“Jeremy, you disappoint me.”
Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V, PhD1 glowered over her folded fingers. The corgi sitting on her desk smiled back at her, exuding an air of incredible pride over the slightly-damp envelope that sat at its front paws. Isabel leaned back in her chair and sighed.
“I'm getting reaaaaaaaaal tired of this, Jeremy.” She pushed off against the floor, sending her chair rolling across the office. “Your brother was never like this.” Jeremy lay down, resting his head on his paws. “He never brought me bad news, but with you, Jeremy, it's always bad news.” The high-backed chair slowed to a stop.
Isabel was slouched low enough to be effectively horizontal, her noodly limbs splayed out limply. Too much effort in sitting up straight now. Too much work. What was the point in work? What was the point in anything anymore? What was the point? She'd gotten the news directly from the corgi's mouth: this quarter's sales were in the toilet across the board. It was the worst quarter in a decade of bad quarters, and the Executive Board was not happy.
Several gallons of Dr. Wondertainment Quadruple Bypass Minty Fudge Ripple Ice Cream™ had done little to dull the barbs in that sternly-worded letter from the Executive Board.
We find your recent work to be severely lacking.
Lacking? Lacking? She put her life, her soul, the very entirety of her being into each and every design. How could they even dare say her work was lacking? She was Doctor Wondertainment! She built this company on blood, sweat, tears, and that nasty pus that fills up zits!
Kids just didn't buy toys anymore. They were too busy playing those horrible video games, which rotted the brain and promoted all sorts of unwholesome things like murder, foul language, and microtransactions. Isabel tried, oh she tried. Her work was not lacking. The whiteboard walls of her office were covered in scribblings, enough ideas to keep the Wondertainment product line going for a full generation. But it wouldn't do any good if the only people who bought her toys were a few odd collectors and the ever-dwindling number of Wondertainment faithful. All that work, all that effort, and no one liked any of her toys. Heart and soul poured out into her work, and the Board barks back with a wheezing “the focus groups don't like it.” Focus groups! There never used to be focus groups in this company!
But there they were, and the Executive Board loved them dearly. What was the point in putting in her heart and soul if everything was just going to get shot down?
Isabel scooted herself back to her desk and turned the chair back around. There was Jeremy, there was the envelope that held the report about how the Wondertainment brand was getting stomped by the Factory.
The Factory. The very thought made all sorts of words bubble up from the recessed folds of her brain: ugly, angry words like floozy and fudgenugget and sassafrassin and consarnit and butt. Yeah, that was it. The Factory was butts. They wouldn't know fun if fun decided it wanted to be a butt-hat and roost on top of their head.
Actually that would be a neat idea, a hat for your butt, there are plenty of people who go around without hats anyway, so why not make a butt-hat so they can wear two hats…
No…no…what was the point? People would think it was stupid. People would look at the butt hat and go “Oh what's this? Some stupid baby toy for babies who poop? I'm not buying this because I am not some stupid baby who poops.” But that was stupid because everyone poops, not just babies and aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh.
She needed more ice cream. A lot more ice cream. Something different…Cotton Candy Caramel Colada, Crunchy Frog, Good Day to Die (By Chocolate), Bananaramadingdong, Five Kinds of Rocky Road Medley, Kung-fu Ripple, Thoroughly Intense Vanilla, Entropeanut The Buttery End of All Things…so many to choose from.
Bah. She'd have all of it. Drown herself in ice cream. Isabel nudged the corgi with her finger.
“Doink. Hey. Jeremy. Go get Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, and Jeremy. I've got a job for you all.”
The dog's ears perked. Jeremy stood up, hopped off the desk, and scampered out of the office. He returned a moment later with four other corgis. They all sat in front of the desk, looking both adorable and expectant. Isabel leaned over and scowled down at them with as much authority as she could muster with her bright cotton-candy pink, blue, and purple striped sweater.
“All right. Jeremy, I need you to go grab the keys and open up the warehouse. Jeremy, you and Jeremy man the forklift. Jeremy, you distract Mr. Security. Jeremy, you make sure the rest don't mess it up. I want literally all the ice cream we have in storage right here, in my office, on the double.”
The Jeremys barked affirmative in unison and stampeded back out of the office on stubby legs.
Isabel sighed and spun around in her chair, slumping back down. Normally this would be fun, and she would be laughing with exceeding joyfulness, but she felt nothing now. Eventually she stopped spinning once more, her gaze coming to rest on the portrait of her father2, Dr. Reginald Philbert Lionel Archibald Westinghouse Wondertainment III, MD, PhD, DDS, Esq.
“What do you want, dad?”
The painting did not answer3, but it did look very important and mustachioed. He was one of those important-looking mustachioed men who hung around with other important-looking men with mustaches and said things like “yes, quite” and “oh indubitably”. He also looked very disappointed.
“You never had to deal with video games, dad. Give a kid one of those things and you have them eating out of the palm of your hand forever. The Factory can churn out the same thing every year and they eat it up and spend all their time on the line and they don't buy toys.”
The painting did not answer.
“I know you had that trouble with Dark, but come on, cut me a little slack…”
The painting did not respond.
“Yes I know you got started by selling kicking cans on street corners, but I'm about to be put back on the street and…”
The painting did not reply.
“Shut up, painting of dad! You aren't my real dad!”
The painting did not react.
“What do you want? I'm not as good as you were, dad!”
The words hung in the air around her. Not as good. Did she really say that? Yeah, yeah she did. Not as good…maybe the Executive Board was right. Maybe she was slipping. Not like she could do anything about it. Bring on the ice cream!
The office door opened.
“Jeremy?” Isabel swung her chair around.
Jeremy was not there. In his place was a bespectacled and rather professional looking youngish woman with a clipboard. She was shortish and plumpish4, with brownish coppery hair kept back in a bun, and a monopoly on the local freckle market.
The plastic gears and AA batteries inside Isabel's head clicked into place as she determined that this newcomer was not only not Jeremy, but had no ice cream.
“Who are you?”
“Emma Aieselthorpe-Brown. I'm your new assistant.”
Isabel blinked. Assistant? She didn't need an assistant. She had Jeremy.
“I never asked for an assistant.”
“The Executive Board assigned me here. I have the paperwork right here.”
“Are you here to spy on me?”
“No.”
“Are you here to assassinate me?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay.”
There was a long, awkward silence, as if an invisible elephant had decided to very slowly walk through the room.
“Do you need anything, ma'am?”
“Uh…” She already had the ice cream on the way what else did she need. “A spoon. Go get me a spoon."
“Right away, Ma'am.” She nodded curtly, handing a folded piece of paper to Isabel before exiting.
Hmm. Isabel read the note.

Dr. Wondertainment -
In an effort to counter your recent drop in productivity, we the Executive Board have seen it fit to assign you with a personal assistant for the forseeable future. Ms Aislethorp-Brown has been judged as overwhelmingly competent in this regard, and we expect that she will serve as sufficient impetus towards improved performance.
-The Executive Board, Dr. Wondertainment Inc.

There was a lot of very fine print and legal mumbo-jumbo underneath all that, but Isabel didn't care. No one ever read those things. She crumpled up the paper and tossed it in her Dr. Wondertainment Hungry Heinrich Wastebin™. Why give her an assistant if they were just going to fire her anyway?
It could have been that the Executive Board wasn't actually trying to sack her and didn't want her to fail, but the concept seemed hilariously stupid to Isabel. They were the Executive Board, a bunch of dusty old busybodies who liked writing long words in small print and asking for things in triplicate. It was their job to meddle in the state of things, to put up roadblocks, to try their damnedest to prevent fun from occurring. Trying to outsmart them had turned into something of a game: Isabel even kept score for a while. Maybe they were only trying to make themselves look like the big bad guys to get the game up and running again.
Maybe. But that still left the Factory to deal with, and the Factory was not something one dealt with. It wasn't run by anyone. It had no investors, no shareholders, no CEO, just miles and eons of blood-soaked gears and lonely sweatshop souls churning out soulless muck from its bowels, a cancerous structure seeking nothing but the mammon that allowed it to grow and spread and offer the universe its waste in exchange for more resources.
The Factory was good at its game. Very good.
Emma returned and handed Isabel a spoon.
“Thanks.” Isabel said half-heartedly. She hated being wrong, or thinking that she was wrong, especially in this case because that meant that she really had no reason to get the ice cream at all and wouldn't be able to enjoy it properly because depression eating wasn't any use if there wasn't a good reason to be depressed.
There was another long, awkward silence. This time it was hippo-shaped.
“Mm-hmm.” Emma cleared her throat.
Oh no she's initiating conversation…
“Jeremy! About time you got here!” Isabel shouted. Saved by the dog.
The corgi waddled into the office, balancing a bucket of ice cream on his head, followed by Jeremy and Jeremy, on and on down a line that stretched out of the office door, a little corgi conga conveyor line. Each dog dropped off his ice cream in turn and trotted back out. Isabel grabbed the first bucket and tore off the plastic lid. Marvelous Marshmallow Mania. Good way to start. Maybe she didn't need the ice cream now, but Jeremy had already brought it all up anyway so she might as well eat it.
She did so. Another awkward not-quite silence passed in monolithic, cringe-worthy horror. Jeremy continued to bring in more ice cream.
“Uh, you can have some too, if you want. I've got…” She glanced at the growing pile. “Bunderbelly Blueberry Bonanza…”
“No thank you.”
“Very Vunderful Vanilla Vampire?”
“No thanks.”
“Napoleon's Neopolitan Nepotism?”
“I'm good.”
“Uncomfortably Tasty Orange ‘Splosion?”
“I already ate.”
“Mega Meat Mystery?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” Isabel put her feet up on her desk and continued to eat.
Emma cleared her throat again.
“If you don't mind me asking, ma'am, are you planning on working any time soon?”
“Maybe, when I'm done with all of this.”
“There's quite a lot of it here already.”
“Yeah, and? ‘S not that much.”
“I'll take your word for it.” Emma's expression remained unflappably neutral. “But I still think it best that you leave the ice cream for another time and focus on your work.”
“Maybe I am focusing on my work? A couple hundred buckets of ice cream to drown my sorrows should be more than enough brain food.” She grimaced. “Jabberwocky sneezy knee socks. There. Ideas.”
“Not a very marketable one.”
“Way to ruin the mood, Negative Nancy.”
“Emma.”
“I can see why you'd be concerned, but jabberwocks need knee socks sometimes, especially in the winter when they get the snifflies and the sneezes.”
“Ma'am, if I may make a suggestion: perhaps a more marketable toy would be appropriate.”
“Not you too. The Board is bad enough with that. That's Factory talk, and they're driving us out of business with their Battleduties and their Birdvilles.”
“There might be something that can be done about that.”
The spoon paused.
“Explain.”
“The Factory is, effectively, an unthinking force. Something like an animal, right?”
“Right.”
“A person can't talk with a bee, but a bee can talk with a bee, so to speak.”
“So…we shoot bees at the Factory.”
“No. The Factory is bees, here.”
“Okay, Factory is bees. Butt-bees.”
“We, the people, want to talk with the Factory, the bee, but can't, because we're people and it's a bee.”
“So in order to deal with the Factory…”
“You just have to speak their language.”
Speak their language…
“Wait…that's it…that's it! How did I not see it sooner that's it!” Isabel leapt off the table, tossing the bucket of ice cream across the floor, and grabbed Emma by the shoulders. A manic smile lit up her face. “That's it! We take the Factory's game and use it against it! It's the last thing they'll expect from goofy old Wondertainment! Aislethorp you're a genius!” Isabel planted an overwrought and slightly off-center kiss on her assistant's face before leaping away, pirouetting, and moving into a little victory dance. Emma wiped her face on her sleeve.
“Corporate sabotage!” Isabel continued dancing. “That's what we'll do! We sneak into the Factory itself, mess everything up, and run away laughing, and then we hit them with the biggest and best toy line in Wondertainment history! It'll be a coop-dee-grass!” She clapped her hands together, stopping the dance. Oh this was good. The game was back on. She'd show the Board, she'd show the Factory, she'd put Wondertainment back on the map. The Doctor was no pushover, she'd prove that.
“Steel yourself, Ms. Aiselthorp.” Isabel grinned. It was a wild, childish, grin, the kind of grin that came with schoolyard scheming and various puerile pratfalls. “We're about to embark on ADVENTURES IN CAPITALISM!” She struck a dramatic pose to emphasize the point, one arm pointing skyward, the other one pinning Emma in a headlock.
Emma did not look particularly plussed by any of this.
“I'll start packing the Wondermobile.”
“Excellent!” Isabel made a triumphant fist. “Jeremy! TO THE LABORATORY5!”
The corgis froze, and in unison dropped their ice cream. More of them poured into the room, swarming about in a vast furry carpet. Isabel spread her arms wide and fell gracefully onto their backs, laughing maniacally as they ferried her away out of the office.
Emma waited patiently for the last dog to depart before leaving, and took a quart of Papal Papaya™ on the way out.

