Dr. Crow listened intently to the commotion about him. Strained heaves and half-uttered curses found their way to his ears, the chorus of some dozen rail workers loading no-doubt overfilled crates into the boxcar against which he leaned.
Though he couldn't see it, the sun hung high overhead, pouring down a furnace's fire onto the dry, dusty train platform. Crow held his neat black bowler hat in hand, using the billycock as a makeshift fan. Pathos laid down on the rough timber floor planks, panting faster than any locomotive.
Sweat ran in great rivulets down the annoyed doctor's face and neck, salt stinging his eyes, closed though they were. He pictured himself in the train's luxurious statecar, wafting the cool breeze of a bucketful of ice towards his face with his silk kerchief.
"Hnngg… What?" The surprised, relieved yell from one of the workers snapped Crow from his ruminations. "Boss, I don't think this one got anything put into it. Feels like it's empty."
"Lazy asses. Send it back to 'em and don't take it back 'till it's full of coal, dammit." The foreman's gruff voice called back. The worker knelt down to grip the crate, though his annoyed grunt was cut off as he turned to face the black-spectacled, dapper fop whose shadow suddenly blocked out the harsh sun.
"Eh, whaddyer want?" The gruff worker snapped, taking the moment to dry his soaked brow with the coarse hair of his forearm.
"Good afternoon, sir. I am Dr. Crow, with the United States government." Out from his breast pocket flashed a bi-folded leather wallet, flipping open to reveal a gold badge and identifying paperwork. "Could you do me the favor of checking if this emblem, here," He pointed to the raised union seal adorning his badge, "Is present stamped on yonder crate?"
The gruff man rose, squinting as the sun glare hit his eyes again. He inspected the badge, the paperwork, and the slightly uncomfortable man presenting them. Finally, he shot another inquisitive look at the foreman, who stood on, watching with as much confusion as his employee, though not without the presence of mind to nod his assent.
"Yeah, it's stamped here, really small at the bottom." The worker discovered after many long moments of searching.
"Splendid. Well, then, it needs to be loaded onto the train."
"…This empty crate?"
"…Yes. That empty crate."
Staring down a blind man was a losing battle from the outset, but it took nearly a minute for the rail worker's pride to finally break. "Harassin' honest workin' folk to haul empty boxes," He grumbled as he bent to lift the crate, "My tax dollars hard at work."

Two brothers sat beneath the train station's wood awning, twin plumes of smoke rising from their cigarettes. They paid little mind to the dwindling line of patrons boarding the passenger car nearby, their attention still drawn towards the workers loading the last of their freight. Towards Dr. Crow finally boarding a private car towards the back of the line.
"You 'spect that lean chap is with the state, Beryl?"
"Aye, t'wouldn't surprise me none if he were, Chris."
Several long moments passed as the two casually burned down their slender cigarettes, observing the foreman close and lock the freight car's heavy sliding door. The conductor stood at the entrance to the passenger car, taking tickets from the final boarding dregs.
"He's certain 'ta have plenty deep pockets, dontcha 'fink?"
"C'mon, now, Chris, you said we was just gonna nip out to a bank real quick like…"
"It's still near 'ta twenty miles 'ta the closest bank. We can jus' take it from 'im, and head right on back."
"ALL ABOARD!" the conductor cried, sounding the locomotive's shrill, thunderous whistle. Within moments, the wheels of the great iron monstrosity began churning, slowly at first, but soon building to great speed. The noisome grind of metal on metal built as the lumbrous iron beast belched a mighty gout of smoke.
"Alright, fine, whatever gets us outta this heat the quickest." Beryl pulled a final drag on his smoke, letting the butt fall to the ground, treading on it as he stood. He watched his brother flick his away, and straighten his tie.
In an instant, the rough wooden planks of the railway platform were sent flying explosively back, splintering apart from the immense force of the brothers setting off at a run to catch the rapidly departing train.

The gentle rocking of the stately train-car set Crow's mind at ease. After months in frontier towns at the country's edge, he had nearly forgotten the luxuries of modern automation.
Though Crow had to admit, when he'd envisioned himself fanning icy cool vapors onto his face, it had not included a golden retriever frantically burying its face and paws into the ice bucket. But he would take what he could get.
He tried to take his mind off of the crate, now safely stowed in the boxcar, and let out sigh after sigh, hoping one of them would be relaxed. With a sudden, rough jerk of the train sending his balance and ice bucket crashing to the ground, Crow suspected he wouldn't be successful anytime soon.
"Sorry 'bout that little shake-up, folks." an unfamiliar, tinny voice cut through the brass voice-cone affixed in the cabin. "The captain just, erm… flew through the wall. For no readily apparent reason."
"Is a half hour of peace and quiet really such an unreasonable request?" Crow inquired of Pathos, as the two found their feet. The dog's cold nose against his hat was the only response forthcoming. "Well, whoever that was, we can only assume they're after our little parcel." Pathos barked his agreement.
The doctor found a metal footlocker tucked away in the corner of the private car, and grinned as the lock clicked open to a key that had come with his job. He steadied his breathing and his mind went quickly to work formulating a plan.

The brothers made their way back through the traincar doors, and into the passenger cabin, to a sea of a hundred faces watching them with fear and awe. They brushed aside inane questions about the hijacking, and pushed on to the next car in line.
One particularly brave passenger, who decided he was going to get some answers out of these two limey Brits, wound up getting himself tossed through a window by Chris. No one said much to them after that.
At last they opened the door to a private car, abandoned save for the excited golden retriever that jumped up at their entrance, sending several heavy objects to the ground and darting for the open door. Beryl snatched a scrap of paper which had been stuffed, alongside some metal pins, into the dog's collar as it passed, pulling it open to reveal the brief message hastily scrawled onto it.
"Sorry I can't stay and chat. Hope you have a blast."
"'Ey, Beryl, those round things look like gren—"

"KABLAM!!!"
The exploding grenades rocked the railcars, blowing open the rear door of the private car, and shredding and soiling the suits of the hijackers. Chris gingerly touched his face, feeling for his mustache, letting out a sigh of relief to find it intact.
"'Ya know, Chris, I get the feeling he might not want to talk to us."
"Whatever'd give 'ya that impression, Beryl?"
Shrugging to his brother's question, Beryl pushed forward, walking towards the now-open rear door. "Let's just get our money and get outta here so I can get a new suit on, yea?
Stepping briefly out into the exposed air between cars, he quickly flung open the next car's door, revealing a boxcar filled with crates, and the incredulous Dr. Crow.
"What on Earth are you two?" the doctor asked, his derringer pointed at the doorway.
"We're just simple men, tryin' to get some reimbursement from Uncle Sam for a debt 'e owes." Chris replied, striding forward.
"Well, I'm quite afraid that if it's the plagued blood sample in my crate you're after, I can't let you have it." The two-shot derringer fired both barrels, sending a spray of lead which Chris casually swatted aside.
"Oi, it ain't some blood we're after." Chris stalked forward, taking the gun from Crow's hand, towering over him.
"Well… then. What do you gentlemen want?" Crow smiled meekly, long out of options.
The two brothers exchanged gazes, Beryl shrugging and nodding.
Chris pondered a moment, turning back to Crow. "We need about $3.50."


Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
March 2019
Dr. Johnathan King scooped a handful of apple seeds from the cup of water he had been drinking, and placed them on Director Nina Weiss's desk. "To answer your question, no, it isn't just a joke."
"It is a health hazard, however." Nina leaned over the desk to pick up one of the apple seeds. "Aren't you afraid of cyanide poisoning?"
"Funny thing: cyanide actually doesn't affect me." Dr. King rubbed his face. "Nina, how long have we known each other?"
"Since you and Tyler Bailey came to work here in… '79?"
"I didn't develop this… I'll just call it what it is, a fucking curse," he laughed, "Until I got transferred over to 19 after Tyler died. And for the life of me, I still don't know why." He put his head in his hands. "I'm going to be seventy-two in April. I requested a permanent transfer here prior to my retirement, but it still keeps happening."
"Well, John, I've got some good news." Nina steepled her hands. "We've got some of the Foundation's brightest minds here. They may be able to help you control, or even outright eliminate, this anomaly."
"I'd prefer the latter." Dr. King shook his head. "I'm so tired of everything I eat or see or touch or do turn into appleseeds."
"Everything?" Weiss's eyebrow quirked.
Dr. King took his wallet out from his back pocket, opened it, and turned it over. A stream of exactly 1,482 appleseeds poured out of it. "Everything."

Dr. Merrick Palmer, Site-87's psychologist, stood behind a one-way mirror and observed Dr. King. He was hooked up to several electrodes, and was seated, watching a series of pictures flash on the screen. Randomly, images of apples and apple-related products appeared on screen. Each time one of these pictures appeared, an anger response was triggered. "Interesting." Dr. Palmer pressed on an intercom button. "John, can you hear me?"
"I can…" He growled. "What is the point of this test?"
"We're seeing if we can trigger your anomalous properties by exposure to… unpleasant stimuli. Is it working?"
Dr. King's hand gripped the handle of his seat hard enough that the seventy-one-year-old felt the plastic crack. "You know something, Merrick?"
"What?"
"I hate apples. I have always hated apples. I hate their taste, their texture, the way their skin gets stuck in your teeth. I hate apple pies, apple crisp, Apple Jacks, apple sauce, apple juice, appletinis, apple dumplings, apple-flavored soda, baked apples, raw apples, apple turnovers, apples in cake… if you gave me three wishes right now, I would use all three of those wishes to make the Malus genus extinct thrice over. And then the world decides to screw me over by apparently deciding I am the reincarnation of Johnny mother-fucking Appleseed, and making me literally sneeze and spit apples from everywhere!" He slammed his fist against the chair. "I. Hate. Apples. And. Apples. Hate. Me."
He slammed his fist again, and the chair was appleseeds. This fact did not escape the notice of Dr. Palmer and Dr. King, who suddenly fell from the chair. He attempted to stand, gripping the cart which had the EKG machine on it, only for that to turn into appleseeds as well.
"Jesus Christ." Dr. Palmer stepped back towards the door, pulling a lever which should have sealed the door to the testing chamber. Instead, the Door became appleseeds, and Dr. King walked through, a rictus grin on his face.
Dr. Palmer pulled the containment alarm as Dr. King grabbed his arm. Then, Dr. Palmer was appleseeds.

