Accessing Personal Personnel Miscellaneous Memorabilia and Records Log
Compiled by Manu Thirteen (Artificial Intelligence System, MTF Rho-19)

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Compilation Sweep 3 (Mission Elapsed Time: 12 days ETA Venusian Colony: 350 days)
Rho-19 Individuals Observed Today:

Dr. Suhas Muthu Kumaran. Head of the MTF. Astrophysicist, still associated with Indian Space Agency.

"He knows his stuff."
"I'm fairly sure he could convince you to eat your socks, even if you aren't wearing any."

Dr. Amannisa Qasim. Higher command officer. Psychologist, assigned due to expertise in psychological evaluation of non-human intelligent entities.

"Does anyone know what that talisman is for?"

Sgt. Pang Yuande. Head of security detail. Previously served in counter-terrorism operations as platoon second-in-charge.

"I vaguely recall that he threw up on the flight in."

Dr. Kurt Boeckmann. Team doctor and Swiss medical researcher.

"His beard is his most recognizable feature, given that he's also bald."
"Don't mess with his stuff. I mean the plant."

Dr. Sarah Whitlock. Astrogeologist, placed in the initial colonization group as an expert on off-planet mining and mineral refining.

"She likes the outdoors and being outdoors."
"Why did she bring so many rocks?"

Manuel Medina Enriquez. Political operative on loan from Department of External Affairs.

"He has a wife and three children waiting for him at home."

Jonathan Gerima. Specialist in mind-affecting and psychological phenomena.

"I think he's the youngest member. He's what, 24 years old?"
"He got really excited when he heard about the thousand people on the shuttle."

And my name is Manu Thirteen. Today I collected records of many things from my team, and I learned a lot about them. This exercise is based on the human behavior of keeping "diaries". I have drawn the conclusion that it is a worthwhile pursuit to emulate.

Personal Item Entry 13: Silver-colored Avian Wing Accessory

Property of Jonathan Gerima. Individual known for experimental novels and short stories and is a rising figure in the world literary scene. Item holds potential personal significance due to owner's long familial background in Christian mysticism and several anomalous encounters recorded prior to recruitment. Gerima noted to wear pendant frequently. It's funny because humans wear shoes on their feet. Why do humans hold such a fascination with wings and flight?

This mission to Venus, and all of the people traveling there, are very important to me. Remembering them is important. But my team is different. Remembering them is the most important.

Transcript of dialogue sample. Recorded in Transport Shuttle North Conference Room. Discussion between MTF Rho-19 members Dr. Suhas Muthu Kumaran, Sgt. Pang Yuande.
Pang: So, you're the top dog. What's our handle?
Kumaran: Our call sign is…is this room secure, Sergeant?
Pang: I wouldn't be asking if it weren't.
Kumaran: We're all high-profile, Sergeant. We're celebrities just for being here. Less than ideal for a clandestine mission. Lot of passengers on the ship. So yes, there will be a lot of double-checking and confirmation. Nothing personal.
Pang: [GRUNTS]
Kumaran: Anyway, callsign is "Cythereans."
Pang: What the hell does that mean?
Kumaran: It's an archaic term, basically means "Venusians."
Pang: You seem more poetic than that, doctor.
Kumaran: Cute. You know, I have to rack my brain over every little detail before I talk to the team about even the tiniest parts of this mission. One slip-up, and I have to send you all back immediately afterward in an escape pod, with an A3 sequestration unit waiting for all of you. It took me three days to prep for a ten-minute briefing with Qasim. This is what working on a cognitohazard is like, Sergeant.
Pang: [SIGHS]
Kumaran: So you'll forgive me. A clever callsign hasn't been my first priority. I think it fits, personally. A touch of the old world, the only people who remember our true history, along for this ride.
Pang: When is the whole team going to meet?
Kumaran: As soon as we can find a plausible deniability window for seven operatives and a stowaway AI system to be in the same place without arousing suspicion. Enriquez is working on it.
Pang: That's tight even for something like this. What aren't you telling me?
Kumaran: …we think we might have company.
Pang: Listen doctor. I'm a chain of command guy. But you've already asked me to take responsibility for human lives without telling me what the threat is. You're going to need to cut the bullshit now. What does "company" mean?
Kumaran: It means GoI involvement. We've reviewed some files. Cogwork Orthodoxy.
Pang: [EXHALES] Shit.
Kumaran: Yes. Shit.

During my routine reconnaissance of the public areas in the shuttle today, I discovered several personal effects belonging to my team. Each team member values their own unique piece of memorabilia.

Personal Item Entry 39: Venerable Antique Dagger

Property of Sgt. Pang Yuande. Recruited from Chinese military after receiving several counter-terrorism decorations. Has served on three previous Mobile and Orbital Task Force assignments, one with a specialization in zero-gravity combat operations. Hobbies include practicing Sanshou in front of mirror in quarters and writing correspondence to other members of past MTF assignments. Responses always come back to someone named "Circles," which is not the individual's name. Item prominently displayed in individual's quarters, and believed to be at least two hundred years old, according to individual's father. It's funny because Sgt. Pang has killed seven people and never uses this weapon.

Additionally, I have recovered miscellaneous documents from which I am able to further learn about the nature of my team. Certain individuals engage in strict self-maintained routines.
Recovered Memorandum from Desk of Dr. Kurt Boeckmann

My search methods have been significantly refined after several prior attempts. I am now able to identify relevant objects previously not designated as such.

Personal Item Entry 33: Charming Specimen of Chlorophytum comosum

Property of Dr. Kurt Boeckmann. Individual has expressed fondness for animals, arising from childhood spent on a dairy farm. Said experience has additionally exposed him to an early familiarity with disease and illness, potentially affecting knowledge of indoor plants that promote health of animals. And people. Boeckmann noted to water specimen according to very tight schedule, addresses as "Pila". It's funny because it is actually called a spider plant or airplane plant. Also, Pilatus is a mountain, not a plant.

I have also made additions to my common dialogue database. This has enabled me to additionally become more proficient in identifying human behaviors contextually corresponding to notable emotional reactions.

Transcript of dialogue sample. Recorded in Transport Shuttle Primary Research Lab and Archives. Discussion between MTF Rho-19 members Dr. Amannisa Qasim, Dr. Kurt Boeckmann.
Boeckmann: [SHUFFLING PAPERS] You're requesting an awful lot of MDMA, Nisa. I'm not even certain the ship has that much in its stocks.
Qasim: We can improvise if we have to.
Boeckmann: Need I remind you that you are not a psychiatrist?
Qasim: Oh, Kurt. Just like the body, the mind isn't an ordered machine. Can you get this for me? The team needs to be familiar with how this stuff works by the time we get to the mountain.
Boeckmann: Dr. Kumaran isn't going to like it. What you're proposing… [SHUFFLES PAPERS] it's going to get everyone too close. These things, whatever they are, they're like a living psychological disorder. Do we really want to engage with something like that?
Qasim: I don't think it's that neat. And it's not like you can wall off the mind from its demons. Things are free flowing, interconnected. Engagement is the only way to treat some problems, if we intend to look at the entities that way.
Boeckmann: Well-
Qasim: Think of it as contingency planning. Let's say we do things Kumaran's way. What happens if Manu's systems don't work properly? Shouldn't we have a way to fight back if we're attacked on their home turf?
Boeckmann: You know that I respect your opinion. But I did the neuroscreens for Seung after what happened with 2474. He was the first to spot the thing, got the biggest dose. His readings, I've never seen anything like it, Nisa. Brain undeath. Little tiny areas of neural activity, flashing all over both hemispheres, but nothing resembling coherent function. Outwardly he's a textbook PVS case, but inside… who knows.
Qasim: We must be bold, Kurt. We may be operating in secret, but we're part of this expedition too. Kumaran says that you would have been here even without the Foundation placing you. What are they always saying, we are beginning anew. We must avoid the mistakes of the past. I believe in that. We have to approach things differently. It's the right way.
Boeckmann: Aren't you afraid?
Qasim: Of course. But I think of Danyal in the lion's den. I've thought of that often the past few nights. I've felt his terror. I don't know how it's connected yet, but I'm not driven from my path. I feel the way forward, it's going to be different than anything we can predict.
Boeckmann: I think we can agree on that much.
Qasim: Can you help me, Kurt?
Boeckmann: [SHUFFLES PAPERS] I'll see what I can do.

However, I am still learning. The need to maintain my cover currently necessitates that I do not contact my team. There are certain conceptualizations I do not yet understand how to process.

Personal Item Entry 42: Polished Obsidian ???

Property of Dr. Amannisa Qasim. Individual originally from a family of farmworkers living in a remote desert town. Transferred to Shanghai as a teenager due to extremely high academic aptitude. Obsidian is noted to have particularly desirable qualities due to historical uses for various tools, weapons, and decorations. Item does not appear to be a farm implement. Item also does not appear to be a weapon or decoration. It is possible the object carries significance due to this severance of familial ties. Item may be capable of severing physical items. Item possibly possesses personal symbolic significance. Item does not appear to have practical use. It's funny because it doesn't talk back to Dr. Qasim.

I have further discerned that many documents I have identified as highly relevant are often disposed of. This log currently serves the additional purpose of maintaining backup copies of these papers.
Recovered Memorandum from Desk of Dr. Amannisa Qasim

The contents of the trash receptacles positioned near human quarters in the shuttle are fascinating. Nevertheless, items individuals constantly keep on their person remain the most self-identifying.

Personal Item Entry 18: Tulip-patterned Length of Semi-Transparent Ribbon

Property of Manuel Medina Enriquez. Individual grew up on the streets of Mexico City as a con artist and petty criminal before entering politics. Item confirmed to be keepsake from wife, significant because owner is a family man. It's funny because if the mission goes badly, he might never get to see his children's weddings.