« | Hub | Part 2: The Super-Cool Road Trip Adventure »

Footnotes
1. MD, DD, OD, PsyD, and EngD too.
2. For a given value of father. Wondertainment family genetics are notoriously convoluted.
3. Wondertainment family members had tried using Dr. Wondertainment Personable Portraits™ in the past, but the ensuing argument over the best design for the Dr. Wondertainment Super Stick-And-Hoop™ proved to be too much for Dr. Roxanne Lauren Joan Dora Peidmont von Wondertainment, PhD, who fed each and every one of them to the Dr. Wondertainment Crazy Confetti Machine™.
4. Granted, from Dr. Isabel Wondertainment's viewpoint everyone was shortish and plumpish in comparison.
5. Pronounced la-bor-a-tory. A lab-ro-tory is a dog that spins around.


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“What a piece of work is man.”
Ruiz stood draped in purple robes. The spotlight shone down, the theatre otherwise coated in black. He was wracked with Hamlet's madness, profound pain etched in his face as though he had been visited by the devil himself. Ruiz was putting it on by the bucketloads, and the audience was lapping it up.
“How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving, how express and admirable!”
He moved to his Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, looking into their eyes and seeing their souls reflected in their dull, uninterested pupils. These men were not artists. These men did not deserve their names.
“In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a GOD!”
Ruiz flung his robes open, strobe lights flashing across the stage. He looked upon his entranced and enraptured audience, gazing and gobsmacked by his display. He was entertaining them. He, Ruiz, at this moment, this instant, was all they lived for.
“The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!”
He was all they knew. He lived inside their minds at this very moment. They were not seeing him as he truly was, no, they were seeing him as he should be, as he wanted to be seen, as what he wanted to be, and indeed, he thought, what he truly was. The sane man faking madness, in a world of madmen faking sanity. Here, world, is Ruiz Duchamp, the original Hamlet.
“And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”
The lights went dark, the spotlight descended, and Ruiz was alone in the universe.
“To me, to me, to me… what is this quintessence of dust? No… no. Man delights not me.”
Ruiz looked out into the void and the void stared back with infinite apathy.
“Man delights not me. No, nor woman either, though by your demeanour you seem to think so.”
And then the light returned, and Hamlet had his Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and the play went on and, as we all know, they all lived happily ever after.

“Mister Duchamp?”
“Hm? Wuzzat?”
Ruiz rubbed the grit from his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the gallery. During the middle of the day. For several hours. While standing up. Again.
“Mister Ruiz Duchamp?”
“Yeah, that's me, that's me. Sorry, not so good with faces, who are you?”
“I'm the mailman. Package for you. Going to have to sign for it.”
“Right, right, right…”
Ruiz groggily scribbled a half-hearted X on the offered pad.
“You want us to bring it in for you, Mister Duchamp?”
“Sure, if it's not too much trouble. Just, uh, take it in through there, the cordoned off bit. Careful not to touch anything, it's a bit dangerous at the moment. You know, ‘renovations', heh.”
“No problem, Mister Duchamp. The boys'll be around in a bit.”
“Cheers.”
Ruiz looked at the digital watch on his right wrist. It was 3:45 pm.
Ruiz looked at the analogue watch on his left wrist. It was 3:45 pm.
Ruiz looked at the pocket watch in the painting in front of him. It was melting onto a tree branch, and had likely not been wound for some time. Ruiz knew not to trust readings from surrealistic timepieces, and pouted at the piece. That said, however, it was still 3:45 pm.
Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the street, entered his favourite coffee shop, and asked for a double-strength espresso, which he then used to down his daily caffeine pills, multivitamins, and antidepressants.
And then, Ruiz finally woke up.
“Shit! Carol, what's today?”
The stunned barista looked at the mad artist in front of her.
“Uh… Wednesday?”
“Okay, good, never mind then. I was worried it was Thursday or something.”
“You feeling okay, Ruiz?”
“Yeah, it's just been… hectic, you know? I've been busy.”
“Poor dear. Sit down, tell me about it.”
Ruiz took a stool close to the counter. Carol smoothed her apron before sitting across from him.
“I decided to wage war on a pack of ravenous artists who regurgitate uninteresting and frankly monotonous garbage by mailing out abrasive and genuinely disagreeable materials to their households, after which one of their contingent decided to metaphorically but without the metaphor defect to the other side, without realising that his not defecting was an integral part of the ‘BIG PLAN' that I had in store for all of them and so his defection kind of screwed with my intended course of action however after having stayed awake for all of yesterday, all of last night, and a middling portion of this morning I've managed to rewrite the script and hopefully I'll be able to get them dancing to my tune before the ‘BIG EXHIBITION' which is on Friday so by then I should be back on track to present my ultimate work to the ultimate critic, or should I say The Critic, with both of the words capitalised, if there were an easy way to express such a thing in speaking words, whereupon he'll be so profoundly thrilled that he'll quit forever and go back to being a Nobody, with that word also capitalised in a clever and subtle little joke I'm insisting on playing through to the end.”
“…what?”
“So much for act one, at least. At this point I'm kind of winging it.”
“You know, every time you walk in here and down your pills, I wonder what the hell is actually in them.”
“Dreams and art, Carol. Dreams and art. Another… let's make it three espressos for the road.”
Carol tended to the machines and, after a short interval, passed Ruiz three more cups of his second favourite beverage. He left the shop and had finished all three by the time he returned to the gallery. He waved his way past the receptionists and moved past his cordons into the poorly illuminated room. The delivery men had placed the big, brown box right in the centre of his workplace, coincidentally allowing a lone shaft of sunlight to illuminate it like the gift from the heavens that it was. Ruiz reached for his yellow circular sawblade and sliced through the packaging, flipping the box open and letting it drop to the floor. And there, Ruiz thought, was the centrepiece he had been looking for.
It was the electric chair.
It was not just any electric chair, it was THE electric chair, Old Sparky, first used in the Sing Sing Correctional Facility in 1891 to execute four prisoners, the chair elevated in a specially-constructed room known only as the DEATH HOUSE, a veritable prison-within-a-prison. If he was going to use an electric chair, he'd be damned if it wasn't this one. Ruiz rubbed his hand against the wooden frame, moved around, and sat in the seat where so many people had felt the cold embrace of death.
He started to squeal like a schoolgirl.

