PART 1: KALEIDOSCOPE OF GUILT

Dr. Daryl Loyd walked into the break room, populated by eight other personnel. He sighed, knowing he'd have to interact with them. He recognized one of the people, Joe Fynegan, sitting down at one of the tables. Behind Fynegan's table were two other men, presumably other doctors. On the far side of the break room were a pair of women wearing rather formal attire. Next to them, a security guard was in front of a vending machine, kicking it with a fair amount of force. At yet another table, two men appeared to be complaining about something; however, Loyd was out of earshot to make out their conversation. Loyd dragged a chair over to the table with Fynegan and plopped himself down.
"Hey, Loyd, are you in this mess too?" asked Fynegan.
"I don't even know what I'm here for. Do you know why they're here?" Loyd pointed casually in the general direction of the others. Fynegan turned around for a brief moment before turning back to Loyd.
"Nope. I don't know what we're here for, either."
Loyd took a break from the conversation and observed the room. It was one of the comparatively smaller break rooms, only populated by several tables, a microwave, and two vending machines.The red-headed woman was sitting on the counter, while the other one was standing, tapping the ground with her tennis shoes. The security guard had finished bullying the vending machine and was drinking a can of soda. Loyd's observation was interrupted by Fynegan.
"What do you think we're in here for, Loyd? Those weren't normal escorts we had. Their IDs were a good level higher than ours."
Loyd took a peek at his own ID card. Level 3. He rarely remembered or even made an effort to remember anything about himself. He snapped back to face the doctor.
"No clue. I'm sure it'll be over so-"
The room was filled with a crackle of static, then a loud tapping noise similar to a large timpani.
"Hello. I'm Captain Trevelyan of IBIC1. I'll be frank about why you're here. This morning at approximately 0900 hours, one of your colleagues, a Doctor Montgomery Thornhill, was killed. The only people in the vicinity were you nine; you're all suspects."
Loyd glanced at his co-workers, then back at the ceiling. Impossible. Is this what they had been corralled up for?
"How do you know Thornhill wasn't accidentally killed?" Loyd queried.
"One gunshot to the head, two to the chest. That's not accidental. I'll be reading a list of names: if your name is called, make some indication of it. Backman, Billy. ID of 94-A7 PF54AJ."
Backman slammed his can of soda down. "What?"
"Fynegan, Joseph. ID of B-28S GH78DR."
Fynegan stood up, shouted "Present!", and sat back in his chair.
"Goggins, Carol. ID of AT-117 L300F."
Goggins stopped tapping her shoes on the ground. "Here."
"Ister, Wolfgang. ID of P-35M UJ20RH."
Ister broke off his conversation with the man next to him. "Here."
"Kabasic, Amelia. ID of AT-118 L300G."
Kabasic hopped off of the counter. "I'm here."
"Loyd, Daryl. ID of H-48M PL85IH."
So that was his ID number. "Gotcha."
"Pietrovitch, Walter. ID of B-54K EH48IJ."
Pietrovitch, sitting to the right behind Fynegan, scooted his chair closer. "Yah."
"Sabatic, Robert. ID of E-28F UH84ND."
Sabatic, opposite Pietrovitch, raised his right hand. "That's me."
"Shipherd, Phillip. ID of C-34N UI23JE."
Shipherd turned around to face Trevelyan. "Here."
"Good. Now if you would all stay here, we'll be back to ask you some questions. Good day." Trevelyan's voice ceased, and a click was heard, indicating the intercom was off. The nine co-workers, all temporarily mute, turned to look at each other. It was Fynegan that spoke first.
"One of us shot and killed Thornhill. A fellow doctor. A good man." He rubbed his nose with his finger.
"Well, if they were shot, wouldn't the killer have easy access to a gun?" asked Ister.
"Indeed. I bet my money on our security guard friend Backman." Loyd extended an appendage in the direction of the accused party. Backman raised a fist as sixteen eyes gave him a dubious look. He approached his accuser and grabbed Loyd's collar.
"What're you trying to say, huh?" Loyd deftly slapped Backman's hands away from his neck.
"Exactly what it sounds like. You're the only one with easy access, hell, even the only one with a gun."
"Not necessarily. Would you care to elaborate, Miss Kabasic?" Fynegan interjected.
"Elaborate on what? I'm not sure what you want me to talk about, Joe."
"Well when Captain Trevelyan was taking roll earlier, I heard a faint chink of metal when you hopped off the counter. Now, the only things that could make such a noise are a belt buckle, a badge, or a handgun. If you look down-" Fynegan paused. Kabasic took a look at her belt and back up. "- you'll see that your belt is fine. Also, I've heard that Foundation agents rarely keep their badges on them. So I figure that you probably have your gun. Same with your friend."
Kabasic emitted a sharp whistle. "Impressive, sciboy. Very impressive. I like you." Kabasic pulled out a Model 19 snub-nose revolver and tossed it on the table in front of her. Goggins was clearly less-enthused.
"Look, doc. If you have to say something, say it. Don't give us the damn telenovela script."
"Oh, sorry. My bad."
Kabasic gave Goggins a look of 'come on' and a slight nudge with her elbow. Goggins gave a partial eyeroll, then tossed her PPK/S right next to Kabasic's Model 19. All eyes went to the table, then resumed inditing the security guard.
"Yours next, Mr. Backman." Fynegan commanded. Backman's hand instinctively covered his revolver.
"There's no way I'm letting you folks get a hand on my gun."
"Why is that, Backman? Is there something you're trying to hide? What is it?" prodded Shipherd.
"Maybe he is killer." Pietrovitch concluded.
"Just put the gun on the table, Mr. Backman. Being arrogant and uptight isn't helping your case."
"Double my bet on Backman, Fynegan. I'll eat my pants if it's not him." Loyd chuckled at his own joke. Backman angrily slammed his hand on the table. Loyd reciprocated the action, but with both hands. The men were less than a foot from each other.
"You think I give a flying fuck about you or my 'case', Loyd? It's not proving anything, especially not when my 'accusers' are a bunch of doctors playing detective. I'll call in Trevelyan if I have to."
"Frankly, I don't - what was the term, oh yes - give a flying fuck who's doing what as long as I figure out who murdered Thornhill."
Backman and the posse, surprised, faced the ceiling.
"Yes, yes, I can hear everything you're saying. I'm sending in a man with some evidence."
They spun around toward the door where an armed guard was standing. He strolled towards the table that the group had surrounded, pushing Loyd and Backman out of his way, and placed a plastic bag in the dead center of the table. A wood-gripped Colt Python revolver was resting inside it.
"Does anyone know who owns this gun, or if you have seen anyone with it?"
"I haven't." said Fynegan.
"Me neither." chimed in Sabatic. A general murmur of agreement emanated from the group until Dr. Loyd spoke.
"It's Thornhill's. He keeps it in his desk. I don't know who else knows…" Loyd blurted. Damn. He caught himself by surprise. He didn't even really know he knew about it. Not even a single breath could be heard; the room was a vacuum. Loyd felt the heat of eight pairs of eyes piercing his lab coat. He also swore he could feel two especially boiling ones - Backman's.
"Thank you for the information, Doctor Loyd. I'll be back in a little while to confirm that. If you would all stay here, please. Thank you." The intercom cut out. The armed guard excused himself from the group and departed with a quicker-than-usual stride. Backman's punch caught Loyd by surprise. Loyd staggered back a bit, feeling his now swollen injury. He curled his lips into a smirk, fixed his collar, and retaliated. The kick hit the guard low, and Backman crumbled to the ground, clutching his left kneecap. Loyd made a move toward the incapacitated guard, but was stopped by Fynegan and Kabasic. The rest helped Backman up to his feet.
"You! Two! Timing! Scientific! Butcher!" Backman yelled, throwing each insult like an additional punch. Sabatic and Ister were struggling to keep the guard from attacking Loyd.
"Scientific Butcher?" Loyd chuckled. "What's that, another one of your ramblings to pretend you're the superior party?"
"He's talking about your tendencies to send D-Class to certain death, Loyd. You have quite a reputation." Shipherd clarified.
"Oho, you're talking about tendencies, Shipherd? I've heard of your disastrous experiments and policies: you throw D-Classes until something sticks!" Loyd laughed sardonically as Shipherd shrunk back from the opposing force.
"Get a damn grip, Loyd. You too, Backman. We're just here to-"
"Just here to what, Fynegan? Play around? Sit here and wait? I'm not doing either when I know there's a killer. Right. Fucking. There." The security guard shoved Ister and came closer to Dr. Loyd; Kabasic pushed him back.
"I'd watch it if I were you. You're not in the clear."
"Neither are you, missy. You may look all pretty on the outside but I know you have an itchy trigger fingers and no soul," leered Backman, right before Kabasic slapped his face. The guard grabbed the red-haired agent by the arm, and raised his own. A vice-like grip grabbed his wrist before he could make any other move. Backman turned to see Goggins holding his arm. He wrestled himself free from both the ladies and clicked his tongue. Backman scanned the room, and found himself surrounded by a ring of people. He noticed that Loyd had apparently been smiling the entire time. Backman shot a glance at the doctor.
"What's so damn funny?"
"I knew you couldn't do it, Backman. You may have a large temper but you have no spine to back it up."
"If you say that stupid shit again, I'll kill you, you idiot."
Loyd walked up to Backman, unfurled his pointer and middle finger, clenched the rest of his fingers into a ball, and pressed it directly against his forehead.
"You can go right ahead. You can't, because you don't have the guts nor the mental capacity to ever, ever, contemplate actually pulling the trigger. And I know that your cowardly tough guard facade has never had to - and never will. Because frankly, who would trust you to do anything around here, huh? Now go sit down and let the adults talk." taunted Loyd. He pushed Backman's fingers back into his fist and thrust it into his chest. The rest of the group, shaking and mouths agape, could only watch in surprise and nervousness. Backman appeared to consider Loyd's statement and started to walk away.
"Good riddance."
Backman turned around and his hand dropped to his waist; it was back up a second later with a shiny object. Realizing what it was, Fynegan swiftly kicked the revolver, sending it flying then clattering to the ground by Ister's feet. Backman attempt to retrieve the revolver was interrupted by a flying tackle from Kabasic that hit him squarely in the back. The revolver then was scooped up by Ister and placed into Fynegan's outstretched hand. Fynegan turned around to deal with Backman, but he was already sprawled on the ground. Kabasic was on top of him with her elbow in his spine and Goggins's PPK was resting on Backman's face. The break room door jetted open as a black turtleneck-clad man, followed by two armed guards, stormed into the room. Trevelyan and his men.
"What in the everlasting hell is going on in here?!" Trevelyan yelled. Loyd attempted to speak up, but he fell to the ground. A small pool of blood started to form. Fynegan and the others rushed to Loyd's side, leaving Backman unoccupied.
"Get a medic! Now!" barked Trevelyan to one of the armed men. The guard promptly saluted and ran out of the room. Fynegan was attempting to use his lab coat as a makeshift tourniquet.
"That… uugh…"
"It's all fine, Loyd, you'll be alright…" trailed off Shipherd. Pietrovitch was much more direct.
"It not looking good, Loyd. They are fetching a doctor."
"That… that's alright… don't worry, I'll be back an… anyway." Loyd smiled a bit, then coughed up a bit of frothy blood.
"Goddammit, where's that medic! Get the fucking medic here!" Fynegan's lab coat was dyed crimson.
"I… it… was…pretty interesting… that time." Loyd's head lulled back, a bloody smile plastered on his face. A crowd of footsteps could be heard in the hallway and continued on into the break room when the medic and the guard rushed in. Upon approaching the group and seeing his patient, the medic dropped his head. He placed his fingers on Loyd's neck and retracted them, giving a small head shake while doing so. Trevelyan kicked a chair over.
"I leave you all for ten minutes, ten bloody minutes, and you end up goddamn shooting each other? I'm prepared to detain you all for second-degree murder, unless I can get a good damn fucking explanation of what the fuck happened here." roared Trevelyan, dragging Backman up by his collar.
"Please! Help me! Please! It wasn't me, it was them, they forced me to do it, they forced me to do it! They did it, not me! He used my gun, it was him, not me!" wailed Backman.
He was silenced with a blow to the jaw from the butt of his own revolver. Trevelyan let the dead weight hit the floor as Fynegan threw the gun on top of the unconscious security personnel. Trevelyan snapped his attention toward the doctor.
"Loyd and his tempers flared up, and Backman ended up shooting Loyd. That's that." stated Fynegan.
"I'm afraid I'm inclined to believe Mr. Backman, Doctor Fynegan. It looked like you were attempting to force him to do something when I came in."
"What? What? You're just going to let this sleazeball get away with it?!" yelled Fynegan.
"Not necessarily, Doctor. I'm detaining you both with charges of second-degree murder and more than likely the murder of Doctor Thornhill as well. If you want to stand and convince me, you better have a good story."
"Ask t-t-the others!" Fynegan reasoned, motioning towards the rest.
"Possible co-conspirators. I'll be doing independent, extensive interrogation, and if one minute detail doesn't match up I'm officially charging you with the murders of Loyd and Thornhill. Take them away."

