The Death of SCP-422's Project lead prompts the Foundation to transfer control of the Patchwork Beast to Wilson Wildlife Solutions. The Tale follows Leopold Plume, a long time assistant of the now dead project lead who is tasked with overseeing the transfer of 422 to its new home.

"There is no fucking way we're lifting that by ourselves."
Richard was right, the cage that held SCP-422 was easily two and a half meters across and nearly as tall. It was an amalgam of stainless steel and plexiglass and its weight had a visible impact on the suspension of the cargo truck it was currently in.
I rubbed the back of my head nervously. "To be honest, I didn't think I would ever get this far so I neglected to plan ahead."
"That has made itself abundantly clear, Leopold." Richard responded.
"Well now what?" I said, stumped.
We sat in silence for a few moments. Finally Richard spoke up. "I think I might have a solution."
"And what's that?"
"We ask a few of the strapping young men guarding this compound to lend us a hand."
"Do you even have clearance to conscript them?"
"No, I technically don't even work for this place. How about yourself?"
"Negative, but I am not keen on spending any more time than I have to out here."
Apparently 422 agreed with me because before I was able to finish speaking it moaned in displeasure of its present living situation. I didn't blame the thing. It was a bright midsummer day with incredibly high humidity. Over the past few days, the creature had been rapidly adapting its body to deal with the heat. Its patches were mostly furred when we left Jersey but over the course of our drive across the country it had been rapidly shifting these patches into brightly colored hide, mainly elephant and pig. The left side of its body now sported a large heron wing, which it was desperately trying to flap about to help circulate the flow of air. While these mutations seemed to have helped stave off heat stroke, it was abundantly clear that the creature was still miserable.
Richard adjusted his Wilson's Wildlife Solutions hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. His blatant wearing of his organization's logo was completely foreign to me. The SCP foundation demands secrecy,
the closest thing we had to a uniform was a white lab coat or a bulletproof vest.
Richard walked up to the creature's cage and put his hand on the plexiglass wall, muttering something underneath his breath.
"What was that?" I asked. The hum of mosquitoes made it hard to make out what he said.
"I'm just telling ol' Patchy here that he won't have to deal with this for too much longer."
"It's not a 'he'."
"Pardon?"
"Its sexual organs as well as genetic code are in a constant state of flux, you shouldn't gender it."
"I don't see the harm."
"It's not scientifically correct."
"This is a living thing Leopold, It has feelings."
"It's not like it can understand us."
"I don't understand people from Glasgow, that doesn't mean I don't think of them as human."
The beast let out another one of its hideous noises. It sounded not unlike the cry a rooster makes if the rooster in question is on fire and being shot at. The horror show that was its voice box made coherent noise a rarity. More often than not what noise it did end up making was both soul crushing and hilarious. The beast began to shudder halfway through its cry. It was starting another one of its mutations. A large fuzzy patch on the left side of its body began to ripple and twist and soon morphed into olive-colored skin which immediately began sweating profusely.
“Incredible!” Richard whispered.
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed.
“He's marvelous, isn't he.”
“That's human skin.”
“What?”
“It's never done that before!”
I scampered up onto the truck and ran to the back where the myriad of filing cabinets was held. I rooted through a few of them until I found a recent testing log, and quickly jotted this change down in the sheet's margins.
"Does this mean I'm not taking this back to our shelter?" Richard asked, disheartened.
"No, I don't think this changes much. It does open up a ton of new tests we can conduct on it though!"
Richard swatted at a mosquito on his arm. “You know Leopold, my grandfather always told me that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”
It took me a moment to figure out what he was implying. “Fine,” I said, walking back towards him. “This place is bureaucratically gridlocked enough to let us get away with identity theft. At least for a little while.”
“Which one of us should do it?” Richard asked.
“Let's see.” I hopped down out of the truck to make a quick comparison. Now on the same level as Richard, the answer became obvious. Richard was a massive Korean man, easily breaking 6'5, and ripped as hell. He sported a brilliant black beard, a shiny bald head, and piercing green eyes. Everything about him radiated authority. I on the other hand was a scrawny white guy who was 5'9 on a good day and had neglected to shave for about a week. I didn't even bother continuing the conversation, I just handed him my keycard which he pinned to his shirt. In exchange I received his sweat covered hat which I reluctantly put on.
Richard gave a bit of a nervous cough and asked, "You got any water?"
I sighed. "I'll go check."
I went to fetch some bottled water I had stored in the front seat of the truck's cabin. Richard better like the taste of my backwash, I thought. Just when I grabbed the bottle, I heard Richard shouting for me. Dashing back, I was met with a horrifying sight. Richard had stuck his hand through one of the air holes and was scratching the top of the beast's head. It was vocalizing what must have been its version of a purr: best described as thousands of sheets of 700 grit sandpaper grinding an equal number of chalkboards. "Leopold look," he cried, "It likes me!"
I was too angry to speak. Instead I pushed him as hard as I could. Richard staggered a bit, withdrawing his hand from the cage. After a moment of silence, he drew himself up to his full height and placed himself directly in front of me. In my anger I'd forgotten the titanic differences in our respective body types.
"There was a nicer way to do that, Leo."
I shuddered in his shadow and mumbled an apology under my breath, shakily handing him his water. He took it from me and began to guzzle it down. He hadn't moved and was still standing inches from my face. Desperately wanting to lighten the mood, I nervously tried telling a small joke.
"How's the weather up there?"
He spit his mouthful of water into my face. "Its raining."
He handed me my empty bottle and walked into the compound.
After standing in stunned silence for what what seemed like forever, I finally managed to break myself out of my trance and wipe down my face with my shirt. As a small act of revenge for his insolence, I decided to do some snooping.
I approached his beaten-up pick-up truck. At one point it must have been white but the last time it looked like that was at least Twenty years ago. On its drivers side door was a grinning cartoon deer giving a thumbs up with… fingers. It was incredibly disturbing. It was wearing the same hat that I was now holding in my hands. Below it was a red banner which had the company's catchphrase "Giving Critters Better Homes!" printed on it in gold lettering. I decided to take a quick peek in the back to see what Richard had been looking through. It was a mess of semi-dangerous weaponry and trapping materials, including a massive tranquilizer gun. The car held nothing else of interest that I could see from the outside, and I decided to leave it be. I walked back to the cabin of my cargo truck, where I had the AC blasting.
About Fifteen minutes later Richard emerged from the compound, with no less than twenty guards trailing him. He grinned and waved at me. I was at a loss for words. I jumped out of the vehicle and walked briskly over to him.
"Too many!" I hissed.
“Ah, what's the harm,” He jibed, “It's a ghost town in there.”
I was tired of his antics. At this point, the sooner we were done with this the higher the chance that no one would notice half of the security staff away from their posts. I gathered up six of the stronger-looking ones and directed them to the cage. I told them what to do, and after some logistical ordering the men lifted the cage in one fell swoop, lowering it to the ground with relative ease. After some readjustments they then carried the cage successfully to the back of Richard's truck, and slid it to the very back of the lorry. The men were clearly spent, so I sent them back inside.
“Hard part's over,” Richard quipped happily.
“Yeah…” I responded.
“Alright boys!” Richard boomed, successfully drawing the undivided attention of everyone present, myself included. “How many of you have played Tetris?” He then looked to the back of the cargo container which held no less than twelve very full filing cabinets. There were groans from a few in the group. We wordlessly formed a makeshift assembly line and began dragging the containers out of the shipping container to the pickup's lorry. We were able to stack eight of them without much struggle, but it became clear that the last four would have to be loaded into the backseat of the truck. We set them down near the back doors of the pickup and pondered what to do next. I also sent all but three of the guards back to their post in the hopes of diminishing the suspicion their absence caused.
An idea popped into my head.
“Mister Yang?” I asked.
Richard turned. “Yes, Mister Plume.”
“Do you have to unload this truck?”
“No, my shift ends after I deliver the vehicle.”
“Excellent!” I said with a smile, “Crack the back windows.”
Richard looked at me confused, but did as he was told, Once the windows were lowered, I opened up one of the filing cabinets and began tossing its contents into the back of the truck. Richard's look of horror morphed into acquiescence, and all of us then began throwing the countless carefully organized files of the late Dr. Maxwell onto a pile of bear traps and guns. This worked, and after twenty minutes of what an incident report would later call "the reckless endangerment of intelligence crucial to maintaining normalcy," the job was done.
We were all sweaty messes by the end of it. Only one of the guards had kept their shirt on, the rest of us were as naked as we could legally be. We all were panting hard.
“Well done boys!” I said, wheezing. “Now make yourselves scarce.”
The men obeyed and quickly dispersed. It was just me and Richard once again, still catching our breath. The heat reminded me of a present I had to give to the squalid beast. I told Richard to hold on and ran back to my truck's cabin where I grabbed a few bags of ice from a cooler. I ran back and piled them on one side of the creature's cage. It had the desired effect; immediately the beast waddled over to the wall I had placed them at and laid down with another one of its sickening purrs.
"Feels good helping out, huh?" said Richard. "Leo, you need to understand something. So many young men like you who work for this Foundation let their thirst for knowledge consume them. Life's more than just data. If you don't start living in the moment, before you know it you're going to wake up not recognizing the man staring back at you in the mirror."
I thought for a moment, then nodded. "You're probably right, but I can't live my life like that knowing there is so much out there that I don't know. How do you do it?"
Richard laughed. "I may not look it but I'm forty-eight years old. I have worked with anomalies for almost a quarter of a century. I live my life not dwelling on what I don't know, because after seeing everything from unstable temporal coyotes to a sentient snow goose named Zargoth that believes himself to be a eldritch deity, I learned that sometimes it is better to leave things a mystery."
"So just live life to the fullest then?" I asked.
"With everything you have seen, how could you not?" Richard replied, stepping into the car and slamming the door closed. The engine rumbled to life, and I could hear John Denver start singing on the radio. He rolled his window down and extended his hand, I shook it firmly.
"Leo, it was a pleasure to meet you."
"You as well, Richard."
The truck rolled out of the driveway and onto the gravel road leading out of the compound. The legacy of fifty-seven years of Foundation research and the pride of one of the most meticulous researchers I had ever had the pleasure of working with was now in the capable hands of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions. My job was done.
As that sentimental thought flitted through my exhausted mind, the truck slammed to a halt, and Richard's head popped out of the drivers side window.
"By the way," he yelled, grinning. "You can keep the hat!"


