I rang Percy Pinwheel's buzzer again. I'd budgeted time in case they were asleep, but 3T barely slept. Even on Snoozedays. It just wouldn't happen. Either 3T was here with Percy, or 3T was out doing things. But then again, nobody went out and did things on Snoozedays. Even Thomas Timothy Thompson. He had a great name. There were many great things about 3T. He was the most honest person I knew, first of all. And he was — well he was supposed to be punctual!
We really didn't have time for this.
"Anybody there, Pepper?"
She was peeping out of the door of the apartment complex, checking down the street for those mystery pursuers.
"No! The streets are basically empty. Is Wonder World always like this?"
"Tee emm, and no, it's just that it's a Snoozeday."
"A what?"
"A Snoozeday! You can tell because the sun's a pillow. Nobody works on Snoozeday, most people rest, so that's why nobody's out, 'cause it has snooze in the name. People are supposed to sleep in. Come on!" I mashed the buzzer button.
"That's unbelievably silly. People live here?"
"What's so wrong with silly?"
"I dunno. This is my first time being here, and it's all… empty looking. So huge and vibrant, and yet it's all hollow. It's crazy eerie."
Click.
"This is 3T, but it's still Percy Pinwheel's apartment, who is this?"
I could barely wait for 3T to finish his sentence. "Tom! 3T! It's me! It's Brainy!"
No response. Come on! This is the best chance we had. It wasn't like we could go to the Hall Monitors, they'd know me, they'd… oh I don't even know what they'd do. The streets were dangerous because of Wondertron… were they on 9000? I'd never kept up on the Wondertron models. I just knew they kept us safe. 9000 felt right. But they were scary.
The company wouldn't take me back. I knew that. Not like they were open on these days anyways, but they just wouldn't. My old home was inside Wonder Tower, and that wasn't going to be possible to get to. The only accessible Ways out of Wonder World!™ were through the The Subterreror, and to get there we would have had to have gone through security, and they'd recognize me. And then we quickly ran out of options when we started getting followed!
It was right after we popped out of a Way, into Main Street™. Within an hour of strolling around, we spotted three people in black began strolling in our direction, looked like a leader and two mooks. And that was bad news. Had the Circus sent in someone after us? Had someone recognized us, and this was some super secret police force that I didn't know about?! Whatever it was, it was bad news, and so we started running. We had to go to the first place I could think of, and this was it.
I think we lost them somewhere in the Bumblebee Business Plaza™, we hadn't seen them since. Pepper was watching our back though. Who knows how far behind they were? Who knows how much time we had left?
"Okay, 3T, I know that this is surprising, and I'm not an idiot — it's in my name — I know that there are a lot of emotions probably happening right now, not all of them positive, but I need to let you know that it wasn't me! Well, it was me, but it wasn't me, because I… I missed a dose of risperdal. And then another. And then more and more until… it wasn't me! And that's besides the point, I'm being followed, and I have a new friend with me, and we really need you to let us up, please?"
No response. Pepper looked nervously at me, mouth half open.
"Please! Please, we have no clue how much time we have!"
I pounded on the elevator, hoping that I could will it open.
3T came through the tiny speaker.
"I can't do that."
It felt like a needle stabbed through my heart. "Tom! Tom, oh my gosh, we need this, I — I've been through a lot, and I'm different. Well, I'm not different, 3T, I'm the person who hugged you and walked onto the Subterreror a month ago. I'm the person who overreacted to Polly's theft and had to be sent away! I'm the guy… I'm the guy who designed Jelly Whale Emperor, I'm the guy who collected Jack's Jacks Packs with you, who played Goofy Golf with you on your birthday, Tom, I'm so sorry that I…"
I swallowed.
"I can't let you up, Brian."
I heard someone other than 3T choke out a squeak in the background. And, I can't say how, I can't say how I knew, but I knew who it was. I could recognize that apprehension, that little crack in the voice. I'd spent nights lying awake, hoping I'd be the one to draw that sound from them. That they might make that sound as I approached them, hands brandished, ready to do a countless number of unspeakable deeds to them. Just their voice made me reel back and slap myself, feeling the same things come to mind that used to. I could have sworn I was past this.
And I was. Gosh darn it, I freaking was.
"Is that Polly?"
"That's nobody, Brainy. You need to leave."
"Brainy, this isn't going to work, we need to leave —"
"Pepper, I can't leave, there's…" I stared at her and breathed through my teeth.
"3T, please, if you won't let me up, at least let me talk to Polly. Please, I need to. I won't yell. I'm not angry." I'm not angry. "I swear I'm not angry anymore."
"Brian, there's no place here for you! You did horrible things, made me think things I never thought I would have had to think — whether to give you the benefit of the doubt. You. A murderer. A family destroyer. A disgrace to the Dr. Wondertainment brand. The dirtiest, grimiest person who ever stepped a foot in Wonder World, tee emm. You made me care about you, and you betrayed my, and everyone's trust —"
I heard Polly cry out.
"— and you've left a mark. Your mark, Brainy. Your mark could have been a beautiful portrait in the hall of fame. You could have had Judy's seat. Heck, Brainy, if you had just done your job, you could have been the next Eric Herring. And I would have been proud of you. We would have been proud of you."
3T paused to take a shuddering breath, barely containing his anger. Pepper just stared at me as I slumped more into the wall next to the speaker and buzzer buttons, unclear on how to proceed. Motioning me to get up, to just leave. But I couldn't. My ears were glued to the speaker. And my beaten body was melting into the wall.
"But you don't deserve it anymore. Whoever is following you is likely to give you what you deserve. And whoever's your friend… if they're any type of good person, they shouldn't be. But you should never have come back here. And now you have to leave."
I had been hurt in the way that doesn't make you cry. That cuts so deep, you can't process it. Deary me, I… my head was blank as paper. But then again, it could have been black paper scribbled with gel pens so thick that you couldn't see the page. My heart felt like everything and nothing at once.
"I… loved you like a brother, Tom. I thought you loved me."
Pepper peered anxiously out the doorway, and scanned the street up and down. The next words I could have done without.
"I did."
My mouth was crammed cheek to cheek with words I didn't know, for nameless feelings that I never thought I could feel. More painful than having my idea stolen and applauded by everyone. More painful than putting lead through my head. More painful than regaining my sanity and realizing what I had done. More painful than getting choked out by Icky. I couldn't say it. I could barely think it.
I truly couldn't come back.
I'd lost my friends.
I'd lost my home.
And it was all my fault.
And I truly, fully deserved it.
My vision had gone fuzzy. My eyes had glossed over, and the tiny lobby-type room had almost completely lost meaning.
I was cognizant of Pepper pulling on my arm.
I could tell she was yelling something, but my torso felt like steel and my legs were pool noodles. She had to use all of her might to get me on my feet.
But it wasn't me.
She was only pulling my shell.
I was somewhere behind my eyes, looking out of them like windows.
Windows into a world I wasn't supposed to be in.
Windows into a world I didn't want to come back to.
Just as Pepper pulled me through the doorway, something made me come to.
Ding.
"Brainy!"
Polly's hoarse voice shoved my consciousness back into place like a hammer to a nail.
Adrenaline shot through my veins, and sweat poured like a flood. I jerked my arm away from Pepper's grasp, and whipped my head around to see Polly in the elevator. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes pink and shiny. She was wearing grey sweatpants and a shirt so big it hung down to the middle of her thigh. I bolted towards her, against the urging grasp of Pepper's hand on my wrist, and met her in an embrace.
"Brainy, I — I didn't mean, to, I didn't want…" Polly could barely get out words, and much less thoughts, through her shaking and sobbing.
"It's okay. Polly, it's okay. I forgive you. I didn't mean to, either. I didn't give you a chance. I —"
"Brainy! We don't have time for this! Brainy, they're almost here!" Pepper yelled at me, but I didn't stop to hear her.
Polly tried again to speak, but I interrupted her. "You're fine. You're beautiful. You're going to make it. I'm so sorry I ever yelled at you. I'm so sorry I never let you explain yourself. But I don't need an explanation, anymore. Because I don't deserve one."
"Brainy, that's sweet, but Jesus fucking Christ, we have to go!!"
Polly was so overtaken with emotion that not even the cuss word was enough to pull her out of it. I stepped back, held both her wrists together, and knelt. "Be a better Toy Tinker than I was. Please."
Polly nodded frantically.
"I… I just couldn't… I didn't mean to steal your product, I, I meant to modify something, it was supposed to be derivative, not, not…" She just began to sob again.
"That's okay, Polly, every —"
"Brainy!! Are you not listening to me? They're coming up the street!"
"— body makes mistakes. I should know." I started sniffling too. "I really, really should. I'm…" I coughed. "I'm barely even human anymore. I'm barely me."
"I haven't been me my whole life."
"Oh my god, you two."
Ding.
3T and Percy Pinwheel stepped out of the elevator. Percy rushed to pull Polly away from me, and as she did Polly waved her arms at me like a child. 3T walked straight towards me.
"Tom, we —"
"Don't call me that!"
He began to force me towards the door. Pepper noticed the trend, and walked out the door on her own accord.
"You've got no right going around and hurting people all the time! Ashley hasn't functioned! For weeks!"
I saw Percy take Polly Gary Ashley into the elevator behind 3T.
"Wonder World, tee emm, hasn't been the same! We haven't been the same! You could do everyone a favor and leave."
He gave the final shove by practically punching me in the chest, and then stood in the doorway. With an expression I could only approximate as a combination of disgust, pity, and rage, 3T spoke his final words to me.
"Goodbye, Brian."
And then he slammed the door shut.
Pepper and I shared a look in the silence. Something cracked inside me. Something so fundamental, I went back to infancy.
Instinctively, I collapsed onto the pink and red hexagonally-tiled road, curled into my ball, and tried to access my happy place. My happy place used to be Wonder World!™, so it wasn't really working. But that was okay. I'd just make a new one. Something with clear boundaries. Somewhere inescapable. Somewhere from which I couldn't hurt anyone, not ever again.
Pepper made her way over to me, and shook me. She was saying something, but it wasn't coming through. She gave up on me. As well she should have. I was to be given up on. I wasn't worth it. Not ever. Not really.
But I was in my happy place now. Mom was there… and Dad, and they were both happy together. And I was playing with my toys. I hadn't designed any yet. Because I was small. In fact, maybe I never made toys. Maybe this world didn't need a toy maker Brian.
Maybe this world didn't need Brian at all.
Maybe I could just lay here… for a good, long while.