Two Hours Later
"What's our Sitrep?" Seren Pryce shouldered her rifle.
"We've lost the bottom half of the site's sublevels." Nicholas Ewell crouched behind the tactical barriers they had set up in the elevator bay. "Everything is appleseeds below Sublevel 6."
"He's taking the elevators, which is weird." Alison Carol frowned. "Shouldn't the elevators be appleseeds, too?"
Alison Carol's eyes widened as Dr. King stepped out. He was appleseeds. The elevator was appleseeds. The floor was appleseeds. King looked at their weapons, and they were appleseeds. Useless appleseeds at that.
"Fall back!" Robert Tofflemire stood. "Fall back!"
"Move, move, move!" Seren Pryce dropped her appleseeds and ran for the stairwell.
Tofflemire spoke into his radio, "Sublevel 5 is lost! Weapons are ineffective, and turn into applesee—" and then Robert felt an arm around his hand, and he, too, was appleseeds.
"Bob!" Alison yelled. "No!"
"It's too late!" Ewell grabbed Alice by her arm. "Don't let him have died in vain!"
Alison Carol broke away from Nicholas Ewell. She punched Dr. King, and miraculously, did not become appleseeds, a fact which was not obvious to her squad members as they ran up the stairwell.

Dr. Katherine Sinclair was almost glad that the elevator bay on sublevel 4 was under maintenance. Until, she realized, there was something wrong with the air. There was no air. The air was appleseeds, and she was choking on it, and when she choked, she, too, was appleseeds.

Nina Weiss sat at her desk, her hand resting on a revolver. She knew he was coming. She knew an anomaly like his could turn dangerous, any anomaly could. But Johnny King, her old friend, was some bizarre amalgamation of 106 and King Midas. She had read of encounters with 106, and if she had to choose between that and being turned into appleseeds, she'd go for the appleseeds.
But he would have to touch her first. The door turned into appleseeds, and Dr. King walked through. "Twenty. Years."
"Don't come any closer." Nina cocked the revolver.
"Twenty years, Director Weiss. For twenty years, I have had to live with the fact that I produce appleseeds everywhere from my nose to my ass. I didn't think I could turn things into appleseeds! And it's honestly fun. I could turn this entire town— no, this entire PLANET, into a gigantic mass of appleseeds! And then— and then, I wouldn't have to put up with any of it! No more vending machines or coffee makers giving me apple juice. No more sneezing into a tissue and finding apple sauce in it. No more." He raised his hand. Nina's revolver became appleseeds. "No. More."
Dr. King swooped his fingers across the air. Nina Weiss, her desk, and the entirety of Site-87 was appleseeds. And then, Dr. King was appleseeds. And Dr. King was happy.

Alison Carol, not appleseeds for reasons that were all too clear to her, walked into Director Weiss's office and hit the appleseeds that were Dr. King over the head with the butt of her pistol. As the appleseeds crumpled, the concept of 'appleseeds' was rendered non-existent in the context of Site-87.
Alison Carol hated pataphysics, and more than that, she hated semantic anomalies. She made her way to Weiss's desk and pressed the intercom button on it.
"Containment team to Director Weiss's office. Furthermore, semantic anomalies are the worst. We would like to inform you that 'appleseeds' is neither a valid concept, a thing you can be, or an actual word. If you find anything that can be identified as 'appleseeds', then I would like to remind you that it is pataphysics's problem, not mine. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk."
Director Weiss just looked at Alison Carol with her eyebrow quirked. "'Thank you for coming to my TED Talk', Agent Carol?"
"Lost a bet with Tofflemire."
"Hmm." She looked over her desk at Dr. King. "Well, don't leave town, Agent. I imagine that they'll want your help writing up his containment procedures."


Researcher Krona Midaeus, for the third time in the last hour, allowed her head to slam into the desk in front of her. This caused a few other people to glance up, nod once, and return to sedately doing their pieces of utterly soul destroying work. One person in the crowded office did take a bit more of an interest; the orange haired and red eyed thaumaturgy specialist decided to close the book they were examining and wonder over to the researcher's desk.
"You doing alright there?"
"Mmfuck off Rhianne." Krona pushed out through a stack of paperwork easily as tall as her head. "Not enough sleep."
Rhianne Watson watched in bemusement for a few more seconds as her friend rolled her face across the table, knocking over empty cups and pen holders in her tired boredom.
"Come on then. Let's take a few minutes for coffee or something."

The biting chill of Site-34 truly knows no bounds. In spite of being the height of summer in the south of California, the entire facility manages to channel the power of the especially biting parts of Scandinavia. Some say it's because the O5 council designed the building themselves, and the cold attitude they hold in all their dealings seeped into the schematics. Others say it's because of an unlisted anomaly on sub-level three, a portal to an empire that decided to freeze the Earth so that their Antarctic dominion could expand to all four corners of the planet. Yet more people assume it's because Frank the janitor left a window open overnight. It's probably that one, actually.
Whatever the cause for the potentially supernatural coldness, it made Krona severely regret her fashion choices.
"I thought you were a fan of pants?" Rhianne asked as Krona tried in vain to pull her skirt down over more of her body.
"What can I say, I've been listening to a lot of Cake recently." The blue haired woman gave up on the effort, and instead decided to try pulling her unkempt labcoat around herself.
"I think that song's meant to imply a pencil skirt."
"Now that really wouldn't fit me at all."
The two chatted and laughed all way to the cafeteria, where thankfully someone had decided to break out a heater, but before they could seat themselves and enjoy a serving of mediocre-at-best hot bean juice, an alarm rung throughout the facility's various speakers and klaxons.
"ANOMALOUS OBJECT HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT, LEVEL TWO, SECTOR FOUR. THREAT LEVEL: BLUE. AVOID THE AREA IF AT ALL POSSIBLE."
The pair of bored and slightly tired Foundation personnel looked at the nearest speaker, then at each other, then at the door.
"It would be a terrible idea to do what you're thinking of doing."
"You're a wizard, and the threat level is low."
"We aren't doing this, Krona."

Less than two minutes later, the pair was speeding through sector three of level two, in the exact direction the announcement had told them not to speed. Rhianne had licks of fire sprouting and dancing about her arms and nearly singeing her rolled up sleeves. 'Emergency clearance' for use of anomalous effects generally doesn't include situations you put yourself in voluntarily, but that wasn't on Rhianne Watson's mind at the moment. All she was thinking about was how this was definitely more exciting than flipping through old grimoires.
Krona on the other hand was far more concerned. The only actual anomalies she'd ever been face to face with were safe-class machines, and a stack of LEGO.
The two rounded the last corner into the appropriate area, and they both soon became aware of some heavily accented shouting coming from a few corridors down. They quicken the pace for a moment, before coming up to the last turn with caution. Prepared to see some horror beyond imagining, or a scene of death and destruction unparalleled by non-anomalous means, neither Watson nor Midaeus could've prepared for an old English sheepdog to trot furiously past them. Immediately, Krona forgot the danger of the situation, and followed the living mop as fast as she could.
"Ayup pooch, how is?" She said, carefully crouching down to scratch the dog on the back of his head.
"Fucking awful, mate."
It took a moment of both human people in the corridor looking around to realise what had just happen, and then a few more moments for Krona to stop laughing her arse clean off.
"You got a problem with talking dogs, mate?" Since it's mostly impossible for old English sheepdogs to look fierce, he instead settled for moderately less than happy. "Keep this up, I'll 'ave you!"
After a moment, Krona composed herself enough to sit with her legs to her sides and address the dog directly.
"I'm guessing you're the anomaly that announcement was about?"
"Didn't fucking breach containment, they left the bloody door open."
"Aye? Well shall we head back then?"
"Not before I've eaten. Bloody starved."
Krona clicked her fingers at the still recovering thaumaturge, and Rhianne wandered back in the direction of the café, only occasionally having to pause to stop herself laughing out loud.
"Come on pooch, let's get you back to your chamber." Krona stood up, and scratched the dog behind his ears. "You got a name, mate?"
"Yeah, m'name's Fido."


