PREVIOUS: No One Gets Out of Her Alive
FIRST: The Chosen Few

Part of me is aware that I'm being boiled, physically and spiritually. Part of me is bubbling away in agony that I can barely process. Part of me isn't quite here anymore. She's in Natasha's bed. Not sure where the bed is or even if it's real.
Her skin feels real. Her hair tastes real. Her eyes look real. Simulacra? Who cares? Less prep and she's still the best fuck I've had in… I don't know how long. I could have been down here for years already. Or seconds. Long enough to think about it.
Goddamn I hate thinking. Always leads back to questions leads to concerns leads to the reminder that yet again this isn't actually my heart's desire. What the fuck is? Just once, why can't I be happy with what I have? What the hell am I looking for?
I read Natasha's answer in my reflection on her eyes: Who cares? I don't need to give you a Superman speech to tell you that neither of us will ever be happy with what we've got. We both became witches for the same reasons: to make our selfish desires come true.
I consider my selfish desires. Money. Violence. Sex. Violence. Motion.
Wrong! Natasha's nails trace a pattern on my chest and I reconsider. Helping people. Violence. Sex. Violence. Fully automated luxury gay space communism. Yeah, I do want to help people. I like being a violent motherfucker but I'm not a fuckin' fascist. But also…
But what?
But that's so goddamn complicated! I don't want to spend my life responsible for other people. World revolution is great and all but that's work.
You literally invented a whole new type of magic for me. When have you ever shied away from work?
For you! All of that was for you! I can't find it in me to care about people.
Rukmini cares about others. The Rookie burned that away.
Like you're burning me away right now? The Rookie's a nickname, not a persona. Everything you hate about her you hate about me! Whatever nerves I have left spark furiously in an acid bath I can't see.
That's who you want to be? Natasha‘s incredulous. A killer and a robber and a – a cigarette smoker? What possible fucking reason could you have to take up cigars?
I say the bad part out loud: because I want to! Because it feels fucking great to smoke and kill and rob — okay I'm a monster. But not a real one. Who am I hurting? Banks? Rich pricks? Other gangs? You're one to talk, founder and CEO of Chappell Wraith Securities!
Natasha's eyes flare and between blinks I want to scream as my brain bubbles in nuclear soup. Yes, Ruku, I'm a fucking monster. I hoard wealth and magic and the power of the devil herself for my own twisted schemes. I'm a class traitor and a literal fucking demon – same as you. How can you enjoy it?
You like being human? Being laid up and watching your choices made for you and feeling empty where your energy should be? You like that pit where you keep being punked by fucking Nazis or laughed at for biting concrete – helpless to actually do anything by yourself – I'm so mad now it hurts more than the acid. You lived that for five years. I did it for twenty. I won't go back.
You don't have to, Natasha pleads silently. Take strength in us. In me and Diya and Ingrid and Zabu and –
I can't! I'm mercurial and homicidal and unreliable and I love it. I'm a monster and it hurts too much not to be. I've lived with your hate and I can live with every terrible choice I make – but not without my heart. I'm sure the world will be better off with you in charge but either kill me or give it back because I killed the devil once for it and I'll do it again!
Natasha melts. The bed melts. My skin melts. The simulacrum dissolves into something I don't have the organs to describe anymore – except as burning green pain running up what's left of my spine.
The pain doesn't speak to me directly. Its language is more literal than that. Now that Natasha's meaning isn't boxed in by words, I get it. Whoever she thinks I was, even without a monstrous inner voice, she doesn't see that in me. I'm too contaminated. Whatever's left will have to be reconstituted from the ground up – into the Rukmini she deserves.
Yeah. I'd like that too. Dying is a lot more fun than it sounds. It's frustrating not standing for anything. And if the choice is taken out of my hands…
I'd reject it.
This isn't me. I won't let it. Giving my choices over to someone else is cowardice, and I'm no coward. Who am I?
I'm Rukmini motherfucking Mahakali. My choices are mine. My failure is mine. My destiny is mine. I'm not going to hell twice without a god damn fight!
Focus! My focus settles into a pair of hands clawing upwards, pulling me up out of a scuzzy green sea and onto unsteadily cohering feet. A billion mossy hands surge over me, scraping across every inch of my cherry-red form and pulling me down to my ankles before survival instinct moves my legs for me. The sky itself is an endless wrinkled palm and the horizon consists of a dozen colossal fingers entwined together. I'm not sure where I'm wading at first – then I see it.
A colossal six-fingered hand rises out of the ocean like a jade pillar from a lost civilization. Someone's curled up on top of it. She's beyond the need for clothing now, beyond the need for form now – a bright green silhouette to my blaring red shadow – but I'd recognize that scornful stare anywhere.
She casually snaps her fingers at me and the universe under my waist folds in a way that instantly tears me off of my pelvis. I feel my guts materialize under me just so they can burn spilling out. The sea catches me as I fall and immediately drags me under. That's not fair. I can't die here. Not when I'm this close – not to my god damn heart –
Something spears me from underneath. Two black thermoplastic hands reach through my guts and find the space where blood should pump, complete with action, frame, barrel, and trigger. One hand procures a bullet: not when we're this close to killing her. The other slams it in me and fires.
Hell gets smaller as I shoot back to life. Smoke roils off the invisible line across my midsection where Natasha killed me. Our eyes meet in mutual understanding. Hell is only big enough for one of us. We're beyond the need for words. We want what our heart wants, and our heart wants whoever needs it more.
A pitch-black arm bursts out from under my left breast with a six-chambered revolver in its thermoplastic hand. Another one bursts out alongside it, then four, then eight, then more. A bouquet of hand cannons sprouts from the void under my lung and takes aim at Natasha.
She snaps her fingers. I pull my triggers. Natasha's spine vanishes into iron mist as my arms become flammable confetti. My ears ring in agony, then don't. My neck burns, then doesn't. My legs won't respond, my hands are gone – how am I seeing my back, my legs, the ground – my head is – being pulled under –
Five plastic fingers reach into my mouth and hook under my red-rimmed teeth before tearing me out of the drink into the air. Five prosthetic digits slide another bullet into my headless chamber. This one even has a jacketed tip: she doesn't get to choose your life for you. Ten fingers pull the trigger and shoot me onto my feet. Hell gets a little smaller as it glues what's left of me back together with nitrocellulose. I can't even find a seam around my neck, only a point where my skin is black powder instead of flesh.
I look up at the throne. A hollow green silhouette, like a three-dimensional connect-the-dots, slumps against its remains. Orange mist that stinks of iron hangs where everything under Natasha's skin used to be. Half of the throne's fingers are missing and the other half are burning stumps of bone. Tiny green appendages like six-fingered spiders skitter across its surface trying to stitch it back together.
I take a breath as her corpse picks itself up. Just enough flesh forms to connect the dots and remake her shape. Six orange metal paws burst messily from her shoulder joints, fumbling blindly around their new owner. One of them shoves itself into the space where her heart should be and cranks. Hell gets smaller as my engine roars and spins up a citrus-colored spine out of gasoline for her. We exchange furious smiles.
Natasha snaps her fingers and the sea explodes around me. A tidal wave of demons surges out from the throne, crested by dragons and tigers and wolves and flies with dripping black teeth and burning green eyes. It crashes over and swallows me whole. My limbs and skin and organs are reduced to ground meat, mashed between jaws with too many teeth, forced through rubber guts filled with acid and hate. Five years of pain strip out my thoughts and replace them with hollowness where my heart should be, agony where my thoughts should be, and an overriding knowledge that I deserve every bit of what's happened to me.
The vermintide recedes. Hell becomes still. A thousand bits of minced me float on the surface of the sea, with just enough awareness to know this is karma. I can't remember what it's like to not be food. I don't want to remember. I want to be better. I need to be hers. I want her to sculpt and command and free me from this prison of meat and pain and –
YOU NEED TO BE FREE OF HER! I am a thousand guns sprouting out of each seed of meat, clasped in fiber-plastic trees with six-chambered flowers facing the throne. I am every bullet sliding into each chamber, spinning in place against the firing pin, and kicking through the barrel. I am the fusillade blowing supersonic booms through Natasha's surging demontide and burrowing into her flesh. The violence is familiar – her body is cathartic – I am the snarling beast clawing my way out of her. Hell gets a whole lot smaller to rebuild me as I splash into the muck.
I look up to see how much smaller Hell will get and almost bash my head on the ceiling. Oh. That small: a twelve-fingered cell for a grudge match five years in the making, down to the final rounds. I turn to look at the throne and see Natasha's bright green fist. She knocks me flat on my ass and straddles me in full-mount. No more monsters, no more weapons, no more room. Just us.
Hell shrinks to here and now: trapped under the only person I've ever loved, so helplessly, hopelessly angry at her that I wish she'd kill me just so she'd feel even worse about it. A caustic cocktail of thoughts boils over in me – emotions I can't verbalize, blame I can't place, the sick splitting in my head where I can only think about how much she's hurt me –
And how much have I hurt her? Why can't I see everything she's done for me? We were going to save the world together. Despite everything I've done, everything I've put her through – put the world through – Natasha still believes in me. She wants me by her side. Why do I keep pulling away?
Because I won't give my heart up for other people's sake. Without it I'm nothing, I can do nothing, and I would rather die than stay that way. The rest of the world can do without it but I can't. I need it more than anything the way you need me and can't explain why any more than you can.
An electric arc crosses between us, connecting the things pumping fuel through our forms. If Natasha could articulate the depth of her feelings – make me see the world like she does – she wouldn't have to psychically inject them into every being on the planet. If I could do the same – then I wouldn't have come here to burn her life's work to the ground.
Hell squeezes us into a single embrace. Our lips find each other's throats. Sweet, hot fuel fills my mouth while my blood drains into hers. I'm cognizant only of working my way down her body as she folds around mine, chewing through her collarbone and digging through her ribs while she tears through my sternum to get at my heart. She tastes like cold iron and strawberries and feels like a screwdriver working through my chest.
My teeth close down on a throbbing, four-chambered heart at the same instant I feel something burst under my lungs. I swallow the last bit of Natasha's engine – it sears what's left of my throat – and hope I taste like sulfur in her mouth as the universe collapses on top of us.

