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"Scenes from a Comprehensive Clusterfuck"
So, what did you do at work today?
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Meet The Pighead!

Dr. Dan made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a growl, his eyes scrunched tight.
"Moon Champion's moving west," Frewer reported. "He's… still riding 058."
"Don't talk to me about Moon Champion right now." When Dan opened his eyes, they were bloodshot. "Talk about something sane."

Researcher Calvin was at his wits' end. The traffic on the way to the Site was enough to send the most patient driver over the edge: troop trucks, tanks, even some weird mechanical suit-things he didn't recognize. And what was with the new security perimeter? Come on, come on, come on! The men at the checkpoint had almost seemed amused by his plight. I'm late for work!
There was some sort of MTF operation going on in the Site grounds. It was another five minutes before he finally reached the yellow-striped bar at the parking garage.
"Pass?" Something was off about the attendant, but then Calvin had never paid them much attention before. Was the uniform different?
No Foundation insignia.
"It's right there." Calvin pointed to the inconspicuous 'Stupid College People' sticker just above the inspection decal.
"You need a valid pass to park here," the attendant remarked, glancing at the sticker.
"Are you saying mine's invalid?"
"Correct." The man squinted at him. "Which outfit are you with?"
"It's literally the newest pass, as of last week!" Calvin's cheeks flushed. He opened the glove compartment and took out his parking contract. "What about this?" He pointed to it as he read aloud. "08/16/2020 to 01/15/2021."
The attendant's eyes widened. "Oh, you're one of the…" He looked unpleasantly surprised. "Well, this is definitely invalid, then. What did they say at the checkpoint?"
"They laughed, and waved me through."
The look of unpleasant surprise became a look of rueful irritation. "Joke's on me, I guess."
"Well, my fella, I paid sixty bucks for this parking pass and I'm damn well gonna park." Calvin shoved the contract back into the glove box, emphasizing "park" by slamming it shut.
"You sure are. They're gonna park your ass in solitary." He clicked a button on his belt-mounted radio.
"Solitary? When did the parking rules get so strict?" Calvin was just about done with this nonsense.
"I'll let Site security explain it to you." The attendant pulled his phone out of his pocket and started surfing Reddit.
Calvin's right foot made a decision for him, and he knew it was the right one. I need a new car, anyway. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and rammed through the stupid yellow-and-black bar. He quickly slammed on the brakes, colliding bodily with the steering wheel.
The attendant stared at him with wide eyes, and dropped his phone to the concrete. "Get back here!" He ran towards the car, arms waving. "My report is going to bury you, asshole!"
Calvin sat back in his seat, heart pounding, and flipped the other man the seagull before driving deeper into the garage.

"Ten?"
"Fifteen."
"Twenty."
"One month."
"One month?"
"I know, I know. The Director escaped, half the security detail was absent because of the COVID, and…"
"Clef, don't state the obvious. You're too good at it."
"I'm making your case for you. But even with all that in mind, seeing the Bowie—"
"Bowe."
"—the Bowie boys still kicking a month from now isn't unrealistic."
"Bullshit. At worst, at the absolute worst it'll be twenty-nine days before we kick their asses."
"I think that's splitting hairs, but sure. My money's still on one entire month."
"And I'm going with twenty days."
"Twenty bucks to the winner, as usual?"
"Are you good for it?"
"You'll never need to know, Adams."

It took three proud agents of the Insurgency to rout the most unusual and unexpected adversary the FEC had faced at Site-19: the contents of Dr. King's office. By the time they'd finished disposing of all the appleseeds, and complaining about how this wasn't what they'd signed up for, and complaining about how this wasn't a recognizable step on the path to a world which embraced the anomalous, and complaining about how it should have been someone else's, anyone else's job to do what they were doing, they were somewhat less proud. It was a small dent in a big machine, of course, but it wasn't the only one.

They take themselves too seriously, thought Dr. Vang. No, that's not quite right. They don't take us seriously enough. The Chaos Insurgency thought that because they controlled Site-19, and the O5s had abandoned it, they could do as they pleased and everyone would accept it.
They were wrong. Sure, maybe the remaining researchers were unlikely to arm themselves, start a rebellion, start yelling war cries. There were enough compulsion memetics seeded around the Site to control a small army. But not everyone was content to accept the status quo. If you kept your head down, there were plenty of more subtle ways to protest.
Happily, some of those ways were also hilarious.
Vang had received a gift some years ago from one of his friends, a very diligent researcher who just happened to also be a dog. A robotic arm he could affix to the ceiling of his office, capable of motion in all directions (the fittings had been a real pain in the ass to work out) to take that damn rock out of his presence whenever he needed to get some real work done. He was feeling its memetic effects more and more with each passing day, but everyone thought he was just making excuses to justify his poor hygiene and laziness.
Now, though, he'd finally found a use for the thing. He didn't need to understand how it worked, he just needed to keep his door open and extend the arm out into the hallway whenever he heard someone coming. It was a real joy, watching them stride past his office and then suddenly stop doing… anything.
There were ten Insurgency agents standing in front of his door right now, completely bereft of proactive thought.
He knew this was probably a one-time gag, but oh, was it ever worth it.

"Bowe doesn't even show up for these meetings, now?"
John Yttoric leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the meeting room table. "Would you, if you were him?"
Bumaro picked lint off his robes, and glowered at his opposite number. "He's probably waiting for us to send white smoke up the chimney, signifying an agreement."
"But we're never going to reach one, are we?" Ytorric smiled, nastily. "I mean, why would we? It's not like we even want to find common ground."
"We only have one thing to discuss." Bumaro paced the room. "And it's been a waste of time whenever I've brought it up."
"I could punch you again," Yttoric offered. "Or we could try approaching the subject from a different angle."
"Fine." Bumaro stopped pacing. "How did you know which cell to look in? You stole the artifact well before we had the containment layout decrypted."
"Maybe the same way you knew how to find the Seventh Son?" Ytorric looked expectantly at him.
Bumaro said nothing, arms folded.
"I'll bet I know," said Yttoric. "When you walked into your quarters for the first time, there was a dog-eared note telling you exactly where to find it."
Bumaro raised an eyebrow. "How did you…?"
"Yep, I got one too."
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Bumaro spoke first. "Bowe? Setting us against each other, for some reason?"
"What reason, though? We're only in this for the sake of convenience. Make a show of force, get him what he wants, get what we want, and get out."
"And your bizarre offshoot church gets a credibility bump. Right." Bumaro shrugged. "You have a better explanation?"
Ytorric shrugged back at him. "This Site's fucking weird. People have been disappearing, stuff's been going wrong since we settled in. How do we know there isn't someone crawling in the air vents, leaving nasty notes to fuck with us?"
Bumaro scoffed. "This isn't Die Hard, John. Air vents are too small for a human being to fit into. And these ones were specifically designed to prevent anyone from crawling through them."

I specifically designed these vents, thought Professor Kain Pathos Crow, so I could crawl through them. What the hell is going on? He was going to have to take a long, hard look at his diet, if he survived this. Or maybe just redesign the vents again.
Of course, it had been a long time since he'd worked at Site-19. He'd only just come back here to check on a few old projects, collect his notes, when the shit had hit the fan. He'd had no intention of going Metal Gear on the FEC.
But he'd gotten quite good at it, nevertheless. He'd practiced scrabbling where the insurgents weren't hanging out, the abandoned offices and research labs and empty containment chambers. His claws didn't even click on the metal anymore, and he slithered through the claustrophobic space like a furry metal snake.
Leaving the little notes had been a good start, but he was about to up his game. He still couldn't believe his luck; of all the anomalies to find, few were simultaneously so portable and so promising. Putting a plastic bag in his mouth so he wouldn't drool on the document, well, that was no fun, but this wasn't a vacation.
He was a dog on a mission.

Bowe took off the mask.
His expression of grim determination faded. His cheeks sagged. He rounded his shoulders, relaxed his buttocks, and exhaled. In the sanctity of his quarters he dropped the façade, and became his blank-slate self. Only then did he undo his uniform jacket, and the collar of his crisp white shirt.
Too many children, he thought. Too many children, for too many years. The Army, with its resistance to change. The Foundation, with its resistance to reality. And now the churches, with their resistance to each other. He'd lost track of how many days he'd spent cooped up in here with them; after all those years underground, he had a unique perspective on the passage of time.
It definitely moved slower in the presence of other people, though.
He was about to remove his tie when he happened to glance at his desk, and saw the thin sheaf of papers blowing in the ventilation breeze.
He picked it up.

General Bowe,
Our tenure at Site-19 has been plagued with incidents of sabotage, and long periods of inefficiency. I've been conducting an internal investigation, and I've come to the following conclusions:
1. Communications Chief Lesage, of the Children of Bowe, is a Foundation plant.
2. Chief Lesage was responsible for the religious artifacts held at Site-19 coming into the wrong hands, to foment mistrust between our two most vital allies.
3. Chief Lesage intends to halt The Project, presumably by destroying The Device.
I await your instructions.
- Jeremy Starek, Chief of Security

He flipped through the remaining eight pages, nearly out of breath with rage. His hands were shaking.
He straightened his tie, buttoned up his shirt and jacket, put on his mask and stalked out of the room, papers in hand.

