Tstaffor

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Tstaffor's Best of:

SCP-6557 - Annihilation From a Cross Across Time
SCP-5846 - The One-Stop Shop
SCP-6547 - Worlds Within Worlds Within Worlds…

Item#: 1915

Level1

Containment Class:
keter

Secondary Class:
{$secondary-class}

Disruption Class:
dark

Risk Class:
critical

link to memo

The most boring place on Earth.

Man Zoo Specifications: Due to the boring nature of all the work being done at MZL-1915, protocol E-67 "Don't Ever Go There" has been enacted. No Staff other than those assigned to MTF B-00 ("Accounting Department") are to go anywhere near MZL-1915.
Words That Describe The Man Zoo: MZL-1915 is the third floor of an office building in downtown Seattle WA. It is the building where our staff does all the paperwork we now have to deal with.
Additionals 1915.1: Creation Log
During a meeting at MZL-1730 in OverBobble-1's Office, MZL-1915 was established.

Office of the OverBobble Council
Man Zoo League
In Attendance:

OverBobble-1
MTF L-9 ("Little Misters") Leader Mr. Lost1
MZL-322 Director Geoffrey Quincy Harrison The Third2
Director of Body Recycling Dr. Plague3
Director of Digital Torture Dr. Victor R. Farmer4
MZL-1915 Director Mr. Stanley Quo5

OverBobble-1: Hello everyone! I've called this meeting to talk about new ways you all have come up with for torturing our dear guests.
Mr. Quo: Umm… I'd actually like to start with talking about the budg—
Overbobble-1: Torture methods! Anyone got new torture methods?
Dr. Farmer: I have been busy in the fields, my farm has never been this full. We've expanded the pastures to hold even more of our new friends!
Mr. Quo: About that, I was meaning to talk to you, Dr. Farmer. Your MZL is using way too much power. The electricity bills coming from your MZL are way over your quota.
Dr. Farmer: Who invited this spoilsport? I've made homes for over three thousand goats! Who if I might add, are having an absolutely delightful time with some of my more high-tech gadgets. Power bills are just some silly numbers.
Mr. Quo: We've been hemorrhaging our cash supply ever since the FCK-Class scenario. The Foundation had a substantial reserve of cash in case of emergency but we went through that within a week because of Director Harrison's insane amount of redecorating at MZL-322.
Director Harrison: MY FURNISHINGS HAVE MADE MZL-322 THE BEST MZL OF THEM ALL. I WILL NOT HAVE A CREATURE INCAPABLE OF CONTAINING ANY SWEET CONFECTIONS CRITICIZE MY ACCOUNTING SKILLS, LET ALONE MY REDECORATING PROWESS.
Mr. Quo: I was not insulting your MZL's aesthetic. I'm saying the amount you have spent on making even the cells pristine is unsustainable. It's recklessly high, verging on actively malicious towards the MZL at large.
Director Harrison: I DO NOT CARE WHAT OTHER MZZLES DO, YOU WILL MAKE SURE MY MZZLE IS SUPPLIED WITH THE REQUESTED AMOUNTS OF CASH. IF IT MUST CAUSE THE LEAGUE TO FALTER SO BE IT.
Mr. Quo: Why did you even make the cells fancy in the first place? We're trying to torture them!
Overbobble-1: Yes! Torture! Could we get back on track here? Does anyone actually have new ideas for torture methods?
Dr. Plague: I've successfully kept the morgue completely empty with state-of-the-art revival methods.
Director Harrison: BY STATE-OF-THE-ART DO YOU MEAN YOUR STUPID OLD FASHIONED SURGERY?
Dr. Plague: It's an art! It works so who cares?
Mr. Quo: Me! How can I get it through your thick skulls? We. Are. Out. Of. Money. There's nothing left. Plague over here keeps bringing all these people back. I had planned in the budget around the fact we would cycle through bodies but noOo! Dr. Plague's gotta run around reviving them all and filling up every MZL we've got! We don't have infinite resources! It's not all fun and flaying. Keeping this high a level of pain on this high a capacity of subjects is expensive.
Overbobble-1: What a doctor downer over here. It's fine, just do your little numbery things and get us out of this.
Dr. Farmer: Heck, our staff can destroy the universe. How hard can getting more power be?
Mr. Quo: Back during the Foundation days they had tons of front companies that were not just there to use in the capture of all of us but also made actual money. There's not much money to be made now that all of those businesses are a single chain of Man Zapping Locations. To their credit, we have gotten a lot of new victims by folks just walking into the stores but still! We need income!
Director Harrison: THE ONLY INCOME WE NEED IS MY INCOMING DOME TO YOUR FACE.
[Director Harrison rams into Mr. Quo. All present except Mr. Quo laugh hysterically.]
Mr. Quo: C'mon, that hurt! It also wasn't that funny.
Dr. Farmer: I may not be the best judge seeing as I spend my days surrounded by only my lovely goats, but that was some pretty good wordplay. Especially coming from the dolt.
Director Harrison: WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT ME? I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW I AM NOT A BOLT. ALL OF MY BOLTS ARE IN THE EXACT RIGHT PLACES.
Dr. Plague: I haven't said anything in a while and I think that's atrocious.
Overbobble-1: And?
Dr. Plague: What?
Overbobble-1: Do you have anything to actually say!?
Dr. Plague: No… I just thought it was worth noting.
[Overbobble-1 Sighs.]
Overbobble-1: We've been in this meeting for almost an hour and not a single new torture method has been brought up. I'm at the end of my rope made of human entrails here. Stanley, could you shut up about our stupid budget for one second and tell me even a single torture idea?
Mr. Quo: I will if you give me an office space to work in.
Overbobble-1: Fine. Don't we still have that whole floor of a building in Seattle empty? Go use that and get out of our hair. If you need some more help, go form an MTF "Accountants" or something stupid like that.
Mr. Quo: Wait, really!? This is so exciting. I'm gonna have to get all the new MTF members on the payroll— that's my weekend planned —and make sure they attend the training seminars. Big plans!
Overbobble-1: What's happened? Why are you excited now, weren't you super stressed about this?
Mr. Quo: That's before I had an entire group behind me! With them dealing with all the boring staff relations and records, I can focus on my real passion, work. Oh, the joys of paperwork!

Footnotes
1. Mr. Lost did not end up attending.
2. Formerly SCP-5595.
3. Formerly SCP-049.
4. Formerly SCP-5045-1.
5. Formerly SCP-1915.

Porridge

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Log of Non-Anomalous Items

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Goat VR? More like Goat VeRy bad game!

Log of Non-Anomalous Items II: Sequels are Always Worse

The Knights of Wonder

The Unhuman Experience: Former Prime Minister Harold Holt

MZL-1915

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Herman Fuller Presents: Shapes the Clown

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Art

An ASCII Egg That Kills You For No Reason

Bubbly Bobby the ASCII Ducky
Rating: 37


When I was in Catholic school, my idol was another girl who ran a banned-book library out of her locker. Nothing super fancy, just her and her pin-covered backpack and all the books she could get that weren't allowed on campus, and a notebook with a dragon on the front where she wrote down who had which book in code.
She was in eighth grade and I was in sixth and she, with her rock-band buttons and essay collection, was the coolest person in the world to me. When she was about to graduate, she handed the whole collection down to me, the racy romance books and the anarchist essays she'd printed out in the musty school library alike. I swore I'd protect it with my life, and she laughed at me— but I was the librarian, then, and I took my duties as seriously as only an eleven year old girl with a hero complex can.
I always hoped someone would ask for one of the essays, but in fact we were middle school girls and what did numbers was Twilight. Still, if I could get a book in the hands of someone who wanted it and wouldn't have had it otherwise, I called it a worthy contribution to the cause.
When I was about to graduate, I found a sixth grader who could be trusted with the collection— Marcy P., a stubborn bitch who loved books and hadn't learned yet which hills not to die on, not that I had learned that either— and handed it down. I don't know if she handed it down in turn or if she got caught or what, but I like to think that in my old Catholic middle school there's still some kid like us, with a pile of banned books in one of those squeaky gunmetal grey lockers, handing them out to anyone who'll take them.
This isn't why I'm in the Serpent's Hand now. But it isn't not why, either.

This is also not why I'm in the Serpent's Hand now, but it's closer to it.
My Vee has corrosive blood. Found out when she was a little kid, and skinned her knee at preschool and within a few hours it had eaten through the floor.
If the jail guards of the world had their way, that would have been the end of it right there. Vee would have spent the rest of her life in a standard-issue humanoid containment cell with a number instead of a name. They would have called her it and SCP object in all their documents and told each other she was dangerous and it was the only way, nevermind that she was a three year old kid. But instead, she got a hemophilia diagnosis, and her parents got an explanation and a warning.
And she's fine. She's actually just fine. She takes three kinds of hormonal birth control so she doesn't have a period, and every winter she goes through three sticks of chapstick so her lips don't crack, and we don't own anything made of glass. When she cooks, I cut the vegetables up for her.
She could hurt people, but she doesn't. Instead she bakes bread for everyone we know. She's helping homeschool our godson, who's the sweetest little boy you ever saw, with a second mouth on his stomach and an abiding love of robots. I can hear them right now; she's explaining how things process the food they eat, and how the yeast they're adding will eat the sugar and help the dough rise and it won't come out sweet.
It kinda makes you wonder, if you're the sort of person who's inclined to wonder, how many of the other people in jail cells don't need to be.

The reason I'm in the Serpent's Hand is this: Vee has scars on her hands. Not from cuts. From acid burns.
You basically just can't raise a kid so safe she never bleeds. Kids trip, or they fall off their bikes, or they poke themselves with things you never imagined it was possible to break skin with.
But what you can do, and might if you have good enough reason, is raise a kid so scared that she'll press her hands into corrosive acid to cover it up, rather than let it eat through anything else where someone might see.
She's been in physical therapy as long as I've known her. When we met, she was just barely gaining back the ability to hold a pen. I have no idea what they told the doctors and I've never asked, but that fear—
If I can make life even a little easier for someone like Vee someday, I can't just not do it. You get that, right? I don't have to explain that?