A kick to my side alerted me. Was that Pepper? Ow! And again. I shuddered as someone stuck their foot under my side and rolled me onto my back. I stared up at the dim Snoozeday sky, the pillow sun guest starring in the right corner of my eye. Pepper leaned over me, and pursed her lips in a pitying, deploring glare. Joining her on my left, one of those pursuers in black stepped towards me. From my angle, all I could tell was that she was wearing a black turtleneck and had short hair. I was trying not to look at her. Whatever the pursuers wanted… I was sure I was done for.
This had to be it. I have been so close to dying so often recently. This was karma. This was a whole ton of karma falling on me like a sack of bricks. I wished they'd just get it over with. I wanted the pain to be over.
"This is pathetic," the mystery woman said.
"Yeah," Pepper sighed. "He does this a lot."
"Wonder World local, should have expected him to be so emotional."
Pepper smirked. "It's sort of endearing, though."
The mystery woman knelt down beside me and attempted to make eye contact with me. "Brian? Brian Harding? Are you in there? We're not here to hurt you."
It took as much effort as Sisyphus pushing his boulder uphill, but I somehow willed my lips to move. "You're… not?"
She turned my head towards her with her hand, forcing me to make eye contact. "No, we're here to hire you. But the longer you lay in your little puddle of tears, the more likely I am to rethink this decision, so get up, if you please."
I shot into a sitting position. "A job? Who are you with?"
"Marshall, Carter, & Dark."
"What? What do you want with me? What am I good for?"
She motioned to Pepper. "I think she speaks for herself."
"I do."
"Plus, you're ex-Wondertainment. Your credentials are impressive, to say the least."
I just sat there, sniffling and wiping my watering eyes.
"We need a yes or a no, here, Brian."
"Brainy."
"Sorry, Brainy."
"Yes, but —"
"Good! I'll get us a car." The woman walked away, towards two other businessy looking people who I recognized as our mystery followers from earlier. I just sat in the middle of the road, teary and battered, looking anything but my best today and I knew it. Pepper sat down next to me.
"So why were they chasing us…?"
"They weren't chasing us, Brainy, we were just running."
She started playing with my hair.
"I don't deserve this job."
"You know what," Pepper said, clearly exasperated, "maybe you don't. Whatever. Sure. You've done some not-so-kosher things. So your pity party's in full swing, and I agree, you're very pitiable. But why feel bad about this? So what if you don't deserve this job? Right now you've got basically no friends but me, and you've got nowhere to go unless you take this job. So take it!"
She looked intensely at me. "If you take this job, you'll probably lead a successful enough life to have the opportunity to become a person good enough to deserve it. Does that ring true for you?"
I rubbed my right eye with my fist. "Yeah," I croaked. "Yeah, I'd like that."
"Good!" Pepper slapped me on the back. "Now get up and get in the car. We have places to be."
She pulled me onto my feet, like she was so good at doing, and led me to the slick black car parked on the side of the road. Somewhere in the distance, sirens of the Hall Monitors were closing in. Undoubtedly they had been called on me, probably by 3T.
As we climbed into the back seats of the car, I got the often misplaced feeling of safety. Maybe this would work. It might actually work. I held Pepper's hand, and she squeezed me back. Life had been unbelievable recently.
We drove off to who knows where.

They'd heard of a way to have a shared dream.
It was just a rumor. Something going around that Cindy picked up on, out of the many little occult oriented circles she was a part of. Some small ritual that you could do before you go to sleep, that could make you and your friends hallucinate in unison. Terry was sure it wasn't going to work, because Cindy's rituals never worked, but they were fun to buy into. At the very least, all this stuff seemed pretty harmless.
This one was special, though, because Cindy said that it was overly specific. It had been circulating that for it to work you needed a very specific piece of scrap, and that she had acquired it. It felt like the torn off corner of a credit card, but its surface was glittery and felt like a glimpse of outer space. Terry had admitted it; he had no idea what it could be. No material he knew of looked or felt like that, so he let Cindy have that one. And that made her very excited.
Up at Jake's house, in his attic, everyone followed Cindy's directions to a T. First, you had to place the piece of scrap down on the floor. Step two was to get a dream catcher and somehow hang it over the scrap. In a circle around the scrap, you had to lay down pillow stuffing, and then you had to sprinkle the stuffing with sage. After all this was done, you placed a candle on top of the scrap, and lit it. Cindy told everyone that the candle had to burn all the way down to its base for it to work, so they picked a very small candle. She also told them they had to get a big whiff of the candle smell, so they made sure it was scented, too.
After the light went out, and they had all properly smelled the candle, the last step was to fall asleep. It took a long time for everyone to do it, because that's how it worked with early teenagers, but eventually it occurred. And in their sleep, magic happened…
It was Peter who first opened his eyes.
He saw a starry sky impossibly full, with shooting stars happening every couple of seconds. The stars refused to remain one gleaming color, and instead were pink and blue and green and orange and yellow and purple and everything in between. Sitting up, he saw the sleeping bodies of all of his friends, laying in a dark blue mist. They looked to be on an island made of cotton, in the middle of a glass ocean that reflected the sky perfectly. It was possibly the most beautiful thing Peter had ever seen, even in his dreams.
And in the middle of the island, there was a peculiar sight. A large pillar jutted out at an unstable looking angle, adorned with depictions of constellations, comets, and mirrors. Across its top, Peter was able to make out the words "Marshall, Carter &…" but it disappeared around the curvature of the pillar.
Peter, not wanting to wake his friends, decided to stand and make his way towards the pillar. He quickly found a marble path through the cottony substance, and followed it towards the peak of the island. Once he got there, he was struck with another odd sight… A desk that appeared to be an aquarium, full of sparkling cosmic fish. The rolling chair on the other side was draped with glittering silks, and faced away from him.
"Welcome…" said a voice that echoed like it was the God of this universe, "to the office of Dr. Neurosis!! Your trustworthy supplier of all things soul-binding and vessel-making!"
As the chair turned around, it revealed a man, tall and scrawny, sitting with an expression of uncontainable enthusiasm. His suit was midnight blue, top to bottom, a shade so deep it became more of a black that looked highlighted with a brilliant open-sky feeling from certain angles. His hands, while human, had nails like refined claws, polished black and artfully sharpened. His face was painted to look like a puma, with galactic flourishes of starlight around the eyes. He had a velvety top hat, the same midnight blue as his suit but spattered with moving stars and meteors and every type of astronomical body.
He grinned from ear to ear.
"Would you like to place an order?" He said, with a voice soft and purring, yet targeted, sharp, and accentuated.
But Peter just stood, awestruck, staring at the spectacle of the scene. He could not speak, not if it meant his life.
Dr. Neurosis's smile faded. "Hello?" But Peter's jaw was literally agape.
"Oh, gosh, darn, don't tell me —!" He got up suddenly from his seat, and made his way over to look down the path. There he could make out Peter's friends, all still motionless. "No, no! Not again, golly gee whillikers, that's the second one tonight!" He shook Peter by the shoulders. "Eighth one this week!"
Dr. Neurosis frantically made his way back to his desk, sat down in his chair, held down an ocean blue button on his side of the desk, and then spoke into it.
"It's another group of tweens. Not customers. Gee monetley, chrizzity, just, ah flibberdeegibbit, please tell Pepper to change the ritual! Again!"

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w/ Wondertainment Theme

w/o Wondertainment Theme


“Come on Kit, let's go make Hoover's ghost proud by conducting an illegal search of the headquarters of a community leader.”