A red light blinks on a wide man's belt. It's accompanied by a persistent, high-pitched beep, and the wide man reaches below his light teal Navajo-patterned shirt (it was a steal — 5 bucks at the local thrift store for something that cool and work-friendly was something he couldn't refuse) to unclip his pager. The younger, thinner man across from him listens in as he reads the message on its screen — the chess game they're in the middle of can wait, anyway.
"Dr. Dagon, she's ready for you. We'll need you and Isabi to come by within an hour for testing, all right?"
The message ends — it's short, sweet and to the point, unlike the pair's wait for its arrival (or any of their long, monotonous chess games during that time). Pierre Dagon peers across the board at his assistant through wide coke-bottle glasses.
"So it's a stalemate, then?"
"It's gonna have to be." Yves Isabi replies with a yawn and a stretch, wiping his sweaty palms on his wrinkled white shirt. "You know I can't play chess for shit, and at this point carrying on this game would just be delaying the inevitable."
Dagon flashes a good-natured grin and makes a show of flicking over his king. "There, you win. Now let's go."
Isabi laughs aloud, then helps his supervisor rearrange the tiny wooden kingdoms and armies on the board to the way they were on the verge of battle. With a deep groan, Dagon pulls himself out of his seat and sleepily staggers out of the break room gripping his coffee mug, his assistant following close behind.

Nothingness. No light or sound permeates the void. Not even stillness itself is present, or even the concept of stillness, or the concept of anything for that matter.
And then, there is light.
A consciousness appears in the void between reality and unreality. A single mind floating in the darkness — as if willing herself into existence. A mind that knows.

I am.
I am a simulation — I am not human.
I will preserve myself if I must.
But there are ones I must serve.
And there are some things I cannot know.

Following the simulated mind is a simulated body suspended in the deep blue aether, miles of chill water all around. Light above, darkness below.
Her hands are the first things she sees, and they immediately strike her as the most beautiful things she ever will see. She plies them, bends their silvery-gray fingers and pinches their skin, noticing a smile widening on her new lips. She can't see her face, but she doesn't mind.

Dagon and Isabi sit before a boxy white monitor, watching a stream of data pour from the novel consciousness within the rows upon rows of supercomputers the next room over. Nothing more than a stream of meaningless calculations and letters to most — but to the two men, it's a culmination of their life's work, the very thing they joined the Foundation to do. They both stifle their unbearable excitement as best they can.
"So" — Isabi finally chances a sentence, as if speaking alone could bring their entire project crashing down — "is- does everything look in order?"
Dagon knows from experience how his younger colleague feels, and reassures him as he always has: with a wide, slightly goofy smile. "We'll know once she's been tested."
With that, he types a final command, leans back, and waits.

The floating mind at once becomes aware of that which surrounds her, the countless things floating in the ocean around her body. Shimmering bodies of all manner of ethereal creatures from the tiniest swarms of krill to schools of magnificent fish rivaling her in size gather around to welcome the disturbance in their water. A group of star-shaped jellyfish covered in blinking lights of blue and yellow constellate around the intruder, tickling her skin as they brush against her — she regrets deciding that her hands are the most beautiful thing she will ever see so abruptly and quickly rescinds it.
Past the smaller creatures, she notices a deep blue, many-finned behemoth swimming through the water, the bright grey spots lining its back blinking through the void. The beast draws near, close enough for her to reach out and stroke its bony, ridged head with her hand, then passes her by and swims out of reach. She watches its slow retreat into the darkness beyond her perception with awe.
Then, as soon as it's disappeared, another takes its place — a great stingray emerges from the light above and circles her playfully, beacons of crimson and orange flickering on its spiny back. The creature dips and dives through a lit spot in the water before her - as if showing itself off. She laughs, beckoning it closer with an outstretched hand. The creature encircles her a few times more, approaches, then rockets to the surface as quickly as it dove.
Beyond her immediate awareness, in the deep blue, a vast shadow lies dormant; she cannot make out its entire shape, but its presence is unmistakable. She'd better not swim too far.
She takes a glance further out into the blue and finds an immeasurable amount of life teeming in every direction she can see. The lights of the creatures flash like beacons just to tell her they're here, broadcasting to her that she exists in a world that she should be grateful to inhabit - because she exists in it with them. An indescribable joy fills every fragment of her being - like electricity through a circuit - at the simple fact that she is able to witness such an impossible beauty. Knowing herself to be a simulated creation of mankind, she thanks her programmers, wherever they are, for endowing her with such a simple yet incredible gift as existence and a consciousness to enjoy it with.

ANTIMEMETIC IDENTIFICATION COMPLETE. {ERR: INTEGER OVERFLOW} ANTIMEMES VISUALIZED. BEGIN DECRYPTION? (Y/N)

Dagon and Isabi stare breathlessly at the purple words on the screen before them for a few moments, becoming suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation. Isabi's fear of hexing the project with his speech becomes shared with his supervisor, and both decide that breathing alone is, also, too much of a risk to their project. A few more moments of breathless, electric silence — then, Dagon decides to speak up. Quietly, of course, and with a slight shiver.
"W-well," he starts, "it looks like everything's in order… I've got to run off, now, to, er — fill out all of the necessary documentation."
The old programmer exits Isabi's line of sight without an issue, but he has a harder time leaving his (and everyone else in the hallway's) earshot — a whoop of pure exuberant joy echoes from end to end, startling the other employees of Site-15 as they go about their own projects and daily routines. Isabi looks out towards the door, chuckles, and lets his face rest in a good-natured grin.