The last words the remaining seven heard from Dr. Joseph Fynegan were a desperate cry for help.

[{$previous-url} {$previous-title}]

Fynegan's Worst Week

A View to A Kill

Check out MayD's awesome pairing of Doctors Loyd and Fynegan here: A Stranger in a Familiar Land

Footnotes
1. IBIC: Investigative Bureau of Internal Crime


Agent Johnson heard once that in China they use the same word for "crisis" and "opportunity." He thinks about that often. He likes the efficiency of it.
He hums cheerfully along with the radio as he pulls his blank white van up to a barricade outside a college in farm country. A kid in a plastic suit with gear bulging under it taps the window. Johnson smiles reflexively as he rolls it down, sweet pollen and afternoon sun making him squint.
He never wears sunglasses to work. They would make him lazy.
The kid does a double-take when Johnson passes over his credentials, then salutes and waves him through. MTF Epsilon-6 is operating in full swing, roadblocking every exit from the campus and combing every inch of ground for evidence to conceal.
Ep-6 personnel disguised as CDC agents are herding witnesses into staging areas. Plastic tents have popped up like mushrooms on every square of flat ground. The mobile task force look the part of scientists, but too many of them are carrying rifles, and they're not letting anyone leave. The civilians' grief and shock are mixing badly with the apprehension thickening in the air. Johnson doesn't like it. Anything that puts people on their guard is bad for business.
The gloom is heaviest over a crowd surrounding a huge pile of rubble. Kids are holding each other and sobbing as MTF guys with megaphones direct witnesses into tents for medical exams that will turn out to be extensive debriefings. From the center of it all juts a massive crane, which a buzz of suited and masked Ep-6 are using to sift through the wreckage.
The crisis: a wing of this university hall collapsed in the middle of class. Dozens of students and faculty are dead.
The opportunity: Dozens of others are still unaccounted for. Johnson can recruit civilians from out in the open, and their disappearances will be blamed on the alien.
***
The alien - an unstoppable humanoid in a spacesuit - crashed down near the edge of the campus and started approaching students, asking them questions like why they wore giant toads on their backs and how they trained their toads to eat books.
It became a problem when the spaceman marched through the wall of the dining hall and began collecting silverware, which it claimed it would plant in the ground to grow spear trees. Campus security was on the scene and ordered it to halt, but the creature didn't even react, just kept walking. The guard tried to wrestle it down. For his trouble he was brushed aside, breaking his hip.
The alien continued exploring, taking no notice of the panic around it. It entered the building across the street from the dining hall, which turned out to contain a biology lab doing research on canines. It looked around and became convinced that the students were running some kind of counterfeiting operation for dog-based currency.
Moon Champion then announced that it was confiscating the dogs under the authority of the Moon Queen. It proceeded to grab the animals by their collars and take off into the sky with them, ascending straight through two floors and a roof.
***

Johnson's first hour on campus is a bust. He stopped in at Epsilon-6's command trailer and got some bad news: Greg Weaver, the recruit at the top of his list, is crushed in the wreckage outside. Johnson gives the MTF leader a list of other students to hold for him, then heads back to his van. He doesn't explain what he wants them for and the commander knows better than to ask.
If Greg Weaver is dead, everything's changed. Weaver was a code teal priority.
Every day when he checks in, the office gives Johnson a list of D-Class they need. At the bottom are the code beige: common recruit types like infants and anyone with military training. Depending on the day, traits as innocuous as left-handedness or sailing experience can qualify a person for recruitment. Push comes to shove, any fresh body can be called in as a code beige. The Foundation always needs human body parts. Each cadaver saves at least a dozen lives.
Code pink requests are more urgent, so they almost always call for rarer traits. Today's include someone with heterochromatic eyes that might be able to see things other people can't, a polyglot to develop an inoculation for some kind of language disease, and the sixth son of a sixth son for important research on something Johnson doesn't understand at all. Johnson gets code pink requests several times a week. He's hoping to clear out some backlog today.
A code teal is the rarest and most critical type of personnel request Johnson can get. They never stay in the system very long, because if they do, some crucial project or containment mechanism will fail and the damage will be done. It probably won't be the actual end of the world - those problems are mostly handled over Johnson's head - but something extremely bad will happen if a code teal request goes unfulfilled.
The one that came in today is for a set of AB-negative organs, like Greg Weaver's. If there were any chance of saving the body, Johnson could call an airlift to winch him from the rubble, but the kid's precious guts are beyond use by now. There's another AB-negative candidate on his list, but it's the chief of police. Even in a small town like this the odds of recruiting a head cop right out of the station are slim.
Still, he might have to try.
***
1233 is helping Johnson more than it could know. The spaceman is so conspicuous that the higher-ups are going to try a new approach: full aerial bombardment with their new line of amnestics. In another two and a half hours, planes are going to fly over and douse the whole area with memory-erasing gas.
Meanwhile, Johnson gets to work in the open. With no witnesses able to remember otherwise, the families of the missing will have to accept forged autopsy reports and lies about emergency cremation.
He's studied all the files, and he thinks 1233 would appreciate helping his cause. They're both dedicated to fighting monsters. In Johnson's view, the moon man isn't crazy at all. He just has a sense of purpose.
Some purposes take a special kind of thought. The Foundation could just order Epsilon-6 to bring their wish list back to base, easy as picking up dry cleaning, but morale wouldn't hold up long that way. Their job is to build an ordinary world. Abducting civilians to keep the trains running on time would be a constant reminder that their boxes are crumbling faster than they can be patched, so they need someone to take that burden for them.
In his own way, Johnson is a champion himself.
Things were looking up for a while. Johnson snagged two code pinks - one a distant relative of Walt Disney, the other a devoutly religious math genius. He convinced them each to get in the van and take sedatives voluntarily with a line about inoculating them from moon germs. Despite the best efforts of Epsilon-6, everyone's heard of the alien that came to town, and they were both too shaken to question him. Moon Champion's visit is a gift that keeps on giving.
Then he came to the home of Doctor Orville Blake, professor of literature and speaker of nine languages, who missed the commotion altogether by staying home with a cold. He informs Johnson that he will not be answering any questions, thank you very much, and starts to slam the door. Squawks indignantly as the agent pushes it inward.
In one smooth motion, Johnson pulls a out a black cartridge with a gray trigger down one side and squeezes it in the man's face.
He shields his eyes with his free hand in case the flimsy plastic applicator splashes amnestic back on him. This new chemical is far better than nothing, but it still takes about a minute to set in. Johnson knees the professor in the balls and puts him in a headlock while they wait. Each second feels like eternity; they're in a suburban living room with the door wide open, broad daylight, top secret wonderdrug glistening on the old man's face.
The stuff really is convenient, though, compared to the Thorazine injections. Getting a clean jab on a struggling recruit was always a real hassle, and getting the dosage wrong would kill them. Johnson hates killing recruits. Civilians are valuable. Life has value. That's why he does what he does in the first place.
Sitting in a triangle hold is a breeze compared to giving those injections, even with the man chomping Johnson's sleeve as he tries desperately to scream. It's too risky to just choke him - not when they need the participant for his brain, living brains are so fragile - but fortunately he's a lightweight and it only takes about forty seconds for him to go slack.
Johnson relaxes as he leads the recruit down the driveway and around the rear of the van. The amnestic - a mix of lysergic acid, scopolamine, and other stuff Johnson's not cleared to know about - causes about six hours of compulsive obedience along with the memory loss. So much easier than dragging them.
There's fear in the man's eyes as Johnson unzips a body bag and tells him to climb inside, but he lies down and holds still as the agent closes it around him. Johnson carefully arranges him head to foot with the others.
He drives away thinking about how the Class-A is an invention that will save lives.
***

