"So, uh, we all know what our little firm now faces," Vincent Anderson looked around, noting the reaction of the other four most important members of Anderson Robotics. "Our facilities raided, our staff attacked, our customers apprehended. We don't have enough resources to defend ourselves, and um, the Foundation won't stop until all our products are in their hands. We won't be able to go on like this, and I would like to make a proposal."
"No," Phineas immediately cut him off. "We've talked about this before, Vincent. I'm not going to let you sell our years of hard work to some… rich businessmen who see nothing but profit in our efforts. If we're subjected to their rules, our inspirations, our innovations, and our originalities will all be lost."
"Yes, and I've thought about that, Phineas," Anderson turned to the old man, nodding slightly. "We are always going to be raided, and um, some of our products will be snatched from our customers. Receiving funding from MC&D can give us the power to counter those, but only temporarily. It doesn't fix the problem from the source. So as I really think about it, there is only one logical and permanent solution."
The four's gaze followed as Anderson stood up, moving to one of screens in the meeting room. "If the Foundation really wants our little gadgets, we're going to cut out the, um, 'middle man' here, which is the being raided part," He chuckled slightly at the joke, and made the announcement. "We will be directly funded by the Foundation."
Jason choked on his drink. Jeffery froze, and Medea just stared at him blankly.
"Wait, what?" Phineas said.
Anderson turned on the device. After a few moments, the screen flashed on, and a blue figure appeared.
"Hello," the computer vocalized. "I'm Alexandra, your Foundation liaison. It's nice meeting you!"

"What do you mean 'you didn't actually think this was going to happen'?" Director Holman stared at their "Robotics Specialist", a few veins visible on his forehead. Next to him, Assistant Director Merlo gave a resentful look.
"Well, I didn't actually expect that the ghosts of the droids would linger due to their hatred towards the tasks the Foundation put them through?" Vincent Anderson replied, forcing a smile.
"And let me remind you that you're part of the Foundation, Anderson," Holman tapped on the table. "And this is because of the brain mapping tech? Their souls are now trapped there? So how come I was not informed about this in the first place?"
"I did mention it, in the reports. Just that I didn't really, um, highlight that part."
Holman looked like he was holding back a curse. After a few moments, he signed. "You're dismissed, Anderson. Back to your department, I believe any further instructions on what to do with… SCP-3560 will be filed to your place directly."
Anderson nodded, and exited the Site Director's office as Merlo shut the door on him. He stood there for a second, and let out a modulated breath. He then took out his silver comedy mask from his person. Putting it on, he once again noted how much he hated the dress codes.
As he walked through the facility, a team of MTF agents rushed past, no doubt to deal with the mess he had created. They were led by Commander Shaw, who appropriately gave him a middle finger. Anderson returned the greeting with a nod.
After a short walk and one elevator ride, Anderson was standing in front of the Special Robotics Department of Site-64. A familiar falcon logo was branded on to the door, right inside a Foundation department shield. He pressed his palm into the security scanner and allowed the door to slide open.
The common room was unusually empty and quiet, occupied by only two individuals – Hector and Researcher Conwell, who were playing a game of chess. Anderson already expected that most robots would be called back temporarily in light of the incident, and staff likewise interviewed. The two were probably left here in case of emergency.
As Anderson walked pass, the Peregrine bot looked up to greet him, while Conwell was too engrossed in the game and the music playing in his earphones to even notice.
Several more similarly empty development and management offices later, Anderson reached his own office. As he finally settled, he took out his standard Foundation-issued pad and checked his feed. Unsurprisingly, it was bombarded with reports and complaints regarding the appearance of SCP-3560, a hell on earth for his beloved robots only. He also was in for a small chat with an Overseer within the week. Meanwhile, on the intranet's small social media, "#RoboLimbo" had become a trending topic, which he really didn't care to read the specifics about. Anderson decided against logging in any of the chat rooms, and spent the next five minutes sinking into the comfort of his chair and staring at the ceiling.
Eventually, his eyes settled on a framed photo of him, Phineas, Jeffery, Medea, and Jason standing together, each with a genuine smile. It was Anderson Robotics' official opening day, and they joked about being pushed to bankruptcy within the first week as none of them knew anything about running a business.
Money, however, was no longer a concern as the mighty Foundation machine worked its magic. Their tech was valuable enough, so they were given much freedom to create as they wished; the only drawback was the endless arguments with Ethics Committee about robot rights. Yet, only he and Jeffery were still stationed at Site-64. Jason jumped at the opportunity to be transferred to bigger and more prominent sites, and Medea with him. His little firm was pretty much disbanded, taken away piece by piece, and without him noticing, integrated into the Foundation. And as for Phineas…
As his thoughts drifted, Anderson closed his eyes and put himself in sleep mode.

"Mr. Anderson~ Rise and shine!" A sweet albeit slightly mechanical voice rang out in his audio receptors, and Anderson snapped back from the dreamless false sleep. He was greeted by a blue-skinned woman with long blue hair.
"Alex," He said as the cameras serving as his eyes refocused.
"Yep," Alexandra, the coordinator of the Special Robotics Department responded. "I do hope you've gotten enough rest, mentally, of course. The rest of the team is already waiting for you." She then wasted no time to help Anderson from the chair and began to lead him towards the common room.
"Um, I'm sorry, Alex," Anderson asked as the office door closed behind him. "But what do you mean, team?"
"Oh, the news came while you were sleeping. We're assembling a team to explore the interior of the 'Robo Limbo'," She said, dramatically making big air quotes with her hands.
"I thought that would be up to Shaw and her—"
"Heeeeey sup! Mr. Anderson!" A green-haired young man jumped out of the common room and patted Anderson on the shoulder, interrupting his question.
Anderson winced slightly at the sight of the overzealous AIAD bot. He was never quite used to the temperament of the Foundation AICs, for they were never quite human enough and not as comfortable to be around as his own androids. But of course, the work was still impressive; he himself couldn't write code like this. So instead, he resorted to curse the engineer of the personality drives in his head.
"That's quite enough," Alex smiled, shooed Thorn away and gently pushed Anderson inside.
He saw yet another familiar artificial face and realized this must be way more serious than he had hoped. Nevertheless, he greeted Grape, the third AIAD robot, who only grunted in return. Looking around, he also saw a few agents sitting around, notably Commander Shaw, who was helping herself to some juice. Hector was nowhere to be seen but Researcher Conwell was helping the agents with some equipment.
"So," Anderson finally said. "What is this about, may I ask?"
"Oh, we're going into 3560. Because all the Robotics department androids are in for inspection and review right now, me, Grape and Throne are helping with the mission," Alex explained. "Lawbringers have already covered the basic grounds, and we have a secure route out in case anything happens. And… lemme check, MTF Tau-51, Urban Brawl will have our back outside the portal."
"And I'm sure I will be helping remotely over the radio?" Anderson asked hopefully.
"I'm sorry, Vincent," Alex smiled politely. "But I will be directing the mission. You will go in with the rest of the team."
"There must have been some kind of mix up. I'm uh, not exactly good with field work."
"Oh I dunno. I'd say your lightning cannon was pretty impressive," Shaw cut into the conversation, finishing off her drink. "So impressive in fact, it burnt down half of this department?"
"But clearly you have way more experienced agents," Anderson swallowed but only felt dryness in his throat.
"Whose life shouldn't be thrown into the murderous extradimensional hell you created." Shaw made no attempt to hide her aggression.
Fortunately, Alex put herself between the agent and Anderson timely. "You have the most knowledge about SCP-3560, Vincent. We really need an expert in there as well."
"But—"
"Mr. Anderson, it would be the best for you to go with this mission." Alex said apologetically. However, there was a certain sternness in her voice. "I have clear orders."
"Oh yeah, between this and the Phineas incident, you're in a very dangerous place, Vinny." Thorn chimed in, a completely unsuccessful attempt to lift the mood, taking the situation entirely too lightly.
Anderson stiffened. As much as he want to believe that it was Holman setting him up, he knew that Alex must have taken the order from even higher up. This was a warning to him. He had started to miss his long gone status of a PoI – at least back then he only had being locked in a cell instead of termination to worry about. He had always been afraid of the possibility, even made plans ahead of time. But it had not come to that yet, so he simply nodded.
"Great," Agent Shaw said dryly. "Let's head off."

