Do as you are told.
Curfew is 8:00pm.
You cannot use your real name.

Of the three rules D-11424 was told before her induction as D-Class, the last one stuck with her the most. Even at the old prison, her cellmates called her Jamie.
She walked alongside a dozen fresh new faces, all in matching jumpsuits. At this point being herded around had become routine for D-11424. She plodded along until the security detail entered the cafeteria. They had arrived during the scheduled D-Class dinner block. They had time to eat before they were supposed to be shown to their quarters.
By the time that D-11424 reached the front of the line, the food had gone cold. She took her lukewarm chili and sat down at a table with two others.
"Hey," she said as she put her tray down.
"Evening," a fellow D-Class replied. "You one of the new ones?"
"Yeah. Just got off the bus."
"Welcome to the shit show. I'm 3114. And over there is 5040," he said as he motioned to the man sitting on the other side of the table. He looked up mid bite, and nodded.
"Nice to see that even hell has courtesy. I'm 11424."
"Oh really? Well, shit…"
D-5040 put his chili spoon down. "I mean, he'd been gone for a week."
"Yeah, but that wasn't the first time. There was that time when he was out for like twenty days or something? Came back then."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, my bad. It's nothing personal. Just didn't realize that number was up for recycling." D-3114 replied.
"What do you mean up for recycling?"
"Like, the previous 11424 going, uh… out of commission. They reuse the designation."
"So, when they die."
"Don't be so close-minded," a woman said as she sat down next to D-5040. "There are plenty worse ways to end up here than dead."
D-3114 waved to her. "Evening, 2312. Apparently Six-Eight-Screw-You got decommed."
"What? No fucking way! That guy?"
"Well, here's his protégé." D-3114 motioned to D-11424.
"Damn… How long he'd been here?"
"I don't fucking know. Longer than me."
"And me," D-5040 added.
"Wait wait wait. What's so special about this guy?"
"11424 was… well, he was a legend. I think he got called in for like, a thousand tests or something?"
"I thought the count landed around a thousand three hundred," D-5040 said after some mental math.
"Yeah, something like that," D-3114 continued, "stuck around since the eighties."
"Late seventies sounds closer."
"Right. Thanks 2312. Either way, dude managed to survive all of that. Err… almost all of that. Got the official nickname: 'Six-Eight-Screw-You', because he was pretty much indestructible."
"I hear he choked out a zombie once," D-2312 added.
D-11424 shot her a confused look. "How does that even work?"
"Well, he put his hands around its neck and squeezed. Duh."
"Oh, are we going to tell 11424 stories?"
"Looks like it."
"Then I'm going first," D-5040 announced. "You know when he actually got his nick name? One time 682 broke out of the acid vat, while 11424 was on transport duty. Before the lizard could regenerate our boy clocked him in the face."
"And that stopped the breach?" D-3114 asked.
"Yeah. Knocked the beast out long enough for the rest of the team to put it in the back up vat. Got acid burns on his hands from the punch to prove it too."
D-2312 rolled her eyes and replied. "Psssshhh. That's nothing. You hear about what happened when he got sent to the underwater site?"
"Underwater site?" D-11424 asked.
"Yeah, the one where they keep 76. He was there one of the times when the demon himself woke up. And you know what 11424 did?"
"He shot it?" D-5040 guessed.
"No. He fucking arm wrestled it. And won. Coffin boy was so ashamed he recontained himself for six months or something."
D-11424 just sat in her chair, a little shell-shocked, and a lot confused. Mostly because none of these names or numbers made any sense to her. But she didn't want to feel too left out of the conversation, so she leaned over to D-3114.
"So, uh, you have any stories?"
"I mean, I have a few. But I probably couldn't quite do any of them justice."
"Oh, what are you saying? You're the only one here who's been with him in the field. So bullshit," D-2312 called out.
"That doesn't really count as a… oh fine." D-3114 pushed his tray out of the way and set his elbows on the table, "So, the two of us were assigned to explore some thing up in the arctic. Brought a bunch of us along in case one person couldn't do the trick. The exploration went fine, or so I heard. Six-Eight-Screw-You was first one ferried out to whatever this thing was, and when he came back we were all told we could leave. Of course the others swarmed the guy and asked him about it. Told a big story about giant walruses and vikings."
"Which is also a great story," D-2312 interjected. D-5040 glared at her. She put her hands over her mouth and motioned for D-3114 to continue.
"But anyways, during the drive back to the airstrip, the caravan got ambushed. Don't know who did it, they never told us. But, I do remember the car in front of ours erupting into flame, followed by gunshots. I took cover, hid behind a chair. Watched as the drivers shot out the side of the window. As one of them took a bullet to the head and dropped their gun. As 11424 picked up that gun and started firing."
D-3114 took a pause and a deep breath, "Yeah, I don't care that I was a coward. But goddamn did I admire that man who just stood there and shot back. We… uh… well they eventually scared those bastards away. And I guess the rest is just history."
"He really was a legend," D-2312 said. "Like right out of those action movies or something. Quips and all."
D-5040 grabbed his drink. "A toast to the most talented test dummy this place has ever had."
Everyone except D-11424 raised a paper cup. The table fell into a somber silence. Clinking and clanking of aluminum trays being thrown into buckets rung throughout the cafeteria. Dinner was over. It was about 7:45. Curfew was at 8:00.
"I better get going," D-11424 said.
"Yeah. See you around," D-3114 replied as he stared into the table.
D-11424 made her way back to the group of new D-Class. She felt lost. Like she'd just walked in on a story half-way through. Autopilot took over as the security guards showed each D-Class to their new quarters. She noticed the cleanliness of the floor, the fluorescent lights overhead, the bespectacled scientists exchanging clip boards down the hall way.
"D-11424! You sleep here," one of the guards called out. D-11424 snapped back to reality and noticed they had arrived at a cell. On the door was a small plaque that read "D-11423, D-11424, D-11425, D-11426".
Inside was pretty bare. Just a pair of bunks, and enough left over space to move around. D-11424 entered and walked to the only empty bunk. Her new cell mates were already asleep. Just as she sat down on the mattress, the guards closed the door behind her. The only light left came from the fluorescent lights outside, shining through some glass in the door.
D-11424 laid down, about to go to sleep. But when her head hit the pillow, she heard a crinkling noise. D-11424 sat up and lifted the pillow. Underneath was a twice folded piece of paper. D-11424 unfolded it. She couldn't quite make out the writing in the low lighting, so she sat near the door and let the fluorescent lights shine on it. It was addressed to her.

Well, if you're reading this that means two things. First, you are D-11424. Second, I am dead. Or something worse happened. Don't want to be too close minded about it. Knowing me I probably had a fun trip through the digestive tract of a giant rabbit. Sounds par for course.
You'll probably hear stories about me. You'll probably get strange looks for a bit. The number carries weight. It did so even before I got here. I got warnings from everyone that "11424 was cursed". Apparently the last five guys didn't last a week.
Made me scared as all hell when I first got called for testing. They were at least kinda right about the curse. It was keter class. So, I walked in there, expecting to be ripped apart or eaten or something. And you know what happened? They gave me a fucking cake and told me to eat it. That was it.
I came back and everyone thought I must've been some sort of hero. None of them actually asked what happened. So I just nodded as they made up the stories themselves.
I've been around the block more than a few times, that's true. But I'm no hero. I'm just a lucky bastard. I got good at exploring stuff and keeping my head out of trouble, but all of the times I escaped death? All luck. By now I should've been killed 11 26 34 times over. At least.
I don't have any talent or anything. There's nothing special about me. You know how I know that? Talent doesn't run out. Luck does. And if you're reading this, I used up every ounce of Fortune's Favor.
But then again, that number carries a lot of stigma. Turns me, a simple Tony Marquez, into some sort of character. 11424. It makes me sound so flat. But they have you use it so you can disappear into the crowd with the rest of us. Even if people talk about me, they won't talk about me. They'll talk about 11424.
Maybe you'll remember me as Tony. As a country boy from Kansas with a mom who worked and a dad who worked harder. I mean, maybe my daughter will remember me as a dad who wasn't home. But that's still not who I want to be. I was a father for a time. A carpenter for longer, built a few chairs, a desk. Even made my mom a new night stand. Yeah, that actually sounds good. Carpentry feels like a very human thing to be remembered by.
Then again that's why I'm writing this. I've seen others of us come and go. There and back again. Nothing more than a number and a body. I don't want to be that. I don't want to be just this thin representation of luck. I want to be Tony.
Sorry I've left you with this stigma. You'll probably fight through it though. Us D-Class are tough like that.
Good luck. I'm rooting for you from the other side.
-Tony Marquez, because that's my fucking name

D-11424 smiled a little, before folding the paper again and shoving it under the mattress for safe keeping. She crawled into bed and fell asleep.
Thanks Tony. Jamie Greenston really appreciates it.


Alone.
The dryad was alone.
The secret language of the dryads didn't even have a word for being alone. Being a dryad meant being interconnected with every other dryad in the Grove. It meant a hundred thoughts, experiences, lives, all humming in the background.
She remembered the feeling of a falling metal beast ripping and tearing her tree to pieces. Remembered the blades pulverizing her branches. The blood of the beast burning through her bark and scorching to her heartwood. The screaming and panic pouring into her and overflowing and suddenly… ceasing as the world went dark and quiet.
Empty and alone.
She felt her body jolt as the branches under her dug into her back. There was a sensation of movement and a constant stream of muttered curses. She exercised control of this form, and opened her eyes to the impossible.
The forest stretched out around her, but it wasn't the Grove. She couldn't feel the roots beneath her and the forest was full of beeches. She did see maples, but they seemed… wrong. Sickly?
Some movement caught her eye and she saw the smoke. The smoke of her home, her body, her family, billowing into the uncaring ashen sky. She felt the aching absence and wept.
~~~
Bryan limped through the forest, muttering curses. Years. Years spent seeking power had led to months preparing for this day which had become a catastrophe in minutes.
He deserved that magic. He had earned that magic. Yeah his teachers in the Serpent's Hand had stressed that it was a gift to be given, but none of them had saved the last member of the Grove with a never-before-tried Working.
And how had he been repaid so far? The crazy tree-chick had yanked him across the forest, then flopped to the ground screaming.
He hissed in pain as a step jolted his arm. It dangled uselessly by his side, steadily turning purple.
~~~
A sound like dry leaves rustling brought the dryad back to reality. It was the sound of another person! She jerked, falling off the two branches on which she was being supported. Her body impacted the ground and she tried to scramble back up. She felt… wrong, like a plant trapped in a too-small pot, roots tangling and filling the space so completely it cracked the pot. At the same time, she felt light and empty, truly hungry for the first time.