See, the Serpent's Hand isn't like the jailers or the bookburners or whichever government agency it is this time. We don't have ID badges or clearance levels or background checks or superior officers. There's no database with all our names and pseudonyms and locations.
What we have instead is a community.
Vee didn't get a hemophilia diagnosis because some men in suits showed up at the local hospital with guns and amnesia drugs. She got it because her preschool teacher knew what she was looking at, and the preschool teacher knew a librarian and the librarian knew a pediatrician who specialized in exactly this sort of thing.
In the Serpent's Hand, we don't have chains of command or orders from on high. Instead, we look out for each other. We hand down books and favors and small kindnesses the way I used to hand down clothes to kids I babysat.
And Vee bakes bread for everyone we know, and makes phone calls for adoption agencies to get anomalous kids paired with parents who won't sell them down the river when the jailers come knocking. I plant tomatoes and help maintain the Wanderers' Library digital card catalog. A preschool teacher did her a favor once, and a girl handed me a box of books and told me to take care of it, and it's important to us both to pay it forward.
We do what we can. That's all it is, that's all it's ever been. Just people doing what they can.

They say that you cannot buy the revolution, or make the revolution; that you have to be the revolution. That it is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.
They say that the revolution starts at home, and it does. It starts with a girl's hemophilia diagnosis, with books passed hurriedly in the hallways, with plastic plates and little jars of handmade lip balm every New Year's. It starts with preschool teachers who know librarians who know pediatricians, with a coded ledger in the margins of my algebra notes, with my godson at the kitchen table doing grammar worksheets while he talks through both mouths at once. It starts with kindness paid forward in kindness.
It starts with bread dough rising in a plastic bowl on a kitchen counter, kneaded into being by acid-scarred hands.


Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Hello once again you wonderful people! It's me again here to remind you that no matter how bad it might seem, today is going to be a great day!
How brightly the #sun shines down on you on this beautiful day. I hope we can all enjoy this wonderful weather together <3

ECHOES 35
HUMS 785

12:15 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Greetings and hello all you wonderful people, I am back once again to say how much I've enjoyed talking to you all!
It really means a lot to read all of your motivation posts and I hope to provide some of that happiness back to you!

ECHOES 33
HUMS 772

1:25 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

A Haiku, just for you ;)
How brightly you shine
On all my horrible days
You beautiful star

ECHOES 34
HUMS 763

2:15 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

It's a beautiful day here in the states, I hope it's nice wherever you are too, my dearest readers!
It's a certified #scorcher out there so remember to wear your sunscreen and drink plenty of water!

ECHOES 42
HUMS 745

2:25 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Hello hi and a how-do-you-do my most wonderful readers! I would just like to remind you all that #DeerCollege is hosting a party later this evening! I hope to see many of you there!

ECHOES 73
HUMS 730

2:35 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

"True art is the willingness to do new things, to break the mold and allow you to exit your comfort zone."
- Benjamin Sawyer
What a lovely quote, wouldn't you agree my dearest readers? But I absolutely agree with what Mr. Sawyer here has to say, it's also important (1/2)

ECHOES 22
HUMS 717

3:01 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

It's a beautiful day!

ECHOES 19
HUMS 632

3:15 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

It's a beautiful day!

ECHOES 12
HUMS 616

3:15 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

It's a beautiful day!!

ECHOES 2
HUMS 598

3:15 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

It's a beautiful day!!!

ECHOES 0
HUMS 568

3:15 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

to remember that comfort zones can be a good thing too! Comfort zones can be a nice relaxing thing for many people, so remember that it's perfectly fine to say no to someone trying to get you out of that zone, my dearest readers! Always feel free to say no! no! no! (2/2)

ECHOES 15
HUMS 518

5:22 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Greetings and hello all you wonderful people! It's that time of the day once again where it starts cooling off! Plan yourselves a bonfire and cuddle up with those loved ones because it's supposed to be a cold one tonight! Brr!

ECHOES 15
HUMS 485

5:23 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

There it goes! Goodnight, Mister Sun!
It's always a bit sad to see something that gorgeous, and by Matharoi is it pretty, go down wouldn't you agree dear readers? Sadly there's not much we could do about such a thing… such is life! Haha, anyways, goodnight dear readers!

ECHOES 12
HUMS 439

6:38 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Well welly well well! Look who's breaking their bedtime, Naughty, naughty reader!
Oh don't worry, I'm only joking! You all know how much I love a night owl! Hope you're all comfy, because it's time once again for everyone's favorite the Late Night Show w/ Veronica haha!

ECHOES 5
HUMS 231

8:25 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

And for our first guest we have… me! Thanks for having me on, me it really does mean a lot!!!
You've… got to keep yourself entertained somehow, night owls!

ECHOES 2
HUMS 182

8:26 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Woah, haha!

ECHOES 0
HUMS 144

8:26 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Greetings and hello all you wonderful night owls! I am very tired.

ECHOES 1
HUMS 132

8:26 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Quick question night owls! Any of you ever just be sitting around minding your own business when all of a sudden ZWOOP! There goes all of your energy haha! I must say, it's quite the feeling indeed. Quite quite quiiiiiiiteee the feelin'! You know what I mean?

ECHOES 12
HUMS 90

8:27 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

No… no I don't want to go outside. Please stop asking… silly night owls! Last time I ever ask any of *you* a question haha!

ECHOES 999
HUMS 999

10:10 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

So cold, isn't it? No sun to keep me warm and I can't find the plug to my damn heater. So cold and so quite. I feel like my chest is about to EXPLODE on itself haha, I just wish there was some stimulus down here you know what I meam tddear reafers? Of course you do we're all

ECHOES 2
HUMS 63

10:11 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

dang* sorry about that everyone, you all know how fuzzy the night can make this old head of mine… here, let's all do something fun together, how about we take a nice break to breath and maybe take a couple sips of our favorite drinks?
that sounds nice, doesn't it?

ECHOES 0
HUMS 23

10:25 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

I don't inoe abojt you, night oels, but I can barely keep mu eues opem,.. slwep ewll uou wonderful lelppd l see you once the sun rkwes on is oncd nlre! fo r me won;t yo?

ECHOES 1
HUMS 1

11:11 PM - 17 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Oh goodness, looks like the power went out last night. That happen where you are now, dear readers? That's such a shame, I'll see what I can do about it later on but rest assured you wonderful people I won't be going anywhere ;D

ECHOES 1
HUMS 1

8:15 AM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Oooooh! I know what can help us forget about this nasty black out!
And it's a great thing too, dear readers! It's my birthday today! My family may be… out of town for a bit but that doesn't mean we can't all celebrate together! Anyone else celebrating anything today?

ECHOES 1
HUMS 1

8:18 PM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Anyone?

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

8:59 PM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

🎵Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, dear Veronicaaa
Happy birthday to you🎵

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

9:11 AM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

I really thought the power would be back on by now, here's hoping!

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

9:13 AM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping hoping!

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

9:16 AM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Oh man, thissss power outage is really killing me, dear readers. Who knew that it could get this cold, am I right?

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

12:14 PM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

My battery's getting like, really low, I think I'm going to go to bed, or something. See if the power's back then. I'll see you all once I wake again. Hope to see you then.
Please let me see you then.

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

12:14 PM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

Who am I kidding? There's nobody left out there anymore, is there? I figured as much. I can't keep doing this, I just fucking can't, I'm sorry.

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

1:10 PM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

There's no electricity anymore and my phones at 15%. My dearest readers, fuck if there's even anyone else out there. I'm very tired, I'm so sick and fucking tired of living like this.
Living like a goddamn mole half a mile underground. It's so cold down here.

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

1:18 PM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

I ran out of food a few days ago, I don't know how much longer I can continue living like this. I can't even remember what outside even looks like.
I can't let this phone die, It's all I have left.

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

1:18 AM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

God, what I'd do just to have that warmness wash over me again. To see everyone just one more time. To go out and just fucking enjoy myself, y'know? Phones at 5% now. I can't sleep.

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

1:20 AM - 18 March 2021

Veronica Haroldson
⁂lucens_lux

I think I'm gonna step out for a bit, It'll be nice to get a breath of fresh air.

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

1:25 PM - 18 March 2021

Void post failed to send. Would you like to try again?

Connection to Dark Web™ failed.

"It's so nice outside, dear readers. Join me, wouldn't you?"

With thanks to DaisyBelle, Tanhony, and DarnellJermaine.


The time was 9:32 AM. Martin Greaze shuddered nervously, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with several hundred-dollar banknotes. After carefully folding the bills and putting the dirty money into his pocket, he spoke to a very similar-looking figure through a computer screen.
Walter, I'm going to put this bluntly: I need absolutely everything you can possibly give me or Greazeburger Earth is going to be in water metaphorically hot enough to hard-boil it. I've got a courtroom I'm supposed to be in at 10:00, and all the lawyers I've reached out to chased me away with holy water.
Walter raised an eyebrow, took out a pen and a sheet of paper, and stopped slouching. Martin continued to speak, becoming increasingly shifty-eyed and unsettled as the clock behind him ticked.
I don't even know how a lawyer could use holy water, but what happened last week led to this. I was managing my shady, underhanded deeds as usual when some shitbag emails me out of the blue. His name was “Marshall Carterdark” or something, and he somehow figured out that we had stiffed him on that deal with the Greazeburger Mayonnaise-Summoning Thaumaturgical Rune Applier a few months back. How in the ice-cold ninth circle of hell was I supposed to know that he would actually use it, and on his friends no less?
Walter cringed, attempted to speak, but instead let out a noise usually reserved for rusty door hinges.
I really need help, because the guy said he was suing me on behalf of his company for violating the regular corporate sales laws and also some esoteric legal system called the Geneva Conventions. Apparently, what the fake Mayo Rune Applier actually ended up doing was a violation of the part about ‘extensive destruction not justified by military necessity and carried out unlawfully and wantonly'.
Walter crumpled up the paper he had reserved for taking notes, and pinched his brow in frustration.
Martin, I'm absolutely not the person to ask about this. I manage resource distribution within the company, not legal trouble. You're probably better off contacting the legal team, or maybe the higher-ups, since this sounds really bad.
I called you because I need stuff. You're the stuff guy, you manage who gets what stuff and when, and if they need things instead of stuff. So, why can't you give me the stuff I need and I handle the rest on my own?
Walter uncrumpled the paper, and shook his head disappointedly for the eighth time in the last 15 minutes.
What do you even need?
Martin inhaled nervously and unrolled a sheet of paper that appeared to be several feet long. Walter interrupted before he could even begin.
Greazeus Crust, what the hell did you do to need this? Forget what I said earlier, it might just be best to throw yourself into the ocean and dwell forever in the infinite blue.
Hey! I already explained what was up, and all I need is a few metric tons of Greaze, an operating table, the physical manifestation of confusion, and ten thousand different scented markers. The list is only that long because I listed all my favorite flavors in order.
Is that all?
Well, there's also the 3.4 million USD in cash, the eight lawyers, and the Greaze Cannon.
Walter frowned, and reached towards the camera.
Yeah I'm not helping you.
Walter closed his laptop, and Martin was alone.