As Anderson walked among the shadowy trees and the thick fog, taking shelter between armed MTF agents and armoured bots, he felt somewhat surreal and ridiculous, as if he had been placed into a stereotypical horror movie. But the moment he stepped into the portal, he had felt a chill down his spine, despite his receptors incapable of such sensations. If he were to think about it more rationally, it must have been the thaumaturgical signature of the place; but right now he couldn't help but feel a bit intimidated.
After all, despite what others might think, he knew next to nothing about this place. The theory had been proposed, but back then they were way more interested in putting androids together than worry about the potential consequences. Even Phineas, the more careful of the two, was not persistent in looking into it. There were concerns, but they were put aside, and the theory was shelved. He knew souls would be stuck, but had little idea of what they would be like, and even less of an idea of what their torment would generate.
So far, the team went on without accident; the whole place seemed awfully quiet and undisturbed, despite a slight rotting scent. Alex's voice over the radio guided the team cautiously, and it reassured him to a degree. Most of the team had their weapons ready to go, and the two bots were already scanning and mapping the area.
But then, footsteps, statics, and the rustle of the leaves all broke out at once.
It was Thorn who first recognized the ambush and alerted the team, but it didn't buy them much time. Android souls that had blended too well with the environment had charged out of the thick fog, hundreds in number. Then again, "charge" was an overstatement, as their bodies were tattered, many of them barely held together, sustaining the damage that caused them to expire. Nevertheless, there was strength in numbers, and the team was surrounded.
They returned fire but this only served to slow the androids' advance. When one fell down, more rushed on, and seconds later even the fallen ones would start to crawl forwards once more. As bullets impacted their already tattered bodies, Anderson wondered if the removal of pain receptors from the majority of the androids was such a good idea after all. On the one hand, there were no cries of pain; yet on the other hand, they inched on despite the damage.
The team fell back as they fired, but soon their rear was under attack too. The radio buzzed as Alex started to call for backup, but they couldn't have come to the rescue quick enough. One of the androids finally got close enough, and suddenly exploded, releasing a great wave of light, which swept across the whole team. As the light reached him, Anderson felt no heat. When his systems were back on again moments later, he found himself alone.
He tried the radio, but only static come out; something was interfering with the transmission. Anderson swallowed and suppressed the wild and terrible guesses sprouting from his mind; those would only make the situation worse. He pulled up his guiding system, came up with the rest of the directions with his guts, and walked on.
His footsteps echoed, and everything else dissolved into shades of grey. Tree after tree, clouded by the fog, it all looked the same. He desperately marched on, while at the same time afraid that drastic movements would attract unwanted attention. The feeling that some of the souls were more than eager to see him kept coming back to him, and he felt his steps getting heavier.
At this point, he was slightly regretting not taking Phineas' suggestion more seriously and devoting time to create actual AIs, instead of going for the easy way out to save the funds.
Anderson suddenly stopped moving forward. Right in front of him, there was a figure. Because of the fog and his perplexed state, he didn't even notice it until they were meters apart. Taking the sight in, what little of the blood he had left in his body ran cold. It all made sense now; the team was never the target, their goal was him all along.
It was his old friend, Phineas. Or the Saker bot he made to be Phineas, to be exact. In his chest, a huge hole burnt through by charges of electricity still visible.
Shit.
Anderson turned to run, but the Phineas Saker leapt forward to tackle him.
"What's up, Vincent? Don't want to chat with an old friend?" The dead android roared, his voice accompanied by a thick static sound.
The robot in the shape of an old man briefly gained the upper hand, but Anderson managed to turn over to face him. Kicking what was left of Phineas' stomach, he managed to wrestle himself out. The Foundation's tech had gotten better over the years, and Anderson received his share of updates.
"I-I'm sorry," Anderson said, as he stood up and raised his arm towards Phineas. "But, um, you should be dead."
Phineas had stumbled to the ground. "I warned you about this! Look at what you have done," the droid stared at Anderson. "And now, because of you, I'm stuck here as well."
"Yet, last I remembered, you also went along with it," Anderson couldn't bring his gaze to meet with Phineas'. "I'm sorry, but I really need to get out of here now."
Anderson fired his electricity weapon. A loud crackling sound rang out, yet, there were only the tiniest sparks of electricity. Anderson was stunned as he realized that the environment must have interfered with the workings of his thaumaturgy device.
Phineas only smiled. Taking the chance, he lept forward once again and grabbed Anderson's weapon arm. With a painful shriek, the arm was torn off.
"Your pretty magic tricks won't work here, Vincent." Phineas said, this time grabbing Anderson's throat. "You're staying here with us, paying for your mistakes."
"And I'm guessing my head alone would be enough for you?" Anderson decided to struggle, albeit without much success.
Phineas tightened his grip, but a moment later the arm holding Anderson's throat began to melt. It was now the Saker's turn to shriek in pain. It was the very dissolving agent Phineas himself had invented for disposing of robots that was now eating away his body.
"Well, glad that I have a, uh, backup plan then." Anderson got back up, still holding a few globs of blue and orange in his hand.
"You're not getting out of this," The android roared. "I'll heal, and I'll go after you."
"I'm sure you will, old friend." Anderson said as he tossed several orange spheres at him. The goo stuck Phineas to the spot, and he could only curse as the substance quickly hardened.
Anderson sat down to catch his breath. As he regained his composure, he took off his silver mask as large chunks of it were also damaged by the dissolving goo. As he did so, Phineas stopped cursing and looked up, staring at his once friend intensely. Anderson didn't look back.
A few moments later, distantly, a few shouts were heard, and gunfire rang out. The static faded and Anderson's radio started to buzz slightly.
"I'm sorry, Phineas. But I believe I, um, should go now."
As he got up, the now trapped android started to cackle. "You think this is over?" He said with a broken voice. "Oh, you will be here with us, Vincent. You're always afraid that one day you will run out of your usefulness. You think I didn't know you had made a Saker for yourself? You've sealed your own fate!"
Anderson felt his blood become even colder, but he didn't allow the feeling to surface. He turned away from the broken android on the ground. "Goodbye."
As he walked off towards the direction of the sound, laughter echoed behind him. The leaves of the ghostly forest rustled, and became quiet once again.


| Dread & Circuses Hub | Clown Breeding 101 with Prof. Richard C Normus »

  SLOTH'S PIT, 1970

The Bottomless Pit wasn't Jeffrey Hubble's usual watering hole. Its clientele was mostly comprised of tourists, truckers and other passers-through. Locals seldom ventured there, and when they did it was usually for less than respectable reasons.
Jeffrey was grateful for the bitter February cold that allowed him to conceal his identity under heavy clothes without suspicion. Nevertheless, he had waited until after dark until heading to the disreputable dive, parking several blocks away and cutting through alleys to make sure he wasn't seen.
When he stepped inside he left his scarf in place, scanning the entire room for anyone he knew. Squinting in the dim light and thick cigarette smoke, he recognized no one but the barkeep, a barkeep who knew how much his customers valued their privacy and could be trusted not to snitch.
Satisfied with his anonymity, he made his way to the back booth. He had been told two men would be waiting for him there, one tall and skinny and the other tall and muscular. The booth was occupied by two men, but there was also a young woman with them, and his contact had made no mention of that. Jeffrey took another look around the bar, just to make sure that these were the people he was supposed to meet with. The larger man whistled sharply at him and waved him over.
Jeffrey swallowed nervously and sat down to join them. There were four pints of ale already on the table.
“We ordered for you; hope that's alright,” the larger man said, his tone making it clear it made very little difference whether it was alright or not. Jeffrey's eyes widened as he was now able to see that this Man had an Upside-Down Face.
“Of course it's alright. Why wouldn't it be?” the slender man asked rhetorically, raising the pint glass and taking an exaggerated sniff. “This is some fine brew. I don't believe I've ever had pumpkin ale before. Made from local produce, from your own farm if I'm not mistaken, Mr. Hubble.”
Jeffrey sighed and pulled down his scarf.
“Yeah, that's me. I don't suppose you'd be inclined to tell me who you are?” he asked.
“No, we would -”
“Herman P. Fuller, of Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting, the greatest show in the all the worlds! A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the second man replied enthusiastically. The Man with the Upside-Down Face shook his head. “This is my bodyguard, Manfred Mannington Mandarino Mansfield.”
“We're partners, and that's not my name.”
“And the striking young lady beside him is -”
“Herman, if you introduce me as Leslie Van Dyke one more time I swear to god -” she said.
“Veronica. Her name is Veronica,” Fuller said. “She's nobody, don't worry about her. I know you were only expecting two of us, but when Veronica heard we were heading to The Bottomless Pit she insisted on tagging along.”
“Sinning Jessie is supposed to hang out here. I've never been with a tulpa before, and I'm hoping she and I can go bumper to bumper,” Veronica said as she sipped her ale. “Hubble, how does this whole tulpa thing work anyway? Will just thinking about her attract her attention or do I have to say her name three times or something?”
“I… listen, I don't want to be rude, but I was hoping we could just make our little swap and then be on my way,” Hubble replied.
“Oh yes, of course. Who are we to say no to a Karcist?” Herman asked with a smug smile.
“I'm not a Karcist!” Jeffrey whispered, grateful for the ambient drone of conversation, hum of the furnace and blare of the jukebox that made it nigh impossible for anyone to overhear them. “I'm not even a Sarkic anymore, not really. You can't tell anyone about me, ever! Neo-Sarkics don't take kindly to apostates.”
“And how exactly did a small town, Midwestern farmer end up becoming a Neo-Sarkic?” the Man with the Upside-Down Face asked.
“Does that matter?”
“For what you're asking, you bet it matters. We didn't come here to get fleeced, and if your story doesn't add up we're walking.”
“If you really need to know, I came down with lung cancer a while back. Being from Sloth's Pit, I knew magic was real, so I figured there had to be some kind of magic out there that could cure me. My search eventually led me to the Wanderer's Library, and from there I was able to locate a Flesh Carver. I begged him to cure me, promised him anything if he would. He asked that I pledge my soul to Ion.”
“Hmmm. Sarkics aren't known for being evangelical. I'm pretty sure they disown kids born into Sarkicism more often than they let in outsiders,” the Man with the Upside-Down Face said. “What made you special?”
“Apparently, the guy had been looking for an apprentice for some time to help him with his work. My botanical skills and my knowledge of the supernatural made me a decent candidate for Flesh Carving, and my desperation made me easy to control. He cured me, and in exchange, I was to serve as his apprentice for seven years. After that he would have sponsored my entrance into his House as an Orin, but… Neo-Sarkics are really weird. Most people agree that they're evil, but everyone can agree they're weird. I declined his offer and came back to Sloth's Pit. Now I have a wife and kids -”
“My condolences,” Herman said.
“- and I just want to put all this weird Sarkic stuff behind me and have a normal life with them. I've removed all my grafts, reversed all my mutations, and pulled this little bastard out of my guts.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a glass mason jar, inside of which was a coiled white worm. Herman immediately grabbed the jar and held it up for inspection.
“That's what you wanted right? An Akuloth, His Sacred White Worm. It can cure any illness and boost regenerative abilities, enough to let you live forever if you're skilled enough. It can also produce mutagenic enzymes, but unless you're a Karcist I wouldn't recommend that.”
“And you just plain don't want it anymore?” Veronica asked sceptically.
“I need to sever all ties with my Sarkic past. I am burning that bridge forever.”
“Is that so?” Herman asked. “Then what, pray tell, is that?”
Herman nodded over to a bulletin board across from them. Among its many posted items was a newspaper clipping of Jeffrey, along with his son and daughter, standing proudly next to an enormous pumpkin.
“Biggest pumpkin in the whole county, literally broke the scale, yadda yadda yadda. Are you telling me you grew that with nothing more than good old American hard work?”
Jeffrey groaned.
“Okay, maybe I'm still using a little granola Sarkicism to boost my crop yields, but I have completely renounced Neo-Sarkicism. I'm dedicated to being a good husband and father now, so yeah, I'm providing my family with the best life I can give them, but I don't want anything more to do with worms or tentacles or turning people's bodies into actual temples!”
“Manny, what do you think?” Fuller asked.
The Man with the Upside-Down Face stared intently at Jeffrey for a moment, so much so that he couldn't shake the feeling the Man was prodding into his very soul.
“I think he's telling the truth. The worm's probably genuine,” the Man replied. “I still don't think this is a good idea.”
“That's why I'm the boss and you're a Freak I let out of the Den to intimidate people,” Fuller said, examining the jar with intense interest. “So what's the deal with this thing, Hubble? Do I just swallow it or -”
“Oh no. It takes too long to work its way down, you'd suffocate. You're going to want to insert it rectally.”
Herman and the Man with the Upside-Down Face looked at him in disbelief, while Veronica burst out into laughter.
“Veronica, you shut your mouth this instant!” Herman ordered. “Hubble, that's not what Neo-Sarkics do, is it?”
“No, they do a big ritual and cut an incision into the torso and let the worm crawl in,” Jeffrey replied. “But they're pretentious assholes. Why go through all that when -”
“When you already have a pretentious asshole!” Veronica laughed.
“Veronica, I said shut your mouth!”
“Listen, it's up to you. If you want to cut a big enough hole into your torso for this thing to wiggle in and then wait for it to heal you, that's your business. All I know is that if I had had a choice, I would have just let it in through my butt.”
“And how did you go about removing this little guy?” Manny asked.
“Rectally. I passed it like it was a tapeworm,” Jeffrey replied. “It's a slimy fella, so it's already lubricated. Honestly, it will be painless.”
“And once it's in, it will just work its magic?” Herman asked.
“Well no, if you let it it will gorge itself on your blood and grow like a tumour. You need to have enough mastery over your own body to limit its food supply, send it hormonal signals and whatnot. You can do that, can't you? I was told you had studied Sarkicism.”
“I've studied a little bit of everything my good man. I can shepherd flesh and craft clockwork with the best of them. Why, when I was a boy -”
“Don't get started on that, otherwise we'll be here all night,” Manny objected. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet case, opening it to reveal a pocket watch adorned with Mekhanite symbols. “This is what we're offering in exchange. It's pure beryllium-bronze and was designed, hand-crafted and blessed by a Mekhanite Priest. It's intended to ward against Sarkic spiritual attacks, but if you keep it on your person long enough it should cleanse you of any lingering Sarkic forces. Not even the most powerful clairvoyant will be able to tell you used to be a Flesh Carver.”
Jeffrey gingerly accepted the case and picked up the watch by its chain to examine it. It was a thing of exquisite beauty, clearly crafted with both love and skill. He opened it to see that its glass face proudly exposed its inner workings, ticking away as faithfully as their craftsman.
“Huh. It burns a little. I guess that means it's holy. Frankly, I deserve worse,” he said.
“We have a deal then?” Herman asked with a hopeful, crooked smile.
“I just want to make it clear that the deal is final, and if anything goes wrong with that worm I'm not responsible for it. It worked fine inside of me for years so if you can't control it that's all on you.”
“Yes, yes, buyer beware. Don't you worry about me, son,” Herman said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“We have a deal then,” Jeffrey nodded, pocketing the case inside of his coat. “Thanks for the ale, fellas.”
Picking up his pint, he left for the other side of the bar.
“A broken wind-up toy in exchange for eternal life,” Herman chuckled. “Am I the world's greatest con artist or what?”
“You're something, Fuller,” Veronica said with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, that's her! That redhead at the bar, it's Jessie. Wish me luck, guys.”
Fuller gave her an absent nod, his attention focused on his recently acquired prize.
“What do you think Manny? Should I insert it… the way he said to?”
“Not until after a few more rounds of ale.”
“… Agreed.”

