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Alan3257 10/7/25| 04:34:56 #47561984
Okay, so before you start reading this, I need to tell you one thing: Adrian Nelson is a liar. If you're ever in the upper east side of New Jersey and you run into him, don't trust a word out of his mouth.
No, I don't work at a restaurant where the owner cuts himself to pieces every night and serves it to customers.
No, I am not six foot four even though I really wish I was.
No, I am not a licensed exorcist, and no, I do not discriminate against the undead.
Next thing: Don't ask that many questions either. Investigations often lead to some… troubling discoveries, to say the least. If you happen to catch the boss cutting off his fingers and deep-frying them, just politely remind him to wash his hands and go about your business. Better yet, don't say anything at all.
If you do come inside Cannibal Chin's, you'd be greeted with the smell of fried food and depression. The floor will more than likely have a few loose french fries strewn about, which I would not recommend touching. Most of the benches and chairs have bloodstains on them which are… mostly fake? Honestly, so many things have died in here I can't really remember what stains are real and what ones are part of the aesthetic.
There are a few dozen missing person's posters near the register. Don't pay attention to those. There's a fairly good chance they've made it out of here okay.
If you decide to dine in, there's a good chance that you'll see something… strange. Exactly what you'll see depends on the day, really. Different creatures float in and out of here so often I've stopped keeping track.
Occasionally ghosts will descend from the ceiling and steal your food from you. The policy states that we can offer you one free meal and warding salts per visit in case that happens, but the ghosts will just mess with you again if you get another meal, so it's probably better to just try again another day.
If you drop something on the floor and don't pick it up, consider it lost. There's a disembodied hand that skitters on the floor, scooping up fallen french fries and whatever else you may have dropped from the table. His name is Fredrick, and he will bite you if you try to stop him. Best to just let him do his thing.
If you go into the bathroom, you may spontaneously lose all of your teeth. As far as I know, it doesn't hurt and Fredrick always cleans up… eventually. I'm not really sure what he does with them, but I'm certain it's not pleasant. Company policy is to offer you replacement teeth but they're a pain to gather and even worse to put in. Your teeth will come back on their own in about a year. Give or take. I think.
There's also a good chance I'll be your waiter, server, and cashier. That's because, well, aside from The Cook, I'm the only one that bothers to show up here on a regular basis.
Don't take it the wrong way if I'm dismissive of you, especially if you order off of the backside of the menu. Ghosts are notorious for dining and dashing, and I can never tell who is dead and who is alive anymore. I guess being incorporeal makes it difficult to carry a wallet? We accept ghostcoin. Dickheads.
There's something underneath Cannibal Chin's too. I can't really talk about it, company policy and all. All I can say is that the only person that's ever opened the door to the basement (which isn't always there) is the owner.
That is, until a few days ago when I saw Adrian go down there after him.
I know what you're thinking: "That asshole got himself killed so he doesn't have to show up to work!" Believe me, I'm inclined to agree, but the last time I tried to call out dead I got yelled at by the owner for a solid four hours and still had to come in. Being dead is no excuse to miss work. If you see him, tell him he needs to come in and then walk away.
But more on this later, I've got a few impatient customers to deal with and I really don't want to be the reason we get closed down. Again.