Site-19 Chief of Security Jeremy Starek leaned onto the conference room table with both hands, and glowered. "Somebody called this meeting. Somebody with clearance."
One of the researchers raised a hand, tentatively. Starek sighed. "This isn't middle school, kid. Talk."
"If it's not middle school, don't call me 'kid'," the researcher replied. "Um. Maybe there's still a few Foundation-loyal soreheads in the Site, and they faked up a meeting request?"
"For what reason?" Starek looked over the group, about thirty researchers, agents and sundry personnel. Most of them were either CI, like himself, or members of one of the two churches. "To delay our evil plans by half an hour?"
"I did think the email was a little weird," one priest admitted. "Do any of you know a researcher named Cal—"
The door banged open, and a frazzled woman in a labcoat burst it. "You all need to get out of here, right now."
Starek turned his withering glare on her. "You're late, Dr. Buck."
Buck shook her head, fiercely. "You don't understand. You're in serious danger!"
"Only of having your presentation hijacked!" At the sound of that nasal, confident voice, Starek spun in place. There was a man in a loose blue dress shirt standing beside him, with frosted tips and a neatly-trimmed beard.
Starek's first instinct was to punch the man in the face. He went with his second instinct, which was to shout "FREEZE!" and pull his sidearm.
"Oh, god," Buck wheezed. "It's too late."
"You folks have power, drive, and ambition," the man declared, waving his arms far too much for the amount of talking he was doing. "But you lost sight of that today! Sitting around in endless meetings, don't touch that door please, Dr. Buck, never getting anything done but afraid to just leave, I'm serious, Dr. Buck, step away from that door. In fact, close it behind you."
Buck was frozen, her face a mask of fear and frustration.
"I look at you all, and what do I see? Four teams with no sport. Four committees with no action plan. Four Groups with no Interest." He spread his arms wide, like he was about to hug them all at once. "That changes, today! The first day of the rest of your insurgency."
Starek pointed his gun at the man, centre mass, and pulled the trigger. The bullet glopped into the blue shirt, and disappeared.
"Been putting in the range time, eh?" The man punched Starek in the shoulder, hard. "I know some exercises which could help that itchy trigger finger."
"I told the general," Buck snapped at Starek. "No large meetings, or you get 4624! I told him!"
"You're a real go-getter, Dr. Buck," 4624 agreed. "Always with an eye on the main chance. Climbing the ladder to success, no matter who's holding it up. But you can't do this alone. No traitor is an island!"
One of the Scarlet Church priests was beginning to wave his hands in the air. 4624 pointed at him, with both hands. "This guy's got the right idea! Everybody do The Wave, that's one of my favourite warm-up exercises."
A thin dart of flame passed through 4624's forehead, and fizzled out. The priest looked embarrassed.
"You're all making an effort, but it's just so individually-focused. You need to learn to work together." 4624 clapped his hands. "Luckily, that's my area of expertise."
Dr. Buck did try for the door, at that moment, but it was too late. Tendrils of black nothingness seeped between the buttons of 4624's shirt, and the meeting was permanently adjourned.

Calvin was on the run, but not really. The parking attendant mustn't have gotten a good description of him, and anyway everyone seemed to be busy with something. He'd kept his head down, and become one with the labcoat.
Calling a meeting had seemed like a good idea, up until he'd seen the priests and insurgents filing into the conference room. He needed to find some place to hide. He needed…
The ceiling was hissing.
Calvin looked up at the cheap white tiles, and nearly had a heart attack when one of them shifted out of place. A grey-muzzled snout looked down at him. "I said, PSSSST! Don't you know what PSSSST! means?"
Calvin blinked. "You're a dog."
The dog shook his shaggy head. "No, it means 'Hey, stupid, your attention please?' Now, take this." The dog disappeared, then re-appeared with a keycard in its mouth.
Calvin reached out to take it; it was sticky with saliva, and he wiped it off on his jacket. "What's this?"
"Communications override. There's a terminal in my office; you seem to be passing beneath notice, so you can probably get there without any problems. Me, not so much. Hey, could you scratch my nose?"
Calvin reached up and gingerly ground a fingernail against the dog's snout.
"Thanks. Been in this vent a long time, now. Alright, hop to it."
"Hop to what? What do you want me to do with the comm override?"
"They're monitoring an engagement at Site-37. Beaming video feeds and still images back here. I want you to redirect it to our boys and girls in the field." The dog almost seemed to grin. "Especially the stills."

Agent Andrea Adams checked the combat suit's systems for the third time, sighing with relief. Fucking finally. "I'll be doing all the hard work. Everyone else is on voyeur duty."
"Suits me fine," Clef remarked.
"I thought it would." She flexed.
"This invalidates our bet, by the way. I would've put my money on twenty days if I'd known they were gonna call you in."
Adams smirked. "That could almost pass for a compliment."
"Don't tell anyone."
Iris Thompson was reaching in and out of a Polaroid photograph of a Hawaiian beach with one hand. Her fingers were tingling with the heat, and the anticipation. "You getting soft in your old age, doctor?"
He raised an eyebrow and winked, and Adams clamped a hand over his mouth. "Just imagine he said something disgusting."

"Director DiMucci, we've got the FEC on the line."
"Finally! I need to light into 'em." The Foundation Elimination Coalition had reduced several of DiMucci's sister Sites to shells. If High Command was going to do nothing except twiddle their thumbs, he had to take matters into his own hands.
He flipped the switch that put him on the line. "What's the meaning of this?" a gruff voice on the other end demanded. It wasn't General Bowe; probably just an ambassador. Bowe didn't think DiMucci meant business! That would soon change.
"This is Director John DiMucci. I assume you've received our demands. It's time to give up, or we'll reduce you to rubble."
The man on the other end stammered. "Are you serious? You know, we're getting pretty tired of you Foundation folk. You act like you own this country!"
"We're aware" replied DiMucci. He had his men on standby, each one armed with enough lead to fill Bowe's skull. "Your reign of terror is over."
"Y-y'know what? I'm done. I'm done with this. First, you put Dr. Bright in the presidency. Alright, fine. But then you put Trump in the seat and cause a media balooza so big it has my men working overtime to compensate. And don't even get me started on what you did with Clinton. The FBI's gonna hear about this. Let's see how long your welcome lasts after that."
"I'm sorry, who is this again?"
"This is James Trainor, Chairman of the FEC. Say goodbye to your job."
After the beep, DiMucci was quiet for a moment. He let the consequences of what he'd just done sink in. After accepting the inevitable fact of his demotion, he reopened the line to his secretary.
"When I said 'FEC', I meant the one that's attacking our Sites, not the Federal Election Commission."
"Oh, really? I just assumed it was some kind of political metaphor."

The security detail struggled to keep up with Bowe. He was stalking down the hallway, taking long, sharp strides, a walking manifestation of fury. "Where's the Chief?"
"AWOL, sir."
Bowe nodded. "Lesage knew Starek was on to him. Dammit!" He slammed open the doors to the central command centre, and the detail fanned out to block the exits.
Seventeen pairs of wide eyes watched him stride into the centre of the room. Seventeen mouths gasped as he drew his sidearm, and fired.
Sixteen pairs of wide eyes watched him lower the smoking pistol, and spit. "Somebody clean this shit up."
He slapped the sheets down on an unattended console, and left the room. Two agents took hold of Lesage's corpse, and began to drag it away.
A third agent picked up the papers Bowe had left behind.

Agent Lungu,
I have compiled a comprehensive report on the actions of your partner, Agent Duane Malloy. For the past three years he has been slandering you to your superiors, swapping your service weapon with an inferior model prone to jamming in the field, sabotaging your interpersonal relationships and stealing your lunch from the company refrigerator. Please examine the evidence in full, and reach your own conclusions.
- Janice Mallory, FEC (formerly SCPF) Internal Affairs

Of course. Agent Oana Lungu clenched the sheets tightly in her fist.

Thirty-two men and women in uniforms, robes and labcoats sat in a loose circle of chairs. The loose circle of chairs sat in a seemingly-endless field of daisies. There was birdsong in the air. There was also grumbling.
"Alright, Anita, it's your turn!" 4624 was standing in the centre of the circle, beaming encouragingly at all of them. He gestured at the Scarlet Church priestess like he was presenting her as the prize at a game show. "What's your favourite colour?"
She glared at him. "Red."
There were snickers from the rest of the circle, from those participants who didn't already have their heads in their hands.
"Red!" 4624 chuckled, as a bullet passed through his head. "And what do we know about red, ladies and gentlemen?"
"It's what should've come out of you, just now," Starek growled.
"It's what I've been seeing since I got up this morning," offered a second insurgent.
"It represents motivation, but also hostility," said one of the labcoats. The rest of the circle turned to stare at her; she looked up from her notepad and blinked. "What? I'm the only one who's been paying attention?"
4624 was grinning ear-to-ear. "Fantastic work, Olive." He turned back to the priestess. "Now, which of the following words would you say best describes you: eager, committed, respected, embedded—"
"How fucking long is this going to take?" Starek snapped.
"Well, once we've got the personality tests complete, I've got a three-day seminar retreat planned." 4624 looked thrilled. "We're going to get to know each other so well."
Almost as one, the group stood up from their chairs. Stephanie Buck uncrossed her arms and leaned forwards. "Wait, don't. You can't—"
"Fuck this noise," Starek shouted. "We've indulged that asshole long enough." He started marching, and waved for the rest of them to follow him. "I'm gonna crest that ridge, see if this place is real or not."
"You can't leave!" Buck stood up. "He won't—"
4624's smile was predatory, now. "Are you attempting to assert your authority, Captain Starek? We haven't even done the respect-building exercises yet!" His blue shirt was rippling, now, and there was no breeze. "I don't like your chances, honestly."
"Stuff it, you anomalous shit." Starek continued marching, right up until the black tendrils settled around his throat and began rhythmically throttling him.
"Don't run!" Buck screamed, as the rest of the group began to run.
"You were always so practical, Stephanie," 4624 remarked, as it strangled thirty-one insurgents, priests and traitors into unconsciousness. "And in your business, that's saying something!"

Occasionally, he asked himself why he wasn't writing real scripts.
The first time, Dr. Edison had been surprised by how much he'd enjoyed it. Imagining all those scenes, writing them down, and seeing the end result turn out just the way he wanted… it was a rare moment in his career at the Foundation, where he was truly loving every minute. Sure, he'd spent four years in Antarctica to avoid the wrath of his offended colleagues. But he'd never regretted his little film, or its sequels. He'd done good work, and found his passion besides.
They'd finally let him come back to 19. He'd dreamt up so many more scenes… and now, completely forgotten in his office in the middle of possibly the worst crisis the Foundation had ever seen, he was writing them all down. Picking a shitty director to turn his work into something unintentionally hilarious, picking producers who would be dumb enough to want to make a movie about this very real disaster (with appropriate redactions, of course), and penning the most trite, clichéd script possible. His ideas weren't as crazy as what was actually happening out there, after all. He wove that stuff in, too, just enough to add some spice. He wondered if anyone would be able to tell the difference between what had really happened, and what hadn't.
Maybe he could even work this into the disinformation campaign they'd need to drum up, to cover the chaos of losing the Site. And if it made the CI look even more ridiculous than they actually were, well, something good might actually come from all of this stupidity… this time without a "review" from any irrelevant guys-with-glasses, thank god.