LAST: Escape Velocity


PREVIOUS: Leather Pig
FIRST: The Chosen Few

“You paralyzed me?!”
“Well I had to remove your limbs,” Natasha says. “Didn't want you to feel that.”
“YOU DISMEMBERED ME?!” I don't care if my lungs aren't connected to me anymore, I'm still hyperventilating, goddamnit. The red throttles the back of my head and my throat and my — do I even have a chest — where am I, where's my body, where's my breath, where's my —
“Where's my heart?” It's screaming at me, redlining so loud I can't hear my own thoughts. Tightness in a metal chest, shortness of artificial breath, anticipation flooding every inch of my rubber veins — all my withdrawal symptoms are cranked up to eleven. I'm this close to regaining myself, my true, unfettered, unhinged self, the part of me this bitch literally ripped out and all I have to do is wring her neck —
Something pries my brain's own fingers off my throat and massages it — warm, comforting, safe —
“Breathe,” Natasha whispers, holding me tight. “Breathe. Breathe…”
I obey. I breathe. I live. I exhaust myself in her arms and let her hold me together while she takes me apart. I need to do something. I need to be someone. I can't just lie down and enjoy it… but I haven't been held like this in a long fucking time. We're whole again. There's nowhere to go and nothing to feel except safe in her grip. Our universe won't allow it.
It does allow for inconvenient questions.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask.
“Cleaning you up!” Natasha chirps. “ Let's see… you have a punctured oil tank, ruptured nuclear battery, fractured cranial casing, and a can of Shock Top stuffed in your coolant loop. I'm not even going to bother asking about that one. Love the new look by the way. The cat ears suit you! We have so much to talk about. I missed you so damn much!”
“You know that's Diya's fault, right? And your… daughters?”
“And whose fault is that after what you did to Ingrid? You're lucky I put her in time out.”
“I feel so lucky lying here without motor control,” I say. “Or eyes –”
Natasha's tongue clicks with a sound like a locust swarm. “Oh I just turned those off. Let me just… flip them… on…”
My eyes shoot open and orient me in the center of Hell. Around me, a monstrous assembly line spirals upwards towards the void, colored by walls of lunar regolith and falls of molten nickel. In the center of the dripping scaffold stands the scalped corpse of Belphegor. An army of kawaii demonata automata crawl across the still-breathing carcass, stripping it for parts and weeping green ferrofluid from every seam. Liquid metal drips off every inch of the assembly line, pooling on the ground and metastasizing into a million malachite hands that climb the crimson king's corpse into an ever-growing expanse of noxious industrial scaffolds. The shrill cries of machinery rise over the beat of an undying heart like an EDM mix custom-made for the devil himself.
“That's the devil herself, mind you.” The devil stands over me with emerald eyes and a smile that cuts through the volcanic air. Her body is clad in a serrated exoskeleton of jet-black and jade that ends in tripartite tendrils like green licorice instead of limbs. A Barrett XM500, complete with flesh-toned ankle stock, protrudes from her chest. Three bright green horns stab out like bayonets from underneath her streaming blond hair. Fuck! I'm light-headed just looking at her.
“Are we in hell?” I ask.
“Half and half. This used to be a throne room, but I thought it would make a much better workshop under our place. Having a sky view makes it so much airier, dont'cha think?”
“You did all this with my heart?” I don't bother hiding my amazement.
“You helped!” Natasha sounds thrilled. “You killed the prince of hell and made us heirs to his throne. I just needed your heart to claim it.”
“Holy hell.” I don't have a snappy retort this time – just a double take. “Where'd you get that gun?”
Natasha looks down at herself and flicks the rifle butt with a tentacle. The clang rings through my ears and makes my phantom teeth rattle. “Your girlfriend left it there. Got here right while I was popping the top off your head! Almost made me scalp you by the way. Real concern for your safety there.”
I sneer at her. “Your hands are wrapped around my spine. Stop jerking me around and tell me what you did!”
The skin on Natasha's face bubbles and sloughs off. Alliott's eyes blink frantically at me from underneath a foreign face before jade-green skin closes over them.
“I put her in time-out,” Natasha says simply. “She deserves worse, you know. You know she was going to steal your heart from you?”
“From you?”
“From you.” Natasha's voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “She was gonna take my heart and leave you to die.”
“I'm not falling for such an obvious bloody fib,” I say. Is that a twinge in my throat? Do I even have one anymore?
Natasha raps a scornful tendril against the rifle sagging in her chest. “You really think she's doing this out of the goodness of her heart after a couple weeks in your bed? You really think she'd be satisfied with a payoff as pitiful as revenge? Take it from someone in the know – it isn't.”
“She took your bullets for me!” I snarl. “What else do I need to know?”
“You know how old she is?” Natasha asks. “Or her favorite color? Or even what color her eyes are? Could you tell me anything about her that doesn't involve what guns she keeps in her legs?”
I don't have a response. Only pettiness. “Jealous?”
“I'm furious,” she says. “I can't blame you for your total lack of judgment or terrible taste in women but I can sure as hell blame Alliott for taking advantage of you. I might be a class traitor but she's a class traitor and arms dealer! She's a microcosm of everything wrong with the world.”
“If she's so fucking awful hurry up and brainwash her! Put the whole fucking planet under whatever passes for moral in your capitalist brain.” My voice comes out in frustrated gasps. “Please, Natty. Fix me. Show me you're less fucked up.”
Hell peels apart in front of us with the sound of fingers snapping. An invisible knife cleaves through the moon's molten meat and stone skin to reveal the Earth from a quarter-million kilometers up. No matter how many times I see it the view still takes my breath away.
“You know what's fucked up?” she says. “Post-scarcity thaumaturgy hoarded behind government regulations. Subliminal memetics in our Coke ads. Demonics as a service. We're fucking gods, Ruku! Gods who turned the Earth into a fucking dump for the profit margins!”
“Don't look at me,” I say. “I got the hell out of there.”
Natasha pokes my nose. "You ran. I don't blame you for that. You need a fire in you to run, to look for something better. You've got fire in spades! Always moving forward… never being satisfied with what you have — but you won't fight for it either."
She takes my jaw in hand and pulls my gaze to hers. Her eyes are electric.
“I hated you, you know that?” Her tone is almost vulnerable. “I couldn't even go to sleep some nights thinking about how much I wanted to cuddle you or kill you or kill myself. Head empty, no thoughts except how I could get back at you. I relived every moment of being hollowed out and wishing I deserved it so I could think about anything other than how you betrayed me.”
“Natasha –”
"I don't want to hate you. Or even your fake girlfriend. You know her parents could count as war criminals? She can't help being so fucked up. None of us can. This shit is in our blood from the day we're born to the day we die and there's not enough praxis in the world to cure that.”
“I'm sorry!” I shout. “I really am. For everything I did to you and all the things I didn't. I wish I had a good reason for running away but don't – I wish I could put your heart back in your chest, but can't – so I've come to grips with being damned, but not yet. From the bottom of whatever I have in here, I'm sorry and I wish I could have been different. But I'm not, and I'm not leaving without what's mine. You can give it back so I can try to make it up to you. Or you can play the supervillain with a moon base and I can take it back!”
An electric arc crosses between us. If looks could kill, we'd both be dead. If lips could kill, we'd also be dead. Hers taste like caramel and diesel and for once make me glad my lips are still wired up. Her doppelgangers rise from the muck to help her straddle me, take turns tasting my faceplate in the process — someone pulls my ears but at this point I'm past worrying about how I sound, I'm too busy snogging five different Natasha's abs she has abs – then she pulls away and I snap at her mouth before remembering I'm supposed to hate her guts. Fuck!
“Okay.” Her smile is full of knives. “I forgive you.”
The single remaining Natasha takes a step back and splits open from the chin down into an acid-green iron maiden. Inside the space where guts should go, a thousand tendrils snake out from a neon sphere hanging in her chest and drag me into her. It feels like being cleansed under a hot shower. Didn't realize how much I missed being the devil's concubine.
"God that was so much more cathartic than I thought it would be,” the sphere says. “Ruku, you're the biggest disaster I've ever met in my life and the most incredible woman I've met in it too. You showed me what I had to do. Without you I never would have found the strength to come this far. Everything I've done is thanks to you."
Oof.
"You still have that seed of goodness." Her voice pours over me like slag. "I'm going to grow it. Strip away your selfishness. Peel away your impulsiveness. Burn off your self-destructiveness."
I swallow.
"And then we'll fix the world. Become their conscience and give them the choice: make heaven down there or burn in hell up here. You. Me. Diya. Queens of a new world.”
Natasha holds me tighter. “What do you say?"
I sink into her grasp and consider her offer. If I say no… she does it to me anyways. If I say yes… she forgives me. Maybe even makes nice with Alliott. Replaces Diya. I can see it now – getting our hearts racing – heart, singular. Burning down the old world behind us as Natasha raises the new one ahead. I can be her destroyer and her goddess and her partner at the same time.
Fuck. This better not be what love feels like. I don't like it, I don't want it, I don't need it —
I just need my heart —
where are you —
I just want to taste the rest of her, not return back to reality —
BUT I NEED YOU —
I grab for my heart with a phantom hand and find a solid metal key. It fights back when I twist so I push harder – teasing, coaxing, cajoling, demanding, igniting Natasha's engine with a reverberating click. In that one split-second before takeoff, I realize I'm riding a rocket.
We go up in flames. I can't see but have a gut feeling about the nuclear fire racing out of us into the carcass of the crimson king. Every single servitor around us dissolves into the fuel that hell needs to drag itself around the guts of the Moon until a big blue marble hangs squarely in our sights. Belphegor awakes, eyes hollow, mouth open, soundlessly disgorging a boiling pink laser into the industrial nightmare above.
The nightmare commences with the sound of drums. A beam of love amplified by stimulated exposure to the radiance of Hell makes a one-way trip through an intricate system of physical logic gates melting behind it even as they compute, design, and execute a cascade of brute force calculations that tell a living thing's electrical bits exactly how to twist and bend so their deepest hopes and dreams match Natasha's desires so Belphegor can beam those calculations into every sentient mind on Earth.
I feel Natasha's triumph in the thaumic exhaust that incinerates us. It burns, then aches, then softens into concentrated affection burying me in a narcotic haze. A billion tiny hands tear at my exoskeleton and metaphysical being. Part of me wonders frantically what'll happen when they hit my nuclear battery. The rest of me is too far entangled in a shibari of the soul to care. Not a bad way to go, but then death always gets my engine hot.
The dull warmth of my surrender is shattered by the searing pain of my soul being torn apart. It's an instinctual recognition – a defense mechanism to warn me that I am being killed utterly and eternally. I can't see or hear or even feel anymore, but I can still burn.

