by DarkStuff

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More by DarkStuff~!

Independent SCPs

SCP
Title

SCP-445-EX
The Word of the Day is Hope

SCP-2728
On the Barcelona Skyline

SCP-2729
What is it Good For?

SCP-3018
France & the Tale of the Well-Intentioned Understudies

SCP-3465
Better Safe Than Sorry

SCP-3466
Only Birdbrains Live the American Dream

SCP-4006
#MassaTruthetts

SCP-4455
In Short…

SCP-4465
No Man is an Island

SCP-4466
Why the Long Face?

SCP-4467
Oh, I Get It Now

Co-Authored SCPs

SCP
Title
Co-Author

SCP-1549
In Absence of a Perfect Medium
Billith

SCP-2983
Choco-Wonder Explosion Marshmallow Bites!™ by Dr. Wondertainment
Uncle Nicolini

SCP-3379
D-11424 & the Arctic Meat Hole of Infinite Wonders
Weryllium

SCP-3482
Nature Versus Naturalization
Roget

SCP-3633
I'm Right Behind Me
Captain Kirby

SCP-3713
All the World's a Stage
Varaxous

SCP-4029
Too Many Legs to be Going Nowhere
MaliceAforethought

Vend-a-Friend

Chapter
Title

Act I

Chapter 1
We Just Make Toys

Chapter 2
To Think I've Spent My Whole Life Waiting

Chapter 3
I Don't Get It, I Functioned Before

Chapter 4
You Can't Win Them All

Chapter 5
Be Strange or Be Forgotten

Act II

Chapter 6
Sometimes the Best Intentions are in Need of Redemption

Chapter 7
Life's a Show

Chapter 8
...And I'm the Star!

Chapter 9
Back in Habit

Chapter 10
Pepper's Lament

Chapter 11
Souls & Somas

Chapter 12
Deceptive Cadence

Act III

Chapter 13
And I Think To Myself...

Chapter 14
Everything Will Be Okay

Chapter 15
Holding an Umbrella but the Sun's Still Shining

Ascension

Chapter
Title

Chapter 1
Sometimes I Wish This Moment Could Last Forever

Chapter 2
Waiting on the Good Times

Chapter 3
Forever Young

Chapter 4
We Didn't Do This For Nothing

Chapter 5
URA-1902 aka The Missing Link

Chapter 6
The Consequences of a Deep, Dark Disassociation

Chapter 7
The Call to Action (for a Modern Audience)

Chapter 8
The Elusive Mx. LaFerrier

Chapter 9
It Feels Like I Only Go Backwards

Chapter 10
Along for the Ride

Chapter 11
A Hole in the Tapestry

Chapter 12
XXXXX

Chapter 13
Industrial

Chapter 14
Dancing with Rachael

Chapter 15
Ascension

Epilogue
A World Unto Yourself

Collaboration Contest Entries w/ Ellie

Make America Normaler

Off the Hook

Misc. Tales

Cornelius the Collector

Curtain Call

The Really Really Real Adventures in Capitalism

I've Been Through the Desert on a Horse with No Name

On the Radar for the miniseries The Ursus Maritimus Incident

Group of Interest / Canon Hubs

Hub
Notes

Dr. Wondertainment Hub
Made w/ taylor_itkin does not match any existing user name

What a Wonderful World Hub
Made w/ help from Uncle Nicolini, a canon sprouted from Vend-a-Friend!

Wilson's Wildlife Solutions Hub
My pride and joy, my very own Group of Interest

Dorer started. "Hello, Victor LaFerrier."
It was back to routine.
"Oh, hello. Dr. Dorer, Dr. Davidson."
One more Agent LaFerrier interview to do.
"Hello," Rachael slammed a folder onto the table, "Victor."
They were getting very tiring by this point.
Dorer interjected. "Agent, did you know that you have no birth certificate?"
Rachael and Dorer were very near calling it quits.
"No job history, either." Rachael added.
They had decided to keep at it for one more week.
Dorer: "We can't find your adoptive parents — or their graves, for that matter."
That allowed them space for four, maybe five more interviews.
Rachael: "We have no records of ever hiring you. Did you know this, Victor?"
This was the fourth. They decided to call it quits after this one, so they made it their home turf: Site-31.
Victor's face swelled with anxiety. "I-I-I swear I've never —"
Seeing as this was the last stop, they had decided that they could be a little more risky. Free form.
Rachael: "Lied to us? Well, that's hard to believe. Do you think this amount of records just disappears overnight? It's not just our own records, LaFerrier. Nowhere that you've ever claimed to be has any documentary proof of your existence. Can you explain that, Victor?"
They figured that they could bring up…
Dorer: "That's honestly not as important as our next line of questioning —" Rachael huffed "— which is… well…" Dorer opened the file of GoI-███ and laid it on the table. "We know of your involvement."
…█████ Industrial.
In reality, Dorer and Davidson knew absolutely nothing about Agent LaFerrier's connection to █████ Industrial. As far as they knew, the original URA-1902's reaction with him was entirely coincidental. In fact, they had no clue what had happened there, either. They only knew that Agent LaFerrier was an anomaly that met with another anomaly and was the only body of MTF Sigma-10, "Working Man", that they never found. So…
"Yes! Yes, I worked for them, for a time…"
…that was interesting to hear.
Rachael and Dorer made very brief eye contact. Then, Rachael seamlessly switched back into a demeanor that said "of course, yes, I knew that already". She crossed her legs, lifted her clipboard, and clicked her pen open.
"When did you work with… with…" Rachael paused a moment. "With this company? And if you lie to us, we'll know."
"I-I uhh, it-it-it couldn't have been more than… it was…"
"Spit it out, Victor. We don't have all day." Dorer had to suppress his smile to maintain the ridiculous tough guy vibe.
Agent LaFerrier's pupils bounced around like basketballs in washing machines. "It-it-it was 1929." His eyes suddenly sat in a forward facing position. "The stock market was booming. At least, that's what they told me. Everything was working. Everything was perfect."
Dorer looked to Rachael to see if she showed any recognition of the impossibility of 1929.
"Go on." Her face was completely unreadable.
"But-but-but…" LaFerrier's face contorted into pure agony. "But then that day came, the day, oh, the day… the 29th of September." He returned to that forward facing look, as if the next words came to him from an outside source. "Five — or six, or more, who were one, and wanted to be one again. From many to one. Howard. Howard █████." Rachael and Dorer suddenly winced as a sharp pain stabbed through the base of their skull. "The CEO. The father of the company. Who hadn't always run it but had always been it. They saw. They saw something they shouldn't have seen. Howard. He saw the arms."
Rachael's eyes widened with interest.
"The arms? Elaborate."
LaFerrier's face twisted into a horrible frown. "The arms, the arms! The long, reaching arms! He made us see them. He made us see them too. And we've been working, we've been working ever since."
Rachael: "Did you see anything else?" LaFerrier blinked with concerning frequency. Rachael glanced at the surveillance camera. "A frozen world? What were the arms reaching for?"
Dorer side-eyed Rachael.
LaFerrier nodded, and wiped his eyes. "The grass was stuck in place, the hoe was mid swing, but I couldn't move it. Its weight was pressing down upon me forever. Eternally. I couldn't blink, but my eyes didn't dry. And the arms… the arms…"
"Go on."
"Th-they held, they, the hands… the hand! On my head!" LaFerrier held his temples. "In my mind!"
Rachael's breaths began to shudder, but she worked very hard to not change her expression.
Dorer felt the need to speak up. "Rachael…?"
Rachael: "And this Howard? He gave you this vision?"
"He gave it to us all!"
"Victor," Rachael's mouth began to twitch, "where did you work?"
He buried his face in his hands. "I-I don't know!"
"Rachael, are you alright?"
"LaFerrier," Rachael held back her volume, "how old are you?"
"I'm," Agent LaFerrier cried without sobs, "I'm th-th-thirty, thirty-eight…"
"And when were you born?"
"19… 19… 1964."
Rachael put both her hands on the table and leaned forward. "Say that again?"
"19, 1964."
"Say 1929."
"1929."
Rachael had a mouth half open and eyes wider than Dorer had ever seen. Was he supposed to be getting something? "Rachael, calm yourself down, you're going to —"
"You don't know where you worked?"
LaFerrier shook his head.
"Say 'Paris'."
"Paris."
"Say, say, 'London'."
"L-London?"
"Say 'New York'."
Agent LaFerrier looked befuddled. Dorer had never connected to a URA-1902 instance more, and for the first time he really felt the humanity that laid behind those sunken, grey eyes.
Rachael stood. "Say 'New York'!"
Dorer stood to meet her: "Now hold on, Dr. Davidson! What are you doing?"
"New Y-York?"
"Rachael, Rachael, get a hold of yourself —"
"Shut the fuck up, Dorer." Rachael had spoken with such an intensity that Dorer felt the need to sit back down. "For the remainder of this interview, you will remain seated and compliant, do you understand? You are to sit there, and do nothing, unless I tell you to."
Dorer looked at her like she was a growling dog.
"Good. Now, Victor. Your task is simple. Repeat after me, and if there are any delays, I have it well within my power to hurt you."
Dorer wondered when security would arrive, and looked to the camera only to find its standard red light mysteriously off.
"Say 'Broadway'."
"Broadway."
"Say 'Wall Street'."
"Wall Street."
"Say 'New York Stock Exchange'."
"N-N—"
"Say it!"
"New York Stock Exchange!"
"Say 'to the right of the Stock Exchange'."
"To the…? To the right of the Stock Exchange."
"Yes, yes, say, say how far? Say 'a kilometer to the right'."
"A kilometer to the —"
"No, too far. Say 'half a kilometer'."
"Half a kilometer."
"'Half a kilometer to the right of the New York Stock Exchange'."
"Half a kilometer to the right of the New York Stock Exchange!"
"Close enough." Rachael reached into her bag and pulled out the syringe, quickly uncapping it before stabbing it straight into LaFerrier's eye.
Victor screamed, and grasped at her outstretched arm.
Dorer yelped and fell out of his chair.
In another moment, Victor had fallen, dead, to the floor. Rachael picked up her bag and strode quickly past Dorer, who scrambled to his feet just to see her waltz through a door that he could have sworn was electronically locked from the other side.
"Rachael! Rachael! Wait, what the f— where are you going? Rachael? Rachael!"