Eugene grabbed at the sides of his head and breathed heavily, threatening to vomit for the third time in five minutes. He had no plans on where to take the clones, no plans on how he'll get out of this house, and no plans to deal with the comatose pervert lying in front of him. But now that he was here, he really should have used a bit of foresight beforehand.
"Mister? Where are we going to go?" the clones asked again.
"I… I don't…." Eugene took a wobbly step out of the musky-smelling closet, almost tripping over Mr. Thoroughwood's limp arm.
"Mister, please, let us help you relax," the gender-transitioned clone said, "If you are to help us have a better life, we should at least repay you in kind."
The clones all took steps forward out of the closet, following Eugene into the hallway. Eugene collapsed against the wall, pulling at his hair and threatening to rip it out. He was too delirious to object when the clones all came up to him and reached down to touch him. Eugene was almost scared of what they thought helping him relax would be.
"Please breathe, Mister," one of the clones said, placing a hand on Eugene's chest, "Count with me slowly."
Eugene was surprised that however long these clones had lived in this place didn't entirely warp their perceptions of what assistance was. He looked up at them to see them giving gentle, caring smiles towards him, the kind that a nurse would give a child who was about to get a vaccination. Eugene went along with their instructions, counting down from 10 and slowing his breathing to match.
"What would help you the most now?" the clone touching Eugene's chest asked.
Eugene sat and thought for a moment, his head defogging after being bombarded with thoughts of murder and vomit. He knew he wanted to get out of here, and he knew he needed to take these clones with him. However, he did not want to be responsible for a person's murder, no matter how awful that person was. He knew what he needed.
"Pen. And paper," Eugene said weakly.
The conjoined clones walked swiftly away into another room down the hall while the other two continued to regulate Eugene's breathing. Eugene's stomach felt hollow at this point, and each breath had an acidic sting to it that almost made it unpleasant to focus on. Despite everything, Eugene was feeling better.
"Do you have names?" Eugene asked.
"I was called Roman," said the clone touching Eugene's chest.
"And I was Ramona," the gender-transitioned clone said.
"What about the other two, the conjoined ones?" Eugene asked.
"They were called Robert and Rupert," Ramona said.
"Oh god… they weren't named after anyone, were they?" Eugene asked, hoping that Mr. Thoroughwood didn't name sex clones after Mr. Carter.
"Not that I know of," Roman said, "Though if you are to be our new owner, you may change our names if you like. If any of them make you uncomfortable."
"God, please, don't call me your owner. I'm not your bloody owner and I never will be," Eugene said feeling a twinge of anxiety rise up again, "I want to help you. I want to be your friend, not your master."
"Huh," Roman and Ramona said, "Alright, we will call you our friend."
Eugene sighed, hoping that they understood what he's trying to say. When clones are made to serve, it's hard to imagine that they have any idea of what friendship actually is. He hoped in time that he could teach them.
A few moments later, the conjoined clones came back with a yellow pad of paper and a blue pen. Eugene nodded and reached out for it, taking it gently. Eugene took off the cap of the pen with his teeth and flipped to a page that didn't have any writing on it already.
"Why did you need that, Mister?" Robert and Rupert asked.
Ramona turned back to them, "He wished to be called our friend instead."
"Why did you need that, friend?" they again.
Eugene spat out that cap onto the floor, "You don't need to call me friend either. Just call me Gene."
"Why did you need that, Gene?" they asked for the third time.
"Bloody hell…" Eugene said under his breath.
"We are curious as to how writing would help you with your care," Roman said, removing his hand from Eugene's chest, "Does literature help you stay calm?"
Eugene, his mind much more clear, looked up to the clones in front of him. His face flushed and his eyes went wide as he realized for the second time that all of the clones in front of him were stark naked. He hurriedly looked back down onto the pad of paper in front of him.
"You seem to be getting an-"
Roman was interrupted by Eugene, "I know, I know! Just… listen."
Eugene began to draw lines on the paper, making a simple table. On one header he wrote "Call Hospital", on the other he wrote "Sneak Out". Below the table he drew a line across the paper, with the word "Information" on it.
"We need to figure some things out, and I think we're on a time limit," Eugene said, eyes still glued to the paper, "Mr. Thoroughwood will likely die if we don't get him to a proper hospital. I know you all are good at taking care of people, but that man is in some sort of coma or body paralyzation or something, and he needs a proper doctor."
The clones all turned around to look at Mr. Thoroughwood, who was also lying naked due to his towel flying off his body. They could all see him breathing, but the breaths were slowly and shallow.
"What should we do about Sir, then?" the clones all asked.
"That's what we need to figure out. If we call a hospital, we'll get caught and likely get arrested or worse. If we leave him, we're murderers. What we need to do is figure out the best course of action so our hands our clean and we get you all out of here," Eugene said, "And I'm not coming up with this plan alone. The last time I came up with a plan by myself I ended up… here."
The clones all looked back to Eugene and nodded.
"What can you tell me about the guards? How many are there?" Eugene asked, pen primed to write.
"We do not know the total number of them, but we know that there are at least five guarding the outside of the house at all times," Ramona said.
"Three of them have dogs. Giant Schnauzers," Roman added.
"Schnauzers are guard dogs?" Eugene asked incredulously.
"Giant ones are."
Eugene wrote down everything that was being said in the information box, and began to put a few things in the respective tables. Mid-writing one sentence, he paused, tapping to pen against his bottom lip.
"Are Giant Schnauzers only good at attacking people or are they good smellers, too?" Eugene asked.
"Yes. Mr. Thoroughwood's father was a policeman, so he had a great affinity for adopting former police dogs," Robert and Rupert said.
"Well… tits," Eugene sighed, "That complicates things."
Eugene scratched a line out and wrote a new one beneath it, punctuating it with a big question mark. There were so many questions, that one could wonder if there was even a way to get out of this without getting caught. Eugene still had no idea where to go after they all managed to get out of this place, anyway.
"Is there a back door? And if so, does it lead to someplace that we can hide in?" Eugene asked.
"There are several, the patio is large and expansive," Roman noted, "We were often used to provide assistance there when Sir threw his weekly galas."
Eugene shuddered.
"The entirety of this estate is surrounded by fencing, however," Roman said, "It would be difficult to leave anywhere but from the front gate."
Eugene continued to scratch and scrawl, underlining certain things, circling others. He was holding on so tightly to the pen as he wrote that one could see his knuckles turning a sheer white. The clones simply stood and waited to be called on when they needed to be.
Several minutes pass, several questions are asked, and Eugene still felt stumped. He sighed shakily, not sure how much time he would have left before his choices would be made for him. He knew he couldn't do this alone, he needed someone else's help. If only Mr. Weissman was actually here rather than his…
Eugene looked back up to the clones, standing still and watching over him like a quartet of guardian angels. They really did all look like Mr. Weissman, even if they were much younger. Maybe, even though they might not have souls, they might have a bit of his ingenuity? It was worth a shot, at least.
"Look, I'm really, really stumped on how we can get out of this. Everything that I can think of sees us either getting caught by the authorities, caught by the guards, or as murderers. I've already done enough crime by lying my way into this house in order to break you all out, but I need some more heads," Eugene said, "What should I do?"
The clones all looked at each other, then back to Eugene, confused.
"What do you mean? We do not know how to do this," Ramona said.
"We were meant for assisting people, not for espionage," Roman added.
Eugene sighed and smiled, "Like I said, you all could be so much better than what you're used for. You're all clones of one of the smartest men I've ever known, surely you have a bit of that genius in you, right?"
The clones' faces twisted, as if they weren't able to comprehend what was happening. Eugene's anxiety started to flare up again. Eugene looked down at his legs and felt like the world was collapsing in on him. Perhaps this really was the end. This is the place where Thacker's story stops for good.
"The garage," Robert alone said suddenly, "There's only ever one guard there at a time."
Rupert continued, "Incapacitate him with the weapon Sir used, borrow one of Sir's cars, and we drive Sir to the hospital ourself."
Eugene's eyes lit up at the sound of their voices. The idea was like hearing birdsong after waking up from a well-needed nap. Something that honestly Eugene could do with right about now. More than anything, it was an idea that could potentially work.
"I'm… mildly okay with stealing a car for the greater good, but I really don't want to shoot a guard," Eugene said, writing down more things on the pad on his lap, "What if I distract the guard while you all get Mr. Thoroughwood ready to go?"
The clones all looked at each other and then nodded.
"You should take the weapon anyway," Ramona said.
"Just in case," Roman added.
Ramona walked back into the closet and picked up the gun and Eugene's briefcase, handing them over to him. Eugene reached out and took them, the pad of paper sliding down onto the floor with an unceremonious clatter. He pushed himself against the back of the wall and stood up, brushing off his suit jacket so at least he didn't come out of this adventure looking much worse than when he started.
"You'll likely need a new shirt, Gene," Roman said, indicating to the large yellow vomit stain covering his belly.
Embarrassedly, Eugene realized he probably didn't look as strapping and clean as he wanted to be. Following Roman's lead down the hall to the Master Bedroom, the two of them got clothing for the five of them collectively. With a closet full of outfits handpicked by Mr. Thoroughwood, the clones quickly got dressed and offered a fresh shirt to Eugene. Eugene put on his new shirt and tried his best to ignore the variety of other lacy and latex outfits hidden deep beneath the others, not want to imagine anyone wearing them.
With everyone dressed and ready, Eugene tucked the gun in his pants, then immediately took it out due to the hindsight of still wanting functioning legs if it misfires. Electing to just keep it in his coat pocket, Eugene took a moment to do a few of those breathing exercises he was shown just moments ago. He needed to be calm, this was their best chance out of this.
"When we drop off Mr. Thoroughwood at the hospital, we need to drive to my bank. I'm hoping that Mr. Carter hasn't found a way to foreclose my account in half a day," Eugene said, "From there, we'll at least have the money and the transportation to figure out where to go."
The clones nodded.
Eugene hoped that Mr. Weissman really was seeing him through their eyes today. He hoped that he would be doing him proud here. No more waffling or wavering, just the conviction to push forward. The clones picked up Mr. Thoroughwood's body which was, thankfully, still breathing. The breaths looked much more faint which was a bad sign, but at the very least he was alive. Now was the time.
The clones and Eugene made their way down the stairs, hauling Mr. Thoroughwood as carefully as they could without making too much noise. The plan was for Eugene to draw the guard far enough away from the garage so that the clones could take a car and drive out front. From there, Eugene would need to make a mad dash, hop in and hope they could bust through the gate.
Eugene split off from the clones, letting them hide somewhere safe while he used their directions to make his way to the garage. As he opened the door, he was greeted with exactly what he imagined he would see. The garage was like a testament to overcompensation, luxury cars, classic cars, cars that exist just to be big and guzzle gasoline. In addition, he noticed exactly one guard… and one guard dog.
"Fuck," Eugene muttered under his breath.
The guard turned around to Eugene, eyes wide. The dog growled at the unfamiliar visitor.
"Who the fuck are you? Some bloke who got lost in here after one of Thoroughwood's parties?" the guard asked, walking slowly towards Eugene.
"Oh, me? No! No, I don't do that… thing," Eugene said, "I was here to inspect Mr. Thoroughwood's clones! I'm from Marshall, Carter and Dark."
Eugene took out his wallet and showed his identification. The guard, now standing right up to him, snatched it from his fingers to inspect it. The Schnauzer to his side sniffed at Eugene's pants. A few moments later, the guard looked up to Eugene.
"Well, the clones ain't here. Mr. Thoroughwood ain't here either," the guard said, "So why the fuck are you in the garage?"
Eugene shrugged, "I was hoping to find him. He left me to my business inspecting the clones, said he had to go somewhere and vanished. I wanted to find him to tell him myself that the clones are all right as rain."
Eugene looked down at the dog who was practically smelling every inch of his body. He hoped that he wouldn't smell something suspicious, not that he would know what WOULD be suspicious. There wasn't any blood, and he barely touched Mr. Thoroughwood at all. Eugene just needed to remember to stay calm… stay calm and not throw up over everything again.
The guard handed the wallet back to Eugene, and Eugene took it back and placed it in his pocket. Somehow he hadn't blown it yet, which was amazing to him, personally. He just needed to get the guard out of the garage so everyone else could slip in.
"Did he say where he was going?" the guard asked.
"Well, he greeted me in a towel, so I figured he was trying to get dressed," Eugene improvised.
"Hm," the guard said, "Well, if I had to make a guess-"
At that moment, the guard dog started to bark, his nose pushed up against Eugene's coat pocket. Eugene could feel the familiar gurgling in his stomach. He didn't even think about the gun smelling like Mr. Thoroughwood. The guard looked at the misshapen bulge in Eugene's coat and squinted suspiciously.
"What's in your pocket, lad?" the guard asked.
"M-my pocket?" Eugene said with a forced chuckle, "Oh, it's… it's my gun! Lot of dangerous people want to kill people who work for MCD, so I… keep a gun on me."
"Take it out," the guard said.
"Oh, there shouldn't be any reason for-"
"I said," the guard growled, staring Eugene down, "Take. It. Out."
Eugene slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out the gun, the custom-made Walther P88 that Mr. Thoroughwood commissioned from Marshall, Carter and Dark. The guard dog began to bark louder and more aggressively. The guard didn't need to see anything else to know that this was Mr. Thoroughwood's gun. He reached to his hip to pull out his own piece.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Eugene said, pointing the gun at the guard's leg and firing.
Instantly, the guard fell, clutching his leg as it slowly started to seize up. The guard dog, no longer restrained by a leash, took it as a sign to start attacking, and pounced on Eugene. Eugene screamed as the gun went flying behind him, trying to shield himself from the black mass of fur and teeth trying to bite his face off.
Eugene's arms were well and truly bloodied before the door to the garage burst open. Eugene didn't see what was going on as hair, drool and blood dripped into his eyes, but he heard another gunshot and suddenly the dog was off him. Two hands reached onto Eugene's shoulders, pulling him up and hauling him into one of the vehicles. Thrown next to him was Mr. Thoroughwood, currently being held by Roman.
Eugene could tell that the clones were all trying to talk to him, but he once again found himself in that panicked headspace, vision swirling, stomach churning, but instead of the musk of sex, it was the taste of dog hair and iron in his mouth as he panted and moaned in the back seat.
Eugene could feel the car lurch forward, and heard the screeching of tires. Shouting. Bullets hitting the car window. A sharp turn. The car speeding up faster. The sound of a gate bursting open. Eugene was flung forward off the back seat.
"We're out!" Eugene heard a voice say, "We're-"
The car crashed into a tree just off the mansion property.
Everything went black.