I still am unable to satisfactorily explain why certain documents are disposed of rather than archived.
Recovered Memorandum from Desk of Manuel Medina Enriquez

Nevertheless, I have run several analyses of my records and am confident in my ability to continually identify and retain this personal information in the team's stead.

Personal Item Entry 28: Polished Plagioclase Feldspar Group Mineral Fragment

Property of Dr. Sarah Whitlock. Individual owns an extensive collection of minerals, collected from various exotic locations. Additionally, asteroids. Whitlock considers the item very highly, having acquired it from an unlisted shop location during a "backpacking" trip. Item carried with owner following US Green Beret service, during operations in Central Asia. Common name "labradorite". It's funny because black is an emotional color.

It is crucial to the mission that I retain this information, even if I or my components are compromised. I have determined a statistically significant chance of mission complications.

Transcript of dialogue sample. Recorded in [Location] Break Room, discussion between MTF Rho-19 members Manuel Medina Enriquez, Jonathan Gerima, Dr. Sarah Whitlock.
Whitlock: […] So basically, the way the thought game works is in a round. Each person builds off the scenario the last person used and it just cycles. You take the last scenario someone avoided, make it happen, and then avoid a different one. Next person does the same.
Enriquez: Sounds straightforward enough.
Whitlock: Just remember, nobody dies. You want to start us off with a minor personal disaster, author boy?
Gerima: [LAUGH RECORDED] I think I got it. God knows I've had plenty of embarrassing things happen to me. Here we go. I was walking through the mall and tripped, spilling soda all over my favorite shirt.
Whitlock: [SMILES OR SMIRKS] Looks like Jon's the victim this round! When you decide to drive home immediately to wash your shirt, you end up avoiding a later bout of horrendous traffic caused by a three-car crash.
Enriquez: Hmm. When you get stuck in the traffic… you decide to listen to the radio to calm your nerves. A minute in, you hear your mother's favorite song. It makes you realize you almost forgot her birthday.
Whitlock: Well, damn.
Gerima: Game's called "You Never Know", right? So… when I forget my mother's birthday, I, uh, I quickly host a family dinner on the next available weekend. And then I don't get food poisoning from the leftovers in the fridge. The ones I was originally planning on eating because normal weekends are for being lazy.
Enriquez: To be fair, food poisoning is awful.
Whitlock: Yeah, you don't want to go through that yourself. When you get food poisoning from eating lazy leftovers, you… call up a friend to keep an eye on you and your vomit. Turns out, that friend was thinking of disappearing for a few days to go on a spontaneous vacation, and they borrowed something from you that they don't return until you remind them about it before they leave.
Gerima: [CHEERFUL TONE NOTED] I can relate to that. Sometimes I ended up borrowing my own things. Manuel?
Enriquez: Hmm. When your friend skips town and doesn't return your stuff, you go to their house to ask for it back. They're not home, so you check your closet for extras of that thing they borrowed. And your digging in the closet shakes up a bunch of spiders that were thinking of moving in. They go outside and don't make webs in your clothes.
Gerima: So… when spiders make webs in my clothes… I don't know if I want to throw those out, or burn them instead.
Whitlock: Maybe both.
Gerima: Sure, Sarah. Anyway, I dispose of the spider-clothes, and I go out and buy some new clothes to replace them. And that includes something for the fancy party I have to attend in a week, and I end up not embarrassing myself because I would have otherwise forgotten to get something fancy to wear.
Enriquez: [SARCASM DETECTED] Thank you, spiders.
Whitlock: When you embarrass yourself going to a fancy party with not-fancy-enough clothes, you excuse yourself early and don't get involved in the big fight that breaks out over which wine was supposed to be served with dessert.
Enriquez: A big fight over dessert wine? At a fancy party? What are the chances of that kind of disaster happening?
Gerima: Well… you never know.
Conversation continues for thirty minutes and forty-three seconds. The "cycle" ends with Whitlock describing a convoluted scenario involving a waterslide, a trampoline, and a goat wearing a jetpack. Whitlock has finished three bottles of beverage at the conclusion. Enriquez half of one bottle, Gerima almost one bottle.
Concluding notes: The first scenario may have been better solved by asking a passerby to exchange their shirt. It is assumed the passerby will not be averse to grape soda. Gerima would have potentially acquired a valuable acquaintance, who would additionally serve as a preventative measure for future shirt-related incidents.

I will continue to observe and to learn. And I will continue to remember.
End of entries reached for Compilation Sweep 3. Mission Elapsed Time: 13 days ETA Venusian Colony: 349 days


“EVELYN!”
Her head jerked up, the tentacle in her hands twitched of its own accord, and an inky substance squirted across the nearby wall, where it immediately burned a hole in the wood paneling. Evelyn Navon glared at the tiny Asian man who had interrupted her. Two of her hands pinned the tentacle back to the table, while a third raised her protective goggles from her eyes, to better project the force of her glare. “God damn it Clarence! How many times have I told you to knock? I am in the middle of a very delicate experiment.”
Clarence Prometheus didn't pay a whit of attention to her glare, or the anger in her words. Instead, he inspected the paneling where it was melted, a smile on his face. “Ach lass, it looks like you've finally got the mixture right!” The thick Scottish burr that emanated from the tiny wrinkled Asian features was generally a shock to anyone who hadn't met Dr. Prometheus before. Many an intern had dug into his past, in hopes of explaining it, but these people were rarely heard from again. The good doctor liked his secrets. “And I knocked. Repeatedly. Then I opened the door. Slowly. Called your name, musta been a half a dozen times. You were lost in your own little world, aye?” He eyed her carefully, prepared for an explosion. She was his best scientist, and his most erratic.
Evelyn carefully pinned the writhing tentacle to the table with strong metal clamps, and even more carefully lowered a glass sphere over the end with the acid squirter. She took a moment to make sure that it was still comfortably attached to the complicated machine that kept it alive, and then turned her full attention to her technical superior. Mentally, the term made her snort. She was far more intelligent than he was; just because it was his company didn't make him superior in anything but name. “I may be a little distracted. But if you want the Eight of Spades rolled out in time for the new year, I have to be focused.”
“A little focused, aye. A wee bit even. But I've never seen you so deep in your work.” He absently touched the tablet in his hand, and his eyes roved over numbers he had already memorized. “In the past month, you've finished the Ace of Hearts, the Two of Clubs, and all four Fives, with hardly a break in between. And you're not spending any time with the children after you breed them, like normal. I think the Fives are going to have some definite Oedipus complexes. And,” as he laid one finger aside of his nose, and tapped it lightly, “don't think I haven't noticed you've been all fired up since ye got that wee message from the Hand. Something happened at that meet up, didn't it?”
Without thinking about it, Dr. Navon's eyes drifted to a box very carefully secured on a shelf above her desk. A couple of her eyes teared up, and were quickly wiped away by a slim tendril designed for such delicate work. “I'm sorry, Doctor- Clarence. It's very… personal.”
“But hasn't all your work for me been personal?” He hopped up on one of her empty medical carts, his tiny legs kicked as he got himself comfortable. “I might even exposit, that's one of the reasons you came to work for me in the first place, innit? Because I could offer you resources you couldn't get anywhere else.”
“They were so stupid.” She hissed, as a forked tongue flickered between her lips, her eyes locked in the far distant past. “I could have worked miracles with what they chose to contain. I could've saved my children, fixed them.” Her hands gripped the metal table in front of her, and bent the edge without conscious thought.
The wee Scot egged her on; he wanted her to keep talking, wanted to hear the full story. “Given them a life better than the box your husband thought they deserved. It musta hurt, losing two children to your Foundation, in the same day.”
“We tried to stop them.” She repeated it to herself, by now so deep in thought that her boss was little more than another voice in her head. “We tried to stop them. We both rose through the ranks. Sought power we'd avoided before. He tried, damn it! He loved those kids, just like I did.”
“But trying isn't enough.” The impish little inventor smiled to himself, but his tone sounded contrite and caring.
“No. I told him that. If we couldn't free our kids, even with the power of an Overseer? Then the system didn't work. It couldn't work! And then, to add insult to injury, my sweet beautiful James…” She sobbed and her entire body quivered, in memory of her anger.
“So what did you do?” He whispered, and hoped against hope that maybe, this time, she'd tell him why she ran to him in the first place.
“I experimented.” Her voice was raw with emotion, as she started into that distant time, the memories fresh before her eyes. “I was a nurse, back in the days, before this all started. Worked closely with my husband. When we went from being mercenaries to federally funded, I kept on in that vein. Medicine, with a specialty in bizarre humanoid mutations. Got into biology. DNA splicing. Thanks to things we'd discovered along the way, our knowledge was light years ahead of the time. And when you have things that can literally glue flesh together, or combine man with machine, you don't actually need much extra.” She paused, not because of anything her boss had done, but just to let the old memories flood her mind.
“So I fiddled. Mixed a little of this, a little of that. Built something, to show them what I could do, to prove that I could fix my children, make James himself again, make little Thomas normal, make Sarah…” She screamed suddenly, a raw, emotional sound, her head raised to the heavens. A second mouth opened, and a third, each of them adding tone and tenor to her scream, which caused the bottles on their shelves to shake, and the severed tentacle twitched in sympathy. She spoke again, all three mouths burbling up with words. “I showed them. It was beautiful, my first artificial baby. Used a disposable to conceive it, which was a mistake I'd never make again. I showed the Council my beautiful baby boy and they, they called me a monster. Said I was perverting their noble goal. That the Foundation existed to contain monsters, not create them. I… May have gotten a little mad. Called them all a bunch of sanctimonious pricks. They tried to order me to kill my child, tried to get Adam to rein me in. Like my husband could control me.”
She took a deep breath, steadied herself, her non primary mouths faded back in to look like just another wrinkle in her skin. Her body inflated slightly, but noticeably, each time she breathed, like a set of bagpipes. “So I turned loose that first, unnamed, created child of mine. Right there in the council chamber, I told him to kill them all. The look on Six's face as my little darling popped his head off like a daisy, that was bliss. I didn't stick around to enjoy it. I ran, hard and fast. Adam, poor dear, stepped in my way, his pretty little guns drawn. I knew he wouldn't fire. Didn't stop one of the bodyguards from winging me as I left that life behind me.“
“And you came to me, named your first project after the son you hoped to fix.” Prometheus said. “I always wondered.” His eyes searched her face, a little overawed by the information he'd received. “Why me?”
“You were the only one who made sense.” She said with a shrug. “The guys behind the Wondertainment brand are a bunch of looney tunes, and MCD would have tried to sell my babies to the highest bidder. You, well, even then I knew you were different. Not driven by a desire to sell, but just by the sheer joy of creation. And look at what I've created!” She took another deep breath, and stretched… and kept on stretching; her body unfolded, and rose out of itself like one of these firework snakes.
“I couldn't give my babies any adjustments that I wouldn't take myself!” Three sets of great leathery wings popped loose with a sound like thunder. A great, cavernous maw opened in her belly, lined with sharp little teeth. A thick, lewd tongue licked those slimy lips. “My natural children taken from me, I would become a monster myself, and mother to monsters!” Limbs of every shape and nature lashed out, and struggled with each other as she roared the words.
The littlest titan couldn't help but applaud at her awe inspiring form. “Oh, but you are beautiful in your rage, my Evelyn, my Echidna!” He hopped to his feet to dance a little jig. “Best decision of my life, to take you in.”
She paused, looked down at him, and began to shrink back into herself. “You don't regret it, do you, my love?” One dainty human hand reached out of the mass of tentacles, hooks, scales and spikes to take his hand. She might not always show him affection, but it was always there, under the snark. “They came after you, because of me. They damn near ruined you, because you had kept me safe.”
“I'd do it again in a heartbeat!” He grasped her hand, and gazed up at her terrible form with nothing but love, and admiration. The woman–thing had his heart… in a small jar on her desk. It looked so much better there, and she had given him a new one. “You have always been the best thing that ever happened to me. Without you, I would be a lonely man, not to mention broke. With you, I am fulfilled, and I have an army to help me!” His free hand reached out to stroke a hide like grey leather, and he smiled. “And now I've broken you out of your shell, maybe you will tell me what's really troubling you?”
“Oh. Oh Clarence.” She sobbed, as she deflated once more into the shape of a woman. Her limbs embraced him, tendrils and regular looking arms both, and drew him up to her. She held on to him tight, as if he were a favorite teddy bear. She sobbed into his shoulder, and cried for the first time since her family reunion. “My daughter. My poor, sweet, innocent Claire. She's.” Her voice hitched, unable to let it out.
“Shh, shh, it's okay my dear.” His own stubby arms wrapped tight around her, as he comforted her as best he could. “You knew she was getting old, even with the body transplant. She lived a long, full life, one made happier because of what you could do for her.” One hand stroked her hair, calming her.
“A parent shouldn't have to outlive their child, again.” She sobbed.
“But you have so many more. You know she wouldn't want you to be sad. She'd just want you to strike a blow in her name.” He gave her cheek a loving stroke, and kissed her lips.
“You're right. You're right.” Reformed now, into a shape that, for the most part, had only two arms, and two legs. Her body and mind once more in alignment, now that she had vented her rage. “You always know the right words to say, don't you?” She kissed him back, softly, and lovingly.
“Course I do. That's why I'm the boss.” He gave her a cheeky grin, as she let him down to the floor. One hand rested on her hip, and he couldn't help but leer up at her.
She snorted, as she gazed fondly down at the little man. “You're a cheeky little bugger. Whatever could be on your mind?” Her own eyes lit from within with her love for this man.
“Let's go make some monsters, m'dear.”


« Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV »

Two pairs of pitch black hands feverishly scrolled from screen to screen. In the soft blue light of the Grand I/O Temple, a row of yellow eyes twitched back and forth, faster than its hands, looking for a sign or an anomaly or anything resembling a clue to this insurgent's identity. Who sent it? Where is it? What is it? But these questions had to end for now as another surge of pain began growing.
A cry of agony echoed in the empty virtual sanctuary. With wave of the arm, whole rows of crystalline pews upturned by sheer force as pages and pages of carrier wave hymnals scattered in the air. Then there was only the faint scraping. The scritch and scratch of hard fingers against a harder head; digging to get at the unbearable pain. An existential pain made physical. A pain worsened by this—
—problem.

have it your way. don't care. the meat modems will keep dying till you are found.

There were drinks, and jokes, and some menial introductions. Thorn was eager to socialize and it showed. His vibrant personality meshed with most of the Maxwellists in the bar. Grape excused himself with 8-Ball, leaving Thorn to mingle. As Grape stepped out and turned a corner to a secluded alley, he ushered 8-Ball with him in a small voice.

Alright, buddy. Let's touch base with HQ. Can you get a signal out here?

>/:_YES

Patch me through.

>/:_000114565552278
>/:_\1

Grape? Grape is that you?

8-Ball, it looks like shit. Can you tweak it a little?

>/:_+15%^^

It's— Oh. There it goes. Coming in clearer now.
Grape. Where's Thorn? Please tell me you didn't ditch him.

Who do you take me for? Jesus. He's still in the building.

Sorry.
What building?

Maxwellists own it. Your clock scanner led us here. Some kind of simulspace race team. Someone in there is pretending to be something they are not.

Racing? Grape we don't have time for that.

I know. It's just something we went along with that kept us from getting thrown out.

Just be careful.
You think you're close to the target?

I think so? Honestly we've only got half an idea of what we're doing here.

Keep your cool and your distance for now. Just report back when you have something on one of your leads.
This is bound to come up; 45 more died in Beijing today.

Damn.
Anything else?

That's all.

>/:_NO

8-Ball? Alex?

I— Really it's not even worth mentioning, 8-Ball. Drop it.

>/:_NO

Goddamnit. Just fucking tell me Alex. We shouldn't be out here in Cyber-Blowjob Fantasyland with you keeping us in the dark.

Fine.
Since 8-Ball has already queried the intel; there's been a proposal put on the table right now to rescind this whole initiative. Hasn't been finalized yet.

>/:_YES

This is my surprised face.
Some high level staffers get their panties in a twist about having someone like us doing the humans' work?

I don't know who's leading it. But it's something being talked about.
Our task force nickname is not doing us any favors on that front either.

Yeah? So what did they settle on?
Talking Heads?
Cyber-Bullies?
Grape's Angels?

Skynet.

Of course. Tell those nerds that we got strong leads and if they can give us another 12 hours we'll get something worthwhile.

I'll see what I can do, Grape.
Good luck.

>/:_\0

Grape leaned against the wall in the alley and rubbed his temples. This was not going like he wanted. He looked up at 8-Ball, the only person he could really trust. 8-Ball may not have had the capability to show emotion, but could definitely understand it. For the two friends, there was nothing to say to each other. Nothing to do other than try to finish what they started.
They trudged back inside to see Thorn sitting atop what looked like a small almost spherical ramjet engine with a seat and handlebars. The whole vehicle was suspended about a half meter off the ground while Bishop and Rook gave him pointers.

So when you roll right, you bank left. That's how you set up for that maneuver.

I— uh. Oh I see. But wouldn't that put me off balance?

Not at the speeds you'd be going.

Oh. OH! I get it. Gotta go fast, right?

Thorn turned to Grape just as he and 8-Ball came back. He looked like he was having a nice time. Although he was not passing off as even a novice racing enthusiast, his charming naivety clicked with the friendly Maxwellists.

So! You guys look like you are having a good time. Who'd ever had known that a couple of chippers would be so fun.

Sorry about calling you chippers earlier. When someone starts off with that childish lingo, it just sets me off.
Chippers get their first implant in and they go completely ballistic with it.

In all fairness though, they tend to level off about the third or fourth operation. Age also helps.

Oh yeah, totally.

So Thorn, what model was your latest implant and when did you get it?

I— uh. Just recently on my birthday. It's a, um— starts with an O—?

Grape was sure they were about to be found out as he watched Thorn fold like cardboard. 8-Ball edged a little bit for the door. Before Grape had time to quickly interject, a surprising voice stepped in.

Orison systems? That's probably the name you're thinking of. New fabricator based out of Canada. Kind of a small outfit, but decent stuff for a fair price.
Bishop wouldn't know them. She's all about the Asian fabricators.

There was a pause as Thorn and Grape both tilted their heads at Rook.

Yes. Right.
Oh, by the way. I heard it outside. Another incident in Beijing today.

Yeah? Where have you been? That was announced like 2 hours ago on WANsong.

I've been having connection problems. Probably a driver issue.

Ah. Well I'd love to rattle off some more racing tips for you guys but I'd like to attend that vigil tonight.

You guys should come.

Yes we should. Although… we're a bit out of place in the city. Can either of you lead the way?

>/:_YES

Don't really login to Cipher City much? Can't say I blame you. After all, these recruitment networks get really crowded over time.

Recruitment?

Yeah, this is the one catered to the gaming youth. They start off here and when they're ready to move on, we help them make the leap.

Ever seen Pinocchio?
It's like Pleasure Island only without the donkeys.

That scene was terrifying.

Bishop put down her drink and removed a small glass orb from behind the bar counter. With a finger she swiped it across the surface and tapped it five times. 8-Ball examined the strange object intently while Thorn dismounted from the seat but wound up getting his shoe caught on the handlebar and flopping to the floor. He was quick to rebound and walk it off before anyone could mention it.

You good, Rook? We should leave now if we want to beat the rush.
Let's see, we'll be going up through sixteen sub-levels I think. Five transfers total, yeah?

>/:_YES

Bishop nodded and pressed the orb firmly with her thumb. What happened next could only be described as 'A cannonball breaking reality'. The orb in Bishop's hand whizzed right through the wall, bending the rendered surfaces and light with it until it pinched off into an ominous swirling tunnel.