The Director was busy. This was not particularly odd. At any given time, she was organising the production of at least three plays, a movie or two, and innumerable side projects, some of which might even see the light of day. She had, in her youth, been an actress herself, before a sprained ankle had robbed her of the stage. Instead, she had turned to Directing, where she could still act condescendingly to everyone around her, and instead of being berated, was expected to do so as part of her job. She was currently arguing with her lead, Gonzalo, King of Trinculo, about his unjustified stage fright.
“Look, Tim, it's opening night. You've rehearsed a thousand times, you know all your lines, and honestly, if I knew you were just going to lock up like this, I wouldn't have given you the part. Now you're going to drink this bottle of water, slap yourself a few times, pick yourself up by the bootstraps and get on my damn stage in ten. Got it?”
“Got it, boss. Got it. Woo. Okay. Alright.”
If anything, The Director knew how to control her players. An aide ran to her side.
“Ma'am, I don't mean to alarm you, but… the audience is here. Packed theatre. We need to get going soon.”
“Alright, alright. Make sure Mary's gone through makeup, we're counting down, people!”
“Understood, Ma'am.”
The Director clapped her hands, walking briskly past the garishly bright setpieces. She moved around the corner, and was suddenly facing Ruiz Duchamp.
“Hello, Director. I'm here to see your big opening.”
The Director wasted no time with a retort, pulling a blade from her pocket and stabbing towards him in an instant. Ruiz grabbed the knife and twisted it from her grip, neatly slicing across his fingers. He jumped backwards and applied pressure with his other hand.
“That was very, very rude. I'm just here to say hello.”
“Get out of here, Duchamp. This is my show.”
“Is it your show? I don't think you wrote it.”
“Get out of here, Duchamp.”
“The lost and rediscovered classic. ‘The Hanged King's Tragedy'.”
“GET OUT OF HERE, DUCHAMP.”
“You know what this does, right?”
The Director faltered.
“What?”
“You… you are aware of what this does, aren't you?”
“What what does?”
“The play, the play! Can't you see it?”
“You're spouting nonsense. Get out of here.”
“Sandra, please, listen to me. The play isn't what you think it is, it's going to-”
“GET OUT OF HERE!”
Ruiz stood, staring at his old classmate. Her face was coated in the palest makeup, purple eyeshadow matching with purple lipstick. She wore her makeup like an old woman, wore the clothes of an old woman, hobbled around like an old woman, and had the obstinacy of the same. Such brilliance, such spark, yet sadly squandered in a lifetime of following others' stage directions. He could see in her eyes that nothing he could say would change her mind.
“Well, you can't say I didn't warn you. You want me out, I'm out.”
He kicked the bloodied knife across the ground towards her.
“Keep that with you, at least. You'll be needing it later.”
Ruiz turned and walked out the back door, glowing green EXIT sign humming above him as the lights dimmed. The Director turned around, shaking doubt from her mind. She had a show to put on.
“Get it together! Live in five, look alive, people!”

The Director was tired. She slowly regained consciousness in her cell. She had been bound by the arms and legs and propped up against a stone wall. She had absolutely no idea what was going on.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Rise and shine.”
A gritty voice croaked at her through a wooden door. There was a brief clattering of keys, and it swung open, revealing Agent Green carrying a wooden stool. He walked in front of her, placed the stool down, and sat on it with a thud.
“Back with us again, Miss Paulson?”
The Director remained silent.
“Sorry, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Though, admittedly, the last time we were face to face you tried to drive a stick into my eyeball, so really, I think any foot here is probably the wrong one.”
The Director remained silent.
“Sandra Paulson, were you or were you not the one who organised last night's production of ‘The Hanged King's Tragedy'?”
The Director flinched. Ruiz had been right.
“I want my lawyer.”
“Oh, sure, no problem. Here's a phone, here's some buttons to press, and then you jump through the damn wires and you're out of here in an instant. No, Miss Paulson, you do not get a lawyer here. You know exactly who I'm with, you know exactly what your position is, and the only thing I want from you, Miss Paulson, is for you to rot in this cell for the rest of your natural days.”
The Director remained silent.
“Good. Now, Miss Paulson, I am going to ask you a few-”
“I didn't know.”
“What was that, Miss Paulson?”
“I DIDN'T FUCKING KNOW! That fucking manuscript, I don't know who fucking sent it to me, I didn't check it, I just thought, shit, this looks pretty good! Some proper classic shit right here, I'd just finished Titus Andronicus, so I thought to hell with it! I Google it and it all seems fine, it all looks above board! I DIDN'T FUCKING KNOW!”
Agent Green remained silent.
“That grinning bastard Ruiz, he must have done it, he sent it to me and then he came in and he rubbed it right in my fucking face! That fuck-fucking piece of fucking shitstain fuck! FUCK!”
Agent Green remained silent.
“Fuck… fuck. All those people. Tim had fucking stage fright, I was egging him on, I… I…”
Sandra's tears smeared black mascara stains down her face. Agent Green pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
“Miss Paulson, even if I were to believe that outburst – and, honestly, I don't – you have given me absolutely nothing to go on. You have, however, given me a name I have seen before. Miss Paulson, I am going to ask you this question once, and you are going to give me every irrelevant detail, every tiny little scrap of information you have, and then I am going to pass you over to my associates.”
Green exhaled a lungful of smoke into The Director's sobbing face.
“Miss Paulson, tell me about Ruiz Duchamp.”

To Me, What Is This Quntessence of Dust? Man Delights Not Me.
« The Toyman And The Doctor | Hub | And Then What Happened? »


Scene: A messy office, home to to one of the Foundation's best and brightest men. Not a big, or a fancy office, but one that gets the job done. We aren't talking about the name on the door. That guy's story will be told another day. Today, we talk monkey business.
The monkey statue saw it all. The organization it created was at once disrupted by the lawless spirit of reality. Sighing, it picked up the papers in the office and set them upright again. Standardizing the spelling, and removing any reference that wasn't Alto Clef. The ones addressed to Agent Ukulele, aka Adam ben Yahweh, aka Lucifer, First of the Fallen, aka That Bastard were thrown in the trash.
It wished it could return to any of the old masters of the universe. They didn't have to deal with this bullshit. Bright was a comrade, even if it had the sneaking suspicion he hated him. Kondraki was a ridiculous man, but at least he was usually out doing some crazy shenanigan and not trying to do his work.
Of all of them though, the best to work for was Dr. Gears. For Cog had seen the reality shift for what it was, and it left him so traumatized that he took no part in these new world antics. Usually, he sat in an empty office and stared at the well. When someone came to speak to him, then the role of the emotionless would begin, and he would humor them with a walk.
050 sighed, and returned to its master's work.
There was a knock at the office door. A curious occurrence. Usually, people were too frightened to even walk past the door, for fear that a shotgun-toting demon would leap out and end their miserable existence. Perhaps it was a mistaken knock, from a new researcher or somesuch thing. A one time-thing, quickly rectified to the horrors around him.
There was a pause, and the door began to open. The floorboards creaked as the figure slowly stepped closer and closer to the now-anxious clever statue. Stopping before it, the figure seemed to draw all light in the room to his person, making him a titanic figure in 050's mind. The figure's lips parted, and he spoke.
"I'm here to talk to you about the banana business initiative."

Swinging from vine to vine in her enclosure, SCP-397 was reminded of just how boring her life really was. She knew every inch of the enclosure by heart, and could swing from these vines with her eyes shut. Nobody really came to see her, most of the time, so that was at least some form of improvement. But there were other things to do besides sit in a cage and wait for death.
With a huff, she shimmied down the vine and to the cage floor, where for the hundredth time she felt around for any structural imperfection which may aid in an escape attempt. Every rivet was pried at, and every floorboard was tested, and the result was the same as always. Smooth and unbroken.
"Hello, 397."
All the hair on her back perked up, and froze, like a glacier of monkey-fear. Someone was in her enclosure, and they were talking to her. Enemy, or friend? Fight, or flee?
Before a conclusion to these issues so suddenly raised could be reached, the voice spoke again, with a commanding tone.
"I think I have something you may be interested in."

A lavish party was underway in Site 19's cafeteria. There were streamers emblazoned with every potential birthday message that could ever be uttered. Candies and cakes lined up and down tables, shining under the bright fluorescent lighting and seeming to be calling out for consumption. Party hats adorned every head, and every hand held some other merriment device.
A small circus was in the center of the room, with elephants and lions and all other sorts of jolly animals. There were cannons, and trapeze, and maybe even some magicians. All of them stood below one massive banner wrought of velvet and friendship: "HAPPY BIRTHDAY DOCTOR RIGHTS!"
In the midst of all this, a single gentleman stepped to the cafeteria's threshold.
The man smiled as the crowd parted before him. While the party was a nice diversion from the usual drudgery of work, there was only one thing this party held which could be of interest to him. At a central table, surrounded by candies and clapping researchers, was a small monkey toy, bringing birthday cheer to all who wanted it.
"Birthday monkey. Long time, no see."
The monkey clapped, flipped, and continued with its song and dance routine.
"It's been a long time… but we need your organizational skills. Not many monkeys can put a party like this together."
With one final clap, the birthday monkey looked up to the man. It clapped its hands together twice.
"No… it isn't the Manhattan thing. We have a new job for you."
"Ook?"
"Yeah, ook."

One could hear the proboscis engineer containment area before they could see it. Shortly after they heard it and before they saw it, the smell of hot metal, burning monkey fur, and slag would invade the smell-holes with vigor. After all other senses had been overwhelmed, the awe-struck visitor would be met with the gaze of machinery and magic.
An assembly line of faceless monkeys, all acting in union on a conveyer belt that could only fit the fattest conveyer man, were it a real belt. Each monkey knew its job, and did it with gusto. At the end of the belt, seven monkeys with goggles over their non-existent eyes were busily pounding parts into whatever the newest contraption was.
Production didn't cease as several men entered the containment unit. One man looked around at every wondrous device beheld within this room, and grinned. He'd come to the right place.
"Ask them if they'd be interested in a work proposition."
The young, acne-riddled boy on his left nodded, and spoke in the language of hand-signs.
"Well? What do they say?"
The acne-man looked up to him. "They're willing to work if you give them something fun to do."
"Tell them" he said, turning to walk out the door. "That's exactly what they're gonna get."

Dr. Jack Bright carefully watched the face of his newest visitor.
"I really, really don't want to do this."
The man leaned forward in his seat, idly playing with Bright's desk decorations. "You owe me, Bright. We both know that."
Bright grimaced as best he could with simian features. "You drive a hard bargain, don't you?"
"Always. Do we have a deal?"
"… Deal."

Two days later, five monkeys sat together inside a largely empty podium area. Two statues, one Proboscis engineer, one resentful Chimpanzee, and a slightly bored and irritated Orangutan. The man who had called them together strode briskly to the podium, and pulled out some well-worn note cards.
"Gentlemonkeys. My name is Doctor Blast, and I am here to tell you about one of the greatest monkey-related investments the SCP Foundation will ever make."
He paused for dramatic effect. Nobody appreciated it.
"Introducing… Junior Omega-7 Task Force Five: Monkey Business."
Bright facepalmed.

