSHIT. EXPLAIN THIS. She gestured towards the image of Assistant Director Theremin, now surrounded by a floating video screens depicting blurry footage of black-clad soldiers gunning down lurching zombies by the dozen. Another showed two women dragging a pantsless man out of an apartment building and shoving him into the back seat of a black automobile.. A third showed men in Haz-Mat suits evacuating an apartment building, while a man with no face conversed with a Russian on the sidewalk.
There were a half-dozen more. All of them showed vastly different scenes, but they were all showing the same thing: Foundation personnel taking deliberate, public action.
WE TOLERATED YOUR ORGANIZATION'S EXISTENCE BECAUSE YOU HAD ALWAYS TAKEN A PASSIVE ROLE IN PARANORMAL AFFAIRS, Al Fine continued. BUT YOU'VE STARTED ACTING PROACTIVELY. THAT MAKES YOU AN ACTIVE THREAT THAT NEEDS TO BE DEALT WITH.
TELL ME OUR OPTIONS.
I SEE TWO CHOICES, Al Fine replied, as Assistant Director Theremin began to wrap up his presentation. FIRST CHOICE: YOU BECOME A MEMBER OF THE GLOBAL OCCULT COALITION. YOU FOLLOW OUR BYLAWS. YOU SUBMIT TO OUR OVERSIGHT. YOU ALLOW OUR INSPECTORS FULL ACCESS TO YOUR CONTAINMENT FACILITIES. YOU ALLOW US TO PROSECUTE CERTAIN OF YOUR PERSONNEL FOR THE CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY THAT THEY HAVE PERPETRATED, OSTENSIBLY FOR THE GREATER GOOD. AND YOU TURN OVER THE BLOOM.
THE OVERSEER COUNCIL WILL NEVER AGREE TO THAT.
THEN YOU KNOW WHAT'S COMING.
I DO. GOODBYE. WE WILL NOT SPEAK AGAIN.
GOODBYE.
The star twinkled once and vanished from view. Al Fine closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
"… which leads to one simple conclusion," Assistant Director Theremin concluded. "The current situation more than passes the criteria for escalation of Response Level against the Foundation to Level 5. I will now answer any questions you may have."
"I will begin," said The Seventh Head of the Society of the Immortal Orochi. "Let us not mince words: you are speaking of a covert war against one of the most heavily armed paranormal agencies in existence, with the possible exception of PHYSICS Division itself. Is the Coalition even capable of winning such a conflict?"
"The Silicon Nornir have projected a 75% chance of victory in this war," Theremin replied. "However, in 50% of cases, victory has required the execution of Procedure Pizzicato…"
"… which is the very definition of a Pyrrhic victory," the Seventh Head interrupted, "given that we would have failed at one of our most important missions to achieve it."
"As I said before, that is only in 50% of the projected outcomes," Theremin insisted. "There are just as many scenarios that achieve victory without abandoning the Second Mission."
"By, for instance, executing an immediate decapitation strike against the Foundation's leadership through the use of memetic weaponry? Or making use of suicide-agents to detonate the on-site nuclear warheads in their containment facilities?" the Seventh Head asked. "You are not the only one who has read the Silicon Nornir's analysis. Some of the scenarios they have proposed are grotesque."
"I personally liked the one that proposed causing deliberate containment breaches in their facilities, counting on their own self-interest in keeping their anomalies contained to prevent a Second Mission failure," said Lord Marcus Crowley, Antipope of the United Church of Satan, Scientist. "Elegant."
"I can't in good conscience support a plan of action that relies on the Foundation to maintain our Second Mission by keeping their pets in check," said Secretary Lambda of the Silver Key Society. "They don't exactly have the best track record in that regard."
"I'd like to ask a different question," a woman's voice said. "Isn't it true that none of these plans matter in the long run? Even if you do succeed in defeating the Foundation, they'll just activate The Bloom and undo everything you've done."
Al Fine froze.
"What the hell is The Bloom?" the Seventh Head asked. "Who the hell are you?"
One of the lights stepped forward, and shimmered into view: a young woman wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved jacket with a floral-print hijab. "My name is Abigail Mary Bowe," she said. "I represent the Sons of Bowe. And I have a proposal for you."