NEXT: Contempt


It was a marvelous afternoon in Door County, Wisconsin. Leaves on the dry, arid trees had turned a faint orange color and were beginning to fall on the coarse grass below. In one particular area, hills rose to seclude a large pond; its surface shimmered in the resting sun. A rickety, old wooden pier had been erected in the middle going halfway towards the center of the pond, connecting the land and the water. The wooden boards softly groaned under pressure from a man leisurely walking across them.
The man was Asian, lanky, and had thinly framed circle spectacles. Underneath his glasses, he sported deep eye bags that were developed over countless overtime shifts and international assignments. He wore upon his face, messy black hair, a small two-part-pyramidal mustache, and a goatee on the end of his chin. Instead of his usual white lab coat, he wore a dark grey fleece jacket, as to not get stares from the locals.
He hummed a calming tune to himself, The black tackle box he was holding rattled slightly as he swung his arm in tempo. He slung an elegant fishing rod vertically against his shoulder, as he held its polished wooden handle gently, in the palm of his hand. The pole had the insignia of the SCP Foundation printed on it, with the words, "PROPERTY OF THE FISHING COUNCIL" just below it.
The Foundation had allotted Cole Thereven a three-day vacation to hone his fishing skills, for an upcoming project. He was given the choice of where to take the vacation, and he of course chose his own home state. Cole stopped at the end of the pier, and set the tackle box down beside him. He placed his hands on his hips, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in. This would be his first break in- He contemplated.
I…Don't even know how long.
With a struggle, he sat down on the edge of the pier, making sure to cuff his khakis before slipping his feet off the edge, and into the cold, sense-sharpening water below. He pulled the metal tackle box closer to himself.
One by one he flipped the sliver latches on the front of the container open with a soft:
Click!
The interior of the tackle box was severely rusted with the waters of several fishing trips past- some of which took place even when not in Cole's possession. On the top of the box's contents sat a small handbook labeled: "A FISHER'S HAND GUIDE: YOUR ROD AND BAIT".
Thereven took the handbook from the box, and flipped its cover open.
Hello! If you're reading this, you most likely have been asked to improve upon your fishing skills. Welcome to the Fishing Council.
Cole rolled his eyes at reading this. He had been on the Fishing Council for a little while now.
Let us begin with your fishing rod. This is a rod, specially designed and engineered by our members to deal with aquatic creatures that are- stronger than normal. Now, there should be an activation point on the rod, just below the property label. Go ahead and access it.
He scoffed. There was little that Thereven despised more than being told the obvious. He picked up his rod that was sitting next to him, and looked underneath the label on the handle. The polished wood shifted to show a small screen over an even smaller camera. Speech came out from the rod in a monotone voice and said:
"STAY STILL. IDENTIFICATION WILL BEGIN IMMEDIATELY."
The camera shot out a bright, red light. Taking Cole by surprise, he cursed and fumbled with the rod, almost dropping it into the water below.
"IDENTIFIED. WELCOME, COLE THEREVEN."
He took a moment to catch his breath, then he returned to the book.
Activated your rod? Wonderful! Now on to try your first bait. One that comes highly recommended by most of our members: the Nälkän (Sarkic) miniature squid. This is a bait originally used by members of Nälkän villages in Asia in order to capture enough fish to feed their village. Early variants were made from the flesh of the Nälkän people, but we produce them artificially in a lab, as to prevent unnecessary pain. Which will sound highly ironic given this next piece of information.
Cole raised his eyebrows.
The setback of this bait is that: It is required to be in a constant cycle of pain to be this productive. Open bait container #3 to see for yourself.
"Shit." Cole muttered to himself.
Setting the book down, he rummaged through the tacklebox, until he met a black, opaque plastic container with a label reading "#3" on it. He gulped.
Whatever is in that box is bound to be in horrible pain.
He opened the plastic latch at the end of the box, and he saw three small squids, about half the size of his palm. Using his thumb and his pointer finger, he carefully pinched one of the squids up. It had a cone-shaped head, and four outward curled tentacles. When closely inspected, Cole could see small stitching lines, porous skin texture, and needles arbitrarily puncturing sections of the squid's flesh. Each one of the squids was shaking, and letting out blood-curdling shrieks of pain.
Thereven panicked, and emptied box number three into the water, leaving the other two to the murky depths. Cole then grimly thought:
Best to put them out of their misery.
He turned his head back to the other one, still pinched between his fingers. Watching it, he felt around next to him to pick up the rod. Reaching under the dangling line of the fishing rod, he went to hook the squid on the fishing pole. But to his surprise, he saw no hook.
Instead, he felt a slight pull at the end of the fishing line, as if it was also holding on to the bait. As soon as he released the squid, it was dangling in mid-air, underneath the line.
"That's a…neat gimmick." He said, slightly taken aback.
He pulled the rod back behind his head, with both arms, and swung it forward with force, sending the end of the line far out into the water. The bait on the end of the rod skipped a couple of times in the opaque water before finally sinking, and leaving Cole with a tinge of guilt.
For a few moments, Cole looked out into the water and nervously gripped the handle of the fishing rod. The sun was just beginning to set, and in turn, began to create a crisp orange hue that lit the nature around him. As he was just starting to drink in and enjoy the end of a fine Wisconsin day, he felt a slight tug on the opposite end of the line.
Cole's whole body tensed up as he watched the water ripple around the bobber. He thought, excitedly-
Will I finally hook something?
Just then, the end of the fishing line thrust forward, almost pulling Cole into the water. As he was beginning to give in, a velvet cloud burst from where the end of his line was sitting. With a curious expression etched on his face, he reeled the line towards the pier and himself.
When the line reached the end of the pier, Cole braced himself, and then ripped the catch with all of his strength and separated it from the water. The catch breached the surface of the water, and created a sizeable splash that drenched the doctor's clothes.
A dark object dropped downwards to Cole's arms, which caused him to let go of the fishing pole, sending it clattering on the unpolished wood. Cole flinched, closed his eyes, opened his arms, and yet again braced for impact. The preparation was ill-suited though, as the heavy, water-logged fish bounced off his chest. Cole barely managed to grab hold of his newly caught fish as he plummeted backwards onto the pier below.
As Cole made his way back up to a standing position, he opened his eyes and saw:
In his arms was melted cheese, varying from artisan cheeses to cheese curds, dotted with squashed cherries. And hung over all ingredients like a veil, was the coveted, familiar stench of-
"Door County mead." Cole whispered.
And it was all in the shape of a catfish. Cole smiled tiredly at his catch. He had succeeded in what he came here for.
And he'd be taking those two last days off, to rest.