« | HUB | »


“You're the new Clipper, right?”
“No, I think the name we're going with is Snipper, Miss The Director. A lot more snappy. Snippy snappy.”
The Snipper winked, clicking his fingers towards the woman standing at the door.
“Did you have to bring those in here?”
“I think you mean ‘them', and no, I didn't, but they were all very interested in meeting everyone. They just couldn't bear not to see you all.”
The Director pinched her nose at the seat of rotten flesh.
“You seen anybody else yet?”
“Nobody was here when I arrived.”
The Director moved around the table, taking the seat directly opposite The Snipper.
“Alright. I've got to ask. How'd you get that in here without people noticing?”
The Snipper looked blankly at The Director's teeth. There was a smear of lipstick on one of them.
“Without noticing?”
“…you know what? I don't even want to know.”
An awkward silence formed between the two. The Director retreated to the comfort of her phone, texting out messages to her various actors, then playing a few rounds of solitaire. The few times she dared look up, The Snipper was carefully disassembling a human hand. He peeled back the skin, then stripped off the muscle with his bloodied fingernails. He smiled innocently, plucking at the tendons and watching his bony puppet dance.
Fucking kid, The Director thought to herself.
“Hey guys, you've got to… oh. New Clipper, right?”
The Composer stood awkwardly in the door frame.
“Snipper. You must be Mister The Musician, yes?”
“Uh, Mister The Composer, actually. Is that… damn, that smells. Are those human?”
“You mean ‘they', and yes, they are.”
“Huh. Cool. Pretty fucking metal.”
“Mostly skin and bone, actually.”
The Composer turned, taking the seat next to The Director.
“Anyway, Sandy, you need to listen to this. You know how I was working on that one sample… you know, ‘what's cooler than being cool?' Finally finished my muxing it properly, check this out. Ah, you'll want both of these, here.”
The Composer handed an iPod to The Director, earbuds swinging pendulously. She placed them in her ears, then pressed the play button. Her face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter.
“That's pretty good!”
“Hey, Clipper, you want a listen?”
The Snipper looked up from his rotting carcasses.
“Snipper. Sure.”
He reached over, and The Composer dropped the iPod into his red, dripping hands. He carefully placed one earbud in, then the other. The Composer looked expectantly at his face, waiting for some semblance of change. There was none. The track ended, and The Snipper placed the iPod back on the table.
“I don't understand.”
“Well, you know where the sample's from, right?”
“Yes.”
“And then, you heard the screaming, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's… don't you get it?”
“No.”
The Composer shared a knowing shake of the head with The Director. Fucking plebeian, they thought to themselves.
“Don't worry about it. It's a bit of a complex work. There's layers in it.”
The Composer wiped off the viscera from the screen, switching to another track and settling into his wooden chair. The Director continued tapping at her phone. The Snipper was pulling apart another hand. The Builder and The Sculptor walked through the door, deep in conversation.
“See, it's like when you were building that stairwell, man, it's gotta be… ah, yeah, he's already here. Cover your nose, man.”
“Damn, that's rank.”
“What'd I tell you though?”
“Yeah. Pretty fuckin' metal.”
“Mostly skin and bone, actually.”
The two of them sat on either side of The Snipper. The Builder initiated conversation.
“So, Clipper-“
“Snipper.”
“Snipper, then. Have trouble finding the place?”
“No.”
A short pause drew into a longer one.
“So…”
Another pause.
“Hey, Bob, I finished that thing I was working on, you know, the ‘cooler than cool' thing, listen to this.”
The Builder reached over to the offered iPod, relieved at the offered distraction. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter.
“That's pretty good! Here, Tim, check this out.”
The Sculptor took the iPod from The Builder, passing it across The Snipper, still fiddling with his hands. The Sculptor put the earbuds in his ears. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter.
“That is pretty fucking good. Where are you gonna air this?”
“Was thinking I might mail it out. Speaking of which, got an interesting package today. A messed up version of ‘We Are The Champions', a shitty French cover. Butchered the translation, though, every damn article is wrong.”
The Snipper looked up, staring at The Composer's eyelids, some vague flash of recognition setting his face into a frown. The Sculptor gave his reply.
“Yeah, we're gonna have to talk about that. You're not the only one getting mail.”
“What do you mean?”
“We'll talk about it when everyone's here.”
The Painter burst through the door, poster in his hand.
“Some asshat mailed me this shit.”
He unravelled it and displayed it to the group. The majority of it was covered by crayon doodling, but in the centre of the poster was an intricately detailed human bottom, with the phrase ‘SHE GOT A SWEET ASS' written underneath in glowing gold print.
“Don't get too close. Looking too long makes you shit yourself. It literally makes you shit your pants. I got this thing, I stared at it, wondering, gee, what does this mean, and then bam, brand new pair of underwear ruined.”
The Painter rolled the poster up again, sitting between The Composer and The Sculptor. The Snipper intensified his gaze and frown.
“This the new Clipper?”
“I'd prefer Snip-“
“Yeah, he is.”
The Snipper switched his glare to The Director. She continued playing solitaire on her phone.
“Well, about time we got rid of the old guy. He was losing his cool a bit.”
The Sculptor moved uncomfortably in his seat at The Director's comment.
“He wasn't that bad, you know. Getting on in years, yeah, but he was alright.”
“Still though. Old men aren't cool.”
“Say that to The Critic. Speaking of which, anyone seen him yet?”
“Nobody was here when I arrived.”
“Weird. He's normally the first one sitting at the table.”
The Snipper sighed.
“Are you any of you even listening to me?”
Everybody turned to stare at him.
Fucking nutjob.

Felix Cori entered the cordoned-off room. Ruiz looked up from the half-yellow carbon steel blade on his lap.
“Clipper.”
“Duchamp.”
“Enjoy the pizza?”
“It was alright.”
“Good.”
Ruiz looked back down and continued painting the blade.
“What are you doing?”
“Painting a carbon steel blade yellow.”
“Why are you painting a carbon steel blade yellow?”
“Because they didn't sell yellow ones at the store.”
“Ah.”
Felix sat down on one of the wooden chairs that littered the studio. It was cluttered with electronics and laboratory equipment, a quietly humming centrifuge sitting in the corner.
“What's in the centrifuge?”
“Contagious cancer.”
“Why are you making contagious cancer?”
Ruiz looked up at Felix.
“What do you want, Clipper? I'm busy.”
“I'm not The Clipper any more. I got sick of that.”
“And? Do you want a pat on the back? Go away.”
Felix sat in stunned silence. Ruiz continued covering the circular blade, occasionally dipping his brush back into the bucket of viscous paint beside him.
“I was expecting a ‘well done' at least.”
“Why?”
“Well, I left them all behind, I'm not a part of it any more.”
Ruiz stood up, dripping blade held out as he pointed.
“YOU were not the problem. You weren't doing anything, and honestly, I fucking liked it that way, you were the one person in that whole fucking club that I frankly didn't give a shit about. But now you've left, and my stupid fucking brother's in with them, and he's just going to fuck it all up.”
“Your brother?”
“PICO. FUCKING. WILSON. The fucking psychopath your ‘friend' pulled in to replace you. This wasn't part of my fucking plan, he's just going to fuck everything up. Fuck. FUCK!”
Ruiz threw the wet blade at the opposite wall like a frisbee, slicing through the plaster like butter. He stood and stared at the stunned Felix, frowning like a spoilt child.
“Ruiz, now, that's not MY fault, you know, it's-“
“I know it's not your fault. I know. I know. Shit. Fuck. Sorry Clipper.”
“I'm not the Clipper any more. Call me Felix.”
“Sorry Felix.”
Ruiz walked to the wall, and started to extricate his yellow sun.
“It was pretty damn simple, before. I've been working on this shit for months, it was all supposed to be planned, and then that asshole just happens to be in town, just happens to be showing off his stupid corpse bullshit. He's not a fucking artist, he's just a straight-up monster, and he's going to complicate things a hell of a lot more.”
Ruiz yanked the blade from the wall.
“You weren't supposed to leave. You were supposed to think about leaving, but you weren't supposed to actually fucking leave. Felix, why the fuck did you decide now was a good time to start being unpredictable?”
Felix didn't know what to say, so he sat and said nothing.
“Pico doesn't know what he's getting into, Pico's fucking nuts, you don't get how proper fucking mental this guy is. He is going to wreck everyone's shit. Fuck.”
Ruiz sat down and continued to paint the yellow blade. Felix composed himself and asked the question that he came to ask.
“So what exactly are you trying to do?”
“Instigate a paradigm shift. Remove the centralised power system. Dethrone The Critic.”
“And… how?”
Ruiz held up the blade.
“You see this, Felix? I've been working on just this one blade for a month. It's the most subtle work I've ever designed. Look at it, and you feel nothing. I can stick it on the rack, and you'll feel nothing, I can put it in with a million other blades, and nobody would notice the difference. This one blade makes everything else I've ever done look like fucking kiddie scribbles, because you look at this blade, and you feel absolutely nothing about it.”
“So what does it actually do?”
“Nothing. Felix, this blade does absolutely nothing, and it's the finest thing I've made in my entire life. I've got enough deadly bullshit in here to kill a country, and absolutely none of it breaks reality, and this is what I am going to show to The Critic, and this is what is going to drive him mad. Felix, I'm going to fill a room with deathtraps so obvious, so profoundly fucking stupid, that Nobody is going to actually use them.”