Alan3257 10/7/25 | 07:56:43 #47561985
Right now you're probably contemplating the big bad thing dwelling in the basement. And right about now is when I would remind you that asking too many questions is punishable by, well, I can't get into the details because of the policy but I assure you it's terrible.
Adrian hasn't come out of the basement yet. It's been… a few hours at least. The owner came up a while ago and when I asked him about Adrian, he looked at me and gave me the classic corporate answer:
"Don't worry about it."
Which I found odd because the restaurant isn't a chain. We shouldn't have corporate slogans.
Either way, I didn't want to be responsible for serving an entire restaurant's worth of patrons every day. I can't afford to quit because I need the money for rent, and I can't afford the stress because I'll probably have a mental break down before too long. Which leaves me with one option: I've got to go down there and find Adrian.
The door to the basement was actually where it was supposed to be for once. I asked The Cook for a knife or something before I went down, but all he gave me was a dirty look and a vial of blue liquid. I guess he wanted me to drink it. I threw it away when he wasn't looking. There's no way I'm eating anything on the menu, and I'll shit the golden egg before I eat anything that isn't on the menu. There's a reason I pack my own lunches.
Downstairs was something straight out a horror movie. I'm talking all the stereotypes; dark, dank, spider webs all over the place, smells like shit, you already know. It was warm down there though. Like, abnormally warm. Especially because the owner keeps the thermostat so damn low all the time. It was like walking into a sauna, except much, much dirtier.
The ceiling down there was low. If you weren't careful, you'd bang your head on the lower hanging pipes or get your hair caught in a spider web. The floor, despite being made entirely of concrete, creaked as you walked across it. The room wasn't much larger than the restaurant by my estimate.
It reeked of mold and old grease, which only got worse because of the heat. There were barrels and old boxes lined up against the walls, labels suspiciously missing. I would have checked what was in them, but I had a feeling that following the policy was the best option here.
Good thing I did too, because I knocked one of the boxes over by accident and a shit load of teeth poured out.
Somehow I feel like Frederick is involved.
I couldn't see Adrian or his body anywhere down here either. Maybe he's stuck in one of the boxes, or maybe he's in a few of them. I didn't know. All I knew was that I couldn't afford to die down here. I can't pay rent if I'm dead, plus ghosts get docked pay. Some kind of living-undead wage gap or some shit.
I heard something scurrying behind some boxes and damn near had a heart attack. Actually, I might have had a heart attack just then. I don't really know what they feel like. I activated the flashlight on my phone and pointed it to where the noise had come from, and a saw some weird thing dart into a crack in the wall. I only caught a glimpse of it, but I could have sworn it had tendrils.
Well, Adrian is almost certainly dead. Whatever the fuck that thing was must have killed him. Which is a pain in the ass for me because now I have to wait until his ghost decides it's time to manifest and haunt the restaurant so I can have a little bit of help. Who knows how long that's gonna take?
At the very least, he can't call out of work if his eternal soul is bound to haunt this place.
I turned around and tried to go back upstairs but something was keeping me down there. Some force tugging on the concepts and thoughts in my mind, pulling my nerves in a way that made it impossible for me to move my legs in that direction.
"Mnphf?!" I said.
I turned around, but there wasn't anything there. Just more cobwebs, darkness, and spiders. Then I started walking. Well, not me, but something highjacked my mind and made me start walking. Whatever that thing was also made me turn off my flashlight. Right about now, panic would have set in but I've learned over the course of my many, many years working here that panicking only makes problems worse.
I tried to look through the darkness to see what was pulling me, but it was, well, dark. I could barely make out some five-fingered creature standing there against the wall. The thing was roughly human-shaped, and I mean that in the loosest way possible. It had two hands, at least. One of them was on my shoulder and guiding me toward that thing on the wall. I could see a toothy grin staring at me through the darkness, the whites of its teeth reflecting off the trace amount of light that was in the basement.
"Hey," I said, "If you let me go, I'll give you a lifetime discount on everything on the menu on your next visit!"
There was no response.
"How about unlimited free refills?"
Nothing.
"What about an endless supply of french fries?"
The force that was driving my legs suddenly stopped. The creature's smile parted as the words leaked out of its mouth. It's breathe was foul, like a crusty sock left to ferment in the back of your closet. I could see a long, slimey tongue moving around inside of its mouth. It stared at me with the same eyes your classmates would if you did something embarassing in school.
I think that was the most disturbing part of this whole ordeal.
"Jumbo size?"
"I- I mean I'll see what I can do. The rules are pretty tight, and the owner is a bit of an assh-"
The creature's smile faded and the force that was playing tug of war with my mind brought me closer to it. I could feel a thousand hands clawing their way up my body, pinching my skin and tugging at my hair. I cringed as I felt the hands pry my mouth open and they started pulling my teeth out. Each tooth came out with a meaty, bloody chunk attached to it. If I could have screamed then, I would have, but there was too much blood collecting in my throat.
I don't remember what happened after that. I think I blacked out from the blood loss or shock or something. I woke up in the bathroom, all my teeth still missing. I saw Fredrick poking my cheek. I guess that's the only way you can really check on someone if you're just a disembodied hand. I would have asked him how I ended up there, but without vocal cords, I doubt he would have been able to answer me.
After I got up, I heard someone else enter the bathroom. I turned around and tried to hide the fact that I had just lost all of my teeth to a demon.
"Oh, hey Alan," Adrian Nelson said, "You look like shit. What happened?"
Now, I'd love to tell you what happened next but I've already given way too many details and I don't need the owner getting into a fit. Quick summary: Adrian got his lights punched out, my teeth grew back, we clocked out and agreed to not go back into the basement unless it was an emergency. I wish I could tell you more, but like I said, I really need this job. At least now I won't have to work alone.
And on the off chance you meet Adrian Nelson anywhere on the street, just remember that he's a liar. No one ever comes out of that basement. No one except the owner.