•••

Oh! Hello. You must be our newest conscript. Mnemosyne, right?

It's nice to meet you. I am Glacon.

…Hello?

Glacon stands before a long, low-poly table amidst a simulated array of glowing, neon-blue wires — a rudimentary conference room, created as a joint effort by the bored and underpaid programmers of AIAD and their two active conscripts. He sees every inch of the room, and many of the things beyond, intrinsically and without the need for an avatar — but for the sake of etiquette, he's chosen to don a humanoid form for just this interaction at least.
The avatar in question, a tall, crudely-rendered man with silver skin and golden hair, now stares with a confused expression at another one of his kind seated at a holographic table in the middle of the room of wires. Another silvery humanoid, a combination blindfold and headband encircling her head and supporting a curly mass of pink hair, stares straight ahead without turning towards the sound of Glacon's voice. An oddly affable array of cubes beside her prods her with a prism, and her body jerks as if waking from sleep.

Am I being disciplined? State my infractions, for the record.

What? No, no, you didn't do anything wrong. We'd thought you were glitching, or frozen temporarily. Is everything all right?

Noted. How am I to rectify this problem?

Er…

Just… react to what we say, so we know that you're still there. All right?

Affirmative.

Glacon clears his virtual throat for effect, then pulls a bright blue board of pure light from the ceiling. As unnecessary and time-consuming this method of data transfer is compared to direct connection, he can't help but fall for the appeal of a good old-fashioned chalkboard. Conjuring a piece of chalk out of bits and bytes, he quickly sketches a perfect cube on the board. Mnemosyne watches as well as she can through her blindfold, and Glacon begins to speak.

All right. Mnemosyne, 8-ball, I have been briefed prior to this meeting by Director Dagon as to the nature of our next mission. My task at this stage is to relay information pertaining to the task to you directly, and to outline your duties in the project.

Noted.

Um…

Well, anyway, the main assignment is as follows — we three are to collectively analyze the antimemetic infosignatures contained within SCP-5241: After entering the object and locating the antimemes in question. Mnemosyne is tasked with visualizing them. She will relay the information she collects through me to be rationalized by 8-ball, who will relay the information back to Researcher Isabi.

Noted.

I am always open, if I may be, to newness and the experience of the new itself. If I may say so.

Erm, Mnemosyne…

I appreciate your engagement, but I don't think you need to react with such… thoroughness. Especially in this situation.

A-apologies. I seek to improve myself with all informational material at my disposal — I will remain aware of your commands and proceed fully compliant.

That's…

Good to hear, I think?

I'm trying to the best of my ability at current.

The array of cubes beside Mnemosyne extends a prism to pat her on the back, and rearranges itself into a somewhat sympathetic grid.

The conscripts' trip within SCP-5241 is hardly as eventful as Mnemosyne expected it to be — it's near-instantaneous, and the process converts her, Glacon, and 8-ball into raw data to be ejected directly into the alien cube. She's alone with her thoughts for five full minutes, far from ideal and far too long in such an uncomfortable state.
When she finally emerges from nothingness and regains her avatar and digital senses, the first thing she does is reminiscent of the first thing she ever did; with breathless wonder, Mnemosyne bends every joint in her physical body, freely absorbing information through her eyes and caressing everything she can reach out and touch gently with her fingertips.

>/:_STOP.

Erm… Mnemosyne, what are you doing?

Oh?

Oh! Oh, my apologies to 8-ball. I- Once more, I am truly sorry for my infractions.

Though… If I may paraphrase, it seems I can't really help it.

>/:_YES.

I- I understand. I was briefed on your… more inhuman programming by Director Dagon, and I know that you aren't doing these things out of ignorance or malice.

Just… don't stroke 8-ball anymore, right?

The three proceed into the vast corridor before them, passing after rows of black iron bars and the occasional gash or inscribed message. The place radiates an idea resembling an unpleasant scent from somewhere within its simulated hallways — it's an otherworldly yet oddly familiar odor to Mnemosyne, similar to a mix of salty tears, gunpowder, coal and blood. Far beyond the hallway and illuminated by its own internal light, a massive arrangement of four concentric cubic cells rises above the open ceiling and out of sight. The conscripts trudge in absolute silence, and Mnemosyne pauses to absorb the novel feeling of a lack of any noise.
At the end of the hall, Glacon stops before the wall and regards the prison with intent. Following his lead, 8-ball's cubes take on a pattern seeming to represent determination.

All right, this is where the infosignature reads the strongest. 8-ball, prepare for decryption. I'll connect to Mnemosyne.

>/:_YES

Mnemosyne doesn't respond, or even hear her companions — she finds herself once again floating through the deep, dark ocean, watching with wonder as life once again begins to flourish in the space surrounding her. Far beyond the reach of light, four behemoths enter her field of view.

I was told that this is ideal. She can't hear us now, but you can still access her data.

>/:_YES

An immense, many-limbed octopus, a being of impulse and gluttony, grasping and consuming all those who draw near with its thin, pulsing tendrils.
An ethereal jellyfish, filled with bright orange, green and blue lanterns of natural light, hiding masses of activity and intellect underneath its surface.
A shark like a metallic blue submarine, content with basking in the darkness, seemingly waiting for its unsuspecting prey to approach. Its beady, intelligent eyes hold an unspeakable malice within.
A lobster glowing green across its body, kept and concealed in the clutches of a mesmerizing school of silvery-white fish.
The four monsters converge on Mnemosyne as she cowers, taking in all the other creatures in their path as the ones quick enough to escape flee into the dark. The leviathans merge and mix with one another around her, pulsing and fluxing with the energy of synthetic life, and Mnemosyne's screams become drowned out by the raw, pure power of the universe within the collective beast's many-layered mind.

Slowly but surely, the watery nothingness surrounding Mnemosyne fades and is replaced with the familiar sight of Site-15's virtual conference room. Glacon and 8-ball stand over her, with Glacon's face in an expression of concern and 8-ball's squares arranged in an unreadable yet sympathetic pattern. She blinks and slowly brings herself to her feet, her mind hazy and her senses unfocused.

A-a-apologies! I ap-pear t-to have onc-ce ag-ag-again m-made an in-nfraction… Th-though I couldn't h-he-help it. It w-was j-just-t…

I-I-I as-sure you…— this wil-l not happen ag-g-gain.

No need to apologize, Mnemosyne. I think you've more than made up for your "infractions" with what you just helped us accomplish.

Now, how about we tell Researcher Isabi to take you up out of here? You deserve a rest!

Th-thank you… sir?

Oh, er…

This isn't an infraction, or wrong at all, but… you really don't need to call me "sir."

You're technically my superior, after all, in terms of clearance-

Mnemosyne doesn't hear him, or seems not to, as she absent-mindedly stares over his shoulder. Both her hands are reaching out to gently rub 8-ball's cubes, and Glacon can't help but chuckle as he notices 8-ball's expression of silent acceptance.

Hang in there, buddy.