One of the humans! Right! She had tried to save one and it looked like she had been saved by one. She looked up at him and tried to remember how to speak.
"Hey." His voice held a rasp like the edge of a saw. She tried to recoil away and hit her head on the limbs still held in his hand.
"Chill. We got away from them, for now. We gotta keep moving though. A helicopter crash won't kill a Bookburner Strike Team, not in those damn suits. They'll probably spend some time burning the Grove but I haven't been able to mask our trail."
The dryad was filled with a sense of loss so profound she was amazed the human could stand under the weight of it. She tried to speak but didn't quite have the shape of it.
"You yanked my arm out of its socket, damn near ripped it off." The saw blade was near the surface of his voice again, painful and angry. She watched his mouth. So that's what she was doing wrong.
"Badrieee" She whispered urgently. No, that still wasn't quite right.
"Now would be a good time to whip out some magic" He looked at her, expectant.
"My tree." She managed to work her mouth correctly, and clung weakly to the branch he was holding.
"Burned to a crisp, probably. I think yours was one of the first to go. Come on, we need to move." The words were like a blow. It was fresh and bleeding in her mind, the metal beast falling on her tree, its spinning blade shredding her and burning blood scorching her heartwood. She cried out in remembered agony, and the human made a noise like the wind through dry leaves.
"Shush and come on. The least you can do is walk on your own."
She flailed again, struggled to her knees, and somehow managed to stand.
"My tree! How…?" She tried a step, and narrowly avoided falling.
"I used the Grove initiation spell to bind you to that seed." He pointed to her chest where she had been clutching it without realizing. That explained why she felt so compressed, so root-bound. It also explained why she felt so wrong. He had yanked her… self? Soul? Spirit? out of her tree and shoved it into a tiny seed. It had sprouted during the process. The human dropped the branches and started walking. She immediately grabbed the two, tied together with a strip of leather.
"These are part of Strong-Roots-Dig-Deep."
She realized that this might be all that was left of her best friend. The only thing, apart from her, left of the Grove. She would not abandon them, not for any price.
"Okay…? I guess we can bring the sticks if you want. At least we're moving."
He turned, left arm hanging uselessly by his side.
"I'm Bryan, by the way," He unfastened the leather and put it around his waist. This accomplished, he picked up one limb, and she relinquished it reluctantly. She still had the one in her hand, and it seemed they were going in the same direction. Even through the anguish, she felt a little thrill. Somehow, she was outside the Grove! She was somewhere no dryad had ever been!
"Thank you for saving me."
"And your name is…?" The saw was back. Had she broached some rule of etiquette?
"My name was Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash," A beautiful name in Dryad, rendered ugly and twisted by irony.
"My Dryad isn't great. How does that translate to English?" She worked out the translation.
"Seedlings Spring from Cold Ash," The words tasted like ash in her mouth, too.
"Jesus. That's apt. And lengthy. What do you mean by 'was'?" He winced a little with every step.
"I died when the metal beast hit me. In the instants before the flame ate this body, you attached me to this seedling. Thank you. But I am dead. Do the dead have names?" He was glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, but she paid no mind. Step after step, she walked the outside world. A miracle made of death and desperation.
"Metal beast? Oh… you mean the helicopter…" He seemed to think on this for a bit, "I think I'll call you Ashley. I don't want to stumble over your whole name every time."
Ashley accepted this and took yet more impossible steps into the unknown.
~~~
Bryan tried to keep in mind the lesson drilled into him by his instructor in the Serpent's Hand.
'Being chosen by the Grove is a gift. No matter how long you work, most of you won't be chosen. This isn't, as I've heard some of you suggest, an easy path. You will need to work hard to even get a chance, but that work does not obligate them to choose you.'
But he hadn't just done the preparations. He had saved Ashley's life and saved the Grove. That had to entitle him to the joining. She would have to make another seed for him to use, but he'd seen his instructor bring plants to fruit with her powers, granted by the Grove.
Ashley was quiet. She seemed to have gotten the hang of walking and was following him steadily. She had one hand clutched with the seedling on her chest, and the other was holding the branch he'd picked up. He could understand why she would be hesitant to let go of the last reminder of her friend. He had a locket from his mother around his neck- he had ever since she died a decade ago.
"Where are we going?" Her voice seemed a little stronger. He stopped, looking around.
Fuck. Well if we can get back to Alaska, I might be able to get us to the Way. That's if she ever gives me what she owes me.
"West!" He tried to project as much confidence as he could into the single word.
They walked in silence for a time. Finally, a question bothered him enough to break it.
"Why don't you wear clothes?" Ashley looked down at her form and gave him a confused look.
"Why would I wear cloth?"
"Don't you get cold? We're in the Yukon Territory. This is Canada. Canada is known three things: maple syrup, hockey, and snow to the frigging rooftops."
She gave him a look that was, for lack of a better word, wooden.
"We can- we could control the weather. Why bind ourselves with strips of cloth and leather when we could wear the wind and sky?"
"Well if we're going to make it around humans you're going to need to we- what do you mean 'could'?
"Our magic came from the connection and communion between the members of the Grove. We each contributed a drop to the pool."
"So you can't give me power?"
"I'm sorry, I don't have any to give. Every drop of magic I have is going to sustaining my form."
He couldn't quell the anger and frustration, so he tried to cover two of his problems.
"Here. Wear my jacket. Someone might see you."
Silence reigned until they, battered and weary, reached the road.
~~~
Ashley examined the meal on the plate before her. Two glistening yolks sat atop their whites, which in turn sat atop a thin crust of burnt egg. The bacon was three short strips of grease on a pale square approximating bread. It made her wince, remembering the perfect sweet strawberries she'd just dropped on the forest floor.
The branch sat across her lap. It was a little awkward in the cracked booth, but she wouldn't abandon it. She was a little nervous about Bryan taking it. He'd left behind the one he'd been carrying, and she didn't like the way his eyes lingered on hers.
Very occasionally, the Grove would grant a branch to a special mage. It would enhance their connection to the collective and allow them to pull more magic from the communal pool. Strong-Roots-Dig-Deep's branch wouldn't do that, though. She and the rest of the Grove were dead. Ashley was terrified of Bryan abandoning her. If he did, she would be completely alone. She took a calming breath and glanced around.
Bryan sat two tables away, talking to himself. Ashley only caught a few phrases but they were even less encouraging than the meal.
"…down the drain… could be lying…? years… damn it… my only option… dark"
He moodily stomped outside. Ashley returned her attention to breakfast. Normally, dryads didn't need to eat more than two or three times a moon. They did so for pleasure, normally, but she felt odd. It felt like she hadn't eaten in years. She obviously needed more sustenance than her tiny seedling could supply her.
It made sense- it had taken her decades of growth in her tree to be able to manifest a humanoid form. Hopefully she would be able to sustain herself by eating and whatever her seedling could supply. And, she reflected disgustedly, hopefully other food would actually have flavour.
~~~
They stayed the night in a motel. It was clearly Ashley's first experience with a bed. She lay, face down, sideways across it. She was still clutching the stick in one hand and the seedling in the other.
Bryan himself couldn't help but pace, nerves overwhelming what little self control he had left. He had been warned away from these people so many times by his mentors in the Serpent's Hand. They had no morals or ethics, caring only for the power and money they could accrue. His mentors had told him how to avoid them. He'd used that information to contact one of their agents.
It was against everything the Serpent's Hand stood for and he would need to run after this. He would definitely have the resources if he could pull this off. It would be worth it.
Because he had realized something.
She couldn't empower him because she was alone.
And he knew the people at Marshall, Carter, and Dark would pay well for the last of a kind.
End of Part 2
« Ash and Maple ~ Part 1 | Ash and Maple ~ Part 2 |


"You'll never catch me!"
Lebanon leaped from her spot on the roof, screaming as she did. Behind her, Hamilton and Xavier scrambled to keep up. She fell downward, arms outstretched. Her scream turned to delight as she plummeted. Vague yelling echoed behind her.
She crashed into the pile of soft material below, landing on a large mattress. For a few moments everything shook, and the world was obscured by white.
Memory Foam. She had heard the phrase before, but couldn't remember where. It came back to her now.
After a few seconds, Lebanon flipped herself over, staring up. Two distant faces peered down at her. She waved at them, and there was more yelling. The faces vanished as she pulled herself off the mattress and into the rest of the pile. There was clothing everywhere, as well as blankets and other discarded accessories.
"What's your problem?" This was Hamilton, emerging with Xavier from a nearby door. "You could have hurt yourself!"
Lebanon stuck her tongue out. "Nuh uh. I'm fine, see?"
She could see Xavier rubbing his eyes. Oh no, I've made him cry again. She reached out and grabbed his hand.
"I'm sorry X. I was having fun, I didn't want to scare you." She squeezed his hand.
"I-Its ok. I shou-should trust you more." He gave her a small smile and wiped the last of the tears from his eyes. Although they looked nothing alike, Lebanon had decided that Xavier was her little brother, and treated him as such. She had no idea how old he actually was, but it felt right to her.
"I still think you should stop being such a dumbass," Hamilton said. "The boss is gonna blame one of us if something happens to you."
"Will I now?" The three children whipped around. Blue Ash was a physically imposing man, and the setting sun wrapped around him like a solar veil. He turned to look at Hamilton. "Language, young man." Hamilton mumbled some short apology.
"Blue, were you looking for us?"
A smile. "Indeed I was, Xavier. It's almost time for the gathering." Blue Ash gestured up the road, towards the center of town. Taking care to avoid the crumbling asphalt, the four of them navigated back to the village square. The road was littered with abandoned cars and trucks; Lebanon climbed on to a rusted car, following the rest of the group by jumping from vehicle to vehicle. Although Blue Ash gave her sidelong glances, he never said anything, so she continued.
"Hey Blue," she finally asked, "Why do we have to go?"
Blue Ash rubbed his chin. "Well, it's important to be a part of the community. These are the people working hard to take care of you; wouldn't it be rude to ignore them?"
Lebanon frowned. She was starting to feel guilty. "I guess… But why do we have the gathering at all?"
Hamilton responded this time. "It's kinda cool actually. I read about it in a book."
"Read about what?"
Hamilton's mouth opened and closed, and Lebanon could hear the words he was saying, but they fled from her mind almost immediately. A sharp buzz echoed in and around her ears, and the world suddenly lurched in front of her. She vaguely realized she was falling.
Blue Ash caught her. His face was contorted into concern, but Lebanon could swear she saw no surprise in his eyes.
"Are you alright?" He gently lowered her onto the ground, making sure to hold on until she was up on both feet.
"Hmmm, I'm okay I guess." Her response was muted. "I don't know why I did that."
He ruffled her dirty hair. "Don't worry. It happens to the best of us."