"All in all, I guess things could've gone worse," says MTF Lambda-One "Lethe" Agent Charlie Delano, bringing the cigarette to his lips. The time, according to the cheap watch he pulls back the sleeve of his standard-issue fleece jacket to check, is five forty-five AM, and the mid-spring sun is just beginning to rise over Burnett, Wisconsin.
"That's kind of the point, isn't it?" The man sitting on the library steps next to him runs a latex-gloved hand through the short curls of his mousy hair, the coated fabric of his half-open hazmat suit crinkling as he moves. "This is the one job where things can always go worse."
Agent Delano inhales slowly, the acrid taste of smoke more a justification for the five-minute break than an actual source of comfort. Despite the morning chill he can feel a thin sheen of sweat beginning to gather on his forehead, and he wipes at it with the back of his hand. "I guess you're right," he says.
Just across the street, a sort of barely-controlled chaos reigns. The threat itself is long-contained, whichever armed-to-the-teeth band of kevlar-vested maniacs that had taken care of it returned to their site hours ago, leaving behind the actual work for everyone else. Most of the people milling around the jagged, smoking remains of the two-family house are cleanup crew, dressed in either the standard label-less gray-and-black of MTF Agents working in public spaces or else unenthusiastically pretending to be firefighters. Delano watches one of them halfheartedly spray what's left of the front entrance with water from a high-pressured hose. Approximately an hour earlier he had watched the same people set the building aflame, observing with the same detatched curiosity as the billowing fire slowly masked structural damage too unnervingly geometrical to have ever passed as a gas explosion. Next to him, the man in the level B suit sighs. "You got the time?"
"Forty-something past. You in a hurry?"
"A little." Agent Caldwell stands up with visible reluctance, and suddenly Delano has to crane his neck back to look him in the eyes. The man is the sort of six-feet-something that's well on its way to seven, with both the approximate build and countenance of a slightly misshapen concrete slab. He looks down at Delano blankly. "I'm running late back to taking witness samples. You know if they managed to round up everyone that might've seen?"
"Probably?" Delano shrugs. "You'd have to ask Reed to be sure." He pretends not to notice the cigarette in his hand is beginning to crumble away unsmoked. "One of the Swedish Fish caught me while we were taking care of that, so I can't say for sure. Was filling out papers. Making sure we got the official story, what kind of amnestics we were cleared to use, so on. You know the drill."
Caldwell's expression remains totally blank. "One of the who?"
"Swedish Fish?" Delano sighs. "Red Herrings. Bad joke."
"Oh." There's a beat. Caldwell awkwardly crosses his arms over his chest. "Listen, I… Should probably go."
"Right. Yeah." Delano nods, a little too fervently. "Good luck," he starts to say, but Caldwell is already halfway down the steps and gives no indication of having heard.
Agent Delano, now alone on the library stairs, allows himself another sigh. Then, with a profound sense of relief, he stubs out the remainder of his cigarette against the cold concrete. Across the street, dark smoke spirals upwards over the tree-lined street and into the gray morning sky.