It was like being drugged.
(Perhaps you should explain how you have reference for this: after all, they never gave you anything - it was easier just to tie your hands and feet and bind you to the table. Not a waste of their stores, that way, and if you cannot fight back - can do nothing but scream as they flay you open, as your bones break and mend and break again under the force of the magic shoved into your limbs, tendons split and re-join under glass edges, scream and scream until you black out - well, all the better.
This time, though, you unfortunately hadn't, still remain aware even as they cut the rawhide and lift you off and haul you back to the quarters. Drop you unceremoniously onto the rough stone - the impact wrenches a sob away. Not even in your own place. You will be here in the doorway to be trod upon and kicked and snarled at until your flesh knits enough to allow you to raise yourself, crawl somewhere safer to curl up and -
You cannot move. You cannot breathe. Nothing exists but the pain. The ice storm rends your thoughts from the rocks, shreds them into shell-fragments -
“Can you hear me?”
It takes far too long to hear, and even longer to understand. The space where air should be striking all your raw edges, light piercing your eyelids, trace someone crouching next to your head. The voice was high. Soft. Female?
An incision opens on the side of your neck; something trickles sticky over the skin underneath, and you think you hear a drop strike the stone like a thorn driven into your ear. Another on your temple, or perhaps it is tears - both feel the same outside your skin. “Shhh,” the girl whispers, and draws the tips of her fingers through your hair. Your body tries to flinch away, but for the fire that lances through all your bones at even the attempt it doesn't seem like it succeeds very well. “It's all right,” she says, though your breath catches at that. There is the sound of movement, and then something set on your bottom lip.
It is bitter, and hot enough to burn. You drink anyway. (She'll put it up your nose if you don't, most likely; the alchemists do, when they need you to drink. That's worse than burns inside your mouth. Not worth it.)
Time goes very uncertain for a while. The girl doesn't leave, keeps stroking you like you are a dog - you think you hear snatches of her singing, something low and lilting, and are vaguely aware enough to be grateful that as long as she keeps it up people will hear and won't therefore step on you, but the waves of the pain flood your ears, keep pouring over your face and into your mouth, and -
Ebb. Everything inside you goes quiet. Your limbs stop howling and relax. Your mouth shapes oh with the shock of it, and your head receives another sympathetic ruffle.
When you wake, you are alone, back in your own sleeping-place, and aching again. You never saw her face.)

XXXX
XXXX
When you get older, and have been finally pleached to the mistress's satisfaction, they stop. You get dragged before her on your feet this time, and get the chance to kneel under your own power. As near as you can tell, you are approved of - she nods at her sorcerers, and someone presses cold knuckles to the back of your neck and collar and floods your mind -
You watch yourself be armed, introduced to the other guards, and instructed in your duty as though it is happening to someone else. The knife blade opens up the hand that is yours as you receive it. Your smallest fingers well and drip red onto the sandstone.
One of the other guards, eventually - who may or may not be named Dhera, you already forgot - has to curl your fingers over the slit, smirking at the auspiciousness of it all.

XXXX
XXXX
The woman probably originally comes from the western mountains. Her hair, her eyes, the colours and patterns woven into her (now grimed and torn from the cells) long tunic, all testify to this. What she did to earn such a punishment you have not been told. Not, of course, that it would matter anyway. There is no way out of the pits once handed over.
And both you and she are bare-handed, which means they have no interest in this being equal, and probably no interest in it being protracted either. Not a spectacle: an execution.
Because none of it is enough, though she is fast and accurate in her blows. She tries to kick you, in the soft place between hip and rib; you stomp on her grounded foot, and feel the bones break, although a tingling shock runs up to your own knee as well. She screams and falls back, dropping to one knee, and you seize her then, haul her a mess of bones against your chest.
You catch her elbow and shove it back to her side - and then, with the other hand, the head driven at your chin. The crowd above you yells, cries half-insults, half-encouragement.
"There is no honour in this!" she screams panicked back at them. Or possibly at you, you're not sure. A laugh wells up in response, a few more jeers flung like darts to strike against both her chest and your back. What, was she expecting an actual answer? Whatever honour is supposed to be, maybe it isn't here; but you have to kill her regardless, and so there is no use kneeling here debating it. So you tighten your hold, and her nails dig down deeper into your forearm for one heartbeat, two, three, four. And then they relax, and so you switch to your hands instead and squeeze until the cartilage crunches. Her exhale croaks, and does not return.
You drop her onto the sand and stand up. The bloodlust and mirth tumble down around you like a rainstorm, washing her breath away.

XXXX
XXXX
If there is religion, down there in the pits, it is a pared-down thing described mainly by the phrase remember you will die. Be as strong or as fast or as clever as you want, someday, someone will come who is more so, and the breath that leaks away into the dirt will be yours.
Tell yourself, every day, I will not rise, I will not see sunfall - eventually, you're going to be right.

XXXX
XXXX
By the time you make it back to the quarters, your hand is going numb. The fall was hard, a blaze of grinding cartilage and pebble-and-sand grains piercing your palm - most people went weak in their desperation, cringing away, trying to beg your mercy, but today's opponent had opted towards savagery as a strategy for preserving his life.
It hadn't, in the end, but your arm is nonetheless currently useless, so you cannot say it achieved nothing, either.
Midday is not too far past, so the quarters are mainly empty. You get a very brief glance from an old woman hunched over a smoky brick-stove in the far corner, and no acknowledgement at all from a small lump huddled under a worn blanket. But beyond that, nothing, as you fold yourself down into the angle between your own and the wall. The faster you are with reducing the better - the longer limbs are deprived of life the less likely they'll wake fully on the regaining - so you do not hesitate in drawing half your cheek between your teeth for silence, your dead arm across your knees.
One time, your mind was perfectly quiet and painless. You try and remember that, and pull.
It does not wipe out entirely the wet grind as your bones finally slide back into position. Copper floods your mouth, mist your eyes. A glare from the stove shows you may have failed at the silence, shivering and panting like a whipped dog - you fumble your good hand up across your mouth, and she squints and turns back to the pot as the burn of reawakening spreads across the other.
(That was so many years ago. You're not sure why you even remember, other than to torment yourself - or maybe that is why: even then, small and overwhelmed with fresh re-making, you had recognized it was not something you would see twice, pity. This is the only reference you might ever have for its shape. How can you throw it away?)