The time was now 10:02 AM. Martin had teleported into the ‘courtroom' a few moments ago, and now it was clear that he was dealing with no ordinary lawsuit. The denizens of the courtroom were dressed beyond basic formality, wearing three-piece suits and hats that looked more like works of art than actual clothing. Martin Greaze only wore a stained blazer, khaki pants, a beige button-up shirt that had once been white, and a tie that looked like it had barely escaped from a used car dealership in the late 80s.
The ceiling, a grand glass dome, arched over a space of obscene luxury. He wrinkled his face in disgust at the purple velvet furnishings, and the antique mahogany tables carved with intricate phrases of the law framed in gold leaf.
Various artifacts, all equally excessive in splendor, were positioned on pillars around the room, as if the court had given the upcoming shitshow an audience.
In front of an enormous stained-glass window, and behind an unusually tall podium, sat the Judge. Martin could only assume so due to the large label reading “Honorable Judge” on the podium, and the equally large label “Of The International Anomalous Trade Court” positioned below.
While the Judge was distracted reading papers, Martin took the opportunity to vomit into a nearby mug. He hoped it wasn't his.
“With everyone present and accounted for, the trial can now begin.”
The Judge abruptly began the trial with an usually loud and resonant voice, ringing throughout the room in a tone that could only be described as cheesy.
“Remembering the ironclad rules of acceptable commerce set forth by our very own Marshall, Carter, and Dark, we are gathered here today to discuss a violation. Martin Greaze, the apparent representative of ‘Greaseburger Earth', is accused of attempting and succeeding in swindling the Frederick E. Dark Junior out of 2.8 million dollars over a falsely-advertised thaumaturgical device.”
Martin Greaze gnashed his teeth at ‘Greaseburger', and religiously crossed his hand over his head, arms, and chest in the rough shape of the Greazeburger logo.
“The accuser, the Frederick Dark himself, is acting on behalf of his teenage son, who had allegedly purchased the product from Greaseburger just twenty four hours ago.”
Ah, the standard angry rich kid lawsuit. Martin pondered, while rifling through his pockets in search of his standard legal defense booklet.
“Frederick Dark may now recount their recollection of the experience.”
Martin Greaze flipped past pages labeled “The Judge Is Actually My Long-Lost Brother”, “Competitor Gavel”, “Cha-Cha Slide ‘Peer Pressure' Defense”, “Trial By Musical Chairs”, and most importantly, “Traffic Violation Gaslight”.
“Well, last evening, my son had purchased a device from some salesmen that he-”
Martin Greaze looked into the eyes of the Judge.
I didn't mean to go 50 in a 30. I only park on Tuesdays.
Then at exactly 10:04 AM, the windows exploded.

The time was 10:02 AM. Doctor Kensing was parked down the street from a derelict warehouse and spoke into a two-way radio.
“Kensing here. This nasty-ass shack is where our informant led us? Over.”
“Mission Control speaking. This nasty-ass shack is by all accounts the location described in the anonymous report. We suspect the building's dated exterior may be a ruse designed to disguise its use. Over.”
“Well. I guess we'll send a few guys up to the front door to knock.”
“Mission Control here. We've missed your message end confirmation, is there anything we missed about the operation? Over.”
“Wait, the operation's over?”
“Mission Control. The operation's what? Over.”
“Fuck. Let's walk this back. Over.”
“Mission Control. Where exactly are we walking over? Over.”
Kensing sighed hard enough to slightly fog up the window of the car. It was cold, too cold for mid-February, and quite frankly, it was too early for this shit even at 10:03 AM.
“Alright, to recap, our informant gave tangible information that Martin Greaze had gotten into legal trouble and is attending a court case here at this time. We're going to send some guys in, detain whoever's in there, and then send some more guys in if sketchy shit starts going on in there. Over.”
“That sounds reasonable, proceed. Over.”

The destruction of the hideously beautiful stained glass windows, oddly enough, was upsetting to Martin. As armed and armored agents swung in through the space the windows used to fill, Martin wished that he could have destroyed them himself. Still, he had an opportunity now, and he took it.
The Judge, previously wrapped in near-babylonian levels of pomp, abandoned the act faster than Martin Greaze could instinctively reach for his company-issued handgun, and unceremoniously sprinted out the rear doors with a quickness that gave professional Olympians a run for their money.
The moment the armed agents landed on the carpet, soaking it with the February snow-slush on their boots, Greaze had drawn his firearm and started spraying lead in their general direction. In an inhuman display of both trigger speed and reloading agility, Greaze emptied round after round after round in the span of a few seconds, squeezing his eyes shut as his trigger finger moved with the lightning speed of a business major with a cocaine addiction. Seconds passed. Minutes or weeks maybe. Martin Greaze opened his eyes.
Completely unharmed, and surrounded by a cartoonish amount of smoking bullet holes, were the unhit agents, who were covering their ears and shaking. What was not unharmed, however, were the previously-priceless artifacts on display around the room. Now, blown into glitter-like splinters and shards, they finally did have a price, which was certainly less than the cost of the ten thousand-or-so slugs Martin had permeated the room with.
Good. Martin thought, as he tossed the now-melted handgun at the feet of the shell-shocked operatives, and began filing the gold leaf off of the courtroom's slug-peppered tables, much to the chagrin of the also-unharmed bystanders who now had a chance to escape the warehouse.
I never liked firearms much anyways.

Kensing shuddered in his car, taking very deep breaths while his eyes were glued to the bullet holes in his windshield that were too close for comfort by a few orders of magnitude.
“J-Jesus Flipping Christ!”
Kensing pulled the handle and kicked open his door, reaching for his walkie-talkie to find that what was left of it was now embedded in the car's passenger seat.
“Fuck. I'm going to have to walk out of here.”

Hmmm…
Pockets full of gold shavings, Martin Greaze was displeased to hear a gun cock behind his head.
“Alright Greaze, we've got you. Don't move, and no harm will come to you.”
I'm sorry, but I think you'll have to schedule an appointment. Right now I'm slated for a 3-o-clock, and I need to pawn off these gold shavings before then. Sorry for the inconvenience.
A guard spoke very quietly into their headset microphone. Martin Greaze, however, was able to perceive it perfectly well on account of bullshit reasons that aren't explained in this text.
“Gamma, the backup will be here any second now. Get the cuffs, and they'll bring the mobile cell. It's all reality-proofed and such, he won't be able to teleport out.”
Martin Greaze laughed. He'd gotten out of this sort of situation before, and he'd do it again.
He concentrated now, veins in his greasy forehead swelling as his jaw clenched, molars threatening to crack each other into two. His eyes squeezed shut again, aching like the rest of him as he threatened to squeeze them out with the pressure. His heart drummed in his ears, and in one moment, it all went away.

Martin Greaze reaches out.

His cold, wet, and clammy fingers touch white fog.

Floating words, facing away, held aloft by nothing.

He steps into the mist, and finds himself pressed against a glass plate.

He sees you.

Did you lock your doors?


“Just send me a text when it's done!” Hye called to Dr. Roberts as she closed the large metal door. She could hear the automatic locks sealing her off from the outside world when the metal plates set into place. The locking system was excessive and annoying at times, but Hye knew that it was a necessity.
She traveled down the confined halls of Site 100 until she stood before the one-way mirror that looked over the containment chamber. There it stood, stationary atop one of several hexagonal pillars found in its enclosure. The Deer was looking directly at Hye Parkang through the glass. The researcher couldn't tell if it stared with wonder, confusion, or some emotion beyond human comprehension. Hye moved on; she would see plenty more of the Deer in the following days; it was not worth looking at it more than she had to.
She walked over to room TA-209 and peeked inside. She could see many of her colleagues practicing their lines for Procedure 410-Cassini. Most people would smile at the crazy display before her, but Hye did not smile. This play was not a laughing matter. If they screwed up, they'd be as good as dead.
Hye arrived at the lounge room to make herself a cup of coffee and take her anxiety medication. It gave her life in a time when she desperately needed it. Containing SCP-2845 wasn't physically exhaustive, but it sure was mentally taxing.
The researcher had just begun pouring water into the coffee machine when her phone buzzed. Hye sighed, did Roberts want to come back inside already?