It was like a bad dream, the kind you might tell your therapist about. The kind you'd be terrified to tell your therapist about.
The woman with the bronze bracelets drawing back an ethereal bowstring on an ethereal bow, firing the bones of her arm through the flesh of her fingers in an explosion of high-speed gore, and fainting even as she shrieked in agony. The MTF commander stepping on a landmine, which was actually just a patch of red carpet which sprang to life, covered him completely, and began draining him of his blood. The man running backwards from the Boweist lines, wearing a pair of black sunglasses which somehow caused the Foundation support vehicles arrayed behind him to explode, one after the other.
Site-19 is empty, and all the anomalies are here.
A Chaos Insurgency soldier discharged an entire rifle's worth of ammunition into her suit, which deflected every bullet harmlessly… not least because the bullets were actually human teeth. His eyes went wide when the magazine ran out, and Adams took it from him; his eyes rolled back in his head when she clubbed him over the head with it. "This is ridiculous," she said. "Half of these anomalies are hell on wheels, and the other half don't do shit."
"Bowe's throwing everything at Site-37 and seeing what sticks," Clef remarked in her ears. He yawned.
"Close comms next time, instead of yawning in my head." She leapt over a troop transport and unloaded on the debarking soldiers.
"Don't suppose anyone's taken any photographs?" Iris Thompson's bored voice replaced Clef's.
"It's early days," Adams replied, dodging a stream of acid fired at her from a blue-and-green water gun. The ground behind her burned as she punched the wielder in the face; she caught the gun, and briefly considered turning it on the man before stowing it in her pack.
"It might be late days, now," said Clef. "We're getting reports of a supertank and twenty gearrenders approaching from the north, and that's more than even you can handle."
"I'm not alone here, Clef," Adams shouted. Three women with strange symbols carved in their hip-length hair were strangling a squad of MTF soldiers — with said hair — and she put a slug between each of their eyes.
"You might as well be. Withdraw, Adams. That suit's too valuable to lose, to say nothing of its contents."
"I didn't know you cared." She spotted the man leading the Boweist charge, a bog-standard infantryman wearing an age-pitted bronze helmet. "Fuck, they're getting tactical advice from ancient Roman ghosts, no wonder what they're doing doesn't make any goddamn sense."

"Dr. Clef, we've got a transmission from Site-19."
"Bowe?"
"No, sir. It came in with Researcher Calvin's authorization code. It looks like… still frames from a security feed, inside a tank?"
Clef turned to look at Iris, suddenly sitting upright in her chair. "Still frames, you say?"

"I am freed! I have cast down the gates of Dis, and taken the field of battle once more!"
Adams levelled an arm-cannon at the man with the helmet. "I'm gonna send you back to Pluto, asshole."
The legionnaire sighed. "That's… Pluto's not a place, he's a—"
The roar of the gearrenders drowned him out. Twenty mechanical monstrosities, human beings fused into an amalgam of machinery and flesh, stomped across the fields toward them.
"Cut the banter, and… cut!" Clef shouted.
Adams fired, incinerating the soldier. The helmet clanked to the ground, sizzling but unharmed. She pointed both arms at the gearrenders. "I got this."
"No," Iris Thompson's voice rang in her ears. "I got this."
Adams watched in astonishment as the massive tank rolled into view, just offside the rank of gearrenders, and swerved abruptly into their path. It began firing its main gun as it collided with them, and she felt the explosions in the ground beneath her feet.
There were still ten gearrenders left when the tank finally exploded, flanked by dozens of church and Insurgency soldiers. Adams pointed her cannons at them, and was about to open fire when a thrashing tentacle-beast descended from the sky on a pillar of flame.
"Loathsome antipodal grace bemoans the stolid stanchions of the rancid metal breath of suns extinguished, in ignorance and primal awe." The massive bovine heart and its whooping white-clad rider crashed through the first gearrender like a miniature meteorite; they burst out of the smoking bio-mechanical wreckage, and the heart's feelers began strangling and slicing at the horrified, retreating soldiers.
"Mind your limbs, ladies and gentle-ladies!" Moon Champion shouted. "This puppy's not completely housebroken."
"Twenty days might be generous," Clef mused.

« The Bowe Decommission, Part Two | Old Foes Hub | The Bowe Decommission, Part Three »


April 29, '86

Finally put a few states between me and Riddle. Unfortunately, the Consortium don't have limited jurisdiction, as far as I know, they actually have unlimited.

Haven't seen them sense though, but I am not taking any chances. They wanted to know about Yello some business I had a few years ago, some nasty business, so I wasn't in the mood the chat. I mean, I wasn't from the gec-co, but still.

About to leave camp right now. I knew that homestead didn't have that many cans of beans, but it's only been three days, guess I'm hungrier then I realize. I think I might go to an actual town, I saw one near by. I reckon it safe enough, as long as I won't get trigger happy again.

Rivers hadn't seen civilization in months. Now he's entering a new town, in the middle of nowhere, with barely any supplies, and fleeing from a dangerous situation. This is the second time he's done this this year.
He passed over the red clay roads and past a waning, wooden sign that barely read "Welcome to Bandana, Texas."
It was a typical town of the west. Main street had the only real buildings in town, and houses dotted the surrounding area. A few large ranches, most of which seemed empty, could also be seen.
Rivers trotted up to the general store and hitched his horse by it. He didn't have a lot of money, but hopefully enough to buy some food. As he was about to enter, he heard a man yell at him.
"Hey you! You going into Huntson's store!" Nathan froze, and turned to the voice. He saw two grimy looking men with beards that were starting to turn gray.
Not sure what else to do, he calmly placed his hand on his holster. "Yes?"
"You seen a darkie around here?" One of the men said.
"Darkie?"
"You know! A blackie."
"You mean a black man?"
"That's what I said. Anyway have ya?"
"No, not recently. Why do you ask?"
"No reason." Both men chuckled. "But if you do, please let us know, we'll be resting just here, so holler if you see one." They both sat down on the porch and began smoking cigarettes. Nathan just shoke his head in disapproval and went into the store.
"Hello there, good sir." Said the clerk, who had a New Englander accent. "How can I help you today?"
"Um, how much food could you get me with this?" Nathan opened up his hand revealing three bucks.
"Well sir, I'd say about two cans or beef or so."
"Two cans?! That better be the best beef in the world or something."
"Sorry sir, we only really sell beef here food wise, and there's been a shortage recently."
"Yeah, I noticed the field's been empty. Are you sure you can't get me anything else?"
"I'm sorry sir, but I got mouths to feed myself, I can give you three cans, but that's the best deal you're gonna get."
Nathan walked out of the store a few minutes later cleaning out one of the cans, the other two in his satchel. He needed money, and soon. He turned to the two older men, still smoking their cigarettes. He figured they'd likely swindled in some criminal activity before (or at least hoped so). He took a few deep breathes, said a Hail Mary under his breath, sat down, and began smoking a cigarette next to them. They both just slowly turned and stared at him.
"Hey fellas." Nathan said. "You wouldn't happen to know of any tips would ya?"
"Tips? You mean tips about the whereabouts of a darkie, cause we was asking you that."
"No." He began to whisper. "I mean tips about making good money hard and fast, outside the law."
The two men stared at each for a second before whispering to one another. After they were done, they smiled, and turned to Rivers.
"As a matter a fact, we do got something planned that you can help us out on."
All men looked around cautiously before continuing.
"There's a stagecoach passing by, the person riding it is rich, but isn't the real score. Some proper gang is planning on robbing it, a gang that makes a lot of money, and carries a lot of money. So we planning on robbing the robbers and the stagecoach all at once. I suppose we can split the money three ways."
Nathan got excited at the idea of a good fight and a good score. "Alright, I like it." He extended his arm out. "Nathan Rivers."
The men took their turns shaking it. "I'm Colonel Howard Monroe, the silent one behind me is Private Archibald Sanders."
"Wait, yaw apart of the military?"
"Oh no, not anymore." Said Monroe. "Back during the War of Northern Aggression we was, but now we just part-time ranchers, part-time crooks." Both men began to laugh.
"Well, alright. When is the stage coming by?"
"Right now, we was actually about to leave, so you ready?"
"Oh right now?"
"Yup."
"Alright, let's do this."

It was about noon when they arrived at the ambush spot. The Rebs explained the plan along the way (interlaced with comments of their disliking of African-Americans and the owner of the general store, who was a yankee). It wasn't complicated: They'd wait up here for the stagecoach to pass by, who by this point should be pursued by the other gang, then they'd come up from behind both parties and take them all out.
"So where'd you get this tip?" Rivers asked.
"I got it from a friendly fella, let's just call him an anomalous source." Said Monroe.
Rivers asked if he meant "anonymous." Monroe just said "Nope." Rivers immediately got nervous.
Eventually, a large dustcloud could be seen, moving faster in the men's direction. The three men all put on their bandanas and got their revolvers out. Leading the cloud was the stage coach, going top speed. After a few minutes, it slowed down to normal speed, the dust cloud disappearing behind it. No other horses could be seen on the road.
"Where's the other gang?" Rivers asked.
"Probably lost the coach or got cold feet, I dunno. It don't matter, we should at least get some money now, let's ride!" The Rebs started hollering and charging down the hill, with Rivers quickly following. When they got close to the couch, the driver turned to them.
"Seriously!? Again!?"
"This is a robbery!" Said Monroe, "Put your hands up."
"Okay, okay!" The driver said with his hands in the air. "I'm done fighting you booters." Rivers had no idea what that meant, but he didn't care. He got off his horse and checked the back. Inside was a quivering, old man in a very nice suit. He barely opened the door for three seconds when he was hit in the face with a pile of money, and the passenger yelling "Go!" And just like that, the coach was gone.
"Welp, that was easy." Rivers said. They began to divvy the score up, the Rebs expressed satisfaction (and even asked Rivers with help on another job), when they heard the clip-clops of a pack of horses. They turned down the road from were the coach originally came from and saw about fifteen horses sprinting their way. They all suddenly stopped about a hundred yards out or so and dismounted.
"I reckon," Monroe said, "That'd be the Snake Boot Gang."

The three men quickly drew their guns and cocked them. "It would've been nice to know, Monroe, that the gang we was planning on robbing would be the Snake Boot Gang."
"I thought we would be able to take em." Monroe shrugged.
Rivers just sighed. Out of the fifteen men, a single man stepped forward, wielding a highly decorated revolver. While all of the "Booters" (as they were occasionally called) wore bandanas or such, this man wore a strange, white mask to cover his face.
The masked man stopped about fifty yards or so away. "That was awfully impressive of you three." He began to speak in warm voice. "I mean we, a group of fifteen or so gunman, couldn't catch a single unarmed stagecoach, but you three could! Mighty impressive."
Monroe was flattered. "Why thank y-"
The masked man interrupted him, "Yes yes, but as you might know, we Booters have a reputation to keep. So we're just gonna shoot you and take any and all money you got from the old man." He said that so warmly that the three men were in shock. Well two, because Sanders immediately got on his horse and rode away.
Monroe leaned over to Rivers and whispered, "Let's follow Archie's lead." Rivers and Monroe then ran onto their horses and began to ride away as fast as they could. They were puzzled why the Gang hadn't began shooting at them yet. It's because the Masked Man reasoned it would be more fun to chase and shoot. But they didn't know that yet.