Those Twisted Pines Hub » Vital Signs

|| HUB || Circumstances »
June 7, 2016
Portland, Oregon
Agent Sasha Merlo sat at an empty table in a quiet coffee shop, tapping her fingers as she stared out the window. The sky was predictably overcast.
A younger person in plainclothes slid into the seat across from her. "Sasha Merlo?"
"You have an ounce of perception," she said cryptically, still staring out the window.
"More like a pound of obscure," they muttered. "I swear, who the hell comes up with these counterphrases?"
"I think that one was song lyrics," Merlo said, grinning and turning to face the newcomer. "What happened to Agent Spencer?"
"Something came up in Three Ports that he had to deal with," they said. "I'm his partner, Special Agent Robin Thorne."
Merlo studied the FBI agent. Thorne was noticeably younger than her, with close-cropped auburn hair that framed a youthful face, but they projected an aura of calm confidence that Merlo knew came only from experience. It felt like looking back across a decade of time into a mirror.
"Why does that name sound familiar?" Merlo asked. While she was genuinely curious, she was also using the question as a conversational gambit to get a feel for the other agent. She had come prepared to make her pitch to the notoriously hardline Spencer and was now having to mentally rewrite her planned speech.
Thorne blinked and glanced down at the table. "You're probably thinking of my mother."
Merlo ran the name through her mind a few more times, trying to dislodge any stuck memories. Then she remembered. "You mean Florence Thorne?"
Thorne nodded, still looking down at the table. "We've actually met before, at her funeral." They looked up and met Merlo's gaze, expression inscrutable. "You left early."
A brief recollection of a gangly teenager with eyes full of anger flashed through Merlo's mind. "Sorry," she said. "There were a lot of people there who weren't too happy about my departure from the Bureau."
Thorne shrugged. "I wasn't blaming you." They drummed their fingers on the table. "But I doubt this is why you asked for a meeting, is it?"
Merlo inhaled briefly and chewed her lower lip. "I know Anderson is operating out of Three Portlands."
Thorne stared at her for a moment before giving a short laugh. "So, that kind of meeting. Guess that tracks for you." They folded their arms on the table and leaned forwards slightly. "What makes you think your white whale is hiding out in the Weird City?"
Merlo shifted in her seat, unsettled by Thorne's knowledge of her vendetta with Anderson. She pressed on regardless. "Are you guys still running PLAMPRO?"
Thorne's gaze hardened. "That's classified."
"You know what it is though, right?"
They nodded slightly.
"Well, when I joined the Bureau back in '02, the first thing they put me on was analysis of PLAMPRO traffic. You know, finding movement patterns, trying to identify specific smuggling routes. I even worked with your mom for a little bit on a related case of hers… Dark Door, I think was the codename?"
"Dark Room," Thorne said, offering the correction automatically. "What's your point?"
"My point is that I know what it looks like when somebody's using Three Portlands as the center of a smuggling ring. The spatial and temporal distribution of Anderson's operations fits that pattern perfectly."
"So what you've really got is just a hunch."
Merlo sighed. "Thorne, quit bullshitting me. I've played your side of this game before. I know he's in Portlands. You know he's in Portlands. You're just wondering who told me he was in Portlands. Now we can keep going in circles like this, or you can accept that I'm not going to burn an informant. Your choice."
Thorne studied her quietly, frowning ever so slightly. "You called this meeting, Agent Merlo. Obviously you need something from us, or else you wouldn't be here."
Merlo reached into her jacket and removed an envelope, which she placed on the table between them. Thorne looked at it curiously.
"Quid pro quo," Merlo explained. "This contains a list of five fugitive paracriminals currently wanted by the UIU, along with their last known locations as of 6 PM yesterday. I tell you how to find your guys, you tell me how to find mine."
Thorne stared at the envelope, considering.
"You're right, of course," they finally said. "I suppose it was really only a matter of time until you found out. It's not exactly like he's being subtle about it, what with the giant sign on the building."
"So why hasn't the Bureau moved against him?"
"Why haven't you caught him yet?"
Merlo gritted her teeth. "He's really good at not getting caught."
"Bingo," Thorne said, making a finger gun gesture in her direction. "Strictly speaking, he hasn't actually done anything illegal — not that we can prove, anyways, and not for a lack of trying. And even if we could pin anything concrete on him, moving against him would be… difficult."
"How so?"
"Imagine trying to arrest Jesus Christ in the middle of the Vatican."
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse. Half the city seems to think he's going to single-handedly reassemble Mekhane, and the rest think he's some sort of anti-Foundation Robin Hood. He'd have to murder someone in broad daylight before we could move on him, and even then, the case would need to be ironclad."
There were several seconds of silence as they each considered this.
"I'm not bound by the same restrictions," Merlo said quietly. "I just need to know where he is."
Thorne laughed. "Right, because you think after all of that, we're going to just waive the Hoover Mandate and let you guys grab him off the street of a paranormal enclave?" They paused, expression becoming serious again. "And — no offense Merlo — but from what I understand, you don't have the best track record on this."
"Better than you," she said.
Thorne smiled wryly. "Fair enough, but that doesn't explain how you intend to get around the fact that you're barred from operating in Portlands."
"Simple. I'm not going to do anything in Three Portlands."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "What are you planning?"
"Anderson's operations might be centralized in Three Ports, but he's got dozens of Earthside facilities that we still haven't located. Odds are good that they're all connected to or in contact with the headquarters in Three Portlands, and I'm willing to bet money that the Bureau's been monitoring that place to see what he's up to."
Thorne nodded. "Right, and you think that we can just tell you where Anderson's satellite facilities are so that you can move in and dismantle his operations piecemeal."
"Pretty much, yeah."
Thorne sighed. "As much as I love the idea of handing you Electric Jesus on a platter, we're as in the dark as you are in this case. You're right that we've got his HQ under surveillance, but he doesn't use the public Way network — we think he's got some kind of private nexus setup that he's using for shipping and logistics, but for all we know, he could be apportating everything around. He's definitely got the power for it."
Merlo nodded in disappointed acceptance. "That's distressingly typical at this point. Right when I think I've finally got him, it turns out he was two steps ahead the entire time." She sighed, then stood up in preparation to leave. "Thanks for your time anyways, Agent Thorne. It was good to meet you again."
"Likewise. Just sorry there's not more I can do."
"Well, if you turn up any leads that could use some extralegal action, you know how to contact me." She slid the envelope across the table to Thorne. "Go ahead and keep that. Maybe your lot will have better luck than mine."
Thorne watched the older woman depart, before turning to stare at the envelope some more.
Quid pro quo…