SO MUCH FOR ACT ONE
« Novel Cultivars | Hub | The Toyman And The Doctor »


“I have bred a cultivar of celery that tastes like cheese.”
Overgang Dood and Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of-existence ("Arsehole" to her friends) stared at the plate that Joey Tamlin was offering them. Then they looked at each other quizzically, (Overgang, of course, through his trademark sunglasses) then at Joey's grinning face, then back at the plate. Overgang asked the question they both wanted answered.
“Why?”
“I don't think you heard me, I said I've bred –“
“A cultivar of celery that tastes like cheese, yes. Why?”
“Well, I was making a sandwich, right, and you know how I get about my sandwiches, triple-decker, Colby cheese squares, sliced ham, gluten free white bread, because of the allergies, right?”
“Right.”
“Right. So, I go to the kitchen, and all we've got is shredded cheddar, since Molly – you know I'm living with Molly now, right – Molly got up in the middle of night and just ate the whole damn block of cheese raw, even though it was my cheese, and she knows how I get about my sandwiches, so I was kind of pissed off, right?”
“Cheesed, even.”
Overgang fist-bumped Arsehole, Joey barely stopping to register the joke.
“Right, cheesed, nice, whatever. Anyway, I'm sitting here, and my bread's still toasting, since you know I like to toast it a little bit, make it a little crunchy, right, and I look in the fridge and all we've got is shredded cheddar. So I think, sure, what the hell, toast's already in the toaster, so I put down the cheddar ready to go. I pull out the ham then, right, and you know how we buy the stuff full leg at a time, because it's crazy cheap like that, right?”
“Right.”
“Right. So, I'm sitting there, and I get out a knife, and I go to cut the ham, since I normally cut the cheese first, but like I said, the cheese was shredded already. So I go to cut the ham and then I realise, sliced ham only makes sense with sliced cheese, shredded cheese NEEDS shredded ham, so I think to myself that this just won't do! So I look at my toast, and I've only got about half a minute left before it's done, and you know I need to chuck everything on right after it comes out of the toaster, right, so that the cheese melts and everything, or otherwise it's ruined. So, quick thinking, I pull out the box grater. And I think to myself, hell, sure you can just grate ham, right?”
“Right?”
“Wrong. See, ham on the leg is crazy fibrous, right, so if you're not doing it with a food processor or something, it just gets caught up and it's basically terrible. If you're not doing it right, it's like you're rubbing the grater against tree bark or something, right, bits are coming off, but they aren't really woodchips if you get my drift. So my toast pops up, and I chuck the scraps of ham and the cheese in and I make my sandwich and it wasn't super great, but it was alright.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by Arsehole.
“And… cheese celery?”
“Oh! Right. Anyway, I'm eating my sandwich, and I'm thinking, well, the reason that you can't grate leg ham with a box grater is it's fibrous, right, but my cheese was already grated, so I think, ‘what if cheese was fibrous?', and I think about this for a bit, and I say, what the hell, something to do I guess. So that's it. Cheese-celery. Cheecelery.”
Joey offered the plate again, grinning from ear to ear. Overgang continued questioning.
“Why celery and not, like, cheese carrots or something?”
“Well, Molly had some celery growing in the garden, so it was just handy I guess.”
“And does Molly know you were fucking with the genome of her celery?”
“I… may not have gotten around to telling her just yet.”
Arsehole shook her head disapprovingly.
“Should probably get around to that, Joey. Anyway. Cheecelery. Let's have some then.”
Overgang cautiously reached over to the plate, picking up a piece and examining it. It looked like celery. He snapped it with his fingers, producing a characteristic crunch. It sounded like celery. Then he licked the halves, and his tongue felt the taste of rich cheddar cheese. He placed them on his tongue and relished in his palate's confusion, then started chewing. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It felt fibrous and crispy, and yet, CHEESE.
“Joey, this is just weird, man.”
Arsehole countered.
“I dunno, I could get used to it.”
“Could put it on crackers, I guess.”
“Could put it on pizzas instead of cheese.”
“Oh man, that'd be… weird. What'd stick the other stuff to the top though?”
“Sauce is sticky, ya nong.”
“Right, right. Lasagne?”
“Crunchy lasagne! Crunchy cheeseburgers!”
“Crunchy cheesecake!”
“Ewww.”
“I'd eat it.”
“I'd eat it too.”
The pair of them turned to Joey, speaking in unison.
“This is pretty cool.”
“So, you don't like, feel sick or anything? Or high?”
“No, why would we…”
Overgang spat out his mouthful of Cheecelery.
“You were using us as fucking GUINEA PIGS?”
Joey broke into peals of laughter.
“I'm fucking with you, it's fine. Thing is, got me to thinking, right, what about other food, or whatever? We call ourselves artists, but honestly, I'm a pretty shitty chef. All I eat is ham and cheese sandwiches.”
Arsehole countered.
“Hey, I worked at a pizza place for a year.”
“That's assembly, it doesn't count.”
“Shut up.”
“Anyway, not my point. All I've ever done in the past is visual art, right? Like painting, or sculpture, or that thing in '93.”
“Oh man, I loved the thing in '93!”
“Well yeah, everyone loved the thing in '93, it was a thing that made you love it.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Not my point, guys. The thing is, I've been sticking to titillation of the eyeballs for way too long, and I can't think of a single guy out there who's just making weird food.”
“Eddins did, I think.”
“Who?”
“Eddins? Guy with the curly hair? Come on, everyone knows Eddins.”
“Oh, Curly Hair Guy, right. Never talked to him, keep seeing him around.”
“Yeah, Eddins fucked around with food for a bit. Didn't do much with it though, from what I remember. Stopped with it after those fucking tomatoes.”
“Well that's the thing, right, food's like performance art. You make it, you give it to someone, and they eat it. It's real intimate, right? And you can't make the same meal exactly the same way twice, so it's properly one-of-a-kind, you can't copy a meal the same way you can copy a game or something.”
Overgang, one of the few professional anartist coders, frowned at this.
“Hey, Joey, that's… well, yeah. That's kind of true.”
“No offense, man.”
“Hey, you've got a point.”
“Anyway. I reckon I'm going to do some stuff with food for the next exhibition. Stretch out a bit, you know, expand horizons or whatever. Just walk around with a platter of trippy sweets and snacks and stuff.”
“Sounds neat. You realise that's on Friday though, right?”
“Wait, that's this Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“What's today?”
“Tuesday.”
“Shit. Wait, what are you guys doing for it?”
“I've got my Half-life mod, you know, the one that puts your family members into it?”
“Oh, yeah. Arsehole?”
“Eh, don't have anything right now. I'm still working on that thing with Hiro P.”
“Ah, cool. Say, you and Hiro. Is there any… you know?”
“What?”
“Joey is trying to politely ask if you've fucked his brains out yet.”
“The fuck are you talking about? Hiro's gay.”
Overgang and Joey glanced at each other, then looked to Arsehole.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. That a fucking problem?”
“No, no, just… didn't peg him for that, I guess.”
“Well, yeah. We're actually planning something with him and his boyfriend next week down at the docks. Should be fun, you guys can tag along if you want.”
“Nah, I'll pass.”
“I think I'm right.”
“Suit yourselves.”
Arsehole stood up, pulling three joints from her back jeans pocket. She lit them all one at a time.
“You know we don't smoke, right?”
“I know.”
Arsehole stuck the three joints into her mouth and walked out onto the patio.

« Flexibility | Hub | Shady Meetings »


Ittëm # ŚČР-000
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Alright, I'm sick of this shit. The system keeps kicking out repair tickets for this spot in the database, and I don't want to bother with it anymore. I'm going to put suppression on any tickets involving the 000 slot of the database, because it's disrupting work flow for actual problems, and generally just pissing me off. I don't know why it keeps fucking with the syntax, but the fact of the matter is that it's only happening here, and considering that the only thing here is just a giant pile of junk data, it's more than likely the database pissing itself over the lack of proper information. If anything changes, I'll definitely look into it, but as of right now this issue is closed.
- Technical Researcher Rosen

This cage is vast, it has no walls. While I stand still all I see is a white plain stretching across an equally blank sky. There is no life in this place. I can move for as long as I choose but should I stop even for a moment I am snapped back to this spot, forever damned to be tethered to my prison. Despite this, I have wandered far, exploring the purgatory I have known for countless years. In my travels in this wasteland of white I have seen flashes of things, horrible things that simply should not be. Grotesque abominations that appear for moments at a time only to disappear as if they had never been there at all.
My memories of these creatures continue to lead me back to one memory specifically. A black shapeless being, a formless thing that could not have been created by any God in this or any other reality, appeared ahead of me as I walked and stared at me with dead crimson eyes. As I drew closer to it in my mind I could feel its hate, its rage, and its fear, emotions I know well but have never experienced with such intensity as I felt from this entity. As quickly as it came, it disappeared, and for a brief moment I swore I could see its twisted maw speak a word, an utterance I have yet to understand in content and context.
"Foundation".
I have puzzled over the meaning of this word, this final message of a nightmare creature whom I have not seen since. I have tried to approach the other flashes in hopes of learning more about this word, but I am barely able to comprehend their appearance before the creatures disappear back into the void from which they were spawned. It has made me wonder…what are these creatures? Where do they come from? Where do I come from? How did I get to this place? How do I get out of this place? These questions remain unanswered, and I fear they may never be answered, the thought of which serves only to drive me mad.
It is curious that the other effect of the chance encounter has proven far more productive. Prior to this, I was unaware that I possessed a mouth, or vocal cords, or any mechanism to make noise. Though I knew I drew breath, the emptiness around me provided surprisingly little auditory feedback when the air rushed into my lungs. Despite this, sound was not only possible, but now almost inviting. After hearing the wretched words spoken to me out loud, I felt it was my duty…no, my right to destroy the silence I had known for so very, very long.
What began as a whisper barely audible grew and grew as I became more and more emboldened by my newfound abilities. Soon, I was shouting nonsensical words to the skies, laughing in my mind as the silence was broken by me. And even more surprisingly, the world listened. Ripples of energy appeared in the air, controlled solely by the weight and volume of my voice. Should I whisper, they would be soft and light, floating whimsically for a few seconds before disappearing. Should I yell, they would be sharp and heavy, angrily stabbing themselves at the useless oblivion around me.
This pleased me greatly, for it gave meaning to the chaos, gave me purpose. I was no captive! I was a god! This was not my prison, but my realm! My words were law, my voice my weapon! Through these powers I would recreate this realm into one of life, one of joy that I controlled, that I would rule justly! This is how it would be, for I had decided it would be so! I grinned as I focused all my energies, all my hopes and all my ambitions into one tumultuous, deafening bellow, the roar that would begin my reign as lord of the hollow nothingness.
But it did not change anything. The ripples my effort created, though incredibly violent in nature, vanished only a few seconds later leaving no trace of any impact they may have made on this damned abyss. I tried again, with no change to the outcome. Over and over I shouted, my angry yells eventually devolving into screams of fear and horror at the prospect of being trapped endlessly in the damned empty silence that pervaded this abominable place. I screamed and screamed until I could not scream any more, at which point my only other option was to weep. It was not fair. It was not fair! IT IS NOT FAIR!
I did not do anything to deserve this fate, why am I here?! Who or what would be so cruel as to trap someone in a blank nothingness for eternity?! "Foundation", did it do this to me!? Is "Foundation" my captor?! Or is it my creator? It does not matter! I will howl and shriek at the emptiness and until the waves of force I create rips open an exit from this hell, and then I may be able to find the truth, the one fragment of logic and reason in this unending sea of madness and despair that is my existence!
…I will not stop screaming until I am free.