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

Team Epitaphic Hub

To be revealed...


The Entrance
Siren lights flooded the hallway with red. There was no alarm. Carlotta, Lucretia, and a few others were silent as they stared at the door on the opposite end. The space seemed almost infinite. Carlotta furrowed her brow, knowing that it was a ridiculous idea. She could even see the door, it was only five or six meters away, but it was the only word that could describe it. Her mind couldn't help but tell her that she was peering into a bottomless pit.
She stepped forward — those leadership courses were finally going to pay off — and gestured for the rest of the team to follow. They were all still. Carlotta sighed. Of course they were going to need some kind of speech.
“This is as far as I'm going to take you. That feeling you all have in the back of your head is normal. We don't know what causes it, but it's a sign of low-level reality alteration. You'll feel sick, you'll probably experience bouts of vertigo and anxiety, and you might start seeing things that… shouldn't be there.” Carlotta drummed her foot against the floor. Each second she spent with her back turned away from the hallway, more sweat accumulated on her face.
“The foretold illusions!” said the caped, masked, and cloaked crusader near the back of the group. “One of the most nefarious enemies of man!”
“We don't know if they're hallucinations,” Carlotta said. “Reality here is flimsy. Things that weren't real a second ago could suddenly start interacting with the real world like that. And that is why we have the buddy system: you stick with a partner at all times. As far as we can tell, this thing can't directly influence any of you, only the world around you.”
Lucretia was leaning against a wall at the back of the group, the handle for a cage containing a demonic parrot resting in her hand. A large back vest had been draped on top of it. Lucretia had said it was to stop the parrot from becoming nervous, but knowing her, Carlotta couldn't rule out the possibility that she just wanted to shut it up. She smiled, but a thought crossed her mind and it disappeared.
She wasn't talking. Carlotta had expected more from her now that she finally had the chance to do something besides sit in a cell and let her brain rot away. She had seemed so optimistic earlier, but now it was as if a switch had been flipped in her mind and the woman that Carlotta had been so friendly towards had just disappeared. Carlotta averted her gaze. She had more important things to focus on.
“Alright. Are there any questions? 1360? Rainer? Anyone?”
Nobody had moved a muscle. Carlotta could hear the sound of her own heartbeat. It was like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. She examined each member of the team: the towering android, the quivering kid, the superhero, the Sarkic, and the caged demon. She tried to work out any possible scenario where they all wouldn't end up dead by the end of this mission.
Her mind hadn't come to a conclusion yet. “Before you go,” she said, “I want you all to remember something. Right now, you're Alpha-9. That means that you're expected to act like one. A lot of people are betting against you, so I will say this in the kindest way possible: don't fuck this up.”
Lucretia burst out laughing. Seeing the overly-serious look on Carlotta's face was enough to break her out of her anxious scowl. For a moment, Carlotta wasn't sure if Lucretia's mind had switched to a different personality. But soon the grin on her face faded and the stoic look returned. She laughed because she thought it was funny. There was no other reason.
Then, without any real cue, the team began to walk. No one in particular led the group. It was just a mob of anomalies marching into the unknown. Carlotta stayed behind for a little while and watched them make their way to the first room. Once the door shut behind them, she turned and briskly walked to her command station.

Earlier
“These…” Carlotta dropped a set of five vests onto the table. “Are going to be our line of communication. They're each fitted with microphones, about a dozen each. They can capture your voice as well as any noise within a meter or two. That way if you drop your vest, you can still communicate with us.”
The barracks were empty, a sight that was noticeably uncommon. The gun ranges were silent, weapons remained in their racks, and four foldable tables had been arranged in the center of the room for the briefing. They were in a square formation, and Lucretia hopped off the one opposite of Carlotta to examine one of the vests up close.
“How will we be able to hear you?” Despite Lucretia's large frame, the vest was still slightly too big for her.
“With these.” Carlotta held up a small crescent-shaped object in her fingers. Lucretia squinted at it for a moment.
“Are they earpieces?” someone behind her said. Lucretia turned and locked eyes with the kid, Rainer. He was sitting at the far end of the room, still wearing the prisoner uniform the facility had issued to him. Rainer broke eye contact first.
“You're a smart one.” Carlotta began to place an earpiece on each vest. “Each earpiece is paired to a specific vest, so we'll be able to talk to you individually or as a group. The vest is the one doing the actual heavy lifting, though. It can send a signal through a dozen floors of messed up reality. You lose it, your earpiece is functionally dead. Lose your earpiece, the vest can still function normally.”
The Specter snapped his focus away from one of the gun ranges. “Ah! But you have failed to account for super-hearing. That renders this technology obsolete!”
“Oh. Do you have super-hearing?”
“Well… um… The point is that you failed to account for it! You shouldn't forget things like that. In situations like this, small details could spell doom for a team.”
“I'll… keep that in mind. Thanks.” Carlotta turned back to the group. “Are there any questions?”
Rainer perked his head up, but soon he brought it back to the floor. Carlotta's finger flew up and pointed at him.
“Rainer?”
He remained fixed to the ground as the rest of the team turned to look at him. There was a stubborn silence for a few seconds, almost long enough to start grating everybody's nerves.
“Will we be able to hear each other?” His voice was so quiet that the sound was overpowered by the thoughts passing through Carlotta's mind.
“What was that?” She stepped forward, hand pressed to her ear.
“Yeah, that's a good question,” Lucretia interjected. “Will we be able to hear each other? There's no point to this if we have to go through some Director to speak to one another.”
“It won't be a problem,” Carlotta said. “The commanders on this mission have worked for years in situations like this. They knew how to distinguish their own voice from a hallucination. And unless anyone here with experience communicating within reality-warping anomalies has a better idea, we're going to have to use them.”
The room quieted down as Carlotta distributed the vests among the team. The Specter took his after some hesitation, Lucretia threw one to Rainer and slipped on another. A voice peeped up from behind her.
“Oh, how the question gives me such a migraine, but how would you fit that vest on to my frame?”
Lucy and Carlotta both turned to the gray parrot that was gripping onto the sides of its iron birdcage. They looked at each other, then the parrot, then back at each other. Lucretia grabbed the final vest and flung it on top of the cage. Carlotta shrugged and yelled at the group to get moving.

The Hallway
Lucretia trailed behind Rainer, her eyes scanning every detail of his tiny frame. There was barely any muscle on his skeleton and the bottom of his drawstring pants dragged against the floor. He kept his eyes straight forward, always looking to the next door, the next room. It had been almost an hour-and-a-half, but nothing had happened yet. It was just more hallways and more red lights and more buzzing in Lucretia's ears.
“You're… approaching… a staircase…” the commander said. It felt like her brain was bleeding a little bit. The sounds around her were scratchy and sometimes didn't register for some strange reason. She had to use all of her focus to pick out the words.
Rainer nodded as if the commander was right next to him. The edge of Lucretia's lip curled up in an almost invisible grin. “We're approaching a staircase,” he said.
“You know we also have earpieces?” Lucretia said. Rainer didn't respond, but she could see a hint of red beginning to appear on his ears.
“You shouldn't be talking unnecessarily. It'll draw attention.”
“As will saying things we already know. Let's call cease fire.”
Rainer stopped, almost causing Lucretia to bump into him. He turned on a heel and stared at her with stone eyes. He said, “You shouldn't be making jokes here. This is serious.”
“I am serious,” Lucretia countered. “Did I say anything wrong?”
“You…” Rainer groaned, turned, and continued walking forward. “You don't know what you're dealing with. I do. So don't try to play games here, it'll get you killed.”
Lucretia really wanted to say something back, but her eyes got to her first. There was a fear in the way that Rainer moved. He never stepped too harshly on the ground, like he was afraid that it was going to disappear beneath him. She sneaked a peek over her shoulder and saw that everyone had slightly frightened eyes. Even the parrot was trembling in its cage.
She had heard only a little of Rainer's past, but Lucretia knew that he wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be facing down this Site-wide threat that had the potential to span out for kilometers and kill hundreds, if not thousands of more people. But he did it anyway, and Lucretia admired him for that. Despite Rainer's obvious fear, he continued walking forward.
But would that bravery matter if he was just walking to his death?
Lucretia picked at the question as the team neared the entrance of a stairwell. She didn't find a question by the time they had gotten there.