June 9, 2016
ICSUT Campus, Three Portlands
"Now arriving at Memorial Park Station. Nearby points of interest include ICSUT Portlands, the Sidhe Consulate, and the 7th Occult War Monument. The next stop along this route is at Milk Box Boulevard and Hobgoblin Street." The canned voice of the streetcar announcer paused before repeating the same message in Celtic.
Thorne waved their transit pass at the ticket golem as they stepped off the trolley. The summer break meant that the station platform was comparatively empty for a Thursday, which made it easy for Thorne to navigate by muscle memory. They had made the short walk to the ICSUT campus almost every day for four years, and could now reliably do it with their eyes closed, even this many years later.
The campus sphinx was waiting by the gate, head between her paws and tail twitching lazily. There were several competing stories about where she had come from and how the school administration had acquired her allegiance, but Thorne thought it most likely that she just enjoyed tormenting students.
"Morning, Fix," Thorne said. "Can you open the gate please? I just need to use the Library."
The sphinx raised her head and fixed Thorne with a stare. "To pass through this gate, you must first answer my riddle."
Thorne sighed. "Not this again."
"What… is your student ID number?"
Thorne blinked. "Fix, that's not a riddle."
"I know." She pouted. "They stopped letting me ask real riddles after I locked the Vice-Dean out."
Thorne took out their wallet and removed their alumni card, holding it up for the sphinx to see. "Here, is this good enough, or do you need me to read it out to you?"
"Go ahead," she said, a dejected note in her voice. As she put her head back down, the gate began to open of its own accord.
Glancing between the open gate and the miserable sphinx, Thorne made a poor decision.
"If it'll make you feel better, you can ask me a riddle anyways."
The sphinx's head immediately shot up. A wicked glint in her eyes, she said, "In me, you can find the truth; I am not math, but I possess a proof. What am I?"
Thorne paused for a moment, then said, "Liquor."
The sphinx grinned. "You're much cleverer than the Vice-Dean. He kept insisting that the answer was a trial."
Thorne snorted. "He doesn't know many lawyers then." They waved a hand at the sphinx as they started walking towards the library. "Later, Fix."
The library was located at the center of campus, and was part of the intricate web of architectural sorcery that kept the complex anchored in place relative to the rest of the buildings in Three Portlands, which were all gradually drifting towards the exterior boundary of the city to be shunted off into the Outside. The ring-shaped building that housed the library formed the innermost circle of a three-tier warding geometry, and completely encircled the Servane Clocktower that was the focal point of the campus and its enchantments.
The sheer amount of EVE being focused through the library and the clocktower meant that, as an unintended consequence, the tower's clock face could be read by its aspect radiation shadow, even through solid objects, and could still be reliably seen as much as a mile away — at least by an Observer like Thorne. Unfortunately, the same aspect radiation that made the clock visible also had a tendency to disrupt its inner workings, and so the clocktower was rarely accurate — at the moment, it was indicating that it was seventy-two minutes past a large lemon.
Despite their best efforts, the old oak doors gave a tortuous creak as Thorne pushed them open, drawing the attention of the desk librarian. Opening his mouth to deliver a sharp admonishment, he stopped and smiled when he saw them.
"Robin," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Don't tell me you've changed your mind about postgrad courses."
"Afraid not, Professor Holcomb," Thorne said. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just here to do some research."
He nodded sagely, unsurprised. "Of course, the library is always open to you if you need it."
"And what about the Library?"
Holcomb's expression sobered. "I'm quite certain that our collection is exhaustive when it comes to occult theory. There's no need—"
Thorne held up a hand to cut him off. "Professor, I'm not trying to impugn your reputation as an archivist. I just figured you wouldn't want me summoning an Outsider in here."
"Oh." He considered this. "Yes, that would be far from ideal." He paused. "Do you mind my asking what you require the services of a daemon for?"
"Just trying to compensate for some gaps in my casting proficiencies. You know I was never the best at evocations." They shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the conversation topic. "So… Library?"
He nodded. "Of course. The Way is where it's always been, but the door code's likely been changed since you last used it… I believe it's delta-rho-nine-seven now."
"Thanks Professor." Thorne waved a hand at him before turning and heading deeper into the library.
Although it paled in comparison to the immensity and complexity of the Library, the ICSUT library had its fair share of spatial anomalies — a result of both the immense amounts of EVE surrounding and permeating the library, and some of the more esoteric volumes housed in its repositories. Taking care to avoid the catalogue sections indexed with complex numbers, Thorne picked their way through the shelves until they reached a nondescript door tucked away in an isolated alcove.
There was no sign on the door indicating what was behind it, and if not for the alphanumeric keypad next to it, it might have been mistaken for a janitorial closet by a casual observer. Thorne punched in the code that Professor Holcomb had given them, causing the door to swing open to reveal an empty closet.
Thorne stepped into the room and shut the door behind them. They paused for a moment, then whispered into the darkness.
"By this art you may contemplate the variation of the twenty-three letters."
Thorne instantly sensed a spike of Aspect Radiation as the Way reacted to the words of Borges. Two brilliant points of light appeared at the base of the opposite wall and began inching upwards along its surface, tracing a softly shining path beneath them. As they neared the ceiling, the points turned inwards and began moving towards each other, stopping and merging into a single ray of light when they met at the center. In response, the gleaming outline that had been traced on the wall flared brightly, forcing Thorne to blink.
When they opened their eyes again, a simple pinewood door had appeared on the wall in front of them. As the light began to fade from the room, the door swung open, unbidden, to reveal the Wanderer's Library.
The door swung shut again as soon as Thorne entered the Library, sealing the Way behind them. They turned to examine it briefly, then placed a hand firmly on the doorknob and whispered a quick cantrip. It was a simple spell, meant to infuse the door with a tiny amount of EVE in order to create a contagion link that Thorne could use to find it again. Although trivial to perform, it was a vital tool for exploring the Library.
Satisfied that they weren't going to end up wandering forever, Thorne headed off in search of a Librarian. This was a great deal easier than finding a specific exit, for the Librarians seemed to have an innate sense of when and where they were needed. It didn't take long for Thorne to find one waiting for them as they rounded the corner of an aisle.
This Librarian was a towering figure — easily fifteen feet tall — and completely enshrouded by a heavy green cloak. Its face — if it had one — was hidden within the shadows of its hood. It stood silently in the center of the intersection, staring directly at Thorne.
Even though they had been expecting it, Thorne still gasped sharply when they saw the figure. Taking care to avoid looking directly at the void where its face should have been, they approached it cautiously.
Thorne waved at it weakly. "Hi."
The Librarian didn't respond.
"Right, not much for small talk then." Thorne cleared their throat. "I'm looking for books on Outside and Constructed Intelligences — Outsiders, daemons, familiars, that kind of thing. In English preferably, but modern Celtic is fine too. Can you point me to the right section?"
The Librarian raised one of its long, slender arms, the sleeve of its cloak drawing back to expose a skeletal hand clenched into a fist. Slowly, the Librarian extended a single finger, from which a thin cloud of mist began to billow. As Thorne watched, the fog coiled down to the floor and snaked away through the shelves.
Thorne looked back at the still silent Librarian. "Uh, thanks, I guess."
A single syllable in an eldritch tongue rasped out from deep within the folds of the cloak, causing Thorne to shudder. It might have been an expression of acknowledgement, but they decided against asking for clarification.
Thorne scurried off after the trail of fog, following it deeper into the Library. It led them on a winding path through the rows of shelves, occasionally doubling back on itself to traverse some bit of warped space. After half an hour of wandering, the trail finally stopped at the end of a long row of shelves that rose five stories high and stretched away into the distance. A plaque at the base of the nearest shelf simply said 'OUTSIDERS'.
Thorne looked down at the fog and considered whether they should thank it. Before they could decide one way or another, it evaporated, leaving them alone among the books.
"Looking for something specific?"
Thorne glanced over their shoulder to see an Asian woman wearing a beat-up bomber jacket sitting at a nearby table and looking at them over the top of a book titled Der Nichtswanderer. A small golden apple charm hung from her neck.
"I'm not really sure," Thorne said truthfully.
"Mood," she muttered. "Maybe I can help?"
Thorne shrugged. "Sure, I'll take it. Better than browsing for the next week."
"I assume you have a specific goal in mind. Not many people go researching Outsiders on a lark."
"I need a Constructed Intelligence for…" Thorne paused. "To help with a complex evocation."
"Working familiar, gotcha." She hummed softly. "Try starting with On the Outer Daemons Most Amenable. I think the author is Litherland? Yeah, that's it. Teige Litherland. You'll want the one annotated by LR though. Should be on the second story, about twelve shelves down." She gestured further up the aisle.
"Litherland, got it. Thanks for the help, uh…" Thorne paused. "Sorry, I didn't get your name."
"Alliott." She said. "And don't mention it. I probably know this section better than some of the Librarians."
Thorne waved at Alliott before setting off down the aisle in the direction indicated. It didn't take long to find the book, a thick, leather-bound volume that looked like it could have been any age between 20 and 200 years old — although Thorne happened to know the annotator was still alive, which suggested that its actual age was on the lower end of that range.
They carried the book over to a nearby table and began to read.

June 14, 2016
Prometheus Plaza, Three Portlands
"So how come you didn't ask Spencer to help?"
Thorne glanced at their current partner. As usual, Renee Morin had chosen to forego the more formal attire that was common for UIU agents, and was instead wearing her normal plainclothes — including a battered Atlanta Aztecs baseball hat with two holes cut into it for her ears to fit through. Although the pair of them certainly made for an unusual couple, they were still far from the most interesting sight in Prometheus Plaza.
"Ken wouldn't appreciate us doing a favor for the Foundation," Thorne said. "Especially not one of… questionable legality."
Renee smirked. "Is the question, 'Is this illegal?' Because it totally is."
"And yet, here you are."
She shrugged. "I'm always up for a little B&E against Mickey D and their collaborators," she said, a hint of venom in her voice. She paused, then added, "Unofficially, of course."
"Well, if everything goes to plan — and I know just saying that has probably decreased the odds of that happening — there won't be any breaking involved in this entering."
"Does anything ever go to plan when Anderson's involved?"
"Not really, no," Thorne said. "But he definitely isn't in there — I'd be able to tell if he was — so maybe we'll have better luck."
"You really believe that?"
"I'd like to." They turned to face Renee. "You've got the charm I gave you?"
She nodded.
"And if that doesn't work, do you have the rune memorized?"
Renee crouched down and quickly drew a symbol in the dust. "Like that?"
Thorne studied it for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, that's good."
The catgirl rubbed out the symbol with the back of her hand before standing up again. "So, are we ready then?"
"Probably not," Thorne said. They took a breath. "Come on Kit, let's go make Hoover's ghost proud by conducting an illegal search of the headquarters of a community leader."
Admittedly, the former FBI Director probably hadn't envisioned his "dirty tricks" being carried out by an androgynous wizard and an impertinent catgirl, but Thorne was certain he would have approved of the nature of their planned operation. For some reason, that knowledge wasn't encouraging.
Together, the two agents cut across the plaza towards the Anderson Robotics World Headquarters. Once upon a time, the building had housed the main Three Portlands offices of Prometheus Labs. In the aftermath of PL's breakup, the place had played host to a rotation of short-term tenants, including an abortive attempt at a Deer technical institute. For the past few years, however, it had been occupied by Anderson and his menagerie of robots, who had gradually turned the structure into an imposing corporate fortress.
Holding their badge in front of them like a shield, Thorne strode past the Peregrine units posted at the main entrance as security guards, acutely aware of the electric eyes tracking them. The robots made no move to stop them as they entered the lobby and approached the reception desk.
Unlike the guards at the door, the man behind the desk actually looked human, although Thorne could immediately tell from the absence of any aura that he was a Saker android. He looked up as they approached, offering a courteous smile.
"Is there something I can help you with, Agents?"
"There's been a report of an escaped gas golem in this district," Thorne lied. "We have reason to believe it might be in this building. We need to do a sweep of the ground floor to try and locate it before it asphyxiates someone."
"I'm afraid I've been instructed not to let federal agents perform any searches of the premises without a warrant," the android said, still smiling without sincerity.
Renee leaned forwards and put her hands on the edge of the desk. "There are lives at stake here. That's exigent circumstances, and that means we don't need a warrant." She flexed her fingers ever-so-slightly, extending the tips of her claws just enough to scratch the finish of the desk. "That makes what you are doing right now obstruction of a federal agent in their duties. So, by all means, make us come back with a warrant. But if this thing ends up killing someone because you stalled us, there will be serious consequences."
The android slowly looked between the two of them, smile faltering. "I suppose… if there's a public safety hazard… I could let you perform your sweep with an escort."
"Fine, whatever lets us get this done," Renee said.
The android gestured towards one of the Peregrines guarding the door. "578, accompany the agents while they perform their sweep. Do not allow them to leave the ground floor."
PSHUD #578 nodded. "Understood." It turned to face the two agents. "Please follow me. Do not attempt to leave my presence until we have returned to this location."
As their escort began marching out of the lobby, Thorne quickly flashed a smile at the reception android. "Your cooperation is appreciated."
The android didn't respond as he watched the trio depart.
He had already triggered a silent alarm that would notify Vincent Anderson of their presence.
|| HUB || Circumstances »


INCIDENT LOG

Following the success of Project Eisen-Simpson and the containment of SCP-4799-1, SCP-4799-1 breached containment by reverse engineering the refrigeration unit in its cell to create a multiversal travel device.
Before its departure, Containment Agent Riley managed to fatally wound SCP-4799-1. It is suspected that, even if SCP-4799-1 managed to travel to another dimension, it would expire shortly afterwards. Therefore, SCP-4799-1 is now considered neutralized.