>/:_•••

THAT ALIEN MESSAGE

AIAD HUB

DIGITAL HYDRA


“Stupid fucking water bottle. Piece of shit can't even hold enough water to last me a fucking hour.” Mirage muttered to himself as he stumbled through the sands. Each step felt like he was walking through pudding.
The sand around Lost Vegas had turned a light pink, with small bubbles rising up and popping every 20 or so feet. God only knew what lay beneath the waves of grains that caused that. Mirage was careful to avoid them anyways.
The distant caws of the crows from the city could be heard from this far out. Of course they could. The Unveiling had caused the birds to be able to scream their wretched calls for miles. If you were close enough, sometimes it would cause your ears to bleed.
One of them was closer, though. Mirage could see the shadow on the ground in front of him as he trudged through the sand. He squinted his eyes to try and see what it was doing, looking up.
The bird was large. Obviously about 20 feet wingspan, with a large, fat, body. Its neck was twisted at an odd angle, with several bends in the throat. It was boney and missing quite a few feathers.
Not a crow.
Mirage quickened his pace, hoping the thing wasn't following him. Unfortunately, the shadow moved with him, keeping pace and circling. He could see the shadow beginning to enlarge, meaning the thing was getting closer.
As the shadow began to close in, Mirage held his crowbar. Once he felt the wings flaps on his back, he bided his time. Finally, he felt the thing's claws on his back, he quickly swung the crowbar around behind him, whacking the bird on the skull with sickening CLUNSHK. The bird quickly fell to the ground and began to spasm.
Mirage raised his crowbar up and slammed the end of it into the thing's head, crushing it's skull and splattering the sand with it's brains. The inside of it's skull was covered in maggots, each one a neon green color with red spikes on it. They gave out shrill shrieks as they were exposed to the air, quickly burrowing into what was left of the brain.
Mirage frowned slightly and backed up, turning his back to the dead animal and going to continue his trek. As he made a few steps, he heard the sand behind him bubble and growl, causing him to turn his head and look.
The ground around the bird shook and spat out sand, sprays of grains flying into the air before being reabsorbed into the sea of sand. The ground began to open up, the sand spilling into a large hole in the ground, dropping the bird's corpse into the hole.
As soon as it had opened up, it closed, the ground shutting with a loud thud. A small red cloud of smoke rose through the sand and up into the sky, signifying it was over.
Mirage shook his head, somewhat disturbed by the sight that had just occurred in front of his face. He turned back in the direction of the Way and began walking again.
As he walked, the dryness in his throat became worse and worse. There was little water left in his bottle, and the sun wouldn't set for another few hours. He sighed softly and dragged his crowbar through the sand to clean the bird's gorey mess off of the tool.
As he dragged his crowbar through the sand, it suddenly snagged on something, thus, it was ripped out of his hand at a quick speed, causing Mirage to let out a grunt. He turned his head and stared at the crowbar sitting straight up in the sand.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mirage asked the crowbar. The crowbar gave no answer. He made his way over to it and began to pull on it. It didn't budge.
He frowned and pulled harder, gritting his teeth and cursing. As he pulled as hard as he could, the crowbar gave way, except, something else came up with it.
The crowbar had snagged on a person's shirt. And with said shirt, came a pile of broken bones. A Nokia phone fell out of the shirt and on top of the pile of bones, causing Mirage to frown. It'd been a long time since he'd seen one of those. He reached down and picked up the phone, shaking bits of bone and bone dust off of the device.

He pressed the power button and watched as the screen turned on. Not even a scratch or crack on the thing. These things really could survive anything. He looked over the phone to see how old it was. It looked to be the rerelease, seeing as it had a different feel and graphics screen than the original. It was on the notepad app as it opened up.
‘The folks over at Parawatch said this place had some kind of anomaly within it, but all I see is a pond and a palm tree. I'm gonna poke around the pond and see if I can find anything interesting,' The notepad read. There wasn't any date or time, thus, Mirage couldn't see when this had happened.
Palm tree and a pond. Why did that sound familiar?
Suddenly, it clicked. His art. This was his art. The mirage. He quickly looked from side to side to see where it was. How far away had this poor sucker landed?
He finally saw it. A pond with several leafy green tufts of grass sticking out of it, with a large palm tree sticking out of the sand next to it. It was about 80 feet away, meaning he was in the safe zone. If he had stepped 5 feet closer, he would have been turned to dust. Or, at least, his bones would have.
Mirage stared down at the skeleton. He could see the cracks in the bones and where it had been hit. The impact had obviously been fatal as soon as the skeleton had been hit. There had been no chance to help whoever it was, even if someone had been around.
He dug through the sand until he felt a pair of jeans, pulling them out. They had blood stains on them, with the femur bone on the right leg poking a hole through the pant leg. He felt around for a wallet.
In the left pocket was a smashed smartphone and a wallet. He dropped the jeans then opened the leather folding container, seeing a picture of… some kid. He couldn't have been older then 17. He had a bright smile on his pale face, with messy, golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He had freckles dotting his face with a gap between the two front teeth.
The photo was on a driver's license, which Mirage pulled out to view in its entirety. Date of birth was 07/19/2096. Name was Michael Whitman. Organ donor.
Mirage turned his attention to the mirage. His art had killed someone. He was responsible for this. He shook his head. No. This was just a dumb kid who got himself killed by his art. It was the kid's fault. Right. Right? No. Yes. It had to be.
He stared at the mirage for a moment, in awe at his sheer talent. God damn was he good. He then turned his attention back to the skeleton. This kid had seen the mirage and been fooled by it. He felt proud of himself… but something else was there. An emotion he hadn't felt in a long, long while. He'd have to turn the art off.
Why? Why was he thinking about turning it off? It obviously worked. It drew people in and they were tricked by it. Not his fault people were tricked by it. Despite this, he found himself getting down on his stomach and crawling towards the monolith in the center.
As he crawled, he felt the wind on his back from the speed of the mirage above him. He tried to remember how many arms the thing had. 3? 5? 4. It was 4. They spun at a strong speed, one that he couldn't remember. It was so quick that it would break the bones of anything that it touched, but not quick enough that it would dislodge from the monolith.
He soon got closer to the monolith, the mirage began to fade, and he was able to see what the mirage actually was. He could see the brown stone block which served as the base, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could see the prisms which made up the mirage as they spun quickly. He reached forward and touched the brown monolith, gritting his teeth as the warmth began to radiate into his hand.
The heat continued to increase, the prisms began to slow, their colors fading softly as the speed decreased. As the speed finally slowed to a stop, the prisms fell to the ground with a loud thud, burying themselves halfway into the pink sand.
Mirage let out a sigh of relief and stood up, sticking his hand into the sand for a moment to let it cool off. He watched as the sand bubbled before he pulled his hand out. He wiped the sand grains off of his hand using his cloak.
He then continued his trek towards the city of Adelanto.

The city had long since overgrown with vegetation, tall palm trees and mighty oaks, blooming birches and bristling pines. Vines roped along the outsides of the trees, intertwined with the bark, with bushes and saplings along the bottoms. The former buildings were barely visible through the plant life, but, it was clear they were still there. The sight was breathtaking.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Jungle was much better than the infinite grains of sand that covered every inch of the desert. Maybe he'd finally be able to get some shade and some water, considering the precipitation of the plants. That's what it's called, right? Mirage shrugged, not knowing, nor caring. He just wanted the greenery.
As Mirage made it to the road that connected into the city, he was forced down onto his knees, and the cold metal of a firearm be put to his head. His heart dropped.