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There's a common myth about modern parapsychology that it is indistinguishable from mundane psychology. While it is true that modern parapsychology advocates for treating anomalies as one would a human subject, for both ethics and effectiveness, it is important to recall that there is a big difference in the understanding of Veiled and unVeiled brain research. Of these Veiled sciences the most important to remember in the field of parapsychology are cognitohazardous, antimemetic, memetic, oneiric and semiohazardous phenomena, sometimes abbreviated as CAMOS.
Historically, and still to this day, Oneirics is one of the least known, and least well understood, of the four disciplines. While the Department of Memetics and Countermemetics is one of the largest and best funded within the Foundation, there does not currently exist a Department of Oneirics, with the closest existing analogue being MTF Omicron Rho "The Dream Team" which handles combat and containment rather than research. That is not to say however that there is no research on parapsychological dream analysis. Most of you are likely aware of Sigmund Freud and the impact he's had on the field of psychology and its cultural perception. However, of particular interest to parapsychology are some of his later unpublished works, as well as the circumstances of his death.
In his investigation of the subconscious and analysis of dreams Freud taught himself how to lucid dream, and later, how to ascend to the Oneirosphere, where he is said to have practiced psychotherapy on Oneiroi under the name "Moray Oedipus". Many of "Moray"'s patients in the Oneirosphere were also Freud's patients in the waking world, and inspired much of his research in the late 1930s thought destroyed by the Nazis, and lost with Freud's passing. However, Freud's nephew Edward Bernays shortly after his dismissal as a PENTAGRAM memetics advisor in 1959 reported an entity coming to him in a dream "with the head of a white-nosed eel and the body of a Greek god" who informed him of the whereabouts of a buried mahogany box containing Freud's lost works. Bernays, an early investor in Prometheus Labs, provided this research to Prometheus for study, and it later became the basis for Prometheus's Oneirics Division, which later broke off to become Onerioi Inc. These documents were later submitted to the World Parahealth Organization during their investigation of Oneiroi Inc's technologies for harmful side-effects, at which point the research, in addition to further research by Oneiroi Inc, was made public to Veiled communities and organizations, such as the Foundation.
Freud's research, begun once aware of his cancer diagnosis, includes interviews with oracles, oneiroi, reincarnates, astral projectors and thoughtforms and incorporates Freud's own experiences in an attempt to posit physical and psychic laws, and determine a surefire way to persist indefinitely in the Oneirosphere. Oneiroi Inc's research, choosing to focus on the Oneirosphere not as a purely psychic plane but as a partially physical one, were able to verify Freud's predictions with their scientific equipment, expectedly finding that the Oneirosphere has considerably lower Daumal and Hume values than baseline reality. Oneiroi Inc consequently was able to discover how this could be manipulated to witness other times and places in our reality, or other realities and timelines entirely. These same set of experiments were able to determine that matter in the Oneirosphere is not made up of atoms at all, or not in a recognizable form, but rather much less stable "dream stuff" as it is colloquially known. They were even able to work out a geographical positioning system for the dreams of individual dreamers, when active. There have even been methods discovered which allow one to take ones physical body into the Oneirosphere or take one's dream self out of it, though I am given to understand these are quite unique and come with great risk.
All this is to say that dreams are not merely fantasy, especially to those more psychically attuned. Psychoanalysis may mean identifying and analyzing symbolism in dreams, what caused the onset of the dream, what a patient's mind is trying to tell them, and what it might say about their mental health. Parapsychoanalysis on the other hand means realizing that one's dreams may not solely stem from one's imagination. A beast chasing you in a recurring nightmare may be a real being meaning you harm, a dream of a loved one might include their actual consciousness, a dream of the future may come to pass. A patient may have a life in Oneiroi West, or another city in the O-Sphere and consider that to be more real than this physical existence ever could be. Some may have small businesses or corporations setting up advertising space in their minds, spitting slogans at them in their most vulnerable. Some may be kings and queens of a world in their mind, gods of their creations, or other dreamers.
The difficulty, then, is knowing when the patient is operating under delusion, and when the dream truly is more than fantasy.

Excerpt from "Introduction to Freudian Parapsychology"
Dr. Simon Glass, Foundation Director of Psychology and Parapsychology

As day broke over the forest, Camp Kenowhere came alive. Purple lights flickered into being in radiant lanterns. Waking heroes moaned and wiped the sleep from their eyes. Sheets rustled, cabinmates in turn emerging from their beds as, outside, soldiers ran drills in preparation for war. In one cabin, four little girls were getting ready to join them.
"Form up!" Iris exclaimed, snapping the four younger girls to attention in their fierce combat gear. Sigurrós adjusted her witch hat and got into position. Iris has helped her sew modifications into her witch costume to be more battle ready, but her hat's brim would still occasionally block her eyesight.
"We're ready!" Stella exclaimed, notching an arrow into her bow. "We'll beat you this time!" Stella had painted her face in green and brown camouflage, and she was wearing big black goggles with enchanted lenses that helped her see what others could not. Iris knelt down and began drawing sigils.
"Remember Stella, the shadows are an archer's best friend" Stella nodded and silently stepped behind her friends.
"Alice, Cooper, Jasper — ready up!" Fiona ordered, scowling from beneath her floral crown as her familiars descended from her shoulders. She was draped in a cloak typical of the Green Order and druidic armor of ironfleece.
Alice, Fiona's reptilian familiar, scampered off her shoulders and hid itself in the greenery, camouflaging perfectly, ready to attack. Cooper, her falcon, flew from her glove into the skies to give Fiona and aerial view of the battlefield. Jasper grew and grew from his housecat form to become a beast as large as a tiger and just as gentle.
"Consurge, Cassy et pugna" Iris chanted, and the sigils, drawn on a tree stump, combined into the drawn form of a young woman. "Remember, Cassy, this is only a scrimmage, so don't trounce them too soundly."
Siggurrós readied a magic missile spell. Cindy pumped her pneumatic fists.
"Pneumatic Power Fists…. ACTIVATE!" she screamed, jumping high with her steam powered boots. Cassy grinned in anticipation and sent out her first shadow clone.
Cindy leapt into battle, crashing down onto the shadow woman fist-first, dispersing it easily into a shadowy mist.
Meanwhile, several more shadow clones had formed, and began to approach the other girls with all the subtlety of a horde of shambling zombies.
Fiona imbued her strength into her animal companions, growing them to many times their size, and sent them into the fray, while Stella loosed her bow on the stragglers.
Siggy, however, was focusing on the high priority targets, Cassy and Iris. Iris had the ability to create convincingly real drawings and illusions, either by hand or by using sigils as a proxy to summon the illusions remotely, or on a delay. Cassy, Iris's one and only miraculously sentient drawing, had the ability to imbue illusions with substance, and create weak shadow creatures on her own, causing what would otherwise be harmless distractions into an army.
While on their own, neither of them were a very large threat, when combined, and with prep time, the two would bog down any enemies with overwhelming numbers or, god forbid, get creative.
Siggy had long ago learned the swiftness with which a two dimensional being could move across different mediums, and how hard they were to hit, from previous sparring sessions, so she focused on Iris. Of course, Iris wouldn't be the leader of the Order of Last Hope if she weren't formidable. While Cassy was crafting shadow creatures, Iris had begun creating illusionary copies of herself, and portions of the environment, as well as creating multiple sigils.
Siggy, however, had fully anticipated this, and kept close track of the real Iris before the fight had even started. So, she waited, and pretended to have lost track, aiming at the duplicates, and then at the last second hurling a magic missile right at the real Iris, dispelling her instan-
Wait.
That was just an illusion? How could she have possibly lost track?!
Siggy began to attack indiscriminately at all the Irises mowing them all down with sparkles and glitter. None of them were real!
Had Iris crafted an illusion before the fight even started? Had Siggy even seen the real Iris today?
Meanwhile her companions seemed to be doing quite well, they were almost done clearing up the shadow people. While Siggy was very proud of them, she was also oddly suspicious all of a sudden. They were winning too easily. Where was Iris? Siggy's eyes darted around until she noticed it. The rock, the rock on which Cassy's sigil had been drawn, it wasn't a rock at all! It was Iris! Disguised as a rock? What on Earth was she doing?
And that's when she noticed the shadows of the surrounding trees were too large.
She shouted a warning to her companions, but it was too late. The biggest shadow creature she had ever seen emerged from the ground. A faceless beast with many tentacles and a body which felt much… deeper than it should. Like it was the abyss itself, going on for universes. Like it shouldn't exist. Siggy had never seen such a- she'd never— she'd— nevernevernevernever
She'd never seen anything like this before right? Then why did it seem so familiar? She could almost remem—

Somewhere, Reality groggily awoke to the sound of buzzing. Still half asleep it couldn't remember if it was supposed to be a fantasy kingdom under siege by an evil wizard, or a global shadow conspiracy hiding the secret truths of the world.
Both seemed pretty implausible honestly.
Inside, a three eyed man with a crooked smile was screaming himself raw, running towards someone with a knife. The incessant buzzing of machines was starting to give Reality a headache.
Somebody hit the snooze and another SRA fizzled out.
Reality began drifting back to sleep.
Five more minutes.