Rachael bust open the door to her room, where she had unpacked most of her clothes, work papers, and the few useless amenities she allowed herself to keep purely for their own sake. Her laptop was closed but plugged in on a desk, folders were stacked neatly besides it, and several copies of the same white shirt and black pants were hung up on hangers in the open closet. She had a picture of her parents pinned to the wall next to her bed, a bottle of sleeping pills on her bedside table, and several nonfiction books stacked upon each other next to the pills, but besides that… the room was horribly barren. She had fully prioritized function over form, and left the walls, floor, desks, and bathroom mostly characterless.
As soon as she had stepped inside, she began to pack her few belongings. She started towards the laptop first thing, unplugging it and cramming it inside a slick, slim computer bag.
Dorer followed soon after. "Rachael Maria Davidson! What do you think you're doing? What was that back there?"
She pulled a rolling suitcase out from under the bed, zipped it open, and laid it on top of her sheets. She promptly inserted the computer bag in it, and made her way towards the bathroom. Due to the small space, this required Dorer to move out of her way. She hadn't shown a single sign of recognition that he was even there.
"And what is this about arms? And a frozen world? Is this important? Seems like you know something I don't, and as partners in this operation, I am really uncomfortable with having something like this kept from me. Is it classified?"
She took her toothbrush, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, electric shaver, floss, and mouthwash, and stuffed them all into a small plastic box. As soon as this task was complete, she pushed past Dorer once more, and made her way to the suitcase on the bed.
"And what was that? Asking him to repeat things? What was that supposed to do? You're keeping things from me, Rachael. And I'm not having it."
She shoved Dorer out of the way to access her closet, but as she reached for the first hanger, Dorer grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Her eyes were squinted, just a little bit, but otherwise she was just as legible as the name of a dead company.
"Rachael, you do know that I have to report strange behavior to the

/ / /

H
 u
 h
 .
 .
.

I
 .
.
 .

For a split second, Dorer had the strange sensation of packing a suitcase, and then it was gone.
As he slowly regained a sense of his body, he lifted his leaden right arm to massage his temple with his hand. "What?" His dry, sticky mouth barely pushed out air, and though he had opened his eyes (with much effort), his vision was still fuzzy with the blue-green-red splotches iconic of a headrush.
"Rachael…?"
He still had no volume, but feeling had returned across his body — not wholly, but just enough to discover that he was laid down in the closet. His head was painfully pressed against the back wall, and a dull ache in his left arm told him that it had been bent an odd direction for as long as he was out.
As his hearing faded in, he could tell that Rachael was still in the room, pushing her clothes into the suitcase. He must not have been out that long, then, if she was still there.
"What's going…?"
This time, he could hear himself. Hopefully that meant he was loud enough to be heard.
Sure enough, Rachael's packing seemed to cease. After a brief pause, he could hear her approach, and soon she was standing right in front of him. His vision returned enough to make out the colors of her skin, shirt, and pants — enough to know she was there.
"Rachael, Rachael, what just happened, why am I

/ / /

W
 h
 a
 t
 t
 h
 e
 h
 e
 l
 l
 i
 s
 .
 .
 .
a a a a a a a aaaaaaaaaa!!

Dorer had the sudden feeling he was staring at herself in the mirror.

AAAAAAAAAA A A A A A A A!!

Dorer jolted awake. His eyes were watery, his lungs and chest hurt like a motherfucker, and this time he knew not to move. Dorer was a doofus. But he wasn't an idiot. He should have guessed the first time, but Rachael was not his friend. Logged. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
It was more important to prevent whatever was happening than to understand whatever was happening. Working with the Foundation taught you that pretty well. This was just much closer to the source than Dorer had ever been. As his hearing returned, more quickly than before, he listened for the sound of Rachael. So far, nothing. But he knew not to take that for granted. She could be standing still, and his hearing wasn't back enough to find footsteps. He only knew he had it because he could hear the air conditioning.
He measured his breathing. Kept it quiet, and slow. Every inch of his being wished he would breathe faster — his heart was pounding, but he was trying his very hardest to slow it down. He needed to look dead.
Whatever she was doing, it wasn't working. She wanted him either unconscious or dead, and neither was keeping up.
Slowly, methodically, he opened his eyes. Across from him, the bathroom door was open, and Rachael was staring at herself in the mirror. He shut his eyes. He was to her right, she could easily look over and notice him moving. He needed to be still.
Absolutely.
Still.
So what was the plan? Was the plan to wait for her to leave? It could be. Was she going to leave? She must be leaving, she packed a suitcase. Remain still until she left. That was the plan.
Alright.
So he was going to remain still.
.
.
.
Some shuffling in the bathroom.
The sound of an electric shaver came on.
Dorer remembered her packing that?
She was rethinking the plan. Fuck. She might not be leaving. She was being frantic, and she had realized it, and now she was spending more time in the room.
Sounds of the shaver running through her hair met his ears.
She had somehow disabled the security camera in this room, clearly, or else someone would have been here by now. Why had no one found the camera turning off in the interview strange? Why had no one followed them? Why why why?
The answer was simple.
Whatever she was trying to do to Dorer, she had succeeded in doing to others. She was… turning people off, or something. Somehow. That was the best conclusion he could come to. And he was the only person it wasn't working on. Shit.
Shit.
He had a responsibility. He was the only person who was pushing through somehow. He didn't know what she was planning. It couldn't have been good. But she thought he was unconscious or dead in the room with her and he wasn't. He was in a unique position. He needed to stop her.
God damn it.
Dorer never handled responsibility well. But did he want to be known as a coward? No, he didn't want to do that either. He seemed to have a type of anomalous resistance to her, uh, her… whatever she was doing, and that was enough to get questioned. He might as well get in on their good side before they locked him up for a month. Or more.
She had put down the shaver. Dorer became aware that his legs extended into the room, out of the closet. Due to how small the space was, to get to the bed she would have to walk over them. Or the front door, for that matter. Either way, he knew what he had to do.
Rachael began to walk out of the bathroom.
Game time.
Dorer swept his legs and tripped her. She fell and hit her jaw on the bedpost, stunning her, at least temporarily.
Dorer leapt to his feet as best he could (he wished for a moment that he didn't love eating so much), and made for the door — maybe he could find someone who she hadn't downed, he could explain her threat, and the site could go into quarantine. Keep her locked up. That sounded like the most reasonable thing to do. But as he jiggled the handle, he found it locked. Locked? In a moment of panic, he searched his mind for an answer, and briefly remembered that she had opened an electronically locked door before.
She had done the opposite.
He was stuck in here with her.
He turned around to see her slowly rise to her feet, and knew, with a fear rising in his heart, that the only way he would have enough time to do anything was to knock her out. As she balanced herself on the bed, he kicked her in the stomach. An "augh!" burst from her mouth, as she was knocked to her knees.
Dorer sweat floods and breathed hurricanes. He pulled back to kick her again, but she reached out and grabbed his leg. He lost his balance and put his hands behind him to prop him up against the closet for a second, but the stability was lost when she brought her other arm to twist his leg. He fell, and struck his elbow against the door frame of the bathroom.
She rose, and was suddenly standing over him. For the first time since he was out, he saw her face. And it frightened him into paralysis.
She was bleeding from striking her jaw, but she paid it no mind. Her mouth was curled into a glower fiercer than a drill sergeant's. Her upper lip was pulled up, and half her teeth were showing, briefly reminding Dorer of an unfortunate childhood run-in with a neighborhood dog. Her breaths were deep and strained. She looked about ready to strangle the life out of him.
But instead

/ / /
NO!

Dorer felt rage at heights as he had never reached before, and Rachael stumbled back as his fist drove itself into her chest.
Dorer surprised himself by being upright, and fully conscious. The expression on Rachael's face told him the feeling was shared.
"What is it," she spat blood, "did they know? Were you chosen to counteract me?"
Dorer figured she could pick out a lie, but he didn't want to show any weakness, so instead of speaking, he approached her.
"Why won't you stay down?" Dorer thought he caught a quiver in her voice.
"I told you we were fated." Dorer's confidence had returned, and with it came his idiot grin. Rachael winced at it in this new context. "Unlock the door, Rachael, or I'll be forced to — pah!"
Dorer lost his breath and felt the first hints of bile as Rachael punched him in the throat. As he cough-barfed, she grabbed the back of his head and smashed his face into the wall. He struggled to regain his balance against his head's bruising, throat's burning, and temporary shortage of oxygen. As he blinked the water out of his eyes, he heard a rummaging through the suitcase. The moment he regained his vision, Rachael had pushed him against the wall, pinned by the shoulders, too close to her to get a good kick.
In her right hand was a pen. Dorer couldn't hold back a yip, like a small dog. He also couldn't hold back the embarrassment that came with knowing that that would be his last sound. In the face of certain death, he wasn't brave. He yipped.
His legs struggled.
His arms tensed and released.
His heartbeat was more like a constant drum roll.
She picked up her right arm, and began to shove it down, straight towards his —
Eye.
But then she collapsed.
What?
She was laying down, her shaved head pressed on the hardwood floor. This was the first time Dorer had really noticed it was hardwood. Her room was nicer than his? That was unfair.
Wait, that wasn't the most important thing right now. Dorer turned around. What was the thing to do? Wait. If she was down, maybe the door was no longer locked? He reached for the handle, but was taken off guard by Rachael's arm wrapping around his neck and pulling him back.
"How did you do that?"
Dorer couldn't talk through his struggling and choking, but he could hear the blemish of pain in her voice.
"What are you?"
He wasn't strong enough to push her back into a wall and she knew it.
"If I can't turn you off —" He knew it! "— I'll just have to take you out the old fashioned way." Oh no. "Now, if you could kindly…"
She walked him into the bathroom, and stopped him in front of the sink.
There he was. In the mirror. For once, he really understood why Rachael looked down on him — and not in the physical sense, he knew she was taller than he was. In his reflection, he could see his own chubby face. He was beet red. He was older looking than last he remembered. And, at this very moment, he was pretty beat up. The side of his face was bruising, his elbow was bleeding, his clothes were rimpled and torn in a place or two. He was a mess, an absolute mess.
"You're still trying to use it against me."
Dorer wasn't at all aware of himself trying to use any type of power against her, except his own physical might, which was of course failing him.
"Well, you won't take me down that easily, Robert. I've been at this a lot longer than you have, and if you don't think I don't know how to counteract myself…"
His head began to ache from lack of air, among other things.
"If you give me a good explanation, I'll consider not killing you. Alright?"
She loosened up on his neck, and he gasped for air.
"Don't take too long catching your breath. I don't have time to waste on you."
After another deep breath, "I don't know! I swear, I know, I know that you won't believe that. It sounds like the first excuse anyone would give, and I know that, but I swear to you, I didn't know I could do anything! In fact, I still don't know if I can! Are you sure you're not just screwing up? Think about it! You failed at killing me three times, and then it looks like you knocked yourself out! Don't you think that's plausible?"
Dorer couldn't see Rachael's face, but she hadn't yelled at him or bashed his face into the sink yet, and he decided that that was a good sign.
"I've never failed," she said finally. "I have mastered this craft. I did not fuck up. Something is interfering with me. And you, Robert, are the prime suspect."
"It-it's not me! It can't be me, Ra— Davidson! You know me, heheh? Right? I'm a doof, I'm a doofus, Rachael. You just beat me in hand to hand combat, you know I have no formal training, I wasn't sent here to make sure you didn't get out of line! I wasn't! And what makes you think that if I had your powers, they'd use me but suppress you? Don't you think they'd just put you in whatever mystery program I would be in, too? Come on, it doesn't add up!"
Another horribly stressful pause.
"You do have idiocy on your side. Surprisingly, it strengthens your case. Still, something's going on, and it wasn't happening until we fought. Perhaps…" Another pause. Dorer wondered if now was his only chance to catch her off guard. "Perhaps you didn't know you had powers, and they activated under extreme stress. It's possible. Not likely, but possible." He thought he might have made out the bright tone of voice that gives away a smile.
But it was gone the next second.
"That would make you too valuable to give up. But, you're too against me to trust. What do you think I should do with you?"
Dorer searched his brain. He didn't even know what she was doing.
"Well, heheh, I don't, uh, know what you're doing, and I wouldn't want to make a misinformed decision —"
"Do you really think you've earned my trust?"
"Well, it's just…"
"Time's up." Rachael pulled his head back, and his resolve gave way.
"I'll do anything! Anything you want, please! Please, just, don't kill me, please… please…"
"Hmm." She seemed to consider.
But the next thing Dorer knew, his head had made contact with the cold, clammy porcelain.