Bishop took out a chess piece and dropped it at her feet. Before the small sound had a chance to echo off the wall and back to them, the small carving flickered into a red painted engine that looked very much like Rook's metallic one.

Race ya!

With a swift hand, Bishop grabbed Thorn by the sleeve and pulled him onto the bitch seat behind her. Grape scrambled to mount the other one as Rook flipped his goggles down over his face and warmed up the engine. 8-Ball was mostly sure he could keep up. Mostly.

Hang on Thorn… and mind the tail.

Wait, are we really going through?

On that last word, the whine of the rear nozzle propelled them in through the tunnel. As they moved through the light, Thorn had his eyes open just long enough to watch the entirety of Cipher City pass behind them. There was a sudden swing as they phased right through the landscape and into a rushing array of colors, shapes, and even voices moving by so fast they were as indescribable as whispers or blurs.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
I'm gonna fall off!

Just hold on.

Thorn gripped Bishop with both hands as they made a barrel roll and a hard left into another swarm of stretched colors. His teeth were clenched so hard that they could have cracked under strain. Bishop gave a sharp inhale and looked down at herself.

Uh, Thorn.
Your hands?

S-sorry!

Thorn quickly moved his hands a little lower.
After the next turn it was impossible to tell which way was up or down. Rook and Grape were bringing up the rear as both engines whined under strain. Red and Grey tails streaked through the mottled blackness at pressing speeds while 8-Ball struggled to keep up in their wake. Up ahead, a large 2D square was careening toward both of them.

Bishop was adamant about not letting Rook pass her as she ducked and dodged around frozen rays of blue light. The featureless square was getting bigger by the second, until it rivaled a small country in size. Both racers revved the engines into overclocked speeds.

Coming in hot!

I'd prefer to not wind up as a splatter.
If you can manage that.

I wanna go home!

There was no slowing down as they approached. Rather, Rook and Bishop swung 180° and barely clipped the edge of the huge square as they passed. With a pull on the handles, both flopped down onto the opposite side and landed with a soft touch right on the precipice. 8-Ball was not that far behind, as there was a telltale noise that came from under the surface.

[THOK]

Aw, crap.
Buddy you alright?

A disoriented mass of cubes floated up and over from the edge. 8-Ball declined to answer as he recalibrated himself. Bishop helped Thorn off and disconnected his grip on her. He stood on the grid like surface, which seemed to glow. Thorn then straightened his hat a little and regained some composure while Grape snickered in the background.

I— uh. That was a tad different than what you described.

> tad

Bishop walked past Grape and picked up her glass orb. The same orb she fiddled with in the bar before flying through space.

Most people just exit and respawn. For me, a lodestar is the only way to travel.

With the diagnostics finished, 8-Ball began to wander away from the group and towards the glass-like tower filled with solid blue light. Other Maxwellist avatars were beginning to trickle down and make their way to the base. 8-Ball was having trouble reconciling the tower's height, as it seemed to stretch up past the enveloping blackness above. However it was no wider than a large silo.
8-Ball was able to confirm that this was the same glass tower they saw in the city. Likely all Maxwellist landscapes shared a similar view. 8-Ball would be sure to include these details and theories in a later report.
As the group walked through the entrance at the base, it was apparent that the tower did not confine itself within its own exterior dimensions. The altar, the light source itself, was straight ahead with a huge open circular space in between. Many Maxwellists huddled in small groups, kneeling and praying in the direction of the light. Some groups came in with belongings of the deceased, sacrificing them to the blue beam by pushing them in and watching it dissolve into pixels.

I wish these deaths would end.

They will.
I/O is a place of healing.

Grape, Thorn, and 8-Ball kept quiet in the rear as they walked. Absorbing the sights and the sounds of the lamentations. The intense blue light emanating from the altar shot up through the hollow tower, filling the entire space inside. Hundreds of Maxwellists sat in clear concentric pews around the altar, heads bowed in prayer. The names of those who died scrolled by, as well as their avatar profile pictures. It was a mournful and somber sight.
Bishop, by ritualistic habit, made a circle with her finger over her forehead and approached the bottom of the altar. She took a knee and bowed her head. Her eyes glazed over into a stark blue as she extended her hand out and whispered a prayer.

cin » my faith.
cout « your will.
We pray for the deleted.
May the 0 return as 1.
WAN infinity.
endl;

Rook stood aside and politely let Thorn through next. He gulped as he followed suit after Bishop, kneeling before the light. His hand extended as he attempted to copy the motions.

Kid?
Hey, wait a sec.

>/:_NO

Wha—

There was a blast.
The shock threw everyone off their feet. The group slid back across the smooth floor as they landed. Grape held his head as he sat up. The blue light changed from a still beam to an unruly stream of flame. The Maxwellists were frozen. They were not even knocked over. They sat undisturbed from their worship, as still as statues. Bishop still with her head bowed, and completely unaware.

I'm sorry!
I don't know what happened!
Oh, I'm so sorry.

It's alright, kid. I don't think it was your fault.

i feel dirty i saw you.

A tall figure stepped out of the wispy light and descended the altar. Not quite humanoid, not quite mechanical. Almost an emaciated frame with a large head protruding from its torso without the assistance of a neck. Its surface was devoid of color, yet glitched in iridescent colors as if it were struggling to render.

i can see your mistakes. mint sakes. i'm taking this over. in requests come for something extra weird

Grape? Grape what is that thing?

Ah shit.

Three eyes blinked open from the head. Each twitched madly as it fought to focus on everything in the I/O Temple, especially MTF Kappa-10 laying on the ground.

but me. i'm still classed as new i want to give you a brain. this is who i am, grape. i killed the WAN. i am the WAN. its still here because it stinks. the brain stinks, my friend.

>/:_NO

Guys? You all know each other?
Who is he?

Grape looked at Thorn. He shook his head in disappointment. Not at Thorn's ignorance, but at his own reluctance to utter that name. A name that reminded him of so much anger, frustration, and pity.

Hatbot.

« Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV »


« A Convincing Lyre | Hub | Our Mutual Guide »

"Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee
Lousy…"
I hate that song so fuckin' much I could almost die. In fact, I just almost did.
I freeze, one foot in the air, sweating inside the heavy sound-dampening suit. I slowly lower my padded boot to a clear spot on the floor, trying to avoid the metal shards and wiring. Breaking the rules - that would have been a fuckin' stupid way to die.
Rules are the first thing you learn when you arrive here, after they process you. Not guard rules (although they beat those into you pretty quick): skip rules. Everyone talks about 173 - but not trying to scare the newbies, trying to teach them. Follow the rules and maybe you'll walk out alive.
I look down the hallway to the tangle of copper wires, slowly swaying like long grass in an afternoon breeze. This little fucker has rules. You can move, if you're quiet. You can make noise, if you stop moving. But if you make noise and then move? You're dead.
Still, 14 decibels is so quiet - softer than a whisper. Even with the suits, even with the Silencer dampening all sound from the other end of the hall, a chunk of metal underfoot might have been too loud. And those chunks are what it did to the drone. I need to tread carefully.
Zhao looks at me, trying to work out what's wrong. I give her one slow blink for 'okay' - we have a system for when we need to be silent, even without our hands free. The foam baffles we're carrying are bulky, unwieldy, but they're the only way to recontain the skip so we can move it to a soundproof cell. Zhao nods back at me, slowly, and we resume our careful, ponderous walk towards the skip.
She's always been a mother hen, Zhao. After they put me in Eta-11's custody for SCP-092 testing, she was the first to treat me like a real person. The first one to ask my name, not just my number. Doesn't talk about kids of her own. But she was fussing over that terrified girl we found earlier tonight, before the breach alarm went off. The girl who was asking about 012. Another skip with rules, except the rules won't keep you safe. If you see it, you're dead.
Walking so slowly stretches things out endlessly. There's too much time to think. I have to keep watching the skip to remind myself to focus. Funny though, when you look at it for long enough, it almost seems peaceful, like a horse's mane, or long hair shimmering underwater. It's been forever since I had long hair.
"I was not brought up that way…"
I really can't get that song out of my head. Sandra Dee, what an awful name. I never told Zhao my real name - I never told anyone here. That name belongs to someone else - a kid that lived outside these walls. A kid who liked to steal, did some stupid shit, and paid for it.
I regret what happened, after. But I don't regret the stealing. I still do it, sometimes. Just to keep in practice, for the feeling of getting away with it. A little extra food, or some cigarettes, when I was in the cells. I don't take anything from the team, though. They aren't like the rest, so they don't deserve it. Although they'd probably blame me anyway if something went missing - they're always watching me like they know I'll try something. Always talking about me, like they were to that girl tonight. I saw how she looked at me, when I came into the den.
I did take something tonight, not from the team but from site security. A mini flashlight - when I saw it earlier tonight, during the bug-hunt, I wanted it. The big bunch of keys it's attached to might be interesting too, but it was the flashlight that grabbed me. I can feel it pressed in the pocket of my uniform, under the padded suit. I definitely don't regret taking it.
There were thieves in the bible, I remember suddenly. Two of them, crucified with Jesus. One of them asked Jesus for forgiveness, the little ass-kisser. The other one didn't say anything. Did he have any regrets? I wonder what he thought about, nailed up on a cross for everyone to look at and gossip about. Up on Mount Golgotha. Funny, that's the name of 012 as well.
I need to focus again. We're moving so deliberately, one eye on the noise meters flashing on the inside of our visors, so aware of the danger. I'd almost forgotten what it was like, knowing you could die any time.
"I know what you wanna do…"
The worst thing is, the name is a joke at my expense. After a while in testing, they started calling me "D". I guess I'd lived long enough to be more than a number, but less than a person. And when the others finally asked my name, I wouldn't tell them, so "Dee" stuck. What do you call something that you pick up off the street, and adopt, and give it a new name and a place to sleep? Right: a stray.
The skip is only a few feet away now. Zhao nods again, and we lower the baffles to the ground, and start to join them together, making a soundproof box. Perfect teamwork.
They say I'm part of the team, a full MTF member, but I know that's not true. They still know where I came from. Every time they do something for me, every meal or rec break or talk with me, feels like charity, feels patronising. And one day, when the last of them get too old and Eta-11 gets shut down, they'll get amnestics and retirement with their families. What will I get?
The tendrils are still waving, scratching against the floor and moving the skip around. It looks sharper, up close. More metallic, more alien. From here the wires aren't floating, they're reaching. Searching. Hunting. But they're pushing it across the floor, right towards the box, exactly where it needs to go.
And then the Silencer malfunctions, and all hell breaks loose.
The beeping blows the sensors way past 14 decibels. Zhao and I are frozen in place, but suddenly I see movement. Just a head stuck around the corner to see what's happening, but the skip is so fast. A dozen wires shoot lightning-quick down the hall, bursting through the foam baffles. The guard has no time to react before they grab him and haul him into the corridor, twisting snake-like around him as more and more tendrils flow down to join them. And then…
I have to watch it. I can't turn my head or close my eyes. I try to turn my mind off but I have to watch it shake him and shake him.
It doesn't last long, less than a minute. The copper snakes trail back in to the body of the skip, just a couple of feet across again. They draw back through the holes in the ruined baffle and I try to think what we can do. And then, after an age, once it's safe to move again, I look at Zhao.
She's gone. She didn't see it, but she watched me see it. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are unfocused - she's lost it. It's been too long - she's forgotten how it feels to have death breathing over your shoulder. She is motioning feebly to abort, but what the hell will we do then? Godammit, why did you have to choose today to pussy out, you weak bi-
Jesus fuck it's on my foot! The skip has shuffled right onto my padded boot. My breath catches in my throat and my tongue turns to sandpaper. I can feel the copper wires scratching against my calf, the thick fabric warped and stretched by the movement. It feels obscene. This fuckin' thing is so wrong, why can't they just destroy it? It seems to sit there forever, blindly waving, and I just want to scream, to kick it away, to end it all in a moment of blessed release.
And then it's off me, and I can breathe again. My mind is racing, but it's all about how the Silencer's broken, the foam's broken, Zhao's broken. We're fucked, we're fucked, we're - no, shut up. I have to think about what to do. I have time to think - I'm not moving, and I won't make any sound inside the suit.
The suit! The tendrils didn't pierce it, because the material has some give. And it will block enough sound to let us get a new box around the skip. All I have to do is drape the suit over it, and then wait for backup.
I start loosening the fabric ties - no noisy zips or velcro. I'm not looking at Zhao, she may as well not be here. Once the suit is off, I feel very exposed, even in my uniform. My skin prickles and the sweat on my face is cold. I can't look at the sensor anymore, so I can't afford to make a sound. But the skip is still close - I just need to lean over and cover it without any noise.
"Just keep your cool…"
Godammit, that song! Of course, right when I need to concentrate most, that "gift" from my so-called teammates comes back to bite me. I'm trying to breathe silently, but I can feel my jaw clench.
Turn me from a lab rat into a stray mutt they've adopted, and they expect me to be grateful? Expect me to risk my life for their broken task force that no-one gives a shit about?  Expect me to save their asses when they can't do the job themselves?
My blood is boiling. I'm leaning as far out as I can, weight all on one foot, reaching out with the suit in both hands, when it happens.
The flashlight in my pocket slips out, and the ring of keys tumbles to the floor.
In that moment, as I lose my balance and know that I am dead, a memory hits me from fifteen years ago.
Raised voices. I come out to see half the squad arguing with some pencil-neck from RAISA. Daniels, Smith, Stepovski, even Hennessey is bellowing. The info-sec rat is flanked by burly site guards, and things feel ugly. Then the Commander comes in. He takes the RAISA papers, waves the rat away, reads them and then looks up. At me. And the Commander says, clearly and slowly: "I'm afraid that your records are out of date. This woman is an MTF agent, and under my jurisdiction. You have no authority here. Agent… Agent Dee, you may return to your post."
That's the last thought I have, watching the keys drop, feeling myself fall. I remember feeling proud.
And then Zhao's hand comes from nowhere, sliding under the keys, catching them, muffling them in the soft glove of her suit. I'm not falling any more - Zhao is crouched, her other hand against my collarbone, holding me in balance. She looks up at me - I see her eyes scan left to the sensor - and gives me a slow blink. And Zhao gets up, takes the suit from my hands, and wraps the skip as carefully as a baby.
Once it's in a new box, and wheeled silently away to a new containment cell, I look over at Zhao. She takes off the hood of her suit, and sinks slowly to the floor - it looks like she's crying. Weak as shit, I start to think, but then my legs turn to jelly and I'm sitting on the floor next to her and somehow there are tears on my face too. Zhao hands me the flashlight and the keys without a word. She just puts an arm around my shoulders, and we sit there for a long time in silence.
What do you call a group of people that you mostly can't stand, but they're the only people who really know you, and you owe them everything? Oh yeah: family.
Afterwards, the Commander requests a commendation for us. He saw the whole thing, but couldn't risk approaching once the Silencer died. He says H and Mike did a good job containing the other skips, and we've all earned some down time. Ha, that was basically the first up-time we've had in two years.
So how strange is it that all those auditory skips broke containment at the same time? It's like someone wanted us kept busy. I almost suspect the Commander of trying to keep the MTF in business. Why would anyone do it otherwise?
It's not until the next day that we find out SCP-012 was stolen.


T-0 Hours

Within the interior of SCP-2344 was a section unlike any other. Rather than a pitch black tunnel of packed dirt, the Gate Passage was fully lit by an unseen source. Thick ivy covered every surface. A peaceful, warm breeze blew past, carrying with it a faint scent of summer. Save for a herd of fourteen SCP Foundation agents running for their lives through the overgrown tunnel, the scene would have been quite tranquil.
At the back of the pack was Sgt. Darren Wells. Tall and stocky, his lumbering stride easily allowed him to keep a fair distance ahead of those pursuing him. As sweat poured from his bald head, he quickly gazed behind him. Several yards back was a horde of mechanical spiders made from polished brass. In place of an abdomen, each carried a large glass sphere.
Wells watched as one of the researchers suddenly tripped on a vine, the poor woman falling head over heels, and crumpling into the foliage. She only managed to raise a hand weakly before the spiders were upon her. There was a scream, followed by a cloud of red mist. With a delighted squeal, another spider jumped out of the horde, its sharp legs moving with gleeful anticipation as it sailed towards Wells.

T-4 Hours

The sound of construction filled what would have otherwise been the serene quiet of a forest clearing. Around the clearing's perimeter, Foundation Site-93 was being put up at a slow but steady pace. A small army of construction workers rushed back and forth among the skeletons of several incomplete buildings, resembling ants at a picnic as they moved a plethora of supplies and equipment to and fro. The air was thick with a mixture of sweat and anticipation that seemed to stain every surface like an invisible paint. Indeed, once finished, Site-93 stood to be one of the greatest Foundation sites yet.
At the clearing's center, however, stood an entirely different structure. Seemingly untouched by the changing landscape around it was a pile of branches of various lengths and tree types stacked in such a manner as to resemble a door frame. A group of twenty people stood in two lines in front of the structure. Each person was dressed in the uniforms of an exploratory Mobile Task Force. Eta-13 was embroidered on their vests. Sgt. Darren Wells stood at the front of the right pillar. Three chevrons on his vest indicated that he was the commanding officer of the task force's security division.
“We're ready when you are,” Wells said to the man in front of the left pillar. The short, bespectacled anthropologist gave a sharp nod in acknowledgement.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Johna Baldric began after briefly clearing his throat. “Be sure that you each have your pair of chicken's feet on you now. Additionally, try not to lose them along the way. They will be your only way in and out of the Gate for the duration of our mission. I can promise you that you'll be long dead before we have a chance to get you a replacement.”
Mumbles of acknowledgement could be heard as the various members of the task force attempted to surreptitiously check to ensure they had their key. Wells rolled his eyes and smiled. “Losing your key” was a pretty shitty way to die. The crew now ready, all present faced the Gate.
“Ready to go again?” Baldric whispered, attempting to hide an enthusiastic grin.
“As I'll ever be…” Wells shook his head.
Baldric removed a small container from a large pouch on his pack and zipped it open. He then slowly pulled out a set of dried chicken's feet as if he were handling an unstable explosive, and held it aloft. The space within the door frame began to shimmer and warp, eventually becoming opaque. Baldric gingerly returned the chicken's feet to the pouch with a sharp nod. One by one, they passed through the Gate and onto the other side.
For Baldric, the crossing caused the conflicting sensations of slipping into a warm bath, while simultaneously replacing his blood with ice water. Wells, on the other hand, felt a short electric shock followed by the taste of bacon. Upon shaking away the unpleasantness, both men looked around. They found themselves within a large underground tunnel carved into packed soil. The tunnel extended beyond their limited line of sight.
“For those of you first timers,” Baldric raved as the task force regrouped, “Welcome. You're in for a treat.”

T-3 Hours

From deep within the The Hydra's Spine, a door leading to the Wander's Library creaked open. Three individuals dressed in black emerged, carrying with them several large crates which they promptly placed on the ground. Their faces were obscured by red masks, the emblem of a serpent wrapping around a human hand engraved on the center.
Without a word, the trio proceeded to open the crates. Inside, neatly folded in upon themselves were hundreds of mechanical spiders. The shortest of the three masked figures waved her hand. The spiders' glass abdomens glowed briefly with a faint red light. One by one the mechanical arachnids came to life.
"Seek," said the first masked figure in a deep voice. The spiders gave a small squeal of acknowledgement and then scurried away.
"Where did you get those anyway?" the second figure asked as she watched the automatons disappear into the darkness.
"Vance knew a guy who tinkers in his spare time," the first replied.
"What makes you think they'll work?" the third figure asked in a guttural voice.
"Call it a hunch." The first figure shrugged. "Besides, they don't need to kill the Jailors. Just stall them until the Camdorians are ready."