With forty five minutes to go until the bombardment, Johnson finds himself circling the block outside the small town's police station, weighing his options.
Epsilon-6 won't help him; they're not even cleared to know exactly what he's doing. He could radio the office and have them place a fake emergency call to someplace in the neighborhood to at least get more of the cops out of there, spread them thinner than they already are. Then he might be able to talk his way into the chief's office and walk him out on a dose of Class-A. Probably not, though, and he's not willing to get into a shootout. He'd give his life for the cause in an instant, but the odds of success here are just too low, and he can't risk a highway chase or any other stunt that would ruin the whole cover-up.
Yet the code teal needs to be answered.
He decides on a frontal assault; he'll flash his badge and demand to see the chief right out in the front lobby, then shoot everyone in the room. He'll try to just wound his recruit, but as long as the vital organs are more or less intact, the airlift can take the body dead or alive.
He's reaching for the dashboard radio to have the office call in a diversion when he sees her. He can't believe his luck. Julie Cartwright, the code pink with the heterochromatic eyes, is walking down the street alone.
He pulls over, whipping out his badge as he jumps out of the driver's seat, look of relaxed confidence at the ready.
"Miss Cartwright, thank God I found you. We think you may have information that could save lives. If you'll just—"
"An alien attacks and now a G-man wants me to get in his van? I don't think so." She glares at him. "I have to go."
"Hey, listen, it's not like that." He takes a step closer, hands spread in front of him. "I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, but I really need your help." If he can just get a little closer, he can hit her with a Class-A. They're badly exposed here, right between Ground Zero and the police station, but if he gets caught he can stall until the amnestic kicks in and forces her to play along with his cover story. "We're all in really in hot water. There's no time to explain, but you have a chance to make a big difference here."
Her face softens. The trick to a good lie is a good smile, and the trick to a good smile is remembering to work the eyelids. Johnson is a master at it. She lets him get another step closer.
There's a crash like an artillery shell going off. The blast kicks up dirt hard enough to sting their faces and he sees an actual shock wave roll along the ground, spiderweb cracks radiating from its center. The agent and his recruit stand together in awed silence as Moon Champion rises from the crater. His spacesuit is immaculate despite the impact, helmet gleaming in the sun.
"Fitness!" the spaceman announces through a loudspeaker somewhere in his suit. "A sound mind in a sound body! That's how you spot the cream of the academic crop. Moon Force needs the best and brightest to win the campaign against the Moon Monsters."
They're all still for a moment. The grass sways and the birds chirp on, oblivious to the tension. Johnson's thinking about costs and returns. He thinks about the rarity of AB-negative organs and different meanings of the word value. About the number of people in the small town's police station and the number of people that will die if a code teal request goes unfulfilled. His employers have trained him well. He doesn't think for long.
The girl takes off running, and Johnson shoots her in the head.
"Thank God you're here, Moon Champion!" he shouts. "This campus is lousy with Moon Monster spies! They're going to corrupt the youth of the entire nation! This one would've just got me if you hadn't come along to distract her!"
The thing looms over them, the girl flopping on the ground as she dies. "At last! A comrade in the Moon Army! Let us away to-"
"I have important business here," Johnson interrupts. "I'm an officer in the Earth defense force. I have a lot going on around here. They need me to stay in the neighborhood."
The spaceman hasn't moved, and Johnson can't see his face through that damn visor. The file said it has no situational awareness, but follows an internal logic; standing over the girl's body, Johnson hopes he's reading that logic right. "Moon Monster filth," he says, spitting on her.
"We need to fortify these warrior poets to stand against the terrors that await," the entity blares at last. "As breakfast is the most important meal of your terrestrial day, we shall ensure their haleness and overall stoutitude through the consumption of additional Earth breakfasts such as eggs, corned beef, and radishes. I advise starting with nine breakfasts per meal, but we'll make do with less if we must. I understand it's difficult to keep up a sufficient egg supply with such a scant population of crater mites."
"I've looked into it, fellow soldier," Johnson says in his letting-you-in-on-something-big voice. "We're right on top of the last Moon Monster outpost from here to Betelgeuse." A big opportunity light bulb flashes over his head and he adds "once you've made short work of them, I'll be able to hold the line here, and you can go deal with the Betelgeusians."
He doesn't know how long it takes to get to Betelgeuse and back. Johnson's hoping decades. He'll miss these convenient recruiting opportunities, but in his heart he knows it's better to get them one at a time. All this chaos wastes civilians. Saving civilians is what Johnson's all about.
There's a long pause, as if the thing is studying him. "Are you a warrior for the cause of righteousness?" it asks, finally.
Johnson believes only in tools and their uses.
"Of course," he answers without hesitation, crinkling his eyes just right. He points down the street to the station. "That police building is the Moon Monster fortress.
Save us, Moon Champion."


SCP-3939 photographed prior to containment.

Item #: SCP-3939
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3939 is currently kept at Site-39 in pre-containment holding cell C (39-PC01-C). When not in testing it is to be kept in a standard containment locker of appropriate size.
Description: SCP-3939 is a gramophone, or record player, of unknown date of origin but consistent with design and manufacturing trends of the 1930s. It has an octagonal wooden base constructed of polished mahogany and is imprinted with the logo of HMV at the time. Atop this base is a turntable which is connected to the gramophone mechanism and a large brass horn. All components are in good condition.
SCP-3939 currently has a black vinyl record on the turntable, which is turning at a standard rate despite no visible source of power. Additionally, SCP-3939 possesses the ability to speak with a voice transmitted through the horn and potential sapience. Thus far it has only been shown to speak to certain people.
The brass horn always rotates to point at the observer. Other observers will see the horn rotate to point towards them.
Further tests are pending.

"Take a look around you, ████. Feel the world. Feel how fake it is. You're trapped in a story, doomed to repeat yourself forever in the minds of a thousand different readers. You're—"
Bang.
The sound of metal impacting metal comes from somewhere outside of the chamber. You jump, startled. There's a high chance 3939 is doing this to mess with you, though you distinctly noticed the vinyl record's movement stopping. This feels wrong.
"…You're trapped in here with me."
"I assume you're the only real thing in this story, then?"
It cocks its head slightly, despite not moving a head that it doesn't have. "Actually, no. You're real too, somehow. And I'm not talking about the reader, I'm talking about you. This is a very—"
Bang.
The sound is louder this time. There's now dents in the chamber door and a muffled voice from the other side.
"—a very special story."
You're getting nervous now, but you realize 3939 is likely trying to break your composure. You won't let this happen.
"Stop being vague. What makes this story so special?"
Bangbangbang.
"Because I'm one of the anomalies that your Foundation contains. But they don't contain me in a cute little gramophone in a cute little pre-containment cell in Site-39, oh, no. I am a very powerful, very infectious, very sentient meme. And I just love hiding in information, waiting to infect my next victim. The best place for me to hide is a story, because when the reader is engaged with a story, it's super easy for me to reach out and infect them."

I don't get it.
I don't understand.
I think that's dumb.
I don't believe you.
I think you're fucking with me.

This was written as part of the SCP Original Character Tournament, Round One, between my own Gunhead Anomalocaris and Croquembouche's Senior Researcher ████ ████████.
Be sure to check out Croquembouche's entry, Trilobites: Many Reasons To Kill Them, and 0 Reasons Not To, which is fantastic!

Trilobites: Many Reasons To Kill...

DESTROY ALL TRILOBITES

Snapchat Trilobash...


Explosions rocked the concrete skeleton of Site-257. Ruslav Diaghilev sprinted through the hallways, sparse lights intermittently illuminating his blue robe and purple shoes. He silently gave his gratitude to the Aeronous Aether for supplanting the failing ventilation system, and cursed himself for not looking over the directory more carefully.
Another explosion sounded, a little closer that time. Ruslav started heading in a different direction, trying to follow the flow of the Aeronous Aether to look for a way out. A thumping sound echoed from further down the corridors.