Several days later, an anemic and delirious Herman Fuller lay in his bed with an obscenely bloated stomach.
“Bernie I don't know what you're so upset about it's not like she needs all four paws,” he mumbled.
Manny and Veronica stood over him, staring down at him with disgust.
“Traded a priceless Mekhanite artifact for an intestinal parasite. World's greatest con artist indeed,” Manny said with a sad shake of his head.
“How can they expect us to return books on time when the Library's outside of Time?” Fuller raved. “It's a scam!”
“Should we help him?” Veronica asked.
“Percy, why won't you let me have it on credit? You know I'm good for it.”
“We'll probably regret it, but yeah,” Manny said. “Come on, help me get him to Tinkles.”
Manny lifted him up and stood on his right to support him, while Veronica stood to his left.
“Dear Lord, I seem to have sprouted two extra heads. One of them's upside-down!” Herman complained.
“Just try to stay calm Fuller, we'll get you fixed up in no time,” Manny assured him.
“Hey, I can watch Tinkles pull the snake out of his butt, right?” Veronica asked with a devious smile.
“We'll let everyone watch,” Manny smirked back.

| Dread & Circuses Hub | Clown Breeding 101 with Prof. Richard C Normus »


Eight days after the fall of Gyaros, a young priest of Mekhane beheld the dying flesh of his master. Red, cracked, and rotting. The high priest had hours left at most. The majority of those few who had returned to Akrotiri two days prior had already succumbed.
"My boy, please forgive me." The elder's words creaked out of his throat, sounding less like a man than a fish struggling to breathe air. "I had hoped to spare you from our duty. You were supposed to survive, and to lead our people beyond this age of war." A cough wracked his body.
The younger man watched without expression. "It doesn't matter. Nothing we do does any longer. Even if you and the others had lived. They already stole what fragments of God we could gather. Our Colossi are destroyed, and our allies abandon us by the day. This war is over Master. The Karcist is going to kill us all. My only remaining hope is that he does it before he consumes the Goddess rather than after. I could not bare the shame of outliving our maker."
The sound of a slap echoed through the small chamber.

Grand Karcist Ion, Sorcerer-King of Adytum and slayer of four divinities, gazed down upon the Island-City of Akrotiri from above, and frowned. So this was the great civilization that had stalled the western expeditions for nearly a century. The Architecture was a marvel to be sure, and by the look of the Colossi it's defenses had once been formidable. But no more.
Three Colossi lay wrecked and ruined in the bay, and the harbor gates they had once guarded were ripped asunder. What few ships remained showed signs of great damage. Even the long dormant caldera upon which the island had formed had begun to loose steam once more. Tundas had dealt their foes a mortal wound at the cost of his life. "May we meet again in the Adytum to come, my friend," he whispered.
He ceased his scrying and prepared to return inside the fortress of Kythera, but a hand on his shoulder forestalled him. He didn't need to ask to know who it was. "I promise that I'm well Lovataar. Merely anxious at the implications of this victory."
His wife nodded, and the two lapsed into a companionable silence. Soon, the peace he felt now would be felt by all mankind. The Broken One was not a mere spirit given life by the thoughts of its people like the Hittite Totem or Aryan Firebringer. It was a true god, like the Father was. Already he could perform miracles and conquer a continent. With this western god's strength, humanity would be united. For the first time, the Father himself would be vulnerable. And Ion knew how to exploit the vulnerabilities of gods better than any man who had ever lived.
"Ah, my love. I never have been able to decide if your obsession with brooding is among your most or least attractive qualities." Lovataar grinned at him, and he felt his worries fade away. This was a day of triumph, of ascendancy. No need to fight the battles of tomorrow. Not yet.
He returned the Daeva's smile. "I would think that it must have been, else your decisions ere now seem strange indeed." The two stood and began to return. "How fares the preparations?"
"Orok says the invasion force is ready. I've already informed them of the item we need for the ritual. Saarn has the profane instruments Tundas recovered ready to be used once we have the last piece. The only remaining question is the fate of the population."
Ion paused for a moment, considering the question. He had put it off as long as possible. He always did. "We need a living priest. but aside from that… Burn the city, and let the blood of its people fuel the flames. They're too dangerous to be left alive. The forces they command were once considerable, and could become so again. And it serves as an example for future foes."
"You know that you don't need to justify it to me, only to yourself." He should have known two hundred years together made hiding his intentions impossible. "Now come, before you get distracted and this oversized rock crashes into the sea."
Beneath them, the floating fortress-island of Kythera surged through the clouds, a hawk approaching its prey. Risen from the earth in Adytum's wake by the power of a newly dead god, it would be the instrument to end the iron heathens.

The priest of the Broken One trudged through the streets of the city, ruminating on the final instructions of the man who had raised him. The weather seemed too beautiful for such a tragic time in the history of his people, with only a small cloud-front to the east marring an empty sky. Such was the cruel irony of fate.
"Let god and savior be as one." It was a stupid plan, one he would never have conceived. Even if it worked, what would be the point of surviving in such a world? Better, perhaps, to die a martyr than to live as a monster.
A scream broke into his thoughts, and the crowd around him began pointing at the sky. At first he felt only confusion, but then he realized. That wasn't a cloud. And monsters from the fringes of hell came pouring down in the final rain Akrotiri would ever see.