« The Elusive Mx. LaFerrier | I Only Go Backwards | Along for the Ride »


PREVIOUS: The Vice Girls
FIRST: The Chosen Few

My first-ever demonarcotic is speed on crank. Belphegor's remains should act as a drain, siphoning off sloth and replacing it with laser-like reflexes. Either that, or put the user into a permanent coma. I'd put the odds at ninety-to-ten.
Natasha doesn't even blink when I explain the consequences. She simply passes the pills to Diya and Tracy. Then they down them with a glass of water and disappear.
Two hours later, the three of them return with satchels full of papers: stocks, bonds, property deeds, and more. I'm expecting Natasha to reveal some juicy gossip, maybe tell us how the Prime Minister is a slave owner or something, but she just drops the satchel on the ground. She passes me a lighter and asks me to set the satchel on fire. I comply.
This, she says, is for Zabutom.
Diya and Tracy add their bags to the mix. As we watch the papers burn, I realize that some of them belonged to normal people — ordinary folks just trying to get by. Natasha shrugs when I point this out. Burn 'em all, she says, and let God sort them out. She kisses me.
Afterwards, in bed, she strokes my hair and tells me she loves me. It's the first time she's ever said that. I nestle deeper into the crook of her arm.
I wonder, is it me she loves? Or what I can do?
Is there a difference?

I continue to develop drugs for Natasha and her crew. In exchange, they start bankrolling my studies. With some forged documents courtesy of Tracy, I convince my parents that I've won a series of scholarships. Natasha, Diya, and Tracy become infamous as the Chicago Spectre while I toil in the background, and I'm okay with that. I plan to publish my research on demonarcotics eventually — I'm sure it'll win me a Nobel.
I stay on campus for the winter break. My parents think I'm spending my time doing research with a professor. They're half right. Natasha and I reconnect; she gets me a Vespa for Christmas and we start taking joyrides on it.
Then my final semester rolls around, and the joyrides come to a halt. When I'm not sleeping or eating, I'm working on a final project. I prepared for this ahead of time, and whipped up more than enough demonarcotics over the break to cover the Spectre. But my relationship with Natasha becomes effectively long-distance, limited to video chats on Fridays and Sunday trips to the Moon. I'm mostly okay with this. As it turns out, the less sex you're having, the more fun it is to have. But I can't help but feel that I'm slipping away from her — and letting Diya get closer.
My worst fears are realized barely a month into the semester. I'm talking to Natasha over video-chat when Diya enters the screen. Natasha stands up and they shake hands. Then they slap them against each other. It's a secret handshake.
At first, I try to play it off and tease them about it. Natasha smiles bashfully — but Diya smirks. I know that smirk. It's the same one I give her when she sees me smooch Natasha. If I don't do something soon, I'm going to lose my girlfriend to a fucking furry.
I tell Natasha that I want to start going out on operations with her. She points out that I don't have any innate magical capabilities. Demonarcotics are strictly off-limits to me, so the best I could do is get myself killed quickly in a gunfight. But she'd love to spend more time with me.
It's not that, I lie. I just want to be more useful. I've been working on a fix for that, anyways — a project that will turn me into a magical girl like her.
Another lie. I'm barely keeping afloat with my schoolwork. But Natasha doesn't need to know that.

With the prospect of imminent ascendance hanging over mine and Diya's heads, our unspoken conflict heats up. Diya gets into robotics. I spend a goodly portion of my Sunday visits listening to her and Natasha debate about the metal needed in a catgirl's spine — tail included — and whether or not to have touch sensors in the ears that'll make the androids mewl. I use her excitement to motivate myself in my new quest to become a magical girl.
I bring Natasha home to my parents. Much to my shock, they respond favorably. Privately, they tell me that I'll always have a home with them, and my father approves of my girlfriend's career path. This is the exact opposite response I was looking for — they're supposed to kick me out of the house so that Natasha will spend more time doting on me and less on Diya. That night, lying in my childhood bed, I figure out how to convert my veins into biothaumic channels.
Diya acquires a new hobby: manga. She joins our two-woman shoujo club and introduces us to books like Spice & Wolf and Basara. Our club discussions become infused with debates about the merits of Marxism-Leninism-Maoism versus anarcho-communism. I just want to go back to reading manga and cuddling with Natasha, but I'm worried that saying anything will just make me look bad in front of her. So I just redouble my efforts to bypass the blood-brain barrier and implant a consciousness directly into my cerebral cortex.
At the beginning of May, the entire Specter disappears with my entire supply of performance enhancements. They return a week later with nothing but tired faces and filthy clothing. When I ask them where they've been, Natasha tells me to google a popular retail chain. I find out that the children of the chain's entire board of directors have been kidnapped; the ransom note is a demand to enable the company's workers to join independent trade unions without reprisal.
I tell Natasha that she shouldn't be bringing children into this. Diya barges into the conversation, arguing that the board of directors is holding thousands upon thousands of children ransom — the children of the company's workers. They depend on the company's pathetic wages to feed their kids, and thus have zero bargaining power. I want to ask what'll happen to the hostages if the company refuses to cooperate. But Natasha's on Diya's side, and I don't want to give the furry any more leverage. So instead of asking meaningful questions, I change the subject to my research on using the cardiovascular system as a point of thaumic leverage.
Luckily, the company caves within three weeks. A few days after it's confirmed that the workers have started unionizing, I see on the news that the kids have been returned mostly the same. They all have a washed-out look and can't remember a thing about the past month. I can barely bring myself to kiss Natasha that night, but Diya needs a reminder who Natasha's girl is.
Except when I go to kiss her goodnight, she's too busy working on android catgirls with Diya. She barely even notices the kiss on the cheek as the catgirl boots up with a MIDI-meow. Natasha and Diya share a fistbump.
I don't go to sleep that night. Instead, I concoct a cocktail that will either overclock my brain or make it melt out my ears. Time is running out, but I'm going to become a magical girl if it kills me.

It doesn't. By graduation, I've figured out how I'm going to bond myself to a demon. In exchange for energy from my metabolic processes, it will let me channel thaumaturgic and theologic energies. If I survive — which I'm reasonably sure I will — I won't quite have magical powers. What I will have is the ability to get high off my own supply, which should let me achieve more or less the same effect.
We decide to do it the day after commencement. Tracy's feeling sick, so Natasha and Diya help me construct the transmutation circle in the coven. It consists of a pair of concentric circles with a hexagram circumscribed by the outer ring, with electronic summoners at three of the hexagram's tips to summon the demon and specify its task and payment. The payment is the three of us. Natasha and Diya will provide the initial down payment of energy. The demon will attempt to secure the rest of its payment from the individual at the focal point of the ritual: me.
We take our positions on the hexagram. I hit ENTER on the laptop that controls the three summoners. The ritual begins.
There's a whirring sound as the summoners execute the first part of the program and the rings of the transmutation circle spin. The hexagram glows as a bright white entity appears at the center of the circle. It looks just like me — but has no mouth.
Natasha and Diya cast the spells I've directed them to, feeding the entity the first part of its payment. But it's still hungry, and the hexagram is pointing it towards the only person in the room that hasn't paid the transmutation toll.
As the entity floats towards me, I press ENTER again. The summoners kill the binding array and automatically generate a new one. The entity pauses as it senses the ritual shifting, but it's too late. It's acquired a taste for EVE, and the stuff is addictive. But the terms of the new ritual have left it completely locked out from all other existing EVE channels in the area. In order to get more, it'll have to make a new one: me.
I lock eyes with the entity. We both understand the deal that I'm making. There's no going back for either of us.
The entity grabs my mouth, pries it open, and stuffs itself down my throat. It's like I'm being cooked alive and flash-frozen at the same time. The sharp reek of pork fills the air. A low gurgling sound becomes audible from far away — there's a moment of detached epiphany when I realize the sound is me.
Red steam hisses from my pores as my body flushes out blood and my marrow flushes in gasoline. My heart stops. Then it restarts.
Not as a heart, but as an engine, with pistons that generate a drumbeat of the damned. My death-gurgle ebbs. I cry out and then fall silent.
The ritual ends. The rings stop spinning. The hexagram dims. We fall down heavily, and then Natasha rushes over to examine me. I wave her off and take a moment to admire my new form.
My vision is sharper. My muscles feel developed. I feel better. Harder. Faster. Stronger.
I want to punch a bitch. I want to rob a bank. I want to walk away from an explosion. I want to get out there and do something. Hell, I can do anything. And I know exactly what I want to do first.
I fish a couple of pills from my jean pockets and pop them both into my mouth. I swallow them without so much as a sip of water and grab Natasha by the arm. A portal opens up underneath our feet, dropping us through space and time onto my Vespa.
There's a helmet dangling from the handle. I plop it onto Natasha's head — safety first — before gunning the ignition. The engine doesn't catch; my heart does, with a variably manifolded interior space that has twice the CCs and fuel economy. With a disproportionately loud roar, the tiny scooter blasts out of the parking lot into the Toronto rush hour. I navigate through the gridlock with hellishly fast reflexes, taking the four-oh-one onramp and cutting in front of a trailer truck at three-digit velocities. The honk makes us vibrate in our seat.
Natasha grips me tighter as we weave between semis at more than two hundred kilometers an hour. The road clears and I decelerate on the downhill — not because I'm scared, but so we can enjoy the view. Ahead of us, the sky turns purplish-pink, with shades of orange emanating from the dipping sun.
For a minute, I let myself stop thinking. Instead, I focus on the here and now: the colors of the sunset ahead of us, the purr of the Vespa, the warmth in my heart, and Natasha's body pressed against my back.
She hugs me tighter. I pull off the highway and park the Vespa on the median.
We take our helmets off and make out. The whole time my tongue is in Natasha's mouth, I'm thinking about Diya. About how I've won.