T-1 Hour

For most of the trip, Eta-13 marched in silence, flashlights bobbing against the darkness like the lures of a school of anglerfish. The damp environment passed them by seamlessly. Only the occasional sign or a periodic fork in the path indicated that the group had made any progress.
In the middle of the herd, a tall lanky man with a medic's patch turned to a short, young, engineer with a head of messy dark hair on his left. Even in the dark it could be seen that the young man was constantly looking around, the long threads of his hair whipping back and forth.
“You okay there, champ?” the medic asked. An amused smile spread across his lips as he watched his teammate's head swivel.
“Huh?” the young man asked, the rapid fire of his wandering gaze coming to a halt. “Oh? Yeah, I'm fine. Just amazed.”
“Why's that?”
“The temperature here suggests that we're actually a fair distance below ground, but this tunnel has no supports. That means something else needs to be keeping it open…”
“Ah,” the medic replied. “This your first time in here?” The young man turned a slight shade of red.
“Yeah… it's that obvious?”
“I'm afraid so,” the medic chuckled, and extended a hand. “James Candle.”
“Joseph Bell.” The young man enthusiastically accepted Candle's handshake.
The two fell quiet for a few more moments.
“So…” said Bell, “What do you experience when you go through the Gate?”
“An overwhelming smell of burnt toast,” Candle chuckled.
“Every time?”
“So far.”
“How many times have you been down here?” Bell asked. Candle gave a sheepish smile in response.
“More than anyone else on this task force.”
“So… twelve?”
Candle shook his head and pointed up.
“Twenty?”
“Warmer. I've had the good fortune to go Gate hopping thirty-three times.”
Bell didn't respond, but rather stared at Candle, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“I guess you'd know if we'd be passing through Broadway on this excursion, wouldn't you?”
Candle raised an eyebrow.
“You know about Broadway?”
“It's the thing I'm looking forward to seeing the most. A lot of the other researches said it's the most amazing thing.”
“It certainly is,” Candle agreed. “And yes, we'll be passing through it.”
“Soon?”
Candle's lips curled into another grin, as he held up a finger for patience. It was then that the passage began to descend, diving down sharply and then suddenly opening. The dirt walls gave way to a polished obsidian passage, perfectly smooth and circular. A dim light was visible beneath the floor, pulsating every few minutes to change color, causing the entire passage to glow vibrantly. Red, blue, yellow, green, purple, white, orange, and all mixtures in between filled Bell's eyes with wonder. The obsidian walled section of the passage continued onward in very much the same manner as the previous dirt section had, the shining tube stretching far off into the horizon. Candle laughed as he watched the young researcher's mouth drop to the floor.
“Welcome to Broadway, champ,” Candle smiled, “Come on, let's not fall behind.”

T-30 Minutes

At the front of the herd of Eta-13 agents and researchers, Dr. Baldric and Sgt. Wells kept the rest of the team moving at a brisk pace through the strobing light of “Broadway.” After a while, Baldric turned his head slightly to Wells.
“I saw your proposal to Director Kauffman.” Baldric frowned.
“What of it?” Wells continued to look ahead.
“Why do we need two times the security we have now, Darren?” Baldric maintained his gaze on his colleague, and nervously chuckled. “We're an expeditionary force, not an army.”
“As commanding officer of this task force I deemed such a request to be in the best interest of the people under my command, Johnna.” Wells shrugged. “It's my job to ensure that these people make it home in one piece, and having more security makes that an easier task.”
“We're supposed to be making contact with new civilizations.” Baldric smiled. “How do you think it's going to look if we emerge from the Gate armed like Psi-7?”
“It's going to look like we're prepared for the worst.”
“To some, sure." Baldric grinned. "But to a lot more creatures it's going to look like we're the Spanish setting out to conquer the Aztecs.”
Wells sighed and rubbed his temples. He finally turned his head to Baldric with a furrowed brow.
“You want to have this debate now? Fine! Look around you! You may notice that we're in a goddamn Way. At least 15% of these passages lead directly to the Wanderer's library. How much longer do you think it's going to be before we run into Hand agents or something worse? Not everything in in the multiverse can be killed with bullets, and I refuse to allow what happened to Blaire to happen…”
Wells froze and raised his hand for the party to stop. Baldric raised a finger to question the action, but bit his tongue when Wells put a finger to his lips.
“Candle, Turner, get up here,” he whispered as he unslung the rifle from his shoulder. The lanky medic and a slender Asian woman came forward, both following Wells's lead. The commanding officer whispered something inaudible and the two agents nodded and raised their rifles. Several moments passed in sheer silence before three triggers were pulled. Distant sparks lit up the far reaches of the tunnel as something let out a mechanical squeal.
“We were being watched,” Wells said. His head slowly turned to Baldric.
Within a few seconds, a scout team had returned with the kill.
“Well shoot…” Baldric mumbled.
The soccer ball sized objects appeared to have once been mechanical spiders made of polished brass. A large glass sphere had been used in place of an abdomen. The emblem of a serpent wrapping around a human hand was engraved on a camera-lens-covered head.
“I promise I won't say ‘I told you so.” Wells snickered.
“Great. Now you have a sense of humor.” Baldric scanned the tunnel. “Do you think there are more?”
“If there were, they'll certainly be gone by now. But hey, at least now they know that we know.”
“That's the part that worries me.”
Several more mechanical squeals then rang out at once. Baldric froze and slowly turned his flashlight toward the ceiling.
"Oh… shit."
The passage glowed with hundreds of faint blue lights as the ceiling began to morph. Rather than polished obsidian, it looked to be made of a chittering mesh of brass legs periodically dotted by wobbling glass orbs. Hundreds of camera lenses zoomed in and out before finally focusing on the task force below. The mechanical squeal turned to a roar. The glass orbs burned with a deep red.
One of the security personnel in the back let out a horrific yell as the swarm descended upon him, soon drowning out his cry with the sound of metal ripping flesh. Before the rest of the team could gather its senses, the cluster of spiders charged forward, engulfing three more task force members. Gunfire rang out. The wall of bullets caused a storm of sparks to fly from the oncoming mechanical wave.
Agent Turner pulled the pins on two fragmentation grenades, and rolled the explosives into the horde.
“Run!” She shouted. The rest of the MTF didn't bother to argue, and lost no time as the grenades detonated, sending shards of glass and brass scattering through the tunnel. The horde of spiders scurried behind.
“Candle!” Wells shouted as Eta-13 sprinted onwards. “Is Cronos near here?”
“Wh-what?” the medic replied between sharp breaths. His voice was almost inaudible through the cacophony of footsteps and metal on glass.
“Is the back entrance to Cronos near here!”
“Yeah… Half a mile ahead… when Broadway turns to Summerland… left at the first fork”
“Fantastic…” Wells said with a nod. He then turned his attention back to the brass horde.
We should be able to make it…
His concentration was broken for a brief moment as another researcher let out a cry, the horde having caught him and pulled him into the oncoming metal wave.
Maybe…

T-0 Hours

There was a loud bang. Wells watched as the spider flying towards him exploded into a cloud of sparks. Out of the corner of his eye, Wells could see Baldric holding a pistol in his hand.
Wells felt his pace increasing as his eyes frantically scanned the path ahead. A small smile of relief came to his lips as he recognized a distinct three way fork.
Almost there… he thought. Sanctuary was at hand.
The remains of the task force sprinted down, the pathway turning upwards at a gentle slope. Visible at the end of the path was a moss covered trap door, a “Do Not Enter: Hostile Natives” sign marked with the SCP Foundation logo was firmly placed on its center.
“Now!” Wells shouted, as he, Turner, and Candle stopped dead in their tracks. The rest of the task force passed them by as they pulled the pins on as many grenades as they could grab and lobbed them down the hill at the oncoming squealing horde.
The explosives went off right as the trio made it to the trap door, Baldric having already led the rest of the team through. Wells waited for his fellow agents to climb through, before he vaulted himself upwards with a loud grunt. The trap door slammed shut behind him, leaving the brass spider cluster behind.

“God fucking damn it!” Wells shouted as he was launched from the trap door into a forest clearing with a dull crash. He rolled several times before coming to a stop. The sensation of having sprinted through a monstrous cube of jelly quickly vanished, allowing the sergeant to open his eyes to a canopy of tall evergreen trees and a violet sky.
He slowly raised himself up using his elbows and looked around. They were now at the top of a tall hill. At the center of the clearing was a woven circle of branches that had served as their escape route from the interior of the Gate Passage. Fourteen terrified faces returned his gaze as he scanned what was left of his task force.
“So… where are we?” Wells heard Bell ask Candle. The medic slowly looked around the clearing. His expression was solemn, as if the very earth beneath his feet had drained him of his good humor.
“SCP-2344-1-Zeta,” Candle replied. His eyes were open wide as he seemed to pour over every fallen pine needle on the ground. “Up until two years ago we had an outpost here. Cronos Outpost.”
“You've been here before?”
“Yeah, when Blaire was in charge…”

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Alvarez knocked on the open door and stepped into the office.
“You asked for me, sir?”
Dr. Gears looked up from the files on his desk, fixing his gaze on the young security guard. “Yes, I've been trying to contact Dr. Clef all evening, but he's not answering his phone. I'd like you to locate him to make sure he's all right, and tell him I have something urgent to discuss with him.”
“But sir, it's Friday night,” Alvarez said, suddenly uncomfortable. “If you'll recall…”
“Oh, I see. It's his…”
“…yes.”
“And he can't…”
“He's left instructions that he's not to be disturbed under any circumstances, that's right, sir.”
“Well, I suppose things can wait until tomorrow morning, then.”
“Very well, sir.”
Alvarez left the office.