Orok, the horned Klavigar of war, was returned to Kythera after a mere hour. The Heart of Mekhane and an accompanying priest in tow. Saving him from the fighting pits, Ion reflected, was certainly among the wisest decisions he'd ever made.
"My Ozi̮rmok, I have brought to you what you desire." Orok pulled forward the priest's chain. "This one came to me with the final instrument, begging to be spared."
Ion smiled wolfishly at the man, who would not meet his eyes. "For his action, he will be. But first, he has a role to play." Ion reached out and parted the flesh along the heathen's wrist, and drank deeply of his blood. The foreigner recoiled, but calmed once Ion finished and healed the wound. He only needed a little after all.
Using the verses Saarn had spirited from the Mekhanite archives, he began doing what they had desired to do for millennia: rebuild their god. The final piece was placed on a dais prepared for the occassion, and the ritual began.
"Blood of corrosion, be cleansed and once more flow. Let entropy still and life renew." He poured the vial of black liquid over the Heart, which began to move. "Flesh that was never flesh shall twist and grow amidst the beat of the Heart." The pillar folded in on itself, wrapping around the smaller piece of metal. "And may the name of the Maker shine through this vessel, so that it may be what its predecessor could not." The smaller carving faded into the metallic mass, now shifting and writhing without order.

Ion held out his right arm, which divided into three before reforming into a serpent's likeness. "God of soulless order, I bring the chaos of life." He began to walk forward. "Within me lies the blood of your faithful, the seed of your influence on the world. I have let it grow within me, just as I will grow to become what you could never be." The serpentine maw that had once been a hand hung over the unborn foetus of the reborn god. "I am the Ouroboros, the serpent that consumes all, even myself." In a single motion, he swallowed Mekhane. Behind him, her priest smiled.

"Fighting the Flesh lord is pointless, but I made preparations for this eventuality," The dying elder explained to his wayward pupil. "The artifacts stolen from Gyaros were meant to be taken. I corrupted them, in all cases leaving a fragment to be hidden away while the remainder became a knife pointed at Ion's heart. Let god and false savior be as one. He won't consume Mekhane; he'll share her ill fate."
"You profaned the fragments of God itself! This is sacrilege, heresy, it-" he was interrupted by a hand against his mouth.
"I'd slap you again, but I don't have the strength. This was the only way for her to survive, even if it meant killing most of her myself. For this to succeed, a follower of Mekhane must open the path to the curse. And in so doing, become a party unto it. I had intended to do it myself, but now I must leave this task to you. In truth, I can only guess at what it will entail. But I know that you will be bound as well. You will suffer greatly. What would you sacrifice to save Mekhane?"
"Everything."

Ion felt a brief moment of euphoria after the deed was done. Then there was pain.
He fell to his knees as steel erupted from his limbs, spilling his blood upon the ground. He felt every piece of himself writhe as his physical and metaphysical bodies were wrung out, re-organized, and ripped asunder. Amidst the chaos, he managed to open his eyes. He later wished that he had not.
His friends' and soldiers' flesh ran wild as the summer breeze, the untamed and unleashed power of the Grand Karcist tearing them to shreds. Of his Klavigar, Saarn was nowhere to be found while Orok was engulfed by a mountain of life. Lovataar watched in horror at her husband's fate, only to join it as dozens of hands broke free of her abdomen to wrap around her tall form. He wouldn't have let her come if he'd known she was expecting.
As he felt Kythera begin to fall from the sky and lava rise from the island below, he saw the laughing face of the Mekhanite priest, who alone was spared. "Without you, your people will die. But you will live on, buried by the Goddesses' forge. And I will never allow you to break free, even unto the thousandth generation."
With those he loved most taken from him, and his body falling into pieces, it was a relief when the ash came to claim him.