As its backup generator failed, Cryo-Storage Room 238 began to thaw out. Dozens of arms stored inside began to twitch inside their containers, and got to work freeing themselves. Most of the arms looked human, of varying skin tones, but some were made of metal, some of wood, and one particular one looked like a gorilla's arm, made of some kind of crystal. The arm-y pushed the door open and began dragging themselves along the floor and into the corridors of the Site, much like the hand from the Addams Family.
The arms arrived at a specific cell door, and gripped onto the wall and the ground and each other to form a spiderweb-like arrangement. At the center of this web was a dull metallic arm, its fist pushing against the wall. The web contracted, the arms all flexed, and slowly but surely the metal arm pressed into the wall, warping it. The cell door finally gave way and opened slightly, and spare arms began to crawl through the gap, while the rest continued to open the door.
Armando hopped out of the containment cell, his upper body completely encased in green gel. He cocked his head, and an arm-shaped blob of acid moved toward him, dissolving the gel. "Thanks, guys," Armando said, shaking his head. He detached more arms and sent them to scout the hallways ahead, then started walking.
Three branched hallways were all dead ends, and the arms circled back. One hallway ended with the sensation of an arm crushed completely flat, best to avoid that one. Another ended in a sheer drop, and Armando never felt the arm hit the ground. Only one 'safe' hallway remained, and Armando let his gaggle of arms lead the way. The lights were flickering in and out in this hallway, which was a step up from the total darkness of the last floor.
Two arms vanished, and Armando called the third and fourth back to him. Whatever was out there, he was gonna give it a piece of his mind. He detached more arms and tried to think of a plan, then pulled arms until he had the ones he needed. He sent eight scrawnier arms down the hall to meet his opponent, then started running.
A skeletal, scaly appendage with eyestalks for pinkies allowed Armando to peer around the corner where his opponent was. He wasn't a zoology expert, but he didn't want to know where this one came from.
The eight arms arranged themselves around the robe-wearing intruder and waved back and forth. The Russian man examined them cautiously, sensing the trail of aether leading from them to their source. The sixth arm high-fived the seventh, and the nitroglycerin blood inside it exploded and ignited the other arm's magnesium skin.
Ruslav Diaghilev, Director of the Alchemy Department, was unfazed by the display, but admired its creativity. The explosive force was dampened by the Aeronous Aether and sent back down the hallway, while the brightly burning extremities were extinguished when the Igneous Aether was ripped away from them.
Armando's makeshift periscope was sent flying by the redirected explosion. A wizard. I gotta fight a goddamn wizard?
The crisp, accented voice rang out. "I know you're there. Let us not make this harder than it has to be."
Armando scoffed. Who did this guy think he was? "Bring it, old man."
A flurry of limbs were hurled at Ruslav, who deflected them with air currents. One made of niobium stopped short, and was transmuted into water, then delivered back at Armando, who blocked it with an arm made of sponge.
Ruslav acted slowly and defensively, examining the aetheric flows going through the brown-skinned man. Great loops of various aethers blended together in a spiral cone, tapering to sharp points at his shoulders. He doubted the man was aware of the nature of his anomaly, but Ruslav was intrigued now, and took precious milliseconds to analyze each arm thrown at him. He watched as an arm made of obsidian flew towards him and shattered itself in mid-air, the jagged fingers approaching him from different angles. Volcanic glass. Visually impressive, but pitifully simple. Ruslav effortlessly separated the Igneous and Terronous aethers holding the glass together, and it dissolved into smoke. He decided to draw out the 'fight' a little longer and see how well this man could use his weird brand of alchemy.
Armando gritted his teeth. This wizard guy was starting to piss him off, acting all cocky and just waving the arms away. Time to shake it up. He ripped off two arms, before getting one made of lodestone. He ran towards Ruslav, and the arms on the floor behind him grabbed onto each other, making a chain. Ruslav harnessed the magnetic field and used the Fulminous Aether to shoot a bolt of lightning at Armando, but Armando was ready. The chain whipped around, and a plasma arm absorbed the bolt. Ruslav whispered, and the ice arm at the bottom of the chain melted instantly, collapsing it. He shook his head; not bad, but he expected more.
Armando pointed at Ruslav with the dull stony arm, and commanded an arm made of bubble gum to throw itself at the alchemist's face. In the brief opening, several dozen metal arms that had been sent the long way around the hallway came flying back, pulled by the magnetism. Two made contact with Ruslav, before he regained his balance and deflected them with his crozier. Ouch. He broke the lodestone arm right as I was using the Fulminous Aether to stop the metal arms. Unsure if he knew that, but clever nonetheless.
Armando rushed in, and the arms regrouped and locked around Ruslav's arms, the hands locking the man's fingers in place. Ruslav uttered a single whisper before Armando ripped off the magnet arm and instantly grew a glowing, 40-foot-long tentacle made of crumbled rock that pinned Ruslav to the wall and wrapped around his mouth.
Ruslav was cool as a cucumber. Well played. I think I've seen enough.
Armando had reasoned that the wizard required either his hands or his spoken words to do his magic, but froze when he felt his discarded plasma arm disintegrate into a ring of fire, tightening closer and closer around his neck. He released the stony tentacle slightly.
Ruslav narrowed his eyes. "I do not wish to kill you. Truce?"
Armando felt the searing heat come closer. "Fine." He released the tentacle's grip and let the metallic cage arms fall, then took a second to catch his breath.
"First thing. The hell kind of wizard wears purple shoes?"
Ruslav released a deep sigh, and shifted his crozier ever so slightly. "Not wizard, alchemist."
Armando cocked his head. "Sure, whatever. Were you locked up in here too?"
A subtle twist of his finger, and a few words in the Ninth Language too quiet to hear, and Ruslav let a crackling static shock zap Armando in the foot.
"I am a Director, not an SCP. I was looking for a suitable exit or information on the current situation. While you have access to neither, your anomaly fascinates me, and may prove useful to me following our escape."
"Really? Well, as long as you don't cut me open, I'll take the help getting out."
Ruslav gambled. "You may accompany me. What is your name?"
"Armando Rivera. They numbered me 3589."
"Ruslav Diaghilev. A pleasure."
Armando detached the tentacle, and generated a human arm with which to shake hands with Ruslav. "Right, so what's the plan, Director?"
Ruslav stroked his chin. "You used your limbs as scouts earlier; I think we can use that more effectively. Give me a gaseous arm. I will send it out with the Aeronous Aether, and you can follow it to the nearest exit."
"It's like a box of chocolates, Ruslav. Never know what you're gonna get." Armando chuckled, as he pulled off arms. Ruslav looked at him quizzically. "Never mind. Here." The arm-shaped cloud of iodine vapor floated in the air. Ruslav waved, and it spread throughout the corridors' ceilings.
Armando closed his eyes. "Nothing… wait! I feel it, fresh air! Left, left, straight, down the stairs, right, left, then up."
Ruslav grinned. Such potential. He could not wait to examine him, later.
Armando straightened, and pulled off eleven arms before getting a pair he figured would be useful: a steel right arm that resembled armor, and a left made of a blob of hydrochloric acid. He let the other free limbs grab each other and made the arm chains dangle from his neck like scarves. "Alright, let's go."
The walk along the path was long, but well-lit.
"So, alchemist, huh? How did you do all that magic earlier, making my arms disappear?"
Ruslav continued to walk. "It is science, not magic. Many of your arms' compositions are close to pure elementals. My alchemy is simply the study of the manipulation and flow of the elementals, called aethers. The aether flows through you strangely, I will admit. Once we have left, I should like your help with my work."
"Huh. Think I could learn this stuff?" Armando was curious, but also didn't really want to end up in some Middle Ages dungeon. He held a glimmer of hope that this alchemist could be the key to him figuring out exactly how to control his anomaly, and be free.
"Perhaps, though I couldn't say for certain." Was that a twinkle in Ruslav's eye, or a shimmer of the Luxorous aether?
Armando shivered. "Uh, Ruslav. Where's that breeze coming from?"
Both Armando and Ruslav stopped dead in their tracks upon rounding the corner. The entire outer wall of the Site was ripped off, and there was nothing but sandy desert and ruins around as far as the eye could see. There was no sun or moon, only stars too big, ranging from green to a sickly red, hanging in the sky. Pieces of various buildings, castles, and even lands stuck out haphazardly in the ground.
Armando blinked. "Where are we?"

This is an entry for the Original Character Tournament. My opponent's entry can be found here.


Armando stalked through the wreckage of the reception area. He reached up to his left shoulder and tore off the arm composed of tungsten carbide. "I know they're keeping it here somewhere," he said. The offices of the Unusual Incidents Unit was nearly empty on a weekend, but the odd guard still managed to give him trouble.
He turned and sent his left arm flying down the side hallway, the condensed crystal structure barreling through a water cooler, and down to crash against the exterior wall. He followed it down, casually swinging the arm in his right hand, breaking windows, filing cabinets, and various federal office knick-knacks that dotted the cabinets.