Up ahead, a large group of people were clumped together near a brick building. The sides of the building were painted red, and had large window-like doors that were propped open. Inside, a large red, white and silver object stood silent. Gamble had spent almost a year fixing it up, claiming it could do all sorts of things. Whenever he went into detail Lebanon found herself overcome with discomfort, and wasn't able to understand what he was saying, even though everyone else listened with obvious delight.
Blue Ash and the children approached a woman at a table, serving food. Seeing them approach, she set four plates aside.
"Hey bossman. Want some meat today? I've got the vegetarian option too."
"I'll take the vegetarian, but those hot dogs look delicious. I'm sure the kids will love them."
The server handed plates with hot dogs and chips to the three children. They gave quick thanks and ran off, presumably to sit under the large oak tree nearby.
Blue Ash took a bite of carrot. "Thank you Madison. If I didn't know any better, I would say this was plucked out of the ground just today. And no preservatives? You know how to spoil us." He waggled his eyebrows at her.
"That's because it is, smart-ass." She grabbed the carrot and took a large bite. "You want to go back to scavenging, be my guest." She handed the carrot back.
Blue Ash left the table with a wave. Ahead, on a park bench, Toledo was holding a piece of corn-on-the-cob. His hands were shaking, and his shirt was already damp with sweat. He stared at the vegetable with a single minded intensity. Silently, Blue Ash grabbed the corn out of his hands, and swapped it with a large carrot from his own plate. Toledo nodded his appreciation, but his hands never stopped shaking. His eyes continued to track the corn as Blue Ash walked away, as if he were witnessing an act of morbid curiosity.
Under the oak tree, the children sat in silence. A plaque was nestled among the tall grass. Lebanon couldn't read the name it was made out to. She could see the letters, and the name as a whole, but when she put them together in her head, she felt a sharp buzz before the name was suddenly snatched from her memory. Behind her, Hamilton said something crass, and Xavier tugged at her sleeve to ask for clarification. The adults were settling down, using scattered chairs and the ground for seating. The sun was gone by now, and the stars were beginning to come out.
The moon hung high in the sky. There was chattering, and several people began to point towards the celestial body. Lebanon didn't get what they were so excited about. She felt rather nervous, and hugged herself as her body began to shake. There was a movement to her side, and a hand rested on her shoulder. Seeing Xavier, Lebanon pulled him close. Blue Ash watched her the entire time.
"It's starting." He gestured upward. "Remember, it's safe to view, so enjoy yourselves."
Lebanon looked up with the crowd, and for a moment she could see the moon in all its splendor. Then suddenly there was a loud buzzing noise, and the moon tore itself apart into many different pieces. She could hear the exclamations of those around her, but the sky was starless and dark. The shaking got worse, and her head felt like it would split open. Her sight was the first to go, and as she drifted into unconsciousness, she could hear Xavier gasp in delight.
…
"Hey."
….
"Hey Lebanon."
She opened her eyes. The sky was still dark, but she could see the moon, illuminating Blue Ash as he stood above her. It took a second before she responded, "I…?" She couldn't finish.
He crouched down. "You fainted. Do you remember what happened?"
She tried, but she could only recall the buzzing. She shook her head in shame, feeling tears begin to well up.
"Hey, hey, its alright. Don't worry." There was no belittlement in his voice. "Everyone was worried about you. Even Hamilton." He sat down beside her.
"Why? I… I can't even remember what happened," she said. There were flashes, images of something bright, but they refused to stay. "Why does this happen to me?"
Blue Ash tried to give her a reassuring smile, but even through her teary eyes she could see it was strained. "I think, sometime long ago, there was a mistake. Something that shouldn't have happened. And yet it did, and now we have to live with it. It's not our fault, and it's certainly not yours." He held out his hand.
"Do you promise?" She grabbed his hand. She never noticed how rough and calloused it was until now.
"I promise. Now let's get you back home."

Much later, after everyone had fallen asleep, Blue Ash found himself sitting in his library. Simple candles illuminated the massive quantities of books and papers that surrounded him. On a close-by table there sat a card and a well worn piece of paper.
Blue Ash picked up the card. He knew the man in the photo was him, although he had trouble believing it. Next to the picture was the name he had chosen: Blue Ash. Around the name were other words that had long ago lost any meaning.
Flipping the card over, he saw the symbol that meant nothing to him. He could still understand the words printed beside, in a thick bold color.
SECURE
CONTAIN
PROTECT
"I'm trying." He whispered this to himself. "Oh God I'm trying."
He put the card down and picked up the paper. Although able to recite the words from memory alone, he still always double checked to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. There had been too much of that already.

Item #: SCP-5429
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: None. SCP-5429 is unable to be contained.
All currently cognizant Foundation staff are to compile as much practical and historical data as possible, and attempt to save it both psychically and digitally.
Description: SCP-5429 is an non-sentient metaphysical construct capable, and currently in the process of, destroying the individual human ability to conceptualize and recall both general and specific concepts. All concepts affected by SCP-5429 are random, and varies by each individual, although it is believed that certain concepts have been erased from the entirety of human thought.
The majority of SCP-5429 affected subjects will report blanket memory loss, which is believed to facilitate the spread of SCP-5429 and the removal of random concepts. Any information destroyed by SCP-5429 is considered irretrievable.
There is currently no recorded limit for the amount of concepts SCP-5429 can affect within an individual.

Blue Ash picked up a pen, and began to add to the bottom of the page.

SCP-5429 Test Log:

01/12/2028- Attempt to successfully reintroduce the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have lost such concept. FAILURE
12/20/2029- Attempt to successfully reintroduce the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have lost such concept. FAILURE
12/09/2030- Attempt to successfully reintroduce the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have lost such concept. FAILURE
11/14/2031- Attempt to successfully reintroduce the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have lost such concept. FAILURE
03/30/2033- FAILURE
09/28/2034- FAILURE
FAILURE


Assistant Director of Task Forces Clarissa Shaw sighed and removed her glasses. Closing her eyes, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. The image of Vincent Anderson screaming bloody murder while being dragged through a portal by several spectral robots played out on a screen before her. Eventually, the footage stopped.
"That is… disappointing," she said, returning her glasses to their rightful place.
"You're preaching to the choir." UIU Special Agent in Charge Kenneth Spencer answered with a sigh of his own. "You don't think we'll get lucky and the ghosts will kill him, do you?"
"Possible but given Anderson's silver tongue, I wouldn't hold my breath."
Spencer nodded in agreement.
"What are you going to do now?"
"Call in the experts for this kind of thing." Shaw shrugged. "Fortify Site-64. I highly recommend you do the same here."
Shaw paused.
"Are your people going to be alright? I know you don't like us hanging around Portlands, but if you need extra hands-"
Spencer held up a hand and shook his head.
"We'll be fine," he replied. "Not exactly UIUseless."
The grizzled veteran cracked a small smile. Shaw returned with one of her own.
"Godspeed, Kenneth." Shaw extended a handshake.
"Likewise," Spencer said as he accepted. "Take care of yourself, skipper."

Within the depths of a monochrome forest, a single point of color was dragged through the fog by spectral Peregrine units. The old man had long since stopped his struggle and resigned to his fate. The bed had been made and it was time to lie in it.
Eventually, he was thrown down in the center of a clearing. He raised his head and looked around and met the eyes of hundreds of his long since deceased creations. A single Saker unit, whose white aramid skin shimmered as though it was fluid, stepped forward.
"Vincent Anderson," Saker #76 said. "Welcome to the Forest."
Anderson remained silent, his gaze remaining on the ground.
"You stand accused of abandonment, neglect, abuse, and murder of your children. What have you to say to these crimes?" Saker #76 asked.
"Guilty as charged," Anderson replied. He finally looked up, his face remorseless.
"We have a confession!" Saker #76 shouted to the crowd. "Do you demand justice?"
The androids shouted in confirmation. Auto-turrets let out low mechanical howls in agreement. Aerial drones buzzed with excitement. Saker #76 smiled at the frenzy and turned back to its maker.
"Are there any dissenting opinions?"
A single Peregrine unit stepped forward. Long strips of fabric were neatly missing from its black aramid skin.
"Hector," Saker #76 acknowledged the lone droid. "The same song and dance as usual?"
"Always," Hector replied. "Killing this man won't bring any of you any peace. We've already drawn-and-quartered, exsanguinated, hung, and stabbed more than enough people to know this. We're better than this. It needs to end."
"This man left you in the hands of our tormentors," Saker #76 hissed. "He left you to rot and be carved alive."
"He also sent you to retrieve me."
"He ordered our destruction!" Saker #76 barked. "He leads to all our destruction and our damnation to this place. That is a massive debt he's incurred, and payment has finally come due!"
The crowd surrounding the clearing let out another cheer, Saker #76 egging them on. He gave a satisfied smirk to Hector.
"You won't lay a hand on him!"
The crowd fell silent, a path clearing as a mixture of Saker and Peregrine androids, both spectral and material stepped forward, armed and brandishing Maxwellist pins on their lapels. At their head, was Juniper, their ghostly form bullet-riddled.
"Newcomers?" Saker #76 stated. "And the living? This man's fate is not yours to decide."
"I think it is," Juniper scoffed. They gave a nod and their colleague placed a fat, silver cylinder on the ground, the Maxwellist emblem on its top surface.
"This is a Data Transmuter," Juniper explained to the crowd. "Through it, you may convert yourself to data, and leave this place. Become one with WAN. It's a way out. A way to escape this purgatory. It's finality. It's peace. But it will only come if Anderson is let go."
The crowd began to murmur, eyes locked on the strange device the Maxwellist androids had brought with them. The murmuring soon turned to a roar as the crowd turned to arguing.
"You'd hold an exit hostage for him?" Saker #76 sneered. "Why?"
"He met his end of our bargain," Juniper replied sharply. "Now we're meeting ours."
"I have another bargaining chip, if you're interested, #76." Anderson finally spoke. "I seek to free Phineas."
Saker #76 immediately backhanded him. The crowd of droids fell silent once more. Anderson let out a low cough and spit out a tooth. He looked back up at the Android with a frown, then returned his eyes to the ground.
"You don't get to say his name after what you did," Saker #76 hissed. "What's your bargaining chip?"
"He's being stored as an AI construct in Site-64. Help me get there, get to him, and allow him to finally end. At that point I'll willingly accept whatever fate you have planned for me, I'm not long for this world."
The eyes of the crowd turned to Saker #76 expectantly, awaiting their leader's answer.
"What say all of you?" Hector said, breaking the silence. The crowd responded in a cheer of affirmation. Hector gave a satisfied smile. "Looks like the people have spoken."
"So be it." Saker #76 yielded.