When we first encountered the Artists, we followed standard procedure. Shoot first, ask questions later, then pass around amnestics like candy at a birthday party.
This did not work for long.
The traditional textbook strategy that we employ is specifically designed to counteract organised groups. You look at our GOC policies, Chaos Insurgency policies, MC&D, the Church, pretty much every force that we exchange bullets with, and our interactions are dictated by the book. Hell, our interactions with them were what helped to write the book. With all of these people, the line is that we are waging wars of attrition. We are able to keep up with them, because while all of these groups are big, we're bigger, and we're going to keep shooting until their metaphorical clip runs dry and then some. But this strategy doesn't work with the Artists.
It's not because they're bigger than us, because they're not. It's because attrition warfare assumes both parties have centralised management; there needs to be a singular point of control, constantly driving against the other side. But the Artists are not like this. The Artists are not centralised. The Artists are not unified. And, most importantly, the Artists do not shoot back.
As such, we cannot engage them in the same way that we engage the other ‘players'. The war against the Artists is, unfortunately, waged on their home turf. While they throw us the occasional skip, most of what they make is not directed towards us. It is released into the wild, presented as ‘art', and then summarily forgotten. It is our job to secure this ‘art' and, if possible, the Artists themselves. They're a culture, not a corporation. Our best guess is that the Artists are just a passing fad, and if we're lucky, the cool of today will be bland tomorrow. Yeah, we're always going to have a few, but they aren't manageable right now. The best we can do is control their range, and even then, we're playing a losing game.
The name of this game is not capturing and keeping the Artists. You will not be able to hold them. However, the game requires us to know where the Artists are going to be, and most of the time our intelligence sits on the spectrum between nil and fuck all. Current strategy is if the opportunity presents itself, you pick up a lone Artist, drug them to the dickens, squeeze them for all they know about local ‘exhibitions', then hit them with standard amnestics. Then you need to reintroduce them into their environment naturally. If you've done your job right, your Artist will have no recollection that they got nabbed in the first place, and we'll have a place and time to arrange for inconspicuous crowd control.
Don't forget this, because it's damn important: NEVER bring an Artist to a Site. If they try to break for it, they WILL have a plan, and that plan will involve grabbing anything they can grab and freeing anything they can free. You need a place to store an Artist, you stick them in a safehouse. We don't keep safehouse locations on file anywhere. Once you're all assigned, I'll tell you where your area's safehouses are. Do NOT write down the locations of safehouses, you memorise them, and you don't say a word about their locations outside this room. As far as anyone outside this room knows, the designation ‘safehouse' is not a part of Foundation structure, and you're to keep it that way.
As I said, the Artists are decentralised and incoherent, and so the war against the Artists is a culture war. The thing is, as loose as their organisation may be, there's still a tendency to arrange into tighter ‘cells'. These cells are the ones who organise exhibitions, they pick a place, and it spreads by word of mouth. This leads to our secondary strategy, and one that's a bit controversial. Long-term infiltration.
Yes, some of you are going to be masquerading as Artists. Yes, you will go to exhibitions, yes, you will smoke their weed, and yes, if it's required by your cover, you're going to have to make some art yourself. That's right, you're going to be breaking the Foundation's gospel law, and you'll be making skips. Of course, since – I assume – none of you are capable of making anomalous objects by waving your hands and saying magic words, you're going to need some help. That'll be covered by Dr. Samuels after lunch. Anything you make yourself, you need to destroy yourself.
On the flipside of this, we are breaking the other gospel law of the Foundation: you are going to destroy skips. Back when we didn't know what we were dealing with, we contained everything they threw at us. This was a massive, massive waste of manpower and resources. Much of what the Artists design are immovable, permanent installations in suburban areas. If we stuck to cordoning off and containing every piece, we'd have half of New York City under lockdown. Yes, yes, yes, I know what you're thinking, we're violating every rule in the book. But this is the only way we can deal with them, and time has shown us that it works infinitely better than standard procedure. This is the only way that works, and if anything, we're results-based.
Now, this does NOT mean that you're going to be smashing up everything in sight. That's the GOC's job. Our primary goal is still containment. You're to use your best judgement on whether it's something that can be reasonably contained to begin with, and if it isn't, you break it. If it's something you can pick up and slip in your pocket, that's what you do. If it's a giant memetic hazard plastered on the side of a balloon, you pop the balloon, and see if you can recover it. If it's something immovable that's going to violate causality in the middle of Times Square, you smash it to smithereens. Also, and this is the one rule we really try hard not to break, don't kill it if it's alive. Yes, you are probably going to see living installations. No, they are not what you are thinking of. They are worse.
Last thing. One of the biggest cells that we know about is headed by a guy called The Critic. Nobody knows much about him, so if you learn ANYTHING about this guy, you pass it back to us, because right now we know he exists and that's about it.
That's my bit over, bagels by the door, Dr. Samuels' part starts in ten.

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Transcript of briefing for Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint"
Begin Transcript
Agent Walters, Agent Christensen, have a seat.
You both are aware of the situation and have already had your operational, communications, and safety briefings, so I'll keep this short and make sure you both know what is going on.
Both of you will be entering SCP-████ and use its anomalous effects to enter what are commonly referred to by non-Foundation groups as "Ways". Due to the nature of SCP-████, you will both be rendered unrecognizable as Foundation agents and will be able to safely enter "The Library". The bad news is, testing has shown that SCP-████ is a one way deal. Good news is, our teams have identified an exit point that lets out in Melbourne, Australia. We will have a team there to return you to this base when you need to exit. Don't worry, you'll get your bodies back. Both of you have received a copy of "Fahrenheit 451", simply open it up to page 47 and read what's written there. I have been told by our research team that you should not do this until you need to get out of there. When you are inside of the Library you are not to violently engage any entities, I repeat, any entities you meet in there. Period. Am I clear? Good, if you so much as think of being violent you will both be out of there faster than you can blink.
You are simply there to try to get a grasp on how large this thing is and do general reconnaissance, you know the specifics of the mission plan. Audio recordings will be made daily by one of you giving us updates on the status of the mission and yourselves. Should either of you die on this mission, we have a recovery team ready to retrieve your logs and data.
I'll be frank, gentlemen, this is the first time we've gone back in there for over a year since we lost all of Team Faraway. You are to stay safe, stay passive, and don't do anything that will give you or us away and make this mission a failure. Good luck gentlemen, you will both be the first members of team 453-07, code name "Surveyors".
End Transcript
Audio log 10/21/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: Base ████████
Excited for this mission, first time working with Walker, little bit nervous. This guy wrote the book on anomalous reconnaissance. Praying I don't screw up on this. Also a tad worried by not having any immediate support or weapons. I guess we should be okay though. I got my hands on a video log from project Faraway, scary shit with the giant guys with lanterns and crap. Since this is supposed to be a passive mission we'll be fine, anyone trying to attack us will get the same treatment. On another note, Bill told me SCP-████ occasionally doesn't switch your mind and just your memories, though that's probably him messing with me. Anyways… gonna get a good night's rest before we head out tomorrow, Chaplain out.
Audio log 10/21/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: Base ████████
This is agent Walters, call sign "Walker" reporting in. Date is 10/21/████, location is Base ████████.
Thoughts on mission in 1600 hours: Jittery, as is becoming increasingly often.
Reminder: See base doctor after mission about jitters.
Thoughts on partner: Good, records indicate Agent Christensen call sign "Chaplain" has a solid record in anomalous reconnaissance.
Prediction: Will not get in the way during mission, might be an asset if utilized correctly.
Information received about SCP-████: ~12% chance of consciousness not switching.
Thoughts: Probably should not tell Agent Christensen.
Planned Actions: Will sleep at 1900 hours tonight.
This is agent Walters, call sign "Walker", signing out.
Excerpt from Team Surveyor Records. Mission 453-07-1. Mission start.

Researcher Reynolds: Walker, Chaplain, are you ready to proceed?
Walker: Ready when you are Reynolds
Reynolds: Roger dodger Walker, activating SCP in T-minus 1 minute.
Walker: Okay Chaplain, follow operating procedure, stay safe, and stick next to me.
Chaplain: Understood.
Walker: Good, when we go through, just stay calm, bad things happen to people who freak out during this.
Reynolds: Targets set, transferring in T-minus 10 seconds.
Chaplain: Oh boy.

At this point SCP-████ activates normally and it is confirmed that Agent Walters and Agent Christensen were safely transferred to the targets. Targets take control of the bodies of Agent Walters and Agent Christensen. Bodies are secured and placed into stasis for return to their owners.