For the first time in eternity, ToasterHead stepped out of his warehouse and into the outside world.
Normally, he would never leave the safe confines of his home. However, there hadn't been any humans put into his domain for what seemed like forever, and he decided to find out for himself what was happening.
The sky and the moon had been turned a bright blue. A thousand men turned birds blotted out the sky like clouds, and made a squawking racket that could be compared to a jet engine. For all the way ToasterHead could see, all the buildings, including his beloved warehouse, were in borderline ruins.
ToasterHead took a deep, long breath to smell the world. He didn't have a nose, so he couldn't smell; however, he never questioned these kind of things, like how he could see without eyes. He smelled sulfur, ruin: thousands of televisions shattered, couches set to flames, and clocks unoiled and nonfunctional. It would've brought a tear to his eye.
As ToasterHead stood outside, feeling the wind for the first time in ages, he saw a red flash against the sky, and a human-looking figure fell through the layer of birdmen to the ground. A few detached from the flock, obviously suspicious of the new phenomena.
ToasterHead decided that it was worth investigating, at the very least. His appliance friends were getting impatient and, if nothing else, maybe he could just capture a birdman to show for it.
He picked up a lead pipe at the side of the road and moved towards his destination.

Despite the birdmen's head start, ToasterHead moved swiftly and managed to reach the body before the birds did.
It didn't look as much like a human as ToasterHead had hoped. In fact, the body reminded ToasterHead more of some canine creature than anything else. ToasterHead took a sniff of the body. Like one could smell burnt food, he could smell the abuse of appliances on the body; a strong scent that made ToasterHead sick. He wanted to crush the head, right there and then.
It would do quite nicely.
As ToasterHead slung the body over his shoulder, he was taken to the ground by a large body colliding into his back. As he turned and stood up, he saw three birdmen, menacingly floating in the air in preparation for an attack. They smelled of aggressive mint, intimidation, and of their hatred for the toaster that had just stole their potential feast.
The middle one assaulted ToasterHead first. Now aware of his attackers, he swung his lead pipe into the stomach of the offender. He let loose a distraught caw as he flew across the field.
The two other birdmen flew in for attack. ToasterHead brought his pipe back up in an arc, smashing one in the hip and the other one square in the chin. The one with its hip smashed began to caw in a frightened tone and flew away, while the one hit in the chin became unconscious.
In the wake of this small victory, ToasterHead slung the body back over his shoulder and went back home. However, he noticed that the flock was beginning to bend in his direction, and he smelled the distinct threat of confrontation, so he hastened his pace as to not be intercepted.

As he reentered the barnyard and locked the door, he met with SpiderHeater and showed him his spoils. ToasterHead always liked being around SpiderHeater; he had the scent of vanilla, of somebody who cared, somebody who ToasterHead wanted to be around.
Good, SpiderHeater replied in a hissing tone, but why so long?
ToasterHead explained the birds, and his encounter. He also explained how he feels that the warehouse may be under siege sometime soon.
A crisis, replied SpiderHeater, and— hmm, I think the body you brought us might be still alive.
ToasterHead hadn't considered to check; he thought surviving such a great fall to be impossible. However, he took her pulse, and found the body to be alive.
Good, do what you want with it, said SpiderHeater in response, but I will help prepare this barn for defense. SpiderHeater skittered away.
But then ToasterHead realized that he'd need help. Ever since OvenMan disappeared and FaucetSnake betrayed them for the Great Plumbing, it was really only ToasterHead, SpiderHeater, and CoffeeSpitter that were still here after the pilgrimage. If he wanted to save himself from the birdmen, as much as he hated to save someone who smelled of abuse, he'd need some assistance.
And so the disassembler became the surgeon.

The first thing ToasterHead noted, after cutting open her back, is that her spine shouldn't look like that. ToasterHead had seen a lot of spines in his life, and he knew they were supposed to be curvy, but not that curvy.
After a frustrating few minutes of trying to rearrange it, ToasterHead decided to do away with the concept of a "spine" in the first place, yanking it out and replacing it with a few insulated wires and a metal pipe that ToasterHead hoped would be flexible enough.
Next, ToasterHead addressed her left arm, which he knew from experience couldn't bend at that angle. He tried to arrange it at a more flattering angle, but it wouldn't budge. When he applied force, it snapped right off. Surprised, ToasterHead simply sewed an eggbeater to the end of the elbow and hoped she wouldn't notice.
The remainder of ToasterHead's modifications came in the forms of replacing some useless joints with spare door hinges, and sealing cuts and bruises with staples and dog teeth. There was a weird metal thing that ToasterHead assumed to be some kind of fashion statement blocking an artery, so he just moved it over to another artery to hopefully leave her intact.
Finally, ToasterHead took an electrical plug, plugged it into her new spine, and shocked the body back to life.
She awoke with a deep breath and a lurch up, immediately unplugging her from her lifebed. Immediately, she took on the scent of diaper powder; the scent of surprise. ToasterHead tried to plug her back in, but she turned to ToasterHead and her eyes lit up with fear. She backed away and screamed in a language ToasterHead did not know, but could tell was profanity.
ToasterHead waved his arms around in a gesture of innocence, then pointed to the door of the barnhouse as he walked to it. The dog-girl, expression turned from fright to confusion, followed. ToasterHead popped open the trapdoor and followed the ladder up to the warehouse. Though he tried to make it seem like his subjects were transported to an entirely different world, the two areas were actually connected by a simple hidden door. It amused ToasterHead in a way that his fellow pilgrims never really understood.
As the dog-girl emerged from the hidden door, ToasterHead pointed out the window of the warehouse. When the dog-girl saw the birds, she immediately averted her eyes and covered her ears. In a gesture of confusion and inquisition, ToasterHead cocked his toaster head to the side. The dog-girl pointed her finger towards the secret door, smelling of fresh mint, fear, and went running for the ladder.

The dog-girl had been pacing for an hour or two now, smelling of jerky, apprehension. SpiderHeater and CoffeeSpitter had both inquired about the dog-girl, mostly what was she doing walking about when we could be disassembling her, but ToasterHead dodged the question and told them to gather together the inert appliances to prepare for war.
The dog-girl seemed to get an idea and she emanated the scent of freshly cut rock, ingenuity. She ran over to ToasterHead and mimed a series of gestures that ToasterHead didn't really get. The dog-girl apparently recognized his confusion, because she decided to just go ahead and do it anyways.
She took a microwave and pulled the cover right off.
ToasterHead felt a wave of shock and burnt toast echo through his body. He had helped her recover, when she was on the floor, broken, and bleeding. To take one of his own apart like that…
He lunged at the dog-girl in anger.