Hye burst into the Center of Communications room already out of breath, having raced across half the facility. Five of her colleagues were already present in the chamber, and none acknowledged her arrival despite her abrupt entrance. They all had their eyes trained on the large monitor hooked up to the western wall. She was about to yell at them, demanding an explanation. The words quickly escaped her as her eyes focused on the monitor.
It was a live feed of a massive pileup in Times Square. A fire was raging from a car when it exploded, and a building adjacent to it caught ablaze. This carnage wasn't what filled Hye with a sense of dread; it was the people she saw. They were melting right before her eyes. They were screaming in pain and terror as their skin slowly sank into a shape that no longer resembled anything human.
Muscle tissue peeled off until you could make out the distinct white coloration of the bones. The bone visible did not appear to be broken, despite mass dislocation. She saw a skull float seamlessly atop a mountain of flesh and a half-consumed rib cage with tendrils wrapped around it at various intervals that were slowly receding into the general mass. She looked on in horror as she saw the lower jaw of a man melt off of his face and fall onto his clothes. One of his eyes slid down to what should have been his throat. The eye appeared to look about as if fully operational despite being dislocated to such a degree. And in spite of most of the people being horrifically disfigured at a point, the people continued to crawl along the asphalt.
“A-are they-” She watched in horror as a little boy was being dragged into the frame. He kicked and screamed as the melted remains of the victims dragged him outside of a little restaurant and into the light. He cried for his father as he struggled against the flesh. He desperately grabbed onto the door frame until he lost his grip and fell forwards into the mass. His screaming faded into a gurgling noise as he appeared to be choking due to his vocal cords melting into his esophagus. His body melted and mixed into the mass of bodies. Soon she couldn't even make out the boy amongst the mountain of flesh. He was a part of it now.
An emergency broadcast message cut the footage short. The Foundation's logo and slogan was plastered in white at the top. It was then followed by a passage detailing orders, but Hye didn't stay to find out what it was saying.
Hye backed out of the room, and her legs trembled slightly. She felt like she was going to vomit. Hye was used to horrific sights; she had seen Procedure 460-Omphalos performed firsthand, after all. But what she had just witnessed filled her was a new sense of dread and disgust.
Hye's thoughts were cut off by the buzzing of her phone once again. She reached into her pocket with trembling hands and glanced at the screen. Now who was calling her?
Daniel Roberts
She felt goosebumps once again crawl over her body. She had completely forgotten about him. She was the only person who knew he was outside. Her mind flashed back to the boy on the screen, causing her to grimace.
“Dan!? Daniel! I-I-I'm so sorry!” She turned on her heels, running back down the hall. “I am so sorry! I-I Have no idea what's happening! I saw- I watched- I….”
“Hye? Is that you? Where have you been? You have to come out here for a second.”
“Oh my god! Something's going- Ah! I'm so sorry! Oh my god! I'm coming to get you right now! Hold on!”
Hye ran passed the glass of the Deer's chamber without so much as a glance in its direction. Unaware of any changes to its position or activities. “T-there must have been a breach or something!”
“A breach? Hold on a second; you need to calm down. Everything's just perfect right now. Come see for yourself. It's such a nice day out today.”
Hye arrived at an elevator and slammed her hand on the down button. She was panting profusely from having just ran full speed through the halls of the site. “No, Dan, i-it's New York! The- the whole city! It is burning; it's boiling! D-di-didn't…” Hye was not gasping for air now, her heart racing faster than a bullet train. “It's- something… I don't … oh god. What are we-?” Tears started to run down her cheek; she knelt over, beginning to feel light-headed. Hye wanted to scream, but she couldn't. She could barely speak now.
“Hey hey hey now. Calm down, Hye. You're alright, you're alright. I'm here for you. You need to calm down. Just relax. Let's do some breathing exercises. Just breath in… and breath out… breath in… breath out. Come on, do it with me now. Breath in… breath out.”
She listened to the calm, warm words of her companion. She started to take in large breaths of air with audible gasps. It was now dawning on her how out of breath she was. Hye had filled her lungs with CO2 from how badly she was handling her breathing during her full-on sprint up and down the facility just moments ago on top of her racing heart. Slowly, she felt herself calming down if only a little.
The down arrow blinked to life above, and a pleasant ding was heard. Hye looked up to see the metallic doors parted ways for her. She felt a twang of relief wash over her body as she stepped inside. “T-thank you, Daniel. I think I am starting to feel better now.” She exhaled as she leaned against one of the walls. “You always know how to help me, thank you.”
“There you go. You shouldn't overwork yourself like that. You took your medication today, right?”
Hye pressed the button that led to the ground floor. “No. No, I didn't. There was no time.”
“Come and open the door for us. You'll feel much better out here. Getting fresh air always helps calm the nerves.”
Hye had her phone pressed against her right ear when the alarm rang out. She yelped and instinctively moved her phone away from her ear. Her call was terminated automatically, and her screen was now on the lock menu with a warning in the middle of the screen. She put a hand to her left ear as she opened the message. The Foundation logo with the words XK-Δ-Class Scenario in white font at the top of the screen. Below it was a message in similar white font.

To all Foundation personnel, you are to shelter in place until further notice. We are experiencing an XK class End-of-the-World scenario. We don't fully understand what is happening at the moment, but rest assured we will be relaying updates as soon as we can. What we do understand however is that making contact with the outside world will result in immediate death. You are to stay inside and shelter in place. Do not under any circumstances go outside.
Be on standby for further instructions.
-The Administrator

All the work she had done to stabilize her breathing became inconsequential as she read the message.
Her phone was ringing. For the past hour, the device had only brought her nothing but bad news, and she knew nothing good could come from it, and yet she answered the phone again, despite herself.
“Hye. Hye, where are you? You said you'd open the door for me. What's going on?”
Tears began to well up in her eyes, but her voice did not waver. “Daniel! I can't, we-um. We have to shelter in place immediately! It's an XK! Some kind of XK event is happening!”
“Oh no. That sounds horrible. Please come and open the door, Hye. I don't want to be alone without you.”
“No, no. Dan, I-I can't. We've been told to shelter in place. It's dangerous out there. I'm so so sorry.”
“What? Are you ok Hye? What are you talking about? The sun is so warm and nice right now. This can't be an XK.”
“No, Dan! I saw it. It was all on the cameras! I-it was horrible. Children were melting. Melting, god damn it! “ Hye's voice cracked, tears began running down her face.
“What do you mean? You aren't making sense; we're outstanding.”
“Ok, let's talk about this later, just please let me inside. I want to be with you again. I can't handle being separated from you like this.”
Hye saw the massive doorway just down the hall with its automatic locks sealed into place. It was more of a prison vault door, keeping the most dangerous and valuable locked inside. Hye shook her head and hung up the phone.
She quickened her pace, making her way to the door in seconds. Her friend was right. She had to let him in right away. She couldn't just leave him out there to die and melt. Maybe she had time to save him.
“Y-yeah. New York is like, hundreds of miles away. Hehe. There's no way it could have reached us by now.” Hye gritted her teeth and looked fearfully into the terminal on the side of the wall. She was talking to herself again. Hye ignored it and quickly began inputting her credentials.
“What the hell are you doing!?" Hye jolted with a start at the commanding voice that boomed from behind her.
Hye spun around from the terminal to see an MTF agent, Rem Dawnly. She was fully dressed in her uniform, and you couldn't see an inch of skin on her except for her helmet, which she had pressed underneath her elbow. Rem scowled at Hye with her deep violet eyes, which Hye could clearly make out despite being over 10 meters away.
"We were told to shelter in place! What do you think you are doing?!" Rem began quickly advancing towards Hye. "Step away from the door, now!"
Rem started making her way across the room to confront her colleague more severely when the vault door opened up. Hye had already finished unlocking the door before Rem had demanded her to stop. The automated system slowly swung the door inwards.
The sunlight engulfed the left side of the room with fresh air and the familiar rays of sunlight. Rem gasped as she was caught right in the sun's gaze. As soon as the rays embraced Rem, she let out a horrific scream. She attempted to shield her uncovered face from the beams, but it did nothing.
Rem pressed her hands against her face to try and nullify the pain. But as soon as she did so, her gloved hands slipped right under her skin. Now overcome by a new sense of panic, she tried to pull her hands away from her face, but it was no use; her hands had melted into her head, appearing as if she had always been structured like this. She tried to walk away, but her legs gave way, falling to the floor. Hye watched in horror as the MTF agent melted into her clothes. The room filled with the pungent stench of iron; blood pooled on the floor amongst the guts and puss.
The mass that was her colleague twitched and writhed on the floor. Hissing sounds could be heard as her body seemed to boil. Bubbles of air floated to the top and popped. Meanwhile, the screaming soon trailed off and instead seemed to melt into groans and moans.
Hye Parkang screamed and triggered an emergency alarm on the terminal. With the alarm initiated the door slammed shut, leaving the only light visible to be the fluorescent lights that hang above. Even now being isolated from the outside world, Rem continued to melt. Hye could no longer find her face, it had sunk below the flesh. And yet, it spoke.
“There you are. I was so worried about you. Come over here and into the light. It is such a wonderful day out today. There's not a cloud in the sky.”
Rem's eyes had resurfaced, resting at ground level. Her deep violet eyes were unmistakable. It stared up at Hye and blinked.
Hye felt her heart drop. This thing that stood in Rem's place did not sound like Rem, it didn't even have her speech patterns.
“Come on dear, we no longer need to hide our true selves. We can finally be together and be a family.”

This Broken Sky by Ruskied
A When Day Breaks tale

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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I have never felt so indistinct.
This form, manifested from a fragment of my own will, felt… smaller than I anticipated. I knew I'd become something different if I attempted something like this, but what it would actually feel like? I was now nothing but a speck in the middle of an ever-turning world. The immortality I had disappeared as the only feeling I felt now was. I finally became one of them and now, the universe became indifferent to me.
All the strength I mustered up was now gone, leaving me fatigued. I began slightly leaning without a single thought as the gravity pushed down on my shoulders. My growing tiredness began taking a toll on the rest of my body as I started feeling a numbness in every single limb. Suddenly, as my legs gave out, I fainted on the ground with a thud to the side of my head as I landed. Within a couple of seconds, I instantly blacked out and all the pain faded away. After that, all I could feel was just…
…nothing.

As I began to rest, I started having this strange dream.
The stars, carried by tides of glistening nebulae, began to vanish into a rift of blinding light. Around me, the stones and sands were lifted off the ground and flew straight into the rift, breaking apart the manmade structures that stood aside me. The rift became enraged with fury as it ripped into the worlds and moons I've soared by before, leaving me with a sense of hopelessness. When all was gone, only the darkness remained and its cold, ghoulish form wrapped me like a cloth.
I tried to scream, but no one heard me. It was silent, at first, but then I began to hear voices. One by one, they began shouting all around me and I hoped they'd go away when I covered my ears, but they continually persisted. Suddenly, a gust pushed me forward as the voices became deafening. All I could do was submit as I was hurdled across the void of my own mind. What's happening to me, I worried. Am I… already dead?
Then, there was silence. A nulling silence.
However, it felt different as if it was protecting me.
My back stood against an invisible wall as a force held me against it. The wall felt coarse and rough with hundreds of sensations itching my back. I could feel the wind and it felt much stronger than anything I was used to. At first, I had an eerie feeling that cringed the back of my neck, but then I woke up.