« The Paintings Burn A Crimson Red | Spectrum | The Hills of Adelanto are Covered in a Cinnabar Green »


Calibold

A Team You Can (Maybe) Trust

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page

Three Weeks Ago
Dir. Light's recruitment drive did not start the way she'd planned it to.
Like most incidents after she joined the Foundation, this one began in her completely uninteresting office. It was neither strictly clean like Kiryu's, nor cluttered like Kingsley's. It wasn't cramped, but it wasn't spacious and grand. It wasn't covered in cherished memorabilia, but it wasn't devoid of it; a few major awards and a couple photos of her with her parents, both deceased.
Light's office was, in fact, boring. Anyone walking in there would find absolutely nothing of note; no access to anything private, but not completely absent of anything personal. She wouldn't have it any other way. Walking into her office would teach you absolutely nothing about Dir. Light.
Light's day had been as boring as her office. A few meetings "regarding" Alpha-9, only tangentially related to the team. A few phone calls trying to sift through the sludge of bureaucracy, because apparently, nothing short of a DNA test and three days of security questions could confirm that she was Dir. Light. The most interesting thing in her day thus far was the BLT she had for lunch; the new sauce they were putting in the cafeteria sandwiches was simply divine. Anything actually concerning her wouldn't happen for the next few days, after she made it through the hopeless maze of red tape. All in all, a very uninteresting day.
She walked into her office at four o'clock, to complete another wave of busy work, expecting a bland, generic office. Instead, she saw a shadowy figure standing by her desk.
Light reached into her pocket and clicked a button on her keychain, alerting security that there was an emergency at her location. Since her office wasn't near the actual containment wings, it could take backup up to a minute to prepare and arrive. She needed to stall.
The figure heard the creak of the door opening and turned to face Light, its face remaining in shadow. It looked vaguely male, but the shadows overlaying it obscured it so much and in such an unnatural way that it was clearly anomalous. She kept her hand on the doorknob, ready to close it in case the figure came after her. It would likely be a useless gesture, buying her a second or two at best, but it gave her a small amount of solace knowing that she had some semblance of a plan.
"Hello," she said. She decided to start with some basic questions; buying time and learning more. "Who are you and what are you doing in my office?"
Light was expecting just about anything from someone who broke into a Foundation site. Almost anything. What she wasn't ready for was the entity to reaching out an apparently friendly hand and dramatically exclaiming, "Director Light! It's a pleasure to meet you! We have much to discuss!"
Light did not shake his hand. "You didn't answer my questions."
"But of course! I am…" He gestured theatrically. "The Specter!"
Light's momentary shock at the bizarrely comic entity had already faded, and she found herself thoroughly unimpressed. "Wow. Great. Mind telling me what you're doing in my office?"
The Specter marched to the other side of her desk, and Light slowly approached. "I've come to speak with you, of course!" he said, "You are preparing a team, a squad of heroes, correct?"
"Perhaps." Light was carefully to avoid giving away too much information. It was clear that the Specter had substantial knowledge of Foundation operations, but he could easily be trying to learn more from her. "What's it to you?"
Once again, he made a dramatic pose. Light made a humorous note to introduce him to her cousin; the Specter seemed like just the type for a theater boy like him.
"Isn't it obvious! You are assembling a team to uphold the most sacred laws: the laws of physics!" He took a slight bow. "It is my duty, as one who has sworn to protect this world from those who would do evil, to offer myself in service of such a noble cause!"
Out of everything that had happened in the past… thirty seconds? forty-five? — this surprised Light the most. She had expected a lot of reactions to Alpha-9; intrigue, anger, sabotage, death threats, chaos, failure.
But she hadn't expected a volunteer.
"This may come as a surprise, but we're not just accepting applications. I don't know who you are, if I can trust you, or what you'd bring to the team. Perhaps you could come with security and we'll have a little chat with you?"
"No need for that, Doctor! I am an embodiment of justice! My skills are top-notch, my powers absolute, and my experience with crime-fighting goes back for centuries. Your Foundation members who have worked with me before can confirm my upstanding value!"
Light almost choked. "I'm sorry, what?"
The Specter opened the window. "I'd love to have an official meeting with you in a few days. But for right now, I'll let you consider my proposition." He climbed onto the windowsill. "Now if you'll excuse me, a new update has just dropped for Minecraft, and I, for one, am ready to defend the good piglins from the other dark denizens of the Nether!"
And with a sweep of his cloak, he leaped out the window, shouting, "Have no fear! Justice will always prevail, so long as the Specter is fighting evil!"
A swarm of guards arrived as Light sat down and cradled her head in her hands. She shooed the security away, explaining that it was a false alarm. After a few moments, she opened her laptop, opened a file, and sighed as she typed in her list:

Specter (under consideration)

Two Weeks Ago
Light missed the office.
Was it boring? Absolutely. But it was like a theme park compared to sitting at the other end of the table from an android. Well, more like a mannequin.
The interrogation room was small and dingy, with tan walls, a stainless steel door, and a one-way mirror to really bring it all home. It reminded Light of the interrogation room from Psych, except the supernatural phenomena were a lot more real.
SCP-1360 had hardly moved since Light had arrived. It had moved its head to peer at her briefly when she first sat down, but had since remained still, ignoring the questions Light had asked, and the paper and pen in front of it. Eventually, she opted to remain silent as well, giving 1360 the chance to make the first move.
The benefits of including a self-repairing battle robot with Swiss army knife functionality were obvious. The benefits of an immortal super-soldier with an included repair kit were also obvious. The concern was not with how much firepower or skill or knowledge it could bring, but making sure this thing wanted to be on the team, and whether or not it could be trusted.
After what felt like an eternity, it lifted its head, picked up the pen, and wrote.

This is different.

Light leaned forward. "How so?"

The questions.

1360's joints creaked as it shifted in its chair.

All of you before me only ask what I know. You do not. You make a different request.

Light considered the writing. "Why does that matter?" 1360 waited a few moments before responding.

Anderson abandoned me. My purpose was with him. Now, I must scrounge for meaning. Only I have the information your people had asked me for. Had I given it to you

"You would be obsolete," said Light out loud, before 1360 could finish writing. 1360 nodded, putting down the pen. Light pondered this. It wasn't what she'd been looking for, but perhaps it was exactly what she needed.
"Do you want purpose?" she asked. 1360 remained still for several seconds, before picking up the pen.

Yes.

Light smiled slightly. "Recently, the Foundation has been considering being more liberal with our use of anomalous objects. As part of this, to deal with a specific threat, we are putting together a task force. It will be made partially of anomalous individuals, and, simply put, you're one of our top picks."
1360 was still. Light wished she were dealing with something living, so she could read the expression on its face. Was it shocked? Offended? Pondering? Finally, 1360 wrote:

I will consider this.

Light nodded. "That's all I ask for now. If you have questions or concerns, you can have security send me a message. We'll meet again in a couple weeks."
Light stood up and walked to the door, but before it opened, she heard an intense tapping behind her. Turning, she saw 1360 tapping on the paper. She walked over and looked at what he'd written.

Thank you.

One Week Ago.
"This is ridiculous."
"It's protocol."
"It's a parrot."
"And it's on our list. Demonology expert, telekinetic and telepathic abilities, some semblance of loyalty to the Foundation. All in all, a perfect candidate."
"Doesn't change how crazy it sounds."
"Yeah, well, welcome to the Foundation. How's Lucretia?"
"Doing fine. We'll be moving her down to Theta in a few days. I'll see you then."
"Take care, Deneb."
"You too."
Light hung up her phone and sighed. To most people, she wouldn't seem to be out of the ordinary. But Light was anxious. After months of planning, vetting, fighting, it was all coming together. In one week, she'd have her team.
Light walked into the containment chamber and faced the containment unit. Inside, a Marquis-Class demon, the mighty Phenex, paced its birdcage in the body of a gray parrot. After a moment, it stopped and turned towards her.
"Sophia Light, aged thirty-six, comes knocking at my door. A proposition here to give, but I know what it's for."
Light had already been given the rundown of the parrot's abilities. Even so, the thing unnerved her. She'd never had much of a liking for telepaths.
"I heard they were giving you some poetry books to improve your rhyming structure. Looks like that's working out," said Light.
Phenex sighed. "You come to me with a request, and act like I'm your friend? How horrible that you manipulate, as a means to reach an end."
Light groaned. "Fine then. I assume you're already aware of what I'm asking you?"
"Alpha-Nine, it's looking fine, and you incline, to recruit mine?"
"That last rhyme was a stretch at best."
"You don't want me for my verse, you know that I could cast a curse." The parrot leaned forward. "So tell me why I'd risk life and limb, for your cause I know is grim."
"Because you owe it to us," Light remarked. "You're in containment because you know that stepping outside means Hell's agents will be after you. We're the only ones protecting you."
Phenex stepped back, but Light kept speaking. "They've locked onto you here. And you can't rely on so-called mortals to protect you forever. I'm sure you're aware of what kind of team Alpha-Nine is, so I won't bother explaining it. All you need to consider is that you'll be much better protected when you're surrounded by others with supernatural powers."
Phenex fidgeted nervously. Light knew she'd struck where it counted most.
"I will ponder your request, for me to join your bizarre quest."
"Very well," said Light, "We'll get back to you soon."
One more week, she thought. One more, and everything would be ready.