Two agents streaked out of a cubicle and ran down the hallway. "Jesus Christ, run!" one of the agents exclaimed, turning to snap off a round at Armando.
Armando ducked right, and hurled his reformed left arm down the hallway, the volatile gasses mixing with the polyester of the man's tie, combusting instantly. Both agents were vaporized in a heartbeat. The sprinkler system started to go off, soaking Armando in stale water.
Armando took a cursory glance around the cube farm that took up this portion of the floor, turning to head back towards the elevator that brought him up here.
The sounds of fire and dripping water were no longer the only sounds which filled the office building. Outside, sirens were approaching, and helicopters zoomed overhead. He needed to get out of the area quickly, but he couldn't leave without the target. "Come on, come on, where are you…"
An FBI agent ducked around the corner, and squeezed off a pair of shots, sending them down towards Armando. He ducked behind the tungsten arm in his right hand for a second, just long enough to confirm the bullets wouldn't hit him. With practiced ease, he hurled the arm down the hallway, controlling its path into a tight fist, which made lethal contact with the agent's sternum.
The sounds of helicopters drew closer, directly over the building before cutting out completely. Goddammit, where the hell is this thing? Armando thought, the left arm he'd drawn rapidly replaced with one made of burning plasma. He lifted the tiny device he'd been given out of his right pocket, and turned in a circle, looking for the small blip on the GPS device.
He followed the signal down rows and rows of desks, finally coming to a door marked "Storage - UIU". Armando's face split into a slight grin, reaching down for the knob.
click click
"For fuck's sake. Locked. Alright, the fun way it is," he said, pacing back down the row of desks away, turning and with a single smooth motion ripping the burning plasma arm off of his left shoulder, and hurling it down the desks with a yell towards the door.
The plasma crashed through the reinforced security door, blowing it off of its hinges. Armando smiled, and made a drawing motion, pulling the arm back towards him. It floated back towards Armando, slowing down.
What the hell… he thought to himself, trying to assert tighter control. He'd never had much of an issue controlling his appendages since he'd been dosed, but for some reason, he couldn't feel the connection to this arm anymore.
A voice rang out from the back of the ruined office floor, "You made a simple mistake, Armando."
Armando hesitated for a moment, watching the arm gutter out to nothingness, losing all feeling of its connection. He turned around and faced the figure in the back of the office. The man was of average height, a little stocky. He wore flowing green robes, and carried an oddly shaped object in his right hand, almost like a mace. His left hand was outstretched, towards Armando, making a slow grasping motion.
Ruslav Diaghilev, Director of the Alchemy Department stood calmly in the now-leveled reception office, walking calmly towards Armando, his body language fairly neutral.
"And what is that, Mister….?" Armando's left arm grew into a new arm made of hyper-dense boron gas.
"Elder, actually," Ruslav rumbled out, with an amused smile, "You failed to consult an alchemist when performing a transmutation, of course. I am Ruslav Diaghilev, Elder Alchemist of the Seventh Circle, and Director of the Foundation Alchemy Department. I'm investigating why there's been a significant disruption of the aethers around the UIU offices." The Director paced forward, coming to rest a few meters from Armando.
Armando grinned, and send his left and right arms flying, one a mass of brightly glowing motes of cesium decaying rapidly, the other a mass of boron gas. The arms swung in lazy circles toward the Elder, who didn't move.
Ruslav raised his right hand, to intercept the cesium decay, redirecting the nascent radiation into a harmless tenebrous flow which dissipated into the ceiling. His left hand made a clawing gesture, converting the boron gas to pure oxygen. "I would ask you to not do that. Your….abilities are significantly disrupting the work that I and my colleagues work very hard to maintain."
Armando growled and started throwing arms faster, two and three, and four at a time. Solids, gasses, some of the arms composed of creatures writhing around each other. Armando's hands, blurred both to and from his shoulders, rapidly filling the intervening space with arms.
Ruslav sighed quietly and replaced his crozier in the holder on his belt. He stepped in sure patterns, akin to a martial artist, his hands moving in slow circles left and right. His fingers splayed and retracted, reconverting the arms in their component aethers, each one winking out a few feet away from Ruslav.
"How in the hell are you doing that?!" Armando yelled, panting slightly.
Ruslav changed his stance for a moment, drawing the fulminous aethers around him. He shifted his hands forward, holding his crozier between them, flinging the gathered energy with practiced ease.
Armando threw his arms at the incoming blast of lightning, managing to deflect some portions of it, but a goodly jolt crashed into his body, sending him flying back into a nearby desk.
Armando sprang to his feet, and hurled arms at Ruslav, attempting to overwhelm the Elder Alchemist. Each one was a different composite, heavy arms towards the floor under the Elder's feet, and the lighter ones into the air to give him two directions to deal with.
Ruslav dodged to his right, his Crozier knocking one of the arms away, as his left hand easily pulled apart arm after arm into its component aethers. The floor underneath Ruslav buckled under the weight of the heavy arms crashing into it, forcing him back down an aisle.
Armando and Ruslav faced off, each holding their ground. Arms flew across the intervening space at breakneck speed. Some of them were torn apart into their component aethers, others batted away by Ruslav's crozier, some simply deflected by blasts of fire or lightning. This continued for what felt like an eternity, before Ruslav took a deep breath, and stamped his foot, slamming together the newly freed aethers, compressed by a shell of tenebrous aether.
The glowing mass between the two of them was nearly blinding. Ruslav concentrated and forced it to implode on itself, detonating in a concussive shockwave that blew the desks around them away. The shockwave blew Armando back against the rapidly crumbling drywall of an interior dividing wall. Ruslav held his ground, the aethers flowing around him in harmonious balance.
The aetheric currents finally calmed down, leaving Armando groaning in a pile of shattered drywall. His arms coalesced into two differently carboned steels.
Ruslav stalked forward and made a simple gesture, his fingertips closing in a motion akin to pulling a thread. Armando's arms gradually shifted back into human flesh. He tugged experimentally, confirming that his abilities were still intact, before eyeing Ruslav suspiciously, drawing himself to his feet.
"Apologies for that, but I needed your attention. I am an alchemist, Armando, your abilities, while extraordinary, are alchemic in nature. I don't know how you acquired them, or why you can so easily manipulate the aethers, but that's not really why I'm here." Ruslav stood calmly in front of Armando, his hands only slightly raised from his sides.
Armando groaned and stretched out his back, shards of drywall falling down, "Then why are you here, precisely? I'm not going back to the Foundation. I'm not gonna be caged again."
Ruslav shook his head and held up a hand. "I do not want to contain you. That's…not really my department. You have a natural anomaly which allows you to generate transmutational constructs. I believe that I need your help in dealing with a threat to our reality."
Armando laughed quietly for a moment, before breaking into a full belly laugh, "And why would I help you?"
Ruslav nodded, and reached into one of the pockets of his robes, extracting a small coin with a long black cord through a small hole. "This is what you were here for, is it not?" He turned it over in his fingers.
Armando licked his lips, eyeing the coin, "I'd rather just throw down for it than let you hold it over me." He concentrated, his right arm bursting into bright red flames, and his left manifesting clumps of toxic mud up and down his flesh.
"Seriously, I'd rather just die here, from your whatever the fuck alchemy than let you—" Ruslav shook his head and flicked the coin out to Armando. He guided the trajectory with a small gust of aeronous aether. Armando snatched the coin out of the air, rubbing it with his thumb and forefinger reflexively. He slipped the makeshift amulet over his head, and let it hang down on his shirt.
"I have no interest in blackmail. I can accomplish this myself. I would much rather bring you with me." Ruslav said, his eyes inscrutable.
Armando spent several long moments considering, before letting his hands fall to his sides. "Alright, I'm interested. On one condition."
Ruslav raised an eyebrow, "And that is…?"
Armando clenched his jaw for a moment, "None of your goons. Just you and I, and whoever takes us wherever the fuck we're going."
Ruslav rumbled out a quiet chuckle, "Da, this is acceptable. Come, our helo is waiting on the roof." Without a moment's hesitation, he turned and walked briskly out of the ruined cube farm towards the elevator.
Armando walked forward, picking drywall out of his hair and clothing. He caught up to Ruslav, and studied the older man, waiting for the elevator. His clothes weren't even dusty. Who the hell is this guy? Armando thought to himself.
Beside him, Ruslav took a quick glance at the destruction wrought by Armando's arms, sensing the still-chaotic energies of the rapid transmutations he was capable of. What in Luna's name is this man?
The two engines of destruction smiled awkwardly at each other as the elevator arrived, which would wisk them up to the roof, where the Foundation helicopter awaited.