Shock ducked out of the way of the odd toaster man's tackle. What the hell? she thought. For once, Shock wasn't thinking about herself; she wanted to help the toaster man too. But for now, she focused on running away while yanking the circuitry out of the microwave.
Though Shock could run pretty fast, whatever he'd put inside of her joints slowed her down, and the toaster man ran faster. Shock tried to turn around and slide through the toaster man's legs, but her left leg's joints locked out and she instead preformed an awkward roll that knock the toaster man over. She scrambled to her feet and ran back towards the appliance pile while still trying to use her now-useless eggbeater hand to pull the circuitry out of the microwave.
Suddenly, the weird spider thing came out of nowhere and stood facing Shock. She slowed to a halt, and faced its looming presence. She heard the toaster man coming from behind her. She lunged to grab a piece of copper piping from the pile.
Then the trapdoor threw itself open as dozens, if not hundreds, of bird-men flew into the room. The spider and the toaster man froze, and Shock took the opportunity to dive behind a table. The dive drove some nail into her hip, and she audibly winced as she tried to suppress the pain. She dropped the circuitry and put her hand to her hip in a small attempt to suppress the pain. Behind her, she heard the hissing of the spider and the combined squeaking and squawking of the birds.
Looking over the table, she saw the toaster man, brandishing a lead pipe. With a swing, he cleared three bird-men and brought a brutal fist into another's face. Five bird-men took their place and slammed into the toaster man's body, knocking him to the ground. They began to peck at his mannequin body, taking bits and pieces off.
Turned back around, she picked up the microwave and further disassembled it, all the while covering her ears with her shoulders to avoid exposure to the birds. Despite the protection, she still heard the incessant squawking of the bird-men and the bonk of their attacks.
Eventually, she found out that her eggbeater-hand was useful in coiling the circuitry of the microwave around the dimension-hopping device that she'd brought with her. After she'd coiled it to an acceptable degree, she began to shove it into the copper pipe, which was hard to do with just the eggbeater.
A bird-man flew above her and began to squawk at her. Looking up, she took her eggbeater hand and used it to punch the bird-man's skull. Using her free hand, she delivered another punch to his chin before throwing him across the room. The situation was even more dire; the toaster man was pinned against the wall, and one of the bird-men had taken his leg clean off. The spider was surrounded on all sides and struggled to keep the birds from stealing its piping.
Shock made the final modifications necessary; she shoved the circuitry into the piping, and attached it to her eggbeater. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.
"Hey, toaster man!" she yelled over the cawing.
The toaster man turned towards her. She knew that he probably didn't understand English, but she would try her best to get it across. She exaggerated putting her free hand on the edge of the table and grabbing it hard.
"Hold on!" she yelled, activating the eggbeater. It glowed blue for a second, and everything seemed to float for a while, like under anti-gravity. Then the barnhouse seemed to tear itself away from Earth as the entrance transformed into somewhat of a portal to the space between universes.
The vacuum created was intense. The birdmen let out defeated cacks as they were sucked out through the door into the infinite void. The toaster man clung onto the workdesk, while the spider had slung a rope around a door handle, and her table was lodged in between two file cabinets. The last of the birdmen were flushed out the door, and everything looked like it was going to work.
Then the appliance pile started to drift the way of the birdmen. The toaster man immediately let go of his hold to save the pile.
"No!" yelled Shock. She kicked the table from its lodged spot, making it block the doorway. She tried to cling onto the file cabinet, but her one hand wasn't enough to hold on. The vacuum tore her from her hold and sucked her towards the opening.
Normally, she'd be able to land softly; however, her odd legs and the extra twenty pounds from her modifications didn't make any of this easier, and instead of landing softly like she planned, she crashed through the wall and found herself shooting through the wild, black void.

After the vacuum had subsided, ToasterHead looked out into the void and saw the dog-girl in the distance, still floating there. She'd not only saved him and his fellow pilgrims from the birds, but she'd sacrificed herself to save his appliances. Was it because she had been saved by him? Or was it…
ToasterHead couldn't smell her, not at this distance. But of himself, he smelled mildew, regret. He pivoted on his one leg towards SpiderHeater, who was missing a few pipes and eyeballs. He gave a quiet nod.
After the moment of regret faded, ToasterHead began to ponder where his barnhouse now was. They were shooting through some kind of void, was there some kind of intended destination?
He felt a lurch as his home crashed into some large object. It took him to the ground, requiring help from SpiderHeater to stand up. He heard some creaking from the other side of the barnhouse. He went to investigate, and found a hallway crashed into his barnhouse.
There was text written in blood that ToasterHead couldn't read, but if he could read it, he would know his fate:

WHAT HAPPENED TO SITE-13?

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See my Author Page for more information. If you like reading my stuff, consider checking out my YouTube Channel for SCP-inspired animations, among other things.


Then it stopped, and standing in front of Carol Vieth was the spectre of John Keynes, father of modern economics, and now the greatest nemesis of the Securities and Exchange Commission.

"So," Carol Vieth said, her intonation giving the word physical force and weight as it fell through the air. "You're the new intern."
Michael Fitzsimmons nodded, causing his glasses to slide down to the end of his nose. "Yes, ma'am."
Vieth studied the young man. His comically lanky limbs, unkempt hair that was trying to escape from his head, and oversized glasses that refused to stay in place, combined with his earnest excitement, all served to put her in mind of an overeager puppy.
Still, she did need a new lab assistant. And he was qualified…
"Alright," she finally said. "You'll do. Follow me."
Without waiting to see if he obeyed, she turned and walked towards the rear of the lobby. She didn't pause when she reached the staff entrance, swiping her keycard through the reader and opening the door in a single fluid motion. She could tell by the sound of his footsteps that he was hurrying to keep up.
"What kind of necromancy do they teach at ICSUT these days?" She asked when they reached the elevator.
"Uh, generalized implementation of modern ritual summoning," he said, somehow managing to fire off the entire sentence in a single breath — just in time for the elevator doors to ding! open.
She snorted, stepping into the elevator. "What a fine way to say a whole lot of nothing. They teach you anything practical, or just that abstract shit?"
Fitzsimmons gulped. "Uh, n-no. Not really."
"Figures. If they actually taught you anything useful, we wouldn't have interns." She pressed the button for the basement level, and the elevator began to descend. "Still, I suppose it's better than nothing. Can you tell me what the components needed for a summoning are?"
He nodded, closing his eyes as he listed them from memory. "An offering, an anchor, and an invocation; something to attract the shades, a source of EVE to give them form, and a phrase or ritual to call them."
"Good to see they at least teach you the basics," she muttered. The elevator doors slid open again, letting them out into the basement. "The kind of necromancy we do here at PLabs is derived from the Greco-Roman nekyia. You might hear it called Homeric necromancy, because it's the same type of ritual performed by Ulysses in the Odyssey."
"Didn't he have to travel to the Underworld to do that?"
"Ulysses wasn't a practitioner. Type Blues can do it without a katabasis. Which is good, because the last known entrance to the Underworld was lost during the Fourth Occult War."
"So… what, we're going to dig a trench and fill it with goat's blood?"
"Not quite."
They arrived at the doors to the necromancy lab, which Vieth opened with her keycard. She gestured for Fitzsimmons to enter.
The necromancy lab was a large, spacious room, which could almost be called cavernous if not for the ample illumination provided by the overhead lights. Only a part of the room had been floored with white linoleum, leaving the remainder as a square of naked concrete. The linoleum-lined area was dominated by several stainless steel tables, around which various cabinets, boxes, and fridges had been scattered. It also appeared to be the only part of the space in use, as the concrete square was completely devoid of equipment or furnishings.
Vieth pulled a pair of gloves from a dispenser near the door and gestured for Fitzsimmons to do likewise. Then she went over to a cabinet and withdrew a plastic mixing bowl, which she placed on top of the nearest table.
"Get the milk out of that fridge over there," she said, gesturing towards a fridge labeled 'Edibles'.
He opened the fridge to reveal a dizzying assortment of jugs and jars, containing food and drink of every type. There were at least four different types of milk visible.
"Uh, whole or —"
"Whole, of course. Who ever heard of doing a summoning with low-fat milk?"
Taking the bottle of milk from his hand, Vieth measured out a cup and poured it into the bowl.
"Now honey. It'll be in the cabinet there. And a bottle of wine from that cabinet there. Should be a bottle that's already opened." Vieth pointed again.
Fitzsimmons retrieved the requested ingredients. Vieth measured out a tablespoon of honey, and then poured the remainder of the wine bottle into the bowl.
"Alright, now we just need some water and a bit of blood to finish it off." Vieth picked up the bowl and carried it over to the sink, where she started filling it with water. "Blood's in the biohazard fridge. Grab the bag on the left."
"So, uh, where does this come from?" Fitzsimmons asked as he brought Vieth the blood.
"The place that does our catering also does butchering. They keep us stocked." She took the blood bag from his hand and emptied it into the bowl. "Of course, they think it's for medical experiments."
Vieth carried the bowl over to the center of the concrete square, where a copper circle had been embedded in the floor. Standing inside the circle, she held the bowl up and said, "John Maynard Keynes, I need to speak with you."
Nothing happened for a moment. Then the temperature in the room plunged, causing Fitzsimmons' glasses to fog up. A howling filled the air, with no apparent source.
Then it stopped, and standing in front of Carol Vieth was the spectre of John Keynes, father of modern economics, and now the greatest nemesis of the Securities and Exchange Commission.
"Oh, it's you," he said, sounding off-put. "I suppose you'll be wanting next month's stock predictions."
"If it's not too much trouble, John."
"If it's not too much trouble," he repeated. "I possess secret knowledge of the inner workings of the economy across time and space, and you barter for it with cheap wine and pasteurized milk."
"That is correct," she said. "It's not like you can actually taste it, so what difference does it make if the wine is cheap?"
The shade crossed his arms angrily. "What difference does it make? It's the about the principle of the whole thing. Teiresias never had to deal with this kind of treatment, you know. In the old days, they had respect for the dead."
Vieth sighed. "Look, if you won't do it I'll just ask someone else. I'm sure Adam Smith would be more amicable."
Keynes looked mortified, which was impressive for someone who was already dead. "You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?"
Keynes stared at Vieth for a moment. Sighing, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Here. Next month's forecast. It should be accurate to within a normal deviation."
Vieth smiled. "Thank you, John. Was that so hard?"
"I hope they give you a papercut, witch."
Vieth rolled her eyes. "I release you back to the void," she said, dismissing the shade with a slash of her hand. The bowl she was holding was now empty.
"Michael, was it? Go and run these up to Bartholomew in Finance. And be quick about it. When you get back we'll be doing another summoning, and I need someone who can understand Latin to transcribe — proper Latin, not that Catholic nonsense." She paused, then said. "You do know Latin, don't you? I told them not get me another intern who couldn't speak Latin."
He nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am. Four semesters of classical Latin."
"You should hope that's enough, for your own sake. Cicero tends to speak quickly." She stood silently for a moment, then turned to look at him. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go!"