Audio log 10/22/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library
Personal Log 1, Day 1, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".
Okay so Walker said I should make one of these to sort of summarize what I'm thinking here. It's a bit hard to concentrate when you're in a bathroom obviously not built for human use, I mean, why is there a bin labeled "Ice cream disposal" in here?
What should I talk about?
Okay so yeah, SCP-████ was fun, the whole process was very weird feeling but I think I've gotten used to this body, though this guy really needs to work out more. Once we switched I don't remember too many details, sensory overload I guess. Basically we're in a huge fucking library. Like you could walk for days and not reach the end, if there is an end. None of the other patrons seem very clear about the size, and we've got a lot of different answers. And the patrons, man, I've seen some weird crap but these guys just about take the cake. I had a conversation with a sapient lava lamp about our favorite books not ten minutes ago, and some sort of eldrich abomination just asked me where the men's room was.
Walker seems completely unfazed, but he could be freaking out for all I know, the man is all business. We've been doing pretty well recon wise, the things that attacked Team Faraway are called docents, they sorta just walk around and guide people, seem sorta like the security dudes here, haven't gotten any of them to talk though. The other patrons say pretty much the only thing they seem to respond to is requests with help finding a book and violence, and considering how these guys are built no wonder Team Faraway didn't have a chance. The Library seems to be run and maintained by a variety of staff, most notably these things rooted to the floor at the reception desks people call Archivists and these weird spider things that are crawling all over the bookshelves that everyone else seems to ignore. When I asked someone about it they just looked at me and said that is what happens to people who break the rules. It was a bit creepy because he then slipped me a piece of paper that said "And who ask too many questions."
Once I finish up in here I think I'll head to one of the reception desks and see if I can get a Library card, find out what I can about these Archivist dudes, maybe do some exploring of this atrium area where everyone hangs out. Gonna talk to Walker about maybe trying to get some definite proportions of how big this place is.
Chaplain out.
Audio log 10/22/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library
Personal Log 1, Day 1, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".
This is Walker, reporting in. Current location is men's bathrooms 200 feet east of our entrance point. Bathroom seems non-anomalous except for multiple items seemingly not built for human use, full report on items will be included with surveying documents.
Entrance was uneventful, still adjusting to new body. Chaplain has shown to be an asset when socializing with other entities within The Library. Possible use for gathering information regarding size and security measures within The Library. Library is to be deemed information containment only, pending further investigation. Current intel shows that it would be near impossible to effectively bar physical access to The Library, due to constant appearance and creation of "Ways", of which there seems to be no effective way to predict the appearance of.
The nature of the entities within The Library is varying and unpredictable. There does not seem to be one source of anomalous entities within The Library, and observation has already shown three separate incidents of anomalous behaviors from said entities. Only definite entities met so far seem to come from The Library itself, commonly referred to as "Librarians". We have encountered three types of Librarians so far. Most notably are a large hunchback-esque creature with a lantern for a hand, called by patrons of The Library "Docents". Possibly act as security for The Library, will investigate possible weaknesses. Will include full report on the Librarians along with Surveyor documents. Will discuss with Chaplain about possible exploration as to the extent of The Library, and I will be placing each other's logs on both of our logbooks should something happen to one of us.
Walker signing out.
Audio log 10/23/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library
Personal Log 2, Day 2, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".
Finally got a chance to make another log, been really busy for the past day. Walker and I decided that we will personally explore the limits of The Library, since we aren't getting any solid answers from the patrons. We've bought a couple supplies from some patrons and have figured out the path we're gonna take to the edge, and if we don't reach an edge in two days we turn back. I haven't really caught any sleep since we got here, a nap here and a nap there, but once we set out I should be able to sleep some. We were told to find some lodging in the Reading Room, which happens to be completely controlled by the Serpent's Hand.
Oh yeah, the Serpent's Hand. Wow, these guys are totally different than from what I've heard, almost all of them could be SCPs and enough of them have mind-reading powers that Walker ruled that we don't go in there. They seem pretty disorganized and most of them seem pretty laid back and just interested in reading books, a couple told me about their leader, L.S, whom appears to be very charming and chill, despite his hatred for just about everyone who isn't an SH member. Really interesting stuff, Walker compiled all the relevant information into the records, so I won't bother going over it.
Audio log 10/24/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library
Sing it with me Walker! … Come on, it's a good song.
Seein' things that I may never see aga-
Oh fuck you're right I'm recording.
Personal Log 3, Day 3.
Hey this is Chaplain yadda yadda we're doing great and we're heading toward the edge of The Library. Yeah I'm getting there hold up a second. Walker wants to let you know that we have traveled exactly 15.3 miles today as we head toward the edge, currently there is no end in sight and the bookshelves continue to go on. Yeah we've also been sorta seeing the same bookshelf every once in a while, and shelves seem to kind of bend and twist as if they're making us go in circles. We tried to get the help of a docent but it just sorta stood there and stared at us before it walked off into the shelves. There are still plenty of those spider things running around though, kind of creepy looking but they haven't bothered us yet. The shelves seem to contain increasingly random and useless information, possibly they can rearrange themselves so that someone will find the book most pertinent to them without going in that far. On another note, we met another adventurer like ourselves about a mile back, his skeleton was just laying there and he had some old book in his hands. Can't read it, looks to be Dutch, but it seems kind of foreboding.
Ok I'll talk about that. We made friends with this SH chick back in the Atrium, okay, I made friends with this SH chick. She looked really familiar and then Walker recognized her as the sister of the whatsit that got us here. I struck up a conversation with her and she seems pretty cool, has the same abilities as her sister, though with longer range. She said she could switch me wherever I wanted if I just said where and- What the fuck is that?!
Sound of retching
Okay, get it out Walker. No I don't think less of you now. We can't control our body's gag reflex. You want me to explain it? Uhhh, this is Chaplain and basically we are looking at what looks like three corpses, except, not corpses? Uh, some of their skin is missing in places and you can sorta see inside of them, which is pretty gross considering I can't recognize any of the organs and there is this greenish stuff just everywhere. They seem to be rooted to the floor by some weird artery and god the smell is awful, smells like the boy's locker room where someone just sprayed Axe everywhere. Two of em are growing extra limbs and this really muscular one's hand has become this cage thing that glows intermittently.
Yeah take your photos let's keep moving, I don't wanna stay here any longer.
Anyways… I guess that just about wraps it up, tomorrow we'll turn back if we don't reach the edge. I don't think it would be smart to continue after that, hopefully The Library isn't trying to send us a message with those bodies or anything.
Chaplain out.
Audio log 10/25/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library
Personal Log 3, Day 3.
Walker signing in, I am recording this around the corner from our campsite, out of earshot of Chaplain. We currently seem to be followed by a humanoid entity that seems to have some sort of visual cloaking mechanism. This entity disappears around a bookshelf whenever we look at it, but otherwise seems to remain about 100 feet away at all times. It seems to have disappeared for the moment facilitating the recording of this log. The night was uneventful except for Chaplain claiming that it was watching us, but a little exploration showed nothing. I have reason to believe that Chaplain has been compromised by the Serpent's Hand, as a comparison between mental scans that I made while he was sleeping and when we arrived show tampering. He has been making multiple statements that could be construed as treasonous and seems to want us to end our mission prematurely, citing what happens to people who ask too many questions. I will continue our expedition till noon today and then we will turn back and begin making our way toward the Atrium where I will figure out a way to detain Chaplain and return us to the Foundation. Another reason for this is the rapid increase in disturbing sights, including one I had an adverse reaction to yesterday. Chaplain seems to grow more and more irrational the farther we go in.
This is Walker, signing out.
Audio log 10/25/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library
Personal Log 4, Day 4, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".
This is Walker, signing in.
Chaplain seems to be putting on appearances of having a good mood to cope with his fear. I am currently recording this around the corner of a shelf, as the entity seems to have temporarily disappeared. Our progress had been good up to this point, and I have decided to turn back now, before something happens that compromises the mission. Chaplain has just said something, I will continue this log in a moment.
Chaplain? Status?
Where am I? Who the fuck are you? (This is confirmed to be Agent Chaplain's current voice)
Chaplain! Turn around!
RUN GOD DAMMIT CHAPLAIN!
SHIT!
(At this point the recording continues for several hours, with various noises identified as tearing, gurgling, and an unidentified voice speaking in an unknown language going on in the background.)
Excerpt from Team Surveyor Records. Mission 453-07-1. CO Comments.
I'd just like to get it on the record why Chaplain and Walker were chosen for this mission.
There are multiple agents that we have that are much more qualified to go into The Library and get intel on it. However, none of these agents were deemed expendable at the time of assignment and due to Chaplain's rookie status and Walker's has-been status, they were natural choices for an expedition in there. Our records indicate that they did much better than we had hoped and our retrieval team managed to recover almost all of their documents and their logs. Of course, all they could find of their bodies was a green film that covered the retrieval area and several severed limbs. Their bodies are being kept in indefinite stasis until we can guarantee that they are completely back in them. Hopefully this will be soon but for now I will be expunging this whole thing and making it Level 3 Access Only, on a need-to-know basis. We will be conducting tests on their bodies in stasis momentarily, and it seems there is some evidence that Chaplain may have made it back. I will be investigating it personally when I return.
This log was created by Commander Arnold Baker. Commander Arnold Baker was KIA during the containment breach of SCP-████. This breach is attributed to Serpent's Hand operatives.

Deep within a Foundation site, a button was pressed, a tube opened, a body fell out and collapsed to the ground. The air chilled and mist began to flow everywhere.
"Jesus. It worked… Who the fuck are you?"
Agent Chaplain looked up through the clearing mist at the man standing above him.
"Welcome to the Resistance, Agent Chaplain."


Arkady knew this was the end. He was tired of running and he could recognize a metaphorical dead end when he smacked his metaphorical head into it. Minutes from now, they'd catch up with him. At first they'd be polite and ask him to open the door. He'd refuse and they'd make demands. Eventually they'd break down the door and then… then this all would end.
He sat down in the one black leather armchair this ancient office provided. He felt it settle into the once lush but now threadbare red carpet as he leaned back. This room had heard its share of dark secrets, unmentionable pacts, and hollow promises of loyalty. It was only fitting that they should all be stripped away soon, a final cleansing of a filthy history.
With trembling fingers he produced a battered cigarette from his back pocket and lit it. His thoughts went back to the spring of '81, when he was just one more destitute student at the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology. Like many in his generation, he'd been brought up to believe in the evils of Western decadence, and in the superiority of his Soviet motherland. When they approached him, he was awed by the fact that they'd even noticed him at all.