This is part of the OCT Tournament! My partner is Weryllium. View their contest entry here!.


Anoati's Great Adventure, Part 1
Ducks, Yucks, And A God

Anomaly Report
The following anomalies are featured in this report:Polynesian sculpture of a head, endowed with sapience and assorted limited anomalous abilities, those being vocal projection, telekinetic ability, material transmutation into metal, and mental possession. SCP-3416 believes itself to be a god and acts as such. Refers to itself as "Anoati," and to metal as "Anoa-stone."Group of five sapient rubber ducks, stylized in assorted mobster attire. Instances of SCP-3947 have a mild reality-altering effect in which all affected entities act similarly to cartoons (damage taken is not permanent, weapons can materialize from nowhere, and certain rules of physics are shirked for cartoon effect). Instances of SCP-3947 have unique, exaggerated personalities reminiscent of New York mobsters.Sapient memetic agent in the form of a joke. SCP-3369 can transmit its consciousness into individuals affected by the memetic agent, appearing as a mental voice in the mind of carriers. SCP-3369 has the personality of a New York standup comedian. It is unknown how many individuals are infected with SCP-3369.

It had been a slow day for The Great Anoati. Most days, though, had been slow ever since he was encaged by the wicked “Foundation” tribe. He stared idly at the recently-offered tribute of fowl in front of him. The Foundation gave it to him, rightfully. He had deserved it. But in all truthfulness, he was bored, though he'd never admit it.
He spent the first couple hours of the day once again attacking the obviously-weak anoa-stone walls in his chamber. He was certain they would fall any moment. After all, who could make anoa-stone better than him? He laughed at the thought as he continued to strike his self-made anoa-stone duck beak against the shining grey wall.
He spent the next couple of hours pacing the cell. Of course, he couldn't actually walk since he lacked legs and a body, but levitation was very much suitable for the purpose. He had to keep himself in shape somehow. He raced laps and laps around that damned cage.
After he was tired enough to barely lift himself, he sat down upon his pedestal to think. He thought of his island and his people. They knew how to respect him. They knew what real power was. He thought of this “Foundation,” those makers of weak anoa-stone. He thought of Dr. Simons. She understood. Only she. One day he'd leave this containment chamber.
“Ey boss, where's the exit ta this thing, huh?” A voice carrying an exaggerated New York accent (though Anoati couldn't identify it) interrupted.
“Patience, Pinstripes. I'm telling ya, dis vent'll lead us straight to their coffas! Keep movin'.” An older voice said.
“Sh-sh-sh-should I blow it all up, boss?” A shrill voice shrieked.
“Blasty, don't touch nothin'.”
“Shut it, boys. I find vent, up here.” A feminine voice with a thick Russian accent snapped.
A few small, metallic creaking sounds followed, ended with a large banging noise as the cover of an air vent fell from the wall.
“We're in.”
Anoati was surprised to see that this voice was coming from none other than a small duck with a strange texture, curiously clad in a blue dress with a balaclava. This texture was rubber, though that was also a thing Anoati had never known.
“Comrades, stop! There is no wealth in this room!” The duck shouted. No sooner had it said this than it was pushed out of the vent by an even smaller duck in a leather jacket and sporting a pompadour.
“Quit hoggin' da door, Natasha! I want some cash!” It yelled as it pushed its way out of the vent.
“Get back here, Tiny! Ya gotta look fo' traps first, or else they'll getcha!” A duck in a pinstripe suit and fedora yelled, looking out the vent.
“He-he-he-he-hah!” An unstable voice cawed, as a duck covered in blast armor leaped through the opening, dragging down the suited duck and a final tuxedoed duck with a pencil-thin mustache, collapsing in a pile on the floor.
“Welp, I suppose we're in da thick of it now. What have we here?” The tux duck said, straightening himself out and turning towards Anoati.
“Visitors! What a welcome occurrence!” Anoati bellowed, surprised yet pleased.
“Aw, shut it, headman.” The Boss said, observing the room, finally seeing the pile of fowl before Anoati. “Da hell is dis?”
“Great quackin' quails, Boss, dem's ducks in dat pile!” Pinstripes yelled. The other ducks began assorted panicking.
“Have you come to pay your respects to me, the Great Anoati? For that is me, the all-great and strong!”
“Dis is messed up!” Tiny yelled.
“Ge-ge-get back to da vent!” Blasty shouted, pushing his way back to the wall.
“You pushed me down, ya dolt!” Pinstripes screamed, slapping Blasty.
“I followed T-Tiny! Hah! Now w-we're all stuck here!”
“Silence your mouths! What tribute do you nomads offer to me?” Anoati questioned, fully understanding that the conversation was veering away from him.
“Listen ta him, ya dumbbells!” The Boss said, silencing the gang. “Now watcha want, ya statue?”
“Statue? I am much more than simple statue! I am Anoati, divine ruler and powerful leader! I am god! Now, offer tribute and sacrifice or-“
“Yeah, yeah, and what're you gonna do, huh?” Pinstripes questioned, menacingly patting a spiked club.
“Da, what do you do, headperson?” Natasha asked.
“Refer to me by my name! And I demand tribute, or you shall bear witness to my rage!”
“Howsabout dat? Stony-boy here's tryin' da extortion game?” The Boss called to his gang.
“Heh heh, I sez we break his neck!” Tiny shouted, pulling out a large bat.
“Ya ignoramus, he ain't got no neck!” Pinstripes yelled back.
“Silence! Anoati has no need for your blathering! What brings you…creatures to this place?” Anoati asked, hovering a few feet from the ground.
“Whatcha think? We're here fo' da cash! Now where ya hidin' it?!” The Boss menaced, poking a wing at Anoati.
“You come seeking the fabled treasure of Anoati!? Begone, for it is far beyond your reaches, you strange duck-creatures! Your greed serves only to annoy me!”
“Who you callin' creatures?” Tiny roared.
“More importantly, where is treasure?” Natasha added.
“Boys, if we want dis treasure, we're gonna need to rough dis guy up good!” The Boss said.
“Enough of your imputence!” Anoati bellowed. The ducks had gotten close enough to him to be in his range, and he flung the tuxedoed duck into the chamber's wall. “I will suffer no more of it!”
“No one throws the Boss that way! Get ‘im!” Pinstripes cried, launching at Anoati with his large crowbar.
“Hyeh-hah-hah-hah! Now we're talkin'!” Blasty laughed, pulling a comically simple flamethrower from nowhere.
Tiny, too, ran towards Anoati, flinging himself through the air like the other ducks with his baseball bat, a sharp nail driven through the top. Natasha brandished a handful of knives, tossing them towards Anoati.
Anoati threw them in every direction, smashing their oversized weapons against each other. Still, they came back with more giant weapons. Anoati knew not what sorcery this was, but knew he must slay these evil creatures. But whatever blow he inflicted upon them by their own weapons, whether it be an axe or an anvil, they always seemed to bounce back. Even seemingly fatal attacks did little to injure them.
“Take this!” Anoati shouted as he turned the Boss into pure Anoa-stone. He moved no longer, now shining a lustrous sheen.
“W-w-w-what'd you do!?” Blasty screamed, rushing to the immobilized bird. The other birds joined in too, surrounding him.
Anoati tried flinging them away. “Get back here! Anoati has not finished!” Alas, they were out of reach. “Come here and fight me!”
“Quiet, the Boss needs sum serious treatment!” Pinstripes yelled at Anoati, yanking a hospital bed from the air and shoving the Boss onto it.
“You shall not insult Anoati this way!”
“Jeez, have sum respect!” Tiny shouted, shooting a stern glance at Anoati.
“No, I-“
“Halt your words, godman. This is not your concern.” Natasha said, now holding a too-large bone saw in one wing. “Now, who knows dee medicines?”
“I can g-g-give it a shot! Lemme at ‘im!” Blasty said as he took the bone saw, bending it into a duck-shaped outline on the metal Boss. Dejected, he turned to the others. “Welp, th-th-that's all I got.”
“I haven't fini-“
“Wait! I got sum C-C-C4! We can b-blow the metal right off!
Pinstripes whacked him in the head. “Blasty, don't touch nuthin'!”
“Ya know, dey say laughta's da best medicine! And since we don't got real medicines, lemme cracka joke!” Tiny proposed. "I heard dis one over in da west wing! Sum folks in cells wus tellin' it to each otha!" At this point, Anoati started shouting at the mobster ducks, doing so loud enough for him to completely miss the joke.
“I shall rip your tiny strange beaks from your tiny strange bodies! I will keep your heads as trophies, and make coats out of your strange, naked skin! Finish your fight! Are you not warriors? Fight me! Cowards! Get over here!”
“I'd be more than welcome ta do just dat.” The Boss said, hobbling out of his bed. “Hot dog, that joke cured me! Really is da best medicine, huh!”
“How did you do that?! No one destroys my Anoa-stone! What have you done?!”
“I told ‘im a heckuva joke. Now let's go beat up dis heckuva joke!” Tiny said, now brandishing an axe and flying towards Anoati. All the other ducks followed, attacking Anoati again.
Elsewhere, Dr. Simons was having a pretty good day. There was a light workload, nice weather, and even free donuts at the front desk. All she had left to do was give Anoati a visit. Sure, he could be a bit… much, but she had learned that really, he was a kind being. Since she had gotten him to stop being angry all the time, the visits had been relatively simple and pleasant. She said hi to Florence, the single security guard at the door (there used to be four of them before Anoati became less hostile).
Then she opened the door to find Anoati engaged in flinging weapon-wielding rubber ducks around him like he was some miniature sun in a tiny galaxy of ducks.
She sighed.
“Florence?”
“Yes, Dr. Simons?”
“We're going to need Task Force Omega-16 in here, stat.”
“On it.”
Within the minute, a group of armor-clad operatives carrying unwieldingly-large hammers and burlap sacks rushed into the chamber. Though Dr. Simons couldn't watch, she could hear a large series of crashing noises, the sound of a piano falling, erratic gunfire, and some thumping sounds. The task force came out with their burlap sacks closed, small hectic figures writhing and threatening from within. She then decided to talk to Anoati.
“Simons!”
“Anoati, I'm disappointed.”
—————
Now in their bathtub, stuck within a large containment chambers, the mobster ducks reconvened.
“Fellas, we've been stiffed! We neva got no treasure, and I gots a big ol' bump where ya dropped da piano, Tiny!” The Boss growled, puffing on a big cigar.
“Sorry Boss.”
“Betta be! Next time, we'll find dat ancient treasure!”
The ducks floated around for a second, growling and angry.
“At least I saved ya from da metal, ey?” Tiny said.
“Saved me? Ya mean the joke ya told me? Dat joke stunk!”
“Well I was a fan of it.”
The ducks searched around them.
“Who da heck said dat?” Pinstripes shouted. The voice each duck had heard was masculine and had a New York accent, though it was much less exaggerated than the ducks'.
“Don't bother, I'm inside all of your tiny duck brains.” The voice said.
“Watcha doin' in there?” Tiny yelled.
“More importantly, who are ya?” The Boss shouted.
“People, people, settle down. I'm The Joke!”
“Beat me to da punch,” Pinstripes muttered.
“Hah, looks like I'm not the only comedian in the room! I came from the joke the greaser duck told. That's me.” The voice said. “But for real, I think I really like you fools. Let's talk.”
“Dere's only thing I wanna talk ta you about, and dat's gettin' you outta my head! What's it to ya, huh?” The Boss menaced.
“Okay, okay, not huge fans on the whole “voice in the your head” thing, I get it.” The Joke in their heads said. “But let me tell ya, in the short time I've known you guys, I've been impressed! All of you and that Anoati guy — that was something! Real comedy gold, if ya ask me!”
“Get to your point, joke-person.” Natasha snapped.
“I wanna stay around a bit more with you guys. You're going back to Anoati, right? I can read the room. C'mon, let me in on it.” The Joke said. “All I'm saying is that you could use some extra manpower.”
“…Manpower from a ghost voice?” Tiny asked.
“Well, I got a couple of hosts being held over in the west wing. I know they'd be jumping at the opportunity to get outta here.” The Joke offered.
“Sure, buddy. And dat's the part where ya stab us in da back, eh? I'm on ta ya!” The Boss shouted, pointing a wing at no one in particular.
“You can call the shots. I'm just here to see what happens.” The Joke said nonchalantly. “You guys are fun, and I sure could use the inspiration. Also, I know the entire site's layout. I'm in the hearts and minds of employees throughout the Foundation.”
The ducks floated around for a bit in the languid bath water, thinking. The Boss puffed on his cigar a few more times while Tiny rubbed a dirty rag over a spiked club.
“Fine, we're in.” The boss said, tossing his cigar aside. “Now how're we gettin' dere?”
—————
“Hmph. Silly Foundation should at least try and hide air ducts from us!” Natasha puffed as she unscrewed an air duct in the west wing. It fell past a large sign on the wall reading "3369."
“Who the hell is there?” The woman in the cell asked. “Just… just move on, I'm not the person you want!”
She had long black hair covering a thin, blemished face. She wore an orange jumpsuit with the tag D-99168. She began speaking seemingly to herself.
“No, I'm not listening to you! Fuck off! Leave me!” She shouted.
“Great, we get da loon!” Pinstripes remarked.
“You're one to talk.” The Joke said. “Come on, nothing? Tough crowd. Anyways she's the one.”
“Den let's nab ‘er!” Tiny whispered, carrying a large burlap sack.
Before the woman could react, Pinstripes and Tiny descended, wrapping her within the burlap sack. She struggled as the ducks hauled her back towards the vent.
“Awww, dere's no way she's fittin' in here!” Pinstripes lamented as he pulled through the vent. The vent was indeed too small for the woman to fit. Blasty laughed.
“You j-j-just some elbow grease!” Blasty pulled out a bottle labeled “ELBOW GREASE,” smothering the contents on the air vent. This time, impossibly, the woman in the sack slipped inside.