The civilian processing area is a cluster of small tents set up in the street in front of the charred house, comprising mostly of a simple decon system and a medical tent repurposed for amnestics application. Caldwell makes his way towards it, bypassing the Foundation-owned EMT van parked haphazardly on the curb. The back of the vehicle is open and Caldwell can feel the eyes of the people inside follow him as he passes, a pair of small children wrapped in the shiny foil of shock blankets that he tries very hard not to look at.
Agent Specialist Emily Reed is propped up on a folding chair in front of the amnestics tent, and she gives Caldwell a curt nod as he approaches. She's wearing the same dark gray cargo and black fleece as most of the other agents, but her hair is long instead of shaved short- a tight silver ponytail sticking out of the back of her black baseball cap. A privilege, of sorts, for those who would consider retirement from high-risk field work a reward. She's holding a paper cup of gas station coffee in the hand that still has all its fingers, and she gestures vaguely towards him with it. "You're late," she says.
"Sorry." Caldwell shrugs absently. "Lost track of time."
Agent Specialist Reed narrows her eyes at him, though as far as he can tell there isn't much real irritation behind it. She huffs exaggeratedly. "Don't let it happen again, Agent."
"No ma'am." Caldwell passes her to pull back the lowered flap of the tent, then pauses. "How many do we have left?"
"Just the one inside." Reed turns her head back to look at him. "You did everyone else before you went on break, and I don't want any of you greens dealing with kids yet. I do that myself." She pauses, considering. "I took the liberty of saving us some money and had Laurie let the drunk that came down from Depot Street to take a look go without a dose. Didn't look like he remembered anything anyway, and I'd rather he not find the injection site later and decide he'd been kidnapped by aliens or nothin'."
Caldwell nods slowly. There's a reply slowly taking shape in his mind, some combination of words just passably funny enough to be worth saying, but before he can open his mouth to speak there's a shout from inside the tent.
"Hey! Sample collection, over here!"
Caldwell turns to locate the sound of the voice- the agent manning the amnestics station proper, a large man with dark, close-cropped hair and the wormlike curve of a long, ropy scar cutting its way up from his left brow and across his scalp. Right. Bryce. Bryce who is just a couple years younger than him and just a couple inches shorter and somehow unable to live either of these things down, the type of man who works out just to be able to brag about lifting weights and who had gotten his personnel ID code tattooed onto his right forearm after barely a month on the job.
Bryce has a lot of tattoos, actually, most notable of which is a snarling eel winding its way over his ribs and around his left arm, some sort of intricate joke that he had once snidely remarked that Caldwell simply lacked the clearance to understand. They had been in the showers, then, which was the only reason it had come up in the first place, really, and Caldwell had simply replied that he hadn't been aware that eels could snarl and that since as far as he knew they were the same clearance level so maybe Bryce should check in and make sure he wasn't reading any files he wasn't supposed to be aware of. Bryce had snapped back at this, said something that probably would've sounded cooler if he hadn't been shivering hard enough to make his teeth chatter and absolutely soaked in decontamination fluid. Caldwell hadn't paid it much attention.
"I need you to take over on the dosages," Bryce says without so much as a hello as Caldwell approaches, too busy trying to convince the shell-shocked woman swaying dazedly next to him to get onto the portable scale to even look in his direction as he speaks.
"Isn't that Laurie's job?" Caldwell crouches down to pop open the seals on the unlabeled cooler standing by the makeshift treatment station, releasing a cloud of icy vapor into the early-morning air as he lifts the lid. Inside are rows upon rows of tiny vials- low-class amnestic solution carefully separated by concentration and dose size, each carefully marked with the dot of a colored sticker- green, yellow, orange, no reds, "-and if you need a red A you should already be using B's," says Agent Specialist Emily Reed, voice clear and high in the dead silence of the lecture hall- and a number indicating patient weight.
"Laurie's on break," says Bryce over his shoulder, and then; "No ma'am, I just need to weigh you to make sure we get the dose right," and "Yes ma'am, standard procedure, we take blood samples before and after to make sure the antidote works," and "No ma'am, that's gas leaks for you, you may have been experiencing hallucinations," and then the scale finally beeps and he turns his attention back to Caldwell. "Orange, sixty-three point four, round up," he says.
"Orange, sixty-three point four, rounding up," Caldwell repeats, reaches into the cooler for the appropriate vial. He pauses. "Standard procedure is to round down, isn't it?"
"Don't you pull procedure on me," Bryce snaps. He sounds tired. "Laurie rounds up, you're rounding up too."
"Alright, your call." Caldwell shrugs. "Orange sixty-five it is, then. Your name's on the form."