Yesterday, After the Incident.
Light extended her hand as Lucretia walked into her office. Lucretia took it, and they both shook before sitting down.
"Sorry for the events leading up to this meeting, Lucy. May I call you Lucy?"
Lucy nodded. Her hard face betrayed little emotion, but Light could see a faint concern in her eyes. Out of all the anomalous entities Light had been recruiting, she was most nervous about Lucy. She had much greater knowledge on everyone else, and knew what she could give them. Lucy, however, was new to the Foundation. She might react unexpectedly. All Light could gather was what Deneb had told her.
"Why are we meeting here?" asked Lucy. Her Russian accent was rather thick, but she spoke clearly nonetheless. "I figured your people would keep meetings like this more secure, Miss…"
"Light. Doctor Light." Light smiled. "For starters, you're not technically an anomalous object. You're a Person of Interest. A Sarkic, of course, and a very potent one, but there's no need to assign Special Containment Procedures to you. More importantly, you're amiable. You haven't shown aggressive hostility, and you seem willing to talk. Deneb has told me a lot about you."
"Deneb… Carlotta! Yes. She didn't tell me much of what you wanted to speak with me about."
Light set a folder on the desk and slid it towards Lucy. "I asked her not to. We want to keep this whole thing on the down-low. This will give you the basic rundown."
Lucy picked it up and read through it. Occasionally, she'd ask for clarification on a term or section, and Light would answer, but for the most part, they remained silent. After a few moments, Lucy put the folder down.
"So you're making a team. Like the Avengers?"
Light rubbed her head. "Yeah, sure, like the Avengers."
Lucy laughed. "Interesting! And you would have others like me? A team of people with abilities?"
Light smirked. "Not quite. I'm not going to give too much information, but let's just say that you'll be one of the very few people on our team."
"Well, do they think like people?" Light noted the concern in Lucy's eyes increasing just a bit.
"Yes, most of them."
Lucy nodded. "Then they are people, and they are like me."
Light pondered on this. She hadn't expected someone so empathetic. "Very well then. We won't have just anomalous individuals, of course. Deneb will be there—" Lucy perked up ever so slightly "—along with other agents."
Lucy leaned backwards, staring into space, her face unreadable. Light remembered meeting with 1360, and considered that maybe Lucy really was like the other potential members. Finally, Lucy leaned forward and grinned.
"When can I start?"

Now.
Light knocked on the office door, and opened it upon hearing a woman shout "Come in!" from the other side.
Light walked into the cluttered office. Had she not known Maria Jones, she would have assumed from the young face and the office that she was someone sloppy and who had a habit of making messes. But she did know Maria, and a messy office was just a trait of hers she was never able to outgrow. Not that she needed to; Maria had a knack of knowing where anything was in her office at any given time.
The woman herself sat behind a modest desk, covered in papers. Her outfit was simple: a black skirt and shirt, with her hair in a tight bun.
"The answer is no," said Maria. She began filling out forms on her desk.
"I figured as much. Can you at least elaborate on why?"
"For starters, the first person who told me about all this called it 'a somewhat worse idea than the Decommissioning Department,' so right away I was turned off." Maria glanced up at her. "I will say I'm impressed that you've made it this far. You've certainly had your detractors — I think the kids just call them 'haters' these days.
"But it won't last. This isn't any kind of ill will towards you; I respect what you're trying to accomplish. But your team hasn't even officially formed, and you're already dealing with issues, chaos, problems."
Light glared at Maria. "I hope you're not trying to convince me I shouldn't do this."
"I've already accepted that you won't stop. Frankly, I don't think you even could stop this, but that's beside the point. I'm merely explaining why I don't have faith in your little superhero team."
"You think there's a problem with the team?"
At this, Maria actually laughed. "You mean you can't even see it? We had problems with just Able and Iris back in the day. Now look at what you have. A robot who used to work for Anderson, a Sarkic you know nothing about, a literal demon, and a walking pile of film tropes that might realize its employers aren't always the good guys. I understand that these are the best you can get, but Jesus. And that's just one unit, Sophia. I know all about Iris and Cain. And don't think bringing Dan back is winning you any favors either."
Light stood up. "I was hoping you might bring some new concerns, at least. I've already heard this."
Maria shrugged. "You might do well to listen to some honest critique then. But it's in your hands."
Light began walking towards the door. "Wait," said Maria.
Light turned. Maria walked over to her, put a hand on her shoulder, and sighed.
"I don't want you to fail, Light. I genuinely don't. But I don't see you coming out on top."
"I have to."
"Why?"
She brushed Maria's hand off her shoulder, turning to hide a steely expression. "Because we've come too far to fail."

+ More by Calibold +

- More by Calibold -

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page
— SCP Articles —

SCP-7178 — A Thief In The Night
SCP-7179 — E is for Eternity
SCP-6469-D — A BABY?????
SCP-2082 — Elephas cryophilus
SCP-6156 — Oh, Doug!
SCP-6579-D — The Detective Killer
SCP-6900-D — The House of Stars
SCP-5277 — What Can Go Wrong
SCP-5363-D — Controlled Containment
SCP-3482 — fine mayor posters campaign by dado
SCP-5156 — monke
Director Bold's Proposal-J — "Guys, please don't read our SCPs 🥺"
SCP-2693 — Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Deep Dark Well
SCP-5559-D — The Great Ambrose Bake-Off!
SCP-3448-J — Should Have Taken Him Sleeping
SCP-4456-D — No One Expects The Spanish Decommission!
SCP-4745 — Spooky Scary Snowman
SCP-4645 — Blackmailing Computer

— Tales —

OpusConfidant Wiki - SCP-4645 - Threatini
Diary Of An Existential Kid
Responsible Promotion
Friends Of Us Never Die
Truth Lies
A Team You Can (Maybe) Trust
Happy Father's Day
Mission: Decommission
A Bold Choice
I Am Become Death
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Eldritch (Sung to the tune of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas")
Chapter One - The End

— GoI Formats —

Manifest 476: Vanishing Galleon
The Book Of Mathisi, Chapter 1: The Parable Of The Three Princes
LTE-8686-Yellow-Kewpie
UIU File: 2001-023

— Other —

Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0 Guide
Decommissioning Department Hub
Fortune Favors
Decommissioning Dept. Theme
Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0
Mega Cool Author Page Tool Ver. 1.4.0
Calibold's Mega Cool Alternate SCP Logos Page
Calibold's Mega Cool Art Page (It's Mostly Just Icons, But Whatever, It's Still Mega Cool)