“Well call me Wallace Shawn, because this is inconceivable! Now I know how Santa must have felt!” The Joke mused.
“Shut it.” The Boss said, annoyed.
“Gotcha, Boss.”
—————
Now, Anoati wasn't feeling very grand. Dr. Simons had told him off for fighting the strange duck-creatures instead of reporting them, which was a strange experience. Any other person, and he would slay them with his near-limitless power. But Dr. Simons-what was she? Was it… respect? Mortal humans weren't worthy of respect! They were ants! They were-
“We're baaaaaaack.” An exaggerated voice called through the air vent.
“Can I b-b-b-blow up the vent this time?” Blasty's muffled voice asked behind the wall.
“Blasty, do not touch a thing. We are in.” Natasha said as the vent's cover clattered onto the floor. And with that, five ducks, two of which were carrying a person-sized sack, entered the room.
“Returned for more combat, I see! Now I shall enact my rage!” Anoati yelled, excited to settle this.
“Hey, whoah whoah! No need fo' dat! We just wantcha treasure! Now where is it!” The Boss interrogated. The sack the ducks were carrying was still thrashing around.
“Hey folks! I believe our captive here is convinced enough to help ya now! Her name's Sarah Merrill by the way, probably beats “prisoner lady! You can let her out.” The ducks followed The Joke's advice as the unkempt woman jumped to her feet.
“Oh Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?” She moaned, taking a look at her fowl captors and holding a hand to her head.
“You return with reinforcements! No matter, I can slay you all!” Anoati shouted, now becoming angered.
“Can ya just tell us where da treasure is?” The Boss asked.
“Harrumph!” The godly head scowled. “It is far away! Upon my island with my people across the blue seas, at the center of everything in the world!”
The ducks convened for a second, while Sarah leaned against a wall, still gaining her bearings. Finally, the returned to face Anoati.
“And ya know how ta get there?” The Boss asked.
“This “Foundation” has taken me far from my home! I know not where I am!”
“But if we took ya there?”
“If you should escort me to my land, then you would be rewarded greatly! But betray me, and face eternal agony!”
“Yeah, sure. Dat works for us.” The Boss agreed. “So let's get outta here.”
At this, Sarah joined the conversation. “Huh, we're getting out of here?” She was now visibly excited.
“Yeah we are! And da Joke wants ta take you too. Let's go!” The Boss declared. “Boys, waddya got?”
Tiny spoke up. “Boss, I got a hole in me pocket.” Sarah sighed. Her disappointment was interrupted by Tiny pulling a sizable black circle from his pocket. “Now let's blast outta dis prison gig!”
The Boss turned to the gang. “Lock and load, fellas.” Anoati floated towards them as they gathered.
“Haha! I shall wreak devastation upon these evil men!”
“Now dat's more like it.” The Boss said.
“I still do not like you though! Now let us battle!”
Everyone ran to the wall as Tiny brought the hole into the wall. The Boss and Pinstripes loaded comically-simple tommy guns. Tiny smacked a spiked baseball bat into his wing, and Natasha materialized handfuls of knives into her wings. Blasty just laughed as he pulled on straps of explosives.
“Does this woman know how to fight?” Anoati questioned.
“Ehh… no.” She admitted. “ I can just follow you in the back.”
“Nonsense! I shall possess you, and you shall fight alongside us!” Anoati boomed.
“Wha-?” Sarah almost said, before stopping mid-word. As this happened, a different voice came from her mouth. A New York, male's voice.
“Wowee! Now this is what I call lip service!” It said.
“What foul sorcery is this?!” Anoati questioned.
“Oh where are my manners? I'm the living joke, they call me SCP-3369. Anoati, living joke. Living Joke, Anoati. Pleasure to meetcha!”
“What?” Anoati was lost.
“Well for most I'm the voice in the back of people's heads, but it looks like Sarah's not in control anymore. Feels good to have a body!”
Sarah stood still for a moment, saying nothing. The ducks fiddled with their weapons, hitting each other's heads while doing so.
“Huh. Body doesn't seem to be moving. Just the mouth. Heh, ain't this awkward.” The Joke remarked.
“It is because I control the body! Your power is nothing compared to mine!” Anoati laughed.
Pinstripes turned to the talking two. “It's time. Hit it, Tiny!”
With this, Tiny pushed the hole into the wall. As it made contact with the wall, the blackness of the circle drained away with a vacuum-like sound to reveal a large, nondescript lab space. Scientists in lab coats fussed over microscopes, carrying papers and typing on computers. The sound of the hole caused many to look at the disturbance. What came next, none of them expected.
“Hit da floor, nerds!” Pinstripes shouted, spraying the room with cartoon bullets. Scientists were thrown back with the force of rubber bullets. The world-altering cartoon aura that surrounded the ducks meant that all their attacks were non-fatal, leaving the innocents to be knocked out at worst.
Tiny rushed into the fray, swinging his bat like a crazed berserker. He laughed the whole time. Blasty was laughing too, chucking miniature bombs into the scientist faces. Anoati bellowed a mighty warcry as he floated through the room, levitating pens and turning them to Anoa-stone. They blasted through the air into fleeing lab coats. The Boss stayed in the back, chewing on a cigar and shooting his tommy gun back-to-back with Pinstripes. Knives flew from Natasha's wings, and Sarah was tossed around the room like a poorly-controlled puppet, flinging punches and kicks around the room.
“Looks like I'm a regular Bruce Lee over here!” The Joke mused. Within minutes, the room was still, littered with unconscious scientist bodies.
“Heh, dese schmucks don't know what hit ‘em!” Pinstripes chuckled.
Tiny turned to the group. “Duhhh… what now?” He asked. Sarah chimed in in the joke's voice.
“Everyone, wait.” She remained still. “Anoati, move me to the center of the room.”
Sarah moved with a disconnected gait into the room's center, almost tripping over a few bodies.
“I just heard something really great, guys. So there's this Dr. Roy fella I've been friends with for a while. He doesn't actually know it, since I've never talked to him because you know how these Foundation blockheads are. Anyways, I feel like we really woulda hit it off. Fun guy.”
“Moy bog, get to the point!” Natasha shouted.
“Well this Dr. Roy guy just left a meeting with the director, and he said that this guy's leaving right away in a van outside to a certain Polynesian island for assessment! It's perfect!”
The ducks cheered at the sound of this.
“And n-n-now, I blow up da room!” Blasty shrieked.
“Blasty, don't touch nuthin'!” The Boss snapped.
“Well, let us go onwards! We will use this ‘van' object to lead me home! Forward!” Anoati proclaimed.
“…and it'll lead us right to da treasure, eh boys?” The Boss chimed in towards his gang. They giggled as the group left the lab into a steel hallway. They continued down it for a matter of minutes, with no one in sight.
“Wow, it's emptier than Tiny's brain in here! Thank god for Sundays off, right?” The Joke joked. Anoati began to slow.
“Um, people! Wait for the Great Anoati!” He rumbled as he commanded the mind-controlled Sarah towards him. She carried him on an arm and continued her run through the hallway.
“Looks like someone ain't so all-powerful after all.” The Joke quipped.
“Silence! I could have you killed with ease! Anoati simply tires after spending many hours exerting his powerful ability of levitation! He now seeks rest for the next battle! Continue onwards!”
And so the party rushed onwards. Soon, the Joke had to speak.
“Uh, guys? One problem I may not have mentioned earlier: the van doesn't show up for another hour.”
The group grumbled.
“Why couldn'tve ya told us earlier, ya two-bit joke!?” Pinstripes snarled. “Well, we know a place ta hide out for a bit.”
“No! A mighty god such as Anoati shall not hide!”
“We don't got time fo' dis! Da guards'll show up any minute! Quick, turn ‘ere!” The Boss commanded. Anoati griped and yelled as the group made a sharp turn into a sizeable closet. There they remained, biding their time for the fight ahead.
—————
“So, what's your damage?” The Joke asked Anoati. They'd been idling in there for the better part of an hour, spending most of the time accidentally attacking each other. The non-ducks spent most of their time trying to prevent the ducks from doing this.
“Hmph! I have never been damaged! I am a god!” Anoati muttered, nesting in Sarah's lap like he had for the past hour.
“Sure, buddy. But in the short time I've met ya, I can tell you're not alright. Say what you want, but I can feel you.”
“Heretic!” Anoati scoffed. The ducks remained silent, listening in.
“It's okay. I'm not judging. Matter of fact, things haven't been smooth sailin' for me either.” Anoati remained silent, listening. “Hey, wanna hear a joke?”
At this time, the ducks began fighting again, this time with Tiny running from everyone else. The antics were loud and distracting. By the end, the joke had told itself.
“…well? Whaddya think?” Anoati paused for a few seconds.
“I do not understand it! What is this ‘car' thing? Or a ‘bar,' what is that?” Anoati questioned, very confused.
“Ah, screw it. Still, it means a lot to me, ya know? Since, well, it is me. I know it's not the best joke, but I try. Most people don't even appreciate it. Just makes me feel…alone, ya dig?” The Joke said, as Natasha removed the crowbar from Tiny's Head.
“Loneliness, hm? I never understood the thing! Anoati is beyond mere emotion! Anoati is a mighty god! Well, you have been loyal minions.” He said to The Joke. “Lately, Anoati feels…restless? Everything has been wrong since these “Foundation” men have taken me away! What have I become?”
“Eh, Anoati? Can ya make this body nod in sympathy?” The Joke asked.
“It is done! I can do that, yet am I not a god? Why do I not feel it? They treat me as a prisoner! I must return home immediately! It is not right in this wicked place!”
“I get ya. Let's get out of here, buddy.”
“I am no ‘buddy!' I am your god!”
“Sure thing.”
—————
The ducks peered out of the cracked door. They watched as two armed guards strolled down the hallway.
“I am on it.” Natasha stated. She pulled a rope besides her, and two anvils dropped on the heads of the guards, incapacitating them.
“Alrighty, lets go! There's an exit really close to here! Just gotta take two more rights!” The Joke said joyfully.
The strange group ran through the facility before coming to a final door.
“Open this gate!” Anoati commanded. Natasha was already at the control panel. Within seconds, it slowly pulled away. Natural light shines through the opened door, illuminating an asphalt parking lot, as well as a troop of well-armed soldiers.
“Chert, they were waiting!” Natasha remarked. “Get back!”
Explosive gunfire erupted throughout the hall, as Anoati and company jumped to the side of the door.
“Well, the joke's on us, isn't it?” The Joke mentioned. “We're not getting through all of that in one piece.”
The Boss stood unsteady. “Darn it, dis can't be it! What about ya island? How will ya get dere now? Dis story ain't over! Dat's it, I'm going in! Follow me or be left behind, robber ducks!”
And with that, the ducks jumped through the doorway. Gunfire ricocheted and multiplied, as did shouting.
“L-l-let me handle this!” Blasty yelled over the ruckus.
Pinstripes spoke up. “Blasty! Don't touch-“
“No. Blasty, blow it all up!” The Boss shouted.
“Hyeh-hah-hah-haaah!” Blasty yelled, as a mighty, thunderous explosion rang throughout.
Anoati and The Joke heard The Boss as the explosion settled and gunfire continued. “Head-man! Joke-man! Get goin'!”
“What about you, you crazy duck?” The Joke asked.
“We're held up here, it looks. I heard ya story! Sad stuff! Go on, get to ya island! Fuggedaboutit!” He yelled, as he disappeared into a blast of dust and flame. Anoati and The Joke rushed through the doorway.
“Stick to the side. The van's right there!” The Joke said. The mind-controlled Sarah, carrying Anoati, sprinted into the back of the van, closing the doors as they did so. They heard shouting from the front of the van, separate from them by a thin wall.
“Damnit, what the hell's happening over there? Do we have all our supplies!?”
“Let's get out of here!”
“But we're supposed to wait for authentication! We can't skip that!”
“Oh yes we can! See that explosion? That'll be us in a few minutes! Now drive!”
And with that, the van zoomed off. After a couple of silent minutes, The Joke began breathing heavily.
“What ails you, ally?” Anoati asked.
“Aw hell.” He said, regretfully. “I… I need to leave now.”
“No! I command you to stay!”
“Anoati, they're taking the other hosts hostage. Sarah here's not the only host of me they kept. They're holding guns to my other friends, telling me to come back.”
“Forget them! There is no cause more worthy than aiding Anoati!”
“No, I'm not a killer. I'm sorry, but I need to leave.” He said heavily. “It's a shame. Sarah…she was a good person. That's why I had the ducks save her. I wanted her to have a better life than this. I really liked her.”
“Do not say this! Do not leave!”
“Anoati, make Sarah open the door.”
“No!”
But even as he yelled no, Sarah opened the back door of the van. The rumble of the highway filled the back of the van.
“It can't be like this!”
The joke paused. “Huh… maybe it won't! Anoati, you're a god, yeah?”
“Of course Anoati is a god!”
“Then…erase me from this girl's mind. I don't know if you can do it, but if you can take away Sarah's control, you can take away mine. She deserves it.”
“Hmph!”
“Anoati? Do it. I won't let them die.”
“Fine!” Anoati screamed. The light and focus in Sarah's eyes began fading.
“But hey, if you're ever around, come give me a visit here, huh? See the show! I'll be here every night.” The Joke said, in a mirthful tone tinged with sadness. “Thanks for watching.”
And with that, Sarah slumped to the floor. She turned her head and looked around.
“So who the hell are you?” She said, in her normal voice.
“I am The Great and Powerful Anoati!”
—————
Back at the site, a different van took to the road. This one had been parked right next to the one Anoati had gotten on. Dr. Roy, covering his head as he scrambled through the battle zone, slammed the side door closed as he got in this van. It took off towards the airport, on its way to the Pacific.
Anoati's van continued its way to Site-72.