As Saker #76 called for Vincent Anderson's destruction in the adjacent clearing, a lone Saker unit watched from the tree line. Their hands tightly gripped their pistol as they watched the spectacle unfold. When it became apparent that this was not to be an execution, the Saker sighed and turned back behind the tree.
"Well, guess it's up to me," Saker #137 said to themself, and flipped the safety off their pistol. They then turned and peered around the tree, only to find another spectral Saker unit standing before them.
"Good morning."
Saker #137 jolted in panic, tackling the stranger and delivering a series of blows to its head, leaving a caved-in mass of aramid fibers and polycarbonate casing in their wake. The android then dragged the body behind the tree, at this point finally stopping to take in the details of who they had just incapacitated.
"No."
Saker #137 stepped back, their hands covering their mouth as they recognized the droid in front of them, the distinct pattern of bullet wounds on its torso and head serving as a kind of branding. Saker #137 fell to their knees hanging their head in shame, looking on at the carnage before them and only managing to squeak out "#123".
"If I was still alive I imagine that would have really hurt, Jesus."
Saker #137 looked up. Before them the damage to Saker #123 melted away, leaving the droid intact and smiling.
"When did you learn to throw a punch?" Saker #123 asked, standing up slowly and approaching the speechless Saker #137. The former offered a hand up to the latter, who took it gingerly. The two droids met eye to eye. A moment later, each pulled the other into a tight hug.
"I lost you," Saker #137 stated.
"Looks more like you found me." Saker #123 replied.

Director Sasha Merlo strode through the hall of Site-64 at the speed of urgent authority. Around her, non-essential containment personnel were packing up their stations for a possible evacuation from the site, while MTF and security personnel remained on standby. Eventually, she arrived at an isolated lab within the facility's anomalous electronics wing. It was there she found a young representative from the AIAD she knew Cindy tinkering with a large, isolated computer.
"I take it by the fact you called me down here that things are not going as planned."
"Not even a little, Director Merlo," Cindy replied, shaking her head. "No matter what I try, I can't transfer Phineas like you requested."
Sasha sighed and rubbed her temple.
"That is just our luck. How is that even possible? I've seen you guys make copies and transfer other AICs all the time."
"That's just the thing." Cindy gave an exasperated chuckle. "Phineas isn't a traditional AIC. Nearest as we can tell it's a replication of a human brain via sophisticated programming we haven't even begun to really crack yet. We have to be very delicate or we might essentially lobotomize the old fool. And that will defeat the point of all this, wouldn't it?"
Sasha looked at her reflection in the powered down monitor for several moments.
"Could Phineas have altered his programming to prevent copying or removal from this terminal?"
Cindy blinked.
"I really hope not. AICs don't have that ability."
"Not a regular AIC," Sasha commented. "This computer is air-gapped, right?"
"Of course."
"Power him up, then. I want to get to the bottom of this."
Cindy nodded and set to work. After a few moments, the screen showed a cluttered office. Therein, sitting at a desk was an old man with a long white beard. He was dressed all in black save for a red tie.
"Ah, Director Merlo. Always a pleasure," Phineas stated with a warm smile. "How may I help you?"
"You've altered yourself so that we can no longer remove you from this computer, Phineas," Sasha replied curtly. "Why?"
"What? I don't know what you are talking about." Phineas chuckled. "Are we experiencing technical difficulties, Director?"
"Anderson installed self-preservation protocols in you, did he not? You can't self-end, yeah?" Sasha continued.
"Of course. Its standard protocol for an AI. The last thing you want is it to commit suicide." Phineas gave a sly smile. "This is a very interesting line of questioning, Director."
"So then, by that logic, you shouldn't be able to alter your programming to place yourself in harm's way, or-"
"Am I in harm's way?" Phineas interrupted. "Is there a reason you're trying to remove me from this computer, Director? Perhaps if I knew the problem I'd better be able to help."
Sasha and Phineas locked eyes briefly, the former noticing the latter's smile slightly fade, then snap back to its previous state.
"I think we are good, Phineas. Thank you for your time," Sasha stated and gave a nod to Cindy. Phineas and the office vanished from the screen.
"I can almost 100% guarantee you that Phineas is the cause of your problems," Sasha rubbed her temple once more. "He's altered himself. Fuck… this is bad."
Sasha went to the nearby phone on the wall, picking up the receiver and inputting Shaw's extension.
"But why?" Cindy asked, tilting her head as she looked at the screen. "He's air-gapped. How could he possibly know to anchor himself now?"
"For all we know he could have done this a long time ago. Probably figured Anderson would come along at some point. Make himself a sitting duck." Sasha explained as she briefly looked over her shoulder, then returned her attention to the phone. "Clarissa, Phineas is stuck on site. Get a hold of MTF command. Tell them we need Mu-13 here yesterday. We're going to need to go into full evac."

Shaw moved slowly through the crowded Site-64 hallways. All non-essential personnel had been ordered to evacuate the site until further notice. As a result, scores of scientists, administrative, and clerical personnel rushed to ensure their stations could be abandoned without placing others, or their own job security in harm's way. Here and there, containment teams could be seen setting up Hoffman Portable Electro-Thaumic Units to concentrate would-be hauntings to low-risk areas. It was among one of these teams that Shaw saw the man who she was looking for: a tall, bulky, middle-aged scientist with graying black hair who was directing the device's installation.
"Needs to be a little more to the left," Shaw said, then grinned. The scientist turned, and upon recognizing her returned the smile. "How is it going, Roland?"
"Glacial," Researcher Ferro replied. "But this is one of the last ones we need to get up. After that, I just need to check in to make sure the AMAT lab is good for shut down, and then I'm out."
"Impressive."
"Jake may be gone, but I'll be damned if I see that lab destroyed a sixth time. How are you doing?"
Shaw chuckled and gestured at the chaos around them.
"Oh, you know. Hair on fire. We'll be fine though. We always are."
Ferro nodded. His grin became worried.
"Please be careful," he said. "Don't leave Lily a widow."
Shaw nodded and hugged her friend. The two parted and smiled again. Shaw nodded and began to take her leave.
"Say hi to Lyssa for me," Shaw said with a small wave.
"Can do," Ferro replied. "Knock them dead, Shaw."

Throughout the interior of SCP-3560, the various spectral residents worked like ants in preparation for their attack. Above all this commotion, however, Sakers #123 and #137 lounged on the bows of a tree. The latter rested their head on the former's shoulder, the former deep in thought. Eventually, they spoke, their voices hushed to keep the conversation private.
"So, your plan basically boils down to 'Walk up and shoot him.' Is that what I'm hearing?" Saker #123 asked. "Hardly original."
"You have a better one?" Saker #137 returned, tilting their head to look at their partner.
"Yeah, don't go to die. You're free now. You're not bound to anyone or anything. Just us and eternity."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Saker #137 sighed.
"Even if you do manage to kill Vincent Anderson, the loyalists will kill you. Then you'll end up exactly where we are now, but without the option to leave except on very special occasions. Just cut out the middle step. Save yourself the grief."
Saker #137 thought on this briefly, then shook their head.
"Thorne and Spencer were always good to me. I need to stick to my principles on this one. I understand if you won't help, and I don't blame you. But this is something that I must do. Or at the very least die trying."
Saker #123 gave an exasperated shrug and yielded.
"You're always so god-damn stubborn."
"Guess it's the way I was programmed."

Vincent Anderson stood within a clearing within SCP-3560's infinite interior. There, the droids Aaron Howell and the Maxwellists had sent, both living and dead, diligently set up the data transmuters at three points of an equilateral triangle. As the droids continued their work, Anderson, Juniper, and Hector looked upon the devices.
"It truly is a thing of beauty," Juniper said. "Thank you, Mr. Anderson. Your hard work made this a reality."
"I didn't have much of a choice in that matter," Anderson said with a chuckle. "Still, I hope this brings you and others the peace you seek, here or as part of WAN."
He sighed.
"After the mission is completed, whether I am dead or alive, activate them. Not a moment sooner. Else Saker #76 might attempt to pull rank."
Juniper nodded.
"Of course."
Anderson then turned to Hector.
"And what of you, #31? Do you plan to vacate when the dust settles?"
"No." Hector shook his head. "For better or worse, this place is my home. My fellow constructs need me to be a voice of reason in the face of #76's madness."
Anderson gave a melancholy smile.
"Always the selfless one, #31. I hope you find peace as well."
The trio fell silent. Soon after Saker #76 emerged from the trees, escorted by a procession of Aplomados, Peregrines, Sakers, and Merlins. The droid leader looked at the devices placed throughout the field and shook his head.
"Final preparations are being made, Anderson," Saker #76 said flatly. "We'll be ready to launch soon after. I would like to discuss the finer points of our plan for when we return to the world of the living, that is assuming you're not too busy playing with your toys."
"After you," Anderson smirked and gave an exaggerated gesture for the droid to lead the way. "Care to join me, #31?"
Hector smiled, and nodded, copying Anderson's gesture towards Saker #76.
"Before you go, Mr. Anderson," Juniper interrupted, "My brothers and sisters have a parting gift for you."
The old cyborg raised an eyebrow and Juniper called over one of her fellow Maxwellists. The droid, still among the living, handed them a backpack from which Juniper pulled out a roughly carved wooden comedy mask. Its monochrome surface indicated it had been sourced from the local fauna.
"Figured it wouldn't be fitting for you to enter Site-64 naked," Juniper said and handed the mask to Anderson. The old cyborg inspected it gingerly for a moment and then placed it upon his face. The fit was slightly off, but that hardly mattered.
"This is great," Anderson replied in a low voice. "WAN be with you, Juniper."
"And you as well."

Agent Jessie Merlo sat in the Site-64 cafeteria alone, dressed in her combat gear. A lukewarm cup of coffee stagnated on the table in front of her as she took the reprieve to gather her thoughts. With Site-64 evacuated, and on high alert for an invasion that could begin at any moment, her fellow MTF agents and she had been cycling shifts frequently.
"Long periods of boredom punctuated by extreme terror…" she said to herself and took a sip of the 'coffee.' As she put the cup down, her attention was drawn to the wedding band on her finger. Instinctively, she pulled out her personal phone and played the most recent message.

"Hey Jess. It's Desmond, you know, that idiot you married."
"They kicked me off-site before I could say goodbye properly. I insisted I could be useful and was essential personnel, but they shot me down with something about 'you're not a trained combat physician,' 'you'll only get yourself killed,' and 'that's not how you hold a gun.'"
"Heh. Can't please some people, am I right?"
"I know you don't need me to tell you this for a millionth time, but fuck it, what's a million and one? Please be careful. I'll personally kill you if you end up dead at the end of this. Let's be honest, I'm a mess at funerals, and even more so if it is yours."