XXXX
XXXX
The fog clings to the insides of your nose and mouth - the sea again, trying to sneak up and devour the city like it does periodically. At the other doorpost, the other guard who may or may not be named Dhera shivers and huddles deeper into his cloak, pulling the cowl up around his ears. The lord artificer upon whom your mistress calls must find his home very cold in the winter, if its face is this open towards the hill, the sea, and the north wind.
Beneath your own, you dig a fist into the small of your back. Cáyé, it hurts; like your vertebrae have been bound in silver wire and a torch held to the end, like your kidneys have been torn out with a dull awl.
But no amount of thinking will or ever has eased it, and anyway, your task is not to think.
On the other side of the street, a man has set up a small forge and is currently trying to re-head an axe; you watch him draw his knife and carefully shave a coil of wood off the tenon projecting from the end of the handle, then reattempt to fit the head on. There is tarnish on its edges - the old handle must have broken or mouldered, but the metal is too valuable to discard with it and will be reassembled into a new tool. Apparently satisfied, he balances the wedge against it and reaches for his mallet to fix the join.
(If only you could borrow even an ounce of his warmth -)
Possibly-Dhera shoots a look across the entryway at you, and you immediately drop your hand. You must be worth her investment, and that means no points of failure, no hairline cracks in you to splinter apart under the hammerstone. Else you shall be recouped upon; the crowds would give your worth many times over for the promise of seeing you fall by design.
The forge is packed away and gone by the time she emerges, evidently satisfied with the progression of her commission. You fall back into line and try not to look at the space where it was.

XXXX
XXXX
The man (surprisingly young, but then the young have had fewer chances for that inevitable death to reach them) for some reason finds it necessary to try and explain to you how he came to be in the pits, one sentence with each blow.
When you wrench his collar against his trachea, he stops. When you stamp the limbs of his ribs inwards, it is permanent.
Tomorrow, maybe. And tomorrow, and tomorrow -

XXXX
XXXX
You must give this man some acknowledgement - he got close, closer than anyone else you remember. Regardless of what most people say, nobody truly wants to go out in a blaze of glory. That's why they all cry. That's why they all beg. That's why very few of them are stupid enough, whatever rebellious thoughts they hold in the darkest depths of their hearts, to make any attempt upon assassinating her - because they'll fail, and unintentionally raise her esteem at the same time, every one calling back to the days of old when the founding matriarchs ruled not symbolically garnet-clad but literally.
Vaguely, you wonder if the transition should be hastened in this case, because he is still caught on the same empty rhetoric - repentance and overthrow, that she be cast down in her pride, all the might of Daevon scattered as chaff in the wind, everything only madmen dream and only fanatics profess. And then die the same as everyone else, when pierced with swords or crushed in dirt or bound upon the city walls for the vultures, because nothing changes nor ever will.
Then, the guard holding his arms moves just slightly, and pain flashes across his face. His strange, pale weapons lie shattered on the tile before you, unusable and unreachable.
The woman from the western mountains would probably say there is no honour for your mistress in this either - an unarmed man held helpless before her. She regards him with lips pursed in incontrovertible disdain, and soon jerks her chin towards you. "Kill him," she tells you. "I do not need to listen to this further."
To his credit, the man does not cower, or cry, or beg. "Do it, then," he says, and lifts his gaze to meet yours, full in the eyes. "If you think it is right."

XXXX
XXXX
…and everything inside you goes quiet.

XXXX
XXXX
…most of the blood, when it is over, is not yours. Because there were Dhera and the four others, and your mistress besides - no, she is not that anymore, had stopped being that the instant you felt the bone give, but you hadn't, had drawn out your knife and kept hacking, even as they had fallen upon you as they ought, buried their own blades in your ribs, your gut -
But enough of it is - your mouth is full of the sea, all salt and bits of tissue you don't want to know the provenance of. It is not easy to speak around it, as the warlord - no, no, master, Jel is now in his hands, he could walk past you and pull the sceptre from under her body and that would make it final - goes to his knees beside you, puts a hand on your temple. His face is unreadable, but that doesn't really matter, not against the fact that it is turned to you at all. No-one has ever afforded you this much eye contact in your whole life - a shame, that you won't get to enjoy it for much longer.
"Well?" you slur. Was that right, just, honourable? Tell me; you are master now, it is your judgement.
It is not given. Instead, his lips tighten, and he digs clawed fingers into your gut.
Oh, you think. This. “I would not have you die,” the warlord says, and that is new, but the rest of it -
You are put back together. It hurts no less, under these fingers - since you will die has apparently been discredited now, another constant must be chosen, to fill that religion-shaped hole. It may as well be that, you are able to string together through the roaring in your ears: it will always hurt, to be reassembled.
When it is over, he draws back: your blood to his elbows, on his neck, when he reaches to rub it.
You stand up.
“Come with me,” your warlord wielder says, picking up the fragments of his weapon and sealing them back together, too, with a stroke of his hand. Somebody bangs on the door, yells something in another language - one of his servants, probably, come to try and rescue their lord. Another voice, higher, joins it. He turns from you (and something unfamiliarly not-damage pangs beneath your ribs, to lose that look), goes over, responds. Does not look at the wreckage left behind.
So you come. What else can you do?