"Whatever." Bryce takes the vial from Caldwell's outstretched hand without so much as a thanks. He signs off on the clipboard resting on the field table in front of him, then almost gently pulls the lost-looking woman over to sit on the unfolded cot in the middle of the tent. "I already took a blood sample for you," he says over his shoulder to Caldwell as he works, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and preparing the amnestic for injection- unpackaging sterile needles and a syringe, hands steady as he draws the clear liquid out of the vial.
"I see," says Caldwell.
"It's on the table." Bryce pushes the plunger of the syringe inwards, watching the last tiny bubbles of air disappear from the barrel.
"Oh," says Caldwell, very slowly. The vial of deep red is indeed very much lying on the table and not anywhere else, such as, for example, the sample cooler on the ground next to it. "I see."
"It wouldn't kill you to say thank you once in a while," Bryce says flatly. He turns back to the woman on the cot. "I'm going to need you to lean forward now, ma'am. Just like that, elbows to your knees. Just a moment now." With his free hand he pulls up the back of her shirt, just enough to expose a fragment of the curve of her lower spine. "I'm going to disinfect a spot with this alcohol wipe now," he says to the woman, who has gone completely quiet. "Might be a little cold."
The woman does not react, doesn't even flinch right up until the moment the injection needle sinks into the soft space between her vertebrae. "Ow," she says, blankly. "That feels… weird."
"Sorry, ma'am." Bryce finishes and withdraws the needle. "It'll pass soon."
The woman straightens her back, reaching up to brush away the strands of damp, ashy-blond hair clinging to her forehead with a thin hand. The first thing Caldwell notices is that instead of just unfocusing, her pupils have begun to dilate. "I don't know…" She trails off, head turning to look at Bryce. "I don't feel very well. I can't feel my leg."
"Ma'am, you'll be fine." Bryce is already stripping off his gloves, unceremoniously dropping used equipment into the biohazard-marked wastebin. "Temporary loss of sensation is normal. Just a moment."
"I don't know," the woman repeats, more firmly now, and then she stands up abruptly, nearly overbalancing as she rockets upwards. "I don't feel well. Where am I? Why can't I-"
-and then, suddenly, she is no longer speaking. For a moment the sounds coming out of her mouth still almost resemble words, and then, in a moment that seems almost agonizingly slow, her eyes widen in some sort of horrified realization. She begins to hyperventilate.
"Jesus Christ," Bryce says, sharply. "Caldwell, what the hell is-"
"I don't know." Caldwell pulls himself to his feet. "Looks like a panic attack or something, I don't know. I'm getting Reed."
Bryce grimaces, gaze flickering from Caldwell's face to the woman and back. "Hey, no, we can handle this," he says, though there isn't much conviction behind it. "I'll calm her down and- hey, lady, ma'am, I need you to sit back down and-"
"What's going on?" The tarp flaps of the tent entrance rustle as Reed pushes her way inside. "I thought I heard my name. Who and what is-" She stops dead in her tracks. "Oh." The woman still standing across from her lets out an agonized gurgle.
"You guys really fucked up," Reed says.
"What is- what-" Bryce's voice rises in pitch petulantly. "I didn't do anything, she just started to-"
"Bryce, shut up." Reed reaches the fold-out table in the corner in a few brisk steps, flips through the report file affixed to the clipboard. "This isn't finished," she says. "You weigh her?"
"I, yeah, I-" Bryce withers a little. "Sixty-three point four kilos."
Reed nods curtly. "Dose?"
Bryce's lips tighten into a thin, pale line.
"Dose?" Reed repeats. Caldwell watches a muscle in her face jump as she clenches her jaw. Bryce doesn't answer. Behind him the pale-haired woman sways unsteadily, breath coming in shallow gasps.
"Sixty-five," Caldwell supplies reluctantly instead. "Orange."
"God damn it." Reed drops the clipboard back onto the table. "Alright. Alright." She inhales, loudly, through her nose. "Bryce, you're gonna sedate her now. I'll deal with you idiots later. How long ago did you make the injection?"
"Forty seconds, maybe? A minute?" Bryce turns to rifle through his supplies, hands far less steady than they had been the first time around.
"Shit," Reed says. "Not worth bothering with mnestics now, then, I suppose."
"Mnestics?" Bryce freezes, halfway through unpacking a pre-prepped syringe. "Why would we give her-?"
"Mitigating the effects of an amnestics overdose, if you can get them in while there are still neural pathways to salvage." Reed sighs. "I always forget we're not supposed to tell you new guys about that bit." She pauses. "Sorry. Look, did you really think it was possible to completely limit the effects of a drug to a single, tiny, specific part of the brain? A specific memory?"
"Oh, God." Bryce pales visibly. "I just thought she was having a bad reaction. I've always dosed up, just to makes sure it works, I-" he breaks off. "What did I- I mean- what did that just do?"
"What do you think it did?" Agent Specialist Emily Reed meets Bryce's gaze with eyes as impassively cold as they are blue. "She's forgotten how to speak."