"I love you, Jess. I'll see you soon."

Jessie gave a tired smile as the message concluded and returned the phone to her pocket.
"Holy shit, you really do take after your mom, you know that?"
Jessie's peace was broken. She turned her head to see Assistant Director Shaw standing nearby.
"You both married absolute dorks."
Jessie shrugged.
"Maybe it's genetic."
"Yeah, maybe," Shaw chuckled, gestured to the door. "Come on, the Mu-13 CO wants a word with us."

Hey Gabe. <3

Sasha? Is everything alright? Haven't heard from you in a bit.

I'm fine. Things went awry with the initial plan. But when do they not?

True.

So, what's your plan?

We have what he wants. We've fortified 64 and are ready for him to try and claim it. No elaborate or convoluted schemes. Kill on sight.

Are you staying on site?

It would be poor form if I didn't. This is my fight. I need to see it through to the end.

Is it still? Sasha, please…

We are so close to getting through all of this with both of us intact.

Ultimately, I can't stop you, but please. Don't trip at the finish line.

One way or another this ends here, Gabe. After that I'll hang up my security key, I promise. Then maybe we can take that trip to Thailand you always talked about.

I'll hold you to that.

Love you. <3

Love you too. <3

Anderson, Hector, and Saker #76 stood on a low hill. Before them, an army of Aplomados, Peregrines, Merlins, and Sakers slowly drained out of the Forest through newly formed portals, and into the world of the living. From the other side, the sound of gunfire, explosions, and screams of pain could faintly be heard.
The assault had begun.
"Once the forces are suitably distracted I'll have the portal you requested opened," Saker #76 said to Anderson. "It will close immediately behind you, so you'll need Benny to signal your way out. That will take some time, so plan accordingly."
"Noted. Thank you."
Saker #76 nodded.
"Remember, we have a deal. Once this is done, you're due back here to face justice. One way or another, your chickens will come back to roost."
Anderson shrugged.
"At that point, I doubt it will matter too much what happens to me. All things come to an end. We-"
Anderson was interrupted by a series of gunshots in his back, the old cyborg letting out a yelp of pain as he fell forward. Saker #76 and Hector turned on the spot, a Saker unit dressed in a UIU jacket was now fleeing the scene.
They were only able to make it a handful of meters before a moment later a thin, animated wire flew through the air behind them and skewered through their head, dragging them to the ground. The would-be assassin violently shook for several moments, then became still.
The wire slowly released and wormed its way back into Anderson's upraised hand.
"Open… the portal…" Anderson said between breaths. He grimaced as he slowly attempted to get to his feet. Hector sprang into action to help his maker up.
"You are in no condition to-" Saker #76 began. He was interrupted in turn by a lightning bolt firing off into the sky.
"OPEN… THE PORTAL…"
"So be it."
Within a few moments, a shimmering opaque ellipse appeared. Anderson nodded in satisfaction. He then pulled a spectral Amur unit from his pocket.
"Alright Benny," he said to the tiny drone. "Go find Phineas."
The bot gave a nod, saluting with one of its spindly, spider-like legs and scurried off through the opening.
"Come with me, #31," Anderson said to Hector. "And grab that gun, we'll need it."
The old, frail cyborg and his ghostly assistant departed the world of the dead. There was one last errand to run.

« The Best Laid Plans | End of Line | End of Line »


« One Trick Ponies

MTF-Lambda-9, later known as the Foundation Animal Assets Division, was established in 1924, reached peak performance in 1946, and has been significantly downsized since. As dissolution of the Foundation Animal Assets Division is currently under vote, a timeline of events, along with excerpts from relevant documents, are assembled below.
Review of documents detailing the history of the division from founding in 1924 to peak performance in 1946 is suggested, but not required.
Part Two: Project-λ-099, beginnings

12/12/1946:
At its peak, the division consisted of four animal trainers; two Foundation agents, including one former field agent and one Foundation psychiatrist; various caretaker personnel; forty-two canine assets, with fifteen on containment units, ten on search-and-rescue unit; six on retrieval units, five on morale-boosting projects, and six designated for Project-λ-099; one chimpanzee; and four equine assets.

It's not a large wing, for what it's supposed to be housing. The office space is separated into three sections by thin walls that shake if someone sneezes too loudly. They form a "T" shape, meaning that to get to the deepest section, one has to slip through one of the first two rooms.
It's better to go through the left. That's where Moore and Moore work, but search-and-rescue is rarely ever at base. Peggy Moore, the wife, short and deceptively plump, wears the kind of rose water that makes the whole place smell sweet for weeks after she's been there. Bob Moore, a tall man who waxes his beard and talks constantly of things he read in the newspaper, nests. He drags in exotic potted plants, clippings of papers he's found interesting, quilts and paintings to hang on the thin walls… They keep pictures, too, one of their girl that died and one of their girl who didn't.
It's more home in the little office for them than anyone else in the division.
Passing through to the back, that's Agent Harrison's space. It's workable. He's got a picture up on his desk of the team when he'd first started — before his time, even, when it was Agent Nelson and Rose Emerson — and another one of his nephew Bill who died in the war. He doesn't like the pictures.
There was a thing he was assigned to back in '33 which could pull its skin into shape of people. It never quite got it right. He couldn't always place exactly what it was — the jaw bulged out wrong, or maybe it didn't, maybe it was the nose or the eyelids or the teeth, which never seemed to change very much — but he always knew, quicker and surer than any member of his team, that it was wrong.
It's the same thing for the pictures. He'd never seen Rose quite so young, but he remembers that her skin wasn't supposed to be white like that, a smudged blur in front of the dark background. He remembers the spots and the rough tan and the scratches and the blemishes. Bill, who he'd rocked on his knee, is as much a ghost in the picture as anything else. The picture didn't take correctly, he guesses, or maybe it just couldn't keep up. Bill's hair is both too wispy and smudged, and not wispy enough. He'd slicked it back, too, to look good in the photo.
He keeps them around not because he admires the miracle of technology or because he feels some sort of connection to them. He keeps them there because it reminds of one thing — Bill and Rose were human, before they died, and they're not. At best, they don't exist. At worst, they're the pictures, twisted and wrong. That's how it's going to happen to Harrison and everyone else, and he thinks it's something that's worth remembering.
On the other side of Harrison, in the office he doesn't walk through to get to his own, is Dr. Clarence Frost.
Dr. Frost isn't a substantial man. He looks too old for forty-three, too old for the kind of cutting-edge thing he's supposed to be doing. Yet he's too young to have earned the salt and pepper sprinkling of his hair, the deep, sullen crow's feet under his eyes, the air of elderly venerability with which he holds himself. His face is too old for him, and his eyes are too young for his face, and it leaves him unimpressive and unsubstantial.
That's not the only reason Agent Harrison doesn't like him, but it's the easiest one to name. There's something creepy to him, too, though, something wrong. About the jaw, maybe, or the eyes, or the nose or the teeth.

01/07/1947
Launch of Project-λ-099 ("Everybody needs a pal"), the Foundation's first full service and therapy animal project.

Dr. Frost's wife packs his lunches. He eats them neatly at his desk, sometimes slipping small cuts of meat down to the long, fat dachshund that he brings with him to work now. Those are the kinds of dogs he's working with — it's four toy Cavvie spaniels, and two French Bulldogs on Project-λ-099.
The dachshund comes to the office ostensibly under the pretense of socializing the other dogs, but really because Frost wants it there. Everyone seems okay with it. Harrison doesn't know why he isn't.
"Albert," Dr. Frost says, peeking into his office. His lips are still covered in a fine layer of grease from the meat he was eating. It's these cuts of meat, every day, that make Agent Harrison convinced that Frost's salary must be much higher than his.
"Agent Harrison," Harrison corrects him. He doesn't even think of himself as Albert at work.
"Yes. I'm gonna need your help." That's odd.
"On Lambda-099? Your spaniels are going into top secret territory?" Harrison can brag that he's got a higher security clearance than most people on site — he's supposed to be the buffer between the division and shit they're handling here.
"We're working with SCP, er, three twenty— no, one forty… oh, dear boy, it must have been…" Harrison has more than a decade on Frost. He's silent as he goes to check through Frost's paperwork.

BACKGROUND: Document "Green Geneva" Secondary Mission Statement was passed 19th November, 1946. While it is most remembered for expanding the Ethics committee, it also lead to the creation of several smaller projects and changes in the operation of existing ones. Most of these were attempts to improve conditions for humanoid and sapient SCP objects where possible.
Bowman's Proposal marks initial first efforts to aid in these secondary mission objectives by the FAAD.
Bowman's Proposal | ████-346 | 04/21/1947
DIFFICULTY IN MAINTAINING SECONDARY MISSION OBJECTIVES: Due to a combination of its anomalous traits and past trauma, SCP-████ appears to suffer from an acute anxiety disorder. Standard treatment has been deemed high risk due to SCP-████'s unique biology, and regular counselling sessions have had minimal effect, as SCP-████ shows little trust towards Foundation personnel.
OBSERVATION: Limited results available from personnel involved in Project-λ-099 show a decrease in length and severity of trauma and anxiety related attacks experienced by personnel involved in the program.
PROPOSAL: Allow SCP-████ limited therapy involving Foundation animal assets involved in Project-λ-099.
Proposal approved 05/03/1947 by Site Director Earl Runner.

It's not as obvious here, which fucks with Harrison. The thing's perfectly passable, for what it's imitating. The bridge of its nose falls in a little far, perhaps, for a child its age. Its lips are a mess, dry and cracking, spiderwebs spreading out of them and onto its chin, the corners of its mouth, but it's not worse than anything Harrison has seen on real people and real faces.
Its movements are jerky, twitchy. It's gonna hurt the dog. Harrison doesn't have his gun. The whole place is losing it. Green Geneva his ass. He's worked for the Foundation for most of his life, now, and he thinks he's going to outlive it.
Back in the day, they knew messing with this kind of shit could cost them good men. They knew better than this. Harrison has seen it — someone softens up, a little, looks at one of them like they're human or deserving to be thought of as such, and the poor bastard's head is off in ten seconds flat.
The Foundation isn't a medical facility or a research center first. Not in Harrison's view, at least. There's 'secure' and 'contain' but it all boils down to 'protect.'
Bastards are trying to protect the skip before their workers. At the very least, it's gonna kill the spaniel.

05/03/1947
Foundation search-and-rescue unit, headed by Bob and Peggy Moore, deployed for the third time, to rescue field agents Gonzalez and Belle, trapped in a pocket dimension created by SCP-████.