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My first sight of the pocket-universe city of Three Portlands was their cold, concrete sidewalk as my breath slowly returned to me. Ways really were no joke! First I had to walk around a tree a bunch of times and then it felt like I'd gotten hit in the stomach. Thank God the Peculiar Post vans have some magic doohickey that makes sure you don't feel that when you go through one of their Ways.
Anyways, after I managed to stand to my feet, my second sight of Three Portlands was much more breathtaking— and not in a literal sense. The inverted horizon and cast-off lighthouse shadows in a sea of grey painted over the bustling crowd of Portlandsers just going about their day, not even bothering to check on me. They must get a lot of first-timers, I suppose.
As my nauseousness finally faded away, a building off in the distance caught my eye. The exact place I was there for: Paraweiser Pastries.

A bell above the door rung as I pulled it open, prompting the old woman at the counter to turn around, grinning. "Hello there, Mr…"
"Morrison. I suppose you're Mrs. Paraweiser?"
She laughed for a moment, which quickly turned to coughing, then back to laughing again. "Hell no! That's the most idiotic name ever, changed it the moment my parents died! In the process of rebranding, actually." The look on my face must've been one of great concern, or maybe disgust, for she glanced at me and scoffed. "Look, I loved them and all, but… Paraweiser? Really? I'm sure you can see how bad that is. I'm now Ms. Josephina."
"Nice meeting you then, Ms. Josephina. I'll have to note that in the publication." Changing your business' name can be quite confusing. Think of all the customers that would get confused!
"Publication?" Her eye twitched.
"I- I'm with the Peculiar Post. Just food journalism, critique, all that." Some folks were quite hostile when it came to the press. But luckily…
"Oh!" She instantly brightened up like a lightbulb. "My niece is always reading all those satire articles on that site! The Parawatch ones are her favorite— can you believe there's people that stupid out there? Crazy."
We at the Peculiar Post have quite a good reputation. Most news platforms are hated for bias, but luckily much of the anomalous community and our audience shares the same beliefs as us— not to mention we all like to laugh at dumb people— so we don't really have to worry about being 'apolitical' or anything like that.
"Yes, it is quite funny." It was at this point I realized I was practically salivating at the sweet smell hanging in the air. A mix of fruity frosting and perfectly baked dough. You can usually tell how good your food is going to be based on the smell of the establishment— and this was a very pleasing sign.
Ms. Josephina must've seen me looking around for a menu of some sort, because she giggled childishly. "Your strawberry doughnut is just about done, don't worry."
"But…"
"I know, you didn't order yet. I ordered for you."
"What if I don't like strawberry?" I asked.
"You're a food journalist, there's nothing you don't like. Plus you just seem… strawberry-y. Appealing and charming— yet a bit tacky, in a good way. I'm sure you'll love it."
Tacky. Was that an insult or a compliment? I mean, I suppose I am a bit messy sometimes, but I'm not that bad, am I? Maybe she just meant gimmicky. Wait, but then what's—
A loud BRRRING suddenly interrupted my thoughts, making me jump a bit.
"Ah, it's done!" Ms. Josephina twirled around, reached into a metallic box, and pulled out a pastry on a little plastic plate. Its tannish-brownish dough was perfectly fried, and the artfully applied pink frosting slowly drew me in closer until my nose was right over it.
"I need to eat this. Now."
Without waiting for her to give the go-ahead, I snatched it up and took a bite into the firm outer crust. The inside was soft and perfectly moist, but then the frosting touched against my tongue and melted slowly, the sweet flavor dancing around my mouth cheerfully.
Before I knew it, the doughnut was completely gone, with only crumbly remnants where it once lay on the plate.
I looked up to Ms. Josephina, who had her arms crossed in a firm satisfaction. "How did you do that? How could you make something so amazing?"
"Magic."
Of course. That's practically what everyone says when it comes to anomalous food. But usually people are focused on making foods into weird things or harvesting ingredients from anomalous creatures. Using magic to make normal, everyday foods? That's next-level.
"So, the box. What does that do?"
"Get out," she demanded, still smirking. "You've had your doughnut. Now get out."
I must've been quite dumbfounded, for I simply stood there, the exact opposite of what she wanted me to do. So then began to force me out. "W- wait! I haven't paid you!" My feet skidded on the concrete below as I was pushed outside.
When I was a good distance from the building, she dusted her hands off. "You can pay me in exposure," she said before walking back and slamming the door.
"But…" Befuddled, I scratched my head. "Isn't that usually the other way around?!"