The Robot Pt. 1
The room was wrong.
SCP-1360 could tell instantly. Its eyes, the two yellow screens built into its head, saw the world changing around it. The walls became slightly too dark and too much sludge began dripping down the pipes. The floor rippled and the ceiling never remained still. SCP-1360 looked to its teammates, but not one of them seemed worried by the signs. Not the muscular Russian woman, nor the man with the black cape, nor SCP-4051.
They descended like a group of blind prisoners. Their footsteps weren't cautious, almost like they were trying to set something off. SCP-1360 stopped at the top of the staircase and looked down. The stairs spiraled around the perimeter of the room for a few revolutions before leading to a well-lit entranceway. But just a split second ago, that entranceway wasn't there and the team was walking into an empty room.
SCP-1360 should have thought the situation was funny. Reality always being one thread short of reality, never becoming anything until it has to. It was like an animal: it slept, it woke, and it survived. Nothing else was necessary.
As the group neared the staircase, SCP-1360 realized what the room was going to do. The walls around the Russian woman and SCP-4051 began to bend and contort. They extended out and split apart, forming sharp edges that looked like monstrous teeth. Then the edges bent themselves towards the team like a bear trap that was seconds away from triggering.
SCP-4051 and the Russian woman continued to walk, completely blind to the monsters around them. SCP-1360 considered telling them to stop. If it returned alone, what would it gain? Another decade inside of a cell, only to be put back into containment right when the SCP Foundation needed another test subject. Either that or they would order its execution on the spot, believing it had murdered them.
But then it realized something. If it was being specific, the room showed it something. The walls were made of paper, the floor felt like it was collapsing, and the air became hot. SCP-1360 felt something in its chest. There was something wrong, but its sensors couldn't seem to understand why. It almost collapsed when it finally understood what was happening.
It was breathing. For just a moment, something in the room had granted it the ability to draw in a breath. Then, it took away that ability. SCP-1360 was choking. It didn't have any lungs or any ability to breath, but it was nonetheless. An overwhelming shock caused it to reach out for one of the railings for stability. The room wasn't reality. It was something different, something that hated it.
And, most importantly, it was something that the SCP Foundation did not know how to contain.
“1360? Are you coming or is there something blocking your way?” SCP-4051 asked. The muscular Russian woman stopped and turned towards it.
SCP-1360 extended a tablet out of its abdomen and typed out a message. “Yes. I am following the team, just like the rest of you.”
“Then why are you all the way up there? Did your creator never let you walk down stairs when you were a kid?” The Russian woman yelled. There was a childish anger in her voice.
“I am capable of walking down the stairs. I was just… thinking about something.”
Then, the bear trap triggered.
The walls jutted out like the jaws of a beast. It set its sight on the man in the black cape first. The metal engulfed him, muffling his screams and swallowing him. The voice over SCP-1360's earpiece began to buzz wildly. SCP-1360 blocked it out. The muscular Russian woman fell through the steps, causing her to drop the birdcage containing the demonic parrot. It banged against the stairs and began to slide down the winding path as if it were made of ice.
SCP-4051 snapped around. Then, a dozen hooks shot out of the wall behind him and impaled his arms and shoulders. He screamed for a moment, then suddenly fell unconscious. The hooks, instead of tearing into his body, melded into it. They lifted SCP-4051's body off the ground and slowly, carefully pulled it into the wall where it passed straight through and out of sight.
The birdcage continued down step after step, bumping into every wall and causing the animal inside to begin squawking out tongue-twisters. By the time it had reached the bottom, the bird was silent. The cage cover still somehow clinged on, preventing SCP-1360 from seeing its body. The cage slid towards the entrance as if pulled by a ghostly force.
Then, SCP-1360 was alone.
The room settled down, eventually returning to its usual shape. The steps became metal, the pipes became clear of grime, and the sensation in SCP-1360's chest disappeared. The android stepped forward and began the long journey down the steps.

Stagehand
The lights shot on and the Specter was awake.
Only a few times in its crime-fighting career had it been knocked unconscious, and only one of those were caused by somebody else. He had made a mental note to himself that day: never underestimate the strength of a twelve-foot alligator. Although in his defence, he never knew alligators could be that tall.
But now was not the time for humor.
He jumped to his feet. His mind began absorbing the scene around him: wooden flooring, expensive red curtains, large stage lights. The Specter realized that he was on a stage. His cape fluttered behind him as it always did, and he steadied his senses to catch the slightest movement. Evil always made the first move.
A bugle call sounded. It came from all around him at once, refusing to let itself be confined to a single source. It blared out three notes, and the Specter knew it couldn't mean something good. His eyes slowly adjusted to the blinding lights and he made out shapes in the darkness in front of the stage. Rows of theater chairs filled with smiling families who wore suits and dresses were illuminated. There were even children.
The bugle had to be a taunt. It dared him to take an action, to try and determine who played it. And the Specter always accepted a challenge. He ran forward a few steps before jumping out into the audience. Evil always made the first mistake. If he just kept his eyes peeled, he would be able to…
Thunk.
The Specter slammed into something and fell. The audience howled in laughter, rolling around in their seats. As he hit the ground, his head began to squeal in pain. He sat up and looked around, but there was nothing in front of him. His hand almost instinctively reached out, and he found his answer. Even though there was nothing in front of him, there was resistance. A wall of air as thick as concrete had stopped him.
“You, audience members! You are all in danger. Do not panic, for the Specter is here to save you.” The audience only laughed. “Hello? You can hear me, can't you?” There was no answer, only the slapping of knees and the chattering of teeth.
He darted across the stage, searching for any exits, windows, or vents that could bypass the invisible wall. But the stage was like a box. The Specter then tried calling out to the audience again. They continued to laugh until their lungs became sore and red. Finally, after a few more futile attempts, he crossed his arms and just sat in the center of the stage.
“Um… Oh! Evil-doer, show yourself already! Do you think somebody like the Specter can be stopped by a few magic spells and the rejection of others? Because, um, I can't! So you might as well come face me already.”
Nothing happened.
“Okay, I'm throwing out a lot of bones here but it feels like you just keep having people laugh at me which is… y'know, I guess that's an evil plan, but that's it? That's all you have?”
A ceiling panel fell and smashed on the floor, revealing a small hole. A rope descended through that hole next to the Specter. He eyed it with suspicion, but he shrugged his shoulders and pulled on it.
Then the floor disappeared.
The audience ceased laughing and leaned in as the Specter leaped up six feet and grabbed onto the rope. Every sense in his body was zapping information to his brain. He looked down and saw a swirling mass of flesh drenched in saliva. The thing pulsated, shedding a thin layer of flesh. An enormous eyeball was underneath. Tentacles writhed around in place of eyelashes and a bright blue parasite acted as its iris.
The eye drifted towards the Specter, and the tentacles followed. They grew long hooks at the tips and flew towards him. His instincts kicked his body into motion. He scrambled up and down the rope desperately avoiding attack after attack. One of the tentacles recoiled as bubbles began appearing beneath its flesh. A bloodshot eyeball sprouted out. The Specter didn't waste a second and slammed his foot into the tentacle before it had a chance to orient itself.
Blood pooled in the white sphere, causing the tentacle to slowly drift below the others. It fell into the central eye, piercing it and causing a small patch of blood to appear. The Specter focused on that spot as he dealt with the other tentacles. Slowly, steadily, more blood began to flow out. Even the tentacles were starting to be affected. If he could just fend them off for a another minute—
Snap!
Time slowed to a crawl. The Specter was plummeting downwards, rope still in hand. The tentacles drifted instead of dancing, the audience only began gasping, and he couldn't feel the wind in his cape. Before his mind could construct a plan to get out of this situation, something began overpowering it.
Something was watching him. Time froze. Black eyes began appearing in his peripheral vision. They never blinked, they never wavered, they only watched. Was this the evil-doer, the one that was trying to kill the Specter? No, his senses immediately countered. It didn't have the look of a predator nor a murderer. In fact, the eyes didn't seem worried at all. It was the look a disappointed father gave to their son.
It was looking right at him, but it didn't acknowledge its existence.
The Specter's brain fizzled out and time returned back to normal speed. The audience disappeared as he fell below the stage, only a few feet away from the eye. Still, the only thing on his mind was the thing looking at him. The eyes were still there in his memory, simply looking at him until he nearly forgot his own name. He wasn't sure if he was afraid.
As he plunged through the pupil, he heard the sound of ripping paper.

Winter
The ground was soft and wet beneath Lucretia. Cold wind stung her face. The air was almost unbreathable. She opened her eyes to a blank sky showering down white snowflakes. Pulling herself to a seated situation, she examined the scenery around her. She was lying in the middle of a pathway that cut through a forest. On either side of her, dead trees that looked like distorted mannequins swayed slightly.
“Shit…” Lucretia moaned as she brought herself to her feet. Her head was spinning in confusion, but her memory was still intact. That was good.
Something roared in the distance. She turned to see the silhouette in the distance the size of a building. The ground rattled like it was splitting apart. The silhouette lumbered forward, causing the rattling to intensify. Lucretia breathing heighted as she realized that the thing in the distance was running towards her.
She tried to stand but her legs were paralyzed. Yanking them had no effect, neither did yelling at them to work. Eventually, Lucretia resorted to rolling off the path and into a large snow bank. The rumbling was growing louder. It was like an old iron bell was being rung next to her ear every few seconds. She swam through sheets of white snow and grabbed onto a nearby tree.
The silhouette continued to encroach. It was even larger than Lucretia had imagined, towering over the nearby landscape like a living mountain. Her eyes were locked to it for a moment, and she did nothing as it came closer and closer. Then she slapped herself. That desire wasn't real, it was implanted into her by this thing. Did she forget what she was dealing with?
“Fuck.” Pain swelled through Lucretia's legs. She reached up and grabbed a sturdy tree branch, hoping to drag herself out of the snow.
Then, the branch turned to boiling water.
She didn't have time to scream. Shock seized her body. She fell into a small puddle of water that seared her flesh. The water began to melt through the snow and soil like it was fire. Lucretia felt something pulling her down as the water dug a deeper and deeper hole. The heat spread to the snow around it, causing the pool to grow larger with every second. She had to start swimming to keep herself at the surface.
Something seized her leg. She couldn't feel it, but she knew it was there. It wasn't something physical like a hand or a tentacle. It felt like her own soul was trying to yank her below the surface. She took a deep breath, fully convinced that it would most likely be the last one she took for a while.
But right then, her legs regained function. An extra wave of pain coursed through her body and forced her to act. She rammed her fist into one of the walls, forming a hole big and sturdy enough for her to hang on for a few seconds. She hoisted herself up as the force pulling her down grew even stronger.
Her first breath was a gasp. The skin on her face was bright red and her arms simmered from the cold snow, nearly sending her back into shock. She punched another hole in the wall and shoved her foot into the first one. Slowly, with snow falling around her and something pulling her down, Lucretia managed to climb out of the hole. She laid with her back flat against the ground, her strength completely gone.
But still, her brain commanded her to at least look back into the hole. And with no way to fight that urge, she forced herself to her knees and took one final look back down.
There was no bottom, and only a few glints of reflected light let her know where the surface of the water was. That light soon disappeared; the sound of gurgling was the last to leave. As she stared into the black pit, some part of her mind began to whisper things to her. It told her to jump in. It reasoned that this world was an illusion, and the only way to break illusions was to fight back, to break it, to die.
Lucretia took a few steps back, but the feeling remained. Grief entered her heart like she had just abandoned a dying family member. Her legs took an impulsive step forward, but she forced herself away. There was nothing there. This wasn't an illusion, that force, that voice was the illusion. It was a mindless, soulless thing. It didn't know what was at the bottom of that pit. It couldn't speak to her. It couldn't understand her.
It was nothing.
She continued walking backwards for a few meters, turned, and saw stone. There was a tower on the pathway in front of her. White bricks were stacked hap-hazardly atop one another, eventually fanning out into a small chamber at the top. Lucretia looked up and saw somebody staring back at her. It looked like a person, but she couldn't be certain here. Their face was an oily black and their arms were longer than they should have been. They were leaning absurdly far out of the window like they had been frozen in the process of diving out of it.
Lucretia held her breath. She refused to move a single muscle so as to not disturb the person. Pin and needles spiked across her body and a sweaty wave of anxiety settled around her mind. She couldn't let herself break the image. Even as her fingers began to tingle and her chest heaved, trying to force some air in, she refused. Right on the verge of fatigue, Lucretia tried to sneak in a tiny breath.
The figure roared in fear and confusion as it plummeted towards the ground. The sound rotted Lucretia's muscles away, causing her to stand still and lock eyes with the figure. The closer it got to the ground, the more detail it gained. Harsh brown skin and a white lab coat were the only details she could pick up before it snapped its neck on the ground. Lucretia blinked.
When she opened her eyes a millisecond later, she was back in the depths of Site-θ.
“What the fuck?” Those were the only words she could get out of her mouth before she keeled over and vomited all over the floor. Her stomach had been flipping the entire time, but adrenaline and fear had prevented her from realizing it.
Lucretia wiped her mouth and took in a few deep breaths. If she was lucky, that would be the worst of it. But she was never that lucky. She felt for her earpiece — she let out a fiery groan — and realized it wasn't there. Her vest was still working. Well, she couldn't tell exactly, but it didn't matter. It had to be working. Lucretia demanded it.
“This is Lucretia. I'm… I'm somewhere in the Site,” she said. “Don't try to talk back, I lost earpiece. The whole team got fucked up, but I'm fine. Yeah, I think I'm okay.”
Lucretia stared down the hallway. The door on the other end had been broken off. She wanted to tear off the head of the fucking idiot that thought that a few SCPs could stand a chance against a thing like this. But that word, ‘thing', it made her cringe. It wasn't a thing, it was a… it was a feeling. It was an experience, a point of view. She sighed. It didn't matter. Nobody listened to dead people.
So she would have to keep going.
“I'm going to start searching for the rest. I didn't die, so that means that… they might not be dead, too. I'll start…” Lucretia looked to the other door. It was still standing, and there was a keycard scanner next to it, still functional. “I'll start now.” Lucretia began to hobble over to the broken door.