NEXT: Ecstasy and Exorcism


There is a room in Site-19. White walls, the smell of dust, the buzz of the fluorescent lights — the usual.
The men in room contrasted the bland feeling of the room and, among the co-workers tip-toeing outside, the question of how the drab room could even stand to exist always came about when the yelling began.
Today, just as yesterday and the day before, a young researcher named Salazar stood up.
"You can stop now."
"Do you want another article… Al Jazeera maybe?" Lieutenant Samson said, bringing the newspaper down.
"No, it's fine,” murmured the newly promoted employee. “I just wanted to make sure the intel worked. Thank God it did, otherwise I would have Stephen on my back."
“Our backs you mean. Just intel won't solve the usual issue. That's why I came up with a nice, old-fashioned story to use. Now remember, when you tell this to Stephen you gotta make sure you tear up."
Samson put his hands together and in a haughty, childlike voice said, "'The boys in the Watchpoint Division really messed up big this time; they were in charge of the area. I think there should be some sort of reprimand because my role in the Prevention Department is only so limited when we have these young rascals running around.''
"How was that?" said Samson, eagerly.
By the midway point of Samson's speech, Salazar put his face in his hands. "You seriously think that will work. You and your games never work. Never worked before and will never work."
"I'm not the one who is supposed to make plans researcher. Your idea is to always let Stephen do whatever he pleases. I've always said you're a passive one, but damn it, I did not know it was this bad. Well, what do you think ol' Stephen will do when he hears about this?”
Salazar's hands clenched. “I know what he will do and I will have to defend myself as usual.”
Samson spoke slowly and quietly. “You know that you don't have to defend yourself; there are options. Why not have a little fun with it? Cause some chaos to distract yourself from the blame.
Samson started to get close to Salazar, tracing the sharp outline of the table along the way.
"To avoid the blame, why not finish up that backup plan I mentioned last week? I can help you out with the logistics of it…See, if you get fired, I'm a goner too.”
Salazar placed the wrinkled newspaper on his desk, shook his head, and sat down. “You always want to get out of trouble, don't you.”
"You need me, Sal. Exactly how many times have I gotten you out of trouble?" Samson was starting to get annoyed. Salazar always ignored his plans, but as time wore on and he chipped the covering the path between them, he would always get him to agree. But today was different.
“We help each other mutually, Samson. I bring the mind, you bring the body.”
“Yes, but why is it that the body helps the mind, yet the mind has never helped the body?”
“I've helped you in more ways than one. I've helped you get this position, I've helped you gain respect and I've even helped you gain power. Look at your position 'lieutenant.' I've already wasted enough time talking to you. Actually even talking to you from the beginning is a waste of my time. Don't forget who has control here. In this office, you're under my authority." Samson was growing angry and Salazar could feel it.
Hmm, did I speak too aggressively? thought Salazar, creasing his already furrowed brow to an even more extreme degree. "Hey, no need for anything like that, I trust you. Even being here and talking should be more than enough to show that."
Both Samson and Salazar closed their eyes.
Calm
Samson laughed. “ Don't worry, I know you're panicking over the incident over in Beijing. Is it that or am I wrangling you in too harsh?"
Samson sat down and started to lazily flip through the magazine and Salazar kept pacing around, thinking about Stephen, the intel, and incident in Beijing.

Now that Samson was placated, Salazar began his daily ritual of self-doubt. A ritual, in fact, that aided him in deciding what to do.
He felt like he was on a losing streak. How many SCPs had fallen through his grasp and caused devastation because of him? Or rather was the problem the ineptitude of Samson and Stephen and the others around him?
"Hopefully, MTF deaths are under 30. That troublesome director above us might really kill me if that happens." Salazar felt Stephen watching him at this moment.
Sometimes, Salazar felt like, rather than just outside of the corner of his eye, Stephen was watching him from the blind spot between his eyes. If only he unfocused or even crossed his eyes for just a moment, Stephen would be there.
Whenever he was there, Salazar was forced to bear the mistakes of the other two in front of his colleagues.
Interrupting his thoughts, Samson asked, "what about the civilians." He knew what Salazar would say but he needed to make sure that there was enough divergence.
"Ah, no need to worry about them." Salazar thought that the civilians could always be cloned or replaced. Whether he was correct or not was unknown to him, but he was just always under the assumption that they were not under any significant priority.
Samson's encrypted phone rang and Salazar turned his head around. Like a giant, hands gorged with too much blood, Samson took it out of his pocket.
“Looks like they caught the guy,” Samson groaned. He really wanted to go out to Beijing and watch the fun unfold.
Samson smirked, “You've been assigned to interview him by the way and don't worry about Stephen, only 29 employees died capturing him."
Salazar put the cellphone in his pocket.
Stress is building.

Interviewed: POI-654
Interviewer: Researcher Salazar, Sub-Commander of the Eastern Hemisphere Invasion Prevention Department
Foreword1: POI-654 is the propagator of Event: Verdant-Alpha. Event: Verdant-Alpha consisted of a minor extra-dimensional invasion of Beijing. POI-654 has, so far, shown no anomalous capability. Researcher Salazar entered the containment room with two bodyguards after safety checks were implemented.
<Begin Log>
POI-654: WHO ARE YOU TO BE SITTING IN FRONT OF ME?
Researcher Salazar: No need to yell, I just want to…
POI-654: WHO ARE YOU!
Researcher Salazar:…My name is Dr. Sa…
POI-654: I WILL ONLY SPEAK TO THE ONE KNOWN AS DR. CLEF!
Researcher Salazar: (marks down the name) Can you tell me who this person is?
POI-654: HE IS A EVIL MAN WHO WORKS IN THE ORGANIZATION KNOWN AS THE SCP FOUNDATION!
Researcher Salazar: Why can you only talk to this person?
POI-654: HE IS THE ONE WHO I HAVE COME FOR REVENGE AND, YET AGAIN, I HAVE FAILED IN CAPTURING HIM! BRING ME CLEF!
Researcher Salazar: Why are you seeking the person known as "Dr. Clef?"
POI-654: HE ENTERED MY DOMAIN AND STOLE MY STAFF! BRING ME CLEF!
Researcher Salazar: Where is your domain located?
POI-654: I WILL KILL THOSE WHO ENTER MY DOMAIN! BRING ME CLEF!
Researcher Salazar: So an employee from the SCP Foundation named "Dr. Clef" came to your home and stole your property and you came to Earth looking for revenge. Is that correct?
POI-654: AHHHH, I WILL END YOU IF YOU ASK ANOTHER QUESTION!
Researcher Salazar: I just have a few more questions. Before we can get to that poin…

POI-654: ENOUGH! BRING ME CLEF!
Researcher Salazar: Please calm done, I just hav…
POI-654: ENOUGH! BRING ME CLEF!
Security Officer Lyle: (walks forward and bends down to deliver a message to the interviewer) Researcher Salazar, I was just informed by Dr. Palo that there is an ongoing breach in the Souther…
POI-654: (directed at Researcher Salazar) Exactly, what is your name again?
Researcher Salazar: I tried to tell you before, it is Researcher Salazar.
POI-654: Interesting. I wasn't aware that such a thing still exists.
Researcher Salazar: What do you mean?
POI-654: Ah, nothing. CLEF IS NOT HERE! HE MUST BE IN THE NEXUS! (POI-654 dematerializes)
<End Log>
Closing Statement: More information needed as no employee known as "Dr. Clef" has ever been associated with the SCP Foundation. Director Stephen recommends an investigation into perceived mishandling of interview.

Extranormal Event ID: 762-865-091
Event Description: A short letter manifested at the entrance to Site 19. The letter had an inlaid gold trim and was pressed with the slightly altered SCP Foundation Logo.
Date of Occurrence: 04/02/2019
Location: Site 19
Follow-up Actions Taken: Letter was assessed by the multiple researchers and directors. After consultation with ████████, it was decided that the information contained in the letter would be acted on. Further queries on this event are under Level 5 classification.

The two men argued. They argued for a long time. Such a long time, in fact, that it seemed as though Stephen's reprimands would have to be put on hold as both Samson and Salazar were reprimanding each other.
They argued for such a lengthy time and at such a volume that rumors existed between the two. For as long as Samson and Salazar have worked in the Invasion Prevention Department, their colleagues have always joked of the impending invasion that would behold them whenever Researcher Salazar's door opened.
Though Samson never really left the office, they could always differentiate his gruff voice from the melancholic, wispy voice of Salazar.
"…in front of the whole department, he said that interview failure was my fault."
Another day, another mistake by Researcher Salazar or perhaps did he even make a mistake to begin with?
"The investigation is coming soon, don't worry about it so much." Samson's face grew to a smile. "They always let you do the interviews if they ever gave me the chance…I would get the real info.”
"Like you know anything about the nuance of interviewing."
"Okay, tell me what you know then? What do you do if a subject is unresponsive and…"
And Salazar and Samson kept arguing.
This time it was over interviews, yesterday the topic of discussion was whether coffee or tea would be better for the morning. All the while, whispers of Salazar's mental state grew but they were subsided by Director Stephen who, whilst hating the duo of Salazar and Samson, couldn't seem to live without them.
Stress is building.