The odd, tiger-colored, water-act-ruining spectacle was helped down into a seat at one end of a table in the Ringmaster's Tent. He twitched a couple of times, trying to find a position that didn't make it painful to sit. He settled on tilting himself to lean heavily on his left elbow. He was wincing and covered in bandages (in many multiple colors). A muscular man entered and sat down opposite him, looking pensively at the sore, sorry sight trying its best to look presentable in tattered attire. Eventually, the helpers had backed off from the altogether unsightly figure and competed over who had picked the most piranha teeth out of the guy.
The muscly man rolled his shoulders and entered an inquisitive, formal stance in his seat. "Any statements you'd like to make before we begin?"
"Two. You look odd."
"I get that a lot."
"I mean, I've seen a lot of weird people — where I come from, weird is normal! Or, no, sorry, where I come from normal is normal, where I went after that weird is normal, and now I'm kind of in a new place where I'm unsure what's weird and not. Still, I've never seen weird like you." The tiger-pallette-toting man attempted to interlock his shaking fingers, but each time he did his whole body jolted and his hands pulled away from each other. Eventually, he let his shaking arms rest on the table, convulsing a couple times before finding a position that didn't make his body stab with pain. "Do you see the whole world upside-down?"
"No."
"That's good to know. That would be disorienting. That would be real unfortunate, but then again, if you've always been like that then how would you know if you saw everything upside-down? It would be your normal. Heh, there's that word again! Normal. I have a weird relationship with normal. It's never really sat well with me. Heh, heheh, okay, I'm sorry, now I'm getting weird. Or, was I already? Still, sorry, I'll shut up about it."
"Okay, now —"
"Wait! You said two state — sorry, you said 'any statements' and I said 'two'. Got confused there. Regardless, I'm sorry, I have a second statement. Can I say it?"
"Go ahead."
"Okay, this one's a bit long. Hi! I'm, uh, okay, I really liked your show! I mean, I didn't really get to see a lot of it, but it sure left it's mark! Ha, heh, heheh, okay, sorry, but really! I saw you guys when I was really little and I never forgot it. I love you guys. I almost didn't know if you were real. Sorry! I landed in your tank! It was — it's just — I forgot to carry a two, and passing through dimensional borders, no matter how 'pocket' they are, is really tough and I haven't had much practice, so I thought I was just going to plop down and make my entrance backstage — ha! Like, that wouldn't work, you can't make an entrance backstage! You enter from backstage, that would've been…
"Stupid, okay, I digress, thank you for saving me! I know you guys don't always… do that. I think, at least, from what I've heard, not like it deterred me! I like you guys… a lot… okay, so, could you please send my apologies to that mermaid lady? She was really pretty, tell her she's pretty for me, could you do that? I'm sure she gets that a lot, uh, maybe don't say that. I might tell her myself. Actually scratch the apology thing too, I'll say sorry when I see her. She'll probably slap me… I think girls slap guys, right? I've seen it happen. On television. Maybe I shouldn't get all my lessons on television. I'm rambling! I tend to do that —
"Oh! Yeah! I. I am… Smarty Marty! Uh, ta-dah! I've been a… a fan of you guys for a very long time — crepe, I don't know how long you guys live, I might have, uh, for me it's a long time, I saw you when I was real little and now I'm… thirty… something. Isn't that weird? I've just, I haven't kept track of birthdays for a long time. I… I don't like them. I digress! Again! I, uh, you must be wondering about me! 'Who is this guy and why is he rambling at me?' Ha! Haha, heheh, heheheh, okay, uh, I'm Smarty Marty Simmons, or just Smarty, or Marty, but you can call me Marty Simmons — other way around… there were three terms, not other way around, but you get it! I worked at Wondertainment, and I didn't like it there, so here I am! I just, uh, I told them sayonara! and took my stuff — er, no I didn't, I just left. Then and there. I was done with their bull, bull, uh, bull honky, and I wanted out, and I didn't know where to go — except I did, and it was the circus, and here I am! I've always loved face paint and theatrics, so I thought I'd… I thought, uh, I'd thought I fit right in, but maybe I'm wrong… I'll…"
He broke from his broken flailing (clearly there was supposed to be more physical emphasis throughout his impromptu speech, but every time he tried his eyes widened and he went back to his previous position) and looked around the room, making sure not to bend his neck in any way that would send him into spasms. "I'll, uh, I'll shut up is what I'll do. I talk a lot. I should stop that."
Manny glowered at the ambitious young soul, waiting patiently to make sure he was definitely entirely completely done with his speech. Once that was clear, he straightened up and breathed deep to prepare for his speech.
"Wait!"
All Manny could do was look at him.
"Uh, you said statements, not questions — I'll make it short. Look, do you guys have a stress ball anywhere? I just, I think better when I have a stress ball in one hand, and uh, well it relieves stress, you know? Haha, okay, yeah. That would be nice, if you could." He cleared his throat, and looked to see that no one was going anywhere to fetch him any sort of anything. "Okay, okay yeah, I'm uh, I'm done. Please, talk away."
Manny took his second deep breath, held it for just a second to make absolutely, positively, one hundred percent sure that Marty wasn't going to talk again… and then he spoke. "From Wondertainment, you say? Anything you worked on?"
"Um… no… I, no, unfortunately. I grew up in Wonder World! Tee emm and my momma supported me so I was admittedly a lazy bum and never figured out why I should get a job until she, uh…" The man shook a little harder for just a second or two. "She passed. She was beautiful. Best mom I or anyone else could have ever hoped for. Raised me right! Heh, for the most part. I might have been the teensiest bit spoiled…
"But anyways! She died and I couldn't couch surf for long before people got tired of me mooching off of them, so I looked up at that big tower and thought 'Alright Marty! You're gonna go in there and get a gosh darn job!' And uh, I did. I had a pretty plentiful portfolio and they couldn't not accept me. So I got in as a Toy Tinker — er, that is to say that I got into the Toy Creation Department." His breath got a bit more staggered now, and his right hand squeezed into fists in and out. "What made me leave was… on our first — my first, sorry. On my first, at? At my first toy idea presentation thingy I was accused of stealing somebody else's idea… it was this big dude, uh, big name in the department."
The fellow sat up, visibly paining at the motion but unwilling to back away from his more serious stance. "This guy was my idol. He was what made me want to be in Wondertainment's arms in the first place. My everything. My… my star. I mean, I took my nickname from him — his name was Brainy. Brainy Brian." He pursed his lips and squeezed his eyes as if the name was difficult to say out loud. It was something akin to somebody mourning over the loss of an ex-lover, or a child realizing he would never be able to attain his dream of being an astronaut. "Brainy Brian Harding. I thought he was perfect. But he sat up, he sat up at the end of my presentation and said I was a phony. Said that I had blatantly stolen his idea, and I…
"I had gotten a standing ovation for mine! I was clearly working, I was working my way into this world and this amazing community of friends and fellows and he just stands up and calls my, pardon if I sound like I'm bragging, but my spectacular first toy… the Grow-N-Know Piano Plant. He calls it a piracy. And he's… been around them so long that they couldn't… they all believed him! They didn't reprimand him at all, I saw him with his smug smiles that he hid behind their backs in his sideways glances at me and, and, and I couldn't take it! They punished me and sent him away on paid vacation due to an outbreak he had in the meeting… paid vacation. Paid vacation while I got dirt and a stern talking to. I wasn't having it. I, uh… Oh jeez, this sounds bad. I'm not usually a quitter! But I quit. Heh, I'm not usually a starter either, but I started, so that's a… start…
"But hey, I put my foot down, and I quit and stormed out and I laid my foot down — I already said that, but that just speaks volumes to the amount of confidence I did it with! I really put my foot down. That I did. Anyways, uh, I walked out and cried my little heart out and then I opened a portal, trying to go back to somewhere I knew and start over. It was a bit impulsive, but uh, I heard you guys like impulse here. Impulse and gut feelings. I didn't make the most flattering entrance, but I know you'll love me! I've always wanted to perform, I always wanted to be on stage and see the audience dance and wave and hoot and holler and yell and scream and… and… love me. Love me like no one person can, but exactly like a whole crowd could. In my emotional state I made a miscalculation, but that doesn't happen often with me. I'm, uh, I'm a math geek, I'm pretty good with it."
Manny looked questioningly at Smarty Marty, scanning him up and down for any signs of wavering, feeling the internals and externals. Something felt fuzzy and unclear, like an object in his peripheral vision. The entire explanation looked like it had physically taxed the man, but to be fair just sitting up at that moment looked physically taxing. Still, Manny noted a hint of wet in Marty's eyes. Marty would have wiped it off if only he had the ability to effectively raise either of his arms.
"And you want to perform?"
"Yeah! Yes! Yes I do! I would love to, I wanna see the bright stage lights and dance and sing and amaze and —"
Manny raised his hand to try and silence Smarty Marty, who stopped in his tracks and sunk slightly in embarrassment.
"So you want to perform. Do you have any abilities?"
"Yeah, I'm uh, I can make things — I'm a fast wit, I'm uh, I'm a social guy, I'm… good with kids. I am! I really am."
"You're not a Freak, are you?"
"A what? Well I would certainly hope not! I'm normal, I'm — no, I'm not, I, oh we've already had this talk. I'm absolutely positively not a freak, jeezums! What would… what would give you that impression? Oh gosh, do I really come off like a freak? Oh I'm so —"
"Oh, stop it with that. We're talking about Freaks, capital F. When we're looking for acts, we're looking for Freaks. We've got magicians, mermaids, conjoined twins with a comedy routine, an armless guy that juggles, we've got Clowns galore with all types of horrific and amazing features. You seem like an average Joe. We don't look for average Joes around here."
"An average —? Clearly I am versed in the odd and the — okay first I'm so sorry for misinterpreting freak, that was my bad, but come now! I broke a dimensional barrier, I've made toys for Wondertainment. Or, sorry, no, I tried to. Still, I was a Toy Tinker for a month there… I'm not an 'average Joe' I assure you! I can be amazing, audacious, Wondrous with a capital W, I swear it! I swear it with all my heart and might that I'm no… no… I'm no Joe six-pack I swear!"
Marty shook even more than he was before, wincing at the stinging his muscle tension caused. Manny looked disapprovingly at him. Marty wasn't a freak in any sense of the word, other than being unable to clearly and concisely communicate anything. However, one thing was clear and concisely communicated about him: he was extraordinarily motivated, and the circus adored "extraordinary". Marty looked desperately for a response from Manny, breathing in a way to suggest that he was about to speak but stopping himself each time.
"You have three options. By the time you come out of intensive care, have an act idea ready. If the Ringmaster and I like it, you have another week to practice it and then show it off to us. If we like it then, you'll have a place on stage. If at either point you disappoint us, we send you back."
"Second option?"
"I'm not one to refuse an eager worker. If you want to be here that bad, I'll give you an in. You do the dirty work. Cleaning up, unclogging the toilets, milking the Clowns, you name it. All the menial labor, I'll keep you around as long as you do it. That's your second option. Your third one is to leave now, go back to Wonder World and —"
"Wonder World! Tee emm, you mean."
"— you can keep doing the things you were doing there. Bumming around and getting a job and whatever."
"Four options."
"Hmm?"
"There are four options. You missed one."
"Oh did I."
"You did. Let me propose a fourth option. I do your menial labor, sure. I can do that. I'm a motivated worker, most of the time, and I don't mind getting my hands dirty. Anymore, anyways. So I do that, I'll do it for free even, but I bet that I have a talent you're in need of."
Manny raised (or lowered) his eyebrows at the sudden bold gesture from this altogether frail and pitiful try-hard. Staring into Marty's eyes, he gestured to prompt a continuation. This was an interesting move, he might not fully realize just how little power he held at this moment.
"Alright, so, sure, I was in a lot of pain, but being carried out gave me a good view of your circus, and I'm just noticing something. You're a circus, and you don't, uh, you don't have a lot of rides. I mean, okay, you have some. They're kind of… Oh please forgive me if this sounds like an insult to your ride… designers, but they're uh, they're bland! Have you noticed that? I mean, think about it. You're at the forefront of entertainment, but acts are one-time things. You can only do them so many times, rides sit there and are ready for use whenever. You have to prepare for acts. And yet, you're all odd and crazy and you have such normal… such normal rides! You might expect them at your local fair! Like a, like a, like you just… bought…
"Okay I'm getting carried away, I don't want to insult you, but I can make you rides. Heheh, heheheh, I can make you rides! I can make you rides that will have your MC&D, or your SCP, or heck, your GOC lining up for fancy free fun. Rides that tower and yet are portable. Rides that send you on trips through the whole circus, or the multiverse, or your own friggin' head. I can make people switch bodies, even! I'm a, I'm a, or I will be a ride-making machine! I'd do menial labor in the meantime and spend late nights designing and building rides. I'll make rides. I can make you them. How's that sound?"
Manny considered. In just the last week (only based on their clocks, days in the circus were variable) they had been forced to decommission a sky-high drop tower. It shot patrons up into the stratosphere, but it was ever so slightly inaccurate and they were forced to build a giant trampoline for it. It was quite the attraction. People weren't told that they were going to be blown off course and the extra thrill was exhilarating for first-time patrons. However, the trampoline was just one of those things that worked forever until it decided not to, and at that point they had a very disquieting trampoline-shaped mess to clean up. Ever since they lost Charley, the ride market they had was very low quality. The best they had was the Fun-lovers' Funhouse, but their domain wasn't quite a ride. At the very least it was a different experience. Shifting his attention back, the two each made eye contact and Smarty Marty gave a weak yet eager smile.
"Ten days. You have ten days to make a schematic of a ride, and if it's not transportable, efficient, or most importantly fun, then you don't get to ask again. In the meantime, you're our janitor." Manny extended his right hand. "Deal?"
Marty frowned. "I'd shake your hand if I could, but I'm uh, it's hard. But yes, deal! Deal definitely deal. For certain. I won't disappoint you, I swear it! Just uh, just pretend like I shook your hand. We'll shake on it properly later. Deal?"
Manny retracted his hand, and smirked. He was getting the hang of this rascal's personality, and suddenly he found him lightly charming. Lightening up, he leaned back in his chair, and nodded at Smarty.
"Deal."
"Yay! Yes, yes, yes ow, ow ow, ouch oh gods, too excited. Too excited! If there is such a thing! Heheh, okay, sorry, uh, can I have, can I get… I'm in need of more than some band-aids, I, can I, uh, an infirmary? 'Intensive care', I think you said? I need that. Can I go there? Please?"
Manny looked over at the stage hands, one of whom was begrudgingly handing over some scrip to the other due to a lack of piranha teeth, and whistled. They looked up, and came over to Smarty, picking up the stretcher they had put down earlier. They helped him onto it as he made grunts and moans of pain and grumbled out some strained gratitude. Icky sauntered into the tent, glaring at Smarty who flinched at her accusatory gaze (or maybe it was a stray tooth that they missed and was poking into his back). Manny went back to his professional demeanor, or at least became more solidly grounded in it, and prepared to explain the situation to an understandably angry Ringmaster, but first…
"Marty? I forgot one thing."
"Oh?"
"Lose the Smartie part. We have too many people named after candy."

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w/ Wondertainment Theme

w/o Wondertainment Theme


"No, no, I meant my left, you imbecile, now the head is on backwards. I knew you'd be no help."
For the cultists of the Church of the Broken God, a long wait was over. After hundreds of years of painstakingly searching, they had collected all the pieces of their deity, and all that was left to do was to assemble Him. Clustered around a withered parchment, ancient instructions passed down through generations, they set to work.
"Okay, so we're looking for one of those little short screw things- no, not that one, that's the wrong shape, see? We want a crosshead one. No, that's a long one. No, that- what even is that?"
Approximately a week had passed since the final part, the very heart of Mekhane, He who was Broken, was located and returned to its rightful place. Yet, all that the assembled disciples of His Church had done was screw one of the legs together. It didn't quite look right.
"Well, we followed the manual, so why the hell are there six toes?"
Each part of the Broken God was piece by piece brought together, in dark, hidden places, filled with ancient magic and cosmic horror, ready for the construction and ascension of Him.
"No, no, this is definitely the right screw- Klööpe, that's the one- the hole just isn't big enough. Give me that drill."
"Aw, fuck."
"He doesn't need both of those, right?"
For the men, women, and other assorted cultists gathered, their entire lives had been spent in search of the parts of His body. This was the culmination of a life-long dream, and victory was so close they could almost taste it. None of them had quite realised how difficult it would be, however, to assemble a Supreme Being with only an allan key and a screwdriver.
"Where did you even get these instructions, oh Grand High Priest?"
"They came in the box, idiot. It's all flatpack these days."
"Oh."
It was hard, painful work. Sacrifice, blood and oil and sweat mixed in, all serving a single purpose, the reconstruction of the ultimate lifeform, the universe's most powerful being.
"Missing? It has to be here somewhere, have you checked the box again? You have? What about behind the desk, that's where we found the- no? What do you mean, 'replacement parts may take up to five weeks'? Bloody disgraceful."
Day and night, without rest, the disciples of the Broken God toiled away, slowly piecing their Creator together…
"Fuck this, I'm converting to Sarkicism."