Previous: Don Quixote vs Classy Carlos

It feels like there's a frenzied nest of ferocious ferrets digging their way out from behind Agent Diego's eye-sockets. It feels like her brain is slathered in honey and her head is filled with ravenous, vengeful wasps. It feels like someone's swapped out her blood for a slurry of vinegar, salt, and powdered fiberglass.
The young Foundation operative badges through the Site-19 checkpoint and stumbles into the nearest restroom. She leans over the counter, turns on the faucet, and gracefully 'expunges' the contents of her stomach into the sink. In between dry-heaves, she struggles to recall just what the hell happened while she was off. What did she do? Who did she —
— oh.
Agent Diego grinds one hand into her eyeball and uses the other to fish around in her pocket. She pulls out her phone and thumbs through a weekend's worth of texts and images. One by one, she drags each memory, kicking and screaming, out from the depths of her subconscious.
In the span of three days, she has:

Gotten amazingly, spectacularly shit-faced.
Agreed to help an anomalous Don Quixote cosplaying lunatic on his quest to "strike down all evil" — starting with her "cheating, blood-sucking parasite of an ex-fiancé".
"Liberated" her ex-fiancé's lime-green 1967 Ford Mustang from her driveway, declaring it to now be their mighty steed.
Provided their mighty steed with a "viking funeral" (complete with burning pyre and burial at sea).
Vowed a knightly oath to help Sir Quixote rid the world of all "accursed, blood-sucking parasites".
Brought up an actual, literal blood-sucking parasite where she works. An evil, weaponized mosquito.
Proceeded to puke and then pass out.

Agent Diego mops her face with her hands. "Dios mío."
She needs to get to Site-19's anomalous insect wing. Right now.

A lone figure cloaked in black sits in his cell. The scent of lavender fills the air.
He has extracted his surgical instruments from his satchel and set them aside to be cleaned. Here is a T-shaped auger with a polished oak handle — useful for trepanation. Here is a glass syringe, its needle scarcely thinner than a pencil, nearly filled with a sloshing solution of mercury. Here is an écraseur — a rotating rod with a loop of chain at its tip that retracts when the device is cranked. This restricts blood-flow until the chain cleaves the offending member clean off from bone and flesh.
He is meticulous and thorough. After all, an artisan can only be as competent as his tools permit. He will abide no trace of viscera nor speck of blood upon his instruments. They must be clean and ready — ready for his next patient.
He is scraping flesh from his scarificator (a brass disk that inflicts multiple lacerations via spring-loaded razor-blades, gathering the resulting blood into an internal cup) when he hears the thumping sound. A moment later, and the door to his cell is split in twain. The scarificator falls from his hands.
It strikes his lap. Blood splashes out of its internal cup and splatters over his mask.
SCP-049 lifts his head and meets the intruder's gaze. Blood drips from the needle-like tip of his "nose".
Don Quixote stands at the doorway, sword in hand: "My God. She was right — you're the biggest mosquito I've ever seen!"

"Wait, wait, wait," Agent Diego says. "What do you mean — "
"You're talking about SCP-149," Dr. Troncalli explains. She shakes her head, grinning. "Man, our job would be so much easier if we just gave these things names, wouldn't it?"
Agent Diego is standing at the front desk of Sector-3, otherwise known as "the Buggy Unit". The buzzing and chirping of a thousand anomalous insects emerges from behind Dr. Troncalli, where the unit's specimens are all safely locked away in their hermetically sealed terrariums. One thing Agent Diego doesn't hear? The containment breach klaxons.
"Okay," she says, her brow rumpling. "So, if SCP-049 isn't that weird mosquito that makes, uh, its eggs explode out of people — then what is SCP-049?"
"Y'know, I don't actually know. You might have to ask Shirley, down over at — "

"I know who it is!"
"Huh?" Agent Diego glances from left to right. "Who — "
Dr. Troncalli gives Angela a funny look. "Uh, I said you might have to ask Shirley down at the information desk."

"She can't hear me. But I can tell you how to get where you want to go!"
Agent Diego's face twists up into a scowl. She opens her mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by the sound she's been dreading this whole while. Site-19's screeching, warbling klaxons. And the alarms are coming from Sector-2 — the humanoid containment wing.

"Hurry — there isn't much time!"
Agent Diego expels several colorful curses, turns, and runs.

" — so then I told them, 'well, my cure is most effective!'"
Don Quixote's bright, bawdy laughter booms through the interior of the cell. "Oh, my. Oh, goodness, that must have — "
"More tea?"
" — must have been quite the splendid little jest. Yes, please." Don Quixote extends his cup. SCP-049 lifts the steaming kettle, pouring. "Thank you."
"Of course. It's lavender-flavored tea. I hope that's alright? They keep bringing me lavender-flavored things, especially recently. I think they think I like them." SCP-049 shrugs. "Regardless, it's nice to finally meet someone who isn't laboring under some manner of delusion."
"Oh, yes! You know, I was starting to wonder myself," Don Quixote continues, his gaze drifting across the table full of medieval surgical equipment. "Whether there were any proper doctors of medicine to be found in the world, anymore!"
"Oh, yes, " SCP-049 agrees, his own gaze drifting across Don Quixote's crude armor, assembled from duct-taped pots and pans. "And I was starting to wonder where all the righteous, pure-hearted knights had gone!"
"It's such a pleasure to at last meet someone who accepts the world as it is." Don Quixote sips his tea.
"Quixote!"
Agent Diego stands at the entrance to the cell. Her hand is on the hilt of her holstered pistol. Distant klaxons ring behind her. She is staring at SCP-049, her eyes as wide as saucers. She appears to recognize him.
"Ah, is this — " SCP-049 leans forward in his chair, peering at the woman. "Someone you know, Don Quixote de la Mancha?"
"Oh, yes. Something of a fellow adventurer. A squire of mine. She's the one who told me you were a mosquito," Don Quixote confesses. "I do apologize for that, again."
"Hmph. No need. A lady squire, you say? How very droll, Sir Quixote!"
Agent Diego clears her throat. "Qui — Sir Quixote," she continues, her eyes never leaving SCP-049. "We should leave. Right now. Before, uh, before we wear out our welcome."
"Hm. I suppose she is right. We do have a quest to complete. Thank you, doctor, for your hospitality." Don Quixote rises to his feet. He and SCP-049 shake hands. In that brief moment of contact, Agent Diego makes a strange, muffled cry.
Don Quixote then turns and exits alongside Agent Diego. As they jog toward the exit, she slaps at her ears several times.
"Is something wrong, Lady Diego?" Don Quixote asks.
"No. I, uh, just thought I heard something. We should run faster," she replies.
And so they do.

"What a pleasant fellow." SCP-049 crouches to retrieve the scarificator, then makes his way out the door. Judging by the wailing alarms, he'll be having a fresh crop of patients very soon. Best to be ready to greet them.

"H — hello?"
"Hm?" What was that? He's certain he heard something. It sounded like buzzing. He cocks his head to the side, glancing down the hallway. "Is someone there?"

"Y — yes. Hi. I'm here."
A woman? How strange. He makes some adjustments to the scarificator as he continues down the hall. "I don't see you. Are you hiding?"

"Not — not exactly. Are you going to use that to bleed people?"
"Hm? Well, yes. It's a necessary part of an effective cure."

"Could I — could I help?"
"Help?" SCP-049 is sincerely puzzled. No one's ever asked to help him before — nevermind a woman. "Well, do you have any experience when it comes to proper methods for bleeding patients?"

"Oh, yes! I'm actually very good at it! A natural, really. Plus, I'd love to learn more from you. If, um, I mean — if that's — okay?"
Huh.
A thought occurs to SCP-049: If a knight can have a woman as his squire, why can't a doctor have a woman as an apprentice? After all, this is the modern age, isn't it? Perhaps it's time to move forward and take a more progressive perspective.
"Perhaps something like that could be arranged, mademoiselle…?"