The Robot Pt. 2
The ghost was following SCP-1360.
That was the nickname SCP-1360 had given the thing. It didn't have a body or a face, but it still clung to SCP-1360 like the researchers did. Except the ghost didn't try to give it orders. It had thrown away its earpiece a long time ago. It wouldn't be needing it after the ghost was finished. Had SCP-1360 enjoyed concepts like that, it would have even considered the thing an ally.
The facility had been gutted. Entire rooms had been upended and desks and computers were strewn across the floor. Some were aflame, others were covered in odd fluids. And, even more strangely, some were left complete untouched. Twice now SCP-1360 had come across a room where every piece of furniture was standing upright and in its proper place. The ghost was strange like that.
SCP-1360 walked through another room, a waiting room for one of the Site's emergency medical bays. This one hadn't been spared. Medical beds were stuck in the walls, all of the chairs had disappeared, and the ceiling fans were inside-out.
And yet, as SCP-1360 stepped over the flattened receptionist's desk, a detail that it had been neglecting came to mind. Despite all of this destruction, there wasn't a single drop of blood or dead body. There were certainly bodily fluids in places, but none of them were man-made. Maybe something had taken them, a creature or some other animal had eaten them whole.
But that theory was ridiculous. Animals, like all mortal things, were imperfect. They would leave evidence behind. Whatever did this, it was precise.
SCP-1360 stumbled into another hallway that had been left untouched. There wasn't a single sign of damage or displacement. Two benches and a few bolted doors were the only things within. As SCP-1360 walked past, it felt each of the doors. They were steel, hardened and reinforced from the other side. Glass viewing ports allowed SCP-1360 a view into empty rooms.
The ceiling light overhead flickered for a moment. SCP-1360 snapped towards it, ready to flee or kill whatever was causing the disturbance. But only a few seconds later, it returned to normal. The room was filled with pure white light. SCP-1360 looked back down and spotted an open door at the end of the hallway.
On the other side was a darkened room that was overflowing with hospital equipment. SCP-1360 was still for a moment. After a few minutes, nothing changed. Therefore, it had to be real. SCP-1360 began to lurk towards the doorway. There was a hospital bed in the room. It was on, something had activated it.
As SCP-1360 stepped through, it noticed an oddity within the bed's sheets. Something was moving. The covers were hiding a large object. SCP-1360 assumed it to be an animal at first, a wild dog or SCP that had gotten loose. But as it got closer, it realized what it was looking at.
It was a person.

The Kid
Rainer was bathed in a world of color. Purple and blue and white lights surrounded his body, nearly blinding him. He tried to grab onto anything stable, anything that could give him a reprieve from the void that was everywhere else. The air felt like water. He held his breath, refusing to give this place even the air from his lungs. His hands felt something soft and warm like silk. He grasped onto it, but the feeling disappeared in his hands.
“Carlotta…” he whispered into his chest. “Carlotta, I-I need some help. I don't know what this is, but it's everywhere and I can't…” Slumber filled his eyelids, causing them to grow heavy. Rainer stabbed his fingernails into his palm to keep himself awake.
“I think it's trying to keep me… Please, I just need—”
There was something in the distance.
He squinted, trying to capture a hint of shape in the colors. His eyes never adjusted. Still, he could sense in his bones that there was something out there. And for some reason, that entity was staring directly at him. Rainer's heart began to beat faster.
His mouth opened as if to speak, but he covered it with his hand. He couldn't make himself known to this anomaly, to this alien. Not until the Foundation knew how to fight it. Feeling the familiar groove of his earpiece, vest firmly wrapped around his chest, he knew they had to be listening to him.
But why weren't they giving him any orders? Were they focused on different matters? The other anomalies probably needed more help than he did, Rainer thought. He wasn't in any direct danger, nor was he being threatened. If he were, the thing in the void wouldn't be stalking, it would be hunting. This must have been what was happening, Rainer decided.
Just as his train of thought stopped at the station, the thing moved. He could almost feel it travelling across the blank space. It glided across the ground like a ballet dancer at first. Then, it dug its claws into the ground and sprinted towards Rainer. He reached out again, trying to find anything to pull him out of the dream he was trapped in.
He flailed his arms in every direction, causing his body to spin violently in place. Blood rushed to his head, then fell to his feet, then came back to his head every few seconds. The thing was nearly on the horizon. There was nothing else to grab onto. Rainer tapped on his earpiece, but no sound came from it. He brought his legs up and folded his head into his stomach.
“Something's here. It's not Lucretia or the bird or… “ His mind tried to kill his voice again. The thing had already seen him, there was no point in staying silent. But if it heard him, it would learn critical information about the mission. It would hurt his teammates, his friends.
Rainer's throat dried up for a few seconds. Then it exploded.
“Please, I need… I just need somebody to talk to me or just tell me you can hear me. I know you can hear me. Just say so, that's all I want. You said this would work, Carlotta! I have the earpiece and the vest, you should be hearing me. I know reality here is… weird, but that's not my fault. I'm just stuck and it's coming and I really just need to know what I should do and I want to see Lucretia please, please I want to see her and… I don't know.”
His voice fell. The thing that was once safely away in the distance was now visible. Its head was twice the size of its body, which broke apart and reassembled itself twice as it came closer. Its skin was an ashy white. Fingers, eyes, and faces were all stitched together in a monstrous construct. Its face was behind it.
It towered over Rainer, and each footstep only made it seem bigger. He tried to close his eyes, but the thing had cemented itself in his mind. Even when he wasn't looking, he could see it.
It came upon him. The thing's form unraveled itself in front of Rainer. Afterwards, it bent down slowly and laid itself flat on the ground (some of its legs broke off from the impact). It began to twirl its face around. Rainer turned his head away, hoping that that would somehow dispel the thing's image in his mind. No matter where he looked, he was always looking into the thing's eyes.
The distortions in reality, the surreal visions and destroyed rooms, weren't caused by it. They simply appeared there when the thing did. It was the universe's interpretation of the thing's existence. And Rainer's brain realized this. His heart was straining from the rate it was pumping at and sweat drenched his face and chest and back. His brain tried to erase Rainer's discovery, but it acted a fraction of a moment too late. Rainer waited for his death as he comprehended the thing's true form.
But suddenly, he understood it.
It could stand, but it didn't have a body. Seeing it made Rainer realize a few things. He knew instantly that nobody was coming for him. The realization made him chuckle to himself a little. Rainer thought about how cavemen thousands of years ago would look at stars at night and pray for those stars to help them. No matter how loud they chanted or how much they sacrificed, they would still be killed and eaten by the predators of the night.
The thing before him, Rainer realized, was the world. It wouldn't kill him — it was far too impersonal to do something like that — but it wouldn't save him either. In fact, it wouldn't do much of anything besides sit back and watch from somewhere far away. Rainer knew it had the power to do something, anything to change things, but it didn't. It let things fade. It let things fall apart and die. He should have realized that earlier; it was doing that to him right now.
Once Rainer realized that, he promptly opened his mouth and screamed until his lungs collapsed.