The newborn god who used to be Andrew MacGregor fell through the rift and crashed roughly to the mountainside. He collected himself and got to his feet. He called to the sun and moon, reaching for the sources of his power, but something was in the way. There was a thickness in the air - the god, though he had existed for only seconds, understood much of the human world. But not this thrumming force, blocking him from his purpose.
Others approached - beings like himself. They walked up calmly, wielding guns. How did he know what guns were? How did he know to question his own knowledge?
Why couldn't he call down the sun?
The soldiers marched to a halt and spread out, keeping a respectful distance. Their leader pulled out a small black box and held it up in front of her. The box began to speak a series of words, in a language he couldn't understand. No - it was one word, repeated over and over in many languages. Finally he heard one he recognized: "Hello."
"Hello," he answered uncertainly.
The woman spoke into the box, then held it out again. "You must have many questions. Please come with us, and we will answer them," it droned.
"I don't suppose I have a choice," he said. The box translated his words into a series of grunts and barks.
The soldier listened, then pulled off her helmet to reveal a charming smile. "We come as friends, to take you somewhere safe," she said through the device.
So Andrew MacGregor, on his first day of godhood, descended Mount Olympus and willingly entered containment.
___
"Well, this one's no good." Doctor Maria Alvarado frowned at the screen. "FMRI shows barely any difference from a typical human's — you can see some of it here, these striations on the amygdala — but this is not what we're looking for."
The green lay in the imaging machine on the other side of thick glass, wall-mounted reality anchors pulsing away on both sides. The analysis room was cramped, and the SRA seemed to give off heat as it thrummed; Maria and her trainee were both starting to sweat.
Doctor Garth Christensen compared the readout to the example charts she'd given him. "So this shows the minimum of anomalous features he would need to be a candidate?"
"It doesn't need to be as atypical as the one you're looking at. But you want to be within, say, 10% of that. If you're not sure, just send them - we'd rather spend the money on extra cells than miss out on a green we can use."
"Understood. So, does this mean you'll be staying until a better candidate comes along?"
"I guess so. I'm not comfortable leaving you on your own until I've had a chance to show you the procedure in person. I guess you'll be stuck with me for a while."
"Well, we're happy to have you."
She grinned "I've seen the way your MTF friends look at me. They can't be rid of me soon enough. They all think I'd be digging around in their brains if I could."
"Oh, come on, I'm sure they don't-"
"They're not wrong." She smiled wider, more sweetly, and let him think she was joking.
___
The newborn god who used to be D-822-46 floated out of the rift and down onto the mountainside, hovering above the crust of snow. She grew a pair of rabbit ears, swiveling them. Silence.
The ears retracted and her face split from the nose down. Her tongue unbraided itself into tendrils, tasting the air as they waved. There were others surrounding the hill.
They were hiding under the snow, but she could taste everything about them. Like her, but covered in armor. They did not carry the reek of fear, nor the electric hum of anger. They were merely determined. They had come to hunt.
She put her face back together and willed herself to where one of them stood on the edge of the ring. The hunter leapt to his feet, firing his weapon; the bullets rippled into her like pebbles into a lake, vanishing harmlessly. The taste of panic made her blood start to rush.
She popped him like a berry and pressed him dry, the fluids of his body swirling in the air around her, and jumped to her next enemy. The serpentine trail of blood and mucous darted to his helmet, flooding it, forcing its way down his nose and mouth, filling his lungs until they burst. She threw her head back and shrieked with joy.
A boom echoed across the mountainside, and something undeniable - even to her - crashed into the ground. It was too slow; she was a streak in the wind, trailing color and furious glee.
Someone pushed her - a tug toward nothingness. She shook it off, like the grip of a child, but it was real power. Power like hers. Power she might steal for herself, once she consumed the vessel that carried it.
She burst toward the one trying to unmake her, teeth bared; her will was stronger than his, her desire more forceful, and he could not make her change. Laughing, she spiraled and picked up speed, and they collided with enough force to scatter his body over the snow. The survivors broke their formation, starting to rush in, and she knew she was winning. She burst into flames, just to make them afraid.
They closed on her, some of them running along the ground, others ripping through space the way that she did. She could sense words, coming out of their devices and traveling through the air between them. She didn't understand what was said, but she felt the meaning - through desperation, a plan.
Stones rose up from the ground and began to strike her; she waved her hand, and they turned to moths and flew away. In the instant that took her, one of the others reached his will into her chest and pulled. She felt herself torn open, twisted and cracked, bones exposed, bare heart bitten by the cold.
But she was above their world, and her body not subject to its laws. Her ribs spread wider, stretching and reaching, until they surrounded the nearest prey and snapped shut around him.
She felt his screaming from inside his body as her bones extended and tunneled in. She pulled him toward her, reshaping them both, breaking down his form. She would add it to her own. She would add all of them to herself, mind and body, and any others she found, until there was nothing else left, until the only life that existed lived within her-
Then a huge steel net came down over them all. Before she could erase it, the boom came again and an unstoppable force slammed into her legs, shearing them off mid-thigh. She screamed. She was suddenly bristling with darts, falling to the ground, pierced with a spear that began to pour lightning into her shifting flesh.
She screamed again, and her agony blossomed into chaos. Spires of pointed bone shot up from the ground. A monstrous serpent burst roaring from the mountainside. A storm of teeth and thorns howled around her.
They scattered, but quickly regrouped, spreading out into a rehearsed formation. Their leader roared defiance at her beast - she could hear it from where she lay, even through the woman's helmet. The creature writhed, scales ripping away and muscle instantly turning to ash, until its blackened skeleton crashed to the ground. One of them thickened time itself, and her projectiles slowed to a crawl, while another changed them to lotus petals with a soft, sad song.
She tried to remake herself, but there was too much to overcome, and the harpoon inside her crackled again, and then there was nothing.
—-
Maria set down the bone saw. Her gloves, apron, and mask were all speckled with divine blood.
The class-V reality bender lay naked and pale in its steel coffin. Its body had resumed a human shape after it lost consciousness - except for the legs, which ended in shreds just above where the knees had been. The bronze-uranium shells used by Achilles' Heel, it seemed, enforced local reality on the target even after passing through.
The top of its skull was also missing, but Maria had done that herself. She began methodically inserting probes into the exposed brain, occasionally glancing at the fMRI readout on its wall-mounted screen as she explained each step to Garth.
"Back when the project was first started, they had to use response-to-stimulus to figure out where to place their leads - they had to talk to the greens while they did this. Can you imagine?"
Garth's eyes never left her hands, taking in wire after wire as she plugged them into the tissue. "So it's basically just a matter of putting the shunts in where the system tells you, and letting the computer do the rest?"
"Yep. I'd say 'it's not brain surgery,' except… well, it is. But it's not really any harder than connecting the life support system at the end. Just put the plugs in the right place." She smiled, and caught him shuddering at how casual she was. Oh, well - I'm getting out of this miserable backwater, Doctor Garth can stay here with his opinions.
"I've got this. Now that I've seen it, it seems pretty simple. I'm just going to set up the leads and the life support?"
"That's it, and then you close them up. These cells can only keep them for 72 hours, but that's enough time to get them to Site-48. I'll finish the processing there and get them all hooked up. Any more questions?"
"Why do we want so many of them? Why such strong ones? What are we really doing here? I know about Orpheus, but why did they assign me to this seventy years later?"
She frowned. "Does it matter?"
"It matters to me."
She held back a sigh. "The original concept of Project Orpheus was to preserve the world, but we know so much more now about what we're up against. We need a longer range."
"A galactic reset button?"
"Further."
A long silence passed as she finished her work. "We've moved on from playing God, and taken His job altogether." There was more awe than judgment in his voice.
"God was asleep at the wheel." She lifted the top of the skull and set it gently in place. "Hand me that stapler."


Incident Report 3143-12.17

On 24/12/2017, a Foundation-operated bot (I/O-ISMETA) located a series of archived discussions pertaining to SCP-3143 across several defunct comic book enthusiast forums, totaling 49 posts. Prior to enactment of standard Foundation media alteration protocol 912-A ("TWILIGHT ZONE"), 7 relevant files were recovered.
These files are included below.