From the Multiversal SCP Foundation

_
We Secure, We Contain, We Protect
Forever

Regarding minor computer error affecting classification

This is an automated letter from the Multiversal SCP Foundation to be sent to the SCP Foundation located in Universe 4jm3-ioq86.
Dear SCP Foundation, recently scanners have noticed multiple universal anomalies in your universe. The cause of these universal anomalies has been determined to be due to a minor glitch in your universe's classification. The result of this has been a mixup of your universe and that of Universe 4jm3-ioq85.
In order for this minor classification glitch to be solved, we will need you to send one representative from Universe 4jm3-ioq86 in order to answer basic questions regarding your current status.
Currently, the Multiversal SCP Foundation is encountering three Epsilon level events across the Multiverse. These include the expansion of ODGIJUMC territory, 111th Crusade of Alagadda, and exponential increase of SCPs across every universe.
Due to this, 456,994,556,986 allied SCP Foundations (0.4% of total) is currently unable to assist in this inquiry. The Multiversal SCP Foundation can also, therefore, not lend any cross-universal safety equipment.
After a short analysis of this universe, it has been determined that the best representative would be Researcher Salazar S. S.. Our records indicate that universes within Uni-Cluster 987 have the most optimal universal representative as Researcher Salazar S. S..
To transport to the nearest Multiversal Foundation Helpdesk, please have your representative orally consume this letter. Researcher Salazar S. S. will be safely returned after this issue has been resolved.

Stress is building.
"So they finally want to let you go." Samson's eyes were solemn. "The directors want to get rid of you now. Testing? Saving normalcy? Those are lies we've told others before sending them off to death."
"I don't know Samson, we saw the letter. It referred to us directly." Salazar was upset too but tried to not show it. He thought that two emotional people would just make the situation worse. "I think that there are other ways we can get around this. Also even if we get sent to this interview I have the feeling that it won't be so bad."
"A deserved irony isn't it. You are to die how you lived, kissing the boots of your bosses. Any more harmful decision-making and you know what will happen, right?" Samson looked in the pocket mirror on Salazar's desk.
"Don't even think about it," Salazar sneered. "The director hadn't been informed of the decision and you already know why."
"I'll call him. I have too. With death knocking from below and guns aimed to the head, what else can I do."
"No, I won't have you ruin this for me."
"Hmm, let me guess. Is your solution to kill the upper echelon? Escape, maybe?"
"That's exactly what I would do."
"Well, hmmm, maybe your actually on to someone."
"Wait, really?"
"No stupid, do you think I'd risk my position for that. Working my way up, escaping death, now look where I am when people like you are the only thing that I talk too."
Samson picked up the mirror off of Salazar's desk and threw it against the wall. "Hey, next time you insult me, I'll take control. Do not forget who you are."
"Hah, like he would let it happen. He knows about you, idiot."
The door of the room slightly opened and a head popped through the opening.
"Is everything okay in there Mr. S…"
"Yes, Emma. I just dropped a glass. I'm talking on the phone, please come back later." Salazar gestured for the secretary to leave.
She left and as usual was scared, for the floor was carpet and the crash was loud.
Sala…Samson closed his eyes. "Let me ask you a question, dear Salazar."
Salazar's head turned and his eyes widened. He couldn't recall the last time Stephen used his actual, full name.
"If the top guys sentenced you to death, what would you do?"
"Interesting question. Not applicable to this situation though. There's a bunch of stuff I could do. Try to escape. Fight to the death. Maybe call an old friend or two."
"There's your mistake." Salazar shook his head.
"In this fake scenario you made, we will die! What would you do then?"
"I would save the directors."
Stress has built.
Stephen tripped forward. His eyes grew unfocused.
"What would you do?" Salazar and Samson asked in unison.
He stood up. "I would show them the true path."

Exploration Video Log Transcript
Date: April 3rd, 2019
Foreword: After analysis of Extranormal Event 762-865-091, ██. ███████ unanimously agreed to uphold the conditions set forth in the received letter. The main impetus being the reduction of unusual, anomalous events with seemingly extra-dimensional aspects. With the condition of becoming the full liaison to extraversal affairs, Researcher Salazar has agreed to fully adhere to the procedures laid out in the letter.
Location: Multiversal Foundation Help Desk
Team Lead: Researcher Salazar

[BEGIN LOG]
Researcher Salazar begins to chew the letter. He dematerializes and video footage shows him inside a white room. Researcher Salazar looks around the room. Ambient, white light is pervading the room, however, there is no obvious source. The only object in the room is a single metallic chair in front of a protruding segment of the wall.
The wall has an outstretched table with a small slit, about 10 cm high. Drifting hands and a paper-like substance are seen through the slit. No other objects of interest reside in the room.
Unknown Multiversal SCP Foundation Employee2 : (soft voice coming from an unknown location, received in both microphones on Researcher Salazar's person) Please have a seat, this will only take a few moments.
Researcher Salazar: Sure. (Researcher Salazar sits down on the metal chair. The hands underneath the slit begin to touch the paper and symbols appear on it.)
Unknown MSFE: Oh, don't worry about that, I just don't like using pens.
Researcher Salazar: Just to make sure, when I'm done answering these questions, the extraversal SCPs will stop appearing, correct?
Unknown MSFE: In due time, Researcher Salazar. Let's go step by step. (pauses) Okay, just a quick question for the records. What is your full name and what is the organization you currently work for?
Researcher Salazar: My full name is Salazar S. Samson. I just prefer Salazar though. The organization I work for is the SCP Foundation.
Unknown MSFE: Just for nomenclature's sake, what does the middle "S" stand for?
Researcher Salazar: I'm actually not sure, it's always been there as far as I know. I'm pretty sure it stands for nothing.
Unknown MSFE: Perfect, before I begin I would like to explain one thing. You may or may not already know but the Multiversal SCP Foundation is simply a group of Foundations working together to aid each-other whence the time arises.
According to my records here, your universe's SCP Foundation has already worked with extra-universal SCPs so this should not be that much of a surprise. The main reason you are here now is that we believe that a minor classification error in your unique universal ID code has been interfering with your universe.
After a few questions, we can get everything back to order and resume normalcy.
Unknown MSFE: Okay, I'll start with the first question. Is the general public aware of your SCP Foundation?
Researcher Salazar: No.
Unknown MSFE: Third question, how long has the SCP Foundation existed in your universe?
Researcher Salazar: If I recall correctly, our SCP Foundation was founded during the Cold War period by the merging of various anomalous prevention groups.
Unknown MSFE: Has your universe ever been reset or humanity ever faced extinction?
Researcher Salazar: I'm not exactly sure, but I would assume no.
Unknown MSFE: To your knowledge, what is the newest technology that the SCP Foundation has developed until this point in time?
Researcher Salazar: Right now, the technology division has just finished development on a new reality stabilizer called the Scranton Anchor.
Unknown MSFE: Has your SCP Foundation ever come into established contact with any other universe?
Researcher Salazar: No.
Unknown MSFE: Just a few more. How many times have you died?
Researcher Salazar: Hopefully zero.
Unknown MSFE: Is there a man in the SCP Foundation that goes by the name "Dr. Stephen?"
Researcher Salazar: (pauses) No.
(later on, Researcher Salazar, remarked, "he's not Dr. Stephen, he's Director Stephen.")
Unknown MSFE: Also, how is Dr. Samson doing nowadays?
Researcher Salazar: What?
Unknown MSFE: Oh, I'm sorry. I meant Lieutenant Samson.
Researcher Salazar: He is fine. Very annoying too I guess. Why do you ask? Do you think he has something to with the error?
Researcher Salazar: I'm not aware of this person.
Unknown MSFE: (pauses) Thank you. You may go.
(Researcher Salazar instantaneously teleports back to Site 19)
[END LOG]
Conclusion: Researcher Salazar has been promoted to Multiversal Liaison, should the need for more contact arise. The information gained through this encounter is currently being analyzed.

Extranormal Event ID: 875-983-382
Event Description: A short letter manifested at the entrance to Site 19. The letter had an inlaid gold trim and was pressed with the slightly altered SCP Foundation Logo. The letter contained information regarding a potential relationship with the SCP Foundation and the ██████████ ███ ██████████.
Date of Occurrence: 04/05/2019
Location: Site-19
Follow-up Actions Taken: Please refer to Researcher Salazar Director S. Stephen S.3

Footnotes
1. All information in this document has been assessed and edited appropriately by Director Stephen in order for correct nomenclature and relevant information to be added.
2. Hereafter referred to as Unknown MSFE
3. Leadership on this project has shifted from Researcher Salazar S. S. to Director S. Stephen S. after an inquiry by Director Stephen.


PREVIOUS: Truth Is Sin
FIRST: The Chosen Few

The year is… I'm not sure to be honest.
My memories are fucked up from getting so many bad ones sucked out by Oneiroi. I know it's my junior year at ICSUT. I'm double-majoring in theological engineering and biochemistry. Never let it be said I don't challenge myself.
But I'm not particularly challenged physically, and it's showing in the mirror. Pumping iron doesn't appeal to me, but maybe there's some clubs that will. Parkour looks interesting. Judo too. I could use the cardio, the social interaction — and I've always wanted to learn how to choke someone out.
So that night, I put on my hitherto-unused gym sweats and attend my first-ever judo session. There are four other people there with me: a German exchange student, a slim Asian, the instructor, and a blonde European woman who introduces herself as Natasha. She's been part of the club for two years — the second-oldest member behind the instructor.
The first thirty minutes is warm-ups. My muscles scream as we bounce around the mat. For the next hour, we practice fundamental techniques. As the only women in the room, Natasha and I practice with each other. We learn the roll. The hip escape. The mount.
The final half-hour is what's known as free-rolling, where we pit our pitiful skills against one another. Naturally, Natasha volunteers to spar with me. I'm outmatched in seconds. She sprawls out against me and pins me so fast it makes my head swim.
It's that moment, with her tits mashed against mine, that I realize I've got the hots for other women.

It's later. I don't know how much later. Weeks, maybe? I've been stalking Natasha on social media, and just found out she's had an explosive breakup — with her girlfriend. This is my chance.
I've been attending the judo sessions religiously. It's finally starting to pay off. So that evening, after our session, I invite her out to a movie.
The movie is Lucy. Thankfully, the rest of the night goes much better, as we spend the rest of it laughing about how terrible the movie was. Natasha complains about how she's wearing Louboutins for the entirety of the film. I drone on for an hour about how I could make better nootropic drugs with what I learned in Applied Theology and the campus biochemistry labs. Somehow, it doesn't put her into a coma. She invites me to lunch the following week.
I think I'm in love.