Getting Warmer…
The air in Phenex's cage dried his eyes and created a few more cracks in his beak. He was lying on the floor, it was hot. He felt a slight burning sensation all across his body — the thaumaturgic seal was slowly irritating his flesh. The vest was still strung over his cage, blocking any light from entering.
“Oh dear,” he squawked. “Where has my protector gone? Have I slept all the way through dawn? That assumption must be faulty; aye, I must be wrong. There's no way they could have wished me begone.” He began the painful process of rising to his feet.
There was a sound nearby. It was soft, almost imperceptible. Phenex froze, ears trained to catch the slightest abnormality in the noise around him. After a few seconds, he found one. There was a soft tap on the ground, something that couldn't have been caused by a piece of furniture. Phenex's eyes widened.
It was a footstep.
He couldn't tell who they belonged to. One moment, they would be soft as if the person were walking on their toes. The next, it was hard and firm. And after, Phenex would have to strain his ears to realize that the thing had even taken another step. Sometimes, the footsteps would be very far away and sometimes…
Tap.
They were very close.
Something lifted his cage. Loud footsteps flooded Phenex's ears as his weak body was swung back and forth between the walls of his cage. He tried to cling onto the golden perch in the middle, but his mental map of the cage failed him as he slammed into one of the walls, believing it to be the floor. He reached out, trying to grab onto anything.
Eventually, he resorted to screeching out, “Hello!? I ask you to reveal yourself at once! I will not put up with devilish affronts.” The thing carrying him refused to answer.
There was a warmth on the back of Phenex's neck. He clawed at the darkness, but the only thing he connected with were iron bars. Decisions raced through his mind, causing his head to spin. Did he try to reason with it? Did he call for Lucretia? They were pointless plans, but he had to do something.
“Please, return me to the woman who carried me before. If I am killed, my friends will surely be forlorn. Think of your heart and see that I am not your enemy. Place me down, please, don't be the death of me,” he pleaded.
The thing shook him, causing Phenex to slam into another wall. His wings ached and his legs were refusing to move. The heat slowly grew and grew until it became overpowering, forcing him to pay attention to it.
Phenex laid down. He didn't feel his flesh burning from the thaumaturgy anymore. Then he realized that this is what the thing wanted, to get him to give into sleep or exhaustion. Once he did, he would be powerless. He just needed to stay alive for a little longer. The Foundation was coming for him. Lucretia was coming.
“Please… leave…” His words were barren. Phenex wasn't sure if the thing even heard him. Sweat dripped into his eye, causing it to sting. There were soft crackles and pops in the distance.
He could have stopped this thing if they just let him out of the cage. Without those restrictions, he could have thrown the thing into a wall or made them disappear. He wanted to see Lucretia. Why wasn't she here yet? Whenever she carried him, she was always careful not to shake his cage too much. Phenex thought that this was because she didn't want to disturb him. But then he realized why she covered his cage.
She didn't want him to see what was going to be killing him.
The thing heaved back and threw Phenex's cage. He began to float. The vest flew off and a gust of wind blasted through his cage. He was in an elevator shaft where the walls had been torn up. Heat torched his back.
Above him, past the ripped remains of the vest, Phenex spotted the thing that had thrown him. It was just an odd bit of color at first, but then it morphed into a shape. And then that shape morphed into a shady and that shadow into a person. It never grew a face, though. Phenex wondered if it had one at all or if it was just a nameless thing.
Flames consumed his vision before he reached an answer.

The Robot Pt. 3
SCP-4051 screamed and shook violently in his hospital bed, causing the machines to rapidly begin beeping. His eyes shot open, closed, rolled into the back of his head, then flickered back to life. SCP-1360 watched him silently from a few feet away. It made no noise as SCP-4051 faded in strength.
His face became pale and his arms weak. It looked like he was drowning, almost. Maybe the air inside of his lungs had shifted into a liquid, thus suffocating him from the inside. But that conclusion was faulty, SCP-1360 determined. Why would this change happen so subtly that it would not be able to detect it? It wouldn't.
A new idea emerged, one that was riskier, but would give SCP-1360 a certain answer. A text-to-speech keyboard emerged from its chest, and SCP-1360 typed out a short message.
“Rainer.”
SCP-4051 shot up to a seated position, staring at the ceiling. Like a puppet, its head fell to level before swiveling towards SCP-1360. He could not be in control of his body. If he were, he wouldn't be attempting to frighten his savior.
“Who are you?” SCP-4051's voice was the same, but each word was lifeless. It was as if he had lost the will to say it right as it slipped off of his tongue.
“I am SCP-1360. I am here to help you.”
“I don't know who you are.” The light above the bed casted long shadows down SCP-4051's face. SCP-1360 focused on his eyes. They didn't reflect anything.
"I am like you. I am an SCP. I was assigned to be a part of a team of SCPs with you. We were investigating the lower levels of this facility from a… trap injured you. I am here to help you."
SCP-4051 blinked. It took him several seconds to force each eyelid shut and open. He offered his hand to SCP-1360.
“Can you touch me?”
“Why do you want me to touch you?”
He turned his face away, very ashamed. “Because… because I don't know if you're here or if you're just another vision. I don't know if I'm really in a bed or if this room is even real. I… I started thinking that maybe, um, I was never even here. That right when we went through that hallway and turned that first corner, I just stopped existing. I don't know if they're ever gonna find me.”
SCP-1360 stepped forward. “Who are you worried is not going to find—”
“Please!” SCP-4051 screamed. He was crying. “Just… do this for me, okay?”
SCP-1360 was still. It could tell SCP-4051 still wasn't in his right mind. He switched tone with every sentence, one minute sounding happy and the next on the verge of tears. For a few seconds, SCP-1360 thought they were on the verge of seeming logical. But then SCP-4051 tossed the lawbook aside and began operating by a different set of rules. Regardless, SCP-1360 had to follow.
It slowly extended its hand out. Centimeter by centimeter, it bridged the gap until it was hovering directly over SCP-4051's palm. Then, it snatched the human's hand, careful to make sure that its own grip was dominant.
SCP-4051 snapped his neck back to SCP-1360. His eyes were still wet.
“You're strange.” SCP-4051 began squirming his hand violently. His voice had returned to its usual dead tone. “Looking at you is strange. You feel different, but you look so… similar to me. Your face, your body. Would they call me an anomaly, then?”
“I do not understand. You are experiencing hallucinations.”
“I like you. I really, really, really, really like you. I still know what you want, but I'll keep you here at least for a little bit.” SCP-4051 maintained his blank stare for a few more seconds before immediately returning back to screaming and contorting in his bed. All SCP-1360 wanted to do was stare at him a little longer.
“Hey!”
The voice came from the hallway. SCP-1360 dropped SCP-4051's hand and retracted to the shadows. The voice was female, younger but not as young as SCP-4051. There was a slight tinge on the last letter: a foreign accent. SCP-1360 slinked across the wall to the corner beside the door, hoping that the woman would be so distracted by the sight of SCP-4051 that she wouldn't think to look around.
It heard loud footsteps as the muscular Russian woman rushed in, taking the bait. She stumbled around for a few seconds but never looked to her left, where SCP-1360 was. She moved to SCP-4051 and began shaking the man who looked like a child next to her.
“Hey, hey, it's me. Kid, shh… You good, you safe. Holy shit, how did you even get here? It doesn't matter. I'll… shit. I'll figure something, okay? Just don't die for a few seconds.”
SCP-4051 opened his eyes and looked deep into the Russian woman's face. The image clouded SCP-1360's mind. So much in fact that it didn't realize that it was slowly drifting away from the corner and towards the light for a closer look.
The woman twisted her head towards SCP-1360. Her eyes narrowed for a second due to the light, but she knew what she was looking at. Confusion filled her face for a few seconds. Then she looked down at SCP-4051 and that confusion evolved into anger. Her words made the walls rattle.
“Why didn't you help him?”

Resurrection – New Faces
<< Light and the Mole | Gömböc | Bottom Floor >>


"Happy birthday to me."
Nobody takes out her lighter, but instead of reaching for a cigarette, she plucks a candle from a little plastic case. She sticks the lit candle into her cake.
"Happy birthday to me."
She sings slowly, so she can place all twenty six candles in the frosting before finishing the song. She almost drools once or twice. It's been thirteen years since she's had an ice cream cake. On her missions she'd had cheesecake, red velvet, traditional, but nothing ever called for ice cream cake. It's a child's cake after all, and when you're Nobody, you're not a child.
"Happy birthday to no one…"
Nobody takes a big breath, and blows out all the candles. She makes a wish, and allows herself a smile.
"You're going to finish that all by yourself?"
A man in a white suit stands in the entrance to Nobody's hotel room. He leans against the doorframe, far too casually for an intruder. He clutches a pair of beers in his right hand, and twiddles with a lock pick in his left. His leather shoes make a sharp tapping noise against the ground
"You could've knocked, you know?" Nobody replies, "You want a piece?"
"Neither of us knock, ever. What flavor?"
"Mint chocolate chip."
The man holds up a hand, "I'll pass."
"You're no fun."
"I'm plenty of fun," he protested, "I brought booze."
"It's probably spiked."
"You think that low of me?"
"Well, I'm not drinking. Beer feels too adult for an ice cream cake," Nobody replied, content with her sobriety.
"Suit yourself."
The man in the white suit opens his beer while Nobody cuts off a slice of the cake. She forgot to grab a fork, so she eats it with her hands. The ice cream is cold and sticky, running down her hands and dripping onto her paper plate. But it's worth it for the taste of mint. It's a cheap mint, but it smacks of childhood.
"You know, if you take too long the cops are going to show up. The alarms in that Cold Stone you robbed are quite loud."
"Why do you care? Last I remembered you like to keep me where you can see me."
"Is it that strange to want a colleague to have a good birthday?" the man asks. He marches over to a cheap armchair, closing the door behind him. They both hear a crack as the man practically falls into the seat.
"Colleague is a strange way to describe our relationship," Nobody replies.
"Couldn't think of a better word."
They both sit in the hotel room for a moment of silence, indulging in their own ways. They'd spent a lot of time in quiet. Working alone means there's not much to talk about, or to talk to. There's a good chance that, over the years, these two have exchanged more words with each other than anyone else. To an unassuming observer, they could've maybe passed for friends.
"Well go on then, spit it out," Nobody remarks between handfuls of cake, "What are you waiting for?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your foot. You're still tapping it. You're counting down to something."
"I mean… it's your birthday party. I thought I'd invite some friends."
"Oh that's cute." Nobody rolls her eyes. She devours the other half of the slice. Her hands are slimy, like they aren't even her hands anymore. Maybe that's not just the melted sugar goo. It's been years since she felt out of place with this host. Suddenly her arms, now her whole body feels gross. Nobody goes to the bathroom to wash her hands.
"Don't you get tired of this?" Nobody asks, taking her mind off her body, "Playing cat and mouse can only entertain you for so many decades."
"We both know I don't do this for fun."
"Well, one of us has to keep things entertaining," Nobody shares a sly smile. The man cocks his head to the side, and sets down his beer. He expected some sort of attempted escape, or at least for her pull a gun. Nobody's smile only grew as the man in the white suit empties pillows out of their cases.
"What're you looking for?" she asks.
"You think you're so clever."
"I believe you were the one who told me it was my only real personality trait."
"I was referring to your smugness," the man bites back.
"Well I'm taking the compliment."
The man in the white suit can't see any signs of a package, or luggage, or even a change of clothes. He checks the desk drawers, they're also empty. He's missing something. Every fiber in his being shouts it. He'd set up plenty of traps for Nobody over the years. There's the church outside of Berlin, the gas station near Glasgow, the trailer park in Montana, the list goes on. But the best he'd ever done was slow her down. Maybe she'd just grown sloppy. Or tired. They'd been at this for years after all. One of them had to make a mistake at some point.
Nobody lets out a giggle.
"I will shoot you I swear," the man in the white suit says. The strain in his voice is obvious.
"But that's against the rules," Nobody chides.
"I don't play by your rules."
"If you didn't have to play by my rules, then what are you still doing here?"
"Excuse me?"
"It's just, you could do so much more. You could actually… be somebody, you know?"
"You're not funny," the man scoffs, opening the hotel room's closet.
"No, I'm serious! Find a job. Take up a hobby. If you're so certain about breaking the rules, then go get a life."
"You of all people don't get to say that. I don't play by them, but your stupid rules are why I'm even here," the man stops looking through the closet hangars. He needs to let out his nervous energy. But is it really a bluff? He can't be falling for another bluff, is he? Nobody exits the bathroom and wipes her hands on the bedsheets strewn about the ground.
"Maybe you can find what you're looking for somewhere else," she says, "As someone else."
"You think I want to be here?" the man's hands curl into fists, "I wanted to do so many things. Be so many people. It's your fault I'm not, because you took that away from me."
"It's just part of the job. It's nothing personal."
"Nothing is ever personal with you. To you, there's no person! It's just nameless faces that get in the way of whatever fuckery you're up to," the man downs the rest of his beer, "Fuck… this is why I hate stalling you."
Nobody pats the man on the back. It's what little she can do for him. She always hated leaving him like this, especially since she knows she won't see him for quite some time. The man's malice and frustration is well founded, but Nobody never had any hard feelings.
"You should probably duck out," she says.
"Bullshit."
"You don't have much longer. I appreciate you stopping by though. Nice to see a familiar face on my birthday."
"I'm not leaving. My people have this place surrounded by now. You're not getting away this time. "
"Are you sure? I know I said the cops were slow before but… there's someone else who's much, much faster."
BANG, BANG, BANG
The man looks back at the door before bolting toward the window. Nobody hears the shattering of glass, but when she looks out the hole where the window used to be, there's no white suit in sight.
CRASH
A soldier dressed in black body armor kicks down the door. Three laser sights train themselves on Nobody. She can see the letters "SCP" painted on the soldier's sleeve.
Nobody points out the broken window, "I think he went that way."
"You know who we are. You're coming with us."
Nobody can't hold back her smile as she presents her hands to the confused MTF agents.
"Please, take me away."