-ber.
"LOOK OUT, SIGGY!"
And then she was unceremoniously shoved aside by a gorilla with an astronaut helmet.
Siggy looked up just in time to see the patch of concrete where she was stood decimated by a giant tentacle.
"What's going on? Where am I?" The little girl implored.
"Aw man that thing must have really done a fuckin number on ya", the robot monkey said.
"Hey, no cussing!" She automatically replied, as if for the millionth time.
"Sorry" Robomonkey sulked.
An explosion came from the direction of the tentacled beast as the Black Queen shot it with a spell.
"Move it you two!" She shouted, "you can banter later!"
And so they ran down labyrinthine corridors of concrete, as Robo explained.
"I told you not to look directly at that thing, it makes people forget! Not the thing to do on the final battle!"
"The final battle? Who are we fighting?"
"Them!" Robo shouted, pointing ahead to an oddly grassy clearing in the fortress.
And that's when Siggy saw the evil army arrayed against them. Jellybean golems and milk elementals, rusted teddy bears and badly CGIed cat-men. And above them all, on horseback, was arch-warlock Ronald Reagan, along with Siggy's dear doctor-aunt Lana, bound and gagged, captured by the evil man.
A contingent of knights in black armor were already engaging the golems, Siggy ran to join them.
"AY-MAX" shouted the little witch, as she threw fireballs at the candy golems and milk elementals.
The resulting smell of the globs that remained was terrible, just terrible.
Like poorly made butter and burnt sugar. Blegh! She commited not to do that again and fired up the other big gun in her spell arsenal.
"KHE-FA!" Siggy shouted, willing the air itself to punch a selacian with legs.
"KHE-FA KHE-FA KHE-FA KHE…" she shouted, taking down catmen and teddybears alike.
Meanwhile, Robo had turned into the King of All Spiders, and had jumped into the fray elsewhere kicking butt (eight legs worth) and taking Names.
Siggy and Robomonkey had turned the tide, reinvigorated the knights, who charged through the enemy as if they were two dimensional.
But then, the oddly shirtless man on the flying horse pointed his staff at Siggy and shouted:
"EMPTY DOWN DROOLING PATH! THE DECAYING FLESH OF FALSE MORALITY!"
This confused Siggy.
"Um, excuse me, Mr. Evil Warlock President, can you repeat that please?"
But the silly man had lost his face, and only flesh remained.
Siggy squinted, people were supposed to have faces.
She blinked, and looked again, and she saw he DID have a face. It was an unusual face, a circle with three arrows pointing towards the center, but Siggy had been taught not to judge people different from herself, and Siggy was a good girl.
She did stare a bit though, which was rather rude.
And as she stared, something stared back at her from between those arrows. A little girl, sleeping, trapped forever, never to -
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

Reality awoke from a nightmare and vomited an ocean onto its nice carpeted flooring.
That'd be hell to clean up later.
The World spun in and out of focus of its Sight, like a man hungover. Reality shut its three eyes a moment, to stop the spinning, stop the pounding in its skull.
Too late, it realized its mistake.
As Alto Clef struggled to stay awake, he was dragged screaming back to Slumberland.
Reality went with him.

Alto Clef awoke riding a dragon, cackling like a maniac and clutching a staff.
He didn't question it, he found it was best not to.
He observed the situation he found himself on. Battlefield, high fantasy, black and white morality.
Examining himself in the reflection of his staff's topper, he found that he was draped in black cloth, wearing a horned headdress and pale of visage.
Probably not on the side of Good then. Villains did always get the best outfits.
Hm. Dreamlike, but probably not one of Clef's dreams, those tended to be the same recurring few and this wasn't remotely traumatizing enough to be that.
Drugs? Didn't feel like acid or magic mushrooms to Clef, and he'd built up a pretty good tolerance over the years from repeated usage.
Psionic attack? Probably not. This didn't feel like Clef's conscious or subconscious to him. Still, it was a possibility.
His gut said reality bender though. And he was betting he knew which one as well.
Aaaaaand yep, there was a little girl in a witch costume zapping away at some demons or whatever, making her way to some tower.
SCP-239, his old nemesis.
Not for the first time, Clef wished he had killed her, when he had the chance.
Type Greens-- monsters every single one. Oh how he longed for the days of the Ichabod Campaign when he would gun them down like the vermin they are. The GOC back then had understood the menace these things posed, the evil they would do if given half the chance.
The Foundation never did. They contained and studied them at best, left them loose or employed them at the worst.
Even the GOC these days had grown soft, with the new guard whining about the "tragedy" that was Ichabod. The "genocide". Oh the horror, they say, while reaping the benefits sown by Clef and his comrades.
They hadn't seen first hand the cults and kingdoms built by child-gods, forcing baseline civilians to conform to their whims, making them want to. They disgusted him.
Not that Alto hadn't scratched the old itch over the years, "decommissioning" anomalies and hunting in the field, but he wasn't as young as he used to be.
These days Clef mostly taught those who'd listen that the only good reality bender was a dead one, and tested Site-19's containment breach preparedness.
If he was testing them right now he'd have to give them an F.
This wasn't the first time 239 had breached, nor was it the first time Clef, and Clef alone had to step in to save the day.
He'd have to requisition more SRAs again. He'd told Accounting he'd needed more, but they called his request "overkill" and gotten containment specialists to sign off on that. Maybe waving a shotgun in their face would change their tune. If not it was at least always good for a laugh.
But that would have to wait.
"GO MY MINIONS, ATTACK THE WITCH CHILD" he screeched, and cackled. Then he spurred his steed to dive towards the tower, to stop the girl behind this madness.
It was time to stab a witch.

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⚠ Content warning: This article contains sexual manipulation and substance abuse.

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Morning, Day 2, Iteration Two
Agent Nari Love is scheduled for a post-Reset appointment with Dr. Judeline Gravett. Either she will attend like an obedient little agent, or Dr. Gravett will drag her kicking and screaming into the Site-107 Medical Wing.
The thoughts sink into Nari's stomach, and with every attempt to bring it back to her frontal lobe she can feel it catch in her throat.

Lunch, Day 100, First Year
There were two kinds of veteran field agents in Foundation employ. One of them was eminently careful, eminently prepared; those agents who anticipate death at every corner, and live to appreciate when their paranoia is vindicated. Agent Osman, 38, stirred his cup with the carelessness of the latter.
"Well, there's always that one person, every site I've been to." Osman was tall and broad-shouldered, if a little underweight, with a face ten years older than his body. He drank too much coffee and ate about as much as Nari. "It's… it's usually a medical doctor, or an engineer, something technical technical. Always level-headed, very soft-spoken." Osman took a sip of his coffee. "For some reason, though, all the old-timers seem to hate them."
That made sense to Nari: medical doctors and engineers were some of the most insufferable people on the planet.
"I think I noticed it, you know, for real at -02." Osman paused to take a spoonful of chili. "Food's great, by the way, does that seem weird to you?"
Nari shrugged. "I'm not gonna complain."
"Okay, it's just… alright, so, Dr. Cunningham. They were always, you know, real cordial, but any time they came up in conversation, half the room would get a sour look on their faces. I'd… you know, I assumed it was because they were Black, and Site-02 was…" Osman smacked his lips. "… British."
"Uh, yeah." Nari paused for a slice of chicken and a sip of water. "I spent a year in Britain. Bad place to be the wrong kind of Asian."
"Is there a 'right' kind of Asian for… you know what, I'll drop that." Osman took a quick look over his shoulder, like he was watching out for someone, before turning back and continuing. "Thing is, a lot of the seniors were also Black. There were more than a few Nigerian immigrants who hated Cunningham as much as the worst racists on staff."
"You sure he—"
"They."
"Shit, sorry. But you sure they weren't just a prick?"
"I mean, maybe." Another turn. "But… okay, I've noticed this with more than just Cunningham. Dr. Chen and Technician Baker in 56, Director Graham in 17, 107's Dr. Gravett… I mean, there's a lot of them."
"Sure." Nari nodded, and took another bite of her chicken.

Late morning, Day 2, Iteration 2
Dr. Gravett barely looks up from her papers as Nari walks into her office. Even after the Reset, she's the very picture of composure, someone who could fasten a man to a chair one minute and comfort a vomiting fuck-up the next. "Good morning, Agent Love. Have a seat, I'll be with you in a bit."
If you're not Dr. Gravett, the only place to sit in her office is the examination table. It's clean and papered, sterile literally and figuratively, and reminds Nari of when she was a child. She hates it on the table.
Dr. Gravett spends a few more seconds looking at her papers before she gets up from her seat and goes to Nari's side. "Now, let's start with your blood pressure."
Nari wishes she could tell Dr. Gravett to go fuck herself.

Morning, Decemberish, Year 4
Agent Cazalla had introduced Dr. Judeline Gravett (had she heard that name before?) as "the scariest motherfucker in Site-107", and after meeting her in the Site Orientation, Agent Love was inclined to agree.
Let's start with her eyes: Dr. Gravett's pale-brown eyes had a way of piercing through whatever she directed them to. Nari would've likened it to being "undressed", except as the orientation went on it felt more and more like vivisection. That was probably an asset in her capacity as a physician, but that hardly made it better. The small keloid scar under her left eye only accentuated that cold violation.
Drawing back, Dr. Gravett cultivated an appearance that was better suited to a federal interrogator. Beneath her white coat she wore a crisp button-down the color of dried blood, olive cargo pants with a suspicious number of pockets, and steel-toed boots. Her manner was sharp, her every movement purposeful, her words utterly without accent. If she'd given her age and it was anywhere between 26 and 66, Nari both would and wouldn't have been surprised.
Nari barely remembered anything else from the orientation. Something about "SCP-6320". Some shrink named Lancaster she was supposed to talk to if things got heavy. Basic info on the person she'd be guarding.
When it came down to it, though, it was either dwelling on an off-putting doctor, or obsessing over the feeling Overwatch had stuck her in 107 to rot.