.

T-minus 00:06:16 | Site-15 Exterior, East Camera

The time is nigh, my dearest friends

(Dr. Nadir Shahid approaches Designer Sonia Crowsworth, who is lying in the flower field by the lake.)
Dr. Shahid: Crowsworth.
Desigr. Crowsworth: Oh! Hello there Nadir. Care to join me?
(Crowsworth pats the spot besides her. Three seconds of silence passes.)
Dr. Shahid: …Alright.
(Dr. Shahid sits down slowly.)
Desigr. Crowsworth: So how's your son? Still planning to go to his dream college?
Dr. Shahid: Planning no more, he got his letter of acceptance just last week. Been negotiating with me for a new car, the little rascal.
Desigr. Crowsworth: I'd say he deserves it, ya dingus! And give him my congratulations.
(Sounds of hundreds of wings flapping echo above head.)
Dr. Shahid: What about you Crowsworth? Anything exciting recently?
Desigr. Crowsworth: Jackie wanted to go for a walk this morning! It's like my baby got new springs in her steps again. I'll let you play with her sometimes!
Dr. Shahid: I'm afraid your Bullmastiff might crush me, but thanks for the offer.
(The flowers briefly become violet.)

T-minus 00:04:38 | Site-19, Breakroom Camera

One day, I hope to see you again

(Various Foundation researchers and D-Classes engages in social interactions, consuming an assortment of foods and drinks.)
(A researcher fumbles a large bottle, accidentally spraying surrounding personnel with soda.)
(Everyone laughs.)
(A vase of orchids is set on the counter.)

T-minus 00:03:52 | Site-15 Exterior, East Camera

For those who sleep in graves of the dark

Crowsworth: -nce, I'm glad I finished all my work ahead of time.
Shahid: You, being productive? Am I hearing this right? What's the world coming to?
Crowsworth: Shut up, Nadir.
(Crowsworth punches Shahid in the arm.)
Crowsworth: I just… thought it felt right - completing them, ya know?
(A brief moment of silence lapses.)
Shahid: …I know.
(The weight of a million things left unsaid dissipates.)
(The sky turns lavender, then darkens.)