Half of a Plan

Inevitability Industries

Arson, Activism, and Mustaches


chatConnect v3.0
a private connection utility

┌──────────────────────────
»'n06ody has joined the lobby
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<sakaali>
Hello, Nobody.

<einBoot>
yo nobody

what's up

<sakaali>
What's the matter? Unusually early conference call.

<'n06ody>
I'll keep it brief: I'm in trouble.

<einBoot>
oh shit

<sakaali>
Where are you?

<einBoot>
that's not good at all

<'n06ody>
I'm holded up in a net cafe right now.

In the middle of Pennsylvania.

<sakaali>
I can send someone to pick you up. After all, that got boat out of Volgograd before.

<einBoot>
that wasn't my fault

<'n06ody>
Nah, that would be too much of a hassle.

<einBoot>
whats the trouble about, anyway

<'n06ody>
Some South American paramilitary guys, boat. A junta force, maybe?

I should be fine. Mostly.

<sakaali>
Mostly?

<einBoot>
i think i know who you mean nobody lemme find a pic

<'n06ody>
So, I caught them snooping around the area of interest.

Actually, more like they caught me snooping on them snooping.

<sakaali>
That means this definitely was related to the recent anom-incident in Penns?

No coincidences?

<'n06ody>
Yup. Not a coincidence, as far as I can tell.

<sakaali>
Damn. Possible Asian leaks? I'm sure there weren't any from over here.

<einBoot>
do you think they knew what they were looking for

<'n06ody>
Yeah, I'm fairly sure they did. They didn't meander a lot.

Like the other groups usually do. :P

<sakaali>
What do you think, boat? You seem to know the Pan-American groups more than we do.

<einBoot>
not sure, honestly, but ill know more once nobody confirms my suspicions

you seem more antsy than usual sakal

<sakaali>
I know, just nervous. Sorry if I'm asking a lot of questions against protocol.

<'n06ody>
I understand. Just wanting to make sure I'm alright. Thanks.

<einBoot>
hold up i think i found em

dammit the pics not loading wait a min

<sakaali>
Continuing. What happened after they caught you?

<'n06ody>
This guy shouted at me in some language

Couldn't tell if it was Portugese or Spanish.

basically I clocked him and stole his motorbike

Got the hell out of there and I ended up here.

<einBoot>
found a new pic

<sakaali>
Do you know what the guy yelled at you?

<'n06ody>
Dunno exactly. Lots of the standard, "Who are you, what are you doing here?" type.

<einBoot>
got it. did they look like this: los_cotizantes1979.jpg

<'n06ody>
Holy shit, that's exactly what they looked like. Great job, as usual, boat.

<sakaali>
Who are they?

<einBoot>
thanks. they're "Los Cotizantes", an argentine paramilitary org

like an argentine UIU but not government run

<'n06ody>
Oh, thank god, at least I know it's not Portugese.

<sakaali>
Portugese isn't an official language there, right?

<einBoot>
yeah they speak spanish

<'n06ody>
fuck

they're outside across the street

i think they saw the bike

<sakaali>
Can you run for it?

<einBoot>
can you deal with them

<'n06ody>
both unlikely but ill try

fuck theyre coming thsi way

do me a fvaor guys

<sakaali>
For sure. What is it?

<einBoot>
we got you

<'n06ody>
im gonna wipe my drive

sabe theise fiels: dsc001.zip, dsc002.zip, dsc003.zip, dsc004.zip, dsc005.zip

<sakaali>
Downloading. They're huge files.

<einBoot>
downloading as well. what are they?

<'n06ody>
drive backups dont lose em

i have a question boot

<einBoot>
yeah?

<'n06ody>
do the argentinians waterboard during interrogations

<einBoot>
yeah

<'n06ody>
fuck theyre here im fucked

trying to stay incog rn

<sakaali>
TTYL, you got this.

<einBoot>
stay alive dude you're a good person

<sakaali>
^

<'n06ody>
shit they saw me

wish me luck

┌──────────────────────────
«'n06ody has left the lobby
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<sakaali>
Does he even speak Spanish?

<einBoot>
some spanish

<sakaali>
He's screwed.

<einBoot>
i think he's got it under control

you know

<sakaali>
Really? Why so?

<einBoot>
i mean after all

nobody expects a spanish inquisition


Working for your life's passion sure is hard sometimes. Work, work, work, design, work, test, redesign, work, work work workworkworkwrksdmiafasdfj
Get up at 5 AM. Check the schematics. Check the materials. Go buy materials. Get the hammer. Get the circuitry going. Slam a reality anchor somewhere in there to keep shit from going bonkers. Request energy input for today. Request rejected. Ask again. Argue. Stop from choking the fucker. Work until 12 AM. Sleep. Get up at 5 AM.
Oh, but today's been great. Today I woke up happy, in fact. Like I knew I was finishing! My very own goddamn Spontaneous Generator for Spontaneous Generating of matter. Damn, I would have put on a labcoat if I had one. Well, not actually generating matter, it's actually taking it from somewhere. I've made it take matter from some random universe and organize it into a blueprint I design. See, it's fascinating how that kinda transportation works. The very small tiny quarks just pop out of their universe and… Pop! Now they're here. And then it's like I'm a conductor commanding my very own orchestra! But not just with some predefined instruments - I can make my own on the fly! Even put out some that I imagined myself! And then those instruments will sing my very own melody that I made for that exact moment, and my views will come to being, dream to reality, as if descending from heaven itself!
Oh, it was beautiful - If you had seen it! You could feel the electrons running through the wires, to my machine. Every single one running from atom to atom to atom to atom until they went in, sucked by my masterful design! They dance to my orchestra, further powering the beautiful sound. If you had just seen those beautiful wires! At first I threw them randomly, for they were only means to an end, but then I started seeing it - such beautiful shapes tangling around themselves, from order to chaos and dancers to my song! And they were so many… I heard thirteen gigawatts danced to my song, like beautiful swans!
And the board - you should have been there. Fifteen buttons I made, and seventeen smaller ones. Six levers and three smaller ones. Feeling like a demiurge, I mastered the very strings of my own creation, able to create truth from fantasy, from thought to being, orchestrating life if need be.
I remember that exactly - I put the schematics in the thing where schematics went (Haven't named it, it's like a circular board, in which you plugged one of these… I don't know the name. Like a metal rod with everything but the tip covered in some plastic, and you plugged in the tip and then the information inside came out… Damn, why do I feel this sounds overtly sexual? That metal rod must be pretty premature, although it serves perfectly for my creation) and then the very thought made itself visible in the circular screen for me to give it the last touch…!
Like, imagine that! The emitters, every one a smaller portal, bringing in their load like trucks to perform my grand design, masterful as no other. Then, the load would enter the field of my influence, exerted through magnetism and gravity, and come to play my song.
It was like a party, yes! People from different countries and dimensions and universes coming and dancing and playing my instruments, and then the anchors - which mind you, I made myself - would be guards in case pesky conflict came in. Two different parties, one of playing instruments and the instruments dancing, and the other of very sound having its own party for my delight.
That moment - in which I pulled the last lever, when this very thought came to be, oh yes, when the party began…! When it all came together…!
But let's go back for a minute. So, I come in my own office, repurposed for my grand machine. There are notes on the ground but I won't read them. Surely the higher-ups would take away my tools and toys because it was "too dangerous." I checked the machine one last time, making sure every nut and bolt stood in its place, ready to serve my orders. Click! The power starts coming in, I can hear the humming. The anchors were particularly hungry for the delicious electronic excitement electricity was. And when the moment came - I stuttered. Damned be that moment. My fingers refused to move. For there was one thing missing.
What melody would I play? What schematic would become true?
And then I smiled, my muscles twisting for my teeth to be displayed. One thing, one that I wanted. One that would marvel everyone! I would finally be recognized as who I was - a true demiurge!
I looked one last time around my office - so glorious were the aluminum walls, the wires coming down the main facility. I knew the door outside would persuade anyone from interrupting my work, for my very own writing was engraved into it. Yes, I remember the words that I wrote! "Don't come in, working for the SCP Foundry!"
But oh, it didn't stop them. As the machine powered up, and the humming of the transporters and the anchors sang my overture, the damned impostors came in! Took down my precious door, and threw me to the ground. But it was too late, and they knew. One of the coated impostors came in, hands pulling hair, and stood in awe at my creation, for even they could recognize the beauty…! Looking aside, the lights were dimming - a sign that my creation was about to arrive. The whole thing screamed, for no substance could hold such beauty without singing, and it shone white, in heat and divinity. The ground itself felt it, for it gave in around us, trembling. I got scared, you see. Maybe the machine was dropping into a cursed ravine, never again to be seen, but thankfully the earth respected my creation and allowed it to stay, not one thing too heavy for her. And I could see it! I could see matter coming to fulfill my grand design, my great orchestra starting its song…! No one could stop it. No one could. And it shone stronger, so much it outshone the sun for a few minutes. And finally, my grand design made itself seen, coming to reality from my own imagination…!