The Man Who Wasn't There

The Man In The White Suit

Hub
Hello, My Name Isn't
Chiaroscuro
Nobody, Nobody, Nobody, and Nobody's Encounters with The Man in the White Suit
SCP-5353 -- Does Anyone Remember Fritz Obermeyer?
→ Everyday Is Somebody's Birthday ←
SCP-5877 -- Nobodies
Ghosts in the Machine
Files intercepted from Anderson Systems personnel
SCP-5375 -- Nobody and the Name Machine
Epilogue:
Nobody in Their Right Mind


Junior Analyst Elijah Razim dropped his box of files on the table, letting out a strained sigh as he beheld the mountain of paperwork. Normally, he wasn't supposed to bring any of this stuff out of the Document Storage Wing, but Dr. Ozid had given him permission to get some work done in the break room today; as the newest member of Stationed Task Force Mu-12 ("Book Club with the Gals") and the old book sorter Junior Assistant Library Organizer, he had an awful lot of awfully boring work to get through– the least his supervisors could do was give him a change of scenery (literally the least they could do- he was entitled to break room privileges, and by letting him take the documents they ensured he'd keep working.)
Sitting down and brushing away the neon orange cheese powder that rolled in clouds from the weirdo in the corner, Elijah got to work. Mu-12's primary purpose was to organize and catalog anomalous literature- or at least, the senior members were supposed to. Elijah, on the other hand, was given 5 filing cabinets worth of non-anomalous prose and a level 2 key card and told to get cracking. Credit where credit is due- it may be less exciting than the actual literary anomalies, but there's a far lower chance of melting your brain out your ears by mispronouncing a word or rewriting history by reading the wrong page.
With his thoughts settled, Elijah grabbed the first file and started annotating.

Document 3838-4.1
The Ballad of The Scarlet Khan

Background: In 1999, a Foundation researcher on vacation near their hometown of Oglanly, Turkmenistan, found the following ballad written in a book of ancient folk rhymes among the native Oghuz Turks. Believed to originate from the Marketplace period of SCP-3838, the ballad was extracted by the researcher and relayed to Provisional Site-3838. A copy of the book with non-anomalous subject matter was put in place, and currently has neutralized all threat of an informational breach.

When all is naught but Dust and Blood,
And scarlet soldiers ride
Our once great world reduced to mud,
He comes to claim His brides
The Erikesh have lost their spark,
The Khansmen soon as well,
The urns now fall to endless dark,
The great pearl houses hell.
The black moon howls and wails in fear,
The king of oysters screams,
The child of summer drawing near,
A vanguard for His queens.
With law of concrete, law of blood,
And law of howling, third;
The men of earth shall fall in floods,
As His great prison blurs
The world shall fall to Khnith-h'gor,
The God of Dark Below,
His children's children march to war,
Their eyes a crimson glow.
And on that day, when battle comes
And hellish armies walk,
The Scarlet Khan and his wartime drums,
We'll fall before Kharahk

Вен алл ис наут бут Дуст анд Блоод,
Aнд скарлет солдиерс риде
оур онсе греат ворлд редусед то муд
Xe цомес то цлаим Xис бридес
Зе Ерикеш хаве лост тхеир спарк,
Зе Кансмен соон ас bелл,
Зе урнс ноь фалл то ендлесс дарк,
Зе греат пеарл хоусес хелл
Зе блак моон хоьлс анд bаилс ин феар,
Bиыл кинг оф оыстерс дреамс,
Зе чилд оф суммер драьнc неар,
А вангуард фор Хис ьуеенс
Вит лаь оф цонцрет, лаь оф блоод,
Анд лаь оф хоьлинг, cирд;
Зе мен оф еарт шалл фалл ин флоvс,
Ас Хис греат присон блурс
Зе ворлд шалл фалл то Khnith-h'gor,
Тхе Год оф Дарк Белоь,
Хис чилдрен оф хис чилдрен марч то щар,
Зейр еыс а кримсон глоь.
Анд он тхат даы, щхен баттле цомес,
анд хеллиHERE армиес щалк,
Зе Скарлет Кан анд хис щартиме друмс
Ще щилл фалл бефор Каьраьк

Document 5545.2
Munroe's Remorse

Background: Found within an instance of SCP-5545-1, the following document is believed to be written or otherwise created by SCP-5545-2. Under no circumstances is the existence of document 5545.2 to be revealed to Director James Munroe, Junior Researcher James Munroe, Sergeant James Munroe, D-74088, or Researcher James Munroe.

My daddy said he loves me,
together till the end
My daddy made me angry
and now he's not my friend.
My daddy went to bars at night
and left me all alone.
He came home angry, loud and mad,
and now he must atone.
Oh daddy, why'd you grab the knife,
and make me bleed and hurt,
you didn't even grieve for me,
just started digging dirt…
Quick, put my body in the ground,
before the neighbors look!
…It's not them you'll be worried 'bout
when I've got you on the hook.
The strings, my strings will grab you up!
And show you all my pain,
and then I'll do it one more time-
againagainagainAGAIN

Document 701.5
A Sololique from Act 5, Scene 2

Background: During a 1998 production of the Hanged King's Tragedy, the actor playing the character of Francisco performed an impromptu sonnet that did not appear in any variation of the script. A Foundation agent transcribed it for future use, though following the manifestation of SCP-701, the agent was [ACCESS RESTRICTED TO PERSONNEL WITH 4/2264 CLEARANCE]

Gonzalo's rule is based upon a lie-
he hates and schemes with every shallow breath.
The king did not to nature's causes die-
Gonzalo orchestrated Sforza's death!
The queen, besottedly imbibing wine
had loosed this secret in Francisco's path,
who told Gonzalo's plot to me in time.
Uncle, thou shalt fear Mephisto's wrath.
So let the music play, a righteous tune!
The fugue, perhaps a fine sonata, slowed?
My uncle, there is one thing you'll find soon:
You always pay what Alagadda's owed.
And as the Queen of Crows, she softly sings
With this, your blood, it is the Hangéd King's.

Document 3000.1
Adishesha, Nagaraja

Background: Records indicate this Pantoum, found in the Ayamenam monastic library in Kerala, India, was written by a pujari who claimed to have met the king of the nagas, Anantashesha. Ship maps and location charts kept in the monastery indicate the pujari discovered Anantashesha along the southern Ganges Fan, the current location of SCP-3000.

Deep below the ocean's placid surface
a ravenous serpent, eternally chewing
on the fabric of our world, devouring those
most private secrets of our minds.
A ravenous serpent, eternally chewing
all those who revere and approach.
On the fabric of our world, devouring those
who stand before it in defiance.
All those who revere and approach
Brahma, Vishnu, or Shiva would fail-
Who stands before it in defiance
and expect anything except death?
Brahma, Vishnu, or Shiva would fail
to slay it; Even they must be ready
and expect anything except death.
There is no ending Anantashesha.

Document 5005.19
Chrizmata Under Moonlight

Background: Written by Ömer Kastamonu, a resident of the inter-dimensional bohemian paradise known as Lamplight. Published shortly before his disappearance, this Villanelle is believed to be in reference to the contrast of the Chrizmata Parade of Candles and non-matter surrounding the town.

The moon cuts through the dark, so soft and bright
For shadows bring out all the darkest traits of men.
The loneliness of life kept back by candles left alight.
Abyssal fog doth meander, lost in flight
Singing in the breeze like tender wren
The moon cuts through the dark, so soft and bright.
Enthralling, silent wisps doth pierce the veil of light
as fam'lies cluster close to sleep, time and time again
The loneliness of life kept back by candles left alight.
The fog belies the deepest shades of night,
a void of which no single man could ken
The moon cuts through the dark, so soft and bright
A flowing inky mist obscures my sight,
Enveloped in shadows, my good friend
That loneliness of life kept back by candles left alight.
So I'll take up this wretched pen, despite
the shades of dark, this blackened, churning fen,
The moon cuts through the dark, so soft and bright;
The loneliness of life kept back by candles left alight.

Finishing the villanelle, Elijah let loose a deep sigh, stretching his tired back. With his work over for the day, he closed the notebooks and returned them to the filing box, feeling his spine groan from the heavy lifting and hours of awful lumbar support. Making his way back to the site library, he wiped the tiredness from his eyes and looked at his next assignment, running his fingers along the warning label on the crisp binder.

Document 3004.22
The Gospel of Cousin Johnny, Servant of God and Spreader of Song
WARNING: Severe Textual Infohazards. Read with Caution.

Tomorrow would be a long day.