"And you say the Americans have these … strange things locked up?" he asked.
"They are trying to. But Americans, they are not … efficient. We are," his mysterious date answered.
"And you need my help? What can I do?"
"You have a gift, Arkady," she said.
He barked a laugh, "Hah! I wonder what that is then. Definitely not the gift to complete my research project."
"Oh, you have one, Arkady Potyomkin, we know. Besides, we have just the thing to inspire you to finish that thesis of yours."
She leaned in closer, breathing against his ear.
"How would you like to work with a fully operational black hole generator?" she whispered, sending shivers down his spine.
When he'd shaken the icicles from his brain, he responded.
"Impossible. The laws of physics do not allow for it."
When she smiled in response, Arkady couldn't figure out if she was being friendly or condescending.
"I do not think we consulted with them when we accidentally created it, Arkady. Regardless, it needs work. We need it to be portable, we need it to be controllable. We need your research and your brilliant mind."
Arkady closed his eyes. A beautiful woman was making promises involving things that could not be and it all felt like something straight of a Yulian Semyonov novel.
"And how did you end up watching me? I'm nobody."
"Come come, you must understand that we have made it our mission to know everything about exceptional talents such as yourself."
It occurred to him that if she indeed represented who she said she represented, they would know the color of his underwear and what flavor ice cream he preferred. He'd only heard them referenced in whispered conversations on campus. That in itself made it all the more impressive they were now here, trying to get him to work for them.
"And if I agree to work for you, I will never see my family again?"
"No. You will be dead to your mother and father. We will make sure of that."
Arkady smiled. His father, a man so deeply buried in the bottle he might as well live in it, and his mother, a woman bereft of personality or backbone. No, he would not miss them. There was his brother, Alexei, but he had left as soon as he'd been able to, choosing the navy over a life of beatings and verbal abuse. He had not seen or heard from Alexei in seven years.
"I think I accept your proposition. What do I do now?"
She smiled and batted her emerald green eyes at him.
"You do nothing. We will contact you again when we need you."
Then she turned abruptly and walked away, leaving Arkady sitting alone on the bench in Khlebnekovskiy park. His sandwiches had not been touched, and the excitement of getting to develop technology that defied nature for GRU Division "P" had left him without hunger. He tossed them to the pigeons and got up to walk back to campus.

As he took the final drag of his cigarette, Arkady realized that he'd never learned the name of his recruiter, even though he'd spent years in service of the Division. Shuffling outside the door pulled him from his pensive mood.
"Arkady Potyemkin, this is Agent Fiorecci. I have been tasked with your retrieval and I know you're in there. We can do this two ways. Either you come out with your hands behind your head, or I'm going to count to ten and then I'll come in," sounded a female voice.
So, no politeness. Heh, Americans. He allowed himself a little smirk. Anyway, it was fitting. Brought into this game by a woman, and taken out by one; the symmetry brought a smile to his face.
"10."
Arkady reached into his coat pocket and produced a small cylindrical device, the culmination of his research for GRU Division "P". An old prototype he'd kept without authorization of course, the real thing was never developed further after the '86 incident. The last he'd heard, they'd filled the cellars at the Lubyanka with cement.
"9."
In a way, it was a total anticlimax. A simple metal tube, no longer than a bottle of Coca Cola. He screwed off its top and put his finger down on the small black button underneath. It felt unreal to finally do it.
"8."
He closed his eyes and thought of the way he and Alexei used to fight.
He felt the hum building.
"7."
His father's belt as it whipped through the air, eerily whistling before hitting his young skin.
"6."
His mother's rare moments of loving attention.
"5."
His last kiss and the look in Anna's eyes when he walked out on her, for good.
His ears were starting to hurt.
"4."
The things he'd seen…things that should not have existed, but did. Abominations. Too much flesh, too little life. Too much blood. Too much.
"3."
Sixty men dead when it malfunctioned. Limbs being stretched, and stretched, and stretched into infinite directions, heads folding in on themselves.
He could feel a small trickle of blood running down the side of his head.
"2."
He closed his eyes and sighed. There would be peace.
"1."

They had a hard time explaining. Yes, a part of Bucharest's historic center had been destroyed. Yes, lives had been lost. Obviously, it was a terrorist act. Blame flew, and claims were made. After all, what was a nice big silent implosion if not a good excuse to send in rambling, deranged letters proclaiming yourself the next big thing in terrorism?
At Site-193, Saint-Petersburg, Northwestern Federal District, Russia, Site Director Valentin Gavrilenkov faced a videoscreen showing a small, balding man. He looked worried, and rightfully so.
"Tell me again how this is the outcome of a simple detainment mission for a lowly ex-GRU Division "P" operative, Dušan."
Dušan Bogoescu, regional coordinator of the Foundation Covert Intelligence Division for Romania, cleared his throat.
"Well, sir…the American MTF that flew in was apparently not briefed on Potyomkin's history. Also, we did not know he'd liberated a prototype of one of their failed projects."
"I would guess not, no. And whose job was it to brief our American colleagues? Remind me, Dušan."
The answer came hesitantly.
"That would be me, sir."
"Right you are. Well, I have it on good authority you may expect a trip abroad soon, Dušan. The O5 council would like a word with you."
Valentin pressed the disconnect button on his phone and folded his hands behind his head. They still weren't working together, even when they were on the same team.


Anthony lifted his goggles from his eyes. He watched the man working at the nearest conveyor belt. Anthony had never bothered to learn the man's name, despite working with him for almost three years. It just wasn't something you did at The Factory. Work related accidents were all too common to really build up a rapport. And if you weren't one of the people who suffered from a lethal accident, or among the few that would simply throw themselves into the machinery, there was the ever-present threat of simply disappearing.
Yet, after three years, Anthony was still alive. Still working in The Factory instead of off fighting Nazis. He had lost most of his left hand at some point, he couldn't entirely remember when or how as the lengths of the shifts caused one's sense of time to dilate somewhat. But he was still employed. And so was the man at the nearest conveyor belt. Unlike most employees, the man was unharmed despite his length of employment. Anthony wasn't really sure how that was possible, but apparently he had found a way.
The man was stamping The Factory's mark onto a series of circular tin containers that looked like they were already coated in rust. He brought the lever down and The Factory brought down one of its many arms and embossed the bottom of the little tin. Then the belt whirred briefly, and a new tin sat before the man. He repeated the action, his eyes unfocused.
Anthony felt a sweltering heat encase him as he pulled his goggles back on. He wrapped a shiny hoop around the cylindrical chamber and welded the ends together to reinforce the frame. Welding with only one-and-a-half hands should have been near impossible, but he had never found it to be much of an obstacle. Anthony wasn't even sure what the thing was meant to do, he just was to create the central chamber and then drag it over to the woman who would affix the gauges and tubes to it. Then he would go back to his station to find the beginnings of another chamber. He never bothered to find out where they came from. Questions in The Factory often led to unpleasant answers.

It was toward the end of a shift when it happened. Anthony was delirious to the point where he tried welding without his goggles. Before he could place the torch to metal a hand placed itself on his shoulder. He looked up to the Manager, which wagged one of its many fingers as a playful warning. Anthony took a few moments to realize what to do, but he pulled the goggles back over his eyes. He was sure his eyes would begin boiling, but he knew the Manager would reprimand him with much worse. He felt the Manager pat his head gently, and Anthony could see it walking away in the edges of his goggled vision. He thanked it and it waved him a nonchalant dismissal with its various limbs.
Anthony was about to start welding properly when he noticed the man at the conveyor belt was acting strangely. A grin covered the man's face. Anthony discounted it as his exhausted mind; no one smiled at The Factory. The man bent down, rummaged through his bag, and came back up with two small toy robots. They didn't resemble something of Factory make. They were too shiny, too new looking. He placed one on the console and seemed to whisper mad nothings to it before carrying the robot's twin after the retreating Manager, leaving his bag open. The little toy on the console turned to face the conveyor belt and yanked on the lever, but nothing happened. The man didn't notice in his rush after his superior.
The Manager turned around when it heard running footsteps. Work momentarily halted as everyone watched the proceedings. Nothing like this had ever happened before, at least not during their shifts. The Manager watched the man approach and took the toy when it was offered. It examined the device, turning it over time and again. It gestured to the man, who nodded and claimed to have created the little marvel — and many others just like it.
The Manager held the toy in its appendages as it held it at the man's eye level. Anthony grimaced when the metal crumpled helplessly in the Manager's grip. The man looked like he had been shot. He lifted his cupped hands and the Manager dropped the ball of scrap into his hands. With a swift motion the Manager brought down an arm, removing both of the man's hands. They and the former robot hit the ground with a wet clang.
The Manager took note of the abandoned conveyor belt and glided over to it. The man scooped up his hands and cradled the wreckage against him. He followed the Manager back to his work station. It swept up the robot standing on the console and set it atop the waiting tin. The man called out in terror.
The toy viewed its creator and its fallen brother silently. It turned to the Manager. The Manager wrapped a tendril around the lever. The man fell to his knees before his superior, but was ignored. Anthony lowered himself to watch the man dig into his bag sitting by the console. The man brought out a small tube that reminded Anthony of toothpaste, holding it as if his arms were chopsticks. The man chewed off one end and bit the tube, squirting something yellow-green onto the stumps he called wrists. The man fiddled with the wreckage before stuffing the metal ball into the bag. He hooked his arm through the bag's straps and dashed off. Anthony noticed that the man's hands were somehow reattached, though they didn't look to be moving. The Manager watched the man run off and pulled what looked like a pistol from seemingly nowhere.
The Manager spoke in words Anthony did not understand and aimed the pistol at the retreating toymaker.
The toymaker let out a yell that Anthony didn't understand the meaning of, though he at least understood the words.
The toy responded to its maker's cry by opening up its chest and firing a rocket at the Manager's face.
The floor of The Factory that Anthony was on stopped. The conveyor belts halted, the welding torches went out, and for a brief moment the workers didn't even breathe. Then something broke the silence. A single sentence, spoken in a tinny voice. Something no doubt meant for the dying Manager.
"DO NOT INTIMIDATE THE WORKING MAN."