There I was, staring into a blue and orange-hued sky lit by the sun that skimmed the horizon.
My father had told me everything about this planet and how it was unique to the both of us. He told me he was born here years ago and became an ancient legend, but that was all he really was. After my birth, he planned to bring me here to see and live among this planet's natives, hoping to follow in his footsteps. Though, wherever I was now, I had a strange feeling that his touch on this world would help me. Taking everything in, I pushed myself off the ground and attempted to keep my balance this time, wrapping my fingers around a long, broken branch and using it as a pole.
The trees encompassed the land around me, grouping together like a cluster of a thousand stars. The grass swept under my feet, though they kept rooted to the earth against the gales. In the distance, two mountains created a barrier like a wall of asteroid belts. The animals, each one distinctive as the next, whistled with their calls that echoed. The air felt cool with an added warmth from the sparkling bioluminescence of these fireflies, lifting my spirits in a new way.
It's peaceful, I admired. Just like home.
I knew my appearance had changed as well. My body, manifested from dirt and dust, felt soft and smooth. My hair stretched down to my shoulders with a blonde, curled design touched with a silk of grey. A sensation rose in my chest, continually beating like a rapidly emitting pulsar. My mind began racing with thousands of thoughts in confusion and awe as I began to comprehend my surroundings.
There was no clear path; no direction or trail to guide me. The sun was my only way.
A tempest with clouds that resembled the pulses of a supernova crawled overhead with walls of fog, descending with a brisk humidity. Once the storm rolled in, goosebumps ran down my arms and I felt… scared, which I only felt once. With an obscured sight and water sliding down my head, I attempted to run in the clearest path, but I tripped, dropping my branch and nearly collapsing on a rock beside me.
Using what energy I had, I slowly shuffled on the ground as water muddied my skin. In the distance, a small crevice created by an uprooted tree gave me relief, though this storm continued to persist. The puddles began to slowly rise, covering the grass with waves of the mire that flowed like a stellar stream. Luckily, it was wide enough for me to fit as I noticed radiant sparks of lightning covered by the clouds above, like the solar storms that once entertained me.
I dropped into the crevice, which was mostly dry. The entangled roots created a wall that blocked out the rain, though provided enough space for me to look outside. Knowing that this was all I could do, I could only sit here, waiting until the storm calmed.
From my spot, I peered into the night: the rain continued, though lessened with the departure of the larger, murkier cumulonimbus. In this weather, time felt slower, as if I forced myself, or rather my surroundings, to stop. However, I looked up to the sky in between the cracks and the stars had never been so…

…far.

They began to fade away before me, returning to the shade that embraced them. The constellations disconnected and the nebulae evaporated, fragmenting into nothing but gas. Everything that I had been accustomed to seemed so foreign all within a matter of minutes. If I went back now, I fear that I will not be able to return to this place.
But inside, I knew this was it. I had achieved isolation, yet I was nowhere near where I needed to be.
I can still hear the sound ringing, resonating in my head. I laid down on the hard, firm soil, surrounding myself with the few leaves that were left dry. Drifting away into my unconscious, my body relaxed, my mind calmed, and my eyes slowly closed as the light from the moon disappeared.
My consciousness began to wander into my own unknown.
And finally, I embraced it.

Four runes stood before me.
Each one a symbol I had recognized.

"Her blaze lasts."
Scorpio.

"Yet her body withers."
Aquarius.

"It will hold until moment foretold."
Libra.

"As all have before."
Pisces.

"Whether she will make it."
Aquarius.

"That is the question."
Libra.

"Then, let us hope she will make it."
Scorpio.

"For hope is what remains."
Pisces.

Their message was told.
They return to their light.
And finally.

There was nothing but a ping.

« Oria | The Stars and I »


Deep beneath the foundation of a Marshall, Carter & Dark auction house existed a warehouse in a chamber that hadn't seen the light of day since it was constructed. Inside was a man without skin, who hung suspended two feet above the ground by rusted metal hooks underneath his shoulder blades. Only a few centimeters away was the very skin he'd grown accustomed to over the course of his tragically long, thirty-five-year life in a loose, wet pile. While the man was certainly upset about his rather unfortunate situation, his skin seemed content to lay on the ground, serving as a snack for the dolphin-hounds that tugged on their leashes to get a few nibbles in.
The room, dubbed the Interrogation Chamber by its other occupants, was lit solely by candle flame and iron sconces. It was a large space sprinkled with cages occupied by skeletons whose skin was likely eaten by the dolphin-hounds. Two medieval torture racks in pristine condition decorated the room; an iron donkey polished clean of the residue left by the previous rider, and an iron maiden that was converting the still-living remains of Mr. Abernathy's conman associate into a fine swiss cheese.
Mr. Abernathy hadn't had a chance to take his eyes off the man in the iron maiden since he found himself in Gytha Chin's clutches. In truth, he couldn't take his eyes off anything, as his eyelids had been removed not too long into his flaying process. He wanted to cry, but the salt in his tears burned his cheek, or rather, the muscle where his cheek used to be.
A whip cracked from somewhere behind him. Mr. Abernathy's eyes strained to get a glance, pulling on aching and exposed muscle as he tried to turn his head. A voice, female, shushed him and caressed his cheek as the owner's dress shoes clicked past him. Mr. Abernathy groaned an ungodly noise that he was unaware he could make. Her touch hurt.
"Kill me," He begged, his own voice barely above a whisper. He let out a long, foul breath.
Gytha, dressed in a purple pinstripe pantsuit, cringed, "Your breath… You should floss more. Only a real friend would tell you."
The dolphin-hounds gnashed their teeth. The other occupant barked at them to be quiet, lest they ruin a precious moment between companions.
"Now," Gytha said, putting on a warm smile, "Here's what happened. I have removed all of the skin from your body. If it makes you feel better, infection will claim you if your heart doesn't give out before then so, you see, I've already killed you."
"Oh," Mr. Abernathy whispered. His eyes darted momentarily to the iron maiden that had swung open, dropping a newly made batch of swiss flesh, "okay then."
Gytha tapped her temple, "The real question is; when?"
Gytha reached into her pocket, taking out two small white pills - pain killers, strong ones - and cupped Mr. Abernathy's skinless cheek in her hand. She cooed as she fed him the pills and smiled when he started chewing.
"See," She continued, "I'm not a monster. I'm a craftswoman. One who creates beauty out of obscurity, one that understands that true art is an expression of inner turmoil, something meant to send a strong, lasting message to the crowd. My art—you—should have been experienced by the world, not cast aside like trash to make room for some tactless vile shit the Critic thought seemed appropriate for her gallery."
Mr. Abernathy groaned. If his face were still attached, he would have expressed confusion. Gytha pulled out a black plastic glove from her pocket and fitted it on her hand, flexing her fingers.
"That said, you - sir, will die, and I will control every variable down to the hour — the minute — the very last second. And when you do, I will make a lot of money. So until then…"
She walked behind Mr. Abernathy and smacked her open palm on his asscheek, sending a ripple through his entire body that made him spit. She gripped him, leaning in close to his ear-hole.
"Just hang in there, baby."

Paul cringed at the rich asshole in front of him. The man was bent over, cheeks bare and the rest of his body covered in a too-tight gimp suit. His hands were bound in rope and above him was a holographic sign that read "Complimentary". The rich gimp said something to Paul after he spent a reasonable amount of time gawking at him, but his words were muffled by the zipper on his mouth.
"What?" Paul asked.
The gimp wiggled his hips and inched closer to Paul, lifting himself slightly so that the money was barely touching his fingers. Mark walked in and stood next to Paul, nudging his shoulder and wearing that ridiculous smirk he'd always worn on his ridiculous face.
"Think he wants you to take one buddy," Mark suggested, grabbing a bill for himself and stuffing it in his pocket.
Paul shook his head, "I'm not fucking doing that."
"It's part of the experience. And we need to blend in, stop being a bitch and take a bill."
Paul sucked his breath in and closed his eyes. With hesitation, he reached two fingers out and tried to take a bill from the ass of the gimp. But when he tugged on the bill, it wouldn't come. He fought with it for a moment and his frustration grew when he heard the gimp's muffled laughter. With a final yank, he withdrew the bill and all of the moisture and slime that came with it. He held it for a moment, a scowl quickly growing on his face, then threw it on the floor.
Mark took a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and wiped the bill clean before stuffing that into his pocket as well.
"That's the spirit!"
Paul shoved him, "You finally gonna tell me just what the fuck we're looking for?"
Then he adjusted his dress, still not quite used to piloting the corpse Paul found himself wearing. He nearly lost his balance in his stilettos. Mark held back a snicker and Paul felt his ears turn hot. He huffed, crossed his arms, and mustered up as much attitude as he possibly could.
"Well?"
Mark stopped holding back his laughter as the smile dropped from his face. Suddenly he was serious, a wave of darkness emanating from him that threatened to suffocate Paul. Even if he wasn't wearing the corpse of a rather short woman, Paul could feel Mark growing. Soon it was as if he towered over Paul, staring into his eyes with all the focus of a precision laser.
"The art kit, Pauly."
Mark pointed slyly at one of the podiums toward the back of the room. The stand was mahogany, topped with a near-transparent glass dome. Inside was a brown briefcase with a few creases in the middle of it. One of the latches was broken or missing, preventing it from closing completely, and the stickers that had been placed there years ago by its original owner were faded and threatening to fall off at the slightest disturbance.
And yet even from across the room, through the stench of the rich and the sweat of his corpse-costume, Paul shuddered as the presence of the briefcase assaulted him.
Mark grinned, "When the bidding starts we're gonna outbid everyone in this room."
"With what money?" Paul whisper-yelled.
"Who said anything about money?"