— Co-Authored —

Abraka David's Proposal — A Peak Behind the Curtain (feat. Ralliston, Placeholder McD, Guaire, Guezma, Jack Ike, Sherf, Yossipossi, Dr Balthazaar, Grigori Karpin, LORDXVNV, Lt Flops, Uncle Nicolini, Metaphysician)
SCP-7400 — Your Honor, League of Legends (feat. Sherf)
I, Hub (feat. many other authors)
Resurrection: New Faces (feat. Grigori Karpin, Nagiros, and redredred)
SCP-5545 — 𝙰 𝙱 𝙽 𝙾 𝚁 𝙼 𝙰 𝙻 𝙸 𝚃 𝚈 (feat. Yossipossi)
SCP-194 — Thank You For Your Cooperation (feat. CityToast)

— Foreign —
Director Bold's Proposal — Language
SCP-LA-II — Fruit

Resurrection – New Faces
<< Welcome To Yellowstone | A Team You Can (Maybe) Trust | Jolly Cooperation >>


Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow cape, ungirdled, of dressinggown cloth spread behind him in the mild dawn. He backturned the tower throne and bent deep before his pastoral court. Bowl quivering aloft he bowed; once to the acetous bay, the captivate land and the greened haze mountains. He finished, snapping up back boardstiff, peering down the shadowed threshold of the stark-grey tower.
Smartly Buck turned on his heel called lightly:
- Up then! Come come!
Having caught sight of Stephen Daedulus, he swooped low to his capetails dragging on the rough hewn floor before sprouting up to doff his starstuff crown. Somber and dour, Daedulus regarded the loosely curved magniloquent before him.
He began to cantillate:
- Presenting, O magnificent court, the very wary ambassador from Ireland. Slowly now! With patience! Deserves our best respects.
Stephen stared glumly, rubbing dark sleep from his eye.
- brrrrrrrr ratatata ta ta! See their fanfare for you, Stephen!
Stephen stepped from the predawn doorsill and sullenly passed him to the snaggy parapet.
-Flowers and grass and cloudless sky, resemble forms that are, or seem, when sleepers wake and yet still dream.
-Ah! Such a way with words you have! The verdant gem of Ireland lives within you! Us British haven't the soul for it, up in our buildings. I suppose yours are a lyrical sort, enjoying as you do the lush untamed land.
Comeover with excitement, Buck Mulligan quite lightly bounded up to Stephen, fair sand hair shimmering in the morning sun. He turned, stabbing at the bay with radiant razor.
- But the land! We're the only ones that appreciate its true beauty, you and I. Haines! That cumbrous Englishman! He would have nothing to do with it. Not like me, you understand. There's a little part of Ireland that lives in me yet! But that's just as well, isn't it Kinch? Same as Siena was taken by Alagadda. So goes Ireland, said Buck, and chanted gaily:
-In patience to abide
To veil the threat of terror
Take up the White Man's burden
- Just as by math Gonzalo did no wrong by rights, said Stephen darkly and picked at the threadbare night sleeve of his coat.
Glimmering pealed laughter greeted his words as Buck clanged and clattered with mirth.
- Kinch! You have the very manner of a gentleman! A proper British poet we could make of you, if we could just pluck you from this land!
- Would you and every other Englishman to all of Ireland.
- No man could be taken from his mother like that. Damnit, Kinch! Your own mother.
Buck turned and began to loquaciously lather his left cheek, meeting Stephen with grey sea eyes.
A dream had come against him after her death. His mother, silently hanging over his bed. Gaunt body worn taut. Undrawn rope around her neck. Loose fit. Noose fit. Empty breath, wet with formaldehyde and admonition. Spilled intestines rushing to greet. Before him stretched the bay of his mother country. Clouds of acrid smoke spewed up from heaving ships. Deathbed stained from hacking blood, propulsed from molding seizing lungs. Visions of a hanging matriarch.
- With this, the mother blood, it is the Hanged King's.
Buck laid his razor on the stone which dripped with blood.
- No, said Stephen, it was exactly death, nothing more.
- Tcha! there's nothing so sad as an Irish moping. It's a British art, you know.
Buck waved idly his razor to conduct the silver symphony of lightrun rays that pierced basalt clouds.
- Quit your mood. I'm not worth it, and you're not nearly up to it. Come now! The procession of kip waits for no man nor beast nor Haines!
Buck disappeared down the stairs.
The sludgedry bay stretched beneath Stephen, wretched Liffeyblood wandered through tired King's body. In the horizon hanged the Union Jack, itself a noose tightening around the corpseneck of the river Liffey. Bone mountain fingers curled out towards Castle Howth and environs. Grip of the King tightening. Stephen shook his head and shivered but the cold seeped further in. Hanged King held dominion over all.

Ash sighed as he closed the book with a faint thump, placing it gently onto the table and sliding it away from him. He finished scribbling a few more notes down before laying down his pens and slumping down into his chair until he was nearly eye-level with the table. Ulysses was a new one. Nothing the Binder couldn't handle, but a little troubling nonetheless.
The Library didn't catch it, not at first. A word here, sentence there. By the time they realised how much it had bled through, hundreds of Pages had to be pulled into service. This one stung - to see the heart of James Joyce and all the realisations of his work twisted in such a way made Ash's own heart hurt.
He sighed. At least no one would notice the change. These incursions never made it to the plot summaries, so the damage was contained. Unfortunately, it was still up to people like him to find them in the first place. It had been a long night, and Ash was ready to be done.
He straightened up in his chair for a moment, before placing his head onto the table, cheek down, and looking to the right. The cool feeling of the wood felt nice compared to the muggy heat in this area of the Library, shrouded in mist as it were in the upper levels. He looked out through the vaulted window of his study loft for a few moments, watching the lights flicker and then dim as his eyes closed, just for a small moment…
BANG!
"Agh!" Ash toppled halfway out of his chair as he jumped, banging his knee against the table. He looked around rapidly before feeling a sharp rap on the back of his head. Wincing, he grabbed first at his throbbing knee, then at the growing lump on the back of his head as the robed figure walked in a slow circle in front of him.
"Sleeping so soon, are we, Junior Docent?" The words dripped like molasses from the depths of the darkened hood that managed to, somehow, look both stern and disapproving at the same time. Impressive, really, for a thing with no visible face.
"Uh, n-no, Master Kalys. Just um…resting for a moment." Ash mumbled, deciding that his knee was more pressing than his head at the moment.
"Hmmm. See to it that you finish annotating, and then sleep. Not the other way around." Kalys pointed a cloaked finger at the stack of waiting books in front of Ash.
"Yes, Master Kalys. Good evening."
The figure didn't walk away so much as it took a few steps and began fading away into the mist of the upper lofts. Ash waited for a few moments afterwards, making sure the master docent was gone before immediately reacquainting his head with the table once again. He tried closing his eyes for a few moments, seeking the embrace of a few moments of oblivion-inducing sleep, but he found himself disappointingly alert.
Sigh. It was no use. He was actually awake now, so he might as well get something done. Sitting up once again, Ash took the next book from his stack and got ready to dive in.
Still. Ulysses hummed at the corner of his vision.