I want to know how some random homeless guy made it inside Site-15's perimeter. Furthermore, how come he could build some cursed machine to produce matter and have it work. - Guy

Oh, I took care of that. Gave him the A's and threw him in some asylum. The poor dude was schizophrenic. The guys can't figure out how the machine works, though. - Luca

The dog that came out is actually pretty normal. I'm adopting him, he's beautiful. His hair is a bit too long and… Damn, I don't get the word… shaggy? Yeah. The dude actually created a shaggy dog. Would congrat him. - Luca


First day with the Mission, and I've already witnessed a miracle! The church was deathly silent, apart from rain tapping at the windows, while I examined some scripture for Holy Law. Martyn was there with me, with an equally long and tedious textbook on Biology, and we both sat as the rain continued to grow in intensity. I swear the church swayed from side to side like a baby's crib, a great gust of wind thrusting open the front door at increasing intervals. The small candles did nothing to compensate for the chills. The church would've collapsed if Ezekiel hadn't come!
Martyn was the first to notice Ezekiel standing outside, arms reaching towards the sky and screaming, in his twinkling yellow robe. Ezekiel took a rat from his pocket, holding it towards the sun. As the screaming grew louder, the wind and rain were drowned out, and soon the clouds departed entirely, leaving the sun to take their place. A ray of light shone upon him. He looked back at me and said “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” The rat hid itself again.
When he came inside, he asked me and Martyn how we were going on our research. Martyn spoke of maths and sciences, the formulas to cells and tissue. I grasped at straws to report anything. Ezekiel laughed and put his hand on my shoulder. “In time,” he said “You'll come to learn how to see the Science. It is a learned skill, and it is the most valuable.” He took his leave right after. One day, I'll come to understand the Law.

I realize now that I can see my own breath where we do our research. Martyn never shudders, always wearing his poofy coat. He inspects all materials with his thin glasses, hastily writing in his notebook on the right, a list of already discovered constants on the left. I'm sitting here attempting to match his eye speed, and he's already done with his page. I wonder why Ezekiel chose me to work with him, but I know that the Lord chose Ezekiel and the Lord chose me through him. There is nothing to ask.
I chatted with Martyn a bit on the nature of our study. It is such an enigma, Holy Science, always visible but never obtainable. There are normal constants, physics, thermodynamics, electricity, but this is different according to Martyn. “It gives off an aura of divinehood, He has to be in it, yet it works consistently. In time, we will understand it deeper. Even I am foolish to it.”
I received a letter from Ezekiel today about our new project. It is transcribed below:

To My Helpers

The time has struck again, my friends in study. I can sense the ground vibrating, twisting, turning, MOVING. The Holy Law works best in these times, I must tell you, the Lord repulses in this land. It is a sensible first step to harvest the Beast at this moment. I stared upon the Laptev, “And I saw a beast coming out of the sea.” The Science must be embedded into the sea for the waves to birth. It is then that we will witness PAROUSIA
I wish you the best of luck,
Regards,
Ezekiel Valeriy Iepureanu
Primate Autocephalous Mission of Moldova”

Our pace of study has escalated greatly. I shall update when given time to.

What does it mean? All these concepts, they have no pattern, not that I can see, nor even Martyn. Scripture tells me nothing, the texts conflict, and pre-established conventions keep getting broken time and time again, it simply doesn't make sense. Martyn keeps reassuring me that there is a link, a chain among these laws and concepts. He says that any true scientist faces struggle with their own work. Einstein, Boer, Curie, there is no great scientist immune to failure. “We are Scientists, with a capital S” he says, “God's Word can only be studied by Scientists. We are held back because of our position, this is what God intends.”
Ezekiel has given us no updates, although it is understandable. The Mission is grand now, we are beyond our simple foundation. He is but a simple man, albeit Holy. The Holy naturally escapes from this area. The trees shake in a way so wicked; this is our Holy Land. If God laid out gold, we have strucken it. We shall birth the vile to raise the Return.
If only those green doves could come to us now. Their blessing would be much appreciated.

10 subjects, carved of the finest clay! Ezekiel came with the delivery, he says he sensed a great energy awaiting corruption, editing, fine tuning. A cardboard box labeled “198d”, filled with clay fish, painted with a green cover. They remained unspecial at first before Ezekiel raised his hand and touched the box. Upon another glimpse and the box was filled halfway with water, the fish swimming free within! Martyn nearly fell backwards upon his first look and his eyes widened upon the second.
I was almost losing sight of the Science altogether! Of course, there is much work to do. These fish must birth the Beast. Our study is mostly complete, however. Now that we have the tangible law, the writing will take no time at all. The pieces are falling into place, I can see the pen putting Law into the page. If only Ezekiel were here 24/7.
Martyn is tentative still. “We still have much to do. If we have the pieces, which we might, then we still don't know how to fit them.” Ezekiel smiled in response, and took one final fish out of his pocket before throwing it into the water, making it swim like the rest. We were left by ourselves once again.

There are some road bumps, it seems, in our path towards comprehension. There are some missing chunks we cannot ignore in our puzzle, and those chunks lead to even more mysteries. The biggest problem with our Miracle isn't even the moving fish, it's the water. What of the Law of Conservation of Mass? Do we disregard it, write a new law, and call that Holy Law? What must we do in response to that?
Martyn has been scrambling for answers. I see him writing constantly, formulas upon formulas, equations upon equations. All the while, I stare at our little Miracle. I know it was not meant to be easy. The Lord helps those who help themselves. I know, by the end, we'll all be in a better place. Where is it, though? If not answers, I want signs. I'll pray for answers in my bed. I'm not sure how well I'll sleep, the downpour out here crackles like a firework.

Martyn is unresponsive. He has been sitting on his chair for hours now and I cannot achieve a response from him. He is like a stone sculpture; I don't believe I've seen him blink since I woke up. His hands rest of his knees while his face stares blindly at the wall, covered in photos of crosses and saints. In the middle, Ezekiel stares at Martyn back. I've tried contacting Ezekiel, but the cell signal is horrible here. I'll attempt to carry Martyn to the nearest hospital.
I'm just now looking at Martyn's notes. The handwriting is just scribbles, ordered into equations and bulleted lists. There are notes in the margins, across pages, on sticky notes outside of the notebook. “198d(82)=x+><> 198(d)(Science) 1 9 8 d 1 9 8 d”. A whole bunch of pages are torn out. My goodness.
“ Science ScienceScienceSc1enceScienceScienceScience9cienceScienceScience ScienceScience8cienceScienceScienceScienceSdcienceScience Save me God the Science I can't the Science I Ezekiel please save me Eze198d fuck Holy holy Law christ the LORD LORDE PLEASE EZEK IEEL EEL”
Martyn ran into the rain. I tried to stop him, but it sounded like he hit something outside. It's Ezekiel. They're talking.
“Martyn.”
“You can't fucking fool me, Ezekiel. I figured it out. Let me leave.”
“You are foolish! Do you not see the patterns in front of your eyes?”
“It is not patterns! It's just unnatural! You're unnatural! You can't fool me. I've seen enough.”
“God does not lie to me, Martyn! There is real and tangible Holy Law, all around us, you are just blind! What you are saying right now is blasphemous, there is no anomaly. If anything, you are the anomaly!”
“I wish to not hear any more of your laws.”
“God works through me. I can't let this go to waste.”
I hear screaming. It's screaming and it won't stop. It drones on into the infinite like a black hole, it just keeps going on and on. I'm hiding behind my desk now, yet I can feel its presence in the house! Stop the screaming! Please, stop! I'm praying, let it stop!

A new person came. Her name is Theodora, and she came in with an umbrella and a rain jacket. She says she's my new partner, studying chemistry and how it relates to the science. I gave her a book and told her to read it cover to cover. I'm sitting down now, I'm too tired.
A fish just gave birth in the box. The baby fish turned to me and said “Run”. Run. Run away. Run away from the science. Run away from the Mission, from the church, from Ezekiel. Run away from Martyn. Run run run run run run away. I'm running away. I'm running away at midnight, when no one can hear me, and I'm leaving this here. If anyone reads this, run away too. I've spent way too long on the Science. You don't need to either. There is none.


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Do you want to hone your combat skills?
Do you want to have fun and socialize with your peers?
Do you want to punch your rival in the face?
Well, come on down to the Site-██ cafeteria to sign up for the first ever Foundation Fight Club!
(Note: No prizes will be distributed to the winners, unless you count bragging rights.)