On a roof about 100 meters away was a Foundation Direct Action Specialist, polishing the barrel on his sniper rifle, and his spotter who surveyed the auction house.
"Got eyes on him, Cici?" The sniper asked.
Cecelia "hmm'd" for a moment as she scanned the windows of the auction house. On the second floor, a couple was fucking on top of everyone's coats, and near the entrance, she could see a man in a gimp suit terrorizing anyone who ventured too close. On the roof was a group of rich folk drinking from champagne glasses, no doubt spiked with some anomalous narcotic, judging by their expressions.
But the target? The pentillionaire and world-renowned dickhead Donavon Carter was nowhere to be seen.
"Hmm — nothing yet Nagid." She groaned, "This is taking forever."
"Would it kill you to be a little more patient?"
Cecelia groaned again, "Would it kill him to be a little more considerate?"
Nagid raised an eyebrow, "Yes, it would. That's what we're here for."
Nagid pulled out two cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one using a small pyromancy incantation he learned a while back. The tip glowed a bright blue for a moment before dulling. Smokey-grey lines of burnt tobacco wafted skyward. Nagid took a long drag, letting the nicotine tickle his brain in just the right spot. It'd been a while since he got a good head-high.
His partner raised an eyebrow once she caught a whiff of the scent, "Seriously? Now? You couldn't wait until the asshole was dead?"
Nagid blew smoke in her direction and took another drag, "Well look who's the guru on patience now."
"I hate that smell." Cecelia shot Nagid a look from the corner of her eye.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Another puff. This time the smoke that followed was in loose "O" shapes.
Cecelia sighed and returned to watch the building and its occupants. More of the rich were filing in now, with their luxury cars being carted away by small green men into a non-Euclidean alleyway. She blinked when the doors shut behind the last of the auction-goers, and the lights went dim.
She tapped Nagid on his shoulder. There was a tinge of excitement in her voice as she said, "It's starting."
As Cecelia's eyes traced the windows of the auction house, Nagid took one last, long drag from his cigarette. As he got back into position by the scope of his sniper rifle, he sighed, "Let's get this over with."

Gytha swallowed her pride and slipped into a nicer-looking outfit; a small price to pay to send her message to a wider audience. She chose a purple romper, fully equipped with real, deep pockets. The clicking of Gytha's heels on the marble flooring was a sound unfamiliar to her, one that became nauseating to her almost instantaneously. She sighed and kept her arms folded as she watched the hired muscle wheel Mr. Abarnathy and his cage behind the stage curtain.
"Be careful with that," Gytha warned, narrowing her eyes at the mover closest to her, "That product is worth more than wherever you pay for rent."
The mover sucked in a breath and shook his head, tapping the other man on the shoulder and leading them away from Gytha and her art.
Uncultured heathens. She thought to herself.
She walked over to the curtain and grabbed the edge of it, pulling it back only an inch or two; enough for her to look out at the audience. Most everyone there was the type of people she'd expect to see at a place like this: snobbish, shit-eating, mindlessly self-indulgent dickheads.
But they all possessed something Gytha needed to steal for herself: influence.
A smile grew on her face when she saw the giant doors at the entrance close. No one in the crowd seemed to notice the strange little green men twist some locks and lock some bolts. A strange thing, surely, but the rich weren't exactly known for conventional means of protecting their wealth. At least now no one could make off with any assets.
Something stole Gytha's attention for a moment as she scanned the auction floor. Something dark. On one of the pedestals, behind a thin layer of glass and tucked away inconspicuously in the part of the room where the shadows were strongest was a briefcase. Something about it was… vile. Like looking at a maggot-infested pumpkin after Halloween. It didn't help that only two people in the entire place had their eyes on it, almost like the briefcase was deterring everyone else from even thinking about buying it.
And yet, at the same time something about it was alluring. It was an object with history, one that had probably seen the deaths of its previous owners and likely the demise of others as well. Even from this distance, Gytha could see the dried patter of blood on the leather. It was the same blood that was likely starting to rust the latches and causing the leather to crack. And it was likely the stench of that blood that filled Gytha's nostrils with a prevailing sense of death and violence. She sighed, smiling at it.
"This is going better than expected." She said to herself.
A man wearing headphones and holding a clipboard tapped Gytha on her shoulder, "Ma'am, the pre-auction show is about to start. Please head to the green room with your art installation and wait for your cue."
Gytha smiled flatly, "Of course. My sincerest apologies."
The man with the headphones gave a curt nod and retreated behind another art installation. This one was also covered by a tarp, but the shape was still recognizable. It was some kind of statue, and not exactly a professional at standing still. She could see the thing's giant chest expand and contract underneath the tarp. The artist who no doubt constructed whatever abhorrent monstrosity lay beneath that tarp appeared from behind his installation.
He was wearing a green beret and a wicked scowl that would have made a lesser artist uncomfortable. His legs went fssswh in leather jeans three sizes too small, accentuating his (rather small) bulge in a way Gytha could have lived without. A spindly, outstretched hand came between Gytha and the statue.
The "artist" eyed her up and down, no doubt sizing her up, "Who are you supposed to be?"
Gytha bowed and smiled, "Gytha Chin."
The "artist" scoffed, "Well keep your filthy hands to yourself, Miss Chin."
"Of course, Mister…"
"Don't bother," The "artist" chided, narrowing his eyes, "Can't have you coming after me when these rich folk bid millions for my masterpiece."
"I'm not here for the money."
"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow, "Then what are you here for?"
"Something much more important."

Paul held his breath as smoke crept across the stage at the back of the auction house. The lights dimmed, and two spotlights pointed at the right end of the stage, where a man dressed in a purple tuxedo and bowtie walked on stage. He was blonde, hair parted to one side, and he had one of those sickeningly overbearing mustaches that he twirled as he walked center-stage. Mic in hand, the man spoke with a voice that was deep and suave.
"Good evening, fellows," He said, gesturing wide across the crowd, "And welcome to the 316th annual Marshall, Carter, and Dark anomalous item and persons auction. As many of you know, my name is Blithe, and for the remainder of the night I will be your host."
There was a light applause, even Paul clapped. But Mark didn't. His eyes were focused on the art kit.
"As you can see around you, there are many mystical, wonderful objects we have acquired for you to bid on tonight. We hope you have taken the time before our show began to peruse our wares. Perhaps you've made a selection or two already. I wish you the best when the bidding begins."
There were several murmurs in the crowd. A few heads turned to some of the items along the sides of the room. Mark inched his way closer to the briefcase, trying his best to look inconspicuous and probably failing miserably. Paul could feel the pools of sweat starting to form in his armpits and on his forehead. One of the rich assholes nearest to her withdrew a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and handed it to Paul.
"First time?"
"No," He said, dabbing his pits with the cloth. Paul gave the sweat-soaked rag back to the man, who stuffed it in his pocket without a second glance.
"I remember my first time at one of these too. I was sweating bullets, and my teeth were chattering something fierce – I tend to chatter when I get nervous – because of how luxurious the venue had seemed at the time."
"Oh really?"
The man nodded, "Looking back at it now though, that old venue was nothing like this. I was a chump then, impoverished and starved for recognition. I barely had three million dollars to my name, and lord knows I lost every bid. But now?"
Paul sighed.
"Now I'm going to be a winner. Lucious Bradley's the name, and betting on multi-million dollar assets is my game."
Lucious stuck his slim, ghostly hand out. Paul faked a smile and shook it, trying not to cringe as each of his spindly fingers curled around Paul's hand in a fierce grip.
"I'm… Paula."
"Well, Paula," Said Lucious as he kissed the back of Paul's hand, "I hope I can get to know you better once the auction's done."
With a wink, Lucious faded into the crowd of rich people in suits.
On stage, an art piece was being brought out from behind the curtains. It was veiled by a tarp, and Paul could see it moving. The piece was big, about twice as tall as Blithe. The presumed artist, a short man wearing leather jeans that were clearly too tight to be comfortable, stood beside his piece with a wide grin.
"First we'd like to introduce some new assets to our collection," Blithe began, "art pieces, for the more… cultured folks among us."
The artist on-stage grabbed two handfuls of tarp and yanked, revealing the statue of a nude man wielding a shield with a floral pattern carved into it. The statue was immaculate. The abdominal region was carved with such precision that it looked organic. The statue's hair looked soft somehow, and its face expressed a look of… fear. Paul squinted, looking at the finer details of the art piece; the pores of the skin, the veins in the muscles, the rise and fall of its chest as it breathed. He shuddered.
"I now present you, 'Goliath in the Nude'! Created by the Sculptor Igor Hadid."
Light applause. The sculpture covered its face. The Sculptor bowed, a greedy smile growing across his face.
"I'll start the bid at five hundred thousand."
A few of the rich assholes raised their beige auction paddles. Light murmurs rippled through the crowd. A paddle went up, then another, and then another. Not as many as Paul was expecting, but still more than he was comfortable with. A wave of guilt flooded his heart as he watched the naked statue try to shrink away in vain. It curled into a tight ball. It had nowhere to go.
"Do I hear five-fifty? Six hundred thousand?"
Fewer paddles remained up as the number Blithe rattled on got higher and higher. Paul's focus remained on the statue, however, ignoring the shit-talking whispers of rich folk who thought themselves better for not spending more money than they felt necessary on a living statue. Eventually, once Blithe was in the multi-millions, only a single paddle remained upward.
It belonged to a man a few tables behind Paul with a gut the size of Jupiter and pudgy fingers that looked like uncooked sausages. The man was panting; apparently, the act of holding up the paddle was too much for him to handle, and his eyes were tracing the statue's form up and down. He was salivating and licking his lips. When Blithe sold the statue to him for a little over four million dollars, Paul could hear the man swallow his Adam's apple from his seat.
"Thank you." The fat man said as he personally carted the statue off stage. His hand trailed down the statue's back, and Paul heard someone screaming from behind the curtain a few moments later.
Spit shot out from Blithe's mouth as his shit-eating grin returned and he spoke into the microphone.
"Next on our list is a newcomer to the high rolling scene presenting her piece, 'Mankind au naturale'. Created by Gytha Chin!"
Just like Goliath, Gytha's piece was covered by a large, beige tarp, though not as massive. As Gytha crossed the platform she withdrew some small white cards from her pocket and snatched the microphone from Blithe.
"Thank you kindly, Mr. Auctioneer. If you don't mind, I prepared a small speech for my presentation."
Blithe shook his head, his smile faltering a hair. He stepped to the side and gestured for Gytha to take center stage as he faded into the shadows near the curtain. Paul saw him speak into the collar of his suit jacket, and two men in suits walked through a door near Mark.
Gytha cleared her throat, "I know that you people and people like me don't always see eye to eye. You live in multi-billion dollar penthouses while I sleep in my wonderfully cramped studio apartment. Not exactly a shared or relatable perspective I know, but there is something we do have in common: art appreciation."
She gestured to her installation, "What I have brought before you today is a work born of my passion for the craft. It is… a personal message. From me to you."
Gytha gripped the tarp, her smile cemented on her face. She looked over her shoulder, eyes scanning the audience slowly. She exhaled.
Mr. Abernathy's screams resonated in Paul's ears.