Noon, Day 4 since the Campout, Year 5
"I'm thinking of quitting."
The shrink got that look on his face. It was the look everyone seemed to sport when the prospect of resignation came up, that uncomfortable mix of pity and worry that was never quite put into words. Like a terrible inside joke that nobody could bring themselves to laugh at.
He coughed, and adjusted his papers. "Well… that's unfortunate, Agent Love. You've been—"
"Oh fuck off." Nari rolled her eyes. "Look, I fucked up. Bad. I don't… I don't know why this fucking place wants me around so badly, but I'm clearly…" Her words tangled in her throat. "… fuck!"
Something shifted in the shrink, and the look was gone. "The Foundation doesn't expect you to be perfect, Agent Love, especially not off-duty."
"Am I even good on-duty?" She laughed. "Like oh my god, doc, have you looked at my records? I barely pass written in each exam, and I bet I've bombed more emotionals than they need to kick me out. Why don't they?"
The shrink's face shifted again, back to that look. "You have to be useful to them, if they've kept you around for, for five years."
And what a nice five years it's been. Cleaning up after other people's fights, getting tricked into snapping at D-Class, working her ass off to graduate from Security only to find a glorified retread of her past duties, losing what little friends she could keep every time Foundation Overwatch knocked her to a different site. The last few days had been little more than a more honest reenactment of Nari Love's anomalous career.
So yeah, like Nari was of any use in the business of "Protect". She was an explosive fuck-up that'd been stuck in the middle of Nevada where the only things coming for her client were ~spooky rock patterns~ and something the shrink insisted she'd never had a chance against, anyways. Good. On. Her.
Like a shark that had just sniffed blood, the shrink's face returned to professional concern. "There's tissues on the shelf to your left, if you need them."
Nari had barely noticed she'd been crying.

"You don't have to blame yourself, Agent Love. There was nothing you could do."

Later morning, Day 2, Iteration 2
"109 over 71. A bit low, but well-within a healthy range." Dr. Gravett undoes the strap over Nari's arm and, despite the very real chance she might lose it again, records the result. "Have you noticed any changes since your last physical?"
"Like the Shift?" Something almost like a chuckle escapes Nari's clenched teeth. "Or do you mean longer-term, like how you've treated me?"
If her words get to Dr. Gravett, it doesn't show. "I mean with regards to health, Agent Love."
"Oh, oh no, Dr. Gravett! I'm actually doing very good, thank you for asking. Aside from a few scrapes I got from your fucking lemon tree, I'm doing fine."
Dr. Gravett nods. "That's good to hear." 'Good to hear' doesn't stop her from looking Nari over one last time. She shivers, and hates that she shivers, and hates that Dr. Gravett raises an eyebrow at her shivering. "Are you cold, Agent Love?"
"No." Just remembering something.
Dr. Gravett remains silent for a while, before jotting something else onto her clipboard and nodding. "Alright, then. Let's move on to the next phase of the exam."
She walks back to the desk, opening one of the cabinets above it and retrieving… oh god no.
"For the next part of the exam, I'm going to ask you to change into this gown. It'll be easier to check your vitals that way." Dr. Gravett lays the gown in Nari's lap; she's too stunned to grab it herself. "Knock on the door once you're done changing." And with that, Dr. Gravett leaves the examination room.
When Nari comes back to reality, she wants to scream. She doesn't, of course, but she wants to.

Night, Day Whatever, Year 5

Contact: Dr. Judeline Gravett
10:32

"Hey Jude"

do u get that a lot? "hey Jude"? seems like the kind of thing lanc would say

i don't actually talk to him much, now. feel a lot better

anyways, ur getting off for lunch soon, right? i was wondering if u wanted to meet up in the cafeteria

lemme know what u think

11:51

anything interesting in the clinic?

wait

shit

sorry, forgot about patient confidentiality

ignore that

18:13

god, what a shift

so i was guarding the dude im supposed to gaurd when, finally, someone actually gives me something to protect them against

in this case, falling cart on the sector b ramp

pushed my guy out ofthe way and everything

felt cool

20:26

are you ignoring me

you seem distant

20:58

Pardon me, I was working late today.

shit, no worries!

was wondering if i was being *annoying* back there, how much i texted you

It's not a problem. I enjoy hearing from you.

u 2! ☺

I think I heard something about the cart. One of the D-Class was transporting samples for Dr. Klein?

theyre samples testing?

Something about the copper, I believe. It's not classified, which is why we're allowed to speculate over text.

nobody tells me anything!

*I'm* telling you. 💁🏿♀

Alright, I need to get ready for bed. Talk to you tomorrow, Nari.

u 2

2:01

i love you.

Noonish, February, 11th Grade
Nari Love wasn't a good student, in more ways than one.
For one thing, she was… okay when it came to academics. She could tell you Beloved was a harrowing book, but she couldn't say why in 500 words. Given a geometry question she could intuit the angle of something, but might not remember a few steps in the proof. If you asked her which president was famous for trustbusting, she'd definitely think back to the early 20th century, but might answer Hayes. You could even get her to remember a few physics equations, but good luck reading her lab book scrawl. It felt like the only things she excelled at were JROTC and track.
Student as a… social class? Nari wasn't too good at that, either. Moving had never made her good at friendships, and her brothers' friends were too creepy to count. It didn't help this was her first year at a non-military school.
Maybe she wasn't suited for school. Maybe she wasn't suited for anything.

Night, The Campout, Year 5
You know what was nice? The Great Outdoors. Brownhorn Canyon Paranatural Park, or at least the part of it that fell under treaty law, was an excellent place for Nari to stretch her legs, tan her hide, and overall just relax after weeks in cramped 107.
You know what sucked? Sleeping in a tent. Could you see the stars from a tent? The moon? All of them had been vaccinated against rabies and Brownhorn wasn't diamondback territory. The only thing they had to worry about were those big robotic "yaoguai", and almost all of them were on the Indigenous end of the Park.
"Who give a shit, Nari?!" But somehow, one Agent Laura Cazalla-Aguayo was finding reason to take offense. "We're a goddamn desert, and you need to sleep in a fucking tent."
Nari would've thought friendship meant not having pointless arguments about tents. If Agent Cazalla wanted to sleep in a cramped piece of flimsy cloth, so be it, but Nari Love had been a fucking marine, and she didn't need to be talked down on the matter of outdoor survival. It wasn't as if she was unprepared for the desert; on the contrary, she planned around her ideal sleeping arrangements.
You'll have to forgive Nari: she's run through this memory so many times, and the easiest way out is self-justification.
Nari crossed her arms and scoffed. "I know what I'm doing." And she'd survived, hadn't she?
But Agent Cazalla hadn't seen it that way. "Do you know how cold it gets at night? Because—"
"—I know how cold it gets!"
"—it's gonna get way colder, dumbass!"
Agent Cazalla had been so hung-up on Nari's so-so intellectual skills that she kept trying to play babysitter for her. If she'd only paid less attention to Nari and more attention to the horizon, neither of them would be where they ended up.
"Look, Nari, it's not a big deal, alright?" She was doing those nose breaths she did when she was angry. "There's enough room for you in my tent."
"And I don't want to go in your fucking tent!"
How did the argument go? Nari remembers that it was particularly circular, but when had it started to bite its ass?
Agent Cazalla's problem was that, like Nari, she refused the back down when presented with an emotionally-unsatisfying opportunity to do so. Cazalla couldn't trust that Nari would be okay on her own, and so she went on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about Nari's health and comfort and things she would only ever be wrong about. Why did she have to pay so much attention to Nari's "safety"?
Nari knows that, eventually, one or both of them realized the argument was going in circles, and Nari excused herself to use the restroom.
They'd set up camp in a depression in the landscape, and for as much as two of them had seen of each-other, piss would naturally flow back to the "campsite". That gave Nari the opportunity to go away and dwell on the issue in silence; why wouldn't she have taken it?
Brownhorn Canyon didn't have many restrooms, but it didn't have many watering holes either. It meant that Nari had little trouble finding a place to do her business.
What was her thought process? Nari knows that she spent a lot more time away from the camp than necessary to clean up after herself, and that most of that time was spent inside her head. Had it been the same retreads over their argument that blanketed Nari's recollections? Whatever the case, she knows that she was preoccupied for a significant chunk of time, and that, more than anything, might have been what saved her.
Once Nari finished, she buckled up and headed back to camp. She'd picked the far end of a nearby ridge to do her business, positioned so you could look over the campsite on the way over; it's how Nari noticed something amiss before she got too close.
Nari would like to say that the sight of the camp is burned into her brain, but to be honest the details are still a little hazy. How would you memorize something the human brain was never expected to see? Perhaps you'd file it in your head as an animal attack, along with the dozens of liveleaks you subjected yourself to in the aftermath, but animals didn't shake and leap like the "yaoguai" did, attacked with claws and teeth rather than bludgeoning, moved like, you know, animals rather than possessed service drones.
Lancaster, to this very moment, tells Nari that it's not her fault, that there's nothing she could have done to protect Agent Cazalla. But there's no way to prepare yourself for seeing your only friend murdered by a robot dog, and so you ignore that lizard-brain absurdity, disregarding that personal responsibility has no place in such a situation, and turn your memories into an exercise in who was right and who was wrong.
It's an exercise that always fails Nari.