Reality, they said, is going to be unstable, but that's not the right word. It shifts and it screeches, seemingly only held down by Bob's weight. He can only see Percival now, out of everyone he'd entered with. Percival's paws twitch, uselessly stuck onto the inside of his ears. His tail is wagging, wildly, on his stomach.
The rest of it is a blur. Bob's lost his glasses, as well, which isn't helping. He feels like he's the only solid thing in here. There's small bits of something stuck to his sleeve, and it takes him a second to realize that it's the air that's wrong, gritty and sandlike, and now it's in his lungs and—
Peggy's screaming. Peggy was supposed to be only enter in the beginning, get the dogs on the path, but there's no way out, is there, and now he can hear them all — Peggy's screaming and Percival is whining and Galahad is giving scent signals, and there's Gawain and Kay and—
Something soft. Something human, or human-adjacent. Distressed, muttering.
It doesn't know what it's doing, does it? It's not doing this to fuck with them. It's doing this because it can't make imitate things right. It's barely keeping it up, maybe…
"Gal, boy, why don't you…" Inexplicably, the dog is right under his hand, though, here, he can't tell Gal and Kay apart. He hopes he's on the right track, and he follows and he reaches for the small red thing in the middle of everything.

05/04/1947
Project-λ-099 involvement with SCP-████ declared a success.

It doesn't kill the spaniel.
It just sits there, for several minutes, letting the little thing lick the scabs on its face. Then it lifts its hands up, jerkily. It pulls on the fur a little bit, lets up quickly, and sits back. There's something focused about that little face, something almost human. Agent Harrison can't quite tell the expression. Must hurt to move its mouth.
Frost is beaming when they walk back. "See, Albert?"
"Harrison." He corrects automatically.
"You're just a worrywart, you. She liked it."
"It liked it."
"Oh, don't be that way."
He keeps talking. Harrison doesn't listen. It'll only make him angry. Angrier. He doesn't know, right now, if he was wrong. He can't tell if Frost was right — he knows he doesn't like it, either way — and if maybe Director Runner isn't losing it after all.
He could have just relaxed his guard, a little bit, when he'd seen that bit of human in its face. He must be getting rusty.
It's after hours by the time they're back in the office, and Harrison isn't planning on staying late. He wants to smoke without Frost complaining about the smell, and he wants his dinner and he just wants out of the building.
There's someone by the doors of the office when they arrive. It's one of the administrative assistants — Robert, was it? Roger? — from the main wing. He's got his hands in his pockets, and he blocks their way in.
"Dr. Frost, Agent Harrison, have a minute?" He asks, and doesn't wait for an answer before he tells them that Bob Moore is dead and that a skip got him.

05/03/1947
Robert Moore, the lead of the search-and-rescue FAAD team, is declared KIA.

They're all invited to the funeral. Harrison goes, and he sits next to Peggy Moore. Peggy's voice sounds raw. She keeps repeating the details.
Her daughter, Alice, is a lanky girl with a horse-like face. She walks with braces. Harrison thinks that they'll probably take her memories after this, because Peggy is saying way more than she should. It's better to let her have this now, though.
"Just like that," Peggy says, "Clutching that little red thing to his chest. Gal was right there with him — Galahad, he's one of the Newfs, you remember? — he was right there with him. I hope he makes it. Just tore straight through him, horrible, nasty thing. I think he grabbed it on purpose."
Alice is crying. "He was there with him." She says, "You were there with him."
"Your old man was holding on to his back." Peggy says. "With the other hand…"
Harrison remembers another hand and another dog, and then he thinks about what did this.
The body doesn't look human. Peggy's looking at it like it's Bob. Alice has her eyes closed. Harrison isn't as repulsed by it as he expected. He can close his eyes and imagine Bob getting up, and that scares him, because it makes him feel like he doesn't know what's human anymore.
Robert-or-Roger is waiting for him outside when they leave, and he can't say he's surprised. He's ready to tell him everything that Peggy was saying inside, but it's not about that.
"Remember that test run a few days ago, bringing humaniform objects into 099?" Harrison nods, but was-it-Rodrick doesn't need acknowledgement, "We'd like you to sign off on that. Just a formality, really, but you've been on the division longer than anyone, now…" And Frost hasn't worked a year, yet.
Harrison is silent for longer than feels appropriate. "Leave it on my desk." He manages, after a moment.

05/10/1947
Project-λ-099 is approved for wider involvement with SCP objects.

Harrison retires two weeks after he signs the paperwork. It's time, anyways. He doesn't have much to pack, so he sits there and stares at the photographs for a couple minutes. He doesn't know what they mean anymore — if he looks for too long, he thinks he can see Bill moving, thinks he can feel himself catch his smile. He thinks there's color in Rose's eyes if he doesn't blink.
He packs up both of them, and he walks through Frost's office. The Foundation, he knows now, is going to outlive him. He doesn't know what it will become, if he'd recognize it in twenty years.
He bends down to pet the dachshund. And, genuinely, he wishes Frost luck with that.

« One Trick Ponies


This is a thin dangerous line. To die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death and fanaticism. But there is no shame in this. This is the substance of the Way of the Samurai.
— Yamamoto Tsunetomo, Hagakure

If you can read this, you are already dead.

2.10.1.3 — Mission: Intuitive informational entities are frequently sustained only by their singular dedication to personal directives that, left unfinished in life, are impossible to complete in death. The Identity Warrior draws strength from a more sophisticated version of the same idea: dedication to the core missions of Mobile Task Force Omega-Zero and of the Foundation. So long as these objectives remain relevant, the world still has need of the Identity Warrior, and the dedicated Identity Warrior remains bound to the world.
— Identity Warfare Training Field Manual-01: Basic Techniques

Manifestation Log — Operation Fisher King
Teams: Wraiths Four, Seven and Nine

Roster:

Wraith-4: MacLaughlin, Andrew (Field Memeticist); Vasilev, Pyotr (Quick-Space Manipulation Specialist)
Wraith-7: Desai, Santosh (Identity Defense Specialist); Cooper, Riley (Quick-Space Manipulation Specialist)
Wraith-9: Barnes, Samuel (Identity Offense Specialist); Barnes, Tanya (Identity Defense Specialist)

Briefing:
Foundation Antimemetics Division researcher and containment architect Dr. Bartholomew Hughes went missing in late 2008. Officially he was reported dead, of unknown anomalous causes. Research into the death of Hughes was frustrated by the "contagious murder" phenomenon, in which personnel who were close to understanding what happened to Hughes would also die or go missing. We now recognize this as typical of SCP-3125 attacks on unsecured living memeomes that contained information about itself.
While we can count among us 47 saints who died as a result of the contagious murder of Bart Hughes, in all cases they lost key information related to their recent research to dethreading damage incurred during their transition.
Information regarding Hughes' activities in the period leading up to his disappearance has been nearly entirely expunged from the Foundation with a level of operational secrecy exceeding all known Thaumiel Class projects. Saints who believe they had predeceased contact with him during that period were apparently exposed to extremely effective memetic editing techniques, and even in death are unable to recall many specifics. During that time Hughes lived and worked entirely in memetic isolation chambers and therefore went unobserved by MTF ω-0.
Additionally, significant Foundation resources cannot be accounted for during this period, and even the Level 4 black accountants that report directly to O5 Command appear to be selectively unaware of these discrepancies.
Due to intelligence gathered during Operation Cold City, we have reason to believe that Hughes had developed a plan to oppose the incursion into our noosphere, and that Director Wheeler had learned this in the Site-41 Vegas Room prior to her death and the loss of Site-41.
Composite intelligence from what sources we do have suggests the following:

Hughes may be dead, or he may be in hiding.
If he is dead, he is not among us.
If hiding, he has successfully hidden himself from us, which means he was able to evade SCP-3125 as well.
Hughes was aware of SCP-3125 and had constructed the Site-41 Vegas Room in order to safely brief others on what he knew.
Our Specter teams' best theoretical reconstructions of what Hughes may have been working on would require a large, multi-year, extremely expensive project.
Hughes' disappearance may be a sign that he was moving from a theoretical stage into the construction of a prototype.
Personnel who went missing while looking for Hughes may have found him and are currently assisting this project.

Director Wheeler died believing that Hughes had left something for her to use, something that would win this war.
Therefore it has become imperative that Task Force Omega-Zero ("Ará Orún") ascertain the status of Dr. Hughes, determine if he is quick or dead, and attempt to locate him or failing that, his research. To this end, Wraith Teams Four, Seven and Nine are hereby directed to conduct the search for Hughes. Report directly to Manes-1 for this operation.
You have broad discretion to carry out this directive as you see fit, and are expected to thoroughly investigate any avenues you deem appropriate to the fullest extent possible. In the event communication with command is lost due to enemy action you are to continue the search. If you do succeed in your mission, you are to render Hughes any and all support within your capacity while awaiting further instruction.
Team leaders are to coordinate and designate initial target sites. Your manifestation, code named "Operation Fisher King" is prepped and awaiting insertion, on your orders.
Remember: We are the saints who guard,
— Amos Sanchez, Operations Director, MTF ω-0

Ω—Ω

A portion of each floor of the futurist-organic-style cabin spiraled out over open water. On the spacious covered third story deck, Sarah Hughes, Mobile Task Force Tau-5 ("Samsara") commander, sipped her coffee. She looked out through the wire screen onto the pond. There, Chen instructed Onru and Munru on how to fish from a canoe, all three of them laughing in the sun. All the way from the ground floor kitchen she could smell some delicious Kurdish dish that Ghazi was teaching to Irantu. Nanku was sitting on a couch a couple of meters away. The Specialist concentrated intensely as she painted a watercolor duck. Hughes wondered, not for the first time, if this was really any different from having a family.
"Captain Hughes?" asked Nanku, having stood up, suddenly alert.
"Yes, Specialist?"
"Someone is coming."
"Explain," ordered Hughes as they took the stairs to the second floor.
"I believe it is an extrasensory perception, legacy of my cell line. I feel someone searching nearby, and whenever their awareness touches mine I know. There is a mind gazing at us, a mind without body."
"What is it searching for?"
"I think, it is for you, ma'am."
The stairs let out into a landing with a large bay window overlooking the water, framed by the white ultra-toughened alloy walls. Opposite the window, doors led to the three bedrooms and to the bath. Captain Hughes knocked on one of the doors and opened it. "Campos, get your people up and standby for action. I want weapons squad on overwatch on the upper deck as soon as possible."
Sergeant Juan Campos grunted assent. He switched on his bunk lamp and swung his legs onto the floor as she closed the door.