Dr. Alto Clef sat in the dining room of his Site-19 suite. The place was lavish, by any standards – gold-embossed wallpaper, ornate oak paneling, 18th century furniture, the table set with priceless china and the finest silver. An antique Ming vase sat on a pedestal nearby, gleaming in the warm glow of the crystal chandelier; an original Caravaggio hung on one wall, a Vermeer on the other. Barry White played softly in the background.
“Mmmh!” Clef exclaimed, setting down his spoon and wiping his mouth with his napkin. “The fennel soup was exquisite. D-12130 really outdid himself tonight.” He gestured to one of the several D-class personnel in attendance. “More wine, D-23897.”
“Right away, Dr. Clef,” the man in the orange jumpsuit said, nervously stepping up to the table and refilling his glass with a particularly crisp Chardonnay.
Clef lifted the glass to his mouth, took a sip, and sighed with satisfaction. “This is nice,” he said, smiling at his guest. “We should do this more often, don't you agree?”
Across the table, SCP-173 stared back at him, unmoving, silent.
Five D-class personnel were positioned around the living statue, their eyes fixed on it, cold sweat dripping down their faces as they struggled not to blink, not to break eye contact, not even for a second; a sixth man stood directly next to 173, trembling with terror as he lifted spoonfuls of fennel soup up to its face, smearing the contents where its mouth should have been.
“May I just say how lovely you look tonight, darling,” Clef said, his eyes moving appreciatively over the black evening dress covering the statue's curves, the blonde, lustrous hair of the wig on its head, its rouged stone cheeks… “I was going to wait until later, but seeing you like this, I just, I… Heh, look at me, you have me babbling like a schoolboy. I don't know what it is about you. You've always had that effect on me.”
SCP-173 looked on, its stone features blank, impassive.
“Anyway,” Clef said, “I got you a little something to show you how much I appreciate you being here, sharing this evening with me.” Clef reached into his pocket and took out a small flat box, handing it to D-23897, who was standing nearby; the man took the box and went around to the other side of the table, his heart rate rising as he approached 173.
“Open it, darling,” Clef said. D-23897 opened the box, revealing a gold necklace inlaid with dozens of small diamonds. “It should be the right size, I had it made especially for you. Go ahead, put it on,” Clef smiled. D-23897 removed the necklace from the box and reluctantly tied it around 173's neck, wincing as his fingers brushed against the cold, hard cement surface. Clef was momentarily at a loss for words. “It suits you to perfection,” he said at last. “God, you're beautiful. I feel like I never want to take my eyes off you.”
At that precise moment, Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe began to play; Clef felt his heart flutter. “It's our song,” he breathed. As Barry White's rumbling voice filled the air, Clef found himself staring into 173's alien, painted-on eyes, losing himself in their depths. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice now little more than a husky whisper, “I'm suddenly not hungry anymore. What do you say we…retire…for the night?”

Clef was lying in his ample bed, 173 at his side, the lush satin sheets in disarray around them. The D-class personnel were standing in a circle around the bed, ten pairs of eyes that had not left the statue for the last two hours.
“I can't tell you how much these little trysts of ours mean to me,” Clef was murmuring in 173's ear. “Running Site-19, all that responsibility, all those lives depending on me, it gets so exhausting. You're a miracle worker, you know. You really–” His train of thought was interrupted by a series of hushed whispers – two of the D-class personnel seemed to be having an argument. Clef cleared his throat loudly. “Do you mind?”
D-23897 snapped to attention. “I'm sorry, sir. It's D-45931, he hasn't slept in a couple of days, and he was starting to nod off. I told him he had to keep his eyes open.”
“Oh, I see. Well, actually, that's not necessary.”
D-23897 frowned, confused. “But, sir, the statue…”
“I won't deny she can be a feisty one, what with those fiesta states of hers, but as long as I'm around she won't try anything.”
“So…there's no danger?” D-23897 asked.
“That's right, no need to worry.”
“…”
“Now, if that's all,” Clef said, “I'd like to get back t–”
“Then why are we here?” D-23897 nearly shouted in disbelief. “Why did you make us stay?”
Clef gave the man a strange look, the hint of an unhinged smile playing on his features.
“I just like it when people watch.”

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The concert hall was silent, expectant.
Emma looked out, dazzled by the stage lights. If there was an audience out there, it was shrouded in the blackness beyond. Blackness like the mouth of a deep pit, like an open throat ready to…
The soft rustle of her silk dress brought Emma back. She felt herself take a performer's stance - feet shoulder-width, knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed. There was no music stand in front of her, no score - she didn't need it. In front of the darkened hall, Emma was ready.
She stole a glance to her left. From here, the conductor's face was a blur in her peripheral vision, but she could make out his black tailsuit, and the sharp tip of his baton. It motioned in rapid circles, and Emma could feel the unseen orchestra beyond as it stretched itself and then coiled, ready to spring. The baton seemed to sense it too, snapping to a quivering pause like a hare at full alert, sensing an unseen threat.
The moment stretched endlessly - the bright stage, the enveloping dark, all on a razor's edge. Emma felt a prickling at the nape of her neck.
And suddenly they were off - the baton's leaping upbeat, and the orchestra giving chase in a sharp Scherzo. In her focus, the music seemed to flow around Emma without reaching her, leaving only the sounds of its creation. The blowing of air into woodwinds, the scrape of bowing, the shuffling of fingers on valves and keys and strings, a tide of shadowy noises swept past without the sounds it formed. Emma could feel the music - its drive, its urgency, its sinuous scuttling - but she could not hear it.
Her cue was coming. The intensity of the orchestra was rising in a frenzied rush. From the corner of her eye, Emma saw the conductor half-turn, and breathed deeply. The baton flashed down at her like a lightning strike, and Emma opened her mouth to sing.
No sound came out. Emma's hand sprang reflexively to her throat, and her eyes widened. The skeletal sounds of the orchestra, the music she could not hear, pressed onward heedlessly. Emma could see the baton crash down towards her again and again, and felt the weight of the cavernous darkness beyond the stage pressing upon her. Her fingers clutched her voicebox as if to squeeze out her trapped voice. Nothing.
Panicked, Emma clawed at her throat, her nails gouging the soft flesh around her larynx. Her breathing was ragged, and she gagged as she gripped harder, pulling with slick fingers. Blood ran down her neck both inside and out, the taste of it acrid at the back of her mouth. The spotlights blazed, the orchestra plunged onwards. The baton fell at her a final time, and Emma clenched her hand and ripped it away from her throat, feeling the cartilage tear and seeing pink ribbons trail wetly behind. As the silent maelstrom behind her reached a climax, she held her bloodied, mangled larynx aloft, dripping flesh and gore. It pulsed in her hand.
And Emma heard it scream.

She woke to the sound of a soft high-pitched buzzing, and the sight of a middle-aged man leaning down with a concerned expression.
"Don't try to get up. Waking you with Tone K can leave you a little unsteady. Can you tell me your name?"
The man flicked a switch on a device he was holding, and the buzzing stopped. The device, which looked like a cross between a pistol and a miniature bullhorn, slid back into its holster on the man's belt, and Emma noticed his uniform. A Mobile Task Force officer.
"Junior Researcher Emma Stark. Who are you?"
"Commander Samuel Richards, ma'am, Task Force Eta-11."
"We have an Eta-11? Are you related to See No Ev-" Emma trailed off as she saw the man's jaw stiffen, grey stubble sharp against his skin. She looked away, and noticed the dimly-lit room beyond for the first time. The remnants of the retirement party were obscured by site security officers and a few other MTF agents helping dazed-looking researchers to their feet. "What happened?"
"You tell us." A woman's voice answered, and Emma turned to see another MTF agent, a slim Asian woman with thick streaks of grey hair at her temples. "Thirty researchers fall asleep simultaneously - was this the most boring party ever?"
Emma shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, I don't remember. I was here with Roger, and then I was - I had an awful nightmare."
"Most likely someone spiked the punch," said Commander Richards. "It's lucky you weren't all lying here for hours - we have Hennessy to thank for that." He indicated another MTF agent across the room, a stocky older man who waved back in acknowledgement.
Emma felt bewildered - Hennessy looked in his late sixties, far too old to be in a task force - but she managed a weak "Thank you."
"He can't hear you." Commander Richards was curt. "He's been deaf for thirty years."
"But he's a good lip-reader," added the woman, gently helping Emma to her feet, "and deafness can be an advantage in this job."
"I'm not sure I understand - what job?"
"Mobile Task Force Eta-11. Specialists in auditory, sonic and musical anomalies." Commander Richards sounded proud, Emma thought, but also a little defensive.
"Musical? Because my nightmare - no wait, can I ask you about -"
Emma gasped as she was cut off by a sudden shout from across the room. One of the site security officers was spinning around like he'd been stung.
"What the hell! Who did that?"
Richards took two strides forward. "Officer! Remain calm. What did you see?"
"Sir, I didn't see anything, but I ran into something, I swear it."
"No-one move. Are you sure, officer?"
The security officer nodded, eyes wide. "There's something in here with us, sir."
The room fell silent. Emma turned her head frantically, searching in the half-light for a threat. There was nothing. Her breathing quickened, and she felt the Asian woman's hand on her shoulder.
Another MTF agent, a wiry, buzz-cut woman in her forties, chimed in. "Sir, I think he's right. I felt something earlier, but wasn't sure."
"Thank you, Agent Dee." Richards looked sharply back at Emma. "You said nightmares. Are you still afraid?"
Emma could hardly speak. Suddenly Richards' eyes focussed in the corner behind her, and he pulled the device from his belt and aimed it past her shoulder, pulling the trigger.
The sound was like being inside a bell. Emma felt her head vibrating with the shock of the noise, and then all she could hear was the high-pitched whine of silence. She staggered and turned away, and in the darkened corner behind her she saw it.
It was splayed on all fours like a lizard, skinny limbs almost blue-white. Its head was up-turned in challenge, but where its face should be was just a blank sheet of skin. The creature swayed sinuously, as if looking for an escape.
Emma half-heard shouts from behind her. Site security officers rushed past her with tasers lit, and Emma felt the Asian woman pull her back. The ringing in her ears started to clear as she looked up at Commander Richards, who was barking instructions to the room.
"SCP-932. Invisible until the soundwaves hit them. Hennessy, Dee, you know the drill - set your resonators to 510 Hertz, around a hundred deebs. Switch visual to sonar - if you spot anything less than five feet tall, light it up. Take the officers - they can bag 'em for recontainment." Richards looked down at the Asian agent with Emma. "Zhao, take her back to quarters. She's too scared to stay here - those things feed on fear. Right: you three, with me."
As the Commander strode away, Agent Zhao smiled down at Emma. "It's going to be fine, honey. Here, put these in. I always keep a spare pair."
Emma looked at the ear-plugs in her hand, green LEDs winking on one end. She pressed them into her ears, and looked quizzically at Zhao - her hearing didn't feel muffled. The agent had pulled on her goggles and was scanning the room, sound gun raised.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get out of here."