Food In The Anomalous Community by Edwin Morrison
Volume 2

For some people, eating is a boring and inconvenient chore. They wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, eat their horrible packed lunch, go home, and eat fast food of some sort because they're too lazy to cook.
For people such as I, eating is fun and enjoyable! I savor every bite of my meals and recognize the love and care put into them, no matter where they came from.
But for others, food is an experience. And I had an experience today.
In the city of Three Portlands, there's a small business named Paraweiser Pastries (which is currently being rebranded to Josephina Pastries). Its owner (and only employee), Ms. Josephina, is one of these people. I ate a wonderful strawberry doughnut with a delightful, aesthetically pleasing pink frosting on a little plastic plate. Incredibly basic, yet it still felt as if it'd been baked specifically for me, and then I was forced out of the bakery before I could ask for another.
But that taste, that pure, sweet flavor… it stuck with me for days, lingering in the back of my throat, forever reminding me of that delightful confection.
I've decided that I'm going to have a few more experiences. There are restaurants where you can hunt or find your own food, so I think I'll start with that.

I rate Paraweiser Pastries (soon to be Josephina Pastries) 9/10. My only complaint is that I couldn't get more.
P.S. In the holy Neapolitan trio of flavors, vanilla and strawberry are criminally underrated. And chocolate really isn't that good. Seriously, it can get really old and overbearing sometimes.
P.P.S. Am I tacky? Please let me know in the comments, seriously. Ms. Josephina said something, and just, I'm self-conscious about it, okay? Thank you.

« Foodies, Frogs, & Flying|Hub Soon!|Home Sick »

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Did you know the average person spends 32,098 hours eating? That's about 5 percent of your life!
When you spend that much time eating, you might as well enjoy it — that's why I'm a foodie.
I don't eat just because I'm hungry; I eat because of my pure love for food. It's practically my hobby! But I'm also very lucky, because food is also my job.

The Frogman elder's webbed fingers met my palm like a wet towel smacking to the floor. We shook hands as he spoke: "So glad that you finally decided to visit here, Mr. Morrison." He peeled his hand off of mine and squinted up at me. "Our business is always excited for new visitors, and that newspaper you're writin' for is sure to bring more in, hmm? What is it, The Peculiar Post? Gosh, we'll make sure you walk out of here with a full belly!"
"Yes, of course." I nonchalantly wiped the slime clinging to my palm on my pant leg. Such a shame; all they wanted was the publicity. Critics should bring hopes for improvement — not more business.
"So," he said as we shrank down to the size of fleas. "The meal should be ready. And trust me — it'll be a good one!"
Everyone always said that. I smiled anyway — following him through the mossy set of double-doors. "I'm sure it will. So, what are we going to be eating today?" I asked as the Frogman and I sat down at a wooden table.
"Only the best dish we have to offer…" They paused for a moment, signaling to another Frogman behind them who quickly scampered out, set down two plates, and left. "Boiled caterpillar!"
I looked down at my plate to see a large fuzzy caterpillar that had been overturned and sliced in half. Its insides were a strange olive-green mush, which had been peppered with different seasonings and herbs.
"Oh my," I whispered, gulping. "Could I, uh, have a drink? My throat is a bit dry, I apologize."
"Ah, of course." The Frogman elder next to me set down his spoon and signaled to the waiter again, who quickly bought out two cups full of a cloudy, green fluid for us.
Against my better judgment, I took a sip. It was strange, a bit herbal — like a tea — but also… plain? "Oh, this drink is- uh- is really interesting, what is it?"
"Swamp water — without all the harmful things, of course," the Frogman replied.
I looked down at the murky drink in my cup. It couldn't be that bad for me if it tasted good, right?
Wait.
Glancing back over to the Frogman, I saw them take their spoon, scrape it against the inside of their caterpillar, and scoop out its green insides. They admired it for a moment before licking their utensil clean and going in for more.
How the fuck could they eat that!? A caterpillar's insides, for godsakes! Caterpillars—
"Oh? You haven't eaten any of your food yet, Mr. Morrison. Something bothering you?"
Dammit. I snatched up my spoon, my hands shaking as I smiled and jabbed it into the bug. "Nope, I'm alright!"
The Frogman squinted at me before going back to eating.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I looked down at the caterpillar and pulled my spoon out. A bit of green mush clung onto it.
I could do this. I'd eaten much stranger things before, like cheese made from a wendigo's milk! But at least that looked normal…
To hell with it! I was going to enjoy this meal. So in spite of myself, I mentally prepared for the worst and stuck the spoon into my mouth.