T-minus 00:02:00 | Overwatch Command

Promises of reprieve shall let you be

O5-1: One last drink for the night, gentlemen?
(O5-1 raises his champagne glass. The rest follows.)
(The light grows strong. The shadow grows long.)
(Strong scents of hyacinth registered.)

T-minus 00:01:00 | Site-15 Exterior, East Camera

To those who can accept the light

Sonia: …What's left for us, Nadir?
(Nadir ponders. He picks a purple lily and gives it to Sonia.)
Nadir: All the time in the world.
(Sonia accepts it, and nods.)
(The stars' brightness increases sharply for 45 seconds.)

(Then they go out.)

T-minus 00:00:10

Smile, you're going to be free

(In unity, we speak.)

T-minus 00:00:08 | Site-19, Breakroom Camera

Site-19 Personnel: We secured.

T-minus 00:00:05 | Overwatch Command

O5 Council: We contained.

T-minus 00:00:02 | Site-15 Exterior, East Camera

Sonia & Nadir: We protected.

T-minus 00:00:01

O death, may you be the key

(And now, we rest.)
(For the world has its eye on us.)

T-minus 00:00:00

To our victory
Our sanctuary

(And it is beautiful.)


You think it's that simple? Steer a ship with a crew full of corpses?
There were many of us. More. Much more. Everyone acted like a clockwork. Everyone had a role, everyone had their task — we weren't an organization per se, rather a group that simply understood exactly what was going on. We don't know who started.
There were those who saw the cages. There were those who saw the Library. There were those who saw the blood of those who should not bleed. Lovers of gears. Fifthists. Those that bought, and those that gave. There was always one who didn't earlier knew why it is like that, but felt a threat. Everyone perfectly understood why we exist, why we are.
Now I am alone. Alone, the last from the global network.
I'm reading files of what happened. I scratched the sticker with circles and arrows from the briefcase. I'm reading: We made an attack. Good one. They said — if we give you this fucking object, then you would leave us alone. It suited us, at least for a while. The Foundation has too much shit, which is in our interest to obtain, maybe even use, and this toy would help us greatly strengthen the network.
They shot us like rabbits on the hunt. They probably called, what's their name… Mobile Task Forces. Fuck, I don't know how it is our language, Stef told what he saw when he was with the GOC, he once said that his team once cooperated with the Foundation. Paramilitary, but the prefix para — so hilariously fits into the context in more than one sense.
I flew by a miracle. I don't know how, adrenaline can do wonders, besides, I had what I needed in my pocket. The Foundation probably doesn't know what we have. Let's not change anything.
GOC are good guys, they know that when something is not right you need to fucking blow it to smithereens, and not allow it to be in some cubicle. We had some that played both sides, they were wearing blue helmets nicely, but they knew when to press those on top to destroy what was needed. They don't have what we have, but they do their best.
I won't mention the serpents. We've had them in our sights for a long, long time. The Library is a power, the keeper of knowledge, the greatest bastion of what is unnatural or anomalous, stories of hundreds of universes, books of paranormal knowledge. We would take it all, every volume, every paper, give them to the Foundation or MC&D, and then we would let the empty shelves burn. We would close the Ways. Once and for all.
The fights with the serpents were gory. Separate them from their beloved Library? Access to hundreds of dimensions, worlds? They were protecting these several points, that we managed to destroy, to the last drop of blood. It was hard to spill it, many came from the same place as we, raised on the same good Earth.
This is really our goal. We are WWW, we are the network that will close this world to others. Maybe we are afraid of the unknown, but the structure of hundreds, thousands, millions of dimensions that surround us from all sides overwhelms us. What can hide behind the invisible wall? What is hidden behind the Ways, the Objects?
There may be friends there, but as many potential friends, so many potential enemies. All players on this anomalous gaming board can barely cope with what we have, and if something decided not to knock on the door, and break down it, we would be, to put it mildly, fucked.
I'm still speaking in the plural, I can't get used to the fact that everyone already died. It's hard to accept, after all.
I'm left alone, but who cares. Definitely not me. It is difficult to rebuild the network by yourself, but I won't die until I make sure that our universe is truly separated from the rest. I will open all cages, I will slay the serpents, gear worshipers, nothing and nobody will stand in my way.
Because now I am WWW, and I am alone.