Later morning, Day 2, Iteration 2
Nari hates the way the paper crinkles and shrinks, hates the way her skin sticks to the vinyl, hates her itchy gown. She hates how cold Site-107 is today, how it makes her shiver like a scared little lamb. How, despite the fact that she was fine thank you, Nari dragged herself to the infirmary for a physical. Mostly, however, Nari hates the pretense Dr. Gravett puts up, the ways she pretends she doesn't already know her inside and out.
Nari knocks on the door, and Dr. Gravett comes back almost immediately. "I do apologize for asking you to do this, Agent."
"Couldn't someone else do this?" Nari crosses her arms. "Shouldn't someone else do this?"
"The others are busy with the wounded, I'm afraid. Take a seat."
Dr. Gravett begins the exam by taking a stethoscope to Nari's heart and lungs. It's nice to know she still gives a shit about Nari's heart, or whether or not she's still breathing.
Next is the oral exam: Dr. Gravett has Nari open her mouth, and shines a small light down her throat to check for abnormalities. It's not the first time she's been in there, and Nari's blood boils knowing that despite everything, it might not be the last.
Eyes. Dr. Gravett has her following the light. Nari tries not to follow her own eyes.
Abdominal is next. The good doctor taps and squeezes and presses and listens and Nari fights her most basal impulses with every touch.
Next are the nerves, and Dr. Gravett is ever-so-clinical in her approach. For her part, Nari plays the role of a healthy and obedient little agent, trying best as she can not to let her brain betray the both of them any more than it already has. She might not be winning: Gravett pauses at one point, then repeats a certain test several more times.
Limbs. Dr. Gravett's hands run over her arms and legs, working her joints like a marionette in servicing. If she notices the shivers running down Nari's spine, she doesn't mention them.
"Now," and Nari can't believe Dr. Gravett can ask what she's about to ask with a straight face. "I'd like to conduct a breast exam. Would that be alright?"
No, and fuck off, asshole. "Sure."
There is, of course, nothing tender about the way Dr. Gravett examines Nari's breasts, nor should there be. Such intention would be even more of an ethical nightmare than the fact that Gravett was conducting the physical. Does that stop Nari from tensing as if the context were different, as if things were different and Gravett wasn't a fucking two-face?
Nevertheless, Dr. Gravett continues without a word, and doesn't speak until she's done with Nari's breasts. "All clear. Now, before we get to—"
"How could you treat me like this?"
There is no surprise on Dr. Gravett's face. Exasperation, maybe, but no surprise. "Do you mean right now, Agent Love? Because for all our history, you are my patient, and I am—"
"And I don't a shit about Doctor-Patient. I mean 'How can you look me in the eye like a stranger after everything we've done?', Gravett. How the fuck can you just pretend?!"
Dr. Gravett rolls her eyes. "I have better things to worry about than a brief fling, so if you're done being recalcitrant, I'd like to move on with the exam."
"A 'brief fling'!" Nari finds herself cackling. "A fucking 'brief fling', holy shit! Is everyone in Medical as fucking ghoulish as you are?!"
"Some of us. Now, can we—"
"You're the reason I'm trapped in this fucking site, Judeline!"
She doesn't even raise an eyebrow, and that only gets Nari madder.
"You trapped me here!" Nari bangs her fist on the vinyl. "I was all set to leave this stupid fucking organization and you, you fucking trapped me here! You said what you, what you fucking said, did what you fucking did, and, a-and look where I am! Some dark and stupid prison in a fucking mine when I could be out there doing literally anything fucking else!
"And you have the balls to pretend you didn't get way, waaay into my heart, like…" She cackles again, a sob nearly catching in her throat. "You told me all, all those… fucking things, Judy. Told me you needed me, they needed me, and then when you didn't y-you just fucking… you just strung me along."
It's getting hard for Nari to maintain her composure; Dr. Gravett, meanwhile, hasn't flinched.
"You strung me along, text here, touch there… and then the site just eats us and it's like I never fucking existed. So yeah." Nari bites back a sob. "Yeah."
For a few seconds there's only the buzz of fluorescent lights as neither of them speak. Then Dr. Gravett groans, drumming her fingers on her clipboard as if she honestly believes she can talk her way out. Nari tries not to think about how she absolutely can.
"… that will conclude the physical, Agent Love." There's nothing on her face to indicate she's heard anything. "I'll let you change into your clothes." And without another word, Dr. Gravett turns to the door and makes her way out of the office.
And then, at the precipice, she stops.
"… I don't hate you, Nari." She looks back. "I don't feel anything for you, and I don't think I ever did."
Dr. Gravett leaves, and only then does Nari allow herself to cry.

Night, Day 11 since the Campout, Year 5
"Good evening, Agent Love. Do you need a ride?"
There are some choices you don't necessarily 'get to make'; certainly, you make them, but it isn't strictly a conscious one. The chemicals in your brain, both natural and narcotic, may drive you to perform a decision that feels inevitable. That decision, then, might lead to other decisions, or require other decisions, or even wall other decisions off. These, in turn, lead to a kind of butterfly effect of decision-making, a never-ending kaleidoscope of decision after decision after decision, until Agent Love was walking down the only road out of 107 with only the clothes on her back, some personal belongings, and a forty of fireball.
Nari was too drunk to be thinking.
That someone would see her walking away was almost assured; there was, again, a single working road in and out of the site. Someone stopping to "help" her was another matter. Dr. Lancaster might have, perhaps. Simmons, maybe. Maybe even Cazalla, but she'd been the last thing keeping Nari around in the first place.
Dr. Gravett, though?
The good doctor painted a remarkably surreal image from behind the wheel of her SUV. That aura of menace was still there, but it was tempered, grounded by the air freshener that hung around her mirror, or the stubborn remains of a bumper sticker on the back.
Nari managed a grimace. "And what do you want?"
"Are you… leaving?"
"What the fuck d'you think I'm doing?!" She howled with laughter. "Yeah, I'm leaving!"
Dr. Gravett paused, letting Nari exist in her own bubble of hostility, before speaking again. "It's going to get cold, Love. Would you like a ride into town?"
Nari wished she had the balls to tell Dr. Gravett to fuck off… but it was getting cold, and it would only get colder as the sun continued to set.
Without another word, the passenger door opened, and Nari stepped inside.
Dr. Gravett's car smelled like pine freshener and old leather. Water bottles and old papers dotted the floor of the passenger seat; behind them, forgotten toys and school supplies. The engine did not hum like Nari remembered.
Nari— "You can keep the bottle, but please don't drink in the car." Nari put the bottle away. "Thank you." Nari nodded, and closed her eyes.
The disappointment set in almost as quickly as the nausea. Nari was such a useless fuck-up that she couldn't even quit properly, if you could even call what she did "quitting". If she didn't even have the patience to book an appointment with HR, why the hell did she think she could just walk away from 107? She's lucky it was Gravett that found her; Needle wouldn't have been as delicate about it.
The fireball was burning in her stomach, and the drunken shame was beginning to get crueler than her little flashes of sobriety. She'd almost gone AWOL. Nari Love had almost gone AWOL, and if it'd been her shift it'd definitely have been AWOL. She was a disgusting little coward who couldn't stand to be alone for more than a day. Don't go to sleep, coward. Dr. Gravett should've taken her off to the side of the road and cut her throat, leave her churning innards for the cougars and coyotes, let the last thing she ever taste be alcoholic bile mixed with her own blood as—
Oh god damn it, not in Gravett's car.
Nari scrambled to open the window, and almost got her head outside until her stomach violently gave and she, her belongings, and the passenger side of Dr. Gravett's car were stained with puke. She barely had time to realize how fucked she was before her stomach gave again.
For her part, Dr. Gravett stayed remarkably calm, throwing Nari a pitiful look but otherwise continuing as if nothing had happened.
Neither of them would speak until about twenty minutes later, when Dr. Gravett pulled up to a nondescript townhouse (when had they made it to the city?) and stopped the car. "Would you like to come inside?"
"Sure." As if we have a choice.
Dr. Gravett nodded, stepping out of the car and circling around to help Nari out of her mess. As her arms curled around Nari's to help her up, the thought occurred to her that she hadn't been touched by someone in years, and her stomach almost gave again.
Nari barely situated herself in time for Dr. Gravett to hand her a set of keys. "I'll clean the car. Help yourself to anything in the fridge."
That's good. Nari was hungry.
The dormitories of Site-107, though not strictly "spartan", had a sterile feeling not even a mess could distract from. With this in mind, Dr. Gravett's townhouse was a disorientating breath of fresh air. The walls were textured, brown on white, hung with kitschy paintings and photographs of Gravett and what might've been her family. Its furniture felt hand-picked — a benefit of not having to fit through an underground labyrinth — and contributed to a homey atmosphere that, despite the limited space, could never have been achieved in 107. And… and she had a kitchen, not a bachelor pad kitchenette but a fucking kitchen!
Nari left her boots by the door, but even in bare socks she couldn't help but feel like she was desecrating the house. Lazy traitors like Nari didn't deserve this modicum of comfort. Dr. Gravett may have offered her anything in the fridge, but it suddenly didn't feel like hers to take.
Christ, her head was spinning.
Nari barely noticed as Dr. Gravett entered the house, and almost startled once she actually spoke. "Would you like a clean pair of clothes? You're about my daughter's size."
Right, she was covered in her own vomit. "I'm… I don't want to impose or anything." Nari turned back to face Gravett, and almost toppled herself trying to follow her movements. "You never told me y'have a daughter."
Dr. Gravett stopped at a coat rack, where she doffed her labcoat. Her arms were… well-defined. "She's Boleyn, so I don't see her as much as I'd like." She smiled; it struck Nari that she'd never seen Gravett smile before. "Her name's also Judeline. She was my sister's, before the earthquake."
"… shit. I'm sorry."
"It is what it is." Dr. Gravett made her way into to the kitchen, straight for the kettle. "Judeline and Antoine are doing Firewatch Scouts, so we'll have the house to ourselves for the weekend." She glanced back. "I'm assuming you'd rather not stay in 107."
Nari grunted in affirmation. "Mind if I, uh—"
"Go ahead. I… don't expect many guests." Spoken like a true vampire. What would her teeth feel like?
Nari fumbled onto the couch, slipping off her backpack and retrieving the forty before it spilled. She hadn't drunk much, not yet — one of the few benefits of being short. Would it be bad form to offer some to Gravett?
"Hey, Dr. Gravett."
"Please, call me Judeline." It sounded like she was starting some tea.
"Judeline, sure. Want some fireball?"
Dr. Gravett Judeline made her way back to the living room, taking a seat on a nearby couch. She looked at the glass, squinting slightly, before looking off at a clock, then back to Nari. "I think I'll try some, yes."
"Tiiight." Nari leaned over to hand off the bottle to Judeline. She looked it over — looked back to the clock, too, weird — before getting up to grab herself a shot glass. Judeline was… weirdly methodical about her shot, but that might've been Nari reading too much into the woman. Regardless, Judeline calmly resealed the bottle and walked back to the couch. "So?"
"Interesting choice. Very… festive." It didn't look like Judeline appreciated the taste. "I don't normally drink. I've seen what it does to people."
Nari chuckled and shrugged. "I'm still hot."
Judeline nodded. "I suppose. Are you still hungry, Love?"
"Heh, don't worry about me, Judeline."
"It's hard not to worry in my line of work." Her eyes looked over Nari, like she was checking for something. "You're shivering, Love."
Had she been shivering? "I'm… fine. I, uh, don't know why, the house isn't cold."
"Here." Judeline got up once more, circling around the sofa to retrieve the pale-brown throw blanket to hand off to Nari. Her timing was convenient: the tea kettle had just begun to whistle.
Nari took another look around the room, and once more contemplated its weird humanity. She couldn't afford to live outside the Foundation dormitories, which meant she rarely thought about life outside its walls. It never struck her that it might not be the case for everyone. Must've been nice.
Her train of thought was interrupted once more by Judeline, handing off a cup of some floral-smelling tea. "Drink."
It tasted nice.
Judeline sat back down, this time on the other end of Nari's couch. "How is it, Love? It's a rose blend."
Nari chuckled, and opened her mouth to tell her it was great, but her intentions had no bearing on her next words: "… you're one of the only people to call me 'Love'." Another chuckle. "Just 'Love'. Makes you sound… British."
"Would you prefer I call you something else?"
"Heh, it's cool. Love works."
Judeline chuckled. "It's not a bad name."
Love would have responded, but it was at that moment that the delay passed, and it hit her that she'd just seen Dr. Judeline Gravett laugh. Dr. Gravett never laughed; even accounting for the deathly seriousness of Medical's work, Dr. Gravett was as serious as they came. Even so, Judeline just laughed, and laughed in front of Nari of all people.
The next sip of her tea was a little cooler.
"Do I scare you, Love?"
It was, however, still hot enough to distress Love as it splashed down through her clothes.
Judeline got up immediately, heading for the kitchen and coming back with a bundle of paper towels. She didn't ask before she began to dry Nari off, and…
… does Nari have to explain herself, to herself? That seemed to be all she did these days, between starting fights with her coworkers and panicking at the thought that the walls were getting smaller. Fine, then:

Nari was drunk. When she'd set out from Site-107, she'd planned to either fight her way through her own mistakes or die trying. Alcohol took her mind off the pain and doubts; simple as that.
In Nari's line of work, hostility was a constant. Military or Foundation, you were broken down into something obedient, because how else were you supposed to be able to kill someone when the command came? Kindness had no place in combat.
Working for the Foundation was fucking lonely. You were stuck in the barracks outside of deployment, and those barracks were usually several meters underground. All of your coworkers were just as broken as you, but in radically different ways that were impossible to relate to; even the shared trauma went away once your squad was redeployed to different sites.
And, and Judeline was just so tender in her touch, so considerate as she wiped the mess from Nari's clothes, she just…

Nari gasped.
Of course Judeline noticed; how could Nari have expected to hide her physiological reactions from a doctor? "Sensitive, are we?" It was unclear whether her words, sudden tonal shift, or the way her expression remained neutral was the most off-putting part of the exchange.
"I'm not…" Nari swallowed, and realized too late that Judeline would notice that too.
For the second time that night, Judeline smiled. It's a smile still stuck in the folds of Nari's memories.
Instinct moved her closer, but Judeline was faster, deftly pinning her against the couch. "You've gotten so dirty, cheri." Her normal affectation was gone, now; in its place was a distinctly French accent, smooth as bourbon and dripping with sweetness. "Would you like to use my bath?"
Judeline had a hand on Nari's chest, just over her heart, and it almost looked like she was savoring every beat; she may as well have had her free hand on Nari's throat, because all the muscles in her neck could only nod weakly in agreement.
Neither did she speak as Judeline pulled her off of the couch by her shirt, took her hand, and lead her through the house to the master bathroom. Why ruin the moment?
(Judeline's bathroom is wonderful, by the way. Lots of clean white marble surfaces, shower with a ledge, fancy two-person tub. There's a common stock photo of flowers Nari can no longer look at without her heart curdling.)
Judeline let go of Nari's hand and turned to look at her, eyes examining her clothes with pseudo-clinical interest. Even through the buzz, her intentions were crystal clear, so there was no surprise when she pointed to the vomit stain and, with that familiar accentless clinicality, spoke: "You should change out of those clothes."
Nari often tells herself that not even Dr. Gravett could've hidden the smirk on Judeline's face. It didn't stop her from stripping down.
Judeline watched her, of course. There was definitely something thrilling about being admired as Nari had been; in retrospect, Nari wonders if it was even sexual. Genuine affection was hard to come by, and Nari had never been more certain that Judeline was genuine than when she smiled at her naked body.
"You're an obedient little agent, aren't you?"
Nari's heart felt like it was pulling taught on her vocal cords, threatening to fall out with the slightest nod.
Judeline briefly turned her gaze to start the bath, before sitting at its edge and patting her lap. "Sit. Let me touch you, cheri."
No sooner had Nari sat herself on Judeline's lap that her hands began exploring her body, poking and prodding for her most sensitive spots. It was nothing like Nari had ever experienced: Judeline hands explored her with a doctor's touch, teasing out her secrets with a paralyzing precision. At once, however, it was tender, of a tactile kindness unknown in quick barrack lays.
How long had she been like that? Judeline was so obscenely good with her hands, it was hard to tell where time began and Judeline ended. Time almost seemed to steady itself as she settled into a rhythm, but even that was muddled as the heat built up in Nari's core, clouding her mind with thoughts of release, release, re—
And then her hands were gone. "The bath's ready. Would you like me to wash you?"
Nari whined, and nodded.
"Excellent, amou." Judeline turned Nari's head to kiss her; she tasted like tea and mint and everything Nari needed. "Get in the bath."
The high took Nari sliding into the bath, no doubt splashing water over the marble. She didn't mind; it gave her a nice view of Judeline stripping out of her own clothes, a few more seconds to appreciate her muscles and stretch marks before she climbed into the tub.
Judeline's hands found Nari again, bringing her into a passionate kiss before melting in her body's most sensitive spots. Her manner was relentless, almost possessive, as if every part of Nari but especially her neck, thighs, and cunt was staked in Judeline's name. Fuck, she probably misses that most of all.
Reason broke down in lightning, and quickly threatened to break down again. Coming to, Judeline was already soaping Nari's skin, but her free hand, mouth, and knee were ill-content to stop their disorienting ministrations. Only when she moved to get behind Nari was she granted any sort of respite.
Judeline sighed into her ear. "Beautiful, beautiful." She soaped Nari's arms — "Such beautiful muscles," — Nari's chest — "impeccable form" — Nari's legs — "you can't know what you do to me, amou." — and every kiss behind Nari's ears was punctuation on the notion that — "you are appreciated, amou, you are appreciated."
By the time Nari was fully cleaned off, Judeline had made her cum at least twice; they would not leave the tub for at least two more.
Like all things feel-good, the weekend Nari spent with Judeline shot by in a blur. Before the Shift she would've given anything to make it last forever. Now, every time she tries to linger on the good times, her thoughts always come back to a single moment:
Having done a number on Nari's body, Judeline had to carry her to the bed. There, she set her down, tucked her in, and climbed inside to cuddle.
(Dr. Gravett had never struck her as the cuddling type, which makes it all the more painful in retrospect.)
"Cheri," Judeline whispered as she pulled closer, wrapping her legs around Nari's thigh. "Please don't run."

"You are appreciated, your work is meaningful."

put her clothes back on,

"Mon cheri,"

and walked away forever.

"Don't leave us alone."

But the idea that Nari could be loved was just too intoxicating.

Iteration 3
Officer Raddagher is going to take Agent Love onto her shift. Despite everything they've been through, Raddagher wants her on her shift. Is this some twisted plot? A ploy by Dr. Klein to make sure Love plays nice? Some prank? Who the fuck would want Love on their shift?
She won't fall for it. Not again.