Food In The Anomalous Community by Edwin Morrison
Volume 1

Today, at The Prosperous Frog, I ate one of the most compelling dishes I've ever had: boiled caterpillar.
The bug was presented to me on a simple clay plate in two halves — nothing too fancy. For being priced at four dollars, there was enough food that I could have ordered that dish to share with a friend and still had enough for leftovers. Accompanied by a cup of safe-to-drink swamp water, the meal was a stunning example of Frogman culture.
My only mistake was that I did not take a bite right away, for I was a bit repulsed by the concept of eating a giant caterpillar. Of course, it isn't every day that a human eats a bug. However, do not let that deter you, for it was an absolutely delicious meal.
The buttery, mashed potato-like flavor of the caterpillar made way for a complex and compelling aftertaste. Leafy, yet savory, it was an absolute rollercoaster of a dish, one that left me with little to nothing on my plate afterwards, all because I ignored my aforementioned repulsion.
But following the meal, I learned something quite interesting. The Frogman elder told me that years ago, their family did not eat caterpillar. Chefs worked mainly with 'exquisite' bugs, such as butterflies and ladybugs, and nobody would dare go near caterpillar. But one startup chef did. He opened a restaurant — The Prosperous Frog — that worked to incorporate caterpillars into the Frogman diet.
It was not well-accepted at first, instead reduced to 'that restaurant for Frogman commoners.' But the chef was happy, for he still got to cook.
As his restaurant grew, however, it began to attract attention. Tourists and critics such as I began to dine at The Prosperous Frog, and then they spread word of the new and mouthwatering culinary concoction: caterpillars. And suddenly, Frogman culture exploded. Much as lobster went from a poverty food to an exquisite dish in the US, caterpillars were suddenly in high demand from all social groups. While chefs have attempted to put their own spins on the dish, the boiled classic still sticks out amongst the crowd.
Still standing today, The Prosperous Frog is a stunning mark on Frogman culture, and a symbol that anyone can bring change.

I rate The Prosperous Frog 9.5/10, and I will definitely be coming back for more.
P.S. Take care if you have motion sickness; the entrance requires some rapid shrinking.

I typed out my last few words just as the airport's loudspeaker above me began to crackle on. "Gate 4B boarding for Portland, Oregon." Tucking away my laptop, I walked over to the gate and showed the attendant my boarding pass, who scanned it before waving me through.
This next destination was going to be quite interesting. I'd finally be able to learn about those Ways that everyone always talks about!
After rolling my luggage into the plane and stowing it above my seat, I sat back, relaxed, and got ready for my free refreshments. They are the best part of planes, after all.

P.P.S. The best plane snack (at least on United Airlines flights) is definitely the stroopwafels. I will defend this fact until the day I die.

|Hub Soon!|Three Portlands Pastries »

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Incident 028-A:

During a recent experiment involving SCP-028 and D-9833, Dr. Cardinal, the head of the experiment, stepped into the proximity of SCP-028. Dr. Cardinal began shouting profanities and swatting at the air. When guards came to assist Dr. Cardinal, he was incredibly hostile towards them. The guards then tranquilized Dr. Cardinal, and he was transported to Site-4's medical ward. After three weeks of bed rest, Dr. Cardinal made a total physical recovery, and was released from the ward.

Audio Logs

Interview 028-A

Interview 028-A:

Interviewer: Dr. Donald Walters
Interviewed: Dr. Jim Cardinal
Foreword: Dr. Walters visits Dr. Cardinal's office to document Dr. Cardinal's experience with SCP-028.

[BEGIN LOG]
Dr. Walters: Hey Jim.
Dr. Cardinal: Hey Don! Great to see you! What's up?
Dr. Walters: Heard that you just got released from the ward. You doing alright?
Dr. Cardinal: Yeah, man. My leg's a little sore, but other than that I'm fine.
Dr. Walters: It's just that…I saw the tapes, and—
Dr. Cardinal: Don, I'm fine.
(Dr. Cardinal lights a cigarette, and resumes his work.)
Dr. Walters: Listen, Jim. I hate to do this to you…but the Foundation needs your perspective on the incident. They sent me to interview you.
(Dr. Cardinal stops his work, sighs, then turns around to face Dr. Walters.)
Dr. Cardinal: Of course. Anything I can do to help.
Dr. Walters: OK then, let's begin. I'm sure you know how these work. I'll ask the questions, and you answer to the best of your ability. Question 1: What event caused the incident to occur?
Dr. Cardinal: We were transporting D-9833 to SCP-028's vicinity. The bastard thought it was a good time to make a run for it. While trying to stop D-9833, I accidentally entered SCP-028's vicinity, and was exposed to its effects.
Dr. Walters: OK. Question 2: Was anyone else exposed to the effect of SCP-028?
Dr. Cardinal: As far as I know, no. I was the only one.
Dr. Walters: Good. Last Question: What did you experience while under the influence of SCP-028?
(Dr. Cardinal does not respond, and appears to be visibly distressed by the question.)
Dr. Cardinal: My mind wasn't straight, I don't remember.
Dr. Walters: You don't remember anything?
Dr. Cardinal: No, I don't.
Dr. Walters: You don't remember the knowledge you received from SCP-028?
(Dr. Cardinal speaks in an aggressive tone.)
Dr. Cardinal: No, I don't! Next question!
(Dr. Walters speaks in a worried tone.)
Dr. Walters: That's it. No more questions.
Dr. Cardinal: Alright, then. It was good to see you, Don. Now, I've got work to do.
Dr. Walters: Hey, Jim. If there's something going on, I—
Dr. Cardinal: Goodbye, Don.
(Dr. Walters packs up his recording equipment, and exits Dr. Cardinal's office.)
[END LOG]

Interview 028-B

Interview 028-B:

Interviewer: Dr. Statovich
Interviewed: Dr. Cardinal
Foreword: The following interview is a recollection of Dr. Cardinal's experience during Incident 028-A.