"Oh! You can just call me Leslie, sir."
"Very well. 'Leslie'. Then yes — your help would be deeply appreciated. Furthermore, I would be delighted to show you my cure." He can hear the footsteps of the men coming round the corner. With a snap and twist, he resets the scarificator and moves forward to greet them.
As he does, he hears Leslie buzzing in his ear with a happy, dreamy sigh:

"Thank you. And, um… I really like your proboscis. ~"

Alternate Entries:
OthellotheCat: La Marcha GrenaDEETa (SCP-3774)
Gabriel Jade: Los Dias Y Los Caballeros De Leslie Y El Doctor (SCP-049)


Two piles of books sat next to the doctor. The group on his left was neat and orderly, books stacked carefully atop one another. The heap to his right was much larger, much more mound-like in shape, each new addition tossed carelessly atop the pile.
The doctor read aloud from the book in his hands, a story about brothers, dragons, time travel, and self sacrifice. Leslie listened to the story as she had all the others, resting comfortably atop the doctor's leather hood. These were Merle's books, but it wasn't Merle's voice reading them. Still, she briefly forgot that fact as the story built, as the elder brother fought a grotesque half-ogre in the mud by the light of a bonfire. She gasped as he was knocked to the ground, and cheered when she realized it had been his plan all along.
"Caramon is so brave, fighting him all alone like that!" she opined at the end of the chapter, as the doctor's finger turned the page.
"There is no bravery here, he must fight or die," the doctor answered, turning the page. "Not just himself, but his brother, and the woman too. He does what he does because there is no other option."
Leslie wasn't so sure. "That doesn't make him any less brave. They would be dead if not for him, he's a hero."
"A hero is—"
The doctor never got to tell her what a hero was. There was a tremendous commotion outside in the back yard. In all the time they had spent here, they had heard the wind make some pretty strange noises, but this was different. The wind never galloped. The wind never crashed into something hard enough to shake the house. The wind, especially, never spoke Spanish.
"And so, at long last, the final giant lies dead, and the land may know peace once more!""Y así, finalmente, el último gigante a muerto, ¡y la tierra puede por fin vivir en paz!" a voice bellowed. The Plague Doctor and Leslie made it to the back door, looking out at the scene.
Merle's decorative windmill lay dead, a dinner knife tied to the end of a broom handle lanced through its spokes. An equally collapsed horse lie nearby, and to the doctor's eye, the beast was in rougher shape than the windmill. The nag looked ancient enough to have seen humanity's end. Hell, it looked old enough to have seen its beginning.
A mustachioed man stood atop the felled structure, pulling his makeshift lance from the vane. He stopped when the doctor cleared his throat, rounding on the noise and drawing a sharpened piece of car bumper from his waist to level at the new threat.
"I am Sir Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and slayer of monsters! Identify yourself, knave!""¡Soy Don Quijote de La Mancha, el valiente señor y enemigo de monstruos! ¡Identifícate, demonio!" Two stop signs, riveted together, made his cuirass. A colander was his helmet. Chicken wire formed his greaves.
The doctor broke into laughter. Not the quiet, polite laughter he sometimes offered Leslie's jokes, but a spasm inducing belly laugh, wracking him, doubling him over. Before long, tears were streaming from his mask. Leslie was terribly confused; she didn't speak Spanish.
The knight's sword lowered slightly at this display, studying the black-robed man as he began composing himself, wiping his mask clean. "Very well, then," said the doctor finally, "In that case, I am Victor Frankenstein, a doctor." he snarked. He almost fought off another chuckle.
Leslie flew from the plague doctor's head to study the black-robed man, confused. He had read her the story of Frankenstein before, it was somewhere at the bottom of the mountain of books. Why on Earth had he said that? Still, she remained quiet for now, small and unnoticed between the two.
"A pleasure to meet you, good doctor Frankenstein. It seems I am just in time." The knight sheathed his sword and took his helm from his head, holding it in the crook of his elbow. His English was fluent, but unmistakably accented. He approached the doctor, offering him an antiquated salute, then peered curiously around him, into the house.
"Might I ask for what, or whom you're looking?" the doctor asked, perplexed, as the man of La Mancha's inquisitive gaze peered into the darkened building.
"The princess. The one held by the giant," he gestured to the felled yard ornament "She who has been separated from her true love."
"Leslie?"
"Me?"
The knight turned to the source of the small voice, his wild eyes finally falling on the gently hovering mosquito. "Ah, my lady, yes." He knelt on the dry grass. "Please allow this humble knight to escort you to your love."
Leslie felt sick in her stomach at this mockery. She landed again on the doctor's hood. "Merle is…" She stopped. No, it was the truth, and she had to learn to live with it. "Merle is dead."
"Ah, then it is most fortunate we have the fine Doctor Frankenstein to accompany us." The Doctor's eyes widened.
"No, no, I'm—" the doctor was cut off.
"Don't doubt yourself, doctor." Don Quixote rose and put his hand on the Plague Doctor's forearm, tilting his chin up at the small mosquito on his head. "For her sake."
"C…could you really do that, doctor?" Leslie asked, moving to the front of his hood to look down at the long white mask. "Could you revive Merle like… like you did with me?" She could feel the doctor grit his teeth through his hood.
"Perhaps." the doctor admitted, eventually. "Though, we would need to find him." He pulled his arm from the knight's grasp, extending his arm wide to his side, offering for them to take in the abandoned world around them. "And that, without a doubt, is beyond my abilities."
"Bah!" The Knight strode quickly and withdrew his lance from his foe. "That is the simplest part." He moved to stand beside his horse who was, against all logic and in apparent violation of several physical laws, standing up. "We have the greatest tool of navigation known to man: a lover's heart."

The trio rode day and night, stopping only to let Rocinante graze and sleep. Per Don Quixote's insistence, Leslie rode the nag, with the two men following on foot. Day followed night and they marched. Nuclear rain fell, scorching winds howled, and still they persevered.
Leslie held, deep within her processors, a seed of doubt. She followed not her heart, as the mad knight had suggested, but the satellite beacon in her brain. Site-42, she had decided. If the Foundation had recovered him, then that's where they would have taken him. For the first time in over two hundred years, Leslie let her mind go to her children. That's what they would have been interested in, no doubt, and Site-42, well… That's what it was for, right? For—for things like that. She couldn't bear that train of thought any longer. Besides…
"There it is." Leslie directed their attention to a partially collapsed subway tunnel entrance. She flew from the horse's back directly into the darkened tunnel. The two men exchanged quick glances and took off at a run after her, the knight's armor clanging loudly with each step. Rocinante, glad for the respite, collapsed in a heap at the side of the road.
The two caught up with her outside of a locked service door, buzzing around the keypad next to it. "I don't know how to get in, I don't know how to open it!" she told them frantically as they approached.
The knight studied the door for a moment, then announced, "Even the greatest barriers cannot hinder the pursuit of true love!" The doctor stood aside as Don Quixote's lance turned the metal door into shrapnel with a single thrust.
Site-42's hallways were white, sterile, and completely devoid of human life. Leslie was off like a shot, the site maps already loaded up in her memory. She knew where they would have Merle… if he were here at all.
The tiny bug was hard to follow, the two men nearly lost her several times. "Hurry, Victor! We must run with the speed of love as well!" the knight bellowed, as he picked up his pace. The doctor, exasperated, redoubled his efforts, panting. He hadn't had the opportunity to do much running in the past few centuries.
When he finally caught up with them, doubled over, wheezing, and desperately wishing he could sweat, the knight and the mosquito stood in a room with a dozen tall glass cylinders. He finally caught his breath as he studied the bodies frozen within the glass, a fine layer of frost lining the inside of the tubes. He felt his heart sink; Leslie had described Merle in exacting detail and he was certain of it, none of these people were Merle.
Therefore, when Leslie's voice came out bubbling with joy, he was confused at first. Until he heard her words.
"These are my babies!" She was flitting between four of the stasis tubes, studying their faces closely. They were young children, perhaps six or seven years old. The doctor squinted; their faces were… not entirely unlike how she had described Merle's. "Doctor, sir knight! My babies!" She was blubbering, no doubt thankful she didn't have tears to blur her vision. "Oh god, get them out of there! Are they ok? Doctor, please tell me they're ok! Please tell me you know how to get them out of there safe!"
The Plague Doctor studied the bodies for a few moments, pondering. He stole a quick glance over at Don Quixote, who was beaming, and muttering sweet nothings about the nature of love to no one but himself. What an odd fellow. he thought. Then, Though who am I to judge?. He pulled himself from his reverie and nodded. "Yes. It should be a simple procedure."

Months had come and months had gone in the subterranean facility. The children had learned how to use the food extruders, and the Doctor had no worries that they would survive, indeed thrive, in their new home.
Leslie and her children had all they could need in the confines of the Foundation facility. The procedure had gone well, and the three boys and girl had recovered quickly, taking quite well to their mother. Granted, it had taken a while to explain to them that Leslie was, in fact, their mother. But she loved them, and she assured him that that they, some day, would come to love her. She hadn't been worried; He held in his mind the last words they had exchanged.
"How long will I be around to care for them, doctor?" There was no greater tragedy than that a parent would outlive their children. Still, Leslie would continue to function indefinitely, whereas her children would grow, and age, and die. The question had caused him no small amount of distress, but finally he admitted it.
"For longer than the rest of their lives."
It was the truth, and it had made her happy. He took comfort in that, at least.
Dawn's light shone down on the ruined city, on the black-robed figure standing alone at the threshold to the secret entrance to Site-42. Don Quixote had ridden away the night prior, told them that a Knight's work was never finished, and left as madly as he had come, riding through a glass storefront and into the mists of history. And then riding back out of the glass storefront and down a street. But the Doctor resolved not to remember that last part.
He stood, alone, and looked at the broken world around him.
A sick, dying world.
A world in need of a cure.
And so he walked.

Going Home

The OCT that spawned it all

Foundation Facilities, and How to Loot Them

Be sure to check out Othello's entry: La Marcha GrenaDEETa.
As well as Hippo's take on the power triangle: Down With the Sickness