At our lunch date, we talk about a robbery conducted in the past day by a criminal group called the Chicago Specter. Natasha's oddly defensive of them; when I ask why, she starts lecturing me about late-stage capitalism. I figure she'll grow out of her communist kick in a year, but admire her dedication anyways. She's at least trying to make the world a better place. Which is currently more than I can say for myself. But that line of thinking makes me feel guilty. I shove it out of my mind by concentrating on her face.
Eventually I tire of hearing about the alienation of the common worker and ask her if she's seeing anyone. She admits that she had a girlfriend with whom she has now broken up. I commiserate the feeling and tell her that my girlfriend dumped me as well. This is a bold-faced lie. I've only ever had girlfriends in the strictly friend sense. But she doesn't need to know that.

There's a carnival coming to town, so I invite her to it. If I'm lucky, we'll smooch on the Ferris wheel. We throw balls at the dunk tank (I miss every shot — she hits the target dead-on first try), ride the shitty spinning teapots and the carousel, fake screams on the pirate ship, and share cotton candy and caramelized apple. But the Ferris wheel breaks down while we're in line.
My plans are shot, so I try to salvage what I can by suggesting my go-to shitty date idea: a movie. Natasha suggests a film, but there isn't a showing for several hours. She invites me back to her place to watch television until the movie. She has her own car (how cool is that) so we drive uptown to her apartment. It's a small, shitty condo, but one that she clearly takes a lot of pride in. There's a living room-kitchenette combo, with a couch and a queen futon in front of a small telly. I park myself on the futon and prop my back against the couch. Natasha does the same.
We watch anime for a while. She's trying to get me into Fullmetal Alchemist. Her favorite character is the suit of armor. It appeals to her cybernetic sensibilities. I'm content to sit quietly and listen to her talk about how the show's setting tackles themes of fascism and nationalism. I might be within rubbing distance of Natasha but I'm too cowardly to make a move. The movie's starting soon. She tells me she has a better idea, then turns the TV off. She plucks my glasses from my face and straddles me.
I think to myself, ah, what the hell, and pull her down so our lips meet. We make out and cuddle for a while. Her breath tastes like caramel apples. Then she slides her hands under my shirt.

It's a lot of fun having a girlfriend. I introduce her to demonics and comics. She introduces me to Marxism and strap-ons. All good things must end, however. I can't find any internships stateside and end up returning home to Wolverhampton for the summer. I spend my internship exorcising faulty surgical robots and slowly becoming radicalized by video chats with Natasha. Then the Brexit referendum pushes me over the edge to full-on ancom.
Natasha pushes me to get out there and turn theory into praxis, but I can't. I come from a long and distinguished line of Brahmin scholars, and dear old dad thinks Thatcher could have taken a few lessons from across the pond. I am simply incapable of dealing with the fallout if he were to discover that I'd turned commie. Natasha's much too understanding, and it just makes me feel guiltier. I'm actually glad to come back to ICSUT for the fall semester and hide away in my schoolwork.
Natasha's graduating this semester, with a double-major in biomedical thaumaturgy and robotics. She hasn't said a word about what she plans to do once she leaves. She'll probably join an NGO or something, or maybe just run off and start a revolution somewhere. I've poked her about it a few times, but she's noncommittal about it. I don't pry — after twenty years of being interrogated by parents, it's nice to spend time with someone who's content to just spend time with me in silence.

A month into the semester, Natasha drags me out into the middle of the woods. I initially suspect she wants to shag (which is an absolute no-go in the fucking forest), but we just end up in a nondescript clearing. Then Natasha opens a portal to hell underneath my feet.
It's not actually a portal to hell. It's like being flushed down the toilet to hell. For what seems like an eternity my lungs feel ready to burst and I'm submerged in slime and my body is being stretched into spaghetti. Then the eternity ends. I take a deep, deep breath and collapse to my knees and puke. Natasha helps me up, then I get a look at my surroundings and puke again. My vomit sails out onto the Moon.
The Moon. The honest-to-God Moon. I'm on the Moon and I'm alive. Apart from the projectile vomiting, I actually feel pretty good. My sweater is more than warm enough, the air tastes cold but clean, and as far as I can tell the gravity seems about the same on earth.
And the view is amazing. We're in a little cave on a mountain, overlooking what Natasha tells me is the Mare Imbrium: a sea of gray pockmarks illuminated against a deep black sky. Far off, there's a little blue ball hanging against the horizon. It makes me feel small.
We spend a quarter of an hour admiring the view. Then Natasha drags me deeper into the cave, into a twenty-first-century witches' coven. It's a well-furnished bubble in the depths of the Moon. There's a microwave, toaster oven, and refrigerator in the corner. They're plugged into a power strip sitting in the middle of a pentagram and plugged into itself.
Three witches lounge on couches, swiping through their phones or (somehow) browsing the Web on their laptops. Natasha whistles to get their attention. The white girl in the Pikachu cap introduces herself as Zabutom. The Chinese girl draped across her legs tells me she goes by Tracy Tzu. Across from them, taking a swig from a bottle of Shock Top, is the girl who tells me to call her — in her own words — Diya, the tankie furry from Texas. I ask her if I can just call her Diya. She says no.
Natasha reveals that this is the the Chicago Specter, a gang of ultra-leftist magical girls. They're all unlicensed thaumatologists, which is practically unheard of — the ability to naturally cast spells is highly rare, highly prized, and highly regulated. They use their abilities to act as modern-day Robin Hoods, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. And she's their leader.
That's super hot, and I tell her as much. But while I may outwardly sympathize with their mission, I feel like a sheep in a den of wolves. I have neither the courage nor the magical ability to get out there and raise hell with them. Diya voices this opinion for me, but Natasha explains that I don't need to. I'm their force multiplier. I once told her that I could make nootropic drugs that put Lucy to shame — now she wants me to prove it.
I get to work in the school labs the next night, crafting a theologically-enhanced nootropic cocktail. The next time Natasha invites me to the coven, I give them a set of pills guaranteed to improve their reflexes, make their thinking more tactical, and even give them mild telekinesis. The Specter immediately consume them and then teleport away; two hours later, they return with bags full of loot. Thanks to my pills, they circumvented virtually every security measure inside a Swedish vault and made an impossibly clean getaway.
That night, Natasha and I fuck like bunnies.

At first, everything goes great. I connect with Zabutom and Tracy Tzu and we become great friends. Only Diya remains cool towards me. I get the sense that she has the hots for my girlfriend, so I make sure to send her frequent glares that let her know who's Natasha's girl. I fall into a comfortable routine — wake up, rush to class, do my homework, go to the coven and make drugs, fall asleep, then wake up and rush to class. Saturdays are date days: Natasha and I sing karaoke, race go-karts, go for long walks in the park, the usual. Once or twice we just stay in bed all day.
I'm living my best life. Nothing can go wrong. Until one day it does.
Two months into the semester, all four members of the Specter embark on a bank job. Only three of them come back. I find out online the next day that Zabutom, real name Ingrid, was killed during a three-hour standoff in Germany. A week after Zabutom's death — I can't bring myself to call her Ingrid — Natasha is already back to work, robbing some rich asshole with Diya and Tracy Tzu. I convince myself that Zabutom was killed because she didn't have the right stuff and spend even more time devising new narcotics. And then the semester actually kicks in.
Natasha pressures me to produce more and more drugs for her, but my schoolwork keeps piling up and it's all I can do just to stay afloat. We start growing more distant; I keep having labs and projects and tests due, and my grades keep slipping. As the stressors pile up and I develop a tolerance to my own nootropics, I begin to crack as well. I start resenting Natasha and Zabutom. Have they ever thought about me? Have they ever noticed how fucking stressed I am? I shouldn't care if Zabutom died — fuck her! Then I feel even more guilty of my selfishness and work twice as hard. My weight drops. I stop going to judo. Panic attacks become a common occurrence. I don't tell any of this to Natasha.
Things finally come to a head the week before Thanksgiving. There's something due in every single one of my classes. The worst one is biochemistry: I've been tasked with creating a multivitamin, but my lab partner has wisely chosen to drop the class. Now I'm left holding the bag and have five days to do what would take two people a week. I stop sleeping and start relying on copious quantities of coffee to do the trick. I can barely breathe and my heart thumps like it plays drums for KMFDM.
It's in this fugue state, as I eye the sixth-story window, that I make my breakthrough. Theology-based pharmaceuticals are essentially rituals in a can. The manufacturer combines the materials used to summon a divine entity with the actual drugs needed to reach the desired effect. The user's body acts as the ritual array and their metabolism supplies energy as payment. When the user takes the drug, the divine is summoned inside the user, and amplifies the effects of the drug as desired.
But what if we were to go the opposite way? What if, instead of summoning a deity, we summoned a demon? They're orders of magnitude more energy-efficient than deities, and they have a wider range of effects. There's no shortage of theory on how demonarcotics would work, but they all hit the same roadblock — demons don't discharge energy inside people. They unleash it. Ten times out of ten, a person who tries to summon a demon within themselves will spontaneously combust. Nobody's really been able to figure out how to regulate the discharge of demonic energy in an organic entity. But if you could… well, you'd be unstoppable.
Which brings me to my idea. Thaumaturges are already capable of channeling and regulating the flow of thaumic energy. Sure, it's not the same as demonic energy. But if you can channel one, then there has to be a way to channel the other. And I think I've figured out how.
I grab a boxcutter from a nearby table, assemble a summoning array on my workbench, and arrange acetaminophen and dextroamphetamines inside. In a nootropically-enhanced furor, I program the summoner without even pausing to debug it and flip the switch. There's a crackling sound as my summoner rummages around the bowels of hell. Sparks fly from the pentagram and make my hair stand on end.
The reek of sulphur fills the air. A fat, red, hairy head with horns and leering yellow eyes begins to emerge from the summoner. I've summoned Belphegor, one of the princes of Hell. He's cackling: a low gibbering sound that rattles around in the head and chills the bone.
I stab him in the eye.