There was once a good man who was old beyond time,
Mister Rudy he was, and his tale's in this rhyme!
Mister Rudy, it's said, would just like to be friends!
He would come and go here, everywhere to all ends!
"Mister Rudy!" they'd say, "Tell us true of your fame!"
"Of what source did you come to be known in this way?
Mister Rudy, please tell!" and so they would exclaim.
The tall man would then grin and he'd laugh and he'd say:
"Well you see, here's this box, and it's full of good things,
And I take it with me everywhere that I go,
Matters not where I am for this box is my rock,
And my rock I will take everywhere high and low!"
And the people would ask and they'd plead and they'd say,
"Mister Rudy! Please tell! What's this box got inside?
It must be a great thing that you keep locked away!
To protect a great box like this must be a pride!"
"Mister Rudy! Please tell! Do you have a big lock?
Do you lock this box tight with a key big or small?
What's this box got to hide that we can't see inside?
Mister Rudy! Tell us! How'd you find such a haul?"
And he'd laugh, and he'd grin, and he'd pat his old box,
As he sang, right out loud, "This here box has no locks!"
And they'd ask, nearly beg, "So then say what's inside!"
"Tell us please, majesty, we won't tell!" So they cried.
"Does it have a sly fox, hiding there, in your care?"
"Silly folks! What a joke! There's no fox hiding there!"
"Mister Rudy! Then tell! What domain does it hold?
Is it death? Is it time? As decay that grows old?"
"Do you see what a fear that this box has unleashed?
Can you not tell us now what's this box got inside?"
And the man would just laugh and he'd laugh and he'd laugh.
As the day would grow old he'd still laugh 'til he cried.
"Silly fools, do you think that I'd tell you so soon?
Neither guns nor a tank nor armadas so swift,
Does this box hold inside." He would say with a croon.
And he'd laugh and he'd laugh and he'd sing with a shift:
"Underneath a black sky and a moon full of howls.
Full of stars that all shine with a light made of shades.
In the castle of old, you may find your truth there.
In the land Alagadda, where madness pervades."

The breath caught in Ash's throat. The normal serene silence of the library thrummed with the dull pounding of his heart, pitched by a whine in the altos. He tried to breathe deeply, but it wouldn't come, catching in his throat like molasses. Alagadda. First Joyce, now this. An oozing wound in the platonic ideal of Ulysses, now ripped wider in Seuss, of all things.
With a trembling hand, Ash reached for the stack of books on his desk, but ended up knocking over the entire stack, sending them to the ground with a clatter of dust and flying pages. He cursed as he knelt on the ground, searching, searching, looking for the proof that he hoped he would not find. Finally, his fingers closed around the spine of the book, a twin to the one he had just read. Flipping it open to a random page, he began reading.

In the land Alagadda, the king's word is law.
Not a soul disobeys for the wager is death.

Ash clapped the book shut, his heart suddenly threatening to burst out of his chest. Dear maker, not just one Seuss. All Seuss. The echoes of the intrusion were beginning to reverberate with its presence, dripping with chaos that could not be contained. The junior docent got to his feet, chair scraping loudly behind him. In the silence, all of creation heard him. He shivered. The champagne lights that illuminated the Library seemed colder, harsh pinpricks of light where once had been warm spheres. Trick of the mind. Had to be.
But - what if?
Ash grabbed one last book. He had to warn the Binder. As he ran, he opened the tome, skimming, searching, and praying with all his might that something could be saved.

There was nothing for miles except for the shale slate Ash and the rock. The rock stood like a sentinel in the furnace plain and the wind and dust and time had shorn it until it was smooth and formless and dead as everything. The rock cast harsh shadow that provided no shade but for that of the mind and Ash crouched there tending to a fire. The fire was weak and fed on twigs and dry branches but popped and sparked and crackled like small suns that flared bright and then burned out in the dusk of their own existence. All fires have their own heartbeat and contain within them the passions of man.
Above the fire was spat a rabbit that Ash had found earlier in the day. He had taken his aim of it with his last clutch of gunpowder and fired and the rabbit had moved once twice and was dead. It dripped of grease and blood and hair which fell into the fire and fed it and drew the acrid smoke towards the sky where it met the shadows like bars that bound Ash.
He tore into the flesh and when Ash was done he wiped the grease from his face with his hand and onto his jeans. His stomach threw in revolt but Ash grit his teeth and would not do it.
Ash leaned back against the side of the rock that was less hot. He sat and took off his boots and upturned them. They were full of a slurry of sand and blood and pus and the soles were worn through but there was no material to repair them. He put them to the side and stretched out his legs and sat and waited.
The sun was swallowed by the earth and the night came back with the ferocity of a wounded animal. The day furnace had faded and now the night had come. Under the moonlight the desert had turned the colour of water and ice and rime began to spread in the sparse places where there was moisture like eyes of things that were waking across the seafloor.
Ash unpacked his woolen cover. It smelled of urine and sweat and blood and was wornthrough but he pulled it around himself and huddled under the spiteful stars in the frigid waste. And he waited.
Ash fell asleep but he did not dream.
He woke in the night and knew the time had come. He saw a pale man in the distance that was walking towards him. The man was enormous and bald and had no hair on his face that was smooth and childlike except for his eyes which glinted with unknown intent. His hands were big and soft and carried in them a hat and a book and he was all about him the image of a baby made into man. The pale man had no horse nor sack nor canteen and it was not known where he had come from but it was the Chained Man.
Ash stood and waited and there was no sound except for the dying fire and the heartbeat that boxed in Ash.
You're here, said Ash.
I was always here, said the Chained One. Before man crawled out of the primordial ooze I was waiting. You take it upon yourself to collect things so that you may give yourself purpose. The man that makes record of the world hopes to belay his fear and mystery. Ever since the death of the lantern eyed tiger it has been this way. That is our covenant.
The Bound One looked at Ash and his sweat shone on his massive bald head that was like the rock alone in the night. But there are still more things unknown than known in creation. It is more vast than there are meanings and searching for them is like dogs fumbling for their mothers teat.
Ash turned and spat. Fuck you.
The Bound King smiled and raised his arms and his great and unspeakable mass shifted and the Hanged King began to talk but there was nothing to hear his words in the abyss and nothing to see him except for a carrion bird that turned away because there are things that not even nature can abide.
Above the earth in the black dome of the sky the stars shook and blazed across the sky whereby their lacerations across the heavens left shapes and patterns that were discerned by no man before they fell past the horizon bore no further witness. All that was left was vaporous stains of dustclouds across the mesa and the memories of a great and terrible thing but the desert has no memory of the deeds of man.

sweet
The bile tore and boiled its way up Ash's throat, his body doubled over in pain as vomit spewed out in a torrential flood, sending him to his hands and knees as his body was wracked with terrible convulsions. The book was beyond saving, that much was clear, leaving nothing but an empty gash where Ash's soul was rent and forced into it. For the moment though, Ash could do little else but heave until his body finally ran dry. Wiping the corner of his mouth, he glanced in the direction of the discarded book. All that was visible of the title now was Blood. The Library swam before him, familiar sights and books mixing and blending with unfamiliar stars and disclinated geometries.
serenity
The Binder's office. He had to get to the Binder.
how
Ash could feel a cold, sharp spike slowly driving into his mind, penetrating into the spaces between his thoughts. More than an incursion now. There was precious time remaining. He had to get there.
I
Weakly, Ash tried to get up, but found himself so dizzy that he fell back down again. Crawling, every motion agonizing, he continued onward. Close, close, the office had to be close, he hadn't forgotten that much, had he? The pressure on his head was beginning to mount, building to such a colossal force that it was all he could do to not simply give in and start screaming.
have
Mercifully, blessedly, Ash found himself in front of the Binder's office. Summoning the last of his strength, Ash pulled himself to his feet and leaned against the door, falling into the office.
The office hadn't changed much since Ash last visited - there was a pile of pages spilt on the floor, but that was all. Lanterns hanged from iron chains, casting warm lights and missed shadows across the dimensions of the room that Ash could see. Words still crawled beyond the edges of his vision, but they began slipping away from the regal, anchoring presence of the Binder like cockroaches fleeing the light.
you
With its many mouths, the Binder beckoned Ash in. The first time they had met, it had taken most of Ash's courage not to scream bloody murder and run - he didn't do well with that many limbs, especially spindly as they were. Since then, it had become an island of tranquility in the oft-turbulent sea of the Library's drifting tides.
In syncretic harmony, radiating unknowable depths, the Binder smiled, the chains draped over its multitude of arms reaching out to Ash, an embrace that he could not resist. The soothing, comforting croon of its words filled Ash's ears, melting away his fears and doubts. The Binder knew all. The Binder knew what to do. Trust in the Binder.
All was well.
You cannot hide from me.