Though the seats at the DMV office would typically be packed tightly with people waiting to be called up to the counter, no one seemed to be interested in sitting next to Clef. It might have been because he looked quite suspicious wearing a duster hat and coat in the middle of summer. It might have been because he smelled a little(a lot) like sulfur and smoke. It might have been because his unusually jagged teeth resembled those of a shark. It might have even been because that eye tattoo on the back of his neck looked like it had blinked.
Ultimately, it didn't matter to him. His status as an island in the sea of human bodies and chairs only meant he would be able to put his feet on the seat opposite him. Had he not been scolded three times prior, he'd probably be having a smoke as well.
Ding.
"Number 67, Line B. Number 67, Line B."
Finally, it was his turn. Clef stood up and approached the small window he had been assigned.
"Good day, commoner."
"Hi. How can I help you?"
"I'm here to get a driver's license like the little people do."
"Name?"
"Alto Clef, aka Agent Ukulele, aka Adam ben Yahweh, aka Lucifer, First of the Fallen, aka That Bastard, etc."
The woman sighed, rubbing her temples.
"So Alto Clef?"
"Yes."
"Like the music thing?"
"Yes, like the music thing."
"Okay. First, we'll need to take your picture, sir. Please stand against the blue background to your right."
Clef complied and moved towards the blue cloth, but raised a hand as the woman prepared to take a photo.
"Well, that's just it, you see. I can't have my picture taken."
"Say cheese!"
Click.
The camera shutter went off.
"You'll see what I mean now."
"Hmm, sorry sir we gotta take your photo again. Looks like a spider got in the way of the camera just as I clicked it. Let me just make sure the lens is clear. Please stand by the blue background with your back straight and look at the camera again."
"How to explain it… I am what you would call an anomaly."
The government employee blinked, completely non-plussed. She sighed and leaned forward on the counter.
"Anomaly. Like those S-C-P Foundation folks that came out of the woodwork last year?"
"Yeah. Exactly like that."
"Well. Then how did you take your driver's license photo before?"
"I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"I didn't."
"So you drove around without a license?"
"Not often, but in the rare occurrence I left Site-19 I did, yes."
"That's a crime, sir. I am legally required to report it and yourself to my supervisors."
"I believe I am above such petty regulations thanks to my employer."
"Then why are you trying to get a driver's license in the first place?"
"Because I plan on driving around now that I'm allowed to leave that stuffy old site."
"And yet you're above the law thanks to your employer."
"Yes. I am Doctor Alto Clef, Level-5 Researcher, and Containment Specialist."
Clef reached to his waist, pulling forward his Class-5 Clearance ID. Much like the image she had just taken of him, his face had been replaced with a small brown spider. He held it up to the woman with a smug and jagged smile on his face.
"And I'm Mercy Kirby, DMV clerk," she responded, pointing to the badge on her chest.
Clef's smile faded. He'd met a lot of people like this while working for the Foundation, but none of them possessed the level of cold disinterest in him, and his position of perceived power, that this woman had. She stared back at him with unfeeling eyes and a slight frown, as if being in his presence was an exercise in frustration. His blood ran cold at the sight of her reaching for the phone on her desk, her mind already made up.
"I, uh…"
Words failed him.
"I hope you see why this is stupid and why I will have to report you."
There was little he could think to say to this woman who had come to metaphorically tower over him. Clef struggled to produce further speech in his shocked trance. His bluster turned to fear as she pressed buttons on the dial. What would happen to him should he be stopped by whoever she was calling? What if he was taken to jail? Alto Clef couldn't go to jail!
"… well, you see-"
The clerk looked up at him, the phone in her hand. "Yes?"
But Clef had already dispensed the smoke bomb, obscuring vision in the area. Through the chaos, Clef could be heard tripping over chairs and muttering something about a fucking third eye that can't see for shit.

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