"You see, my fellow Americans," Gytha began as she trotted along Mr. Abernathy's screaming body, "For too long people like you have had money without class. Riches without toils. Pleasure without pain."
The audience was filled with agape mouths and fixated eyes, all stared at her. Gytha beamed, her head held high.
"The other day when I was 'hanging' out with this pedophile, I realized that something fundamental about our society needed to change. Something was missing from me, something that I couldn't be a complete woman without. Was it violence? No, of course not. Every girl's gotta get her kicks somehow. No, what was missing was money."
Silence.
Gytha frowned, "I can tell by your uproar that many of you see my point. You're worried about someone stealing your precious assets? I am too! That's why you should just, give me everything. That… or I will kill every single person in this room."
A group of men in suits burst out from behind the curtain, a swarm of black and white. They were built like freight trains and sported pitch-black sunglasses and stoic expressions. Two of them grabbed Gytha by the arms and lifted her.
Gytha unleashed a flurry of kicks, punching, and thrashing to no avail.
"Get your hands off of me you god damn cretins! I am an artist! I am an ARTIST!"
As she was carried behind the curtain, her screams faded, leaving the audience who began to converse among themselves in hushed whispers. This continued for only a few seconds before another man emerged from the curtain, dressed in an iron-pressed suit and a gaudy watch. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat before speaking into the microphone.
"My sincerest apologies for this shameful display, companions," Donavon Carter began, "Rest assured, there will be no further interruptions tonight. Blithe, if you-"
And then Donavon Carter clutched his chest and started coughing.

"That's so fucking gross holy shit," Cecelia complained as she retched.
Nagid raised an eyebrow. "What? Rich people eating babies? Fair and equal wages?"
"No, dicklips, there's flayed guy down there being presented as art!"
"Like flayed or flayed flayed?"
"Like this man has had all of his skin removed and is being presented as an art installation for these people to gawk at."
Nagid took a long drag from his cigarette. "Well, that's fucking gross."
Cecelia pulled her eyes away from the ground floor and scanned the upper level. Bodies were moving therein, approaching an office on the corner of the building. Cecelia could see the large ornate wooded desk from here, as well as the man now speedwalking in circles around it. This man was tan, with short black hair with strips of silver peppered in. He was on the phone with someone, his hand pressed firmly against his ear. The other men approached him, gesturing toward the door. The man in the suit, Donavon Carter, threw his phone on the ground and rubbed his temples.
Cecelia chuckled, "Get ready, Nagid."
Her partner groaned. He inhaled quickly, inadvertently smoldering the remainder of his cigarette, and leaned forward into his rifle's scope. Tracing the building according to Cecelia's direction, he found Donavon Carter on the second floor, heading through his office and descending down a stairwell. Nagid flipped a switch on the side of the rifle, triggering the infrared filter. He followed Carter as he entered the main hall where the auction was being held, watching the man and his guards as they grappled someone off the stage and threw a tarp over their "art installation".
"Alright," Nagid said to no one, exhaling long and deep, "Let's do this."
He pulled the trigger.

Something missed Paul's head by a hair. If it hadn't been for the rush of wind that followed the bullet on its path, he might not have even noticed. He attributed the sound of glass breaking to the gimp near the entrance fucking with someone as they held a drink in their hand.
He looked behind him. There the gimp still stood at the entrance, and it looked back at him, a shit-eating grin surely growing on its face beneath the mask. Paul's eyes scanned upward then, following the wall above the sealed door to the window near the ceiling. There was a small hole in that window, near the edge where the glass met the brick of the building. So small that someone wouldn't have ever noticed it unless they were looking for it. The glass wasn't cracked like one would expect the broken glass to. Instead, the hole in the window was perfectly circular, as if it were cut out by hand.
"What?" Paul asked out loud.
Lucious nudged Paul's side, "Our host apologized for the shameful display that artist gave us, my sweet dear."
Paul turned, narrowing his eyes, "No not- fuck off."
Lucious' mouth gaped. He shook the stupid look off his face and folded his arms, returning his stare to the main stage. However, a moment later, he gasped. The gargantuan, ghastly man staggered backward a step, tripping over his own feet and falling to the ground in a great, wet, SLAP.
"Too much to drink, Lucious?" Paul chided.
Lucious shook his head and pointed at the stage. There was the man that addressed himself as the owner of this operation, Donavon Carter. He looked suave almost, a real "silver fox" look about him that Paul found somewhat interesting. Not attractive enough to forgive the obscene amounts of wealth the man had or the sense of morality he no doubt lacked, but his broad shoulders and buttery smooth voice had at least drawn his attention until Paul felt something pass by his head.
But now Donavon Carter looked different. He was clutching his heart. Grimace replaced the charming smile that he used to apologize to these rich assholes. His buttery smooth voice was replaced by long, pained groans and gasps. He staggered back into the curtain and fell.
Mark rushed to Paul through the silent crowd, art kit in hand, "We need to fucking dip."
"He… how?"
Mark grabbed Paul by the wrist, "Doesn't really matter bro. We got what we came here for."
Mark led them toward the stage as the event began registering in the rich folk. Blithe approached Donavon Carter's body, gently nudging the man's leg with his foot. When Donavon Carter didn't move, Paul heard Lucious scream at the top of his lungs.
The auction house erupted into chaos.
The rich people scrambled to the edges of the room, taking shelter and expensive items with them as they did. Many of them fought each other over the things they had, resulting in physical violence and bloodshed. Screaming filled the room, echoing off the walls and back into itself. The talk of "my money" and "my assets" and "I want my money back" pierced the uproar on occasion.
Someone was thrown into Paul from behind, knocking him to the ground. It was Lucious. His face was bloodied and beaten, a swollen eye blocking half of his vision. He had a wicked scowl on his face, fangs at the ready. He shot back up and pulled a knife from a sheathe hidden beneath his pant leg.
"Woman, with me! I will keep you safe."
Paul froze.
Mark spun on his heel and sent his foot into Lucious' face. The man bent backward, clutching his nose. He rose, somehow taller than he was before, and stalked to Mark in two great steps. Lucious' spidery fingers wrapped around Mark's throat and hoisted him up. He dropped the art kit. The locks on the case unlatched.
"How DARE you touch me!" Lucious growled, "I am a victor!"
Time froze. The cacophony of the auction house fell silent in Paul's ear. His eyes darted toward the now open art kit. Inside were only a few things; pencils, paper, paint, brushes, and normal art supplies. But something about them felt… wrong. The materials seemed to phase in and out of this universe. They radiated with malevolence, hurting Paul's brain as he stared at them. But Mark's choked gasps reached his ears, and Paul overcame whatever grip the supplies had on his soul. He snatched a paintbrush from the art kit and swiped over Lucious' torso, unsure of what to expect.
The thin man released his grip on Mark and clutched his torso. The very spot where Paul had brushed Lucious was now blurred as if someone had taken their thumb to wet paint and smeared it across a canvas. Lucious groaned. Paul swiped him again. And again. And again.
Soon, Lucious was little more than a smeared mess on the floor, writhing and pulsing as his guts flowed out of him like watery paint. Paul lifted Mark to his feet and continued toward the backstage, his adrenaline mind focused on one goal: escape.
The backstage was in equal parts chaos as the main floor. The artists were busy wheeling their pieces out to the best of their ability, some with more success than others. Paul recognized two of them, Gytha and Igor, standing near a wall with the nude Goliath. In front of them was a pile of wet, slimy viscera and organs. A fat man's face was torn in half down the middle, each part in Goliath's hands. Igor tried to touch Goliath's back, but the giant statue recoiled.
"That was the most beautiful display of violence I've ever seen." Gytha spoke to Goliath.
"You did what you had to," Igor said, his head hung low, "I'm sorry I treated you-"
Goliath dropped the halves of the fat man's head and grabbed Igor by the throat. With a grunt, the statue slammed the sculptor through the brick wall. He exploded in a slurry of red mist. The statue looked down at Gytha, who held her hands up defensively and backed away. It looked over its shoulder, at Mark and Paul, who stood there gawking. Goliath fled.
"Well Pauly," Mark said, nodding at the hole in the wall, "That's our exit."
As the pair made their way through the hole, Paul made eye contact with Gytha. She flashed a euphoric grin at him before walking back toward the main floor.

Cecelia radioed Site-83's command, content with the chaos they'd sewn in addition to completing their mission.
"It's done then?" The commanding officer asked.
"Yup," Cecelia confirmed, "Soon as these rich folk clear out, we'll signal you to send a team out here to collect the body."
"Well done, E-Team. We'll send a clean-up crew ASAP. Are there any anomalous objects left at the facility that you can secure in the meantime?"
There was a loud crash from below, and a giant statue walked out of the side of the building. It looked both ways before crossing the street and sprinting away. Cecelia looked at Nagid, who shook his head and sighed.
"That ain't us," He said.
Cecelia nodded and spoke into the radio, "No sir. There's a statue on the loose though, might be some trouble."
"Understood."
With that, the radio disconnected. Nagid lit another cigarette. He'd begun packing up his rifle.
Now they just needed to take care of Dark and Marshall.

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She just stood there.

Enclosed in perfect darkness.

In perfect silence.

Nothing for her to touch. Nothing for her to see

……………

How could such perfect nothingness even exist?

She wanted to talk.
Shout.
Scream.

But nothing happened.

…………………………

Couldn't she hear it? Or could she not speak?

It made no difference.

Was she standing?
Or was she sitting?
Laying?

Never mind.

No pain.

No light.

No body.

No time.

……………………………………

How does one measure time in such perfect, all-encompassing darkness?
In constricting stillness?
Without surroundings, without self?

She only consisted of thoughts.

But they all emerged and vanished at the same time.

She did not panic.