Alexander and Sadie read the small flyer, cringing.
"Jesus Christ," Sadie spoke, a hint of disgust in her voice. "What even— How? Why?"
"I know," Alexander sighed, tearing the flyer off of the wall, studying it closely. "Seriously, a fight club?"
Sadie snatched it out of his hands, muttering, "They should put us in charge of these new 'activities,' we could probably make them appealing!"
"You know what…" Alexander thought for a moment. "That isn't a bad idea, actually…"
"How could you say that?!" She screamed, having never once heard him actually compliment the Foundation. "The Foundation is the lamest—"
"Yes, yes, I know. But, I think that we could do better," Alexander grinned, "Let's just host our own fight club, then it isn't an official event and therefore five times cooler."
Sadie's mouth opened to protest, but she paused. "I— We could make that work… We could have betting! And pizza!"
"Yeah!" Alexander exclaimed, "A tournament with blackjack and hookers!"
Her smile quickly dropped from her face. "No, no, stop it."

Do you want to be a cool dude?!
Do you want to bet and earn money?!
Do you want to beat the shit out of your peers for a Grand Prize?!
Well, meet your local agents Sadie and Alexander down at the Rec Room to sign up for the first ever Local Combat Tournament!
(Note: Hosted by the people, not the lame Foundation higher-ups!)

Being a janitor in the poor, penniless Foundation, Jonas was desperate for any opportunity to make a few dollars. So when he saw a flyer detailing a new 'Local Combat Tournament,' he abandoned his current job of sweeping the filthy hallways to run over to the Rec Room, where Alexander and Sadie sat at a table, organizing a small pile of sign-up papers and waivers.
Between deep, exhausted breaths, he asked them, "How… Do… I make… Bets…"
Sadie exchanged a nervous glance with Alexander, who began to explain, "Well, bets are made during the actual tournament, which is tomorrow. We still need to organize the whole thing, so you're going to have to wai-"
Suddenly, Jonas grabbed him by his shoulders, shaking him whilst crying, "I need money! Please!"
Alexander uncomfortably pushed his hands away, gulping. "Dude, just wait! Seriously man, what's wrong with you?"
Jonas dropped to his knees, sniffling before bursting into tears, sobbing, "Everythingggg!!!"
It was at this point that Sadie, thoroughly weirded out by this strange encounter, grabbed Jonas by his shoulder, sneaking them past the hysterical janitor.

"Are you guys ready to see some fighting!?" Alexander shouted into the microphone, slowly walking around their makeshift wrestling-ring.
On both sides of him, the audience sitting on the bleachers shouted back, "Yeah!!!"
"Then let's get started, huh!? First, let's go over the rules!"
"Boo!"
"Hey, it's necessary, alright!?" He retorted, pulling a paper from his pocket. "Eight combatants! Seven rounds of combat! And only three rules! One: Fists only, no weapons! Two: No killing each other! And finally, three: Lose consciousness, you lose. Fall out of the arena, you lose. That being said, let's bring out our first two fighters!"
With a dramatic twirl, he pointed towards Sadie, who poked her head into the curtained-off area behind her. Two men exited through, stepping up into the ring.
"In one corner we have one of our Site-432 janitors, Grayson Goblin, facing off against Agent George Patterson! What a ferocious matchup! Without further ado, let us begin. Fight!"
The two combatants began circling the arena, carefully watching each other.
They circled.
And circled.
And circled some more.
Grayson could feel his eyes get heavy.
They circled.
And circled.
And circled even more.
Grayson blinked his exhaustion away. Seeing this, George lurched forward, a grin on his face as he grabbed the janitor's legs. Before Grayson could register what was going on, his feet were pulled out from under him and he was carefully pushed under the ropes of the ring, falling onto the floor.
Alexander sighed, turning on his microphone. "George wins, I guess!"
A majority of the audience cheered, except for Jonas, whose hands balled into fists. What the hell, Grayson? I lost a hundred dollars on you! He relaxed, sighing, There's still six more rounds. I can make money off of this…

"Alright, let's begin round number two! Combatants, please come on out!"
Two women marched into the arena as the audience started screaming in excitement. The two women exchanged a polite handshake, after which they walked to their respective corners.
"Site Director Laura versus her assistant, Rachel Dresden! Two very important people— friends, even— battling against each other! Now, let's watch them fight!"
"Are you ready, Laura?" Rachel asked, stepping towards her. "I'm not going to go easy on you just because you're the director."
With a booming belly-laugh, the Site Director replied, "Same to you, Rachel. I may not look like it, but back in my olden days I was—"
Her bragging was quickly interrupted with a punch going straight into her neck, sending her flying backwards into the ropes of the ring. "I see how it is then," she coughed, "You—"
Once again, Rachel interrupted her, this time with a punch into her head, knocking her out. "Never focus too much on talking during fights, Mrs. Director" she teased before raising her hands to the sky, celebrating her victory as the audience applauded, Jonas included.
That makes up for my loss last round! Hopefully I get lucky…

"Round number three! Combatants, get out here!"
Two large, tall men lumbered into the ring as the audience fell dead silent.
"This is… Um… These are Agents Franklin and…"
Alexander stepped back, turning the microphone off as he whispered to Sadie, who snatched it away from him, turning it back on. "This round is canceled! These people aren't part of the Foundation! Get away!"

"O— Okay," Alexander rubbed at a bruise on his cheek, obtained when one of the invaders elbowed him in the face. "Now that we have that all dealt with, let's move on to round number four. Whoever wins this automatically progresses to the final round. Combatants, you know what to do!"
A man and a woman ran out, their hands intertwined as they skipped up to the arena.
"A duel between husband and wife! Agent Josephine versus Agent Joe! Fight!"
The couple separated, instantly pouncing on each other. They rolled around on the ground, Josephine eventually managing to pin Joe's wrists down. "Ha! I'm winning!"
"No way!" Joe pushed his knee up, cracking her in the ribs. She gasped in pain, loosening her grip, giving him the opportunity to roll her over, reversing their roles as she was pinned down.
With a burst of pain-fueled adrenaline, Josephine lashed her hands around him, pushing her sharp nails into his back. He gasped, rolling around on the floor. "Get off get off get off!!!"
Although Josephine was stubborn, she also didn't have much foresight, which she realized as Joe rolled them off of the side of the arena, sending them into the ground.
Alexander paused for a moment before collapsing and curling up into a ball on the floor, prompting Sadie to grab the microphone from his shaking hands.
"Nobody wins!"

I haven't made anything, Jonas thought, sitting in the Site-432 cafeteria as the spectators filed through, each of them grabbing a slice of pizza. There's only one round left, I have to make this count…
Grabbing a napkin from the hands of a passerby, he took a pen from his pocket and began to write:

Agent George vs. Assistant Site Director Rachel

Who should I pick…

George likes to play dirty, he doesn't attack until he can find an opening. Uses rules to win.
Rachel also likes to play dirty, she gets her opponent talking and takes advantage of the distraction. Incredibly fast too…

He smiled. That's it! I'll bet on Rachel! She'll win, I know it!

Sadie and Alexander stared at the stacks of money before them, fighting their temptation to steal it all. "A— A lot of people bet on this round, huh?" Alexander stuttered.
"Yeah…" Sadie replied, "We should, uh, start the fight, huh?"
They both looked up at the audience, which was patiently waiting, staring at them. Reaching for his microphone, Alexander silently got himself pumped up. "Alright! This is the final round! Combatants!"
George and Rachel ran in, stepping into the ring, shaking hands before stepping into their corners.
"Alright, you already know who these people are! The only thing left to do is fight!"
Rachel instantly dashed forward, using her sharp nails to slash at George, who narrowly dodged to the side. "Gettin' right into it, huh?!"
"Hell yeah!" she shouted as she slashed at him again, this time leaving five short cuts across his right shoulder.
Gasping in pain, he raised his hands up as if he were going to punch, but at the last second, looped his body around and kicked her in the back of the leg, dropping her to her knees. He stomped down, hearing a sickening crack as her tibia shattered, leaving her leg broken.
She let out a short scream, and, pulling a gun out from her concealed-carry holster, she aimed it at his leg and shot.
George howled, dropping to the ground as blood oozed from his knee. Grimacing, he pulled out his own gun. They aimed at each other's heads, and—
"Hey, what the hell!?"
"They're gone!"
"How am I supposed to get my money back!?"
The crowd rioted, storming over to the empty announcer stand, where a single note was left.

You both broke the rules, nobody wins.

Two lonely gunshots rang throughout the Site.

Jonas sulked through the hallways of Site-432, mourning the loss of his precious hundred-dollar bill. Opening his locker, he sighed, thinking.
What am I going to say to my wife? She's going to yell at me for gambling again… She might even divorce me…
His eyes swelled up with tears, but then he spotted a small bag pushed into the back of his locker, a note taped to it. Grabbing it, he read:

Out of everyone who bet on the Tournament, you seemed like you needed this the most.
From your local combat hosts, Alexander and Sadie~

Jonas peeked inside the bag, almost fainting when he saw the stacks of money inside.
And for once in his life, he cried tears of happiness, not sorrow.