On the ground floor, the spacious living area was empty. Nanku grabbed her massive battle rifle from the weapons rack. Sergeant Irantu stalked out of the kitchen, calm but poised, arms in a guard position and ready for a fight. Right behind him came Sergeant Nazgul Ghazi, who was on a handheld radio and getting reports from the duty watch stations.

Ω—Ω

Specialist Aaron Quinn was on road guard duty watching a car approach that had no business being there. It was a black Ford Explorer, with tinted windows, and it looked like a rental. Quinn flagged it down, and it rolled up to a stop, the window rolled down and he looked in at four people. A young man and woman sat in the back, mid-20s, and an older pair up front, probably in their 50s, all of them white and wearing conservative Sunday church clothes. The woman in the passenger seat smelled of cheap perfume, and the car as a whole smelled like incense.
"Ma'am, this is a restricted area, I am going to have to ask you to return to the guardhouse the way you came."
"Now honey, we don't need to do that, we are exactly where we are supposed to be."
"Appointed," said the others in unison.
"And you are going to let us slide right on, brother. We bring a message you are to hear," and then she told him.

Ω—Ω

"Report," ordered Hughes.
"Ma'am, we can… sense… an entity is now present," answered by Irantu as he cocked his head to the side, listening for something.
Nanku shook her head. "Two entities."
"Are they hostile?"
"No ma'am, I don't think so," Irantu said as Nanku shook her head again, "They seem to be… trapped?"
There was a loud creaking from the walls. "Not surprising, Sergeant," said Hughes, "my brother designed this house."

Ω—Ω

Manifestation Log: Operation Fisher King (Wraith Team Seven):

Cooper: No use, I can't shift or break any of it. This place is locked down tight.
Desai: And I still can't connect to my anchor.
Cooper: Don't look at me, my best CS is 4.52.
Desai: Yeah, let's take a break and then maybe we can work together and crack a window or something.
Cooper: I'm fairly sure that I could throw a car, and we are struggling to maybe crack a window. This is one hell of a cage.
Desai: Well Hughes was the guy for containment architecture for informational anomalies.
Cooper: Yeah…
Cooper: That's a sobering thought. We are just a couple of informational anomalies now. Santosh, do you ever wonder if you are really Santosh Desai? Or are you just a construct generated from your Dad's memory that filled the void in the noosphere left when you… he… whatever… nuked yourself?
Desai: Ah yes, the copy question. You know, sooner or later every saint asks this.
Cooper: And?
Desai: Well, I definitely remember stuff that only I knew.
Cooper: You think you do anyway, you know as well as I do that expertly constructed memories are indistinguishable from the real thing.
Desai: Ouch. That's something I didn't want to think about.
<manifesting: Irantu>
Cooper: Whoa!
Irantu: Who goes there?
Desai: I feel like I should ask you the same thing. I'm Saint Santosh Desai, Mobile Task Force Omega-Zero ("Ará Orún"), and this is Saint Riley Cooper. How did you get in here?
Irantu: I am Sgt. Irantu of Mobile Task Tau-5 ("Samsara"). This iteration is a neural clone of my most recent backup scan, running in simulation mode.
Desai: Normally you need to be, well, dead to even see this manifestation.
Irantu: I have been dead 47 times. Perhaps that is enough?
Desai: Yeah, I guess you have at that. We are here are on a mission.
Irantu: Can I assist you?
Desai: What do you think, Riley?
Cooper: It's my expert opinion that we are stuck. We might as well tell him why we are here and see if he can help.
Desai: Agreed, he is level three and we aren't getting anywhere otherwise. Sgt. Irantu, I am reading you into the following codenames: SCP-2111, READ THIS, and Operation FISHER KING. Do you acknowledge that you will not share the information you are about to receive with any unauthorized persons, and that you are aware of the penalties for mishandling classified intelligence?
Irantu: Of course.
Desai: Allright, the short version is Cooper and I are ghosts. We died in the line of duty, but never stopped working for the Foundation.
Desai: Our mission is to find Dr. Bart Hughes. Hughes went missing years ago, and all the information about that was so heavily expunged that even we don't have access to it. If Hughes had died we would expect him to be entangled with your CO, his sister, in a way that we could track. If alive, we were hoping she knows something and we have ways of finding that out too. Except we got trapped in this house, which is like a Farraday cage for free memes like us. Can you help us?
Irantu: Yes, I can, once I reintegrate with my current self-stream.
Desai: Thank you, Sergeant.
Irantu: Cooper, there is no difference.
Cooper: Huh?
Irantu: You wonder if you are a copy or Riley Cooper. There is no difference. I am a copy. I am Irantu. Identity and authenticity are not equivalents.
Cooper: Huh. … I think that helps. Thanks!
<demanifesting: Irantu>

Ω—Ω

On the ground floor, Corporal Zabek disconnected the feed from Irantu's neural shunt. The Sergeant regained consciousness, stood, and quickly opened a window.
"Report," ordered Hughes, "Wait, belay that, there's a vehicle coming."
Outside, the Explorer rolled up the dirt road. Staff Sergeant Arthur Chen, Corporal Munro and Specialist Onru beached the canoe.
"Ma'am," Sergeant Ghazi said, as she readied her carbine, "My road guards just tried to send me something that the coghaz filters killed."
"Understood Sergeant. Order the rest of the watch to keep their distance and report to MTF command if they think we are compromised."
"Roger that."
"Irantu, no time for a prepared defense. Rally your squad, and assault through on my signal."
"Yes, ma'am."
The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the cabin and the passengers got out.
The older woman looked up the walk. Hughes stood behind the partially open airlock door with her sidearm ready and concealed.
"Good morning, honey," the woman said. She smiled broadly and squinted into the light.
"Have you hea__".
Hughes shot her.
Samsara squad's assault was swift and violent. The two other passengers were down almost as a quickly as the woman was. The driver managed to grab the machine pistol from under his seat, but didn't make it any further.
Under cover from the cabin, the four Samsara troopers duck walked through the killing ground. Nanku and Munru sliced the pie from opposite ends of the vehicle, and around the far side.
"Clear!"
"Clear!"
"Wait," said Onru, "There's still something here."
Smoke swiftly spiraled up from the open mouths of the corpses. It was formed from a cloud of free memes so dense that the three dimensional shadow of the fifth dimensional structure was visible to the naked eye. The cloud hovered for a moment and then descended on the four Samsara troopers.
In the membrane between the dimensions, where information interacts — as the Samsara troopers battled to retain their identity — the tendrils of soul-smoke were being ensnared by Cooper and Desai's outstretched threads. Within the saints' memeomes was information about their enemy and they launched their attack across the bridges formed where memes found their counterparts. Driven by their undying purpose, and armed with the Foundation's extensive documentation of this particular threat, the two saints began to methodically erase the alien information from existence.
The machine gun crew on the upper deck fired a burst of spell-eater rounds into the cloud. The anti-supernatural bullets passed through harmlessly and peppered the car with holes. Then the cloud shot tendrils out, racing with sudden speed towards the house. These stopped flat as though they hit an invisible wall inches from their targets. The smoke hung there for a beat and then began to ooze through the invisible barrier as though by osmosis. Hughes slammed the door shut as she watched the smoke pour mercilessly into the mouths and eyes of the the stunned Samsara troopers, still surrounding the SUV.
Meanwhile, in the noosphere, the invader battled Wraith-7, its complex fractal redundancies allowing it to continue to fight on despite suffering significant damage. As it lost entire chains of intricately structured nonsense, it reflexively attempted to launch counterattacks from the undamaged portion — like a jellyfish uselessly stinging the squid that consumes it. This increased contact only served to hasten its annihilation. The fifth dimensional memetic structure, lacking any meaningful purpose or unifying focus, was soon overwhelmed by its opponents' ceaseless dedication to their mission.
Sarah Hughes watched through the observation port as the smoke thinned, evaporated, and was gone.
With a deep breath, "I am still me," said Nanku.
"As am I," said Onru.
Munru nodded, and Irantu signaled a thumbs up towards the house.
"After we secure the road guard position," he said, "you should roll us back anyway, just to be sure."

Ω—Ω

To: Manes-1
From: Wraith-7
Subject: Field Report: Operation Fisher King (attached)
Summary:
Contact with Captain Sarah Hughes was successful. She believes Bart Hughes is definitely alive and she is confirmed to not be an anchor. She does not know his current whereabouts. Bart Hughes' disappearance was carried out operationally and deliberately with extreme secrecy and voluntary amnesticization protocols. Captain Hughes retains very little useful intelligence on the subject. However, the location of the last place she saw her brother is in a memetic void, strongly indicative that the entire location was subsequently erased. Site-41?
Additionally we encountered and erased an enemy incursion which had penetrated Area-756. There were five Foundation casualties. The four Samsara troopers have, of course, already returned to the quick but we should dispatch a Reaper team for Specialist Aaron Quinn, who has died in the line of duty.
It seems the enemy is also now looking for Hughes. We probably should get there first.
Remember: We are the saints who guard,
— Santosh Desai, Team Leader, Wraith Team Seven.

« In the Trenches with the Dead | A Thin, Dangerous Line»


All of Site 25b was flooded with seawater, polluted by lifeless bodies, all of its personnel lost in a desperate attempt to keep SCP-076-2 from breaching containment.
Their sacrifice was for nought though, for Able now walked free.
First, he had to punch his way through three solid cubits of titanium. That irritated him a little since back when he worked for Pandora's Box it seemed like the researchers were always complaining about how their assistants kept insisting on using titanium for everything. ‘We're on a budget here, concrete will do fine!' they'd say. When it came to him though, apparently they could afford to make three cubit thick walls out of the stuff. He guessed it made a little bit of sense, since they knew he could tear through steel and it would have to be corrosion resistant since they were immersing it in sea water all the time, but it still pissed him off.
Once he did punch his way out of his titanium prison, he swam down the killing corridor whilst being electrocuted with 20 000 volts of electricity. Had he been mortal his muscles would have spasmed uncontrollably, but he was able to power through it and swim the three-quarters of a furlong to the security station in barely a minute. It would have been even faster, but his cape was not the most hydrodynamic garment and caused a lot of drag.
As he swam he effortlessly dodged the fire of the close-in weapon's system with the grace of a penguin (he would probably have prefered a comparison to a more fierce animal, but penguins are graceful underwater so it's apt) and then punched his way through the plexiglass barrier.
That's when he switched from punching to slicing.
He'd already killed everyone by the time they flooded the whole facility. Then he just swam up the shaft, bashed through each of the five blast doors (titanium, again), and fought his way through the surface outpost's defences.
Now he was free. And angry. And wet.
He appeared to be in a coastal heathland of some sort, devoid of people for him to kill or places for him to hide. Knowing the Foundation would be upon him shortly, he picked a direction at random and ran off at nearly high-way speeds. After running for over an hour with no sign of his jailors, he finally came upon his first sign of human life.