[BEGIN LOG]
Dr. Cardinal: Why the hell am I here?
Dr. Stratovich: We are here to discuss the events of Incident 028-A, Dr. Cardinal.
Dr. Cardinal: Again? Look, I already gave Don my testimony. If you have any questions, ask him.
Dr. Stratovich: I'm sure that you're aware that the testimony you gave was not what the Foundation wanted.
Dr. Cardinal: Well, it's what they're getting. Now, if you have any questions that are not related to SCP-028, I will happily give an answer. If you don't, then I'll just show myself out.
(Dr. Cardinal gets out of his chair, and makes his way to the door.)
Dr. Stratovich: We want to help you, Dr. Cardinal. It's obvious that whatever happened with SCP-028 has had a long lasting effect on you. We want to help, but in order to help, we need to understand what happened.
(Dr. Cardinal stops at the door. After letting out a sigh, he returns to the table with Dr. Stratovich.)
(Dr. Cardinal reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.)
Dr. Cardinal: Do you mind?
Dr. Stratovich: Not at all.
(Dr. Stratovich pulls out his lighter and lights Dr. Cardinal's cigarette.)
Dr. Cardinal: You got a name, kid?
Dr. Stratovich: My name is Dr. Stra—
Dr. Cardinal: I meant your first name.
Dr. Stratovich: …Vlad.
Dr. Cardinal: You been working here a long time, Vlad?
Dr. Stratovich: Not too long. I've only been here for three years.
Dr. Cardinal: Ever worked on any Euclids or Keters?
Dr. Stratovich: I worked at 106's containment cell for a few months, and…about two weeks with 2117.
Dr. Cardinal: Then you understand that you see some fucked up shit on the job, yeah?
Dr. Stratovich: (chuckles) Even that's an understatement.
Dr. Cardinal: Let me tell you…(puffs on cigarette) in my 17 years of working, I've seen men turn to machines, divers get swallowed by a giant sea snake, hell, I've even seen a baby get eaten alive by an amphibian dog. We've all seen our fair share of fucked up shit. But last week…
(Dr. Cardinal takes a moment to breathe.)
Dr. Stratovich: We are here for you, Dr. Cardinal. If you need a break, please tell us.
Dr. Cardinal: No, I'm fine…I just need to take it slow.
Dr. Stratovich: Take your time, doctor.
Dr. Cardinal: (puffs on cigarette) You know, it was weird at first. When I first got exposed, everything just came at once like BAM! I didn't realize what I had seen until a minute after. Fuck…
(Dr. Cardinal, lowers his head, and whispers to himself.)
Come on, Jim. Just get it out.
(He puffs on his cigarette, then continues the story.)
The first thing I saw was a dark basement, hadn't been cleaned in years. All that was lighting it was a single swinging bulb. Come to think of it, the room didn't look too different from an old interrogation room from those old detective flicks.

Couldn't feel anything, but I knew it was cold. It was silent, and I mean dead silent. I could hear rats squeaking all across the floor. The room had an odd peacefulness to it, a dark, chilling peacefulness. Then I start hearing this weird noise, some kind of scream. I thought it was a rat at first, but I'd never heard a rat scream for help before…I hear someone unlock a door, then a bright beam of light comes from the stairs. It's hard to see, but I can make out the figure. It was a large man, and I mean large. I thought he was Fernand the first time I saw him. But nope, just a large man. He was carrying a cleaver in one hand, and a boy in the other. The boy couldn't have been older than…oh, I'd say 12.
Poor kid was screaming his head off, flailing his arms in all directions. The man cuffed the boy to the rotting wall next to me, and walked to the middle of the room. He turned on a light, and revealed this large, concrete table. It had straps on all four corners, and its surface was stained in blood. The man turned around, and grabbed a tray with all sorts of sharp tools on it, scissors, scalpels, you get the point.
The man walked, uh…walked over to the…fuck
Dr. Stratovich: Take it slowly, Dr. Cardinal.
Dr. Cardinal: (deep breath) …The man walked over to the boy and uncuffed him. The boy tried to run away, but the man's grip was too strong. He brought him over to the table, and put the boy's arms and legs in the straps. Then, he…he, uh…
(Dr. Cardinal's hands begin to shake uncontrollably as he puffs on his cigarette.)
Dr. Cardinal: No, no. Can't do it. I'm sorry. I—I need a break.
(Dr. Cardinal makes his way to the door. Dr. Stratovich follows.)
Dr. Stratovich: Dr. Cardinal, if there is anything I can do to help—
(Dr. Stratovich places his hand on Dr. Cardinal's shoulder. Dr. Cardinal immediately shakes off the hand, and snaps at Dr. Stratovich.)
Dr. Cardinal: Don't fucking touch me!
(Dr. Cardinal is visibly teary-eyed. He walks to his office, and slams the door.)
[END LOG]

Interview 028-B-2

Interview 028-B-2:

The following is a continuation of Interview 028-B, two days after the initial interview.
Note: As requested by Dr. Cardinal, no questions relating to the boys of Incident 028 are permitted.