File 1
File 2
File 3
File 4
File 5
File 6
File 7

[REDACTED]

//Close %%/F#l

SCP-3043 played by…
A 1937 OLYMPIA ELITE TYPE-WRITER
SCP-2740 played by…
[REDACTED]
SCP-738 played by…
OLD SCRATCH
SCP-2548 played by…
PAMELA TANSER
SCP-3000 played by…
A GIANT EEL
Gordon played by…
HIMSELF
SCP-2747 played by…


Meanwhile Croesus, taking the oracle in a wrong sense, led his forces into Cappadocia, fully expecting to defeat Cyrus and destroy the empire of the Persians. While he was still engaged in making preparations for his attack, a Lydian named Sam Micheals, who had always been looked upon as a wise yet tragic man, but who after this obtained a very great name indeed among his countrymen, came forward and counseled the king in these words:
"Thou art about, oh! king, to make war against men who wear leathern trousers, and have all their other garments of leather; who feed not on what they like, but on what they can get from a soil that is sterile and unkindly…"
— Herodotus, Histories; Book I

In the eighth month, the duke had a meeting with the marquis of Qi, the duke of Song, the earl of Zheng, the earl of Cao, and an officer of Zhu, who's name was [Sam Micheals], and who reported a great sickness.
— Zuo zhuan, Book V, Duke XI

Sam Micheals listened to the reasoning, and then he asked the messenger, "How large the country between the Tigris and the canal might be?"
"A large district," Sam Micheals replied, "but it matters not. For I am pulled in all directions at once, and I continue to bleed." Then it dawned upon them: the barbarians had sent the man with subtlety, in fear lest…
— Xenophon, Anabasis; Book II, Chapter IV

Item #: SCP-140
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-140 is to be kept in a secure locker on-site.
Description: SCP-140 is a modern hardcopy book with an unremarkable black binding. The book jacket is missing, but the title, "A Chronicle of Daevites", is clearly legible. The inside cover is signed by the author ('Sam Micheals'). The text is copyrighted 19██. Careful examination reveals there are far more pages between the bindings than could be contained within them.
SCP-140 is a detailed account of several fictitious ancient civilizations; the most prominent of these civilizations (Daevites) originated in what is now south-central Siberia. The account elaborates on the history of these civilizations up until approximately 480 B.C., where the book abruptly ends.
Although SCP-140's ink has been positively identified as blood, tests to determine its source have proven inconclusive.
Addendum 140.1: Emails

► ACCESS: SCP/140/emails/140.log

▼ Close File

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
SUBJECT: SCP-140

I know the book's extra-dimensional properties are kind of weird, but should this really be an SCP? There's nothing special about its containment, and — outside of having way more pages than it should — there's nothing particularly special about it.

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
SUBJECT: Re: SCP-140

It hurts

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
SUBJECT: Re: Re: SCP-140

Granted, but given the abruptness of the containment procedures, I can't help but think this would find a better home in our log of anomalous objects.
Also, yes, it hurts it hurts so much and it won't stop. Why won't it stop

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: SCP-140

I won't stop bleeding
I am bleeding into everything

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
SUBJECT: help

I am a soldier bleeding from a poisoned arrow in my heel fired from my own bow
I am dying on the floor of the Senate surrounded by myself and my daggers are wet and dripping
I am a half-animal disemboweling myself with my fingernails as I lay across my thighs at twilight my blood spilling across the threshold of the courtyard

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
SUBJECT: please make it stop

I am everywhere and I am everything and all of me is bleeding
I am killing myself and being killed by myself and it just keeps going and going and going
i keep cutting myself open

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
SUBJECT: why wont it stop

and i bleed into the pages
and i just
want

DATE: 2017/11/15
FROM: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs|271slaehciMs>
TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs|49slaehciM_mas1>
SUBJECT: please

the story

to end

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Sam Micheals, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
— Sam Micheals

This cage is vast, it has no walls.


Normally, Dr. Riven Mercer disliked cleaning the Kiryu Labs biological testing room. Listed simply as “Experimental Room 210”, it was less of an experimental chamber than an enormous haphazard collection of temporary quarters for various small living things. This meant that at any given time, there were usually some low-threat anomalous creatures in the room, such as the tortoise with the barbecue grill shell from eight months ago. Kiryu Labs rarely saw living anomalies for monthly processing caches, but nevertheless the room was kept well stocked with tall plants, various pet foods, and glass jars for obtaining samples and catching bugs.
Of all the 18 rooms that made up the Labs' anomalous item processing chambers, Experimental Room 210 was routinely the smelliest and noisiest. Not to mention the dirtiest, Riven thought as he tiptoed his way through some bushes near the entrance, since the floor is dirt.
Dr. Mark Kiryu, Director of Kiryu Labs and resident bug-lover, was standing in the hanging mesh tent set up in the corner furthest from the chamber door, underneath the skylight window in the ceiling. The tent existed to house the anomalous winged animals sent to Kiryu Labs, and tended to need repairs once every few months due to being pecked at, chewed on, and occasionally set on fire. As Riven approached, he noticed two things: Mark was trimming a large potted ficus, and Mark had a small yellow bird on his head.
“It's a cockatiel,” Mark commented, snipping away at the ficus. Riven blinked.
“I can see that. Is it anomalous?” Riven asked, walking closer to Mark in a half-circle to look at the bird from different angles.
“Banana,” replied the yellow cockatiel helpfully.
“One of the MTFs sent him over,” Mark explained, setting down his pruning shears and collecting the trimmed leaves and branches off the ground. “He and a few other animals were seized from an unscrupulous breeder. Guy was hoping to get a contract with a company marketing tropical fruits overseas. The bird was kept in a cat carrier.”
“Banana,” the cockatiel confirmed. It shifted on Mark's head a bit as he stood up and placed the tree trimmings in a bag.
Mark reached over his head and gave the bird a few pats. “This bird only eats bananas, only says the word “banana”, and is yellow… like bananas. DNA analysis indicates 99.5 percent banana genome. Also he smells like bananas. Guess which fruit he was made to advertise?”
Riven moved his hand to the bird and tried to get it to step onto his fingers. “Tangerines,” he replied, adjusting his arm so the banana bird could climb over to his shoulder. Mark rolled his eyes. “I think they gave you that doctorate too soon, Rivs. And give me back my banana. I need him to help me concentrate on pruning all the plants.”
Banana the anomalous cockatiel tried to affectionately eat Riven's hair. Riven grinned. “I think he likes me. And if you're doing all the plant pruning, what am I supposed to do?”
Mark scooted his hand over Riven's shoulder and stole the bird back. “His friend is named Coconut and he's sitting in the ficus. You can wear Coconut as a hat. Banana is mine. I am socializing him properly.” Mark put the yellow cockatiel back on his head. “The interns cleaned up most of the droppings and testing debris this morning, but there was admittedly one thing they were less sure they could do properly.”
Riven was looking through the ficus to try and spot the coconut bird. “What was it?”
Mark handed Riven a glass cup and a piece of paper.
“Pest control. Or roach wrangling, if you prefer.”

"Fad Roach", attempting a new cleanse.

SCP-723-J-1 is a Periplaneta Americana (American cockroach) believed to be a distant relative to SCP-723-J.
SCP-723-J-1's anomaly manifests in its unusual preoccupation with following popular human behavioral trends, such as dieting, specialized exercise regimens, and intelligent technology for the home environment. Individuals who encounter SCP-723-J-1 will take note of its overzealous desire to be seen as hip and stylish.

SCP-723-J-1 Intake Log Interview
Dr. ██████: Where did you get that? Are you sure it's good for your digestive system?
SCP-723-J-1: [eats]
Dr. ██████: Do you think Sad Roach would be happy that you're so obsessed with dieting? Is this new cleanse really necessary?
SCP-723-J-1: [eats]
Dr. ██████: Isn't this the third diet you've tried in the last week?
SCP-723-J-1: [eats]
Dr. ██████: Fad Roach, no.

“Fad Roach? That's a new one.” Mark wheeled in a small green waste disposal bin into the Kiryu Labs spare room, where Riven was reading aloud from a sheaf of papers and chuckling. Two glass jars, each with a cockroach inside, were next to him on a countertop.
“It's pretty good. The last intern just brought it in, after he helped me catch these two over by the main hallway.” Riven flipped over one of the sheets. “It's nice that you encourage writing these up.”
Mark poked at one of the jars. The roach inside wiggled its antennae menacingly. “Well, newer initiates don't always get to write up documentation in their first year. I figure, why not let them practice? Especially since plenty of the other staff are funnier than I am. I mean, look at Bad Roach.” He picked up the two jars. “I'll get these little guys processed. I don't think they're anomalous, but hey, can never be too careful in a place like this. Also the arthropod guys in the Bio Wing might be looking to use these for tests.”
Riven shrugged, continuing to read through his packet of papers. “I've covered most of the experimental rooms. Agent Shen was going to help out with the rest.”
“Agent Shen, huh? Resident roach murderer? Should we let him in on the inside joke?” Mark had placed the jars of roach onto a wheeled cart. "I admit, I'm curious to see what he would write."
Looking up from the papers, Riven thought for a moment. “Why not? Shen can be funny on occasion… not that funny, but it can't be that bad. Also hey, listen to this one from the Level-2 who cleaned Room 217 earlier today…”

Mad Roach, sulking.

SCP-723-J-2 is a Periplaneta Americana (American cockroach) believed to be a younger cousin of SCP-723-J.
SCP-723-J-2's anomaly manifests in its deep, frequently-displayed emotional turmoil, comparable to that of SCP-723-J but evidently not to the point where SCP-723-J-2 would garner the same amount of attention from observers. While SCP-723-J-2 appears to shun socialization and human contact, it is currently believed that its attempts to discourage interaction are in fact intended to raise concern and attract sympathy for it. Any destructive outbursts exhibited by SCP-723-J-2 appear to follow this pattern of behavior.

SCP-723-J-2 Intake Log Interview
Dr. ██████: Mad Roach, did you chew another hole in your room again?
SCP-723-J-2: [sits in room]
Dr. ██████: You need to open up to your friends about when you're upset.
SCP-723-J-2: [turns to face away from interviewer]
Dr. ██████: You can't throw tantrums every time you don't get what you want!
SCP-723-J-2: [sits in room]
Dr. ██████: Mad Roach no.

Two hours later, after the entirety of Kiryu Labs had been deemed pest-free and the monthly roach wrangling had concluded, Dr. Riven Mercer found himself attempting to explain a joke about roaches.
“What roach?” Agent Tai Yang Shen, Foundation field agent and Kiryu Labs's resident man of few words, was sitting at a table in the break room, peeling an apple with a pocket knife.
“Sad Roach.” Riven was perched on the end of the same table, gnawing on a slice of toast.
“I don't think so. Was it a movie? French or something?”
“No, the roach you, uh… ran into a few weeks ago. You honestly don't remember?” After picking at the crust, Riven crammed the rest of the toast into his mouth.
“I often dispose of lab roaches. I remember the ones outside more. I let them live since they're food for the bird families.” With an idle flick of the knife, Shen tossed a large scrap of apple peel into the nearby green waste bin.
“You really don't like roaches much, do you.”
“No.”
“Okay… well, uh… Mark invited you to write a joke article if you want, since it's the New Year and all, and we figured that we'd try and get everyone to socialize more this year? Group solidarity and whatnot? And this is something that all the interns and some of the joint researchers do during downtime to practice writing and stuff, and we have a format for the roaches as a funny thing we do for everyone who helps out with the cleaning, and each person has their own approach… haha… unintentional pun… I mean…” Riven paused in the middle of gesturing wildly, having realized that he was gesturing wildly.
Agent Shen continued to peel his apple. “Sure.”