NEXT: Rise and Repent


Able is deep, deep down, and dreaming.
His mouth and nose fill with seawater, choking and cold. He tries to spit it out, but it's all around him, stinging his eyes. His blood pounds in his ears, rage singing through every limb. His fingers scrabble at the cold walls of his prison, but he's disoriented. It's too difficult to tell which way is up, and whether that matters. He scrapes and claws at the walls until his fingernails tear out at the root and tangle in the cloud of long hair floating around his head, little white pearls hiding in strands of black kelp. He keeps going until the fingers are bloody stubs, but he's moving slowly now, and his ears start to ring. Or perhaps that's an alarm, the one he knows so well.
Animal panic makes it hard to think, to plan; lack of oxygen makes it worse. Time passes, but strangely. Finally, he can't fight the urge to inhale; he pushes seawater in and out of his lungs in painful, burning heaves that make his chest feel like it's been crushed in with a cinder block. It's dark, but he can't tell whether or not that's because his vision is starting to go. Before he stops feeling, he convulsively vomits up a mixture of seawater and bile, which he reflexively sucks back into his lungs. It is some small relief when his body goes numb.
It happens again.
It happens again.
It happens again.
Because he doesn't remember the time in between, his experience is that of a constant struggle to breathe that never ends. It's infuriating. Even through the red haze of rage, he wishes he could inhale just a single mouthful of air. A drowning man will sometimes doom his rescuer, forcing him down into the depths, in a bid to get his own head above water. Able is here alone, but he struggles with that same feral desperation. When his muscles start to slow, he presses his mouth against the ceiling (or, equally likely, the floor) and sucks, looking for pockets of air. He usually vomits up quarts of swallowed seawater when his stomach becomes full.
Honor is a long-lost memory, here.
There are times when he thinks he sees sunlight dappling the water and swims up, up, only to collide with the wall of his prison instead of breaking the surface. The false hope only makes him angrier, frothing with hate. So, too, do the voices he hears, soft and muddled. He hears a troop of soldiers marching, marching, their voices just out of earshot. He hears them laughing and joking, on the other side of the steel walls. He imagines their camp, with canvas tents and yak stew over a fire pit. The smell of smoke is thick and rich. He wants only to wring their necks, if he could just reach them. He would kill them for taunting him.
Xаалттай, says a voice, clearer than the others. There is a distant flicker of light in the darkness, like a spear catching the sun. The men are going out on patrol, on their horses. Able almost forgot he was not with them. His eyes shut slowly. Ride and ride, scimitars twirling. Dust kicks up and gets in his nose along with the oily smell of horse, but the thunder of hooves matches the beating of his heart. He knots his fingers in his horse's mane. His Second catches his eye and laughs, arm raised high, exhilarated. Sweaty strands of hair have fallen about the man's scarred and sunburnt face; sweat forms tracks in the dirt clinging to his neck. When it is done, they will drink kumis and shout battle hymns to celebrate their victory. Behind his eyelids, Able can see their enemies screaming. Their grain-fed horses are falling into the mud; they try to pull back, but it is too late. It is a good day for blood. A good day indeed!
Able wakes up.
When he beats and kicks against the barrier this time, bleeding and enraged, he hears a woman's voice calling to him, soft and soothing, as though she were speaking to a frightened child. This one is the worst yet. It makes his mind prickle, white-hot and screaming, as though his palms were being held to a flame. She seems to taunt him, sounding near enough, flesh and blood for him to cut and kill, but just out of reach. Always just out of reach. Put that down. You don't know your strength, she says. Able, come inside and eat your breakfast. And wash your feet. Boy, you are filthy. He can't see her face, but he can see her eyes, dark and kind. The saltwater has his throat feeling scoured raw. He shouts at his captors, railing at them, knowing they must see him with their little metal eyes. But he is unable to push the water out of his lungs with enough force to do much more than gurgle. “No more do you hear me no more inu inu inu šabarrane!”
The weakened steel wall groans and starts to split under his unrelenting assault. Without anything to brace his body against, getting this far has been a challenge. Able moves to push himself through the gap in the metal and gets an electrical shock that curdles his blood. Able, says the voice, sounding stricken, as delicate black-and-white patterns flutter behind his eyelids.
As he starts to lose control of his body, limbs heavy like driftwood, sometimes he flits in and out of consciousness. He is suspended between the two parts of his strange existence, neither alive nor dead, drifting back and forth. He sinks, head coming to rest against his coffin. But he is feeding the goats, feet bare on the earth, the sun beating on his back. And he sinks. The air smells thick with spring, with green and growing things. It will be time to go in soon, to cluster about the hearth, to give thanks for the evening meal. The evening is a time of great peace, when only the insects are around to chirp at him.
Able opens his mouth and sings, loud and deep, voice echoing across the fields and through the valley. He sings for the pleasure of it, because he is good at it, because he can. Strange, but it seems as if it's been forever since it occurred to him to sing. The hoe is rough in his hands, but he is weathered enough to deal with it, palms thick with callouses.
“You shouldn't do that,” says one of his sheep, frowning at him. It paws restlessly at the dust. Able hushes it and rests a thick palm against its head. Its fur is coarse and woolly.
“Why?” asks Able. The sun will be down soon.
“Because you are dead,” says the sheep, swollen tongue lolling out of its mouth. Its coat is crawling with fleas, its eyes a filmy white. It stinks. “It does not matter now.”
Able wakes up again.
Sometimes, he sees a pale girl's face, wide-eyed but determined, staring out at him from the darkness as he rails against his prison. A curl of blonde hair catches in the corner of her mouth, and she frowns at him, brow knit with deep disapproval. She moves her lips, but he can't hear her. He doesn't care what she has to say, anyway.
Go, he thinks. Be gone from me!
She shakes her head. She is incredibly disappointed, so heavily disgusted with him. Her hair swirls back and forth, back and forth, a straw-colored stream. She cries, a tinny whine of pain, and the noise echoes through Able's head, burning into his brain. Her skin is blue-white; he can see the bones through it. It reminds him of a fish fresh out of the river, its little heart visible through its body when he holds it up to the noonday sun.
Go! Go, go!
He won't tolerate the burning weight of her gaze. He reaches to curl his fingers around her throat, but all he manages is a lethargic twitch of the arm. He is too close to the end, his flesh giving up the ghost. That's when they come to him, these phantasms, when the hatred in his heart is weakest and there is space there for ghostly things. She darts away, fast and sleek like a freshwater trout, and Able wakes up again.
The next time, she is gone. She is gone and he is alone again. His blood boils. Surely they are laughing at him, having left him alone now, with only the silence for company. They are laughing at his pathetic scurrying. They are laughing at how his coffin confuses him. Oh, how he hates them! This iteration, his strength seems to have waned. He is unable to fight as long or as hard as he must, as his body commands him to.
And this happens a second time.
And it happens a third time. His head swims. He breathes out all the way, empties himself, and sinks to the bottom of the box he's locked in, drifting, dreaming. Just for now, and then he will fight his way out. Just for now, he allows himself a short rest.
But it happens that he remembers-
“You alright there, boss?”
Able looks up, perplexed. And annoyed, of course. He is in the cafeteria, eating with the team named after him. He has been “strongly encouraged” to do so.
“Why would I not be alright?” His interlocutor's face seems to shimmer; it merges with the wall behind him, then pops back into clarity.
The man in black fatigues looks at him oddly. “I've never seen someone eat that fast before.” He catches the look on Able's face and flinches, eyes wide. “Uh.” His face merges with the wall again; it scintillates faintly.
“You…are mocking me?” says Able, because it's true. His own voice is strange and jerky, speeding up and slowing down. He's not precisely angry, just extremely baffled, but he raises his voice just in case. He should never have agreed to eat with these fools. The director is trying to get them to bond, but they are tools, nothing else. The blue linoleum in the floor shifts to yellow and then back. This is all so familiar.
“I didn't mean anything, really. It's just soldier stuff. Giving each other shit.” The man is slowly recoiling, leaning away from Able. He looks like he expects to be disemboweled any minute for his slip of the tongue. Another man's hand is shifting toward the panic button on the pager strapped to his wrist.
Able drops his fork. “I have never seen someone eat that slow before.”
There is a pause.
His men break into startled laughter. Someone lightly jostles his shoulder in a gesture of apparent camaraderie.
And then-
They're gone. There is some relief here, something close to peace, when his mental faculties have gone enough that his rage is a thin, clinging veil rather than an oppressive blanket. Able finally inhales, brain sparking out, and wakes yet again.
This time, the girl is back, and another woman with her. He does not remember her name, either. Her hair floats above her hair in a slow-swirling column of grey. Seventy-six seventy-six seventy-six, she says. Rate on a scale of one to ten what is your why are you seventy-six please rate on a scale of did you are you feeling did are you experiencing pain seventy-six.
He wants her to drown, but she is breathing seawater, her body as translucent and slippery as a minnow's, her coat fluttering open around her. Please rate your distress, she says. Please rate your distress. One to ten, please rate your distress. Are you experiencing anxiety please rate please seventy six. If you are uncomfortable using English we will locate a translator one to ten.
Fire. Guns. Crushing. Stabbing. Anything else, something to fight against besides the slow failing of his own body - and perhaps his mind. These are the only things he can't strike from existence.
The blonde girl floats an inch from his nose, face blank and yet attentive. Her eyes are luminous and white and weeping. Able wonders, dimly, where the rest of her team is. There were more of them. Were there more of them? Does the passage of time feel like a steady flow does the passage of time feel choppy and broken up please answer the question seventy-six why does his death bother you does it bother you. Please rate your distress.
Time is choppy, slow and then fast. Slow and then fast. As it has always been.
Seven, mouths Able.
Two.
Nine.
And he wakes up.