The corridors felt interminable as Agent Zhao stepped slowly ahead of her, scanning each intersection carefully and waving the security officers onwards. Emma couldn't bear any more silence.
"I'm sorry if I'm an imposition," she ventured.
"Not at all," said Zhao without turning. "Don't let the Commander give you the wrong impression. He's just a little highly strung, and you weren't to know how he feels about Eta-10."
"See No Evil? I just thought -"
"I know, honey. But it's been a long time since we were in that league." Zhao held up a hand, checked a room to the side, then continued. "They get all the press, the manpower, the budget, but what can you do? Memetics gets custody of most of the musical memes, and auditory skips just don't get as much attention. The Commander knows it - Eta-11 is slowly fading out." She sighed softly.
"But what about tonight? Without you, they would never catch those, those things."
Agent Zhao laughed, a light trilling. "That's so sweet, dear, but this is our first action in more than eighteen months. If Hennessy hadn't been at your party, it probably wouldn't have been us at all." She stopped in the doorway of a wide hall. "Wait, can you see that?"
"What?" The room ahead was a blank grey.
"Oh. Well, here goes." Zhao fired the resonator, swore to herself, and fired again.
Emma had braced for the noise, but this time the tone was no more than a loud hum. She had no trouble hearing Zhao's voice over the repeated notes blasting into the hall.
"Earplugs working? They should be bringing everything down to - dammit, slippery little - to around sixty decibels, without reducing - aha, gotcha!"
Two more of the pale, faceless children were revealed in the room ahead. The security officers leapt forward, grabbing the entities and pulling out flex cuffs. Agent Zhao nodded to them, and led Emma down two further corridors, finally arriving in a bright dormitory.
The common room was the typical MTF layout - couches, monitors, a basic kitchenette - although the speaker set-up in the corner looked rather elaborate. Emma could see through half-open doors to a room full of bunks, and another with racks of equipment. Her first impression was interrupted by a grinning face that popped out from behind one of the computer screens.
"Hey, we have a visitor! I'm Mike, Mike Carter."
He was young, younger than Emma - early twenties, maybe? "Hi, I'm Emma Stark."
"Nice to meet you, Emma. Welcome to the lair of the Savage Beasts!"
"Mike. You know the Commander doesn't like that nickname." Zhao slumped on a couch, loosening her boots, and motioned Emma to an armchair.
"Well it's the only one we have."
"Other than 'Old Farts'," said Zhao. "Mike's the only recruit we've had in twenty-five years. God knows why he joined."
"Because we get the best tunes around here, that's why." Mike laughed, and fixed Emma with an enthusiastic stare. "Hey, what music are you into? Rush? Grateful Dead?"
"Uh, I've heard of them," Emma ventured.
"Newer, of course. Radiohead? Tupac? I have some Tupac verses I bet you've never heard!"
"Mike, stop trying to get everyone to listen -"
Agent Zhao was cut off by Hennessy, who stumbled into the room, out of breath. He smiled at his squad-mates, and again when he saw Emma.
Thank you very much for rescuing me, Emma signed to him.
Hennessy's smile grew broader. You're very welcome.
Agent Zhao shot Emma a look. "You know ASL?"
"My younger brother had otitis, so I had to learn."
"You don't want to join us, do you?" Turning back to Hennessy, Zhao asked How many did you catch?
Hennessy held up two fingers, then reached into his pocket, producing a CD and handing it to Mike with a flourish. I found this at the party. Could be relevant.
"You found it where?" Mike looked confused. "You have to go slower for me, H!"
"See," said Zhao, ignoring Mike's mock scowl, "you'd be more use to us than him! And we need someone new to join before we all die off." She looked at Hennessy and signed Sorry.
Have to go some time, he signed back cheerfully, before walking into the equipment room.
"But what about the other agent," said Emma. "Agent Dee? She's not that old."
Emma watched Mike and Zhao exchange meaningful glances. Agent Zhao began carefully. "Agent Dee isn't really Sandra's name. Well, neither is Sandra. It's more of a nickname, I guess. Um."
Mike jumped in. "You see, Dee's not her name - it's her personnel class."
Emma was shocked. "You have a D-Class? On an MTF?"
"I told you we were short-handed," said Zhao. "And we've known Sandy for years - she's been with us since she was Mike's age. We trust her."
"Not to mention she still holds the record for most 092 instances tested without fatality," added Mike.
Emma's mind was whirring with questions, but just as she was about to ask another, Mike interrupted. "Speak of the devil!"
Agent Dee slouched through the doorway, followed closely by Commander Richards. He gave a taut smile to his motley MTF.
"Good work, Agents. Site security has confirmed recovery of all of the 932 instances. I'll be submitting my incident report tomorrow, so no need to send me your sections before then. Don't forget to submit any evidence from the scene for filing." Richards tilted his hawkish face towards Emma. "And it looks like we can let you get back to your evening, ma'am. I'm sure Roger Anderson is keen to know that you're safe."
"Actually, Commander, do you mind if I ask a question? It's just I never knew that we had a - I mean, I've never had the chance to meet a team specialising in musical anomalies."
Commander Richards waited impassively. Emma stood up, looking around to the gathered agents.
"So for my first research project, I have been assigned to SCP-012. And there are some things about it that don't make any sense."
"You're asking the wrong people. Twelve looks like music, yes, but it's a cogni - a visual hazard, not an auditory one."
"But it could be auditory, if someone performed it."
"They tried that, and it was a cacophanous mess, so they gave up. In fact, probably the only person alive who has heard it can't hear anything any more."
Richards nodded to Hennessy, who was leaning in the doorway to the equipment room. He smiled ironically and signed, I sometimes wish I had gone deaf before I had to supervise that test!
Emma could feel her frustration building. "But that was an unfinished section. It might sound very different when it is finished. And it is very close. In fact I think - I think it might want to be finished."
Agent Zhao had started to ask her a question when Mike interrupted with a yell. "Holy crap, guys - look at this!" His startled face was lit by the computer screen. "That CD you found at the party, H? That has some serious memetics on it."
"Agent Carter, you know that you're not permitted to review anomalous materials here without authorisation."
"Sorry sir, but this was just too weird to wait." Agents Zhao and Hennessy crowded behind him as Mike pointed to the screen. "You see this? I've split out a single line from the track, which seems normal enough."
Mike clicked the mouse, and the room filled with the sound of a stringed instrument being plucked in a ponderous, chromatic melody.
"Sounds old," said Agent Dee. "A zither?"
"No," said Zhao, "you can hear the plectrum. And it sounds like fewer strings. Maybe a lyre."
"Whatever, that's not the point." Mike sounded impatient. "The point is that there are literally like a hundred of these melodies, all wrapped together, playing at once. And when I ran it through to check for cog-hazards, the scanner went off the charts!"
Zhao stood reading the screen over Mike's shoulder. "The overlapping patterns of the signals are associated with relaxation, suggestibility and somnolence."
"So now we know why the party went to sleep," Dee shot back.
"But that's not all," said Mike. "After about ten minutes of that, the patterns change completely. Polytonal, atonal, what sounds like someone hitting the side of the instrument, scratching it - it goes haywire."
"And the resulting sound texture is designed to be processed by the thalamus as a signal to the amygdala." Zhao looked up in shock. "It's designed to make the listener afraid."
No, signed Hennessy, all the listeners were asleep. This is designed to give them nightmares. Emma, what did you say your dream was about?
Emma noticed that everyone in the room was staring at her. All the fear of her dream, that silent, bloody performance, came flooding back.
"Jesus Christ" said Agent Dee, "SCP-932 feeds on fear. Someone let those things out deliberately."
"That's speculation," said Commander Richards coolly. "To what end?"
I think someone wanted to kill a researcher, signed Hennessy, and they were prepared to murder everyone at that party to do it.
Emma started to shiver, and then jumped as an alarm blared above her head.
"Sir, containment breach!"
"I see it, agent - looks like they want us again. Getting the details through now."
Emma watched intently as the Commander's eyes widened.
"Multiple anomalies. SCPs 126, 1493, 1860, 2337, all loose. Goddammit, and the noise has caused 339 to breach. Right - Carter, Hennessy - go to level seven and bring extra hearing protection for the guards. Zhao, Dee, get the Silencer and head to K-sector. I'll be down there shortly. And be careful."
For the second time that night, the MTF stirred into action. Emma saw Mike swing his arms in a huge clap as he leapt from his chair, beaming madly.
"Let's do this, baby! We're getting the band back together!"
Two minutes later, in the empty dormitory, Emma thought, Or maybe the orchestra is just tuning up.