Site-608's daycare center was rancorous. Not because of a rapid influx of childcare services, but rather because of the heated discussion between Dr. Banks and Dr. Cortez. From inside MTF Theta-17's bedroom and play area, one could hear harsh whispers from either researcher.
"You can't possibly expect me, the parents, or anyone for that matter, to actually be okay with this," Banks said, his voice slightly compressed into a nasal tone from pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I guess not, though I fail to see why you aren't more on board with this. The parents have already consented to the formation of Theta-17, so that's a non-issue." Cortez walked over to the crib by the North wall, a crib marked "Theta-17-Gamma — Stacy". "You're the only person I've talked to that's directly opposed. So tell me: what's wrong with this team, Colin?"
Dr. Banks stared at Cortez for a brief moment. "Well, gosh, Graham. I don't really know! If I had to pick one thing I didn't like about this team, it's that they're all babies." He nearly slammed his hands down on the edge of a crib before catching himself. It was nap time hours, and even though the crib nested a trained soldier, that soldier was still only 15 months old.
Dr. Cortez sighed. "I know they're babies, but they aren't just babies. They're special operatives, too. Did you read the comprehensive formation document?"
"Yes, I read it." This was a lie. "Stop asking me."
"Then you know that Theta-17 is naturally specialized to handle quite a few different aspects of anomalous situations. It's all there in black-and-white."
"That's absurd. Absolutely ridiculous. You're going to stand there, look me in the eyes, and tell me that—"
A rapport of three gunshots sounds off within the room. Dr. Banks instinctively crouches. Dr. Cortez pulls out his phone.
Banks looks up. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, that was my ringtone. I got a text." Theta-17-Gamma stirs lightly in her crib. Cortez, now aware of the volume of his ringer, switches his cell phone to vibrate and silently hurries to the toy chest opposite of him.
"I will never understand you." Banks resumes his previous standing position. "Look. You can't tell me that these kids are ready for the field. Not like this."
"Think about it, Colin. Low object permanence means that memetic hazards are moot. Small sizes means that they are better at infiltration. An infohazard is practically meaningless to someone who doesn't even know what their own name means. And what they lack has been made up for in rigorous training." Cortez returns to the crib with an emergency rattle1 and prepares himself for a wail. "We're the Foundation. We're not fools. I'd appreciate it if you took this seriously."
Banks vented a sigh. "I am taking this seriously. Very seriously. This is dangerous. This isn't kid stuff that we're dealing with. What if they get hurt?"
"A point was made by Ethics to not allow them to be deployed into deliberate harm."
"What if they get lost?"
"We can track them like we do any other MTF."
"This is going to affect their entire lives."
"Psychiatric review and special childcare services are provided after every mission. Are you sure you—"
"YES, I READ THE GOD DAMN DOCUMENT, GRAHAM."
A full two seconds later, the now awake Theta-17-Alpha and -Gamma cry loudly. Cortez reaches into Gamma's crib and lifts her out, shaking the rattle in front of her while bouncing lightly. He glares at Banks and nods at Alpha's crib.
Dr. Banks, defeated, breathes out his last sigh and begins cooing and shushing Alpha.

Theta-17-Alpha gawks out the window of the van, watching the clouds and houses zoom by. Next to him is a toddler named Beta, but the people in the daycare call him "Josh". Not that Alpha understands what any of this means, as he is only 13 months old.
Dr. Cortez clips together the high-profile lightweight safety vest onto Gamma, putting the preparation procedures to an end. He brings himself back into his seat and waits out the ride to the deployment zone. As soon as he gets the confirmation of an arrival time, he turns himself to the toddlers and recalls his speech.
"Mobile Task Force Theta-17. Today is the day. You've been selected for the capture of quite the elusive anomaly." Cortez retrieves his clipboard and flips the pages to a photograph of an old woman. "Do any of you know what this is?"
Alpha does not look away from the window. Gamma struggles to remove her vest. Beta answers, "Puh… Pom-pom."
"No, it's not a puppy, Beta," replies Cortez. "This is the target. She is capable of inducing forgetfulness in even the most blatant abuser of mnestics. We can't get near her. Everyone else just turns away, absolutely sure they were doing something, but can't remember what. No one has recovered from those effects, and they've even gotten worse in some.
"But today, it is your duty to subdue her so we can put her in containment. You will be released into the grocery store and distract her while one of the adults gets her into the van. Today is the most important day of your lives.
"Make me proud, Theta-17. Secure. Contain. Protect."
Beta gurgled the mantra in response. Probably.
At that moment, the van reached a full stop in front of the Festival Foods grocery store. Dr. Cortez got up from his seat and opened the back door. He turned around, unbuckled Theta-17 from their carseats, and readied them for deployment. When he turned back, a red 2009 Nissan Versa had pulled up to the back door, preventing him from leaving.
Cortez furrowed his brow. "Hey! We're trying to get out. Can you back up a bit?"
The driver exited the car. It was Dr. Banks. He walked up to the backdoor of the van and handed a stack of papers to Cortez. He looked at the cover page.

PETITION TO THE ETHICS COMMITTEE FOR THE DISSOLUTION OF MOBILE TASK FORCE THETA-17 ("MOBILE TODDLER FORCE")

Cortez lifted an eyebrow and pointed his gaze back to Banks.
"Ten thousand signatures across twelve Foundation sites," Banks said, his voice even.
"This doesn't mean anything," said Cortez. "Petitions don't actually constitute for any sort of change. The only thing stopping us from using Theta-17 is an e-mail from Ethics."
A rapport of three gunshots sounds off from Cortez's jacket.
"Might want to check your inbox, Graham."

Footnotes
1. For restless and easy-to-amuse toddlers.