Now, for more fun, take a look at Aleph-Null's submission here!


« SCP-3512 | Ombres Malvants | blue pills »

Children at play, roughhousing dogs, cicadas calling; crowds assembling for the Barca game, traffic beyond that. The distant noises melded with the heat in a thick, dull soup. Tomàs Rey sat beneath a giant cedar in the gardens of the Palau de Padralbes and basked. A mild daze was what hot September afternoons were for, especially in the days before a new job started. If only he had a few beers with him.
His daze was not purely physical. Growing up here, he was used to the flat, hot sunshine, and his jetlag from the return flight had faded a few days back. It was what his travels had revealed. There was a world beyond his knowledge, beyond what six years in the Mossos d'Esquadra could teach. A world of anomalia.
Of course he had said yes to their offer. It felt like something he had been waiting for without knowing it. This was what the world had planned for him, the purpose of his police training. He had known that his life would have more than just shutting down the local mobs and tracking terror suspects. Of course he had aced the Foundation's tests.
A chittering bark interrupted Tomàs' reverie. Two red squirrels spiralled up a nearby pine, pausing to snap and chatter at each other before racing around to opposite sides of the trunk. There were many squirrels in the park, of course. He had seen people feeding them – an elderly lady, a man in a wheelchair, a kid of about nineteen, a tourist family. Tomàs was only half-watching, but something about this squabbling pair drew his attention. Did they seem more aggressive than usual? Was the smaller squirrel scratching at the bark between sprints?
He had always been observant, but now everything Tomàs saw was alive with unlikely possibilities. The Foundation had told him only one task remained before he could start officially. Exposure to a series of anomalies over several weeks, to gauge his reactions in field conditions. Monitored by the Foundation, but he would not know when or where. Only that it must happen, and that anything could be relevant.
The squirrels raced along a branch, leaping to the next tree and away. On a whim, Tomàs rose and followed them, ignoring the pushchairs and joggers on the paths, eyes searching the canopy above. When he realised he'd lost them, he found himself in deeper shade, a quiet corner of the gardens. There, beneath an azalea bush, he saw the body.
It was another red squirrel. Lying on its back, its belly was split open with a crosswise slice, organs pulled out and draped around the body. Leaning closer, Tomàs could see that its paws had been staked to the ground with rusted nails. The squirrel's head had been flayed and stripped of flesh, but its amputated tail, incongruously bright and fluffy, was looped through the eye-holes of its skull. What the shit? This had been deliberate. Ritual.
"She's the seventh this month."
Tomàs spun. There was no sign of the speaker. Had the voice been in his head? He stood up, scanning the surrounding trees.
"Slowly, Agent Rey," came the voice again. "I seek your assistance."
There, obscured by the trees. A human figure, a red and white hood obscuring its face.
"How do you know my name?" said Tomàs, walking forward cautiously. His right hand moved absently to his belt for a police weapon that was no longer there. He pulled out his phone instead.
The figure remained still. "I know many things, Tomàs Rey. Who you are, who you will soon work for, their purpose. I have followers who cooperate with your Foundation, assisting them with containment of a particular anomaly. Now I would ask the Foundation's help in return."
Tomàs recalled his training, holding down a button on his phone to send an image to the Foundation database for automated cross-checking. Now to keep this anomaly talking.
"Why do you want my help?" He was getting slowly closer, but figure was still turned away from him.
"Because there are things that even I do not know, Tomàs Rey. Someone in Barcelona is murdering my charges. You have been a detective. You must help me find who is behind this."
"Your charges? You mean the squirrels?"
The figure turned. Though it had the body of a man, beneath the hood was red fur, pricked ears, long incisors and eyes shining black.
It spoke again in his mind. "Yes. The tree-folk are my people, and they worship me."
Tomàs glanced at his phone. Possible match: SCP-3761-2. Euclid, Reality-Bender, Uncontained, Non-hostile. Associations: Sciuridae. Okay, he thought, rules of engagement for reality benders. Do not antagonise, look for containment options, minimise public exposure. He would show the Foundation he could ace this test as well.
He spread his hands low and wide. "The tree-folk, right? Well I'm sure the Foundation can assist you, but you probably know I'm not a full agent yet. Perhaps we could go to our Barcelona facility, and you could make a formal request?"
The squirrel-head cocked to the side, as if in rebuke. "You will not contain me, Tomàs Rey, and there is no time to waste on an attempt. I have neglected the prayers of my people for too long. They are thoughtless, and vain, and sometimes cruel, but they depend on me. I will not forsake them this time."
"Okay, perhaps we can do this another way. But will you let me tell my people what I am doing? You must know that I have to follow protocol."
"Proceed. But hurry."
Tomàs tapped his phone, sending the SCP-3761-2 link to his assigned contact at Site-14. Field contact confirmed, his message read. Entity requests assistance. Please instruct training parameters.
"So how do you enjoy being a god?" he asked, stalling. Inwardly he slapped himself: this was an anomaly, not a girl at the club. He needed to stay focussed, find a new conversational rhythm. But what does one say to a deity?
The figure seemed to sigh. "I did not ask for this calling," it said. "When I was granted my power, I exercised it well, but for many years I have spurned it. It seemed wasted on ungrateful recipients. But I regret my negligence. A parent should love their children, without condition. With your help I will make it right."
Rey's phone buzzed. Negative. SCP-3761 not part of training. Proceed with caution.
Not part of training? Suddenly Tomàs was a lot more interested. He looked again at the solemn figure before him.
"Now do you understand?" it asked wryly. "The Foundation has not chosen me. I have chosen you. Let us waste no more time."
Tomàs did not need further prompting. He strode back to the squirrel carcass, looking at it afresh. The cuts were clean and precise, the mutilation careful and deliberate. This was done by skilled hands.
He turned to the figure. "A human did this. Someone who knew what they were doing."
"Yes. And only to females. They were sending a message." There was anger in the voice.
"No, I don't think so. The body was left here, right? Not on display, not even to the other squirrels. I think this was done for - for supernatural reasons." Rey tried to recall his crash course in thaumaturgy.
"You may be right," said the figure. "Perhaps this is a design, a way to call upon a power. But what power would answer this obscenity? What person would want its attendance?"
"If we knew that, we might know how to find them." Tomàs turned around as if looking for the answer. "I don't know why you're asking me, anyway. For shit do I know about gods and magic."
"And my knowledge stops at the boundary of the human mind. Your kind are foreign to me, so I need you to explain their mysteries. Why would a human do this?"
Tomàs stopped dead, snapping his head towards the figure. "No – not why. How would a human do this? How would they catch a squirrel in the first place?"
"There are only the ritual wounds," said the figure, realisation dawning. "That is the same for all of the victims."
"So they weren't hunted or snared. No defensive wounds either?"
"None."
"And yet the blood from the incisions suggests that it was alive when this was done. Which leaves one likely explanation – someone has been drugging your squirrels."
"Cowards!" The tone was furious.
Rey's mind was already racing ahead. "To drug them in a public park, they would need to blend in someh… Mother of Whores! The squirrel feeders. It must be."
"But even if that is true, there are so many who come to these parks."
"Oh Tomàs, you lazy shit," Rey spat, then gestured to the figure to explain. "In the mossos, they taught us to look for what does not belong. I saw many people feeding squirrels today, but what nineteen year old boy does that?"
As Rey started scanning beyond their secluded copse, the figure put a hand to its furred temple. "He is still here, Tomàs Rey. The south-east corner."
"Wait here, I will find him." Tomàs was already walking quickly away.
The rest of the gardens were busier now, with crowds of fans strolling to the match. Tomàs' eyes skimmed across the throngs, looking for the young man he had seen earlier. There! Exactly where the squirrel-god had said, still throwing crumbs from a paper bag. Tomàs bore down on him swiftly.
Too swiftly: the kid looked up, and Rey's white polo was obvious against the blue and red Barcelona shirts. The young man realised he was a target, dropped the bag and ran from the park. Tomàs set off in pursuit.
He reached the edge of the gardens, but the kid was nowhere. Too many people on the streets, too much movement. Each second he was further behind, but which direction? His hands clenched in frustration.
From above, he heard a loud chirping. Squirrels, six of them in a row on a giant cypress. They stared down at him, then looked pointedly across the road to the south. Then without waiting for him they scurried to the end of the branch, leaped to a lamppost and were off.
Tomàs pushed forward as fast as he could, barging through milling supporters with his eyes flitting from ground level to tree-height. On the second corner to the East, a squirrel waited among the geraniums on a first-floor balcony. It met his eyes, then sprang to the railing and bounded away down the awnings of a side street. Rey followed; out of the crowds, he broke into a run. At the next corner, another squirrel waited, castigating him with animated chirping. Again, as he reached it, it bolted away.
Deeper into the alleys of Barcelona he ran, following the squirrel relay above. The lanes here were shadowed, tall buildings blocking the afternoon light. Few people were about, and the bodegas clamped their shuttered jaws for the siesta. Sweat pricked at Tomàs' brow. Jeans and leather shoes were the wrong things to run in, and the squirrels were too quick. They chattered at him, scolding his earthbound slowness. He pushed on, breathing steadily but heavily.
Through the outskirts of the gothic quarter, his red-tailed guides were waiting in pairs. Shorter relay legs meant he must be gaining. Winding through the narrow streets, he caught a glimpse of a running figure ahead. The kid was flagging now, his gait shot. Tomàs set his face and sprinted, rounding the corner with four squirrels above him in a frenzy.
The kid had turned into a dead end. The shock of it had done for him; exhaustion had caught up before he could turn around, and he was doubled over in the centre of the alley. Tomàs gave a quick check to make sure there were no other exits, letting his heartrate settle, then walked slowly over.
"Hey, melon head," said Rey, his tone friendly. "Why would you want to make me run like that?"
The kid looked up at him. "Go shit yourself," was what he said, but Tomàs could see the fear beneath his bravado and fatigue.
"What are you doing to the squirrels?"
"Your mother –" The curse was cut off by a sudden, deeper fear, and Rey saw that the kid was looking past him.
He heard the voice in his mind as he turned, and he knew the kid could hear it too. "You will not harm my people again!"
Advancing down the alley, flanked by squirrels, was the creature that was their god. The red and white hood was cast back, and the figure's black eyes bore down on the frightened young man.
"You will repent your crimes." The voice was flint.
In the gaze of those implacable eyes, fear broke the kid. He cowered at the end of the alley, hands scrabbling behind him, futile.
"Please, I didn't – I didn't hurt them. It wasn't my idea. Please, you have to – " Tears ran unnoticed from his eyes.
The figure stepped past Rey.
"Please, I just gave them the food," stammered the kid. "I would never – oh god, don't, don't hurt me. They made me do it. Just this one thing, they said, and I could have anything. Money, friends, all the pussy I could ever want. Please!"
Tomàs took a step after the figure. "Hold on, we need to –"
The honour-guard of squirrels stopped and turned to him as one. Rey hesitated a second, and then it was too late.
With a final stride, the squirrel-god reached the kid. It placed its hands on his trembling shoulders.
"I have been a loving god," its voice rang, "an absent god, a neglectful god. But my believers have never wavered, and they have cried out for me. And so today, I shall be a vengeful god!"
The figure's hands pressed suddenly together and downwards, and the young man's body crumpled in on itself. Tomàs shouted, and the gathered squirrels chirruped wildly. The figure brought its hands into a ball. There was a small, bright flash. When the hands opened, they held a squirrel. Red, small – a juvenile.
"Go," said the god to its tiny new creation. "Flee. Live, if you can." It threw the juvenile upwards, where it clutched at a drainpipe and scrabbled out of sight.
Full of frustration, Tomàs rounded on the squirrel-god. "Shit on the host, what did you do? We needed him for answers!"
"You wanted him for answers," it replied. "I did not need answers. Only to stop him. And to punish. Now he will see how my people live. He will be lucky to find enough food for a week, if the dogs don't get him first."
"But you heard him. Others were involved. How can we learn their purpose?"
"That is your concern, Tomàs Rey. They will not attack the tree-folk again. If you wish to know more, your Foundation must uncover it yourselves."
Tomàs realised that the squirrels had gone, sliding away while he had raged at the figure in their centre. The sky above had paled as the afternoon faded towards dusk.
"I am grateful for your help," said the figure. "I will tell my people to watch for you, Tomàs Rey. If you need them, they will be there."
It pulled up the hood over its ears, nodded slowly at him, and walked out of the alley. Tomàs knew that when he rounded the corner, there would be no sign of it.
He was alone in the back streets of the gothic quarter. Somewhere above, a television began to blare the raucous noise of the match. Tomàs stood for a long time, thinking, as the city darkened.
Whoever was behind this, he would find them, and bring them to the Foundation.
But first, he needed a drink.
(To be continued)

Thanks to Westrin for the use of Tree Critter from SCP-3761. Go read the other stories in the Original Character Tournament.