[BEGIN LOG]
Dr. Stratovich: Are you ready to continue?
Dr. Cardinal: (sighs) Let's just get on with it.
Dr. Stratovich: OK. Did you ever get a good look at his face? The uh—the man, I mean.
Dr. Cardinal: (puffs on cigarette) …White man, mid 50s… dark brown hair with gray streaks…and a black handlebar mustache. His face was always so…greasy.
Dr. Stratovich: Do you know where this occurred?
Dr. Cardinal: (puffs on cigarette) 1853 Eva Pearl Street, Baton Rouge, Illinois. The red brick house on the corner.
(Dr. Stratovich jots down notes on his notepad.)
Dr. Stratovich: Were you aware of the killer's motive?
Dr. Cardinal: He uh…kept saying he had to do what he did. Claimed that whenever he saw a kid, he'd get these…feelings, and the only way to get rid of those feelings was to…Fucking sick bastard! How the fuck does s—
Dr. Stratovich: Thank you for the information, Dr. Cardinal. That was all we needed.
(Dr. Stratovich completes his notes for the interview.)
Dr. Stratovich: This concludes our interview, Dr. Cardinal. Your cooperation was much appreciated. You may leave now.
(Dr. Stratovich reaches to turn off the tape recorder, but is stopped by Dr. Cardinal.)
Dr. Cardinal: That boy wasn't the only one, you know?
Dr. Stratovich: Pardon?
Dr. Cardinal: There were more. More kids.
Dr. Stratovich: How many more?
Dr. Cardinal: From the ones that I remember…about six or seven more.
Dr. Stratovich: Did all of them share the first child's experience?
Dr. Cardinal: For the most part, yeah. But with each new kid he brought in, he'd add his own little fucked up spin on the situation. I don't wanna get into it, but some got it worse. It's just that…
Dr. Stratovich: You can tell us, doctor.
Dr. Cardinal: It's just that the kid looked just like my boy. Same hair color, same eyes, same high-pitched voice. I—I knew it wasn't him, but…whenever I looked at him, I saw my boy. No matter how hard I try, I can't stop picturing his face. The fear in his eyes, the blood running down his chest…I just…
(Dr. Cardinal breaks into a fit of crying. He calms after a few minutes, and readjusts in his chair. He then raises his head, and makes direct eye-contact with Dr. Stratovich.)
Dr. Cardinal: When you work at the Foundation, death is normal. It's rare to go a day without someone getting their balls cut off for 2845, or being sucked up by 835. Most of the deaths are D-class. You're not really connected to them, so you shrug it off. But when you're watching someone you care about being tortured, watching them cry and scream as the life slowly drains from their eyes, it's different. You want to jump in and save them, you want to hold them tight and tell them they'll be fine…but you can't. Then that feeling, that feeling of dread and guilt, stays with you for the rest of your life. Pray that you never go through this, Vlad. It kills a man.
Dr. Stratovich: The Foundation is going to help you. We are always here if you need someone to talk to.
Dr. Cardinal: We need to head to the house.
Dr. Stratovich: Dr. Cardinal, I don't think that's—
Dr. Cardinal: Please. I can't sleep knowing that the kids are still missing. We need to go to the house.
Dr. Stratovich: (sighs) I'll see what I can do.
[END LOG]

Excavation 028-A:

Project Lead: Dr. Jeff Cardinal
Assistant Project Lead: Dr. Vlad Stratovich
Location: 1853 Eva Pearl Street, Baton Rouge, Illinois

Mission Description: Members of MTF Epsilon-6 are to search the area for any objects that resemble human remains.

Results: Upon arrival, the house in which the events of 028-A occurred had been abandoned for twenty five years. The house's owner passed away that same year from lung cancer. No neighbors remember the last time they saw the owner of the house, and no records of family were found. Under the guise of a demolition crew, MTF Epsilon-6 searched both the outside and inside of the house. The following is a list of items that were found at Area-028:

Internal:

A box of horse hair rope
A box of steel handcuffs
Many containers of Bleach, Ammonia and Benzene
Pornographic magazines
A box of polaroids, all of which are photographs of naked children

External:

An uncleaned sewage disposal container
Ashes of burned clothing
Many skeletal remains of children (forensics determined as many as thirty different skeletons)

Update on Dr. Cardinal's Status:

Following the excavation of Area-028, Dr. Cardinal requested to be amnesticized from any memory related to Incident 028-A. The request was approved by O5 council, however amnestics had no effect on Dr. Cardinal's memories. While Dr. Cardinal has been making a steady recovery since the incident, he has been assigned to Area-26, and will remain there until further notice. No personnel are to speak to Dr. Cardinal about SCP-028 unless absolutely necessary.