Dad roach.

SCP-723-J-3 is a Periplaneta Americana (American cockroach) believed to be the biological father of SCP-723-J.
SCP-723-J-3's anomaly manifests in its deep disappointment with SCP-723-J, and its ability to induce feelings of guilt in any intelligent being that encounters it and hears the story of how its dreamer of a son failed to accomplish anything worthwhile in life.

SCP-723-J-3 Intake Log Interview
Dr. ██████: Can't you forgive your son? Was what he did really that deplorable?
Dad Roach: [silence]
Dr. ██████: He was just trying his best to make it in the world, even if he didn't follow the path you wanted him to take.
Dad Roach: [silence]
Dr. ██████: Will you at least speak to him one last time?
Dad Roach: No.

Mark glanced at Riven, and Riven glanced back at Mark.
“Rivs, we're never letting Shen write any more of these. He is banned from making jokes. Agreed?”
Dr. Mercer nodded. “Agreed.”
The Dad Roach paper was still placed with the other Roach Files, for posterity.

Meanwhile, Agent Tai Yang Shen loaded the last of the green waste into the disposal unit outside, pausing as he noticed yet another cockroach scuttling around the trash cans nearby. Shen nudged it into a clump of weeds bordering the planted areas in the building's courtyard.
“I assume you're happy to be alive,” the agent muttered contemplatively. The roach, undeterred, crawled back out of the weeds and sat on the toe of his right boot.
“Glad Roach, no.” he said pleasantly, shaking his foot and flipping the insect back into the planters. The roach wiggled its antennae at him and disappeared into the bushes.


When I went to bed that night, I briefly imagined snuggling up to him. The pressure of his legs pressed against mine, the warmth of his back on my chin, the soft smoothness of his skin. Then the moment passed, and I clutched the pillow a little tighter.
I don't remember how I first met him, really. It feels so long ago. All I remember is that we met, we spoke, we ate, and I fell in love. I hid it from everyone. Even myself. I wasn't scared of what I felt - I had no reason to be. I see now that I hid it because I didn't know if it was real. I was terrified of tricking myself into being something I wasn't. I still don't know if I am. I don't think I want to either. But I think I loved him nonetheless, and I regret that I never found out.
I never told him that I loved him. I still don't know if I did. I wanted to be near him. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to do things with him, both innocent and depraved. But I never wanted to say that I loved him. I don't think I ever felt comfortable doing so. Not even with my parents. I said the words, but I don't think that I meant them. I wish I could have. I wish I had an ounce of his courage.
Our paths diverged early on, with rumors of an upcoming revolt at a slave auction in the inner City. Ion, of course, would be there. He knew that my sympathies lay with his, and so he beseeched my presence at the revolt. Having a prince of Cogwork present would lend the freedom movements within the City immeasurable credulity. Seeking only to be near him, I of course acquiesced and remained mum, eager to participate in the revolution. Yet as the day came, I confess that I grew craven and afraid. When the day came, I feigned illness. But the pain and fear within my belly were real. They were not born of the autocracy, nor their enforcers, nor even the thought of being seen with Ion … but of my father.
Even as a man of iron, I feared my father's wrath and sought his approval desperately. I would have debased myself for a kind word of his. I alternated between desperate desire and fervent hatred. I deluded myself into thinking that I had a reason to hate my father. I deluded myself into thinking that I did not in fact owe all my privilege, intelligence, and luxuries to his own intelligence, tenacity, and hard work. I deluded myself into thinking that my difficulties had meaning. Under my father's watchful eye, I wanted for nothing. I was a prince in the City.
The City. Looking back on it now, its former gleaming skyscrapers now appear as formless smudges in my mind's eye. I can remember setpieces, places, bits and images that appear as vivid now as they did so many years ago - yet surely age must have distorted the memories, such that I perceive them as the people in Plato's cave perceived the shadows on the walls.
We spent innumerable hours in the City, wandering between the buildings, venturing from their shadows into the cobblestone plazas. I can only assume that onlookers believed me to be his master - though if anything, the opposite was true. Once we attended a fair in the City together, sampling the local delicacies and watching the street performers. We shared some exotic foodstuff found only in the East, thin strands of wheat that you wound together and ate, enjoying the texture and its cool bland taste. Together we greedily gulped it all down, only to find ourselves fighting for the last strand. Our lips almost met - we pulled back as though struck by lightning.
Too wrapped up in my own concerns over the moment, I let him finish the strand, and then let myself be coerced into buying more to hand out to the local underclass. I forgot the moment during our interactions with the underclass - as a child of privilege, I found it deliciously exotic, though to him it must have been home. Only now, looking back, do I realize that he was planting the seeds of his rebellion during the tenderness of our youth. How naive I must have appeared to him - how bland and rote my thinking must have been.
The two of us were polar opposites, really. I was a child of nobility - born of machines, expected to fulfill the dreams of my parents: of building, servicing, and controlling the machines which birthed me. I don't think I ever had a dream of my own. Ion, though… Ion was born of slaves. Nobody had any dreams for him, so he made his own. He fought his way to the heights with which I had been gifted.
Thus did his revolutionary dreams clash with my own stagnant desires. Though the revolt failed and its leaders hanged, Ion continued to push forward. He began producing and distributing a manifesto: his vision for a better world that called for an end to the Empire and its abuses. He begged me to help him distribute his work, by accessing the duplicators in the heart of the City and producing thousands upon thousands of copies of his manifesto. As a prince of Cogwork, the Machines of the City were open to me. I merely needed the courage to use them.
I lacked that courage. I was far too dependent on my privilege to allow any sort of shift to the Culture. I lied to him again - I pretended that my class was not allowed into the Machines, to keep us safe for our eventual rule. Ion must have seen through my falsehoods - and I continue to wonder why he did not simply cast me aside that very moment - but he allowed me to hide behind my lies and continued anyways. He stole into the Machines that very night and produced thousands of his manifestos. I found a manifesto in my very bedchamber upon arising the next morning.
The passion, discipline, and tenacity within him terrified me. He was everything I wanted to be, and he entranced me. I idolized him. I wanted to be him. I wanted for nothing except self-assuredness. The certainty that I had made my own path. The certainty that everything I did was because I wanted to. I wanted the certainty that I deserved everything I had. I wanted to kiss him. To reach out and touch him and caress his face. To receive a part of his ambition and persistence and intelligence and discipline. Even now I can feel my face flush at the thoughts.
Faced with my own cowardice, I grew ever more certain that I was unfit to be in Ion's presence. From then on I attempted to avoid him whenever possible. He sought me out instead, and after some weeks managed to corner me in university and coerce me to attend a play with him. Unable to develop a satisfactory excuse, I conceded and accompanied him. The performance was shockingly subversive for the Culture: telling the story of a Cogwork noble robbing the homes of Daeva royalty in order to free his lover, a slave in the arena. I was astounded that the City's rulers would allow such a play to be produced. Indeed, as the play reached its zenith, the City's enforcers stormed the theatre and clapped chains on all in attendance.
We spent the night together, though not in any desirable way. Ion spent that time educating me on the horrific abuses being perpetrated by the ruling class on the City's inhabitants, and how my own family, the Cogwork, were complicit in their crimes. I was aghast by the accusations, yet could not deny them - the irons we wore were unmistakably forged in the fires of the Machine. That night I swore my allegiance to his cause, though how much of it was to the cause and not to him I do not know.
I,I,I,I… I still don't know that much about him. Did we ever really talk about ourselves? Did he know about my parents? I know my parents didn't know of him. Even looking past the obvious, I don't think I would have wanted them to. I wanted to shut everyone out. I enjoyed shutting them all out. Forcing them to open me up, and then just as quickly shutting them out again. I needed the validation that they cared about me - that they cared enough to keep opening me up again, even though I didn't want to be opened at all. Ion never opened me up. But I thought he wanted to, and I was content with that delusion. Was it a delusion? Perhaps. I do enjoy deluding myself. I even deluded myself into believing I had any kind of honor at all.
In the morn, when my father came to retrieve me, Ion begged me to renounce him, the evils my family was complicit in, and the privilege that came at the cost of the downtrodden and the infirm. I promised him that I would. And when the time came, I looked into my father's eyes, and I fell at his feet and begged for his mercy. I renounced my first love out of fear and shame and a deep, programmed insecurity that demanded I debase myself for the merest shred of his approval. As he led me away from the cell, I averted my eyes from Ion - terrified to see the look in his eyes.
Many days after, my father informed me that he was sending me to my more orthodox relatives in the West the following day. It would straighten me out, he claimed, and stamp out my wild rebelliousness. Little did he realize I had done that myself, with my own act of betrayal. The night before my departure, I awoke to find Ion in my bed. He said nothing, and so too did I. What was there to say? How could I atone for my grievous betrayal? For my sin against my brother?
I reached out to him, still lost for words, but he said nothing. He simply took my hand and kissed it, and I understood what needed to be done.
I departed early that morning, certain beyond a doubt that I would never return. Sitting astride my mechanical horse as it galloped across the sand, I watched the sun rise against the horizon. At midday I turned around to look at the City, and watched as great pillars of flesh consumed it, clawing up at its great forges and towers and tearing them apart.
When I went to bed that night, in the desert sands, I briefly imagined snuggling up to him. The pressure of his legs pressed against mine, the warmth of his back on my chin, the soft smoothness of his skin. Then the moment passed, and I clutched my pillow a little tighter.