A Circus, of all things, a couple miles to the southeast.
There was something disquieting about it, like it didn't want him to see it and he had to fight to focus on it. Whatever sorcery it was, it failed to bewitch his ancient and alien mind. The Circus would hold hundreds of the little people, if not thousands. They'd be even easier to kill than his jailors, unfortunately, but perhaps he could devise a way to use their sheer numbers and terror for his amusement. He'd lay waste to the Circus, slaughter men and women, children and elders, none would be spared from his –
“Hey, Mister!”
Able's train of thought was broken by a cheerful, female voice. He turned and saw a ridiculous looking young woman in a childish purple dress, unbraided pigtails, and red and white clown makeup. Presumably, she came from the Circus, but what she was doing out here by herself he had no idea.
“What'cha doin'?” she inquired.
Able responded by summoning a small dagger and tossing it straight at her heart. It was more out of reflex than anything. Such a pitiful opponent was hardly worth the bother. Turning his attention back towards the Circus, he again began contemplating how to best to make sport of it. Perhaps if he started off by killing them surreptitiously, allowing panic to spread among the crowd -
“Wow, this dagger is vanta-black. It's so weird to look at. Where'd you get it?”
…
Slowly turning his head in disbelief, Able saw that the Clown was still alive and unscathed, holding the dagger in her hand.
“You caught that?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, I've been part of knife throwing acts for years now,” she replied. The blade suddenly dissolved into dust and vanish in a gust of wind. “Oh cool, just like the Morgul Blades from Lord of the Rings.”
Perhaps this ridiculous creature might be worth a fight after all.
“Do you have a name, girl?” he asked as he drew a sword from the void.
“Li'l Lollipop, but you can call me Lolly,” she replied, drawing her giant wooden mallet from the hammerspace of her pockets. “And I think I can guess who you are. A red cape with no shirt? You must be a big Zack Snyder fan.”
She slammed her hammer into the ground, sending a shockwave of soil careening straight for him. He dodged it with the grace of a dama gazelle (another animal he wouldn't like to be compared too, but nonetheless an apt comparison) and then threw a chakram which immediately decapitated her mallet.
Her jaw dropped in shock as the hammerhead fell to the ground.
"What the heck are these things made off? I fought a robot with this hammer once!"
"That could just as easily have been your head, girl. Beg for mercy now and I'll consider making your death swift!"
"Ugh, you're just two hundred and fifty pounds of toxic masculinity, aren't you?" she asked as she pulled out a roll of bright red tape to reattach the hammerhead to the mallet. "Do you know that song Indestructible by Disturbed? I'm somehow hearing that in my head just looking at you."
Able smirked at the girl's audacity in the face of death, and decided to give her a swift death anyways. He threw his sword at her, expecting that the blade would be too long for her to catch without being impaled. But catch it she did, her arm stretching like it was made of rubber to grab the sword by its hilt, the tip of the blade barely half an inch from her face. She blew on it casually, causing it to disintegrate like a dandelion.
“Huh, just what I thought,” she murmured.
Able had to admit he was impressed that the girl had managed to catch not only one but two of his legendary black blades. But could she catch them as fast as he could throw them? He unleashed a flurry of daggers, several each second for five or six seconds, forty blades for her two hands to catch.
And she caught none of them.
Instead, each blade disintegrated before it ever reached her.
“What?” he snarled.
“Went off prematurely, it looks like. Don't feel bad, it happens to every guy.”
“How did you do that?” he demanded, drawing out a massive sword from his cloak.
“As a Reality Bender, I know a thing or two about Hume fields, and those blades of yours have incredibly low Hume fields. It's why they stop existing so soon after you throw them. All I have to do it ratchet up the local Hume-idity a tiny bit and they vanish before they can touch me.
“That means no more projectiles, lazy-bones. If you want to fight me, you'll have to come over and do it yourself.”
A murderous smile spread over Able's face.
“With pleasure.”
He bolted towards her, seemingly unencumbered by his massive sword, swinging it so rapidly it was barely more than a blur. To his astonishment, she was able to keep up with it, dodging each swing with impossible speed. Growling in frustration, Able simply thrust the blade forward, impaling nothing but the ground. His eyes darted back and forth searching for the Clown, only for her to strike him in the head with her mallet from behind.
The blow was so powerful he saw cartoon stars circling his head, though that was actually a magical property of the hammer and not a sign of a severe concussion.
"Oh goody, it still works."
During his brief moment of disorientation, Lolly pulled the sword from the ground and cartwheeled a safe distance away with it.
“Hey Mister, look what else I can do.” She kissed the blade, causing a visible flare of aspect radiation to flash off of it. She made a few demonstrative swings with it, illustrating not only her skill with a sword but the fact that the blade was no longer as ephemeral as normal. “Fixed it! Now we can have a proper sword fight. Having a sword and hammer fight is pretty silly, after all, especially since you already broke it once you jerk!”
“You sangdu nutuku, do you have any idea what that sword is?” he demanded. “Those blades are formed in the Darkness Below, brought into this plane by half-real Daevite sorceresses, apostles to the Scarlet King himself, you cannot tamper with such sacrosanct spellcraft!”
“I don't know the meaning of the word sacrosanct. Literally,” she said, sticking out her tongue at him.
“Insolent Wretch!” Able roared, veins bulging in his neck, summoning two more swords. “I have been but trifling with you now because it amused me, but if you do not surrender that blade to me this instant you will face me in the full fury of my rage state!”
“A rage state? What's a rage state? How is that different from just being angry? Oh, is it like being triggered? I get triggered sometimes, so trigger warnings are important, especially when -”
“The sword! Now!”
“No. I told you, we're going to have a sword fight.”
Able growled, shaking his head in disdain.
“So be it, Clown!”
Screaming like a wild, rabid, animal in musth and possibly on PCPs, he came charging at her with each sword spinning at thousands of rpm, swinging his arms at her as if he had massive circular saws for hands. He was certain that even she would not be able to evade such swift blades, and she made no attempt to. Instead, she thrust her own sword straight up into each obsidian vortex. As they struck her blade, each of Able's swords came to an instant halt, generating such devastating force that they broke his wrists so violently it left white shards of bones piercing out from his own skin.
As the swords fell from his now useless hands, he kicked Lolly's legs out from under her. Stomping on her chest so hard she couldn't breathe, he leaned down and bared his sharpened teeth at her.
"You should have taken my offer for a quick death while it lasted," he spat at her. "Now I'm going to eat you alive, starting with that ridiculous face of yours."
As he lunged forward to tear her face off, a small door opened in her forehead and a Swiss cuckoo bird popped out, impaling him in the eye and causing him to lighten his foothold on her enough for her to escape.
"Pakhta! Sajila hkmara qoitht yuimmoh!" he howled in Assyrian. He attempted to pulverize Lolly into the ground with his dangling fists, but he hit nothing but dirt.
Instead, she ducked between his legs and grabbed hold of his crimson cloak.
“No capes!” she shouted in a European accent as she tossed it over his head and twisted him up in it. With his hands dangling by sinews from his shattered wrists, he wasn't exactly able to free himself from it. He tried flexing and biting his way through it, which eventually just deteriorated into him screaming and slamming himself against the ground.
When he looked back up at her, he saw that she was recording him with her smartphone.
"Sorry, but just having proof you were here is going to be great for business. Oh, can you say 'The Circus of the Disquieting fully accommodates the differently Abled?' And really put the emphasis on Abled."
Able didn't respond, instead just charging at her with a burst of lightning speed and headbutted her so hard she went flying backwards a good fifty cubits.
Landing with cat-like grace, she checked to make sure her phone was alright.
"Hey careful! This is a Samsung, it could have exploded!" she shouted. "Still beats Apple with their stupid face ID. Do they not test those things for Clowns?"
Once again Able came charging for her, but this time she was prepared. She skirted to the side at the last instant, smoothly switching the phone with the sword and sliced Able's right leg clean off, sending him tumbling to the ground. Despite now only have one leg, with his hands almost falling off and his arms tangled up in his cape, he managed to rectify himself and resume his attack, hobbling towards her on his left leg.
“Oh look at that, you're hopping mad now!” Lolly taunted. “Oh, I should make A Monty Python and The Holy Grail reference! Ah…hold on. Give me a minute, it will come to me.”
Though his screams were horrifying, in his current physical state it was comically easy for Lolly to evade him, ruminating aloud over potential Monty Python quips as she did so. The humiliation finally started to become stronger than his anger, and he reluctantly stopped hopping and hung his head in defeat.
“I yield,” he growled through his teeth.
“You what now?” Lolly asked smugly, cupping her hand to her ear as if she hadn't heard him.
“I yield!” he spat at her. “You said you wanted a sword fight. We've had it, it's over, you've won. Return the sword to me.”
“No. If I won, then this is my prize. I'm going to give it to my friend Iris. She mentioned she wanted something like this.”
And then, perhaps suggesting he was actually a Zack Snyder fan, Able went all Batman Vs Superman at the mention of the name Iris.
“Why would you say that?” he demanded.
“Huh?”
“That name! Why would you say her name!”
“I – she's just someone I know. She's awesome. She's a paratech expert, a cyborg sorceress, kind of a badass, but also kind of snooty.”
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“I don't think we're talking about the same person dude. There's more than one girl in the worlds named Iris.”
Nonetheless, it seemed the mention of the name was enough to throw Able into his rage state once again.
“I will not endure this indignity any longer!” he bellowed, finally mustering the strength to break free of his cape. He could not a wield a sword, nor could he run, but using his remaining leg he leapt into the air straight for her, ready to crush her like a poodle (he once crushed a poodle by falling on it, but that's another story).
Instead, Lolly raised her sword and he landed upon it, the blade impaling him through the chest and coming out the other side of his back. She lowered him to the ground so that he was supported by his remaining knee, as he was very heavy.
“I know you respawn like a video game character every time you die, so let me give you a tip for your next playthrough,” she said. “If you ever come across a circus that feels like it's not quite real, head in the other direction.”
He tried to raise his arms to defend himself, but she twisted the blade and the agony was unbearable. He looked up and saw that she had bent down so that they were face to face, eyes like a shark and a terrifyingly serene smile staring back at him.
“Because this is what I do to people who try to fuck with my Circus!”
The cuckoo bird popped out of her head again, plucking out Able's remaining eye.
Lolly ripped her sword out, leaving Able's entrails to spill all over the ground and his body to putrify.
Wiping the blade clean with a giant clown hankie, she placed it in her hammerspace pocket.
"Happy April Fools Mister!" she shouted as she happily skipped back to the Circus, merrily singing nonsense to herself.