My name is Jude Kriyot.
And it's a funny name, isn't it? Kriyot is the city from which Judas hailed. You know, the killer of Christ. Or the one who sold out the Christ. Depending on your denomination
(are Gnostics still around?)
he's a hero or a villain. But not exactly something to base a last name around, right?
The weird part is I'm Ukranian, too. Makes no sense, right? Not even Palestinian or Jewish or… I don't know where Kriyot would be actually. I'm not good with geography. I remember asking my dad about it, and here's the thing. He never questioned it. Never ever bothered to think about it. The only thing I can think to guess is, coming to Ellis Island, my great-grandfather, or however many greats, happened to get someone that day who, during the citizen naturalization process, either had a sense of humor (and a theology degree) or was a hard of hearing idiot (with a theology degree).
That's my guess, anyway.
But that really doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that I'm here and how I got here. And how I got here is Alexander.
My friend Alexander was someone I knew from basically forever. We went to high school together. College, too. After that, we parted ways a little. But we still hung out. We just went different directions.
But his different direction got me here. It's the only reason I got involved in this stuff.
Alexander was always the punker one. Punkier? He always was getting into fights. One of the first times he got high, he punched a kid in the face. I remember coming into the room.
I was tripping. Alexander, God love him, had thought it was too risky for him to trip. He said it was because of mushroom allergy. I thought it was because of the fact that psychosis, that magic touch, and psychedelic drugs weren't the best combination on this green earth.
But he didn't think it was too risky to get stoned out of his mind. Perfectly fine to smoke a lot of weed. An ungodly amount, I had later found out. Everyone there, on mushrooms, had felt guilty and thought to include him in bowls that they had very quickly forgotten about. And Alexander was that perfect mixture of intelligence and fiendish to keep the stream flowing.
So there had been a slight. I don't think he ever remembered what it was. I guarantee, that in the moment, when he had gotten done working that fucking razzledazzle on that stupid boy, that he didn't even really remember what the horrible attack had been. But I didn't know about it then. I didn't know until some poor bastard, pale-faced and just animated down to the fucking sub-cellular level with fear, came to me and said, “Alexander's got a kid floating.” And then, he had said, “Also he's punching him.”
And yeah. I came into the room. Throughout our social lives, I had always been the one to kind of defuse things, right? It was a shit job. At every party, every single get together, every dance in high school, and even in some classes we had taken together, I had to explain to them what kind of person Alexander was. That he was a nice guy, really. A good guy. A perfect guy who only had the interests of his friends in mind.
We liked to say that he was excitable. An excitable motherfucker of an esteemed caliber.
But in the room, Alexander had the kid hanging. Not floating, mind you. The kid didn't notice, but there was a fine lattice
(Something like steel and filligree and iridium? I'm not a geologist.)
through the boy's ankles. Not through the skin. There were holes. But they sort of held him in place. And there was another around his middle, locking his arms to his sides. And another around his neck. These terminated into nothing. They were beautiful, delicate things.
Alexander was punching the boy. A little mercilessly. But he turned to me. And the latticework disappeared. The boy fell to the ground. I say boy, but he had to be two years younger then we were, tops. And we had to be, what, sixteen?
God, he was a terror in high school.
But Alexander, he looked at me, and he said, “I don't think I played it cool, Jude.”
And when he admitted he was wrong, it was just impossible for me to get mad at him.
So when he sat there, bygones being bygones, I could never tell him off. When things had gotten more serious, in both of our lives, he got real serious with it. And I kept up with my jokes and my artwork. First and second. And I mean that.
We sat there in a coffee shop we had always hung out in, and he said, “I need your help.”
And I said, “Are you sure I'm not in trouble?”
I thought, it could've been a trick. And sometimes it had been a trick. My work being what it was, my relationship with the people Alexander worked with wasn't exactly cordial.
I wasn't one of the louder people in the group I was in. My clique was pretty chill, all things considered. For us, being the Critic was always a kind of mutual decision among the collective. It wasn't a dick-waving contest. It wasn't some kind of weird metaphysical fistfight or something.
They all said I was good at bringing out the good in them. I'm not, like, humble bragging here. It was a bunch of stoners and do-gooders that I did stupid shit with. I don't think we really touched anything meaningful. Really, you could think of me as an enabler. Chief Enabler. The biggest of them all.
But that's funny. Because in college, when Alexander was just starting to get serious, he had stopped hanging around me. For a solid year. I heard through the grapevine he had badmouthed me. But I also heard it through a huge gossip. A real fucker. This guy, he had told me Alexander said I was never serious. That I wasn't worth shit. And what have you.
But we rekindled our friendship. We never talked about it. But he didn't smoke weed anymore. He didn't drink anymore. He had needed to be away from me to kick it, I think. Away from me to really get his priorities in order.
And I start to think, “Who really is the chaotic, punk one? Is it him? Or is it me?”
But after college, when I went deeper into this world of art and mindless masturbatory bullshit,
(and what kind of artist graduated in English Literature, you ask? One that sticks mostly to poetry and magic, to be one thousand percent honest.)
Alexander had gotten even more serious. He had used his abilities, as esteemed as mine and moreso, to serve The Man. That was the funny thing about them. There were whispers about them everywhere. No one was sure exactly what they were. Or what their name was. Or even who funded them. Everyone had different names for them.
Later, I came to find out that they really don't call themselves anything. The only thing they have is a kind of symbol on some of their in-house stuff. They don't have t-shirts or caps or anything. Not like the FBI. But it's three arrows. Pointing inward. Like that stand. You know the one. The new one.
But he's sitting me down. We're drinking coffee. He says there's a bad thing, some bad stuff, and he needs my help.
“I'm here for you, dude,” and it's true, because I am. I loved Alexander. Still do. Always will do. A friendship kind of love. I remember in college I took a writing class. In one of my stories, two characters ended a phone call by saying “love you.” And both characters, they happened to be gay, and this dude, he said, so fucking earnestly, “Oh, is that a gay culture thing?”
And it's just like, fuck.
Imagine that. Imagine living in this world without any sense of love. Without the ability to tell your friends, the people who fucking give you a reason to keep on fucking going, however corny and anime that sounds, that you love them. It's like living in certain anime, the kind for young dudes. There's no inter-relationships between anyone. There's a barrier. No one touches anyone else.
That's what heterosexuality is.
Except, Alexander is straight, so whatever.
He tells me, “This might be too much. I need you to come with me.”
And I did.
It was too much. But also not really. But I'll get to that. I got nothing but time, you know? Time and a half.
When someone says something like that, that it might be too much, you listen. Take it from me. If anything can be taken from this, maybe take that. I don't know. That might be the wrong thing to think once you hear this whole thing. It's not like I regret anything.
It reminds me of something my dad told me. My grandpa wasn't, from what I heard, the best of men. Died before I was ever born, but he came from the World War Dos a little bit harder than before he left. And that seemed like a lot, because men were just weird back then. Even less love than now.
But my dad once opened up to me. Told me it might be too much, too weird. We were drunk. It was a grown-up Christmas. The kind you have when you come back after college, when your parents are just getting used to treating you like adults.
He said his dad, my grandpa, had him beat his brothers and sisters when he was too tired after work. And my dad, he did it. He listened to his dad. Took the belt to them. And that's not something you forget. It's not something I could. Every time I remembered the ways anger would flash in his eyes, and I thought he'd hit me. When I was so much younger. So much smaller than he was.
He never did. But I always thought he would.
They died. After college. I remember it was before I became one of the Critics. I remember I was making some stupid bullshit. Some farting poem. God remembers, I don't. But I got the news. Mom and dad.
Carbon monoxide inhalation. And how much bullshit is that? Magic son, and they die from some broken ventilation?
Both dead. I didn't think to set up some sort of oxygen spell? I don't know. I could've done something. I didn't, though. Just as sure as my dad beat my uncles.
So I come with him. I haven't had any dealings too positive with the people Alexander works for. I forget if I said that. It doesn't matter. Never been called in. Some of my bigger pieces have gotten the fallout swept up by them. Small cease and desists sent in ways only people like me can perceive. Always seemed to be on the second strike. Seemed like they had kept me in the pocket until something like this.
Someone like me, I guess, is always useful. Wherever I am.
So Alexander took me somewhere. A black site, obviously. Seemed like a normal warehouse. There was even some stuff inside. It was probably used and filled and staffed with people who didn't know shit about what was happening beneath. This was all thumbprint and retinal scans. Some cool stuff.
Lot of people were calling him Doctor. Which was funny. I asked him when he got his doctorate. What it was for. He told me, get this. It was in containment engineering. Like containment sciences. Something like that. I asked him what the fuck that meant and why he didn't ever tell anyone about it.
He told me both those questions sort of answered each other. I asked him how was that. Dr. Alexander over there didn't get a chance to answer. I met a woman named Bridget Callaghan. She thanked me for meeting her. She had me sit. Alexander sat next to me. The room had no security men. No visible cameras. But I got the feeling that if I did anything, magic or not, that I would've been turned inside out.
Not that I wanted to.
It was just the two of them. And it was me.
I got to understanding, through them telling me, that this wasn't exactly Alexander's area. Sure, he apparently had his uses (he was quick to tell me). But this was something beyond him. Beyond everything that could be experienced and created by anything they were capable of.
“You, however, fit the bill,” she said.
They told me about a bug. A big bug. Something that lurked within Christianity. Something that may have eaten my God. Just, you know, some wild shit. I didn't believe it. They provided me with documentation. I read it. Horrible things. Cicada things.
But, when I was reading it, she said, “Haven't things felt so strange lately?”
And Alexander asked, “Has the dream reoccurred since high school?”
“What dream?” I said. “Are you the good cop now?”
“No one's a cop,” he said.
“Is it why I'm here?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Bridget.
When I was in college, Alexander and I roomed for a single year. It was almost a single semester, but I got a girlfriend (later a boyfriend) who kept me out of the room long enough that we didn't strangle each other. We didn't gel, Alexander and I. Our two brains in the same room, things didn't last long. We lived in our own filth. We got set in routine. Insular, mean. The cruel nicknames only two stoners at a small liberal arts college could come up with.
And when we weren't mean to others, we were mean to each other. But our habits, that's what grated. He always had to do everything alone. And I, an awkward weirdo, could barely go to the dining hall alone. And he would leave his food everywhere. In secret, disgusting places. He had no sense of smell. None whatsoever.
And, I also had the nightmares. Loud, fucking night terrors.
I never remembered them when I woke up. But it was obvious what was going on, in some part. Every night it happened, my screams woke Alexander up. And then they'd muffle. And he'd pull crackling cicada shells from my mouth. Sometimes, he told me later on, they still had the bugs inside.
This happened once a week.
And we just accepted it. We didn't talk about it much. We just dealt with it. Weekly, my roommate saved my life, and then during the day, we almost murdered each other over stolen weed resin and joint ends.
(I was always the thief.)
Then, when I found my brief significant other,
(One crystalline year in college, and then oh, later, I had met him in the Donahue Showcase. Friend of a friend. A lucky coincidence. We didn't sleep together. But we spent a long night together. An impossible to forget night. God, was it meant to be? Was it ever meant to be?)
the dreams had stopped. And I never had them again.
The similarities, here, were hard to look away from. Especially given the proposed solution. Reverberations sometimes go through time, I've found. Like generational trauma, only in reverse. And I guess mine is only from myself. No descendants in the void.
But I'll get there.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I said, full fucking knowing it has everything to do with everything.
She tells me about the Lions. There are twelve. In the center, they are going to put a person like me. It's gotta be a Christian, too. And Bridget, she says she's with the Ethics Committee. Capitalized like that. And I needed to consent.
I said, “Since when do you guys deal ethically?”
And I remember, she looked at me and said, “We practiced it every time we reigned in your fuck-ups instead of putting you in chains and locked you up somewhere, braindead.”
I said, “Jesus.”
Alexander winced.
The thing was, she wasn't wrong.
I had felt it in the air. The dreams about the bugs had come back. I had woken up with the crunch, night in and night out. Always the wriggle. Always the high bitter taste of innards. Always the terror instilled by the amnesia of just awakening. The iridescent rainbow wings clinging to my throat until I vomited it into the carpet aside my bed.
I had always thought it was an attempt to kill me. But without Alexander to save me from choking, I had still always woken up in time. I never died. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe it was a harbinger.
I don't know.
They told me that all of Christianity would be ended. That I would be put at the center of the Lions, and that I would end everything that had ever been. Jesus-ways. I asked if I would be God.
“Don't be an idiot. You're a block. You'll be locked in eternal struggle with the bug. The awakening thing.”
“What do you guys call it again?”
“SCP-3004-1,” she says.
“Wild,” I say.
And it's waking up. I know that. I've felt the terror, deep in your bones. Like watching mother drink. The cancer as clear in my eyes as the brown of her hair, forever untouched by grey just like her father. The betrayal of her cells, metastasizing in her liver with every sip.
And hadn't that happened to her father, too? Dear Grandpa? An Irish pipe-fitter. His father had left his family after losing a horse. This great-great-grandfather of mine slapped him and said, “That horse is worth more than you. Go find it.” So he left Georgia and came to Ohio then had my grandfather along with so many children, and guess what? That man worth so much less than a horse never learned how to love.
But grandpa tried his best. This isn't that story, though.
I remember him calling me after my grandmother divorced him. I remember his drunken nightly phonecalls. I remember the yellow of his eyes the last time I had seen him. I hadn't known my magic then. So he had died soon after. His liver failed him, but he had come to watch me read my winning DARE essay to the school.
Almost too on the nose, right? I know, I know. But it stuck with me.
And then the carbon monoxide had taken my mother. And father. Silent. Deadly. After all of that storied history. All of that plot being foreshadowed. And it ended because of gas.
So I said yes when they asked me to go into the center with the Lions.
I prepared. It didn't take long.
In the end, I went to the monsters and closed my eyes, and I awaited a world without Christianity.
Alexander said goodbye. He cried. Bridget thanked me. She was cold, but I knew it was beyond words. She was as kind to me as she knew how. I couldn't imagine the things she had done in her job.
I mean, fuck. Ethics Committee, right?
A woman I knew, before this, before all this, she was in a place called the Three Portlands. Kind of. I'm sure locals called it something else. She was a head of a small group of Kabbalists. She was kind of the head rabbi. They didn't really have leaders, either, but they understood she knew the most.
I remember once she told me that Jesus wasn't even considered a prophet in Judaism. And my Christian-centric brain was absolutely thrown by that. He's kind of a big deal in Islam, slightly, but absolutely nothing in Judaism revolves around him.
She taught me how Judeo-Christianity as a term really conflated two practices, two separate theologies, that really shouldn't've been so quickly grouped up.
I miss her a lot.
There's going to be no problem with that now.
When I was put in here, Bridget prepared me for what would be an eternity of battle. Grappling with the thing that was poking its way through all of the practices of my religion, of Christianity. Perverting it into something darker. I read the write-up. I knew what to expect.
Except, there's nothing.
Maybe another part of me went off to do battle. Maybe the part of me that's here is just the stopper. Maybe the stopper is all there is.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm still here. If this is just like the consciousness equivalent of a phantom limb. Mostly, I remember things. Mostly, I wait.
I don't regret it. But sometimes, it's lonely.
I hope Alexander is okay. I hope Esther is okay.
I love you, JJ. I'm sorry for never having told you. I'm sorry for everything that happened before all this.
I did it for you. You were the best thing that happened to me. You kept me sane in college. And even though we drifted apart, I owed so much to you. Alexander helped, but so much of this was you. I'll never know what you saw in me. Maybe you saw this.
I know you'll be fine in the next world.
I like to think in a different place, maybe one before this or outside of this, we could've been something more.
I don't know.
I don't even know why I direct this outward. I'm worried one day I'll stop thinking. Maybe it'll be a blessing.
I don't feel the bug anymore. Everything's quiet. At least I did that right.