PREVIOUS: The Revelation
FIRST: The Chosen Few

Alliott and I do not get right to the shagging. She tells me that as soon as my ribs tape themselves back together we can shag. But right now I need booze, bed rest — and to explain what in the hell was going on with Natasha. Which is, admittedly, a much more intimate way to spend time with someone.
But I don't want to be intimate. I want my back blown out by a girl who roller derbies with her clones.
Instead, Alliott goes out to retrieve Alex's body. I relay all the sordid details of my failed relationship over the phone. When she returns, we spend the rest of the night researching Natasha Tokyopop in one of the bunkrooms that KMZ offers its members. Alliott's fancy laptop lets her access information from other realities, so we go on an interdimensional web surf and dig up as much as we can on her and her group, the Chicago Wraiths. Things have changed since I left home.
When I say 'home', I don't mean 'house'. I mean 'universe'. I mentioned this way back when, but I left Natasha by physically leaving my home reality and fleeing here. This universe is more primitive than my original — for whatever reason, the government keeps a tight lid on the occult. Which is just fine by me. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed woman is queen.
But where I'm going, I'm not queen anymore. I'm barely even a pawn. My only hope is to make it to the other side of the board, and to get there I'll need as much dirt as I can dig up about Natasha. And these are the facts.
Fact: Chappell Wraith Securities is a subsidiary of Wraith Enterprises, a veritable conglomerate with its hands in private security, aerospace and demonic engineering, and Moon mining. Fact: Wraith Enterprises are based on the moon, and can only be reached via Way or shuttle from a space elevator. Fact: Wraith Enterprises have built a space elevator.
It's all very space-age and fancy — and a far cry from the shit we used to get up to. That moonbase used to be a moon coven. The space elevator didn't exist. We spent our time figuring out how to dunk on cops, not privatize them. But that was a long time ago. If I know Natasha, she's set up all manner of counter-spells to ensure that I can't get there by magical means. I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way — or at least, as old-fashioned as my home gets.
Fact: The space elevator is utterly inhospitable to human beings; the G-forces caused by the sheer speed of travel would turn me into jelly. Fact: Robots make the journey fairly often, performing repairs or otherwise overseeing the function of the elevator. Conclusion: If I want to reach the moon, I'll need to be a robot. Or something mostly robot.
Unfortunately, I'm mostly human.
This will have to change. Which is a whole bundle of problems on its own, as the Inside Man helpfully points out (by hijacking my vocal chords to voice his opinions). It's not the augmentations themselves I'm worried about. Once I have my heart back, I have a half-dozen different formulas I can use to regenerate my fleshy bod. The problem is getting them in the first place.
There are three legitimate — well, semi-legitimate — sources for augments: Anderson Robotics, the Servants of the Silicon Nornir, or one of the underground Maxwellist clinics. Anderson charges a fortune, and if I try to jailbreak so much as a finger it's likely to blow up and take the whole arm with it. If I let the Servants get ahold of my biometrics, I might as well just walk into prison. And if I get upgraded at a Maxwellist clinic, they'll fill my brain with so much scripture there won't be room for me.
There's no shortage of illegitimate augment rings, but most of them are janky as fuck. If I just went to any old back-alley doctor I'd be as likely to get a perfect full-body transplant as my organs harvested and brain wired to a crypto-mining rig. That leaves exactly one option: Farhan Jahaniam. Then I remember that I beat Farhan to death with his own arm a few months ago.
I'm stumped.
"MachineGod," Alliott says. "You could see MachineGod."
I snort. "MachineGod? He only augments influencers. He doesn't deal with peasants like us."
"You're not a peasant anymore." Alliott turns the laptop towards me. The headline onscreen reads, "Bringing Down the House".
I read through the article quickly. In short? Oneiroi Eurtec is crippled. Alliott and I wrecked their datacenter and most of their human capital. The upset at the deathball match did the rest. My balaclava-clad face and the name "Chicago Spectre" are plastered all over the news.
"We smashed up Oneiroi Incorporated and became overnight millionaires," Alliott says. "How much more influential can you get?"
"So what?" I say. "You want me to just walk into his place and say, 'Let me in, I'm the Rookie'?"
Alliott taps her prosthetic arm. "It worked for me."

The next day we assemble a list of augmentations that I'll need to survive the trip up and make plans to meet the MachineGod. Before I head out, I dress to party, swapping out my helmet for a rave mask and cat-ear headphones. Then I strap my skates on and promptly fall over.
A stream of invectives shoots out of my mouth with enough force to knock someone else over. My skates are rocket-powered, but the juice flows from my heart. A heart which I don't have.
Alliott is struggling to hold in a laugh. I see red and imagine wrapping my hands around her throat. Then I force the feeling back down. This isn't her fault. She's not to blame here. Natasha is.
She's the reason why Alliott and I have to ride the train instead of letting the city melt into a blur of light and metal. She's the reason I'm weak. I shift my fantasy to wrapping my hands around her throat instead.
I keep the cat headphones on while on the train, but the rave mask gets bundled into my pocket. Nobody pays attention to us; we're just a couple of weirdos in a city of thousands. My chest aches, but I ignore it by thinking about all the ways I can kill Natasha. There's a flash of red — real this time — that entices me to look out the window as we enter the crimson-light district.
The corporate district is where money is made; Neuneukolln is where money is stolen. But the crimson-light district is where money is spent. You can get a full-body augmentation courtesy of Anderson in the morning, shop for blood diamonds in the afternoon, and then cap the day off with an eight-course French dinner. Or you can buy a sexbot, have it upgraded with combat programming and equipment, and then have its facial features completely resculpted to resemble your favorite waifu. There's a reason the Bank of Eurtec was built here. The crimson-light district is the peak of unethical consumption. It's a black hole into which money disappears.
The train stops right by MachineGod's temple, but there's not much to see aboveground. Like an iceberg, most of his domain is below the surface. The only indication of life is EDM rising up from a staircase nestled between a sex shop and an armory. I strap the rave mask to my face, then we head down.
There's a roided-up bouncer at the bottom of the stairs. She's sporting a second pair of cybernetic arms grafted to the sides of her ribs, and looks like she's already planning to throw me back up.
"Tell the MachineGod that the Black Queen wants in," Alliott tells her. She sizes us up for a moment and her eyes go far away.
"The MachineGod welcomes his newest acolyte." The doors open. I walk into MachineGod's neon coliseum.
It's sweltering and muggy. The strobe lights are an ugly neon pink. The floor itself is a giant subwoofer; TeddyLoid rattles my teeth with every step. Everyone here is mashed together and wired up. Thick black cables dangle from the ceiling like a puppet master's strings, plugging into every exposed orifice they can find and replacing people's blood with EDM.
In the center of this sea of flesh and metal is a massive ring of steps leading up to a shiny steel dais. Atop the dais sits a combination throne and turntable set. MachineGod's twelve apostles lounge on the throne's enormous armrests. Each of them wears a simple white sling swimsuit and high heels, exposing their cybernetic flesh for the titillation of the crowd. A pair of disembodied hands expertly scratches the turntable, wired to the suspended, dismembered body of MachineGod himself.
MachineGod is a lot of things. A power player in the Eurtec underworld; an information broker who operates on an industrial scale; a complex messiah; a thrower of parties; an influencer, a pusher, a God. Some people claim that he's a rogue AI — a prototype Norn that escaped onto the Internet. Others think he's an actual god — an avatar of Mekhane or Vishnu, adapted for the modern age. Still others argue that he was the first person to figure out how to emulate consciousness on a machine. Nobody knows for sure. Nobody really cares either. What's important is that the MachineGod fought and died for our right to party. He's our lord, savior, and DJ. And this is his most sacred temple.
MachineGod's thick, muscular torso is directly above the center of the throne, underneath a mounted head and surrounded by four separate pairs of arms and legs. Robotic manipulators pop out from hidden rails under the steps and grasps his parts, bringing them together and stringing thick spindles of wire between them as they descend. In one fluid movement, the grippers detach themselves and MachineGod's body clicks together as he lowers himself onto his throne.
MachineGod's eyes glimmer like diamonds against a face sculpted by a neo-renaissance surgeon. His biceps compete for my attention with his bronzed, sleekly toned thighs. His apostles scoot closer, leaning against him and fondling an abdomen chiseled to perfection. With four hands, he caresses them. With the other four, he mixes a beat that makes my heart bounce in my chest.
His voice resonates in my ear. "Welcome, Rookie, to my temple!"
At the sound of my name, the crowd parts around me like the Red Sea, opening a path to the dais. I hear murmurs in the crowd. They're talking about the Bank of Eurtec. The Phitransimun Combine. Oneiroi Inc.
"Tales of your exploits have spread far and wide. To the Black Queen, I offer my acknowledgment. Have you come to seek my blessing?"
I nod once, not trusting myself to speak. Instead, I let the Inside Man take over my voice.
"MachineGod!" we say. All eyes turn to us. "I request your blessings. Augment me."
MachineGod laughs — a quick burst of record scratches that pierce my ears. "How bold! I would expect nothing less from the woman who broke Oneiroi's back. What do you desire?"
I rattle off a list of augments. "Full-body augment. Ceramic frame. Protection for high G-force and orbital re-entry. Full cognitive upload. I need my chest organs intact, brain optional. I need to be combat-ready. Unarmed, knife-fighting, guns, the works. Cognitive overclocker. Infrared tracking and magnifying lenses. Weapons. Something bladed. And something to interface with computers."
"I do not bestow my gifts lightly. What would you do with them?" he asks. "Would you be my apostle? Or my champion?"
"Neither," we say. "I want them so I can kill my ex. On the moon."
He laughs again. "Entertainment! Truly, hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned. And what do you offer in return?"
The music fades away.
"What will you sacrifice at my altar?"
"What do you want?" we ask.
MachineGod contemplates. "What do I want, I wonder?"
A bassline comes on, getting faster and faster.
The crowd waits with bated breath to hear his answer. The upper steps of the ring descend, lowering the throne onto a wider level of the dais. All the while, MachineGod studies us like ants.
"Ah!" he says aloud. "That will be your sacrifice."
A television screen lowers itself from the ceiling. The turntable flips over, revealing an operating table. The lowest step of the dais flips upward, becoming a ring looming over the throne. Camera lenses open up on the ring, and a series of manipulators with surgical tools emerge. A long, black cable with a pointed jack extends from the ring.
"The Ophanim shall be the tool of your ascension. You shall be reborn in a forge of music. And in return, I would have your memories. I would know how your love curdles to hatred. I would share that emotion with my people."
The screen turns on, showing our face through the viewpoints of everyone wired up in the club.
"Those are the terms of my blessing. Will you accept?"
We think it over. The Inside Man isn't certain that he can censor all my memories. It's one thing to fuck with organic brains — it's another thing entirely to fuck with silicon ones.
But then I think about the way Alliott looked at me when my skates didn't work. The impotence I felt. How good it's going to feel to choke the life out of Natasha.
"We — I accept your terms."
The beat drops. The crowd roars.
MachineGod's apostles slide from the throne and descend the steps. They surround me and sweep me off my feet, carrying me up to the table. Before I can blink, I'm strapped down and staring up at the ophanim. MachineGod wraps his hand around the jack and jams it through a hole in the table into the base of my skull.
I feel a sharp pain, and then nothing.

NEXT: The Vice Girls