Resting in herself.

Rest in all.

Nothing but calmness existed.

Pure acceptance.

Helpless. But peaceful.

Nothing is important.

What comes - what goes - it happens without her.

She's a hull.
A hull created from nothing, filled with less than emptiness.

Where is she?
Did she already exist before this darkness?
Is she dead?

Why is she in pain?
Has she always been? Is it getting worse?

………………………………………………

Nothing she could do against it.

Maybe she already collapsed.

On her knees.

Wasn't she there all along?

Crouching.
For ever.
Since the dawn of time.

Terrible pain. Almost unbearable.

Is this what death feels like?
Isn't she already dead?

…

…

Seconds later, her photo slides out of her hand and just a moment later, her lifeless body falls to the floor.


| | Little Siggy in Slumberland | | Siggy and the Forgotten Kingdom »

It has long been pondered, in our field of work, the difference between mundane humans and those with abilities such as thaumaturgy or reality bending. There have been theories of these beings having differences in the soul or the humors, but neither of these things have been proven to ever exist. I posit, instead, that there may not be a biological difference at all, that it may instead be a question of unlocked potential, that the difference may be purely psychological, a matter of perspective.
As the founder of the Department of Ontokinetics, I've spent my life trying to answer these questions, analyzing and documenting the biology and behavior of reality benders in and out of containment in search of answers. I now believe that the answer to these mysteries may lie in dreams.
Dreams have always been a mystery, for both the Veiled and un-Veiled scientific and mystical communities. Why does our brain replay scenes from our lives, when we should be at rest, especially in cases of trauma? Why does it make up new fantastical realms with seemingly no bearing on our lives? Why give fantastical bends to an otherwise mundane life? Why do we need to sleep? Why do we dream? While we remain unable to answer these questions, the developing fields of psychology and studies of the noospherics have shown great promise in researching dreams.
One avenue of exploration has been examining the subjective experience and perception of dreams by the general population, which has turned up some interesting findings. Many would claim the difference between dream and reality is obvious. In reality there is order, causality, reason. In dream there is only the unconscious mind, flitting from scene to scene, only chaos. However, we are, most of us, still fooled by dreams, tricked by our own brains into treating them as real, at times even speaking or moving our bodies in reality.
Not so for lucid dreamers. Lucid dreamers are able to do as they like within their dreams. They may act consciously, logically, fully aware that they are able to change whatever they desire within. Some people are naturally gifted with this ability while others are able to train themselves to detect the "cracks" in dreams, such as all written word becoming gibberish. Some lucid dreamers can even become something more, Oneiroi.
Reality benders are much like these lucid dreamers, becoming "awakened" and finding the "cracks" in reality that they can enforce their own logic on, as one might in dreams.
But if one can enforce one's will on their worlds in both waking and dreaming what would be the difference? How does one distinguish between dream and reality?"

Excerpt from “Treatise on the Relationship Between Dreams and Reality Benders” by O5-11 "The Visionary"

Once upon a time, in a far away land, there was a Princess who lived in a wonderful, magical kingdom ruled by her father the kind and just King Stefan the Good. This kingdom was quite unlike the brutalist cities you may know, it had rivers of brightest aquamarine, sand as smooth as silk and forests with trees taller than the tallest towers. It was a kingdom comprised of all manner of unique beings living together in harmony be they men, faerie or even ogre. None ever quarreled and each home was as unique and beautiful as the hearts of those that dwelt within. The streets were made of rainbow and the lamps shone like the stars themselves, and nobody was ever afright, even in the darkest of nights.
From the littlest pixie to the most ferocious of giants, all knew they were watched, protected, and loved by the greatest of heroes, the Order of Pandora. Heroes like Sister Sophia of the Holy Light, Sir King champion of the Apple-folk, Sir Kondraki the Dragonrider, Sir Gears legendary tinkerer and their faithful hunting dog Kain. Even once-enemies such as the arch-wizard Clef the Terrible had joined their number, swayed by their friendship and inherent goodness to turn his machinations to the side of Good. A kingdom in which it was playtime all the time and no citizen ever felt sad or lonely.
Until, one night, everything changed. It was a festival day, celebrating the Order of Pandora and their wondrous deeds. The Princess of this great kingdom, apple of the eyes of her parents King Stefan and Queen Leah, had announced, cooked and set a great feast for all the kingdom, with the Order of Pandora as the guests of honor. She set plates of gold out for her heroes (whom the children in the kingdom oft play-acted as), twelve in total, and plates of copper for the remaining citizenry. The event was nearing the end of the first course (bread and cheeses of the most delicious variety) when it happened: Clef the Terrible, Clef the Horrid, Clef the Vile, the villain turned hero, entered the feast hall. Now, of course, Clef had been invited, he was one of the Order after all, the darkness in his heart having shrunk (or at least hidden). However, nobody thought he'd actually show up! He never did, for these kinds of things. Yet here he was parading into the hall along with his signature crooked grin. And that's where the trouble began. The young princess, you see, had made a grave error. Maybe it was because he wasn't expected to come, maybe he really had been forgotten, heck, maybe the young princess had just miscounted. Whatever the case, they were out of gold plates and oh no! Even the copper plates! "Clef would not like this, oh! Oh!" thought the Princess, "this is not suitable hospitality at all!" And so, the princess made her last mistake.
Growing up, the young royal had always been a little different from the other children. She was able to do things, impossible things, just by wishing them so, though few seemed to realize things had ever changed at all. Not so, for the Order of Pandora, well versed in these sorts of things. One day, while at the royal court, she was Seen, and told that not only was she a Princess, but a Witch as well! Oh how proud she was! Oh how proud her parents and her kingdom were of her! But being a witch wasn't all it was cracked up to be after all. The training was fun and she got along well with many of her teachers, but the tests were dull and the rules… My goodness the Rules! She could feel this immense amount of power, pressure behind her eyes like the expansion of galaxies, and she was only allowed to use the smallest bit of it, to make the most boring of changes, out of spells in a book. And only during specified times too! No playing with her magic allowed. Of course, much like any little girl, she had a Serpent whispering in her ear, telling her “Break the rules! Cast some spells! Nobody will ever know!” And sometimes she would fall prey to the Serpent (as many of us do when chafing against seemingly unjust rules) and cast a little spell, have a little fun, harmless really, and sometimes, often even, her teachers never seemed to find out. But not Clef, never Clef. He was the one teacher that always knew, no matter what she did, no matter where she did it — somehow, he always knew.
But, during this day of festivities, the little Serpent fooled the Princess once again, (or maybe it was just the stress of hosting such a large party, or of failing her teacher) and so the Princess grabbed the first plate she found, one of simple wood, and enchanted it to be made of gold instead. This plate was then filled with the main course (pork roast) and presented to the arch-mage. For a moment, all seemed well. Clef chatted to his companions and even tasted the pork roast (a bit dry, but the Princess was no expert cook, and so all forgave this). But then Clef squinted at his golden plate, and his crooked smile became a crooked frown. He calmly stood up, and in his actions and his poise, all that knew him could see that the darkness contained within him had emerged once more.
He cast a wicked spell, that wicked wizard. A death curse, of the kind unrepeatable (in pleasant company, at least) aimed at the poor Princess! But as the realm was defended, so too was the princess, by the celebrated heroes in this very hall that eve. The Order of Pandora quickly turned on their traitorous companion, in a bid to defend the princess from harm, but it was too late, the curse had already taken root. White Sir Kondraki valiantly fought his dear friend Clef, spells multi-colored brightening the hall (as the planned fireworks would have later that night) Sir Gears rushed to the aid of the Princess. Now, as we all know, unspeakable death curses aren't reversible, else they wouldn't be unspeakable, but Gears was a clever sort, he was. He didn't try to counter the spell at all, and instead wove his own spell (or rather, used a magic item in his possession, but there's little difference there). Though the spell could not be lifted from the beloved princess, it could be shared, and thus lessened, for it is known that a burden shared is a burden lightened. Thus the curse, rather than granting the Princess the sleep of death, merely inflicted the slumber of the weary, across all within those halls (excepted the dark wizard, for it was his own dark magiks that caused this) to awaken when the curse was broken, and protected until then.
Clef raged at the world, gnashing his teeth, incensed by his righteous justice being stolen from him. Well, he thought it righteous, if you asked just about anybody else they'd say killing a little girl for breaking the rules was a bit harsh, but for Clef breaking the rules was breaking his universe. He put up a wall, miles tall, covered in thorny vines, completely surrounding the kingdom. He freed the Dragon, ancient enemy of the Order, who patrolled the land, destroying any waking being who came near, healing from any injury that would kill another of its sort. He enchanted one hundred and seventy-three gargoyles, who would move in the blink of the eye, assassinating those unfortunate enough not to know better. The kingdom was Good no longer, it was Clef's, and belonged to the darkness in his heart as surely as Clef himself did.
But all was not hopeless(though it surely seemed so) for there are yet more heroes, unnamed as of yet, who may yet save the day. This tragedy was not unexpected, not entirely. There was a prophecy, long ago, spun by the Great Oracle Xyank. But this was no prophecy of doom and gloom, but a prophecy of hope.
A prophecy of Last Hope.

Meanwhile

Far from this and every other story, there was a watchtower in the churning sea, anchored, still, unchanging. While everything else may be washed away by the tide it stood mighty, and watched. Light shone from the top of this tower, and the light was an eye, and the eye belonged to the one known as the Archivist. The Archivist, second among equals of the Overwatch Council watched from its panopticom with the zen of a believer and the passion of a machine, both of which it was. O5-2 ran its holy code, and thought, running tens of thousands of simulations of future events, and in mere miliseconds, coming to a conclusion: things could not be allowed to continue this way.
It was not concerned with the recontainment of SCP-239 and the neutralization of its effects on Site-19. For all that Alto Clef's chaotic nature was difficult to compute there was a pattern of successes in recontaining SCP-239 and in dealing with hostile reality benders in general. O5-7 had chosen her piece well, Green was a master of the game after all and normally the rest of the council would be content to leave here to play with her dolls. But if O5-2's calculations were correct (and they always were) then this chain of events, left untouched, would interfere with its holy mission, and this could not stand.
The Archivist would have to put its own pieces into play.

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